This Month on TCM: "Marty" (1955)

On March 31st, TCM is showing Best Picture winner Marty-- the Little Miss Sunshine of 1955. With Marty, Oscar-winning trio Paddy Chayefsky, Delbert Mann, and Ernest Borgnine offered up an uplifting piece of cinema that is forever relevant.


"I'm just a fat, little man. A fat, ugly man," blurts Marty to his mother in a desparate admission of his lifelong dating frustrations. But Marty is ever hopeful. He gets it from the ladies at the butcher shop, gets it from his mother... but he has his friends, he has his work, and life isn't so bad.

In bringing Chayefsky's "kitchen sink" drama from the Golden Age of Television to the silver screen, little is lost of the intimacy by director Delbert Mann (who also did the TV version). Perhaps the only difference is in Borgnine's performance. But maybe this more overt approach over original lead Rod Steiger's internalizations, was necessary for the big screen-- could Steiger have pulled off the joie de vive that Borgnine delivers at the bus stop (after his first meeting with Clara) with such aplomb?

The film starts off with Marty getting lectured about why he isn't married now that his younger brother has just tied the knot. There is no hint of rumors of homosexuality (that would be in today's Marty), but something has got to be wrong-- at the very least isn't he ashamed, everyone wonders? Marty has bigger issues on his mind-- like buying out the butcher shop he works at; but his nagging loneliness hangs over him.

Marty's mother, played by Esther Minciotti, gets word that Marty could get a date by going to local singles scene, the Stardust Ballroom. Although Marty says he's been there many times before, he goes this Saturday night to please his mother (or to get far away from her nagging, perhaps). There he meets "dog" Clara, a schoolteacher who's an over-the-hill 29! They talk and talk, but the film never lags. Borginine's Marty has charm. The film convinces us that he's a "catch." And Betsy Blair's Clara, although painfully shy, seems to agree. Clara calls Marty a "nice guy"-- as much the kiss of death today as it was then. Marty starts to have doubts about Clara, mostly based on how others perceive her.

In an interesting subplot, Marty's cousin Tommy (Jerry Paris) and his wife Virginia (Karen Steele) are having marital troubles due to living with Tommy's mother ("Aunt Catherine," played by Augusta Ciolli). Tommy at one point lecutures Marty. Why should Marty want to get married? He's free from the responsiblity-- why spoil it? Is geting married-- chancing marrying the wrong person, worth the trouble? It might seem to leave a smudge on Marty's rose-colored glasses, but instead it suggests that Marty, who took so long to find his match, may have been luckier than some who perhaps rushed into marriage. And yet, it also shows that everything doesn't end up as one would expect in relationships. This was a necessary shade of gray for Marty's storyline, keeping the potential treckliness of the material as a whole at bay.

And so it goes. The film meets an inevitable conclusion and there are no groundbreaking cinematic moments, but the drama is solid, and the characters are real.

Marty was one of the defining films of the 1950s-- even internationally, as it won the Palme d'Or at the Cannes Film Festival. It's a "slight" film, without a grandious sweep, an unusual winner for the Best Picture Oscar, and surely the first major success by an independent film.






Marty (1955): An eternally relatable film, done on an appropriately modest scale, which may not be the height of all that cinema has to offer, but an example of what is dramatically possible.

This Month on TCM: 1949s Best Picture— All the King's Men

On Friday, February 27, TCM is showing Oscar-winner All the King's Men. One of the more obscure winners for Best Picture, the film won the top honors from the Academy but only three Oscars total (the other two, Best Actor and Best Supporting Actress).

All the King's Men is based on the Pultizer Prize-winning book by Robert Penn Warren. Make no mistake, the story of Willie Stark is lifted from the life of Louisiana Governor Huey Long— there is one parallel after the next in the Long-to-Stark comparison, with only Long's Senate tenure left out.

All the King's Men, produced and directed by Robert Rossen, runs a dense 109 minutes. Packed into the story is the complete rise of a small town yokel from nobody to Governor and how his political ambitions affect his family and colleagues. Broderick Crawford's Willie Stark is a complete characterization-- he's a lowbrow, crass and impulsive mover-and-shaker, who's very methods transform him from a man of the people to an island unto himself. Crawford and the scripting smartly show Stark in his early scenes already possessing the traits of a hardheaded loudmouth-- when his son appears to have been beaten up for handing out leaflets in his father's behalf, Willie practically beats him again to get the story out of him--setting him up perfectly for his later transformation. The power of Crawford's take on Stark is not in how he changes over time, but rather the ambiguity of his character: his methods are clearly misguided, but his motives are not always selfish.

The film is peopled with compeling minor characters as well. Jack Burden (played by John Ireland) is the newspaper columnist that quits his paper for idealistic reasons and has rejected his stepfather's wealth to join up with Stark; Anne Stanton (Joanne Dru) is the rich girl who sees a possible Governor's wife opportunity as Stark's girlfriend; Adam Stanton (Sheppard Strudwick) is the doctor who makes a deal with the devil for the important construction of a new hospital; Tom Stark (John Derek) is Willie's son, who won't allow his father to run his life; and Sadie Burke (Mercedes McCambridge) is the mercenary political manager who goes where the action is. McCambridge's Sadie is even allowed a purely character scene, when she looks at a photo of beauty Anne and then at herself in the mirror and remarks on the difference between the two in the looks department. Mercedes McCambride was making her screen debut in All the King's Men, but she had a background in Broadway and on radio; Broderick Crawford, too, had a background in Broadway, and although this was far from his screen debut, it was certainly his first "important" film. McCambridge and Crawford excell, the other cast members, although serviceable, hardly seem to be in the same movie.

Although the film sends the message that the ends don't justify the means, it doesn't delve deeply enough into the rich gray area that Stark supplies. Despite the way Crawford plays the role, Willie is so outrightly condemned that the gray turns to black-and-white by film's end. It might have been better to show some of the possible positive results that would have inevitably come from Willie's doubledealings, rather than such a complete demonization of him, barely pausing during his early "honest man" idealogical opening. Additionally, we're not really quite sure what drives him, outside of the accumulation of power.

All the King's Men is never necessarily dull, but it's main detraction is that it does seem to lack spark: scenes with staying power, for example. Perhaps this is why the movie remains so obscure. Generally speaking there are moments in classic films, particularly Best Pictures, that everyone has seen before they actually see the movie-- those endlessly clipped movie highlights. They don't exist for All the King's Men, because the movie offers no real electrifying moments.

On the plus side, the film doesn't date, due, unfortunately, to the recycling of the ills of politics in real life. And, although there doesn't seem to be many actual Willie Starks around per se, such aspects of political life as campaign financing remain just as corrupting to today's politicians as to Stark-- the film even goes so far as to suggest that maybe he could have remained the honest man were it not for this one critical component of all campaigns.

One other criticism of the film-- it's techniques are terribly dated: the frequent low angle shots of Willie, the endless montages and string of newspaper headlines, and the use of a "reporter" as a storyteller. Although all of these characterisitics can be found in Citizen Kane, they are used as familiar devices to allow for the films more revolutionary touches. In All the King's Men these techniques are the key elements to the structure.


All the King's Men (1949): Superior work by lead Broderick Crawford in always timely tale of political corruption, nonetheless lacks memorable dramatic moments and offers a weak supporting cast, save Mercedes McCambridge in a solid screen debut.

This Month on TCM: "Bringing Up Baby" (1938)

On Tuesday, January 20th, TCM is showing one of the definitive examples of Hollywood's screwball comedy genre: Bringing Up Baby. A flop in its day, it's gone on to make best-of lists and certainly favorite-of lists of many a film lover.

If It Happened One Night is the prototype of the screwball comedy then Bringing Up Baby is the working definition. It Happened One Night had one foot in '30s realism; it knew it was escapism for the masses. Bread lines loom in the background of Capra's film but Baby is all escapism, with no pretense of seriousness. This makes It Happened One Night the better film perhaps, but gives Baby the comedy edge. Bringing Up Baby is 102 minutes of the purest comedy.

The thing about Bringing Up Baby is, well, despite starring Cary Grant and Katharine Hepburn, you have to be in the mood for it. This has a lot to do with the characterization of Susan Vance, Katharine Hepburn's character. She's a childish, selfish, spoiled idler. You have to get caught just right to let Susan slide by you. And it helps that Hepburn, who we're familiar with as anyone but an idler, embodies her. As Grant's David tells Susan, "... In moments of quiet I'm strangely drawn toward you, but well there haven't been any quiet moments." It's that kind of dicotomy that will draw you to actually liking Susan, and enjoying watching her.

Once in the mood, the film zips by, particularly the early scenes, and only gets a bit bogged down when a parade of character actor parts get introduced toward the finale. However, each of those character actors gets their laughs in as well, particularly May Robson as Susan's no nonsense aunt.

The movie is about a paleontologist (despite Susan's frequent references to him as a zoologist) trying to land his museum a $1 million gift, only a strange girl appears out of nowhere sidetracking him from meeting his contact and, worse yet, distracting him from his fiancee. Cary Grant as David Huxley, delivers as fine a comic performance as has ever been given. His mastery of exasperation, through facial expression and line delivery is the source of much of the film's comedy. Hepburn works well with Grant's fumblings— as in the classic scene when he must hold his hat against her behind after a "wardrobe malfunction" occurs. And just as Susan brings David out of his shell, Hepburn allows Grant the full expression of his talent-- never upstaging him and complementing his style with a relaxed performance.

The production and direction are markedly the voice of auteur Howard Hawks. Although Hawks notoriously excelled in all genres, his comedies— which also include Twentieth Century (1934), His Girl Friday (1940), Ball of Fire (1942), Monkey Business (1952), others— all have a particularly silly sophistication. They're set in perfectly normal places— a Connecticut country home, a newspaper office, a train— but wherein only-in-the-movies occurances arise. Monkey Business pushed this to the limit in its opening moments when Hawks is heard offscreen directing Cary Grant not to start the scene yet! In Bringing Up Baby, not one but two real-life leopards are introduced, and in fact, drive the plot. "Baby," yes, is a leopard that Susan is watching— sent from her brother, as a gift to her aunt, naturally. And just when Baby gets away from her, a leopard from a nearby circus gets loose. And did I mention there's a missing intercostal clavicle?

This all ends up with an extended finale where mix-up after mix-up occurs and soon every character is in the same room— including the leopards. There is even a chance for Hepburn's Susan to impersonate a gangster's moll, when she puts on the town sheriff. Third-billed Charlie Ruggles, who's character spends his time, mainly it seems, performing a dubbed in "leopard's call" is, with May Robson's Aunt Elizabeth, the voice of reason. These two, however, fall into the general spirit of things when, they too, become prey to the will of Baby.

Again, Bringing Up Baby is best consumed when your in a good mood and want to be in a better mood. If you're miserable, you'll reject it outright. But if life is good, Bringing Up Baby is great.

Bringing Up Baby (1938): If you're game, funny escape with the trademark silly sophistication of Howard Hawks and a particularly brilliant comic performance by Cary Grant.

This Month on TCM: "Dr. Strangelove..." (1964)

On Saturday, October 18th, TCM is showing Dr. Strangelove Or How I Learned to Stop Worrying and Love the Bomb, Stanley Kubrick's greatest film and one of the single greatest movies of the twentieth century.

It's always a little more difficult to make the case for why a film is in your opinion one of the very greatest. I could much more easily play devil's advocate with Dr. Strangelove and list it's faults: it's ending is a bit clumsy; Sellers, as brilliant as he is, plays Strangelove and Mandrake a little too "sketch comedy"; the characters are given very little depth; there is almost nothing in the way of subplots; the special effects have dated.

But let me start over.

Dr. Strangelove takes on the biggest question of human fallibility, puts a human face to it, and makes us realize that for all our advances, we've mucked it up. The plot concerns a U. S. army general named Jack D. Ripper (played by Sterling Hayden), who, "goes a little funny in the head" and launches a nuclear attack on the Soviet Union, using an emergency attack plan that bypasses the normal chain of command. The film wastes no time getting started, and there is not one bit of padding in its lean 93-minute running time.

The acting is superb and when you think you've identified the best performance among the principles, you replace it with another one, until you realize these are among the best performances on film, period: Sellers' three-character tour de force; George C. Scott's grimacing, overzealous four-star general; Sterling Hayden's steely-eyed nutjob, who fears a "loss of essence"; Slim Pickens' duty-bound air force major.

As satires or black comedies go, Dr. Strangelove has more actual laughs than most. Even when the one-liners fade with repeat viewings, the "character" comedy holds up. The centerpiece of the comedic bits is the President's initial conversation with the Russian Premier to break the news of the imminent attack ("Now then Dimitri..."). Partly adlibbed, and heard only from the President's end, this conversation underscores the humanity behind society's machinations: how, indeed do you inform someone that the world may be coming to an end. In fact, this is essentially what the movie is all about. Every time a character speaks, no matter what they say, it sounds idiotic in the face of World War III and nuclear annihilation-- Slim Pickens' Major Kong tells his crew that they will surely be up for promotions and personal citations; George C. Scott's General Turgidson worries that the Russian ambassador will see the "big board"; Keenan Wynn's officious Colonel Guano doesn't want to damage the Coke machine.

To take on my own list of "issues" with Strangelove, I'll begin with Sellers' approach to the characters he plays. His performance of the President is without fault, but his Group Captain Lionel Mandrake and scientist Dr. Strangelove have a foot in mimicry and caricature. Mandrake, though, is a blowhard ("Oh hell.") and Strangelove is psychotic. In fact, Sellers originally played the President for laughs, but Kubrick stepped in and had Sellers switch gears. In many ways, because Sellers plays all three characters, and because his President is the "voice of reason," the other two have this allowance to be broad. Mandrake and Strangelove play the opposite ends of over-achievers: they represent the error of our ways, a sapping of creativity [Mandrake is by-the-book and Strangelove is all animal-instincts]. The President represents the "whole" between them.

The dispensing with much in the way of character development and subplots hinges on the gravity of the subject matter and the urgency of the film's timeline. Had the film strayed to tell the further story of General Turgidson and his mistress, for example, nothing would be gained. The function of character development and subplots is to support the main thesis and not to distract. The point of the film is driven home differently in Dr. Strangelove: not by conventional "depth" but by the continued absurdities, which, had the film ended as it was written, would have concluded with a pie fight in the war room. Which brings up the somewhat clumsy finale. The pie fight sequence (removed for various reasons including that it didn't "work") would have been a "proper" end; without it we have just one outrageous exclamation by Strangelove in its place. Although this is not the perfect finale, the actual ending of the movie happens shortly before-- and as with all classic films, it is the inevitable one. What happens after that (i.e. after Slim Pickens' last moments) is of little consequence. Maybe, after all, shorter was better.

As for the special effects, they are acceptable, particularly in black-and-white: an artifice in itself. And the Pickens's denouement is actually quite effective effects-wise. Plus, Ken Adam's set design makes up considerable ground in the "crafts" department.

Perhaps what ultimately makes Dr. Strangelove great is that it takes on the futility of creating art in the face of extinction. As seen through the creative genius of filmmaker Kubrick, we get a film that is both minutely planned yet free form (in itself, as well, it shows that while neither approach works alone, together we get something). Taking botht the film's themes and its approach in account, it's like saying, create art but have a little fun because it'll all be over some day. Strangelove is frightening and funny; luckily, the humor is so sharp, you find the dire subject matter palatable.

Dr. Strangelove Of How I Stopped Worrying and Learned to Love the Bomb (1964): Sharp black comedy manages, through the sharpest of direction and performance, to take on doomsday itself and illustrates through absurdity, the absurdity of our need to destroy each other.

This Month on TCM: "The Quiet Man" (1952)

Tomorrow on TCM is John Ford's valentine to his Irish roots, The Quiet Man. The Quiet Man has a wisdom paralleling the ages and experience of its seasoned creators, all just past middle age. John Ford and Merian C. Cooper were in their mid-50s, John Wayne was in his mid-40s, and Maureen O’Hara was just over 30; the Ford stock actors were 60ish. This group knew how to make movies and knew how to translate a good time on the screen and the movie endures mainly due to its charm.

The story follows “Yankee from Pittsburgh” Sean Thornton (Wayne), who returns to his hometown of Inisfree (while escaping his past) and buys his childhood home. Soon thereafter, he falls for an Irish lass named Mary Kate Danaher (O’Hara) whose tempestuousness is matched only by that of her brother Red Will Danaher (Victor McLaglen), whose permission Thornton must secure in order to marry her. Ford favorite Ward Bond, who plays the town clergyman, narrates the film, and serves with the local matchmaker (played by Barry Fitzgerald) as the go-between of the two camps.

At the center of the movie is both the mystery of Thornton’s past and his love-at-first-sight romance with Mary Kate. Although both of these are familiar (as is the fish-out-of-water premise), the handling of them is given dramatic sweep, Hollywood-style. There are several scenes in which Wayne and O’Hara embrace— the most celebrated of which occurs on a windswept night. The second of these, using a rainy night, allows for both romance and some emotion, particularly for Wayne, whose expression exposes doubts in this relationship. Although, this might too be a factor of Ford’s notorious egging on of Wayne in the love scenes, which Wayne voiced complaints about, saying that Ford was having him do what Ford could not do himself.

Wayne shows off his natural talent, especially in such a change of pace role, and its among his finest (if not quite three-dimensional) characterizations. Victor McLaglen has a showy part and scored his only late-career Oscar nomination for the role. O'Hara's acting "shows" a bit but she gets points just for putting up with what was required of her!

Although a few process shots distract, the Technicolor cinematography and location shooting are at times breathtaking. In one scene, for example, Thornton storms off (in long shot) into the countryside in a huff, as a flock of white birds scatter around him— a perfect moment. The beauty of the night scenes rival Black Narcissus at times for there compelling lighting and mood setting.

The Quiet Man has an all-out crowd-pleasing finale in which Sean and Red Will finally square off and Thornton and Mary Kate's relationship is secured (by, economically, one symbolic gesture from Sean involving Mary Kate's dowery). With all the popcorn elements in place and with something for everyone, it's no wonder that this movie has been a perrenial favorite on television, and is John Ford's most rewatchable film.

The Quiet Man (1952): Crowd-pleasing film exhibits a wisdom from seasoned pros and a charm and Hollywood sweep that make it one of John Ford's most enduring works.

This Month on TCM: "Adam's Rib" (1949)

Tomorrow, as part of their annual "Summer Under the Stars" month, TCM is showing a whole day's worth of Spencer Tracy movies (following today's tribute to Katharine Hepburn). Among them is the classic Tracy-Hepburn vehicle Adam's Rib.

Adam's Rib has the perfect Tracy-Hepburn set-up: they’re married lawyers on opposing sides of a case involving a woman who confronted her husband and his mistress, shooting him in the process. Adam’s Rib is generally considered the best of the Tracy-Hepburn comedy teamings, yet somehow I prefer the funnier films of the ‘50s— Pat and Mike (1952) and Desk Set (1957).





The structure of the screenplay (by Ruth Gordon and Garson Kanin) is at once clever and overly repetitive. We see the fireworks in the courtroom and “later that night” we follow Tracy’s "Adam" and Hepburn’s “Amanda” attempting to be civil to each other at home as if nothing had transpired during the day. In an oft-clipped scene, the two give each other a back rub both times leading to a “playful” slap on the backside— only Adam’s slap to Amanda is quite a wallop. The battle-of-the-sexes aspect is inevitably dated, but at least nothing truly offensive remains.

The whole of Adam and Amanda’s lifestyle is the epitome of sophistication, particularly in comparison to the lives of the accused wife (played by Judy Holliday) and the two-timing husband (played by Tom Ewell). David Wayne, playing a rival for Amanda’s affections, spoils the home scenes— he comes off downright annoying. Although that’s the point of his character, you wonder why Amanda puts up with him and why we— the audience— must endure him as well. One delightful home sequence (despite David Wayne’s interruptions) involves a “home movie” of Amanda and Adam as they celebrate the ownership of their country house.

The courtroom scenes are the highlight of the film (enough to recommended the entire movie) and supporting players Holliday and Ewell are a significant contribution to their coming off so well. One of the funniest bits, a running joke that’s carried into the courtroom, involves a hat that Adam has bought for Amanda as a peace offering.




Adam’s Rib (1949): Perfect Tracy-Hepburn premise has spark and sophistication, but also a repetitive structure and an intrusive performance by supporting player David Wayne.

This Month on TCM: "Wild Strawberries" (1957)

On Sunday July 13, TCM is playing one of Ingmar Bergman's most well-known films, Wild Strawberries.

Wild Strawberries was one of two Ingmar Bergman releases in 1957; the other was The Seventh Seal. The two films confirmed Bergman’s reputation as a new, important talent, following the success of 1955s Smiles of A Summer Night. In the US, they were rolled out in 1958 (Seal) and 1959 (Strawberries); Wild Strawberries earned Bergman a well-deserved Oscar nomination for best original screenplay.

The film is about an elderly professor who travels by car to accept an honorary award, and on the way reminiscences about his life, with some regret. The film begins in professor Isak Borg’s home, at his desk, where, through his narration, we’re filled in on the backstory of his life. The next scene, following the credits, is a startling dream sequence in which the professor confronts his own death.

This dream sequence, with its striking sound design (it plays mostly silent, with punctuations of sound effects and music at dramatic beats), is the single most memorable sequence in the film. Except for Bunuel (and Dali’s Spellbound dream sequence) this kind of dream sequence was little seen in cinema up to this point. The dream is seen through the eyes of the main character, experienced by him, and makes a strong impression on the viewer. It can seem dated today, even pretentious. But Sjostrom conveys such bewilderment and wonder that we’re drawn into the scene as any other well-played dramatic scene might register.

As Isak travels with his daughter-in-law we get to know more about his current relationships. Additionally, we see a series of characters in various stages of life, notably a bickering middle-aged couple. These little character vignettes strengthen the film, adding depth to it’s themes and support of the central characterization. Among these is a surprising one— Isak takes time out to visit his mother, who’s 96. We also see Isak’s relationship with his childhood sweatheart thorough a flashback and in a modern version thorough a young outgoing girl who Isak picks up along the way (both roles are played by Bibi Anderson).

The entire film has a dreamlike quality and appears to put forth the notion that our lives are actually completely out of our hands, despite any decision-making we’ve made along the way— an anti-existentialist tone. Isak is at once an important member of society and as he puts it, “the faculty should have made me honorary idiot.” Isak is searching for answers, essentially searching for God. It’s possible that Isak is seeking God as an excuse for his bad life choices. Isak is, at the very least, looking for a tranquil end to his twilight years, in which everything has had a purpose, everything makes sense.

Victor Sjostrom’s casting is as much a masterstroke (he was one of the most prominent actor/directors in Swedish cinema, appearing in his last film) as the performance he gives. With each close-up Bergman gives him, we see a combination of Isak’s uncertainty and eternal hope, despite his age, and despite his fears, and despite his past mistakes.

For some reason, Wild Strawberries is less compelling on repeat viewings, perhaps because when you get back to it you’ve taken in Bergman’s later, more mature works, of which Wild Strawberries serves as a primer, up-to-and-including his great “swansong” Fanny and Alexander. The initial viewing of the film though has a powerful impact, again perhaps due to Sjostrom.

Wild Strawberries (1957): A Bergman primer, with a central performance by Victor Sjostrom, as great as any in film history, tapping into the viewer’s own uncertainties and fears with life’s course.

This Month on TCM: "Spellbound" (1945)

Tomorrow, TCM will be showing Alfred Hitchcock's Spellbound. Although not up to par with Hitchcock's greatest films, Spellbound nonetheless was nominated for more Oscars than any of his films outside of Rebecca— six in total, including Best Picture and Best Director, and won for Miklos Rozsa's score.

Spellbound concerns a woman psychiatrist's attempts to cure a potentially dangerous amnesiac for whom she has fallen in love. The emphasis is on psychoanalysis and as a result there is a lot of talk. Despite its talkiness and the fact that its often over-the-top, Spellbound is oddly watchable. In many ways, particularly with the knowledge of the Selznick publicity machine, its multiple Oscar nominations aren't that unfathomable.

The film is atypical Hitchcock, particularly for his later films, because the plot is mainly mystery-in-lieu-of-suspense. Basically, we're holding out until the end to find out what is causing Gregory Peck's John Ballantine to suffer so.

This is one of Gregory Peck's earliest roles and therefore falls within the period in which he was considered a stiff, uninteresting actor. Time and memories of Atticus Finch make his early parts more palatable. And in this one, his character is suffering from memory loss and dizzy spells, so anything works. Ingrid Bergman is at her most beautiful, but you can’t ignore that the love story is absurdly abrupt (unexcused by the acknowledgement of this fact in dialogue).

This is a lush, very “Hollywood” production, punctuated by a fascinating, if all-too-brief Salvador Dali dream sequence.

Spellbound (1945): Oddball Hitchcock film has a lot of talk but remains entertaining as Hollywood gloss, with a striking centerpiece of a Salvador Dali dream sequence.

This Month on TCM: Psycho (1960)

Tomorrow, TCM plays Alfred Hitchcock's most notorious film, Psycho.

Psycho often strikes me as a very modern film and yet also at times seems very dated— probably since it coincides with the beginning of the end of the studio system— a direct product of the emergence of television. It's opening titles have never dated, however. The justly famous score is positively one of the most brilliantly conceived in all of movie history. The titles put you in the mood, if you have to wait a bit to get to the "modern" thrills. The genius of the film is in how it defies audience expectations, which is what, in many ways, keeps it fresh decades later.

The exposition is done very well, except perhaps the opening scene, which goes on a little long and is a little talky. The film is about a woman who steals $40,000 and plans to use it to run away with her married lover, but her plans are sidetracked when she stops at the Bates Motel where she encounters off-kilter Norman Bates, who she finds is at the mercy of his mother.

Brilliant use, in the driving sequence, of Marion’s thoughts through her perceived ideas of how the next few days would play out in the voice-over of the characters from her office. This is not only suspenseful but shows Marion's vulnerability and ultimately her indecision about her actions.

Nice set-up of “mother” in the window of the house when Marion arrives at the Bates Motel. Anthony Perkins is brilliant— particularly in the moment when he turns on Marion in their dinner conversation, when she suggests sending “Mother” to an institution (“People always call a madhouse, ‘someplace,’ don’t they? — ‘Put her in someplace.’…. They cluck their thick tongues and shake their heads and suggest oh so very delicately…”). The whole cast, all things considered, play their parts with a sense of subtlety, particularly in light of the later horror films that Psycho inspired.

Hitchcock astounds with his camerawork— it’s surprising to think that at age 60 he made so many bold choices throughout. The famed shower sequence will remain a staple of film study for eternity— the spiral shot from the drain to Marion’s eye is as fresh and fascinating as it must have been in 1960. The lesser-known murder in the movie is just as brilliant a shocker. The climax is another flawlessly staged piece— Lila’s hitting the bare light bulb a touch of genius.

Finale, in which things are “explained” is a deadly bore—the movie would have been better off without it. The film is a stylistic virtuoso, a director’s piece if there ever was one, even if, on first viewing one gets a little impatient waiting for the thrills. The fact that the Motion Picture Academy didn’t bestow the Best Director Oscar to Hitchcock for Psycho is one of the single greatest blunders in the history of the Oscars. Many famous lines are uttered throughout the movie by Norman Bates, not the least of which perhaps summed it up— “We all go a little mad sometimes.”

Psycho (1960): A virtuoso director's piece with some terrific acting besides, a stunning example of audience manipulation and a defining example of audience expectations gone awry.

This Month on TCM: David Lean's "Brief Encounter" (1945)

Tomorrow, April 30th, on TCM, is one of director David Lean's classic "pre-epic" films, Brief Encounter. This British film earned Oscar nominations for Actress, Director, and Screenplay.


Brief Encounter is about a married woman who has a chance meeting with a man at the train station and eventually falls in love with him. The story is very simple and compared to its American "weepie" counterparts, comes off so much more true-to-life.

Celia Johnson (as Laura Jesson) anchors the story and it's through her eyes (and her narration) that the film unfolds. It's most striking device is that of the flashback opening that's repeated as the final scene. Laura's frustration at her chatterbox friend Dolly makes this scene (in both versions)— it calls out how other people can be so self-involved that they spoil what could be the most significant moments of your life.

The film is set in pre-World War II London, where Laura meets Alec, a doctor, who helps get a piece of grit out of her eye. Laura is on her weekly shopping trip and she doesn't think much about the incident until the following week when she bumps into Alec again and a romance is kindled. The play on which the film is based is Noel Coward's "Still Life." The Coward material is adapted well— rarely does a stage play escape it's origins— Brief Encounter is freed from the stage by Lean's narrative devices.

Despite its infidelity plotline, the movie is among the most sweepingly romantic in film history. The film is set against the striking Rachmaninov Piano Concerto No. 2. The music adds to the romantic nature of the film, helped also by the high key lighting photography.

The Oscars got it right in naming its three nominations. Although co-star Trevor Howard works well as the doctor, Celia Johnson carries the film: had the casting been off by the slightest there would be no movie here. Were Lean and his co-writers slightly off tone, slightly off structure, it would have fallen apart.


Brief Encounter is one of those classics, like Casablanca, in which everything just seems right.

Brief Encounter (1945): "Despite its modest scope and potentially immoral plot, this is a sweeping romance that serves as a vehicle for one of the great female performances in film.

This Month on TCM: Notorious (1946)

On Sunday March 30th, TCM plays Hitchcock's NOTORIOUS. Francois Truffaut called this film Hitchock's greatest during his black-and-white period.



At the heart of Alfred Hitchcock’s NOTORIOUS is a block of ice, courtesy of Ben Hecht’s cynical original screenplay. But the ice shows signs of thaw throughout with hot-blooded characterization, fiery suspense, and a pinch of true romance. NOTORIOUS is one of Hitchcock’s earliest true masterpieces: a blending of his signature directorial style with a heretofore little seen dramatic depth.

Ingrid Bergman plays Alicia Huberman, who is enlisted by the U.S. government to infiltrate a spy ring in Rio. Her main contact is T. R. Devlin, played by Cary Grant, who she falls in love with, but who doubts her love enough to send her on this dangerous assignment (physically and emotionally) without protest. The mutual distrust of Alicia and Devlin causes them constant pain, which they must keep in check as they take on this life-and-death assignment.

The opening title (“Miami. Florida, Three-Twenty P,M., April the Twenty-Fourth, Nineteen Hundred and Forty-Six….”) works well in contributing a distinct feeling of time and place. (Hitchcock used the same type of title card in PSYCHO and it worked there too.) This opening also serves as a visual warning to the viewer that this is not going to be a typical Hollywood romantic movie: it will have an element of harsh reality (later classified as film noir).

The blossoming of the romance at Alicia’s party in the opener with mystery-man Devlin and a drunken Bergman defines the tone: since the romance has both a cynical side (she could care less who she’s with), a dangerous side (she drives drunk), and a violent side (she pounds on him with her fists when she discovers he’s a “cop” and he eventually has to knock her out). The romance is a bit rushed: Alicia’s apathy (all she wants, she says, is “good times and laughs with people I like”) melts away fast, but there is an on-purpose element of unbelievably in their attraction. When Devlin first kisses Alicia he seems to be doing so just to shut her up. When the two get to Rio (“This is a very strange love affair… [since] you don’t love me.”) the audience searches for reasons why they are together at all. We doubt their love as much as they do. In a scene that's a slam dunk in writing, acting, and directing, Alicia trumps Devlin’s disregard for her feelings (when they meet at the racetrack so she can pass off intel) and we wonder if they've past the point of no return.

Both leads are cast against type and it’s hard to decide who does a better job at playing an ass. Grant’s Devlin is memorably mean— and the character would have to be considering the work: he’s very James Bond before James Bond. Bergman’s Alicia expects too much from everyone and is surprised when each person falls short.

Claude Rains plays Alex Sebastian, the man who Bergman’s Alicia must get close to in order to discover the Nazi plan. Rains plays the part of the heel well, in particular when he must rely on his mother to bail him out (“We’re protected by the enormity of your stupidity.”) This part gave the Motion Picture Academy a fourth and final chance to give Rains an Oscar, but they screwed him again.

Hitchcock’s camerawork throughout is one inspired choice after the next. The celebrated dolly to the key that Alicia holds in the later party sequence, is a highlight: it says that this entire sequence will keep your attention— and it does. The two wine cellar sequences are textbook in both creation of suspense and in showing the audience the thought process of each of the characters: Devlin and Sebastian. The close quarters of the camera in the final moments between Devlin and Alicia offer the layer of depth necessary to pull off the belief that they have the feelings for each other that they have claimed all along. Despite the significant use of rear-projection that dates the film badly, this is one of the most enduring films of the Hollywood studio era.

The film’s ending, which relies heavily on the Devlin, Alicia, and Sebastian characterizations, is startling and among the best in cinema history.

Notorious (1946): Ben Hecht’s cynical and character-rich screenplay, Cary Grant and Ingrid Bergman’s atypical casting, and Hitchcock’s deft camerawork add up to a suspense classic that offers a one-of-a-kind mixing of Hollywood romance and film noir.

This Month on TCM: 1952s Best Picture— The Greatest Show on Earth

On Thursday February 28th, TCM continues its 31 Days of Oscar films, among them Best Picture-winner THE GREATEST SHOW ON EARTH.




A time capsule of ‘50s mainstream entertainment, THE GREATEST SHOW ON EARTH features popular stars, Technicolor photography, and a plot heaping with soap suds— and it was the #1 box office attraction of its year.

There is no doubt that this movie won the Oscar for Best Picture as a reward to Cecil B. DeMille for his pioneering achievements in the medium and for a career of popular movies, many of them epic undertakings, rather than solely on this one film’s own merits. THE GREATEST SHOW ON EARTH is one of the least impressive Oscar-winning Best Pictures, but it does entertain in that irresistible DeMille fashion— super corny but a big, splashy show.

It tells the epic tale of life behind-the-scenes of the “greatest show on earth,” when a traveling circus hopes to stay in the black by relying mainly on outsider trapeze artist (and ladies man) “The Great Sebastian” (Cornel Wilde) and their own expert female trapeze artist “Holly” (Betty Hutton) who vies for the attention of the crowds and eventually Sebastian himself. Charlton Heston is “Brad Braden,” the no-nonsense head of the company who keeps everyone in check. Heston is a pro handling DeMille’s over dramatics and stilted dialogue (“Holly, this is circus.”)— no wonder DeMille gave him Moses in the even more over-the-top TEN COMMANDMENTS. The others in the cast, particularly Betty Hutton, fare much worse in rising above such lines as Holly’s: “You haven’t got anything but sawdust in your veins!” Also among the troupe is sexy “Angel,” (played by Gloria Grahame) who knows Sebastian from the past, but her trained elephant Ruth is much more interesting and integral to the plot beats.

Framing the film is DeMille’s voice-of-god narration about this “greatest show on earth.” DeMille expertly integrates many real acts (an entertainment bonus) including: a horseback riding dog, the “world’s smallest bareback rider,” and a man who jumps rope on the trapeze; we also see such famed real-life clowns as Lou Jacobs and Emmett Kelly. During Dorothy Lamour’s “Lula Lady” number, when her fellow ladies climb ropes and swing from them, the camera pans across the audience revealing a terrific unbilled cameo, which I won’t reveal— but it adds to the fun. We are also treated to second unit work of how the big top is erected. Additionally, the Technicolor vibrancy— of the cotton candy, the floats, the colorful costumes— is among the film’s main assets. Victor Young’s jubilant score keeps the film “up” as well.

The suspense is old-school Hollywood (Sebastian and Holly are doing their acts without nets!/ Who is the mysterious clown “Buttons” [James Stewart], and why is he never seen without his make-up?…. Hmmmmmm). On top of such diversions as the “Buttons” subplot is one involving gambling cheats at the booths, which only serves to show what a tough guy Brad is and how he keeps the show in line. Then Sebastian is injured!— but is the damage permanent? The plot leads to a big finale, involving the circus train and some none-too-convincing special effects (even for 1952). Can the troupe pull together and still put on a show? Spoiler alert: You bet ya!

The Greatest Show on Earth (1952): One of the least impressive Oscar-winning Best Pictures, but entertaining in that irresistible Cecil B. DeMille fashion— super corny but a big, splashy show— with bonus entertainment value in real-life circus acts of the day.

This Month on TCM: A Bill of Divorcement (1932)

On Tuesday January 29th, TCM is showing several films starring John Barrymore, including A BILL OF DIVORCEMENT, which is mostly notable as Katharine Hepburn’s very first film.


According to the biography GEORGE CUKOR: A DOUBLE LIFE, the casting of the daughter role was initially a choice between Jill Esmond (then married to Laurence Olivier) and Anita Louise; however Cukor wanted a fresh face. Although no one was really all that impressed with Hepburn’s screen test, Cukor saw something in it—particularly in a moment when she picked up a highball glass with her back to the camera—that suggested something to him—“a sad lyric moment” and he convinced David O. Selznick to cast her. This was a plum part as it was opposite then-legendary John Barrymore (the same year he appeared in GRAND HOTEL).

A BILL OF DIVORCEMENT is about an institutionalized man (Barrymore) who returns to his family after fifteen years, having escaped from the asylum, who faces the harsh reality that time has past him by. Daughter Hepburn discovers that it wasn’t just shellshock that sent him there in the first place. The film is broadly dramatic, but has enough style and momentum to be reasonably entertaining— and worthwhile enough for one to devote the 70 minute running time.

The dated film is mainly marred by stage-bound-stiff dialogue in which each character TELLS us how he or she feels every moment. One scene follows another in a linear fashion but there’s enough suspense— about why Hilary (Barrymore) went to the asylum, his escape, how and when he’ll find out about his wife’s divorcing him, if he’ll let her and her new fiancé go, etc.— and tragedy, to keep things moving.

Katharine Hepburn plays her no-nonsense, headstrong, free-spirited role well, setting herself up for a career of the type. She holds her own completely opposite veteran Barrymore. Barrymore IS convincing in the film— quiet and sad one moment, angry at the world the next— as her not-so-cured father returning from his mentally ill haze but falling back with every other moment. Nice scene where Hilary says that he realizes that his wife Meg (Billie Burke) has changed, gotten harder, and how Sydney (Hepburn) is like Meg used to be (“she’s more you than you are”) and how Meg’s “grown right up, away, beyond me, haven’t you?” He then optimistically says that Meg will help him “catch up” but the audience knows that the world’s past him by.

In later scenes, admittedly, Barrymore does get a bit over-the-top. This was surely one of the starring parts that Barrymore felt should have won him the Oscar— but as he had been quoted to say, they would never give him one for fear that he’d show up drunk to the ceremony! Billie Burke’s technique is quite old-fashioned, but works for her part as the guilt-ridden Meg.

Again, a worthwhile movie in order to see Hepburn’s screen debut [the credits misspell her first name!] and as (another) showcase for Barrymore. Hepburn wrote in her autobiography ME: STORIES OF MY LIFE: “[Barrymore] was sweet— he was funny— and he could certainly act…. I was indeed lucky to be in the film. It was a showy part.”

A Bill of Divorcement (1932): Dated film with stage-bound-stiff dialogue has enough style and momentum to be reasonably entertaining at its modest length— plus a great showy performance by John Barrymore and Katharine Hepburn (in her screen debut) setting up a career of headstrong female parts.

This Month on TCM: Top Hat (1935)

On Monday, December 31st, TCM is showing several Fred Astaire/Ginger Rogers films, including the Mark Sandrich classic Top Hat, their first "starring" vehicle (following their successful teaming in Flying Down to Rio).

Every Astaire-Rogers film opens great, but Top Hat has the best (albeit simple) opening titles and fanfare of them all, brilliantly juxtaposed with the first scene (a quiet sitting room at a men’s club). Astaire’s disruptive tap at the end of this scene is a memorable laugh. There's a delightful first song (and tap dance) for Fred (“I’m fancy free and free for anything fannnncy”) that includes a terrific “pan” down to the room below introducing Ginger in bed, woken up by the activity, followed by a clever soft-shoe (Astaire’s character uses sand from an ash can).

The film is about an American dance man named Jerry Travers in London falling for a young lady named Dale Tremont, who, after falling for him, believes she has discovered that he’s a married man. Following the mistaken-identity, Ginger gives Fred a slap— and his reaction is priceless. Astaire and Rogers give among their best performances in this film and they are brilliant in a scene where each pretends to have met the other in Paris (first Dale has the upper hand, then Jerry). “Cheek to Cheek” is possibly the greatest song in any Astaire-Rogers film (even if it did manage to lose the Oscar). Their subsequent dance (memorable for Rogers’ feather dress [see photo]) is superb, particularly in light of the way their characters are feeling about each other at the time. Other top-notch sequences include the gazebo scene (where Dale falls for Jerry), which is sweet and irresistible (“Isn’t this a lovely day to be caught in the rain?”) and serves as the perfect dance interpretation of a courtship: each showing off for the other, the occasional misstep, then perfect sync. Handsome cab sequence with corny jokes (“What is this strange power you have over horses?”/ “Horsepower.”) that precedes it, is, thankfully, short. “Top Hat, White Tie, and Tails” tune and dance, with tuxedoed back-up dancers, is classic, integrated into the movie as part of Jerry’s stage show (especially fun is Astaire’s tapping as gun fire, using his cane as a rifle to “shoot” down the other dancers).

The supporting actors are always fun to watch in the Astaire-Rogers movies. Edward Everett Horton (as Horace Hardwick, the producer of Astaire’s show) and Eric Blore (as his valet) are hilarious in their tete-a-tetes. Helen Broderick (as Horace’s wife Madge), appearing in the film’s second half, is particularly funny in her scene where Ginger tells her of her husband’s supposed infidelity (“He chased me in the park.”/ “Really, I didn’t know Horace was capable of that much activity… Did he catch you?”/ “Yes.”/ “Good for Horace!”). Final third of the movie offers a little too much explanation, slowing the film down, but it’s rescued by “The Piccolino” number (“By the Adriatic waters, Venetian sons and daughters are strumming a new tune upon their guitars…”).

Top Hat (1935): Fred Astaire and Ginger Rogers give their finest performances among their vehicles, evidenced best by their dancing and acting in the show stopping "Cheek to Cheek"; several other top notch Irving Berlin songs ("Isn't This a Lovely Day (to be Caught in the Rain)," "The Piccolino," "Top Hat, White Tie, and Tails") and the usual funny supporting actors make this one of the team's most outstanding films, if its final third drags a bit.