Classic Musings: Blood and Black Lace (1964)

Mario Bava is a master of extracting substance from within his style, where the moving parts of emotions and motivations oftentimes lead to deeper horror experiences than one might expect. Whether he's lurking in the heavy shadows of black-and-white gothic tales or operating with vivid pools of colored lights from across the spectrum, his direction -- and influence over the camerawork -- conscientiously focuses upon the characters in such a way that even some of the smallest, seemingly inconsequential characters have a little something else going on beneath the surface. In a murder mystery like Blood and Black Lace, this feeds into credible uncertainty as to who's responsible for killings. Taking place mostly within a modeling-slash-burlesque "fashion house", Bava's lavish prismatic shades and sequence of gruesome death take shape as one of the earliest and most influential manifestations of the Italian giallo horror subgenre, clutching firmly onto the traits of those who come in and out of the house for its emphatic whodunit suspense.

Dressed in a jacket, hat, and stretchy face wrap to conceal their identity, someone lurking on the grounds of the fashion house viciously murders one of the many models who resides there. An investigation into the murder begins, and with the inspection into the motivations of those close to the victim also comes the discovery of a wide array of other wrongdoings from the residents, largely contained within a specific diary. While the recently widowed manager of the company, Christina (Eva Bartok), attempts to maintain the status quo and keep the fashion business moving, the location of the diary becomes its own mystery as the killer remains at large, eventually claiming other victims with ties to the fashion house … and to that secret diary. Suspects are narrowed and motivations come and go, but the threat of the killer continues to loom throughout, with many of the personalities that pass through the fashion house becoming more and more distinct.

Immediately, the bright colors and moody shadows of Maria Bava's craftsmanship take control in Blood and Black Lace, almost as if looking at the fashion house through a kaleidoscope while he slyly introduces the actors, all draped in various hues while Ubaldo Terzano's camerawork flows from one to the next. Crimson mannequins with shiny black hair also peek out from the darkness, elevating Bava's setting into something bordering on the surreal as models finalize their garments and bodies are discovered in hiding places. This is a display of artifice, sure, but what's on the surface ties together with the orchestration of the fashion shows themselves, as well as to those who participate in them. Searching for symbolism in every shade of color in Blood and Black Lace may be futile, but it's hard to dispute the calculation involved with how Bava selected the right ones to create specific moods, emboldening his purposeful use of colored lights that seem unnaturally emergent in the house. Things that'd come across as ostentatious elsewhere feel at home and meaningful in this palace of superficiality.

It doesn't take long for Blood and Black Lace to demonstrate that there's more going on here than just a bunch of pretty women being killed off by a random stranger. From the deaths emerge suspicions and gossip, which introduce all sorts of indiscretions committed by both the models and those that manage them, spanning from hedonistic behavior to more serious offenses like secretive abortions and blackmail. That's where the giallo mechanisms kick into gear, in which the ominous killer gets overshadowed by the wide range of people who could feasible lurk under the mask, and the motivations behind their killing. While these characters wouldn't be classified as profound, exactly -- this isn't a rich moral examination or anything -- almost all of them have a compelling underlying layer that hinges on some deeper human flaw, which makes going the guesswork on who's responsible for the murders an interesting experience in observation. The intersection of details going on about who's wrapped up in what drama, and where the tell-all diary might've ended up, continuously raises the tension throughout.

While the likes of Black Christmas and Halloween shaped the slasher-movie framework into the machine for tension that we've come to relish, Blood and Black Lace telegraphs a similarly methodical, thematic sequence of deaths, aptly earning a reputation for being a precursor for conventional bodycount horror. The deaths can be grueling, hinged on the tortures of impalement and scorched flesh, but they're designed less for the suspense of seeing whether someone's going to die and more on expanding the mystery behind who's responsible. Bava skillfully ties together the process of eliminating suspects from a list of possibilities with stylized, unrestrained kills full of the spirit of Italian horror, with set design choices that amplify the mood just enough to draw attention to the intensity of their demise. Attention has also been paid to the manner in which everyone's been killed by the masked murderer, creating a situation where almost anyone -- male or female, strong or borderline weak -- could feasibly be underneath the disguise, motivated by any number of potential revelations about their wrongdoings.

The reveal of who's behind the mask and the reasons for their killing spree isn't terribly surprising in Blood and Black Lace, but that's more of a testament to the foreshadowing and setup devised by Bava and screenwriter Marcello Fondato than an absence of shock value or potency. It could be argued that the framing of certain clues and dialogue early on might've been a little too suggestive for their own good, building to a predictable finish; however, when it comes to the revelations about the victims and how they factor into the masked murderer's reasons for their villainy, these pieces fit together into an outcome that simply make sense in its operatic grandness. While it isn't as gruesome as Black Sunday or as intent on building to visceral scares as Black Sabbath, Blood and Black Lace drops into a devious middle-ground between the two while remaining focused on credibility with its murder-mystery rationale, stitching together equal measures of Bava's emphasis on style as substance and straightforward, yet sharply-written pulpy thrills.

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Classic Musings: The Bride (1985)

A small, yet important subplot in Mary Shelley's Frankenstein led to the creation of the Bride of Frankenstein, expanding upon the writer's suggestion that the disfigured Monster deserves a mate despite his horrid appearance. Despite the "bride" not fully coming to life in Shelley's original story, she has expanded into an iconic staple of the classic monster-movie subculture due to other adaptations in which her creation was a success, with the 1935 sequel laying the groundwork for how the scenario could've played out. The tale of The Monster's Bride works because of how it feeds off the original creation of Frankenstein's Monster or Creature, though -- how a given version of the creature begins to think about life, passion, and companionship -- and jumping straight into a story focused on her creation lacks that buildup. That may be the bulkiest, most obvious constraint holding back Franc Roddam's The Bride, an ‘80s semi-remake of the original movie, but it's far from the only one.

Pop singer Sting embodies Baron Charles Frankenstein, which by itself is an unusual jumble of words that probably shouldn't be put together. The Bride picks up with this Dr. Frankenstein in the midst of his second experiment in reanimating flesh, as his first hollow-brained creature (Clancy Brown) watches in amazement, until circumstances lead the laboratory to be destroyed. Despite that, Frankenstein's experiment turns out to be another successful resurrection, producing a woman, Eva, without memories of her past life, who'll need to learn how to speak, and who'll be malleable to whatever she's taught about society. After fleeing from the castle, The Monster gets entangled with a traveling dwarf, Rinaldo (David Rappaport) who hopes to reconnect with the carnival atmosphere further down the road. As The Monster -- eventually named Viktor in this rendition -- builds a new relationship and encounters life lessons in his journey away from the lab of his creation, Frankenstein discovers the beauty of the woman he created for his first experiment.

Along with wondering what Franc Roddam was thinking in rolling with the relatively soft-spoken and dapper Sting as Dr. Frankenstein, The Bride poses a lot of questions by dropping in at this specific point in the narrative, mostly about The Monster's mental development and relationship with his creator. Everything comes across like it's following up on how Clancy Brown's rendition of the iconic character was created, yet that's information the audience doesn't have … or, more accurately, that the movie assumes the audience already has based on pop-culture knowledge of Shelley's novel and the ‘30s film. Thing is, Brown's take isn't really like either of those classic iterations, and the direction of the story doesn't feel like a natural extension of either the iconic monster movie or the author's more cerebral telling. The sluggish intelligence and naivete of The Monster are responsible for him sticking to his journey, and not knowing exactly how this version of his brain came to this state weakens the film.

Jennifer Beals provides an even bigger obstacle to The Bride than the creature, though, because she makes for a supremely dull cornerstone for the story's ideas. There's something appealing about Eva's wide-eyed absorption of the world once she awakens and begins her (initially nude) exploration of Frankenstein's castle, unable to properly speak or have a grasp on how to act. As she begins to enunciate her thoughts and feelings, Beals' languid performance marries with some abrupt jumps forward in her character's awareness, resulting in a banal, poorly-committed takedown of gender politics in which her creator's attempts to imbibe her with independence and determination lack genuine characterization. What Dr. Frankenstein expresses about his desires for Eva are compelling -- that he wants her to be just as driven and free to act as men are -- but the execution doesn't back up those pursuits. Despite the gumption and confidence found in her performance in Flashdance, Beals turns into a limp and directionless vessel that feels as if she isn't really learning at all.



The Bride bounces back-and-forth between the concurrent stories of Eve and The Monster, which only serves to underscore the issues involved with how this version of the narrative handles the minds of Frankenstein's creations. As Eva develops from a groaning mute to a passably cultured lady, The Monster remains at a consistent level of intelligence -- in fact, his awareness comes and goes at the behest of the story. If he needs more foolishness or naivete for something to occur in his travels, the script's control over his lagging monster brain will make that happen, all while Eva hones her speech and skills of observation into a formidable individual. Through this, director Roddam and his screenwriter, The Mummy's Lloyd Fonvielle, attempt to have it both ways: the side of Eva hopes to capture some of Mary Shelley's more intellectual ambitions, while the side of The Monster sticks to the lethargic, brutish monster-movie headspace of the James Whale classics. Without clearer, more credible explanations as to how both can be represented, the legitimacy starts to come apart at the seams.

Sure, maybe I've been spoiled. Showtime's TV series Penny Dreadful recently executed a phenomenal take on the Bride of Frankenstein idea, finding ways of transforming the woman who was created for The Monster into a uniquely intelligent, terrifying character empowered by her existential advantages. The Bride doesn't succeed in any of those areas: there are no scares coming from either of Frankenstein's resurrections, and the progression of events doesn't do any favors for Eva's brainpower as she navigates romance -- a young Cary Elwes complicates matters -- and her creator's oppression. What takes shape can be best described as a sort of gothic, faintly macabre drama above all else, and with Sting's more-bitter-than-mad scientist pulling the strings of later developments, The Bride loses a lot of energy amid a shallow culmination of themes centered on possessiveness and independence. Yes, it needs the world-building of its own telling of Frankenstein's original experiment to help it come alive, but that still wouldn't have kept the execution of what's there from burning out anyway.

For the full Blu-ray review, head over to DVDTalk.com: [Click Here]

Classic Musings: Someone's Watching Me! (1978)

In 1978, John Carpenter released that little obscure slasher movie ... y'know, Halloween. Often, it takes a little time and exposure for indie-budget horror movies to catch on and develop an audience, but that film frequently credited with popularizing the slasher genre struck a chord almost immediately, sliding into pop culture and putting the director on the map. What those who aren't Carpenter devotees might not know is that he released a made-for-TV film in the same year that went somewhat unnoticed: Someone's Watching Me(!), equal parts psychological thrills and woman-in-distress suspense that also marks the first time he worked with legendary actress Adrienne Barbeau in a significant secondary role, both for its portrayal and its inclusiveness. While there's no escaping either the clear influences, homages, and "borrowings" from other films or the dated tech and dull endpoint to the thrills, Carpenter's execution of TV-safe tension makes it worth keeping an eye on it ‘til the curtains close.

Barbeau doesn't play his heroine here, though, a distinction that instead falls upon cult-film starlet Lauren Hutton to embody Leigh Micheals, a director for live-broadcast television programs. After getting away from a vague toxic relationship, she's moved into a high-rise apartment in Los Angeles and taken a job at a nearby station, wherein she meets both men and women behind the cameras, quickly befriending Sophie (Barbeau) and shrugging off instantaneous male advances. Almost as immediately, Leigh begins to receive anonymous phone calls, typed messages, and wrapped gifts from a mysterious source -- not exactly in a threatening manner, but uncomfortably forward and intrusive in their timing. Gradually, the advances turn more invasive, to a point that suggests she's being closely watched and stalked. Enlisting the help of Sophie and a new potential romantic interest, college professor Paul (David Birney), she attempts to cope with the situation … and then, when things get more dire, tries to discover his identity herself.

At times, it can be problematic to watch thrillers that hinge on the technological limitations of a bygone era, but if the strength of the tension or themes remain strong enough, one can ignore outdated components and get wrapped up in what's going on. When viewed from a contemporary viewpoint, Someone's Watching Me hasn't aged well: there are repeated calls between landlines that can't be identified, snail-mail scams that'd mostly filter into "junk" email folders nowadays, and other elements that reduce it to a relic from another time. An absence of originality doesn't help, either, as Carpenter cobbles together Hitchcockian characteristics and tension -- most notably, the voyeuristic focus of Rear Window -- with the phone harassment parts of Black Christmas and surveillance paranoia in the vein of The Conversation. With all that distilled into a single production, Someone's Watching Me comes across as limiting and derivative, a made-for-TV patchwork of ideas that have worked on the big screen.

What keeps Someone's Watching Me from remaining entirely in the shadows of obscurity -- well, besides that it's an early film of John Carpenter -- comes in the fact that it doesn't treat Leigh as if she's a hapless victim, emphasizing her shrewdness and resilience from the beginning. Granted, you've got to get past some early gullibility on her part and an awkward joke she tells about her fear of being raped by dwarfs, but once those hurdles are crossed, she becomes a reputable example of a woman who won't allow herself to be objectified or harassed. Lauren Hutton's portrayal of the independence-seeking TV director balances increasing fright and decreasing patience, in which she doesn't simply rely on the strength of others for protection or to solve dilemmas. Combined with Adrienne Barbeau's plucky assistant Sophie, whose lesbianism smoothly integrates into the film as meaningful, yet unobtrusive representation, Leigh navigates the measures she's able to take when the authorities aren't as helpful as they should be.

Persistent phone calls and swift movements down the hallway leading to Leigh's apartment create stylized, yet predictable and repetitive suspense in Someone's Watching Me, so the intensity of Hutton's performance being channeled into how she investigates the stalker's identity becomes crucial to the film's success. The design of Carpenter's script doesn't leave many options for surprises in the reveal, though, where the components of the mystery could've either resulted in an antagonist with specific, outlandish motivations … or it being somebody unknown and impertinent to what's happened beforehand. While the execution of the approach to this reveal might play out like classic horror a la John Carpenter, with effective fake-outs and amplified reactions from those being stalked, the reveal itself turns out to be remarkably anticlimactic and without resonance or meaning. Someone's Watching Me ends up being a functional studio-controlled suspense film that's entitled to a few good scares due to its iconic director, but it doesn't successfully hit its notes in the ways that his holiday-themed horror outing did in the same year.

For the full Blu-ray review, head over to DVDTalk.com: [Click Here]

Classic Musings: My Cousin Rachel (1952)

This may seem like common sense, but it occasionally deserves a reminder: the nature of the performances in a film can change the entire fabric of the storytelling. Under better circumstances, My Cousin Rachel should play out as a clever glimpse into the machinations of a widow with unclear motivations, whose interactions with her deceased husband's family could lead her either toward malicious intents or toward her being misjudged by those around her. Conversely, the viewpoint of the young heir to this estate would benefit from more consistent skepticism, since the story's tone leans into that doubting atmosphere. This adaptation of a 1951 novel by Daphne du Maurier loses those intentions, though, despite the efforts of Oscar-recognized talents and a gloomy setting, where instead of indistinct motivations and shifting perceptions, the plot plays out more like a character examination of an easily-persuaded mark and hardships utterly of his making.

The owner of a substantial English estate, Ambrose Ashley (John Sutton) has taken his young cousin, Philip (Richard Burton), into his home after the death of his parents. They lived well over many years, creating a strong family bond between them, well into points when Ambrose starts having health issues. Yearning to avoid the harsh climate, he travels abroad to Italy without Philip -- now a man in his mid-20s -- where he finds himself stranded away from his estate due to a degradation in his illness. Confusion emerges when Philip receives odd letters from his cousin about the care he's receiving, to which Philip later discovers that he had died. During the process, however, Ambrose had found someone that he loves in Italy and decided to marry her, bringing the ownership of the estate into question. When Ambrose's wife, Rachel (Olivia de Havilland), arrives to the estate after a prolonged period of keeping her distance, Philip's skepticism about her motivations takes hold … but so does his sense of empathy, as well as his own fond feelings for the "middle-aged" woman.

My Cousin Rachel begins slowly and deliberately, illustrating what life's like at the Ashley estate before and during Ambrose's vacation abroad. There isn't much development to Philip's character, shifting gears from the curious boy of his youth to the older-than-he-looks chap embodied by Richard Burton, yielding someone whose traits are largely indistinguishable from other naïve, skeptical, semi-hotheaded men of privilege in their 20s. Burton's performance earned him an Oscar nomination for Best Supporting Actor, but the reasons for that struggle to be seen in his responsiveness to learning of Ambrose Ashley's death, which default to uninteresting histrionics that do little to enrich the mystery involved with the issues his cousin encountered overseas. His relationship with godfather and estate manager Nick Kendall becomes a more intriguing facet of this early period, mostly due to how Nick micromanages the young Ashley's impulses and imparts knowledge about his cousin's hereditary ailments.

Under the veil of Joseph LaShelle's beautiful shadowy and stone-textured cinematography, youthful rage and skepticism fuel the lead-up in My Cousin Rachel, to such a degree that one still yearns to know more about this mystery widow and how Philip will respond when he's eventually confronted by her. Alas, the moments when they finally meet also becomes the turning point into the film's complications, fueled by an unpersuasive mild-mannered performance from Olivia de Havilland, whose overly amicable, buttoned-up demeanor doesn't jibe with the vagueness of her character's interests. Here, these don't read like the mannerisms of somebody who could be a misunderstood widow caught in tricky circumstances, but like the façade that's projected when someone's trying to conceal their true intentions as they get in the good graces of others. When the circumstances are as suspect as they are involving Ambrose's death, this entity needs to be an influential dramatic force if ambiguity's the intention, and Olivia de Havilland's turn as Rachel lacks the swaying power to make that happen.

Therefore, when the puzzle pieces fall into place and the "twists" play out in My Cousin Rachel, the surprises aren't found in the revealed truths of characters' objectives, but in Philip's obliviousness as his headstrong distrust quickly morphs into generosity, affection … and ignorance. Dramatic lighting and musical cues attempt to punctuate moments of realization and frustration between the cousin and the widow, but the inherent trickiness involved with the push-and-pull of ownership over the estate undermines the film's crucial mysterious streak. The swiftness of how the powers of persuasion take hold in Henry Koster's execution undercut the story's gothic romantic suspense, worsening as the ramifications of those persuasions shape where the plot goes after that. Unlike how the harrowing psychological elements and quick relationship-building were so effortlessly applied to Daphne du Maurier's writing in Alfred Hitchcock's adaptation of Rebecca, Koster's handling of My Cousin Rachel lets those crucial transitions fall by the wayside, and it drags those desired ambiguities down with them.

For the full Blu-ray review, head over to DVDTalk.com: [Click Here]

Classic Musings: La Poison (1951)

Most movies out there exist to hold the audience's attention from the beginning to the end credits, possessing dramatic buildup or comedic twists and turns that create a consistent level of engagement throughout. Then, there are films whose sole purpose hinges on a specific scene -- or succession of scenes -- after all the groundwork has been laid, where the events that happen prior to these pivotal moments are just moving parts required to lead a specific cinematic idea to its purpose. Such is often the case for thrillers or mysteries that revolve around a specific plot twist, but not so much for comedies, building toward one specific lampoon or punchline. Sacha Guitry's dark, measured comedy La Poison largely operates in this fashion, where the events leading up to the "big show" near its end merely function as dryly humorous devices that ultimately funnel into an elegant, compelling twist on the courtroom drama, a slyly lighthearted yet entirely cynical takedown of marital woes and manipulations of the law.

After a lengthy introduction to the cast and crew at the film's beginning, led by director Sacha Guitry and entirely separate from the story at hand, La Poison depicts the everyday happenings of a small and sleepy French village. People make their way to and from the pharmacy, locals set up camp at the café, and folks like Paul Bracconier (Michel Simon), a gardener by trade, swing by the local church to chat with the priest and divulge their "sins". The root of Paul's frustration hinges on his wife (Germaine Reuver), whose bitter attitude toward her husband is made worse by her persistent drinking and general lack of attention paid to her appearance (and cleanliness). In a fit of frustration, disguised as regular irritation between spouses, Paul contemplates a life without his wife … if she were to die. Little does he know that she, too, contemplates the same thing. With the resources available to them in the small town and driven by the sounds of a particularly contentious radio broadcast involving a lawyer who's had great success in defending murderers, the married couple inch closer to making their fantasies a reality.

While depicting the early frustrations of the Bracconiers and the personalities of the other townsfolk, director Guitry establishes a playful, yet not overtly comedic tone with La Poison. Between an older woman reading over the pharmacist's prescription ledger to see who's taking what for their ailments, reaffirming her suspicions, and the casual chatter about potentially lethal marital frustration between Paul and the local priest, the conversations toe the line between attempts at joviality and highly deliberate stage-setting for the events to come. Emphasis falls on the chilly, quarrelsome rapport between the Bracconiers over their nightly dinner routine, though they probably consume more calories through the bottle(s) of wine they drink than the brothy soup and loaf of bread at their table. There isn't much joy derived from observing their bouts, nor from the ways in which the townsfolk become voyeurs and sleuths to their verbal arguments, but there's something pleasurable in seeing how Guitry creates the foundation for the escalation in their bickering and emphasizes potential murder methods.

In fact, it's hard to imagine La Poison being interpreted as an exercise in humor without the presence of Michel Simon. With a body of work stretching from the seminal silent masterpiece The Passion of Joan of Arc to eccentric performances in Boudu Saved From Drowning and L'Atlante, among many others, Simon's sympathetic and subtly oafish demeanor as Paul taps into mild physical comedy. His body language speaks volumes about the character's mental faculties as he converses with the clergy and evades his tiring wife, appearing just uninviting and rough-around-the-edges enough to miss out on the attention of women yet just charmingly browbeaten enough to tempt one's sympathy. Simon's manner of speaking leaves his character's capacity for murder in an uncertain state, perhaps in flux as he copes with the exaggeratedly stern-faced attitude of his wife. Their hostile interactions possess a bit of a "means to an end" rhythm, wherein Guitry doesn't reveal any interest in examining who they once were as a couple that found each other appealing enough to get married, only in Paul's internal conflict now.

For better or for worse, everything holds a purpose in La Poison that isn't centered on deepening the characters or garnering laughs, a purpose that gradually becomes clear once the focus shifts to lawyers, the legal system, and crossing the threshold from anger to murder. Guitry draws from his own complicated experiences with dealing with the law -- he coped with charges of collaborationism during the Nazi occupancy of France in the ‘40s -- in his incredibly clever depiction of the malleability of circumstances surrounding a criminal activity, notably in the orchestration of the perfect crime by way of some unknowing advice from a lawyer. While the situation comes across as contrived and purposely evasive of the audience's viewpoint for dramatic effect, the ways in which a potential murderer exploits the viewpoints of lawyers in how to beat the system gradually allows that darkly comedic sinking feeling to settle into the stomach.

Through the chaos of a crime scene and the ensuing trial, La Poison builds into an outlandish, yet biting and perceptive satire that travels down a troubling -- and timeless -- road with its justifications of murder and defending those whom have murdered. Guitry executes plenty of cleverness in how he channels all the minutiae of the film's prior events into a raucous courtroom discussion, cutely juxtaposed against scenes of children acting out how their vision of the trial should've gone and how hearsay about a crime travels throughout a small town. There's some oddities during the final act, especially when the topic of attractiveness of people emerges during a trial as a talking point relevant to guilt or innocence, but La Poison ultimately applies a strong dose of sharp, amusing commentary to how the discombobulated tiffs of an old married couple drive them to murderous tendencies, justifying the transparent maneuverings that Guitry had to set in motion to get beyond that point.

For the full Blu-ray review, head over to DVDTalk.com: [Click Here]

Classic Musings: The Umbrellas of Cherbourg (1963)

My relationship with musicals is, overall, a little complicated. The exceptionally vibrant attitudes, the bubbly dialogue, and the unnatural introduction of songs into everyday activities might be common criticisms lobbed at the genre, but they're also what hold me back from embracing more of those productions. That just makes the few that I do latch onto feel special, though, from Singin' In the Rain and Disney animated films to Sweeney Todd and Les Miserables -- and, of course, Jacques Demy's The Umbrellas of Cherbourg -- and it often comes down to whether the subject matter has a certain type of bold emotionality and relatability that transcends its genre: tales of poverty, political discord, vengeance, the struggles of the creative process, or tragic love. It was surprising, then, to find myself not joining in on the adoration showered upon Whiplash director Damien Chazelle's La La Land. It's another piece of work centered on struggling, romantically-entangled artists in Hollywood that many had deemed to be "one of those musicals for non-musical people", but one in which the interjection and extended presence of musical elements hits that familiar unnatural note, and where the roadblocks encountered by the jazz musician and burgeoning actress on their way to success revolves around self-satisfied showbiz nostalgia.

Chazelle was heavily influenced by Jacques Demy in his creation of La La Land, specifically and quite observably by The Umbrellas of Cherbourg, a different sort of tale about an in-love couple being separated by time and space. The story of Genevieve (Catherine Deneuve), a young clerk at her mother's (Anne Vernor) struggling umbrella shop, and Guy (Nino Castelnuovo), a mechanic who recently became of age to be drafted into the military, follows a different path than that of the recent Oscar contender by focusing on turns of events that aren't universally relatable, hinged on France's mandatory conscription of young men into military service during the late-'50s. Despite how this conflict dates the film and creates a barrier for those who haven't had to deal with the perils of military/wartime romance, there's a tenderness to the relationship and a bittersweet unfolding of the course of events in The Umbrellas of Cherbourg that allows Demy's musical to endure and appeal to broader audiences -- even those outside the musical genre -- due to the genuineness of its sentiments and the risks taken involving poverty, obligation, and disenchantment.

Of course, Demy's film doesn't wallow in those somber underpinnings with its cinematic presence. The Umbrellas of Cherbourg boasts bright, lovely shades of color that lace throughout the titular coastal city almost like streaks found in pieces of fancy ribbon candy, dominating the walls and décor of the umbrella business and spilling out into the bars and other businesses around it. Pastels, pinks, and other insistent palette confections obviously command one's attention, yet it's the sneaky bursts of color tucked away in little spaces that give Genevieve and Guy's gallivanting through the city its charm, from rich expressive greens on textured walls to an abstractly-painted fuchsia and purple wall seen through iron gates. Demy captures a gradient of moods in his visual choices, yet they're not so blatant that they're easily deciphered, where blues only convey sadness and red only convey passion or warning. He holds the audience's interest with aesthetic playfulness, giving them expressive flavors to enjoy without being told what the colors indicate, if they indicate anything beyond how the color makes a viewer feel.

There isn't a moment in The Umbrellas of Cherbourg where dialogue isn't delivered through song or without a kind of choral inflection. For some, this might take a little getting used to since there aren't any breaks between musical numbers for "normal" drama, conveying the gradient of emotions going on around Genevieve and Guy -- devotion, insecurity, frustration -- through a combo of lyrics, vocal tones, and overt body language. Gradually, Demy casts a spell with his combination of lavish colors and constant delivery of music, where the fluently sung dialogue comes across as second nature in his take on ‘50s and ‘60s France, ever presenting a feast for the eyes and ears. More pertinently to this discussion, this locked-in illusion of musical conversation bypasses the entrance and exit of musical numbers in everyday situations since, well, the whole thing's essentially a song, never interrupting moments of romance or family discord between Genevieve and her cynical, pragmatic mother. Questionable transitions from spoken drama to musical drama aren't a concern here.



While the choral performances are dubbed over by other French singers, the dramatic performances are entirely of the actors' making, center of them all being the vacillating, increasingly solemn presence of Catherine Deneuve. For an element that could create a profound disconnect if not delivered right, Demy bridges that gap by pulling tender, entirely genuine performances from both Deneuve and Nino Castelnuovo as Guy, crafting a pair of lovebirds posed with a challenging life decision -- whether to break apart or stay together during Guy's enlistment -- that takes on a wide gamut of emotions while they figure out their situation. A charming synergy forms between them through their impeccable facial and body expressions moving in tandem with Demy's intuitive and evenhanded script, hinged on devotion, insecurity, and frustration as they grow closer and cope with the repercussions of their choices. Deneuve commands the breadth of the film's attention, though; the flush of her cheeks and the lamentation in her slumping poise effortlessly deepens one's empathy for her emotional state.

The Umbrellas of Cherbourg transpires across three stretches of time in the young couple life, or lives, spanning several years and showcasing how distance apart from another changed them as individuals. What sets Jacques Demy's depiction of their long-distance woes apart from similar stories, similar decorated and well-regarded musicals, can be observed in the ways that the couple adapts, bends, and breaks to the everyday woes of their life's challenges, how Genevieve handles the prospect of a more comfortable life with a wealthy suitor -- whom her mother favors -- and how Guy copes with returning home from his service. These themes aren't restricted by the moving parts of the film's conceit; instead, they tap into relatable ideas that reflect upon the experiences of anyone who has weighed the pros and cons of momentous decisions in their lives, who has grappled with the controlling suggestions of their parents, and who has endured the rigors of long-distance relationships of many types. With The Umbrellas of Cherbourg, Demy displays spellbinding artistic playfulness and expressive nuance, while striving to be aware enough with its perspective on everyday people that it shouldn't leave anyone out in the cold.

For the full Blu-ray review, head over to DVDTalk.com: [Click Here]

Classic Musings: Phaedra (1962)

Modernized adaptations of classic pieces of literature have always been a crapshoot, since their themes and dramatic overtures can get watered down in the updates leveled on the setting. There's something universally impactful about the framework of certain ancient Greek tragedies, however, that transcend the period within which they take place, centered on enduring moral conflicts and malleable story developments that can effortlessly apply to contemporary standards. One of such positive examples is Phaedra, in which Jules Dassin, the mastermind behind Rififi and The Naked City, brings his classic noir mystery sensibilities and build-up to a solemn tale of family turmoil, forbidden passion, and the dangers of becoming obsessed with business. An enlivened, humorously impish performance from Anthony Perkins brightens the otherwise solemn affair, one that's told classically and elevated by stunning visuals, though Dassin's craftsmanship can't quite raise Phaedra above the foreseeable course charted by its tragic intentions.

Working form a screenplay penned by Margarita Lymberaki in which she adapts Euripides' play Hyppolitus into a modern melodrama, Dassin turns the spotlight onto the prestige of Grecian shipbuilder and baron Thanos (Raf Vallone). He's the type of tycoon who thrives off his business ventures and shows great bursts of enthusiasm for his life, yet won't hesitate in abandoning a social situation or individual if an opportunity calls. One of such people he abandons is Phaedra -- played by Dassin's collaboration partner and eventual wife Melina Mercouri -- whom, despite being proposed to on the evening of his latest ship christening, has grown tired and unsatisfied with his constant pursuits and time away. The consequence of yet another of Thanos' business trips puts Phaedra in the position of entertainer and custodian for his son, Alexis (Anthony Perkins), who has himself abandoned his business training for a career in painting and art. Thanos hopes that Phaedra, while escorting him from London to Greece, might convince him otherwise; Alexis, instead, ignites passion in Phaedra, of more than one variety.

Dassin and Lymberaki put their creative gears in motion while adapting the Greek tragedy of Hyppolitus for the modern era, finding ways to work its seaside setting and disquieting subject matter into a functional contemporary tale. To do this, they've also resorted to the pitfalls of classic Hollywood exposition in getting across Thanos' aspirations and to emphasize the rationale behind Phaedra's sullen demeanor. By design, the story's introduction launches with tonal iciness and obscurity hinged on how these characters harbor unappealing facets within their personalities, and in combination with this rigidly-introduced exposition, the beginning of Phaedra weighs down the drama from the moment it leaves port. There's adventurousness and attractiveness to be found in how Dassin captures the bittersweet glances between Thanos and Phaedra with a huge engagement ring separating them, yet it's built for curiosity over how Phaedra handles neglect and monotony. Despite Melina Mercouri's melancholy performance, Phaedra draws intrigue without earning enough compassion to give it weight.

Unsurprisingly, Phaedra brightens at the sight of the youthful, focused Alexis upon their meeting place in London, but it's a breath of fresh air to see how Anthony Perkins's vitality almost immediately invigorates the film alongside her. Just a few short years after Psycho, this performance from Perkins again />evokes some of the (perceived) naivete of Norman Bates, yet it's also instilled with genuinely charismatic and humorous traits that boost the entirety of Phaedra with levity, especially over his fondness for a dream car and his desire to travel. The magnetism that draws Perkins and Melina Mercouri together takes the semi-incestuous overtones of their characters' bond and gives it a bit of playfulness, projected against the backdrop of Grecian statues and hundreds of tall candles over a dinner between them. One thing eventually leads to another, though, and the taboo evolution of their impassioned relationship gets oversold with melodramatic music and exaggerated -- albeit gorgeous -- photography, blending fire and water for not-so-subtle symbolism

That same weathered, despondent attitude that burdened Melina Mercouri's performance at the beginning of Phaedra becomes a crucial and poignant facet once the weight of the tragedy starts to pull the story back down . While the moving parts of Thanos' shipbuilding empire become a dull, mechanical means of elongating the story and shaping Alexis' character, the conflict that arises between him and his soon-to-be stepmother becomes a gripping exercise in emotional evolution, taking place in the textured labyrinth of Grecian stairs and buildings. Perkins' malleable sweetness masterfully sours and hardens as his character adjusts to the reality of his situation, while the growing depressive depths of Phaedra's perception of the two men in her life emerges through subtles outbursts of vexation. The real interest here becomes how they'll respond to one another whenever they come in contact over and over in different contexts, to which the film meanders with bulky business diversions and halfhearted distractions for Alexis in between those meetings.

One could argue that Dassin and Lymberaki may have overly tempered the intentions of the original Greek tragedy, though. After wading through conflicts of parental legacy, business etiquette, and unmentionable romance that ebb and flow with the story's forward motion, Phaedra eventually reaches its destination at a similarly downhearted conclusion to that of Euripedes' play. Underscoring plights of hopelessness and disgrace through a mixture of Anthony Perkins' brazen acceleration into moodiness and Melina Mercuri's more causal descent into futility, the climax belts out big, brassy notes driven by bloodshed and mania that collide with the overarching purposes of the tragedy. Similar to the focal nautical baron Thanos himself, Dassin's take on the Greek tragedy often works too hard to achieve its goal of expanding the classic play into a modern narrative, and hopes that its few displays of overzealous enthusiasm about the tragic outcome will make up for broad disinterested expanses.

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Classic Musings: Blood Simple (1984)

Joel and Ethan Coen tend to make movies that are timeless. I'm not really referring to staying power in modern cinema, though that too applies, but in the physical texture of their work -- whether it's award-garnering drama or grin-inducing ironic comedy (or, at times, a mix of both). Even if they bluntly profess a time or era in which a specific film takes place, the barefaced close-ups, surgically-used music, and sheer energy buzzing frame-to-frame captures an almost otherworldly essence that, in a way, feels as current as the day the raw footage was shot. This quality can be traced all the way back to Blood Simple, the brothers' twist-heavy Texas neo-noir and first feature film. Cowboy boots in neon signs and the loud calculating of a green-screened computer melt into the backdrop, becoming eerily-magnetic accoutrements that do nothing but add resonant visual flare to this taut, superlatively-made thriller.

As you dig into what the Coens have concocted, you'll quickly realize that they have a firm grasp on film noir and are disinterested in mucking with its flow; none of the characters can be trusted, they've all got their fruit-bruises, money's thrown around, murders are plotted, and backstabbing abound. At the center of the story, one tough to summarize but easy to follow and grounded in familiar footing for genre hounds, a bartender (John Getz) has been sleeping with his jealous boss' wife, Abby (Frances McDormand) -- a woman known to mingle with other men around town. The bar owner (Dan Hedaya) isn't happy about it, leading him to throw both his weight and cash around to "fix" the situation. Revealing any more might cripple the enjoyment in watching the film unravel; needless to say it takes turn after turn from there, throwing in the involvement of a stocky, dangerous private investigator (M. Emmet Walsh).

Blood Simple's straightforwardness allows the extent of the Coen Brothers' talent to speak for itself, and something surprising happens as a result: their attentiveness to setting and tempo moves in front of the lean storytelling, allowing their attuned perspective to bolster the anticipation in seeing what they're going to throw at us next. That's not to say that the script they've penned isn't involved, or uninvolving; the dialogue maintains a stylish, serrated attitude with copious amounts of gravity rooted in deceit and suspicion, while the rhythm of twists in the bars, houses, and overlooking bluffs keeps the viewer satisfyingly on their toes. But it's also pared down to the essentials, never squandering lines or tossing in overtly bizarre flourishes (even fish flopped on a desk are pertinent). This is succinct, innovative construction with a purpose, where details not only matter, but directly accentuate the tone.

That purpose is to generate a slow boil of tension -- along with splashes of pitch-black, blink-and-you'll-miss-it humor and unquenchable guilt -- to which the Coen Brothers sustain at a high-caliber until the credits roll. Lots of deaths occur in the film, as if the title wasn't indicative of that, and none of it is smooth, calculated, or even certain; it's all by happenstance, which seems to be tearing these people down in some form of deadpan karmic balancing act. Layer after layer drapes atop the actions of the cheating couple, backstab after backstab, and the audience is the only one privy to the extent of the convoluted scheming and knowledge of the events. A continuous play on audience awareness will become a concurrent theme in the brothers' work, strengthening both tension and humor by playing with our knowledge of the film's developments, but it's at its more pure and incisively cunning here.

A degree of polished artfulness is also at-play that simply doesn't befit a first-time effort; the subtle thumps of windshield wipers created a hypnotic musical preface in the film's opening moments, while the fluttering of ceiling fans and the stark, steady-handed focus on slight facial mannerisms reveals a vein of fierce bravery in the atmosphere the Coens shape. Lots of clever, methodical visual imagery slips into the film by way of cinematographer Barry Sonnenfeld's eye, growing dirtier yet remaining staunchly steady-handed while the story's tension mounts. There's a slow, nerve-clenching crawl over mounds of dirt as we witness a "Texas burial" later on, followed by the misty image the next morning of a car's erratic tracks along an unplanned path to the burial site, and it double-back to the film's overall nature: a crazed trip with a destination, but a path that's simply not predictable. And the chillingly beautiful climax isn't to be forgotten, with smoky bullet holes pouring light through their exit points.



Reliable performances from the quartet of primary actors dictate a lot of the film's unerring intensity. A young Frances McDormand, in her first on-screen appearance, unassuming communicates Abby's mounting moral discomfort against John Getz' everyman gruffness, up until the film's draining climax -- which places hefty demands on McDormand's wide-eyed, addled self. With her back against a dark wall and the whites of her eyes bathed in moonlight, arguably the film's apex, she nails the right mix of fear and industriousness. The wild eyes and frazzled rigidity that Dan Hedaya brings to the bar owner, Marty, inadvertently adds a few layers of history and complexity to the character, where his riled-up jealousy makes us wonder about a time and place where he and Abby were linked. But if you don't watch out, the quirky and capricious awfulness of M. Emmet Walsh's private detective, Loren Visser, might sneak up and steal the show.

As the Coen Brothers navigate the deliberate ninety-minute thrust in Blood Simple, their craftsmanship holds onto that timeless property mentioned early on. Bathed in '80s-brand neon light, with high-top shoes shuffling across our vision, period-appropriate cars and everything else, they're restrained and given inclusive life by the lens' lyrical viewpoint and the brothers' capacity to hold attention with raw, stirring energy. Really, much of Blood Simple's agelessness stems from the sheer filmmaking precision propelling it, where there's next-to-nothing out of place or missing in a reinvigoration of film noir's melancholy, meditative styling; the look, attitude, and flow of its often bleakly farcical corkscrews still impresses with inextinguishable thrills and innovation by way of clever genre recycling. And it proves to still be a relevant piece of cinema, an impressive feat considering many directors' early film stand as little more than relics showing how far they've come. Blood Simple shows where they already were: fully-armed with their perspective at the ready.

Check out the full review of The Criterion Collection's Blu-ray at DVDTalk.com: [Click Here]

Classic Musings: The Mark of Zorro (1940)

Long before it became en vogue to condemn the bombardment of superhero origin movies and remakes coming out of Hollywood, Rouben Mamoulian's The Mark of Zorro excelled at being both of those, in a roundabout way, as a new talkie adaptation of Johnston McCulley's "The Curse of Capristrano". In the height of the swashbuckler genre's popularity, already enjoying success with another recent remake of a Douglas Fairbanks-starring silent film, The Adventures of Robin Hood starring Errol Flynn, this lavish production sets up a dashing contender in Tyrone Power as it tells how a handsome man from a wealthy family uses both his stature and a black-clad secret identity for the good of the people. Dusty, genuine production value, charismatic performances, and a small bounty of superb duels later on prove that redoing the Zorro mythology for a new era was certainly worth the effort, leaving a mark on the vigilante hero genre that still lingers after nearly three-quarters of a century.

The Mark of Zorro charts the transformation of Don Diego Vega (Power) into the sword-wielding vigilante of legend, starting off in his military service overseas. Popular and established as an exceptional dueler among his colleagues, Diego receives an urgent call to return back to California, where he has little knowledge of what's happened in his absence. He discovers that the government has taken a more authoritative control of the area, lorded over by a new mayoral entity (J. Edward Bromberg) -- alongside a mean, yet capable captain, Esteban Pasquale (Basil Rathbone) -- whose heavy-handed taxation and abuse of policy has resulted in a destitute living situation for the commoners. Instead of taking on the government head-on, Diego brainstorms an alternative method of implementing change, maintaining a somewhat aloof, hoity-toity version of himself in the public eye to divert from his scheme: donning black clothes, riding a black horse, and robbing profiteers to give back to the poor as the mythical freedom fighter Zorro.

Much as there's little difficulty in seeing the influence that this character has upon modern-day superheroes like Batman, it's also easy to see how the likes of Robin Hood and The Scarlet Pimpernel impacted the origin story of Zorro: a melting pot of folklore, double identities, targeting the privileged and battling against injustice. What's compelling about Zorro, especially in how it comes to life in the ‘40s version, lies in how Diego Vega actively uses both his public persona and the threat imposed by the bandit Zorro in his scheme against the government. Between the gorgeously-captured stone walls and throughout the heat-baked streets of a Californio province before the transition into a U.S. state, Diego creates this dangerous yet constructive alter ego that isn't just a means of protecting his identity, but also a device he uses as a sort of bargaining chip in the subterfuge furthered by his foolishly highbrow public persona. Seeing his machinations fall into place becomes one of the film's core strengths.



Interestingly, Zorro himself doesn't appear too often in The Mark of Zorro. It takes some time for Diego Vega to reach his home and learn that the situation's dire enough to require such an unlawful presence, but even after Zorro gallops onto the scene in his first dramatic arrival, the masked hero only shows up when he's absolutely necessary. This isn't a story built on Zorro's grand escapades and legendary duels for the audience to marvel at, but on how the looming and enigmatic threat of his emergence falls into the plans of Diego Vega to influence the government. Because of this, a lot of pressure falls on the shoulders of Tyrone Power's charisma through the many hats that his character wears, something that comes naturally to the pencil-mustached actor in scenes of both roguish gusto as a bandana-adorned outlaw and as a self-involved nobleman. From sleight-of-hand parlor tricks and schmoozing with the bureaucrats to the cautious ways he conceals and displays his affection for Linda Darnell's Lolita, Tyrone Power's rendition of Zorro weaves together into a subtly complex charm that's a joy to behold.

Instead, The Mark of Zorro operates around a different brand of gravitas and thrills, hinged on the facets of Diego's identity. As the falsified version of Diego, there's bittersweet amusement and anticipation in seeing how he deceives his parents -- along with the gravelly-voiced man of the cloth, Fray Filipe (Eugene Pallette) -- and lures the bureaucrats into his trap, ever on the cusp of being discovered. When he comes toe-to-toe with Esteban Pasquale, there's something else in the air: suspicion, masterfully portrayed by Basil Rathbone's cunning, yet composed and not overly malicious villainy. And while Zorro does see the light of day, much of the hero's antics involve storming in and out on horseback or appearing from the shadows, heightening the commoners' expectancy of when and how their champion will show his covered face again. Despite falling into the swashbuckler genre, the excitement throughout most of this film has little to do with the volume of swordplay or intense chases, instead working with the suspense in how Diego amplifies the legend of his alter-ego with moves not unlike those made with pieces on a chessboard.

Despite the cleverness, The Mark of Zorro doesn't do much to make its audience second-guess where these moves are headed. So, when something occurs like the legendary sword duel between Tyrone Power and Basil Rathbone, it's unsurprising because of the likelihoods of Diego's plan and the obvious nature of where the story's serialized escapade was destined to go. Frankly, that doesn't really matter when the swashbuckling gets as vigorous and well-orchestrated as it does here, with the sweat on the two men's brows and the unkempt nature of their appearances progressing with each parry and blitzed forward motion -- one of the finest stage fencing duels committed to film. A culmination of stratagems, political strife, and family legacy produces a dazzling climax for The Mark of Zorro amid this spirited battle, smartly concluding the story in a way that could either complete the Zorro mythology in a blaze of revolutionary glory or open the door for further superheroic adventures. No sequel hook or stingers necessary, just the notion that there will always be wrongs for the man behind the mask to right.

For the full Blu-ray review, head over to DVDTalk.com: [Click Here]

Classic Musings: A Touch of Zen (1971)

A three-hour martial arts movie sounds like a daunting viewing experience, I know. Traditionally, the genre's entries from the '70s and '80s aren't celebrated for the substance of their stories, either, often held together with functional tales of vengeance, transcendental training, or political scheming designed to connect vigorous action sequences across, at best, two hours. Therefore, the idea of extending one of those stories by another hour could seem like more trouble than it's worth. Director King Hu's prior body of work had previously telegraphed somewhat more intriguing and emotional plots, though, whether it's Golden Swallow's rescue of a captured family member in Come Drink With Me or the escorting and defense of politically-connected children targeted for assassination in Dragon (Gate) Inn. In A Touch of Zen, King Hu broadens his deeper pursuits and meticulous craftsmanship into an absorbing three hours of quaint family dramatics, mysteries of an enigmatic heroine in hiding, and stunningly-photographed fight scenes, sustaining an intriguing pace and narrative interest throughout.

Beginning with images of smoke wisps flowing behind a spider's web, A Touch of Zen carefully spins its own story of maneuvers and machinations, but it starts with the depiction of a poor mother-son family living off the meager wages earned by the son, Gu Sheng-zhai (Shih Chun), a local portrait artist. Resistant to pursuing more official government work and not funded enough to be a suitable husband, he goes about his days with his aging mother constantly nagging him about his future. Between their daily spats, Gu learns that a neighbor has moved into one of the other adjacent buildings in the abandoned fort within which they live: an attractive young woman, Yang Hui-zhen (Hsu Feng), along with her equally poor family. Eventually, through his own sleuthing and discoveries, Gu learns the truth about his neighbor's identity, that she's a fugitive for being a member of a honorable family who conspired against a corrupt official. Once pursuers arrive to take Yang away, the pair form an unlikely team to combat their advances, mixing Gu's mental faculties and Yang's acquired fighting skill.

Captured with broad-scoped, inherently ornate beauty by cinematographer Hua Hui-ying, A Touch of Zen relishes its introduction to these characters and deepening them within the story, flowing through King Hu's carefully crafted environment while doing so. There's a lot of detail to observe around the abandoned fort where most of the film's activity takes place, from the sun-drenched sprigs of overgrowth to the carved, weathered wood and stone making up the ramshackle residences themselves. A lot of effort was poured into making this environment look beautiful, yet dilapidated and lived-in, an environment with inherent history that's a believable living space for a penniless scholar and artist. Shih Jun's meek, wide-eyed portrayal of Gu Sheng-zhai -- his contentment with meager living and entrancement with the beauty of his next-door neighbor -- makes certain to express that he's not the warrior here, but that his constitution might become useful later on. Around him, A Touch of Zen plants narrative seeds about superstitious belief in ghosts and the artist's resistance to joining the government, connecting its introductory sequences with evenly-spaced nuances that all carry purposes.



Upon the introduction of Yang, a smart layer of deceit and mystery covers A Touch of Zen. King Hu initially uses her enigmatic arrival next-door -- in a shadowy corner of the purportedly haunted fort -- to introduce the possibility of a love interest for Gu, someone of low-enough means that she'd leap at the possibility to marry, well, anyone. Gradually, once more comes to the surface about who she is and what she's capable of, that's slowly revealed to be the furthest thing from the truth: what's learned about her heritage and fighting capabilities transforms the stoic, nearly silent woman into a resolute female presence. The fastidious pacing from King Hu spurs this formation of her character by natural and plausible means through Ku's snooping, bolstered by the melancholy poise bequeathed to Yang by Hsu Feng. What begins as musings about compulsory marriage and assumed romance evolves into the development of a strong heroine from the director responsible for Come Drink With Me, driven not by a schlocky desire to have her conquer all foes, but merely to defend and steel herself against the pursuers.

Confidence is required to execute a martial-arts-oriented epic without unleashing any real martial-arts action in the first hour, yet that's precisely what A Touch of Zen does, allowing the intriguing personal drama to elevate the emotional stakes that lead up to the hand-to-hand brawls and wire work. Against the shadowy backdrops of bamboo forests and throughout the mazy, unkempt space of the abandoned fort, choreographers Han Ying-jie and Pan Yao-kun orchestrate fluid, deliberate fight scenes that extends the conscientious and detail-oriented plotting that came before it, leaving few details unseen in the skirmishes. Elevated by slight touches of whimsy to wow the audience -- feet springing off blades, arrows caught mid-air -- the action embraces an exhilarating middle-ground between brisk realism and airborne beauty. These fights aren't really designed to impress those watching with how lavish or chaotic they can get, though; instead, each one carries precise emotional or thematic connections to Yang's story, making sure that none of them appear contrived for the sake of mandatory action beats.

True to its title, A Touch of Zen also doesn't ignore the gravity of the violence present in the numerous action sequences, attaching philosophical meditations to the moving parts of the politically-driven adventure. From the presence of wise and vastly powerful Buddhist monks to a dreary shift from celebratory to somber tones after someone grasps the repercussions of a bloody premeditated battle, director King Hu integrates blatant observations on earthly values and the sinful motivations of men into his poetic wuxia film. They're uplifted by a distinctive, perhaps unexpected metaphorical ending that departs into more avant-garde ground than the film had previously expressed, one that craftily weaves together its subplots to form an overarching remark on principles and spirituality. Whether that'll resonate with certain viewers will, of course, vary depending on one's ability to roll with these comparatively off-beat punches, but it's hard not to admire King Hu's boldness in capping off his lengthy creation with an obscure resolution, yet another skillful way A Touch of Zen departs from expectations.

For the full Blu-ray review, head over to DVDTalk.com: [Click Here]

Classic Musings: Lady Snowblood / Love Song of Vengeance

Adapted from a series of weekly manga publications of the same name by Kazuo Koike, the saga of Lady Snowblood takes the storied tradition of samurai revenge cinema and puts a umbrella with a hidden sword in the hands of an enigmatic, ethereal woman with pale skin and piercing eyes. The grace and darkness embraced by Meiko Kaji in the title role transforms into a real sight to behold while channeling vengeance through her stern presence, as the quickness of her blade swipes and the spatter of blood upon her crisp, colorful robes leave memorable marks upon the genre. Directed with precision and raw impact by Toshiya Fujita, both films -- Lady Snowblood and Lady Snowblood 2: Love Song of Vengeance -- command a sense of style that becomes its own form of visceral poetry, expressing plenty about the accursed soul whose upbringing and training left her with little but her bloodlust. That she's become an icon of cult cinema and an influence upon contemporary films about systematic revenge shouldn't be a surprise, even if the bulk of Lady Snowblood's reputation lingers in spite of a merely adequate sequel.

Director Toshiya Fujita uses lingering shots of saddened eyes, tremulous camerawork amid brisk motion, and vivid shades of blood red while telling the solemn story of the Lady Snowblood, known also by Yuki Kashima (Meiko Kaji), an orphan whose family was destroyed by the wicked actions of a group of murderous con-artists. In the brief moments after childbirth when the two were alive and laying next to one another, her mother (Miyoko Akaza) assigns newborn Yuki an unholy task before dying: to exact revenge on the group of people who killed her husband and forced her into a life of destitution and imprisonment. Barely an adult, after years of training with a priest who educated her in the ways of being an assassin, Lady Snowblood finally decides that the time's right to hunt down her targets at unclear points across 1880s Japan. Unfolded through a series of chapters, her tale follows the successes, disappointments, complications and bloody dust-ups that occur during her search, including what happens when a telling of her murderous fable makes it into a print publication.

Skewed, elevated camera angles and iconic images featuring falling snow and crashing waves amplify the visual tempo of Lady Snowblood, crafting a vivid portrait around a woman on the outside of human existence who's driven only by her predetermined vendetta. The fierce, distant look in Meiko Kaji's gazes as she stands against beautifully-photographed locations only enhance her character's detachment from the simple joys of this world, appreciating only the blood she spills against the wintry whites and nighttime tides. And blood she spills, indeed: brisk, credible swordplay sends buckets of the stuff and limbs flying throughout her raucous pursuits, underscoring a lot of hyper-violence that welcomes the artfully cartoonish tempo dialed up for the audience's delight. There's a style-over-substance imbalance here, accompanied by jazzy music that includes vocals from Meiko Kaji herself (which should be familiar to Kill Bill fans), yet the components of Yuki's story -- the bleakness of her past and her singular, fated purpose for being -- elevate the outlandish attitude with a gripping, consequential motive behind it.

That bloodshed and those stoic responses to her surroundings are the only real glimpses offered of Lady Snowblood's personality -- or lack thereof -- aside from flashbacks to her family's past and to her systematic training, an unpretentious montage of her transformation from a embittered girl to a surgical killer. Enlivened with striking still shots of historical paintings and sepia-toned photos that transition to in-motion color for effect, the jumps between time periods in Lady Snowblood form into an abstract style of implicit character examination as they're inserted within the chapters counting down to her endgame. In fact, the film spends more time fleshing out who her targets have become since their evil deeds than directly touching on what kind of person she might be. That, of course, is intentional: while establishing complex identities for these villains, some who are thriving and others who have fallen into grim circumstances, the question lingers as to what'll be left of Yuki's life after, or if, she's successful in her mission.

Lady Snowblood builds upon that curiosity throughout its twisty and volatile final chapter, ending in a grand display at a lavish masquerade ball that underscores the troubled, war-focused state of the country that contributed to the demise of her family. Director Toshiya Fujita comprehends what kind of thematic implications hang in the chilly air at the end of Lady Snowblood's journey, matching the brazen and unpredictable climax with a fittingly melancholy tone. How could this half-demon shaped into a weapon of murder and vengeance, who deliberately suppressed her emotions and her decency for so long, learn how to live a normal life after she's fulfilled her vow to her slain family? It's a question better left as rhetorical than directly answered, and that's precisely why an open-ended -- albeit highly suggestive -- conclusion works as well as it does at the end of Lady Snowblood: there's no telling who Yuki could, or would, become since so little is known about the person underneath those harsh features and that crafty umbrella.



Alas, in order for Lady Snowblood to have any kind of direct sequel, the ambiguity of the first film's ending must be addressed in one way or another. Love Song of Vengeance answers a few specific lingering questions by wrapping Yuki Kashima up in yet another conflict without a choice in the matter, one hinged on increased political turmoil and the repercussions of her vengeance. After being hunted, captured, and sentenced to death by the authorities for her rampage, she's liberated by a secret police organization that has a different objective in mind for her: to exploit her capabilities and her dire situation to force her into locating a significant document in the possession of an anarchist, Ransui Tokunaga (Juzo Itami). Obtaining the document and bringing it to the secret police's leader, Seishiro Kikui (Shin Kishida), will grant Lady Snowblood a pardon for her crimes; however, her time monitoring this anarchist provides another point of view, another layer of political concern, toward the decisions she should make.

Since none of Lady Snowblood's prior enemies remain after the character's ruthless crusade, Love Song of Vengeance must contrive an alternate situation requiring her special set of skills, one that takes the political undertones of the original film and expands them into the central plot. Despite the aesthetic similarities between the two, the close-up shots of impassioned eyes and the raw shakes of the camerawork during far more spread-apart battles, this new focus also alters the tone of Toshiya Fujita's direction and loses its grip on what makes Lady Snowblood so gratifying. While the story suffers from the classic symptoms of a tacked-on sequel, from blunt explanations that justify the new setting to the conditions that get our antihero wrapped up in another complicated situation, it also has a difficult time merely refocusing the tone and energy of the original into these new political maneuverings. Switching out much of the carnage for elements of political intrigue does make Love Song of Vengeance a more mature experience, but it also subtracts from some of the vivid artistry from the original.

There are scenes featuring Lady Snowblood engaged in combat, of course, which tap into a bit of the familiar vigor one might expect from this sequel, but the bulk of that action in Love Song of Vengeance -- heavy at the start and finish, sparse everywhere else -- essentially bookends the film's political deviations. Instead, scenes of bloodshed caused by our heroine's blade are replaced with the repercussions of torture, torment, and destruction at the hands of higher authoritative powers, fitting with the heavier dramatics present in Toshiya Fujita's film yet decidedly less jubilant. It could be argued that the process of Yuki learning about Ransui Tokunaga, his anarchistic movement and the plight of the people exist as a means of giving shape to the former assassin's personality without her storied vendetta driving her spirit. Yet, that absence of personal revenge leaves a void in the Lady Snowblood mythos that cumbersome espionage and political retribution can't properly fill, and when the sequel does return to its gory form in another chaotic ending, it doesn't feel nearly as personal this second time around.

For the full Blu-ray review, head over to DVDTalk.com: [Click Here]

Classic Musings: Downhill Racer (1969)

In an interview recorded about the making of Downhill Racer, Robert Redford is quick to address the gray-area focus on victory and sportsmanship in his late-'60s depiction of competitive skiing, emphasizing that the idea of it not mattering whether one wins or loses, instead how they play the game, is wrong. Not as an idealistic creed to follow, but in how those around the competitors ultimately perceive the outcome of their efforts, where tact and teamwork matter little unless they're standing atop the winner's podium. It's a contentious message within a culture that perpetuates the balancing act between maintaining etiquette and rewarding those who come out on top, whether we're talking about professional sports or the entrepreneurial and political arenas. Under the direction of Michael Ritchie, challenging ideas rush at the audience in a wobbly but viscerally triumphant portrait of a speed-based, individual sport that's tough to dramatize without crashes, trumping its generally shallow plotting with nuanced comments on the game itself and a calculated performance from Redford.

Following an injury to a member of the US skiing team while abroad, coach Eugene Claire (Gene Hackman) calls up competitors for their moment to shine in the big league, giving them enough time to gain their bearings and develop some winning momentum before the Winter Olympics in two years. David Chappellet (Redford) is one of those replacements, a largely unknown racer from the small town of Idaho Springs. His humble roots don't detract from his confidence, though, easily interpreted as arrogance, which distances himself from the rest of his team as he vies for a more desirable spot in the rankings. Downhill Racer follows the peaks and valleys in Chappellet's career -- both figurative and literal -- as he garners the attention of the media, of product sponsors, and of the women drawn into his chilly charisma and daring spirit, progressing forward to the arrival of the Olympics and whether he can hold onto his victorious drive and his shaky relationships with his teammates until then.

The intensity of the races and the snowy atmosphere of Europe propel Downhill Racer with engaging cinematic experiences, elevated by shaky camera movement and natural streaks of motion that take great strides towards emphasizing the solitary nature of Chappellet's sport. Typically, sports movies thrive on either head-to-head competitiveness or the dangers involved with the game, but these are >difficult to emphasize in a situation where the contestants race by themselves amid time trials, in situations where a crash instantly breaks the suspense. Director Ritchie employs an almost-documentary style of filmmaking that captures the beautifully realistic tension of those rickety blitzes downwards, making the audience feel as if they're seeing and feeling what the racers are experiencing in a tense, twisty blur of blue and white. These sequences offer a window into the vigor of the sport itself and, by association, into Chappellet's composure while tackling each course, becoming a facet of the film's examination of his character just as much as making audiences appreciate a sport that they may know little about.

Chappellet isn't an easy individual to navigate, either, a reserved yet arrogant athlete whose lone-wolf attitude makes him a rather unlikable force among the skiing team. Loosely adapting from the novel "The Downhill Racers" in a secondhand fashion, screenwriter James Salter doesn't offer a particularly complex or involving progression of events surrounding him, driven by a chain of races, smug outbursts, and cliche speeches from his coach -- sturdily buy dryly played by Gene Hackman -- that blur together into the small-town skier's largely predictable meteoric rise. When filtered through a callous demeanor by Robert Redford, however, they're given weight as the conditions ignite his frustrations and fuel his ego, communicated through the actor's terse body language and angry glances. His behavior adds a new layer of depth to commonplace happenings in the athlete's life, from his hollow and discouraging return home between sessions to his vague romantic endeavors with Carole (Camilla Sparv), a beautiful and free-spirited employee for a ski manufacturer whose motivations remain unclear.

That sobering depiction of Chappellet's rigid self-focused attitude shifts Downhill Racer towards a subversive look at the trajectory leading towards victory and successfulness, the ultimate payoff for a competitor's invested time and energy. Director Ritchie's understated perspective glides towards comments on the fleeting, fickle attention of the media and sponsors alongside the damage done by Chappellet's lack of graciousness or teamwork mentality, but it merely brushes against these themes without tackling them head-on, letting the athlete's coarse reactions speak for themselves. By sticking to this examination of his flawed and unlikable traits, the film cleverly asks the audience whether they actually want to see him succeed once Downhill Racer crosses the finish line, undercutting the traditional mind-set of rooting for the underdog. Chappellet overcomes obstacles, rising above his small-town origins and earning his moment in the spotlight like other conventional sports dramas, yet the film's complicated power ultimately rests in deciding whether he deserves it after witnessing how he played the game.

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Classic Musings: Night and the City (1950)

Some people understand what they're supposed to do with their lives -- with their smarts and talents -- at an early age, while other take a good while to figure out what they're meant to do, bouncing between professions in the meantime. Then, there are those who never really figure out what they're built for, resulting either in folks stuck in unsatisfying jobs or futilely chasing entrepreneurial opportunities until their number's up. Jules Dassin's spirited film noir Night and the City revolves around much more than that, naturally, spinning a dangerous web of scheming and backstabbing through the wrestling racket in post-WWII London, yet there's a timeless bittersweet tone lying within the pursuits of American hustler Harry Fabian that elevates the film through this life crisis. He's a man who never discovers a legit means of providing for he and his lady, despite his many skills that could be put to use in any number of other ways, which makes the mesmerizing hole he digs for himself both saddening and infuriating to behold.

Played by Richard Widmark in the prime of his antiheroic film noir popularity, Harry Fabian scurries about the darkened alleyways and smoky nightclubs of London trying to pull any con that might be worthwhile to him, often tied back to the club owned by seedy businessman Phil Nosseross (Francis L. Sullivan) and his crafty and detached wife, Helen (Googie Withers). While caught up in a botched job at a wrestling match nearby, Fabian witnesses a scuffle between a legendary wrestler, Gregorious (Stanislaus Zybyszko), and his son, bout organizer and local "entrepreneur" Kristo (Herbert Lom), that gets the gears moving in his head when their conversation turns to the purity of the sport. To make his scheme work, he needs capital, the kind of money he can't borrow from his innocent squeeze Mary (Gene Tierney). Thus begins Fabian's journey to get the coin required to become a player in London's wrestling circuit, a potential avenue for legitimate and lucrative income after he gets over this hump ... and he's willing to do just about anything to make that happen: lying, double-crossing, forging, even outright stealing.

Corruption permeates the lively streets of London in this take on Gerald Kersh's eponymous novel, creating a grimy and unpredictable setting in Night and the City that's hinged on a tentative "honor amongst thieves", where waiters and flower merchants on the streets are all in on the game. They're also the eyes and ears of those who have the coin to spend on whatever information they glean />about those who partake in their services, tossing allegiances aside when push comes to shove. Director Dassin doesn't make that element of the criminal underbelly one of malevolence, though, reserving that for the rigors of competing business and family conflict that drive the bigwigs studded throughout the town. Instead, this neutrality builds an environment where Fabian's scheming is both kept under wraps from the regular population (and law enforcement) and remains common knowledge among the larger players, granting him the freedom to maneuver under their skeptical observation.

The writing within the film noir genre commonly exaggerates the pulpy and on-the-nose style of it all, as if perpetually embroiled in a competition to one-up another entry, but Night and the City tailors the dialogue and twists so that they feel like natural extensions of this coarse, opportunistic atmosphere. Plenty of memorably stylistic lines are to be relished throughout the film -- such as a clever reworking of the "give enough rope" idiom using the sharpness of a blade -- but many of them often fly under the radar since they feel so integrated into the situations. The same can be said for the shrewd, subtle reveals of pertinent information and tactics at Fabian's disposal: many faces appear in his vigorous sprints between locations that could simply accentuate the atmosphere, but the script makes clever (re)use of them in the layers of his plotting, whether they're planned or spontaneous fixes to problems. That natural progression and usage of details, often revealing information by deduction that doesn't hold the audience's hand, makes Dassin's well-paced cinematic style breeze by even quicker.



Barring a few conveniences for the sake of the story, from people staying put in places for lengthy periods of time to the opportune smudging of ink from condensation, Night and the City generates shrewdly-written and uncompromising suspense that's always a few steps ahead of expectations. Unlikable swindlers and shady businessmen (and women) each have their own sympathetic qualities that make it tough to completely despise them amid their machinations, whether it's unreturned love from spouses and family to stifled ambition due to the town's dominant businessman, yielding a degree of unpredictability to the lines they're willing to cross to keep the upper hand. What's great about Night and the City comes in how quickly, and logically, the burly moving pieces of an industry built on stout backs and larger-than-life personalities can muscle out of their control. A stunning-photographed and poetic brawl near the end defies expectations of what the film's setting up, one whose stakes subvert the value of cash and contracts for the sake of family, honor, and the art of battle.

Coupled with absorbing, charismatic performances from all the rogues involved, Jules Dassin expertly structures Night and the City so that it's unclear whether we're supposed be pulling for Fabian and his wrestling endeavors to succeed or fail, which ties into the aforementioned idea of people whose potential is never properly realized. The story puts the audience in a neutral position there, cutting off most of the heroic or villainous bias so those watching can relish the twists and turns of his plan without being swayed. In that, against the rhythmic clanks and foggy depths of London through director Dassin's immersive viewpoint, there's something truly bittersweet about seeing this capable, honest-faced conman who thinks on his feet surrender to the moral demands of this scenario, elevated by Widmark's frantic personification of misguided ambition and fickle allegiances. It'd be easy to see Fabian's talents caught up in navigating boardrooms, pulling political strings, and persuading judges and juries instead of grifting between the city's dark corners, but whether we'd want him there is, of course, something else altogether, a true testament to the film's nuanced handling of genre characterization.

For the full Blu-ray review, head over to DVDTalk.com: [Click Here]