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Battlefield Director

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Tsutomo Yamazaki (Left) in Kurosawa’s High and Low (1963)

This is an unusual thing to say, but if I were to look at all the great film directors with a point of view of selecting the one that would make the best general on the battlefield, my choice would be Japan’s Akira Kurosawa (1910-1998).

Yesterday evening I did not post here because I was watching Kurosawa’s great noir film High and Low for the third time. The tale follows Toshiro Mifune as a shoe manufacturer whose son is kidnapped and held for ransom. Except it turns out that it is actually his live-in chauffeur’s son who is taken. In paying the ransom anyhow, Mifune impoverishes himself, losing his business, his house, and even his furniture.

Why do I feel that Kurosawa would make an able general? In no other film (except one, that I shall mention later) is there so much intelligently conveyed detail that enables a viewer to follow the police investigation in all its aspects during its 143 minute length without feeling lost. And the film gallops along like a 73 minuter Poverty Row quickie.

During its course, Kurosawa takes us into such a realistic picture of heroine addiction that, even today, would be too much for Hollywood to handle.

The only other film that so capably marshals s vast amount of detail is the same director’s Seven Samurai (1954). This is actually a film about a 16th century military campaign in which seven masterless samurai help farmers fight back an invasion of forty mounted bandits who are after their crops. Throughout the film’s 207 minute length, we are aware of what is happening in every part of the battlefield as the samurai and farmers battle the bandits. As with High and Low, the film zips along at a fast pace despite a vast amount of detail without losing its audience.

Compare these with the average current Hollywood production in which 120 minutes seems like a lifetime and the audience is slogging through a swamp shortly after the opening credits.

Beware of Awards

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Yesterday, Martine and I attended a screening of old cartoons from Walt Disney, the Fleischer Studio, MGM, and United Productions of America (UPA). Much was made of fact that several of the cartoons had won Oscars for animation.

It was at that point that my hackles began to rise. Academy Awards? You mean those awards voted on by industry members who bore grudges against the studio for which they worked or for competing studios. Granted, some Oscar winners deserved their awards. Knowing the film industry as I do, however, many votes are cast based on pure spite.

There is no doubt that the Walt Disney Studio made some great cartoons. But did “The Old Mill” (1937) deserve an Oscar? See your yourself: The Old Mill. There were some very arty effects, but zilch in the way of story or characters.

On the other hand, a controversial Donald Duck cartoon entitled “Der Fuehrer’s Face” (1943) was banned for decades because it showed the Quackster having a dream that he was a Nazi in Hitler’s Germany. It was a fascinating look at American war propaganda. Was it a little racist? Hmm, could be….

In the speaker’s idolization of Disney, he totally left out Warner Brothers’ Looney Tunes and Merrie Melodies. No Bugs Bunny, no Tweety or Sylvester, no Roadrunner, no Porky Pig, and no Daffy Duck. And he said very little about the 1930s productions of Max and Dave Fleischer. I am referring to Popeye, Betty Boop, and a host of great cartoons, such as Poor Cinderella (1934) or Raggedy Ann and Raggedy Andy (1941).

As a low rent film scholar, I am suspicious of awards. I never watch the Academy Awards on television, and I never take awards into consideration when planning my viewing. I may not have the so-called prestige of the Oscars behind me, but I am more likely to see films for other reasons than industry backbiting.

The Borgo Pass at Midnight

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I have always loved the beginning of Tod Browning’s Dracula (1931). It shows Renfield (Dwight Frye) arriving at a Transylvanian village late in the evening at Walpurgis Night, when witches and evil spirits hold sway. Everybody is bemoaning that fact in Hungarian. As a Hungarian-American,I always had a fondness for that scene—rather than for the, I thought, less interesting events in England in the vicinity of Carfax Abbey.

Today I saw bits and pieces of the two original Universal horror classics—Dracula and Frankenstein (both 1931)—on Turner Classic Movies (TCM). There altogether too many large rooms in which too many people, many of them in formal evening attire, confronted one another. I was much happier with James Whale’s The Bride of Frankenstein (1935), which was a much better film than Whale’s original Frankenstein.

I suppose that, in the deepest days of the Great Depression, people had a yearning for actors with British accents dressed in tuxedos. I’ve always thought it was a bit silly.

Still, there were those scenes in which Renfield is working his way to Castle Dracula. They are forever etched in my mind.

Vladimir Ivanovich Leventon

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Lobby Card for Val Lewton’s The Cat People (1942)

This is a re-post from October 20, 2022. I have just sat through four films directed by Jacques Tourneur on Turner Classic Movies (TCM), three of them produced by the great Val Lewton. He is the only producer who deserves to be called great. Most of the others are impediments to greater or lesser degrees.

There are horror films, and there are horror films. They can scare you out of your wits, like Curse of the Demon (1957) and Poltergeist (1982), or they can make you understand that the world is both light and dark in equal measure, like Val Lewton’s great films of the 1940s, such as The Cat People (1942).

Val Lewton, born Vladimir Ivanovich Leventon in Yalta, Russia, was interested in making low budget films to compete with Universal Pictures’ highly successful Frankenstein, Dracula, Mummy, and Wolf Man franchises. The title for The Cat People was assigned to Lewton by RKO, and Lewton went to work on a psychological thriller in which there is no overt violence. Perhaps the greatest scene takes place in a swimming pool in which a young woman is swimming all by herself at night. In the shadows, we imagine there is a black panther, but neither the swimmer nor we the viewers are absolutely sure.

Even though Halloween is just about over, I highly recommend all the following Lewton films:

  • The Cat People (1942)
  • I Walked with a Zombie (1943)
  • The Leopard Man (1943)
  • The Seventh Victim (1943)
  • The Ghost Ship (1943)
  • The Curse of the Cat People (1944)
  • The Body Snatcher (1945)
  • Isle of the Dead (1945)
  • Bedlam (1946)

All are great films worthy of being seen multiple times. They are short, thoughtful, extremely moody, and highly successful. Also available is a Turner Classics biopic about Lewton’s career called Shadows in the Dark narrated by Martin Scorsese. Martine and I watched it last night and recommend you see it.

In all of Hollywood’s history, Lewton was probably the only film producer who controlled his products as if he were the director. Even though Lewton directorial protegés Jacques Tourneur, Robert Wise, and Mark Robson went on to have brilliant careers, when one is watching a Lewton film, one recognizes it as a Lewton film.

Color

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Harriet Andersson and Jarl Kulle in Bergman’s All These Women (1964)

Yesterday I posted about my love for black & white films. Today, I would like to redress the balance by talking about the pros and cons of color film. With the new motion picture and video cameras, color is, for the most part, what the camera is programmed to shoot, especially when the camera is digital.

There was a brief time in the 1960s when film directors made some exciting use of color film stock. I am thinking of such films as Michelangelo Antonioni’s The Red Desert (1964), Ingmar Bergman’s All These Women (1964), and—going back a couple of decades—Michael Powell and Emeric Pressburger’s Black Narcissus (1947).

In fact, the Internet Movie Database (IMDb) has released a list of 275 films “with Amazing Use of Colours.” The list includes some well-known titles as Alfred Hitchcock’s Vertigo (1958), Robert Zemeckis’s Forrest Gump (1994), Jacques Demy’s The Umbrellas of Cherbourg (1964), and Steven Spielberg’s E.T. (1982). Interestingly, there are scores of titles of films of which I have never heard: In each case, some film-maker wanted to make something different and succeeded.

As digital film becomes more prevalent, the temptation is for producers and directors to not attempt anything special. This is particularly true of films released by HBO, Netflix, Hulu, and others in multiple parts. Most of these productions I frankly ignore. Graphically speaking, most are failures.

Even films released as features for the theaters are not necessarily any better. In the old days of the Hollywood Studios, interesting cinematography was a matter of institutional pride. But that was then….

Black & White

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Still from John Ford’s The Fugitive (1947)

Yesterday as I was watching John Ford’s The Fugitive on Turner Classic Movies (TCM), I was reminded of what Peter Bogdanovich said about black & white vs. color: “Orson Welles says every performance looks better in black and white. It’s the fact that you don’t see blue eyes and blond hair. You focus on the performance, not the look of the people. And it enables you to capture the period better.” And that is why he shot The Last Picture Show (1971) in black and white.

When I was growing up, I preferred color, even though the color at that time was mostly three-strip Technicolor, which, though beautiful in its own right, is not particularly realistic. Then, in 1962, I saw a black & white film that changed me: Carl Dreyer’s powerful study of witchcraft in Denmark, Day of Wrath (1943). I started attending the Dartmouth Film Society’s screenings, and I saw numerous motion pictures that made me appreciate both color and black & white.

In the world of black & white, there are some great cinematographers. They include Gabriel Figueroa (he shot The Fugitive); John Alton, the great noir master; Joseph Von Sternberg and his regulars Lee Garmes and Bert Glennon; Sidney Hickox (the 1946 The Big Sleep); and Gregg Toland. Interestingly, the great B/W photographers could also make great color films—but not always vice versa.

Today, I have no preference between B/W and color. Most of the films I watch on TCM are in black and white, probably because I do not retain my childhood preference for color. Also, I will willingly watch silent films of the 1920s and films of the 1930s, 1940s, and up to the present day. Curiously, if I am prejudiced, it is mostly against recent films, which are overwhelmingly in color.

For balance, I will also write a blog about my favorite color films within the next few days.

The Flying Monster from Mount Aso

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British Release Poster for Rodan (1956)

Don’t be misled by the above film poster: The “Cert X” refers to the British rating at the time as unsuitable for children. When I saw Rodan in 1957, I was scared out of my pants, particularly by all the claustrophobic monster scenes in the coal mine. And now, sixty-eight years later, I saw it again the other night. Both as a twelve-year-old child and as an old codger, I enjoyed the film immensely. It really did have a cast of thousands, and it showed models of several Japanese cities being demolished by the two Rodan monsters.

Mount Aso on the island of Kyushu—the birthplace of Rodan—is Japan’s most active volcano, and among the largest in the world. It has erupted as recently as 2021.

The Crater of Mount Aso, Where Rodan Was Born

Unlike Godzilla, Rodan did not use many of the big Toho Film Studio stars, and certainly none that I recognized. And it did not feature any annoying child stars who made goo-goo eyes at the monsters.

It is always interesting to re-see movies that impressed one as a child. It’s a way of taking a measure of oneself after decades of growth. I do the same thing with books. Sometimes, as a child, I am impressed for all the wrong reasons. For instance, as a college student, my favorite book was Gilbert Highet’s The Art of Teaching. I desperately wanted to become a college professor. Now, after Gen X, Gen Z, and Gen Whatever, I have no desire to light a fire under kids whose sacred scripture is Tik Tok.

My Video Collection

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When I bought my first video cassette recorder (VCR) in the 1980s, I thought I had it made. I had a great cable television setup near a neighborhood where many film industry moguls lived, and I could record films that were being broadcast on the many channels to which I had access. Eventually, I had a library of several hundred films that any film fanatic would be proud to own.

But then, little by little, they started to go bad. The VCR units had a hard time rewinding. And, of course, you couldn’t view a film until you rewound the reel. The tapes got stretched and started to go blooey. And rewinding became more and more of a chore.

When the DVD players first came out, I thought that was the way to go. I mean the laser didn’t even make contact with the surface of the DVD the way a VCR did with a videotape cassette.

One of my friends even suggested I convert all my videocassettes to DVD. I quickly pointed out that it would take years to accomplish this feat, during which my cassettes would continue to deteriorate.

Then I found out about a thing called “laser rot.” Even DVDs were not immune. After all, there was this metallic coating on a thin plastic disk. And plastic, as we know, won’t last forever.

In the age of streaming, people don’t keep the films they see: They just play them while downloading them. After viewing the film, it is gonzo!

In Love with the Twonky

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Tony Randall as the Medusa in 7 Faces of Dr Lao (1964)

Oh, God, what is he on about now? Twonky? What is twonky?

You well know that there are films that you love but to which you cannot ascribe a high level of artistic excellence. I refer to them as twonky films. For me, a perfect example is George Pal’s 7 Faces of Dr Lao, produced at MGM. In it, Tony Randall actually plays eight roles: the inscrutable Dr Lao (pronounced LOH) himself, the magician Merlin, the god Pan, the Talking Serpent, Medusa, Apollonius of Tyana, the Abominable Snowman, and (uncredited) himself as a seated member of the audience.

In the last seven years, I have seen 7 Faces of Dr Lao four times and I’m still not tired of it. I will continue to see it and enjoy it whenever I can. I even read the book it was based on: Charles G. Finney’s The Circus of Dr Lao. (As a matter of fact, I think I’ll probably re-read the book pretty soon.)

Now where does this term twonky come from? In 1953, Arch Oboler directed a science fiction film entitled The Twonky starring Hans Conried. According to the Internet Movie Database (IMDB), the plot concerns a “Tweedy college professor [who] discovers his new TV set is animate, apparently possessed by something from the future, and militantly intent on regulating his daily life.”

I have not seen the film but it sounds pretty twonky to me.

There are many other films (and, dare I say it, books) that I would consider to be twonky. I’m thinking of Ed Wood’s Plan 9 from Outer Space, Showgirls, Popeye cartoons, and virtually the entire filmography of Roger Corman and William Castle.

Interestingly, there is a generation gap between the bad films I like and the bad films a Gen Z’er would like. That’s understandable because young people were raised to love a different kind of bad film. Even my younger brother (by six years) grew up loving Clutch Cargo and Huckleberry Hound cartoons, which I considered too unsophisticated for my tastes.

Heyday Is Over

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The Unmarvelous Marvel Universe

When I first came to Los Angeles at the tail end of 1966, it was the beginning of a Golden Era for people like me who loved the cinema and saw it as an art form that would prevail well into the next century.

Only, it didn’t. The great Hollywood directors sputtered out with films that were pale copies of their best work. There was John Ford’s 7 Women (1966) and Howard Hawks’s Rio Lobo (1970). On the plus side, there were the French cinéastes of the Nouvelle Vague, including Jean-Luc Godard, François Truffaut, Jacques Rivette, Claude Chabrol, and Agnes Varda. And, across the Pacific, the Japanese were making great films which I have never tired of watching.

It was in 1968 that Andrew Sarris published The American Cinema:Directors and Directions, 1929-1968. It was a revision and expansion of an issue of Film Culture that came out several years earlier which I had photocopied while I was at Dartmouth College and which I always kept at my side.

But other things were happening. Hollywood was sputtering out like a volcano in its final throes. The film distribution companies were run by yahoos who insisted that people of my frame of mind were out-of-touch elitists and what the filmgoing public really wanted was Thoroughly Modern Millie and the Marvel Universe.

In the course of several decades, there was a dribble of good films from Hollywood and abroad, but mostly an avalanche of mediocrity. At the same time, it was getting harder to see the films I loved. I recorded hundreds of films on VHS videotape—but then videotape died. I switched to DVD, but now I am beginning to encounter “laser rot.”

I have in my library a number of volumes that are over a hundred years old. Unless they are destroyed, they will be readable for at least another hundred years. Such is not the case with films. The media on which they are stored has to be changed every few years because of the rate of change in the digital world.

So I have concluded that it will be difficult to be a film lover. Yet I almost never see current Hollywood film products in theaters. Sometimes on HBO or Showtime, but never at a cinema.

Fortunately, my books are still quite readable; and I am diving into them voraciously.