Dogs Bark

Hurricane Lulu - - Pandora’s Box (1929) - - 24 May 2013

An essential. It might be interesting to screen Pandora’s Box alongside Gilda; the parallels are striking. In both cases, the character became inseparable from the actress, making each woman a star and, to separate degrees, miserable. Louise Brooks was far happier than Rita Hayworth.  Brooksie hated Hollywood and gave it no quarter. Further insult, some claim that Lulu and Gilda are femme fatales. This is incorrect. If we rely on the noir definition, Lulu only causes trouble . . . she never intends it. Their overflowing sexuality is without guile and turning them into commodities is the real problem. Pandora’s Box is director G.W. Pabst best remembered work but our Ms. Brooks is the luminous heart of the picture. Her remarkably expressive face is the perfect medium for silent narrative. She’s well supported by Carl Goetz and Gustav Diessl (White Hell of Pitz Palu) and the brilliant camera work of Günther Krampf (Nosferatu).

Touches Nose, Points To Stanley - - Charade (1963) - - 18 May 2013

An essential. In the delightfully chatty, 1999 commentary to Charade, director/producer Stanley Donen and writer Peter Stone are struck dumb with delight almost every time Audrey Hepburn enters a scene. At one point, Donen wistfully reveals, sotto voce, “I wish I had known what Audrey looked like first thing in the morning.” Oh yeah. The mystery part of Charade is a massive McGuffin, in that the rather silly plot isn’t that important. Unimportant, next to the leading lady, her clothes (Givenchy, of course), her leading man (Archie Somethingorother), the brilliant cast (Walter Matthaeu, George Kennedy, James Coburn, 1960’s Paris), a cameraman (Charles Lang, The Magnificent Seven, Some Like It Hot) to literally die for and that great Henry Mancini score.  Everything just holds together, indicating Donen’s genius.  As of today, he’s still wonderfully alive. If there is a merciful god . . . the Angel of Death looks, and speaks, like Audrey Hepburn.

I Have Vermin To Kill - - Kill Bill, Vol. 1 (2003) - - 16 May 2013

An essential. My one and only communication with the late, and very missed, critic, Theresa Duncan, concerned this film, which she thought so superior to Kill Bill, Vol. 2 that she tagged Vol.2 as ‘leftovers of the cold dish.’ I disagreed; however, reviewing them as separate meals seems completely valid. As the all-time-greatest martial arts movie, Kill Bill, Vol. 1, arguably, kicks some ass. It is not only relentlessly belligerent but adoringly represents the style of each Asian exploitive sub-genre. The soundtrack and sounds, editing and photography are near perfect. And the arc of the story, into the inevitable sequels of revenge, echoes Tarentino’s love and respect for film tradition. The final duel - - Lucy Liu’s Lady Snowblood handing off her katana to the ‘silly Caucasian’ Bride as Meiko Kaji sings The Flowers of Carnage - - is as astonishingly beautiful an 8.3333 minutes of film as I’ve seen. R.I.P., O-ren and Theresa.

Street Boy - - Searching For Sugar Man (2012) - - 13 May 2013

Strongly recommended. There are a zillion motives for an artist but the most poignant of them might be to preserve one’s inner voice, either in a physical artifact or in the sound resonating in the consciousness of a million strangers. Nice. But what of he whose resonance is too late? Searching For Sugar Man is the tale of Sixto Rodriguez, a Mexican-American, folk-rocker of the 70’s. His strange and wonderful records were a dud in the States but - - unknown to him - - a huge hit overseas. The story is dramatically told by Swedish TV producer, Malik Bendjelloul. It won 2012’s documentary Oscar, casting cinematographer Camilla Skagerström’s sketches of decaying Detroit as a metaphor for Rodriquez’s early neglect. Regardless, there’s a happy ending. At 70, Rodriguez winds up a centered, happy man, with three loving daughters, no obvious bitterness and a full measure of his talent. So it also goes . . . on occasion.

Balletomania - - The Red Shoes (1948) - - 2 May 2013

An essential. Although this is the ultimate chick flick, it’s also a favorite of both Martin Scorsese and Brian de Palma, not exactly powder puffs. This speaks to the extraordinary level of movie-craft put into The Red Shoes. The title comes from a Hans Christian Anderson tale about demonic footwear that compels the owner to non-stop - - and eventually lethal - - dance. It is also a ballet put on by the Boris Lermontov (Anton Walbrook, La Ronde) company, starring Moira Shearer’s character, who is herself a mad terpsichore. In its own metaphor of a metaphor, The Red Shoes is simply a paean to artistic obsession. The movie was both an instant critical success and icon, spawning countless ‘gotta dance,’ stories, including Black Swan. Deserved Oscars went to the music and art direction but, remarkably, not even a nod to Jack Cardiff’s (The African Queen) amazing camerawork or Michael Powell’s (Black Narcissus) direction.