Respect

Film criticism is not dying, and will never be dead. That much is clear. Film criticism is also a vital part of discourse. Film criticism is as important as music criticism, book criticism, theater criticism, and the like. But film criticism gets no respect. That's actually not fair; criticism in general gets no respect. Because, technically, anyone can be a critic, the art of criticism (and yes, if you read the right people, you'll realize that criticism is indeed an art) is often denigrated. Not everyone can paint something that Monet did. Not everyone can compose what Beethoven did. Not everyone can make a movie as Paul Thomas Anderson does. But everyone can be a critic, right? Everyone has an opinion, and that's all it takes to be a critic.

Well, no, actually. An opinion gets you halfway there, but you need to do the rest. See, if I can paraphrase Ratatouille for a minute, everyone can be a critic, but not everyone should be a critic. For example, if I see said Pixar film, and someone asks me what I think, me saying "I loved it!" is equal to my opinion. You might have noticed that none of the remaining critics in the print industry will ever write a review that short and, thus, lacking in explanation. I can say that I love Ratatouille, and that might be my opinion, but the art of criticism is telling people why. Great critics love great art, but great critics attempt to convince their readers why the art is great and why they should seek out great art and tell the readers why they think the art is so damn great.

I bring all of this up for two reasons. The first is that, as was announced yesterday, At The Movies, currently hosted by A.O. Scott of The New York Times and Michael Phillips of The Chicago Tribune, is going the way of the dodo. The show will have its last airing on August 14, and then the show that was made famous by Gene Siskel and Roger Ebert will no longer be on the air. For so many reasons, this is a shame. Though I would initially be in the camp of those who believe that the show really died when Gene Siskel did, there's no question that, in all of the channels available these days and with all the crap airing 24/7, there should be at least one half-hour available for even a half-thoughtful look at the newest Hollywood releases.

So where did the show go wrong? I don't need to say a damn thing about Ben Lyons and Ben Mankiewicz. Their time at the helm was disastrous beyond belief. Scott and Phillips were extremely knowledgeable (and still are, of course), but without either Siskel or Ebert around, people lost interest. I don't know that Rotten Tomatoes or blogs or Twitter killed the show. Yes, people can read opinions about films, but the great joy of watching Siskel and Ebert, or Ebert and any of the many guests he had, go at it was that they went at it. Even when they agreed, it was fascinating to watch, because the men knew what they were talking about. I was never a fan of Richard Roeper's, but even he knew what he was talking about some of the time. Scott and Phillips came after the two Bens, and it would have been a miracle for them to save the show, which was also placed at the worst possible timeslots across the country. How to watch a show you can't find on the dial?

A disappointing story, to be sure. One of the many choices the executive producers made when Ebert went away for his surgery-turned-permanent absence was having bigger names join Roeper, from Aisha Tyler to Jay Leno to Kevin Smith. But wait, you're asking me, not Kevin Smith! How could Kevin Smith, someone who so despises (while not understanding) criticism, subject himself to being a film critic, if only for a few minutes? Yes, friends, it's true. And yes, this is the other reason I've been thinking about criticism. Smith, an avid Twitter user, went on his most misguided, childish, and hypocritical rants yesterday. You may or may not know that, last month, Smith's first effort as just a director was released in theaters. It's called Cop Out. The film didn't do too well on the Rotten Tomatoes Tomatometer, garnering a 19 percent rating from critics.

And yet the film has become Smith's highest-grossing entry, even though it's only made about 45 million dollars. That's not great if you're Michael Bay, but if you're Kevin Smith, that number is gold. So he should be happy. What's more, it was announced this week that Smith's long-gestating movie Red State is going forward, and he's also got a project with Seann William Scott in the works. This is a happy man. Well...no. See, he's on Twitter. And he uses it a lot. And so he went nuts yesterday, because someone mentioned that film critics must be idiots, right? Because they don't have any fun. And movies are all about fun, right? Smith took the ball and ran with it, complaining that the critics who disliked the movie were...well, I'm going to be culling this from the sterling article written by Devin Faraci at this link. So check that out for the full thing.

But Smith said, among other things, "So many critics lined-up to pull a sad & embarrassing train on #CopOut like it was Jennifer Jason Leigh in LAST EXIT TO BROOKLYN. Watching them beat the shit out of it was so sad. Like, it's called #CopOut; that sound like a very ambitious title to you? You REALLY wanna shit in the mouth of a flick that so OBVIOUSLY strived for nothing more than laughs. Was it called "Schindler's Cop Out?" Writing a nasty review for #CopOut is akin to bullying a retarded kid who was getting a couple chuckles from the normies by singing AFTERNOON DELIGHT." Further down his screed, and it was even more incomprehensible, he said the following, "So we let a bunch of people see it for free & they shit all over it? Meanwhile, people who'd REALLY like to see the flick for free are made to pay? Bullshit: from now on, any flick I'm ever involved with, I conduct critics screenings thusly; you wanna see it early to review it? Fine: pay like you would if you saw it next week. Like, why am I giving an arbitrary 500 people power over what I do at all, let alone for free? Next flick, I'd rather pick 500 randoms from Twitter feed & let THEM see it for free in advance, then post THEIR opinions, good AND bad. Same difference. Why's their opinion more valid?"

Hoo boy. Where do we begin with the completely batshit insane, wrongheaded and, more to the point, motherfucking stupid argument Smith has levied. Let's begin at the beginning. He claims that the title, Cop Out, isn't a very ambitious title. I agree. Here's the difference: he shouldn't be making that point. By making that point, he's owning up to not caring about the movie. He directed it, but fuck if there's any ambition behind it. So, in defending his film, Smith has already claimed a lack of interest. He doesn't respect his own work. Next, he says that those who apparently went out of their way to slam Smith (and I'd love to hear some names, because I'm not able to cull any from memory) and the film that isn't very ambitious is akin to bullies making fun of a mentally challenged child. So, now Smith considers Cop Out to be a mentally challenged kid lacking in ambition. Not only is he denigrating his own work, but he's denigrating the work done by everyone else in the movie.

The cynics out there will say, "But, Josh. It's Cop Out. How much work could have been done?" Whatever opinion Smith has of his own movie, and it's obviously very low, here's the skinny: a movie is hard work, even if it's a bad movie. People are paid to make a product. Some are good, some are bad. But work is always involved. I'm willing to acknowledge that fact, and I don't even work in movies. Smith's disrespecting everyone involved in the production by making the comparison, and embarrassing himself by not realizing how self-loathing he sounds. Don't drag everyone down with you, Silent Bob. He then goes on to say that it's not fair that 500 arbitrary people (ooh, Kevin, you need to look at your dictionary again, buddy! We both know you meant a word aside from "arbitrary", right?) get to see the movie free, while those who want to see it for free have to pay. First, the people who write up the movie after seeing it for free are, by and large, doing so because they are paid to do so. And they already spent money on gas or transportation getting there, so it's not like they're going on their publication's dime. Second, there are plenty of free screenings for anyone who's interested in watching it; I've been to all-press screenings and mixed crowds; what's more, when the crowd is mixed, it's heavily in favor of the "randoms".

Here's another thing: people who write these movies up for money don't get paid the same handsome salary that Kevin Smith gets. Let's be clear on that: Kevin Smith is not panhandling. He's got money. Enough money to, say, take an airline aside from Southwest (another rant for another day, readers). So him bitching about the online and print journalists who struggle to get by mocking his movie (or him, apparently, in his delusion) is a real fucking treat. What's more, his final suggestion, that 500 random followers get in free and all critics are barred from the show, is crazy for so many reasons. First: hey, Kevin? Good luck with getting the studios to follow your every whim. Because, as we all know, you're a wildly successful director who can ask for whatever he wants. Or, you directed Cop Out as a director-for-hire to impress studios. Second, good luck picking random followers who will apparently love your next movie, just because they're seeing it for free. That's how it works. People love it because it's free, but critics...hate it because it's free? I don't get that logic.

Kevin Smith has no respect for his movie. He has no respect for his fans (some of whom are--shocker--critics! Interesting true fact: Dogma, Clerks, Clerks II, Chasing Amy, and Zack and Miri Make A Porno: these are the films that all have a Fresh rating on Rotten Tomatoes, from those pesky critics, and Cop Out is the lowest-rated of his films). He has no respect for film critics, who, again, don't hate him. But, since I'm writing on criticism, I'll throw in a bit of my own, and guess what? Kevin Smith wouldn't tell me to fuck off. See, I paid to see Cop Out. So my opinion, apparently, counts. The movie sucked. It sucked for many reasons: the bored Bruce Willis, the unmanageable performance from Tracy Morgan, the inconsistent tone, the unfunny script, the weak subplot, the subpar directing, and the list goes on. What I did there was very quickly provide a critique of a movie. My opinion is that it sucked. My critique is why it sucked. Not a bad thing. Kevin Smith will move onto another project, another rant, another dick joke. The rest of us will grow up, as he regresses.

A Self-Education in Film: Michael Powell and Emeric Pressburger's A Matter of Life and Death

It's only taken me 25 years and change to come to the realization that there may be no greater pleasure in the life of the filmgoer than to watch a film from the Archers, especially an Archers movie from the 1940s. The Archers, made up of the writing/producing/directing team of Michael Powell and Emeric Pressburger, have never been the most popular filmmakers, despite making so many great films and influencing so many classic American filmmakers, from Steven Spielberg to Francis Ford Coppola, who managed to revive Powell's career by putting him in residence at Zoetrope.

The Archers, during the 1940s, were about as amazing as it gets, in terms of cinematic output. 49th Parallel. The Life and Death of Colonel Blimp. A Canterbury Tale. I Know Where I'm Going. Black Narcissus. The Red Shoes. The Small Back Room. And, in the middle of this, from 1946, A Matter of Life and Death. This romantic fantasy did not break the mold; it is the mold. When we watch movies these days and wonder why they (they being Hollywood, or filmmakers in general) don't make movies the way they used to, this is the kind of movie we hearken back to. This is the movie that epitomizes what defines classic filmmaking. The stylistic flourishes here are present in all aspects, and yet are never in-your-face. It's hard for A Matter of Life and Death to not be in-your face, what with its plot and storytelling devices, and all the more successful by not rubbing your nose in it.

The movie opens with a tense and somehow sweet sequence in which two characters meet cute, as Roger Ebert would put it, over the most uncute situation: the female lead is June, a cheery and cute radio operator from Boston working in Britain during World War II. The male lead is Peter, a Royal Air Force squadron leader who expects to be dead in about five minutes. His plane has been shot at, all but one of the squadron have parachuted to safety, the other man is dead, and his parachute is shot to pieces. Before Peter jumps out of the plane (he'd prefer not to blow up), he talks with June and, crazily enough, falls in love, even if it's just with a disembodied voice. Still, the time comes for him to jump, and he does so.

And then a funny thing happens. Peter wakes up. On the shore of the beach he jumped into. Alive and unharmed. What's more, Peter has landed in the same place where June lives; with a new lease on life, he runs to her and they begin their affair in earnest. The problem for Peter has ended temporarily, but is just beginning for his celestial conductor, a fop from the French Revolution who was meant to claim Peter's body for death as he jumped out of his plane. Thanks to all the fog, though, he missed Peter and has to reclaim the man for death. Peter, though, chooses to appeal with the highest court of all, so he may continue to live with June. Thus, all that's left to wonder is if Peter and June will make off or not (take a wild guess).

What makes A Matter of Life and Death so charming, so livable, and so enviable to anyone with a mind to make movies is not just the script, full of whimsy and life, but the actors, all of whom seem to so embody their characters that you wonder how they can do so much with seemingly so little. David Niven, future Oscar winner, plays Peter as a smart and dashing rogue, a man troubled by what appear to be realistic hallucinations in the form of his conductor, but not too troubled to ask for some tea or watch a game of ping-pong. Kim Hunter, another future Oscar winner, plays June, the personification of the phrase "cute as a button". What red-blooded man wouldn't want to move heaven and earth to live out a second life with her? Their chemistry, while never reaching the erotic peaks attained in the next film from the Archers, Black Narcissus, is still white-hot. In a winning and unique performance as Dr. Reeves, the man who ends up being Peter's worldly and ethereal counsel is Roger Livesey, the same man who played Colonel Blimp. Here, he doesn't age, but his wit, his smarts, and his camera obscura, a device which allows him to see all, if from a darkened vantage point, make the character as instantly iconic as Blimp or Thomas Colpeper from A Canterbury Tale. Other notable performances come from Marius Goring, as the French conductor; and Raymond Massey as the prosecuting counsel for the case of Peter's life, a true American patriot felled by the first bullet of the American Revolution.

Jack Cardiff's cinematography, mixing Technicolor during the scenes set on Earth and black-and-white during the Heaven-set sequences, is splendid and stunning. Here was a man who knew how to make the world come alive, color or not. One of the most haunting shots of the film comes early and is set in Heaven, as some of the recent dead peer down through large holes, facing towards them. Still, the color photography is as lush as anything he ever put on screen. His work with Powell and Pressburger is second to none. The work done by Powell and Pressburger is second to none.

I realize that I'm too late to this party; frankly, if it wasn't for the diligent and tireless work done by Martin Scorsese (yes, Martin Scorsese), and the mention of The Life and Death of Colonel Blimp courtesy of Roger Ebert in his Great Movies column, I don't know if I'd know much about Powell and Pressburger. I've discovered their films and am happier for doing so. The stories they tell are fully lived in. Without seeming like they're working on it, these two men built characters, towns, lives, worlds. From fantasy to fable, the war to the ballet, the Archers set their sights high, and often hit their targets. A Matter of Life and Death is one of their finest efforts.

A Self-Education in Film: Miscellany

In the past few days, I've seen a few more movies I wanted to discuss, but none would have done well to have lengthy dissertations of sorts, so I'm going to run through each of them here, with one exception, which you'll find out about above. I feel like this may be how the series continues; some movies are going to constitute lengthy pieces, while some just aren't. This isn't to say that any of the movies I'm about to talk about are bad, or didn't work for me on some level (though one of them...well, didn't work for me a lot); it's just that some movies inspire a lot, and some don't. Read on, then...

Black Orpheus (Directed by Marcel Camus): This Oscar-winning film from Brazil is a fascinating look at what Carnival looks at, up close and personal. It's also a unique retelling of the myth of Orpheus and Euripides, two star-crossed lovers who end up...well, how many star-crossed lovers do you remember making it out alive? Yes, as with most myths, it's a tragic tale, and I always find myself resisting movies where the characters live in the modern day, but act out stories of old, which inherently require them to act unlike modern people (this is just about the only reason why I couldn't stand A Serious Man). That said, the soundtrack is infectious, the imagery is striking, and the final 30 minutes do their damnedest to evoke sympathy and tragedy.

The Friends of Eddie Coyle (Directed by Peter Yates): Having heard quite a lot about this movie finally getting its due on the Criterion Collection, along with the tantalizing prospect of Robert Mitchum as the title character, I checked this movie out during the week. A few things fascinated me: first, that the movie evoked The Wire more than anything else. Obviously, one came first, but in watching this movie, which is ostensibly about what happens when a low-rent criminal attempts to turn into an informant so he won't go to jail, I was compelled to notice that so much of the movie is about side characters, or sequences meant to build tension while also informing the audience what these characters go through in their daily lives. Mitchum is excellent, if low-key (and oddly reminiscent of Bill Murray), but Peter Boyle and Richard Jordan deliver equally impressive supporting turns.

Shane (Directed by George Stevens): I'm not sure if it's that I don't like Westerns in general, but there's something about this movie that didn't work for me. Obviously, one of the statements the film is making is about what it means to be a man. How do you prove your manhood? Are you more or less manly by not fighting someone, even if that someone deserves a big punch in the face? The theme is fine; however, there's just something a bit too slow-moving about Shane, despite the notable and menacing supporting turn from Jack Palance, and Alan Ladd's unwavering stolid nature, even in the face of violent ranchers. Still, the subtle romantic subplot would work more if the characters were more resonant, or even felt more three-dimensional. The cinematography is excellent, though; my issue, as it is with most movies, comes with the script.

Ordinary People (Directed by Robert Redford): So this is the movie that beat Raging Bull 30 years ago. It's hard not to watch this movie without that mindset, and I admit to going in thinking bad things about the family drama focusing on a teenager trying to absolve himself of guilt because his older, more popular brother died in an accident. And here's what: this is a good movie. But it's not better than Raging Bull. That said, it's more than obvious why the Academy awarded one movie and not the other; as with another movie that beat out Martin Scorsese, the Academy loves when its most famous actors direct, and do so well. You could watch Ordinary People and not figure that Robert Redford directed, because there is no style. It's well-made, but not uniquely so. Some of the great directors have a stamp; you know you're watching a Spielberg movie, a Hitchcock movie, a Kurosawa movie, a Powell-Pressburger movie, and so on. You don't know you're watching a Redford movie. Not a terrible thing, but not worth awarding. Also worth pointing out: the one truly great performance, from Donald Sutherland, didn't even get an Oscar nomination. Give me a break, Academy.

The Manchurian Candidate (Directed by John Frankenheimer): This was easily the most chilling film of the final three, all of which I TiVoed from Turner Classic Movies, the movie that made the most impact. Based on the novel, and later remade (into a decent film, by the way), this movie still resonates. Could Angela Lansbury's conniving wife be any political figure of recent memory? It's hard not to watch the Red Scare being brought up and not think of people like Glenn Beck and Sarah Palin, people who could easily echo the dialogue and not with any irony. The world has always been a scary place, and politics is dominated by the people who will make it scarier. All of the performances, especially Lansbury and Laurence Harvey, are great; the best sequence does come early on, when the unit of soldiers lead by Frank Sinatra are captured by the evil scientists who brainwash them into thinking they're sitting in on a local meeting of old women talking about flowers. Still, this is (I know, big shock) a great film.

A Self-Education in Film: Matthieu Kassovitz's La Haine

Civil injustice is more common than it should be, in that it occurs anywhere at all in the world. This much we know. We know it happens here, on our shores. We know it's happened across the world, but being a relative neophyte, I was unaware of the problems plaguing the suburbs and slums of Paris, at least circa 1995, though from reports I've read, things haven't changed nearly enough in the past 15 years. Thus, if it wasn't for the fact that two of the men in the picture above are recognizable from their work in more well-known foreign and American film and TV, I'd almost believe that La Haine, Matthieu Kassovitz's blistering and painful drama, was a documentary. It's not just that the film seems so real, it's that every detail is so pitch-perfect (or feels that way; again, I'm a know-nothing when it comes to this issue), and that every statement is voiced in subtle ways, not hitting us over the proverbial heads.

Like other urban dramas, such as Boyz N The Hood, this movie is racially charged, the threat of violence hovering over the entire city of Paris like a flood of mosquitoes. That La Haine was shot in black-and-white only compounds the ominous idea that terror is just around the corner. The cinematography in the film, by Pierre Aim, is exceptional and one of the best reasons to watch the film. One particular shot that struck me occurs near the middle of the film, as one of the denizens of the slums sticks his boombox out his bedroom window, playing loud and abrasive hip-hop for all to hear. The camera, craning past the complex of buildings, watches impassively, gliding across the roofs, as the music, the loud and forceful message of freedom blares its way past the ghetto, right into the ears of every man, woman, and child walking the streets of Paris.

Also walking those streets, simultaneously friendly and foreboding, are Vinz, Said, and Herbert, played by Vincent Cassel, Said Taghmaoui, and Hubert Kounde, three teens who appear, to all who walk by them, to be thugs of the lower order. Vinz is the hothead of the three, having potentially torched a local building the night before the movie takes place. As they travel from back alley to warehouse, art show to apartment, these three friends experience high tension throughout a tumultuous 24-hour period. Cassel and Taghmaoui play the two characters who assume they're far smarter than they actually are, whereas Kounde's character is slightly, if only just, aware that their lots are going to stay exactly where they are. Vinz and Said talk a big game, but Hubert knows they're never leaving their slums. The class system is still very intact in Paris.

But what of their friendship? Said, despite not being as quick to anger, often is pranked by his friends; when he and Hubert are viciously detained by police officers late in the film, their connection with Vinz is frayed. Vinz, fashioning himself as a Travis Bickle for the 1990s, is focused on the now, concerning himself with bluster about killing cops should another of his friends, Abdel, die at their hands after having been detained by cops the night before. A crucial scene in a bathroom also proves that these three--big shock--act tough even though they're still kids around the playground beneath the chatter. La Haine is an arresting experience, shocking, visceral, fascinating, and captivating. That said, such a film seems almost like an artifact in a time capsule, if only because....well, things HAVE to be better than they were in 1995, right? Right?

A Self-Education in Film: Jules Dassin's Night and the City

Is there no more fascinating world in cinema than that of the noir? I am loathe to say something as crass as that it intrigues me, but...well, there it is. Despite all of the violence inherent in the mere idea of the film noir, the best of the genre excite and tantalize us. Though we are kept at arm's length, warned of the loose women, angry and quiet men, dark shadows, and all else that lurks there, the film noir is among the most alluring worlds to visit in all of film. I'm not against hanging out in space, going back to the old West, or living the life of the screwball comedy, but the film noir is embracing in its smoky corridors in such a way that can't be rivaled anywhere else.

The best film noirs don't have to follow the same structure; the common stereotype is that the ideal protagonist is the low-voiced gumshoe, a private detective more likely to be attracted to femme fatales and a bottle of whiskey than actually getting the job done. The femme fatale, usually blonde, has to have long hair that manages to wave around without being wavy, and is always ready to light the gumshoe's cigarette. There's always a rich husband, ready and willing to be killed by the femme fatale. There are alleyways, stormy nights, and small, oddly angled offices. Though Sam Spade or Philip Marlowe might be obvious characters to fit this ideal, I'm equally attracted to the less successful lead character, the schlub who's conned all the way to the end of the road by the femme, or by a new friend of his. There's nothing wrong with a film noir being headed by a guy who knows the score before it's presented to him, but sometimes, being ahead of the lead in terms of knowledge is just as enticing.

All of this rambling is just a sly way of me telling you that I was about the perfect person and had the perfect mentality to fall head-over-heels in love with Jules Dassin's 1950 picture Night and the City. The guy we follow around as he traverses the ins and outs of the dark streets of post-WWII London is Harry Fabian, somebody who wants to be somebody. By "somebody", he means somebody with power. All Harry wants is the power he sees his superiors get. His boss is a massive type, Phil Nosseross, in the mold of Sydney Greenstreet. Harry works for Phil at the Silver Fox, a seedy London nightclub that only does well if Harry can pull his usual con, pretending to find a missing wallet all to entice know-nothing American businessmen on a trip. If what they're looking for is good drinks and good women, they might as well try the Silver Fox, right?

As it's made clear early on, thanks to the skillful and charismatic performance from Richard Widmark, Harry is not bad at convincing people to come to the Silver Fox, as long as he stays within his boundaries. The main problem that plagues Harry throughout Night and the City, of course, is that Harry would rather forget that he has boundaries, let alone stay within them. He runs into trouble when watching a wrestling match, as he's just about to be escorted out, as a Mr. Kristo, the man who controls the wrestling in London, knows Harry's game and wants nothing of it. Unfortunately for both of them, Harry runs into Gregorius the Great, an ex-Greco-Roman wrestler who is disgusted with the shape of the sport as run by Mr. Kristo. Kristo is willing to listen to the old man's vitriol, partly because of his fame and partly because Gregorius is Kristo's father. Oh, didn't mention that one, did I?

Harry is, in his inherent ignorance, not stupid, as he decides to present himself as a Greco-Roman wrestling fan to Gregorius, who is instantly charmed by the touter. The conflict of the film, while about Harry's run-ins with Kristo and whether or not he can extricate himself from potentially mortal peril, mostly focuses on Harry's ability, or lack thereof, to know his place. He is warned by just about everyone he runs into, from Phil, who vacillates from warning Harry to seeking revenge upon the hustler for getting involved with his wife, to Kristo to Harry's on-and-off girlfriend, Mary. Mary, as played by Gene Tierney, is an interesting case, a bit of a random blemish on the movie. An early scene presents her dealing with Harry, who's interested in her company solely so he can pilfer some of her cash, and then spending time with a neighbor of hers, a rakish and friendly guy who'd be perfect for Mary, as he's attractive and nice and smart enough to see that Harry is trouble.

So what the hell are Mary and Adam doing in this movie? The first 15 minutes seem to establish them both as major characters, yet when they both vanish for lengthy stretches, you're not so much annoyed to find them returning after so long as vaguely reminded that they did actually appear; you didn't make them up, they're here. Tierney's not bad in the role of Mary; her final scene with Widmark is heartbreaking, mostly on her end. By this point, we've given up any hope for Harry, who's been pretty hopeless from the get-go. But Mary, portrayed as one of those stereotypical women who's just unable to extricate herself from a bum even if she knows what's good for her, crumbles in the last scene, trying so badly to help Harry out, while he's too busy trying one last gambit at saving his ass. Harry's mind is racing so fast, he's unaware of how ridiculous his final plan is; sure, fella, turn yourself in so Mary can get the reward. Well-thought out.

Of course, this is all the point of Night and the City, the last movie Jules Dassin directed before hightailing it out of the United States, thanks to the finger-pointing about his alleged ties to the Communist Party. Dassin would later dazzle audiences with such foreign-based heist films as Topkapi and Rififi (two films I've yet to see, but which I'm very eager to now); he started out in America with hard-bitten film noirs such as this and The Naked City, two movies that presented the world of the film noir as real, not some heightened universe in which parodies are welcomed or appropriate. Even though Widmark's performance is slightly theatrical, if only because of how unrealistically fast-talking and fast-thinking he comes off (fast-thinking, by the way, doesn't equal intelligence), this story feels real, especially in the climactic chase scene, wherein Harry heads out on foot to get away from the enforcers trying to kill him. As he runs through the shores and harbors of London, the bombed-out sections of the city that still hovered years after the war, there's a chill you can't escape, realizing that Dassin isn't using studio sets, but simply pointing his camera at what is there.

Widmark's performance dominates the film, but Herbert Lom (soon to be driven crazy by Inspector Clouseau in the Pink Panther series) is a dark and creepy antagonist, as the shrewd and condescending Mr. Kristo. Credit should be given, if only because Kristo is a three-dimensional antagonist, presented as a gangster with emotions and a brain. Tierney, despite having a small role, projects a sad-eyed tenderness in her scenes. But it's Widmark's performance, playing a man who tries so hard, too hard, to be better than he is, that makes Night and the City sing. In many ways, the title is a reference not just to the atmosphere presented in the story, but to what the world becomes when even the daylight seems oppressive. Harry Fabian is a lonely and pathetic man, and anything he does to further himself simply presses him further into the ground, so he remains stuck in a place he'd rather die than be in. That he gets his wish by the film's end only compounds his sadness.

Next: Matthieu Kassovitz's La Haine

A Self-Education in Film: Max Ophuls' La Ronde

We begin here, you and I, with a film made completely, cheekily, of artifice. Though co-writer and director Max Ophuls based La Ronde on the play by Arthur Schnitzler, the film is centered around a framing device that exposes the film, and perhaps even its theme, for its fakery. On the left of the picture is Anton Walbrook, a fascinating and charismatic actor who first made an impression on me in 1943's The Life and Death of Colonel Blimp, in which he plays a compassionate and sympathetic German soldier whose life is as equally described as that of the title character. Here, he is credited as the Raconteur, or better yet, Ophuls himself. From what I know of the late filmmaker (and I will honestly admit that I know little, aside from what I've read on blogs written by Glenn Kenny and the like), he was nothing if not a man who enjoyed flourish in his work. What I mean here is that he was a colorful director, someone who enjoyed a camera that moved, a camera that moved often, and over-the-top relish and brio all around.

If I am wrong, correct me (and I do mean that sincerely, by the way). What I know from his work in La Ronde is that he is more concerned with the artifice of the relationships being presented onscreen and with the artifice of film itself than anything else. Walbrook's Raconteur is laid-back, calm even when he should be a bit flustered, and charming enough to soothe every character he deliberately runs into. Here is the twist of the film: unlike the play, the Raconteur is unique, operating a merry-go-round that functions as a second glance at the theme of love being as flighty and wavering as the wind. Walbrook introduces us to the city of Vienna, in which we meet a prostitute. Then, we meet a soldier she sleeps with. The soldier moves on to a maid, who ends her dalliance by following up with a more educated man than she. And on and on until we end on the same prostitute meeting up, unexpectedly, with a Count.

So, the movie asks, what is love? Why is love worth more than a fling? Why should it be more than a fling? In some ways, La Ronde is a frustrating film to delve into as a viewer, because all we're seeing are characters who fool around with each other without any full meaning. Even the married couple we see in the film end up with other partners, though both are fully drawn and exceptionally performed, as it goes with every actor in the production. And yet...love is frustrating. Whether it's long-term or a one-night stand, love is not something that remains happy. It does not remain memorable in the best ways. Love can be awful (though we never see anything too depressing here), and love can be fleeting. What fascinates me most about this movie is that none of the characters are too put out even by the idea of their respective lovers going to others (as none of them appear to realize or care that their significant others are not monogamous). For these people, among varying levels of class in Vienna or in any city, love is comprised of brief encounters that may not be as fulfilling as long-lasting love, but it's something, right?

What I reveled in with La Ronde was its theatricality. Alongside the appearance of the Raconteur, who shows up often, there is the idea that the film's stories are being controlled by the Raconteur. When one of the players ends up...unable to perform, as it were, the Raconteur must fix his merry-go-round before things can be fueled up again. He must nudge the characters into the right places, and make sure that they're not disturbed, as when he shoos away an elderly professor from bothering one of the men, mid-coitus. What's more, the film begins with Walbrook narrating, to us, as he strolls around the outskirts of the studio setting where the film was shot, going so far as to acknowledge a movie camera hanging around. There's nothing taken for granted here in terms of making the audience aware of the lack of reality infusing this film.

But, despite the theatricality, the idea that La Ronde pushes forth is that love is only part of life. We cannot hope for love to encompass our minds, our hearts, our bodies. We can only hope to capture it in part. Only at the end is there any kind of hangover from the near-drunken frenzy with which these ten characters become intimate, as the Count wanders down the cobblestone road with his faithful dog, unsure of how he ever ended up with a prostitute, let alone one who's so far down the class structure. And even then, the Raconteur is there to cheerfully sing us out, skipping and hopping past, the way he came in, passing his merry-go-round, the camera, and the tiny stage which opens and closes the film.

I'm excited to watch another of Ophuls' films, if only because it's clear that he has a fuller sense of what a film camera can do than most modern directors. One thing that drives me to distraction is how often cinematography is wasted, how often the space can be filled out with nothing. If you have a wide composition, as Ophuls would have in future films, use it appropriately. I'm not asking for clutter, but for the space to be used appropriately. Max Ophuls, even in his black-and-white, fullscreen compositions, knows how to use his space. Would that every director were so shrewd.

Next: Jules Dassin's Night and the City

A Self-Education in Film: Prologue

I know, it's been too long. Four weeks ago, I spent a bit of time expressing my opinion on why Jay Leno's a huge hypocrite. Now, we're days away from his inevitable return, the Olympics are winding down, the sixth and final season of Lost is five hours long, and things have, in general, changed. As they do. In the meantime, and probably thanks to the complete lack of original programming on TV while the Olympics rage on, I've begun to once again excite myself at the prospect of watching more movies. Of course, it helps that I got a chance this past weekend to check out the latest film from Martin Scorsese, Shutter Island. I won't spend more than a sentence or two on that film; suffice to say, it is easily my favorite film the iconic director has made since, at least, The Aviator, and farther back, I'd wager.

I also managed to once again get the taste of watching Criterion Collection movies that I haven't seen. I wish--oh, how I fervently wish it--that I could say I've seen more than my fair share, more than half, more than 75 percent of the Criterion output, but that would be a bald-faced lie. In reading a fair number of blogs over the past week, including usual haunts such as Glenn Kenny's Some Came Running (http://somecamerunning.typepad.com) and Jeffrey Wells' Hollywood Elsewhere (http://www.hollywoodelsewhere.com), I realized that it's all well and good to sit around and read about film, current or otherwise. What good is it to read without context, though?

And so, a project. Or, perhaps, an experiment in my stamina. How long can I keep up at educating myself in film? I call myself a film buff, but in looking on it, I have not seen many, many films, and not just from filmmakers I'm aware of. I've seen Transformers, but I have not seen Seven Samurai (a major crime about to be reversed, as I'm currently looking at my copy from the local library). I've seen Cloudy With A Chance of Meatballs, but I have not seen a Hiyao Miyazaki film. I've not seen anything by Godard, Melville, and barely anything by Powell and Pressburger. I want to better myself. I need to, if I want to consider myself anything close to a buff. Amongst my closest friends and family, I'm the king of movies. Among pretty much anyone else on the Internet, I fear, I'm about as low on the totem pole as a guy can get.

No moping or pity, though. This isn't exactly some crazy idea here; I'm just going to chronicle my way through watching films, foreign or otherwise. Some of these entries will find their way to Box Office Prophets as classic reviews. Most will stay here. I've got two entries lined up, right after this prologue. Both are from foreign-born directors, whose works I've never seen. Neither are as well-known as Steven Spielberg, though both are arguably as important to the language of film. Enjoy it, as I hope to. Comments are welcomed, so don't be shy. We're all in this together.