Joseph Stalin on Film: Red Monarch and Stalin (1992)

Hollywood releases seemingly hundreds of Nazi-themed dramas annually, yet serious treatments of the USSR remain scarce. During Hollywood's Red-baiting heyday, most anti-Communist films focused on espionage (The Kremlin Letter) or internal subversion (Big Jim McLain). Reagan-era flicks like Red Dawn and Firefox reduce Russians to shooting gallery targets. Even historical dramas marginalize the Bolsheviks: Nicholas and Alexandra makes Lenin a bit player in the Romanov tragedy, while Reds focuses mainly on American leftists caught in the Revolution.

Consider Joseph Stalin. Few leaders aside from Adolf Hitler inspire such universal hatred, yet outside of Russia he's received little cinematic attention. This may come from the lingering perception, perpetrated by rivals Trotsky and Bukharin, that he was an uncouth dimwit who achieved power through animal cunning. This characterization is unfair: an evil visionary is still a visionary. Stalin catapulted Russia from feudal state to modern superpower, while causing anywhere from 10-20 million deaths.

Undoubtedly so long as the USSR existed, key historical records remained unavailable to Western filmmakers. Yet the Cold War's end hasn't significantly increased the output of Soviet dramas. There's no Bolshevik Downfall dissecting Stalin's leadership, no Schindler's List treatment of the Holdomor. One exception is the Polish film Katyn (2007), depicting a wartime atrocity covered up by Stalin's Western allies. Peter Weir's The Way Back (2010) starts in a Siberian gulag but focuses on its protagonists' escape across Asia.

Alternately, some blame this on Hollywood's supposed affinity for Communism, as if the Hollywood Ten remains on the loose. Inasmuch as even the Politburo disowned Stalin 57 years ago, it's an unconvincing argument. More likely, Stalin films are a hard sell to audiences apathetic towards foreign history and radical politics. It's easy to label Marxism evil, harder to examine how a Communist state actually functions. After all, few Nazi films espouse a message deeper than "genocide is bad."

Aside from Manart Kippen's laughably benevolent Stalin in Mission to Moscow (1943) and the Russo-American The Inner Circle (1991), the most notable Western depictions of Stalin are made-for-television efforts. Neither Red Monarch or Stalin flatters its subject, but their approaches differ drastically.

Red Monarch (1983, Jack Gold)

"Why is the sky blue and what are lesbians for?"

Britain's Film4 produced our first picture, a scabrous satire of state socialism. Drawing on KGB defector Yuri Krotkov's novel, Red Monarch takes the bold step of making an historical monster monstrously funny.  

Focusing on Stalin's final years, Red Monarch becomes a portrait in absolute power. Stalin (Colin Blakely) micromanages the USSR down to miniscule details. At one point, he ponders executing Minister Molotov (Nigel Stock) after the Soviet basketball team loses to France! He releases rival Sergo (David Kelly) from a gulag, seemingly just to confide in him horrible secrets. When Sergo refuses to believe Stalin's confession, the dictator threatens to imprison him again! Like a feudal monarch, Stalin treats mass murder as a lark.

Faced with such a capricious leader, only the slimiest survive. Lavrenity Beria (David Suchet) alternates between groveling toady ("Do what you like me with me, I know nothing!"), backstabbing plotter and ceaseless skirt chaser. (Since the real Beria was a serial rapist, this last seems polite.) He grows unnerved when Stalin forces him to play an honest game of billiards. A Soviet general (Ian Hogg) spells out his code of "M for Marx, E for Engels, L for Lenin..." "Where is the 'S' for Stalin?" the dictator demands. Only Stalin's wastrel son (David Threlfall) challenges Stalin's self-image, with little success.

Director Jack Gold and writer Charles Wood excel in surreal gags. Stalin grants an interview to an American journalist (Carroll Baker) while screening propaganda films. His flunkies fumble desperately with film reels to illustrate Stalin's answers; the dictator reaches a fever pitch while My Darling Clementine plays. Later he challenges Mao Zedong (Fred Lee Own) to an arm-wrestling contest! Stalin's inner circle becomes as buffoonish as the English gentry in Wood's Charge of the Light Brigade, inflated appearances belying interior absurdity.

Colin Blakely (A Man for All Seasons) gives a superlative turn. His casting allows Gold to play up Stalin's outsider origins, albeit as an Ulsterman rather than Georgian. Blakely becomes a man relishing his arbitrary power, evincing wicked delight in his actions: he hits the right note of restrained hysteria and focused psychosis. The supporting cast does fine work, with David Suchet and David Kelly especially good, but it's Blakely's show all the way.

Good satire can illuminate truths missed by serious drama. Whether Stalin was a raving madman or a calculating monster, he dangled the fate of millions on a string. Red Monarch's bloody climax registers like a kick in the stomach: suddenly Stalin's buffoonery doesn't seem funny at all. This coda reminds us that while irrational dictators often become punchlines (Idi Amin, the Kims), they remain a national tragedy.

Stalin (1992, Ivan Passer)

An HBO production, Stalin is much more conventional. Long, solemn and portentous, it's an earnest rendering of Soviet history with famous actors impersonating the Bolshevik inner circle. Stalin's commendable in its scope and detail even if it offers little insight into its protagonist.

Stalin covers the Man of Steel's life from the Revolution through his death. Stalin (Robert Duvall) starts as a minor functionary, trusted by Lenin (Maximilian Schell) but scorned by intellectuals like Leon Trotsky (Daniel Massey) and Nikolai Bukharin (Jerone Krabbe). He's appointed General Secretary of the Politburo, allowing him to accumulate power even before Lenin's death. Stalin bests Trotsky and plunges the USSR into brutal dictatorship, mixing rapid modernization with mass repression. He also suffers strained relations with wife Nadya (Julia Ormond) and son Yakov (Ravil Isyanov).

Stalin remains an impressive production. Shortly after the USSR's dissolution, director Ivan Passer shot key scenes on authentic Russian locations: Stalin's dacha, Lenin's private apartment and the prison. The credits boast an impressive coterie of historical advisers, including biographer Robert Conquest. Passer's direction is assured and occasionally impressive, aided by Vilmos Zsigmond's expressive photography. On these levels, Stalin's hard to fault.

But Stalin still falls victim to the usual biopic hurdles. Despite a three hour length, Passer provides only terse sketches of key historical moments. Stalin's feud with Trotsky, the Five Year Plan and resultant turmoil, even the entire Second World War are treated almost parenthetically. When Stalin slows down to breathe it's compelling: the extended segment on Stalin's Great Purge is power stuff, as are scenes where Stalin humiliates his Politburo colleagues. But these moments are few and far betwen.

Hoping to explain Stalin's monstrous temperament, Passer and writer Paul Monash probe the dictator's personal life: his fractious marriages and background as a Georgian outsider. Arguably, this marks Stalin's weakest point. The domestic squabbling plays out like any "Great Man" biopic, no more enlightening with an Evil Man. These scenes do little to leaven a stiff historical pageant. It's telling how Stalin plays certain scenes almost identically to Red Monarch (say, Beria's reaction to Stalin's imminent death) with far less impact.

Robert Duvall, an extremely gifted actor, faces an unenviable task. Besides bearing little resemblance to Stalin, Duvall brings inevitable baggage: persuading a rival to kill himself to spare his family, he inevitably recalls Tom Hagen. Duvall fares better in later scenes; as Stalin settles into power, Duvall seems more comfortable inhabiting the character, overcoming his heavy makeup and dodgy accent. Still, it's a performance that's competent but unsatisfying.

The large supporting cast reduced to making impressions. Maximilian Schell and Daniel Massey (Mary Queen of Scots) provide vivid impressions but bow out early. Julia Ormond (My Week With Marilyn) brings tragic gravitas to another short-lived character. Roshan Seth (Gandhi) makes Beria memorably cruel, mocking his victims for Stalin's amusement. Frank Finlay, Jim Carter, Miriam Margoyles and Kevin McNally flesh out supporting roles.

* * *

Needless to say, neither Red Monarch or Stalin provides the definitive portrait of the Red Tsar. I admire the former's audacity and respect the latter's intentions, yet both feel inadequate. Here's hoping some filmmaker - American, British, Russian or Martian - soon gets a chance to fill the void.

Note: I will resume my tributes to certain recently-deceased stars soon. Somehow I've felt it easier to ponder genocidal Bolsheviks than the death of my favorite actor over the past two days.

Walker

"It is not every man who's offered a country of his very own!"

Alex Cox's most ambitious film, Walker (1987) is a movie like no other. This recounting of America's most notorious filibuster functions on multiple levels: satirical biopic, absurdist critique of American foreign policy, surreal art film.

In the 1850s, American adventurer William Walker (Ed Harris) leads an unsuccessful invasion of Sonora, Mexico. Walker considers retiring, but his fiancee's (Marlee Matlin) death prompts him to conquer Nicaragua for Cornelius Vanderbilt's (Peter Boyle) railroad company. Leading a polyglot band of freebooters, known as the "Immortals," Walker liberates Nicaragua, appointing himself military commander while placing a pliant puppet in the Presidency. But Walker's regime grows more repressive, turning the Nicaraguans, Vanderbilt and his own men against him. Walker still considers himself a "man of destiny," confident that faith will see him through.

Politically and artistically, Walker is remarkably subversive. Besides shooting in Daniel Ortega's Nicaragua, Cox employs a rococo aesthetic, mixing period detail with riotous anachronisms. Characters drink Coca-Cola, read Newsweek and use IBM computers in 1850s Nicaragua. The incongruities extend further: Cox scores battle scenes to lively salsa music, employing slow motion and grisly blood squibs to make Sam Peckinpah blanch. Actors perform Julius Caesar in a riot-torn city. Vanderbilt appears in extreme close-up like an Eisenstein villain, an effect undercut by flatulence.

Filibustering was a long-standing tradition until the Civil War. Possibly the most famous is Aaron Burr, who left the Vice Presidency to claim the Louisiana Purchase as a private fiefdom. Contemporary with Walker, John Fremont established California's Bear Flag Republic, Narciso Lopez invaded Cuba and Irish-American Fenians constantly raided into Canada. Aside from Fremont these men failed, but sewed chaos abroad while commanding much admiration at home.

Historian Robert E. May frames filibustering as the logical extension of "Manifest Destiny." After all, 19th Century America expelled Native Americans and conquered half of Mexico, spreading destruction and slavery alongside democracy. Walker and Co. were merely small-time players in the same market. Likewise, Cox and writer Rudy Wurlitzer depict Walker as the Id of American adventurism, much as Francis Ford Coppola and Mario Puzo equated the Mafia with Big Business.

Appropriately, Cox sends up the absurdity of aggrandizing epics. Walker provides a narration track that incongruously glorifies his squalid actions. (Anytime his troops "liberate" a town, it's accompanied by plunder and bloodshed.) Walker and his Nicaraguan lover (Blanca Guerra) speak in different languages, yet understand each other perfectly. This neatly pastiches the absurdity of standard biopics, transmogrifying historical figures into marble models. Walker borders on cartoon, yet surely the cinematic treatment doled out to, say, Lincoln and Gandhi isn't less ridiculous?

Similarly, Cox and Wurlitzer use Walker to deconstruct the "Great Man" view of history.  Justifying his actions with abstractions about God and Democracy, yet admits he doesn't understand his own principles. He sees no incongruity between introducing slavery to Nicaragua and upholding "freedom." His grasp of military tactics consists of walking unarmed towards dumbfounded Nicaraguan troops. Ultimately Walker's campaign becomes not a political or moral crusade, but megalomania writ large.

Ed Harris gives arguably his best performance. Constantly reserved and intense, completely unironic, Harris mixes flinty determination, unlikely naivety and disturbing singlemindedness. Walker isn't so much power mad as blind to reality: he's determined to make an impact, regardless of (and oblivious to) the actual results. It's a masterful turn, humorous yet unsettling, that Harris sells beautifully.

It's Harris's show all the way, but Cox throws the supporting cast a few bones. Rene Auberjounois gets the best secondary role, as a German mercenary who holds Walker to ridicule. Bianca Guerra proves quite memorable as a Nicaraguan matron who seduces and tries to manipulate Walker. Peter Boyle sweats and farts through his scenes, a broad caricature of capitalist avarice. Marlee Maitlin gets some funny bits before bowing out early. Joe Strummer of The Clash, who also produced the soundtrack, cameos as one of Walker's men.

Walker was a colossal flop, damaging Cox's budding career. No doubt Cox's radical politics played a part in its failure, though his artistic excesses undoubtedly turned off mainstream audiences. Definitely not for all tastes, it's nonetheless a remarkable experiment.

Viva Zapata!

Hollywood's never known how to handle the Mexican Revolution (1910-1921), vacillating between romanticized epics like Viva Villa! (1934) and cynical adventures of The Wild Bunch variety. Elia Kazan's Viva Zapata! (1952) desperately wants to make a serious statement on revolutionary politics. Despite stylish direction and a solid cast, it makes a muddle of its message.  

Emiliano Zapata (Marlon Brando) leads. He allies with President Madero (Harold Gordon), but becomes an outlaw again when General Huerta (Frank Silvera) overthrows Madero. Zapata fights Huerta's government, along with internal dissidents: his brother Eufemio (Anthony Quinn) and shifty subordinate (Joseph Wiseman) have their own ideas on waging revolution. Zapata joins with Pancho Villa (Alan Reed) to capture Mexico City, but immediately recuses himself of power. Villa's successor Carranza enlists Aguirre in a devious plot to bring Zapata to heel.

Working off a screenplay by John Steinbeck (!), Viva Zapata! intends. Beyond genre-mandated thrills and scenery, Kazan tries to mix political drama and character study. The story unfolds in clipped yet sentimental prose that seems more Hemingway than Steinbeck. Zapata's solidness contrasts well with Mexico's round robin of hapless leaders: offered the Presidency by Pancho Villa, he immediately refuses. A Mexican Cincinnatus, Zapata remains pure by returning to his hacienda. 

But Kazan's message feels compromised. Much of Zapata has an agreeable roughness, highlighting themes of class conflict and cyclical revolution. Zapata's followers have grants dating back to Spanish rule, which doesn't remotely faze Diaz: legality's followed only when convenient. Certainly Madero's adherence to legal strictures allows Huerta to checkmate him. And the violence is shockingly blunt, culminating in a gun-down double cross presaging Bonnie & Clyde. Yet Zapata's politics seem curiously formless and desultory, beyond wanting to save peasants from evil landowners. That's something both Che Guevara and the Three Stooges have no trouble getting behind. 

For the most part, Zapata makes a disappointingly conventional hero. There's some edginess in his subversive rhetoric and sexual charisma, but he's a generically apolitical rebel doing the right thing. His conflict between middle class comfort and rural background, and his testy wooing of wife Josefa (Jean Peters) prove less compelling. He's even less successful as a symbol. Kazan assures us that Zapata's less important than his followers, but this undercuts the Great Man grandstanding. We're reminded of The Magnificent Seven assuring us that "only the farmers have won."

Viva Zapata! scores thanks to Kazan's assured direction. Stylish yet less showy than other "great directors," Kazan matches Steinbeck's terse prose with almost elliptical stylization. Joseph McDonald employs deep focus photography not only in darkened interiors but expansive battle scenes, with Christ imagery and revolutionary tableaux resembling Eisenstein. There are impressive set pieces when Zapata "summons" peasants to rescue him, and Madero meets a pathetic fate. There's also facile elements, like Zapata's white horse that lives on as an obnoxious symbol. It's artistic yet (mostly) subdued, a solid combination.

Zapata! inspired a whole sub-genre of Westerns, projecting contemporary concerns onto Revolutionary Mexico. Indeed, they're informally known as Zapata Westerns (more flattering than Jenni Calder's "Chili con carnage" label). This genre reached its apex in the '60s, where The Professionals and The Wild Bunch largely channeled Vietnam-era cynicism into violent mayhem. In contrast, Spaghetti Westerns wholeheartedly embraced politics: A Bullet for the General turns Kazan's ambivalent cynicism into crude Marxist agitprop, while Sergio Leone's Duck You Sucker! swipes several key images, including Huerta watching Madero's execution through a rainy windshield.

Marlon Brando does surprisingly well as a hardened idealist. Brando brings his usual method tricks to the part, but it's less obviously affected than many of his turns. Anthony Quinn won an Oscar playing Eufemio, boisterous and larger-than-life in agreeable fashion. Joseph Wiseman does more subtle work, conveying villainy through a chilling sneer. Jean Peters is less successful changing from haughty bourgeois to devoted peasant wife. Zapata's rivals are represented in a gallery of impressive character turns: condescending Fay Roope, meek Harold Gordon, ruthless Frank Silvera and boorish Alan Reed.

Viva Zapata! presents some interesting ideas indifferently. As an exploration of revolutionary politics, it might have done better to flesh out Zapata's beliefs beyond do-gooderism.

Indochine

Regis Wargnier's Indochine (1992) received respectful reviews and an armful of awards, including Catherine Deneuve's only Oscar nod. It's a large-scale historical romance, but more Merchant-Ivory than David Lean. Groggy's a sucker for romantic epics, yet even his patience was tried by this long, discursive movie, which can't settle on a story to tell.

Eliane Devries (Catherine Deneuve) manages a rubber plantation in 1930s Indochina, unphased by and Communist agitation. She dotes on Camille (Linh Dan Pham), her Vietnamese adoptive daughter with royal parentage. Devries pursues a reckless affair with Jean-Baptiste (Vincent Perez), an intense young naval officer. Things grow complicated when Jean-Baptiste rescues Camille during a police raid; it's love at first sight. After Jean-Baptiste is reassigned to the backwater outpost of Dragon Island, Camille abandons her revolutionary husband Tahn (Eric Nguyen) and pursues him. After Camille kills a French sailor, she and Jean-Baptiste become fugitives, with policeman Guy (Jean Yanne) pursuing them across Indochina.

Indochine makes superb use of authentic Vietnamese locations. Wargnier and photographer Francoise Catonne frame stunning images, from the sumptuous courts of pro-French mandarins to elegant Saigon and the sweltering jungle. One incredible shot (recalling Lawrence of Arabia's desert oil tanker) shows a sampan breezing through a rice paddy. The beautiful scenery and exquisite period detail make Indochine stunning to watch, even when the narrative sags.

The first half works, mainly thanks to Catherine Deneuve. Stunning at 49, Denevue proves a forceful screen presence, a matriarchal embodiment of France's imperial decadence. Reserved and forceful in public, menacing her charges with a quirt, she privately indulges her sexual appetites and taste for opium. She has little time either for Guy, her antiquated father or her native servants. Her relationship with Camille advances this further: Camille can be neither Vietnamese nor truly French. As long as Indochine focuses on Eliane, it's solid.

But Indochine grows increasingly incoherent. Wargnier strays from this main story, establishing a dozen plot points that go nowhere. Jean-Baptiste arrives at a godforsaken outpost out of Joseph Conrad, which serves as a de facto slave market. This intriguing setting vanishes after two scenes. Eliane's assistant (Dominique Blanc), fired early on, superfluously resurfaces as a lounge singer. Guy's manhunt and Tahn's Communist activism also get short shrift. Any of these strands could support a film, but Wargnier treats them so superficially they don't register.

What ultimately kills Indochine is its central romance. The scenes of Camille and Jean-Baptiste in exile prove deadening. It doesn't work, partly because there's no narrative drive but also because they've no chemistry. The two meet "cute" (as cute as one can be spattered with blood) and it's epochal love at first sight, so much that Camille leaves her husband and treks to Cochin-china in pursuit of Jean-Baptiste. Too bad there's a marked lack of depth to their relationship. Vincent Perez and Linh Dan give solid turns but can't overcome cripplingly superficial characterization.

Indochine ultimately proves frustrating. It's a grand-looking film, with appealing stars and a great sense of time and place. It's also a mess, which no amount of good acting or portentous Patrick Doyle music can obscure.

Admiral

Admiral (2008) is a Russian national epic, an Alamo-on-the-Volga as problematic as John Wayne's ode to Americanism. Andrei Kravchuk's biopic received the backing and enthusiastic support of Vladimir Putin's Ministry of Culture, eager to promote a national hero untainted by Soviet ties. It's a handsomely mounted film centered around a man who probably doesn't deserve such adulation.

Vice Admiral Aleksandr Kolchak (Konstantin Khabensky) leads Russia's Black Sea Fleet during the First World War. Though married, he falls for Anna (Elizaveta Boyarskaya), the wife of a subordinate officer (Vladislav Vetrov). The two carry on an affair, with Anna abandoning her husband as the Revolution breaks out. After a brief exile abroad, Kolchak winds up in Siberia leading the Provisional All-Russian Government, a locus for anti-Bolshevik rebels. Kolchak's troops are quickly defeated, and the Admiral's betrayed by his allies of the Czechoslovak Legion.

Admiral is conceived loosely along the lines of That Hamilton Woman, a naval epic balancing flag-waving heroics with torrid romance. The love interest provides an easy hook, with appealing leads and thrilling battle scenes calculated to pull in mass audiences ignorant of Russian history. Kravchuk ensconces everything in careworn melodrama, even including hokey framing device evoking Titanic. This allows him to downplay his subject's rougher edges.

Admiral Kolchak was, in many ways, a remarkable man: a courageous polar explorer, a brilliant naval commander and personally honorable. Yet as "Supreme Ruler of Russia," Kolchak was at best incompetent, at worst a repressive despot who massacred socialists and Jews while quarreling with allies. The Czechslovak Legion didn't betray Kolchak out of craven greed, but because the Whites never fulfilled their promise to expatriate them. Nor does Kolchak's alliance with piratical Cossack Grigory Semyonov accrue him credit. One questions Admiral elevating such a shabby reactionary, yet many Americans still admire Robert E. Lee and Nathan Bedford Forrest.

Suffice it to say, Admiral avoids this troubling context. Kravchuk provides only a superficial sketch of Kolchak's regime, focusing on his military and romantic exploits. In their eagerness to beatify Kolchak, the filmmakers paint as crude a portrait of Russian politics as American Cold War propaganda: it's murderous Bolsheviks versus noble monarchists, the latter done in by French and Czech traitors. It recalls unsophisticated Hollywood shows like Nicholas and Alexandra, treating the Romanov's ancien regime as something to be mourned. It's hard to disabuse any culture from nostalgic mythography, least of all one still reeling from 74 years of Communist repression.

Kolchak himself becomes a flawless model of integrity. He's introduced leading his battleship through a Baltic minefield while exchanging fire with German warships, leading his sailors in prayer as shells crash around them. This battlefield bravado serves him perfectly as future dictator; his men even kneel to him as a surrogate tsar. His wife (Anna Kovalchuk), and Anna's husband, graciously step aside when the two fall for each other. He's noble and courageous to the end, calmly staring down a firing squad. It's easy to see Kolchak as a Putin surrogate, a fatherly leader whose harsh tactics are justified by treacherous enemies.

Like many epics, Admiral's spectacle overcomes its thematic shortcomings. Kravchuk stages remarkable battle scenes outpacing anything in recent American cinema. The curtain-raising naval battle is a remarkable mixture of computer effects and visceral violence, a thrilling period action recreation. A massed execution of Tsarist officers registers strongly, while the harrowing battle scene two-thirds through the movie provides impressive cast-of-thousands excitement. Admiral's remarkable scope and authenticity makes Hollywood treatments of the period (Doctor Zhivago, Reds) look anemic in comparison.

Konstantin Khabensky gives an excellent performance. Strong-willed, amiable and courageous, he makes an ideal hero. Elizaveta Boyarskaya gets an underwritten role, Anna merely the Admiral's romantic foil. Nonetheless she's appealing, nailing all her emotional scenes. Sergei plays one of Kolchak's followers; Richard Bohringer is the treacherous French General. Anna Kovalchuk gets the thankless role of Kolchak's wife.

I respect Admiral as a well-intentioned throwback to old fashioned epic film-making, yet it contains the same fuzzy-headed politics and sentimentality as its American counterparts. Next, I eagerly await a laudatory biopic of Baron Ungern Von Sternberg! There's a White General worthy of film treatment.

Cast a Giant Shadow

Cast a Giant Shadow (1966) was a labor of love for Melville Shavelson. A former joke writer for Bob Hope, Shaverson spent years trying to get the film made, finding no interest until John Wayne read his script. Agreeing to co-produce, Wayne encouraged Kirk Douglas to play David "Mickey" Marcus, the American soldier-turned-Israeli fighter, and Shadow opened to good box office but indifferent reviews. Seen today, it's a stilted epic that fails to do its subject justice.

David Marcus (Kirk Douglas) is an American JAG officer who, during World War II, gains a reputation for insubordinate, reckless behavior. After the war ends he's contacted by Major Shamir (James Donald) to help the Haganah, a Zionist group agitating for Israeli independence. Marcus is appalled by the pitiable state of Palestine's Jews, agreeing to serve as a military adviser. Israel gains independence from Britain but is immediately set upon by its Arab neighbors. Outnumbered and outgunned, the Israelis rely on Marcus's expertise to secure their freedom.

Cast a Giant Shadow places a poor second to Exodus, Otto Preminger's flawed but engrossing paean to Israeli freedom. Shavelson's literal-minded script lurches from set piece to set piece, only stopping for exposition. Shadow spells out back stories, hammers home plot points and explains everything in a deadeningly declarative fashion. We never doubt Mickey's motivations, thanks to the stilted dialogue and clunky flashbacks. The human moments fall even flatter, with Marcus's wife (Angie Dickinson) miscarrying a baby and Haganah agent Magda (Senta Berger) conveniently losing her husband just as Marcus's marriage dissolves. Very little of Shadow feels authentic, except its sincere advocacy for Israel.

Shadow has some interest for war movie fans. For a comedy director, Shavelson has a good feel for action scenes (though surely second unit directors were involved), drawing interest from the IDF's ramshackle tactics. In one battle an Israeli pilot (Frank Sinatra) bombs Arab tanks with seltzer bottles! Other scenes don't work so well; the World War II scenes feel cheap, making heavy use of stock footage. Marcus's visit to Dachau especially grates in its (understandable) tell-don't-show presentation. On top of everything else  the movie plods. Its seemingly endless battles and lectures (with occasional melodramatic interludes) ultimately make for a deadening experience.

Kirk Douglas gets a role tailor-made to his star image. Douglas plays the cheeky wild card, parachuting into France against orders, butting heads with John Wayne's General and later Israeli officials. He gets plenty of earnest drama scenes contrasted with rugged action, a Spartacus for the '40s. He's obviously more virile than Magda's impotent husband; is it a sign of star ego that Douglas gets to bed Angie Dickinson and Senta Berger? Douglas handles himself well, even if Marcus seems too perfect to be credible.

The star cameos simply don't work. John Wayne's scenes clunk, while Frank Sinatra's pilot barely makes an impression. Yul Brynner has more screen time, but his grumpy soldier isn't much more substantial. Senta Berger (Major Dundee) makes an appealing love interest/freedom fighter but Angie Dickinson's scenes play as cheap melodrama. Character actors James Donald (Bridge on the River Kwai), Michael Hordern (Royal Flash), Luther Adler (The Desert Fox) and Gordon Jackson fare better. Topol (Galileo), the cast's one authentic Israeli, plays a crude Arab sheik. 

Like many message movies, Cast a Giant Shadow features good intentions blotted out by indifferent execution. Mickey Marcus's story is worth telling; too bad it's rendered so stiffly.

Salvatore Giuliano

Salvatore Giuliano (1962) stands between Italian neo-realism and the gritty political dramas of the late '60s/early '70s (The Battle of Algiers, Investigation of a Citizen Above Suspicion). Francesco Rosi's remarkable film treats the sordid demise of a Sicilian bandit as a touchstone of postwar Italian politics, revealing corruption and deceit at the highest levels.

In 1950, authorities find partisan Salvatore Giuliano dead at his compound in Castelventrano, Sicily. Giuliano (only seen as a corpse) was a notorious bandit who joined the Sicilian separatist movement after World War II, launching guerrilla attacks on Italian police and carabinieri. After Sicily gains autonomy in 1947, Giuliano continues his activities, culminating in the May Day massacre of Communists at Portella della Ginestra. After Giuliano's death his lieutenant Gaspare Pisciotta (Frank Wolff) threatens to connect Giuliano with local police, Italian officials and organized crime.

Shot on location in Sicily, Salvatore Giuliano is a riveting true-life tale. Encouraged by the Allies during WWII to undermine Fascist control (alongside the Mafia), separatist groups like MIS and EVIS wage low-level insurrection against the Italian government. This coincided with the rise of the Italian Communist Party, whose victory in 1946 elections helped trigger the Portella della Ginestra massacre. The movie suggests Italy's government uses Giuliano to suppress opposition, maintaining "plausible deniability" as they persecute the killers.

Rosi maintains impartial distance better than Gillo Pontecorvo, even with Algiers screenwriter Franco Solinas on board. Michael Cimino's wretched The Sicilian (1987) romanticizes Giuliano as a modern-day Robin Hood. Rosi instead shows him as a violent strongman, kidnapping officials and machine gunning policemen, who's nonetheless worshiped by an illiterate peasantry sick of Italian overlords. Rosi skips some of the case's more bizarre aspects: Giuliano apparently wanted Sicily to join the United States! The question isn't whether Giuliano was guilty but whether he was a pawn for conservative interests.

Salvatore Giuliano directs its anger at the officials who used and discarded Giuliano. As Giuliano's lieutenants are rounded up following his death, the conspiracy quickly unravels. Pisciotta claims he's been in touch with authorities for three years; police convince Pisciotta his boss is plotting against him, precipitating Giuliano's death. Crime bosses offer police Giuliano's lieutenants in exchange for immunity. The omerta code serves both Mafia "honor" and complicit officials well. When all else fails, witnesses are silenced. It's as incisive a cinematic portrait of official perfidy as can be found. Hollywood conspiracy thrillers like JFK are sensationalized nonsense in comparison.

Rosi uses local non-actors in approved neo-realist style. One of only two professionals is Frank Wolff, the American expatriate famous for Spaghetti Westerns like Once Upon a Time in the West and The Great Silence. Wolff gives a riveting turn as a sleazy crook who holds all the cards. The other is Salvo Randone, playing a government prosecutor. The cross section of pompous attorneys, shell-shocked soldiers and angry peasants registers strongly; many of them participated in the events depicted.

Salvatore Giuliano is another excellent '60s Italian film. When it comes to "politically aware" cinema Italy remains at the top of the heap.

The Plough and the Stars

John Ford's The Plough and the Stars (1936) should be good. Based on Sean O'Casey's controversial Easter Rising play (which caused riots in Dublin during its initial 1926 run), it seems like a no-brainer for the director who'd just won an Oscar for The Informer (1935). But Ford's stilted handling of the material, mixed with awkward casting and studio meddling, produce a boring misfire.

1916 Ireland erupts into the Easter Rising, an ill-fated rebellion against British rule. Jack Clitheroe (Preston Foster) joins the rebels, wife Nora (Barbara Stanwyck) not comprehending his decision to get involved. Ireland's working class stays aloof from the rebellion, more upset by the Rising's violent chaos than British oppression. The Rebellion is swiftly crushed, the Rising's leaders arrested alongside socialists and antiwar activists. Nora and Jack argue over whether everything was worthwhile.

Ford viewed Plough as a pet project. He received O'Casey's blessing, cast actors from the play's original run (Arthur Shields, F.J. McCormick, Denis O'Dea) and filmed in Ireland. But Ford immediately clashed with RKO producer Sam Briskin, who demanded Ford neuter O'Casey's socialist politics and emphasize the story's romance. Things got so bad that Ford refused to reshoot key scenes with Barbara Stanwyck and Preston Foster, forcing Briskin to bring in an AD. Ford disowned the finished product, complaining RKO "completely ruined the damned thing." The movie received a critical roasting, flopped and was duly forgotten.

It's little surprise then that The Plough and the Stars stinks. Ford and writer Dudley Nichols's ragged narrative diffuses over a large cast of cipher characters. The central romance falls flat, while O'Casey's contrast of working class cynicism with nationalist violence scarcely comes through. We see Maggie (Una O'Connor) lose her shop to rioting Dubliners, while hard-drinking Fluther Good (Barry Fitzgerald) wonders whether nationalist revolt can achieve social justice. There's certainly potential here, with O'Casey avoiding easy resolutions, but Ford's staging falls back too frequently on stentorian position speeches.

After The Informer's Expressionist nightmare view of Ireland, Ford's wartime Dublin feels flat and perfunctory. The repetitive action scenes make liberal use of stock footage; a crude running gag outspoken characters being machine gunned wears thin. Cinematographer Joseph H. August drapes scenes in shadow without motivation, as if darkness self-generates mood. Ford's one memorable set piece has an Irish sniper shot by British troops glide silently off the rooftop, arms outstretched Christlike. The rest is rote hackwork.

Barbara Stanwyck gives an uncharacteristically awful performance. Excellent playing brassy femmes and comedy leads, Babs flounders playing an hysterical wreck, mouthing Nichols' (or O'Casey's?) overripe verbiage without conviction. Preston Foster is stiff as a board. The Irish players fare better: Barry Fitzgerald (The Quiet Man) steals every scene as a cynical revolutionary. Denis O'Dea, Una O'Connor and Arthur Shields have showy bit parts. But they're too thinly sketched to hold more than momentary interest.

The Plough and the Stars is a thoroughly soporific experience. Despite the interesting story it's a dramatic dud that might be John Ford's worst feature.

A Bullet for the General

In past reviews I've referred to A Bullet for the General (1967) as atrocious. Re-watching it, I'm not sure what caused this vituperative reaction. Damiano Damiani's Mexican Revolution epic is certainly flawed, but as Spaghetti Westerns go it's a fairly high-end product.

Mexican bandit El Chuncho (Gian Maria Volonte) ambushes a troop train. Among the passengers is Tate (Lou Castel), an enigmatic American who joins the bandits. Chuncho works for Revolutionary General Elias (Jaime Fernandez), raiding government arsenals and slaughtering soldiers. While Chuncho wants to settle in the town of San Miguel, Tate urges him to press on with his campaign. It turns out that Tate has an ulterior motive in helping Chuncho.

A Bullet for the General singlehandedly launched the Zapata Western. This subset of the Spaghetti phenomenon explored the Mexican Revolution of 1910-23, grafting leftist politics onto Villa and Zapata's Mexico. Some Zapatas referenced Italy's fascist past: Sergio Leone explicitly modeled a scene in Duck, You Sucker! on the 1944 Fosse Ardeatine massacre. Others paralleled contemporary events, from CIA meddling in Latin America to the Vietnam War. As a result, gringo gunslingers in Zapatas more closely resemble the cutthroat mercenaries of Vera Cruz than The Magnificent Seven.

Working with leftist scribe Franco Solinas (The Battle of Algiers), Damiani adds a Marxist wrinkle to the Western buddy dynamic. Tate represents America as greedy, callous and self-interested: "not much heart but lots of pesos," one character observes. Chuncho is an illiterate criminal but an idealist at heart, creating an ironic mismatch. Chuncho's dream is to defend a small village, yet abandons them to secure an arms shipment. Tate's interest is purely mercenary, yet he risks his life to save Chuncho. Their differing worldviews make them amusing partners, but sets up a downbeat ending.

A Bullet for the General succeeds in delivering violent action. Damiani provides a handsomely shot film, using familiar Almeria locations to good effect. Solinas recycles set pieces from Battle of Algiers: a woman planting bombs, the police station ambush. Damiani provides more original action: a train ambush with a gruesome finish; Chuncho's brother El Santo (Klaus Kinski) raining blessed grenades onto a Federale column; Tate massacring a company of soldiers with a machine-gun. Coupled with Luis Bacalov's excellent score it's a thrilling movie.

Unfortunately, Bullet's raison d'etre is its politics. Between shootouts, Damiani stops the action for heavy-handed lectures on the wonders of Communism. One painfully condescending scene has a revolutionary give bread to wide-eyed starving children, instructing them to "divide it equally." Gee, thanks. Scenes with Chuncho's gang shooting priests and gang-raping prostitutes may be attempts at moral ambiguity, but come off in bad taste. Such is the peril of genre film messages: to reach mass audiences, politics are distilled to their silliest form.

Gian Maria Volonte gives a typically outsized performance, making Chuncho a colorful proletarian hero. One imagines Volonte, a committed leftist, relishing this part more than similar roles in Leone's Dollars trilogy. Lou Castel provides fine counterpoint as the cold-blooded Tate. Martine Beswick (Thunderball) makes an appealing sidekick to Chuncho, while Klaus Kinski steals his scenes taking the "Holy Hand Grenade" concept seriously.

While problematic, A Bullet for the General is certainly better than I remembered. If it focused more on the action and less on its Little Red Book primer material I'd probably like it even more.

The Leopard

Luchino Visconti's The Leopard (1963) stands as a landmark in Italian cinema. This sprawling adaptation of Giuseppe di Lampedusa's novel is long, beautifully shot and intricately plotted, creating a masterwork of commendable depth. 

Don Fabrizio Corbero, Prince Salina (Burt Lancaster) enjoys life in 1860s Sicily: he has a large family, vast estates, a young mistress and money to indulge his hobbies. Salina's life turns upside down when Giuseppe Garibaldi's Red Shirts capture the island. Salina takes the advice of his ambitious nephew Tancredi (Alain Delon): "Everything needs to change for everything to stay the same." Salina arranges Tancredi's marriage to Angelica (Claudia Cardinale), the daughter of Don Sedara (Paolo Stoppa), a nouveau riche in with the Republicans. As he negotiates with the new government, Salina realizes time has passed him by.

The Leopard provides no end of beautiful scenery, from Giuseppe Rotunno's pastoral shots of Sicily's countryside and elaborate palaces to the scenes of revolutionary turmoil. Visconti stages a violent street battle in Palermo, outdoing Hollywood epics in its breathtaking sweep. In Salina's mountain exile and hunting trips, Visconti scales individuals against verdant, unchanging landscapes. The scope and pageantry displayed is amazing: Visconti's come along way from his neo-realist roots.

Visconti dwells on ritual, incorporating church services, dinners and elections into his thematic texture. One remarkable scene has Salina's family visit a village cathedral. While priests in red-and-gold vestments toil in the foreground, the drably-clothed aristocrats fade gargoyle-like into the pews. There's Salina's dinner, rudely interrupted by Tancredi's storytelling and Angelica's raucous laughter. The most celebrated scene is the concluding ball, where traditional aristocrats mingle with military heroes and erstwhile revolutionaries. All beautifully express an ancien regime eclipsed by an uncertain future.

These rituals showcase Visconti's sensitive yet critical portrayal of this dying breed. Salina lives an empty life, a parade of church services, shooting trips and civic duties. His family is a constant headache: his wife (Rina Morelli) is a nagging prude, daughter Concetta (Lucilla Morlacchi) an introvert, Tancredi a reckless spendthrift. Hobbies (astronomy) and vices (his mistress) provide little respite. Salina only rouses to action when events threaten, negotiating with power brokers to keep his family in sybaritic stasis. Visconti gently condemns the gentry by showing their superfluity.

Italy's resorgimento was a complicated series of wars and political deals, involving not only Italy's various states but Austria, France and Prussia. Visconti focuses on Garibaldi's dramatic early success, even then showing signs of dissolution. In the film's key scene, Salina explains to Victor Emmanuel's naive emissary (Leslie French) that Sicily's fierce independence causes them to resent interfering foreigners, however well-intentioned. His cynicism proves well-founded: Garibaldi himself becomes an undesirable as Italy transforms into an unstable monarchy.

Indeed, The Leopard evinces potent cynicism for bourgeois "revolution." The Red Shirts speak loudly of democracy but defer to established power structures. The rigged plebiscite is treated as a comic set piece, with Sedara's pompous victory speech interrupted by an overeager marching band. Visconti's scorn for middle class moralism has an interesting double-edge, as not only the hereditary Duke of Cardone but also a Communist. From this perspective, feudal Sicily at least lacks republican hypocrisy.

Lampedusa's broad narrative allows Visconti to flesh out characters and subplots. Cash-poor Tancredi and lower-class Angelica make a perfect love match, symbolically, practically and romantically. Initially a playboy, Tancredi proves a cagey survivor who joins the revolution to uphold family prestige. He has no use for the lovesick but complacent Concetta, herself romanced by a dashing soldier (Terence Hill). Sedara exploits events for personal gain, while Salina's friends Father Pirrone (Romolo Valli) and Ciccio (Serge Raggiani) see nothing but trouble ahead.

One mark of a classic is its influence on future filmmakers, something The Leopard has in spades. Sergio Leone borrowed a few grace notes (and several actors) for his later epics, but Francis Ford Coppola grafted Visconti's style wholesale onto The Godfather, from Connie's elaborate wedding to the lush Nino Rota score. Michael Cimino and Martin Scorsese paid homage less successfully in The Deer Hunter and Gangs of New York, respectively. There's a fine line between grandeur and excess, a tightrope Visconti effortlessly negotiates.

Burt Lancaster gives a remarkable performance. Physically imposing as always, Burt is nonetheless near-unrecognizable framed by leonine whiskers, aristocratic outfits and a dour expression. He's dubbed into Italian by Corrado Gaipa, which oddly benefits his performance: it's much easier to accept Lancaster as a 19th Century Sicilian without his unmistakable voice. Salina isn't a particularly noble character, but Lancaster provides him remarkable hauteur, warmth and humanity.

Alain Delon and Claudia Cardinale provide a glamorous counterpoint. Delon mixes swashbuckling idealism with knowing cynicism, a ruthless but charming survivor. Cardinale gives possibly her best performance: Angelica's pouty reserve masks a vivacious personality and social ambition. Histrionics aside, has a more beautiful couple ever graced the screen? They're simply a joy to watch.

Romolo Valli (Death in Venice) provides warm support as Salina's grouchy priest. Paolo Stoppa (Once Upon a Time in the West) mixes bonhomie and vulgar craftiness in a complex character turn. Leslie French makes as an impression, too, as an idealistic Republican official. Spaghetti Western fans can spot Terence Hill, Giuliano Gemma and Lou Castel in minor roles.

The Leopard is a remarkable achievement. Long and stately at 185 minutes, its endlessly watchable for depth, scope and impeccable craftsmanship. It's Luchino Visconti's magnus opus, and one of Italy's greatest films.

Something of Value

Richard Brooks' Something of Value (1957) makes odd viewing. Outwardly a racially-tinged melodrama, this adaptation of Robert Ruark's novel is full of unique artistic inflection. The off-kilter style proves more interesting than its hokey message.

Post-WWII Kenya. Peter McKenzie (Rock Hudson) and Kimani (Sidney Poitier) are childhood friends rent apart by racial tension. The arrest and death of Kimani's father (Ken Renard) drives Kimani into the arms of Mau Mau, a secret society agitating for independence. Kimani grows torn between his "civilized" teachings and Mau Mau's indiscriminate violence. Peter struggles with his fiance (Dana Wynter), joins a militia unit and restrains racists like Matson (Michael Pate), who hopes to spark an all-out race war.

Something of Value displays curious artistry. There's lots of African scenery but by shooting in black-and-white, Brooks and photographer Russell Harlan eschew the travelogue feel of The African Queen and Mogambo. Indeed, Value has an experimental feel, from the ragged editing to the expressionistic photography and eerie score of African songs and chants. Scenes dissolve into the next before they get going, creating a jarringly stilted effect. Brooks employs odd symbolism, from a Kikuyu prayer rock used to extract Mau Mau confessions to recurring use of pregnancy and children, juxtaposed with brutal violence.

If Something of Value retains the trappings of a message movie, it's a fairly good one. Unlike the British Simba, which preaches racial tolerance while demonizing Mau Mau, Brooks at least humanizes the Kenyan rebels. Matson's striking Kimani makes a simple but stark reminder of ingrained racism that no amount of good will can erase. Yet neither does the movie idealize Mau Mau's brutal terror campaign, which kick-starts a brutal wave of settler reprisals. The movie scores here, in Peter and Kimani's tragic friendship and the striking violence.

All the same, Value falls back on the anodyne message that extremists on both sides cause misunderstanding. This hand-wringing seems especially dubious couched in a colonial setting; imperial racism is more pernicious and far-reaching than Jim Crow segregation. More facile still is Brooks' unusually tin-eared dialogue, with Peter musing "we're not so far from savages ourselves" watching an "enhanced" interrogation. Characters like Matson and the demagogic Mau Mau leader (William Marshall) make too easy of villains. Brooks conveyed liberal messages more effectively in Elmer Gantry and In Cold Blood.

Rock Hudson, as usual, proves as emotive as his namesake. The guy's likeable enough but I've yet to find evidence he can act. Dana Wynter makes a one-note love interest, limited to cuddling Rock and photogenically cradling a Sten gun. Sidney Poitier compensates with a passionate performance. There are effective supporting roles by Juano Hernandez (Sergeant Rutledge) and William Marshall (The Boston Strangler) as Mau Mau leaders, Michael Pate (Major Dundee) as a murderous racist and the incomparable Wendy Hiller as Peter's haughty sister.

Something of Value is enjoyable provided you don't mind the lectures and artistic ostentation. If you ever wanted to see Sidney Poitier fighting with a machine gun in one hand and a baby in the other, this is the film for you.

Les Miserables

There are moments in Tom Hooper's Les Miserables (2012) that achieve genuine pathos. Here a colorful supporting turn, there a genuinely affecting ballad, a flash or two of genuine spectacle. But ultimately, Les Mis's highlights are weighed down by insufferable pomposity.

Jean Valjean (Hugh Jackman), imprisoned for stealing a loaf of bread, skips out on parole in 1815 France. He reinvents himself as M. Le Mer, Mayor of a small town, but keeps crossing paths with Inspector Javert (Russell Crowe), his old tormentor. Valjean raises Cosette (Amanda Seyfried), the orphaned daughter of misbegotten Fantine (Anne Hathaway). In 1832 Paris, Cosette falls for Marius (Eddie Redmayne), member of the ABC Club of student revolutionaries. Everyone grows entangled in a failed student uprising, which leads to bloodshed but leaves nothing resolved.

In its stage incarnation, Les Miserables has been pleasing audiences worldwide since 1980. On the basis of the film, it speaks little of theatergoers' taste. Victor Hugo's dense, intricate historical novel is boiled down to the crudest soap, replacing its social commentary and rich characters with overbaked melodrama. Perhaps the endless singing and naked, cloying emotionalism work better on stage. On film it makes for a tiresome 157 minutes.

The material's operatic approach is a major gripe. True, there are several show-stopping tunes on display. But the constant singing dulls their impact, investing even the most banalities with false grandeur. For every memorable song there's two clunkers. Worse, the big character numbers sound the same notes endlessly, without variation or development. After hearing Javert ponder his devotion to the law for the 40th time it loses impact.

This repetitive character non-development takes its toll, leaving its protagonists one-dimensional. Valjean's conversion from vengeful thief to honorable man is interesting in Hugo's novel. On film, he scrambles through plot points - here Valjean's a thief, now a Mayor, then a Paris recluse - without noticeably developing. Similarly, Javert's obsession with Valjean never achieves the required grandeur. He's not a tragic villain but a doltish brute. Young lovers Marius and Cosette are invested with soaring, tragic pathos that they haven't remotely earned.

The stars try their hardest. Hugh Jackman sings beautifully but can't do much with a thoroughly dull character. Russell Crowe on the other hand is utterly, inexplicably awful, performing all his songs in an inexplicable gruff whine. Eddie Redmayne (My Week With Marilyn) and Amanda Seyfried (Mean Girls) show admirable pluck inhabiting featherweight characters.

Les Mis's gems lurk in the corners. There's Anne Hathaway, truly heartbreaking for the 15 minutes she's onscreen. Her one-take, bravura performance of I Dreamed a Dream inspired a tear in even this cynical blogger. There's Sacha Baron Cohen and Helen Bonham Carter's hilarious doubles-act as Cosette's adoptive parents, performing the incomparable Master of the House. There are no-name supporting players like Samantha Barks and Aaron Tveit who steal their scenes. However limited their screen-time, these characters provide sorely needed life.

But even they can't overcome Tom Hooper's awful direction. Never mind Hooper's anemic staging of conventional set pieces: 20 students standing on broken chairs isn't a revolution, it's a frat party. The musical numbers are endless close-ups, no matter how dramatic or colorful the song, complete with his trademark egregious angling and baroque framing. In John Adams and The King's Speech it's merely an irritating quirk; here it's a deal breaker. Isn't one of the pleasures of a musical spectacle? Why all the rich costumes and expensive sets if we're staring endlessly at Russell Crowe's atonal maw? Would it kill Hooper to hire a choreographer for some real dance numbers?

In short, Les Miserables stinks. And at two-and-a-half interminable hours, the smell grows unbearable.

Outside the Law (2010)

Algeria's War for Independence remains a contentious subject. Not a far-off colony like Indochina, Algeria was an incorporated region of France with a large settler population (pied noirs), making its 1954-1962 revolution especially bitter. Besides the conflict's nastiness - widespread torture, terrorist bombings and up to 1,000,000 deaths - the fallout embroiled France in several military coups, a domestic terror campaign and an influx of pied noirs and loyalist Algerians (and massacre of those remaining in Algeria). Algeria descended into a brutal dictatorship, more recently experiencing civil war with Islamist groups. Algerian immigration to France remains a tense issue between these nations.

Outside the Law (2010) provides a controversial take on this "War Without a Name." It compares favorably to past portrayals: Gillo Pontecorvo's The Battle of Algiers (1966) is masterful Algerian propaganda cleverly framed as a docudrama, while Jean Larteguy's novel The Centurions invests its hard-bitten paratroopers with nationalist angst. Rachid Boucherab's film is less flattering towards FLN and France alike. Its ambiguity and diverse protagonists make it refreshingly complex.

Three Algerian brothers, separated by 1945's Setif Massacre, reunite ten years later in southern France. Abdelkadr (Sami Bouajila) spent the intervening decade in prison for nationalist agitation; Moussaud (Roschdy Zem) is an ex-paratrooper who survived Dien Bien Phu; and Said (Jamel Debouzze), an amoral criminal. The three form the nucleus of an FLN cell within France. They target both French officials and rival MNA nationalists, aided by French leftists. Abdelkadr's single-mindedness alienates his brothers, with Massoud pining over his wife (Louiza Nehar) and Said's devotion to his nightclub undermining his commitment. The French government brings in Colonel Faivre (Bernard Blancan), who forms a paramilitary unit - the Red Hand - to beat FLN at its own game.

Outside the Law re-frames Algeria's struggle as a stylish gangster movie. Bouchareb stages smoke-filled meetings in restaurants and night clubs, clothes his heroes in pinstripe suits and lifts set pieces (Said stabbing a traitorous Caid, a mistaken car bombing) from The Godfather. The FLN certainly appear as brutal thugs, whether extorting supporters or murdering rival nationalists. The heroes have the panache of the Corleones in their period duds and colorful assassinations (including a daring raid on a police station), but Western viewers may have trouble cheering them on.

Not that this ambiguity ill-serves the drama. Indeed, Bocuherab presents three commendably complex protagonists. Abdelkadr is a frightening extremist willing to provoke police raids and sacrifice anyone in furtherance of independence. Massoud proves more sympathetic, his bitterness and family loyalty drawing him to a fight he's ambivalent about, while Said remains interested in business. A subplot has Said grooming an Algerian boxer (Assadd Bouab) to be France's heavyweight champion. The FLN views this as unacceptable: any Algerian glory, sporting or otherwise, must accrue to Algeria.

The movie came under fire for historical license. FLN activities in France were more modest than the film suggests, while Boucherab's comparing their exploits to the wartime Resistance will rankle some viewers. More contentious is the staging of the Setif Massacre: hardly an unprovoked "police riot," French reprisals came after Muslim rioters killed 103 Europeans. But Alistair Horne notes that "even if one were to accept the very lowest figure [of 1,000 Muslims killed]… it still represents… ten-to-one over-kill." Boucherab correctly marks Setif as the catalyst for Algerian nationalism and, along with a childhood eviction, the protagonists' formative event.

Outside the Law grows more predictable in its second half. With Faivre's arrival the movie falls into cops-and-robbers plot conventions, with man-hunting, chases and shootouts. Fortunately, Boucherab compensates with engaging set pieces and a downbeat ending. And the script by Boucherab and Olivier Lorelle remains commendably lean, with few subplots and only a wisp of romance (Abdelkadr's flirtations with leftist Helene [Sabrina Segvecou]) to distract from the main story.

Most of the actors worked on Boucherab's Days of Glory (2006), and all excel here. Sami Bouajila makes Abdelkadr a single-minded revolutionary to make Tom Courtenay's Strelnikov flee in terror. Roschdy Zem is perfect as a man scarred both physically and mentally, while Jamel Debouzze makes an agreeable hustler. Bernard Blancan is a ferocious villain but no Colonel Matthieu. The female roles are sparse, though Chafia Boudra's matriarch gets some choice dialogue.

Outside the Law falls just short of greatness. Despite a familiar conclusion, it's still a powerful, revisionist look at a bloody conflict.

The Plays of Robert Bolt, Part II

Dueling Queens: Sarah Miles and Eileen Atkins in Vivat! Vivat Regina! (Source)

Part One here.

Robert Bolt's later works show the playwright sublimated to the screenwriter. The first, The Thwarting of Baron Bolligrew, incorporates Bolt's thematic preoccupations into a children's play. Vivat! Vivat Regina grafts Brechtian stylization onto the tragedy of Mary Queen of Scots. Last is State of Revolution, a wordy, overstuffed but fascinating chronicle of the Russian Revolution.

Bolt's penchant for the grandiose remains undiminished. Each of the plays features dozens of characters, elaborate staging and sweeping events that must have been nightmarish to perform. On page the plays (mostly) read well-enough; on stage they might be excessive. Arguably, Bolt's ambition exceeds the medium.

The Thwarting of Baron Bolligrew (1964)

“A very good way is to do what you should… But a bit of what you fancy, does yer good!” 

After completing Doctor Zhivago Bolt penned The Thwarting of Baron Bolligrew, a delightful children’s play. Commissioned by the Royal Shakespeare Company for their 1964 Christmas season, its original production starred heavyweights John Normington, Michael Jayston, Terence Rigby, and Leo McKern. The play proved a huge success, with yearly revivals in Britain, a television adaptation by Germany’s Augsburger Puppetkiste, and a novelization published in 1995.

In a medieval Kingdom, assorted nobles celebrate their triumph over dragons with endless leisure. Do-gooder Oblong Fitz Oblong gets assigned to Baron Bolligrew, an oppressive landlord taxing his charges to death. Oblong befriends Michael, an amoral magpie who resembles a more benign Gentle Jack, and his square idealism initially proves fruitless against Boligrew and evil warlock Moloch. Things come to a head when Moloch summons an evil dragon to vanquish Oblong. Oblong must break his moral code to triumph.

Bolligrew incorporates Bolt's pet themes and stylization amidst a children's setting. His Storyteller functions like the Common Man from A Man for All Seasons: a narrator and character in the story, breaking the fourth wall with a wink and nod. Bolt's script stresses the artificiality with tinny music, cardboard animals and self-aware dialogue. It's a pleasing mix of the intellectual and playful: kids can appreciate the silliness, adults can enjoy Bolt's craftsmanship.

All this analytical hooey overwhelms the fact that Bolligrew is a kid’s play – and an excellent one at that. Sir Oblong's upright heroism takes a beating from assorted villains, but virtue comes out on top. Wonderfully crafted and with a droll sense of humor, it treats its young audience with respect. No wonder Bolt called it “the [play] that’s given me the most pleasure.”  

Vivat! Vivat Regina! (1970)

"She will have what she desires, and it will fetch her off her throne.”

Bolt returned to Tudor England in 1970, writing Vivat! Vivat Regina! as a vehicle for his wife Sarah Miles. Performed at the Chichester Theatre Festival with Miles as Mary Stuart and Eileen Atkins as Elizabeth I, it received considerable success. An equally successful Broadway version with Atkins and Claire Bloom ran in New York the following year, earning several Tony nominations. Vivat has experienced several revivals, including a 1985 off-Broadway version with Geraldine Page as Elizabeth, and Barbara Flynn as Mary in a 1995 Mermaid Theatre production.

Despite its reception, Vivat is Bolt’s weakest history play. The saga of Mary Queen of Scots has been told many times, from Maxwell Anderson to Maria Schiller. Bolt’s depiction of the dynastic duo as “figures on a seesaw, so similar and opposite” is interesting but not especially novel: Elizabeth sacrifices love for her throne, while Mary’s carnal fulfillment destroys her grip on power. We get a recitation of familiar history, well-written but unsurprising.

Vivat’s primary interest is Bolt’s very cinematic imagery. Most effective is a form of theatrical “cross cutting” which allows the Queens to interact without actually meeting. Thus he avoids the pitfall of a fictitious Mary-Elizabeth confrontation. The stylized stage work, with an elevated pyramid standing in for the respective throne, stands halfway between Absurd sparseness and traditional pageantry. More familiar Brechtian tropes (characters addressing the audience, use of a nursery rhyme during Darnley’s assassination) are employed to mixed effect. With its trappings of Epic Theatre, Vivat is probably more effective on stage than page.

As always, Bolt provides reams of crisp dialogue and eloquent speeches. But he clutters the narrative with an excess of characters and the story frequently drags. The personal focus which worked so well in A Man for All Seasons here trivializes history into a royal cat fight; we don’t get a proper grasp of the momentous political and religious issues at stake. Vivat is ultimately readable but underwhelming.

State of Revolution (1977)

“We cannot assume that the times in which we live are not catastrophic, merely because it is we who live in them. After all, someone has to live in catastrophic times.” 

Robert Bolt spent two years researching this epic treatment of the Russian Revolution, staged by Peter Hall's National Theatre with a prestigious cast: Michael Bryant, Michael Kitchen, Terence Rigby and Brian Blessed. The production proved arduous, due in part to a labor strike by stage hands. Critics savaged the play for being pro-Communist, anti-Communist or (in Irving Wardle's words) having "nothing definite to say."

State of Revolution was another personal project. Bolt held a New Left view of Communism, dismayed by Soviet tyranny but hopeful for true revolution elsewhere. Besides CND, he joined Hugh Trevor-Roper and Ernie Roberts in visiting Maoist China in 1965. His radio play The Window depicted the '56 Hungarian Revolution, while Doctor Zhivago provided a worm's-eye view of Revolutionary Russia. Bolt's time as president of ACTT (the Association of Cinematographic and Television Technicians) disillusioned him: in the mid-'70s he moderated a bitter dispute between Trotskyist unions, bankrupt studios and Harold Wilson's Labour government.

Like Vivat and Gentle Jack, State of Revolution is just too big: 25 speaking parts, large crowd scenes and spectacle covering 15 years of Russian history. The narrative lurches from prewar Capri through World War I, both revolutions, Red Terror, the Kronstadt Rebellion and Trotsky and Stalin's rivalry. With so much going on, State bogs down in spectacle. Producing it must have been nightmarish. Without Brechtian sparseness it's a panorama, meticulously accurate but dramatically stiff.

State lacks Bolt's usual themes. Zhelnik, leader of the Kronstadt Soviet, represents the pure extremist embodied by Louis Flax in Tiger and the Horse or Strelnikov in Doctor Zhivago, a revolutionary too pure for the Revolution. Felix Dzerzhinsky's evolution from idealist to pitiless executioner depicts humanity sublimated by ideology. Captain Draganoff has shades of the Common Man, cheerily switching from the Tsarist police to the Cheka. These characters are marginal however, Bolt instead focusing on the Bolshevik inner circle.

State crosses a "Great Men" historical pageant with Marxist dialectic: "Big events aren't formed by people, people are formed by big events." Education Minister Lunacharsky lectures about "the historically determined movement of the masses" while celebrating Lenin and Stalin's individual brilliance. Bolt also explores the contradictions between the Revolution's idealism and its brutal methods. But he ultimately reflects a naive sympathy towards the Bolsheviks: if only Stalin hadn't usurped Trotsky, Russia would be a Workers' Paradise! Yeah, right.

Bolt's portrait of Lenin and Co. drives home the irony. Lenin starts a relentless fanatic but the realities of government force moderation. Trotsky threatens German ministers with the mutiny of their men; "We do seem to have won," comes the retort. The New Economic Policy, liquidation of the Kulaks and revanchist imperialism transforms the Revolution into a repressive state. Trotsky, a theoretician whose arrogance alienates everyone, feuds with Stalin, an "administrator" like A Man for All Seasons' Cromwell waiting to be useful. Bolt shows how personalities and practicality shaped the Soviet Union more than theory.

State of Revolution finally proves more challenging than entertaining. Nonetheless, its shrewd deconstruction of Marxist dogma makes it worth reading.

* * *
State of Revolution was Bolt's final stage play. He spent the next three years working torturously on David Lean's The Bounty, the stress of which triggered a crippling stroke. After a long, painful recovery Bolt penned a few more screenplays (The Mission, Without Warning: The James Brady story) but never again returned to the stage. Perhaps the negative reaction towards State dissuaded him. Or perhaps he realized his true talents lie in cinema.

Back to movies soon!

The Dark Knight Rises

Christopher Nolan should learn how to end movies. The Dark Knight and Inception both have enjoyable setups before collapsing in ill-conceived third acts. The Dark Knight Rises continues this trend: an excellent first hour, middling second act, and tedious finale. Pity, as this ambitious blockbuster nearly achieves superhero greatness.

Eight years after Harvey Dent's death, Bruce Wayne lives as a recluse and Gotham is nearly crime-free. When Wayne catches burglar Selina Kyle (Anne Hathaway) stealing his fingerprints, he's intrigued enough to come out of hiding. Kyle (Catwoman) is working for Bane (Tom Hardy), a hulking mercenary with ties to the League of Shadows. Bane defeats Batman and takes over Gotham, using a jerry-rigged A-bomb to impose a tyrannical regime. While Batman slowly recovers, Commissioner Gordon (Gary Oldman) and rookie cop Blake (Joseph Gordon-Leavitt) organize resistance to Bane's regime.

The Dark Knight Rises starts off swimmingly, with a thrilling midair action scene and respectable exposition. Nolan provides humor and playfulness previously lacking in this series, especially with Catwoman on the prowl. Yet he also allows the gravity of the situation to sink in. Compared to the Joker's existential threat, Bane makes a credibly nasty villain, at least early on. Alfred's (Michael Caine) growing despair over Bruce's lifestyle adds genuine pathos.

Indeed, Bruce is the film's greatest strength. Nolan scores points showing Wayne beaten down, physically and mentally, by years of crime fighting. A fusion generator designed to "save the world" ruined him financially and falls into Bane's hands. He still can't get over Rachel and is drawn too easily to both Selina and businesswoman Miranda Tate (Marion Cotillard), ignoring their obvious agendas. Then his less-than-great physical condition makes him an easy mark for Bane. This makes his redemption extremely satisfying. No longer overshadowed by villains, Nolan's Batman finally becomes compelling in his own right.

Then Nolan takes an abrupt turn into bizarre political commentary. Bane turns Gotham into a Jacobin society, with roving death squads and show trials for the rich and powerful. Co-opting French Revolution/Khmer Rouge imagery for a superhero flick is either inspired or crass. Regardless, these scenes drag on far too long, producing not suspense but frustration as we wait for Batman's inevitable return.

Predictably, later sequences amp up the action. The rumble at City Hall is fun but the chase scene is mind-numbing; we've already had two so why bother? The cast gets gypped, with Catwoman switching sides for no reason and not one, but two cringe-worthy character reveals. In the rush to a climax, certain plot elements are overlooked, like why the villains leave thousands of cops alive, with guns, after taking over the city. Batman flying a nuke into the sunset would be more effective if The Avengers hadn't come out two months ago.

Christian Bale enjoys the chance to finally show some acting range. Tom Hardy is an imposing villain (inexplicable Scots brogue and all) despite facile attempts at humanizing him. Anne Hathaway makes an agreeably sultry Catwoman, but her last-minute change of heart is unconvincing. Michael Caine finally transcends snarky sidekick shtick and becomes a poignant figure.

Nolan reassembles his stock company: not only regulars Caine, Cillian Murphy, Gary Oldman, and Morgan Freeman but Hardy, Joseph Gordon-Leavitt and Marion Cotillard from Inception return. Sadly, aside from Hardy and Caine none make much impression. Cotillard is particularly ill-served, existing solely for her "shocking" revelation. Buried deeper in the cast list are Tom Conti, Juno Temple, Matthew Modine and William Devane.

The Dark Knight Rises is another victim of Christopher Nolan Syndrome. It's fun for awhile, and I at least got a kick out of the familiar Pittsburgh locales. But at nearly three hours long it runs out of steam, resulting in another uneven outing for the Caped Crusader.