Caravans

A mammoth flop even in its day, Caravans (1978) hasn't aged well. This expansive adaptation of James Michener's potboiler novel is beautifully shot, but its story, characters and staging amount to a mountain of cliches.

1948 in a fictitious Central Asian country. American diplomat Mark Miller (Michael Sarrazin) is assigned to locate Ellen Jasper (Jennifer O'Neill), daughter of a Senator who's married local leader Nasrullah (Behrouz Vossoughi). Miller discovers that Ellen's left her husband, instead running away with tribesman Zullfiqar (who else but Anthony Quinn?). Zullfiqar's nomadic tribes resist Nasrullah's edict to settle on a reservation while trading in Russian rifles. Even as Miller gains Zullfiqar's trust and Ellen's affection, a showdown with Nasrullah's forces becomes inevitable.

Caravans is a very expensive show, filmed in Iran right before the Shah's downfall. Director James Fargo provides handsome vistas and cast of hundreds crowds, staging the requisite set piece: a trek through a monsoon, the climactic battle in an abandoned village. It's all accompanied by Mike Batt's robust score. Unfortunately, it's all surface gloss. Where a smart adventure like The Wind and the Lion comments pointedly on American-Middle East relations, Caravans deals exclusively in hoary Orientalism: jabbering crowds, decadent satraps, salt-of-the-earth bandits.

Nor does Caravans score any originality points, playing as a Persian riff on The Searchers mixed with '30s adventure movies. Zullfiqar acts like Sean Connery's Raisuli, inflicting barbaric punishments while lamenting Nasrullah's repressive government. Ellen's a liberated "modern woman" who incongruously chooses to live in a society where women are chattel. Worse still are the endless scenes of wizened locals explaining tribal customs to the gawking Americans. This isn't exactly boring, and Fargo adds some strange touches: you won't see many epics where public urination quells a riot. But Caravans' main hallmark is laziness.

Possibly Hollywood's most typecast actor, Anthony Quinn nonetheless remains likeable in his 500th iteration of the earthy ethnic. He's certainly livelier than Michael Sarrazin and Jennifer O'Neill (Rio Lobo), who act like gormless tourists. Christopher Lee plays yet another avuncular villain, while Iranian star Behrouz Vossoughi gives a surprisingly rounded performance. Joseph Cotten appears fleetingly as an Ambassador; Jeremy Kemp (Operation Crossbow) and Barry Sullivan (Pat Garrett and Billy the Kid) assay minor roles.

Caravans is passable pablum lacking invention or wit. There's potential in the story - say, the clash between Islamic modernity and tradition - that the movie scarcely has the wit to realize. But if you've never seen Anthony Quinn play a grizzled desert warlord, then you may find it strikingly original.

Far from Heaven

Far from Heaven (2002) is an amiable stab at old-fashioned filmmaking. Todd Haynes crafts a handsome time capsule of the '50s, paying homage to Douglas Sirk's famous melodramas while exploring the unspoken tensions underneath. Essentially an experiment in nostalgia, it's beautifully crafted and well-acted.

Cathy Whittaker (Julianne Moore) is a model '50s housewife, living in idyllic Connecticut and married to ad executive Frank (Dennis Quaid). But Cathy gradually discovers Frank's secret life; he's a closeted homosexual. Reeling from this revelation, Cathy confides her Raymond (Dennis Haysbert), a kindly black gardener. Cathy and Raymond grow closer, inspiring local gossips to denounce their "improper" relationship. As Frank struggles to control his sexuality more and more, Cathy's life threatens to unspool completely.

Far from Heaven evokes a bygone era of movie-making. Haynes borrows Sirk's gorgeous Technicolor and emotive lighting, with Elmer Bernstein providing a lush old-fashioned score. Haynes mixes deliberately arch, anachronistic dialogue with lightly affected acting. Thanks to photographer Edward Lachman, Heaven never lacks for gorgeous visuals: the period detail and beautiful autumn settings, Cathy and friends' seasonal outfits to Raymond's flannel jackets emulating Rock Hudson in All That Heaven Allows. There's even a rear projected driving scene!

Far from Heaven addresses material that Sirk's films only hinted at. Cathy and friend Eleanor (Patrica Clarkson) discuss sex as an unpleasant chore, subverting the wink-and-nod approach to marital relations. Cathy hints early on at an edge beneath her image; she was nicknamed "Red" in college for supporting progressive causes, making her susceptible to gossip.The townspeople express vague support for Civil Rights, but confronted with real Negros act as bigoted as Orval Faubus. In a society stressing conformity, any deviation from accept norms brings harsh consequences.

All this would be routine enough, on the surface. Deconstructions of '50s white bread conformity are fairly common in our politically correct society. But Haynes reflects not only the look but the attitudes of a '50s film, if the Hayes Office allowed more honesty. In this regard, Heaven puts similar nostalgic efforts like Steven Soderbergh's The Good German to shame.

Haynes shovels on the racist content with a trowel: Raymond's daughter gets stoned by neighborhood punks, a black boy closes a hotel pool by wading in the shallow end. Haynes handles the romance more sensitively, but Raymond's little more than a bland nice guy. Frank's characterization proves more interesting. Full of self-loathing, he picks up men in dingy bars and movie theaters, seeking a psychologist therapist (James Rebhorn) who subjects him to aversion therapy. Yet Frank's efforts at conformity further unhinge him. Homosexuality was then not only taboo but a crime, a mental disease; slammed brutally into the closet, Frank unwittingly destroys his family.

Julianne Moore gives a remarkable performance. Early on she gives a delightfully affected turn, cheerily playing up Cathy's image as "Mrs. Magnitech." Cathy's largely passive, confused by and reacting to currents around her, a character less worthy actresses would squander. But Moore finds the human core beneath the caricature, trapped by her role as wife and homemaker, yet unable to maintain the facade.

Dennis Quaid plays wonderfully against type, all confusion, anguish and self-loathing. Quaid walks a careful tightrope; we're sympathetic to Frank's inner turmoil, even though (or because?) he embraces the prejudices of his peers. Dennis Haysbert is quietly likeable, in a role allowing for little else. Patricia Clarkson (The Untouchables) does excellent work, turning on Cathy once she finds the rumors are true. Viola Davis (Doubt) appears as the Whittaker's maid.

As a cinematic exercise Far from Heaven is highly enjoyable. Whether its appeal stretches beyond cineastes is questionable, though there's certainly enough substance to engage a wide audience.

My Brilliant Career

"Loneliness is a terrible price to pay for independence."

Gillian Armstrong's biggest hit remains My Brilliant Career (1979), a critical and box office smash which turned Judy Davis and Sam Neill into international stars. It seems a typically "tasteful" period melodrama, akin to something from Merchant-Ivory's snooze factory. But Armstrong's adaptation of Miles Franklin's novel proves deliciously complex.

Sybylla Melvin (Judy Davis) resents her life in turn-of-the-century Australia. Family difficulties drive her to live with her cold Grandmother (Aileen Britton), friendly Uncle Julius (Peter Whitford) and Aunt Helen (Wendy Hughes). Sybylla falls for Harry (Sam Neill), a dashing man of means, but rejects his advances. Then circumstances for Sybylla to become governess for a rural neighbor, a role she's neither suited for nor interested in. 

My Brilliant Career beautifully explores the contradictions of feminism. Everyone counsel Sybylla that marriage is the only route to happiness, something she instinctively rejects. She has Helen, ruined by an errant husband, as a counterexample. She's urged to marry for "friendship" or privilege rather than love, which means the doltish Frank (Robert Grubb). Her time as Governess opens another unappealing path: loveless, domineering spinster. Harboring artistic ambitions and self-admitted egotism, she has no desire to be ruled by Victorian patriarchy, caged up like Grandmother's parrots. 

Yet the very traits that make Sybylla admirable compromise her. It's understandable when she rejects Frank's advances and Grandmother's bad advice. But Harry seems a perfect match, sensitive and willing to accommodate Sybylla's desires. Being young we can excuse Sybylla's vague ambitions, but her single-mindedness is less admirable. She makes a nice contrast to Far from the Madding Crowd's Bathsheba and Jane Eyre, ostensibly "independent" women who wind up swooning romantics. Armstrong ends with wistful ambivalence; there's no easy road between independence and marriage.

Indeed, Armstrong and writer Eleanor Witcombe invest Career with subtlety - most obviously through their richly shaded characters. No domineering matriarch, Grandma is stuffy and old-fashioned, but not unsympathetic to Sybylla's plight. Harry is neither rotten bastard nor idealized lover, instead trying to understand his lover. This nuance prevents Career from devolving into feminist diatribe or soap opera.

Armstrong's direction is fairly restrained. Donald McAlpine provides stately photography: pastoral landscapes, hardscrabble farms, cultivated Victorian interiors. Armstrong stages few set pieces (Harry's dance late in the film an exception) with modest period costume and art direction. Yet her almost clinical detachment draws viewers in; Career needs craftsmanship rather than technical flash. Armstrong's refined femininity makes a nice contrast to the hyper-masculine concerns of other Aussie films.

Judy Davis (A Passage to India) ably handles a difficult character, whose admirable qualities make her nigh-insufferable. Behind Davis's endearingly frumpy exterior lies a ferocious will and intelligence: Sybylla pursues her ideal of independence, even if it leaves her broken and unhappy. Davis doesn't play for sympathy, confronting the character's contradictions head on with unsparing detachment.

Sam Neill exudes roguish charm in this early role, yet tempers it with sensitivity. Aileen Britton plays Grandmother to her strengths, a well-meaning reactionary who thinks Sybylla can learn nothing better than to "care for others." Wendy Hughes gets a heartbreaking monologue early in the film, providing an abject rebuke to marriage equaling happiness. Peter Whitford, Robert Grubb and Max Cullen play more archetypical characters. 

Above everything, My Beautiful Career impresses with its intelligence. There's no soap box oratory or bodice ripping, just a thoughtful character study. Can a woman find familial "happiness" without abandoning self-hood? Are independence and love antithetical? Gillian Armstrong provides no easy answers, and plenty of food for thought.

Chicken With Plums

In Chicken With Plums (2011), Marjane Satrapi and Vincent Parronaud attempt to render the unique aesthetic of Persepolis (2007) into live action. They've certainly crafted an aesthetic feast that's imaginatively shot. Too bad the overall experience underwhelms.

In 1958, Iranian violinist Nassir (Mathieu Amalric) commits suicide. Nassir grew despondent after his long-suffering wife Faranguisse (Marie de Madeiros) destroyed his prized violin. Flashbacks of the lead-in to Nassir's death reveal why: the violin was connected with Irane (Golshifteh Farahani), Nassir's lost love. Unable to marry Irane, Nassir entered into an unhappy marriage, channeling his passion into music. Without music - or Irane - in his life, things no longer seem worthwhile.

Chicken With Plums wins praise for its ravishing visuals. Satrapi, Parronaud and cinematographer Christophe Beaucalme craft a fantasy aesthetic resembling Powell and Pressburger or, more appropriately, Jean-Pierre Jeunet. The movie's dreamlike cadence registers in verdantly colored skies, moody deep focus and double exposure. Certainly the movie doesn't lack for powerful visuals, as when Nassir sends off his mother's (Isabella Rosselini) departing soul with a violin solo. There's even a brief animated interlude explicitly recalling the directors' earlier collaboration.

Yet Chicken never really comes together. Satrapi and Parronaud conceive the story an episodic thought piece, counting down Nassir's last week on Earth. But the execution is terribly clunky. The film flits aimlessly between past and future, tone and style veering sharply from moment to moment. Filmmakers, of course, can get away with self-contained episodes in lieu of plot. But Satrapi handles it so poorly that the artifice shows; it's a collection of scenes, not a movie.

It doesn't help that Chicken feels forced. The visuals are clever but the movie slides uneasily between realistic drama and fantasy. The cutesy tone becomes unbearable at times, especially the scenes with Nassir's children or, especially, a prolonged parody of American sitcoms. Nassir and Irane's romance registers strongly, but introduced so late it throws things off-balance. Lacking what made Persepolis so effective - skillful balance of whimsy and pathos, insightful characterization - it becomes incoherent and emotionally barren.

Mathieu Amalric (Munich) makes Nassir a compelling protagonist, tormented and hanging on to shattered dreams. Golshifteh Farahani mainly looks pretty and pouty, but Maria de Madeiros (Pulp Fiction) does remarkable work showing Faranguisse's deep-seeded frustration. Eduoard Baer and Jamel Debbouze play their scenes as crude pantomime.

Chicken With Plums ultimately disappoints. For all its visual appeal, it resembles nothing so much as a poor man's Amelie, overselling self-aware silliness at the expense of genuine charm.

L'Avventura

Michaelangelo Antonioni is certainly among the most challenging Italian filmmakers. Non-fans disparage works like Red Desert (1964) as stereotypical art movies where "nothing happens." Later entries Blow-Up (1966) and Zabriskie Point (1970) go the opposite route, imbibing in obnoxious symbolism that infuriates more than engages.

Quite a bit "happens" in L'Avventura (1960) - just not what a casual filmgoer expects. It starts as an inscrutable mystery then becomes a slow-burning melodrama. Its depth of character and impenetrable atmosphere make enjoyable, if somewhat frustrating viewing.

Five friends go on a boat trip to the Aeolian Islands. Headstrong Anna (Leah Massini) has a rough-and-tumble relationship with Sandro (Gabriele Ferzetti), a smooth playboy. Among others joining them is Anna's friend Claudia (Monica Vitti). During the trip Anna mysteriously vanishes; a search by her friends, and later the police turns up nothing. Claudia and Sandro struggle to move on, falling for each other in the process.

On one level, L'Avventura works as masterful bait-and-switch. Early scenes presage Picnic at Hanging Rock, a vacation capped off by an eerie disappearance. Antonioni doesn't go for Peter Weir's quasi-supernatural atmosphere, instead drinking in the beauty of the Aeolians. The mystery centers on half-remembered hints, like a phantom rowboat Claudia thinks she saw. Unlike Hanging Rock, where the mystery obsesses everyone, L'Avventura treats it as one of those things. People die or disappear, but life goes on.

Halfway through, L'Avventura shifts to a character study. Antonioni shows Claudia and Sandro as well-off dilettantes, unable to enjoy their status. Their affair seems perfunctory, a facade of human interaction disguising their mutual discontent. Still, unlike spoiled Anna (who fakes a shark attack to get Sandro's attention) or ditsy friend Giulia (Dominique Blanchar) they're self-aware enough to know something better exists. In one scene, Sandro enviously spoils an artist's easel, musing about wasting his youth and ambition on petty affairs. Claudia ultimately wonders if Anna's disappearance wasn't a good thing. Considering how her and Sandro grow from the experience, that's not so selfish as it initially appears.

L'Avventura's reputation suggests something like Last Year at Marienbad or Death in Venice, where languorous visuals overwhelm a thin story. The movie's certainly slow-paced, but the intricately crafted story provides a good hook for open-minded audiences. Certainly the character dynamic proves compelling even after the mystery wanes: Claudia and Sandro are well-drawn protagonists, with convincing development from bored ciphers to flawed humans.

Monica Vitti makes Claudia sympathetic, showing anguish and discontent in a finely-crafted turn. Vitti would rejoin Antonioni on several later films, notably L'Ecclise and La Notte. Gabriele Ferzetti (Once Upon a Time in the West) does fine work playing a suave Lothario, forced to reconsider his lifestyle. In her brief appearance, Leah Massini suggests a heinous spoiled brat who must be the center of attention. 

L'Avventura isn't for everyone, but it's a marvelously crafted movie. You could do worse for your plunge into European art cinema. And the lack of tennis-playing mimes certainly helps.

Brokeback Mountain

Ang Lee's Brokeback Mountain (2005) became a pop culture touchstone, even while suffering a crass smear campaign. Moral guardians deemed it Exhibit A of "liberal Hollywood" depravity, while sniggering homophobes made it an easy punchline. Despite box office success and critical acclaim, it lost Best Picture to Crash, a ponderous "issue film" that makes Stanley Kramer look subtle.

Those treating Brokeback Mountain like a mixture of Salo and Guess Who's Coming to Dinner? only reveal their insecurity. It's really a touching romance, with Lee adapting Annie Proulx's short story into a low-key, heartrending drama. Exquisitely photographed and well-crafted, it's also a great vehicle for several up-and-coming stars.

In 1963, hard luck Ennis Del Mar (Heath Ledger) and Jack (Jake Gyllenhaal) take a job herding sheep for rancher Joe Aguirre (Randy Quaid). They bond during their lonely summer in Montana, eventually sharing a night of impulsive sex. They initially brush it off, but find their relationship deepening into love. The two go their separate ways: Ennis marries Alma (Michelle Williams), his longtime sweetheart who eventually uncovers his secret. Jack endures a frosty marriage with Lureen (Anne Hathaway), the daughter of a businessman (Graham Beckel) who treats Jack like dirt. Ennis and Jack return to Brokeback Mountain for occasional trysts, but their secret life causes endless misery.

Brokeback Mountain starts. Lee and Rodrigo Pieto provide ravishing photography, especially during the sheep drive. Alberta's Canadian Rockies provide a picturesque fill-in for Montana. Western writers Larry McMurtry and Diana Ossana provide an evocative script, reproducing backwoods rodeos, small-town life and dreamy Fourth of July parties with seamless authenticity and atmospheric feel. Next to Into the Wild, it's the best evocation of rural America in recent memory.

Which makes its story that much more potent. Brokeback Mountain explores male gender roles within a dominantly masculine setting. Ennis particularly fails to meet society's expectations of masculinity. He's a lousy husband and a lazy man who'd rather go on "fishing trips" than provide for his family. To compensate he cultivates  his manly image, notably by twice picking fights with strangers. By contrast, Jack feels more comfortable in his sexuality, soliciting prostitutes and hitting on a closeted friend (David Harbour). On Thanksgiving, he bickers with his father-in-law over a football and forcible takes over turkey-carving responsibilities.

Brokeback shows Ennis and Jack forced not only to hide their affections, but play to society's expectations of manhood. Both men endure loveless marriages for the sake of "appearances," harming their families along with themselves. Ennis puts paid to Jack's idea of running away to a secluded ranch; he recounts a traumatic childhood incident where two rancher-lovers met a grisly fate. It's the closest Brokeback comes to overt speech-making, but in context it works.

Lee avoids the temptation to make Ennis and Jack righteous victims. Ennis's failure to hold a job drives Alma away, not his sexuality; she doesn't broach the latter subject until after their divorce. Jack can't abide his condescending in-laws and consorts with male prostitutes; Lureen seems too wrapped up in business to notice. Their mutual infidelity has unpleasant repercussions on all concerned. The gay angle isn't exactly incidental, but it's layered into the character drama. Brokeback's too accomplished to be a grandstanding plea for tolerance.

Heath Ledger breaks decisively with his pretty boy roles. Laconic, repressed and less-than-virtuous, he's a difficult character that Ledger handles beautifully. Jake Gyllenhaal is slightly less impressive, but with such a flawed character it rivals Zodiac as his best work. Michelle Williams (My Week With Marilyn) gives a heartrending turn, deeply wounded by her husband's dishonesty. Anne Hathaway's Lureen by contrast feels thinly sketched, with her hair growing bigger and blonder over time. Randy Quaid (The Long Riders), Peter McRobbie (Lincoln) and Roberta Maxwell provide solid support.

Brokeback Mountain shows that films can make a point without soapbox oratory. By showing Jack and Ennis violently slammed into the closet, its implicit critique of homophobia rings through. But Ang Lee remains focused on story telling, resulting in a beautifully rendered tragedy.

The Deep Blue Sea (2011)

Based on Terence Rattigan's best play, The Deep Blue Sea (2011) provides a stellar stage adaptation. Terence Davies transforms this classic melodrama into a moody think piece, buoyed by beautiful imagery and brilliant acting.

Hester Collyer (Rachel Weisz) is a bored 30-something woman in postwar London. Surviving a suicide attempt, she's forced to confront her past failings. Her marriage to the affable but dull Judge Sir William Collyer (Simon Russell Beale) drove her into an affair with Freddie Page (Tom Hiddleston), a handsome but feckless RAF pilot. Unable to find happiness in either relationship, Hester's forced to reconfigure her shattered life.

The Deep Blue Sea transfigures Rattigan's "well-made play" into elegant, cinematic form. Davies fleshes the story out with moody flashbacks and musical interludes: tunes like "Molly Malloy" and "You Belong to Me" evoke both their time period and characterization. Florian Hoffmeister's brooding photography, all dark blues and muted browns, provides an evocative, almost dreamlike quality. For a stage adaptation the film's sparse on dialogue; Davies allows the melancholy visuals - drab wallpaper, bombed-out rubble, dingy pubs and lurking shadows - to emphasize the human drama.

Inevitably, Rattigan purists will regret adaptation alterations. Besides opening up the story, Davies also pares down many extant speeches which lessen some of the drama's edges. The male characters suffer particularly: Collyer not only loses his meatiest lines, but actually lives with his harping mother (Barbara Jefford). Thus, he's a wretched sap and no serious competitor for Hester. Freddie fares better, but his big scenes with pal Jackie (Harry Haddon-Paton) are exponentially reduced. Good acting shores up this weak spot, but Davies clearly seems more interested in Hester than his leading men.

Adaptation aside, Sea retains Rattigan's meatiest content. Hester's passion contrasts against a dour world of self-denial, of which Collyer's the most obvious representative. She recognizes Freddie as a shallow fraud, but relishes her carnal attraction to the man - something Collyer can't understand. Certainly his mother can't, advising her that passion leads only to ugliness. Rattigan makes much of attempted suicide's illegality; it's an expression of unrestrained emotion unbecoming in middle class society. Having fun in austerity Britain itself feels criminal, especially for women.

Rachel Weisz anchors the show. Hester's a difficult character: some consider her a feminist for striking out on her own, but it's in pursuit of selfish ends. She's a delicate balancing act between melodrama heroine and independent woman. Weisz assays the role with remarkable nuance and skill. She hones her emotions to a fine point, without playing for obvious big emotions: a subtle gesture, tearful glance or expressively-smoked cigarette suffice.

Tom Hiddleston (The Avengers) provides a perfect mix of vulgar cad and insouciant charmer. Not terribly self-aware, Freddie's nonetheless clever enough to recognize things with Hester can't work. Simon Russell Beale fares admirably in the weakest part; this Collyer's not pathetic but strong-willed, rather an emasculated milquetoast. But Beale still draws considerable power with his understated, sad-eyed acting. Supporting roles go to Harry Haden-Patton, Ann Mitchell and Barbara Jefford.

The Deep Blue Sea casts a cold, weary eye on the vagaries of love. It plays like a riposte to Brief Encounter; Hester's brought back from the brink, but she can't just return home. Now she's lost both men and must find her own way. That Hester retains sympathy at story's end is Rattigan's finest achievement.

Sullivan's Travels

Preston Sturges is the comedy god of Hollywood's Golden Age. His work meshes the slapstick and social commentary of Charlie Chaplin with the snappy wit of Howard Hawks, resulting in a remarkable body of work. His finest achievement is the near-perfect satire Sullivan's Travels (1941).

Movie director John L. Sullivan (Joel McCrea) determines to adapt the muckraking book O Brother Where Art Thou? into a pretentious art film. Sullivan's producers (Robert Warwick and Porter Hall) prod him towards a comedy, insisting he knows nothing of how the other half lives. Sullivan strikes out out as a hobo, accompanied by a failed actress credited only as "The Girl" (Veronica Lake). Sullivan and The Girl strike a bond toughing out a transient camp, but can't escape the press or Sullivan's studio buddies. Sullivan gets into real trouble after being mugged, then winds up in prison for assaulting a railway guard.

Sullivan's Travels works on several levels. Sturges takes shots at limousine liberalism, Hollywood's secondary raison d'etre; Sullivan oozes sympathy with the lower classes when he's never worked an honest day in his life. Both his producers and servants (Robert Greig and Eric Blore) convince him there's no glory in poverty. The film's best gag has Sullivan constantly returning to Hollywood, whether by car or train: his exploits are followed by press photographers and with patronizing gestures, like giving $100 to a friendly restauranteur. Eventually Sullivan learns the hard way that poverty's too grim to sentimentalize on film.

Sturges gets the most mileage examining the interplay of high and low art. Sullivan's hysterically pretentious film concludes with "labor" and "capital" fighting atop a moving train - a grand metaphor lost on audiences relishing the violent action. Sturges seamlessly blends comedy styles, barbed wit existing alongside Looney Tunes sight gags. Its central question is whether high art, with its intellectual appeal, or low, which moves mass viewers, has more value. This argument continues apace in critics' circles and chat rooms, ignoring that there's room for both. For this shrewd meta analysis, Sullivan's Travels rivals Sunset Blvd. as the best movie about Hollywood.

Finally, Sturges provides impeccable direction. His handling of snappy dialogue rivals Hawks, driving the story at a zippy pace. He's equally adept at brilliant set pieces like the wild chase scene, while his silent sequence of John and The Girl's time in a work camp is a master class in montage. When the story starts to sag, Sturges wraps things up with an ingenious solution: Sullivan the hobo claims he killed Sullivan the director!

Joel McCrea gets big laughs as a misguided artist and pathos as a fallen man. McCrea plays brilliantly off his screen image, his granite integrity bleeding into a caddish character. Veronica Lake makes a brilliant counterpart, smarter and snappier than most blonde bombshells. Inexplicably, Lake never gained the stature of contemporaries like Barbara Stanwyck and Rosalind Russell. Sturges complements his leads with a dozen character turns: Robert Warwick, William Demearst, Robert Gleig, Eric Blore, Bryon Fulger.

Sullivan's Travels ends on a warmly populist note. Artistic ideals are fine, but society's better served by a good laugh. The cynic in me scoffs at such idealistic hooey; the humanist embraces it wholeheartedly.

Much Ado About Nothing (2013)

It's a testament to Joss Whedon's flexibility that, while on break from The Avengers (2012), he created the antithesis to that box office behemoth. In just two weeks he assembled a slew of actors from his past shows and films, tweaked a well-loved William Shakespeare play and shot it in crisp black-and-white. The result is Much Ado About Nothing (2013), an enjoyably off-beat take on Shakespeare's best comedy.

Returned from "the wars," Don Pedro (Reed Diamond), Claudio (Fran Kranz) and Benedict (Alexis Denisof) visit the home of local Duke Leonato (Clark Gregg). Claudio instantly grows smitten with beautiful Hero (Jillian Morgese) while Benedict resumes a long-running feud with Beatrice (Amy Acker) - a feud which masks deep-seated affection. While friends and family connive to unite the feuding couple, Pedro's brother Don John (Sean Maher) has more malign plans. Along with partners Borachio (Spencer Treat Clark) and Conrade (Riki Lindhorne), he schemes to separate Claudio and Hero. Things go awry, relying on bumbling Constable Dogberry (Nathan Fillion) to set things right.

This blogger always found Much Ado easier-going than Shakespeare's other comedies. It lacks the overdone plot of Twelfth Night, the implausibility of Merchant of Venice, the repulsive sexual politics of Taming of the Shrew. The story's pretty flimsy but Shakespeare's witty lovers Beatrice and Benedict mouth some of the English language's best comic writing. Kenneth Branagh's splashy 1993 version holds up well, despite some egregious stunt casting (Michael Keaton and Keanu Reeves?); it's hard to imagine a better screen couple than Branagh and Emma Thompson. 

Whedon conjures a straight modern dress adaptation, with modern affectations that emphasize the story's ridiculousness. Dogberry comes on like a sad, RayBan-wearing Dirty Harry wannabe, viciously interrogating Borachio and Conrade like serial killers. Benedict ponders the horrors of marriage while sitting next to a dollhouse; Beatrice trips over her laundry while overhearing her maids' conversation. Yet Whedon smartly allows the text, and more importantly the cast, to carry the show. He's helped by Jay Hunter's unfussy black and white photography, with only a few flourishes (flashbacks, a dreamlike masquerade ball) to fill in story gaps.

Practically every actor's a veteran of Buffy the Vampire Slayer, Angel, Dollhouse or The Avengers. Alexis Denisof dives whole hog into Benedict, whether mouthing Shakespeare's "oyster" soliloquy or performing push-ups for a bemused Beatrice. Amy Acker proves equally appealing, dispatching her barbs with wit and self-possession. Jillian Morgese makes a likeable Hero while Reed Diamond and Frank Kranz have fun with characters usually played as wet blankets. As Don John, Sean Maher at least purges memories of Keanu Reeves's dude-tastic turn. Clark Gregg overdoes Leonato's mugging, but he's such an agreeable presence it seems mean to criticize.

Much Ado About Nothing is a refreshing experience. In this summer's sea of sequels, superheroes and general junk, it provides a beacon of wit for those demanding more than explosions.

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.

Trouble With the Curve

Trouble With the Curve (2012) instills a palpable sense of apathy. Clint Eastwood comes out of acting semi-retirement, lending his granite gravitas to a treacly mix of sports flick and romantic drama. Despite three charming leads it never generates much drama, preferring to be pleasant rather than engaging.

Aging baseball scout Gus Lobel (Clint Eastwood) struggles to keep his job. He's losing his eyesight to age, while a hotshot newbie (Matthew Lillard) aims for his job. Gus meets his estranged daughter Mickey (Amy Adams), a high-powered lawyer resentful that Gus abandoned her at an early age. Gus takes Mickey to North Carolina to scout a pitching prospect. There they meet Johnny Flanagan (Justin Timberlake), a washed-up player-turned-scout who idolizes Gus and soon falls for Mickey.

One word review? Anodyne. Trouble With the Curve is empty, bland, pleasant but instantly forgettable. Writer Randy Brown seems content mining cliches of romance (skinny dipping, realy?) and family drama (the requisite tombstone monologue), without providing insight or originality. There's no plot, with the character relationships too rote to be compelling. The meatiest thing on offer is some swats at Moneyball, with Gus ranting about those damned kids and their computers ruining baseball! It says a lot that the film's most compelling material is bar stool bitching less informed than your average Around the Horn installment.

Any mileage Trouble gets comes from the stars. Clint Eastwood again has fun sending up his tough guy image, something he's been doing consistently for 40 years. On the one hand it's old by now, but who can second guess Clint? Amy Adams is endearing as always, with Justin Timberlake conveying off-hand charm as her love interest. John Goodman, Robert Patrick, Bob Gunton and Matthew Lillard provide solid bench support. Everyone's likeable, just not interesting.

Trouble With the Curve scarcely seems worth the trouble of watching, let alone reviewing. It's not a bad movie; it's too vanilla to register at all. One watches it on a lazy Sunday afternoon and forgets it instantly. I know I did.

Atonement

I saw Atonement (2007) during its theatrical run and remember being disappointed. Rewatching it now, I'm more apt to be generous. Joe Wright's adaptation of a masterful Ian McEwan novel isn't perfect, but conveys McEwan's exploration of perception, guilt and creativity with striking clarity.

England in the mid-'30s. Precocious preteen Briony Tallis (Saorise Ronan) observes several incidents with her sister Cecilia (Keira Knightley) and servant Robbie (James McAvoy) that she interprets as sexual assaults instead of innocent flirtation. One night, someone molests Briony's friend Lola (Juno Temple) - an act Briony blames on Robbie. Robbie joins the BEF when World War II breaks out, getting caught up in the retreat to Dunkirk. Cecilia has become a nurse, pining for his return. Briony (now Romola Garai) also works as a nurse, realizing Robbie's innocence and hoping to right her mistakes.

Beneath Atonement's genteel trappings lies a disturbing character study. Briony dominates the film, a striking presence both physically and personally. She's a narcissist who enjoys the power to shape events. She finds an outlet in fiction but proves. A mix of honest misunderstandings and conscious desire (she entertains a crush on Robbie) makes her view Robbie as a deviant. Adult Briony still arrogates herself the right to "change" others, whether patients in a hospital ward or patch up Robbie and Cecilia's tattered romance. She views her writing as a "kindness," assuaging her guilt by creating a storybook ending for those she's wronged. It's a chilling portrait of literary "God complex" gone mad.

Understandably, writer Christopher Hampton downplays the expected class warfare themes. Robbie's basically a member of the family, with Cecilia's parents paying for his education. There are more pressing issues than Upstairs Downstairs drama. There's Morris (Benedict Cumberbatch), a charming chocolate maker who brings news of impending war; Lola, a precocious waif not so mature as she thinks; Robbie and Cecilia, initiating a tentative romance. But everything comes back to Briony, never realizing that her meddling carries actual consequences.

Wright's direction employs several neat tricks. Dario Marianelli's score brilliantly employs clacking typewriters, driving home the theme of someone writing events. Wright shows key events from Briony's perspective, before backtracking to show what "really" happened. This device could be hokey, but it's used sparingly enough to work. This also keeps us invested in Robbie and Cecilia's budding romance, unthinkable if either was a pervert. Robbie's fall from grace strikes a poignant note: his erstwhile benefactors turn on him, while Briony coldly observes. This ends a masterful opening hour on a perfect note.

Atonement stumbles afterwards. Wright encrusts his war scenes with David Lean grace notes, even borrowing imagery from Doctor Zhivago (a field of massacred children, Robbie's eyes illuminated by pinpricks of light), but everything seems rushed and perfunctory. The much-ballyhooed Dunkirk tracking shot is technically stunning, but really doesn't advance the film. Compared to the first hour's craftsmanship, Robbie's plight in France feels anemic, with the actual war kept off-screen and Robbie's squad mates (Daniel Maze and Nonso Azonie) barely ciphers. Worse, Cecelia all but vanishes, throwing the narrative off-balance.

Wright regains an even keel showing Briony's "penance" as a nurse. Briony struggles mightily to be practical, yet she can't sublimate her individuality to nursing - nor curb her desire to shape the lives of others. Accompanied by the gruesome sites of maimed Tommies, it's a striking sequence. The reveal of Lola's attacker proves less effective: given Wright's dual perspective trick elsewhere, it's an obvious cheat. But Wright delivers the finale with such gut-wrenching power that we forgive most of these faults. We just wish Atonement was half-an-hour longer to properly flesh out some story points.

Top acting honors go to the Briony Trio. Saorise Ronan got a well-earned Oscar nod, revealing Briony's studied arrogance and childish vulnerability. With her piercing blue eyes and impassive demeanor, she's a striking screen presence. Romola Garai ably handles the thankless chore of anchoring Atonement's middle third; she gets one standout sequence, comforting a dying French soldier (Jeremie Renier). Finally, Vanessa Redgrave closes things out with a heart-wrenching monologue. It's one of the best intergenerational acting teams in memory, each leaving an indelible impression.

James McAvoy gives a powerful turn as a smart but perpetually frustrated youth. Despite being periodically tapped as the "next big thing," McAvoy's career hasn't really caught fire - though his role in X-Men: First Class leaves us hopeful. Keira Knightley is tolerable, despite employing clipped verbiage that makes her sound like a tetanic Celia Johnson. Benedict Cumberbatch (War Horse) makes the most of brief screen time; Juno Temple (The Dark Knight Rises) plays Briony's unfortunate friend.

Atonement rewards multiple viewings. Despite occasional missteps, it's a unique, deeply affecting drama with fascinating thematic material. Maybe reading McEwan's novel since my first go-around helped me appreciate it better. It certainly couldn't hurt.

The Great Gatsby (2013)

Something went fundamentally wrong with The Great Gatsby at the conceptual stage. Coming from Baz Luhrmann, it's no secret that the movie's loud, gaudy and overblown, a paean to self-indulgent excess. But Gatsby's a truly agonizing monstrosity, making Moulin Rouge and Romeo + Juliet look like Separate Tables - or the '74 adaptation look like Citizen Kane. Imagine the worst music video ever stretched out to two-and-a-half hours, claiming to be an F. Scott Fitzgerald novel.

Copy and paste plot summary: Stock broker Nick Carraway (Tobey Maguire) makes the acquaintance of Jay Gatsby (Leonardo DiCaprio), a mysterious millionaire who throws swanky parties on Long Island but never attends himself. Through Nick, Gatsby reunites with his old flame Daisy (Carey Mulligan), trapped in an unhappy marriage with snobbish, unfaithful Tom Buchanan (Joel Edgerton). Tom gets suspicious, digging into Gatsby's past, dredging up ties to organized crime. Tragedy strikes when Tom's affair with lower class Myrtle Wilson (Isla Fisher) results in an accident.

The Great Gatsby starts dialed up to 11 and somehow gets more obnoxious. Luhrmann demolishes our senses with every cheap cinematic trick imaginable. There's caffeinated editing, swooping faux-camera work and laughable CGI, rendered in eye-exploding 3-D. There's text superimposed on the screen, sped-up photography intercut with gratuitous slow motion, sloppily inserted stock footage and incongruous hip hop music. Gatsby's parties are indescribably tacky: he first appears with Rhapsody in Blue blaring on the soundtrack as fireworks explode behind him, and that's the most subtle image. If Federico Fellini saw Gatsby, he'd advise Luhrmann to tone it down a notch.

Sadly, Luhrmann offers little beyond this sensory assault. For two acts there's nothing but exorbitant costumes, gauche art direction, gaudy exotic dancers, orgies and Beyonce tunes. And it drags on for a painful 143 minutes. There's no effort to make the story or characters credible: Nick's re-envisioned as a budding novelist, relating his story in flashback to a shrink (Jack Thompson). Gatsby and Daisy's connection becomes a tragic romance rather than a desperate fling. Did Luhrmann even read Fitzgerald? Source fidelity extends to plot points, some cribbed dialogue and the obvious symbols delivered with ice mallet subtlety. That damned eyeglasses billboard appears at least a dozen times, always in extreme close up. We get it already!

In the third act Gatsby transitions to dark drama. Here we get the meatiest scenes: Gatsby outlining his true back story, Tom confronting Gatsby, a tragic accident and subsequent murder. Unfortunately, Luhrmann pitches the human element at the same hysterical level. If the imagery and music feel comparatively restrained, the acting goes into frothing overdrive. Characters foam, scream, throw things and chew scenery. Even quiet moments are punctuated with affected gestures and pantomime posturing. But what did you expect? This movie thinks so little of its audience that it stops to explain who Kaiser Wilhelm was.

Leonardo DiCaprio tries, God bless him, to make Gatsby credible. He fails miserably. DiCaprio is just too bland, the character too poorly written to register. Tobey Maguire provides Nick an insufferable faux-naivety; his line readings make him sound mentally challenged, surely not the intent. Carey Mulligan (Drive) is more likeable than Mia Farrow but Joel Edgerton provides cringe-worthy cartoon villainy. Jason Clarke (Zero Dark Thirty) and Isla Fisher see their roles reduced to nothing. Jack Thompson (Breaker Morant) turns up for no reason.

I don't unconditionally hate Baz Luhrmann: heck, I enjoyed the much-derided Australia. His style's no less overwrought there, but wedded to a swooning epic romance it's enjoyable as pastiche. The Great Gatsby is nothing but crass vulgarity disguised as dizzying art. However appropriate that seems for Fitzgerald, in practice it's a catastrophe of Billy Jack proportions.

The Great Gatsby (1974)

The Great Gatsby is one of my favorite novels. F. Scott Fitzgerald's rich masterpiece functions on multiple levels: a deconstruction of the American Dream, a condemnation of high society decadence, a tragedy showing the price of obsession. Yet the five extant film adaptations are forgettable clunkers, from a '20s silent version to the hip-hop inflected G. (2002). I've been roped into seeing Baz Luhrmann's gaudy-looking adaptation this weekend. Forgive me for doubting the Moulin Rouge! auteur's appropriateness for this literary classic.

The most famous version is Jack Clayton's 1974 take. This Gatsby is a petrified rendering of the novel's most obvious aspects, well-made but dull. Strict literary fidelity at the expense of the cinematic results in a pedestrian exercise.

Stock broker Nick Carraway (Sam Waterston) makes the acquaintance of Jay Gatsby (Robert Redford), a mysterious millionaire who throws swanky parties on Long Island but never attends himself. Through Nick, Gatsby reunites with his old flame Daisy (Mia Farrow), trapped in an unhappy marriage with snobbish, unfaithful Tom Buchanan (Bruce Dern). Tom gets suspicious, digging into Gatsby's past, dredging up ties to organized crime. Tragedy strikes when Tom's affair with lower class Myrtle Wilson (Karen Black) results in an accident.

The obvious problem is that Gatsby's too damned literal. Francis Ford Coppola's script remains painfully reverent to the source material, trying unsuccessfully to render Fitzgerald's rich interior world. The book requires Nick's fly-on-the-wall narration; the movie drowns in it, his unnecessary presence weighing down every scene. Gatsby clumsily tells Nick his background, other bits filled in by mechanical flashbacks. Characters endlessly declaim exposition and recite Fitzgerald's prose without conviction. The show takes on a Classics Illustrated feel, rigidly faithful but lifeless.

The literalness extends to the imagery. Fitzgerald's poetic symbolism reads beautifully on the page, conjuring up misty visions of midnight parties, bygone opulence and broken dreams. In the directness of film, touches like Daisy's green light (accompanied by an abrasive musical sting), the billboard eyeglasses and amorous jello moulds seem gauche. The Wilsons' ratty gas station feels more appropriate to Bonnie and Clyde than upscale Long Island; how on Earth would Tom and Myrtle have met? Through clunky presentation, Gatsby forfeits credibility the novel effortlessly earns.

It must be said Clayton mounts a beautiful production. The sumptuous costumes, parties and upscale mansions are gorgeously presented by David Lean's collaborator John Box. Backed by Nelson Riddle's jazz-infused score and its appealing leads, Gatsby provides the glamorous spectacle expected of a '20s period piece. Yet this beauty undercuts Fitzgerald's satirical intent: you don't ridicule the rich by making them desirable. I could imagine Luchino Visconti or Billy Wilder nailing Gatsby; Clayton misses the point.

Robert Redford gives a commendable interpretation. He handles the mealy-mouthed script with conviction, suggesting Gatsby's hidden depths and inner turmoil through pointed delivery and meaningful glances. At the same time, having someone with Redford's screen baggage play a character designed as a cipher feels awkward. A sharper adaptation might have resulted in one of Redford's best performances. Instead, he's respectable rather than impressive.

Mia Farrow's fine, but Daisy proves too much of a featherweight to generate interest. The best that can be said of Sam Waterston is he gives a useless part dignity. Lanky Bruce Dern feels miscast as a snotty, football-playing blue blood. Karen Black (Family Plot) makes the strongest impression, investing Myrtle with desperation and low cunning. Scott Wilson (In Cold Blood) has some powerful scenes that seem imported from another movie. Howard Da Silva (Meyer Wolfsheim, a Jewish gangster) previously appeared in a 1949 adaptation.

The Great Gatsby is a handsomely mounted bore. Here's hoping that the new version gets the story right - though I'm not holding my breath.

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.

The Night Porter

Luchino Visconti's The Damned (1969) kicked off a thoroughly repugnant trend in European cinema: Nazi exploitation. Yes, filmmakers retooled the 20th Century's most heinous evil for titillation. Some entries retained a veneer of respectability (Salon Kitty), but most were blatantly offensive trash like Ilsa, She-Wolf of the SS. National Socialism was no longer an apocalyptic, genocidal ideology; it became a kinky turn-on. 

Then there's Liliana Cavani's The Night Porter (1974). With its talented producers and classy cast (including The Damned stars Dirk Bogarde and Charlotte Rampling), Porter clearly wants to transcend trash. It offhandedly manages that, being not sleazy so much as boring.

Former SS officer Max (Dirk Bogarde) works as a night porter at a stylish hotel in 1950s Vienna. He's shocked to encounter Lucia (Charlotte Rampling), the wife of a famous conductor visiting the city. Lucia was one of Max's inmates at a concentration camp, where they pursued a sadomasochist relationship. The two eventually hook up, only to face a new problem. Max's former SS colleagues, targeted by a police investigation, come calling, hoping to silence Lucia. When Max tries to defend her, they besiege the lovers in their apartment.

The Night Porter is an overwrought mess. Cavani tries to ape Visconti's fevered approach to Nazism, resulting only in ill-judged artistry. Her ragged flashbacks recall The Pawnbroker, only cheesier: at one point, she intercuts a Mozart opera with a rape scene. Gag. The story quickly degenerates into ludicrous melodrama. Max and Lucia reunite and immediately reenact their Dachau routine. Max frets about the investigation but there's no evidence of any imminent danger. The cadre of ex-Nazis (one sporting a monocle and dueling scar!) belongs in a bad potboiler, not a serious drama. As Roger Ebert observed, there's no reason they don't immediately kill Max and Lucia except the movie would be over.

The Night Porter fails for another reason: neither protagonist is remotely interesting. To sell this story, you need psychological or dramatic credibility, traits Porter spectacularly lacks. Max is a nasty psychopath whose idea of charm is presenting his lover with a severed head, Salome-style. Lucia's sole trait is enjoying her sick defilement; no other back story or personality provided. There's no probing of either character's psyche, no depth or motivation; they're just sick monsters. Yet perversely, Cavani begs our sympathy when Max's colleagues seek vengeance. A full-blooded exploitation movie would at least avoid Porter's moral posturing.

Dirk Bogarde gives a strong performance to no avail; his character's too one-dimensional to be remotely credible. (Since Bogarde helped liberate Bergen-Belsen during World War II, one imagines he had deep reservations about this film.) At least he shows emotion, something Charlotte Rampling barely aspires to. Gabriele Ferzetti (Once Upon a Time in the West) provides classy menace as the Nazi leader, while Isa Miranda (Summertime) plays a washed-up countess. 

The Night Porter should stand as an abject warning: adding Nazis to your movie doesn't innately generate gravitas. That's something you have to earn through effective storytelling or powerful direction. Rather than a serious exploration of fascist sexuality, it's ostentatious sopor.

The Dregs of 2012: Rock of Ages and Savages

Last week I ripped into Snow White and the Huntsman, a paragon of Hollywood's brain dead blockbuster mentality. Well, that film's aggressive mediocrity suddenly seems refreshing. Courtesy of HBO, I viewed Rock of Ages and Savages this weekend, two excretions that redefine awful. If 2012 produced worse movies, please keep them to yourselves.

Rock of Ages (2012, Adam Shankman)

That Rock of Ages sucked was a given; musicals conceived on the same principle as KBox's '80s night don't leave much room for quality. But I wasn't prepared for how aggressively obnoxious it is. This movie spews venomous contempt for its audience, assuming nostalgists would flock to see Foreigner and Pat Benatar mangled by miscast stars. Thankfully, its poor box office proved it wrong.

Oklahoma ingenue Sherri Christian (Julianne Hough) arrives in Hollywood hoping to find music stardom. She lands a job at The Bourbon, a rock hotspot run by Dennis and Lonny (Alec Baldwin and Russell Brand), and falls for bar back Drew (Diego Boneta). Drew gets his big break opening for rocker Stacee Jaxx (Tom Cruise), but after Drew thinks Sherri slept with Stacee he dumps her, falling under the spell of cynical agent (Paul Giamatti). Sherri starts working as a stripper; Drew fronts a boy band. Somehow factoring in is Patricia Whitmore (Catherine Zeta-Jones), devoutly conservative wife of Los Angeles' Mayor (Bryan Cranston), who nurses a grudge against Stacee.

Rock of Ages is crassly cynical, an endless parade of '80s hits randomly assembled, plot and characters an afterthought. The shallow romance is crossed with inexplicable plot twists; Drew dumps Sherri over a misunderstanding, so of course Sherri becomes a pole dancer. Drew sells out in a painfully contrived arc, while Patricia's villainous machinations go nowhere and amount to nothing. The cast sings and dances well, but without characters to play it's for naught. Maybe onstage it's a blast; the movie's a torture session.

The songs are the main attraction, making their bizarre presentation all the more inexplicable. "Waiting for a Girl Like You" becomes a mawkish duet; Patricia performs "Hit Me With Your Best Shot" juxtaposed with her husband getting spanked (!!!); Sherri's boss (Mary J. Blige) uses "Anyway You Want It" to extoll the virtues of stripping; Stacee Jaxx belts outs "I Want To Know What Love Is" while boinking a Rolling Stone reporter (Malin Akerman). And can we please have a moratorium on "Don't Stop Believin'?" Journey's mawkish ballad sucked to begin with; Glee kicked it to death. Its presentation as a heartfelt love song makes a powerful purgative.

Julianne Hough (Footloose) and Diego Boneta are hopeless; Hough can at least sing, but neither can out-act an Old Navy mannequin. Tom Cruise received inexplicable praise for his extended cameo; he's his usual cocky twat, except drunk. Alec Baldwin and Russell Brand get the movie's one funny moment, coming out to "I Can't Fight This Feeling." Catherine Zeta-Jones is just awful, while Paul Giamatti, Mary J. Blige, Malin Akerman and Bryan Cranston flounder about haplessly. With this cast, Rock of Ages must have been fun to make; too bad that's not conveyed to the audience.

Savages (2012, Oliver Stone)

This brings us to Savages, the latest failure from Oliver Stone. Far removed from his Maestro of Excess days, Stone has produced 17 years of movies overwrought (Natural Born Killers), overreaching (Alexander), banal (World Trade Center) and baffling (W.). Here Stone injects a straight genre flick with overdoses of pretension and overbearing style. It isn't pretty.

A trio of Laguna Beach slackers run a lucrative marijuana business. Chon (Taylor Kitsch) is a mentally-scarred Army veteran; Ben (Aaron Johnson) a stoner surfer; O (Blake Lively) is a rich girl who loves them both. Things get hairy when Mexican kingpin Lado (Benicio Del Torro) contacts them with an enticing offer. This leads to a series of double crosses, kidnapping and shootouts, with Lado's wife (Salma Hayek) and a crooked DEA Agent (John Travolta) further mucking things up.

Remember my reviews of Hanna and Prophecy, where I ragged on auteurs helming genre movies? Here's Exhibit C. Stone returns to the jerky photography and feverish editing that made JFK and Nixon unique, but it only makes Savages incoherent. It's a slack-witted collection of shootouts, decapitations and rape scenes posturing as character study. Our heroes are friendly drug dealers who just want to screw and, like, invent renewable energy and stuff. After a long, bloody denouement, there's a twist more insulting than "It was all a dream." What a brilliant head fake! Bertolt Brecht's got nothing on you, Oliver.

Don't worry, the brilliance isn't confined to the ending. Writers Stone, Shane Salerno and Don Winslow supply dialogue befitting a Steven Seagal flick. "I had orgasms," O narrates a love scene with Chon; "he had wargasms." Whoa. Even better: "Ben was basically Buddhist... Chon was basically a Baddist." That's deep, man. Deeper still are Stone's potshots at Wall Street and the War on Drugs, deeming America "a nation of whores." Apparently this parade of sadistic violence, inept photography and brain-dead plotting is a statement, Stone's Traffic maybe. Both feature drugs, oft-kilter colors and Benicio Del Torro, right?

Taylor Kitsch ruined his shot at stardom with three massive flops in 2012: between this, Battleship and John Carter, he's forfeited any goodwill from TV's Friday Night Lights. Good riddance, as he makes Julianne Hough look like Maggie Smith. Aaron Johnson (Kick-Ass) isn't much better; the talented Blake Lively (The Town) can't overcome the godawful script. Benicio Del Torro and Salma Hayek fare better, playing their villains this side of burlesque. John Travolta shows up long enough to ruin several scenes.

* * *

What wonders does the 2013 summer movie season have in store? Stay tuned to find out!

Crazy, Stupid, Love

Two-thirds of the way through Crazy, Stupid, Love (2011) stops being a solid dramedy and decomposes into treacle. As with so many comedies, directors Glenn Ficara and John Requa can't take their idea to the finish line, falling back on resolutions either cliched or facile. It's a nice try anyway, mostly providing a romcom of unusual depth and feeling.

Cal Weaver (Steve Carell) and his wife Emily (Julianne Moore) split after Cal finds out she's been seeing coworker David (Kevin Bacon). Emily quickly regrets the breakup, fending off David's advances while managing teenaged son Robbie (Jonah Bobo). Cal fails pathetically on the dating scene until he meets Jacob (Ryan Gosling), a smooth womanizer who takes Cal under his wing. Cal gains confidence to start dating, while Jacob falls unexpectedly for Hannah (Emma Stone), a law student with her own ideas about love.

Crazy, Stupid, Love captures something of the messy truth about relationships. Cal and Emily provide a realistic couple whose relationship grows stale. The two met in high school, a sweet story until the circumstances come out; there's more work put into marriage than being a soul mate. Emily's fling is a cry of desperation but leads to trouble when David develops feelings for Emily. Hannah initially rejects Jacob's advances, holding on to her drippy boyfriend (Josh Groban) who seems to love her. She runs to Jacob in a weak moment but discovers depth beneath his sculptured abs and suave demeanor. For his part, Jacob enjoys his lady killer lifestyle and is shocked when he falls for Hannah.

Writer Dan Fogelman skilfully mixes humor with characterization. The movie's big laughs come from Cal's hilariously inept dating strategy, inevitably recalling The 40 Year Old Virgin, but presents them in clever fashion: he beds Robbie's English teacher (Marissa Tomei) by being ruthlessly honest! The highpoint involves Jacob's abortive one-night stand with Hannah; instead of "banging" all night they bond over massage chairs and intimate conversation. It's funny, heartfelt and affecting, a brilliant centerpiece that gets everything right. Sure, there's no need for the annoying subplot with Robbie and his babysitter (Analeigh Tipton), but that comes with the territory.

Unfortunately, Crazy, Stupid, Love eventually moves wholesale to that territory. The final 30 minutes completely derail, pulling out mawkish cliches alongside some decidedly odd twists. The big revelation(s) about Hannah comes with no set up and seems a curve ball designed specifically to create friction between Cal and Jacob. Silver Linings Playbook went a similar route but there the cliches and twists feel almost organic; it "earns" its happy ending. When Crazy degenerates into a slapstick fight and sexting jokes, before leaning on a 13 year old to tell us the unvarnished truth, we've taken a wrong turn somewhere.

Steve Carell anchors the film with a fine performance. Best-known for TV's The Office, Carrel balances comedy and drama with equal adeptness, getting some of the funniest scenes (seducing Kate) and most heartfelt (his "break up" with Jacob and end speech to Emily). Julianne Moore plays more or less the straight woman, heartbroken but sincere, instantly regretting her break with Cal. Kevin Bacon makes Dave likeable rather than sleazy, a smart approach. John Carroll Lynch (Zodiac) plays Cal's friend as a nice guy, but Marissa Tomei (The Ides of March) is a comic nutter. Singer Josh Groban cameos as Hannah's pathetic boyfriend. Only the kid actors flop, hurt more by lousy writing than their performances.

But it's the younger couple who steals the show. Ryan Gosling plays outside his somnambulist pretty boy persona, to great effect. Jacob reveals layers to his ladies' man act, making an unlikely friend in Cal and forging an unexpected connection with Hannah. Emma Stone, fresh off her breakout role in Easy A, is a revelation. Beautiful, charming and sassy, she's immensely likeable and makes Hannah a rounded character, smart and serious but romantically frustrated. The two make an appealing couple, both attractive and likeable, getting the movie's best scenes.

Crazy, Stupid, Love is so good for its first 90 minutes that it's possible to downplay its cloying conclusion. I'm always happy to see a romantic comedy that aims higher than the Katherine Heigl demographic, so cheers. Too bad about the ending.

Carousel

After the massive success of Oklahoma! (1955), Fox re-teamed Gordon McRae and Shirley Jones for another Rodgers and Hammerstein musical. Carousel (1956) is an excellent stage show hampered by indifferent filmic staging; fortunately, the source material is good enough to shine through.

At a New England carnival, young Julie Jordan (Shirley Jones) meets fast-talking carousel barker Billy Bigelow (Gordon McRae). Even after being warned of Billy's lecherous ways Julie falls for him. The two marry but endure a rocky marriage, with Billy sponging off Julie's Cousin Nettie (Claramae Turner) instead of working. After Julie becomes pregnant, Billy joins with two-bit hood Jigger (Cameron Mitchell) in a botched robbery. Billy dies, returning to earth 15 years later to help his daughter (Susan Luckey) avoid a similar fate.

It's obvious why Carousel isn't listed among the great screen musicals. Henry King's static direction lacks the skill of his Westerns like The Gunfighter, rarely expanding beyond lazy master shots. Even the choreography rarely transcends competence, save the marvelous, wordless "Carousel Waltz" opening. The awkward mixture of seaside exteriors and hokey sets don't help either. Despite beautiful Cinemascope photography it doesn't even begin to approach the visual dynamism of Singin' in the Rain and My Fair Lady.

But Carousel transcends its mediocre staging. Rodgers and Hammerstein produced some of their most beautiful songs for this show, wonderful compositions that will appeal even to non-musical fans. Besides the aforementioned "Carousel Waltz," the best numbers are the simplest staged. Billy gets the lovely "Soliloquy," musing proudly over his unborn child, which redeems what's been a lousy character. The big showstopper is "You'll Never Walk Alone," sung as a heartrending solo by Claramae Turner. These wonderful songs alone make Carousel worthwhile.

Carousel is a loose adaptation of Liliom, Ferenc Molnar's fantasy of Heavenly redemption made into a memorable Fritz Lang film. We wince at some of the dated assumptions about gender (maybe getting smacked around does hurt, Julie) but the attempts at crafting flawed musical protagonists are admirable. Less admirable is the moral espoused by "Stonecutters Cut It On Stone"; falling between good and bad shouldn't mean well-intentioned wife beater. But the charming story of love and redemption compensates for these mixed messages. Billy manages to overcome a rotten, aimless life, performing a simple act of charity that saves his daughter from oblivion.

Gordon McRae is good mixing masculine bluster with reluctant romanticism, making Billy's pathetic tragedy palpable. Shirley Jones makes a perfect match, sweetly naive, then bewildered by her husband and daughter. Cameron Mitchell gets a rare standout role as a loathsome heel; Barbara Ruick's Carrie makes a good match for Julie. Claramae Turner belts out the big number with aplomb and Susan Luckey is endearing in her brief appearance. Groggy favorite Gene Lockhart (Hangmen Also Die!) contributes a minor role.

Carousel is an enjoyable show. There are plenty of great songs on offer, which help overcome its underwhelming presentation.