Category: Best Screenplay

CHINATOWN

By Marc S. Sanders

Forget it Jake!  

Roman Polanski turned Robert Towne’s page turning script into a noir mystery for the ages.  Practically every scene in Chinatown turns whatever you learned before off its axle.  The mystery of what Jake Gittes, a private dick played so well by Jack Nicholson, is attempting to uncover seems to repeatedly take the guy back to square one.  

Towne’s Oscar winning original screenplay, one of the best ever written, begins with simplicity in motion.  A Mrs. Mulwray insists on hiring Mr. Gittes to find out if her husband is having an affair.  The husband is in charge of the water supply within the surrounding areas of Los Angeles.  Despite Jake’s encouragement for her not to go down this path and recuse herself of heartache, he accepts the case charging his regular fee plus a bonus should he turn up anything that points to something illicit.

Just before meeting with the wife in despair, Jake wrapped up a case, handing over photographs of a wife to her bruiser husband (Burt Young).  The poor guy understands that his spouse was messing around.  None of it is shocking to Jake.  He’s seen the same results many times before and he’ll likely come upon the same situation with Mr. Mulwray.  However, as he follows her husband, it does not seem to be just an affair that is transpiring.  Jake finds himself driving out to a dried-up reservoir and then he’s adjacent to a drainpipe by the ocean shore.  The more he sniffs out, the more likely his nose is going to pay for what he gets closer to.

It’s hard to write about Chinatown as I reflect on the film for a review.  There’s just so much to spoil, even beyond what is now considered to be one of the all time great twists in film history.  I would dare not give anything away.  Some of the luckiest people today are those that have never seen the picture.  To watch Chinatown with a blank slate.  If that’s you…Wow!!! You are blessed of the experience that awaits you.

The cast is a bevy of recognizable faces; character actors who went on to popular television shows and movies (Higgins from Magnum P.I. and Miss Collins from What’s Happening!!!).  Faye Dunaway though is maybe the most unforgettable.  Jake is smart enough not to trust the famed actress’ character (I don’t even want to share the name of who she portrays).  Long before Sharon Stone hammed it up with a less creative eye rolling commando cross legged sitting, Faye Dunaway was best at being sexy, alluring and especially enigmatic.  With her Hollywood glamor appearance in costume wear from Anthea Sylvester, she has that classic noir dame appearance with a smooth inflection in her voice.  Word is that Polanski wanted Dunaway to reflect his own mother’s appearance.

Then there is the celebrated filmmaker John Huston representing old money, a lot of it, in a rare acting appearance.  He plays Noah Cross, a great name to be associated with water.  His gravelly voice and hulking mass lend to what he’s earned demonstrating his power over a commodity resource that everyone cannot live without.  Per Jake Gittes’ experience, he knows it’s best to seek out a motive long before he can uncover a crime.  Gittes’ perusal of some photographs on an office wall will allow him the gumption to go up against a titan like Cross. 

It’s a welcome setting to see late 1930’s L.A.  There is a drought going on and coincidentally Jake is perhaps tailing the guy responsible, but only because of a likely affair.  Still, when his pursuit takes him to the most unexpected places, something more sinister may be happening.  When someone turns up dead by drowning, Chinatown becomes more deliciously complex. Why would Dunaway’s character pay Jake, and later why would Noah Cross double the fee to hire the detective, as well? Jake’s clients may be playing against one another, but he’s the one being tossed in several different directions.

There has to be over a dozen twists in Chinatown.  Thankfully, none of them are contrived or thought up out of the blue.  New depths await further down the rabbit hole.  

I love how Jake Gittes functions.  He might be accused of being sleazy in his profession, but he drives a nice Pontiac classic convertible and dons a stylish wardrobe to go with his fedora hats, designer sunglasses and sterling silver cigarette case.  He’s also quite sharp.  He’s got methods to easily prove how long someone has been at a certain locale and how to follow another car at night.  All of it makes perfect sense.  

Jack Nicholson is great in his role. He does not go all looney like in other pictures, but he’s quiet with his tone, reserved of any kind of shock to the discoveries he finds.  Yet, this particular case might challenge the detective’s sense of acuity into another realm.

Polanski, Towne and Nicholson also thought it best to apply a crudeness to Gittes.  He’ll happily tell an off color joke to his colleagues.  When Dunaway, sneaks up behind him, Gittes is not quick to apologize.  Instead, he gives an annoying scowl for her being there when a prim, genteel woman has no business listening in.  When he gets a phone call, he’ll tell his partners in the room to “shut the fuck up.”  Sam Spade never talked like this.  

The production value is great.  Nothing in or on top of a desk, for example, looks out of place.  From the cars to the interior furnishings of the homes and offices, it’s a Technicolor transport back in time with the dialogue uttered like characters of the ‘70s and ‘80s might deliver.  Humphrey Bogart could never occupy the role of Jake Gittes.

I recently watched The Offer on Paramount Plus which explores how The Godfather made it to the big screen.  Chinatown was next on the horizon, but executives were left confused by a boring middle section about – excuse me, water???? Plus, there was an unsavory plot twist that is hard to even fathom.  The script’s first draft doesn’t even have a scene set in Chinatown.  So what’s with the title? Casting was also unsatisfying.  Now producer Robert Evans wanted you to see more and identify with the chutzpah of the ultra-powerful and wealthy, because only the super-rich are the ones who can get away with murder.

Despite the movie’s welcome yet perplexing surpises, it’s all incredibly satisfying.  Who is doing what to whom, and why?  The best mysteries are the ones that make perfect sense yet can’t be figured out until someone finally starts telling the protagonist the whole shocking truth.  In Jake’s line of work, nothing is shocking. However, the greater the secret, the bigger the liability for everyone involved. 

I’m sorry reader.  I know I’m being vague but therein lies the delight in watching Chinatown.  As you watch, you may throw your hands in the air.  Now what?  You’ll find yourself in disbelief and that would be the best compliment you can give to Roman Polanski, Robert Evans and Robert Towne.

Chinatown is the best example of a film noir pot boiling thriller.  It’s the reason movies continue to thrive; to witness a scene chewing villain, pine after a beautiful, lustrous woman who is not telling us everything, and follow a gumshoe detective who thinks he knows everything but actually could never fully comprehend anything until he makes it all the way back to Chinatown.

TOM JONES

By Marc S. Sanders

Watching Tom Jones I wondered if the Monty Python troupe took inspiration from producer/director Tony Richardson’s film.  It’s all quite madcap.  With Albert Finney as the lead title character, there’s a zany quality to this eighteenth century piece adapted from Henry Fielding’s novel The History Of Tom Jones, A Foundling.

The film opens like a silent movie with title cards being used to emote dialogue.  The Squire Allworthy (George Devine) returns to his estate and upon retiring for bed, he discovers newborn Tom beneath the blankets.  Allworthy decides to raise the child. 

The film transitions to a talkie picture and Tom grows up to be portrayed by Albert Finney.  The orphan man gets himself into all kinds of predicaments, notably with an assortment of women but his true affections are directed towards Sophie (Susannah York), the daughter of the neighbor Squire Western. The cad known as Blifil (David Warner, in his very first film role) convinces Allworthy that Tom is a villain and thus he’s excised from the estate with cash to seek out his own fortune.  Interactions lead to unexpected circumstances for Tom, including being robbed penniless, crossing paths with the butler who was presumed to be his father, and being sentenced to death for murder after he rescues an endangered maiden from the assault of a British red coat (Julian Glover).

Tom Jones takes unexpected turns in its narrative, and it leads to big laughs.  Upon discovering that his wallet is stolen, Albert Finney breaks the fourth wall seeking the viewers assurance that he is not making it up.  Other characters are depicted in freeze frame silliness as they eavesdrop on Allworthy.  There’s lots of running around escapades as Tom flees from being caught with a couple of mistresses.  I was waiting for the Benny Hill music to cue in, though John Addison’s score suffices well to keep it all lighthearted during such times when the film speeds up with a Keystone Kops kind of pace.

A film like Tom Jones is not what I normally gravitate towards.  Going back and forth, there’s lots of screaming banter and deep English dialects that swallow the words being uttered.  Drunken debauchery is relied upon for Hugh Griffith as Squire Western; he was one of five actors nominated for the film.  At one point, Griffith falls off his horse and the animal lands on top of him.  Apparently, this was not stunt work as Griffith notoriously showed up drunk each day on set and the horse easily overtook him.

Albert Finney, though, is a comedy gem as he innocently portrays Tom with no ill intent.  Watching him here in his youth, he’s adorable with an occasional prince and pauper romantic interpretation of his performance. A memorably hilarious scene involves Tom and a lady mistress seducing one another from both sides of the table as they gorge themselves with a bevy of food including pheasant, pears, potatoes and so on. Without Finney’s fearlessness in leading this sloppy, drooling scene, I’m not sure it would have worked as well. Richardson elongates the moment between the two to build the laughter.

I’m impressed with much of the filmmaking from Tony Richardson.  Cameras must have been mounted on horseback to get up close pursuit during a sporting hunt of a deer that also included a large number of rabid dogs.  Still, I was a little queasy in the follow up scene when the deer is slaughtered amid the canines barking for a portion. Technically speaking though, the film works on many levels.

As well, I could not help but consider that a modern filmmaker like Yorgos Lanthimos (Poor Things, The Favorite) adopted some of Richardson’s comedic approach.  Tom Jones is proudly weird and obscure just like Lanthimos’ storytelling.

Yet, I cannot comprehend the praise awarded to this movie, including Best Picture and Director as well as the nominations in cast performances by critics, Oscars and BAFTAS.  I’m convinced of the period timing and what the script and actors lend to the film, but I’ll never say any of it left me enraptured in the novelty.  It’s a cute story, but that’s all.  Kind of like Arthur with Dudley Moore, where the innocent man child happily lives within his sophomoric mentality while uncovering who he truly loves.  There is likely more to take away from Tom Jones, but I didn’t recognize it.

If anything, as I continue my trek towards watching and reviewing every Best Picture winner in Oscar history, I’m at least glad I got Tom Jones checked off my list.  At times, it’s delightful and it’s also proudly oddball in its execution.  What constitutes it as the best film of 1963? Reader, I’m just not sure.  Yet, it is at least entertaining with much praise for Albert Finney and cast.

CALL ME BY YOUR NAME (Italy, 2017)

by Miguel E. Rodriguez

DIRECTOR: Luca Guadagnino
CAST: Armie Hammer, Timothée Chalamet, Michael Stuhlbarg
MY RATING: 10/10
ROTTEN TOMATOMETER: 94% Certified Fresh

PLOT: In 1980s Italy, romance blossoms between a seventeen-year-old student and the older man hired as his father’s research assistant.


Call Me by Your Name is remarkable because it tells a heartbreaking first-love story that could have easily devolved into cheap melodrama.  I mean, look at the plot description above.  It has “soap opera” written all over it.  But because director Luca Guadagnino (Bones and All, the 2018 remake of Suspiria) applies restraint, and because the screenplay by James Ivory (of Merchant Ivory fame) sticks to realism as opposed to predictable scripted nonsense, and because of the fearlessness of the film’s two leads, Call Me by Your Name becomes one of the best films about the thrill and heartbreak of first love I’ve ever seen.

The story takes place in the summer of 1983, in Italy.  The Perlmans are on vacation at their villa in the Italian countryside.  Mr. Perlman (Michael Stuhlbarg) has hired an American, Oliver (Armie Hammer), to assist him with research over the holiday.  Elio (Timothée Chalamet), Mr. Perlman’s 17-year-old son, appears to take an instant dislike to Oliver, but we later see this is a maneuver designed to disguise his real, and scary, crush on Oliver.

…but I don’t want to write a full synopsis of the story, because I guarantee it would read like someone’s Twilight fan-fiction or something similar.  What happens is reasonably predictable and has been seen in countless movies from Douglas Sirk to Nora Ephron.  What makes this movie special is how it happens.

There is not a single scene or shot in the movie that feels routine.  Or, not “routine”, that’s not the right word.  The whole movie feels authentic.  Nobody talks in screenplay-ese (except for a sensational speech from Mr. Perlman near the end, which I will forgive because it works).  Whatever happens, whenever it happens, feels spontaneous and precisely observed.

Here is at least one moment that captures what I mean.  Elio’s crush on Oliver has gotten deeper, but he’s kept it to himself.  One night, the two of them and a bunch of Elio’s friends visit a local bar with an outdoor dance floor.  Oliver starts dancing with a pretty girl.  Elio’s friends get up to dance, but Elio stays behind, eyeing Oliver and the girl, and you can almost hear the gears turning over in Elio’s head.  He finally does get up to dance, but watch his movements carefully: he starts dancing with a girl, but surreptitiously moves closer to Oliver for a moment.  Oliver turns to Elio, and Elio abruptly turns away and pulls a little move and slide, pretending not to notice Oliver while also trying to impress him a little.  Elio turns back, sees that Oliver is no longer looking, and quickly moves back towards him.  This kind of behavior is so specific, and yet universally recognizable.  There was no dialogue, but I knew everything going through Elio’s head in every second of that scene.

I also admired the scene, done in one take, where Elio finally reveals his feelings to Oliver, but it’s all done in this marvelous code, where Elio never actually says precisely what he’s talking about, but Oliver is smart enough to decipher the code.  (“Are you saying what I think you’re saying?”)  I’ve seen so many films where the Oliver character is written as an otherwise adult person but has to be incredibly dumb in order to prolong the “idiot plot.”  How refreshing to be confronted with characters with working brains.

Guadagnino also appears to be a great fan of Japanese films, particularly those of Yasujiro Ozu.  Throughout the movie, there are many scenes that are divided, almost like chapter headings, by a series of stationary shots, held for several seconds, of ordinary items: a window, or a staircase, or the still waters of a lake, or an apricot tree.  Ozu was known for doing the same thing in his films; they were called “pillow shots,” because Japanese poetry utilizes the same device, using words instead of shots, to separate thoughts or ideas.  These “pillow shots” lend a sense of poetry or…I don’t know what, exactly, to the film.  It may look (and sound) a little pretentious, but trust me, it works.  It made the movie feel as if there were great currents of significance rumbling below the surface.

Alert readers may notice I haven’t even mentioned the sex scenes yet.  Going into this movie, I remembered that there was some hoopla about the graphic nature of those scenes, but I get the feeling they’re like the ear scene in Reservoir Dogs: everyone thinks they remember seeing the ear actually getting cut off, but we don’t.  Tarantino tactfully moves the camera up and away and leaves the dismemberment off-camera.  Same thing here.  Guadagnino leaves no doubt as to what is about to happen, but then moves the camera away, or cuts to the next scene, or expertly positions the camera so the naughtiest actions are never actually seen.

This is shrewd filmmaking.  If the film had been filled with NC-17-worthy content, the message would have been lost.  It would have become a movie about the sex instead of being about the turmoil and ecstasy of being in love with someone who loves you back, even if it’s only for a short time.

I should also mention the roles of Elio’s parents.  I can see how some people might watch the movie and imagine that his parents are far too forgiving, especially given their religious upbringing.  However, this was another welcome departure from the realms of unnecessary melodrama.  Instead of scenes where the furious parents make unreasonable demands or deliver intolerant lectures, we are given a father and mother who know enough about parenting, and about their son, to realize when it’s time to lecture and when it’s time to just let things happen.  I’m not suggesting they would ever willingly allow their son to go into harm’s way.  But they’re smart enough to know how important it is that Oliver and Elio take a little sabbatical together before Oliver’s final departure.

(They also know when a small lie is sometimes necessary at the appropriate moment.  After Mr. Perlman’s wonderful speech at the end of the film, Elio asks him, “Does mother know?”  Mr. Perlman hesitates, then delivers a very tactful answer.  To me, this was his way of protecting his son at a time when he desperately needed comfort.  I suppose it could be interpreted either way, but since Mr. Perlman knows his wife, I believe it was a perfectly timed lie.  Just a small one.  It’s a magnificent button to the scene.)

Call Me by Your Name deservedly won the Academy Award for Best Adapted Screenplay that year.  It’s a masterpiece of storytelling by osmosis, without using signal flags or hokey dialogue.  It recalls with perfect precision how it feels to be uplifted and crushed emotionally, and how one must decide how to deal with those feelings.  I was never the 17-year-old son of a professor with romantic feelings for his assistant, but I understood and identified with Elio nearly every step of the way during the movie.  I would imagine many others can, too.

CASABLANCA

By Marc S. Sanders

I’ve always struggled with Casablanca.  It just does not have that hold on me that so many cinema lovers acquire upon viewing the celebrated film.  In the past, I’ve called it overrated, a bore, underwhelming, and plenty of other negative connotations.  Don’t worry reader.  I’ve been stabbed in the heart, back and eyes a thousand times over with the eyerolls, the verbal gasps, and the room exits from friends when I contribute to a discussion on this overall favorite.  I’ve tried.  Believe me, I’ve tried to love Casablanca.  Now, on this fifth viewing, or call it the sixth because I had to stop in the middle when my mind was wandering last week, I sincerely developed a semblance of appreciation for the picture.  Now be patient with me.

To absorb the classic film about Rick Blaine (Humphrey Bogart), the saloon keeper who keeps to himself, crossing paths with his long-lost love Ilsa Lund (Ingrid Bergman), I allowed myself to envision watching it in a movie house in 1942, when World War II was occurring on another side of the world and people were being forced to relocate or suffer captivity at the hands of the vile Nazi regime.  Casablanca, Morocco was the last hopeful exit to Lisbon, and then on to the Americas.  I had to embrace the setting and the time period in order to relate to the Oscar winning film. 

Rick runs the Café Americain near the airport of Casablanca.  All walks of life come through the doors each night to drink, gamble, smoke, flirt, and sing along with Sam the memorably charming piano player (Dooley Wilson). Most importantly, some patrons hope to score the necessary papers for passage out of this tiny desert port area that has yet to be Nazi occupied.  Rick is the expatriate who runs this gin joint and he has no interest in aiding anyone with an escape, nor with assisting the Nazis in rounding up their usual suspects they believe are enemies of the state.  He could care less about anyone’s cause or politics.  He just wants to run a respectable bar.

However, the past circles back on Rick when Ilsa arrives with a wanted Frenchman named Victor Laszlo, great name, played by Paul Henreid.  Victor has escaped the concentration camps and he is making efforts to reach the states so that he can continue his underground campaign of exposing the treachery and threats of the Nazis.  Rick has already been warned if Victor should make an appearance he must not be permitted to leave Casablanca.  The bar manager would rather not be involved.  Yet, it’s hard for him to resist thinking about his past love, Ilsa. Flashbacks soon reveal their time spent in Paris when they fell madly in love only for her to suddenly abandon him as they were trying to board a train exodus before the Nazis seized the territory.

Casablanca has a very simple plot and that lends to the strength of its finished product.  The love triangle of three good people, Rick, Ilsa and Victor, is where the complexity lies and there is no denying how memorable the main players are in their roles.  However, I can only surmise that the legendary status of the film tainted my open mindedness for an admiration of the piece.  The hype has always been too much for me, I guess.

Reader, I don’t think I am a big fan of Humphrey Bogart.  I’m very sorry.  It could be The Big Sleep or The Maltese Falcon.  Too often, I think he is quite bland in his signature, unforgettable caricature. No matter which film he’s in, Bogart is unique.  There is still no one like him with his chiseled face, dark hair and deep voice.  I’m not sure that’s even a fair description.  It’s hard to find the right adjectives for Bogie.  He was one of a kind.  However, there was little range to the star.  (I know.  I’ve seen The African Queen; great movie.) Rick is so closed off and predominantly on the same plane of emotions whether I am seeing him at the beginning of the film or at the end when he delivers his final speech to Ilsa before the plane departure.  He’s too one note for me. He’s just a boring guy and if I was at a table drinking alongside him, I would have to excuse myself very quickly.  Even to play chess with Rick would be excruciating.

Paul Henried is charming though.  He plays Victor as the adventurer or the daring swashbuckler, aware of his threat to the Nazis, but fearless in whatever he faces.  He just knows he serves a greater purpose to the world.  The loose knit, white suit and hat compliment his relaxed stature.  Even the scar over his right eye seems to tell a story.  In Casablanca, I find myself more concerned with what will happen to Victor Laszlo than anyone else.

Ingrid Berman is strikingly beautiful.  You can just recognize her exuberance through the black and white photography.  She was an actress that the camera loved and her performance is sensational as the woman caught in the middle, who mourned what she thought was the loss of a husband, only to find new love. Then the unexpected interfered with her desire for a promising new future.  Her best scene is when she stands up to Rick, no matter the stakes, to get him to help her rescue her husband Victor.  If it is not pleading, then she will use other means.  Frankly, I had forgotten what she tried next in this scene, which I will not spoil.  So, when the camera cuts back to her following another speech from Rick, my eyes went wide.  Ilsa is not just some pretty dame.  She knows she must be more than that, even more than a one night stand or some gentleman’s true love.

For so many years, I would hop on The Great Movie Ride at Disney/MGM studios and come across the famous final scene.  I heard Rick’s speech so many times, a hundred times more than I have watched Casablanca.  Take a scene like that out of context, and it waters down the power of the celebrated film.  What a difference it makes after you learn why Rick and Ilsa could not stay together following Paris, and why you learn their fates are destined for different paths perhaps.  “Here’s lookin’ at you kid!” has a deeper connotation when watching the film as a whole.  I know I’m pointing out the obvious.  Yet, I embraced Bogart’s improvised line that much more in addition to so many other well-known pieces of dialogue.  Other films have those special moments where you can isolate a scene on a work break and just take it in.  I know snippets of Casablanca are viewed that way, but there’s an emptiness to watching these scenes in that fashion.

In 1942, following the Japanese attack on Pearl Harbor, as Jews and gypsies and every other race or nationality or demographic were being bullied at the hands of an unforgiving Nazi regime, audiences must have regarded Victor, Ilsa and Rick as heroes.  True heroes!  They must have been considered the heroes who don’t amount to a hill of beans in this crazy, mixed-up world, but must therefore sacrifice what they hold so dear and personal.  It makes me wonder if Michael Curtiz’ film would have had the same kind of impact if it was released at later time in the century like the 1960s, long after the war was over and the Axis armies, particularly the Nazis, were wiped out.  In 1942, perhaps I would have had more of an appreciation for Rick and Ilsa if I watched the film then. 

My attention especially perked up during the competitive nature of the French and Moroccan patrons singing the anthem La Marseillaise against the Germans’ rendition of Die Wacht am Rhein.  It’s a scene that demonstrates promise during a very frightening and confusing period in time.  I imagine audiences applauded and cheered during this scene.  On the other hand, maybe they were afraid and apprehensive to do so during such a confusing time.  The fiction found in the Oscar winning script from twin brothers Julius and Phillip Epstein was daring enough to defy the power of Hitler’s fast rising influence.  Modern films from the likes of Spike Lee and Adam McKay attempt to circumvent their stories to present day crises and dare to footnote their films with real life news footage.  It’s admirable at times.  Sometimes their efforts are divisive.  Yet, they do not feel as meaningful as what the Epstein brothers and Curtiz accomplished.  For me, this moment near the conclusion of Casablanca is my favorite scene of the picture.  The slaphappy regulars of Rick’s Café  Americain were enthusiastic to join Sam for a rousing rendition of Knock On Wood, but when reality intrudes upon their escapism, another dimension to the people does not hesitate to stand up for a purpose.

So, it’s always been tough to win me over with Casablanca.  Still, I marvel at the picture for the absorbing settings of Rick’s Café along with the crowded Moroccan streets occupied with refugees and pickpockets under the authority of a party who threatens to stake its claim.  Sam turns the bar into a regular evening atmosphere to bond and escape while the drinkers yearn to be on the next plane to safety and freedom.  Tricks are turned where travel papers are the most sought-after commodity, and ultimately, beyond Rick Blaine, there are people who may strive for safe passage and will also unite against a tyranny if enough will take up their swords, people like Victor Laszlo. This is what I treasure from Casablanca. 

The cast consists of a colorful bunch including Claude Rains, Sydney Greenstreet, Peter Lorre and Conrad Veidt.  Plus, Rick and Ilsa will always have Paris, but that was always a tough relationship for me to connect with.  What is more meaningful is the harbor that Casablanca and Rick’s Café Americain offered those who were fleeing, hiding and surviving amid their desperations.

This will not be the last time I watch Casablanca.  For a film to have this much staying power after more than eighty years, there must be something else I have yet to uncover, and I cannot wait to find it.

I’ll play it again for old time’s sake. 

FARGO

By Marc S. Sanders

The seeds of a crime begin in the dead of winter, in a saloon, located in Fargo, North Dakota.  A car salesman requests two thugs kidnap his wife so that they can demand an eighty-thousand-dollar ransom from his wealthy father-in-law.  The salesman will split the monies with the crooks and all will be well.  Hold on there!  It’s not as simple as it looks.

The Coen Brothers (Joel and Ethan) completed some of their most legendary work when they opted to “adapt” a supposedly true story that sheds blood over the snow-covered plains of northern Minnesota when all of the characters involved choose not to cooperate with one another.  The unpredictable is what keeps their film Fargo so engaging.  With each passing scene, you ask yourself “What next????”

Jerry Lundegaard (William H Macy, in my favorite role of many good ones from him) is the salesman who gets in over his head.  This cockamamie scheme of his stems from a need to land a get rich quick investment, but he doesn’t have the money and his father-in-law Wade Gustafson (Harve Presnell) certainly won’t lend it to him.  Steve Buscemi and Peter Stormare are the hired criminals, Carl and Gaere.  As quick as the agreement is made, Jerry wants to call off the arrangement, but things are already set in motion.  The kidnapping occurs, albeit sloppily, and a late-night pullover on a dark, snow covered back road leads to the bloody shootings of three people. 

Marge Gunderson (Frances McDormand, in her first Oscar winning role) is awoken early in the morning.  Her sweet husband makes her a quick breakfast and she’s off in a jiff to inspect the crime scene of the three murders.  She is seven months pregnant, but she’s got a job to do.

Murder, kidnapping, fraud, and embezzlement piece together the Coens’ Oscar winning script.  What makes Fargo special though is how out of frame it all seems among these odd and quirky characters.  The Minnesotan dialects and vernacular (“You betcha!!” “You’re darn tootin’!” “Oh, for Pete’s sake!!!”) from Marge and Jerry do not seem standard in a story like this.  Even their names – Lundegaard and Gunderson – seem totally out of place here.  However, the pregnant, sweet natured police officer should not be underestimated, and the puppet master behind this plot should have known better.  In fact, other than Marge, no one should be doing what they’re doing, and yet that’s exactly what spins everything off the rails.

The Coens humanize the characters of their film.  Marge must stop inspecting the grisly crime scene because her morning sickness is about to overtake her.  “No, I think I’m gonna barf!” It is not the blood or the cold winter that’s holding her back.  Natural pregnancy gets in the way.  When clues lead her to Minneapolis for an overnight stay, she takes advantage of meeting with a high school friend.  Their meet-up has nothing to do with the central plot, but the writers insist on showing Marge during her off hours.  It’s a hilarious scene and Frances McDormand’s timing is naturally comedic with a guy who just has an overenthusiastic way about himself.  Marge is not just a smart cop.  She’s got a life outside of her career as a loving wife, friend and soon to be mother.

As well, Jerry insists to Wade not to contact the police and let him deal directly with the kidnappers when they call.  Wade isn’t just going to sit by for long though.  He got to the top of his powerful pyramid by taking things head on.  Jerry just doesn’t have the instinct to realize this is how the cards will fall.  Wade was not to be involved, under any circumstances.  Yet, that’s exactly what is happening.  This is not good Jerry.

Carl and Gaere (These names!!!!  I’m telling ya.), as crooked hoods, have no honor among themselves.  One might betray the other and that could lead to another gory, very gory, yet inventive moment. 

Other than Marge, either no one is particularly smart in Fargo, or they are just not seeing the possible outcomes all the way through.  Still, even the dumbest of folk can make a turn of events gone awry so fascinating.  When one tiny detail gets out of place, then the players improvise. That only twists several other expectations to go off kilter and the dominoes begin to tumble.  Very quickly, as everything has unraveled, it is any wonder how this all began in the first place. 

Fargo demonstrates that crime is hardly committed with a perfect plan.  Fortunately, the imperfections are at least as entertainingly curious as the perfections found in so many other films.  Oh, you betcha!!!!! 

ANATOMY OF A FALL

By Marc S. Sanders

Was Samuel Maleski pushed or did he commit suicide? It appears he fell from the balcony of the French chalet he shares with his wife Sandra Voyter (Sandra Hüller) and their blind son, Daniel (Milo Machado Graner).  That is the focus of Anatomy Of A Fall, one of the films to be recognized in several Oscar categories for 2023 including Best Picture, Best Director for Justine Triet, Screenplay, Editing and an acting nomination for Hüller.

Triet’s film kept my attention right from the start because this newsworthy story has all the elements many would look for in a Netflix documentary or a Dateline program.  New details are introduced in nearly every scene whether it stems from conversations that Sandra has with her attorney Vincent (Swann Arlaud) or as part of the witness interrogations during the thrilling trial scenes that take place a year after she has been indicted for causing her husband’s death.

Sandra is German.  Samuel (Samuel Theis) is French.  To stay on a common ground, they speak to one another in English.  We learn this as the film flashes back to conversations and arguments the pair have prior to the deadly scene that occurs soon after the film begins.  The inconsistency in how they communicate as a married couple will have one ponder how pertinent it is when Sandra is considered a prime suspect in her husband’s death.  Also, it’s curious that Samuel suddenly decided to record a number of their disputes.  More evidence is revealed as the story carries on.

On the surface, the story plays like a typical Law & Order episode.  However, there’s a fresh quality to this kind of supposed crime drama.  A large portion of Triet’s screenplay (co-written with Arthur Harari) takes place in a French courtroom and it’s interesting to see how the procedures of witness questioning varies from what American audiences are accustomed to.  For example, an expert on blood splatters gives testimony and conclusion. While he is still on the stand awaiting further questioning, the Procureur will divert questions directly at Sandra, the accused, for explanations. 

The material witness for both sides is Daniel. After returning from a nature walk with the dog, Snoop, he comes upon his deceased father lying in the snow with blood gushing from the side of his head.  The blind son is thoroughly questioned about if he could hear arguments coming from his parents while loud music was blasting from his father’s upper-level workspace.  He’s probed about his parent’s relationship and how he got along with his mother and his father respectively.  Daniel is also put to the test of reenactments on the day in question.  While he is outside with Snoop, could he hear the argument his parents were having over the loud volume of the music from 50 Cent playing.

A sort of competition between Sandra and Samuel is also noted, as she is a published author. He has been insecure of becoming a writer himself after giving up his job as a literature professor and moving the family into the mountains to restore this chalet as a personal project. 

The performances in Anatomy Of A Fall are outstanding, especially from its lead Sandra Hüller, whose role was specifically written with her in mind.  Of the many great dramatic moments, there’s a specific flashback scene introduced as evidentiary recording.  It is a telling argument between Sandra and Samuel in the kitchen.  Justine Triet directs this long scene as a common occurrence among most marriages but then it begins to elevate.  Just when you think the two spouses are winding down, the intensity cranks back up again only it goes from a lower pitch to a much more aggressive state very quickly.  Their quarrelling becomes erratic, and while we are watching the flashback, it cuts away the moment it gets physical. Triet wisely returns the film to the courtroom observing Sandra listening to her memory all over again while the packed audience focuses.  In particular is the boy Daniel who is learning more about what weighed on his father and mother both individually and as a married couple.  When the argument gets physical the viewer of the film is in the same position as everyone in the courtroom, or more specifically blind Daniel, left to only imagine who breaks what dish and who slaps who.

Vincent, Sandra’s attorney, reminds his client early on that there is the truth and then there is what a jury and a court of public opinion will believe.   Swann Arlaud is not an actor I’m familiar with.  (Actually, I’m not familiar with anyone involved in this film.)  Arlaud is a standout though.  I like how he listens and asks well timed questions of Sandra as she recounts what occurred the day of the incident; where Samuel was and what he was doing along with where she was, interviewing someone about one of her books, on the floor below.  Swann Arlaud has a dubious expression as he absorbs all the information.  Even he knows this could have gone several different ways.  Maybe Samuel did intentionally jump to kill himself.  Perhaps the aggravation that Sandra endured of her husband motivated her to push him over or to hit him bluntly on the head causing his fall over the balcony railing.  There’s evidence to suggest a number of different outcomes. 

Anatomy Of A Fall succeeds on the examination of a crime and how it is tried, particularly in a French court of law.  Fortunately, the script does not offer many definitive answers when it concludes.  There are hanging threads left to consider and wonder.  Yet, it goes in depth with analysis so that when the verdict arrives, I could accept either decision of guilt or innocent.  It’s unfair, but in a murder trial, especially if there’s a possibility that the accused is not guilty, then the victim is somewhat put on trial as well.  Anatomy Of A Fall lends a case for either party.  This film deserves its accolades for its fair and thought-provoking writing as well as the performances of the cast which include a main character that you might or might not find believable.

AMERICAN FICTION

By Marc S. Sanders

Cord Jefferson directs his first film and it’s a winning combination of Tootsie with the prose of Alexander Payne.  

American Fiction follows author/literature professor Thelonius Ellison, otherwise known as Monk (Jeffrey Wright).  He’s encouraged by his university to take some time off as his patience with the mindset of students and colleagues has reached its tipping point.  Upon his return to visit his mother (Leslie Uggams) and sister Lisa (Tracee Ellis Ross), he realizes that mother is beginning to suffer from Alzheimer’s disease.  An unexpected tragedy also strikes, and now Monk has to figure a way to afford round the clock care for mother.

A side story also gnaws at Monk. His literary agent, Arthur (a hilarious John Ortiz) encourages him to write a book about “black life,” much like the current bestselling novelist Sintara Golden (Issa Rae).  Her book is celebrated, particularly by the middle/upper class white demographic, for its “authenticity” in urban black dialect and situations.  Monk is disgusted by this kind of reception.  He may be black, but he’s simply a novelist. Best to take his hard cover novels out of the African Studies section at the bookstore.

After a drunken binge of adopting Sintara’s approach, Monk writes a book, under a gang like pseudonym, as simply a gag to demonstrate how foolish consumers and the top publishers can truly be.  Arthur submits the manuscript to potential publishers and immediately fortune finds him.  A publisher is so moved by the book’s plight, she wants to gear it as a summertime bestseller and Hollywood wants to adapt the story.  It’s also a serious contender for a literary award, of which Monk is on the judging panel.  To Monk’s reluctance, he must don a persona of a fugitive criminal author, unwilling to disclose his identity or location.  White consumerism eats all of this up.  At best, all of this hoopla is covering the cost of his mother’s care. Otherwise, he despises being a part of this charade in front of his new girlfriend, Coraline (Erica Alexander) and his family which also includes his gay, undependable brother, Cliff (Sterling K Brown, another winning actor in this outstanding cast). 

American Fiction works on several levels, but the balance is between satire and relatable drama.  There’s a past that defines Monk’s character.  It defines what irritates him as a black man who is encouraged to digress from the sophisticated intelligence and formal education he possesses.  No one encourages him to live up to his disposition as simply a good writer.  Because he’s black, he can only be regarded as a black writer.   

Jeffrey Wright breaks free of his well-known character actor performances (James Bond films for example) to lead this stellar script adapted from a novel called Erasure by Percival Everett.  He wears multiple hats in this film, which include tender moments shared with Erica Alexander and Leslie Uggams, as well as more challenging debates with the sibling characters while addressing a common family problem of dealing with an elderly parent’s care.  His siblings sardonically address him as “Detective Dictionary” when engaged in a debate. As well, Wright’s comedy works as he’s the irascible author who is flabbergasted at how seriously his little prank takes him so far.  It disgusts him that this novel, this deliberate smack in the face to what readers embrace as black literature, generates a sensation. The further it’s regarded in hype, the deeper Monk has to hide as that urban gangster fugitive.

Thelonius “Monk” Ellison is one of the best characters to come out of 2023.  Ironically, the first film I saw this year was a dreadful comedy called You People with Eddie Murphy and Jonah Hill.  That film attempted to poke fun at what presumed were the stereotypes of blacks and Jews when in fact it had no discernible concept.  American Fiction explores how black life and culture is perceived by a white populace only to genuinely demonstrate an unfair delusion, and it works perfectly.  It’s a very smart script with intelligent and likable characters, and the dialogue is never pandering but absolutely forthright.  

American Fiction pokes fun at perceptions.  How Hollywood addresses black history and culture and a sad truth of what garners attention for fiction with black characters and storylines.  For black actors and authors, like any of their industry peers regardless of race/demographic, there’s more than just stories focusing on life in the ghetto or on a southern plantation.

Cord Jefferson’s screenplay reveals a midlife crisis for Monk that allows a provocation to consider what is genuine in black and white people.  At the same time, while Monk only wants to reveal a false delusion, he also has to live up to unwanted responsibilities as a son, a brother and a boyfriend.  Jeffrey Wright is worthy of an Oscar nomination for his role.  

Nearly every scene in Jefferson’s film can prompt you to hit pause and think about what was just said or demonstrated.  This movie is also very, very funny in its honest truth of what consumers absorb.  Yes! I do believe Hollywood would likely make a revenge slasher horror picture on a Louisiana cotton plantation, complete with Ryan Reynolds as a slave owner getting beheaded by an Afro blade.  

American Fiction is one of the ten best films of 2023. 

THE KING’S SPEECH

By Marc S. Sanders

A man can carry the title of Duke Of York, but that doesn’t make him a super man.  After all, he is just a man like any other, and he can possess annoying hinderances like a stammer for example.  However, when you are part of the Royal Family with a historical lineage of thousands and thousands of years, celebrated and honored in majestic paintings and medals, the inconvenience is never acceptable. 

Colin Firth is Prince Albert George (and forgive me but he has assumed two or three other first names as his birthright that I can not recall.  Phillip, as well I think).  The King’s Speech opens when Albert has been tasked by his father, the King of England, to deliver a speech at Wembley Stadium.  Director Tom Hooper never made a small staircase, a microphone or an audience appear so fearful.  As Albert addresses the crowd, the words do not come out and the only one who can lovingly empathize with him is his devoted wife Elizabeth (Helana Bonham Carter).  The archbishop (Derek Jacobi) puts his head down in disappointment along with all the other formally attired spectators.  It’s a heartbreaking beginning of a story for a well-dressed crippled hero.

Following advisors and doctors who offer ridiculous remedies that allow no alleviation, Elizabeth finally finds an Australian speech therapist who just might be the best last resort for her husband.  Albert is stubbornly reluctant to visit with Dr. Lionel Logue (Geoffrey Rush) who insists that their sessions occur in his office.  Albert does not like that he will also not be addressed formally by Dr. Logue.  Lionel will call him Bertie. 

An unorthodox approach, at least for royalty, is what Lionel insists will aid Bertie.  It is certainly better than his doctor’s recommendation of smoking cigarettes directly into his lungs.  Bertie will lie and roll on the floor.  He’ll hum and bellow unusual noises.  He’ll have to loosen up his physique and even allow Elizabeth to sit on his belly to help him with breathing exercises while working his diaphragm.  The art of swearing is especially helpful.

An interesting fact that Lionel shares with Bertie is that no infant is born with a stammer.  It develops from another source.  Perhaps it is abuse or neglect as a child.  When you are a child of royalty you are not necessarily loved directly by your parents.  A nanny is likely closer to you; maybe even more abusive. 

The King (Michael Gambon) is respected by Bertie, but he is fearful of the future of his monarchy.  The older son, David (Guy Pearce) is next in line to assume the throne, but he is an immature bedhopping playboy, and the threats of Hitler and Stalin are becoming more prominent.  The King begins prepping his Albert by insisting he deliver radio addresses.  The father is not the encouraging type, though.  His disdainful demands are not the cure for Albert’s debilitation.

The King’s Speech advances a couple years during the 1930’s towards the precursors ahead of World War II.  The King has died.  David is behaving just as expected and Albert still suffers with his ability to speak, but Lionel has therapeutically made advances with his student and friend.  He just can’t lose his student.  Otherwise, Bertie will not overcome.

The film’s strength relies on a solid friendship that develops between a common civilian and a man of Royalty.  Geoffrey Rush and Colin Firth work marvelously together.  They are very different personalities with backgrounds that could not be more apart from each other.  The chemistry is a beautiful duet of dialogue from an Oscar winning script from David Seidler. This was Seidler’s first script he ever wrote at the age of eighty. 

The entirety of the picture has a set design from Eve Stuart and Judy Farr that is absolutely grand.  Every room of the palace has the most beautiful furnishings and wallpaper designs.  Tom Hooper uses wide distant lens’ that show the enormities of each room of the castle as well as Prince Albert’s home.  Sometimes he shoots from the floor above, pointing his camera at Albert and Elizabeth.  The majesty of royalty looks down upon the Prince and his speech impediment.  It’s an absorbing setting for the film.  Exterior shots also look authentic with the cars and the dreary coldness of the country and London cobblestones.  I love the hardwood floors that the characters walk upon in the picture, particularly in Lionel’s office.  The resonances of their dress shoes speak more clearly than the Prince. It all seems to echo the overwhelming conflict that our protagonist must overcome, and Colin Firth is terrific at demonstrating his frustrated insecurities.  It’s an Oscar winning performance not only earned for the well-timed stammer but also the mournful facial expressions that are caught in close ups.

The triumphant moment at the end of the film occurs after Albert has succeeded the throne from his incapable brother. He is obligated to address his country in a world-famous speech that eventually brought a defiant England into the second world war to fight off Hitler’s undoubted tyranny.  Tom Hooper’s camera follows a strong hearted, yet nervous Colin Firth walk from one room of the palace to the next until he finally reaches the small makeshift studio where his friend Lionel accompanies him to offer assurance as he speaks to his people and allies across the seas.  I don’t simply see a coach or one who lends confidence.  I see a friend working with another friend.  Again, Geoffrey Rush and Colin Firth make a wonderful pair in a long line of cinematic mentors and their students.

As history has taught us, the King’s speech was simply the beginning of a very dark and bloody experience.  The speech itself became a success, but the real challenge was yet to come.  However, confidence is what allowed a generation to survive.  The irony of The King’s Speech is that the hero a people needed lacked confidence in himself.  By the end of this picture, he is sending his faith, his trust, and his own assurance over to his constituents, who needed it the most in spite of a hindering stammer.  It’s a doubly blessed occasion that a lifelong friendship formed out of a troubling time.

THE LOST WEEKEND (1945)

by Miguel E. Rodriguez

DIRECTOR: Billy Wilder
CAST: Ray Milland, Jane Wyman, Phillip Terry, Howard Da Silva
MY RATING: 8/10
ROTTEN TOMATOMETER: 97% Certified Fresh

PLOT: The desperate life of a chronic alcoholic is followed through a four-day drinking bout.


I don’t drink.  Like, at all.  I’ve never taken drugs, and I’ve never smoked a cigarette.  Luckily, I have never been gripped in the throes of a crippling addiction, unless collecting movies counts as an addiction, in which case I plead the fifth.  I say this, not to brag, but because a lot of my first impressions of Billy Wilder’s The Lost Weekend are tinted by the fact that I don’t know the first thing about being drunk or what it means to suffer from an addiction so crippling that it would force me to hang a liquor bottle outside my window to hide it from my brother.

As it happens, Don Birnam (Ray Milland) DOES suffer from this kind of mid-to-late-stage alcoholism.  We first meet Don as he and his brother, Wick (Phillip Terry), are packing for a long weekend to get away from everything and everyone, including alcohol.  Don is a would-be author who needs a break from…something.  (Whatever he went through is never specified, only hinted at: “It’ll be good for you, Don, after what you’ve been through.”)  Don’s plan to surreptitiously pack the hidden bottle of liquor falls through after the arrival of his almost unbelievably good-hearted girlfriend, Helen (Jane Wyman).  No matter.  He still has a plan, which he confides to the long-suffering but increasingly annoyed bartender, Nat (Howard Da Silva).  He’s bought two bottles of rye.  He’ll hide one badly in his own suitcase and another in his brother’s suitcase.  When Wick discovers the badly hidden bottle in Don’s suitcase, he’ll chew Don out, Don will act suitably contrite, and Wick won’t think about searching his OWN suitcase for a second bottle.  What could go wrong?

During these first few scenes, when Don lies and lies and drinks shot after shot in a bar and winds up missing the train for his getaway weekend, I found it difficult to sympathize with him.  Oh, he’s clever and loquacious when he’s either about to drink or while he’s drinking.  He has enough knowledge to quote Shakespeare at the right times and wittily proposes to Nat the bartender: “I wish I could take you along, Nat.  You and all that goes with you.”  Under the right circumstances, Don is a fun guy, always good for a laugh…until his seventh or eight or ninth shot of bourbon.  Then the other Don shows up, Don the drunk, Don the liar, the Don who gets so desperate for cash that he’ll walk 70 or 80 New York City blocks trying to find an open pawn shop so he can hock his typewriter for drinking money.

For some reason, it was harder for me to empathize with Don Birnam than it was to empathize with any of the main characters in Darren Aronofsky’s Requiem for a Dream (2000).  In that film, not a single leading character escapes the ravages of addiction, and yet even as they made their mistakes, I empathized with them and grieved when their bad decisions made things worse and worse.  With Don Birnam, however, every bad decision he made just made me like him less and less.  I remember thinking at one point, “He’s brought this all on himself, he deserves what he gets.”  Not a very Christian attitude, but I’m not gonna lie about it: that’s what I felt.

And his girlfriend, Helen…wow.  It’s almost like she needs as much of an intervention as he does.  She loves Don so unconditionally it’s almost unbelievable.  What’s the attraction?  Perhaps it’s symptomatic of the era in which The Lost Weekend was made.  She discovers Don’s alcoholism late in their 3-year dating relationship.  (What did people think in 1945 of someone who dates a man for 3 years?)  Instead of breaking up with him or giving him ultimatums, she devotes herself to “fixing” Don.  Not precisely the course of action I would recommend myself in today’s world, but there you have it.

Director Billy Wilder presents this first half of the movie in a very uninflected tone with little-to-no comic relief.  This flat tone becomes very effective at simply presenting the information without directly commenting on it one way or the other.  There are moments up to this point where the movie seems to side with Don (his struggle to find a bottle whose hiding place he’s forgotten is particularly pathetic), but it’s still not really passing judgment or giving him a pass.

And then…the turning point.  Don accidentally falls down a flight of stairs and knocks himself out after finagling some drinking money out of a young lady he flirts with at his favorite dive.  When he wakes up, he’s lying in a bed in the Alcoholic Ward of the local hospital, face to face with one of the strangest characters I’ve ever met in a Billy Wilder movie, and that’s saying something.  He’s a nurse.  “Name of Nolan.  They call me Bim.  You…can call me Bim.”  The closest I can get to describing Bim’s weirdness is to imagine an evil Waylon Smithers from The Simpsons as a male nurse.  On quaaludes.  To Don’s slowly increasing discomfort, Bim lovingly describes what Don is in for during his stay on the Alcoholic Ward, giving the inside scoop on the various repeat offenders and what to expect during his D.T.’s: “You know that stuff about pink elephants?  That’s the bunk.  It’s little animals.  Little tiny turkeys in straw hats.  Midget monkeys coming through the keyholes.”  This Bim…he has NO bedside manner, man.  “Prohibition…that’s what started most of these guys off.  Whoopee!”  (Nice little social commentary there…classic Wilder.)

Don manages to find his way home once again, having not had a drink for almost a day-and-a-half, if my memory is correct.  And it’s at this point that the movie, Billy Wilder, and Ray Milland finally got me in Don Birnam’s corner.

SPOILER ALERT, SPOILERS COMING.

Don finally has a bout of the D.T.’s.  It’s not turkeys or monkeys or elephants, though…it’s a rat.  A single rat chewing its way out of the wall in front of him.  Then, out of nowhere…a bat finds its way into the apartment and flutters around the room.  Don is understandably distressed.  But then the capper: the bat swoops down to where the mouse’s head is poking through the hole, there is a terrible squealing sound, the bat sort of trembles and scuffles…and a stream of thick blood starts to dribble out of the hole where the bat is presumably chewing the rat’s head off or something.

To say I was surprised is an understatement.  Don starts screaming his head off…and at long last I finally empathized with Don’s situation, and I no longer wanted him to wind up penniless and/or alone and/or dead.  I wanted the movie to find a way to fix him, like Helen tries desperately to do through the entire picture.  From then on, I was on his side, or Helen’s side, or whoever’s side, it didn’t matter, as long as he figured out a way to get out from under the disease that was slowly killing him.

I would not dream of revealing exactly how the movie ends.  It might go the way of Leaving Las Vegas (1996).  Or it might go the way of the vastly underseen Duane Hopwood (2005), featuring David Schwimmer as an alcoholic father on a path of self-destruction, but who manages to turn things around.  (Sorry if I spoiled that for you, but I’m betting it’s not a movie most people will want to seek out.)  I will say that it’s the ending of The Lost Weekend that really showcases the era in which it was made more than anything else.  But it could just as easily have gone the other way and still been just as successful.

The Lost Weekend cleaned up at the 1945 Oscars, winning awards for Best Picture, Best Director, Best Actor, and Best Adapted Screenplay (it was based on a novel).  At the time, it was the most unglamorous movie ever made about alcoholism.  Up to that point, drinking in movies rarely if ever led to hangovers and the D.T.’s and spending the night in the Alcoholic Ward.  It certainly belongs to be mentioned with Wilder’s greatest films.  But you’re gonna wanna watch something a little lighter afterwards.  Stalag 17, maybe.  Or Some Like It Hot.  A laughter chaser.

THE LOST WEEKEND

By Marc S. Sanders

Ever wonder why I write so many reviews?  It’s because I yearn to be a successful playwright/screenwriter.  I’ve directed three original plays that I’ve written over the years.  I will be directing a fourth for the holiday season later this year.  Had a few short plays I wrote performed locally as well.  Still, I suffer from a terrible ordeal that often grinds me into bouts of depression and internal rage.  Writer’s block! 

My father always told me that he stayed away from gambling and casinos. He said it was because he could have an addictive personality and he was not confident he could stop if he started.  I know what he means.  I have an addiction.  One that’s not commonly recognized, but I obsess over something every single day. Without fail, every damn day.  It’s my weakness.  Sorry.  I must keep that to myself, though.  Yet my pursuit of what preoccupies my mind taxes on my motivations to write and stretch the imagination needed for churning out one script after another.  So, a remedy is to write about movies that speak to me in lieu of my next great play. 

Billy Wilder’s Oscar winning drama The Lost Weekend demonstrates a writer’s inability to exercise his talent when an endless need for alcohol consumes his every waking moment.  Ray Milland delivers an Oscar winning performance as Don Birnam, an alcoholic wannabe writer of the worst kind.  When Wilder’s film opens, Don seems healthy and spry.  He’s clean shaven, well dressed, and ready to pack a bag for a weekend getaway that his brother Wick (Phillip Terry) has arranged for him along with Don’s girlfriend Helen St. James (Jane Wyman).  Wick implies to Don that this trip is just what his brother needs after what he’s recently been through, and he’ll have his typewriter with him to write in calming solitude.  Eventually we get an idea of what Wick has been referring to as Don attempts to sneak a bottle of rye that is strung outside the window of his New York apartment.  Wick catches Don in the act, pours the bottle down the drain and assures him that he won’t find another drop of liquor anywhere.  He doesn’t even have money to go to the corner bar.  So, Wick and Helen leave Don alone for a few hours before it’s time to depart. Don gets ahold of some cash though, and thus begins a spiral into a drunken binge over a four-day weekend.

I read that when this film was released, test audiences laughed at it.  I guess in 1945 people were not attuned or prepared to witness an account of a very real disease like alcoholism.  I’m not certain it was even diagnosed as a disease at that time.  Surely, the addiction was an ailment though, and Billy Wilder uses some effective cinematic devices to demonstrate the journey into madness and desperation for even just a tiny shot glass of gin or rye. 

A repetitive device is to show a tormented performance from Milland within the shadow of bars or fences.  He’s trapped in his own need for swill.  A telling moment occurs when Don is desperately trying to pawn off his typewriter just for some money to buy more alcohol.  Every store in the city is gated and closed on this particular Saturday though.  It’s the Jewish holiday of atonement for past sins, Yom Kippur.  I found that little detail to be interesting.  Surely, it’s a sin to harm yourself whether by alcohol or suicide, for example, and the holiday is a time for speaking to your inner self and Hashem (G-d) for your past transgressions.  Yet, that is no matter to Don.  He’s not ready or wanting to climb out of his dark hole.

Inanimate objects or props are also given much focus.  Early on, Don is seen at the local bar and Billy Wilder brings an inventive visual to explain just how much this character has consumed in under two hours.  The camera focuses on the wet rings on the bar top left by Don’s shot glass.  First there are two rings, then four and soon, fifteen.  Wilder also zooms his lens into the very bottom of the small glass filled with liquor to show how much the audience will drown in Don’s despair over the course of the film.

Other props also work towards Don’s paranoia such as a ceiling lamp bearing the shadow of a hidden bottle.  Milk bottles left in front of his apartment are not collected from one day to the next showing the passage of time for this weekend, and how even the most basic chore is dismissed so Don can extend his stupor.  A lady’s unguarded purse offers temptation.  A tossed lamp shade seems to glare at Don like a hole that he’s in, as he gets weaker and weaker. 

A magnificent scene, one that I can envision a skilled director doing today with quick cuts on digital film, occurs as Don recalls sitting in a crowded opera house watching the toasting scene of La Triviata; one of the most recognizable operas of all time.  Don is one of many in the audience, and yet he’s the only one alone with the production’s props of various drinking glasses and champagne bottles being used on stage that are mere inches away.  Very quickly into the scene, Billy Wilder skillfully draws focus from the opera singers and diverts towards the immense amount of liquor adorning the stage and the cast with quick cuts of Don salivating and perspiring alone in a chair of a crowded theater.  Everyone else is watching the performance.  Don is gazing at the alcohol.  I wouldn’t be surprised if Martin Scorsese had much admiration for such a sequence.

Phillip Terry is very good in his performance.  I’m surprised he’s not promoted as much as the other two stars of the picture.  Wick cares for his brother, but he’s ready to give up on him after six years of this ordeal, with one more transgression played out. He’s exhausted from lying to cover for Don’s weakness.  He represents the outsider of the dilemma who’s been affected by someone else’s ailment. Jane Wyman as Helen serves a nice purpose as well.  The one last hope for Don.  She’s the only one left who holds on to the faith that she can pull Don out of this nightmare.  Wilder presents these characters as side effects in the Oscar winning script written by him and Charles Brackett. 

Another haunting, but effective dimension comes when Don finds himself in the alcoholics’ ward at Bellevue Hospital, shot on location, and the first film to ever do so.  With an eerie use of a theremin in the soundtrack from Miklós Rózsa, Don is surrounded by dark shadows and tormented victims suffering from drying out just like him.  A nurse explains that he still has the DTs to experience like envisioning being surrounded by horrifying images like bugs crawling on him or something comparatively worse.  I recall from childhood seeing this symptom used on an episode of M*A*S*H.  Wilder invents his own kind of imagery and it’s pretty shocking in its grotesqueness.

I ask for forgiveness when I say that The Lost Weekend seems a little melodramatic. Maybe that’s because movies have built themselves into much more graphic and honest depictions of alcoholism since 1945.  The ending seems to welcome a stringy violin to accompany Ray Milland’s final scene with Jane Wyman.  However, I’m completely impressed with how pioneering this movie must have been for its time.  Billy Wilder didn’t shy away from the dramatic side of drinking. 

The Lost Weekend is certainly an effective and important piece on the study of alcoholism.  I’d recommend it as a visual reference to what can happen to the one who suffers, as well as those around him, including the bartender who deals with the regulars he easily knows by name.  While it’s certainly a movie of its time, the message remains the same.  Though I’m no expert on the effects of alcohol, I’ve seen enough friends who deal with the problem to know that the message in Wilder’s film still rings true.  An addiction to drink will dominate a life.

I always say that movies offer another valuable avenue to learn from.  There’s much to learn from The Lost Weekend.