Cutter and Bone ( Cutter's Way)

 Cutter and Bone was released in 1981 as Cutter's Way.  I have no explanation for the name change.  The movie illustrates an instructive point:  many of the best movies are those that are modestly proportioned, not unduly ambitious, and populated by vivid and interesting characters.  Cutter and Bone is a small scale film noir, intelligently directed by Ivan Passer, an emigre from Czechoslovakia who had written and made a number of excellent movies in his home country -- he was part of the generation of Czech new wave directors that included Milos Foreman who also defected to Hollywood.  Cutter climaxes with a single gunshot -- there are no explosions and no other violence in the movie, although the picture proposes a sort of American brutality that is as red, white, and blue as the flag and tasty as mom's apple pie.  Early in the movie, someone encounters a battered corpse in a garbage pan and begins to violently retch.  The film is true to its premises -- namely that actual violence is rare but an affliction that crosses generations, men and women are largely opaque and disappointing to one another and, even, themselves, and that there is corruption in paradise:  the film is set in a version of Santa Barbara that is all posh gardens, green jungle, and colorful festivals.  The movie represents a high point in the early careers of Jeff Bridges (Bone) and John Heard (Cutter), but everyone in the movie is very good, particularly Lisa Eichhorn playing Cutter's alcoholic wife.  The movie alternates between high society and middle class domesticity portrayed as neighborhood bars and small, steamy bungalows -- the friction between mansions with their polo grounds and the small crowded home where Cutter lives with his mournful, depressed wife is an important aspect to the movie:  the two worlds seem wholly apart, separated by money and class, and, yet, the maimed Cutter, who apparently comes from wealth, navigates both realms.  The picture has shrewd things to say about these two Americas, but its theses and critique are always secondary to the hazy, almost dream-like and somnambulant ramblings of its main characters -- people who are in thrall to self-destructive impulses.

Bone is a lady's man, too pretty for his own good.  We first meet him crawling out of a bed occupied by the dismissive and icy Nina van Pallandt.  (She's playing a southern California trophy wife, a cameo role that reprises her part in Robert Altman's The Long Goodbye).  Bone is a boat salesman and his technique for closing the deal involves sleeping with the wives of the wealthy men in the market for yachts and cabin cruisers.  He works for a pudgy ineffectual man named George who spends most of the movie cowering.  Nina van Pallandt's housewife isn't impressed with Bone's sexual prowess; he repays the compliment by telling her he's had "better."  She's not interested in Bone's sales pitch on the yacht that's for sale.  Bone later sneers that she and her husband are looking for something "a lot smaller."  Bone goes to a bar downtown.  There's a Spanish heritage festival underway complete with mariachis and baton twirlers as well as floats and high school marching bands.  In a bar, Bone meets the obscene and abrasive Cutter, a Vietnam vet whose service has left him sans one eye, one leg, and one arm.  Cutter is brilliant and frighteningly abusive -- he's bitter about the war, his mutilation, and the fact that his morose wife, Maureen ("Mo") seems to like Bone a lot better than him.  Cutter's bitterness, however, masks a deep-seated urge for justice, to set thing right in a world that is irrevocably flawed.  In the bar, Cutter insults some Black pool players, using racial epithets that almost get him beat up.  Bone leaves the bar, planning  to sleep on one of the boats for sale in the harbor marina.  In the alley behind the bar, Bone's Austin Healy breaks down, a symbol for Bone's rather dilapidated glamor.  In the dark and rain, he sees a man near a garbage can -- we can't really see what the figure is doing and it's just a flash of dark on dark on the screen.  The next morning, garbage collectors find the corpse of a 17-year old cheerleader in the garbage can.  During a parade at which Cutter denounces the patriotic floats rolling past, Bone sees a man ramrod straight on a white horse -- this is a local oligarch named J. J. Cord.  Bone thinks that this was the man he saw by the garbage can where the dead girl was discovered:  we have no idea whether he is right about this identification which seems fanciful.  However, Cord's car was torched the morning that the corpse was found, suggesting, perhaps, that he is trying to destroy evidence of the murder.  Cutter is approached by the girl's sister, a woman who seems like a dimwitted opportunist -- she wants to blackmail Cord and, also, sleep with Bone.  Cutter latches onto this hare-brained scheme with righteous fury.  He sees Cord as embodying the privilege and sense of arrogant entitlement that motivated the Vietnam war.  He doesn't want money but, rather, justice -- and we have the sense that he wishes, through this crusade, to avenge himself or avenge the injuries that have crippled him.  The problem with Cutter is that he is always chugging whiskey from a bottle and never really sober -- he makes a good match with Maureen who is also a drunk and who also drinks her vodka neat from the bottle.  People in the know believe that Cord, a veteran himself of World War II, is a dangerous man -- he has made a fortune in oil and we see the ocean disfigured by off-shore drilling rigs.  Bone is fearful and doesn't want to tangle with Cord.  Cutter, however, prosecutes the extortion scheme, delivering a blackmail letter to Cord's offices in LA.  That night, "Mo" actually sleeps with Bone, apparently consummating a relationship that has been simmering for a long time.  "Mo" wants Bone to stay with her, but he sneaks off to sleep in his boat -- he is always "walking away," Cutter says.  Cutter's house is burned to the ground and "Mo" is killed.  Cutter accuses Cord of killing his "wifey" at a polo game and vows revenge.  Bone thinks that "Mo" killed herself after their sexual encounter.  After some squabbling, Bone and Cutter crash Cord's party with Cutter armed so that he can kill the oligarch.  

The movie's tone and atmosphere is hard to characterize.  In one notable scene, Cutter steals a horse and rides it through a garden party, wildly running through a buffet table and terrorizing the guests.  The scene is staged for laughs -- the horse knocks over butlers and women in expensive gowns and tears up tents pitched in the yard.  But this comedy is laced with bitterness and, even, tragedy and Cutter, whom we have seen limping pathetically, seems suddenly unleashed as a real force for justice, wrath riding on a white horse.  While watching a parade, Cutter who is drunk and profane talks about the Spanish who are being celebrated in the parade as enslaving the Indians and working them to death.  He tells this parable:  "When you first see a Vietnamese mother and her child lying in the ditch dead, you say that you hate the United States of America and wish it would lose the war and be destroyed.  Then, you think about this more and say:  "I hate God.  It's God that has done this." and, then, you think about this a little more and say:  "I'm hungry.  Let's eat."  The film is filled with brilliant bits of business -- a particular highlight is a scene in which the completely drunk and destructive Cutter smashes his neighbor's car with his own vehicle and knocks down a fence in the process.  The neighbor calls the cops and Cutter appears, seemingly sober, explaining the accident as a result of his war wounds.  The cop investigating the scene thinks of Cutter as a war hero and ends up chastising the neighbor who, in turn, calls the cop a fascist.  It's both funny and maddening.  If you can see this movie, do yourself a favor and watch it.  

You were never really there

 At ninety minutes, You were never really there is probably British filmmaker Lynn Ramsay's most accessible movie.  Since the narrative is formulaic, the viewer isn't too disoriented by the shock cuts and unresolved scenes -- you fill in what is missing from your understanding of the genre and its conventions.  Ramsay gestures at those conventions enough to keep the film, more or less, on track, although it's pretty evident that she has, on some level, contempt for the material.  A traumatized Iraq war veteran -- is there any other kind in the movies -- is paid to rescue a senator's daughter who has been trafficked into some kind of elite pedophile brothel.  Joe, the vet, fulfills the contract, thereby, inadvertently, discovering a wider and more sinister conspiracy that involves the governor of the State.  A bunch of bad guys get killed and the vet, who fantasizes about committing suicide, survives the bloodbath along with the girl, Nina.  That's it -- there's nothing more in the movie and most of the plot points that I have recounted are established very elliptically.  The film is highly derivative:  the creepy milieu of wealthy perverts is reminiscent of certain aspects of Eyes Wide Shut.  The plot seems based on Scorsese's Taxi Driver, although the movie is much more primitive than the Scorsese picture:  Travis Bickel in Taxi Driver is mentally ill and, at least, some of the conspiratorial aspects of that movie are halllucinated; Joe, in Ramsay's film, is severely damaged by PTSD but he's not crazy and the ring of pedophiles that he uncovers, a febrile conceit of far Right conspiracy theorists, is apparently intended to be real.  Parts of the movie play as variations on themes established by the Epstein files, although this movie was made before that scandal became widely notorious.  A scene in which the mercenary marches away from a pond in which he has just deposited the corpse of his mother emphasizes the percussive sound of Joe's feet on the lakeside trail -- this scene duplicates John Boorman's Point Blank image of Lee Marvin hustling through an airport with the sound of his heels on the tile floor amplified.  

We meet Joe in the aftermath of one of his rescue missions.  He's mimicking suicide with a plastic bag wrapped over his face.  There's blood on his tools, including a ball-peen hammer that he has wrapped in a rag.  Leaving the hotel, he throws away his equipment and is then attacked by someone -- we don't know who this is.  He head butts the guy and knocks him out.  Back at home in New York City, Joe tends to his elderly mother.  She's been watching horror films and is scared.  Joe mimics one of the knife scenes in Psycho, gesturing at his mother as if he's going to stab her death while making the high-pitched squealing sound from the Psycho score.  They play some kind of game.  Joe's mother is already a mummified corpse, haggard and emaciated with startlingly white skin.  The next day Joe goes to see a contact, Angel, in his bodega.  Money is exchanged.  A young man sees Joe come into the store and this alarms the mercenary.  He cuts off contacts with Angel and the bodega and, then, goes to see McCleary, a weary middle-aged man who is his handler.  McCleary sets up Joe with a new job:  $50,000 for retrieving a teenage girl from sex traffickers -- the girl is the daughter of a smarmy senator named Votto. (Votto, in turn, is an acolyte to an even more smarmy pol, Governor Wilkins whom he is assisting in an election campaign.)  Joe has no trouble infiltrating a sort of pedophile brothel in a townhouse, beating down the guards with his ball-peen hammer.  He extracts the girl, an angelic child named Nina, and takes her to the fleabag hotel where her father is supposed to retrieve her.  At the hotel, Joe and the girl see that someone has thrown Votto off the top of a skyscraper.  There's a knock at the door:  someone from Votto's office but this guy is immediately killed by crooked cops who fight with Joe (he kills one of them) and abduct the girl again.  Joe finds that McClearly has been murdered and finds his mother under a pillow pierced by a shot that has also pierced her eye.  Joe wraps his mother in plastic and takes her to a rural pond where he weights the body with stones and drops it into the deep water (the lake seems to be implausibly abysmal).  Joe, then, tries to commit suicide again by drowning himself but changes his mind.  He gets in his car, tracks the governor for whom Votto was campaigning to a huge mansion, a bit like the estate in the Kubrick movie.  Entering the mansion, he kills the guards, makes his way to the Governor's playroom and finds the man dead on the floor with his throat slit.  Downstairs in the dining room, Nina is eating her lunch with a straight razor covered in blood at the table.  Joe and Nina go to a local diner where Joe fantasizes about shooting himself in the head.  But he doesn't kill himself.  Nina, who has really spoken up to this point, says that "it's a beautiful day."  Joe agrees.

Joe's mind is a rat's nest filled with all sorts of hideous memories.  All the usual suspects are there:  an abusive and demanding father, domestic assault on Joe's mother, and lots of ghastly memories of bad stuff happening in Iraq:  at one point, Joe recalls giving an Iraqi girl a candy bar only to see the girl killed by another kid for the candy.  These memories invade the film by way of intrusive, jump-cut flashbacks.  There's some kind of fetish about counting:  both Joe and Nina count backwards to themselves, perhaps, to soothe their troubled minds -- this counting establishes a bond between Joe and Nina, both victims of severe abuse.  Joe, played hysterically by Joaquin Phoenix, spends most of the film sobbing and toying with the idea of self-harm and suicide.  The suicide fantasies erupt into the film in a  jarring explosive fashion.  Despite its extremely conventional plot, the movie's imagery is surprising.  We frequently don't know exactly what we are seeing -- there's a lag between what we see and what we later understand to be the case.  A good example is a scene in which Joe is transporting his mother's corpse out of town for interment in the pond.  He has wrapped the body in plastic.  While driving Joe opens the window.  We hear a rustling sound and, then, the film cuts to the plastic covering the head of the body seeming to move -- is the old lady alive?  No, it's just the wind disturbing the plastic in which she is wrapped.  The movie never really explains Joe's backstory.  We're never shown what has really traumatized him to the point of becoming a catatonic, embittered survivor.  This is all left to our imagination.  The film is gripping, fast-paced, and, mostly, opaque.  I admire the technique but I've seen this stuff all before in better movies.  There isn't a moment in this film, which feels very advanced and adventurous in its mise-en-scene, that isn't essentially a rip-off of some other movie and the nod to right-wing conspiracy theories is, I suppose, faintly offensive.  

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.

 

The Stunt Man

 Released in 1980, director Richard Rush's The Stunt Man is a vibrant example of seventies' counter-culture film-making at its best.  There's plenty of casual sex, nudity, and grind-house style violence.  The picture has a loose, "anything goes" atmosphere.  At the same time, there are pot-head profundities on display:  the movie is about the ubiquity of betrayal in Hollywood, about the effects of the Vietnam war, and, even, a meditation on the nature of reality:  since the picture is the backstage chronicle of an ambitious director shooting a World War One epic, we are invited to deliberate on what is real and what is fictional.  The director is played by Peter O'Toole, probably a caricature of Francis Ford Coppola on t location for Apocalypse Now.  O'Toole as Eli Cross, a narcissistic director, never has his feet on the ground -- he is literally suspended on his crane, hanging in midair, generally with no obvious means of support, or zooming around in a small helicopter, the so-called "chopper" as it is called in the movie.  I said the movie features pot-head profundities, a comment that is not intended to be derogatory, and the film insists, I think, that Cross is not only a flamboyant film maker but, also, "the grand inventor" of all things, God himself.  (O'Toole is more convincing in this role than the deity that appears in the Bible.)  The picture is a peculiar and unstable mixture of serious subject matter, high-flown eloquence, and down-and-dirty pulp fiction with gratuitous sex, tits and ass, and lots of elaborately staged explosions and chases.  The director, Richard Rush, is an enigma -- he cut his teeth on low-budget exploitation films, made The Stunt Man, which was highly regarded in its time, and, then, slipped back into audience-pleasing genre pictures. Critics determined that Rush was neither 'fish nor fowl", not exactly Francis Coppola but, also, considerably superior to the exploitation films that he ended up making.  Hollywood likes type-casting not only in its actors but also directors and, since no one could really assimilate The Stunt Man (famously praised by Pauline Kael as one of the best pictures of the year) Rush wasn't given the right material for his talent and ended-up slipping out of view.

The Stunt Man was one of two novels written by the New Yorker investigative reporter Paul Brodeur.  It was published in 1970 before Brodeur became well-known for his crusading journalism -- he was one of the investigators that exposed the carcinogenic effects of asbestos and was, generally a specialist in pollution and toxic tort exposes.  My suspicion is that the unique qualities of The Stunt Man derive from what were probably literate and, even, high-toned aspects of the source novel.  The picture involves a Vietnam war veteran on the run from the cops and probably suffering from what we would call today "PTSD."  The veteran stumbles onto a film set involving a classic car crashing off an old bridge into a river.  The car is driven eccentrically and the vet believes that it is trying to run him down.  He interferes with the car and, then, sees it plunge off the bridge and into the river.  (Although the car crash is an effect in the film that Cross is making, the vet interprets it as occurring because of his efforts to avert the vehicle from running over him.)  A stuntman drowns in the crash.  The vet continues his escape and ends up at a beach where a battle is being filmed "with five cameras", a big spectacle involving many showy explosions, fragmentary corpses (they turn out to be men in make-up half buried in the sand) and bi-planes strafing the advancing troops.  A cop is investigating the disappearance of the stuntman whom we know to have drowned in the river.  He harasses the director and his crew and, under pressure, they claim the scruffy fugitive is, in fact, the missing stunt man.  The cop smells a rat but he can't get to the bottom of the ruse.  Cross hires the vet who is impersonating a stunt man to perform real stunts in the movie.  They call the vet "Lucky."  Lucky turns out to have genuine gift for "hell for leather" stunts involving significant danger.  He has sex with a make-up girl and, then, is seduced by the film's leading lady played by an angelic-looking Barbara Hershey.  After some amusing chases filmed in Keystone Kop manner by Cross -- Lucky evades an army of inept German troops wearing comical Pickelhaube (that is, Prussian helmets with spear-point tops) by clambering all over the complicated gables and eaves of the Coronado Hotel (a landmark on the beach in San Diego).  Some of the stunts seem lethal and are increasingly dangerous and Lucky comes to believe that Cross is trying to engineer his death -- probably to conceal the actual death of the stunt man in the river.  In the course of his love affair with the film's leading lady, Lucky learns that the character is also sleeping with Eli Cross.  This leads to some quarrels.  Hershey is puzzled by Lucky's naivety -- she says that actresses having sex with directors is just the way the industry works.  Lucky and the actress get drunk and have a slapstick love scene involving a set that they partially destroy and about forty gallons of paint.  (There's a fantastic purely seventies' line in this scene -- Barbara Hershey who is half-naked and covered in paint, cries out:  "We gotta get organized!")  Lucky acts out the offense for which the cops are chasing him -- he beat up his wife's boyfriend  (she was unfaithful when he was in 'Nam) in a Baskin-Robbins ice cream shop -- and persuades Hershey that he is fundamentally harmless.  (As a Vietnam vet everyone has suspected him of rape, murder, and various war crimes.)  Cross persuades Lucky to perform the stunt that killed the other stunt man.  He and the leading lady plot to flee the film set and avoid the potentially deadly stunt in the river.  This sets up the climax of the movie.  

Pauline Kael commended the movie as "kinetic" and film's mise-en-scene is, indeed, a triumph of controlled, vivid chaos.  In the opening scene, a buzzard snatches an apple as two line-men look on and, then, are confronted by the fleeing vet.  The sequence involving the first river stunt features a picture perfect stream running in a narrow gorge -- there's a tree off-balance and about to topple into the water, a memorably strange image.  Much of the film is staged like a silent comedy, in particular, the scene in which the vet clambers all over the facade of the Coronado Hotel as dozens, if not hundreds, of German soldiers pursue him firing guns and dodging bullets blasted down on the crumbling structure by a pesky bi-plane -- this is a triumph of action film-making both comical and scary and it's as good as anything Steven Spielberg has done.  Even dialogue sequences jerk and spastically dance around -- huge waves batter a sea-wall splashing thirty feet in the sky in one scene.  The camera placement is exemplary and the editing is sharp as a razor.  Pennants whip in boil in the wind.  Surf pounds the beach and, overhead, the helicopter banks and turns and spirals.  Peter O'Toole's Eli Cross seems sometimes to underplay and act down to earth, but, most of the time, his British diction is perfect and rotund and he declaims his speeches as if they were Shakespeare.  O'Toole's dramatic delivery if offset by the grungy appeal of Steve Railsbeck who plays Lucky -- the contrast between the two acting styles is one the pleasures offered by this movie.  Expensively made and brilliantly acted, The Stunt Man is as fun as a cult movie, but better, I think.  

Sentimental Value

 Joachim Trier's 2025 Sentimental Value is an ambitious picture that explores, among other things, intergenerational trauma, art as therapy, self-destructiveness, and intricate family dynamics.  Trier is painting with a broad brush and freights his film with too much material -- there is too much neurosis, guilt, and reconciliation in the movie; I found it exhausting and, after ninety minutes, was longing for the thing to be over -- I think its two hours and 13 minutes long.  This is an estimable movie by an important director but it's excessive in the sense that the viewer can't quite keep the various patterns devised by the director in mind -- presented in short sequences that end with the screen suddenly dark, the movie has a staccato rhythm and, despite its potentially lugubrious subject matter, the film has a light touch -- it's like one of Woody Allen's pictures from the eighties without the one-liners and Borscht belt gags; in fact, the movie has a role that seems tailor-made for Woody Allen -- this is the part of Gustav, the manipulative director, who seems brazenly willing to sacrifice everything on the altar of his art.  With a little spin, the movie's rather Gothic subject matter could be presented as a black comedy -- Trier doesn't opt for comedy but, I admire him, for not shaping his material into some sort of tragedy or melodrama either.  He's a realist, at least in this movie and most of what we see and hear is plausible on the level of quotidian observation -- these seem to be real people and their interactions aren't heightened, nor do they veer into Bergman's metaphysical darkness.  In its odd way, it's a companionable movie.

The intergenerational trauma underlying the movie is socio-historical and, also, personal.  Gustav's mother was a psycho-therapist, practicing in the family's wonderful-looking early Victorian house.  During World War Two, she was betrayed by neighbors as a member of the Resistance, sent to a camp, and severely tortured.  When Gustav was eight, his mother hanged herself, an enigmatic and catastrophic act that is either over-motivated or under-motivated depending upon how you view things.  Gustav is a film-maker and has achieved international fame.  He's also seventy and hasn't made a movie for fifteen years.  But he has written a script about his mother which he regards as his magnum opus.  Netflix is interested in financing the movie and Gustav is engaged in machinations to cast the film, hire a director of photography and a technical crew, to get the picture made.

Gustav has two daughters by his wife whom he has divorced.  The movie begins at the family home where people are gathered after the funeral of Gustav's ex-wife.  No one seems particularly griefstricken -- these are Norwegians and they are masters at maintaining a stiff upper lip.  Nora, the eldest sister, is an actress who has appeared in a TV series but is mostly active in Oslo's theater.  She suffers from severe stage-fright.  In an early scene, we see her refusing to go on-stage during the premiere of some classical drama -- it may be Chekhov's The Sea Gull or some other work in the classical repertoire.  Nora flees through the backstage area, fights people trying to drag her on stage, and, then, summons her married boyfriend and demands a lightning sexual encounter with him.  He says there's not enough time and, so, Nora replies that he should hit her hard in the face to knock her out of her hysteria.  He slaps her and, after some more struggles, she goes on-stage and, apparently, amazes everyone with her performance.  Later, Nora says that she's only 20% functional and 80% fucked-up.  Her dysfunction consists of anger and loneliness with depression.  By contrast, Agnes, Nora's little sister, is successful -- she seems to be happily married, has an eight-year old son on whom she dotes, and works as an "academic historian" as she says.  Gustav's flamboyant and belated appearance at the family Leichenschmaus or funeral buffet destabilizes the situation and knocks the sisters back into memories of their childhood.  Agnes starred as a child in one of Gustav's movies, indeed, probably his last movie before the fifteen years dry period.  The movie, a fragment of which we see, harkens back to the Occupation of Norway and involves Nazi soldiers snatching a young boy while his sister, played by Agnes, watches from a nearby train.  Since that movie was shot, neither of the sisters has had much to do with Gustav -- he's selfish and has been an absent father.  Gustav approaches the older sister, Nora, and asks her to play the role of the mother in his new play.  Nora refuses angrily and won't even read the script.  At a retrospective of his films at Deauville, Gustav meets a Hollywood starlet, Rachel (played by Elle Fanning) and, after a night drinking with her on the beach, casts her in the role of his mother. Rachel comes to Norway where Gustav is planning to shoot the movie in the family home (where Agnes is living).  He intimidates Rachel by showing her the footstool that his mother used to climb up to a noose to hang herself in one of the rooms in the house -- this is a lie:  everyone in the family knows the footstool came from Ikea.  It turns that Rachel is a bad fit for the part.  The plan is to shoot the movie in English which seems problematic.  Gustav has Rachel cut her hair and change its color so she looks more like Nora.  Finally, Rachel, recognizing that she is miscast, graciously withdraws from the movie.  Gustav has written the role for Nora, whom he recognizes as sharing traits with his mother.  He hopes her performance in the film will free her from the burden of the past.  At first, Nora refuses to even read the script.  But, then, at last, Agnes prevails upon her to study the script.  (This is in the context of Gustav trying to cast Agnes' son, Erick, as the little boy in the movie -- that is, as Gustav himself as a child; Agnes refuses and accuses her father of egoism and being opportunistic and malevolently manipulative.)  Gustav has a heart attack but is too mean and tough to die.  He directs the movie with Nora playing the part of his suicidal mother and, in fact, Erick as the child.  There's an intentionally confusing sequence near the end in which we don't know whether we're watching the movie or a film within the film.  (This echoes an earlier scene in which Nora begins crying and curls into a fetal posture by her bed -- a scene that turns out to be a part in a play in which she is acting; we can see the audience in the long shot of her on the floor.)

This summary omits many interesting things in the movie.  There's a bitter and moving meditation on old age:  Gustav's long time cameraman is not sufficiently spry to manage the hand-held camera shots in the proposed film and his old friend, at first, seems to reject him for the project.  Nora's married boyfriend gives up on her -- now that his wife has divorced him, Nora thinks that they can expose their love affair, but the boyfriend isn't interested in committing.  There's biographical scenes from Gustav's youth and middle-age and a long sequence in which Agnes, the historian, researches her grandmother's capture and torture by the Occupation forces. Trier films family squabbling about the dead mother's possessions and there's conversation about the status of the old house -- Gustav's wife was granted the house in the divorce but the papers were never filed and Gustav expects the home to revert to him.  Much of this material, broadly speaking, is superfluous.to the main plot which involves Gustav persuading Nora to act in the role of his mother.  The staging of the final scenes suggests that, perhaps, Gustav has re-written history so that his mother does not commit suicide -- but this is very unclear.  (The clue is whether we hear the Ikea foot stool knocked over when the act occurs -- Gustav's mother has shut the door on the chamber where she commits the act.,)  Another curiosity in the film is narration, seemingly by the old house itself.  The house has a crack running from its foundation up to the attic -- it's like the fatally flawed House of Usher.  

Sentimental Value is never less than highly cultured, subtle, and beautifully made and acted.  It's a little too diffuse for my taste and I prefer Trier's earlier The Worst Person in the World which seems more focused and coherent to me.  But it's probably important for those interested in cinema to see this movie and the time spent watching the film is certainly not wasted.  

Macbeth (Guthrie Theater on February 8, 2026)

 It pains me to say that culture in the United States is slowly, but inexorably, renouncing Shakespeare.  The urgency, it seems, that once underwrote prestige productions of Shakespeare has leaked away and, somehow, dissipated.  You won't see evidence of this tendency anywhere but in the repertoire theater companies that once regarded Shakespeare as central to their project -- elsewhere Shakespeare's theater is so far from the mainstream as to be invisible, a tissue of misinterpreted legends buried under detritus like Grand Theft Hamlet.  However, this trend is most obvious at the regional festivals once mostly dedicated to Shakespeare but now slumming with musical comedies and politically correct and virtuous shows about oppression, abuse, and fortitude in facing hardship.  In the little town of Lanesboro, picturesquely nestled under the pale cliffs looming over the Root River bridge and the old grain elevator, an Ibsen festival flourished for about twenty years.  The sponsors of the festival produced all of Ibsen's major plays, including a heavily redacted version of Pillars of Society, but, then, energy flagged and audiences diminished and, two years ago, I think, the Ibsen festival announced that it was pleased to continue is summer repertory productions except without any Ibsen at all -- the shows on offer now are versions of Agatha Christie's The Mousetrap, British farces, and other audience-pleasing fare.  What is the cause for Shakespeare's shrinking importance?  (Ibsen has already been forgotten.)  I think this has something to do with the notion that post-George Floyd and post-me-too feminism, the works of the Bard have become increasingly irrelevant -- when a play needs apologies and contorted justifications to be presented, the work seems unnecessary.  Color-blind and gender-blind casting can supply some rationale for a new look at Shakespeare's plays, but, ultimately, those measures create more havoc and trouble than they are worth; in Elizabethan theater largely concerned with dynastic issues, the tyrannical power of fathers, and intricate family melodrama, gender- and color-blind casting is a distraction on which many progressive directorial ambitions have foundered. There are no queer subtexts in Shakespeare, although this sort of emphasis can be provided from outside (and, indeed, far outside) of the Shakespearian canon.  But just because you can distort a text to support a currently fashionable thesis or interest doesn't mean that it should be done.  I'm wounded to say that Shakespeare, with his peculiarly impenetrable diction and surfeit of plotting, hasn't got a lot to say to audiences in 2025.  And, so, I can feel the Bard of Avon slipping away, his plays drifting toward the status of artifacts in a museum.  This process has been continuing all my life -- people older than me will recall Lawrence Olivier's versions of Hamlet and Henry V; I recall Peter Brooks mounting a Midsummer Night's Dream that featured Diana Rigg in a state of (mostly) undress.  But, as Shakespeare became more and more culturally remote, the plays began to seem less and less important, perfunctory exercises in tongue-twisting diction.  They say that a frog will sit in water with the heat gradually increasing until it is boiled to death.  (This is a myth).  The new Guthrie production of Macbeth, however, is the performance for me that has made this particular frog leap far and wide away from the water in which it is immersed.  Shakespeare, I'm afraid, is no longer persuasive of anything.

A famous man of the theater, Joe Dowling, has directed this Macbeth.  Everything seems hastily contrived and slipshod.  The play is cut to an hour and fifty minutes, which, in itself, is not a problem.  Macbeth has to move at lightning speed to dramatize the sudden and lethal destruction of its two main characters.  There should be a sort of ritualized frenzy about the play.  In this production, the violence is downplayed -- the bloody soldier who announces Macbeth's berserker courage and ferocious slaughter of the King's enemies is scarcely wounded at all.  He was not bloody, in fact, as far as I could see.  Modern sensibilities in polite theater-going have banished the gore (beheadings and so on) to an offstage status.  There's a bow to horror fans -- and Macbeth is more akin to a modern horror movie than a well-made play -- in the show's final moments in which dead Macbeth is hoisted by his ankles above the stage, to dangle head downward at the curtain.  But this effect is spoiled by the time it takes to engineer this effect -- supernumeraries are busy attaching bondage-style cuffs to dead Macbeth's ankles and this labor seems contrived.  (Better to just sever Macbeth's head off-stage and have MacDuff brandish the thing by its gory locks at the final blackout -- again, confident velocity is everything in the staging of this show.)  The play looks like it's done on the cheap -- when Macbeth tells his servant to strap on his armor for the final showdown, the harness looks like a poorly made leather vest; it's not armor at all.  The only elaborate effect is saved for the penultimate scene when Birnam Wood comes to Dunsinane -- six or seven soldiers stand behind neon-lights configured like straight 30 foot tall pine trees; it's showy but, also, tone-deaf:  a glitzy Las Vegas effect imported onto the dour, grim Wurtele Thrust Stage.  The show's is badly cast.  Macbeth is played by a handsome pipsqueak of a boy -- he has absolutely no charisma and no gravitas.  Lady Macbeth is better and she seems palpable older than her youthful husband.  The witches aren't frightening.  They prance around a hole in the stage from which some fog emerges, chanting in unison, an effect that doesn't ever work successfully in the theater.  Mercifully, the dramaturge has cut the two scenes intended to cater to King James' morbid interest in witchcraft and demonology -- these are the scenes in which Hecate makes a completely redundant appearance.  The idiotic scene in which Malcolm claims all sorts of damnable vices to test MacDuff (I think -- the whole thing makes no sense) is inexplicably retained.  "I'm a really bad, bad guy," says Malcolm and, then, tells the baffled MacDuff that he's exceedingly temperate and virtuous -- this is awful stuff and really should be omitted from any reasonable performance of the play.  Otherwise the cuts are mostly local, inconspicuous, and scattered -- of course, the witches aren't going to be allowed to put boiled Jew in their potion.  The Scottish troops wear black jumpsuits and have little red berets like Curtis Sliwa's subway vigilantes.  The final duel between MacDuff and Macbeth is staged as a knife-fight -- it looks tawdry and unconvincing, a couple of slender pretty boys pretending to be bar-toughs in a tavern scuffle.  Ultimately, this production by the much-vaunted Guthrie Theater smells like a High School show featuring a precocious, but callow, cast.  It's not the Guthrie's fault -- it's the Zeitgeist.

La Grazia

 Paolo Sorrentino's new film, La Grazia (2025) concerns a man on the brink of old age taking stock of his life.  This situation (it doesn't amount to a narrative) is amplified into consequence by the fact that the movie's protagonist is the President of Italy.  The irony explored by the film is that its famous and successful hero, who seems almost universally beloved, has come to doubt his achievements -- in fact, he wonders whether he has accomplished anything useful at all.  Some elderly men afflicted by this doubt might arrange to sit down with their pastors for a philosophical chat; President de Santis, the film's hero, has a collegial conversation with the Pope, an African with grey dreadlocks and a snazzy motorcycle.  The Pope turns out to be not much help:  "You have no future," Pope bluntly tells the President.  The Pope also diagnoses the President's problem:  "You must make yourself light."  The President has only a few months left in his regime -- he has been in the lavish Quirinal Palace (the President's residency) for seven years. But there are a number of things weighing him down, resisting the Pope's injunction to be more "light":  among the affairs of State, there are two pardons testing the limits of the criminal law -- an abused woman has stabbed her husband while he was sleeping 18 times but claims his mistreatment justified the act; a high school teacher who has resigned his position to care for his wife with Alzheimer's is the subject of a pardon petition made by his ex-students:  the teacher suffocated his wife claiming that this was euthanasia justified by the woman's violent rages and anger.  Adding to his burdens, the President is considering a law authorizing euthanasia in certain circumstances, a politically risky enactment that is strongly opposed by the Pope and his Church.  The President's relationship with his daughter, herself a renowned jurist, is suffering due to his vacillation as to the euthanasia bill -- she acts as the President's closest advisor and is one of the drafters of the bill. (If I sign the bill, the protagonists says, I'm a murderer; if I don't, I'm a torturer./ The President's son lives in Montreal where he produces pop music, neglecting his vocation as a classical composer.  To add to his misery, the President's horse, Elvis, is slowly dying -- and the President is unable to give the order to put the horse out of its misery; this reluctance mirrors his hesitation at signing the euthanasia bill into law.  Further, the President is mourning the loss of his wife, the love of his life, eight years earlier.  Complicating his mourning is his knowledge to an absolute certainty that his wife was unfaithful to him at the start of their forty year marriage.  The President who declares himself as a famous Judge to be an absolute advocate of the truth wants to know the identity of the man who cuckolded him -- he's still prone to undignified jealous rages.  And the poor fellow is hungry all the time:  his daughter has put him on a diet of quinoa and broiled chicken breast -- no pasta for him.  Cigarettes have been banned but he bums them off the cuirassier, his bodyguard and confidante.  President de Santis has written a two-thousand plus page treatise on the criminal law (no one can get through the text which is apparently incredibly detailed and exhaustive.)  The only thing he seems to like is rap music -- he listens on ear-buds and memorizes some of the lyrics.

The film, although visually extravagant, is simple enough.  In the course of the two hour picture, the President will issue a pardon to one of the two convicts serving time, his horse dies, his daughter leaves Rome to visit her brother in Montreal and is off-stage when the President's term ends; the President will sign the bill authorizing euthanasia, and will discover the secret about his wife's affair.  He will take the advice of the Pope and imagine himself as very light, as weightless in fact.  Most of the movie's principle conflicts will be resolved and, in effect, all will be well -- it's all somewhat predictable and sentimental but moving as well:  despite his unhealthy obsession with his wife's adultery, President de Santis is a decent man, a good and fair judge, and a politician whose self-sacrifice has saved the Republic -- at least, this is what people claim when de Santis goes to La Scala and is acclaimed by the other operagoers as a hero.  Sorrentino's picture is quiet and self-restrained -- it's a rare thing, an attempt to explore the life of a man who is virtuous and, what's more, a politician.  The movie contains a number of spectacular images and set pieces; it's lush with interiors full of ancient books and huge marble statues.  It's Rome and everything is outsized, larger than life including the lavish rooms in the Quirinale Palace.  All of the episodes are discrete, chapters in a book that seem set off from one another, but they are carefully configured to echo and resonate with one another.  The President's fear of aging and the feebleness of old age is embodied in a scene in which the Prime Minister of Portugal comes for a state visit -- they've rolled out the red carpet but a sudden squall with rain uproots the carpet and blows it around so that the old, feeble ruler ends up on the ground.  Rain falls in torrents. The imagery is slowed to a nightmare stagger:  "Am I as old as he is?" the President wonders.  In another scene that develops the idea of the "lightness of being" (to quote the Milan Kundera novel), the President watches an astronaut at a space station -- the sound is disabled and video has failed so the astronaut can not see the President.  He sheds a tear  and, then, laughs at the tear which floats in the air like a small quicksilver planet.  The President's daughter goes to visit Isa Rocca who stabbed her husband while he was asleep.  The woman is beautiful and transfixes the lawyer with a steely intimidating stare -- her eyes seem to spark with electricity.  Later the President goes out to the same prison where he insists on sitting in the waiting room with the hard-bitten family members of convicts.  He interviews the ascetic school teacher whom he concludes to be fundamentally dishonest about his own motives. After bidding farewell to his staff (his social calendar secretary, a handsome woman, seems to be in love with him), the President walks back to his apartment overlooking the Spanish Stairs -- since his daughter is gone to Montreal and not controlling his diet, he orders a pizza for his first night at home alone.  In a video face-time session, he talks to his son and daughter.  It's a warm conversation but I don't think it restores the rift between parent and child.  The president finds out who cuckolded him but, as one would expect, that information doesn't make any sense.  Make sure, you stay for a final scene embedded in the credits.  The President has an old friend, Coco, who is fashionista and art collector -- although paradoxically she's proclaimed that she wants to burn all the museums.  Coca is a plump matron who wears huge round glasses and she is impulsive, outspoken, and amusing; she's flamboyantly selfish -- when she sees what is on offer at a dinner party with the President (it's quinoa and broiled  white fish served in tiny portions) she excuses herself and says that she will go out to some place for a better meal.  In the last scene, Coco is slurping her soup while the President, seated before his own bowl of soup, glares at her with disturbing and utter hatred.  "Get off my fucking back!" Coco says, an imprecation that seems to soothe the ex-President.  

I liked this movie and, of course, enjoyed its stunning photography and locations, as well as the dense, aphoristic chatter.  But, I think, it adds up to less than the sum of its parts.  It's a jigsaw and a movie that is ceaselessly clever in articulating its themes and crafting episodes that embody and challenge those themes.  But it also feels somewhat inorganic and schematic -- Sorrentino can exhaust you with all the heavy lifting required to stitch this non-narrative into a discourse on old age, suffering,and friendship -- these are worthy subjects but, also, a bit confining.  The movie never really opens up to let the fresh air in.  Toni Servillo, Sorrentino's surrogate as an actor, is astonishing as the President.  There's a sleek and inquisitive-looking robot dog that leads the procession from the Quirinal Palace to the Spanish Stairs - it's some kind of anti-terrorism weapon but elegant as whippet or Norwegian elkhound.