THE OTHER SIDE OF THE
WIND (2018)
I have been
reading about and anticipating seeing this film since I first become entranced
by movies and cinematic history. That was when I was in my early 20s. I am now
62 and director Orson Welles has been dead for 33 years.
I can now say
that I’ve seen the master’s final film; or, more accurately, I’ve seen a
collection of half-baked improvised scenes that Welles shot between 1970 and
1974, assembled, with the best intentions, by Welles' acolyte Peter Bogdanovich
and others.
What is clear,
more than anything on the screen, is that the reason Welles never finished
editing the footage is that he realized, at some point, that he didn’t have a
film among the thousands of hours of celluloid. He had an idea about a
legendary director who, trying to recapture his relevancy, makes a film in the
style of the hip 1960s and '70s films yet fails to attract financial backing.
As much as he denied it, Welles was making a film about himself and he kept
shooting scene after scene in hopes of creating something worthy of his
reputation. He failed, and he knew it.
What remains
is an incoherent collage of indulgence, with little discernible story or
characterization, nothing close to the bravado filmmaking style we associate
with Welles or the intellectual rigor he brought to all his films. It almost
feels like a practical joke Welles was playing on everyone involved, never
imagining that someone (ironically his off-and-on friend/rival Bogdanovich)
would pull it together and call it an "Orson Welles film."
This film, if
you can call it that, should be avoided by all but Welles’ completists.
Most of the
movie is set at an industry party in which this much-anticipated new film by Jake
Hannaford (a seemingly uninterested John Huston) will be screened. A collection
of crew members, sycophants, assorted directors and film critics mingle as Hannaford
rambles from one room to another, insulting anyone who crosses him. Whatever
impact these encounters might have had in the script (if there ever was one—another
Welles scam) disappears on screen, largely because the director’s chaotic
filming schedule.
Conversations
between Huston and party-goers were often shot years apart—as the frenetic
cutting and different film stocks reveal—and never were all these performers in
the same room, as detailed in journalist Josh Karp’s book “Orson Welles’s Last
Movie.” The disconnect between characters is painfully obvious; there’s not
a snippet of dialogue in the film that
feel real nor a moment of sincerity.
If I hadn’t
read the book on this film, I wouldn’t have had a clue as to what was going on.
What I was left with was spotting familiar faces in the crowd.
Those with
substantial roles include Bogdanovich (replacing comedian Rich Little, who quit
the film with no explanation months into filming) as a confidant and punching
bag of Hannaford, along with veteran character actors Cameron Mitchell, Paul
Stewart, Mercedes McCambridge, Edmond O’Brien and Norman Foster. Seen briefly
are Susan Strasberg as a Pauline Kael-like critic, Lilli Palmer as the party
hostess, directors Paul Mazursky, Dennis Hopper and Henry Jaglom as themselves,
while among the extras, reportedly, are now disgraced ex-CBS president Les Moonves
and future writer-director Cameron Crowe, then a teenager.
Another
prominent role is played by 23-year-old Wisconsin film critic Joe McBride, who
connected with Welles by going to Larry Edmund’s Bookstore on Hollywood Boulevard, where he was given
Bogdanovich’s phone number and, within a day, receiving an invite to Welles
home. Life, even Hollywood, was simpler in 1970. (McBride has gone on to a
successful career as an author, critic and film teacher.)
But actually
anyone of a certain age should consider adding this film to their CV—no one
will ever know if it’s true.
The film within
the film, which is titled “The Other Side of the Wind,” is Welles’ attempt to
parody the emotional disconnect of 1960s art films of Michelangelo Antonioni. Welles'
longtime mistress, Croatian actress Oja Kodar plays a mysterious seductress who
has sex with a young man in a car and then, completely naked, chases him across
various landscapes. It may be the longest continuous nude performance outside a
porn film in movie history.
According to
the book, Welles kept spending more and more money—while paying his crew and
actors only occasionally—with, in my judgment, no plans to finish the movie.
While Welles was unquestionably one of the greatest talents ever to sit in a
director’s chair, he was ill-equipped to deal with the compromises required to
survive in Hollywood. And to get his way, he was more than willing to
exaggerate and lie. He spent years deceiving investors, critics and movie fans
about the progress of the film and then would renege on promises after he
received the money he needed.
Even after
his death in 1985, the picture remained in limbo mostly due to the bickering of
his daughter Beatrice and Kodar and the reluctance of anyone—offers were made
to Steven Spielberg, Oliver Stone and Clint Eastwood—to “finish” the film.
Sad to say, but
it might have been much better if this film had never been seen, remaining a
legendary lost film, like Alexander Korda's "I, Claudius" or Josef
von Sternberg's original version of "Greed." Instead, the genie is
out of the bottle and it’s not the last great film it was sold as for decades.
It adds
nothing to Welles legacy as a filmmaker, which remains pretty safe with no less
than five great films, including his debut, “Citizen Kane,” which remains the
best movie ever made by an American.
"The Other
Side of the Wind" is the perfect title for this collection of scraps from
the table of a boisterous, charismatic one-time boy wonder who had run out of
ideas. There is nothing on the other side.
A STAR IS BORN (2018)
You could write
a fascinating book about the four versions (five if you include “What Price
Hollywood?” the 1932 source of the story) of this quintessential show business
cautionary tale.
It’s unusual
that any story not based on a classic piece of literature has been remade so
many times, but these characters and their fate connects to filmgoers in 2018
just as strongly as they did in the Great Depression, the 1950s and 1970s.
At the center
of all versions is alcoholism and the difficulty men have to taking a secondary
position in a relationship, whether in the movie industry as seen in William
Wellman's 1937 drama and the 1954 George Cukor musical or the two recent
versions focused on singer-songwriters.
You know you are
in for more than your standard Hollywood recycling job when, in the opening
sequence of the new version, country-rock star Jackson Maine (Bradley Cooper),
on his way back from a concert, orders his limo driver to find a bar after
emptying a whisky bottle.
Maine spots a
lighted door down an alleyway and directs the drive to pull over. Inside, the
jam-packed bar features female impersonators except for one Ally (Lady Gaga), a
singer as dramatic as the impersonators, who delivers an unforgettable version
of Edith Piaf’s “En la via Rose,” that totally captivates the visiting
celebrity.
Ushered into
the dressing room, Maine autographs a “girl’s” fake boobs and flirts with Ally,
convincing her to get coffee with him. They spend most of the late night-early
morning together, talking about her singing and songwriting.
This leisurely
meet-cute sequence feels like it plays out in real time--it easily lasts for 20
minutes--and the dialogue between Maine and Ally sounds unscripted. At least in
the early scenes of the film, Lady Gaga’s lack of acting skills are a plus; her
reaction to the attention from a national celebrity seems authentic as is her
reluctance to take center stage.
More so than
previous versions, the drinking of Maine is shown to be a problem from the
start and, maybe this is a sign of the times, Ally’s fame isn’t presented as
the source of his addiction.
The film loses
some of its energy during its second act as Ally’s career blossoms and she
acquiesces to being remade into a pop diva. Cooper, who directs and also
co-adapted the screenplay from all the previous pictures, straddles the fence
on making judgments on what Ally is willing to do for stardom, how she wants to
use her musical talent. (Ironically, a question that could be addressed to Lady
Gaga herself.)
Lady Gaga,
whose natural charisma makes up for her amateur acting, and Cooper, who
performs his own songs and never shies away from the dark aspects of the
character give the very definition of movie star performances.
In addition,
there's Sam Elliott, bringing his usual cool presence and unaffected acting, as
Maine’s older brother and manager. Here’s hoping the awards campaign for the
film will also deliver an Oscar nominations for Elliott.
This year’s “A
Star Is Born” isn’t the great film that the 1937 and 1954 versions are, but
it’s a well-written, memorably acted entertainment, benefiting from the
powerful voice of Lady Gaga, that seems destined to add to the franchise's
collection of Oscar nominations.
THE ODD COUPLE (1968)
and LOST IN YONKERS (1993)
Few writers,
Shakespeare and Arthur Conan Doyle come to mind, have been the source of more
motion pictures than playwright Neil Simon, who died in August at the age of
91.
During his most
productive 20-year period, from 1968 to 1988, his plays or original scripts
were the source for 20 features, along with two television series based on “The
Odd Couple” and eight TV movies. At least for a time, audiences couldn’t get
enough of Simon’s New York-centered, bickering comedies.
While I wasn't
a fan of most of his works—he couldn’t resist a sentimental emotion or a
hackneyed characterization (I never want to see "Sunshine Boys" or
"Goodbye Girl" again)—he did write some memorable comedies in his
early years and, near the end of his writing life, displayed the skill of
making universal a retelling of his youth.
“The Odd
Couple” remains one of the quintessential comedies in Broadway history and, on
screen, retains its dark, irascible tone while delivering on its classic comic
setup, worthy of Preston Sturges. Jack Lemmon gives one of his defining
performances as clean-freak Felix Ungar who, after his wife throws him out and
a few half-hearted suicide attempts, moves in with the ultimate uncouth bachelor,
Oscar Madison (a snarling Walter Matthau).
While some of
the humor feels dated—and why wouldn’t it after a half a century?—most of the
punch lines still work as does the physical humor done to perfection by these
superb actors.
The long scene
with the Pigeon sisters, a pair of British gals who live upstairs, on a double
date with an anxious Oscar and a reluctant Felix is a superbly written and
performed comedy classic.
Both Matthau
and Lemmon over-act to the hilt, seemingly trying to outdo the other, but it
works, especially since these characters have gained legendary status.
Lemmon’s
performance owes much to Art Carney’s original stage performance as Felix—I
noticed a handful of gesture that come directly from Carney’s Ed Norton in “The
Honeymooners.” This role was made for Carney, but he wasn’t a movie star, so
Lemmon, the perfect replacement, got the role.
The more
serious side of Simon is best represented by “Lost in Yonkers,” a remembrance
play (and movie) about a pair of brothers forced to stay with their strict
Jewish grandmother (Irene Worth) and her mentally challenged daughter (Mercedes
Ruehl). The story serves as both a coming of age, autobiographical tale as the
boys get a large helping of real life away from the protection of their father
and a heartfelt tale of the boys’ aunt, who is determined to find a place in
the world despite her handicap.
Ruehl gives
an emotionally unrelenting yet thoughtful performance as Bella, whose heart is
broken when a young man (David Strathairn) is afraid to commit to their
relationship after she stands up for her rights to her mother and shady brother
(Richard Dreyfuss, in one of his most entertaining roles). That she wasn’t
nominated for an Oscar is a crime.
“Lost in
Yonkers” is a finely structured slice of time story that, for me, played better
in 2018 than it did when I saw it when it was released.
There are a
few other Simon-penned pictures that I’ve enjoyed: the Peter Falk-led “Murder
by Death” (1976) is one of the funniest comedies of the late 70s; the
histrionics of Lemmon and Anne Bancroft in "The Prisoner of Second
Avenue" (1975) crack open a marriage on the brink; and the always
hilarious Alan Arkin as a failed lothario in "Last of the Red Hot
Lovers" (1972).
Simon may not
be considered in the same play writing league with contemporaries Sam Shepard,
Edward Albee or August Wilson, but his popularity was unmatched in his time and
out of that came a few timeless gems.
FIRST MAN (2018)
I’m not sure
why it took almost 50 years for Hollywood to launch a film about the landing on
the Moon. The event was only the most spectacular accomplishment since Columbus
ran into North America—just maybe worthy of a motion picture.
Both a biography
of Neil Armstrong and a chronicle of the 1960s space program that leads up to
July 20, 1969, the film opens in spectacular fashion, joining Armstrong in
mid-flight of a rocky test run into the stratosphere. Better than any films
I’ve seen, “First Man” captures the traumatic, beyond frightening experience of
travelling outside Earth’s atmosphere.
This is clearly
a job for an exceptional human being; ironically, Armstrong seems anything but
exceptional.
A taciturn
loner who recedes further from socializing when his young daughter dies of
cancer, the Armstrong (Ryan Gosling) of the film makes up for his lack of
personality with an unrelentingly dedication to the space program. It earns his
a sport in the Gemini program—the bridge between the early “Right Stuff” guys'
Mercury program and the Moon-bound Apollo flights.
By the early
1960s, the Soviets are leading the space race and no one at NASA or in
Washington is very happy about it. The film doesn’t shy away from U.S. failures
along the way and the deadly risks faced every time another rocket was
launched.
At the same
time that the space program is encountering ups and downs, Armstrong’s
relationship with his wife (a riveting Claire Foy, Queen Elizabeth in "The
Crown") and family grow more and more distant. He has become so
laser-focused on his job and the mission that even the news that he will pilot
Apollo 11 happens with little fanfare. Program director Deke Slayton (Kyle
Chandler) tells him in the men’s restroom, almost as an aside, that he will be
headed to the Moon. No high-fives or champagne popping; Armstrong, like most of
the astronauts, are professionals doing a job.
Director Damien
Chazelle grounds the film in that sentiment, letting the audience appreciate
the accomplishment of it all, rather than having the characters serve as
cheerleaders. Working from another smart script from Josh Singer (“Spotlight,”
“The Post”), Chazelle digs into the details of space travel and the incredible
stress placed on everyone in the program.
The director
wisely leaves the dramatic for the real moments, like piloting a capsule to the
Moon’s surface. For anyone who was watching the evening of July 20 when
Armstrong and Buzz Aldrin walked on the Moon’s surface—surreal, something out
of a Jules Verne novel—this film will resonate deeply. What cinematographer
Linus Sandgren is able to recreate is pretty astonishing.
It’s both an
advertisement for the potential of American ingenuity and grit and, at the same
time, a sad reminder that space exploration, so glorious in the 1960s and 70s,
has been dismissed by the U.S. as too expensive.
On paper, this
would seem to be a role of a lifetime for Gosling, but the performance feels
minor compared to the big picture of the story. No doubt he’s nailed
Armstrong—the John Glenn of this group—but his unemotional, almost anonymous
portrayal left me wanting for a tad more insight into this complex man.
I wasn’t much
of a fan of Chazelle’s previous, critically acclaimed films (“Whiplash” and “La
La Land”), but he clearly is a talented filmmaker and his work here should be
in the mix at Oscar time. Like Alfonso Cuarón’s “Gravity” and Denis
Villeneuve's "Arrival,” “First Man” brings a bit of needed awe to the big
screen. And this time, it’s about the real thing.
THE THIRD DAY (1965)
As I move,
slowly, into my seventh decade, movies of a certain vintage have become much
like comfort foods. Not sure if the phrase "comfort movies" has been
coined but for me it perfectly describes films from the mid 1960s to the late
'70s.
In general I'm
not talking about the great films of the era, but middle-of-the-road
programmers that filled screen between prestige Oscar-bound features.
It doesn't
really matter how good the movies are; just that they feature a handful of
familiar faces in the cast and a modicum of snappy dialogue and interesting
settings.
"The
Third Day" fits the bill to a T. This nondescript, by the numbers thriller
stars George Peppard, at the pinnacle of his fame after hit films "Breakfast
at Tiffany's" (1961) and "The Carpetbaggers" (1964), as Steve
Mallory, a wealthy, self-indulgent businessman who loses his memory after a car
crash. He doesn't remember anything--who he is, his wife, his job, his history,
even the woman who died in the car he walked away from.
But he seems
rather pleased to discover that he's married to an attractive, if discontent
young woman (Elizabeth Ashley) and runs a large plant that employs most of the
town's citizens.
The day after
he arrives back home remembering nothing, he and the company's board must
decide if they will sell the company or retool it to save the jobs. A version
of this plot showed up in almost every crime-solving TV series of the era,
though most made more sense. In almost every scene, one of the character acts
irrationally.
But few films
can boast of such a sparkling cast.
In the first
20 minutes of the film, a familiar face makes an appearance in every scene:
Roddy McDowall playing the arrogant, deceitful brother-in-law; Mona Washington
as the motherly aunt; Herbert Marshall as the comatose patriarch; Robert Webber
as the eager district attorney; Arthur O'Connell as the family's clueless
doctor; Vincent Gardenia as a hot-headed union organizer; Sally Kellerman as the
trampy woman Mallory's mixed up with; and Arte Johnson (of "Laugh-In"
fame) as her piano-playing, vengeful husband.
I kept
expecting Robert Wagner to show up as a
corporate lawyer or George Kennedy to appear as a bartender. And I'm not
sure why there wasn't a role for Lee Grant as the randy sister-in-law.
At the time of
this film, Peppard was poised to continue as one of Hollywood's leading men into
the 1970s, but personal problems waylaid his film career. Instead, he turned to
television, where he starred in 1972-74 as the cool investigator in
"Banacek" and then, in the 1980s, as part of the hit comedy-action
series "The A-Team."
"Third
Day" director Jack Smight, one of the top TV directors of the 1950s and
early '60s, would make use of another great cast in his next film
"Harper," a classic Paul Newman detective picture and one of the eras
defining movies.
Smight's run of features, before he returned to
television, included "Kaleidoscope" (1966) with Warren Beatty,
"The Illustrated Man" (1969) with Rod Steiger and "Rabbit,
Run" (1970) starring James Caan in John Updike's classic.
So instead of
lamenting the lack of charismatic, familiar supporting players in contemporary
films, I'll just keep going back to those classic years, finding movies that,
despite lacking in artistic merit, serve as cinematic class reunions.
THE WIFE (2018) and COLETTE
(2018)
Along with the
well-documented sexual subjugation that has gone on for centuries, women have
also endured men hijacking their artistic achievements through the years, often
by those closest to them.
Good timing
brings two such stories--one fiction, one based on historical record--of women
whose literary skills were used by husbands to promote their own careers.
In “The Wife,”
Glenn Close plays Joan Castleman, the devoted wife of celebrated novelist Joe
Castleman (Jonathan Pryce), whose lifetime of work has just earned him the
ultimate literary prize, a Nobel. As the celebrations and preparation for the
Nobel ceremony in Stockholm commence, the cracks in this long union begin to show,
aggravated by a pushy wannabe biographer (Christian Slater), who hopes to
circumvent Joe’s insistent “no.”
What emerges
is a woman who has stayed in the shadow of her famous husband, putting aside
her own, very promising, writing career, at a time--the 1950s and '60s--when
women did that regularly.
If the plot,
especially when it involves their adult son, a struggling writer, feels a bit
pat with bickering that becomes redundant, the subtle, multi-layered
performances by Close and Pryce carry the film. Swedish director Björne Runge
tries too hard to make every scene a dramatic high point, making the film seem a
bit stagey.
Close, who has
been nominated six times for Oscars, has never been one of my favorites; her
performances usually seem a bit too calculated for my taste. But here she
soars, revealing all the frustrations and bitterness that women through the
ages have kept to themselves. It is her finest work on the big screen and
should score her nomination number seven.
Keira Knightley
plays late 19th Century sensation Colette, who enters the literary
world when she marries an older man, who is a friend of the family and a
literary con-man. I’ve read about his type before, not uncommon in the era; a
high-profile, man-about-town whose bylines in newspapers and magazines have
made him famous, but the stories are written by those in his hire.
He becomes the
public face and receiver of accolades though his talent is as an aggregator,
not creator.
In the case of Henri
Gauthier-Villars, known as Willy (Dominic West), he enlists his clever wife
into his operation soon after they are married, first as an editor and then
taking credit for her stories about her youth. The “Claudine” books become a
Paris sensation, with their teasing sexuality, vaulting Willy and Colette to
celebrity status. Though Colette is the true author, she acquiesces to this
masquerade, for a time.
The film has
some holes; leaps of time and logic that had me questioning how close the film was
sticking to the truth and making it difficult to lay blame. But director Wash
Westmoreland ("Still Alice") certainly knows how to get the most out
of his actresses; Knightley hasn't been this convincing since "Pride and
Prejudice" when she was 20.
Eventually,
Colette begins exploring her dormant desire for women, becoming a stage
sensation in a provocative lesbian review (it has to be seen to be believed;
especially considering early 20th Century mores).
But she does
finally received her literary credit and is now remembered as a barrier-breaking
writer, while her husband is long forgotten. Time, the avenger.
WHERE IS KYRA? (2018)
I think
Michelle Pfeiffer gives a pretty good performances in this indie picture about
a down-on-her-luck middle-aged woman who takes desperate measures to survive.
But I'm not sure: trying to be hip and European, director Andrew Dosunmu and
his cinematographer Bradford Young ("Arrival") shoot most of the film
in long shot and using available lighting. Even in the most dramatic moments, I
couldn't swear under oath that the actress is Pfeiffer.
At least
one-third of the film was incoherent because of the way Dosunma shoots and
directs the picture. I'm sure he would argue that he's representing the
anonymous state of those in Kyra's economic situation and the dark times so
many unskilled workers in contemporary America face. Great, but first do no
harm. I never imagined I would have to take the title literally.
He has turned
what might have been an interesting little film into an confusing, unwatchable
mistake. If I were Pfeiffer--who at 60 can't expect to score many good dramatic
roles--I would sue.
Divorced,
unemployed Kyra manages while caring for her elderly mother in a Brooklyn
apartment, but once the old woman dies, Kyra faces dire realities that spur her
to impersonate her mother to dip into
her bank account and pension checks. (There's an attempt to explain why she
doesn't have access to the deceased mother's money, but like the rest of the
script--by Dosunma and Darci Picoult--it was presented so vaguely that I missed
the detail.)
I think Dosunma
really want to make a silent film--it might have been more understandable.
Kyra falls into
a relationship with Doug (Keifer Sutherland), struggling to get by working as a
daycare worker, who tries to offer emotional support, but her questionable
ethics get in the way.
I wanted to
understand Kyra, sympathize with her situation, but the director expected me to
care without knowing the details. That doesn't work for me.
