I TAKE THIS WOMAN (1940)

In six years and a dozen pics, M-G-M never did figure out what to do with impassively gorgeous Hedy Lamarr. Photographically, impossible to fault; dramatically, impossible to ignite. In the first of three tries with Spencer Tracy, they meet-cute by suicide! (He stops her from jumping off a transatlantic ship.) It’s not quite love at first sight, closer to ‘like at first sight.’ But he’s a Lower East Side welfare doctor; she’s a fashionable Upper East Side divorcée; and the rest of the film, an increasingly desperate hunt for a storyline. (Look fast for 7th-billed Jack Carson. Part of a missing story thread, you can spot him in the background for a single dubbed line of dialogue.) All we get is Tracy trying on the manners of society doctor, and the suicide of an underwritten supporting character. Charles MacArthur gets credit for ‘original’ story, whatever that may have been, and Tracy is charmingly low-key, but nothing makes much sense under W. S. Van Dyke’s lax megging. Though he does seem disturbingly pleased with the racially appalling ‘Darkie’ act he gets out of Willie Best’s ‘Sambo,’ quivering with excitement for a slice of Hedy’s birthday cake. Even those with a high tolerance for period stereotypes may cringe. And the whole shebang ends with a load of the purist CapraCorn hooey. Even Frank Capra might have blanched.

WATCH THIS, NOT THAT: Much of what passes for story in here was lifted from the second half of M-G-M’s very own THE CITADEL/’38, a memorable, if uneven pic.

FORBRYDELSENS ELEMENT / THE ELEMENT OF CRIME (1984)

Lars von Trier, aging enfant terrible, and increasingly irrelevant cinematic provocateur, made his feature film debut with just the sort of artsy self-indulgence great talents often need to get out of their system to find their voice. A fanciful, ochre-toned, dreamscape, it’s a free-verse detective story about an unsolved serial murder case that maintains casual contact with logic, sense or narrative form. Instead, moody scene painting and id/ego battles of will, possibly ravings from a psychiatrist’s couch, mark the way ahead. In other words, it’s a pain to get thru. Trier, stealing the affectatious worst from some of filmdom’s best, arbitrarily culls from a few, favored film schools & directors (i.e. Germany’s UFA, Godard, Clouzot, Tarkovsky, et al.). Now & then, a visual wisecrack breaks thru, along with his unfortunate misogyny, but his real success was getting past this daunting folly, with a decade’s worth of films & tv to show for it. Then, the breakout success of BREAKING THE WAVES//’96 did him in, fed & enabled by the usual suspects: Film Fests; Academics on the lookout for cutting-edge theses; and critics hunting up bona fides to gnaw on. And while you can’t tell from this mess of a debut, the loss was considerable.

WATCH THIS, NOT THAT: You might start with BREAKING THE WAVES and work your way back; even better, begin with Trier’s underrated EUROPA/’91, a sort of deconstructed THIRD MAN/’49.

A YOUNG DOCTOR'S NOTEBOOK

With the current crop of cable (and streaming) mini-series growing ever longer and more ambitious (or is it pretentious?), this compact Bildungsroman about the learning-curve of a fresh-faced Russian doctor pulling duty in the hinterland (and sinking into addiction) is a four-bite, 90 minute treat. Taken from the fictionalized memoir of Mikhail Bulgakov, the adaptation imagines the grown doctor of 1934 (Jon Hamm) as ghostly mentor to his young self (Daniel Radcliffe) back in 1917. It’s a literary conceit/visual gimmick that pays off, with the Mutt & Jeff aspect of the two actors paradoxically aiding the illusion . . . and the fun in some spectacularly gory surgeries. (You may wish to cover your ears as well as your eyes.) The first episode doesn’t quite click into place (Radcliffe too eager-beaver; his staff not yet revealing their true, supportive nature), but they quickly turn the corner and find the right, irreverent, subversive, disruptive tone (not so far from the original M*A*S*H*’72), aided by a fabulous production design that stops a couple of versts short of realism. Hopefully, a promised Second Season won’t over-egg the pudding . . . er, blinis.

DOUBLE-BILL: Bone up on the time period with Sergei Eisenstein’s surprisingly consumer friendly debut film, STRIKE/’25. (KINO and IMAGE have good editions.)

ONE GIRL'S CONFESSION (1953)

As writer, director, producer & star of a few low-budget crime-driven mellers, Czech exile Hugo Haas became something of a one-man hack . . . in a good way. Here, buxom blonde Cleo Moore lifts 25 thou off her creepy restaurant boss, payback for a wronged father. After a quick, happy stint in jail, she’s back on the streets, working a new waitressing gig while she lets the stolen 25 K sit tight. But when her new, friendly boss needs some fast cash; and a new romantic squeeze needs a loan, Moore knows just who to turn to . . . herself. Alas, her well-made plans go wrong with O’Henry-like twists of ironic fate, why if this girl didn’t have bad luck . . . Ahem. It’s that kind of story; that kind of film. Fortunately, a final O’Henry twist restores a sense of order so life can go on. Haas has all the makings of a nice little film noir here, and he runs an efficient show, but the film just bumps along, with ham-fisted acting and not much style. Worse, the compressed grey-scale on Paul Ivano’s lensing makes the already modest production values look like tv anthology fare of the day. What’s left is the odd blank sensibility Cleo Moore brings to her dishy role, and her manner of looking like Kim Basinger’s hitherto unknown sister from certain flattering camera angles.

DOUBLE-BILL: Apparently, THE GIRL ON THE BRIDGE/’51 (not seen here) is Haas’s best pic. Have a look and report back.

DEATH IN VENICE (1971)

Luchino Visconti’s adaptation of Thomas Mann’s novel on the corruptive power of beauty (or is it purity?) famously swapped literature for music, turning Dirk Bogarde’s Aschenbach from a writer into a sort of zombified Gustav Mahler. If nothing else, it provides cover for blanket use of the dreamy sounding Adagietto from Mahler’s 5th Symphony. (Especially dreamy at the funereal pace played here.*) Gorgeous atmosphere trumps narrative as Visconti revives a lost world of pre-WWI privilege on the Lido with Bogarde’s character ever so slowly (and slightly ridiculously) succumbing to the spreading cholera epidemic, helplessly held in rapt homage to a youthful Apollo called Tadzio. (Played by Björn Andresen as if Antoine de Saint-Exupéry’s Little Prince had matured into an androgynous/adolescent copy of Dominique Sanda.**) Foolhardy & magnificent, the film is both unforgettable and a personal wet-dream for Visconti, with sly moments of self-recognition bubbling up just below the surface. Watch for Bogarde’s puppy-like pleasure when his getaway is spoiled, followed by an ecstatic return by boat as he stands to catch the sun. Essential viewing, even when Pasquale De Santis’s zoom lens pulls you back to the ‘70s.

READ ALL ABOUT IT: *Actually another HEAR ALL ABOUT IT: The Mahler Adagietto became so ubiquitous after its use here, it now shows up on SuperMarket Muzak tracks! Alas, the slow, slow pace has also become the norm. But it wasn’t always so. Mahler’s closest assistant/protégé, Bruno Walter, is dawdle-free in a revelatory version with the NYPhil (Mahler's old band) recorded in the ‘50s.

DOUBLE-BILL/SCREWY THOUGHT OF THE DAY: **Dominique Sanda? Sounds implausible, but Sanda had just played Helmet Berger’s sister in THE GARDEN OF THE FINZI-CONTINIS/’70; Berger had become involved with Visconti after THE DAMNED/’69 and would go on to play a sort of grown up Tadzio figure in Visconti’s marvelous, if maligned, CONVERSATION PIECE/74 which had Burt Lancaster as another Aschenbach, now back to the literary life. (CONVERSATION PIECE is only out in an unwatchable English-dub. Hopefully, an Italian-language version of this beautiful film will soon appear.)

THE GUARD (2011)

John Michael McDonagh’s debut as writer/director is made up almost entirely of familiar (make that over-familiar) elements: foul-mouthed eccentric cop is a brilliant mess at his job, a loner who thrives in the Irish boonies, dabbling on the dark side of cases while tending to his dying ma. Right now, he’s grooming a new, disposable partner fresh from Dublin when a fancy Yank from the FBI shows up, a black intellectual sort, working on a monster drug deal going down locally. But even if you think you’ve seen this kind of set-up once too often, McDonagh (older brother of Irish playwright/filmmaker Martin McDonagh) freshens the template by streamlining his narrative to work largely as character comedy between Brendan Gleeson & Don Cheadle playing out theme & variations on the old ‘ebony & ivory’ wisecracking routine. The gag, in its post-modern form, is as old as Burt Lancaster & Ossie Davis and as recent as Christoph Waltz & Jamie Fox, yet these guys beat the both of them. (Cheadle is really a remarkably resourceful actor.) Perhaps the trick is in the cool, clean visual presentation that shows a welcome influence from our best deadpan filmmaking moralist, Aki Kaurismäki, though without his signature blissed-out endings. McDonagh instantly becomes a man to watch.

SCREWY THOUGHT OF THE DAY: Sony Classics should have found a better title for its Stateside release.

DOUBLE-BILL: It’s not just Gleeson’s Falstaffian girth that brings Orson Welles’ TOUCH OF EVIL/’58 to mind. Hmm, does that mean Cheadle’s in the Chuck Heston spot? Cool.

NIGHT EDITOR (1946)

Janis Carter is a warped knockout as femme fatale in this low-budget police procedural. (The somewhat misleading title comes from a radio anthology show later reused for tv.) Carter’s a rich society type whose hobby is sleeping her way in & out of trouble . . . then getting off on the mess she leaves in her wake. Her main victim is tru-blue police homicide dick William Gargan, a solid-citizen sort with the cute wife, cute kid & sweet little home to prove it. But just now, he’s pulling overnight shifts with the Mistress Carter, and these two are canoodling in the car when they espy another couple also going at it . . . lethally, with deadly intent. Gargan’s filled with guilt ‘cause he let it happen to keep his affair hidden; Carter’s filled with regret ‘cause she didn’t get a look at the girl’s smashed head. Yikes! The plot spins out in a nifty series of twists with good noirish lensing from Burnett Guffey & Philip Tannura, but even as a Grade Z time-filler, too much goes missing under Henry Levin’s pro forma megging. You keep hoping for a bit of style, flair or eccentricity, then have to settle for near competence, while the devilish look in Janis Carter’s eye reminds you what’s missing.

DOUBLE-BILL: Lots of DOUBLE INDEMNITY/’44 in here. Maybe not enough.

GIVE US THE MOON (1944)

How’d this little British Screwball land @ Gainsborough Pictures, home of romantic bodice-rippers? And how did Val Guest, the guy behind those QUARTERMASS Sci-Fi horror pics, come to meg & script? Just goes to show how little we know of the byways of UK cinema. Margaret Lockwood seems to be having a good time rattling off silly dialogue as a Russian con-artist, out to scam a rich ne’er-do-well with help from an indolent gang of comical White Russian exiles. That’d be hotel empire scion Vic Oliver (a David Niven type), pretty bland as the mark. Still, you can always count on Roland Culver, the Ruskies sedentary leader, for a few dead-on wry line readings. Everyone else works a bit too hard at being funny, funny, funny; but at least they wear you down pleasantly, winding up with a decent .275 comic batting average. Plus, there’s a fun debut by a teenage Jean Simmons as Lockwood’s kid sister.

DOUBLE-BILL: Continue the swanky hotel theme with some real Screwball action: EASY LIVING/’37 with incomparable perfs from Jean Arthur, Ray Milland & Edward Arnold along with one of Preston Sturges’s best early scripts & underrated megging from oft-maligned Mitchell Leisen.

LE COUSIN JULES (1972)

This austere beauty, a documentary on farm life in the French countryside, was Dominique Benicheti’s sole directing effort. Rapturously received upon release, it then more or less disappeared before a recent full bore restoration. (Venezuela’s ARAYA/’59 followed a similar path of forget & remembrance.) In meticulously curated WideScreen & EastmanColor, Benicheti painstakingly observes the quiet, isolated rural life of an elderly couple as they run a small farm and his ironworks ‘smithy’ in a manner that seems barely altered from the 1800s. Moving steadily from one task to the next, they pursue largely separate work routines long tempered down to absolute essentials. Technically, the film is immaculate, with a precision that’s both mesmerizing and, in its oblique way, intensely moving. As documentary, the style may look sui generis, yet it pulls from the tradition of Robert Flaherty*, the form’s father, who controversially (at least in hindsight) took a romantic view of his task, using scripted, even story-boarded action, which was then shot in documentary fashion. A search not for reality, but for a semblance of truth.

SCREWY THOUGHT OF THE DAY: Included on the DVD, an unusually well done Extra on the film’s restoration that doggedly adheres to the feature film’s style in taking the time to detail the labor intensive process, and even explains the thrift-induced mysteries of the TechniRama WideScreen process.

DOUBLE-BILL: *Flaherty's MAN OF ARAN/'34.