THE FORMULA (1980)

The real missing formula here is the secret for making a big-budget international thriller. Steve Shagan adapted his own novel about a hard-nosed L.A. detective (George C. Scott) who starts out investigating a murder and winds up on the trail of a Nazi-era recipe for turning coal into synthetic oil. Shagan’s idea of suspense is to bump suspects off as soon as Scott gets his next clue, then he ships him off to scenic spots in Europe where he meets shady lady Marthe Keller and leaves a few more bodies . . . after getting the next clue. Director John Avildsen is at sea here, urban blight was his thing, not skullduggery among the rich & richly upholstered. The only possible reason to watch this is Marlon Brando who comes up with a goofy take on a big, sly oil tycoon/Master-of-the-Universe pussy-cat with Milk Duds to spare. Taking third billing, behind Scott, Keller and the title, Brando plays character actor and seems to be having a fine time, working Scott like a cat with a mouse. And Scott, to his credit, takes pride & pleasure in losing the game. And how come Brando resembles Dick Cheney, circa 2004? (See photo.) Uncanny.

SCREWY THOUGHT OF THE DAY: In this 1980 pic, Scott ‘defends’ his new Asian/American partner by ‘correcting’ offensive terms like ‘Sloe’ or ‘Chink,’ insisting on ‘Oriental,’ which, of course, is a rug.

WATCH THIS, NOT THAT: Two years before this, THE BOYS FROM BRAZIL made a nice hunk of change using Greg Peck, Larry Olivier, Lilli Palmer & James Mason much as this film uses Scott, Brando, Keller & John Gielgud. While almost as trashy as this pic, it seems to know itself and features a wonderfully naughty score from Jerry Goldsmith, sublime lensing from Henri Decaë, ultra-slick production from helmer Franklin Schaffner, and triple the gross M-G-M got out of this dud.

ANASTASIA: THE MYSTERY OF ANNA (1986)

Pace this film’s subtitle, there never was much of a mystery. Anna Anderson, a Polish refugee who passed herself off as the only surviving daughter of the last Czar, had neither the Romanov looks nor a plausible story to sell herself as the real Anya; she didn’t even speak Russian. (Why no one bothered to give her a test in comprehension is the only true mystery in here.)* But this relatively lavish tv mini-series (it runs a little over three hours and runs out of steam long before the end) at least holds a passel of fine perfs from some starry acting vets (Olivia De Havilland in her next to last role as the Dowager Empress; Rex Harrison bowing out sharply as the presumptive Romanov head); plus a fine debut from Christian Bale as the young, death-obsessed Alexei. Edward Fox mumbles impressively as a kindly doctor, Claire Bloom is both desperate & resigned as the doomed Czarina & UPSTAIRS/DOWNSTAIRS mavens get a chance to see Rachel (Lady Bellamy) Gurney. The leads are just okay, Amy Irving enunciates in Mid-Atlantic mode & Jan Niklas as her main supporter does a sort of junior-league Dirk Bogarde impression. And note that Susan Lucci looks only slightly older in 1986 than she does today! (No mystery there, either.) No, the interest lies in just how resilient this silly story is. Not even the truth can kill it, a real life case of ‘When the legend becomes fact, print the legend,’ as John Ford’s THE MAN WHO SHOT LIBERTY VALANCE/’62 famously put it. (Few bother to note that this is precisely what Ford refuses to do.) A decade later, when the old myth had been scientifically demolished, a full-rigged animated version turned up. Maybe those Bolshies should have used silver bullets.

SCREWY THOUGHT OF THE DAY: *The recently released THE IMPOSTER shows yet one more case where grief-stricken relatives ignore all available evidence so they can believe a loved one is still alive.

WATCH THIS, NOT THAT: Anatole Litvak’s fondly recalled 1956 ANASTASIA may not be all it’s cracked up to be, but the parallels between Anya trying to reclaim her name & title and Ingrid Bergman successfully reclaiming Hollywood stardom after her Italian exile proved irresistible. That version, taken from a French play, also finesses any story arc problems by having a bunch of swindlers start to believe their phony Anya might just be the real thing.

CONTEST: Distinguished elder actresses love playing the Dowager Empress: a grand, delayed entrance, two nice scenes played from a seated position, and special appearance billing for twelve minutes of work. Yum! Helen Hayes, Angela Lansbury, Lynn Fontanne & Olivia De Havilland have all taken the plunge onscreen, but only one of them ever co-starred with another legendary actresses who played that part not on screen, but on the stage. Name the mystery actress, the title of the production where she played the Empress Dowager, which of the four listed above was her co-star, and the vehicle the two vets acted together in (it was on tv) to win a MAKSQUIBS Write-Up of any NetFlix DVD.

RIFFRAFF (1936)

Spencer Tracy took featured billing in this ramshackle Jean Harlow pic which had been planned as his M-G-M debut after producer Irving Thalberg brought him over from FOX. It wound up being shot second, and then got released third. So his big debut looked a bit like a demotion from above the title to below. Things could only improve after this . . . and they did. (His next three in this same year were FURY, SAN FRANCISCO & LIBELED LADY!) In the event, this one feels second-hand with fading scripters Anita Loos & Frances Marion phoning in situations from earlier, better efforts. (Professionally, they went all the way back to D. W. Griffith, collaborating on THE NEW YORK HAT/1912.) Tracy & Harlow play bickering waterfront pals, fisherman & canning girl, too stubborn to admit they’re in love. The story jumps around madly with Tracy pushing for, then against, then for a strike against cannery owner Joseph Calleia, who’s also wooing Harlow. She’s just as confused, feuding & making up not only from scene to scene, but within every scene, until she winds up going to jail for love, making a break out of jail for love, then deciding to do the time back in jail for love. It’s all more strenuous than entertaining, barely saved by star power and some good harbor town atmosphere during the early strike sequences. Una Merkel does wonders as Harlow’s no-nonsense sister and young Mickey Rooney is a bit too startling as a cute kid with anarchistic tendencies that put Tracy’s ‘Red’ labor advisor to shame.

WATCH THIS, NOT THAT: Before the Production Code started to draw blood in ‘34, Anita Loos spiced up most of Jean Harlow’s pics with deliciously racy dialogue. Hear the fun commence with RED-HEADED WOMAN/’32. Co-writer Frances Marion covered the waterfront to grand effect in her sweet & salty early Talkie MIN AND BILL /’30, directed with a remarkably fluid touch by George Hill (who she was briefly married to) and with an astonishing perf from Marie Dressler. Don’t be misled by its early comic doings, it’s an apotheosis of sentimental drama.

READ ALL ABOUT IT/SCREWY THOUGHT OF THE DAY: Larry Swindell’s once standard Tracy bio has been overtaken by a fat, new book from James Curtis. But Swindell makes a telling error when he lists Robert Z Leonard rather than J. Walter Ruben as RIFFRAFF’s director. According to Swindell, it was on this pic that Leonard insisted Tracy watch his own ‘dailies.’ Tracy did it . . . once, then never again. And Swindell may well be right on the director since Irving Thalberg used whomever was available that day for his many reshoots. It’s why so much Thalberg product has a sort of Stop/Start quality with unmatched inserts & zero internal rhythm.

SASAME-YUKI / THE MAKIOKA SISTERS (1983)

Beyond exquisite. Kon Ichikawa’s domestic drama follows the four lovely Makioka sisters in quietly compelling fashion. A rare look at a rich Japanese subculture, it’s also the most refined ‘chick-flic’ ever made. Daughters of the wealthy Makioka mercantile family, the eldest two are both married with children, but they spend most of their time worrying about the two youngest sisters: the tradition-bound third girl, a great beauty who refuses one arranged marriage after another; and the kid, a rebellious girl who wants to shed family obligations. The film runs on small details of family pride & vanity, set in stately homes and well-tended parks, always gowned in ravishing kimonos that are much more than mere show. It’s a world where style becomes subject, as if Max Ophuls had turned his attention to Japan in the 1930s. And the men are just as well defined: varying ‘modern’ generation boyfriends for the youngest sister; deeply inappropriate formal suitors for sister number 3's arranged meetings. Jûzô Itami, before he began directing (TAMPOPO/’86), is suitably gruff as the eldest’s hot-tempered husband; and there’s an exceptional perf from Kôji Ishizaka as the other husband, the family’s ever-ready peacemaker who’s a bit in love with all the sisters. Ichikawa remains best known Stateside for harrowing anti-war pics like THE BURMESE HARP/’56 and FIRES ON THE PLAIN/’59, but he had an enormous range, and here he finds & maintains the exact right tone for this delicate melodrama.

DOUBLE-BILL: Sounds unlikely, but Vincente Minnelli’s MEET ME IN ST. LOUIS/’44 is an equally well-observed memory piece about four sisters & their extended family with more than a few similar plot threads, even a crisis-inducing proposed move to a big city. But of course played out in TechniColored studio recreations, with song cues & Judy Garland in for Ichikawa’s cherry-blossoms.

ASSAULT ON PRECINCT 13 (1976)

Two years before HALLOWEEN came out, John Carpenter made this crafty low-budget suspenser about a handful of cops & convicts holding out against a nihilistic gang of L.A. cutthroats in a nearly abandoned police station. Self-described as an homage to Howard Hawks’ similarly plotted RIO BRAVO/’59, Carpenter is all thumbs in the first half, dutifully setting up his situation with stiff staging, bad acting & bursts of giggle-worthy violence. But once he locks us inside the station house, and the gang starts bearing down like real-life zombies, the whole little contraption kicks into gear. Even Carpenter’s minimalist music starts thumping to life. Which is more than can be said for his attempt at making a Hawksian gal pal out of Laurie Zimmer who ambles about and talks low & slow to little effect. (Without the censorship restrictions imposed by the old Production Code, this kind of indirect messaging just looks silly.) Better is Darwin Joston who shows real promise (never fulfilled) as the convict whose trip to Death Row gets interrupted for some unexpected heroics. The new IMAGE-DVD transfer has the film looking better than ever, but keep the budget in mind to help explain some of the crudities and story ellipses.

DOUBLE-BILL: Take Carpenter’s advice and watch this along with RIO BRAVO. You can really see how he made Zimmer play her role like Angie Dickinson. Let’s see, that puts Austin Stoker in the Duke Wayne slot (with a touch of Ricky Nelson when he whistles), and Darwin Joston has the Dean Martin part. So who the heck is supposed to be Walter Brennan?

SCREWY THOUGHT OF THE DAY: Carpenter does a nice director’s audio track, but they didn’t run the film soundtrack under him which robs many of his comments of their point. Dumb.

MISSION: IMPOSSIBLE - GHOST PROTOCOL

The MISSION: IMPOSSIBLE pics with Tom Cruise have made pots & pots of money, but it’s hard to think of anyone getting too worked up about them, especially after MISSIONs 2 & 3. (The one with a big lift out of Hitchcock’s NOTORIOUS/’46 was particularly distressing.) So, it’s a surprise, and a kick, to see what Brad Bird, plucked from the world of animation, brings to the mix. Anyone who saw THE INCREDIBLES/’04 will have some idea of what to expect in the way that film morphed from Super-Hero to James Bond/Spy vs Spy adventure, along with a physical look that drew from 007's signature designer Ken Adam. The controlling gag, then & now, was Bird’s nutty fondness for (of all things) the Roger Moore era Bond pics. (He makes a more convincing case for them then Moore ever did!) You know where he’s going right from the start, when the goofy devil-may-care tone of a doubled-up pre-title sequence is crowned with a full play of the classic Lalo Schifrin M:I theme. (Plus heaps of variations on same all thru the pic.) And Bird doesn’t sneak in the old references, but revels in them. As in INCREDIBLES, he tends to run his action scenes past their sweet spot, and three of the four MIF principals bring little you wouldn’t see on tv’s NCIS. But, rather like THE SPY WHO LOVED ME/’77 (which has a darn similar nuclear terrorism plotline), he doesn’t take things very seriously and gets extra points simply by surpassing expectations.

SCREWY THOUGHT OF THE DAY: The sweeping shots that open the big Mumbai party scene might have been shot & directed by Claude Renoir & Lewis Gilbert if those two had taken THE SPY WHO LOVED ME into India. Bird & Co. even throw in a dance routine for some girly retro eye-candy.

DOUBLE-BILL: Brad Bird’s first big screen credit, THE IRON GIANT/’99, is a still underseen gem.

CAESAR AND CLEOPATRA (1945)

George Bernard Shaw’s play has never been able to live up to that grand sounding title. But those who can downsize their expectations may well find themselves enjoying this ten-ton turkey in spite of its obvious shortcomings. Gabriel Pascal, the Hungarian charlatan who won the film rights to the GBS catalog with a promise of material fidelity instead of cash, had no business directing street traffic let alone this mammoth production, which became, financially, the HEAVEN’S GATE of its day. Hordes of extras roam around vast sets like a lost chorus in a Gilbert & Sullivan operetta, and just like THE MIKADO, half the joke is watching all those Brits pretending to be foreigners. Between the acres of scenery & costumes, Claude Rains (over-parted as Caesar) plays a Shaw self-portrait, the wise & wily dictator who mentors, rather than falls for Vivien Leigh’s deliciously mean little vixen of a Cleopatra. With Pascal unable to help, the actors undoubtedly did their own staging while a legendary generation of craftsman took charge of decor (Oliver Messel) & cinematography (Jack Cardiff, Jack Hildyard, Robert Krasker and Freddie Young). Frustratingly, the Criterion DVD isn’t able to get a consistent color resolution from the materials, giving Leigh a particularly hard make-up until she blossoms at the very end. Flora Robson is tremendous as the unfathomable (not to say, unpronounceable) Ftatateeta while a young Stewart Granger makes a handsome, if floatable Sicilian and an equally young Michael Rennie is quite the noble Roman. In fact, with heaps of tasty perfs scattered about, it’s probably best to think of Shaw’s odd little play like the proverbial Curate’s Egg, which was good . . . in parts.

DOUBLE BILL: The second half of the infamous Liz Taylor/Richard Burton CLEOPATRA/’63 is drear, but the first half has Rex Harrison’s superb Caesar which scripter Joe Mankiewicz quite obviously based on Shaw’s model. Harrison did play Shaw’s Caesar on-stage, against Elizabeth Ashley’s Cleopatra, but like most attempts at the play, it sounded so good everyone wound up being a bit disappointed.

H. M. PULHAM. ESQ. (1941)

After getting Pulitzer’d with THE LATE GEORGE APLEY, John P. Marquand* revisited the theme of stuffy Boston Brahmins vs. progressive New Yorkers via the compromised life choices Mr. H. M. Pulham settles for. Appropriately, King Vidor’s film adaptation plays the same road-not-taken tune, but not to its benefit. The concessions begin with the cast. Robert Young isn’t a bad choice for Pulham, the too-easily led scion of a rich Boston family who leaves his heart in New York with Hedy Lamarr, falling back on a comfortable match of convenience with Ruth Hussey, but he hasn’t the star wattage to make us care about all those missed chances. You certainly could make a fascinating film about a man who wound up living the slightly dulled life he was destined for (see Updike, Cheever, New Englanders in general?), but this isn’t it. Vidor keeps pointing us toward interesting scenes & character turns that never materialize (was the budget trimmed at the last minute?), like Pulham’s troublesome kid sister (Bonita Granville) or his vaguely radical best pal, a young & skinny Van Heflin. Best is Hedy Lamarr who, just this once, gets to play a role not so far from the smart, independent woman she was in real life.** The plot whittles her down for a cop-out ‘happy’ ending, but it’s still her best perf.

WATCH THIS, NOT THAT: *Hard to believe this is the same J. P. Marquand who wrote the MR. MOTO books that grew into all those delightfully eccentric little ‘B’ pics with Peter Lorre/’37-‘39. Or, stick with the relucantly happy marriage topic with Ernst Lubitsch's HEAVEN CAN WAIT/'43.

READ ALL ABOUT IT: **Did Hedy Lamarr invent WiFi? Check out the scientific side of the great Hollywood beauty in HEDY’S FOLLY by Pulitzer Prize winning historian Richard Rhodes.

PLATONOV (1971)

Anton Chekhov’s early play exists in various performing editions since the big, messy original is impossibly long & overwritten. Yet, it keeps showing up in one form or another (WILD HONEY and AN UNFINISHED PIECE FOR PLAYER PIANO are two alternate versions) because it lets us see Chekhov in chrysalis. Not only his typical Russian characters, the declining aristos & the cash-and-carry nouveau, but all the petty tiffs, vanities & stupidities that can turn on a dime (er . . . kopek) from satire to tragedy. Platonov is a married teacher who drifts thru various levels of society, drinking his way past a series of lovestruck ladies. He doesn’t exactly pursue, but it’s too much bother not to go along. With so much flesh around, society to navigate, social interruptions, vodka to drink & hunting weapons about, something’s gotta give. Rex Harrison had an unexpected hit with this very British version in the early ‘60s (it sometimes feels like Shaw’s MISALLIANCE) and taped it ten years later as a BBC Play of the Month. It doesn’t really come off, something lost between stage & the screen, and technically it’s tough to get a workable sound level with all the actors dropping their voices for personal confidences. (Subtitles help.) But it’s worth a bit of effort. Harrison was already twenty years too old when he first did the role and is now thirty years off. Yet, rather than hurt his perf, it brings out the comic absurdity of the situations, making Chekhov’s quick turn at the end both jarring & right. But the play, in just about any form, works best as foreshadow to later masterpieces.

DOUBLE-BILL: You can see this basic idea working its way thru Michael Winner’s disappointing film of Alan Ayckbourne’s A CHORUS OF DISAPPROVAL/’89. Jeremy Irons is hilariously ambivalent about his allure as a sort of modern Platonov character, fending off women at an amateur theatrical club. And Anthony Hopkins is particularly good, and truly Chekovian, in a sort of sub-Uncle Vanya role, a part he played in his self-directed misfire AUGUST/’96.