Watch This: No Country for Old Men

A bi-weekly series featuring a recommendation of a movie available in the Reeves Memorial Library DVD collection

No Country for Old Men (2007)
Written and directed by Joel and Ethan Coen

"The crime you see now, it's hard to even take its measure.  It's not that I'm afraid of it.  I always knew you had to be willing to die to even do this job.  But, I don't want to push my chips forward and go out and meet something I don't understand."

These words, spoken in the opening narration of No Country for Old Men by aging Texas sheriff Ed Tom Bell (Tommy Lee Jones), often come to mind whenever there is a new report of another mass shooting, terrorist bombing, or other horrific, violent act.  These tragic events are frequently met with bewilderment, as people ask themselves, "How did this happen?  Why would somebody do such a thing?"  It is difficult to wrap your mind around events like these and to make sense of them, and it is in just such a situation that Bell finds himself as he begins to investigate the bloody aftermath of a drug deal gone wrong and the ensuing trail of bodies left behind by a ruthless assassin.

No Country for Old Men takes place in 1980.  After an opening sequence that shows aforementioned assassin Anton Chigurh (Javier Bardem) escaping from police custody by strangling a deputy, and then murdering an innocent motorist and stealing his car, we see lone hunter Llewelyn Moss (Josh Brolin) in the desolate West Texas desert.  Moss comes across the aftermath of a deadly shootout between two groups of Mexican drug dealers, finding one man alive who is begging for water.  Moss leaves the scene behind and tracks down the missing money, which consists of two million dollars in a black case.  He takes the money home, but feels guilty and returns with water for the dying Mexican.  This well-intentioned decision proves unfortunate when armed men show up, but Moss escapes and returns home, where he sends his wife, Carla Jean (Kelly Macdonald), to her mother's and heads out of town with the money.  In the meantime, Chigurh has been hired to recover the missing cash, but he kills two of his employers and begins to track down the money using a transponder that was hidden in the case.  The following morning, Bell and his deputy, Wendell (Garret Dillahunt), begin investigating the drug deal shootout and find their way to Moss's trailer, where they realize they have just missed Chigurh.

What ensues is an increasingly deadly cat-and-mouse game as Chigurh follows Moss to El Paso, where a shootout occurs that leaves both men wounded.  We find that the same man who hired Chigurh (a nameless "accountant" played by Stephen Root) has also enlisted the services of a group of well-armed Mexicans and an ex-military operative named Carson Wells (Woody Harrelson), who offers to help Moss while he recovers from his wounds in a Mexican hospital.  Moss, a tough Vietnam veteran, is determined to best Chigurh on his own, and refuses Wells's offer.  As Chigurh and the Mexicans move ever closer to Moss, with Bell only a step behind and admittedly overmatched, the story moves toward its violent, inevitable conclusion.

Chigurh is the embodiment of Bell's "something I don't understand."  The term "bad guy" does not even come close to doing the character justice, as he seems to be not just a man, but a malevolent force of evil that is almost inhuman in nature.  He will stop at nothing to get his hands on the money.  His brand of violence is indeed, to borrow Bell's expression, hard to measure.  Rather than using a traditional firearm, he carries around an air-powered bolt gun, designed to kill cattle quickly by shooting a metal bolt into the cow's brain.  It is an odd but effective choice of weapon.  The character is made all the more terrifying due to the unusual haircut donned by Bardem in the role, and by his detached manner.  It is chilling to think that someone like this might actually exist.

Javier Bardem won a much-deserved Academy Award for his portrayal of Anton Chigurh, and it is truly an unforgettable performance.  He is cold and calculating, but there is a hint of bemusement in his eyes as well.  There is the unforgettable scene at a rural gas station, where Chigurh toys verbally with a nervous attendant (Gene Jones), leaving the man's fate up to the result of a coin toss.  It is a tense scene, played perfectly by both actors.  It is a testament to the cast that Gene Jones is playing opposite an Oscar-winning performance in the scene, and is every bit Bardem's equal.  The rest of the cast is also uniformly superb.  Tommy Lee Jones is cast perfectly as the world-weary, laconic Bell, a shrewd and dedicated lawman who realizes he is out of his depth.  It is difficult to imagine the film's narration spoken in any voice other than Jones's measured drawl.  Josh Brolin shines as Moss in a prominent role that features surprisingly little dialogue.  It was the role that rejuvenated Brolin's career, and rightly so.  Harrelson and Macdonald are likewise superb in their small supporting roles, as is veteran character actress Beth Grant as Carla Jean's ailing, disapproving mother.

Many Coen brothers films feature characters whose actions are marked by bumbling ineptitude.  Think of hapless car salesman Jerry Lundegaard and the two blundering kidnappers in Fargo (1996), or the amateur blackmailers of Burn After Reading (2008).  The characters in No Country for Old Men, on the other hand, are competent and determined.  Chigurh is a relentless, violent force of nature, but Moss gives him a run for his money.  "He can take all comers," says Carla Jean about her husband, and Moss proves that her statement is more than just wifely pride, vowing to take the fight to Chigurh rather than wait it out.  Bell, too, is very good at what he does, but he understands that there is someone out there who is better still.  Many of the film's scenes feature little dialogue, and so we see these characters' competence firsthand as they perform a variety of activities, from hiding money to patching themselves up after a gunfight.

The Coen brothers are writer-directors known for their highly original films and their distinctive style, so it may seem surprising that they should not only adapt someone else's work for one of their films (in this case, a 2005 novel by acclaimed writer Cormac McCarthy), but that the resulting film should remain so faithful to the source material.  Then again, this film fits perfectly into their larger body of work.  The pulpy storyline and dusty Texas setting are reminiscent of their excellent film noir debut, Blood Simple (1984), and the Coens' editing, in combination with Roger Deakins's expert cinematography, ensure that the film exhibits their unique visual style.  No Country for Old Men also features the Coens' characteristic brand of wry humor, as evidenced by the lively exchanges between deputy Wendell and Sheriff Bell ("It's a mess, ain't it, Sheriff?"  "If it ain't, it'll do till the mess gets here"), and by Carla Jean's mother's casual racism ("It's not often you see a Mexican in a suit").  The adaptation process worked out so well for the Coens that they repeated it again successfully three years later, bringing Charles Portis's classic western novel True Grit to the screen in another highly faithful rendition.

Most of the Coens' films contain depictions of violence, some of it brutal in nature, and a pessimistic worldview pervades most of their filmography.  But these aspects of their filmmaking seem more pointed in No Country for Old Men, a film that serves as a harsh reminder of the evil and injustice that exist in our world, and the violence that continues to plague our society.  Gone are the days when, as Ed Tom Bell mentions in the opening narration, a sheriff could perform his or her duties without a gun.

Of course, the Coens also gave us Marge Gunderson, Fargo's pregnant police chief, a bright, shining beacon of human goodness.  So, maybe there's hope for us yet.

Watch This: The Gold Rush

A bi-weekly series featuring a recommendation of a movie available in the Reeves Memorial Library DVD collection

The Gold Rush (1925)
Written and directed by Charlie Chaplin

The small, bushy black mustache.  The black bowler hat.  The baggy pants and tight-fitting black coat.  The oversized shoes and wooden cane.  The endearingly strange, waddle-like gait.

There are few images in all of cinema more iconic than that of "The Tramp," the unlucky but good-natured character portrayed by the great actor/director Charlie Chaplin.  Even today, those who have never seen a Chaplin film can instantly recognize the character, and in fact, most people might not even recognize Chaplin apart from that costume.  The Tramp's enduring popularity is a testament to Chaplin's abilities as a performer and filmmaker, and the character's appeal was never more apparent than in Chaplin's 1925 masterpiece The Gold Rush.  The Tramp made his first appearance in 1914's Kid Auto Races at Venice, and was a worldwide phenomenon by the mid-1920s, when Chaplin released The Gold Rush, which to this day remains the highest-grossing silent comedy film ever made.

The Gold Rush finds The Tramp character, credited here as The Lone Prospector, braving the elements to seek his fortune during the Klondike Gold Rush at the end of the 19th century.  As the film opens, he seeks shelter from a snowstorm in the cabin of wanted criminal Black Larsen (Tom Murray).  The two are joined shortly thereafter by fellow prospector Big Jim McKay (Mack Swain), who is also hoping to get out of the storm.  After being trapped inside for a few days, they cut cards to see who will venture out to find food, and Black Larsen draws the low card.  Outside, he runs into two lawmen, promptly gunning down both men after a brief struggle.  He then comes across Big Jim's claim, which we know from an earlier scene is rich with gold.  Back in the cabin, The Lone Prospector and Big Jim are forced to boil and eat a leather shoe for Thanksgiving dinner.  Their hunger is eventually sated after The Lone Prospector shoots a bear that finds its way into the cabin.  His first act after firing the shotgun is to hurriedly set the table.

The Lone Prospector and Big Jim part ways, leaving the cabin behind.  Big Jim makes his way back to his old claim, where he is knocked unconscious by Black Larsen, who shortly thereafter falls to his death after a snowy cliff edge gives way beneath him.  We later find out that Big Jim has lost his memory from the blow to his head, and wanders aimlessly through the snowy wilderness.  The Lone Prospector makes his way to a frontier city, where he meets the beautiful Georgia (Georgia Hale) in a dance hall, and he becomes a rival for her affections against obnoxious ladies' man Jack (Malcolm Waite).  Staying at the cabin of a new miner acquaintance, The Lone Prospector invites Georgia and her friends to New Year's Eve dinner, but their failure to arrive leaves him dejected.  His spirits are quickly revived the next day when a prank involving one of Georgia's love letters leaves him with the impression that she loves him.  His happiness grows even more when he runs into Big Jim, who fortunately remembers his former companion.  The two reunited friends set off for the old cabin, hoping to locate Big Jim's claim from there and strike it rich.

The film depicts life in the Klondike as a constant battle against the elements.  There are treacherous mountain passes that must be traversed.  There are freezing temperatures and blinding snow.  There are dangerously high winds during snowstorms.  In the film's thrilling and hilarious climactic sequence, a snowstorm blows the cabin to the edge of a cliff while The Lone Prospector and Big Jim sleep inside, and it tilts precariously over the chasm as they move around inside the next morning.  In addition to the threats of the natural world, The Lone Prospector is constantly in peril from his fellow human beings.  There is a wonderful scene early in the film in which he is trapped behind a table as Big Jim and Black Larsen struggle over a shotgun, which stays pointed at The Lone Prospector no matter how much he pushes the barrel aside or tries to crawl away.  Later, after the unsatisfying shoe dinner, The Lone Prospector nearly falls victim to the cannibalistic urges of the starving Big Jim, who hallucinates that his cabin mate has transformed into a giant chicken.

Indeed, the biggest threat the characters face in the first part of the film is hunger, and many of the film's most memorable scenes involve food.  Trapped inside during the snowstorm, The Lone Prospector salts and eats a candle from the lantern on the table.  Later, as he and Big Jim share the boiled shoe, The Lone Prospector relishes each bite of his portion, swirling the laces around his fork like spaghetti and sucking the leather off of the nails from the sole as though they were chicken bones.  Later in the film, as The Lone Prospector dreams about his planned New Year's Eve dinner, he sees himself entertaining his guests by sticking forks in two baked potatoes and making them dance like two oversized feet.  It is arguably the film's best-known scene, and the bit was later copied with two dinner rolls by Johnny Depp's character in the offbeat 1993 romantic comedy Benny & Joon.  That hunger plays such a key role in the film is not surprising when you learn that one of Chaplin's primary inspirations for the film was the story of the Donner Party, a group of pioneers who resorted to cannibalism after becoming snowbound in the Sierra Nevada Mountains in the 1840s.

The comedy in silent films relies entirely on visual humor, and Chaplin's early career in vaudeville served him well throughout his later life as a film actor and director.  Chaplin's gift for physical humor was nearly unrivaled in the silent era, and his abilities are on full display in The Gold Rush.  Take, for instance, the uproarious dance hall scene in which his character's belt comes loose and falls out of his pants as he begins to dance with Georgia.  We see him reaching back repeatedly to hike up his pants, then sticking the handle of his cane through a belt loop to hold them up, all while continuing to dance.  Stopping next to a table at the edge of the dance floor, he quickly grabs a piece of rope and ties it around his pants as a belt, only to realize too late that the rope is the end of a dog's leash.  The large dog is yanked out onto the dance floor, forced to follow them around before pulling The Lone Prospector down and around the dance floor.

The dance hall scene is emblematic of The Tramp's universal appeal.  We know even before his belt falls out of his pants that the dance will not end well for him.  And yet, it's impossible not to root for him.  He is a true underdog, and although he is routinely the victim of circumstance and bad luck, he never stops striving for something better.  His bowler hat, cane, and topcoat reveal a desire to look the part of a well-to-do gentleman, but although the shabbiness of his ill-fitting clothes marks him as a pretender, these efforts evoke feelings of admiration and sympathy, rather than pity.  Of course, there is a shrewdness to the character as well, as evidenced by the scene in which he offers to shovel snow in order to raise funds for his New Year's Eve dinner.  His services are rudely declined by one shop owner, so he moves next door and clears out the doorway of another shop by piling all the snow in front of the entrance to the first shop.  He then returns to the first shop and offers his services at an increased price.  It's a sly scheme, but the shop owner's earlier rudeness makes The Lone Prospector's actions seem like well-deserved payback.

Charlie Chaplin remains one of the most important figures in all of cinema.  Along with fellow comedic actor Buster Keaton, he is one of the most recognizable faces from the silent era.  The Gold Rush is only one of his many great films, and provides a wonderfully entertaining window into his comedic genius.

A note: Reeves Memorial Library owns the Criterion Collection's two-disc special edition DVD release, which includes both the original silent 1925 version and Chaplin's 1942 sound version, which includes new music and narration.  The later re-release was considered by Chaplin to be the definitive version.  It is about 15 minutes shorter than the original version, after the removal of the title cards and a couple of short scenes, one of which involves the subplot about the prank with Georgia's love letter.  In the end, the differences are minor in terms of the overall story, so whichever version you choose, you're still seeing one of the best comedy films ever made.

Watch This: Goodfellas

A bi-weekly series featuring a recommendation of a movie available in the Reeves Memorial Library DVD collection

Goodfellas (1990)
Co-written and directed by Martin Scorsese

"As far back as I can remember, I always wanted to be a gangster."
                                                                 -- Henry Hill, Goodfellas

There is no denying that the gangster has been one of the most compelling and appealing personalities in American culture.  There has long been a widespread fascination with real-life organized crime figures like Al Capone and John Gotti, and films like The Godfather (1972) and Scarface (1983), as well as television series like the groundbreaking The Sopranos (1999-2007), have captured the imaginations of millions of Americans.  The life of a gangster is undoubtedly dangerous and often immoral, and yet this lifestyle, at least as depicted in popular culture, has a powerfully seductive allure.  Perhaps it is the possibility of attaining power and influence over others, or the notion of living outside of mainstream society's laws and accepted norms.  Whatever it is, the gangster lifestyle, in particular that of the American Mafia, holds a strong attraction for many Americans, and no film captures that lifestyle better than Martin Scorsese's mid-career masterpiece, Goodfellas.

Based on the book Wiseguy: Life in a Mafia Family by Nicholas Pileggi (who also co-wrote the film's screenplay), Goodfellas tells the true story of Irish-Italian mobster Henry Hill (Ray Liotta), who joins the ranks of the local Mafia gang as a teenager and works his way up to become a mid-level gangster.  Henry narrates the story in the first-person, offering us a detailed insider's glimpse of everyday life in the Mafia as he hustles, steals, and commits all manner of other crimes alongside his fellow mobsters Jimmy "the Gent" Conway (Robert De Niro) and Tommy DeVito (Joe Pesci, in an Oscar-winning performance).  Early in the film, he meets a young Jewish woman named Karen (Lorraine Bracco), and the two date and eventually get married.

Karen is enamored with Henry's charm and influence, as evidenced by a virtuoso early scene in which Henry escorts her through the staff entrance of the Copacabana nightclub, through the service corridors and kitchen area, and into the main showroom, where a table is set up just for them in front of the stage.  She is frightened by the violence of Henry's lifestyle, yet also turned on by it, and after a while, she even begins to appreciate his criminal activities as proof of his enterprising ambition and commitment to providing for their young family.  However, things begin to turn sour after the fallout from a robbery sows the seeds of distrust and betrayal among Henry's peers, and after Tommy's short temper leads to the death of a high-level mobster.  Henry's marital infidelities strain his relationship with Karen, and his drug smuggling activities put him on the outs with mob boss Paulie Cicero (Paul Sorvino).  Overcome with guilt, regret, and fear, Henry is forced to make a difficult choice in order to ensure the safety of himself and his family.

One of the factors that makes Goodfellas stand out is its unusual narrative style.  Most films are either heavily-plotted or episodic in nature, but Goodfellas doesn't really fit either of these descriptions.  It doesn't have a plot, it tells a story, and its storytelling strategy might best be described as a progression of sequences rather than scenes.  While there are certainly a handful of scenes in the film that are allowed to play out over the course of a few minutes (Tommy's famous "What do you mean I'm funny?" scene is a prime example), the film is primarily composed of heavily-edited sequences which pull together key moments related to the voiceover narration.  This strategy allows the story to emphasize the countless details and glimpses of mob life that make the film such a pleasure to watch, and also gives the film a tremendous sense of nostalgia and memory.  This narrative style is especially potent in the long, frantic sequence late in the film that follows a paranoid, cocaine-fueled Henry over the course of a single day, as he rushes hurriedly back and forth trying to traffic drugs, visit his mistress, pick up his disabled brother, and cook dinner for his family, all while a surveillance helicopter seems to be following him around.  The frenetic editing and camerawork, combined with the sound and voiceover narration, create an almost palpable sense that the walls are closing in.  Rarely has a film done a better job of putting the viewer inside the mind of its protagonist.

There is so much to praise about Goodfellas that it is difficult to squeeze it all into just a handful of paragraphs.  The editing by the great Thelma Schoonmaker is masterful, Michael Ballhaus's cinematography works perfectly to communicate the director's vision, and the all-time great soundtrack, featuring the type of popular music that Martin Scorsese has used so well throughout his career, contributes immeasurably to the film's mood and sense of nostalgia.  The performances are uniformly great, and although Joe Pesci won an Oscar for his performance as the explosive Tommy, it is easy to think in retrospect that De Niro's measured, less showy performance as the charismatic, dangerous Jimmy, may have been the more deserving of the two.  Perhaps the film's greatest achievement is in making these characters, who commit so many despicable acts over the course of the film, so very likable and even enviable.  There is an admirable sense of camaraderie among Henry and his friends, and the gang is like a big family (at least until they begin murdering one another out of distrust and greed).  It is easy to relate to Henry's desire to become a gangster, which is as much about economics as anything else.  His voiceover quote at the start of the film, "As far back as I can remember, I always wanted to be a gangster," is followed immediately by Tony Bennett's song "Rags to Riches," and it feels like Henry's wish to join the ranks of the local gang is just another variation on the American Dream.

There are many who would say that The Godfather is the best gangster film ever made.  It is undeniable that The Godfather is probably a better film, and it is difficult to understate The Godfather's lasting cultural impact (even those who have never seen the film know the expressions "sleep with the fishes" and "I'll make him an offer he can't refuse"), but I would argue that Goodfellas is without a doubt a better gangster film.  The Godfather is more about the corrupting influence of power and the relationships within one single family than the day-to-day existence of a gangster, and it tells its story in a much broader social and historical context.  Goodfellas, on the other hand, focuses on the everyday life of a gangster, and not a high-level, wealthy mafioso like The Godfather's Vito and Michael Corleone.  The characters in Goodfellas are blue-collar, low-level gangsters who work long hours to hustle and rob their way to a level of power and financial well-being that never even approaches that of the Corleones.  Goodfellas is all about what it is like to be a gangster, not just an "average nobody," and it is this insider's attention to detail that makes the film so memorable.  Who can forget the scene in the bar where Henry's narration introduces us to gangsters like "Freddie No-Nose" and "Pete the Killer, who was Sally Balls's brother," or the way Paulie Cicero uses a razor blade to slice garlic in preparation for cooking dinner in prison?

The real Henry Hill has stated that the film is 95% accurate in its portrayal of mob life.  Perhaps this authenticity is what really makes the film's details stand out.  Of course, much credit should also be given to director and co-writer Martin Scorsese, who was also very familiar with the film's character types and milieu, having grown up in New York City's Little Italy neighborhood watching the local gangsters from his windows.  In any case, Goodfellas is a pure joy to watch, and it remains perhaps the best film made yet by America's greatest living director.

Watch This: The Spirit of the Beehive

A bi-weekly series featuring a recommendation of a movie available in the Reeves Memorial Library DVD collection

The Spirit of the Beehive (1973)
Co-written and directed by Victor Erice

In a remote Spanish village on the Castilian plain, a truck rumbles into the central square, preceded by a gaggle of excited children shouting, "The movie's coming!  The movie's coming!"  They swarm around the rear of the truck, in awe at the stacks of film reels piled inside.  Later that afternoon, the children crowd into the cramped town hall with other villagers for a screening of the classic 1931 horror film, Frankenstein, with Boris Karloff as the monster.

So begins The Spirit of the Beehive, one of the greatest Spanish films of all time, and one the best films ever made about the power of cinema.  Although Frankenstein only factors directly into the storyline in the opening sequence, its powerful effect on the film's child protagonists will dominate the remainder of the film.

Among the audience members in the town hall are two young sisters, Ana and Isabel (played by Ana Torrent and Isabel Tellería).  Ana in particular is captivated by the movie, especially the scene in which the monster is befriended by a young girl tossing flowers into a lake.  Those who have seen Frankenstein will recall that this sequence ends tragically, with the monster accidentally drowning the girl, only to be killed later by vengeful townspeople.  Later that night, as they lie in bed, Ana asks her sister why the monster killed the girl, and why the villagers then killed him.  Isabel, in the age-old tradition of older siblings who taunt their younger, more impressionable brothers and sisters with scary stories, replies that they didn't kill him, and that everything in movies is fake.  She goes on to say that the monster is really a spirit that she herself has seen near their village, a bodiless entity that can disguise itself to look like anyone, and who can only be seen by someone who is its friend.

The next day, Isabel points out an old abandoned house where she says the monster lives.  We see Ana return to the house later by herself.  She finds an adult-sized footprint in the mud that seems to be fresh, but there is no one around.  However, she comes back again to find a sleeping man, haggard and dirty, who is armed and has a wound on his leg above the ankle.  We understand that he is hiding from the authorities, but it is unclear whether Ana believes this man to be another incarnation of the spirit her sister told her about.  She is eager to help him, bringing him food, clothes, and a pocket watch that belong to her father (Fernando Fernán Gómez).  After the fugitive is later shot and killed, the stolen articles are returned to Ana's father.  When he brings the pocket watch out at dinner, winding it up to play music just as the fugitive did, Ana realizes that something has happened to her new friend.  She rushes to the abandoned house, finding only a bloodstain, and when her concerned father appears in the doorway, she is frightened and runs away, perhaps mistakenly thinking that he is the one responsible for the death of the fugitive.  As search parties comb the countryside looking for her, Ana's fantasy world begins to intrude further upon her reality, leading to an intensely powerful confrontation with the product of her imagination.

The story of The Spirit of the Beehive is told primarily from a child's point of view, and provides an evocative portrait of the way children's imaginations shape their understanding of the world.  Ana's failure to comprehend that what she sees in movies is not real, along with her ready belief in her sister's spooky stories, is emblematic of young children whose rich imaginings and curiosity about the world lead them to accept the uncanny as part of their everyday reality.  This child's perspective is apparent right from the opening credits, which play over images of children's drawings, ending with a zoom into a picture that includes the caption "Once upon a time ... ."  The film's score, especially the recurring flute and piano motif, also lends the film a fairy tale quality.  Many scenes in the film, even before the final scenes after Ana has run away, offer keen depictions of a child's inner life.  In one sequence, for example, we see Isabel painting her lips with the blood from her finger after being bitten by the family cat, then lying on the floor and pretending to be dead.

The scenes with the girls are intercut with the daily activities of their parents, and we get a portrait of domestic life that suggests detachment and anxiety.  The girls' mother (Teresa Gimpera) rides her bicycle to the nearest train station to mail a letter she's written, and stares longingly at the train as it pulls away from the station.  Later, we see her lying on her side in bed, pretending to sleep as her husband readies himself for bed, and she again has a look of longing in her eyes as she hears the sound of a train passing in the distance.  Her husband is preoccupied with his hobby of beekeeping, writing in his journal about the activity inside the hive, and the honeycomb-like pattern on the windowpane in his study is itself suggestive of a beehive.  Even the film's form hints at the family's disconnectedness.  The parents and children are never once shown together during the entire film.

Some viewers may find the film's storytelling style a bit puzzling, as many character motivations and actions are merely suggested.  The film is set in 1940, just after the Spanish Civil War, but there are only hints of the conflict's aftermath.  The wounded fugitive is perhaps the most obvious of these, but there is also the postmark on one of the mother's letters, which makes it clear that she's corresponding with someone in a Red Cross camp in France.  Likewise, it is never made explicitly clear how young Ana interprets the presence of the fugitive and his subsequent death.  However, the film's enigmatic plotting is one of the aspects that make it such a beguiling, dreamlike viewing experience.

The Spirit of the Beehive was produced near the end of the decades-long dictatorship of General Francisco Franco, and there has been some debate about the film's political content.  As mentioned above, the film only deals indirectly with the aftermath of the Spanish Civil War and life in Franco's Spain, but its use of fantasy and allegory, as well as its portrayal of domestic disconnection and repression, have been seen as a form of critique.  However, like many other international films of the period (the great 1967 Czech comedy The Firemen's Ball comes to mind), The Spirit of the Beehive can be enjoyed without knowledge of its political subtext.  With its haunting portrayal of children's fantasy lives, it remains a vital and timeless cinematic work.

Watch This: The Testament of Dr. Mabuse

A bi-weekly series featuring a recommendation of a movie available in the Reeves Memorial Library DVD collection

The Testament of Dr. Mabuse (1933)
Co-written and directed by Fritz Lang

The German cinema of the 1920s and early 1930s represents the artistic highpoint in the era of silent film and the transition to sound.  There was a blossoming of filmmaking talent that led to the production of numerous great films, many of them influenced by the Expressionist movement and the country's bleak atmosphere in the wake of World War I (Robert Wiene's nightmarish The Cabinet of Dr. Caligari (1920) being a prime example).  In particular, a cadre of great directors produced a nearly unrivaled string of masterpieces.  F. W. Murnau directed Nosferatu (1922), The Last Laugh (1925), and Faust (1926) before leaving Germany for a career in Hollywood, while Georg Wilhelm Pabst made The Joyless Street (1925), The Love of Jeanne Ney (1927), Pandora's Box (1929), Diary of a Lost Girl (1929), and The Threepenny Opera (1931).  However, the undisputed master of this period in German cinema was Fritz Lang, whose Metropolis (1927) and M (1931) rank among the best films ever made.  It is these two films that receive the most attention in discussions of Lang's early career in Germany, but one of the most underrated films of this period is Lang's innovative and influential crime film The Testament of Dr. Mabuse (1933), a sequel to Lang's great two-part, silent epic Dr. Mabuse, the Gambler (1922).

In the earlier film, Dr. Mabuse (pronounced Mah-BOO-zuh) uses his background as a psychologist to mastermind an elaborate criminal scheme involving theft, murder, blackmail, and stock market manipulation.  Mabuse himself is a master of disguise and hypnosis, controlling his victims through psychological means.  By the end of the film, after his criminal enterprise has been thwarted, Mabuse goes mad and is locked away in an asylum.

The Testament of Dr. Mabuse picks up a decade later, as another vast criminal conspiracy is underway in Berlin.  The criminals have been organized into sections, each operating somewhat independently of one another, but all reporting to a mysterious mastermind, Dr. Mabuse.  We get a glimpse at the workings of the criminal organization through the story of Kent (Gustav Diessl), whose commitment to his unlawful career begins to falter after their activities start to include murder, and as he falls in love with the beautiful and innocent Lilli (Wera Liessem).  Kent and his colleagues receive their orders from Mabuse without ever seeing his face.  He issues his directives from behind a backlit curtain in a bare, dingy room.  And yet, as we find out early in the film, Mabuse (Rudolf Klein-Rogge) has still been locked away in the asylum under the care of Dr. Baum (Oscar Beregi).  Mabuse is silent and unresponsive, his only activity being the incessant writing out of his detailed plans for an "empire of crime."  We even see midway through the film that he has died.  If Mabuse has been securely confined in his cell before his death, then who is the mastermind behind this new crime wave?

After a desperate and mysteriously interrupted phone call from disgraced ex-cop Hofmeister (Karl Meixner), followed by Hofmeister's disappearance and descent into insanity, Police Commissioner Lohmann (Otto Wernicke) begins to investigate.  A series of strange clues leaves him mystified, but his rational mind and determination keep his investigation moving forward.  We see early on that the key to the identity of the mastermind may be Mabuse's writings.  One of Dr. Baum's colleagues, Dr. Kramm, notices remarkable similarities between Mabuse's scribbled schemes and a jewelry heist that has recently taken place, but Kramm is murdered shortly thereafter, before he can report this information to the police.  Eventually, Lohmann finds links between this murder and the incident with Hofmeister, and the evidence points to one man: Dr. Mabuse.

The character of Dr. Mabuse has comparatively little screen time, and his death midway through the film is rather unexpected.  However, it is Mabuse's influence over the other characters and the events of the plot that make his role the most significant in the film, and that make him such a powerful figure.  Dr. Mabuse was arguably the first truly great supervillain in all of cinema, and you can trace a direct path from The Testament of Dr. Mabuse to Heath Ledger's unforgettable portrayal of the Joker in The Dark Knight (2008).  In both cases, the villain is motivated not by greed or revenge, but by a desire to create chaos and destruction on as massive a scale as possible.  Dr. Mabuse's frightening criminal philosophy, advocating "crimes that benefit no one, whose only objective is to inspire fear and terror," finds its echo in Alfred's description of the Joker from The Dark Knight: "Some men just want to watch the world burn."

Fritz Lang was one of the first true innovators of the sound era.  Films like M and The Testament of Dr. Mabuse reveal a keen understanding of sound's artistic potential beyond simply allowing people to talk aloud on screen.  Lang's mastery of sound design is on display in Mabuse's opening sequence, as the steady, almost overpowering mechanical hum of the printing presses used by the counterfeiters adds a great deal of texture and tension to the scene.  Later, when Dr. Kramm is murdered in his car while sitting at a stoplight, the killers use the noise of honking horns to mask the sound of the fatal gunshot.

Lang finished The Testament of Dr. Mabuse just as the Nazis were taking power in Germany, and the film was banned by the Third Reich, who perhaps saw something of themselves in Mabuse and his criminal gang.  Many of Lang's fellow German filmmakers and screen actors had emigrated to Hollywood by that time, and this mass exodus of talent, paired with the devastation of the Second World War, left a gaping hole in German cinema that would last for an entire generation, until the emergence of a new wave of visionary directors like Wim Wenders, Rainer Werner Fassbinder, Werner Herzog, and Volker Schlondorff.  Lang himself fled Germany for France, and later the United States, where he enjoyed a successful decades-long career that produced a number of great noir-tinged genre films like Fury (1936), Hangmen Also Die! (1943), Ministry of Fear (1944), Scarlet Street (1945), Clash by Night (1952), and The Big Heat (1953).  However, none of these American films could match the brilliance of his earlier work in Germany, and while he often worked in the crime film genre, he never again directed a film that could equal his unheralded masterpiece, The Testament of Dr. Mabuse.

Watch This: Hoop Dreams

A bi-weekly series featuring a recommendation of a movie available in the Reeves Memorial Library DVD collection

Hoop Dreams (1994)
Co-written, co-produced, co-edited, and directed by Steve James

"In many ways, the work of a critic is easy.  We risk very little, yet enjoy a position over those who offer up their work and their selves to our judgment ... But there are times when a critic truly risks something, and that is in the discovery and defense of the new.  The world is often unkind to new talent, new creations.  The new needs friends."
                                                                                              - Anton Ego, Ratatouille (2007)

The late Roger Ebert was inarguably the most popular film critic of the past half century.  His reviews in the Chicago Sun-Times and on his various syndicated television programs (in particular At the Movies, which he co-hosted with fellow Chicago critic Gene Siskel), as well as in his many books, brought film criticism into the mainstream in the United States, appealing to general audiences in a way that no other film critic's work had before.  Despite his impact on the world of film criticism, his most lasting legacy may have been his championing of new talent, bringing widespread attention to little-known independent films and helping to launch the careers of filmmakers like Ava DuVernay (2014's Selma), Ramin Bahrani (last year's 99 Homes), Justin Lin (the Fast & Furious franchise and the upcoming Star Trek Beyond), Patty Jenkins (2003's Monster and next year's Wonder Woman), and the Ross brothers (whose documentary 45365 won them a 2010 Independent Spirit Award sponsored by Ebert and his wife, Chaz).  Ebert was even one of the handful of major American critics to give a positive review to Bonnie and Clyde (1967), which has since been heralded as an influential classic.  However, no other filmmaker may owe as much to Ebert as Steve James, whose 1994 documentary Hoop Dreams was highlighted by Ebert on At the Movies even before it premiered at that year's Sundance Film Festival.  Ebert named it the best film of 1994 on his annual top ten list, and Hoop Dreams has since garnered a reputation as one of the best documentary films ever made.  James himself would go on to direct numerous acclaimed non-fiction and narrative films, including the moving, reverent 2014 documentary about Roger Ebert, Life Itself.

Hoop Dreams documents five years in the lives of two African-American high school students from inner-city Chicago, William Gates and Arthur Agee, as they follow their dreams of becoming professional basketball players.  Both Gates and Agee were recruited by the coaches from St. Joseph's, the private, suburban high school with a perennial powerhouse basketball program that produced NBA legend Isiah Thomas.  The two boys were offered scholarships to cover most of the tuition, and we see them making the 90-minute commute to and from the school each day.  Gates shines immediately, starting on the varsity squad as a freshman and quickly improving from his initial fourth-grade reading level.  Agee, in contrast, struggles both athletically and academically, and when he is dropped from the squad, he loses his scholarship and enrolls at Marshall, a public school in Chicago.  As their high school years progress, we see somewhat of a reversal of fortune.  Gates is plagued by injuries, while Agee develops into a star at Marshall, leading his team to the state finals in his senior year.  Nevertheless, Gates is offered a four-year scholarship to play in the Division I program at Marquette University.  Agee, due to his poor grades, goes to a junior college in Missouri, where he hopes his grades will be good enough for him to transfer to a four-year school with a strong basketball program.

While the struggles of Gates and Agee on and off the court are fraught with drama, the story is made even more remarkable due to the great attention the filmmakers give to the boys' home lives.  Their immediate and extended families provide them with support in a variety of ways, and their mothers in particular are shown to have a devotion and fortitude that is truly inspiring.  Agee's mother, for example, is abandoned by her husband and loses her job, forcing her family to live on a few hundred dollars a month in welfare aid.  Their gas and electricity are turned off in the winter.  Nonetheless, she remains resourceful and encouraging, and even manages to graduate from a nursing assistant program with the best grades in her class.  There is also the sad story of Gates's older brother, Curtis, a former high school and playground standout whose once-promising career petered out before he could finish college.  It is difficult not to see the parallels between Curtis and his injury-stricken younger brother, and you hope that William's prospects will turn out better.

Steve James and his colleagues, co-writer/producer Frederick Marx and cinematographer/co-producer Peter Gilbert, initially conceived the film as a 30-minute documentary about Chicago streetball, focusing on a single playground court and its teenage players.  How fortuitous that they happened to discover Gates and Agee, whose teenage lives would provide the opportunity to tell a much broader story, a sprawling, three-hour examination of life in urban America that encompasses economics, race, social class, and education.  The financial and emotional hardships faced by Agee, Gates, and their families offer a revealing glimpse of the everyday struggles of America's marginalized populations.  Agee, for example, is unable to graduate from Marshall without transfer credits from St. Joseph's, but St. Joseph's will not release his transcripts until Agee's family pays the $1,300 in back tuition, money he would not owe to begin with had the school's recruiters not plucked him out of the city with regard only for his basketball skills.  For Agee and kids like him, the opportunity for a better education exists only as long as they can contribute on the court.  William Gates's remarks in the film's final scene are sadly emblematic: "When somebody say, 'When you get to the NBA, don't forget about me,' and all that stuff, I should say to them, 'Well, if I don't make it, watch you don't forget about me'."

The legacy of Hoop Dreams has even extended beyond the film itself.  Hoop Dreams failed to receive an Academy Award nomination for Best Documentary Feature, an oversight that brought so much backlash against the Academy that the flawed documentary nomination process was subsequently revised.  The snub remains one of the most egregious in Academy Awards history, although recent years' nominations have certainly revealed that the problem still persists, in particular for minority filmmakers and performers.  Ebert himself was one of the strongest voices calling out the Academy for its glaring mistake, and as James's glowing tribute Life Itself attests, Ebert's support is never forgotten.

Watch This: In the Mood for Love

A bi-weekly series featuring a recommendation of a movie available in the Reeves Memorial Library DVD collection

In the Mood for Love (2000)
Written and directed by Wong Kar-wai

Wong Kar-wai has been called "the world's most romantic filmmaker."  This is hardly an inaccurate description, but it may prove a bit of a head-scratcher to those who are encountering Wong's films for the first time, and who may be expecting something closer to the traditional romantic storylines of Hollywood cinema.  Eschewing the expected outcomes of most films about romantic love (i.e. characters who end up together, and consummation in one form or another), Wong often focuses instead on the melancholy aspects of human attraction, such as unfulfilled longing, and unrequited or lost love.  This is certainly true of his lush and moody masterpiece In the Mood for Love, and yet it is undoubtedly one of the most romantic films ever made, a film in which even a single shared moment between the film's two main characters carries more emotional weight than most films contain in their entirety.


The film is set in Hong Kong in 1962.  Chow Mo-wan (Tony Leung) is a journalist who moves into a new residential building with his wife.  On the same day, secretary Su Li-zhen (Maggie Cheung) moves into the same building with her executive husband, Mr. Chan.  Both Chow and Su find themselves frequently alone as their spouses work long hours or travel out of town (in fact, we never see the faces of their spouses, a subtle touch which serves to enhance the two lead characters' respective isolation), and their paths cross repeatedly in the busy hallways of their building and on their way to and from the nearby noodle shop.  One day, they realize that their spouses are having an affair with one another, and their discussion of the affair leads them to imagine the details of the infidelity, details which they re-enact as a sort of game between themselves.  It becomes clear to both Chow and Su that there is a strong romantic attraction between them, but they remain determined not to degrade themselves the way their spouses have, and their relationship remains platonic.  Knowing of Su's interest in martial arts stories, Chow invites her to help him write a martial arts serial for the newspaper.  To avoid attracting the attention of their neighbors, Chow rents a hotel room where they can work on the serial, and their feelings for one another grow as they spend more and more time there, working on the story and rehearsing their spouses' infidelity.  Finally, Chow asks Su to leave with him to Singapore when he takes a new job there, but she fails to arrive at their hotel room in time, the first of several missed connections and lost opportunities that keep them apart.

This may not sound like the stuff of great romance, but this film is proof that a story about repressed desires can be far more sensual and affecting than a story in which desires are fulfilled.  Much of this can be attributed to Wong Kar-wai's distinctive emphasis on mood and style, rather than plotting.  A frequent criticism of Wong's work is that he favors style over story, but this narrow view misses the point of his work, which is to evoke particular moods and emotions.  There are numerous scenes in In the Mood for Love in which the camera lingers on fleeting moments and small details, like Su's slow-motion walk to the noodle shop, or Chow smoking a cigarette.

A great deal of credit for the film's incredibly evocative visual style should be given to the film's cinematographers, Lee Ping-bin and frequent Wong Kar-wai collaborator Christopher Doyle.  In the Mood for Love is, quite simply, one of the most gorgeous color films ever made.  Doyle and Lee lend the film a ravishing beauty, both in the film's interiors and its street scenes, and their work does much to highlight the beautiful period costume work, in particular Su's many floral-printed, high-collar dresses.  The film's luxuriant mood can also be attributed in part to the film's superb soundtrack and original score, which feature both traditional Chinese music and popular music from the fifties and sixties, as well as the lush, recurring theme composed by Shigeru Umebayashi.

Wong Kar-wai has long been a critical darling and favorite among his fellow filmmakers, and In the Mood for Love is one of the most acclaimed films of the past thirty years.  In the 2012 critics poll by the illustrious cinema magazine Sight & Sound, it was one of only two films from the 2000s to be listed in the top 50 films of all time.  This makes it easy to dismiss Wong Kar-wai as a filmmaker who would only appeal to viewers with an arthouse sensibility.  However, In the Mood for Love is such an evocative and intoxicating film, it should appeal to any viewer who is in the mood for romance.

Note: Wong Kar-wai followed up this film with a sequel of sorts, 2046, which follows Chow as he holes up in his hotel room, writing science fiction stories and recovering from his heartbreak over Su. 2046 is also available in the Reeves Memorial Library DVD collection, along with most of Wong's other films.

Watch This: Minority Report

A bi-weekly series featuring a recommendation of a movie available in the Reeves Memorial Library DVD collection

Minority Report (2002)
Directed by Steven Spielberg

Steven Spielberg is probably the most celebrated American film director working today, an undeniably talented and influential director who is responsible for some of the most iconic American films ever made, including Jaws (1975), Close Encounters of the Third Kind (1977), Raiders of the Lost Ark (1981), E.T. the Extra Terrestrial (1982), Jurassic Park (1993), Schindler's List (1993), and Saving Private Ryan (1998).  And yet, despite his popularity with audiences and critics alike, he often gets a bad rap, and his work is sometimes dismissed by cinephiles as being too populist or overly sentimental.  His output over the past decade or so, ever since the release of what is arguably his last masterpiece, 2005's Munich, is certainly not as good as his earlier films, and the subpar Indiana Jones and the Kingdom of the Crystal Skull (2008) has somewhat tainted one of the most beloved film franchises in cinematic history.  However, there is no denying his skill at combining dazzling spectacle, technical precision, and deeply empathetic and humanistic storytelling.  This combination of elements is present in many of his films, but it is worth singling out one of his oft-forgotten masterworks, the 2002 sci-fi/action/mystery film Minority Report, as an example of Spielberg working at the height of his talents.

Based on a short story by acclaimed science fiction writer Philip K. Dick (whose work was also the basis for films like Blade Runner (1982), Total Recall (1990), and The Adjustment Bureau (2011), as well as the recent hit Amazon series The Man in the High Castle), Minority Report is set in Washington, D. C. in the year 2054, when an experimental police unit known as PreCrime has virtually eliminated murder in the metropolitan area over the previous six years.  The PreCrime unit, led by Chief John Anderton (Tom Cruise) and overseen by co-founder and director Lamar Burgess (Max von Sydow), uses data generated by "PreCogs," three genetically-mutated humans who can see the future, to stop murders before they happen.  The program's success has led to an upcoming nationwide vote on whether to expand the program to the rest of the country, and shrewd Justice Department investigator Danny Witwer (Colin Farrell) is on hand to evaluate the process before the vote.  As the film opens, Witwer is present as Anderton and his team analyze the information from the PreCogs' visions of a murder that is set to occur in less than thirty minutes (premeditated murders can be predicted four days in advance, but crimes of passion committed in the heat of the moment, like this one, are harder to predict), and they rush to decipher clues from the visions in order to identify the location of the murder and fly there in time to arrest the perpetrator before he can commit the homicidal act.

Witwer raises ethical concerns about the process, pointing out the paradox inherent in the PreCrime process: it's not the future anymore if you stop it, so they are arresting people who have not actually broken any laws.  Anderton maintains his faith in the system, contending that the PreCogs only see what the killer will do, not what he/she intends to do.  However, Anderton is bothered by images of a past murder that come from the PreCog Agatha (Samantha Morton), and begins to investigate the crime, learning that the file containing Agatha's recorded vision of the crime is missing.  Returning to his office, Anderton is alerted to a new murder that will occur in three days' time, and is shocked to see that he is identified as the perpetrator.  He does not recognize the name of the victim, Leo Crow, and becomes convinced that he is being set up, despite his earlier contentions about the tamperproof nature of the process.  Anderton escapes from police headquarters and tracks down the eccentric Dr. Iris Hineman, whose research formed the basis for the PreCrime program, and learns that the PreCogs don't always agree in their visions.  Agatha, the most "talented" of the three PreCogs, will sometimes deviate from the other two, but her "minority reports" of the future crime are ignored, in order to maintain the notion of the process's infallibility.  Anderton is determined to find out who set him up, and plans to return to PreCrime headquarters to kidnap Agatha, who he believes holds the key to finding the minority report for his own predicted crime, and the truth behind the murder of Leo Crow.

There is a lot going on in Minority Report in terms of plot, characterization, and genre elements, but Spielberg, working from an excellent script by Scott Frank and Jon Cohen, balances everything perfectly, and the result is a superb, intelligent blend of breathtaking action, heady science fiction spectacle, engaging mystery, and thought-provoking ethical analysis.  The film contains numerous memorable set pieces, such as Anderton's initial escape through an automotive assembly plant, and the scene in which a team of robotic "spyders" make their way through a rundown apartment building, scanning the residents' eyeballs in order to locate Anderton, whose recent eye transplant at the hands of an unsavory former surgeon manages to fool the robots.  The film is also gorgeous to look at, thanks to exemplary work by Spielberg's frequent collaborator, cinematographer Janusz Kaminski, whose regular preference for muted color palettes, back- and side-lighting, wide-angle camera lenses, and a mobile camera have helped solidify the visual aesthetic that has come to be associated with Spielberg's films over the past two decades.

Spielberg has always excelled at eliciting great performances from his casts, and Minority Report is no exception.  The supporting work is uniformly commendable, especially the scene-stealing turns by Lois Smith as Dr. Hineman, and Tim Blake Nelson as the prison guard in charge of all the inmates arrested by the PreCrime unit.  Tom Cruise's work as the haunted, determined Anderton is a welcome reminder as to why he has remained one of the most popular movie stars on the planet.  He imbues Anderton with the perfect mix of steadfast professionalism and vulnerability, and his usual on-screen charisma never wavers.  It is of note that, even in a big-budget, plot-driven genre film like Minority Report, Spielberg's talent for building an emotional connection between the film and its audience is on display, due in no small part to Cruise's lead performance.  It is this sentiment that is often the target of Spielberg's critics, but there is no denying that it is what makes films like A.I. Artificial Intelligence (2001) and War of the Worlds (2005) work so well.

The film's central paradox, the legality and ethicality of punishing people for crimes they have not yet committed, raises questions about crime prevention efforts that are relevant even in our current society.  The film also feels somewhat prescient in its depiction of tracking and identification technologies and their uses for law enforcement and commercial purposes.  In the film, eye scanners are used for identification purposes all over the city, and automated, talking advertisements are personalized for each individual.  This brings to mind the targeted advertisements that we see while using search engines and social media sites, where products are suggested to us based upon things like our search histories and Facebook likes.

Even a decade and a half after its release, Minority Report remains one of Spielberg's most entertaining and intellectually engaging films, a seamless melding of genres that manages to tell a complex story with clarity, breeziness and style.  The film is a reminder that, despite his comparatively lackluster filmography over the last ten years, Steven Spielberg remains one of the most talented directors working today, and hopefully one whose upcoming projects will be a return to form.

Watch This: Singin' in the Rain

A bi-weekly series featuring a recommendation of a movie available in the Reeves Memorial Library DVD collection

Singin' in the Rain (1952)
Directed by Stanley Donen and Gene Kelly

The 21st century has seen a resurgence in the popularity of the live-action musical, with films like Moulin Rouge! (2001), Chicago (2002), Dreamgirls (2006), Hairspray (2007), Sweeney Todd: The Demon Barber of Fleet Street (2007), Les Miserables (2012), and Into the Woods (2014) achieving commercial and critical success.  Most of these films were based on existing hit stage musicals, and nearly all of them feature darker tones and storylines than the musicals from Hollywood's golden age, the 1930s-1950s.  One would think that with advances in filmmaking techniques and a much larger catalog of source material, today's musicals would far surpass those produced over half a century ago. And yet, not one of these modern musicals can hold a candle to Singin' in the Rain (1952), which even six decades after its release, remains the film musical against which all other film musicals are judged.  No other film from that genre can match its energy, humor, visual splendor, and incomparable song-and-dance performances, and few other films, period, are as much fun to watch.

Singin' in the Rain is set in Hollywood in 1927, at the end of the silent film era.  Don Lockwood (Gene Kelly) and Lina Lamont (Jean Hagen) are one of Hollywood's most popular on-screen couples, and although there are persistent rumors about an off-screen romance, in reality Don cannot stand his shallow, self-centered co-star.  On his way to a party after the premiere of his latest film, Don is forced to escape from a horde of overzealous fans, and by chance ends up in the passenger seat of a convertible driven by Kathy Selden (Debbie Reynolds), an aspiring young actress.  Don is put off when Kathy makes disparaging remarks about film acting, which she feels is a lesser art form when compared with stage acting, but Don is pleased to discover later that, despite her earlier airs, Kathy only works as a chorus girl at a local night club.  Although he is bothered by Kathy's comments, Don feels an undeniable attraction to her, and after the two of them make up, they begin to fall in love.

After the first sound film (or "talkie") becomes a huge hit, the head of Don and Lina's studio, R. F. Simpson (Millard Mitchell), makes the decision to convert their next film, The Dueling Cavalier, into a talkie.  The conversion process faces a number of problems, not the least of which is Lina's grating, high-pitched voice, which elicits a great deal of jeering laughter at a disastrous test screening.  Kathy suggests that they play up Don's talents as a singer and dancer by turning The Dueling Cavalier into a musical, and Don's longtime best friend and fellow entertainer, Cosmo Brown (Donald O'Connor), has the idea to dub Lina's voice with Kathy's because, as Cosmo says, Lina "can't act, she can't sing, she can't dance.  A triple threat."  This idea infuriates Lina, whose extreme jealousy leads her to try and undermine the budding romance between Don and Kathy, and to blackmail Simpson into keeping Kathy's name out of the film's credits, a move that would nip Kathy's on-screen career in the bud.  The story reaches its climax at The Dueling Cavalier's premiere, where a surprise turn of events sees each of the key characters get what they deserve.

Hollywood loves to hold a mirror up to itself, and Singin' in the Rain is one of the most entertaining movies ever made about moviemaking.  Many of the problems that plague the cast and crew of the fictional The Dueling Cavalier were the same problems that confronted real-life Hollywood filmmakers during the transition to sound.  In addition to Lina's unflattering voice, there are technical difficulties such as the need to hide the cumbersome microphones behind furniture or underneath clothing accessories, and projection glitches resulting in a lack of synchronization between the picture and sound (this latter problem results in one of the film's funniest moments during the premiere for The Dueling Cavalier).  We also see the camera being housed in a soundproof booth on set, in order to prevent the sound of the working camera from being picked up by the microphones.

There are a number of factors that set Singin' in the Rain apart from its fellow film musicals.  Unlike most of its genre successors, Singin' in the Rain was not based on a hit stage musical or an existing literary work.  Rather, the film's writers, Betty Comdon and Adolph Green, were tasked by MGM with creating a film around a group of songs the studio already owned (only one song was written specifically for the film, "Moses Supposes").  The result is a refreshingly original and surprisingly consistent cinematic work, with a riotously funny script that perfectly incorporates each of the songs, and keeps the story moving along at a brisk pace.

Another characteristic that distinguishes Singin' in the Rain from most other musicals is its infectious energy, which is the primary reason that the film feels so fresh even to modern audiences.  Part of this can be attributed to the film's vivid color scheme, lighthearted storyline, and lively songs.  However, most of the credit should go to the film's cast, whose exuberant performances grant the film an almost palpable, pulsating energy.  This stands in stark contrast to a film like Moulin Rouge!, which gets its dazzling energy from the film's fast-paced editing and glittery, visual bombast.

Gene Kelly, who also co-directed and acted as the choreographer for the film's dance sequences, is magnetic as Don, showing off his leading-man charisma and his incredible range in the film's various dance numbers and scenes of rapid-fire dialogue.  Kelly, with his broad-shouldered, football player's build, shatters the stereotype of male dancers as being feminine or dainty, moving with exceptional grace and elegance without ever surrendering a bit of his undeniable masculinity.  Debbie Reynolds is equally enchanting as the bright-eyed Kathy, more than holding her own next to Kelly and O'Connor.  Prior to Singin' in the Rain, Reynolds had played only bit parts in a handful of films, and her breakout performance can be seen as a parallel to that of her character, Kathy.  Jean Hagen also does superb work as the hilariously dim-witted Lina ("I make more money than Calvin Coolidge!  Put together!").  The real standout, however, is Donald O'Connor, whose "Make 'Em Laugh" scene is perhaps the best dance sequence ever captured on film (although a case could be made for Kelly's performance of the title song, with its iconic image of him hanging off the side of a lamppost, umbrella in hand).  O'Connor rivals the great silent film comedians like Buster Keaton and Charlie Chaplin with his gifts for physical comedy, throwing his body around like a rag doll, contorting his face, performing backflips, and even crashing through a wall.  The scene is guaranteed to bring a smile to your face.

Singin' in the Rain is proof that a musical film need not have an epic scope or a darker, adult-oriented storyline.  It's a breezy, cheerful film with a very simple, endearing love story, and for sheer entertainment value, it's hard to beat.

Watch This: Throne of Blood

A bi-weekly series featuring a recommendation of a movie available in the Reeves Memorial Library DVD collection

Throne of Blood (1957)
Co-written and directed by Akira Kurosawa

There is probably no other writer in the history of the English language whose works have been adapted for the silver screen as frequently, and in as many varied manifestations, as William Shakespeare.  These have included more traditional, straight adaptations by actor/directors like Laurence Olivier, Orson Welles, and Kenneth Branagh, as well as contemporary stylized renditions like Baz Luhrmann's Romeo + Juliet (1996) and Ralph Fiennes's Coriolanus (2011), all of which have retained (at least, for the most part) Shakespeare's original words.  However, some of the most interesting adaptations have come in the form of re-tellings of Shakespeare's narratives, set in a different time and location.  Perhaps the most famous example of this type of film is the classic musical West Side Story (1961), which transposes the Bard's tragic tale of star-crossed young lovers, Romeo and Juliet, to modern-day New York City, where a turf war between rival gangs provides a potent backdrop for Shakespeare's story of doomed romance.

The best of these re-tellings, though, is undoubtedly Throne of Blood (1957), a masterful re-imagining of the Macbeth story set in medieval Japan, directed by the great Japanese filmmaker Akira Kurosawa.  Shakespeare's original work, one of his history plays dealing with actual historical figures and events, was set in 11th-century Scotland, at a time when rival local lords clashed constantly over royal succession.  Kurosawa saw a parallel to these events in the constant civil turmoil and clan warfare of 16th-century Japan, when violent warlords seized neighboring lands and proclaimed themselves lords, only to be murdered by their own treacherous underlings.  Although Throne of Blood follows the general plot of Shakespeare's play closely, the details of the film's story, its characterizations, and its setting are all intrinsically linked to Japanese history and culture, and it's remarkable how naturally the narrative fits into this historical backdrop.

The protagonist of Throne of Blood is Taketoki Washizu (Toshiro Mifune), a garrison commander serving a local lord who rules out of the fog-swept Spider's Web Castle.  After a victorious battle against the lord's enemies, Washizu and fellow garrison commander Miki (Minoru Chiaki) are making their way to the castle when they get lost in the adjacent maze-like forest.  They come upon a spirit in the form of an old woman, who foretells that both men will receive promotions, and that Washizu will one day rule Spider's Web Castle.  The spirit also foretells that Miki's son will someday become lord of the castle.  Upon arriving at the castle, the two men are rewarded with promotions, just as the spirit prophesied.

Once in place at his new post, Washizu tries to tell himself that he is content with his new position, but his scheming wife, Asaji (Isuzu Yamada), convinces him to fulfill the second part of the prophecy by murdering the lord and taking his place in the castle.  Despite warnings from the slain lord's son and a rival commander named Noriyasu (Takashi Shimura), Miki remains loyal to Washizu, and is rewarded with a promise from the childless Washizu to name Miki's son as his heir.  However, Asaji's scheming once again undermines Washizu's plans, as she reveals that she is pregnant, and then later goes behind Washizu's back to have Miki murdered.  Plagued by hallucinatory visions of his victims' ghosts, and distraught over the impending battle with the forces of his growing cadre of enemies, Washizu rides off into the forest, hoping to confront the spirit about the truth of her prophecy.  In a powerful and eerie scene, the spirit proclaims that Washizu will not be defeated until the trees of the forest rise to attack him.  Bolstered by his faith in the unlikeliness of such an occurrence, Washizu returns to the castle and reveals the prophecy to his men, and they settle in as the enemy forces move into the forest.  The next morning, an astonishing turn of events leads the story toward its inevitable but nonetheless staggering conclusion.

Throne of Blood contains some of Kurosawa's most memorable and startling imagery.  The film is full of ghostly visions, as characters emerge from and disappear into the dense fog around the castle, which itself is often swallowed up by the eerie mists.  In one particularly striking shot, as Asaji prepares to poison the lord's guards in preparation for Washizu's first murderous act, she disappears into the blackness of an adjoining room as though the darkness has swallowed her up.  When she reappears moments later carrying the cask of poisoned sake, it is as if she materializes out of nothingness like an apparition.  And, of course, there is the iconic climactic scene, in which Washizu faces the consequences of his violent struggle for power (viewers who have watched the film, and may wonder how this remarkable scene was made, can watch this video).

There are numerous elements that make Throne of Blood stand out as more than just a simple Shakespeare adaptation, and many of these can be attributed to Kurosawa's integration of various aspects of traditional Japanese Noh theater.  The Noh influence is most apparent in the film's highly expressive performances, especially that of lead actor Toshiro Mifune, whose intense scowl, lively eyes, and dynamic physicality convey Washizu's constant desperation and agitation even in scenes with no dialogue.  The sharp downward angle of his mustache hair, in combination with his severe glower, even makes his face resemble a Noh mask.  The Noh influence can also be seen in the film's score, which makes extensive use of the flute.  The music, the film's vivid images of swirling mists, and its pervading supernatural elements, all cohere perfectly to make Throne of Blood one of Kurosawa's most atmospheric films.

A longtime student of western literature, Kurosawa would later re-tell another of Shakespeare's narratives, King Lear, in creating his last great masterpiece, the 1985 film Ran.  He also adapted two of the great works of Russian literature, Fyodor Dostoevsky's novel The Idiot and Maxim Gorky's play The Lower Depths, both of which he set in Japan.  Like Throne of Blood, which can be seen as Kurosawa's reflection on humanity's unceasing penchant for ruthless ambition and destruction, as exhibited during World War II, both The Idiot (1951) and The Lower Depths (1957) use the narratives and themes of the original literary works as jumping-off points for Kurosawa's examination of Japanese society and history.

Watch This: The Brood

A bi-weekly series featuring a recommendation of a movie available in the Reeves Memorial Library DVD collection

The Brood (1979)
Written and directed by David Cronenberg

When I was a child, maybe even as young as elementary school age, I saw part of a movie on television that gave me recurring nightmares.  I don't recall the circumstances in which I watched it, but I'm certain that I should not have been watching it at such a young age, even in a tamer edited-for-television version.  Even as an adult, there were images from the film that remained vividly etched into my memory.  There was the depiction of two child-sized monsters with deformed faces, clad in brightly-colored hooded snowsuits, brutally attacking a schoolteacher in her classroom.  There was the shot of a young blonde girl riding in the passenger seat of a car at night, her cheeks stained with tears, with a gradual move into a foreboding close-up of two small bumps that had formed on her forearm.  The film's nightmare-inducing effect was so powerful that, even to this day, I can't see a child in a monochrome hooded snowsuit without thinking of the film's deformed monsters.  It was only years later that I realized the film was The Brood, an unsettling work of psychological terror from the great Canadian filmmaker David Cronenberg.

As the film begins, Frank Carveth (Art Hindle) has come to the remote Somafree Institute to pick up his young daughter Candy (Cindy Hinds), who has spent the weekend there with her mother, Nola (Samantha Eggar), who is a patient at the institute.  Frank and Nola are divorced, and Nola is being treated for rage issues by Somafree's director, Dr. Hal Raglan (Oliver Reed), who uses an unorthodox and controversial method known as "psychoplasmics" to help his patients expel their anger.  Raglan's techniques cause his patients' intense emotions to manifest themselves physically in the form of welts and boils on their bodies, with the implication that these physical manifestations will then be removed.  Frank has always been skeptical of Raglan's methods, but he becomes especially concerned after he discovers bruises and cuts on Candy's back after her weekend visit with her mother, who he assumes caused the wounds.  He confronts Raglan, who insists that Candy's visits are vital to Nola's treatment, and threatens legal action if Candy's visits cease.  We later find out that Raglan is himself the target of a lawsuit by a former patient, a man named Jan Hartog (Robert Silverman), who has an enormous cancerous growth on his neck that he claims is the result of Raglan's methods.

The situation becomes even more dire one evening when Candy is staying with Nola's mother, who is brutally murdered in her kitchen by what appears to be a child in a red hooded snowsuit.  Later, when Nola's father has come to town for his ex-wife's funeral, and is spending the night at her house, he too is bludgeoned to death by the child-like creature, who had been hiding under the bed.  Frank arrives just minutes later, only to be attacked by the creature before it dies suddenly and inexplicably.  A police autopsy reveals that the creature has no navel, meaning it was never really born, "at least not the way human beings are born."  What the viewer knows, but Frank does not, is that these slayings have coincided with therapy sessions between Nola and Dr. Raglan, in which Raglan was acting out the parts of Nola's parents.  There is seemingly a link between Nola's anger and the targets of these attacks, but what is it?  When Candy's teacher is murdered by two more of the snowsuit-clad monsters and Candy disappears from the school, Frank becomes desperate.  A clue from another former patient leads him back to the Somafree Institute, where he confronts Raglan and discovers the truth about the terrifying connection between Nola and the titular "brood" of childlike creatures.

Writer-director David Cronenberg is perhaps the best-known practitioner in the sub-genre known as "body horror," in which a fear of the mutation, transformation, and infection of the human body is the major thematic preoccupation.  This motif is especially apparent in the first part of Cronenberg's career, when films like Shivers (1975), Rabid (1977), The Brood (1979), Scanners (1981), Videodrome (1983), and The Fly (1986) featured gruesome depictions of biological transformation, often the result of scientific and medical experimentation.  However, even more prominent in Cronenberg's filmography is a preoccupation with human psychology, and The Brood marked the first time that his interests in the psychological and the physical, and in the link between the two, were explored in such depth in a single film.  The film's climactic sequence, in which the psycho-phyiscal connection between Nola and the monsters is finally revealed, includes one of the most squirm-inducing moments in all of Cronenberg's filmography (high marks should be given to actress Samantha Eggar for her commitment in filming the scene).

In addition to its grotesquerie and implicit criticism of the pseudoscience behind techniques like the fictional "psychoplasmics," The Brood offers a bleak portrait of failed marriages and their detrimental effects on children.  Nola's parents were divorced, and it is clear that their poor relations contributed to Nola's psychological problems.  The viewer cannot help but feel sad for little Candy, whose traumatic experiences with both her parents' marital strife and the horrific acts of the monstrous brood have caused immense psychological damage by the end of the film.  Cronenberg has stated that The Brood was inspired by his experiences during the break-up of his first marriage, and has called the film his own version of Kramer vs. Kramer, the Oscar-winning divorce drama starring Dustin Hoffman and Meryl Streep that was coincidentally released the same year.  I can't say which of the two films offers the more accurate depiction of divorce, but it's clear that Cronenberg's is decidedly less optimistic.

Watch This: Children of Men

A bi-weekly series featuring a recommendation of a movie available in the Reeves Memorial Library DVD collection

Children of Men (2006)
Co-written and directed by Alfonso Cuarón

The past decade has seen an increasing number of dystopian visions of mankind's future make their way to the silver screen.  Some of these have arrived in the form of film adaptations of young adult science fiction novels like the Hunger Games series, the Divergent series, and the Maze Runner series, while others have been directly targeted at an adult audience.  Despite this sub-genre's potential for trenchant social commentary, imaginative plots, and remarkable visuals, only a handful of these films have really stood out (recent entries such as Snowpiercer (2013) and Mad Max: Fury Road (2015) come to mind).  However, no recent dystopian film has been as powerful and affecting as Alfonso Cuarón's 2006 masterpiece Children of Men, a gritty, visually-stunning portrait of humanity in decline.

Adapted from a novel by the acclaimed English mystery novelist P. D. James, Children of Men is set in Britain in the year 2027, at a time when nearly two decades of total worldwide infertility have resulted in global chaos and widespread despair.  Great Britain has avoided many of the atrocities that have plagued the rest of the world, but a strict, military-enforced ban on all immigrants has led to violence in the streets and a precarious social and political situation.  As the film opens, the world's youngest person, an 18 year-old South American youth still known as "Baby Diego," has just been murdered by one of his fans after refusing to give an autograph.  We learn of this from a news broadcast in a London coffee shop where the film's protagonist, government bureaucrat Theo Faron (Clive Owen), stops for his morning coffee on his way to work.  Just after Theo leaves, the shop is demolished by a bomb explosion, and a shaken Theo decides to take the day off and visit his old friend Jasper (Michael Caine), a former political cartoonist and activist who now spends his days growing marijuana in his small, well-hidden country house, where he lives with his catatonic wife, Janice.  Theo, it turns out, was an activist in his younger days, but became disillusioned after the death of his son during a flu pandemic and the subsequent break-up of his marriage to fellow activist Julian (Julianne Moore), whom he has not seen in nearly twenty years.  Theo makes his pessimism clear in his conversation with Jasper, stating that even if a cure for infertility is discovered, it's too late to save humanity, which was already a mess even before the infertility.

The following morning, Theo is kidnapped by an underground insurgent group called the Fishes, who are dedicated to fighting for the rights of immigrants.  Theo's ex-wife, Julian, is revealed to be the group's leader, and she asks him to use his government contacts to obtain transit papers for a young immigrant woman named Kee (Clare-Hope Ashitey), who must reach the coast.  Theo succeeds in acquiring the papers, but they state that Theo must accompany her, so he sets off in a car with Julian, her Fishes comrade Luke (Chiwetel Ejiofor), Kee, and Kee's caretaker, Miriam (Pam Ferris).  On a remote stretch of forest road, the car is suddenly attacked by a large gang, and Julian is killed.  It is only after they have narrowly escaped and made their way to a safe house that Theo discovers Kee's secret: she is eight months pregnant.  As the selfish and lethal motives of the new Fishes leadership become clear to Theo, he decides to escape with Kee and Miriam and find a way to get them to the seaside refugee camp of Bexhill, where they can meet a ship belonging to the Human Project, a group of scientists working to cure infertility.

Children of Men offers a frightening depiction of a society on the brink of collapse, as the aging population faces its impending final years.  Immigrants are rounded up and kept in cages along the streets, awaiting their transfer to a refugee camp and their return to the atrocities in their homelands.  A product called Quietus, which promises a painless death by suicide, is made available to the populace with government approval.  The streets are strewn with trash and rubble from numerous past bombings.  There seems to be a gray pallor over everything, as though the gradual disappearance of children from the world was accompanied by the leeching of bright colors and sunshine from the landscape.

In such a setting, Theo's early pessimism is understandable, especially after we learn about the death of his son.  In a scene midway through the film, we hear Jasper talking to Kee and Miriam about the relationship between faith and chance, and how Theo lost his faith in the world and his own future after his son died of the flu (a chance event).  However, Theo's outlook begins to change after Julian's death and the revelation of Kee's pregnancy, and Kee's trust in him galvanizes him into action and restores his sense of purpose and hope.  It is this story arc, Theo's gradual progression from dispassionate pessimism to renewed faith and resolve, that underlies all of the film's harrowing drama and high-stakes action, creating a far more moving hero's journey than one usually finds in cinema.

Everyone involved with the film, both in front of the camera and behind, is working at the top of their game.  The script is brisk and intelligent, allowing the circumstances of the film's setting to be revealed organically rather than via heavy-handed exposition from title screens, narration, or superfluous dialogue.  The cast is uniformly superb.  Clive Owen suppresses some of his natural charisma to make Theo a more relatable everyman hero, and Michael Caine shines as Jasper, whose pull-my-finger gags and stork jokes grant the film a welcome dose of levity.  Alfonso Cuarón's assured direction keeps all the filmmaking elements, from the technically dazzling visuals to the top-notch acting, in perfect balance, and it feels impossible to find fault with any of his choices as director, co-writer, and co-editor.

But what really elevates the film, more than any other element, is the outstanding work of cinematographer Emmanuel Lubezki.  The film's washed-out color scheme contributes immeasurably to the film's bleak tone, and the frequent use of a handheld camera from a slightly low angle places the viewer right in the middle of the action.  Many of the film's key scenes (the coffee shop bombing in the opening scene, Julian's shocking death during the forest ambush, the birth scene, and the extended gunfights between insurgents and military forces in the Bexhill refugee camp) are shot using single takes, and this decision pays off not only in added intensity for these scenes, but also in feelings of awe on the part of viewers, who might wonder how these shots were achieved.  The forest ambush scene, which consists of a single shot taken from inside the car, forcing the viewer to share the passengers' panic, stands out in particular as a remarkable example of Lubezki's immersive visual style.  Throughout his career, Lubezki has proven himself adept at working in just about any visual aesthetic, from the sumptuously-photographed period look of A Little Princess (1995) and A Walk in the Clouds (1995), to the edgier handheld style of Y Tu Mamá También (2001) and Children of Men, to the dreamy visual poetry of director Terrence Malick's The New World (2005) and The Tree of Life (2011).  His work has become even more recognizable over the past two years, after back-to-back Oscars for his virtuosic work on Gravity (2013) and Birdman (2014), and if the immersive visual aesthetic on display in the trailer for his soon-to-be-released film The Revenant (2015) is any indication, he may well be on his way to a third consecutive Academy Award.  Lubezki is quite simply the best cinematographer working today, and Children of Men may be his finest hour.