Continuing
the examination of Kino Lorber’s new Blu-ray releases of the W. C. Fields
catalog of classic comedies, we now look at The Bank Dick, easily one of
the actor/comedian’s greatest works.
Released
in 1940 (titled The Bank Detective in the U.K.), Fields was starting to
wind down, whether he knew it or not. Alcoholism was taking its toll, and it
wouldn’t be long before his amazing run in cinema since the silent era would soon
come to an end. He still had some surprises in his pockets, though, and The
Bank Dick was one of them.
Written by Fields (as Mahatma Kane
Jeeves—“my hat, my cane, Jeeves!â€), the picture contains an abundance of the
actor’s funniest lines and comebacks. He is also surrounded by numerous other
wacky character actors, creating a theatre of the absurd that culminates in one
of the craziest car chases put on film. Director Edward Cline was no slouch
when it came to comedy—he had collaborated with Buster Keaton in the 1920s, as
well as with Fields, most recently on the Fields/Mae West co-starrer, My
Little Chickadee. Cline’s control of the action and the anything-can-happen
antics of his star is impressive. It’s no wonder that Cline and Fields were a
good team.
Kino Lorber’s new Blu-ray release looks
appropriately grainy but with a sheen that previous DVD releases were without.
The feature comes with an audio commentary by the knowledgeable film historian
Michael Schlesinger, who always gives good gab. The theatrical trailer, along
with other Kino Lorber titles, completes the presentation.
The Bank Dick is priceless comedy. It’s one of the two or three titles
that belong in a time capsule sporting the identifying label: “This was
W. C. Fields.†Highly recommended.
The
year 1934 was a good one for comic actor W. C. Fields (whose real name was
William Claude Dukenfield). Fields made six pictures in 1934, and by the time
that It’s a Gift appeared in November, he had made sixteen sound movies
(and he had been making silents prior to the sound era).
Kino
Lorber has begun releasing new Blu-ray restorations of many of Fields’ better
films from the 1930s, which was the decade in which he prospered the most. Today,
Cinema Retro looks at two key new releases, with likely more reviews to
come as we receive them.
It’s
a Gift,
directed by Norman McLeod (who was also responsible for the Marx Brothers’ Monkey
Business and Horse Feathers in 1931 and 1932, respectively), is
easily one of W. C. Fields’ most beloved and acclaimed pictures. It showcases
Fields at his best and before alcoholism began to derail his career. In fact,
Fields is in shape and rather slim here and in the other title from 1934 that
we’re examining, The Old Fashioned Way. Remarkably, he was already 54
when these two films were released by Paramount Pictures, the studio that often
pushed the envelope when it came to comedy.
In
Gift, Fields (Harold Bissonette) is a grocer married to the
forever-nagging Amelia (Kathleen Howard). She insists that Harold pretentiously
pronounce their last name as “Bisso-nay.†They have two children, an older
daughter and a bratty pre-teen (Jean Rouverol and Tommy Bupp, respectively).
Harold has dreams of buying an orange grove in California and moving from their
cramped and squalid housing in whatever state they’re in. Neighbors in the same
building include the Dunk family, a member of which is Baby Elwood (Baby LeRoy,
in his third and final appearance with Fields). When Howard finally buys his
orange grove, the family does move—only to find that the track of land is a
barren plot. Amelia and the kids threaten to leave him until a stroke of luck
intervenes.
True,
there isn’t much of a plot here, but that doesn’t matter. It’s a Gift is
a gem for its series of gags, sketches, and routines that Fields perfected over
the years in vaudeville, and they are on full display here. One extended
sequence involves Howard attempting to take an afternoon nap on his front porch
swing—but he is constantly disturbed by noises from the various neighbors, visitors
from the street, and other external stimuli. The results are hilarious. All the
set-pieces, such as when Howard must deal with a blind man in the grocery store,
are equally funny, and they emphasize why W. C. Fields is remembered today as
one of the great genius comics of his day.
The
Old Fashioned Way,
directed by William Beaudine, was released four months earlier than It’s a
Gift. It is lesser Fields, but it still has its moments of fun. Of
particular interest is Fields’ juggling demonstration, a rare moment of the man
showing off this talent on film. Back in the vaudeville days, Fields was not
only a comedian and vocalist, but also an accomplished juggler. His act here
with balls and cigar boxes is simply amazing, and funny, too.
Fields
plays “The Great McGonigle,†a theatrical troupe impresario and actor in the
1890s who is constantly in trouble for not paying his bills. He leads his
company out of every town before the law catches up with him. His troupe
includes his daughter, Betty (Judith Allen), as well as familiar Fields co-star
and foil, Mr. Gump (Tammany Young). Baby LeRoy makes his second appearance in a
Fields movie as the child of the rich society woman, Cleopatra Pepperday (Jan
Duggan). Pepperday desperately wants to join the McGonigle troupe and perform,
even though she is terribly untalented—but McGonigle is not averse to promising
her a role in exchange for funding. A romantic subplot involving Betty and
actor/singer Wally (Joe Morrison) and Wally’s father (Oscar Apfel) intermingles
with McGonigle’s conning of boarding house proprietors, theater managers, and
sheriffs.
Both
Kino Lorber titles, available separately, look quite good in their high
definition restorations, and each come with optional English subtitles for the
hearing impaired. Audio commentaries by film historian James L. Neibaur, author
of The W. C. Fields Films, accompany both features, along with the
theatrical trailers for these and other Kino Fields releases.
For
fans of W. C. Fields, classic cinema comedy, and old Hollywood, It’s a Gift and
The Old Fashioned Way serve up grand entertainment.
The
decade of the 1950s is the Golden Age of science fiction movies. Prior to that,
the genre was mostly ignored on film in favor of horror. Of course, the two
genres often overlapped, especially in the 50s, when audiences were worried
about nuclear war, UFOs, alien invasions, and the dangers of radioactivity. We
got pictures with giant bugs, flying saucers, amphibious creatures, Martian
invaders, and mole people. With few exceptions, most of the science fiction
fare from the period is godawful but usually fun for a drive-in movie
experience or late-night “creature feature†material on television.
The
exceptions have proven to stand the test of time and are considered classics
today—The Day the Earth Stood Still (1951), The Thing from Another
World (1951), The War of the Worlds (1953), Invasion of the Body
Snatchers (1956), Forbidden Planet (1956), among others.
The
Incredible Shrinking Man (1957) is one of these gems. Conceived and written by the
great Richard Matheson, the movie was brought to the screen by Jack Arnold, one
of the more under-appreciated filmmakers of his day. While Arnold specialized
in “creature features†in the fifties (he brought us The Creature from the
Black Lagoon in 1954 and Tarantula in ’55, for example), he went on
to be a successful hard-working craftsman for dozens of popular television
shows in the 60s and 70s.
Matheson
wrote the initial story and simultaneously penned a novel (The Shrinking Man)
published in 1956. He sold the rights to Universal on the condition that he be
hired to write the screenplay. Matheson’s script followed the structure of his
novel, which used flashbacks to tell Scott Carey’s story. Arnold and the studio
preferred that the story be told linearly, so Richard Alan Simmons got the job
to re-write the screenplay as such. Both Matheson and Simmons share screenplay
credit, while Matheson receives story credit.
The
tale is well-known. Scott Carey (Grant Williams) is in a loving marriage with
Louise (Randy Stuart). One day they are out on a boat. While Louise is below
deck, a strange mist envelops Scott. As time passes, Scott notices that his
clothes no longer fit him—he’s becoming smaller. Doctors are befuddled. Scott
shrinks some more. Eventually this affects the marriage and Scott questions his
manhood. He becomes a media curiosity, and he continues to diminish in size.
Ultimately, he is alone in his house and must first battle the family cat, and
later, in a climactic sequence, a tarantula. And still, he continues to grow
smaller…
The
Incredible Shrinking Man is one of the most thoughtful, mind-bending, and
existential science fiction films ever made—and it was certainly a milestone of
the period. Its cosmic ending, which studio executives wanted to change to a
happier one, was kept intact by director Arnold—and this is what elevates Shrinking
Man to a BIG picture.
The
visual effects, while crude by today’s standards, were cleverly done in
1956-57. Arnold utilized split screens, rear screen projections, oversized sets
and furniture, and trick photography to achieve the illusion of Scott’s
condition against an enlarging hostile world around him. As Arnold states in a
wonderful vintage 1983 interview that is a supplement accompanying the film,
the secret to this and all the director’s work was “preparation.†He was a
believer in storyboards, and he created these to fully imagine the picture
prior to shooting a frame of film. Much like the outline some authors pen prior
to drafting a novel, Arnold’s storyboards allowed him to try out different
ideas and erase them if they didn’t work.
The
Criterion Collection presents an outstanding package for Shrinking Man.
The film is a 4K digital restoration that looks amazingly fresh. It comes with
an uncompressed monaural soundtrack. There is an optional and informative audio
commentary by genre-film historian Tom Weaver and horror-music expert David
Schecter.
Supplements
abound. A new featurette on the film’s visual effects hosted by FX experts
Craig Barron and Ben Burtt is a lot of fun. A very entertaining conversation
about the film between filmmaker Joe Dante and comedian/writer Dana Gould is
fabulous. A remembrance on the film with Richard Christian Matheson (Richard
Matheson’s son) is also superb. Of particular interest to film buffs might be
the previously mentioned footage from 1983 of Jack Arnold interviewed about the
film. Also of great significance is a “director’s cut†of a 2021 documentary
about Arnold, Auteur on the Campus: Jack Arnold at Universal. And if all
that weren’t enough, we get two 8mm home video short presentations of the film that
circulated in the 1960s, a feature on missing musical cues, a vintage teaser
narrated by none other than Orson Welles, and the theatrical trailer. The
booklet contains an essay by critic Geoffrey O’Brien.
The
Incredible Shrinking Man is a must-have, buy-today, excellent release from
Criterion. For fans of 1950s science fiction, Richard Matheson, Jack Arnold,
and giant spiders. Sublime!
At
long last, the Warner Archive has blessed Marx Brothers fans with a high
definition Blu-ray release of one of the comedy team’s most beloved pictures, A
Night at the Opera (1935).
Many
film historians and critics cite A Night at the Opera (directed by Sam Wood) as the brothers’ “finestâ€
movie, and it has even been named by Groucho Marx as such. While it is
certainly one of their best, this reviewer quibbles with that
pronouncement. The film’s reputation is a result of the success it had at the
box office and with the public’s perception upon release. It was a “reboot†of
sorts for the Marx Brothers, as they had moved to a new studio (the prestigious
MGM) and were overseen by the young genius studio maverick, Irving Thalberg.
Under Thalberg’s guidance, the brothers’ films became more commercial. His goal
had been to make their pictures play as well in Middle America as they had in
New York or Los Angeles.
The
Marx Brothers’ film career can easily be divided into two distinct periods. The
first chapter consists of the five excellent pre-Code entries made at
Paramount. Most aficionados of the brothers hold these anarchic, surreal, and
zany comedies (they include Animal Crackers, Horse Feathers, and Duck
Soup)in the highest regard. Unfortunately, 1933’s Duck Soup was
not a box office hit because the comedy had become too political for the times
(although its stock grew tremendously as the decades went on, and today Soup
is generally considered, certainly by this reviewer, as the team’s “finestâ€â€”or
certainly “favoriteâ€). The team found themselves without a studio. Zeppo, the
team’s “straight man,†dropped out of the act, and he would be replaced by a
succession of Zeppo-types to serve his function. This left only Groucho, Harpo,
and Chico in place.
Enter
Thalberg. Over a poker game with Chico, Thalberg discussed bringing the Marx
Brothers to MGM. He envisioned making their comedy more “friendly†and
emphasizing more story. The result found the three (instead of four)
Marx Brothers becoming lovable—but crazily funny—matchmakers to two young
lovers (in this case, played by Allan Jones, this movie’s Zeppo clone, and
Kitty Carlisle), despite obstacles by defined bad guys.
This
formula was a success, and it continued in 1937’s A Day at the Races (the
brothers’ most profitable film) and three more at MGM, which grew progressively
weaker in quality. By 1941, the blueprint had played itself out and MGM dropped
the team. (The brothers made two more inferior films in the late 1940s for
different studios, a time which could be considered a forgettable third period
in their cinematic journey.)
All
that said, A Night at the Opera is easily the most successful and
funniest of the MGM pictures. Groucho is “Otis B. Driftwood,†a theatrical
manager of sorts, who wants to invest Mrs. Claypool’s money (she is played, of
course, by the wonderful Margaret Dumont) in the New York opera scene, which is
run by pompous Herman Gottlieb (Sig Ruman). Chico is “Fiorello,†another
manager of sorts, who represents his friend Ricardo (Jones), who happens to be
an extremely talented singer. Ricardo is in love with Rosa (Carlisle), also an
opera singer. She is set to co-star with sleazy Lassparri (Walter Woolf King),
who is cruel to his personal assistant, Tomasso (Harpo). Thus, the plot
involves subverting Lassparri and Gottlieb, and installing Ricardo and Rosa in
the opera. It takes the three Marx Brothers to make this happen.
The
script was written by George S. Kaufman and Morrie Ryskind, who had worked with
the brothers several times in the past. Even though Groucho and Chico were
known to improvise dialogue, the film contains many of their best bits. For
example, the “contract scene,†in which Driftwood and Fiorello hash out the
terms to sign Ricardo to the opera, is classic stuff. When they don’t agree on
a specific clause in the contract, they simply physically tear it off the
paper. When Fiorello gets down to the bottom, the clause which states that if
either party is “not in sound mind,†then the contract is void. “That’s the
sanity clause,†Driftwood explains. Fiorello isn’t having it. “Oh no, you can’t
fool me. There ain’t no Sanity Clause!†And
then there is the brilliant ocean liner stateroomscene, the cinematic
equivalent of stuffing the most people possible into a phone booth.
Groucho
and Chico do seem to have all the best stuff. Harpo is always splendid, but
here too much of his physical comedy is dependent on outrageous stunts
(performed by doubles and stuntmen, or visual photographic effects), such as
climbing up a vertical theatrical backdrop like a lizard. Harpo Marx’s
antics should never be performed by stuntmen or faked with technical trickery.
This is probably this reviewer’s biggest complaint about A Night at the
Opera, and the one thing that prevents it from overtaking the likes of Duck
Soup, Horse Feathers, Animal Crackers, and Monkey Business
as the quintessential Marx Brothers movie. At least Opera features two
superb musical solos by Chico (on piano) and Harpo (on harp), as well as a
couple of lavish, MGM-style musical numbers by Jones, Carlisle, and a multitude
of extras.
Warner
Archive’s new high-definition transfer is a vast improvement over the previous
DVD release. The few splices/missing frames in the film are still evident
(nothing to be done about those), but the picture quality is superb. All the supplements
are ported over from the DVD release, including the audio commentary by film
critic Leonard Maltin, as well as an entertaining documentary on the brothers
(featuring the likes of Carl Reiner, Larry Gelbart, Dom DeLuise, and others), a
1961 television excerpt of Groucho being interviewed by Hy Gardner, and two
vintage 1930s MGM shorts (Robert Benchley’s “How to Sleep†and the musical
documentary “Sunday Night at the Trocaderoâ€). A third vintage short, “Los
Angeles: Wonder City of the West†is new to this Blu-ray release. The
theatrical trailer rounds out the package.
A
Night at the Opera is
a welcome addition to the home video collection of any Marx Brothers fan.
Despite the minor quibbles, this is classic, side-splitting, Hollywood comedy.
The
excellent boutique label Arrow Video has issued a superb 2-disk Limited Edition
Blu-ray package of Ridley Scott’s 1985 film, Legend (released in the
U.S. in 1986).
Like
another recent terrific Arrow Video release, David Lynch’s Dune, Scott’s
Legend was a troubled production that experienced studio interference
and a problematic worldwide release, received mixed to negative reviews from
critics and audiences alike, and was relegated to the barrel of “expensive
Hollywood failures†for decades—and yet it has a cult following of devoted fans.
Perhaps
the most notorious reputation Legend has is that it existed in different
cuts. Scott’s original cut was roughly 125 minutes, but the studio felt the
picture needed shortening. It was trimmed to 113 minutes, which was ultimately Scott’s
preferred cut. The picture’s music was composed and conducted by the great
Jerry Goldsmith, who had overlain the fantasy with a classically orchestral
score. The studio still felt that the movie ran too long, so further cuts were
demanded, much to Scott’s chagrin. This “European cut,†at around 95 minutes,
was released in the UK in late 1985. Reception wasn’t great, so the studio
delayed the North American release to make a drastic change. Over Scott’s objections,
they replaced Goldsmith’s score with a newly-commissioned one by the
progressive electronic band, Tangerine Dream. A few minutes more were cut, and
the U.S. release, at roughly 90 minutes, was released in spring 1986 with the
new score. This time the reception was even worse.
Ridley
Scott always maintained that his original cut of the film—with Goldsmith’s
score—was the way Legend should be seen. Thus, in 2002, Legend received
a re-release of Scott’s Director’s Cut of 113 minutes with Goldsmith’s score
restored. This version was re-appraised and earned a more positive rating from
critics and viewers. Interestingly, Scott has more Director’s Cuts of his films
that are different from their theatrical releases than any other filmmaker, as
pointed out in one of the disk’s supplements!
Legend
is
hard-fantasy, but it owes more to Shakespeare’s A Midsummer Night’s Dream or
Disney’s Fantasia than it does to, say, Tolkien’s The Lord of the
Rings. Yes, there are fairies, goblins, elves, and dwarves in both visions
of a fantasyland, but Legend has a more classical, old-myth feel. While
Scott’s Director’s Cut is indeed a vast improvement over the shorter versions
(European and U.S.), the picture still has flaws that prevent it from being the
masterwork that Scott perhaps hoped it would be. That said, there is much to
admire in Legend.
Visually,
Legend is scrumptious, gorgeous, and fascinating. The production designs
by Assheton Gordon and especially the makeup designs by Rob Bottin are
extraordinary. The pastoral atmosphere and the moods evoked by the picture are
effective and magical.
The
acting? A young Tom Cruise plays Jack, a sort of Jack-in-the-Green fellow who
is at one with the forest and its creatures. He fancies Princess Lili (Mia
Sara), who is precocious and sets all the conflict of the story in motion by a
careless act. (Oddly, all references to Lili being a princess are deleted from
the U.S. theatrical release.) Tim Curry is magnificent behind all the makeup as
the Prince of Darkness, a truly delicious villain. David Bennent (of The Tin
Drum fame) is believable as an elf named Gump, although his voice is dubbed
by Alice Playton.
The
story is straightforward. Darkness wants to eliminate all light in the world by
destroying the two unicorns in the forest, so he sends a troupe of goblins out
to do the dirty deed, just as Jack is introducing the animals to Lili. One
unicorn horn is hacked off and stolen, and the world is plunged into a deep
freeze. Lili is eventually captured by Darkness (he has the hots for her, too),
so it’s up to Jack, the elves, and a pair of dwarves to rescue her, retrieve
the unicorn horn, and stop Darkness from accomplishing his goal.
It
all works well enough, although the voices used for the goblins are
ridiculously comical and are a detriment to the action. Once the action moves
to Darkness’ realm, the picture picks up and becomes quite suspenseful. In the
end, though, Legend just doesn’t reach the lofty target to which it aspired.
One of the problems is that is seemed not to know what audience for whom it was
aimed. Children? Adults? Teenagers? The studio arbitrarily decided it was the
latter, which was one of the reasons the Tangerine Dream score replaced
Goldsmith’s.
And
what of the scores? The Tangerine Dream score is actually quite good—the band had
already done several movie scores and were quite adept at it. It works with the
theatrical version well enough. Nevertheless, the Jerry Goldsmith is far
superior and fits the movie much better. This is classical fantasy, so a
classical score is more appropriate.
The
new Arrow Video Limited Edition 2-Disk package contains the U.S. theatrical
release (with the Tangerine Dream score) and Scott’s Director’s Cut (with Jerry
Goldsmith’s score), both beautifully restored in 2K. They both have DTS-HD MA
2.0 stereo and 5.1 surround audio, and optional English subtitles for the
hearing impaired. The theatrical cut has an audio commentary by Paul M. Sammon
(author of Ridley Scott: The Making of His Movies). The Director’s Cut
features an audio commentary by Scott himself. There are isolated music and
effects tracks for the theatrical release.
Supplements
abound. New featurettes include a documentary on the film featuring interviews
with several key crew members and cast member Annabelle Lanyon (who plays Oona
the sprite); an excellent two-part documentary on the two scores; a featurette
examining the various versions of the film; and a two-part featurette on the
movie’s creatures. Vintage supplements include a 2003 documentary on Ridley
Scott; a 2002 documentary on the making of the film; original promotional
featurettes; deleted scenes; alternate scenes; storyboard galleries; two drafts
of the screenplay (!) by William Hjortsberg; alternate footage from the
overseas release; trailers, TV spots, and image galleries. The package also
contains a wonderfully illustrated booklet with writing on the film by Nicholas
Clement, Kat Ellinger, and Simon Ward, plus archive materials and more. There’s
a two-sided poster with new artwork by Neil Davies and the original by John
Alvin, a pack of glossy full-color photographs by Annie Leibovitz, and
double-sided postcards that are lobby card reproductions. The jewel case comes
with a reversible sleeve of both artworks.
Legend
is
likely of interest to fans of Ridley Scott, Tom Cruise, and the fantasy genre,
but it is especially informative and revelatory in terms of Hollywood history
and how studios and artists often clash in the realization of a marketable
vision. Hats off to Arrow Video!