War Machine

 Preliminaries occupy about half of the Netflix picture War Machine.  The last half of the movie is a gory, but effective, combat picture.  In form and structure, War Machine follows the pattern set by movies like The Sands of Iwo Jima and Full Metal Jacket.  The hero is trained for special operations combat by brutal and exacting taskmasters.  The training regimen is dehumanizing and cruel -- about 150 applicants for special operations as Army Rangers are subjected to abuse until their number is culled to about 15 or 20 soldiers.  The ranger applicants have to hump it up sheer mountain slopes, run with mountainous packs on their shoulders, and beat one another silly in boxing matches; they are tossed with fettered hands and feet into the deep end of a swimming pool  Sometimes, they have to march along the bottom of the pool carrying big weights in their hands, an exercise that almost results in the insanely determined hero drowning.  They practice with machine guns and crawl around under strands of razor wire in mud.  (All of this takes place in an astonishingly beautiful Alpine landscapes of glaciated peaks, deep gorges, and torrential rapids roaring through canyons.)  The recruits are given numbers instead of names.  The hero, a burly man-mountain with folds of muscle corrugating the back of his neck, is called 81.  The other applicants don't like the rough, tough, and taciturn 81 -- he is older than the other men, has a chip on his shoulder, and is already a Silver Star combat hero.  He also has something to prove to himself.  During an earlier campaign in Afghanistan, specifically Kandahar, his unit was ambushed and wiped-out to the last man -- the only survivor of the rocket attack was 81.  In that massacre, 81's brother was mortally wounded.   Just before the explosions, 81 and his kid brother mused about attending Ranger training and qualifying for special operations.  In the battle, 81 took  a piece of shrapnel through his thigh, yanked it out of the muscle, and, then, carried his unconscious and dying brother ten miles back to base.  Before reaching the perimeter, he collapsed and his brother bled out.  81 has now decided to apply for Ranger training, although he's middle-aged, to honor his brother.  He has the letters DFQ tattooed on his biceps, the acronym standing for "Don 't Fucking Quit."  Against all odds, he wants to do his dead brother proud by successfully completing the hellish ranger training and crossing a literal finishing line inscribed in the gravel with the scroll of the ranger logo.  This is War Machine's set-up, it's situation, in which our hero will be tested to the limits of his courage and endurance by actual combat.  There are different variations on this simple and fundamental plot:   in Full Metal Jacket, all of the abuse from the Drill Instructor merely equips the recruits with idiotic slogans and unrealistic expectations that result in the death of most of the characters -- training has made the Marines literally psychotic and they don't do too well when confronted by a teenage Viet Cong girl sniper.  In the traditional form of this story, represented by John Wayne in The Sands of Iwo Jima, the tough sergeant's training pays off in actual battle and men succeed in their mission precisely because their instructor was so relentlessly harsh with them.  War Machine is a hybrid between the two narrative types:  all of the gung-ho training and motivation is pretty much useless when your adversary is a robotic killing machine built by sinister space aliens.  As in the Kandahar raid, the Rangers get wiped out to the last man, except once more for 81, who staggers across the finish line badly wounded and hauling the mangled recruit number 7 on his back.

The second half of the movie is a straight-forward, gruesome chase --the giant robot, a bit like one of the Transformers, stomps around slaughtering the soldiers.  After their initial encounter with the machine, about half of them are dead.  The rest succumb during the next forty minutes.  The premise is that the Ranger candidates who have reached this advanced stage are sent on a mission into the enormous and unpeopled wilderness -- their task is to avoid ambush by what is called the cadre (other troops), blow up a crashed plane, and, then, extract a POW from an enemy camp.  In this war game, 81 is called upon to lead the unit, a task that he abhors because he keeps suffering flash-backs of the massacre in Kandahar.  The men reach a crashed craft  (it is sleek and ultra-modern) which they interpret as the plane they are supposed to blow up.  81 tours the woods a few hundred yards away and finds that a smashed airplane is lying in a clearing.  Meanwhile, the other troops have set up explosive charges on the space-craft believing it to be some kind of classified bomber.  (The presence of the alien craft in the wilderness is motivated by various color-by-number plot points that are not worth detailing.) The charges are detonated, an explosion that really pisses off the War Machine.  It rears up, lumbers around and blasts the Rangers into bloody gobbets.  7 gets his leg blown apart and has to be hauled around on a stretcher.  This is a severe inconvenience when the men are cornered, have to cross a raging river, and get swept over a waterfall.  Somehow, 7 survives this.  By this time, most of the recruits are not just dead, but blown to  pieces or impaled on sharp tree stumps or burned to a crisp.  The War Machine has laser guided guns; it acquires its targets by scanning the landscape under foot, visualizing somehow the soldiers, and, then, blowing them up with rockets.  Sometimes, it fires round bowling ball bombs up into the air so that they rain down on the troops like mortar shells. The action ends, more or less, with a kind Mad Max Furiosa chase involving an armored personnel carrier in which the few surviving rangers are fleeing and the machine that is hot on their heels, showering them with fire.  Only 81 and the disabled 7 survive this attack.  81 hoists 7 on his back and staggers into the camp where the soldiers are mustering to repel the alien war machines.  It turns out that hundreds of them have beset the planet and are shooting it out with the earthlings.  81, no longer shy about leadership, gives an inspiring speech about fighting the machines and the movie ends with the troops gathering for the inevitable ultra- violent sequel.  I think it's called War Machines in the plural, a bit like Alien was followed-up by Aliens.

The movie is well-made nonsense.  It's stupidly gung-ho.  The action sequences are exciting and there are lots of well-staged explosions and stunts.  The movie is entertaining for its two hour length but disturbing.  Another picture that War Machines resembles is Paul Verhoeven's Starship Troopers, a cartoon movie about amiable fascist troops battling space bugs.  Starship Troopers, based on a right-wing novel, by Robert Heinlein is brilliantly made with spectacular combat scenes with the space bugs -- it's innovation, compared to movies like the Star Wars franchise, is to take the combat seriously and show the soldiers ripped to pieces by the insect warriors -- peoples' limbs are torn off, they are beheaded, disemboweled, skewered, reduced to puddles of entrails and body parts.  The same applies to War Machine:  the ranger recruits are splashed into the sky, horribly burned, and wounds gush arterial blood.  It's fantastically gruesome and, so, the viewer feels a bit unclean -- the awful fascination of watching the human body reduced to bloody fragments is part of the movie's appeal.  This would be bad enough but, as I watched War Machine, I was conscious of the fact that American bombers and ballistic missiles are at this exact moment destroying Iranian targets, and killing hundreds of people -- real war makes a picture like this seem obscene and indecent.   

Eephus

 Eephus, we learn, is the name for a certain kind of pitch in baseball -- the ball is said to travel so slowly that the hitter is baffled, can't wait to swing, and ends up swinging early, thereby, missing the target.  One of the players in the film of the same name has (allegedly) mastered this sort of pitch.  I am hesitant to accuse this laid-back, cinema verite picture of making attempts at anything so vulgar as symbolism or, even, meaning, but one could argue that Eephus, the movie imitates eephus, the pitch:  nothing seems to be happening, it's all belated and there's no narrative really, no plot to speak of, no climax and, certainly, no real conflict except the rather low-key and mild antagonism engendered by the baseball game depicted in the film.  The viewer, like the batter, is baffled and, probably, swings too soon at assigning a meaning to the movie -- you run the risk of critically striking out.  On the other hand, baseball is the American game par excellence and among intellectuals provides metaphors for everything -- consider for instance Robert Coover's novel The Universal Baseball Association, J. Henry Waugh (prop.)  and Bernard Malamud's The Natural.  So Eephus resists meaning and seems to be about nothing, while, at the same time, the picture appears to comment obliquely on the American scene, mortality and death, the changing seasons both in human life and nature, and the inevitable "dying fall" that accompanies all endeavors.  The film suggests elegy and, also, may be a particularly subtle kind of ghost story -- perhaps, the players are phantoms themselves.  In the end, everything fades away into darkness.

On a Sunday in late October, two amateur teams meet to play ball on a diamond that is about to be destroyed for the construction of a new school.  The teams, in red and blue respectively, are Adler's Paint and the Riverdogs.  This will be the last game on the old ball field.  The trees have changed colors and the film is bathed in golden light; in the woods, the leaves are falling.  There are four or five spectators who leave as the game progresses -- an old man who may be demented watches for a while but wanders off; one of the younger players, the only Black man on the teams, has a girlfriend who sits in a lawn-chair for a while but also leaves.  There are two stoner kids.  Another old man scores the game and his marks on the score-card punctuate the action such as it is.  For a while, a food truck sells pizza to the dismay of one of the players who is on a strict diet -- most of the players are middle-aged and overweight, some comically so.  The game is uneventful, although a tie results in the play continuing after dark.  The camera cuts away from the action and, so, we only barely see the game -- there are pitches, hits and fouls:  in one spooky scene, a player hunts for a lost ball in the autumnal woods but can't find it; the staging of the scene suggests a horror movie but nothing happens.  (There's a fat kid smoking a cigarette in the woods who is reprimanded by the player -- the searching man has to find the ball because they don't have that many spares.)  The captain of Adler's Paint gets extracted from the game midway because he has forgotten to attend his niece's christening -- there's a lot of foul-mouthed cursing about this.  One of the players says that this is the reason he never wants to have a niece.  If you watched the movie carefully, and kept track of names, you could probably identify various characters with specific traits in the movie -- but it's not the kind of picture that invites you to watch carefully.  Rather, it's more like a baseball game itself, a sort of benumbed tedium that encourages conviviality more than competition.  The picture has a hazy, October ambience (it's set in rural Massachusetts), possibly the result of the picture being shot on 16 mm or some sort of cheap film stock and, then, anamorphically blown-up to 35 mm.  When the demented old man wanders off, another younger (but still middle-aged) man appears and briefly takes over the pitching in the game and the leadership of the Adler Paints team.  Then, this figure simply vanishes.  We have the sense that old-time baseball players are simply materializing to commemorate the final game on the diamond.  The picture has some of the rhythm of an Ozu movie -- there are empty frames:  shots of vacant lots,  kids playing soccer with only their heads bobbing above the boards around the field, the sky with clouds drifting overhead.  It gets dark but the game continues, now a tie.  The umpire and other park officials call it quits but the game continues with the scorekeeper up in the rickety press box above the field calling strikes and balls.  Finally, the players have to arrange their cars in a semi-circle to cast imperfect light on the field.  The game loiters, dawdles -- the bases are loaded in the shadows and someone gets walked.  One of the team wins -- I can't recall which and it doesn't matter.  The film ends with shots of the players vanishing in the darkness.  One of the men has brought fireworks to celebrate the last game.  We see the glare of the fireworks only but the rocket in the air or their explosions.  A man stands in silhouette in the player's dug-out while the light around him flares in different colors.  

The film, directed by Carson Lund in 2024, has won a number of prizes including the Cassavetes award for best picture made on a budget under one million dollars.  It is lyrical and poetic but puzzling.  In the end some of the players get drunk on beer and end up just lying in the outfield staring up at the sky.  A clue to the film's method is the use of the great Frederick Wiseman on the soundtrack intoning various quotations about baseball, for instance, Yogi Berra's gnomic remark:  "It's getting later earlier."  (The picture seems to imitate Wiseman's technique in his famous sprawling documentary films. When I was in law school, I had a softball team and, on Fridays, we met in the park under the old Bunge building, an ancient grain elevator, to play.  No one cared about the outcome and we played against people we picked up in the park.  Since I was a lousy hitter and can't field, I played pitcher, the place where I could do the least damage.  We didn't gather until 7 or 7:30 at the park.  In the Summer, we played until 9 or 9:30.  But as the season advanced, in early Fall, we would play until the darkness made it impossible to bat or catch balls hit into the air.  When you're young, the sky looks big and is full of lovely evanescent clouds.  My girlfriend then was on the team -- she could both bat and field.  We didn't have enough players to allow anyone to be a spectator -- if you came you had to play.  I don't know if anyone else even remembers those Friday games. 

It's all gone, Pete Tong

 It's all gone Pete Tong (2004) is a Canadian-British comedy with dramatic, even tragic, elements directed Michael Dowse.  (Dowse is a reliable Canadian filmmaker who makes audience-pleasing comedies and light thrillers.)  A preliminary title assures us that what we are about to see is based on a true story.  So far as I can determine, the true story is Beethoven's life and his famous Heiligenstadt testament, a despairing account that the composer wrote about the onset of his deafness and its progression to complete hearing loss.  The film is tactful and fairly subtle and alludes to Beethoven only once and, then, obliquely.  The picture is simple, short, and emotionally gratifying -- its raunchy humor, particularly in the opening half-hour, is not to my taste but the film's initial crudeness is esthetically justified as a counterpoint to the picture's inspirational climax and ending.  The acting involves portrayals that are very broad and cartoonish -- but the performers are excellent and the performances vivid.  

The movie can be divided into three parts:  rowdy, vulgar comedy, despair, and redemption.  In the first third of the film, we meet a DJ named Frankie Wilde.  Wilde is supposed to be the world's best and most famous DJ, a role that is surprising for a scrawny White dude.  Wilde is a barbarian, always drunk, unkempt, wandering around with long gooey strings of mucous dangling down from his nose, probably the effect of the shovelfuls (literally in one scene) of cocaine that he inhales.  His DJ shows have a frantic Dionysian energy and he is surrounded by beautiful models.  Frankie has a promiscuous super-model wife with whom all the people interviewed for this mockumentary picture have had carnal relations -- he has a half-black stepson as a result of his wife's fooling around.  Wilde harbors a beast within him, a sort of cross between a skunk and bear -- this creature is the embodiments of his addictive and libertine personality and it's the figure literally shoveling cocaine for Frankie.  The film's first act is short but effective -- Frankie is portrayed as out-of-control, repulsive, and incredibly successful.  He's surrounded by various hangers-on and sycophants including Max, his record producer.  Max is smarmy and cynical and overweight to boot -- he has the role that would have been cast with Phillip Seymour Hoffman if the picture's budget had sufficed.  

In the second half of the movie, Frankie Wilde gradually loses his hearing.  At first, he suffers tinnitus while watching a soccer game.  Then, he has trouble mixing tracks as a DJ and the crowd at the club grows restive.  (The film is largely shot in Ibiza -- who can blame a Canadian director and crew for this choice? -- and features local night-clubs in that place as well as splendid shots of the mountains, Mediterranean landscapes, and the sea.)  Wilde owes his producer a new album.  He goes into the studio but can't manage to record anything.  A very worried-looking Asian doctor, Dr. S. C. Lim tells him that he is totally deaf in his right ear with only 20% hearing retained on the left. Lim warns Frankie to stop using drugs and booze and to avoid loud noises. (Lim playing himself is an indelible presence; he was in Dowse's first film FUBAR playing himself as well.)  Back in the studio, Frankie has inserted a tiny hearing aid that he's been told to use only when absolutely necessary.  Things go wrong ("It's gone Pete Tong"is club argot for "It's all gone wrong") and one of Frankie's headbanger guitarists smashes his instrument into an amplifier when he goes into a rage over Wilde's inability to hear.  The mixing board has been turned-up to ten and the resulting thunderous roar and feedback blow up Frankie's left eardrum.  Frankie is deaf as a stone.).  He falls into a semi-catatonic stupor, poisoned by booze and lies in bed motionless.  He considers suicide, tries exotic Amazonian drugs (Ayahuasca administered by blow-pipe -- in fact, ayahuasca is drank in emetic tea; it is rape that gets blown into your sinuses)), and learns that his trophy wife has left him with his half-black son.  He continues guzzling booze but abandons cocaine.  Using a shotgun, he murders the beast (half-skunk, half bear) that harasses him.  Of course, inside the furry suit, Frankie finds himself.  

In the last part of the movie, Frankie meets a beautiful deaf woman, Penelope, who teaches him to lip read.  Of course, they fall in love.  (The movie is very predictable.)  When he attends a Flamenco exhibition, he learns that he can hear, as it were, by sensing vibrations in the floor and, later, by pressing his fingers to the amps in the club.  He can literally see sound as it vibrates in the glass of whiskey on his table.  (Both he and Penelope like to drink a lot.)  Frankie goes back to the recording studio and relying on vibrations and sinusoidal wave forms on his equipment produces a new DJ record called "Hear no Evil."  The record premieres at the famous Ibiza club, Pacha, and is an enormous success.  (The preliminary to the concert is a thunderous version of Verdi's Requiem on the soundtrack, imparting a sense of stormy -- dare I say Beethoven-like -- gravitas to the record premiere party.)  The record company now wants Frankie back in the stable and Max pleads with him to exploit his deafness as a PR ploy to sell more records.  Frankie is unwilling to make his deafness a selling point for the album and, abruptly, vanishes.  In the film's brief coda, we see Frankie teaching deaf children how to encounter music as sonic vibrations.  Fittingly, the movie ends with a rendition of the Beach Boys' hit "Good Vibrations."

The movie is shot like teenage beach comedy:  brightly lit, clearly legible compositions, and efficient editing.  It is entirely unpretentious to the point of never mentioning Beethoven except in one tiny and elliptical reference.  The film is inspiring but not sanctimonious and has a pleasingly inspirational ending.  Frankie is still a booze hound and probably a carouser but he has found a way to put his disability to work to help others.  The shambolic, brutish reprobate at the beginning of the movie is now associated with the virtuous deaf lip-reader (Penelope) and has devoted his life to helping those who are as deaf as he is.  The idea of a fortunate fall that allows for a second chance is a fantasy that everyone shares and can be moved by -- so the movie leaves you with a slightly, but noticeably, elevated mood:  it's a happy ending that brings the movie full-circle.  At the outset, the theme of the mockumentary was:  What ever happened to Frankie Wilde?   Now, we know and we're glad we know.  

 I expected the movie to show a variation on a famous story about Beethoven.  The deaf composer conducted the premiere of his 9th Symphony.  During the inaugural concert, the orchestra, ignoring Beethoven, got several bars ahead of the composer.  After the final chord had sounded, poor Beethoven kept waving his arms in the air conducting an orchestra that had gone silent.  The soprano had to turn him around to face the audience that was applauding wildly, an acclamation that Beethoven couldn't hear.  

This film has been re-made to great acclaim as The Sound of Metal (2019), a picture about a drummer who goes deaf, but, then, learns ASL and ends up teaching children how to play the drums.  Only you and I know this.  The Sound of Metal doesn't reference It's all gone Peter Tong in the credits or any of the reviews of the movie.  

Modern Art and Politics in Germany 1910 to 1945 (MIA)

It's a powerful testament to the excellence of art collections in Minnesota that the two indisputable stars of the current show at the Minneapolis Institute of Arts are both from museums in this state:  these paintings are Franz Marc's "Blue Horses" from the Walker Art Center and Max Beckmann's "Actors" which is part of the permanent collection of the MIA.  "The Blue Horses" is a thousand watt acetylene torch of a painting -- you can see it through open doors three galleries away; no Virgin Mary was ever arrayed in such splendor as Marc's large, nobly fierce horses; indeed, it seems that you can see the thing through the walls if your imagination is strong enough.  Beckmann's late triptych, "Actors" is a magisterial work, endlessly provocative if, I think, more than a bit muddle-headed -- the huge painting's larger than life-size figures are compressed into an allegorical frieze:  the draftsmanship and design of the three conjoined canvases is astonishing as is the exuberance of the painting and facture.  You can stand in front of this triptych for an hour and not plumb its depths.  (It's part of the permanent collection at the MIA).  The core paintings in the show are from the famously austere (architecturally) Neue Nationalgalerie Berlin, a structure that hides underneath the edge of Potsdam Plaza, concealed beneath a Ludwig Mies van der Rohe glass pavilion that looks like a particularly rigorous enclosed bus shelter..  There are many splendid things in the exhibit but the best paintings are from Minneapolis museums.  

After the obligatory and doleful time-lines displayed outside the galleries, the show opens with a small annex, a collection of about a dozen works exemplifying German Expressionism -- these are small, brilliantly vivid, canvases that seem somewhat set apart from the balance of the large galleries; it's as if the exhibitors think Expressionism is a bit beside the point with regard to what follows -- this misconstrues the central importance of the movement in the art that succeeded it, the Neue Sachlichkeit (New Objectivity) in the following gallery.  After the first big gallery, the show is designed along thematic lines:  there are rooms displaying art connected to the International Avant Garde, abstraction (with many Kandinsky paintings including another transitional canvas between figurative and abstract that is part of the MIA collection as well), politics, war and a final valedictory gallery entitled "Before and After" -- this room collects thoughts, as it were, with regard to the significance of the Hitler period in German art.  The arc of the exhibition is exemplified by two paintings both by Konrad Felixmueller -- at the very outset of the show, we see the hideous, mask-like and wildly agitated face of Otto Ruehl, a German Communist, haranguing a crowd of workers; Felixmueller's work was declared Entartete ("Degenerate") by the Nazi regime and he destroyed all of his objectionable work except the portrait of the insanely agitated Ruehl in full spate.  After the war, Felixmueller recreated the entire painting that he had burned with the exception of the face, and this canvas is the last picture in the show -- I think it is meant to show some kind of reparation after the years of atrocity.  There is nothing calming about this painting, however, and, although Felixmueller was a man of the Left, the painting of the Ruehl as a wild-eyed fanatic is by no means complimentary to the man -- in fact, the picture suggests the problem with German interwar politics:  extremism in which the best lack all conviction while the worst are filled with passionate intensity.  The same effect arises from a work by Otto Dix showing the German art dealer Alfred Flechtheim -- Dix's attitude to his subject seems highly problematic:  the painting is an anti-Semitic cartoon, albeit unforgettably vivid.   Flechtheim is painted with claws for hands, avaricious and grasping, and he looks monstrous with a small head and a huge hooked nose -- I don't know whether Dix intended an anti-Semitic caricature or whether Flechtheim just looked like this, his features heightened and exaggerated according to Expressionistic norms of representation.  But the image is disturbing.  (I'm not alone in my distress, according to the Catalog, Flechtheim had to flee to England where he died in poverty; no one would exhibit the picture in post-war Germany and so Dix died with it in his personal collection.)  

The Expressionist movement (there is no reference in the show to DADA, an equally influential art avant-garde that greatly influenced the painters of the New Objectivity) is represented by Kirchner, Pechstein, and Nolde among others.  Pechstein's livid portrait of a young girl is very impressive, showing that the Expressionists could create beauty in spite of themselves.  Emil Nolde has two paintings in the show and he seems to be the most accomplished of the Expressionists on display -- there are astonishing paintings of Jesus with the sinner Mary Magdalene (part of violent cycle of paintings on the subject, erotic with smeared, glandular streaks of color) as well as a wonderful picture of the Pentecost with the disciples like African totems, each with a little cone of flame on their mask-like heads.  New Objectivity is represented largely by portraits, most of which are extremely accomplished.  Christian Schad's 1928 "Sonja" is the mascot for the show and, indeed, a great painting depicting a beautiful,but beleagured-looking "modern woman".  Schad is technically accomplished to an alarming degree and a  very interesting artist not well-known in this country -- his important works are mostly portraits and images of himself painted in the candid, but self-aggrandizing style of Albrecht Duerer (he was apparently very handsome).  When I was in Aschaffenburg a suburb of Frankfurt that stands in relation to the metropolis as Northfield is to Minneapolis, I had a chance to tour Schad's studio and home -- he moved to Aschaffenburg after the War.  I didn't know anything about the artist and so, I looked at other things first (mostly a garishly restored Cranach altar piece) and, when I reached the door to the Schad gallery, the place was closed.  I regret not learning more about Schad when I had the opportunity.

As you might expect, the show becomes increasingly grim with, however, some bright highlights -- there are two resplendent and jewel-like paintings by Paul Klee that occupy an abstract and glittering space that is outside of history and time. A side gallery exhibits 17 or 18 works by the great Kaethe Kollwitz -- these include the supremely moving sculpture "Tower of Women", showing burly matrons forming a protective circle around their children.  As if in riposte to the Kollwitz sculpture, there is Barlach's famous "The Avenger", a bronze that depicts a berserker with a saber lunging blindly forward -- Barlach made the bronze before he went away to World War One; when he returned, the sculpture had a different meaning to him -- it no longer expressed enthusiasm at the war but  the frenzied insanity of combat.  A large monochrome triptych shows people cowering in a subway bomb shelter -- it looks like a Beckmann painting without the bright colors of indescribeable hue and the verve of his expressive brushwork.  Two rather dour portraits flank another Beckmann masterpiece, his Weimar era portrait of the great actor Heinrich George, rehearsing his lines for a performance of Schiller's bellicose Wallenstein while wife and child cower before his fury -- George glowers out at us, wearing a sinister butcher's apron of some kind.  The labels on the wall for, at least, half of the works are melancholy -- the painters were sent to concentration camps, tortured, and killed; in other cases, their paintings were denounced as "degenerate" exposed to ridicule, and, then, deaccessioned to foreign lands.  German history seized a good number of these artists by the throat and destroyed them.  State-sanctioned Hitler period art is limited to a single impressive example -- this is a giant heroic bronze of a nude young man, genitals prominently on display; there's nothing wrong with this figure -- indeed, I thought it had wonderful presence, like an archaic kouros stoic, powerful, and enigmatic.  

(I will note that after perusing the catalog, the array of very fine Kollwitz etchings and woodcuts are from the collection of the MIA as is the splendid "Avenger" by Barlach, a counterpart to the great "Angel of the Reformation" that stands guard atop a lion outside the museum entrance.)

Upstairs, in the print gallery, you will find a group of hand-colored engravings of Egypt and its antiquities by David Roberts.  The images are fascinating.  Roberts toured Egypt traveling all the way up the Nile to Nubia where he records the appearance of Abu Simbel.  The pictures were published as part of a folio of something like 200 engravings documenting the ruins as they looked around 1840.  This was one of the last books of its kind, this genre of reportage supplanted by photography.  The pictures are all very entertaining -- I particularly liked one of a simoom or dust storm approaching the stoic-looking battered sphinx with the camels of a caravan sprawled out on the sand with their long serpentine necks ducked down to avoid the storm of grit and pebbles about to beset them.

Cobra Woman

 Universal Studios Cobra Woman released during World War Two (1943) sounds like a horror movie, a throwback to the classic monsters like Frankenstein, Dracula, and the werewolf that the company produced during the Depression.  This is misleading.  In fact, the picture is an exotic escapist fantasy, a brightly lit technicolored dream, more akin to The Wizard of Oz or The Thief of Baghdad -- indeed, many of the Moorish-style sets with domes and filigree-covered windows look like they were borrowed from the latter picture.  This is a war-time diversion, brilliantly lit and expensively colored, that also doubles as a rather lurid erotic spectacle.  The picture is extremely entertaining in a garish, hallucinatory way:  every frame of the picture is designed to monopolize your attention -- if things seem to lag, the director Robert Siodmak spices things up with nubile slave girls, human sacrifices, threats of  torture and  an avuncular chimpanzee as jester, ambling around in a weird batik apron and diaper.  The cast  is good for this sort of thing:  Jon Hall plays the love-smitten jungle explorer hero with a big square head and big square jaw and an "aw-shucks" demeanor.  Hall's character, oddly named Ramu, is passive, generally spending his time tied-up in a dungeon or, otherwise, ineffectually mooning over this missing girlfriend.  The girlfriend, indeed, Ramu's fiancee, is the lissome Tollea, played by Maria Montez, as beautiful and remote as a Greek statue or the moon.  Tollea has a twin sister (also Montez of course) who is more lively -- she's the titular cobra woman, the High Priestess of a snake cult on a small island dominated by a smoking and, sometimes, fiery volcano that looks just something contrived for an eighth grade science fair.  The High Priestess is more lively than her sister, a sadist who requires her longsuffering people to hurl themselves into the volcano to preserve her dictatorial rule.  The Cobra Woman's muscle is priest called Martock, who runs around in a brilliant scarlet robe with a hat that looks like an oversized tulip just sprouting from the earth.  (The movie seems to put most of its budget into resplendent costumes:  the Cobra Woman wears a meter-high tiara of coruscating gold and gems -- it looks like a peacock's tail extended over her head -- and her slinky, high-fashion vestments are embroidered with more jewels that glitter against the red fabric.  The women in the Court are all showgirls -- they wear clothing that is so tight-fitting that that they might as well be completely topless.  Although the story takes place in a South Seas jungle, the girls all prance about in high-heels.)  Lon Chaney Jr., who always looks as if he's being tortured, plays the part of a beggar whom we first see with gruesome white eyes -- he can't talk because his tongue has been ripped out.  The beggar, in fact, is an emissary from the old Queen of Snake Island, the mother of Tollea and her evil twin, the High Priestess; the picture is about regime change -- the old Queen Mother wants to install the more humane and reasonable Tollea in the role of High Priestess; the evil twin is a kind of usurper.  When Chaney's enigmatic beggar abducts Tollea and takes her to Snake Island, her aggrieved fiancee Ramu (Jon Hall) pursues her, crossing over to the dangerous island where all strangers are tortured to death.  Accompanying him is Kado, played obsequiously by Sabu, the handsome and loyal jungle boy with his pet chimpanzee named Koko.  On the island, action is non-stop and breathless and the action proceeds on the principle of "one damn thing after another."  A black panther stalks Ramu but the jungle-boy uses a blow-pipe to kill the critter mid-air as it springs from a cliff onto the hero.  The protagonists climb a cliff, nearly falling off and, then, see Tollea with an entourage of Vegas-style show girls bathing in the sacred pond -- Ramu leaps in and Siodmak cuts to underwater shot in which hero and heroine embrace in the turquoise-colored depths.  Ramu is captured by Martock and thrown in a dungeon.  The poor jungle boy gets savagely tortured by being stretched by the tension of a bent tree while his feet are fettered.  ("Take him to the tree of torture!" someone commands.)  The feisty ape frees the jungle boy who is none the worse for wear.  The High Priestess does a cobra dance wiggling around while a gigantic serpent glares at her.  The serpent rests on a sort of silver platter, the kind of thing on which you might be served paela in an expensive Spanish restaurant.  (Siodmak is a product of the German film system -- the dance sequence is indebted to the similarly erotic performance by the robot Maria in Fritz Lang's Metropolis.)  Two-hundred peasants are selected for human sacrifice in the gullet of the volcano which rumbles threateningly.  Ramu escapes from the dungeon and, finally, there's a huge brawl in the ornate cobra temple with the jungle-boy and great White hunter swinging back and forth on conveniently placed ropes tethered to overhead candelabra to lunge onto their enemies while the chimp gloats, turns his lip back over his lower jaw, and pitches pieces of fruit at the combatants.   During this battle royale, the volcano erupts and spews rocks and red hot magma all over the place.  All ends well.  The oppressive reign of the Cobra Woman comes to an end and peace and harmony are restored on the island.  

The dialogue is precious, little chunks of overheated nonsense chanted by the characters:  for example, a villain characterizes the Queen Mother's hopes for the future as "the wild dream of her decaying brain."  During the brawl, the two-hundred human sacrifices are heard climbing the "thousand steps to the volcano's" top, singing their "fire death hymn".  The sacred pond is a round pool in an idyllic forest edged at the far side with a whole flock of flamingos -- the flamingos never move and its obvious that their just lawn ornaments seen from a distance; the filmmakers hope you won't notice but you do and that's part of the charm of this picture.  Similarly, the mise-en-scene alternates shots of a real cobra looking rather timid and beleaguered with a prosthetic creature, probably a puppet, that's twice as large -- again the filmmakers sort of hope that you won't notice the discrepancy but,  of course, you do.  The opening titles assure the viewer that you're in for a good time:  two massive bronze braziers are burning with orange flame -- they produce vertical columns of bright green smoke that flank a huge gilded image of  a cobra about to strike.  

Reputedly, Cobra Woman was Kenneth Anger's favorite film, admired by the director of the libertine The Inauguration of the Pleasure Dome and Lucifer Rising among other pictures.  I should also note that Cobra Woman has a peculiar message or moral:  "Fear has made them (referring to the Snake Islanders) religious fanatics."  Curiously, the picture suggests that the problem on the island is that Martock representing law (secular authority) has got entangled with the religious sect of cobra worship.  This seems a sort of "Why we Fight" aspect to the film. In an oblique way, the film seems to be a part of the war effort.

1984

 Director Michael Radford's 1984 is grim, grey sarcophagus of a movie.  Made between April and June in 1984, the film replicates in its production the period of time depicted in the novel (the action seems to occur in that time frame.)  The movie is excruciatingly faithful to George Orwell's novel published in June of 1949.  Big Brother says it is your duty to see this film, but you will suffer.

I have always found Orwell's novel 1984 highly unpleasant and a real trial to read.  The novel is so humorless and unrelievedly depressing that it's actually left scars on my imagination.  I recall with pain the scene in which some thug casually smashes Winston Smith's elbow, inducing horrible pain; Smith finds it particularly degrading to be writhing on the floor and screaming over an insult to his elbow.  (The movie with its commitment to literal adaptation of the book reproduces this scene.) There's another moment at the end of the book in the Chestnut Cafe, a sort of junkyard for enemies of the regime who have been reduced to skeletal zombies, when Winston meets his former lover Julie.  Julie earlier told Winston that she didn't like children, was afraid of childbirth, and didn't ever want to be pregnant.  Winston notices that she's somewhat "thickened around the middle" (I'm approximating) -- apparently, this is due to the fact that she's been raped and impregnated and seems to have borne a child.  There are some horrible suggestions made as to how she's been tortured by a regime that she now loves (as a result of brainwashing) far more than she ever loved Winston.  Winston also stares at the telescreen on which Big Brother is shown and swoons with love for the autocrat.  Orwell imagined 1984 to be a satire, but there's not a shred of comedy in the book (and movie) except ironies that are too dark to be funny.  1984 is one of the 20th centuries greatest novels and an abiding presence in our culture -- but, as far as I'm concerned, the book is too profoundly disheartening to be entertaining and here, unlike many other writings by Orwell, the author takes himself with brutish seriousness.  The severity of the book carries over into the movie and makes some of it well-nigh unwatchable.

The film begins with a two minute "Hate Session" in which the lower ranking members of the Party shriek and howl at the great nemesis to Big Brother, the evil spy and reactionary Emmanuel Goldstein.  Winston,  whose job is erasing apparatchiks who have fallen out of favor from the historical record -- he covers their faces with the pictures of other party functionaries and throws all evidence of the erased figures into a "memory hole" where flames instantly flare to burn the proof into ashes.  Winston who is secretly guilty of thought-crime (he has procured a notebook and writes subversive things in it) despises Julie for her compliance with the regime -- it's not that she does what she is ordered to do, but that she does so enthusiastically.  Julie, wears the red sash of the anti-Sex league around her belly, and manages machines (some kind of AI) that writes porn for the proles.  Everyone swills Victory gin.  War is perpetual and sometimes buzz bombs shred parts of the gloomy, half wrecked city.  There are painful flashbacks in which Winston sees his mother devoured by fat, black rats.  In one flashback, he steals food from his dying little sister.  When he returns to the squalid apartment after eating the chocolate bar, his mother and sister have simply vanished.  A man named Charrington runs a second-hand store and sells Winston a bit of coral that is enclosed in a sort of snow-globe.  Charrington has a furnished bedroom above the shop and, later, for four dollars a week rents the place to Winston and Julie for their romantic trysts.  (The movie doesn't acknowledge that Winston is already married when he has the affair with Julie, a detail from the novel that is elided.)  For some reason that is inexplicable to me, Julie, who seems a frisky damsel, passes Winston (played by John Hurt in an utterly morose and tediously sorrowful part) a "mash note."  No sooner is the note handed to Winston than he and Julie are having sex in the country, writhing on the floor of a forest, near a vista of trees and bare hills that looks exactly like a screensaver on a computer -- a bit like the rolling Dublin, California hills famously used as an image of a restful green world on a million million monitors.  (For some reason that I couldn't fathom, the screensaver shot, which re-occurs every ten minutes or so, is located behind the door to Room 101, the infamous torture chamber where victims are forced to confront whatever they most fear in all the world.  Winston's love affair with Julie features a lot of nudity -- this is an intentional strategy to make the lovers look horribly vulnerable against the ruins of the shattered city, the thugs in black leather garments and the hovering helicopters.  Richard Burton, who was dying when he performed in the movie, plays the part of the Grand Inquisitor and torturer, O'Brien.  Briefly, O'Brien seems to treat Winston as his protegee, explaining that the bureaucrat isn't using Newspeak correctly and that he needs to master new words in the vocabulary.  O'Brien insists that when the language is perfected (that is Newspeak), the revolution will have achieved its objectives.  A few minutes later, goons arrest Julie and Winston, who are both naked, and beat them up.  Winston is, then, tortured for about a half-hour, an episode that is hard to watch and that is singularly unpleasant.  Winston is reduced to an emaciated figure who looks like a concentration camp inmate.  The objective of the torture is torture; there's no purpose to it.  The idea is to destroy Winston so thoroughly that he can believe that 2 + 2 = 5 or 3 or whatever the party says the sum should be.  Winston is tortured with electric shots to the point that he doesn't know what the 2 + 2 sum is -- when he tries to avoid the crippling jolts of electricity by saying "five", he's accused of lying and the electrical charge is increased.  This goes on and on.  At one point, O'Brien says that Winston thinks he is upholding the dignity of man -- O'Brien, then, drags him to a mirror and shows him his reflection, a hideous, scabby, lice-infested scarecrow; then, he rips one of Winston's teeth from his gums -- starvation has made this an easy thing to do.  This spectacle is followed by the infamous episode in Room 101 involving hungry rats.  Winston screams that O'Brien should torture Julie with the rats and spare him.  Finally, O'Brien is convinced that Winston loves Big Brother -- the whole exercise is without meaning or practical effect; the Party will require Winston to confess all manner of ridiculous crimes ("I went to prostitutes to intentionally infect myself with syphilis so I could spread the disease to party members") since the plan is to put a bullet through his brain at some point after his abject humiliation has been sufficiently shown to the world.

Clearly, the movie is about Stalin and Stalinism in the Soviet Union.  Orwell's novel is bitter, a result of the dissolution of his early idealism that led him to fight for the Communists in the Spanish Civil War -- all his idealism was reduced to a mouthful of ashes when he saw that the Party was corrupt and rife with betrayal.  This experience seems to have led to the book and, therefore, to the movie.  The film's bitterness is pathological and the form of the movie is utterly consistent with its subject -- the picture is shot in color reduced to a grey, concrete-colored monochrome; the editing is quick, sometimes suggesting Soviet style montage and the movie is comprised of big hideous close-ups:  everyone looks terrible in the sweaty close-ups that the movie features.  Even Julie is decidedly plain and Richard Burton looks wan, chalky, and bloated, like someone who has spent too much time boozing in a wretched pub.  During the movie's 110 minutes run time, I yearned for escape.  In my imagination, the escape was Terry Gilliam's Brazil which is the same movie  on the same subject but far more entertaining, it's surreal humor not blunted by all the misery and torture.  Everyone should see 1984 --it's your duty.  But cleanse your palate with the much more engaging if equally savage satire you will find in Gilliam's great Brazil.  

The Chase (1946)

 After World War Two and Citizen Kane, Hollywood experimented with different and, sometimes, radical approaches to narration.  Films featured false (or badly remembered) flashbacks, narration delivered by a corpse floating in a swimming pool at a mansion off Sunset Boulevard, and stories nested within stories.  The late David Bordwell has written a book on this subject, characterizing it as Hollywood's reinvention of narrative.  Godard said that his pictures had a proper beginning, middle, and end but just not in that order.  The same can be said for many post-war film noir.  Arthur Ripley's 1946 noir, The Chase (adapting Cornell Woolrich's The Black Path of Fear) is a noteworthy example of the sometimes hallucinatory innovations in narration characterizing that period.

A troubled war veteran is starving on the streets.  While ravenously watching a cook making eggs and bacon through a glass window, the vet, Scotty, finds a wallet on the street.  Fundamentally an honest man, Scotty treats himself to a meal, buys a cigar, and, then, sets off to find the owner of the wallet.  In a lavish marble mansion, Scotty encounters a smarmy and sadistic gangster named Eddie Roman (Steve Cochran).  The mansion is filled with Greek and Roman statuary; there's an obsequious butler, a henchman played by a lithe and serpentine Peter Lorre, and, of course, a blonde moll as cool and marmoreal as the statures strewn about the place.  Roman admires Scotty's sangfroid and honesty and hires him to be his chauffeur.  First, he tests Scotty's driving ability by making him steer the limousine while Roman operates a floor accelerator in the backseat, goosing the big car so that it roars toward a train on a railway track at over a hundred miles an hour.  Roman and Scotty narrowly avert a crash.  Peter Lorre wipes sweat off his face.  Scotty gets the job.

Scotty is played by Robert Cummings who purses his lips and spends most of the movie looking baffled.  He gulps down pills by the score, apparently some kind of tranquilizer since he has PTSD from his service in the Navy in the War.  Scotty's main assignment is carting Roman's moll, Lorna, around southern Florida.  Needless to say a romance ensues between Lorna and Scotty.  Scotty buys tickets planning to elope with Lorna to Havana.  They cross the sea on a steamer and, in Havana, someone knifes Lorna and plants the murder weapon on Scotty.  He flees through the shadows of Havana and takes refuge in a curio shop.  A Chinese merchant, an old woman, appears as a figure of doom.  Ultimately, the bad guys, including Lorre, pursue Scotty through the blackness of the curio shop, having gunned down the old woman.  Scotty is shot and falls down some stairs.  But it's revealed that this has all been a dream.  Scotty has fallen asleep in his room, waiting for nine pm when he intends to abscond to the port with Lorna.  Now, Scotty is completely amnesiac and can't even recall who he is, let alone his plot to elope with his fearsome boss's girlfriend.  He finds the number of his psychiatrist, possibly on the pill bottle and calls.  The two men meet and, then, adjourn to a glitzy nightclub  - how this could be construed as therapeutic is hard for me to see.  Eddie Roman and his gun-thug, Peter Lorre also come into the same glittering and overlit night club.  Scotty sees Roman and, then, remembers his mission for the night.  He darts away in a hurry to pickup Lorna.  Roman and Lorre chase after him, Lorre holding the steering wheel and Roman manning the accelerator from the backseat.  The limousine races to beat a speeding locomotive but slams into the train crossing at the same time that the locomotive has reached that point.  There's a big, fiery wreck.  Meanwhile, Scotty and Lorna sail for Havana.  They reach Cuba and the film repeats previous shots of them in front of a nightclub --  images we saw in the first half of the film.  Lorna embraces Scotty and ostensibly the film ends happily ever after.

The plot is barely serviceable and compromised by the use of dream to rewrite the fatal history of Lorna and Scotty's elopement.  But it's flamboyantly made achieving surreal effects on what must have been a very low budget.  Cochran, who plays Eddie Roman, was a bad guy in real life, "pretty much a douche" as Guy Maddin characterizes him on the commentary -- in the film, he viciously slaps a girl giving him a manicure, taunts his wife, and makes strange quasi-homosexual remarks.  In feeds a business rival to his mastiff in one memorable scene; Ripley accomplishes the murder with just shadows, darkness, a broken bottle of Napoleon cognac, and the sound of a growling dog.  Havana is filmed like a von Sternberg location -- it's all shimmering moire patterns of light and dark, shadowy grillwork, steps and ladders lit to cast huge shadows, a tropical pattern of dark lattices and roving points of light; no one's face is ever visibile.  There are odd dreamlike kinds of interference and paralysis.  When Scotty tries to leave the crowd in front of the night club, the hack driver suddenly starts speaking impenetrable Spanish and no one can understand him or communicate their destination.  It seems that the man would refuse to go where they want anyway.  Some early love scenes are shot with rear projection of the stormy sea, a tropical pier, and someone with a bucket of water simulating surf by sometimes tossing white handfuls of water into the range of the camera. Oddy enough it's very effective in a turbulent, Emily Bronte-style  a kind of demotic Gothic.  After the dream we have a sense of fatality, events repeat themselves in a strange way.  Everything has more or less already happened and now is coming back as farce or delirium.  The editing seems slightly agitated, disjunct, shots don't exactly fit together right leading to a sense that the space in which the movie happens is full of fractures, gaps, parts that don't mesh right.  The climactic scenes with the speeding train and the limousine in its pursuit are filmed with obvious miniatures -- it looks completely phony, but the hero is the plaything of fate and the spectacle of a tiny car and locomotive colliding somehow seems symbolic of the movie's dreamlike aura.  

I bought the DVD primarily for the self-effacing commentary of the great Canadian filmmaker Guy Maddin.  His narration is primarily biographical, sketching outlines of the careers of the principal figures in the movie, including a memorable and hair-raising account of Steve Cochran's death.  Maddin is fanatical about dates and film titles and presents a queer perspective that is simultaneously hard-boiled and fey.  At one point, he says of Cochran:  "you wouldn't want to be his cell-mate", then, pauses and murmurs "Or, maybe, you would."   The leading lady, Michele Morgan, was a French actress who had fled to the United States during the war years; she died in 2016 at the chronological age of 96 but technically was only 24 -- she was born on February 29, 1920.