AND THEN THERE WAS… BADLANDS

By Raymond Benson

Terrence Malick fans will rejoice for the newly restored (and director approved, I might add—so apparently he’s not as reclusive as he’s been made out to be), marvelous release of the auteur’s first, and very low-budget, feature film. It was originally screened at festivals in 1973, and released to the public in early ’74. No punches pulled here—Badlands is a masterpiece, and its arrival immediately garnered a fan following for the enigmatic director who has made only five films in so many decades. But as producer Edward Pressman says in the exclusive video interview that The Criterion Collection included as one of several good extras, Badlands was not a success on its first release. Reviews were mixed—as would be the case for any Malick film—and the public didn’t go see it. Pressman also had to fight for Malick to have his own artistic vision, despite complaints and pressure from the backers. The film was properly “discovered” when it started playing on cable television some years later. By then, Malick was making Days of Heaven, and these would be the only two pictures he would make before a twenty-year gap in output. Already his mystique had been established.

Badlands is indeed a remarkable film, not only because of the unique point of view Malick brings to the table, but for the performances of young Martin Sheen and young Sissy Spacek. They are both knock-outs, and they were undeservedly ignored when awards season came around. Sheen, especially, gives a chilling performance of psychopath-as-James Dean, more or less, because the character fashions himself after the famous actor. You can’t help but like the guy. He is utterly charming to the girl he’s chosen to run away with him on a killing spree, and the couple’s love for each other is so real and so oddball that we can’t help but be fascinated by them.

It is Malick’s most “accessible” film, perhaps, for it tells a linear, sweeps-you-along story with characters you can follow through a story arc. If you know Malick only from his recent works (The Tree of Life, The Thin Red Line), you’ll know he didn’t always stick to that format. However, Malick displays many of his signature traits even here. A common stylistic and thematic element of the director’s films is the marriage of nature to whatever story is being told, thus there are striking cinematographic images of plains, bugs, birds, flowers, wheat, and sky, all set to some unusual piece of music from an eclectic palate of recorded works. (The unique soundtrack to Badlands has never been compiled and released, and someone should do it!)

Loosely inspired by the real-life Charles Starkweather case of the late 1950s, Badlands is a road movie that is poetry in motion, haunting and unforgettable. The 4K digital transfer is gorgeous. Other extras include an engrossing forty-minute piece on the making of the film, featuring Martin Sheen and Sissy Spacek today, reminiscing about the extraordinary experience they had with “Terry.” Associate editor Billy Weber also provides an interview, and a highlight is the 1993 episode of TV’s American Justice about Starkweather.

If you’ve never seen Badlands, take a look at this exquisite Criterion release and experience something beautiful and strange.

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ALSO NEW FROM CRITERION:

Ministry of Fear, 1944, directed by Fritz Lang, and starring Ray Milland, Marjorie Reynolds, and Dan Duryea, looks fantastic on Blu-ray. It’s one of the best restorations and transfers I’ve seen of a black-and-white film noir of the period. Lang’s German Expressionistic background is classroom-clear in the look of this intriguing spy tale, based on a novel by Graham Greene (The Third Man). The high-contrast light-and-shadow and angled lines are all over the place. Nazi spies in England are the bad guys, and our innocent man on the run (Milland) thinks he knows where a few of them are hiding. The problem is, he’s a former mental asylum patient who served time for mercy-killing his already dying wife. This is a terrific World War II-era paranoia thriller, despite the fact that so many American actors in the picture are supposed to be British, and they make no attempt to sound that way. Still, the story is compelling and the direction is superb. Includes an interview with Lang scholar Joe McElhaney.

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Author and Cinema Retro columnist Raymond Benson takes a sentimental journey back to the year 1963. A half-century later, we can remember that year as one of tumultuous events, capped off by the assassination of an American president. But Benson also points out the pleasures of that period as well, from classic TV shows to enduring motion pictures- and he combines them with his own personal memories. Click here to read

HITCHCOCK’S BREAKTHROUGH

By Raymond Benson

Finally! After years of sub-par and downright bootleg quality transfers of Alfred Hitchcock’s 1934 British classic, The Man Who Knew Too Much, we now have a very decent-looking presentation. Thanks to The Criterion Collection, the film has undergone a new digital restoration, and it looks great. We can finally see a clear photographic image! Peter Lorre is no longer blurry and in soft-focus. And the sound! Thanks to an uncompressed monaural soundtrack, we can now actually hear the dialogue and understand it, whereas on previous releases everyone sounded like they were speaking from inside a barrel.

The Man Who Knew Too Much was Hitchcock’s first hugely successful talkie. In fact, Man was the number one picture in the UK in 1934, and it more or less introduced America to the Master of Suspense when it was imported across the pond. So, in many ways, The Man Who Knew Too Much was Hitch’s breakthrough to a worldwide audience. And it’s such a good story that he decided to remake it in Hollywood twenty-two years later. Film historians like to argue about which version is better. As the director himself said, the first one was the work of a “talented beginner” and the second version was that of a “professional.” Regardless, the 1934 edition is hugely entertaining and a worthwhile addition to any cinema buff’s collection.

The picture also marks the first English-language appearance by Peter Lorre, who had recently escaped from Nazi Germany. While making Man, he was learning English and legend has it that he recited his lines phonetically without truly understanding their meaning. If that’s truly the case, then his performance is remarkable; he’s one of Hitchcock’s best villains. Leslie Banks and Edna Best are the protagonists, and while they are no Jimmy Stewart and Doris Day, they carry the film along marvelously.

Extras include a terrific hour-long 1972 British TV interview with Hitchcock conducted by Ingrid Bergman’s daughter Pia Lindstrom and film historian William K. Everson. The disk is worth the price for that alone. There’s a new interview/appreciation from Guillermo del Toro, audio excerpts from Francois Truffaut’s classic interview with the master, a new audio commentary by film historian Philip Kemp, and the usual thick booklet full of photos and an essay by Farran Smith Nehme.

A jolly good show indeed.

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TRIPPING WITH GODFREY REGGIO & PHILIP GLASS

By Raymond Benson

When I walked out of the New York cinema in 1983 after viewing Koyaanisqatsi for the first time, I overheard someone say, “That was the trippiest movie since 2001.” I had to agree. I’d never seen anything like it, but it was a feast for the eyes and ears. I’d been mesmerized for 86 minutes, lost in a swirling and exhilarating journey through North American landscapes of deserts, canyons, skies, and big cities. Using slow motion and time lapse photography by Ron Fricke, director Godfrey Reggio presented a feature-length music video that defied categorization. Accompanied by the vibrant score by Philip Glass, the film seemed to be saying that man was screwing up nature and that we’d better watch out. Life was “out of balance,” as the Hopi Indian one-word-title of the movie meant. Koyaanisqatsi was one of the most moving cinematic experiences I’d encountered.

Two sequels followed—Powaqqatsi (1988) and Naqoyqatsi (2002)—produced in the same non-verbal style but with successively more challenging thematic content. Powaqqatsi concentrated on the Southern Hemisphere and third world countries, emphasizing how the more “modern” parts of the world fed upon the poorer and harder-working civilizations. Naqoyqatsi went deep into the computer, re-imagining the globe’s landscapes, people, and especially armies into digitally-altered and enhanced imagery that suggested we’ve become an artificial mechanization of our former selves. While powerful in their own right and certainly worthwhile, it is Koyaanisqatsi that will always be the ground-breaking piece of the trilogy, as well as the most effective.

Given the deluxe Blu-ray treatment by the Criterion Collection, all three films are presented in new restored digital transfers, approved by director Reggio, with 5.1 surround DTS-HD Master Audio soundtracks. The results are amazing. Each of the three disks also comes with an abundance of extras—vintage and current interviews with key creative personnel; an early demo of Koyaanisqatsi shot in the 70s with music by Allen Ginsberg; Reggio’s rare 30-minute short Anima Mundi, with music by Glass; a thick booklet of essays, and more.

Wow. Turn out the lights, get comfortable, and trip out. The Qatsi Trilogy will change your life, man.

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GODARD’S NIGHTMARE ROAD TRIP

By Raymond Benson

Jean-Luc Godard was the bad boy of the French New Wave. Whereas his contemporaries such as Francois Truffaut were “safe” and “accessible,” Godard liked to shock people. A lot of his work, especially in the sixties, was also political in nature—this was a man unafraid to scathingly portray French bourgeois society at its worst and trumpet his views on class discrepancy with the ferocity of a bull dog. In other words, he enjoyed pissing off audiences.

Released in 1967 with the opening titles caveat that “children under 18 should not see this film,” we are told at the beginning that Weekend (or Week End or Week-end, depending on what country you’re in) is a film “found on the trash heap.” It is one of the darkest and most vicious black comedies ever made, and naturally, it is one of Godard’s best pictures. It is simultaneously fascinating, repulsive, and hilarious, and not for the faint of heart. But discerning fans of art house cinema should eat it up.

The story, as it were, involves a bickering married couple (Mireille Darc and Jean Yanne, both of whom were major French TV stars at the time the film was made) who have plans to kill each other and run off with their respective lovers. But before that can happen, they have to murder Darc’s father so she will inherit his wealth. They set off across country to her parents’ home and find themselves on a nightmare journey through a landscape of traffic jams, automobile accidents (and fatalities) at nearly every juncture, and violence. The humor comes with the couple acting as if it’s all part of everyday life.

One celebrated sequence is a lengthy tracking shot along a road backed up with vehicles. As our anti-heroes attempt to pass the idling cars and trucks to move to the head of the line, we’re treated with all kinds of sight gags (such as one car that’s facing the opposite direction and wedged between two vehicles going the right way). We laugh and laugh. Then, when we finally reach the front of the traffic jam, we see that the cause was a bad accident, and entire families are lying bloody in the road. The couple drives through the scene as if the holdup was a minor nuisance. Later, when the couple’s car is also in a collision and catches fire, Darc is more upset about her Hermes handbag getting burned than the fact that she and her husband are covered in blood and the car is destroyed. That’s the kind of movie Weekend is.

Criterion’s new digital restoration with uncompressed monaural soundtrack is superb. The cinematography by Raoul Coutard always had a color documentary feel to it, but the Blu-ray brings out a sharpness hitherto unseen in prints. Extras include archival interviews with the stars and assistant director, an archival piece on Godard featuring on-set footage, and more. The thick booklet contains an essay by critic/novelist Gary Indiana, selections from a 1969 interview with Godard, and excerpts from a Godard biography.

Weekend was a comment on French society in 1967, and the irony today is that the film might be even more relevant in our own present world.

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By Raymond Benson

"Pray for Rosemary's Baby..."

That tag line for Roman Polanski’s 1968 horror classic is an example of brilliant marketing. Until it was created, Paramount’s head of the studio, Robert Evans, admits not knowing how to sell the picture. Yes, it’s a horror film, but not like anything we’ve seen. Yes, it’s produced by William Castle, the schlock-meister who was famous for B-movie scare flicks utilizing gimmicks such as the selling of insurance policies in the theater lobby for patrons who feared they’d be scared to death. But the film is also an ingenious thriller outside of the horror genre; a crime story, in many ways, about a cult that drugs and rapes a woman for fiendish purposes. The subject is taken seriously, despite an undercurrent of dark humor. It was also very adult and frank for its time, and it had the potential to offend some audiences. Indeed, how does one sell that in the late sixties? The tag line intrigued enough people that it worked, for Rosemary’s Baby was a hit and the picture still resonates today.

It was Polanski’s first American film, and it remains an essential entry in his oeuvre. His early trademark style was doing a Hitchcock but taking it a few steps farther into more bizarre, creepy-crawly, and supernatural territory. That’s on full display in Rosemary’s Baby. We’d had devil movies before, but nothing as realistically-portrayed as this one. It certainly held the reign of Satan movies until The Exorcist came along five years later. In my book, it’s the better of the two. AFI is well justified in naming Rosemary’s Baby in their “Top Thrills” top ten list.

While brilliantly directed and written, a good deal of credit for the success of the film goes to the excellent cast. Mia Farrow has never been better as Rosemary. John Cassavetes is dead-on as the frustrated actor/husband who literally makes a deal with the devil. Ruth Gordon, the multiple award winner for the picture, is a revelation. She brings much of the necessary comic relief to the proceedings, for the film is an exemplary model of tension-building to a near-unbearable level.

As usual, the Criterion Collection does a magnificent job. Polanski approved the new, restored digital transfer, and it looks marvelous. Extras include a new documentary featuring interviews with Polanski, Farrow, and Robert Evans. Original novel author Ira Levin is showcased in a 1997 radio interview and original drawings and other prose in the enclosed booklet. Also of interest is a feature-length documentary about the film’s talented jazz composer, Krzysztof Komeda.

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EPIC GRANDEUR CAPTURED IN BLU-RAY GIFT SET

By Raymond Benson

It’s probably the quintessential motion picture epic. If you’re looking for an intimate story told on a grand scale, an adventure set in an exotic location and against the backdrop of significant historical events, and an engrossing portrait of an important First World War figure… seek no further. Lawrence of Arabia has it all. This 1962 roadshow attraction from arguably Britain’s greatest director, David Lean, Lawrence is simply a magnificent achievement—both technically and artistically. With star power such as Peter O’Toole (in his first major role), Omar Sharif, Anthony Quinn, Alec Guinness, Claude Rains, Jack Hawkins, and Jose Ferrer, and a master cinematographer such as Freddie Young, Lawrence of Arabia is not only gorgeous to look at, it is dramatically compelling.

O’Toole states that on the first day of shooting, Lean told him, “We’re off on a great adventure, Pete!” Indeed. With a director like Lean, an actor had to trust the helmsman and follow him, whether it was to the universe of Charles Dickens, war torn Southeast Asia, Russia at the time of the Revolution, Colonial India, or the deserts of the Middle East. Lean tackled big subjects with equally large productions. In this case the director took on the life of T. E. Lawrence, the famed British army officer who acted as a liaison to the Arabs during the Sinai and Palestine Campaign and the revolt against the Turks during World War I. In O’Toole, Lean found his Lawrence, the role the actor was born to play, and the picture exhibits the man’s greatness as well as his vulnerabilities and enigmas. This is fabulous stuff.

Seeing a David Lean picture was always an event. You knew you were going to step back into another time and place, and learn a little something about the historical events surrounding the story. You knew you would examine in great detail the lives of ordinary and extraordinary people. For three to four hours, you would live in a world only the magic of the movies could reproduce. Columbia/Sony’s new limited collectors Blu-ray gift set replicates the epic grandeur of the film with a lavish, handsomely-packaged treasure trove of material that will enhance your immersion experience.

The film itself, on disc 1, is an all-new 4K restoration, along with an optional picture-in-graphics track, exclusive to the Blu-ray. Two additional Blu-ray discs are loaded with extra features, providing hours of in-depth coverage of the making of the film and retrospective interviews and analyses. The most complete reconstruction of the deleted “balcony scene” between O’Toole and Jack Hawkins, never-before-released, appears on the third disc. A fourth disc, a CD, contains the soundtrack by Maurice Jarre with two unreleased tracks. If that wasn’t enough, a terrific hardbound coffee-table style book, informatively written by Jeremy Arnold and with a Preface by Leonard Maltin, is full of photographs surrounding the production and insight into the challenges the filmmakers faced. Finally, an individually-numbered, mounted 70mm frame of the film completes the enthusiast’s collection.

Just in time for Christmas, this collector’s gift set is a movie buff’s dream.

Note: the following is a press release sent by Sony UK pertaining to this major restoration:

“Lawrence of Arabia is universally considered to be one of the greatest epic films of all time and is certainly the crown jewel in the Columbia Pictures library,” noted David Bishop, President of Sony Pictures Home Entertainment. “Finally, the long anticipated and much in-demand release of David Lean’s masterpiece will be available on Blu-ray, which will provide consumers the chance to experience the sheer spectacle and beauty of this movie with the finest image and sound available. Additionally, in honor of Lawrence of Arabia’s
50th Anniversary, we have created a special gift set composed of a coffee table book and soundtrack, which will add further dimension to the enjoyment of this film.”

Never-before-seen bonus content included in both the four-disc Gift Set and the two-disc release include the “Secrets of Arabia: Picture-in-Graphics Track,” which allows the viewer to become immersed in the world of Lawrence of Arabia and learn about the customs and rituals of desert existence. The set also comes with the “Peter O’Toole Revisits Lawrence of Arabia” featurette, as well as the previously released, hour-long behind-the-scenes documentary “The Making of Lawrence of Arabia,” and the featurettes “The Camels are Cast (Maan Jordan),” “In Search of Lawrence,” “Romance of Arabia,” and the 1970 version of “Wind, Sand and Star: The Making of a Classic.” Both sets include newsreel footage of the New York premiere and advertising campaigns. Exclusive to the Gift Set are featurettes including “In Love with the Desert,” “King Hussein Visits Lawrence of Arabia Scene,” the original 1963 35mm version of “Wind, Sand and Star,” and conversations with Steven Spielberg and Martin Scorsese. Also included is a never-before-released deleted scene complete with an introduction by Lawrence of Arabia’s Oscar^® winning film editor Anne V. Coates, A.C.E.

Bonus Features:

DISC 1:

Feature Film, including overture, intermission, entr’acte and exit music

Newly re-mastered 5.1 English audio

“Secrets of Arabia: A Picture-in-Graphics Track

DISC 2:

§ Featurettes:

• “Peter O’Toole Revisits Lawrence of Arabia” - All-New Interview

• The Making of Lawrence of Arabia” documentary

• “A  Conversation with Steven Spielberg”

• “The Camels Are Cast”

• “In Search of Lawrence”

• “Romance of Arabia”

• “"Wind, Sand and Star: The Making of a Classic” (1970 version)

• Newsreel Footage of the New York Premiere

• Advertising Campaigns

DISC 3 (Gift Set Exclusive Disc):

Never-Before-Released Deleted Scene with Introduction by Anne Coates

“The Lure of the Desert: Martin Scorsese on Lawrence of Arabia” All-New Interview with Martin Scorsese

Featurettes:

• "“In Love with the Desert”

• “Lawrence at 50: A Classic Restored”

• King Hussein Visits Lawrence of Arabia Scene”

• “Wind, Sand and Star” (original version, 1963) 

• Archival Interviews with William Friedkin, Sydney Pollack, Martin Scorsese and Steven Spielberg

Trailers/TV Spots:

• Theatrical Trailer

• Teaser Trailer #1

• Teaser Trailer #2

• 70mm Restoration Trailer (1989 Release)

• TV Spot #1

• TV Spot #2

DISC 4 (Gift Set Exclusive Disc):

Exclusive Lawrence of Arabia Soundtrack CD including original score and two previously unreleased tracks

Lawrence of Arabia has a running time of 227 minutes and is rated 12.

 

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For an interview with Grover Crisp, the man who spearheaded the restoration for Sony, see forthcoming issue #25 of Cinema Retro.

By Raymond Benson

Children of Paradise has been called the greatest movie ever made in France, their equivalent to Gone With the Wind. Originally released in 1945 and directed by Marcel Carné, the three-hour historical epic is big in scope and ideas, and yet it is simplistic in its story about four men in love with the same woman. The excellent Criterion Collection label released the picture on DVD several years ago, but now they have given it the deluxe treatment with Pathé’s 2011 restoration and uncompressed monaural soundtrack in new Blu-ray and DVD editions. It looks and sounds amazing.

The story of the film’s production is just as fascinating as the picture itself. Made in Vichy France during the Nazi Occupation, Carné and his collaborator/writer Jacques Prévert had to work in secrecy, for the Nazis acted as “studio executives” and approved everything being made. The production designer and music composer were Jews, and they had to keep their presence under wraps. Allegedly many of the 1800 extras were Resistance agents using the film as daytime cover, who, until the Liberation, had to mingle with Vichy supporters and sympathizers imposed on the production by authorities. The production also came under natural obstacles (some large sets were destroyed by a storm), film stock was rationed, and principle photography had to be stopped and started numerous times over two years. Only after Liberation in August 1944 was the film able to be completed.

Children of Paradise takes place in Paris between 1830-1848, mostly centered in the “Boulevard du Crime,” the city’s “theatre row,” where the plays produced were typically crime melodramas. Thus, the film is a massive period costume drama to begin with. The protagonist is a mysterious woman named Garance (portrayed by the actress Arletty, one of France’s most famous stars), who is a feminist long before that word was invented. Four men vie for her attentions—notably the mime Baptiste (the magnificent Jean-Louis Barrault), the actor Frederick, the thief Pierre, and the aristocrat Edouard. Each have their own way of wooing the object of their desire, and Garance, in turn, has her own ways of dealing with them. Other minor characters complicate the proceedings by initiating their own seductions and pursuits of the four main men.

Prévert’s script is extremely poetic. One might think the dialogue was written in verse, but it wasn’t. Combined with Carné’s lush, fluid direction, the picture becomes an exquisite, flowing piece of art. The acting is top-notch, the black-and-white cinematography is breathtaking, and the overall power of the epic will stay with you long after its finish. When I was in college in the early to mid-70s, Children of Paradise was a popular on-campus import, shown in scratchy 16mm prints. Even then I fell in love with the picture, and now, seeing it in its restored, near-perfect glory, it’s like manna from heaven.

Extras take up an entire second disk. Monty Python’s Terry Gilliam provides an insightful (and humorous) introduction to the film and cites it as one of his favorites. A 2009 documentary on the making of the picture is extremely enlightening. A new visual essay on the film’s design is a welcome addition since the former release, and a vintage 1967 documentary features interviews with Carné, Arletty, Barrault, and others. The film itself sports audio commentaries by film scholars Brian Stonehill and Charles Affron, and a new subtitle translation.

Any serious student of film history should pick up Criterion’s new edition of this important, wonderful motion picture.

Released on Blu-ray and DVD simultaneously with Children of Paradise is another Marcel Carné film from 1942, also made during the Occupation—Les Visiteurs du Soir (aka The Devil’s Envoys). This is a fantasy along the lines of Bergman’s The Seventh Seal, in which two emissaries of the Devil arrive at a medieval castle to wreak havoc on love lives. Also starring Arletty, the picture is definitely overshadowed by Paradise, but it’s a little-seen gem that’s worth checking out.

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RETRO-ACTIVE: THE BEST FROM CINEMA RETRO'S ARCHIVES (This article originally ran in October 2010)

By Raymond Benson

Often called one of the best, if not the best, anti-war movie ever made, Stanley Kubrick’s Paths of Glory solidified the director’s standing in Hollywood as a talent to be reckoned with. The second film in Kubrick’s collaboration with producer James B. Harris (the first was the excellent The Killing), and released in 1957, the picture demonstrated Kubrick’s flair for camerawork, composition, and controversial subject matter. Certainly Paths of Glory stands out among his early works as a monumental achievement.

Based on true events during World War I, the story concerns how three innocent French privates are court-martialed for “cowardice” simply to set an example after a devastating defeat on the battlefield. Their commander (Kirk Douglas, in one of his best performances) must defend them. Thus, the film is part war movie and part courtroom drama.

Upon release, the French government pressured United Artists not to exhibit the film, so it wasn’t seen in France for nearly twenty years. It was critically received in America and Britain, although it curiously failed to garner any Academy Award nominations. (BAFTA nominated it for Best Picture, and Time Magazine cited it in their annual “Ten Best” list.)

Paths of Glory’s battle scenes are remarkably realistic and choreographed. The trademark Kubrick forward and backward tracking shots, as Douglas marches through the trenches, are particularly striking. The court-martial sequence, staged on a chessboard-like floor, displays the director’s penchant for orderly, symmetrical composition.

The film also contains some of the best acting in any Kubrick film—besides Douglas, who carries the picture, there are strong performances from George Macready as the general who insists on the court-martial, Adolphe Menjou as his superior, and the three unfortunate privates—Ralph Meeker, Timothy Carey, and Joseph Turkel (who was interviewed in Cinema Retro #16). The only female in the film, Christiane Harlan (billed as Susanne Christian), plays a German barmaid persuaded to sing to the troops. After the film’s production, she became Mrs. Stanley Kubrick.

As usual, Criterion does a splendid job in its presentation of the film on both Blu-Ray and DVD. The restored, high-definition digital transfer results in a crisp, clear picture unseen since the film’s release. Extras include an audio commentary by film critic Gary Giddins; an excerpt from a 1966 audio interview with Kubrick; a 1979 television interview with Kirk Douglas; and, more importantly, brand new video interviews with producer Harris, Christiane Kubrick, and Kubrick’s longtime executive producer, Jan Harlan. Also of great interest in a vintage French television piece about the real-life World War I execution that partly inspired the film.

This is a must-purchase for any serious Kubrick fan, as well as for all aficionados of cinema history.

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By Raymond Benson

The red carpet label Criterion Collection has continued its mining of classic foreign language films by releasing for the first time in the U.S. two pictures that first brought famed Swedish director Ingmar Bergman some attention. Summer Interlude (1951) and Summer with Monika (1953) are both fairly commercial love stories but with a slightly dark flair which only Bergman can produce. Both films are highly erotic (especially Monika) for the time, and these titles contributed to the notion in America that Sweden made sexy movies.

In fact, Summer with Monika was first released in the U.S. as a sexploitation film in 1956 by the self-proclaimed “world’s greatest showman,” Kroger Babb, an exhibitor/producer who specialized in low budget sleaze thinly disguised as “educational material for adults.” Babb re-cut Summer with Monika, added a dubbed English language soundtrack that had little to do with Bergman’s original, laid on a jazzy, sultry Les Baxter musical score, and released the film as Monika: The Story of a Bad Girl. Because the picture contained brief nudity, it was marketed solely for titillation purposes. (Woody Allen once remarked that the only reason he and his friends went to see it was because they’d heard there was a “naked woman” in it.)

The character of Monika, in Bergman’s version, is not necessarily a “bad girl,” she’s just from a poor working class family and does what she can to have fun and bring excitement into her life. She embarks on a summer-long sexual affair with the rather young and innocent Harry and ends up getting pregnant. Poor Harry does the right thing and marries her; but wild Monika will have none of the domestic life. She soon leaves her husband holding the infant. A cautionary tale? Perhaps.

Summer Interlude may not be as dour, but it still ends with characters questioning the meaning of life and death, and speculating how love fits into the equation. Marie (played by the gorgeous Maj-Britt Nilsson, who has the best legs of any Bergman actress) is a successful ballet dancer who, when she was a teenager, had a summer fling with Henrik (Berman stalwart Birger Malmsten) that was idyllic. Unfortunately, the fellow dies in a freak accident, leaving Marie disillusioned and bitter, even as she becomes famous.

Despite the heavy-sounding storylines, these are two of Bergman’s most accessible and enjoyable films. Bergman often touched on the subject of young love in these early pictures, and he nailed the nervousness, exhilaration, and angst that accompany what we have all experienced. The photography by Gunnar Fischer is outstanding, especially with the new digital restorations on both disks.

Summer Interlude disappointingly has no extras. Summer with Monika, however, sports a treasure trove, including a revealing new interview with legendary Bergman actress Harriet Andersson—it’s hard to believe she was once the scandalous nymphet of the film. Images from the Playground is a collection of home movies Bergman shot while on the sets of these and other films, including archival interviews with Andersson and Bibi Andersson. Especially interesting is the short on the distribution of Monika: The Story of a Bad Girl in the USA, with a profile of Kroger Babb. If only Criterion had obtained the rights and a print of that sexploitation version of Monika and included it—that would have been a gem. Both disks come with thick booklets containing essays and photographs.

If you’re a Bergman fan—and a Criterion fan—these lost jewels are highly recommended.

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On Blu-ray and DVD

4-Disk Box Set

By Raymond Benson

Any fan of British cinema must celebrate Criterion’s deluxe packaging of David Lean’s first four films as a director. These collaborations with writer, performer, and “personality” Noël Coward are exemplary examples of the fine work made by the Two Cities Unit production house, which was formed during the Second World War. In each case, the films are presented in beautiful new high-definition digital transfers from the 2008 BFI National Archive’s restorations. And, as this is a review for Cinema Retro, the readers of which include many 007 fans, it must be pointed out that there is indeed a connection between the films (three of them, anyway) and Bond. Actress Celia Johnson was Ian Fleming’s sister-in-law (her husband was Ian’s older brother, Peter Fleming), and her daughters Kate Grimond and Lucy Fleming are currently on the Board of Directors of Ian Fleming Publications Ltd., which of course guides the Bond literary franchise. And if you’ve never seen Celia Johnson perform, you’ve been missing something. She is arguably one of the greatest actresses the UK has ever given us.

In Which We Serve, co-directed by Coward and Lean, and starring Coward as a naval captain (not his usual persona), John Mills, Bernard Miles, and Celia Johnson, is pure war propaganda stuff, but it’s well done and compelling. The 1942 picture was made when Britain was fighting for her life, and it was the year it seemed the Axis might win. Lean was plucked from the ranks of clever film editors to handle the technical aspects of the production whilst Coward concentrated on acting. According to all accounts, Lean ended up actually directing most of it because Coward grew bored with the process. It’s a surprisingly good picture, despite its sentimentality. Look for a very young Richard Attenborough in his first film role—he’s just a kid!

This Happy Breed, 1944, stars Robert Newton, Celia Johnson, Kay Walsh, and John Mills, and it’s a poignant drama about a working-class family’s life between the two world wars. Coward rarely wrote about anyone that wasn’t upper-class, so in many ways the film is a novelty. Like How Green Was My Valley, it is an honest and wonderfully-acted ensemble piece about a people, based on Coward’s stage play of the same name. It’s the second-best picture in the set.

Blithe Spirit, 1944, stars Rex Harrison, Constance Cummings, and Kay Hammond, but the film is stolen by Margaret Rutherford, who displays so much verve and energy as the medium Madame Arcati that the rest of the cast seems asleep. Based on Coward’s hugely popular stage play, the film won an Oscar for Visual Effects (namely creating Hammond’s ghostly apparition). It’s pure fluff, but it’s entertaining and whimsical in a way Lean never explored again.

Brief Encounter, 1945, is the jewel in the crown here. Based on Coward’s short play, Still Life, the picture features the performance for which Celia Johnson is primarily known (she was nominated for a Best Actress Oscar). Paired with Trevor Howard, she displays a truthfulness and believability not often found in 1940s cinema. Brief Encounter is the often sentimental yet profoundly effective tale of two would-be adulterers who take an affair to the line—but do not cross it. The picture deservedly provided Lean with his first Oscar nomination for Best Director.

Extras abound. Each disk includes a video interview with Coward scholar Barry Day about each respective film; an episode of The Southbank Show from 1992 examines the life and career of Coward; and a couple of vintage documentaries on Lean are among the more interesting features. A booklet of essays rounds out the handsome package.

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By Raymond Benson

It was surrealist filmmaker Luis Buñuel’s most popular film and his biggest financial success, even outperforming the great Oscar-winning The Discreet Charm of the Bourgeoisie (the idea for which was given to the director by actor Owen Wilson during a time travel escapade to Paris in the 1920s*). Starring an effervescent, young and beautiful Catherine Deneuve in a defining role that would forever typify her as the kind of cool, intense, independent blonde she would portray for the rest of her long career, Belle de Jour broke ground for eroticism and feminism alike.

Released in 1967, the picture is one of Buñuel’s most accessible pictures. The plot is simple enough. Severine, a frigid and frustrated woman of the Parisian upper class who is married to a successful doctor, has disturbing fantasies of being sexually humiliated and degraded. When a friend of her husband’s (a man who has tried many times, unsuccessfully, to seduce Severine) tells her about a high class brothel, she becomes curious. At first frightened and timid, Severine applies for afternoon work at the brothel, and there she ultimately discovers the path to her own sexual fulfillment. Yes, she’s a masochist, but she is one by choice and desire. Her new vocation improves things at home with her husband until she becomes involved with a client who happens to be a hit man. The gangster also grows obsessed with Severine, a story twist with tragic results.

As with any Buñuel film, there’s a lot more going on. There is humor, to be sure, as well as the kind of shocking imagery typical of the auteur’s work. Severine’s fantasies take on the surrealistic touches the director has been known for since his first picture, Un Chien Andalou (made with Salvador Dali), but the “realistic” scenes in the brothel also venture into absurdist territory. For example, one client, a successful gynecologist, insists on role-playing a disobedient servant to a punishing mistress. Another client, an Asian man, carries a jewelry box, which, when opened, emits a strange buzzing sound. We can’t see what’s in the box, but whatever it is gets mixed reactions from the various prostitutes (usually disgust). It is only Severine who finds the mysterious object fascinating. Of course, Buñuel means for the audience to interpret what’s in the box for themselves.

The new edition from Criterion features a magnificent high-definition digital restoration. Audio commentary is by Michael Wood, author of the BFI Film Classics book on Belle de Jour. A very interesting video interview with activist Susie Bright and film scholar Linda Williams sheds light on the sexual politics and feminist themes in the picture. Co-writer Jean-Claude Carrière talks about working with Buñuel in a new interview. Finally, Deneuve appears in a vintage French television program on the making of the movie. Also included is a booklet featuring a 1970 interview with Buñuel and more.

Belle de Jour is a classic of the new permissiveness of the late 1960s, and it is a must for true film buffs. And watch for Buñuel’s cameo appearance at an outdoor bar/restaurant!

* As seen in Woody Allen’s new film, Midnight in Paris

Click here for video clips

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Now Available! Author and Cinema Retro columnist Raymond Benson’s classic 1980s reference book all about 007, THE JAMES BOND BEDSIDE COMPANION, has been re-published!

THE JAMES BOND BEDSIDE COMPANION was Benson's very first published work (it originally appeared in 1984!). Crossroad Press has published it again this week, first as an e-book, available for Kindle, Nook, Sony Reader, and all other e-reader formats. Coming later will be an downloadable audiobook edition, followed by a new print edition! 

As of today, the book is the #1 best-seller on Amazon Kindle’s “Film and Video/Reference” category.

THE BEDSIDE COMPANION was nominated for an Edgar Allan Poe Award for Best Biographical/Critical Work of 1984 by Mystery Writers of America and 007 fans still consider it to be a "Bond Bible." 

Here is the official description of the book:

New digital edition of the classic 007 reference book from the 1980s, complete with a new Foreword by the author. 

THE JAMES BOND BEDSIDE COMPANION is an encyclopedic celebration of 007, who is still the world’s most popular secret agent. 

The only book to cover all aspects of the James Bond phenomenon in a single volume, it includes: a) An intimate portrait of Ian Fleming as remembered by his friends and colleagues; b) a character study of James Bond—his background and early life, his clothing and other personal habits, his preferences in food and drink, his attitudes toward women and marriage; c) The by-products of Bondmania and the merchandising of 007; d) Detailed analyses of every James Bond novel by Ian Fleming, as well as those written by other authors through the 1980s; e) A critical look at the 007 film series—the producers, screenplays, directors, actors, soundtracks, and special effects; f) over 100 photographs; g) An Introduction written by Ernest Cuneo, perhaps Fleming’s closest American friend; h) And enough facts, figures, and miscellaneous Bondian trivia to satisfy even the most ardent fan.

BIO: Raymond Benson is the highly acclaimed author of twenty-five books, six original James Bond 007 novels, three film novelizations, three short stories, and two anthologies on Bond. He is a sought-after lecturer on film genres and history. Writing as David Michaels, Benson is a New York Times best-selling author, an Edgar Alan Poe Award nominee, and a Readers' Choice Award winner.

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By Raymond Benson

The original 1954 Japanese Kaiju (it means “strange beast”) film, Gojira, is not only a classic monster movie, it’s one of those significant game-changers that is important to pop culture and cinema history. Gojira, known as “Godzilla” in the west, was the first of an onslaught of “strange beasts,” spawning a Kaiju franchise that is still popular today. In fact, Hollywood is remaking Gojira as a reboot at the time of this writing.

The ’54 film, directed by Ishiro Honda and produced by Toho Studios (it’s ironic that it was being made at the same time as Kurosawa’s Seven Samurai from the same studio), was little seen in the West until recent DVD releases appeared. Instead, for over fifty years we’ve had Godzilla, King of the Monsters, an abominably bastardized, re-edited import of Gojira. Joseph E. Levine had bought the rights but had additional footage shot in Hollywood featuring Raymond Burr as an American reporter caught in the Tokyo chaos—and throwing out much of Honda’s film except the Godzilla sequences—thus, creating an entirely different storyline and movie. It was released in 1956.

Why was this an egregious thing to do? Honda’s artistic statement was jettisoned. Gojira was a Japanese reaction to and a social comment about the atomic bomb. It’s quite obvious, actually, that Godzilla is a metaphor for nuclear destruction. Part of the plot also involves a scientist who has unwittingly invented a new weapon of mass destruction and threatens to destroy his research so that no country can get its hands on it. Of course, it’s the only thing that can stop Godzilla, so he has to use it once. In the end, he sacrifices himself, and the weapon, to do his duty for Japan; but the message is clear—get rid of the bombs.

On the other hand, the American version, directed by Terry Morse (and using Honda’s footage), is seen in the West as just another giant monster romp in a decade when Hollywood was churning out giant monster romps by the dozens. The cliché of giant beasts destroying Tokyo arose from this release. The real message behind the Gojira is totally lost.

Criterion has done a terrific job with its new high-definition digital restoration of both versions of the picture in this wonderful two-disk set. The commentary on the two pictures is by film historian David Kalat. You also get interviews with Akira Takarada and Haruo Nakajima, two of the stars, and several of the special effects team. Film critic Tadao Sato provides an insightful interview, as does one with composer Akira Ifukube. The clever packaging contains a pop-up of the “strange beast” in question along with an informative collector's booklet.

If you’ve never seen the original, it’s time to check it out. Sure, the monster scenes are crude—it is a guy inside a suit—but that’s part of the appeal.

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By Raymond Benson

It’s one of the best trilogies ever put on celluloid. Period.

This trio of films by the late Polish director Krzysztof Kieslowski can be ambiguously described by these adjectives: insightful, enigmatic, mysterious, melancholic, personal, beautiful, ironic, allegorical, and colorful.

Art house cinema movie-goers are most likely well familiar with these works, initially released in 1993 and 1994. Kieslowski was a preeminent filmmaker working since the 1970s behind the Iron Curtain and was relatively unknown to the West until the fall of the Soviet Union in 1989. Then, a flood of previous entries in his oeuvre amazed and challenged a new worldwide audience. His ten-part Polish television series from 1988, The Decalogue, became one of the most celebrated events in media. Now free to work where he wished and make what he wanted, Kieslowski moved to France and received funding for more ambitious projects such as The Double Life of Veronique (1991), a co-French and co-Polish production. This same configuration resulted in his masterpiece, the Three Colors trilogy of Blue, White, and Red. The accolades and awards were promptly showered on these unique films, and they were well deserved.

Kieslowski is a filmmaker who likes to take a general concept, say, the “Ten Commandments,” and then turn it upside down and examine it from a modern perspective. The Decalogue did this by presenting the theme of each commandment re-imagined in a modern context full of double meanings, coincidences, and irony. With his co-screenwriter, Krzysztof Piesiewicz, he did the same in Three Colors, which loosely examines the tenets behind the colors of the French national flag—liberty, equality, and fraternity.

By Raymond Benson

What is the Law?

Not to run on all fours.

That is the Law!

Are we not men?

What is the Law?

Not to eat meat!

That is the Law!

Are we not men?

What is the Law?

Not to spill blood!

That is the Law!

Are we not men?

Well, we are not Devo, although that famed New Wave band was inspired by this wonderfully twisted 1933 science fiction-horror film in their song, “Are We Not Men?—We Are Devo!” Similarly, Danny Elfman and Oingo Boingo used parts of the “Law” in their song, “No Spill Blood.” The above mantra is used in the picture by a group of, well, unusual beings.

Made by Paramount to compete with Universal’s string of successful horror movies, and directed by Erle C. Kenton, Island of Lost Souls is nothing short of a masterpiece. Its unsettling nature is similar to that of 1932’s Freaks, in that the horror comes from imagery of the physically grotesque. It is an influential film that many people have never seen. It was banned in the UK for many years, and in America the picture was chopped up to varying lengths. It was never released on DVD until now.

The movie is based on H. G. Wells’ novel, The Island of Dr. Moreau, and it has been re-made a couple of times over the years with that title, but the original version is by far the most effective and scariest. Charles Laughton is superb as the misguided Dr. Moreau, whose experiments turn animals into “man-beasts.” Bela Lugosi also appears in a small, but memorable role as one of the creatures. The expressionistic photography by Karl Struss could be called a major character of the film, but the real star is the outstanding makeup on a cast of dozens of monsters.

Criterion has done the usual splendid job with the new digital restoration, presenting the film in its completely uncut theatrical version. Film historian Gregory Mank provides an audio commentary, but of the many extras, the most amusing and interesting is the discussion of the film by director John Landis, makeup artist Rick Baker, and genre expert Bob Burns. Also of interest is an interview with Devo members Mark Mothersbaugh and Gerald Casale, and a little-seen early Devo promotional film.

This is all great stuff, and Criterion’s release is just in time for Halloween. So pick it up, put on your favorite costume, ignore the trick or treaters, and put on this movie! You won’t be disappointed.

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“THE FOUR FEATHERS” (The Criterion Collection)

On DVD and Blu-Ray

By Raymond Benson

Based on A.E.W. Mason’s classic 1902 adventure novel, The Four Feathers had been made three times before this definitive version of a “British Empire Adventure Film” was released in 1939. Produced by Hungarian-born but UK-based Alexander Korda, one of the great filmmakers of British cinema, and directed by his brother Zoltan Korda, The Four Feathers represents the best of what England had to offer during its day, as well as the epitome of the kind of yarns spun by Kipling and his ilk.

In vivid Technicolor and sporting a cast of hundreds of ethnic extras, the picture captures the grand Victorian era of the British military and takes place mostly in Africa some ten years or so after the fall of Khartoum. The story is simple (albeit somewhat improbable): a young officer (John Clements) is accused of cowardice by his associates and fiancée after he resigns his post on the eve of a major deployment to take back the Sudan. Setting out to prove the opposite, he disguises himself as a mute Arab so that he can “make a difference” from the inside of the enemy camp and show his “friends” what he’s really made of. At one point, his rival in love, portrayed by the excellent Ralph Richardson, is struck blind by excessive exposure to the desert sun—and our hero must help him trek across the country to safety, all without saying a word or revealing to the man that he’s his old colleague.

This particular version of The Four Feathers would be an impressive film if made today, but for 1939, it’s a masterpiece (the recent 2002 version doesn’t compare). With its tremendous logistical challenges and extreme conditions on location, the picture is a marvel to behold. It also contains tons of what are now familiar clichés of British Empirical tales, mostly embodied by the humorous performance of overly stately C. Aubrey Smith—and this, too, is a testament of the film’s influence. The picture is also a timely (and embarrassingly hilarious) lesson in how racism was taken for granted during its day.

The new Criterion edition, of course, looks gorgeous in a high-definition restoration. At that time, Natalie Kalmus (the wife of Technicolor’s inventor, Herbert Kalmus), was forced upon filmmakers as “color coordinator” if one wanted to use the process, and she had total control over its application. Whether it was appropriate or not, Natalie went for bold, vivid colors; in this case the result is happily spectacular.

The audio commentary by Charles Drazin is interesting, but the true gem of the extra features is the interview with Zoltan Korda’s son, David. He sheds light on the lives of the amazing trio of brothers—Alexander, Zoltan, and Vincent—who became one of the most important British film families in its history. There is also a vintage documentary short about the Kordas’ studio, London Films, which features rare footage of Zoltan in action directing The Four Feathers.

Just about any Criterion Collection release is a must-have. This is one has that quality in spades.

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By Raymond Benson

The Complete Jean Vigo (The Criterion Collection)

On DVD and Blu-ray

For cinema history enthusiasts, the name Jean Vigo is one of legend. His career in France was brief, brilliant, and controversial. In the early 1930s he made one short silent documentary, a short sound documentary, and two (later) critically-acclaimed and important feature films. Then he died of tuberculosis.

During a period when Jean Renoir was the king of French cinema, Vigo refused to play by the rules and created—at the time—very noncommercial products that would outlive the filmmaker and influence others, especially practitioners of the French New Wave. Francois Truffaut, in one of the excellent extras in this fabulous new set from The Criterion Collection, describes how he first saw L’Atalante (1934) as a child and his life was forever changed. He admits that much of his own work owes a lot to Vigo and that singular work of early naturalism.

Vigo was controversial in his day for following in the surrealist footsteps of his cronies, Luis Buñuel and Jean Cocteau, and then for daring to film a love story that was too realistic for audiences of the time. In many ways, L’Atalante was a French slice of Italian Neo-realism that appeared a decade earlier.

A two-disk set, the first disk contains the four films: A Propos de Nice (1930), which intercuts travelogue and daily street life of the city with absurdist, surreal imagery; Taris (1931), a short portrait of a champion swimmer; Zero de Conduite (Zero for Conduct) (1933), a precursor to Lindsay Anderson’s If… in that it’s about a rebellion in a boys’ boarding school; and the true showcase of the collection, L’Atalante, a ultra-realistic story of an odd marriage and the honeymoon aboard a working barge. The second disk contains a plethora of fascinating extras, including the aforementioned vintage interview with Truffaut, a television documentary about Vigo from the 1960s, a history of L’Atalante’s tortured release history, and more. And don’t forget the usual top-notch and informative booklet full of essays.

The collection is probably not for everyone, but the true film buffs out there are going to eat this one up.

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By Raymond Benson

The Killing (directed by Stanley Kubrick)

Cul-de-sac (directed by Roman Polanski)

From The Criterion Collection on DVD and Blu-Ray

Examining early pictures by directors who went on to bigger and better things is always a fascinating exercise. In this case, the experience is both academically rewarding and monumentally entertaining. They are a tremendous amount of fun to watch, yet film aficionados will certainly study the pieces and place them in perspective with the later, betterl-known masterpieces by these two iconic artists. Are there common thematic elements? Do we see glimpses of the later Stanley Kubrick or Roman Polanski in these early efforts? Without a doubt, The Criterion Collection’s new releases of The Killing and Cul-de-sac display the beginning of masterful craftsmanship from two youthful filmmakers.

The Killing package is two bangs for a buck—not only do you get a crisply clean, picture-perfect remastered edition of The Killing, but on a second disk you also get the same quality remastering of Kubrick’s earlier independent film noir, Killer’s Kiss. What a deal! I remember the first time I saw these movies; there were a double bill at a New York revival house, so I’ll always think of them as a pair. 

Killer’s Kiss was Kubrick’s second feature film, released by United Artists in 1955. Kubrick made it guerilla-style on the streets of New York—he never had permits to film at city locations, so the director quickly shot what he needed and then skedaddled. Kubrick directed it, produced it, wrote it, shot it, edited it, and did the post-sync work. Then he went out and marketed it himself and sold it to a distributor. That’s impressive independent filmmaking, especially for the early 1950s, when indy productions were not what they became in the seventies and beyond. As an entertainment, Killer’s Kiss is unquestionably B-movie material, but most film noirs are. The story is passable, but the picture is so well photographed that it doesn’t matter. Watch for the surreal fight amongst naked mannequins in the warehouse toward the movie’s climax—it’s pure Kubrick.

In anticipation of the publication of Cinema Retro contributor Raymond Benson’s THE BLACK STILETTO in September, the author has made available a FREE Black Stiletto short story.

THE BLACK STILETTO'S AUTOGRAPH is the story of one man's lucky night in New York City, 1958... when he and others experienced more than just a sighting of the legendary Black Stiletto!

The story is available in all digital formats--PDF (best for PC), Kindle, Nook, Apple... go to --

http://tinyurl.com/44g59k7

-- over at Smashwords.com and choose the format you want. Visit http://theblackstiletto.net for a promo video and other news about THE BLACK STILETTO.

In other news, all of Benson’s original thrillers on e-book format are still on sale for 99 cents through July 4: 

TORMENT: a supernatural thriller involving love, obsession, and voodoo; ARTIFACT OF EVIL: a thriller that combines modern day crime, historical figures, and fantasy; SWEETIE'S DIAMONDS: a Tarantino-esque chase across America with a female protagonist; A HARD DAY'S DEATH: the first Spike Berenger "rock 'n' roll hit," a mystery with sex, drugs, and rock 'n' roll; DARK SIDE OF THE MORGUE: nominated for Shamus Award for Best Paperback Original P.I. Novel of 2009, 2nd Spike Berenger "rock 'n' roll hit"; FACE BLIND: a thriller about a woman who can't recognize faces... "Wait Until Dark" meets "Memento"; and EVIL HOURS: a novel about a family dealing with a murder... "The Last Picture Show" meets "Blue Velvet".  They’re all in the Kindle store at http://tinyurl.com/3m9zz9f  or at Smashwords at http://www.smashwords.com/books/search?query=Raymond+Benson  for other for other formats.

(For more about Benson's forthcoming retro adventure novel The Black Stiletto, click here) 

By Raymond Benson

The Criterion Collection has upgraded and re-released their excellent edition of Henri-Georges Clouzot’s Diabolique (officially titled Les Diaboliques—The Devils—but it’s been known simply as Diabolique in America since it’s 1955 release), issuing the film with a new digitally restored edition on DVD and for the first time on Blu-ray. Based on a novel by Pierre Boileau and Thomas Narcejac, the pair of mystery/thriller writers who provided Alfred Hitchcock with the basis for Vertigo, Diabolique was a project that the master of suspense almost filmed himself. In fact, Hitchcock had bought the rights, but Clouzot snatched them immediately after making The Wages of Fear in 1953. Needless to say, Diabolique is just the sort of thing Hitchcock would have done well—but Clouzot did it exceptionally well.

It’s a truly suspenseful chiller that takes place at a children’s boarding school in France. The place is run by a strict, mean headmaster and his timid, fragile wife (with a heart problem, and she’s wonderfully played by the director’s wife, Vera Clouzot). Added in the mix is a forceful teacher, played by Simone Signoret, who conspires with the wife to kill off the headmaster so that they can inherit the school and run it together.

Things don’t go as they plan. 

Clouzot masterfully sucks the viewer in to an intricate plot in which nothing is really as it seems. And, yes, there is a surprise ending. In fact, Diabolique was the first movie to warn viewers not to reveal the ending, several years before Hitchcock stole the marketing concept for Psycho.

The new Criterion edition contains selected scene commentary by French film scholar Kelley Conway. Extras include an excellent new video interview and analysis by film critic and novelist Kim Newman, and a new video introduction by Serge Bromberg, director of a Clouzot documentary (Inferno). While the Bromberg introduction suffers from, perhaps, being lost in translation—nothing Bromberg says makes any sense (“Clouzot places his film in a box and invites the audience to join him in that box…”)—the Newman video is insightful and explores the many layers of the film. Bromberg also makes the claim that Clouzot is one of the top ten directors in the history of cinema. While Clouzot was certainly a master of his craft and a great storyteller, that claim is, well, a stretch. The enclosed booklet, always a Criterion showpiece, features an essay by film critic Terrence Rafferty. The black and white photography by Armand Thirard is more akin to the Universal horror films of the 30s and the German expressionists of the 20s. Since the transfer is absolutely gorgeous and crystal sharp, the picture is visually breathtaking.

So, turn out the lights, sit back, huddle with your loved one, and watch this wonderfully frightening crime thriller—told by a master.

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Novelist and Cinema Retro columnist Raymond Benson knows a thing or two about action/adventure stories, having penned numerous official James Bond books. His latest venture is a novel introduces the character of a mysterious, legendary female crime-fighter who mesmerized the nation in the 1950s and 1960s before vanishing into thin air. Click here to view a promotional "newscast" about the character and to pre-order copies of The Black Stiletto.

By Raymond Benson

By Raymond Benson

 

Director Samuel Fuller is a controversial figure in American cinema history.  Audiences either love him or hate him, and there is usually no in-between.  Incorporating a style that is often over-the-top, no matter what the genre or story might be, Fuller’s films are very much in your face.  Outspoken, opinionated, and an auteur who wasn’t afraid to stand on a soapbox and shout to the masses what he felt was injustice, bigotry, or hypocrisy, Fuller belongs in the camp of directors who attempted social change but never achieved popular success doing it. Today he is revered as a cult figure by such filmmakers as Martin Scorsese, Quentin Tarantino, Jim Jarmusch, and Tim Robbins (all who appear in the documentary, The Typewriter, the Rifle and the Movie Camera, a bonus feature on the Shock Corridor DVD).  One can certainly see Fuller’s influences on the films of Scorsese and Tarantino.  Scorsese admits “stealing” a sequence from an early Fuller war film, The Steel Helmet, and using it in Raging Bull. 

 

The Criterion Collection has remastered and restored in high definition two of Fuller’s gems from the sixties—Shock Corridor (1963) and The Naked Kiss (1964) for DVD and Blu Ray.  Anyone unfamiliar with the director’s work will do no better than to dive in to these powerful, dynamic dramas—or shall I say… melodramas.  And that they are.  In both pictures, the acting is heightened, the dialogue borders on the corny (some sequences are unintentionally funny today), and the subject matter is lurid.  How these films were released in a time when the Production Code was still in effect is a mystery (they were issued “for mature audiences only,” several years before the ratings in America came about).

By Raymond Benson

Once again The Criterion Collection digs into master director Ingmar Bergman’s vault and brings us his exquisite, enigmatic film from 1958, The Magician (originally titled The Face in the UK; in fact, the Swedish title, Ansiktet, means “Face”).

Set sometime in the 1800s, the story concerns a traveling magic and medicine show called “Vogler’s Magnetic Health Theater.” The troupe consists of Vogler (Max von Sydow), the mute magician of the picture’s title, his “ward,” Mr. Aman (Ingrid Thulin in disguise, although it’s no surprise that the character is a woman), Tubal (Ake Fridell), who acts as manager/spokesman, and the inscrutable Granny (Naima Wifstrand), an old witch who dabbles in love potions. Picked up along the road is an alcoholic actor, Spegel (Bengt Ekerot, who was memorable as Death in The Seventh Seal).

Before the company can perform in a small Swedish village, they must first prove their credibility for the Minister of Health, Dr. Vergerus (Gunnar Bjornstrand), the chief of police, and a government official (Erland Josephson). All three men interrogate the company. Later, the troupe presents a private performance in the official’s home. It is the intention of the three townsmen to expose the magician as a fraud—but, as only Bergman can do it, the tables are turned on the antagonists.

The Magician, in a way, is Bergman’s Stardust Memories (Woody Allen, 1980), in which the artist answers his critics. The Vogler character could be interpreted as representing Bergman himself—an artist who hides behind a mask, creates illusions for entertainment, but in reality is an insecure and doubtful man. Bergman himself calls the film a comedy, and indeed, there are many humorous moments. By making the three townsmen extreme caricatures, Bergman targets the types of upper class detractors who gave him a hard time during his formative years as a filmmaker. (As the Swedish playwright August Strindberg once responded to one of his critics, “I’ll see you in my next play!”)

While not on the same level as some of Bergman’s masterworks such as The Seventh Seal, Wild Strawberries, The Virgin Spring, Persona, Cries and Whispers, or Fanny and Alexander, The Magician still ranks as a solid 3-star effort from the director. For fans of the man’s work, it will provoke discussion and head-scratching analysis—and at the same time manage to be entertaining.

Gunnar Fischer’s gorgeous black and white photography is never better presented than in Criterion’s high-definition transfer. Every frame is a work of art. Extras include a new visual essay on the film by Bergman authority Peter Cowie, and two wonderful vintage interviews with Bergman—one in English!

There simply aren’t enough Bergman movies available on DVD in the United States; hats are off to Criterion for continuing to unearth them. Hopefully the company will soon release Face to Face, From the Life of the Marionettes, Summer with Monika, A Lesson in Love, Secrets of Women… the list goes on and on!

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By Raymond Benson

Except for perhaps Stanley Kubrick, no other American filmmaker has generated more mystique about himself than Terrence Malick. Famously reclusive, Malick never gives interviews or even allows his photograph to be taken on the set of any film he directs. In four decades, he’s made only four pictures (although a fifth, The Tree of Life, appears to be finally set for a release in 2011).

After a twenty-year absence from filmmaking, the artist returned to Hollywood in 1998 with The Thin Red Line, an existential, philosophical, and meditative war movie that only Terrence Malick could make. Critically received, it was nominated for several Academy Awards, including Best Picture, Best Director, and Best Screenplay. It couldn’t have been more different from Saving Private Ryan, Steven Spielberg’s “other” war picture of the year and one that was immensely more popular with theater-goers. Perhaps this was because Malick’s film is mostly about sight and sound and mood and ideas—not story or characters. Terrence Malick is a cinematic poet, and anyone who doesn’t understand this will surely have a difficult time with the director’s work.

The Cadillac of DVD labels, The Criterion Collection, has released a superb two-disc set in both DVD and Blu-Ray that showcases the beauty and wonderment of The Thin Red Line. All of Malick’s films are technically gorgeous—Oscar nominee John Toll’s cinematography was arguably the more deserving work in that year’s category—and the new DVD presents a newly restored high-definition digital transfer supervised by both Toll and Malick. Toll, production designer Jack Fisk, and producer Grant Hill contribute an enlightening audio commentary to the film. (And Malick himself delivers a single message to the viewer via text on the screen—he suggests it be played loud.)

By Raymond Benson

Roman Polanski wasted no time moving out of the more repressive artistic environment of Iron Curtain Poland after the success of his first feature film (Knife in the Water, 1962—released in the West in ’63).  The director went to the U.K., where he made his first English language picture, the 1965 classic horror film Repulsion.  It is surely one of the creepiest—if not the scariest—movies ever made.  A young Catherine Deneuve stars as a mentally disturbed woman staying alone in her sister’s apartment for the weekend.  Needless to say, her imagination runs loose and gets the better of her.  Before long, she’s murdering anyone who comes to the door and dumping bodies in the bathtub. 

Ultimately, the subtext here is sexual child abuse.  It’s not blatant, but the clues are there—Deneuve’s character is frigid, shrinks away from any thought of sex or even intimacy with the man who is supposed to be her boyfriend, and hallucinates being assaulted by a shadowy older man who seems to invade her bedroom from a secret door in the wall.  When released in 1965, the UK slammed it with an “X” certificate. The U.S. ad campaign warned that the film was strictly for mature audiences.  They were correct in doing so…this is heavy, scary stuff.  Harrowing and frightening, Repulsion established Polanski as a visionary director of the macabre; it’s easily one of his best pictures.  Some films merely scare you—this one haunts you for a long time after viewing it. 

Repulsion has been released by dubious studios over the years on VHS and DVD, and none of these earlier editions are much good.  The video quality has always been sub-par and the audio no better.  The red carpet label Criterion Collection finally acquired the rights and restored the film to a crisp, clear, and magnificent high definition black and white splendor (approved by Polanski)—it’s as if you’re seeing the picture for the first time (it’s a must-purchase item for this reason alone).  Additionally, the audio no longer sounds muddy as it did on previous releases.  In short, Criterion’s new edition is near-perfect.  Extras include a commentary by Polanski and Deneuve; a documentary on the making of the film featuring interviews with the director and others; a vintage documentary from 1964 on the set of the film; original theatrical trailers; and a multi-page booklet. 

Available in both DVD and Blu-Ray.  Highly recommended!

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By Raymond Benson

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THE SEVENTH SEAL – 2-DISK RESTORED EDITION

(The Criterion Collection; 2009)

 

Woody Allen once said Ingmar Bergman was the greatest filmmaker since the invention of the cinema, and his favorite of the many masterpieces created by the auteur is The Seventh Seal (originally released in Sweden in 1957).  While an earlier edition of the film was released on DVD by The Criterion Collection years ago, the company has seen fit to restore and re-release it in a special 2-disk set (both on Blu-Ray and DVD).  In short, the results are magnificent. 

The Seventh Seal is one of those classic films that has been parodied so many times it isn’t funny anymore.  And when something is parodied so much that it’s become cliché, then the source material must have been pretty darned good.  How many times have you seen a figure of “Death” walking around in a black cloak and carrying a scythe, coming to take a major character away but is distracted into playing a game (in this case, chess)?  From Bill and Ted to Monty Python to Woody Allen, Bergman’s cinematic crown jewel has inspired many comics.  What’s ironic is that The Seventh Seal is not necessarily a completely dark, depressing drama.  It is full of humor!  As renowned author, critic, and Bergman scholar Peter Cowie says in the DVD’s “Afterword” (an extra), the film is a suspenseful fairy tale that grips you from beginning to end.  But the cynical musings of the squire character (played by Gunnar Bjornstrand) are witty, sarcastic, and ripe with black comedy.  Max von Sydow made his first of many appearances in Bergman films as the knight returning home from the Crusades, battling the Black Plague with Death literally one step behind.  Made with a low budget on the back lot of Stockholm’s film studios, Bergman managed to create the Middle Ages so convincingly that few pictures have ever equaled it.  The restoration is impeccable; the black and white images are gorgeous and crystal clear.

Extras on the first disk are the previously mentioned filmed Afterword, a commentary by Cowie, a narrated tribute to Bergman by Woody Allen, an audio interview with Max von Sydow, and the theatrical trailer.  The bonus disk is the same as Bergman Island, also a separate release by Criterion (see below).

Any serious film buff must have The Seventh Seal in his or her collection.

 

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By Raymond Benson

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Want to go see a Broadway or West End stage play—but at the local cinema?  No, it’s not a filmed stage production.  It’s a play translated to the film medium, but with complete faithfulness to the original play script.  Not only that, it stars big name actors and is directed by a top-notch director.  To complete the conceit, you get handed a playbill (program) when you enter the theater.  There might even be an intermission—or two!  And you have only four showtimes at which you can view the picture before it disappears, and you have to buy your ticket in advance with a subscription for a whole “season” of these filmed plays, or staged films, or whatever you want to call them.

This was the unique and exciting experiment called the American Film Theatre.

Back in 1973, producer Ely Landau launched this daring and unprecedented cinema series that played in the U.S. for two “seasons,” with a total of fourteen titles (but only thirteen were shown), all renowned works—classic and modern—originally produced on the stage.  Landau and his wife Edie were not Broadway producers, but they were Theatre People and had helped launch the “Play of the Week” series on PBS television, produced Sidney Lumet’s film version of Eugene O’Neill’s Long Day’s Journey Into Night (1962), and were keen on inventing a way to make Broadway (or the London stage) accessible to everyone in America—at their local movie theater.

There have always been stage plays adapted for film—A Streetcar Named Desire, for example, or The Miracle Worker, or Hamlet.  But plays like these were “re-imagined” for the film medium—the script was often changed or re-written with added or deleted scenes, the action was “opened up” to include locations outside of a single, claustrophobic stage set, and the roles were usually re-cast with “Hollywood actors” rather than “Broadway actors.”  Then there were also the few stage productions that were filmed as is, i.e., cameras were set up in front of an actual proscenium stage while an already-rehearsed play was performed and the cameras simply recorded the production.  Waiting for Godot (1961), for example, was done this way for television. 

The American Film Theatre concept tried something different.  The directive was to take a great stage play, not change a word, and in most cases, use the actual play script as the screenplay.  The next step was to hire an accomplished film director to interpret the text for the film medium but stay faithful to the play.  Sometimes the director was the same person who helmed the original stage production.  A further step was to persuade the original casts from the Broadway or London productions of those plays to star in the film; or, when that wasn’t possible, to cast big-name Hollywood or British actors.  Thus, the result was indeed a filmed play—but you as an audience member wouldn’t be watching it from the middle of the orchestra or from the side or from the first balcony; instead you were up close and personal in a realistically-presented world (on studio sets and/or real interior or exterior locations)—just like in “regular” movies.  You had the best seat in the house, so to speak, but there’s no proscenium arch.  It’s a movie.  But it’s a play.  Get it? 

Landau didn’t have a lot of money to produce the series.  Getting the rights to the plays was the easy part.  In most cases, if the playwright was still living, he was more than happy to take a modest fee to see his play translated faithfully to the screen.  Edward Albee, for example, had already gone through a Hollywood experience with Who’s Afraid of Virginia Woolf?  During that production, he and producer/screenwriter Ernest Lehman often clashed over the script until Lehman finally gave in and used Albee’s original play text as the film script almost verbatim (and yet Lehman was credited for the screenplay and received an Oscar nomination for it!).  So, when Landau approached Albee about doing A Delicate Balance in the American Film Theatre with promises that the actual play would be the screenplay, and Albee would have director and cast approval, the playwright jumped at the chance.  Landau collected the rights to the plays he wanted in this manner and started from scratch with every production, except for two.  Three Sisters, from the Anton Chekhov play and directed by Laurence Olivier, had already been produced and released in Britain only in 1970.  Philadelphia, Here I Come!, from the Brian Friel play and directed by John Quested, was an Irish production set to be released in 1975.  Landau bought the U.S. distribution rights for both films and presented them as two of the entries in the AFT program.  Thus, Three Sisters and Philadelphia, Here I Come! were the only pictures in the entire two seasons that Landau and his team did not produce.

The talent (directors, actors, designers, technicians) was asked to work at a reduced rate or at scale.  No one refused.  It was for a cause they all thought was worthwhile.  Lee Marvin, for example, joked that he “lost $225,000” by starring in The Iceman Cometh (which meant he did the movie for only $25,000—his going rate at the time was $250,000). 

Grants from American Express and other organizations helped fill out the rest of the production costs.  Finally, audiences were asked to subscribe in advance to a certain number of films in a particular season.  They could buy tickets for the entire season or a lesser selection if they desired.  Only four performances per film were shown at selective theaters around the country—simultaneously—and a new film premiered every month.  Just like theatre, only in the cinema. 

Being a Theatre Person (defined as someone who has studied and worked in the theatre—I was majoring in Drama at the University of Texas at Austin in the fall of 1973 when the American Film Theatre premiered)—I found the series exhilarating.  Most people who appreciated and knew the theatre loved it.  They understood and “got” what Landau and his team were trying to do.  Unfortunately, the rest of the public met the series with a collective shrug.  Film critics complained that the films were “too much like stage plays” (duh!).  True, many of the productions were a bit claustrophobic because, like the original plays, they took place in single settings.  In only a few cases were the plays “opened up” to include scenes outdoors (such as Rhinoceros and Lost in the Stars).  What the critics didn’t understand was that the series was created to celebrate playwrights, and so the emphasis was on the plays.  With great acting.  And wonderful direction. 

Speaking of the acting, I assert that the AFT series contained some of the best performances one can see on the silver screen—ever.  It’s a shame that none of the films were eligible for Academy Award consideration (due to the limited showings and non-traditional distribution); otherwise we would have seen many of the AFT’s stars up for Oscars.  Only one of the films, The Man in the Glass Booth, was released in a regular theatrical run in 1975 after the AFT seasons were finished—and Maximilian Schell was indeed nominated for a Best Actor Oscar for his role in the picture. 

AFT’s first season consisted of eight films/plays.  Beginning in October 1973, one picture played each month through May 1974.  The second season consisted of six features (only five were actually shown) and ran in 1975. 

 

Mishima—A Life in Four Chapters (The Criterion Collection, 2008)

Paul Schrader has always opined that Mishima—A Life in Four Chapters was his best film as a director, and I have to agree. Originally released in 1985 (and executive produced by Francis Ford Coppola and George Lucas), the film is a fascinating bio-pic about controversial Japanese author/actor Yukio Mishima. Schrader, a successful screenwriter who has also had an interesting hit-and-miss career as a director, co-wrote the film with his brother Leonard and filmed it in Japan with a Japanese cast and crew. Ironically, the film was banned in Japan upon its release due to the controversial nature of Mishima’s infamously public display of seppuku (suicide) in 1970. But despite Mishima’s questionable act, there is no doubt that he was a formidable novelist, poet, and artist—certainly one of his country’s greatest. Schrader’s film attempts to visualize Mishima’s life and work, and make sense of his final days in different stylistic approaches that are beautiful to behold and brilliant in conception. Philip Glass provides one of his best motion picture scores to date, John Bailey’s cinematography is absolutely gorgeous, and Eiko Ishioka’s theatrical production designs are perfectly suited to Schrader’s sensibilities. Whether or not you know anything about Yukio Mishima, you will find the picture to be an extraordinary cinematic experience.

Criterion Collection has done another outstanding job of producing a new, restored high-definition digital transfer of the director’s cut, which was supervised and approved by Schrader and Bailey. There are optional English and Japanese voiceover narrations (by Roy Scheider and Ken Ogata, respectively—the U.S. theatrical release only had the Scheider narration). There is also an audio commentary by Schrader and producer Alan Poul. A second disk contains a wealth of background and supplementary material, including the excellent 1985 BBC documentary The Strange Case of Yuko Mishima. There are vintage video interviews with Mishima himself, new segments of Mishima’s biographers and translators, Philip Glass, John Bailey, and other members of the film crew, and more. Highly recommended—one of the best DVD releases of the year so far.--Raymond Benson

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The Cinema of Terrence Malick—Poetic Visions of America. (Second Edition) Edited

by Hannah Patterson. (Wallflower Press, 2007.)

The Cinema of Krzysztof Kieslowski—Variations on Destiny and Chance. Edited by

Marek Haltof. (Wallflower Press, 2004.)

Wallflower Press publishes several lines of film books. Represented here are two examples of their “Directors’ Cuts”—a series devoted to the works of individual directors. Both are similar in structure and degree of academic and scholarly study. These are not picture-books or “Films Of” books. They are intended for the serious student of film theory and history.

Perhaps no other filmmaker other than Stanley Kubrick has elicited more mystique than Terrence Malick. He made two critically-acclaimed poetic dramas in the seventies (Badlands and Days of Heaven) and then “disappeared” for twenty years before re-emerging on the Hollywood scene with The Thin Red Line in the late nineties. One more film (The New World) appeared in 2005. His work eschews traditional narrative, is visually beautiful, and emphasizes mood and emotions over character development. Editor Patterson has collected a number of essays written by film academicians and critics that dissect Malick’s four films. Dry stuff, but it’s a worthy companion for anyone wanting more out of the director’s pictures.

Polish director Kieslowski had been working behind the Iron Curtain for two decades and was relatively unknown in the West until the late eighties. With such penetrating examinations of “everyday life” as The Double Life of Veronique, The Decalogue, and the superb Three Colors Trilogy (Blue; White; Red), Kieslowski presented us with dramatic puzzles about fate and its effect on the human condition. Once again, editor Haltof has gathered a collection of essays by prominent international critics, authors, and academicians that attempt to make sense of films that are not instantly accessible. Of particular interest are the discussions of the director’s earlier, little-seen works such as The Scar and Blind Chance. Recommended.- Raymond Benson

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Ingmar Bergman Revisited—Performance, Cinema and the Arts. 

Edited by Maaret Kokskinen.  (Wallflower Press, 2008.)

 

Cinema lost one of its towering giants last year with the death of Swedish filmmaker Ingmar Bergman.  Bergman not only had a long career in motion pictures, but he was a well-respected theatre director as well.  Koskinen’s book contains a variety of essays and recollections by prominent international critics, authors, and academicians.  The pieces fall within the book’s three main sections (“Music, Stage, Film—Between the Arts”; “Picturing the Self—Between Words and Images”; and “Picturing the World—and Beyond”), and is preceded by a heartfelt Prologue by Bergman’s longtime collaborator and onetime lover, Liv Ullmann.  The book is decidedly more of a scholarly and analytical study of Bergman’s themes and methods rather than a fannish celebration of his career.  Nevertheless, it is a valuable and worthwhile addition to a cinephile’s library, and it especially belongs in the collection of any student of the Swedish master.

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TCM International Film Guide—2008 (44^th Edition).  Edited by Ian Haydn Smith. (Wallflower Press, 2008.)

             

 

This annual publication began in 1963 and is arguably the most authoritative and respected source of information on world cinema, as well as the numerous film festivals that are held around the world.  Now with Turner Classic Movies acting as a sponsor, the book is even better than ever. This 44^th edition encompasses the films and festivals of 2006 and 2007, and all major motion picture releases from around the world.  New features include coverage of five “Directors of the Year” (in this case, Faith Akin, Suzanne Bier, Guillermo del Toro, Paul Greengrass, and Jia Zhangke), a focus on the German film industry, the growth of DVD production, and a study of documentaries.  Full of color stills, trivia, and comprehensive listings, the International Guide is a must for serious film fans.  An art house patron’s delight!

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The Last Emperor. (The Criterion Collection, 2008).

Red-carpet DVD producer Criterion does it again with its lavish, four-disk box set release of this Oscar winner from 1987. Directed by Bernardo Bertolucci, the film is one of two films in Academy history that won all of its nominations in nine categories (Gigi being the other; only one other film won a higher number of nominations without a loss, and that was The Lord of the Rings—the Return of the King). Emperor is a magnificent and intelligent epic about Pu Yi, the last reigning emperor of Imperial China. While full of spectacle on a grand scale, the picture also manages to be an intimate human drama about a young man trapped by historical events out of his control. After all, this was a person who became the emperor of a country at the age of three. Of particular historical cinematic importance is the fact that the film was the first commercial picture to be shot within Beijing’s Forbidden City. Starring John Lone and Joan Chen as the emperor and empress, and featuring a marvelous supporting turn by Peter O’Toole as Pu Yi’s British tutor, the film is clearly Bertolucci’s masterpiece and arguably one of the best films of the 1980s. It richly deserved every award bestowed upon it.

Criterion has restored the theatrical version (at 165 minutes) in a beautiful, high-definition digital transfer, supervised and approved by cinematographer Vittorio Storaro. There is also an audio commentary by Bertolucci, producer Jeremy Thomas, screenwriter Mark Peploe, and co-composer/actor Ryuichi Sakamoto.

A second disk features a restored high-definition digital transfer of the 218 minute ‘director’s cut’ televised version (that also played briefly in the theaters in the 1990s). This version delves deeper into Pu Yi’s incarceration at the “reconditioning” camp during the 1950s, as well as more scenes in the early Forbidden City sections.

Disks three and four are loaded with supplements. There are several lengthy documentaries, both vintage and contemporary, about the making of the film. The crown jewel is the feature originally broadcast on BBC television’s The South Bank Show. A new and entertaining interview with co-composer David Byrne is also a highlight.

The Last Emperor has often been called “the last great epic.” While this contention is arguable, Criterion’s presentation of this magnificent motion picture certainly goes a long way toward proving it.--Raymond Benson

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“JEROME BIXBY’S THE MAN FROM EARTH” (Directed by Richard Schenkman. 2007, Starz Home Entertainment)

Longtime James Bond fans may recognize the name Richard Schenkman, the director of this marvelous, thought-provoking independent science fiction drama. During the 1980s, Schenkman was the president of the James Bond 007 Fan Club (based in the USA) and publisher of its fanzine, Bondage. Since that time, Schenkman has escaped from Bondage to become a first rate Hollywood and independent film director. After a few years at MTV, Schenkman made a few small budget indies that received critical acclaim, if not blockbuster box-office (including The Pompatus of Love, Went to Coney Island on a Mission for God…Be Back by Five) and the hit TV-movie and perennial holiday feature, A Diva’s Christmas Carol.

Schenkman’s latest film was written by the late, legendary science fiction writer Jerome Bixby (who wrote episodes for Star Trek and The Twilight Zone, among others). This posthumous production was spearheaded by Bixby’s son, Emerson. The story concerns a small group of friends who have come to say goodbye to John Oldman (portrayed by CSI: Miami’s David Lee Smith), who is moving house for mysterious reasons. In a moment of possible recklessness—or is it premeditated?—Oldman reveals to his friends that he is thousands of years old. In fact, he says he was a Cro-Magnon man and has somehow never aged or died. He has simply re-invented himself decade after decade, century after century, eon after eon—to fit in with progressing societies. At first, his friends think Oldman (get it?—“Oldman”) is pulling their legs, but as the day turns into night, Oldman presents startling and convincing evidence of his claim.

The script is more like a stage play than a film—in fact, The Man from Earth would probably make an excellent stage play—and there’s a lot of talking, no special effects, and no action (except for a short struggle between a couple of characters)—but the film is nonetheless engrossing and suspenseful. Schenkman doesn’t need to “open up” the story—it’s all there in Bixby’s well-crafted script. By the time the final, shocking revelation is made, Schenkman and his cast have the audience well in hand. I would go so far as to say it’s one of the most intelligent and profound science fiction dramas that we’ve seen in a long, long time.

Smith is very good as Oldman, and the rest of the cast shine as well (John Billingsley, Ellen Crawford, William Katt, Annika Peterson, Richard Riehle, Alexis Thorpe, and Tony Todd). But the true star of the piece is Bixby—and the film is a last testament to a great writer’s career. Highly recommended.- Raymond Benson

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Voyages of Imagination—The Star Trek Fiction Companion by Jeff Ayers (Pocket Books)

Talk about a labor of love! Author Jeff Ayers had to familiarize himself with over six hundred books published since 1967 (when the first Star Trek paperback book of fiction was published by Bantam) in order to present this massive 782-page trade paperback that lists every single Star Trek novel ever published. If that isn’t a monumental task in and of itself, Ayers also manages to comment on each book, offering insights and background to the novels’ plots, characters, and their place in the Star Trek universe. It’s all here—the numbered novels, the unnumbered novels (and for all the Trek television series, too!), novelizations, anthologies, young adult fiction, and more. Equally impressive is the Appendix—a Star Trek Fiction Timeline (created and compiled by numerous authors) that places each novel within the year-by-year time frame of the Trek universe. Ayers, a freelance journalist who has written for a number of publications and serves on the board of the Pacific Northwest Writers Association, declares himself a “Star Trek fan as far back as he can remember,” and it shows. This is truly an awesome piece of work. Read long and prosper.

-- Raymond Benson

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Author and Cinema Retro columnist Raymond Benson pays his respects to one of the cinema’s most legendary directors.

Another one of my cinema heroes is gone.

I first discovered Ingmar Bergman when I was a freshman at the University of Texas at Austin, way back in 1973. My good friend and Drama Department colleague Stuart Howard and I were working in the scene shop as part of our required crew assignment when he said, “Hey, they’re showing The Seventh Seal tonight [on campus]. Want to go?”

I had heard of The Seventh Seal and had seen that famous still photo of Max von Sydow playing chess with Death, but I had never viewed the film or any other Bergman picture. After all, I was fresh from Odessa, Texas, where the idea of a foreign language film (with—aghh!—subtitles) was something alien and too bizarre to comprehend. Like most people in those days, I eventually discovered the great foreign classics while I was a college student.

BY Raymond Benson

I thought my days of writing about or for James Bond were over. But as Al Pacino bemoaned in The Godfather Part III, 'They keep pulling me back in!'

And that's exactly what the recent so-called "Ultimate Edition" DVD releases of the Bond series did for me. After having not viewed many of the pictures in years, it was a treat to go back and watch them all again in chronological order, dip into the bonus features, and reassess the official EON 007 films' something I hadn't done since the publication of the updated edition of The James Bond Bedside Companion in 1988. Twenty years is a long time and I'm a very different person than I was in 1988. For one thing, I've been on the other side of the fence with Bond. Thus, I'm not really in a position to opine whether or not this or that film is good. It's the main reason why I don't update the Bedside Companion-it just wouldn't be ethical for me to write critiques of the Bond books or films since 1988. I leave that for others to do.