Tag: review

THE BAREFOOT CONTESSA (1954)

by Miguel E. Rodriguez

DIRECTOR: Joseph L. Mankiewicz
CAST: Humphrey Bogart, Ava Gardner, Edmond O’Brien, Marius Goring, Rossano Brazzi
MY RATING: 7/10
ROTTEN TOMATOMETER: 100% Fresh

PLOT: The life of a Hollywood star whose candle burned briefly and brightly is told (mostly) by the writer/director who helped discover her.


Towards the beginning of The Barefoot Contessa, I let my expectations get the best of me, as I tend to do.  There were scenes between movie producers and directors and conversations about actors and the movie business and dialogue about bad dialogue at the movies, and I settled myself in for another scorching “behind-the-scenes” movie like Sunset Blvd. or The Bad and the Beautiful.  Heck, it was written and directed by All About Eve’s Joseph L. Mankiewicz, so how could I NOT expect something similar?  But I was wrong.  True, the film takes potshots at the industry, but later on it all feels incidental, a necessary sideshow to lead us to the main attraction.

The Barefoot Contessa is a character study about a woman named Maria Vargas (Ava Gardner), who is discovered dancing in a Madrid café by B-movie writer/director Harry Dawes (Humphrey Bogart) and kajillionaire producer Kirk Edwards…whose resemblance to Howard Hughes had to be toned down under threat of legal action from Mr. Hughes himself.  They are scouting for new talent along with Edwards’s gofer, Oscar Muldoon, played by Edward O’Brien, who won an Oscar himself for the role.

Maria is convinced to do a screen test, not by Oscar or Edwards, whose wealth has turned him into a spoiled child, but by the gentle persuasion of Harry Dawes, who quickly sizes Maria up as someone who is not to be bullied or cajoled.  One thing leads to another, and she makes three films in America, all directed by Dawes, and she becomes an enormously popular star, beloved by millions…and three weeks after her fairy-tale wedding to an Italian count, she’s dead.  (That’s not a spoiler; the film opens at her funeral.)

There are so many stories of Hollywood stars who achieve overnight success only to die young for one reason or another.  The Barefoot Contessa tries to get into the mindset of one such actress, but only from the outside, as the public knew her.  Not her friends, because she really only had one: Harry Dawes, the only person who really knew what made her tick, thanks to a heartfelt conversation outside her impoverished Spain apartment.  How much of this conversation reflects what really goes in any actor’s head?  Probably a lot.  She talks about childhood fears, a desire to be loved, her unhappy home life with her parents, insecurities, superstitions (she refuses to wear shoes whenever possible)…there isn’t an actor walking this earth who couldn’t identify with at least two of those issues.

We follow Maria as she moves to Hollywood, changes her last name to D’Amata because it’s more exotic, and becomes a superstar almost against her will.  Ava Gardner plays Maria as someone for whom acting is not a dream job, it’s just a job.  If the by-product is fame and fortune, well, that’s just a lucky break.  Maria is looking for the fairy tale, but it doesn’t involve limos and red carpets, nor does it involve finding a prince who’ll put the slippers back on Cinderella’s feet.

The Barefoot Contessa shifts narrators a couple of times, but it all leads to her fateful meeting with, and eventual wedding to, the dashing Count Vincenzo Torlato-Favrini, an Italian nobleman who “rescues” her from a verbally abusive paramour.  The Count, though, harbors a secret that Dawes, with his “number six sense”, is bothered by, but can’t quite pin down…and since I knew Maria would be dead soon, I thought I knew what that problem was, but boy, was I wrong…

This film may not spark and crackle like All About Eve, but it’s chock full of ideas.  There were times when it felt like it was trying just a little too hard to be a “great” movie, and I know that’s vague, but it’s the best way I can think of to describe it.  I think I need to watch it again, now that I know more or less what’s going to happen, and appreciate what it’s trying to say in the context of stars like Jean Harlow, or Heath Ledger, or Marilyn Monroe, or James Dean.

This movie isn’t so much a “at-what-price-fame” kind of story, though, like Walk the Line or [insert title of musical biopic here].  It’s more like a portrait of someone who beat the system, who was able to reap the benefits of stardom without being consumed by it, much to the consternation of everyone around her.  (But it’s not what killed her; write that up to her desire for the fairy tale.)

THE SHOP ON MAIN STREET (Czechoslovakia, 1965)

by Miguel E. Rodriguez

DIRECTORS: Ján Kadár, Elmar Klos
CAST: Ida Kaminska, Jozek Kroner
MY RATING: 10/10
ROTTEN TOMATOMETER: 100% Fresh

PLOT: During World War II, a carpenter in the Fascist Slovak State is appointed “Aryan controller” of a Jewish widow’s store.


The first hour or so of the 1983 TV movie The Day After features some of the tensest filmmaking I’ve ever seen.  There is something terrifying about how these people go about their normal lives as their world spirals towards Armageddon.  As the sirens begin, the tension reaches a breaking point when you realize it’s only a matter of a few unstoppable minutes before the literal apocalypse.

Oddly enough, that movie came to mind as I watched the Czech film The Shop on Main Street from 1965.  Set around the year 1942, it takes place in a small town in Fascist-controlled Slovakia.  Tono Brtko is a poor, timid carpenter with a nagging, avaricious wife whose sister is married to a high-ranking official in the local Fascist government.  Tono is not a fan of the Fascists, not for any overtly political reasons, but because he doesn’t like his brother-in-law, who has always treated him as a peasant, even before he was a local bigwig.

One drunken night, the brother-in-law, Markus, gives him some news: as part of a new law, Tono has been appointed as the “Aryan controller” of a small shop owned and operated by an elderly Jewish woman, Rozalia.  It’s now Tono’s job to take over the shop until the government figures out exactly what to do with Rozalia and the other local Jews.

(Interestingly, the Nazi swastika is not seen until the film’s closing sequences, but the Third Reich crouches just out of sight.)

What happens next is a curiously effective combination of suspenseful drama and outright comedy, approaching farce.  In that sense, it’s tempting to compare this movie to Roberto Benigni’s Life Is Beautiful, but the tones are very different from each other.  In Benigni’s film, the main character was impish and clownish, an Italian Marx brother.  In The Shop on Main Street, Tono’s dimwittedness leads more organically to scenes of comic misunderstanding between him and the hard-of-hearing Rozalia.  When he tries to explain the situation to her, she believes he’s been hired to be her assistant.  When he arrives to the shop on Saturday morning, he can’t understand why the shutters are still closed well past opening hours.  “It’s the Sabbath,” she says simply as she potters around the back room where she lives.

The comedy of these situations made me laugh, but the underlying seriousness of the plot snuffed it out.  Tono’s wife is constantly nagging him to find out where the old lady has hidden her wealth, since everyone knows Jews are miserly and stingy.  Tono and some of his friends talk about being careful not to be branded as a “Jew lover.”  Tono, to his partial credit, is not as gung-ho as some of his other friends or his wife.  He even mocks Hitler in a strangely tense scene, using a comb as the infamous moustache.  But his conscience only goes so far, and he does his best to just stay under the radar.

Meanwhile, a tower is being built at the center of town to celebrate the Fascist government, and Tono’s Jewish friends can see where this is going and have started packing.  Tono remains certain that, surely, things won’t get TOO bad.  A loudspeaker is installed near the town square.  And then every Jewish citizen receives a notice in the mail…

Beneath the comic personalities and situations, the looming threat of something even worse than run-of-the-mill fascism hovers over the town.  Tono wages a constant war with his conscience.  He’s unable to flout the law by simply refusing to take over Rozalia’s shop because that would mean possible arrest.  But he has no interest in forcing this elderly woman out on the street.  (He’s like me in the early days of Covid: things just can’t POSSIBLY get THAT bad…can they?)

I was riveted by this film.  It felt shorter than its 2-hour-plus running time because of the tension running under everything like a thrumming power line.  In that way, it’s almost Hitchcockian.  And to top it off, this movie had to pass Soviet censors before being released, which absolutely blows my mind for some reason.  The Shop on Main Street plays like a scaled-down version of Schindler’s List, or maybe more like a prologue.  By focusing on a tree instead of the forest, this small-scale movie makes its point just as eloquently and as powerfully as Spielberg’s masterpiece.

WAR AND PEACE (Soviet Union, 1965)

by Miguel E. Rodriguez

DIRECTOR: Sergey Bondarchuk
CAST: Sergey Bondarchuk, Lyudmila Saveleva, Vyacheslav Tikhonov
MY RATING: 8/10
ROTTEN TOMATOMETER: 100% Fresh

PLOT: The Russian aristocracy prepares for the French invasion on the eve of 1812 in one of the most ambitious epic films ever made.


The “Why” of Sergey Bondarchuk’s mammoth War and Peace is key to understanding the “What” and “How” of it.

In 1960, the citizens of Soviet Russia fell wildly in love with another version of War and Peace, directed by King Vidor and starring Audrey Hepburn, Henry Fonda, and Mel Ferrer.  It was notable for its extravagant scope, but also for its myriad historical inaccuracies and departures from Tolstoy’s text.  The Soviet government was unhappy with its popularity, so they commissioned their country’s film industry to create their own adaptation, with the full cooperation of the government, the Red Army, and the citizens of Moscow.  Basically, it was a case of, “Anything you can do, I can do better.”  Director Sergey Bondarchuk was tapped to direct.  Five years (and two strokes) later, this gloriously Russian version of War and Peace would go on to win the Academy Award for Best Foreign Film.

The scale of this film is mindboggling.  Clocking in at an intimidating seven hours, War and Peace is divided, like Tolstoy’s novel, into four chapters…basically four movies intended to be viewed one after the other.  That might seem daunting at first, but how many of us have binged a streaming show all at once, or an entire miniseries in one day?  Same difference.  Anyway, three of the chapters focus on one of the principal trio of characters: Pierre Bezukhov, a timid aristocrat; Natasha Rostova, a tempestuous young woman whose emotional output puts modern soap operas to shame; and Prince Andrei Bolkonsky, a sober-minded aristocrat/soldier who woos Natasha despite a substantial age gap.  The remaining film (which is actually third in the chronology) details the French invasion of Moscow in 1812, led by Napoleon Bonaparte, with the spectacular Battle of Borodino as its centerpiece.

I’ll get to that battle in a second, but it must be noted that I went into this film aware of its reputation, but prepared to be absolutely bored out of my skull.  I have not seen very many Russian films, but my favorite by far is Come and See (1985), and I was certain this movie would not be anywhere near as compelling.  However, Bondarchuk’s expressionistic style kept me interested the entire time.  I was never truly bored…well, I tell a lie, the fourth chapter felt a little drawn out to me, but aside from that, the camera tricks on display – as well as the lavish and elaborate costumes and set pieces – were a constant source of surprise.

One highlight of Bondarchuk’s method is his liberal use of what I call a subjective camera.  There may be another word for what I’m describing, but that’s what I’m sticking with.  There is narration throughout the film that clues us in occasionally to what someone is thinking, but sometimes, instead of narration, the camera will give us the character’s POV along with a stylistic embellishment like a swaying motion, or giving everything a kind of blur, or enhanced lighting, or even what appears to be water being poured directly onto the lens to simulate tears or dizziness.  (At one point, during a battle sequence, we even get a CANNONBALL’S-eye view as it crashes to the ground amid friendly troops…kinda neat, especially for the 1960s.)  There are WAY more examples that I could point to, but ain’t nobody got time for that.  Visually, this movie is a feast.

But all of that is nothing – NOTHING compared to the titanic Battle of Borodino featured in film three.  Since Bondarchuk had access to as many troops and extras as he needed, this battle contains camera shots that would have made Kurosawa or Kubrick green with envy.  In any given shot, look at the backgrounds toward the horizon, and you’ll see hundreds, thousands of fully costumed extras marching in formation, stretching literally as far as the eye can see.  No cardboard cutouts, no matte paintings (as far as I could tell), no masses of CGI soldiers.  I can’t imagine what it must have taken to coordinate that many people for any given single shot, let alone a battle that takes up nearly an entire chapter of the movie.

I realize I haven’t said much about the STORY of the film.  (What can I say, the technical achievement really floored me.)  I have never read Tolstoy’s novel, but it’s been said that this is the most faithful adaptation likely to ever be made.  I believe it.  Including the three principals, there are over three hundred speaking roles in the film.  There were times during the first film, and maybe half of the second, when names were being mentioned, and I couldn’t for the life of me remember who they were.  “Wait, who’s Maria again?  Or Ilya?  Or Kuragin?  Is that Pierre or Nikolai?”  But, around the halfway mark of the second film, I got my footing and was able to keep track of all the moving pieces.  This movie does not reward passive viewing, just as the novel is not something you would pick up for some light reading.  But these characters are compelling.

To try to summarize the plot is a fool’s errand.  Love is found, lost, found again; soldiers go off to fight, some return, some don’t; and the aristocratic class of Tsarist Russia gets some jabs for supporting the war effort with “thoughts and prayers” rather than actions.  Lyudmila Saveleva, who plays Natasha Rostova, looks like she was cast after winning an Audrey Hepburn look-alike contest.  Her huge eyes and expressive face get us on her side, even when she makes a truly boneheaded decision in the middle of her chapter.  True, she was misled and emotionally manipulated, but I said I wouldn’t summarize the story, so…

Am I glad I watched War and Peace?  Absolutely.  Will I watch it again?  I think so, yes, although I couldn’t tell you when that will be.  Not next week, not next year, but yes.  I want to admire Bondarchuk’s bold cinematic choices again.  It’s beautiful to look at.  Some of it resembles the old Technicolor films, giving the whole enterprise an air of nostalgia, which is appropriate.  And it’s worth watching again for those epic battle scenes which have to be seen to be believed.  War and Peace lives up to the sobering title of its source material, and then some.

WOMAN IN THE DUNES (Japan, 1964)

by Miguel E. Rodriguez

DIRECTOR: Hiroshi Teshigahara
CAST: Eiji Okada, Kyôko Kishida
MY RATING: 9/10
ROTTEN TOMATOMETER: 100% Fresh

PLOT: An entomologist on vacation is trapped by local villagers into living with a woman at the bottom of a sand pit that threatens to engulf them unless they shovel sand every night without fail.


Hiroshi Teshigahara’s Woman in the Dunes, which plays like a modern-day existential horror film from A24, is laden with as much symbolism and metaphor as Pilgrim’s Progress or Animal Farm.  It’s remarkable how contemporary it feels, from the editing style to the storytelling to the boldly provocative plot twists involving sensuality and a potential rape-on-demand.  This is a movie designed to be argued about, in all the best ways.

After an unsettling credits sequence featuring music that would be right at home in The Shining or Shutter Island, we meet Niki Jumpei (whose name we don’t discover until the closing minutes of the film), an entomologist who has taken a 3-day leave to search the sand dunes of a local beach for a new variation of beetle in hopes of getting his name in the encyclopedia.  As evening starts to fall, a local man informs Niki he’s missed the last bus home and offers the hospitality of his village for the night.  Niki accepts, but the creepy, discordant music on the soundtrack tips us off that not all is as it seems.  It’s this juxtaposition of normalcy with weirdness that creates such a modern atmosphere of dread.  I was reminded of the great sci-fi puzzler Under the Skin, which features similar “normal” scenes underscored with nerve-jangling music.

The villager leads Niki to the edge of a vast pit dug into the sand.  A ramshackle house sits at the bottom.  The rear of the house is engulfed with sand that is seen in many cutaway shots as it shifts, crumbles, collapses, and threatens to swallow the whole house at any minute.  This is where Niki will spend the night along with the house’s single inhabitant, an unnamed Woman who goes out of her way to be as courteous as possible to her overnight guest, fixing dinner, making tea, but politely telling him it’s impossible to take a shower until the day after tomorrow.

Sand is ever-present in this story.  The Woman has to set up an umbrella over Niki’s head as he dines because sand leaks through the roof.  The teapot has a separate protective lid that goes over the spout.  Parts of the floor of the house are covered with rugs that are clearly covering bare patches of sand rather than any kind of wooden floor.  And that creepy score continues in the background…

It should be mentioned that the only way to GET to the house at the bottom of the pit is via a long rope ladder.  This is important, because the next morning Niki discovers the ladder is gone, and no one at the top of the pit will answer his calls to send it back down.  Then the Woman tells him the truth: he has been “drafted” to assist her with shoveling sand every single night to prevent it from consuming the entire house, because otherwise the sand will advance to the next house in the village, and the next, and the next.  But he can never leave.  This is his new home.

What follows is an expertly told story of a man whose entire self, not just the house, is in danger of being subsumed by the sand and by the Woman who has accepted her fate.  (There’s more to the Woman than that simplistic description, but I don’t want to give away more plot developments.) This is the kind of creepy story that would be right at home in Black Mirror.  It also offers the kind of symbology that lends itself to more interpretations than the Bible.

The one that occurred to me as I watched it was fatalistic, and perhaps the simplest.  The sand is death.  The man and woman toil endlessly to keep the sand at bay, to keep it from ending their lives, while those outside of the pit might be a representation of God or whatever name you want to give to the engine of the universe that brought us into existence.  We are thrown into the pit and condemned to shovel uselessly against the marching sands of time; we can either rage against our lot, as Niki does, or accept it, as the Woman does.

Or, perhaps it’s a screed against religious indoctrination altogether.  The house and the pit might represent religion, and the villagers are the religious leaders who throw us into the pit and encourage us to dig and dig for the rest of our lives, so we always try and try to meet impossible standards while never questioning why we’re doing this in the first place.  Niki asks the Woman a crucial question at one point: “Are you shoveling sand to live?  Or are you living to shovel sand?”  The Woman, who has accepted her role in this folly, smiles, doesn’t answer, and keeps shoveling.

OR…if you really want to go out in left field…the pit is the entertainment industry.  The man and Woman are creators, toiling incessantly at the Sisyphean task of keeping the villagers (the public/audience) satisfied, and they can never stop because the villagers won’t let them.  There is a moment when Niki desperately asks the villagers if they’ll let him out for an hour a day just so he can see the ocean.  They confer and say they’ll grant him his wish…if he and the Woman copulate in front of them.  Is this the audience asking for more and more explicitness and freedom in their movies and TV shows and music, etc.?  Like I said, that interpretation is kind of out there, but I offer it as an example of how many different interpretations are possible in this story.

The ending is another head-scratcher, itself offering as many different interpretations as the rest of the story.  Is it a positive message about people finding happiness by accepting their fate?  Or a negative message about people who only BELIEVE they’ve found happiness when in fact the stress of their lives has driven them slightly around the bend?  I’m inclined towards the latter interpretation, but either variation works.

There’s a lot more to talk about in this film – the black-and-white cinematography, the dreamlike imagery of sand, sand on sand, sand on skin, sand in close-up, etc.  The two main actors whose individual performances are sensational.  I had read about Woman in the Dunes for years and was consumed with curiosity how such a simple plot could support a 2+ hour movie.  Now I know.  I encourage you to find out how they did it for yourself.

[Now available on home video or streaming for free on YouTube TV, the Criterion Channel, or TCM.  You can rent or buy it on Prime Video or Apple TV.]

AN ACTOR’S REVENGE (Japan, 1963)

by Miguel E. Rodriguez

DIRECTOR: Kon Ichikawa
CAST: Kazuo Hasegawa, Fujiko Yamamoto, Ayako Wakao
MY RATING: 7/10
ROTTEN TOMATOMETER: 95% Fresh

PLOT: A kabuki actor exacts a bloody revenge after he encounters the wealthy businessman who destroyed his family.


In terms of good old-fashioned melodrama, Kon Ichikawa’s An Actor’s Revenge pulls no punches, utilizing a highly stylized, kabuki-esque visual language to tell a story that was old when it was first made into a movie in 1935, starring the same actor in the same lead/dual roles.  But I am obliged to report that I never quite got a thrill of excitement when it came to the story.  (…well, that’s not exactly true, there was ONE moment that genuinely thrilled me when it occurred.)  I found that mildly disappointing because, as an amateur actor myself, finding a movie that combines two of my favorite plot devices – revenge and theatre – gave me high hopes.  Perhaps I was expecting too much?  But I thoroughly enjoyed the film’s style, celebrating artifice as much as any live stage production.

Kazuo Hasegawa plays two roles that he originated nearly 30 years earlier: a female-impersonating kabuki actor named Yukinojo, and a Robin-Hood-like bandit named Yamitaro.  Director Ichikawa sets the visual tone immediately as we open on a kabuki performance with Yukinojo as the lead.  While in character onstage, he spies three people in the audience, and we not only get his internal monologue about who they are and how urgently he seeks revenge on them, but we also get some cool visual tricks to reinforce his POV.  First, the stagey set – fake snow falling, painted backdrops – is unexpectedly replaced with a “real” set.  That is, it’s still obviously fake (the entire film was shot on studio sets), but it’s more realistic than before.  Then, as Yukinojo looks out to where the audience used to be, we see what he sees with a kind of variation of the iris shot that opens up, almost as if he were looking through a solid wall with X-Ray vision.

For me, this had the effect of creating an almost Shakespearian vibe.  It’s like Ichikawa said, “Okay, you want melodrama?  Let’s go all the way with it.”  This kind of stylistic flair pops up through the entire film; there are too many examples to mention, but you’ll just have to trust me.  It’s really cool to look at.

(Scorsese utilized similar throwback visual devices in films like Hugo and even The Departed.)

Story-wise, after that striking opening sequence, we get some filler about various audience members, some of whom we’ll see again later, before settling into your standard revenge story a la The Count of Monte Cristo or even Ben-Hur, where the wronged party bides their time until the moment is right.  But it’s not enough for Yukinojo to just kill his targets in cold blood.  First, he has to make them suffer.

I should note that this movie’s visual style repeatedly reminded me of another Japanese film, Onibaba, released a year later in 1964.  Also shot in widescreen, Onibaba’s story is even older than An Actor’s Revenge, but it uses arresting widescreen compositions that evoke, not kabuki theatre, but comic books.  I wonder if An Actor’s Revenge influenced that later film to any degree.  Visually, it feels like it, but I’m not a Japanese film scholar, so…there you have it.

There is an interesting gender-bending aspect to the story throughout the film, as well.  The character of Yukinojo is, of course, a man, but he never once breaks character as a woman.  He speaks in a high, falsetto voice and keeps his movements soft and feminine at all times.  There are odd moments when two different women confess their love to him, always referring to him as a man or a husband, while he is in drag the whole time.  There’s a message there somewhere about pronouns and gender fluidity, but I’m not the one to explicate it.

This movie is on the list of 1,001 Movies to See Before You Die, but not for the reasons I was expecting.  I will concede that my expectations were raised due to the subject matter, but while I can’t say my socks were blown off from a story perspective, I did love the visual approach to the storytelling, especially considering the year it was made.

LA DOLCE VITA (Italy, 1960)

by Miguel E. Rodriguez

DIRECTOR: Federico Fellini
CAST: Marcello Mastroianni, Anita Ekberg, Anouk Aimée, Yvonne Furneaux
MY RATING: 8/10
ROTTEN TOMATOMETER: 95% Certified Fresh

PLOT: In episodic fashion, we follow the life of a philandering tabloid journalist in Rome as he chases stories and skirts with equal enthusiasm.


Fellini’s La dolce vita is easily one of the most critically acclaimed movies ever made.  Roger Ebert counted it as one of his favorite movies of all time, second only to Citizen Kane, perhaps.  In a video introduction to the Blu-ray disc, Martin Scorsese calls it “the movie that changed the world.”  It won the coveted Palme d’Or at Cannes and an Oscar for its costume design.

But I gotta be honest: for most of its nearly 3-hour running time, I found myself wondering what the fuss is all about.  It’s only when a pivotal event occurs around the 2.5-hour mark that I was shocked out of my stupor and began to reflect on everything I had seen before and what came after.  This is a movie that lulls you along and doesn’t reveal what it’s REALLY about until it’s ready to.

In episodic fashion, La dolce vita [rough translation: “The sweet life”] follows the life of Marcello Rubini (Marcello Mastroianni), a philandering tabloid journalist who lives in Rome and chases stories and skirts with equal enthusiasm.  He has a fiancé, Emma (Yvonne Furneaux), but that might be too strong a word for it.  She tells everyone they meet that Marcello is her fiancé, and he seems to care for her occasionally, but he seems to fall instantly in love with every beautiful woman who crosses his path.  In the movie’s famous opening, with a statue of Jesus suspended underneath a helicopter flying over the city, Marcello even tries to get the numbers of several bikini-clad rooftop sunbathers, but they can’t hear him over the noisy helicopter.

As a tabloid journalist, Marcello has made friends with some of the city’s famous, or infamous, higher-ups.  Along with his photographer friend, Paparazzo, he contrives situations where a candid photo or two can be snapped of, say, a prince dining with someone he really shouldn’t be dining with.  (Indeed, this movie provides the origin of the word “paparazzi”, so named after the group of rude, pesky, pushy photographers jostling each other for a good celebrity photo, the tawdrier the better.)

In no particular order, Marcello interacts with an old flame, an old madame, a stunning but airheaded Swedish movie star and her jealous actor boyfriend, a mob chasing two children who claim to have seen the Madonna, another old flame, a teenaged waitress, his own father, a rowdy group of actors and dancers, and a group of intellectuals who fill about 20 minutes of screen time with endless philosophizing.  (I’m sure I left something out.)  The only person in that last group with anything interesting to say is a man named Steiner, who worries about his two children growing up in a world that can be obliterated with a phone call.

I’m sure there is a LOT of subtext going on in this first long section, but God forgive me, I was waiting for a story.  There is, of course, the famous sequence where Marcello follows Sylvia, the Swedish actress played by the zaftig Anita Ekberg, into the Trevi Fountain in the middle of the night.  He is bewitched by her, indeed by all women, even by his so-called fiancé, Emma, whom he berates mercilessly one night and throws out of his car…but the next morning he dutifully drives back to the same spot where he left her, where she apparently spent the night, and takes her back home.

I guess the idea we’re supposed to get is that Marcello is the living embodiment of the male gaze.  It doesn’t seem as if he will ever be happy with any woman he meets because there is always another one waiting around the next corner, or in the next bar, or at the scene of the next tabloid story.  I’ve read that the film can be interpreted as an excoriating satire of Rome’s upper class, whom we mostly see as vapid, self-absorbed free spirits with lots of money and nothing of real value to contribute to the human condition.  That’s a good interpretation, but that kind of leaves Marcello out of the equation, unless we’re supposed to believe that he’s also part of the upper class?  I never got that impression.  If he were, what’s he doing chasing rumors and gossip for a living?

This is all well and good, but to beat that dead horse a little more, I was waiting for a story.  We’re getting a fully drawn character in Marcello, but he wasn’t doing much of anything, except watching him listen to the people either clamoring for his attention or warning him to beat it.

But THEN…something utterly unexpected occurs, an event that I can’t even really hint at because it works so well.  When it does, Marcello goes into an existential tailspin, questioning his values, his morals, and his profession.  It’s this event, and Marcello’s reaction to it, that finally gave me some clarity of what this movie was really about.

There’s a sensational closing sequence that takes place an indeterminate amount of time after this unexpected incident.  Marcello leads a rowdy group of actors and dancers to a friend’s empty house.  Nobody home?  No problem – he just shatters a sliding glass door and lets everybody in.  This kind of behavior is interesting because, before “the incident”, you might have noticed Marcello trying to exit a party gracefully, or gracefully decline an invitation to somewhere or other, or politely keeping quiet in his chair or in a corner.  That Marcello is gone.  This NEW Marcello wants to party like there’s no tomorrow.  (This leads to a genuinely ugly moment when he bullies a drunk actress into getting on all fours as he rides her back like a pony and slaps her bottom, then later covers her in feathers ripped out of a sofa pillow…that moment felt to me as raw as watching Nicolas Cage self-destruct in Leaving Las Vegas.)

The film’s coda may also provide a clue to what the movie’s about, or at least partially about.  We opened with Marcello unable to talk to the sunbathers over the noise of the helicopter.  In the final scene, on a beach after the drunken party, Marcello is hailed from afar by this teenaged waitress he encountered earlier in the film.  She motions to him and tries to yell to him, but the crashing surf is too loud for either of them to understand the other.  Rather than walk closer to each other and try to reach some mutual understanding, he ruefully smiles and waves goodbye.  Marcello was never able to truly connect with anyone for the entire film, not even his own father, and despite the changes brought about by external circumstances, he finds himself even more unable to do so than before.

I guess, if there’s a message here somewhere, it’s that we should try to connect, find some kind of common ground with those around us as much as we can.  Life has much to offer, but how sweet can it be when we shut ourselves off from those who just want to love us for who we are?

FRANKENSTEIN (2025)

by Miguel E. Rodriguez

DIRECTOR: Guillermo del Toro
CAST: Oscar Isaac, Jacob Elordi, Christoph Waltz, Mia Goth, Charles Dance, David Bradley
MY RATING: 8/10
ROTTEN TOMATOMETER: 86% Certified Fresh

PLOT: A brilliant but egotistical scientist brings a creature to life in a monstrous experiment that threatens to undo both the creator and his tragic creation.


Having never read the original novel by Mary Shelley, I have no idea if Guillermo del Toro’s rendition of Frankenstein is any more or less faithful to the source material.  What’s interesting about this version is that it feels like it is.  There are long passages of dialogue and even some monologuing on the nature of life, death, and the creator’s responsibility to their creation.  del Toro is smart enough to balance these cerebral discussions with enough gothic (and gory) horror to satisfy any fan of the genre.  Call it a good example of a thinking man’s horror film.

Oscar Isaac’s performance as Victor Frankenstein puts a new spin on the stereotypical mad scientist.  He’s no less obsessed than previous versions, but del Toro and Isaac went for a slightly different vibe in his personal appearance.  Rather than a cackling lunatic with a god complex, Isaac’s doctor looks and sometimes behaves more like a self-absorbed rock star…with a god complex.  (I learn on IMDb that this was by design; del Toro wanted Victor to evoke David Bowie, Mick Jagger, and Prince…mission accomplished.)

Jacob Elordi as The Creature does an admirable job of generating sympathy and empathy for perhaps the greatest misunderstood monster of all time.  The unique makeup (which took up to 10 hours to apply!) allows Elordi to emote and lend humanity to the Creature in the second half of the film, especially during his encounter with the blind man.  There is a subtle but ingenious effect where one of his eyes will sometimes glow orange with reflected light as a reminder that, when push comes to shove, this Creature is not to be trifled with.

Mia Goth is a welcome presence as Elizabeth, who is not Victor’s love interest this time around, but fiancé to Victor’s younger brother, William.  I supposed I could quibble that the screenplay does not give Elizabeth much to do.  She comes across as the intellectual equal of Victor in a few well-written scenes, but her encounter with the chained Creature felt a little trope-y, and her character’s payoff left me wanting more.

The visual style of the film is crammed with del Toro’s signature fingerprints: huge gothic structures, elaborate costume designs (loved Victor’s mother’s red outfits near the start of the film), startling dream sequences, and lots of practical effects…well, more than there were in Pacific Rim (2013) and Crimson Peak (2015), anyway.  One image that really struck me was the unique design of two coffins seen in the film.  They looked more like futuristic cryogenic chambers than Victorian-era caskets.  Watch the movie and you’ll see what I mean.

Other things I loved:

  1. Victor’s early presentation of his theories to a disciplinary board, in which we get an echo of that creepy dead guy resurrected by Ron Perlman in del Toro’s Hellboy (2004).
  2. The towering set for Frankenstein’s laboratory.  What it lacks in the whirring, crackling machinery we normally associate with his lab, it makes up for in scale, including a yawning pit several feet across that really should have had a guardrail.
  3. Being able to get inside the Creature’s head this time around.  There have no doubt been other variations where the Creature speaks, but I haven’t seen one where he is this eloquent, expressing his pain and anguish over his unwanted existence and apparent immortality (his wounds are self-healing).  This is another factor that makes this movie feel more faithful to Shelley’s novel, even if it isn’t.
  4. The no-holds-barred aspect to the violence and gore, which can be quease-inducing, but which never feels overdone or exploitative.  In fact, the moment that scared me the most in the film had nothing to do with the gore or violence at all, but with one of the doctor’s early experiments that comes to life in a most surprising manner.

Above all, there’s the tragic nature of the poor Creature’s existence, the misunderstood monster that has been so often satirized or spoofed, and the deeper questions the story raises about our own lives.  It might be tempting to listen to the closing passages of the film and dismiss them as trite and sentimental, but Frankenstein earns those moments, in my opinion.  More than any other Frankenstein movie I’ve seen, this one made me think, and jump a little, in equal measures.  Tricky stuff.

À NOUS LA LIBERTÉ (1931)

by Miguel E. Rodriguez

DIRECTOR: René Clair
CAST: Henri Marchand, Raymond Cordy, Paul Ollivier, Germaine Aussey
MY RATING: 7/10
ROTTEN TOMATOMETER: 100% Fresh

PLOT: A convict escapes prison and becomes a wealthy industrialist, but his life of leisure is threatened when his former cellmate turns up unexpectedly.


À nous la liberté (rough translation: “freedom for all”) is a charming, if slight, romantic farce from celebrated French director René Clair, who would later make his mark in Hollywood films with I Married a Witch (1942) and And Then There Were None (1945) before returning to French cinema for the rest of his career.  It won’t go down as my favorite French film, or classic film, or anything like that, but as a snippet of cinema’s early years, along with some mildly scandalous history of its own, it’s worth a look for cineastes.

Louis and Émile are cellmates in a French prison.  Their daily routines are marked by hours and hours of assembling children’s toys on an assembly line that looks and feels a lot like the one from Chaplin’s Modern Times (1936) or even that one at a chocolate factory in a famous episode of I Love Lucy – but we’ll come back to that.  They sing, too, while toiling.  There’s a LOT of singing in À nous la liberté, not all of it clearly motivated, but serving as a kind of punctuation mark or accent piece to various scenes.

Émile and Louis attempt to escape their prison, but through no one’s fault, only Louis gets away, while Émile remains behind.  After some amusing episodes involving Louis trying to blend unobtrusively back into society, he lands a job hawking phonographs to pedestrians for a department store.  He gets so good at it that eventually he’s running the store…and eventually, improbably, he becomes the owner of the factory that BUILDS the phonographs, making him rich beyond his wildest dreams.

Trouble arrives in paradise when Louis’ cellmate, Émile, unexpectedly shows up, recently released from prison.  But he’s not looking for a job or to “touch” an old wealthy friend.  He’s in love with a girl who works at Louis’ factory, and getting a job there is the easiest way to stay close to her.  (I don’t THINK her name is ever said aloud, but she’s listed on IMDb as “Maud”, so that’s what I’ll call her.)  If Émile’s behavior sounds mildly stalker-y, well, it is, but what are you gonna do, love is love, and I’m sure I could dig up a modern rom-com or two that feature stalking as a romantic element.  Somehow.

Plus, there’s this whole ironic subtext that shows how the assembly lines at Louis’ phonograph factories are no different from the assembly lines at the prison.  The movie is not subtle about their similarities, but how could it be?  This fluffy material is corny as all hell, but the movie never gets too schmaltzy.  And if you think you know how the romantic subplot plays out in a romantic comedy from the 1930s, check your assumptions.

The centerpiece of the film is an assembly line sequence at the phonograph factory, a scene that has been imitated many times.  More modern movies and TV shows may have improved it, but having seen this movie, it’s clear where their inspiration came from.  In fact, the most interesting backstory of À nous la liberté is the fact that, after Charlie Chaplin released Modern Times in 1936, the producers of the French film sued Chaplin for plagiarism.  Both films feature bumbling but charming protagonists who wind up working on, and screwing up, assembly lines, and both films were making a point about the increased mechanization and dehumanization of the labor force.  After dragging on for ten years, Chaplin ultimately settled (without admitting guilt), but remained friends with René Clair for years afterward.

Having seen both films now, my opinion is that the similarities between the two films are purely incidental.  You might as well say that Star Wars plagiarized Star Trek because they both have “Star” in the title.  Modern Times is funnier and faster-paced, while the most farcical scenes in À nous la liberté are played, not for laughs, but smiles, if that makes sense.  It does to me, so I’m sticking with it.

It’s also interesting to observe how Clair used sound in this film from sound’s early years.  As I said before, there’s a lot of singing, but scenes with dialogue are few and far between.  Ambient sound is almost non-existent.  Where you might expect to hear lots of noises – scenes on the assembly line, for example – we only hear background score.  It’s almost startling when one scene plays street noises during an outdoor shot.  It’s almost as if Clair – like Chaplin – was reluctant to completely abandon silent storytelling in favor of this new sonic “trend.”  As a result, while it’s not a laugh riot, the film does have a quaint likability that is hard for me to describe.

À nous la liberté is an interesting peek backwards in time to when many of the film tropes we take for granted today were shiny and new.  It didn’t get me all “riled up” at an emotional level, but it wasn’t a waste of time.  And, like I said, there are one or two surprises story-wise.  That’s never a bad thing.

THE SUGARLAND EXPRESS (1974)

by Miguel E. Rodriguez

DIRECTOR: Steven Spielberg
CAST: Goldie Hawn, Ben Johnson, Michael Sacks, William Atherton
MY RATING: 6/10
ROTTEN TOMATOMETER: 87% Certified Fresh

PLOT: A young wife breaks her husband out of prison in 1969 Texas so he can help reclaim their infant from a foster family.  The ensuing media circus takes everyone by surprise.


Watching Steven Spielberg’s The Sugarland Express is like looking at one of those historical medieval tapestries of fierce battles, created by artists who didn’t yet know how to depict perspective.  There is plenty of action on display, but everything looks and feels flat.  The film took an award at Cannes that year for Best Screenplay, probably (at least partly) in recognition of how it shies away from a traditional Hollywood resolution, but even its downbeat ending is reminiscent of earlier, more resonant films like Bonnie and Clyde [1967] or Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid [1969].  As a stepping stone in the career of an eventual legend, it’s worth a view.  As a stand-alone film, it never quite achieves liftoff.

Based on real events, The Sugarland Express tells the story of Lou Jean Poplin (Goldie Hawn at her irrepressible, bubbly best), the young wife of prison inmate Clovis Poplin (William Atherton).  During a conjugal visit, just four months before Clovis is to be released, Lou Jean boldly busts him out because she needs his help to reclaim their infant, Langston, from a foster home.  Lou Jean herself has just finished serving time at a women’s prison, and the state, probably very wisely, determined Langston was better off with a foster family.  But they need to hurry because “I bet those Methodists are gettin’ ready to move out of state.”  Lou Jean’s delivery of “Methodists” tells you all you need to know about her feelings on the matter.

After Lou Jean breaks him out, a comedy of errors ends up in a situation where she and Clovis have hijacked a police cruiser and are holding a police officer at gunpoint.  They demand to be left alone while they drive to Sugarland, Texas, and retrieve their son, at which point they’ll release their hostage.

Now, this has all the makings of a smart, character-driven “road” movie, instigated by desperate people with no real plans for their end-game.  But for reasons I can’t put a finger on, nothing ever happens in the film that got me on the edge of my seat, figuratively speaking.  I fully comprehended the situation intellectually, but the film never got to me at an emotional level.

Could it be because we never really learn a lot about Lou Jean and Clovis in order to make them more empathetic?  No, I don’t think so, because over the course of the film, we’ll hear all about their past histories and previous brushes with the law.  The very fact they’re executing this plan to essentially kidnap Langston is proof of how unfit they are as parents.

I think part of the problem with the movie is…

…I’ve been sitting here for the last fifteen minutes trying to finish that sentence.  I can report that the film didn’t get to me emotionally, but I am struggling to explain why.  Could it be as simple as I think they’re not such great people, but the film seems to be siding with them as the movie progresses?  I mean, the movie HAS to side with them at least partially in order to make their journey mean anything.  Look at Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid.  Bank robbers, lawbreakers, but clearly the good guys because, duh, Paul Newman and Robert Redford are playing them.

So, maybe it has to do with the casting?  The Sugarland Express had one of America’s sweethearts as a woman willing to resort to kidnapping just to commit another kidnapping in the name of maternal love.  So, we’ve gotta root for her, right?  But then we see her behaving in the most inane, brainless way for so much of the movie.  I found it difficult to side with her when I just wanted to, forgive the expression, slap some sense into her.

What about Clovis?  I could side with him.  He appears to have misgivings throughout the entire film, right up to the point of no return.  But the way he willingly goes along with the scheme because, dammit, it’s his wife…something about that also turned me off on him.  There are moments I felt sorry for him, for them both, because I could see where this movie was headed early on.  But that empathy wasn’t enough to make me feel a catharsis of tragic energy at the film’s finale.  There’s just something about Clovis and Lou Jean that wouldn’t allow me to get too worked up over their fate.

I guess I identified most with the kidnapped police officer, Slide (Michael Sacks).  Maybe too much.  From the beginning, Slide is begging them to drop their weapons and turn themselves over to the police.  At first, he looks like he’s just following his training.  But then the movie progresses, and doggone it, he starts to like these two loonies, even though Clovis handcuffs him and even shoots at him a couple of times in the heat of the moment.  He can see where this road ends, and he pleads with them not to do exactly what the Texas state troopers expect them to do, because he doesn’t want to see them dead.  Because Slide never stops imploring the Poplins to see sense and do the smart thing, I guess he’s who I sided with for the entire movie.  (Well, him and his superior, Captain Tanner [Ben Johnson], who also doesn’t want to see them die.)

But…isn’t that the wrong way to approach this movie?  I shouldn’t be siding with the cops, for cryin’ out loud, should I?  At least, not in this movie.  Discuss.

From a technical standpoint, it is pretty cool to see how Spielberg, in only his second film, was able to marshal vast resources to create some arresting imagery.  The sight of what looks like literally hundreds of cop cars following the Poplins is a deceptively difficult feat, logistically speaking.  There’s a tense shootout in a used car lot that would have been right at home in The French Connection.  And everywhere, there’s bits of humor that made me smile.  From the elderly couple abandoned on the road (long story) to the solution of how to get Lou Jean to a toilet while in the middle of an extended police chase, Spielberg constantly pokes us in the ribs.  If this had gotten to the hands of someone like John Landis, it’s easy to see how this could have been turned into an out-and-out comedy with thriller elements, instead of the other way around.

One other aspect I did like was the media circus that blew up around the Poplins’ plight.  I’m sure it is yet another link to previous anti-heroic films, but while I was watching it, I was reminded of only one film: Oliver Stone’s Natural Born Killers [1994].  The outpouring of affection from the general public for these two, let’s face it, outlaws was both funny and sobering at the same time.  It would have been interesting to see a scene or two at the end of the film as an epilogue, so we could get a reading on what the public thought about how the police should have handled the situation.

If comparing The Sugarland Express to most of Spielberg’s later films, it certainly comes up lacking, no question.  As a lifelong Spielberg fan, I am compelled to say it SHOULDN’T be compared to his later films because it was made before he’d had a chance to hone his skills and become the populist/mainstream film icon he is today.  Look carefully at the two-dimensional storytelling and you can see the outlines of what was coming around the bend for this modern-day master.

VAMPYR (Germany, 1932)

by Miguel E. Rodriguez

DIRECTOR: Carl Th. Dreyer
CAST: Julian West, Maurice Schutz, Rena Mandel, Sybille Schmitz
MY RATING: 8/10
ROTTEN TOMATOMETER: 98% Certified Fresh

PLOT: A drifter obsessed with the supernatural stumbles upon an inn where a severely ill adolescent girl is slowly becoming a vampire.


Carl Th. Dreyer’s Vampyr [pronounced “vom-PEER” in this German version] is not the scariest vampire film I’ve ever seen, but it is definitely one of the creepiest.  There’s a difference.  Dreyer’s film doesn’t move with the pacing seen in more standard horror fare.  Instead, it forsakes typical plot development for scenes that linger on the horrific or the unexplained.  In its own way, it is more directly related to the films of David Lynch than to any other contemporary monster movies of the time (Dracula or Frankenstein, for example, both 1931).

The story is fairly simple, but it belies the complex imagery that awaits the viewer.  A young drifter, Allan Grey, happens upon an inn from which he thinks he can hear animal sounds, or perhaps a young woman screaming.  The village doctor, who looks like a bespectacled long-lost relative of Doc Brown from Back to the Future, vehemently denies the presence any animals or young women on the property.  The innkeeper invites Allan to stay the night.  In the middle of the night, Allan’s sleep is interrupted by a mysterious visitor to his room who intones, “The girl must not die!”  The gentleman then leaves a package on Allan’s desk and writes a most portentous message: “TO BE OPENED ONLY UPON MY DEATH.”

What is this book?  What did Allan hear?  And how do you explain the shadows he saw on his way to the inn?  Shadows of people running along the lane – with no corresponding people attached to them?  Wouldn’t YOU like to know.

Vampyr is positively drowning in atmosphere.  Dreyer apparently shot many scenes with a piece of thin gauze over the lens, creating a misty layer that makes everything feel like a dream, even when Allan is awake.  Allan goes on frequent excursions around the inn and the surrounding property, and it’s here where most of the fantastical imagery is seen, especially when it comes to disembodied shadows.  In one mildly unsettling sequence, a shadow of a man with a peg leg descends a ladder and appears to sit on a bench…re-joining itself to a peg-legged man already sitting on the same bench.

There’s a lot more, but I don’t want to just write a list.  However, I am compelled to mention one sequence in particular that exudes as much creepiness as anything I’ve ever seen from this cinematic era.

It turns out there is, not one young woman at the inn, but two: Gisèle and Léone.  Léone is seen early on, confined to her bed with a mysterious illness, which we later learn has been brought on by her contact with a seldom-seen old woman who lurks somewhere on the property.  And there are some odd injuries on her neck…UH oh.

At one point, Léone awakes while Gisèle is alone with her.  I don’t remember what they discuss, but Léone goes into this weird sort of trance.  Without the use of any strange Chaney-esque makeup or camera tricks, Léone’s face becomes an object lesson in creepiness.  Her eyes open wide, her face breaks into a creepy grin, and she slowly moves her head from side to side, while Gisèle backs away in terror.  It might be the scariest sequence in the film, one which could easily compare to any subsequent monster or vampire movie.

Later, Dreyer throws more camera tricks at us in increasingly imaginative ways.  Allan dreams of a skeleton handing him a bottle of poison.  A dead man’s face appears in the sky during a sudden thunderstorm.  Dreyer includes camera moves that would fit right into any modern film.  And in a sequence that reminded me of Wes Craven’s The Serpent and the Rainbow (1988), Allan watches as his own body is sealed inside a coffin with a tiny square window for his apparently dead eyes to look out of.

If nothing else, Vampyr is an interesting artifact of cinema’s transitional era from silent to sound.  Even though there is a conventional soundtrack and we hear people’s voices as they speak, a lot of expository information is provided via title cards and long looks at passages from a book of vampire lore.  Given that the vampire mythology was then not as popular as it is today, I can forgive these beats that tend to bring the momentum to a halt.

While Nosferatu (1922) and the Bela Lugosi Dracula are much more famous, Vampyr is worth a look if you’re a horror fan.  While it doesn’t involve the kind of fear factor I tend to expect as a child of the 1970s and ‘80s, it is nevertheless creepy as hell.