328. Small Things Like These

Song - Eleanor Rigby (The Beatles)

Movie: Small Things Like These (Tim Mielants, 2024)

During my studies I briefly reviewed movies for an actual minor publication. I found it really cool to go to official press screenings with actual journalists/critics from major newspapers, and I enjoyed reading afterwards how my new 'colleagues' had experienced the film. I gained more admiration for the many  reviewers who managed to be geniunely insightful and produce great writing on tight deadlines, but also realised that a lot of folks were essentially people like me, young students, or early graduates who sometimes weren't even particularly into movies and would take any opportunity to add a job to their CV, writing for online platforms whose main business was selling ads. As someone who has managed to bluff himself to write about the stock market, procurement and Italian holiday homes, more power to them! However, some evidently didn't even try to write about what they saw, but rather obviously simply regurgitated the press kit we received at the screening. It's not a surprise that in the age of clickbait and media monopolisation, this kind of writing is increasingly accepted by increasingly prestigious publications, increasingly blurring the lines between influencers and journalists.

As marketing loves audience segmentation, and arts and journalism currently attract more progressive than conservative audiences, most mainstream/art house films are currently mainly being promoted to progressives, creating a feedback loop that alienates large swaths of people. I don't think this is good for either film culture or for progressive politics, and definitely not for progressive filmmakers who aim to make films that are more than just pre-packaged messages. When the marketing uses explicit progressive proclamations to sell a film that doesn't necessarily make these ideas visible in its filmmaking, it's not that strange that some people will feel that these ideas are rather hypocritically and untransparently imposed on them. The other side of the coin is Small Things Like These, a film that was presented as a fairly standard social issues drama about a brave man saving vulnerable Irish women, in the process helping his nation overcome its religious misogyny, rather than as a 70's style character study that's much odder than it appears. 

Small Things Like These finds coal merchant Bill Furlong (Cillian Murphy) generally unsettled, for seemingly no specific reason. His business is doing reasonably well, his family is reasonably content. Christmas time requires Santa to bring gifts, which is not ideal for his finances, but most definitely feasible. His wife can even get the new shoes she keeps admiring in her favorite shop gallery. And yet, something is off. Walking around town at night, he seems to only see unspoken misery around him. In unguarded moments, the brave faces seem to disappear, something his family doesn't seem to notice, bother or question, but he knows from his own childhood how different people can be behind closed doors. Could it be that his entire town is performing his mother's act? What if the norms and values governing the life he built conceal a rot? Small Things Like These occasionally has the vibe of a horror movie like The Invasion of the Body Snatchers, with Murphy not being able to understand or articulate why he suddenly feels alienated by seemingly common sights and sounds. 

Murphy's behaviour may force viewers to become introspective! That is a much less attractive proposition than a film about how we are making progress by overcoming social ills, even if the social ills in questuon are the Magdalene asylums, forced labor camps, to various extents supported by the Irish state, where undesirable women (e.g. prostitutes, single mothers, girls born out of wedlock and others who don't comfort to religious norms about womanhood) were exploited and abused by nuns. I hadn't heard of these 'institutions' before learning of this film, but what little I've read paints a rather horrifying picture. It would not be entirely unwarranted to compare these asylums to the Nazi concentration camps; even if extermination was not their purpose many mass graves have been found around these former sites that existed all around Ireland and imprisoned tens of thousands of women. They don't exist anymore and Irish politicians are debating how to atone. In Small Things Like These Cillian Murphy eventually finds out about them, but the film doesn't really paint a coherent picture of what they are. I prefer a 70's style character study over a social issues drama, but it doesn't feel entirely right to introduce the Magdalene asylums an hour into the film and then present them this elusively, or to exploit them to sell a film that's not really about them. 

327. The Blue Dahlia

Song - L.A. Woman (The Doors)

Movie: The Blue Dahlia (George Marshall, 1946)

Riders on the Storm and Light My Fire are great, but L.A. Woman is the main reason this is called Tarantino and the Doors. The video clip, directed by Doors keyboardist Ray Manzarek 14 years after the song's release (and 14 years after Jim Morrison's death), goes a long a way towards that. It starts off juxtaposing bright snapshots of 1980's Los Angeles with archival footage of the band hanging around, playing like the opening to an 80's rom-com about yuppies in ascendance. It doesn't take long however for the first hints of distress. We see a mysterious guy dressed in black putting off a cigar over Josef von Sternberg's Walk of Fame star, and a naked woman's body that we never get a full picture of, all set against the slightly ominous lights of Hollywood; by the time an angelic woman starts dancing against the backdrop of giant skeletons, the video has fully descended into expressionism and surrealism. "Midnight alleys roam/Cops in cars/The topless bars/Never saw a woman so alone." sings Morrison throughout it all, clearly inspired by 40's and 50's noir. Morrison liked to present himself as a sort of poet God living outside the realm of ordinary people, an obvious act that appealed/appeals to me, but many find (understandably) insufferable. Manzarek's video places Morrison and the rest of the band right in the middle of ordinary life, and allows its mysterious elements to directly emerge from there, rather than presenting them as separate from daily existence. That's more appealing and provocative than performative Lizard Kings.

In 1947 Elisabeth Short was found mutilated in a Los Angeles park. The murder, one of the most mysterious and publicised in American history, has never been solved, but the press immortalised Short as the 'Black Dahlia', likely influenced by 1946 noir The Blue Dahlia, a highly entertaining film that isn't nearly as dark or tough to watch as its key historic connection may suggest. That's not to say that it's comforting. In the opening scenes we meet Johnny (Alan Ladd), Buzz (William Bendix) and George (Hugh Beaumont) as they return as heroes from the Pacific. The war has ended, America has won, but everyone is on edge. Buzz has a metal plate in his head, causing bouts of temporary amnesia and unease. Whenever loud music is playing the film puts us in Buzz' headspace by placing him in an extreme close up and letting the music drown out the dialogue. Johnny has lost his son during the war, and is apprehensive to return home to his wife Helen (Doris Dowling), a twitchy, barely functioning drunk having an affair with Eddie (Howard da Silva). As the owner of The Blue Dahlia nightclub, Eddie should be at ease. He has money and access to powerful men and beautiful women, but is haunted by a dark past and his own feelings of inadequacy. He can't quite convince himself that he deserves all his riches and in the back of his mind he always seems to believe that it all will come crashing down any second. It's no wonder his wife Joyce (Veronica Lake) is constantly on the verge of escaping forever. 

The studio forced writer Raymond Chandler to change his original ending to not emphasise too much the negative psychological effects of World War 2. As a result, The Blue Dahlia is left with a solution that makes little narrative or thematic sense, and a rather uninteresting killer. It's a minor blemish on a film that constantly creates interesting connections between the characters, and keeps providing revelations that add new wrinkles and depth. The opening scene immediately signals George Marshall's fun approach. When the three friends enter a bar, they are framed sitting next to each other with Buzz in the middle, and when another patron turns on the jukebox, it's Buzz who creates a ruckus. The scene introduces Buzz as the film's main protagonist, but then reveals that it is going to follow Johnny home and that the story will center on him. The film is filled with such instances of misdirection, consistently finding small surprises up its sleeve.  

326. Paper Moon

Song - Jessica (Allman Brothers Band)

Movie: Paper Moon (Peter Bogdanovich, 1973)

Ryan O'Neal is one of those actors writers euphemistically call 'volatile'. He was addicted to drugs and alcohol for most of his life, and emotionally abusive to all who loved him. When his daughter Tatum O'Neal received an Oscar nomination for Paper Moon, he was jealous and didn't attend the ceremony where she became the youngest Oscar winner in history. She plays Addie, a young girl who has lost her mother and now needs to live with her aunt. Ryan O'Neal's Moses, who may or may not be her father, gets himself semi-accidentally recruited to bring her to Missouri. That premise alone would be enough for a typical comedy-drama about two contrasting, stubborn personalities who have to grow to trust each other, but the real life circumstances surrounding the O'Neals add a melancholic touch to the playful warmth of their relationship here. It helps too that Moses is conceived as a wonderfully compelling two-bit grifter. He presents himself as a representative of the Kansas Bible Company convincing widows their recently deceased husbands had ordered a customised 'Holy Book' before their death. Unsurprisingly, Addie turns out to be a great business partner.   

It's always fascinating seeing troubled artists convey ideas and emotions in fiction they can't in reality, and it's easy to see why O'Neal experienced his Oscar 'snub' as a crushing disappointment. O'Neal plays Moses as a young guy whose undeniable resourcefulness and charm need to work overtime to mask that he is still a twinge too immature and inexperienced to be either a successful conman or a dependable guardian. It's the middle of the Great Depression and though he is forced to put on a more ruthless front than he is comfortable with, you also get the sense that he isn't hiding an entirely pure heart. For her part, Addie is a chain-smoking tomboy who has never gotten much of a chance to be girly, and now that she has access to her mom's make up she secretly spends her nights in front of bathroom mirrors. Her happiest moments come when she conceives of a plan to get rid of Trixie Delight (Madeline Kahn), a carnival dancer Moses has become smitten with. Together with Trixie's black maid Imogene (P.j. Johnson), she sets a plot in motion to get Trixie to cheat on Moses. Played at twice the speed, it would have been great screwball comedy, but Bogdanovich slows it down to emphasise the excitement Addie gets out of participating in typical teenage girl pratfalls. 

Watching Paper Moon, I was reminded of Alexander Payne's Nebraska and other movies about the goofy eccentricities of small town Americans. What makes Paper Moon stand out is that it takes its Depression setting seriously and doesn't present these eccentricities as inherent to its people, but as a direct consequence of financial troubles. Poverty makes everyone act funny, including the widows who are never presented as naively gullible marks. A majority of the dialogue is essentially counting pennies, and in this context the possibility of your dying husband spending his last money on a Bible carries a weight that's not easy to ignore.    

325. Nynke

Song - In Nije Dei (De Kast)

Movie: Nynke (Pieter Verhoeff, 2001)

Refusing to be just a supportive wife, Sjoukje de Boer (Monic Hendrickx) became one of the most important Dutch children's authors, writing under the pseudonym Nienke van Hichtum. The film focuses on her early life and marriage to Pieter Jelles Troelstra (Jeroen Willems), one of the key figures of Dutch socialism. They spend their first years together blissfully quoting great literature in between passionate frolicking in the Frisian (Nynke is the most successful Frisian-language film in the Netherlands) peatlands, but things start going south when Troelstra develops an interest in the fate of the working man. The family house becomes the de facto Party base, reducing Sjoukje to a tea servant. She wants to contribute, but late 19th century politics are no woman's business, and Verhoeff keeps framing her as a stranger in her own house, looking from afar at adjacent rooms full of activity alienating her from her husband.

Constantly experiencing the ending of The Godfather is not good for one's health. Especially not when the doctors confuse cause and effect. Sjoukje is presented as a little sceptical of the extreme, bordering on irrational, fervor of her husband, and especially of the crowds surrounding him, but coming from a less privileged background, she has a keen eye for the lives of the masses and a good understanding of why and how socialist ideas might benefit them. She is eager to express her views and writing dilutes her estrangement, but a woman asserting her independence can only be a symptom of a hysteria. The electroshock therapy she receives in response is shown without any bells and whistles. Verhoeff depicts experienced, soberminded doctors calmly conducting a standard medical procedure. They even explain the science behind it all and when these "well-tested" practices have an adverse effect on Sjoukje she is diagnosed as being much further gone than everyone feared. Extreme measures are required: she has to stop writing immediately and her children must be sent to study abroad. 

For much of the film, Sjoukje has little agency over her life. All decisions on her behalf are taken by her husband, who is fully convinced he is acting rationally and with her best interests in mind. However, he is not presented without sympathy. In addition to The Godfather, Verhoeff seems also excessively influenced by impressionist paintings, especially those showing the upper class being leisurely in their Sunday clothes. The social/political gatherings in the film of course take place around the same time as many of these paintings were created, but the visual connection also serves to emphasise how removed these socialist politicians were from the people they identified with, and how that can lead to identity crises. Ultimately the film is much less interested in politics (its main point in this regard is that socialism can only be effective if it incorporates feminism) than in exploring how psychologically confusing it can be to have to act as a woman in a man's world or as a working class hero in high society.   

324. Sinners

Song - Thriller (Michael Jackson)

Movie: Sinners (Ryan Coogler, 2025)

Remmick is no Eric Clapton. Sure, he is a vampire and his methods aren't the most gentle, but he is not out there to "Keep Brittain White". In fact, he'd probably rather destroy Brittain. Its people oppressed him and his community just for being Irish, and all he wants now is a bit of cultural exchange with people who have experienced similar horrors. Maybe he is delusional, and maybe his actions will not lead to a multi-racial coalition of the underclass, but he is certainly right about the alternative. "This world's already left you dead, won't let you build, won't let you fellowship." The Ku Klux Klan is ready to attack in the morning. 

Sinners has the scene of the decade, but does too little with its implications. My sympathy for the vampire isn't just my white perspective talking. Coogler wants such a response; he knows what he is doing having the vampires sing old Irish folk music, and he knows what he is doing when contrasting them to the Ku Klux Klan. The Smokestack twins certainly can't be blamed for not being too keen to differentiate between separate brands of white people. They've seen Chicago, where there is officially no Jim Crow, be "just Mississippi with tall buildings", but there must have been a way to make the same point while still building on the utopian vision of the scene where past, present and future meet in a single take that lets black American music influences from different centuries come alive and blend with each other. It's simply glorious to see traditional African drumming co-exist in the same space with 1930's blues, Jimi Hendrix-inspired guitarists, synthesizers and DJ's. Adding to Coogler's genius is that Remmick is the only one who experiences what Sammy's talent is capable of conjuring. That vision gives him the idea to use Sammy to bring to life his own Irish ancestry and culture, without supposedly erasing his black compatriots presence:

"I want your story Sammie, I want your songs. And you gonna have mine. 

Our father, who art in heaven, hollowed be thy name, thy kingdom come, your will be done on earth as it is in heaven, give us this day our daily bread, and forgive us for our trespasses, as we forgive those who trespass against us, and lead us not into temptation but deliver us from evil, for thine is the kingdom, the power, the glory forever and ever, Amen

Long ago, the men who stole my fathers land forced these words upon us. I hated those men but the words still bring me comfort. Those men lied to themselves then lied to us. They told stories of a God above and a devil below and lies of a dominion of man over beast and earth. We are earth and beast and God. We are woman and man. We are connected, you and I to everything.”

It's worth publishing this monologue in full. It's brilliant, provocative writing, especially in the knowledge that the juke joint where Sammy is playing is a trap set by the Klan. The vampires essentially save the majority of the guests from getting killed, so if you are Coogler and have gotten this far, why not go even further? Why not imagine how music, dance, and joy can connect and unite opressed people of different ethnicities and ancestries against a common enemy? The film's key scene, dialogue and plot machinations set up exactly something like that and it would have been extremely cool to climax with the Klan being defeated through the combined forces of Irish and black (working class) culture, past, present and future. It would have been a utopian vision that's still sufficiently bleak (only through vampirism can America's sins be cleansed!) for audiences that believe optimistic futurism is immoral in Trump's America, and more exciting than Michael B. Jordan turning into Rambo. I am glad New York elected Mamdani, because aside from him contemporary American progressivism has a very limited vision, and Sinners suffers for seeking to accomodate it. My feeling is that Coogler knows and will at least use his upcoming blank check on more interesting things than the millionth version of The Odyssey. 

323. Forrest Gump

Song - Sweet Home Alabama (Lynyrd Skynyrd)

Movie: Forrest Gump (Robert Zemeckis, 1994)

"She was born in a barn in 1898. She died on the 37th floor of a skyscraper. She was an astronaut."

Mad Men's (I have never seen the show, but its many iconic lines certainly make it sound appealing) Ida Blankenship was in fact an office secretary, but the sentiment applies to many 20th century women, of many different backgrounds. My grandmother, for example was born in rural Serbia where carrots were a luxury. She went on to become a professor in physics, and marry into a family that played a major role in the Yugoslav antifascist resistance; after the war one of her brothers-in-law would share a table with Tito as he was deciding on the future of federal Yugoslavia, and then become a travelling womaniser. Our family is still not entirely clear how many wives and kids he had. My grandmother had two and was pregnant with my father during the greatest earthquake in Skopje's history. Since, she's experienced the moon landing, the Chernobyl nuclear disaster, the dissolution of Yugoslavia and the rise of digital communication technologies. These days, she will occasionally share nostalgic memories of Tito's Yugoslavia over video calls with family members in Germany, the Netherlands, New York, Florida and California, but if you are looking for critical assessments on cinema, she is definitely not the person to speak to. Unless you wanna know about Forrest Gump. She once said the film is a great encapsulation of what the American Dream can make possible. It's the only time I've ever heard her give a serious opinion on a movie. 

Forrest Gump has a somewhat diminished reputation these days, partly because it defeated Pulp Fiction at the Oscars, partly because it's seen as uncritical self-flattery of the post war generation. Pulp Fiction is very much a superior film, but art is not sports and the idea that any film can in any meaningful way be described as 'the best' is absurd; the Oscars would quickly become irrelevant if they seriously aspired to determine objective winners. However, getting non-movie people with communist sympathies to wax lyrically about the American Dream? That's pretty much their raison d'etre! I don't know if my grandmother would have heard of Forrest Gump if it didn't win the Oscar, but I am pretty sure she wouldn't have walked around the house quoting Samuel L: Jackson. In any case my grandmother is a wonderful woman who has led a remarkable life, but her story is not exceptional. A majority of mid-20th-Century adults saw, experienced and/or contributed in minor or major ways to events that would have seemed completely improbable based on their upbringing. Forrest Gump is essentially conceived as a representative of that generation and, yes, the film is absolutely uncritical self-flattery. But if you were born in a barn in rural segregated Alabama and saw Neal Armstrong within your lifetime you'd have to fucking pinch yourself too. 

Setting aside that Forrest Gump is born in a plantation house inherited from the founder of the Ku Klux Klan, the film is a sincere fantasy about a man overcoming his physical and mental disabilities through a combination of kindness, naive innocence, self-belief and folksy wisdom (hard to blame anyone for being allergic to lines like "Life is like a box of chocolate. You never know what you gonna get") that allows him to become a successful college football player and shrimp entrepreneur, fight in the Vietnam war, contribute to Chinese-American diplomacy and inspire Elvis Presley and John Lennon. One of my favorite scenes in all of cinema is Marty McFly accidentally becoming an inspiration for Chuck Berry in Zemeckis' Back to the Future. Forrest Gump is essentially a less inspired, but more technically accomplished (it's still astonishing to see how seamlessly Tom Hanks is integrated into real archival footage) 2,5 hour rehash of that scene. I am a sucker for that kind of stuff, no matter how awful it can get. The John Lennon scene conceives the most contrived talk show dialogue possible just to have Forrest Gump inspire Imagine, but even that works somewhat because of its underlying truths. A lot of Beatles songs are inspired by unremarkable people, places and events that would have never found their way to the history books if some dime a dozen working class lads who happened to have enormous talent didn't put them to music. Besides, the Beatles' place in history is as much the result of the music they produced, as it is of the mass hysteria of their audiences. Forrest Gump gets a lot better than many other films how ordinary people's response to historical events becomes as much part of history as the historic event itself. 

The film is at its worst when it breaks its own illusion and explicitly infantilises Forrest, as when we see him running past the end zone all the way to the stadium's exit. The shot finally ends with a cut to his football coach laughing it up about how dumb and fast his star player is. A scene where Forrest visits Jenny (Robin Wright) at her dorm begins with a sweetly intimate conversation at his level, only to pan back at the end revealing Jenny's roommate in the background pretending to be asleep to hide her terror of what she's just heard. A montage of Forrest and Bubba (Mykelti Williamson) cleaning up their army barracks has the latter talk endlessly about the various ways of eating and cooking shrimp. None of these scenes successfully capture the wacky tone they are striving too hard for, and are misguided anyway counteracting the film's core ideas. Zemeckis also puts additional emphasis on Forrest's childishness in his scenes with progressive anti-establishment figures, allowing him to make fun of them without quite taking a stance. Tom Hanks is great throughout, but his performance has been parodied and imitated so much it's hard to look at it with fresh eyes. 

322. The Story of Adele H.

Song - White Flag (Dido)

Movie: The Story of Adele H. - L'histoire d'Adele H. (Francois Truffaut, 1975)

Victor Hugo is a good father. His daughter Adele (Isabelle Adjani) has come all the way from Guernsey to Halifax to pursue a romantic obsession. She's lost her heart (and mind) to Lieutenant Albert Pinson (Bruce Robinson) and didn't cross an entire ocean to meekly accept being rejected. Besides, who knows, the next love letter might just find the right words into his soul. Her writing is self-consciously florid and overheated, going to great lengths to both express her talent and her affection. Albert remains uninterested, but there has always been an audience for authors who want to be seen as capital-W Writers. Victor Hugo actually falls in that category, but if his letters to Adele were anonymous they would never be recognised as the works of a Great French Novelist. They are simple expressions of care that could be written by any loving parent concerned about the wellbeing of his daughter. Victor Hugo never appears on screen, but many other people in Adele's orbit adjust their professional and personal lives to show her love. None of them are Albert...  

The British army is stationed in Halifax to monitor the latest developments in the American Civil War, turning the town into an excited hub of emerging globalisation. The city's administrative services seem to have seamlessly adjusted to support and facilitate transnational movements, while its residents are willing to go the extra mile to cater to its foreign guests. without asking too many questions about the occasional odd behaviour. Adele's landlady is the perfect example, protecting her lodger's character and integrity at every turn even when she has every reason for doubt. In other words, Halifax is the perfect place for wounded romantics to start anew, if they could only see the opportunities in front of them. Granted, gifting Victor Hugo's daughter a copy of Les Miserables is not the world's most attractive flirt, but the town's librarian is kind and attentive to Adele's needs, and would certainly make a better husband than the Lieutenant of her dreams. Albert is too emotionally immature to be genuinely put off by Adele's aggravating stalking, acting towards her with the same performative displeasure he showcases in all his social interactions. Isabelle Adjani got her breakthrough and an Oscar nomination for portraying Adele as a woman constantly teetering on the edge of sanity, but Bruce Robinson is even better as a guy who has, for reasons known only to himself, made the calculated choice to turn cold indifference into his entire personality.  

In reality, Adele Hugo was diagnosed with schizophrenia and her father had to put her in an institution. Truffaut doesn't emphasise her illness, but does present her as an unquestionably tragic figure whose blind obsession ruined her life. Truffaut however also understands that in moderation romantic obsession can be fun, and while the accumulation of misbegotten decisions becomes horrifically (self-)destructive, many of these decisions are presented in scenes of playful excitement that can almost stand on itself as short films. A spectacular static long take showing Adele crashing a house party to give Albert a note is essentially the entire film in miniature, fully evoking the rush of having ordinary conversations with regular people while knowing that your crush is somewhere out there in reach, doing something without you. 

321. Laura

Song - She's Not There (Carlos Santana)

Movie: Laura (Otto Preminger, 1944)

A wonderful film, let there be no doubt about that. However, she is there...

Noir at its very best leaves the world unmoored, forcing its heroes to reckon with their moral and rational framework. Even if the murderer is caught, love prevails, or the get-rich-quick scheme somehow works, everyone is still left with a lingering feeling that preconceived notions about what's possible, what's right, and what's true no longer hold water, raising unanswerable questions about what this new reality means. How should we act upon the knowledge that the truths we held to be self-evident are no longer, without being able to fully articulate what has come in their place? Midway through Preminger's film, Laura (Gene Tierney) arrives home from her trip to the countryside, finding Detective Mark McPherson (Dana Andrews) asleep underneath her portrait. He's had a long day investigating her murder. 

Laura's return is preceded by one of the few long dialogue-free scenes, following Mark around her apartment looking for clues about what might have happened. He is shown from odd camera angles, with the grand portrait always looming somewhere in the background. The musical score becomes more pronounced highlighting that something's afoot, or about to be, and as Mark falls asleep Preminger slowly zooms in, and then zooms out, signalling the passage of time, without depicting the experience of it. When Mark wakes up to Laura questioning his presence he is startled, while we rejoice - an already intriguing film just got more interesting! How can a person who was supposed to be dead suddenly be alive? Was someone else murdered, or is it perhaps Laura's appearance that is staged? Is Laura really Laura? Is Laura even really there or is she an apparition of the obsessed detective? The set up suggests the answers to these questions to contain great mysteries, but all of it is ultimately explained by a somewhat disappointingly ordinary combination of mistaken identities and male jealousy that won't turn anyone's world upside down. The road to get there is nonetheless exceptional.

The film is perhaps at its most noirish when it suggests that Mark's obsession with Laura is potentially irrational and self-destructive, but it's self-aware enough to know that it can't really meaningfully pursue that path. Have you seen Gene Tierney, the way she acts, the color of her hair (yes, even in black-and-white!)? The chemistry she has with every potential suitor is off the charts, and portraying Laura as a vulnerable woman who is still able to keep her cool and comfort under pressure only makes her more attractive. Dana Andrews too gives a great performance as a detective who is professional and grounded enough to not let his personal opinions and feelings distract from his job. Watching him think through what he can and can't express is one of the film's greatest pleasures, and undermining that would have been a mistake. Even then, it wouldn't have mattered that much. A screenplay this great, with such wonderfully stylised, flamboyantly witty dialogue can go in all kinds of directions with little harm. Especially when the cast is so at ease with it, and in sync with each other. I had never heard of Clifton Webb before, now I want to see every film he's made.

320. Images

Song - Suzanne (Leonard Cohen)

Movie: Images (Robert Altman, 1972)

'Sounds' would be an equally apt title. The opening scene shows Cathryn (Susannah York) writing her latest children's book "In Search of Unicorns" in her contemporary London apartment. As York narrates snippets from her work, she is suddenly interrupted by another unseen voice, faintly calling out her name. Robert Altman, who has been experimenting with sound design his entire career, then suddenly cuts to a still shot of an antique grail set to a John Williams's score that's more interested in combining various incongruous sounds than in establishing a coherent melody. As the sequence keeps swinging between the abstract and the familiar, we hear once again the disembodied voice calling out Cathryn. The plot is finally set into motion when Cathryn receives a call from a friend going on and on about her unsuccessful love life until mid-conversation the voice on the other end of the line suddenly changes, telling frightening stories about Cathryn's supposedly unfaithful husband Hugh (Rene Auberjonois). Hugh eventually gets home, convincing his wife that nothing unsavory has been going on, but when he leans in to kiss her, we suddenly see him from her point of view looking like Marcel Bozuffi.

'Ghost' would also be an apt title. We eventually learn that three years ago Cathryn had an affair with Rene (Marcel Bozuffi) that abruptly ended when he died in a plane accident. Her memory of a failed pregnancy is far hazier; even if it did occur, she couldn't say whose child she lost. Either way, she still suffers the consequences of whatever happened. Though aware that her mind is playing tricks on her, she is unable to consistently distinguish between reality and imagination. Her husband senses something is off, but doesn't seem to be the most discerning fellow even in the best of times, and his supportive suggestions often have the opposite effect. He is some sort of high-end businessman, but mostly specialises in terrible dad (anti-)jokes: "What's black and white and black and white and black and white? A nun falling down stairs!" is innocuous, but "What is the difference between a rabbit? Nothing, one is both the same!" may well be the closest the film gets to auto-commentary. Notably, the other two main characters are Marcel and his teenage daughter Susannah, portrayed respectively by Hugh Millais and Cathryn Harrison, while "In Search of Unicorns" is a real book, written by Susannah York. 

Images is mostly an exercise in style, highlighting that when you are as formally accomplished as Robert Altman you can basically make an entertaining film out of very little. Not much happens here beyond Susannah York hearing sounds and entering rooms, usually shown from her perspective as supposedly familiar spaces of slippery, consistently shifting composition. Altman has a lot of fun putting us halfway in the shoes of Cathryn. We are always aware that we have a better grasp of reality than her, without ever getting the full picture to be able to confidently assess the consequences of her actions. I enjoyed it a lot, but once it ends you do feel a bit like you've been pointlessly yanked around. I have yet to see Altman's other 70's movies, but would not be surprised if this turns out to be the weakest of the bunch.

319. Ghost

Song - Unchained Melody (The Righteous Brothers)

Movie: Ghost (Jerry Zucker, 1990)

Every once in a while a guy mostly known for making silly comedies with his brother will suddenly find himself directing a Best Picture contender. Green Book is one of those films that's become a victim of Oscar success. It's nowhere near one of the best films of any year, but I found its central relationship appealing and liked that it always looked at the world through Tony Lip's eyes, rarely letting modern, more enlightened sensibilities seep through. An unsophisticated oaf discovering the absurdities of racial segregation is not able to intellectualise them away, emphasising how plainly obvious it is that black Americans being discriminated is both a fact and an abomination. Even if it doesn't always work, the film highlights why excuses about the past being a different time don't really cut it. I have however never liked the Farrelly's tendencies to sentimentalise their crude and vulgar characters, reaching for ill-fitting pathos. That touch of insincerity that's always there in their comedies is unsurprisingly more pronounced in a serious-minded film and it's easy to see why many didn't buy Tony's anti-racist turn as 'inspirational'.

When looking for a funny comedy, Zucker-Abrahams-Zucker will always be a better bet than the Farrelly Brothers. To my surprise and delight, Ghost shares the "anything goes" spirit of Airplane! and The Naked Gun. It presents the dead as ghosts roaming around in the physical world, unseen by the living, but doesn't bother with any form of tedious world building. Any seemingly established rules are thrown out of the window if there is potential for a cool or fun moment. Late in the movie one of the villains dies and is immediately taken away by shadowy figures making horrifying sounds. It's a surprising, creepy scene that works because the film trusts the audience enough to introduce unexpected elements without feeling the need to set them up in advance or justify any in-universe logic. In addition, the movie also constantly changes its POV, allowing itself even more freedom to switch genres on the fly. It can be a slapstick comedy (Whoopi Goldberg playing a grifting medium who becomes terrified when she realises she can actually communicate with the dead is an inspired choice) in one scene, and an action-thriller in the next, and then swerve into fantasy, horror and romance without ever feeling tonally off. Zucker does make the boring choice during the film's emotional climax when Sam (Patrick Swayze) and Molly (Demi Moore) have one last opportunity to experience each other in the flesh. We see the entire scene from Sam's point of view, when Molly's would have been funnier and more mischievous.

Ghost is at its most romantic in the famous pottery scene, set to Unchained Melody, and performed by Demi Moore and Patrick Swayze with unabashed sensuality, emphasising how much they enjoy turning each other on. The two shots of a jukebox switching records (an almost literal mic-drop) bookending the scene suggest that Zucker and co. are very much aware of what they have created and basically give the audience permission to feel a certain way about it too. I loved the choice to show the jukebox in extreme close up, without any sense of the space surrounding it. It's a seemingly inconsequential shot that opens up many possibilities. The jukebox could theoretically be in the loving couple's home, adding a bit of colorful detail to what kind of people they are, but it's equally likely that Zucker is cheekily breaking the fourth wall, showing the viewers something non-diegetic. A third option is of course that the jukebox does belong to the film's world, without Moore and Swayze knowing. Later on, when Swayze becomes a ghost after getting shot, he will find that supernatural entities are constantly intruding in our lives, through barely perceptible actions that may well have major consequences. 

318. Citizen Kane

Song - The Best (Tina Turner)

Movie: Citzen Kane (Orson Welles, 1941)

I've always loved the story of Orson Welles directing a radio adaptation of War of the Worlds so convincingly some listeners thought an alien invasion was imminent, and have been equally intrigued by F for Fake, his documentary about an art forger that's supposedly somewhat of a forgery itself. I should have perhaps expected Citizen Kane to similarly straddle the boundaries between fiction and reality. I knew that it was supposed to be a thinly veiled biopic of media tycoon William Randoplh Hearst, but was surprised by its fascinating autobiographic layers. Welles was 25 years old and had no experience with film before directing, writing and acting in it, in the process establishing entirely new filmmaking rules and techniques that helped move the art form forward. Welles' genius was only matched by his bluster and bravado, and his willingness to speak his mind on all subjects, especially if he could rattle sacred cows. He presented himself as a larger than life self-consciously stylised slippery figure, with even his most seemingly innocuous statements adding to the mystery. Suggesting he could only make Citizen Kane after seeing Stagecoach over 40 times can be read both as genuine humility and gratitude and as a self-aggrandising expression of passionate obsession. 

As the inexperienced publisher of the Inquirer, Charles Foster Kane treats newspaper journalism as entertainment. He will say and write whatever sells and his main objective in the newsroom is to always be the centre of attention, dismissing any criticism with a quick quip. He is a great orator expressing a political interest in fighting fot the working man, but will sell out his principles whenever convenient. He will build an opera house for his wife to perform, knowing she is a terrible singer with enough integrity to feel humiliated by the false praise from his newspapers. His last words, 'Rosebud', are a mystery to every journalist in the country and attempts to piece the puzzle together mostly reveal that nobody, not even his closest companions, knows who Charles Foster Kane really was. What does become evident is that he was a self-consciously stylised figure of great bluster and bravado who would speak his mind on all subjects, creating an entirely new form of journalism in the process. 

Welles and cinematographer Gregg Toland revolutionised the use of deep focus cinematography, allowing everything in the frame to be seen sharply. That allows for some great shots showing how the action in the foreground affects what's happening in the background or vice versa, expanding the film's main idea that no man 's life can be explained through a single word. The deep focus cinematography allows Welles to reveal the broader context behind key events, even when the characters on screen are not explicity aware of what's happening on the otther side of the frame. There is also some spectacular use of dissolves making elegant and sometimes surprising spatial and temporal connections. The highlight is a zoom into a still photo of successful journalists at a rival newspaper turning into a moving image of the same journalists being photographed six years later as they are about to start working at the Inquirer. I also loved how the story of Kane's first marriage is entirely told through a montage of a series of breakfasts through the years. It lasts maybe less than 5 minutes but communicates more than some entire films on the subject. Citizen Kane contains many more narrative and technical interventions of major importance to film history; none are as great as Welles' lead performance. 

Welles may go big here, but he performs with no vanity, unafraid to highlight the hollowness and cruelty behind Kane's bluster and grandeur. When Kane, leading in a political campaign against an objectively ratty politican, is confronted by his rival over his adultery he is given the choice to either quietly withdraw or be publicly shamed, affecting his entire family. Kane chooses the second option, framing it as an act of personal integrity. Theoretically that's true - besides you don't win elections (or make Citizen Kane!) by choosing the first option, but the film shows that his choice gives the ratty politician the moral high ground, understanding that sometimes choosing a better outcome for others over your personal integrity is the right thing to do. There are many scenes, especially in the latter half of the film where Welles shows a similar critical self-awareness, one that can be quite rare to find in such auteur projects. This characterisation of Kane is however also connected to my only real gripe. I will always appreciate movies that counteract the stories nations like to tell about themselves, but an epic about how American society is shaped by men with completely vapid inner lives can't help but risk narrative inertia. I've had similar issues recently with The Irishman; Welles handles the challenge better than Scorsese, but still almost every scene ultimately leads to the same conclusion.

317. O Lucky Man!

Song - The Logical Song (Supertramp)

Movie: O Lucky Man! (Lindsay Anderson, 1973)

When Mick Travis (Malcolm McDowell) walks past graffiti exclaiming "Revolution is the opium of the intellectuals", O Lucky Man! suddenly clicks as a socialist feature-length version of "the goy's teeth" scene - basically a short moral parable set to Jimi Hendrix - in A Serious Man. The Coens tell of a Jewish dentist who finds potentially religious symbols  inscripted on the back of one of his secular patient's teeth. "Help me, save me" they supposedly read, leading the good doctor to many sleepless nights, digging through Jewish tomes trying to find out whether God communicates to him, and if so how. In his despairing quest for answers he eventually seeks out Rabbi Nachtner, hoping he might know if "Hashem" speaks to him through the "Torah or the Caballah". The Rabbi's answer is simple: "The teeth, we don't know. A sigh from Hashem? Don't know. Helping others? Couldn't hurt."  There is a subset of leftists who seem to treat socialism as a theoretical exercise whose main aim is the expression of Marx and Lenin's thoughts, rather than as a practical framework for materially improving people's lives. Unsurprisingly that often comes with an irony-poisoned worldview requiring to see every single aspect of mainstream society as a fundamentally stupid sham that only a select few comrades can see through.

For over two hours O Lucky Man! presents itself as an intellectualised satire of capitalism and contemporary British society, following Mick, a young coffee salesman whose simple charms and singleminded dedication to proftt fuel his career in the company, and eventually open doors into the even greater riches of the military-industrial complex. The many signifiers of high-minded artistry and postmodern sensibilities (references to Kubrick and A Clockwork Orange, a rock band let by The Animals' Alan Price serving as a Greek chorus commenting on the action until it suddenly finds itself part of the plot, silent film interludes, actors playing multiple roles, surrealist ambigous imagery) can't conceal that many off its potshots are incoherent and off-target. The 'surprising' promiscuity of a plain looking hotel hostess does not represent the dark underbelly of British commonality, no matter how hard you try. The use of blackface does not need to be inherently racist (see Assa, and Tropic Thunder), but it definitely is when used to present a white English actor as the president of a fictional African country, voluntarily and enthusiastically selling off his land to the British government. A scene early in the movie of the company manager rambling in front of a major poster of a stereotypical African farm lady joyously carrying coffee beans over her head makes a similar point much better and funnier. Detours to a military site and a hospital have some similarly effective and funny moments, but overstay their welcome without really making explicit what they are actually criticising, turning O Lucky Man! into a social satire that disdains instutions that save and kill lives equally, because it's mainly offended by the supposedly bourgeois attittudes governing them. 

In one of the sharper scenes, Mick becomes a patsy. He is arrested for the corrupt dealings between a British industrialist and the aforementioned African dictator, but while "justice" is served the deal still gets through. After five years in jail, he gets out a reformed man and the film suddenly becomes much more interesting, making an aesthetic turn for social realism. We now see the world as it is, rather than as a stylised intellectual concept. The film looks unflinchingly at the poverty in London's East End where the better off try to make ends meet in crammed one-room apartments, while the truly miserable live on the street hoping that the kind food truck lady will have enough for all. Mick gets accidentally recruited to stop a single mom from killing herself and starts quoting Shakespeare, Thomas Payne and other great Britsh writers of renown,  finding that their inspirational eloquence doesn't bring any food to the table. "Revolution is the opium of the intellectuals" appears in the next scene, indicating that the film might be self-aware. Even so, it still takes three hours to achieve what "The goy's teeth" managed in seven minutes, but it eventually leads to a rather moving ending that works much better in practice than you'd expect on paper. Ultimately, we are all just simple people trying to do our best. 

316. All Is Lost

Song - Sailing (Rod Stewart)

Movie: All Is Lost (J:C. Chandor, 2013)

I like All Is Lost for the same reasons I've become a fan of Powell & Pressburger, and Truly Madly Deeply. It is a great portrayal of dignity under duress. Chandor doesn't provide any background to Robert Redford - we don't get to learn his name, and he barely utters a word aside from a few swears, but when he wakes up to a waterlogged cabin in the middle of the Indian Ocean it becomes immediately clear what kind of man this is. Concerned, but unperturbed he finds that a loose freight container has struck his ship and goes to work, one step at a time. First the container has to be dislodged, then the water has to be removed and finally the hole in the hull should be closed. Every action "Our Man" takes is measured and performed with maximum commitment and awareness. There is no hint of rush, and the most urgent thing is always the task at hand, not to be abandoned until either a solution has been found or all hope is gone. 

I have no sailing experience, but get the sense that even in these opening scenes the situation is far more hopeless than the film or Redford lets on. That's certainly the case midway through when the sailboat is about to sink. Needing to bring some last minute necessities, including conserved food, flares and cutlery, to his emergency life raft, he holds his breath in the submerged ship, rummaging under water for the correct drawers. Chandor takes the time to show every dive back in, filming in calm long takes, mirroring Redford's deliberate composure. There is more to this than just presenting him as a seasoned sailor. Undoubtedly, Redford's attitude is practical, connected to his experience and will increase his chances of survival more than blind panic, but it's also about living, and surviving, the right way. Death may come anyway, facing it on your own terms is the best you can do, and the film consistently seeks to heighten our awareness of what it means to act on those terms in this context. When Redford is navigating a storm forcing him to put on his rain jacket. Chandor shows the entire process of him deciding he needs it, finding the box where it's kept, taking the jacket out, putting the box back in its place, and going back outside with his jacket on to continue the fight against the storm. Most disaster movies would cut most of the middle part to focus on the exciting action, but if all may be lost anyway, the meaningfulness of the process takes precedence over the results.

I had previously seen this film in 2013 in the cinema, amongst friends. We all liked it very much, but I was somewhat disappointed by the ambiguous ending, especially because I was the only one in my group who thought he survived. If we take the final shot at face value, Redford dying would force a spiritual/religious reading on the film that I felt was disconnected from the rationalism that came before. However, seeing it now, Redford surviving feels like it would be an even bigger betrayal of the film's existentialism, which veers into the irrational as the end comes closer. It's unlikely that a freighter passing that close to a life raft wouldn't notice the fireworks emanating from its flares, and its conspicuously unlucky to become surrounded by sharks just when your effort to catch a small fish is finally rewarded, but sometimes no matter how much you do the right thing, the mysterious forces of nature will simply turn against you.  

315. Mira

Song - Mijn Vlakke Land (Jacques Brel)

Movie: Mira (Fons Rademakers, 1971)

The village bar is celebrating. The men have just returned from seasonal work in France, bringing food and money for a few extra beers, but rumors of the upcoming construction of a bridge over the Scheldt quickly turn the mood sour. Some folks have spotted professional looking "civilised" engineers doing measurements along the bank, endangering the old way of life. Sure, the bridge might create economic opportunities, but is that a good price to pay for living under the yoke of Big City? Presumably not, but it's hard to get a good sense of everyone's opinion. Fons Rademakers puts us right in the middle of this Flemish rural community, letting everyone yell over each other. We get a vague sense of how certain people are connected, but it doesn't matter much anyway as the identity of the village takes precedence over the individual. Lander (Jan Decleir), who is on leave from the Army, and Mira (Willeke van Ammelrooy), who has just returned mysteriously from Paris, are among the few able and willing to separate themselves from the rigid conformity. Their reunion suggests a past attraction that's almost immediately consummated without any discomfort or hesitation. Rademakers presents it as a steamy easygoing romance between two attractive carefree young lovers indulging each other in full view of the village, knowing that they will probably soon be separated again. Also, Lander is Mira's uncle. 

Lander and Mira are forced to break off their romance much sooner than expected, though for non- incestuous reasons; Lander and two fellow villagers kill the manager overseeing the construction of the bridge, and his main assistants. On a foggy day, they follow them through the reeds and drown them in the river. During the pursuit, the camera stays close to the killers as they weed through the vegetation and mud, barely able to see beyond what's right in front of them. Eventually we see someone has died, but it takes a while before we get a full picture of what's happened. The deliberately disorienting approach makes the riverside feel much more savage and exotic than it really is, and Rademakers' intents become even more obvious in the ensuing scenes of mounted police chasing Lander through the forest. All non-diegetic sounds disappear as we see and hear the law closing in on an out of breath Lander as he drags through uneven terrain, escapes beartraps and jumps of 'cliffs' (the right camera angle can make even the smallest elevation look like an imposing canyon!). Alas, nothing can help him, not even the trigger happy gun nut offering emergency gruel in his wooden shack on the outskirts of the village.

Mira has especially in its second half some strange plotting issues. It sometimes feels as if too much material was shot and attempts to make sense of it all couldn't find the forest for the trees, with scenes that are seemingly missing or at the wrong place. However, it's always compelling and probably as close as you can get to a Belgian 'frontier' western. Rademakers has cast himself in a brief role as the public notary giving an exasperated speech to the villagers outlining the benefits of the bridge. The film certainly shares his view that industrialisation is an inevitable good, but it does lament what gets lost in its wake, and it does romanticise its 'Wild West', not necessarily in the most tasteful way. Following the arrest of Lander, Mira begins a romance with the bridge's chief engineer. It's far less passionate than the illicit one with Decleir, and the engineer can't catch a break in other ways either. The open plains of the village are contrasted wtth his stuffy family home where his mother controls, and knows of, all his decisions. He eventually marries Mira, but their wedding night evokes the famous final scene from The Graduate. Soon after, she leaves him; the now completed bridge makes her departure much easier. 

314. The Devil Is a Woman

Song - You Ain't Seen Nothing Yet (Bachman-Turner Overdrive)

Movie: The Devil Is a Woman (Josef von Sternberg, 1935)

I didn't realise that this is an adaptation of the same novel, aptly titled The Woman and the Puppet, as That Obscure Object of Desire. Bunuel's film is mainly about the puppet, a rich man too self-centred to realise that money can't buy love, or even that his romantic interest changes appearance throughout- Conchita is played by two different actresses, Angela Molina and Carole Bouquet. performing completely independently from each other. Such surrealist touches to an otherwise mostly recognisable society back a playfully satiric commenary on the delusions of the rich and powerful. The Devil Is A Woman is more stylistically conventional, but also more mysterious and sinister, building to a punchiline that plays like a nihilistic private joke between von Sternberg and Dietrich. 

Von Sternberg's film, mainly about the woman, begins at Carnaval in Seville, where a masked Antonio Galvan (Cesar Romero) spots Conchita (Marlene Dietrich) through the crowd. She invites him to look for her, without letting herself be found, prompting a pursuit across the partying city, all the way to her home. Sneaking outside her window, Antonio receives a note to meet her the next day in the forest for a carriage ride. Smitten, he fails to see the carnival decorations masking Seville's streets and residents as an ominous symbol of false, slippery identities, but he gets a clearer warning, bumping into his old friend Don Pasqual (Lionel Atwill). In a long flashback he tells of his own misbeggoten history with Conchita and how she consistently manipulated him, taking his money and his heart. Dietrich gives a great, funny performance, playing an unconvincing actress. Her obvious pretence, throughout the years, of true love is entirely disconnected from Don Pasqual's own account, presenting Conchita as a conniving, convincing hustler. Von Sternberg has little sympathy. The later revelation that "Pasqualito" tried to warn away his friend under false pretenses motivated by his enduring feelings for Conchita, doesn't negate that he was, and still is, a willfull sucker being misled by Conchita, Antonio, and his own illusions. It does however lead to a duel between the two men, which mostly sets up a perfect opportunity for Conchita to use her powers to their full effect. 

Although the film presents Don Pasqual as especially feeble, most men in proximity of Conchita are equally helpless. It's no surprise this was Marlene Dietrich's favorite movie of hers. Few films have ever been so flattering of an actress. The Devil Is a Woman essentially posits that Dietrich's mere presence has an almost ethereal power over men and lets her revel in it. especially during its startling conclusion showing her conning and causing heartbreak simply for love of the game. The finale begins with a carriage seen in long shot driving Dietrich and her victim towards the camera, followed by a number of scenes showing the actions taken to complete this voyage. It ends with the same movements happening in the opposite direction, with the final shot being of the same carriage on the same spot moving away from the camera, emphasising that this journey orchestrated by Conchita took effort and time. Beyond inflicting pain and personal complications on her mark(s), she gets no material gain out of it. 

313. Camelot

Song - MacArthur Park (Richard Harris)

Movie: Camelot (Joshua Logan, 1967)

Richard Harris recorded MacArthur Park after catching the singing bug on the set of Camelot. It's evident he enjoyed the experience, but the film's best song belongs to Franco Nero. "C'est Moi" introduces Lancelot as essentially the very model of a modern knight remarkable. "Had I been made the partner of Eve, we'd be in Eden still" sings this guy who calls himself "the godliest man I know, a French Prometheus unbound with a will and a self-restraint that's the envy of every saint." Of course such a man of "valor untold" should hear King Arthur's call to gather the noblest knights of England and beyond to turn "Might is Right" into "Might for Right". Nero performs the song with a broad touch of riducule, appropriate for someone who is way too keen to depict himself as the ultimate paragon of virtue and strength, but his desire to devote such exalting qualities to such a just cause is presented in fully approving sincerity. Such contradictions make Camelot a far better and far more interesting film than I ever expected. It is about idealists struggling to reconcile their wish to live up to their ideals with their realisation that they may lack the faculties to do so.

For a long while Lancelot is able to meet his own standards, but the temptations of the flesh eventually come for even those of the greatest moral and physical standing. He should have been warned by "The Lusty Month of May", one of those typical Broadway showstoppers whose cheer for its own sake explains some of my mild resistance towards musical theatre. These performances with their overtly theatrical expressions of happiness and their minutely choreographed outburts of 'spontaneous' movement sometimes come off as cynical and insincere, force-feeding joy to the audience. The Lusty Month of May (as well as some other songs here) can't entirely escape such accusations, but it does help present Camelot as an earthly Eden where everyone can live and love in beauty and merriment. Lancelot and Guinevere (Vanessa Redgrave) know that this paradise has been created by the values King Arhtur (Richard Harris) has instilled and that betraying him would also be a betrayal of everything they and Camelot stand for, and yet, none of that matters after Lancelot brings back from the dead a knight he accidentally killed in a jousting duel. He doesnt fully understand how he did it, or why the looks he shares with Gunievere are suddenly so charged, but he has to face that love is an irrational force that can alter any plan and challenge any self-conception.

King Arthur loves Guinevere and Lancelot equally and Harris has a great monologue on the dilemma tormenting him. Should he confront them about their affair and punish them, or would that not be worthy of a king espousing the value of civilisation? He doesn't know which decision would be the most just, and more importantly, he doesn't entirely trust himself to have the ability to determine what is just. A lot of Arthur's characterisation builds on an early scene of him wooing Guinevere by explaining how he became King. The stone in the sword is of course one of the most legendary stories in British culture, but is not treated with the reverence such designations infer. Arthur talks about his coronation with a sheepish awkwardeness,  diminishing anything mystical, preordained or grandiose about his fate. He is simply an ordinary man who suddenly had to live up to royal responsibilities, and it's not a given that he will ever fully manage to. Camelot won Oscars for its Set and Costume Design, but you often get the feeling that custom rather than urgency mounted all that lavishness. The film's true interest lies in the many closeups of its main actors trying to make sense of a situation where every choice has major benefits and drawbacks. It leads to a wonderful finale where all three try to cooperate towards a common goal despite being forced to take actions that move them in contrasting directions. 

312. Friends

Song - Michelle (The Beatles)

Movie: Friends (Lewis Gilbert, 1971)

Paul Harrison (Sean Bury) drives around Paris in a classic open-roof Mustang. He wears a suit and tie, complemented by a leather hat and sunglasses, as he picks up Michelle (Anicee Alvina). They've only met recently, but she is intrigued by his take-charge demeanor, even when she finds out the car is stolen. "Stop it", she says, secretly hoping he won't. "You'll get into trouble." "I am always in trouble. I am thinking of taking it up professionally", Paul quips in return. It is clear, Paul is the embodiment of suave sophistication, with a hint of danger. Paul is also 15 years old.

Lewis Gilbert knows exactly what he is doing here. Before Friends, he had directed Alfie, with Michael Caine as a womaniser in Swinging Sixties London, and Sean Connery as James Bond in You Only Live Twice. It's compelling for teenagers to see themselves as these kinds of men (or as the women that appeal to these men) and Friends lets them live out that fantasy, or so you'd think. Things become more complicated when Paul and Michelle keep on driving, escaping from their adult guardians. They end up in Arles, in the holiday home of her deceased parents. Life is bliss until they run out of food and Paul has go out every morning to look for work on the downlow. Long scenes of hard manual labor in the morasses of the Camargue (a wetland in Southern France you immedately want to visit) are followed by difficult conversations, confronting the challenges of poverty. 

The film shows Paul being angry with his dad for typically adolescent reasons (he reprimands his son for missing classes, and is about to remarry a proudly posh woman), while hiding its own 'mature' criticism in plain sight; the father is a Brit living in France making business deals over the phone with faceless Americans. For her part, following the death of her parents, Michelle has been taken in by her cousin who organises drugged up parties that try and fail to revive the magic of flower power. Meanwhile, her no-good philandering husband Pierre keeps trying to make a move on Michelle. In other words, all main adult characters are essentially symbols of the lost ideals of the 1960's and the kids' new life on the land is a rejection of contemporary society. That's all well and good, but much less recognisable as an appealing mainstream teenage fantasy. The question of who the film is for becomes more relevant when after many scenes teasing it, Paul and Michelle finally have sex. It results in some stretches that can be described as 9/12 Weeks with - but not for - teens, which is not quite the tagline you want. Sean Bury and Anicee Alvine were respectively 17 and 18 when the film came out, but their characters are heavily eroticised 15/14-year olds. What makes the whole thing more unseemly is that the film wants to be both a serious consideration of what happens when a pregnancy forces teens to act beyond their age, and coyly melodramatic smut. 

I can't find any reference to the film being inspired by the Beatles song, despite it being about an English "Paul Harrison" (with a hairstyle that definitely reminds of the relevant Paul and Harrison) falling in love with a French girl named Michelle. It even seems to go out of its way to not directly associate with the band by having Elton John compose the entire soundtrack, including "Michelle's Song'. It plays during a montage and has lyrics literally describing what's on screen. The official story is that Lewis Gilbert wanted to make a version of The Blue Lagoon, but couldn't get the rights for it, and then decided to adapt the story that originally inspired The Blue Lagoon. That's probably true, but it would be very easy to believe that the film started off as a Michelle-adaptation until, seeing what shape it took, The Beatles decided to run as far away as possible from it.    

311. The Phantom of the Opera

Song - Wereld Zonder Jou (Marco Borsato & Trijntje Oosterhuis)

Movie: The Phantom of the Opera (Joel Schumacher, 2004)

Opera used to be the domain of the royal courts; bringing it to the people requires Oprah. "You get an aria, you get an aria, EVERYONE GETS AN ARIA!!" If stirring climaxes are the highlight of opera, why not make a show that consists of nothing else? The stage version of The Phantom of The Opera did become the most popular theater production in history, even if, going by this adaptation, all the songs sound pretty much the same. Every single lyric is composed and performed in exactly the same way, building up to a climactic note supposed to give the impression that every single emotion is a powerful one expressed powerfully. And whenever you don't hear a rousing orchestral schore, the music's sole purpose is to ostentatiously build up to it. These principles of overwrought excess also apply to scene composition and set design. Entire scenes play out with the actors in the background, simply because that allows more room to stuff the frame with kitsch. There can never be enough roses, chandeliers, ornaments, gowns, wigs and other symbols of conspicuous wealth on screen, and the audience can never be allowed to feel sold short. 

There is probably no Dutch artist who has more succesfully incorporated Andrew Llyod Webber's overblown theatricality in his (live) performances than Marco Borsato. De Toppers are kitschier, but they do it with a wink. Borsato is sincere and would have probably remained on top of the Dutch entertainment world if not for his own personal hubris - he is currently on trial for sexual misconduct. I am not a fan, but I knew what I was getting into and can't complain too much about not liking things I was never going to. But then there is Minnie Driver... My love for Good Will Hunting has been well documented, but Grosse Pointe Blank was an early favorite too, making Driver one of my first celebrity crushes. She is an actress I've always rooted for and been happy to see, but her performance here is embarassingly unwatchable. She plays an Italian self-aggrandising diva everyone wants to run away from. She is supposed to be unsympathetic, but plays to the rafters so much she effectively breaks the fourth wall. It doesn't help that she, like most other relevant characters, is introduced during a meta rehearsal scene. A documentary of the same actors having lunch may in certain instances be preferable over a movie; a documentary of the same actors being petulant irritants definitely isn't.

With the exccption of Simon Callow and Ciaran Hinds, as the profit-driven new opera owners who are too excited about their latest acquisition to fully grasp the implications of a phantom haunting it, all main actors struggle with the suspension of disbelief. That's partly on Schumacher and Webber who treat them too often as nothing but conduits of their pomp. It's hard to reach a meaningful climax without foreplay, but because the film is only interested in the former it takes short cuts turning all songs into exposition dumps. Conveying the deep love expressed by the centerpiece song 'All I Ask Of You', without having shown any scenes of the lovers falling for each other or even meaningfully interacting, requires the actors to have both a natural chemistry and completely uninhibited acting styles, unafraid to show that even the smallest gesture of their partner has an unimaginable effect on them. Patrick Wilson and Emmy Rossum lack it; Sarah Brightman and Cliff Richard have it. There is a video clip on YouTube of them performing All I Ask Of You that's better than anything in this film. 

310. Cinema Paradiso

Song - Musica E (Eros Ramazotti)

Movie: Cinema Paradiso - Nuovo Cinema Paradiso (Giuseppe Tornatore, 1988)

Filmmakers hold an obvious fascination for fires caused by film stock. Cinema Paradiso contains many wonderful sequences, but Giuseppe Tornatore reserves his greatest talents for the burning of the titular cinema. When its regulars demand a new movie just before closing time, projectionist Alfredo (Philippe Noiret) gives them an even more special experience, screening the film on the walls of a house on the main square. It's such an enrapturing sight the audience doesn't even mind that parts of the film are blocked by the balcony. Watching the magic happen outside, a glowing Alfredo forgets to pay attention to his equipment, and right before the climactic gunshot the screen dissolves in a sea of flames. As the cinema catches fire, Tornatore places the burning building in the middle of the frame, with the tonwfolk running away from it in all directions,. The night is only illuminated by the frightening orange glow seen through the projection booth window. It's a spectacular sequence that becomes even more exciting when little Toto, Alfredo's 'assistant' starts running towards the cinema to save his friend. He does, but Alfredo will be blind the rest of his life, strengthening his conviction that being a film projectionist in a little Sicilian village is a waste of one's time and abilities. When Toto grows older, Alfredo urges him to leave, take the opportunities he wasn't able to and never come back or talk to him again. The film starts 30 years later when Salvatore 'Toto' De Vita, now a succesfull filmmaker in Rome, remembers his childhood as he prepares to go back to Siciliy for Alfredo's funeral. 

Reading between the lines, yes, I will always be happy to find parallels with Inglorious Basterds and Good Will Hunting, but the scenes in question do add interesting nuances to Cinema Paradiso, making it a little more ambivalent about the 'magic of cinema' than I expected. Noiret turns into Ben Affleck, because he views film in much the same way Affleck looked at working in construction and drinking with his buddies. In one of the funniest scenes, Alfredo returns to a classroom for his umpteenth attempt to pass his high school exams. Visibly struggling with some math problem (he keeps starting over counting his fingers) he unsuccessfully turns to cheating. The pupils, who may well be his grandchildren, clock him and shade their papers. Working in film is the only thing he is capable of and he finds it sickening that a bright young man like Toto would be willing to squash his potential to follow the same career path. When Toto eventually departs for the big city, Alfredo's goodbye wish is that he will find something he will love as much as he loved the film camera and the projection booth, with the unspoken implication that those things should preferably remain in his past. 

Jacques Perrin gives an interesting performance as the now successful Salvatore. He is introspective everytime he is on screen, remembering his old friend, and wondering why he became a filmmaker in the first place. Does he even really like movies that much or is it something else he is chasing? The fire being the key event is entirely in line with Tornatore's general approach. He is far more interested in showing the communal 'events' and social relationships the theatre's existence makes possible than the effects specific films have on the audience in general, let alone on Toto in particular. During a screening of a film promoted as being highly emotional (most of the films shown are not identified) Tornatore highlights how everyone in the theatre is crying in unison, suggesting that this is in fact the main objective of their presence here; the film is more an excuse to be emotional together, rather than the source of these emotions. There are many more scenes showing how the cinema enables people to observe each other, find love, develop friendships, overcome class differences, and escape the duties of ordinary life. The actual films sometimes feel like incidental distractions, especially for teenage Toto who spends his work time thinking more about pretty Elena (Agnese Manano) than about editing techniques, and is oblivious whenever Alfredo quotes some famous actor. 

The burnt down cinema is restored by an especially entrepreneurial guy from Naples. "These northerners know how to make money" note the Sicilians, one of the most wonderfully tickling lines of dialogue I've heard recently - in the same category as "In America, we can finally live as Australians" from Ali's Wedding. Cinema Paradiso contains many such moments of sharp wit and humor I didn't expect from the guy that made The Best Offer. I don't remember much of that film, except thinking that Tornatore was utterly out of touch with modern sensibilities. Cinema Paradiso suggests that he is fully aware of that and embraces it. Throughout the film, Tornatore keeps returning to a bird's eye view of the main square, showing its modernisation to be inversely proportional to its communality. At the beginning, the whole town gathers on the square to play around, flirt, gossip and socialise, often inter-generationally. By the end, Cinema Paradiso is about to be destroyed and the square has been turned into a parking lot, occupied by cars and billboards, each advertising a product to a different market-researched target audience. Everyone goes their own way, with only the funeral procession for Alfredo as a memory of a different way of living. 

309. Amelie

Song - I Have A Dream (ABBA)

Movie: Amelie - Le fabuleux destin d'Amelie Poulain (Jean-Pierre Jeunet, 2001)

"Is this film more interesting than a documentary of the same actors having lunch?"

When The Fabelmans came out some fans dived into Spielberg's filmography, trying to find examples where Spielberg had followed (or not) John Ford's advice. It's a fun exercise that will probably teach you a lot about scene composition, as long as you don't miss the forest for the trees. The Fabelmans shows many of Sammy's home movies and the process of their creation, emphasising all the practical obstacles Spielberg had to overcome and think through to get his scenes filmed. The Fabelmans' final shot on the other hand would work equally well if the horizon is in the middle, going against Ford's words. Spielberg's camera adjustment to put the horizon on top is an aesthetic choice made blatantly obvious, highlighting why I am not entirely on board with Gene Siskel's popular aphorism quoted above. As singer/comedian Tim Minchin recently noted: "Even if AI came up with the same poem, it wouldn't be the same, because the reason you found it entertaining is because you knew that I made those choices. It's valuable not only because of its content, but because of it's intent."  

This is the third time I've started Amelie and the first time I've finished it. Hypothetically speaking, if you would mount an automated camera to roam around Montmartre, randomly filming its streets, its bars, and the steps of the Sacre-Coueur, you will probably end up with more colorful sights and sounds, more fascinating people and conversations, and a more appealingly romantic outlook of Paris than what Amelie has to offer. However, Amelie is art, while the automated camera images are not. There is a lot of noise these days from AI evangelists about how AI is supposedly democratising art. The argument here (both implicitly and explicitly) is that for something to be art it has to reach a certain (abstract) threshold of beauty, versimilitude, edificaction and/or wisdom most ordinary humans aren't able to reach without support from a superior technology. That's a far less populist notion than the simple idea that art is the end result of aesthetic choices reflecting personal preferences, regardless of whether these preferences align with other people's or some objectivist ideal. 

I certainly don't like how Jean-Pierre Jeunet films Paris, but getting a glimpse of how someone thinks about the world, and the actions they take to communicate that, is still an entertaining way to spend two hours. I hope some day to write more abot the similarities between watching sports and watching films, but I think much of the fun in both comes from seeing people struggle to put in an effort to achieve something. Someone in a really Marxist mood could take that idea much further arguing that sports gambling and the use of AI in art are two sides of the same coin, erasing human endeavour for the sake of profit that I think will ultimately not work. Even setting moral objections aside, in the end in both cases the business model depends on watching people take meaningful actions to put the ball in the basket, or evoke the magic of Paris. It's a matter of supply and demand too. If everyone can evoke the magic of Paris, doing so will lose its value. Jeunet's way is definitely singular, but it would have been more appealing if he didn't apply every color filter in much the same way, taking all texture and personality out of city life to make everything look drably similar. He tries to make up for it by inventing a whole bunch of quirky characters, but then proceeds to also take all personality from them, turning everyone into cardbord cutouts, never moving beyond their carefully molded types. All of this leads, especially in the second half, to a lot of endlessly repetitive scenes. 

I did appreciate the movie a bit more than on my previous viewings. Combining elements of collage and stop-motion animation and applying them to a narrative film does create a fascinating look and feel sometimes. Audrey Tautou essentially plays an introverted scale model come alive and even in that context, her charisma and her comic talent come through. In fact, everyone in the film has a wry sense of humor, including Jeunet, but even that can be a source of frustration. The tragedy that will come to define Amelie's life is played for laughs, successfully. I guffawed, while being annoyed that it's completely at odds with the tone the film is going for. It's the kind of Looney Tunes death that works in an existentialist black comedy like In Bruges, but not in a sentimentalised morality tale about finding the purity of heart to see the good in everyone. The moment comes off douchey and glib, signalling that the film doesn't really care about any of its characters, as long as it can milk the right emotions and messages out of them.