|
A MOVIE LOVER'S JOURNAL
First, I'd like to thank everyone for the lively feedback
to my last column about the days when movies had action
before the main titles. I've printed the most interesting
responses at the end of this column.
We're going through a fallow period for new movies,
which is not necessarily bad news given how many December
leftovers there are for people to catch up with. Meanwhile,
I've decided that there is a new genre we can call The
January Movie. These are films that 
studios are too embarrassed to release in December, like Torque,
The Butterfly Effect, and The Big Bounce. In spite
of its high-profile stars, I'd also include Along Came Polly—you
know, the movie where we get to spend quality time with Ben Stiller
on the commode.
Nathaniel Kahn's profoundly moving, highly personal
documentary My Architect finally opened in Los
Angeles, and earned an Academy Award nomination to boot,
which pleases me no end. I was even happier to
introduce both Kahn and his film to my students at USC,
who responded warmly, as I hoped they would. I
wish I could persuade more people to see this and another
favorite that's now an Oscar nominee (as Best Foreign
Language Film), The Barbarian Invasions. Believe
me, they're worth seeking out.
The advantage of having fewer new releases is that
January afforded me the opportunity to catch up with
some vintage movies at UCLA and the American Cinematheque. These
showings reminded me, once again, how vital it is to
experience movies on a big screen with a sympathetic
audience. I'm not downplaying the advantages of
home video, or complaining about the growing number of
rare films available on DVD, but there really is no substitute
for watching movies the way they were intended to be
seen.
The UCLA Film and Television Archive presented
an eagerly-awaited tribute to Anna May Wong in January,
curated by Mimi Brody; a similar retrospective was held
at the Museum of Modern Art in New York, and Milestone
Film and Video has booked the BFI-restored Piccadilly in
a number of cities on its way toward DVD release.
Interest in Wong has been building steadily over the past few years,
and no fewer than three new books have surfaced, seemingly all at once,
about the Chinese-American actress.
Meanwhile, Elaine Mae Woo continues to work on her documentary, Anna
May Wong: Frosted Yellow Willows: Her Life, Times and Legend, having
traveled the globe doing research and clearing rights to rare film clips.
[For more information, go to www.anna-may-wong.com] Elaine
is less interested in gossip about Wong's sexuality, and a supposed liaison
with Marlene Dietrich, than in trying to paint a fully-realized picture
of this fascinating woman, who carved a unique career by becoming a major
star in America, England, and Germany in the 1920s and 30s.
To understand and appreciate this pioneering Asian-American actress
one must begin with the films themselves, many of which have been difficult
to find. UCLA obtained prints from a number of archives, principally
the British Film Institute, and it was exciting to see some of these films
for the first time. (I wish they had included Wong's two starring
films for
PRC Pictures from the 1940s, Bombs Over Burma and Lady from
Chungking. They're not very good, but they afford the actress
leading roles in topical wartime stories, and as always, she comes off
well.)
What's most interesting about her late-silent British films, Piccadilly and The
Flame of Love, is how almost everyone in the cast chews the scenery—except
her. The Caucasian leading ladies in both films preen and pose,
but they can't compete with Anna May's sly, knowing looks, and her seemingly
effortless charisma.
Wong was dissatisfied with the roles she received in Hollywood. The
British film industry treated her much better, and gave her star billing
above the title (she even signs her name in Chinese on a chalkboard for
the main title of 1935's Tiger Bay), but the films weren't all
that good, and as often as not called for her to make the ultimate sacrifice
by committing suicide. But whatever the relative merits of Chu-Chin-Chow (the
Arabian Nights operetta with an overripe Fritz Kortner—Viennesse accent
intact—as Abu Hasan) or Java Head, (one of the few films to address
mixed-race marriage and allow Wong to kiss her leading man, John Loder)
her very presence—her innate dignity, and her use of colorful and authentic
clothing—makes even the cheesiest films worth watching.
The first time I saw Playtime was at the Museum of Modern
Art when Jacques Tati introduced it, some thirty years ago. Tati
said very little but charmed the audience with his engaging smile
and a bit of pantomime. I recall the film being awfully
long, but I can't be  certain
it was the now “lost” 155-minute version. In January, the
American Cinematheque presented a breathtaking print as part
of its 70mm film festival. It seems an ideal length at
126 minutes, and lives up to Francois Truffaut's description
of it as “a film from another planet.”
To see this 70mm version on the gigantic screen at the Egyptian
Theater was a privilege and a treat. Some of my companions
that evening grew tired, as the film's lack of story gives it
a corresponding lack of momentum, but I was enthralled.
Tati built an entire city, nicknamed Tativille, as the setting
for this unique variation on Chaplin's Modern Times. With
the incredible clarity of 70mm, and Tati's use of deep focus
(keeping everything in the foreground and background razor-sharp),
the effect is staggering: everything within each shot is
choreographed, designed, deliberate. There's an early scene
in which a man walks down a long, long hallway to meet Tati in
a waiting area: all we see is the man striding purposefully
toward us, and all we hear is the repetitive clicking of his
heels on the highly polished floor.
Tati's use of sound is almost as impressive as his sense of
the visual. He may be the only man in movie history to
get a laugh out of the hum of a neon sign!
Aside from screenings, the new year has brought more than its
share of movie-related events, and I've tried to capture some
of them with my camera. I'll be posting some of my snapshots
over the next few days at My Pictures,
and some new video reviews on the Leonard's Picks page. And
I hope you enjoy the Cliff "Ukulele Ike" Edwards article I've
just added to the Archives.
Here are some responses to my last column (which you can read
by clicking here ).
Dick Dinman writes, “20th Century Fox used this device quite
often in the early fifties. Examples: DESERT FOX's only
action scene,
a long one, opened the film prior to the credits, and there were
short pre-credit sequences for 5 FINGERS and TITANIC.”
Frederick Rappaport offers this observation: “Pre-title
sequences were a signature of many Robert Aldrich films. They
were often quite lengthy--I think HUSH, HUSH... SWEET CHARLOTTE's
was the longest--but none of them nearly as effective as the
short and sweet stunner that precedes the credits in KISS
ME DEADLY.”
Tom Weaver writes, “Universal wanted to put Jack Arnold's directing
credit at the end of IT CAME FROM OUTER SPACE (1953)
but DGA told Universal "no way" (I found the correspondence
at USC.) But Universal did it anyway! I think Curt
Siodmak's directing credit comes at the end of THE
MAGNETIC MONSTER (1953). Seems like every director
Richard Carlson HAD in 1953 wanted their name at the end of the
movie!”
And Jerry Beck adds, “The first movie I can think of without
any opening titles or director credit until the end of the film
is my favorite guilty pleasure, HEAD (1968), The Monkees
movie directed by Bob Rafelson, written by Rafelson and Jack
Nicholson. Not even the Columbia logo until the bitter end -
and then an ornate faux-1920s version of the "proud lady" is
shown getting stuck in, then burning, in the projector gate! Is
there an earlier example of no titles/credits from a "mainstream" Hollywood
film? Not to go on, but my other favorite guilty pleasure, SKIDOO (1969)
has Harry Nilsson singing all the end credits! But I digress...”
And two readers pose interesting queries. Michael Ladenson
asks, “Doesn't Francis
| Find out
more about Leonard's brand-new newsletter. |
 |
 It's
Movie Crazy, too. |
|
|
Coppola's name come at the end of THE GODFATHER? The
film opens with Paramount Pictures presents Mario Puzo's THE
GODFATHER, then we go right into the movie, then at the end,
the first credit is "Directed by Francis Ford Coppola." Why
didn't this cause the ruckus that EMPIRE STRIKES BACK did?”
In a similar vein, Steve Bailey writes, “All right, here's what I want
to know. Everyone cites THE EMPIRE STRIKES BACK as the famous
modern example where a director's credit didn't appear until the end of
the movie. But if that's the most recent modern case, how do you explain
Woody Allen's MANHATTAN, which featured no credits until movie's
end, a full year before it?”
I don't have answers to these interesting queries. Could it simply
be that the DGA didn't complain because no one brought it to their attention?
|
