“TRAMPS AND ORPHANS”

By Raymond Benson

The Criterion Collection continues its excellent re-issuing of Charles Chaplin’s major works with The Kid, the first full-length feature from the filmmaker. Released in 1921, Chaplin expanded on the two and three reelers he had been making (a “reel” at that time was approximately 10-15 minutes long) to the six-reels of The Kid (the original cut was just over an hour; Chaplin re-edited it in the early 70s to create the now standard 53-minute version). It’s still a short film, but longer than what were considered “shorts.”

The Kid received high acclaim on its release and was one of the writer/actor/director’s most popular pictures. This was in part due to the presence of young Jackie Coogan in the titular role. Coogan, who grew up to play Uncle Fester in The Addams Family television series of the 1960s, steals the movie from right under Chaplin’s little mustache. At age five, Coogan displays a mastery of acting, mime, and acrobatics that is still remarkable today. He is a natural in front of the camera, and he has loads of charisma to boot.

As for Chaplin, he, too, is marvelous in this story about how his famous Tramp character finds an abandoned baby on the street and takes it upon himself to raise the child. Only a few years later, after he and his illegally-adopted son have bonded and are “partners” in petty crime, does the kid’s mother re-enter the scene.

Another aspect that set The Kid apart from previous Chaplin entries was his reliance more on drama than comedy. There is no question that he infused his comedies with pathos from the very beginning, but his last several shorts for the First National Company (his distributor at the time) were “dramadies.” As the opening title of The Kid reads: “A picture with a smile—and perhaps, a tear.” My father, who had seen the film in the 1920s, recalled how there wasn’t a dry eye in the house when the authorities take Coogan away from Chaplin and the boy is crying and reaching out to his “dad.”

Criterion delivers another superb-looking 4K digital restoration of the 1972 re-release version, also featuring an original score by Chaplin on an uncompressed monaural soundtrack (the score is lush, melodic, and gorgeous, as are all of the artist’s compositions). There’s a new audio commentary featuring Chaplin historian Charles Maland that is informative and serves as a nice complement to the piece, since the movie is silent.

Supplements include Jackie Coogan: The First Child Star, a new video essay by another Chaplin historian, Lisa Haven; A Study in Undercranking, a new documentary featuring silent film specialist Ben Model on the tricks with speed used by filmmakers of the period; vintage interviews with Coogan, and Chaplin’s second wife Lita Grey Chaplin (who appears in the film as an angel); vintage audio interviews with cinematographer Rollie Totheroh and film distributor Mo Rothman; deleted scenes and titles from the original 1921 release; a 1921 newsreel documenting Chaplin’s first return trip to Europe; footage of Chaplin conducting his score in Hollywood in 1971; a 1922 silent short, Nice and Friendly, featuring Chaplin and Coogan, made with and for Lord and Lady Mountbatten for their wedding; and trailers. The booklet essay is by film scholar Tom Gunning.

Another terrific addition to the Criterion-Chaplin library. Here’s hoping that The Circus is next!

CLICK HERE TO ORDER FROM AMAZON

“PUT THE BLAME ON MAME, BABE”

By Raymond Benson

Life Magazine called Rita Hayworth “The Love Goddess.” Make no mistake—she was primarily known as one of the sex symbols of the 1940s. Nevertheless, she was also a talented actress and a terrific dancer (she held her own with Fred Astaire in a couple of movies). Strikingly beautiful, Hayworth was the type of star who lit up the screen and oozed charisma. And her big breakthrough to that position in Hollywood was Gilda, the 1946 part-noir, part melodrama that contained many of the iconic images for which Hayworth is famous.

Film noir historian Eddie Muller, in a new interview included as one of the supplements, says Gilda is not film noir, although it’s got all the trappings. This is true. It’s certainly made in the style of a film noir—the contrasting black and white cinematography by Rudolph Maté (who later became a director in his own right) is clearly derived from German expressionism, the characters are untrustworthy and suspicious, and there’s a femme fatale.

But wait—is Gilda really a femme fatale? Not really. Sure, she’s manipulative and uses her sexuality to get the men in her life to do what she wants; but Gilda is not a bad person—she’s just caught in an uncomfortable situation and is acting out because she’s unhappy. A minor subplot dealing with Mundson’s business dealings—with former Nazis—doesn’t totally qualify Gilda as being a film noir, either. No, this is a movie soap opera, but that doesn’t mean it’s not an entertaining piece of Hollywood glamour that captures a cynical post-war mood prevalent in a lot of Hollywood fare of the late 40s.

The story takes place in Buenos Aires just as World War II is ending. Johnny Farrell (Glenn Ford, in one of his significant roles as well) is a gambler, drifter, and “tough guy” bumming around Argentina. There he meets a rich man, Ballin Mundson (George Macready), who offers Johnny a job being his right hand man at the casino. The two men work together well and become very chummy—until Mundson returns from a weekend away with a gorgeous wife. She is, of course, Gilda (Hayworth)—and it is immediately obvious she has a history with Johnny.

The rest of the film is a melodramatic clash of wills within this triangle, and it’s not a smooth ride. Much is made of the word “hate,” but in most cases in this picture, that word really means “love.”

Hayworth is quite good in the movie. She performs two song-and-dance numbers (for the casino audience), but her singing voice is dubbed by Anita Ellis. These are signature tunes—“Put the Blame on Mame” (done as a sultry striptease—almost), and “Amado Mio.” (One wonders how Gilda managed to rehearse with the band and lighting crew to do tight, theatrical show-stopping acts, seemingly on the fly.) At any rate, Hayworth smolders as Gilda, and she takes over every frame she’s in. Ford is fine, although he sure has a funny way of hitting people. Macready provides the requisite sinister authority over the other two characters, just as he would a decade later in Stanley Kubrick’s Paths of Glory.

Production aspects are top notch—the photography, music, editing, sets, and especially the costume design. Hayworth’s gowns are right out of the catalog of Hollywood dreams. Perhaps the only weak element is the writing. The story feels jumbled a bit, but the dialogue is rich with memorable one-liners. “If I was a ranch, I’d been named the Bar Nothing,” Gilda famously says. The screenwriters had challenges on their hands. The Production Code prevented the filmmakers from fully exploring the relationship that is really going on between Johnny and Mundson. It’s pretty muted, but it’s there, folks. Ford’s character is much more enamored of his boss than a regular employee would be. How that wrinkle plays into the stew once Hayworth arrives is the heart and soul of the picture. Read between the lines and you’ll fathom what the writers intended, but couldn’t quite get past the censors.

The Criterion Collection’s new high-definition digital restoration, with an uncompressed monaural soundtrack, looks and sounds exemplary. A wonderful audio commentary by film critic Richard Schickel, made in 2010, accompanies the film.

Supplements include the previously mentioned interview with Muller; an interesting 2010 discussion with filmmakers Martin Scorsese and Baz Luhrmann about the film; “Hollywood and the Stars,” a 1964 television show about Hayworth’s career up to that point; and the trailer. The fold-out insert contains a poster of Gilda on one side and an essay by critic Sheila O’Malley.

The tag line on the movie poster read: “There never was a woman like... Gilda!” That’s probably true. Put the Blame on Mame, indeed!

CLICK HERE TO ORDER FROM AMAZON

“BEFORE DYLAN... THERE WAS DAVIS”

By Raymond Benson

The first Coen Brothers feature to be given the “Criterion treatment” is, oddly, their most recent release—Inside Llewyn Davis, which received (mostly) critical praise upon its release in late 2013. Kudos were especially heaped upon the film’s relatively new star, Oscar Isaac. Sadly, while the picture recouped its investment and made a little money, it wasn’t as widely embraced by audiences as it should have been. This is probably because the Coen Brothers typically don’t make movies for the masses. The auteur siblings create art that appeals mostly to intelligent, hip audiences willing to enter a strange, sometimes disturbing, always surprising, universe that is distinctly Coen-land.

Inside Llewyn Davis is presented as a comedy, but in the Coen Brothers’ oeuvre, “comedy” can mean many things. It can be wild and wacky (Raising Arizona, The Big Lebowski) or it can be dark and foreboding (Barton Fink, A Serious Man). Llewyn Davis leans more toward the latter. In fact, it is a downright melancholy picture that will leave in a funk any viewers who happen to be musicians. But that doesn’t mean the film’s not funny, too.

Llewyn Davis (Isaac, in a brilliant performance worthy of an Oscar nomination he didn’t get) is a down on his luck but talented folk singer in 1961 Greenwich Village. The setting is pretty much a character, too, for this was the hotbed of the folk scene prior to the arrival of Bob Dylan, who changed everything. The Coens and Isaac based the Davis character on the very real folk musician Dave Van Ronk—but really only his musical material (adapted by musical producer T Bone Burnett). While Davis is on stage, he is magic. The songs are heartbreakingly beautiful. Off stage, though, unlike Van Ronk, Davis is a mess. He’s cranky, cynical, and not a very nice guy. He’s losing what friends he has and he’s his own worst enemy. The movie becomes his journey through a bleak New York winter as he tries to eke out a living, take care of a neighbor’s cat, and bring some sort of sense to the madness that is his life. Even though he’s a trainwreck happening before our eyes, poor Davis doesn’t realize he’s doomed until, at the end of the movie, he hits a career-ending brick wall in the form of a certain person.

And like most everything the Coen Brothers create, this revelation is exhibited brilliantly.

Like the Coens’ other musical feature, O Brother, Where Art Thou?, this one explores a very specific music steeped in Americana, and the movie is full of it. Justin Timberlake plays a supporting role as another folkie, along with lovely Carey Mulligan. Much of the material consists of wistful folk ballads, but the trio of Isaac, Timberlake, and Adam Driver perform a song called “Please Mr. Kennedy” that is a laugh riot—the funniest bit in the film—and why it wasn’t nominated for Best Song for that year’s Oscars is a mystery.

The Criterion Collection’s new special edition release of the film is very unique in how much the Coen Brothers participated in the supplements, of which there are an abundance. The brothers are usually unwilling to do interviews or support “making of” documentaries. This time, however, they did a lot, the least of which was approving the 4K digital transfer, which looks gorgeous. Director of photography Bruno Delbonnel chose to shoot the picture with a soft focus and muted colors that somehow evokes the black and white feel of the era. It works beautifully to amplify the melancholy. The feature has a 5.1 surround DTS-HD Master Audio soundtrack, plus an audio commentary by authors Robert Christgau, David Hajdu, and Sean Wilentz.

The running time of the supplements are more than three times as long as the feature film. “Inside Inside Llewyn Davis” is a forty-three minute documentary on the making of the film, revealing the Coen Brothers at work, especially in the casting and working with Burnett on the music adaptation. Additionally, the disk includes a long, fascinating interview with the brothers conducted by Guillermo del Toro; a conversation between Burnett and the Coens about folk music; a new piece about the Greenwich Village folk scene of the era featuring Van Ronk’s co-biographer, Elijah Wald; a short documentary by Dan Drasin about the 1961 clash between folk musicians and police in Washington Square Park; trailers; and, finally, the awesome full-length feature (originally aired on Showtime), Another Day, Another Time—a documentary by Christopher Wilcha that covered the special concert of folk music held at New York’s Town Hall in September 2013. Oscar Isaac performs along with the likes of the Punch Brothers, Joan Baez, Marcus Mumford, Jack White, Gillian Welch, Lake Street Dive, and many others. It’s worth the price of the disk. The booklet contains an essay by film critic Kent Jones and a poster illustration of Isaac as Llewyn Davis.

If you missed Inside Llewyn Davis during its theatrical run, here’s your chance to explore the film in depth. As with any Coen Brothers effort, it is a rewarding experience. Time will prove it to be one of their better ones.

CLICK HERE TO ORDER FROM AMAZON

“WHITE SNOW, RED BLOOD”

By Raymond Benson

I’m not sure how, when, and where Quentin Tarantino actually saw these two Japanese films back in the day (they weren’t released in the U.S.), but the character of a vengeful female samurai assassin was a major inspiration for the director’s Kill Bill pictures; in fact, Lucy Liu’s character of O-Ren Ishii is so close to Lady Snowblood that it’s unclear if she’s an homage or a rip-off. At any rate, if you’re a fan of Kill Bill, then you will most likely appreciate these low budget cult action films.

Based on a Japanese manga by Kazuo Koike and Kazuo Kamimura (Shurayuki-hime) published in 1972 and 1973, both features star the beautiful Meiko Kaji as Lady Snowblood, a kimono-dressed assassin who is active in the late 19th Century and wields a mean blade hidden in an umbrella. Kaji is a popular actress in her native country—she appeared in many B-movie action and martial arts pictures (i.e., the Japanese equivalent of exploitation movies) in the 70s, and then went into television in the 80s. She is also an accomplished musical artist and singer, having released many singles and a dozen LPs. She sings the main title song of Lady Snowblood (“Shuro No Hana”), and Tarantino used the same theme during a sequence in Kill Bill, Vol. 1. Meiko Kaji is perhaps the best reason to view this double feature.

The first film is an origin story in which we learn that Yuki, aka Lady Snowblood, is born to a mother who is in prison for killing one of a criminal foursome—three men and one woman—who murdered her husband and son, and raped her. She passes on the remainder of her vendetta to her daughter, who grows up to study martial arts and become a vigilante. As an adult, Yuki tracks down the other three to exact her revenge.

The second picture finds Yuki as something of a hired hand of the secret police. She must infiltrate the home of an anarchist in order to retrieve an item the government wants—but, of course, her prey turns out not to be the true bad guy. Lady Snowblood must switch allegiances and set things right with a lot of swordplay, blood-letting, and Eastern-style poise.

The movies are colorful and exotic in terms of photography, production design, and costumes—the imagery of white snow splashed with red blood, mixed with the period Japanese wardrobe and sets, exhibit a unique beauty that Tarantino recreated in Kill Bill. Otherwise, the two Snowblood movies are cheaply done. The blood effects are, for the most part, ridiculous. One slash of a throat and the blood laughably sprays like a fire hose. The storylines are predictable, but like the manga from which they are adapted, are pure comic book pulp.

The Criterion Collection presents both features on one disk. The new 2K digital restorations look very good in that glorious and vividly garish color that is indicative of the 70s. Each film has uncompressed monaural soundtracks, and there are new English subtitle translations. The disk is short on supplements, containing only new interviews with Kazuo Koike (the writer of the manga), and screenwriter Norio Osada. Trailers for both pictures are included. The booklet features an essay by critic Howard Hampton.

Recommended for aficionados of Japanese exploitation and martial arts fare, which, in the 1970s, was the equivalent of fast food. 

CLICK HERE TO ORDER FROM AMAZON