Hajducy Kapitana Angela – original Polish film poster

Designer: Mieczyslaw Wasilewski

Chlopiec Z Burzy (Storm Boy) – original Polish film poster

Designer: Eryk Lipinski

Motodrama – original Polish film poster

Designer: Jakub Erol

Siedem Piegow – original Polish film poster

Szal

Designer: Jan Mlodozeniec

Gehenna – original Polish film poster

Designer: Erol Jakub

Na Torze Czeka Morderca – original Polish film poster

Ludzie Przeciwko Sobie – original Polish film poster

Designer: Maciej Hibner

Cries and Whispers

Directed by Ingmar Bergman

Sweden, 1972

The inanity of Bergman’s canonisation has always baffled me: I have tended to endure his films as a bitter medicine – worthwhile but unenjoyable, classics that everybody wants to have watched but nobody wants to watch. Subjecting myself to Cries and Whispers on the merit of Bergman’s reputation (a reputation which must have originated from a claque of obsequious film critics and scholars who probably jumped on some incomprehensible-European-language-arthouse-must-be-praiseworthy-though-unwatchably-tedious bandwagon) with no background knowledge of the film, cemented my hitherto opinion of his oeuvre.

Multi-award nominated Cries and Whispers is a stolid, stodgy tableau of three upper-class, turn-of-the-nineteenth-century sisters in their family mansion. These strikingly winsome aristocratic Scandinavian beauties (most of the cast are part of Bergman’s habitual posse with two of the priapic director’s mistresses, Harriet Andersson and Liv Ullmann, as well as best pal Erland Josephson keeping things in the family) toy with various would-be dark and stifled ‘emotions’, existential and physiological pains, inasmuch as their desiccated Nordic disposition allows for the expression of a histrionic, fitful sensibility which is as close as the characters get to feeling.

One of the sisters, Agnes (Harriet Andersson) has terminal-stage cancer and the other two, Maria (Liv Ullmann) and Karin (Ingrid Thulin) have come to the mansion to ‘assist’ her in her final earthly moments. Instead of sisterly bonding, however, the gruesome agony of Agnes’s disease seems to suffuse them with disgust, uncorking tawdry sibling rivalry, old hatreds and various aristocratic-life traumatisms (unloving husbands and lovers, sibling indifference) all interspersed with some stale, vapid woman-on-woman kissing (hard to tell what went on in Bergman’s head directing his mistresses frolicking about, but apparently he was coming out of a painful romantic breakup…) The most ‘torrid’ scenes are between the martyred Agnes and her self-abnegating maid, Anna, whose analgesic methods include proffering the patient mouth-on-mouth kisses and a bare, udder-like, wet-nurse-kind of bosom.

All this to signify the motherly figure of the maid, a stout, low-class servant providing Agnes with the one real tenderness, while her trim, squeamish, self-absorbed sisters sort out their various psychologically complex, aristocracy-becoming issues (apparently marriages were mostly loveless in nineteenth-century Sweden…) The ‘mother’ issues hark back to Agnes’ adulation of her distant, cold, disarmingly beautiful mother, the antithesis of the homely Anna, a mother who apparently favoured the prettier Maria while neglecting Agnes. Whether or not this sibling predilection was actual or imagined by Agnes, the present-day result is the symbiotic relationship between patient and maid (who as it happens has lost her own daughter).

The bond between Agnes and Anna is not the sole instance of repulsive physicality (Agnes: “Do I smell very bad?”, Anna unbuttoning her bosom: “No”), a deformed proximity which accords with the stultified emotional register of the film: the histrionic dialogues are occasionally interspersed with animal-like howls; the camera lingers purposely over a perturbing kiss between the two surviving sisters who otherwise detest each other; the elder one resorts to genital self-mutilation presumably to ward off her husband’s advances, who in keeping with the rest of the secondary male characters is a sordid caricature of a man (his idea of a ‘tolerable funeral’ is no one weeping or growing hysterical). Ironically, the most endearing male part may be that of the glazed, buttoned-up, puritan-oozing Lutheran minister who delivers the supposedly profound but impassive last rite to Agnes.

A lot of the praise heaped on this film, as well as the cinematography Oscar, has gone to the use of colour and art direction. Indeed, the mise en scene relies heavily on a mosaic of red (blood), white (innocence) and black (mourning), conferring to the film a stagey, heavily artificial texture. Why the preponderance of red? Apparently, when Bergman was a child he imagined the human soul was red. Groundbreaking? If the biggest artistic innovation of Cries and Whispers is the saturated colour palette, then not much would be left on stripping off the colours but beautiful actresses wearing impenetrable, icily Scandinavian masks. Insofar as watching Cries and Whispers was a torturous, painfully endured viewing process, I empathised with Agnes’s deathbed agonies. I am not sure if that is the kind of empathy Bergman had in mind.

The DVD includes an interview with the two aging patriarchs, an arrogant Bergman in his eighties and his faithful wingman Josephson in his late seventies, from which we learn that the director was once fined for threatening a film critic who ‘pursued’ him for a long time in a Swedish newspaper. I think I know whose side I’d be on.

Zornitsa Staneva

The twentieth year of Catherine Breillat’s directorial career marked a shift. While her thematic focus and bold vision remained true, her skills as a filmmaker and storyteller began showing strong signs of improvement beginning with 1996′s Perfect Love. It opens with a man explaining to the police how and why he killed his lover as well as her daughter’s account. Building toward such an extreme end, the actual story of the romance that the film flashes back to is surprisingly subtle. Too often this kind of disintegrating relationship story fails to build up the relationship and make you invest in it before tearing it down but on this note Perfect Love excels. Bonus points for excellent use of phallic symbolism.

Four of Breillat’s next five films share bonds that demand a break from a chronological structure. 1999′s Romance and 2004′s Anatomy of Hell share the presence of Italian porn actor Rocco Siffredi and an episodic and rather removed exploration of sexuality. In Romance, Caroline Ducey plays Marie, a character that seems to represent the Madonna-Whore complex. On one hand, her husband refuses to be intimate with her, promoting a certain purity, on the other hand she seeks out sexual fulfillment from others in a symbolic quest to discover her orgasm. A line is drawn between sexual fulfillment and emotional connection. There’s also an interesting conflict within Marie whether to find male objectification of her loathsome or thrilling. As a whole it is still a bit messy but the thematic concepts are certainly intriguing.

Much more successful is Anatomy of Hell. It takes aim at all those messy things about women’s bodies from body hair to periods, that society tries to keep quiet or battle against, lest men be discomforted from their ideas of the virginal (adolescent) purity and ownership of women. In this way it makes a rather interesting adult sex education video, operating at a level of frankness that is usually avoided. The film has been accused of homophobia with its vague implication that homosexuality is the result of male revulsion with the female body but having the male character be gay plays an important role in removing sexual desire from the interaction between the two characters. On a purely intellectual level, this may be Breillat’s greatest success.

Breillat’s most acclaimed film is probably 2001′s Fat Girl. Fat Girl follows two sisters as they hit different points in their sexual awakening. Elena is nearly 16 and is beautiful while Anais, 12, as the title indicates, is fat. The contrast between their approaches toward relationships is captivating. Elena, by virtue of her beauty, takes an idealistic view of waiting for someone special to have sex with while Anais is eager to just get it over with. Yet Anais is idealistic in her own way, arguing that sexual experience should be seen as a virtue in a woman and not a vice. The film also captures some interesting aspects of women as rivals. The way the sisters interact and the way a male character plays on female rivalry to get what he wants is incredibly incisive. Anais Reboux and Roxane Mesquida deliver excellent performances as the sisters but the film is burdened by a terribly out of tone ending that derails an otherwise splendid film.

2002′s Sex Is Comedy calls back to Fat Girl by having Roxane Mesquida play an actress in a film with a few scenes that are drawn almost directly from Fat Girl. Vaguely autobiographical, the actress cast as the director within the film, Anne Parillaud, actually has some basic resemblance to Breillat. The film explores how the director interacts with the lead actors as well as the crew in order to get the film done. As an insight into the filmmaking process it is engaging, but being a Breillat film, there’s a strong gender component. You see how she has to interact very differently with the actor and the actress. You see the various issues that come up in trying to get these two individuals who don’t particularly like each other to create intimate moments on camera. Most dramatically, you see how the type of raw sex scene that Breillat’s films often include comes together. A great film for anyone who is interested in how films are made, Sex Is Comedy is probably Breillat’s most complete film.

Erik Bondurant

There have been a number of films over the years that have been 9/10 jobs, movies that manage to build themselves into potential masterpieces or classics, but put a foot wrong with tragic consequences; a film that may have been a great, but fell just short all by its own doing.

Here is a run down of four such films, and a look at the easily resolvable flaw in each that dragged them down from potential greatness.

Heat

A crime epic in every sense, Michael Mann’s Heat is pretty much a big event film. You have sweeping cinematography, a solidly mounted, expansive story and some truly brilliant set pieces, most notable of them a running gun battle in downtown LA. Oh, and it was hyped up since it was the first film in which Al Pacino and Robert De Niro would share screen time.

It’s the tale of a cop (Pacino) and a robber (De Niro), as the thief orchestrates a series of highly effective, sophisticated raids on banks and armored cars, pocketing millions in the process, while the burnt out, obsessive detective throws himself into catching him. Backed by a great soundtrack (including a couple of Moby tracks), great supporting cast and superb direction, Heat seems on paper to be destined for multi-award, hall of legends status.

Undone By: The Script

Alas, Mann was clearly so focused on getting Heat right that he determined to do everything himself, adapting the script from his earlier, low budget flick L.A Takedown, and of course directing too. This was his baby. Unfortunately, it seems he was too close to consider getting some help.

While the plot is excellently constructed, it’s in the dialogue that Heat hits a significant bump in the road. For a film with such talent on screen, it really tortures the stars by having them utter some inane, often empty and occasionally mind boggling lines of dialogue. The victim to suffer the most is Diane Verona as Pacino’s wife, who is forced to utter such gems as: “You sift through the detritus, you read the terrain, you search for signs of passing, for the scent of your prey, and then you hunt them down.”

Pretty poetry, perhaps, but painful when presented conversationally. Same goes for Pacino’s faux coke addict performance: “I gotta hold on to my angst. I preserve it. because I need it.”

The result is that the characters rarely ring true, with the exception of Dennis Haybert’s ex con, and as such you never really get sucked in as you should. Rather than an amazing cinematic experience, Heat becomes a marvelous spectacle, never quite hitting you emotionally as it should, never forcing you invest your feelings. It’s something with a decent script doctor could easily have solved, a fairly routine change that might just have given Heat a heart, not a sensibility.

Kingdom of Heaven

(This entry applies to the Director’s Cut)

Kingdom Of Heaven is an example of Ridley Scott again taking charge of a genre flick in a genre that has collected a layer of dust. After Gladiator saw the return of Romans to our screens, this middle ages set semi-factual blockbuster is a truly mammoth take on the Crusades, a rip roaring, swords and chain mail clad epic.

From a script by William Monaghan (Oscar winner for The Departed), KOH is the sweeping legend of Balian, a Frankish blacksmith mourning the loss of his wife, who winds up traveling to the Middle East in search of redemption, and winds up in the middle of a war between the Christian Crusaders and Saracens, becoming a hero in the process.

Stretching from snowy France to exotic Tripoli, on to the rabid Arabic deserts and the holy city of Jerusalem, Kingdom of Heaven is one of the most gorgeously mounted films of the 2000’s. Beautiful cinematography mixed with a profound script, superlative supporting cast – Liam Neeson in an obligatory mentor role, Jeremy Irons, Eva Green, Brendan Gleeson, Ed Norton, David Thewlis… – and a captivating story makes for a true event picture, a tantalizing tale of redemption, honor and spirituality. Everything seems to be in place…

Undone By: Orlando Bloom

Alas, the Ridley Scott casting bug of recent times…

Because of its premise, and fairly basic arc structure, Kingdom of Heaven absolutely relies on the ability of its leading man, requiring an actor who can express various emotions, and can transform from empty shell into charismatic leader, true warrior. Balian needs to be played by an actor who carries the audience’s affection, empathy and is utterly authentic as a man of his time.

Orlando Bloom is not this actor. While not giving a terrible performance, it is a distinctly average one, monotonous and far from varied, while delivery of inspirational remarks and speeches to his men is forced, lacking in heart or conviction. In short, pretty boy Bloom is unconvincing and, as a knock on of this, his character is un-engaging and frankly quite dull compared to Ghassan Massoud’s Saladin, Norton’s King Baldwin and even Alexander Siddig’s Imad.

A compelling, spiritual tale is undermined by the presence of an un-emotive leading man who can barely carry his lines, let alone the arc of his character or the weight of the film’s themes and ultimate poignancy.

The Dark Knight

Like the previous two entries, Christopher Nolan’s The Dark Knight is considered to be a giant in its respective field, and an artistically commendable film which bridges the gap between comic book/superhero blockbuster niche and conventional action thriller.

Following on from the events of Batman Begins, The Dark Knight sees Batman (Christian Bale) attempt to keep order in the streets of Gotham City derailed by the emergence of psychotic criminal mastermind The Joker (Heath Ledger). Batman’s alliance with cop Jim Gordon (Gary Oldman) and local district attorney Harvey Dent (Aaron Eckhart) is stretched thin as the new villain wreaks havoc, plunging the city into chaos and threatening to destroy Batman in more ways than one.

Thematically stunning, not to mention visually and audibly memorable, The Dark Knight brings a far moodier, more foreboding feel to the series as morality comes under scrutiny and the philosophy of crime fighting is tested in the face of an enigma. Thoughtfully made and gleefully constructed, the film boasts a great premise and escapes the clutches of the Batman stigma by sheer dint of ferocity. There’s seemingly not a flaw to be found.

Undone By: Too Much Plot

Perhaps a harsh indictment, The Dark Knight ultimately falls at the final hurdle by trying to do too much. Though its lengthy running time allows for plenty of leeway, the film is still overly crammed with subplots, narrative turns and minor characters vying for attention and a piece of the action.

As well as the straightforward plot – the Batman/Dent/Gordon vs The Joker conflict – we have secondary arcs that include Batman impersonators, an accountant who knows Batman’s identity, a news anchor taken hostage, a secret project run by Bruce Wayne, a money swindling scheme by The Joker and an overrun court case. That’s not even going into the Bruce/Rachel Dawes relationship or Dent’s fall from grace.

The end product feels alot like a complex crime novel which should really have been cut down for its adaptation. Although none of these story strands are superfluous, they are not essential and often provide too much food for thought. The crescendo ending loses some impact because of this, since there was so much to precede it, while Bruce Wayne is neglected as a character.

For all that The Dark Knight dazzles, it could easily have packed a heftier emotional punch in its climactic final stages, were the story perhaps given an aggressive pruning before production. Too much of anything can be a bad thing.

Mississipi Burning

White hot in terms of story and politics, Alan Parker’s searing and controversial drama thriller taps into the heart of the insidious and frothing racial tensions of the 1960’s in the rural South, and in particular within the titular state.

When two civil rights activists and their black friend disappear in Mississipi, the FBI send the unlikely pairing of old fashioned former sheriff Gene Hackman and modern bureau man Willem Dafoe to solve the case. All they find is irresolvable hatred between the white locals and the African-American minority, and their efforts to find the victims are undermined at every step by the hostile locals, making them wonder whether there will ever be a solution to the race row.

With Hackman and Dafoe in great form, not to mention sterling work from Frances McDormand and Brad Dourif, and a thoughtful, bluntly forceful plot really capturing the tensions of the time, Mississipi Burning has all the hallmarks of a classic.

Undone By: The Final Act’s Mood Whiplash

That is, until it abandons its own themes and crux of point in the climax and instead opts for a Dirty Harry style resolution that is one part audience pandering, two parts panic button impulse.

This comes after Hackman brings about his own rules to the investigation, which includes beating down the offenders and using illegal methods to secure ultimately paltry jail time. It’s presented as a victory in the film, and deeply satisfying on a basic level to see the racists subjected to some street justice. But it raises so many ethical concerns that the conclusion feels hollow. After spending the whole film depicting the plight of the black community as a long battle towards a more evolved civility, and a test of solidarity and dignity, we come to a vengeful campaign of terror on terror as a resolution.

It also seems strange having established every drastic action from the FBI leads to a corrosive reaction from the KKK, the final confrontation seems to have no negative consequences, though this isn’t really the point. Nothing is really solved, which is hardly to be expected, yet the ending presents the final retribution as a conclusion to the tale. Having built itself as more contemplative and scathing, Mississipi Burning descends into contradictory, knife edge idealism, far removed from the mood and tone that had set the film up as a powerhouse great.

By Scott Patterson

Directed by Sun Chung

Written by Kuang Ni and Sun Chung

Hong Kong, 1982

There is an exciting element of risk whenever creative minds willfully choose to go against the grain. Directors, writers and actors, when feeling adventurous, can attempt to defy the expectations by involving themselves in a picture that few would have expected them to ever partake in. Occasionally an entire studio may see fit to shake things up a bit in order to give audiences a fresh outlook on their image. Shaw Brothers certainly was not entirely limited to creating strictly martial arts and wuxia adventure films set in historical Chinese periods. There are a few examples of more drama and horror-centric efforts, but genre blending as exercised by director Sung Chung in his 1982 film, Human Lanterns, was certainly uncommon from the famed studio.

Lung Shu Ai (Liu Yung) and Tan Fu (Chen Kuan Tai) are long standing rivals. Both have been blessed with enormous professional success, thus lending them considerable social stature. Neither has any desire to see the other earn the metaphorical title as the most sought after personality in town, leading to much posturing and foul banter whenever the two cross paths, be it in the streets or at lavish banquets, with the ferocity of their incompatible personalities sometimes resulting in physical skirmishes through which they demonstrate their martial arts knowledge. One annual competition has them especially fired up, that being the lantern festival. Lung, determined to win next year, receives word of a man living in quasi-hermit status just outside of town who, as word as it, makes the most exquisite lanterns imaginable. Much to Lung’s surprise, it turns out to be Chao Chung Fang (Lo Lieh) a man with whom Lung engaged in combat seven years ago and left heavily scarred, in addition to marrying his girl at the time, Lee Chin (Tanny Tien Ni). Lung proposes that they leave their differences behind and form a business partnership. Chung Fang need only make the greatest lantern ever, and as a result Lung shall reward him handsomely. Little does Lung know that Chung Fang shall try to make use of this opportunity to avenge his shameful defeat by destroying everything Lung holds dear as a masked murderer who uses human skin to make his coveted lanterns!

Sung Chung’s Human Lanterns holds dear to many of the tropes which make Shaw Brothers films what they are, giving audiences healthy doses of characters blessed with remarkably acrobatic fighting skills, some of which are clearly heightened in a fantastical way often seen in Chinese kung fu films, and some glaringly theatrical performances from some of the cast members. Where the film takes a dramatic turn is in its adding the element of horror to the proceedings, resulting in a picture which truly represents two genres at once. Lanterns is never completely a horror film, nor is it entirely a martial arts action piece. What’s more, there are significant portions of the story which deal directly with the bitter rivalry between social snobs Lung and Tan, therefore adding some dramatic heft, albeit of very melodramatic nature. Considering that martial arts and horror are not too genres that one would assume can fluidly gel together, it stands to reason that those two distinctive aspects of Lanterns are dedicated to individual scenes of their own, never rarely crashing into one another in full swing, with perhaps the exception of the finale, but even that portion weighs more heavily in favour of the action than it does the horror.

At this point it becomes pertinent to provide a description of the sort of horror is featured in Lanterns. After so many weeks of discussing straight-up action Shaw films, there remains little doubt as to what one can expect in that department: superhuman jumps, impressive powerful kicks, punches, ducking, flips and the clashing of shiny swords. The horror element, though, is very peculiar. While comparing the works of celebrated giallo filmmaker Lucio Fulci to the works of Shaw Brothers studios can easily, on the surface, come across as misguided and the ludicrous notion of someone who probably knows little of what they are writing about, close attention paid to Lanterns will reveal that the comparison just might be accurate enough to hold true. Suspiria, Fulci’s most recognized work, features incredibly stylish lighting schemes whose purpose are essentially to create atmosphere and suspense, with little regards as to why scenes look green or red for example. The sights and sounds are what matter more than anything, not necessarily the why. The deaths are slow and brutal, all of which feature pretty girls as the unfortunate victims of evil’s brutality. Sun Chung, although not as accomplished or detailed a stylist as Fulci, nevertheless creates a world in which the colour palettes are stunningly pronounced. The outdoor nighttime scenes are washed in a frigid blue tint, the majority of Chun Fung’s basement workshop glows of yellow while the cogs are drenched in vivid red representing the blood of his sad victims. The few torture scenes Chung directs are shocking, even by the ordinary standards of Shaw Brothers, who sometimes injected blatantly graphic violence into their actions films. Chun Fang splits skulls open, poisons people with hot mercury, rapes his victims, and, of course, peels off their skin. The Shaw rogues gallery has a vast population, but few of the antagonists ever reached the freakish heights of cruelty Chun Fang indulges in here. This is really something else, not to mention that the actor Lo Lieh, mostly known as the great hero of King Boxer, has a ball with the roll, relishing the opportunity to play such a vile fiend.

If there are faults in the attempt at creating something new, they would have to concern some of the dialogue. There are moments, thankfully few, wherein Chun Fang’s lines are too silly, to explanatory (in case he literally goes about explaining how he will kill his next victim in in comically dry rhythm), which take away from the frightful nature of the character. Other times Chun Fang, when adorning his night prowling costume which consists of a hairy skull mask and black cowl, prances around with a maniacal laugh which sounds far too forced. Such instances reveal that the creators are action movie makers first and foremost, trying to make a scary movie. Their efforts are worthy of praise, but the results are not always what one hoped for.

The writing and direction that went into the characterizations are equally particular in the case of Lanterns. It became patently obvious by the midway point of the film that nobody was ever going to take on the role of true hero. With the exception of Lung’s wife Chin and the police sergeant Poon (Sun Chien), all of the central figures are morally corrupt, bankrupt even. Tan and Lung hate each others’ guts with a passion and never shy away from demonstrating it, succumbing to some reprehensible behaviours, such as assassination attempts (courtesy of a small role from Lo Mang as a hired killer) and vicious public embarrassments. Chun Fang is, unsurprisingly, no better, him being the worst of the three by delighting himself in not just plotting a hideous revenge against Lung, but also literally destroying humans. In that regard, Lanterns is a tough sell compared to a lot of other martial arts films.

One’s like or dislike of the picture will depend on one’s acceptance to follow not three despicable characters. There is strength in the movie’s dark subject matter, the most interesting idea being that the story is an exploration of how jealousy and vengeful blood-thirst can extinguish the decency in all of us. That being said, Lanterns will most certainly turn some people off.. Those who want their kung fu films a bit edgier or who are curious to see something off the walls from the studio should come away pleased. It therefore comes with a cautious recommendation. Come to think of, Human Lanterns could make for an interesting topic on an episode of Sound on Sight’s Sordid Cinema show.

-Edgar Chaput

Ben Gazzara died on February 3 of pancreatic cancer.  An alumnus of the famed Actors’ Studio, he had a long career on stage, TV, and film.  Not just long, but accomplished. 

On Broadway, he was the original Brick in the Tennessee Williams’ classic, Cat on a Hot Tin Roof, and then he eclipsed that triumph with another powerful stage performance as a junkie whose habit poisons his relationship with everyone who loves him in A Hat Full of Rain. 

His TV career launched in the early 1950s and extended through the next five decades.  His small screen credits included roles on the landmark live drama anthologies of the 50s, such as The United States Steel Hour, Kraft Theatre, and Playhouse 90, and such acclaimed productions as cop drama A Question of Honor (1982), one of network TV’s first attempts to address the then detonating AIDS epidemic in An Early Frost (1985), and the epic mini-series, QB VII (1974).  He starred in one of the classics of 1960s TV, Run for Your Life (1965-68), earning two Emmy nominations as a successful lawyer trying to live life to the fullest after learning he has just two years to live. 

On the big screen, however, he never quite achieved the same stature he did on TV and the stage, in large part because – by his own admission – “I didn’t really take advantage of the opportunities,” though late in his career he became a valued character actor (he was a particular hoot as a porn king in the off-kilter The Big Lebowski [1998]).  But his best film work may have been in some of his least-seen films; the movies he made for John Cassavetes, and the most popular of the three films they made together was Husbands (1970). 

Cassavetes was a true art house renegade, taking acting roles in commercial movies to put together enough money to make his own, highly personal films.  In Husbands, Cassavetes, Gazzara, and Peter Falk play three long-time friends who react to the death of another buddy with a midlife crisis bender of booze and a jaunt to London.  Think The Hangover – but serious and for grown-ups. 

Like much of Cassavetes’ work, Husbands has the shapelessness and shambling pace of life, the same sense of spontaneity, the same chaotic tumbling of the comedic into the tragic.  It’s a demanding watch, but a rewarding one, almost uncomfortable at times in its feel of intruding into the real. 

The heart of the movie is the give-and-go between the three leading men, and it may be one of the most honest and vibrant portraits of male friendship – with all its awkward intimacy and macho bullshit – captured on film.  The bond between the three seems so damned real, it’s a surprise to find out that the three hadn’t known each other before Husbands. 

Watching the film, seeing how open and vulnerable the three made themselves to each other, at the obvious chemistry among them, it’s no surprise they came out of the project friends.  Gazzara would act for Cassavetes twice more, in The Killing of a Chinese Bookie (1976) and Opening Night (1977), and direct several episodes of Falk’s hit TV series, Columbo, including one starring Cassavetes as a philandering orchestra conductor. 

But if you really want to see how closely tied the film brought them, go to YouTube and find them on an episode of The Dick Cavett Show being interviewed about the film.  It puts Danny DeVito and his limoncello hangover on The View to shame.  On the one hand, it’s appalling to see three grown – and obviously half-crocked — men cackling and falling over themselves on network television like kids farting in the back pew during mass. 

On the other hand, it seems almost a scene from Husbands, and shows just how right the three of them had gotten it on film.  Some things you can’t create; you can only hope to capture. 

Husbands, Chinese Bookie, et al was not work Gazzara or the others did for fame and fortune.  These were art house films before there was much of an art house circuit.  Most people didn’t hear about them, even fewer went to see them.  It was work done for the sake of doing; art for art’s sake.  Film actors tend to be judged by their commercial successes and their visibility; not their willingness to explore the art.  In that sense, Gazzara’s artistry was bigger than his career.

Just as we kicked off 2012 with the first-ever full-length animated film on Mousterpiece Cinema, is there any better way to kick off the month of February with what’s possibly the most quintessential film from Walt Disney Pictures? Of course not, so with Michael Ryan taking the week off, Josh and co-host Gabe Bucsko dive straight into the movie that introduced us all to Julie Andrews: 1964′s Mary Poppins. With a slew of classic songs, a mix of live action and animation, and plenty of laughs (some unintentionally inspired by a certain performer’s accent), did Gabe and Josh need a spoonful of sugar to sit through this movie? Do they think it’s practically perfect in every way? Are there other movie-related puns in the episode itself? Only one way to find out: check out the latest Mousterpiece Cinema!

iTunes

Mary Poppins

Directed by Robert Stevenson

Written by Bill Walsh and Don DaGradi

Starring Julie Andrews, Dick Van Dyke, David Tomlinson

I think it’s a bit dangerous to call movies classics; that title can be a heavy crown for any film to wear, whether it’s your favorite or one you’ve never heard of before. Sometimes, we consider movies classics because our parents or our siblings or our friends loved them first, and we just followed along with them. Sometimes, we consider movies classics as soon as we walk out of the theater, blown away at what we’ve just seen. And sometimes we’re told that movies are classics, not because we’ve seen them, but because film buffs and critics have deemed it that way. No matter what makes a movie a classic, I’m unable to separate that movie from its status when I watch it, if it’s something like Mary Poppins, a movie I haven’t revisited in many years.

Mary Poppins is possibly the most quintessential film from Walt Disney Pictures you could find. If you were—and bear with me here—the first human to make contact with aliens who had a passing awareness of what it meant to be a human as well as, perhaps, what it meant to be from North America, this would be the movie you’d show the extraterrestrial visitors if you wanted to clue them in on what pure, distilled Walt Disney is. Though it’s not fully animated, there’s an extended sequence where live actors interact with animated characters. There are plenty of songs, some more memorable than others. The story includes children and adults learning lessons about themselves after being instructed by a magical guide or two. Everyone improves, there’s smiles, hugs, tears, fun, and a distinctly nostalgic sense of the past. The only counterargument I think could be made against Mary Poppins is that it’s not set in America. Otherwise, to look at the quality and type of cinema Walt Disney wanted to create while he was alive, you need look no further than Mary Poppins.

To me, the film has somewhat earned its iconic status. For introducing most of the world to Julie Andrews, as well as for the songs by the Sherman brothers, Mary Poppins is iconic. The rest of the film—and at 140 minutes, there’s more of it than you might think or remember—doesn’t hold up so well to scrutiny. The performances are the first problem, outside of Andrews and David Tomlinson, who plays the patriarch whose family is changed for the better after the title character pushes them all to be better people. Andrews and Tomlinson are excellent in the film, because they bring an understated power to their key, yet distinctly different, roles. Everyone else in the film suffers as a result of graduating from the Jon Lovitz School of ACTING! From Ed Wynn to Dick Van Dyke to Reginald Owen to Hermione Baddeley, each performer treats the film’s set as if it’s the stage to the largest venue on Broadway or the West End.

And listen, playing to the back row isn’t a bad thing. Certainly, these performers aren’t the first to commit that sin and they are definitely not the last, within the world of Disney or outside of it. But that doesn’t mean I want to watch such broad acting for two-plus hours. The real issue here is consistency. Andrews, who was making her big debut here after years on the stage, knows exactly how big or small to play each scene. Here’s an actress who Walt Disney was taking a chance on, someone who movie mogul Jack Warner thought wouldn’t be enough of a star to headline his film adaptation of My Fair Lady (in a role that she originated on Broadway). And she never had a problem with going too broad. How is she—and how is David Tomlinson—able to skirt this problem while the rest of the cast picks up the unnecessary slack?

If everyone acted at the same pitch, I’d have an issue with the style but it also wouldn’t be so damn pronounced. The problem goes to the very top, with Dick Van Dyke as Bert, jack-of-all-trades (read: homeless person) who has some unexplained connection with Mary. Bert and Mary are apparently just platonic, good friends, but his fawning over her makes you wonder if the film would be a bit more interesting if their relationship had more spice—Disney-sized spice, that is—than what we’re given. Van Dyke’s performance, though, is a major issue. He’s playing a British character, and no amount of alcohol or drugs could convince you that it’s realistic to any region of the United Kingdom at any time in history. Let’s not mince words—Van Dyke’s accent is awful. It’s atrocious, and yet it’s almost a badge of honor to the people who love the film. To me, it’s as embarrassing as the hippie humor in The Love Bug, another film from Robert Stevenson, Bill Walsh, and Don DaGradi, who directed, wrote, and produced this film, too.

I know what you’re thinking, reader. You’re thinking what some folks have pointed out to me on Twitter: this is a movie about a woman who floats down from the sky on an umbrella that talks to her through the head of a parrot. This is a movie where people literally dance with animated characters. This is not cinema verite. It’s not a harshly realistic tale about struggle and strife in 1910 England. Why am I looking for realism in a film that is patently rejecting the very notion? What I’m looking for in this film, as I am in any film or story, is consistency. Keep the world of the film consistent. If you’re going to have a fantastical, childlike version of England, fine. But cast that world with people who actually sound like they’re English, and make sure some of those people don’t overact like they’re being forced to under penalty of death.

The reality I expect from any movie is the reality the movie creates. I like fantasy as much as I like reality, but even in the world of fantasy, there has to be logic. Fantasy worlds that create rules as the stories taking place in them go along don’t work out too well. The most insane worlds, with very few exceptions, have some rules behind them. Sometimes, the rules are as simple as making sure the inhabitants don’t stick out like sore thumbs. I know, of course, that grousing about Dick Van Dyke’s accent in this film has become old hat, but I’ll be honest: I hadn’t seen this movie in a few years and was struck once again at how singularly bad he is in the film.

It’s not for a lack of trying, though; unlike some other actors, Van Dyke is fiercely committed to making the performance work. In that respect, and that respect only, I’m reminded of the painful performance that Pierce Brosnan gave in Mamma Mia! (Yes, again, bear with me.) Brosnan is a charismatic actor, but he couldn’t hold a tune if his life depended on it. As you watch him sing ABBA standards throughout that movie, though, it’s as if you can see his thought process: I can’t sing. I am a terrible singer. What am I doing here? Geez, I need to try as hard as I can. Maybe if I do that, I’ll sing decently. This was not the case, sadly, and I wonder if Dick Van Dyke was thinking along the same lines: I’m not English. I have a terrible dialect coach, too, so I don’t think my accent’s any good. Maybe if I try real hard, nobody will notice.

Van Dyke aside—and though his accent is atrocious, his singing and dancing do their best to make up for it—Mary Poppins is enjoyable almost in spite of itself. Though the film is probably 20 minutes too long, the lead performances from Andrews and Tomlinson are moving precisely because of how little pandering the performers do. Some of the script was problematic, especially in how the matriarch of the troubled family doesn’t have to change her personality despite being, clearly, a bad mother. But there is, I admit, something infectious about watching this movie. The peak of the film comes early, in that hybrid of live action and animation. As you watch Julie Andrews and Dick Van Dyke gleefully sing “Supercalifragilisticexpialidocious” with a brass band behind them, it’s hard not to tap your foot along the tune and smile at Andrews, who’s glowing right back at you. In its kitchen-sink, anything-for-a-laugh mentality, Mary Poppins gets an A for effort and a B for execution.

Directed by Anthony Mann

Screenplay by Charles Schnee

U.S.A., 1950

There is a favourite saying used among film reviewers when espousing the virtues of a film that uses the story’s locale to the full extent: location ‘x’ is a character in of itself. While an admittedly clever term, it has been slightly overused in recent years to the point where it seems that just about any film’s geographical setting can be deemed a figurative character. Rare are the movies for which a director will take that saying to heart to the extent that the location actually feel like its own character, perfectly complementing the overall picture. Anthony Mann is one such director, whose stunningly brings Manhattan, the city that never sleeps, to life in Side Street.

Struggling through life as a part-time mail carrier, Joe Norson (Farley Granger) is not the most accomplished fellow in the world.  That does not, however, prohibit him from imagining some big things for him and his wife Ellen (They Live by Night co-star Cathy O’Donnell). She is deep into her pregnancy, with the baby set to come just about any week now. An opportunity to minimally improve their socio-economic status presents itself one day while delivering mail to the office of attorney Emil Lorrison (Paul Harvey). The latter is absent from office for a few minutes, giving Joe just enough time to do what seemed like the unthinkable any other day: steal a couple hundred dollars from a file desk. Joe hurriedly takes away the small package he believes contains 200 dollars, only to discover shortly thereafter that he has, in fact, taken away 30,000 dollars! After lying to his wife about obtaining a new, lucrative job, guilt begins to eat away at poor Joe, who makes an honest attempt at confessing his crime to the man he believes was the victim, Mr. Lorrison, where in fact the ugly truth of the matter is far more dangerous, involving a a real thug of an ex-convict, George Garsell (James Craig) who desperately wants his money back and is no mood to negotiate.

A curious statement frequently reappeared on a few occasions upon reading up a little bit on the film under review today, that being the reuniting of Cathy O’Donnell and Farley Granger, who just a couple of years earlier were the stars of Nicholas Ray’s debut, They Live by Night, in which they played doomed lovers trying to escape lives of crime. Facts being what they are, both actors do play lovers once again in Mann’s taut thriller, but in reality share precious little screen time together. This is first and foremost Farley Granger’s movie with a starring role he pulls off handsomely, with O’Donnell relegated to a very, very secondary type of role as the pregnant wife who wants nothing more than to be happy and see her Joe earn a steady living so they can plan ahead. As matter of fact, just to get the bad out of the way before this article sinks its teeth into the good, O’Donnell’s performance here is remarkably underwhelming. Part of that has do to with the material she is tasked with (mediocre), but the actress shares some of that blame too. Granted, she only has about 15 minutes among Side’s total of 82, yet she tries to compensate that by desperately overacting. A bitter disappointment after her stellar work in Night.

That unfortunate detail aside, Anthony Mann directs Side Street with brilliant vim and verve. The pacing is borderline relentless, even from the opening minutes which feature the film’s policeman character, Captain Walter Anderson, played Paul Kelly (making the most of his limited screen time in a fantastically charming and smooth role), introducing the viewer to Manhattan itself, with emphasis put on its vast population, his narration hinting at the always possible connections between people and what sort of stories each has. The monologue is accompanied by a series of sharp edits transporting the viewer from place to place around this jungle of a city until finally it concentrates on Joe, the story’s ill-fated protagonist, while on his morning route. From there, the film never lets up, heightening the stakes as Joe makes honourable if ultimately feeble attempts at trying to rectify his mistakes. Mann has an incredible eye for making full use of the locations he shoots for his stories. Just as he effectively utilized the deceptively quaint agricultural countryside in Border Incident, in Side he captures the unstoppable energy of downtown Manhattan, and above all else, its grandeur. Virtually every outdoor scene (filmed on location) bustles with life, just as so many people imagine the city to be like. The director also clearly makes effort have it appear as big as possible. The opening credits appear over helicopter shots of downtown Manhattan. They linger and pan slowly, gently, then subsequently fade in slightly closer to street level, revealing the army of little ant-like entities marching to and fro on and across the maze of streets. Multiple shots include the tallest of buildings in the background, and even when the buildings themselves might not be as as towering, Mann will employ a particular camera angle to make them appear exponentially larger. This fascination in having Manhattan’s physicality and personality play a distinctive role in the film culminates with thrilling car chase between a taxi cab containing the villain George Garsell and the hapless Joe and a platoon of police vehicles. The shots are from high above, making it seem as though the cars are truly racing around in a gigantic maze from which there is apparently no exit.

The role of the city’s effervescence and stature is not limited to adding background detail and mood to the film, but also in developing Joe’s unforgettable misadventure. Danger and temptation take the misguided man from bars, to offices, to dingy apartments, to lounges, to rooftops all over the city. By the film’s end, it seems as though the viewer has been given a pretty decent guided tour. In another way,  the massive amount of activity in a metropolis such as Manhattan can surprise people in how it creates linkages. The very start of the film, there is no indication of how George Garsell and Joe Norsen will become so enemies of sorts, yet one thing leads to another, one person knows another person who knows another…and here George and Joe are, caught in a game of cat and mouse. Joe also represents a classic version of the film noir anti-hero. He is most certainly not a bad guy, but nor his is the most clever or self-disciplined. When the opportunities arises for him to make a quick getaway with the some stolen money, money that will be put to genuinely good use,  he grabs hold despite that his inner self fully knows the slippery ethical slope he traverses in doing so. He had not even expected to take away as much as he did, nor was he aware that the sum belonged to another person altogether, yet once the act is done, the stakes change, the game is completely new, and Joe will simply have to deal with that.

Side Street represents some of the very best of what classic thrillers have to offer. There is an audaciousness to the directing that gives the picture a powerful kinetic energy that does not let up until the final frame. Apart from O’Donnell’s misguided acting, Mann’s film delivers the goods.

-Edgar Chaput

The poster goes on sale today a random time. Find out when by following @MondoNews.

It’s a 24 x 36 inch screenprint, edition of 445 and will likely cost about $50.

Via Entertainment Weekly

#1- We Need To Talk About Kevin

Directed by Lynne Ramsay

UK

Hell best describes Lynne Ramsay’s latest feature, her first in nine years ever since her brilliant and much overlooked Morvern Callar. Many critics have criticized the film for the characters portrayal, but they seem to be missing the point. One would assume the movie is about its titular character, but the movie really isn’t about Kevin at all. We Need To Talk About Kevin is all about perception – in this case, in how Eva perceives the world, how she regards her son and how she views situations in her past. It’s about Swinton’s Eva, her guilt, regret and loss; therefore the movie largely takes place in her tormented mind.

Ramsay’s direction is confident and composed. Her stylistic touches burn through the dread that is stripped back gradually through the blood-coloured production design. The actual massacre is wisely kept offscreen and instead recalled through a reoccurring motif of the colour red that filters through the pictures veins for its entire running time: from the unforgettable opening at a Spanish festival where a crowd of people drown themselves with tomatoes juice to the red paint splattered on her house by vandals, which Eva spends her days scrubbing away. Red is predominantly everywhere in sight, in food, traffic lights, make up, clothing and much more. The colour design here alluding at the tragedy buried deep in Eva’s soul. Rather than conflicting with its dark subject matter, the film’s visual beauty instead punctuates the horror. Ramsay with the help of editor Bini (best known for his work with Werner Herzog) commit to a time-shifting narrative from start to finish – juxtaposing thematic links between the past and present. To this end, she largely embraces the use of montage, cutting heavily between various shots to capture Eva’s perceptions of evens past. Her Mise en scène is, at the outset, nothing short of exhilarating. Eva is present in every frame of the movie, yet Ramsay shoots in Cinemascope, so no matter how close she gets, Kevin isn’t far behind. Tilda Swinton gives a tour-de-force performance conveying every thought racing through her character’s mind. Its a true work of art; her best yet. Kevin is too special a movie to be embraced by the masses, but from where I sit, it is inarguably Ramsay’s finest achievement so far.

#2- Kill List

Directed by Ben Wheatley

Screenplay by Ben Wheatley and Amy Jump

UKz

Kill List is presented in three distinct but smartly connected tissues: Ben Wheatley and his wife and scriptwriting partner, Amy Jump, have created somewhat of a kitchen-sink gothic horror film that blends black comedy, domestic drama and the whole buddy hit-man movie element into a seamless whole. The film’s off-kilter take on violence can be traced back to movies like The Parallax View, Race with the Devil, Rosemary’s Baby Pulp Fiction and The Wicker Man.

Utterly gripping, deeply unsettling and genuinely terrifying, Kill List is remarkably clever and resourceful filmmaking. This is a brilliantly directed, superbly written British horror film with terrific performances from its skillful cast of actors that will be dissected and argued long after its theatrical run is over.

#3- Haywire

Directed by Steven Soderbergh

Screenplay by Lem Dobbs

2012, USA

At it’s roots, Haywire is the sort of low-budget, straight-to-video action thriller that airs on late-night basic cable. Make no mistake about it, Steven Soderbergh purposely keeps the picture true to its low-rent B-movie principles, right down to the strong heroine at its center. On paper, Haywrire sounds like your sort of run of the mill spy thriller, but several things elevate the film to well-above-average. Screenwriter Lem Dobbs who previously penned Dark City, The Limey and Kapka, is an accomplished enough storyteller, but here, he strips down the plot to an old-school, thrill-a-minute, striaghtforward, lean, globetrotting Spy Thriller. Haywire isn’t a by-the-numbers action vehicle, this is a fast, crafty and spare thriller, with a sharp cast, and Steven Soderbergh’s unmistakably sly direction.

Soderbergh has a knack for being inventive without showing off, and Haywire is a prime example. The credit is all on Soderbergh’s shoulders since he acts as cinematographer, director and editor for his film. Haywire’s defining characteristic is its look. The selection of shots are random and varied but he opts for simple images. The fight scenes are music free and the use of ambient sound only heightens the drama and tension. And in between, we are treated to David Gross’s funk cool jazzy score which only helps to enhance the vintage feel. Shooting digitally on the 4K Red One camera, Soderbergh gives Haywire a visually sophisticated look, with tonal palettes color-coded to help make sense of time and place. Although some of the director’s choices seem to be without rhyme or reason, others accomplish a specific goal. Soderbergh picks his angles artfully and allows Gina Carano, the amazonian brunette, to demonstrate her arsenal of acrobatic fighting tricks in extended, no-cheating, cleanly choreographed hand-to-hand fighting. Haywire is a bit like the Bourne movies, only stripped down with a UFC twist.

#4- The Grey

Directed by Joe Carnahan

Screenplay by Joe Carnahan

USA

Writer/director Joe Carnahan adapts the short story Ghost Walkers by Ian Mackenzie Jeffers to deliver his best film yet. The Grey is a welcome surprise – a man vs. nature epic/survivalist thriller that’s quiet, contemplative, and straightforward. There’s an almost poetic quality to the way things develop, with characters becoming increasingly introspective. You don’t expect poetry in what is marketed as an action film, but The Grey delivers it in spades literally and metaphorically. For all its machismo speeches and standoffs, The Grey is at heart a simple moral fable.

At nearly age 60, Liam Neeson lights up the screen as Ottway, proving to be one of the few magnetic action heroes left working in Hollywood. The Grey also offers us three great moments: The initial meeting with the wolves works incredibly well as the director gradually reveals several sets of gleaming eyes peering through the darkness like headlights. The second: one of the most realistic and frightening air crashes ever committed to celluloid and the third: an extraordinary scene early on in which, just after the crash, Neeson’s character encourages a dying man to let go and accept his fate.

The Grey‘s abrupt cut-to-black ending will anger some viewers but in retrospect, it allows us to recognize how things would realistically play out while also giving us some form of hope, the same hope that impels the characters through their journey.

#5- A Dangerous Method

Directed by David Cronenberg

Screenplay by Christopher Hampton

USA

A Dangerous Method is a historical romantic tragedy about the early days of psychoanalysis, bolstered by terrific performances by the exceptionally charismatic Michael Fassbender (as a pent-up Jung), Viggo Mortensen (as the sybaritic, cigar-chomping Freud) and Keira Knightley (who inhabits the hysteria of Spielrein). Since the film’s three principals were pioneers in the field of psychotherapy, it goes without saying there’s a lot of dialogue about their practice – potentially enough to overload most audiences, but for more patient film-goers, it’s a handsome and stimulating film, noteworthy for its terrific acting and provocative ideas. Cronenberg has reached the stage of his career where he doesn’t feel it necessary to pander to expectations. Instead he seeks to engage us, and for the most part he succeeds, even if one can help but think he is just skimming the surface of what could have been more compelling material.

#6- Carnage

Directed by Roman Polanski

Screenplay by Roman Polanski’s

USA

Adapted from the play God of Carnage by director Roman Polanski and Yasmina Reza (who wrote the original stage play), Carnage makes no attempt to “open up.” With the exception of a brief prologue and epilogue, the entire film takes place within the confines of a New York City apartment complex. And when it comes to being stuck in an apartment, nobody quite knows how to entertain us like Polanski. Entirely dialogue-driven with almost no plot to speak of, Carnage is short, razor sharp, lean and hilarious. Much like Who’s Afraid Of Virginia Woolf, the film centres on two couples who over the course of an evening, spend the majority of the time bickering. Polanski’s smooth direction and the assured performances by Jodie Foster, John C. Reilly, Christoph Waltz and Kate Winslet keep things moving at a quick pace, allowing Carnage tor rise above its inherent cinematic limitations.

The poster measures 18×24 inches and will be printed in an edition of 100. It goes on sale on February 23, 2012, for $30. Follow MondoNews on Twitter for on sale info.

Via /Film who had the exclusive.