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dir. Sam Wood
writ. James Kevin McGuinnes (story), George S. Kaufman & Morrie Ryskind (screenplay)
feat. Groucho Marx, Chico Marx, Harpo Marx, Kitty Carlisle, Allan Jones, Walter Woolf King, Sig Ruman, Margaret Dumont
What praise hasn't been written about the Marx brothers? Somewhere, some joker has surely penned a doctoral dissertation on Harpo as a symbol of the unfettered id, likely deliberately omitting his importance as the one who gets the job done, even if that job is banging someone on the head with a hammer. I can only skirt the fray on the bros, their sharp circular word play reminiscent of the needful escapism of my high school years when a friend and I would run similar language loop-de-loops in efforts to alternately confuse, irritate and entertain each other. But no one else found those gags funny (or coherent), where the writers behind the Marx routines rouse the viewer to delightfully absurd, and lofty, heights. The contract negotiations between Groucho and Chico play illiteracy against the nonsense of legalese, the latter ensnaring the former until the men stumble into a verbose mess and simply tear their way free. In the process, the brothers' way of handling the world is demonstrated; they create the problem, then leave it behind.
But it is aggressive lunacy, best personified by hammer wielding Harpo but embraced by the whole troupe, that pushes both the humor and craftsmanship to transcendent peaks. Groucho's casual acceptance of the overcrowded stateroom, welcoming each new and increasingly ridiculous arrival, amplifies the humor, his easygoing manner highlighting the chaos by remaining above it. He is the master of ceremonies and won't be drawn into the turmoil.
And to remind the audience that these boys aren't just about comedy, the song and dance scene where Chico and Harpo take up instruments on the ship showcases the range of their talents. First, a dance number that seems to spout from a feverish Busby Berkeley, the participants whirling in a frenzy, just shy of collision, followed by Chico's nimble turn at the piano, his fingers dancing as wildly as those preceding him. Harpo steps in next, pretending to be all fists at the keys, but cleverly so, banging in rhythm, all for show, before changing gears to demonstrate his elegance on the instrument of his namesake. These musical interludes might seem like a pleasant diversion to some, a break from the breathless comic antics and verbal sparring. But without them the Marx brothers would be so much less. They add depth to the reality of the films, where not only do the fellas connive, disrupt, and deceive, but where they stop to play, to bring joy and beauty to those around them.
dir. Wes Anderson
writ. Wes Anderson & Noah Baumbach (screenplay), Roald Dahl (book)
feat. George Clooney, Meryl Streep, Jason Schwartzman, Bill Murray, Wallace Wolodarsky, Eric Chase Anderson, Michael Gambon, Willem Dafoe
Things were beginning to look bleak. It had been over a decade since any genuine emotion had been slipped into a Wes Anderson film, traded time and time again for hipster-chic ennui, until even that was depleted for The Darjeeling Limited. But here, in an animated adaptation of a not-so-popular children's story, a heart beats. Maybe it's the perfect combination, the often sticky sweet moral tales aimed at children balanced by Anderson's impulse to drain the breath out of his subjects.
Whatever the chemistry, Fantastic Mr. Fox springs forth in all its stop-motion glory, introducing living creatures full of energy and ambition facing challenges both physical and emotional. The fur flies at a pleasantly gripping pace, Mr. Fox (Clooney) leading the adventurous charge. And while this struggle for survival is peppered with humorous reminders that these are actually wild animals, conflicted in their sophisticated, anthropomorphic pursuits, it also pauses for several heartfelt moments, one that is remarkably touching, that explore that contradiction with satisfying depth.
With risks of violent death, broken relationships, and potentially irreversible alienation, the film challenges categorization as a children's tale. And though the youngsters behind me in the theater were frequently distracted, even singing little songs during long bouts of dialogue, they fell silent in the more riveting action-packed scenes, then whispered about their favorite parts. While our lists may not match, I was pleased to know that we both enjoyed the ride.
dir. Maurice Pialat
writ. Arlette Langmann & Maurice Pialat
feat. Sandrine Bonnaire, Maurice Pialat, Christophe Odent, Dominique Besnehard, Cyril Collard, Jacques Fieschi, Valerie Schlumberger, Evelyne Ker
Pialat's twist on the coming-of-age story of a teenage girl unravels like real life, without any easy answers and plenty of room for judgment from outsiders. Suzanne (Bonnaire) hops from bed to bed, casually taking new lovers at the slightest show of interest on their part. Whether she is a free spirit or a misguided young girl one can't rightly say, likely a combination of both. The film works like a play, throwing the viewer into the mix without the common introduction to ordinary life, a delightfully unsettling way to reveal the characters. When Suzanne's father (Pialat) announces his departure, claiming he can't take it any longer, we've yet to discover the hell in which he has left her, both brother and mother constantly hysterical and abusive (sadly to a degree that challenges their plausibility).
It's hard to blame Suzanne for finding solace in sex, the only joy that stirs her, the only connection she makes with others aside from her father. Armchair psychologists might casually insist that she's trying to fill that hole, failing to find a man substantive enough to live up to expectations, with which she can share the same obvious and easy connection that she does with Dad. But that would be an overly simplistic interpretation of a character more complex and difficult to pinpoint. It is this defiance of convenient analysis, paired with with compelling performances by Bonnaire and Pialat, that makes A nos amours such a lively and absorbing film.
dir. Mario Monacelli
writ. Angenore Incrocci, Furio Scarpelli, Suso Cecchi d'Amico & Mario Monacelli (screenplay), Angenore Incrocci & Furio Scarpelli (story)
feat. Vittorio Gassman, Renato Salvatori, Memmo Carotenuto, Rossanna Rory, Carla Gravina, Claudia Cardinale, Carlo Pisacane, Tiberio Murgia, Marcello Mastroianni, Toto
This loose-limbed send up of Rififi rolls amiably through a tale of a hodgepodge gang of bums and crooks joining together to rip off a pawn shop. Trading the taut procedural style of its target for a meandering yet engaging series of gags and character introductions, the story moves joyfully along, winsome and relaxing, with plenty of easy laughs. The inept batch of hoodwinks fall on luck both good and bad, eventually leading them to the big night. Oddly, this is where the plan falters, for the film as much as the heist, the charismatic mood betrayed by sudden seriousness, the laughs slipping, actions suddenly predictable and uninspired. Fortunately, the story soon rights itself with a blissful turn, restoring the airy feeling and scoring a handful of winning moments that complete the tale more effectively than on might have thought possible.
dir. Martin Scorsese
writ. Edith Wharton (novel), Jay Cocks & Martin Scorsese (screenplay)
feat. Daniel Day-Lewis, Michelle Pfeiffer, Winona Ryder, Alexis Smith, Geraldine Chaplin
I suppose that rules make stories of tension and rebellion possible, the needed restrictions against which to chafe and, if lucky, break free. But I can't see my way around The Age of Innocence, even its trite title too deliberate in its intentions. A key problem is that I can't be sold on shallow characterization being blamed on a time period, a type of forged history based on slack romantic texts and and legal documents of an era. Films have long leaned on these conventions for weak shows of melodrama, trading a well-rounded reality for lazy storytelling. Just watch Gone with the Wind for a prime example. Thankfully, there is also relief, refreshing depth flashing on the screen in very early films, such as those of Murnau, Pabst, and Ozu. Granted, they have a limit in their reach, only able to save people from entrapment in a batch of dull stereotypes as far back as the moving picture medium existed.
So, we suffer the stories of earlier centuries, by writers and directors guided by nostalgia and a desire to pity those foolish, unenlightened primitives. Here we are tormented by a dry, deadened tale by Edith Wharton, her so-called incisive wit and criticism of late 19th century upper-class New Yorkers suspect for her position within the fold. I've not read the book, but the gratingly snide narration by Joanne Woodward, screams of someone far more despicable than the characters she mocks. This is no whistle-blower, eager to reveal the faults of the system, but a gossiping spinster, reveling in the private pain of conservative, emotionally handicapped rich people.
Perhaps, it's a revenge fantasy, Wharton's smack back at a husband who would rather spend time with other women, her secret wish to bind him up emotionally, saddle him with otherwise absent conflict. But it requires not just an old-fashioned appreciation for minor drama (big oohs and aahs please when it's revealed that she thought that he thought so-and-so the whole time), but also a withered husk's sense of humor, tittering behind gloved hands coyly, and ineffectually, covering smug grins. This it seems should read as sophisticated, instead of childish. Sorry, no dice. Worse yet, in its over emphasis of small details and a push to wring pain from conflicted desire, the film attempts to be aggressively sublime, seeking a reaction that must be gradually earned, finessed, not demanded like it's some kind of gangster picture.
dir Claude Sautet
writ. Jose Giovanni (novel & dialogue), Claude Saute, Jose Giovanni and Pascal Jardin (adaptation)
feat. Lino Ventura, Sandra Milo, Jean-Paul Belmondo, Marcel Dalio, Michel Ardan, Simone France, Stan Krol
In Sautet's French twist on American noir, the focus shifts from the crime to the personal lives of the criminals. Abel Davos (Ventura) is a family man on the run, clearly still hooked on the adventure of his chosen life, but currently more concerned with moving his family to a safe new home. Tragedy and deceit naturally ensue, but so does an unexpected new friend and ally, in Eric Stark (Belmondo). As Eric joins forces with Abel, he slips into the family dynamic, a fraternal cameraderie between the two men and an avuncular role with Abel's young boys.
The film bounces between Abel's dual quest for safety and revenge and lingering moments of normalcy, family being family or Eric trying to get the girl. Trust and loyalty are tested and punishments administered, though the outcome of the story (particularly given an ending that seems uncertain of the filmmaker's conviction) comes second to the theme that an ordinary life is the ultimate goal even for killers and thieves.
dir. Ivan Reitman
writ. Dan Aykroyd and Harold Ramis, Rick Moranis (uncredited)
feat. Bill Murray, Dan Aykroyd, Sigourney Weaver, Harold Ramis, Rick Moranis, Annie Potts, William Atherton, Ernie Hudson, David Margulies
Ghost Busters is an astounding example of pitch perfect storytelling, a near miraculous balance of action, comedy, and pacing. The jokes fly wildly (not carelessly), moving with the story, never slowing it down for a slack jawed audience to obediently laugh before waiting for the next one. In early slower moments, the filmmakers wisely use Bill Murray to charm his way through character development. Exposition is revved up with the techno-geek patter of Aykroyd and Ramis, with Murray breaking it down for the layman with amusing interruptions.
And of course, there are ghosts, still fun and functional 25 years later, despite advances in special effects, thanks largely to the sharp decision not to make the appearance of the ghosts particularly important to the story. Also, when you climax with a giant, round, soft-edged marshmallow man, you make it easier for 80s effects wizards to create something both plausible and entertaining.
A few 80s songs off the soundtrack sting the ears, though the film largely escapes the worst pains of aging. This enduring success and survival is the result of Ghost Busters swift and limber pacing, a head of steam fueled by a terrific roster of top talent, in synch in tone and commitment to an energized, playful story.
