Category Archives: Film

The change and The General

words and images Posted on by

Warning: Women’s matters mentioned.

For at least 14 days I’ve had symptoms of PMS. My period was due to start about April 24 (which meant that I had to cancel my first appointment with a different gynecologist for the 25th). At around 11 p.m., there were signs that it was starting. Those signs continued for almost 60 hours in combination with the PMS, making me doubly miserable. At last, it looks like it means business.

This happened last month, when my period dropped hints that it was on its way and then arrived unapologetically late. I don’t like to contemplate this, but even I can’t deny that this is probably the beginning of the end — perimenopause. I don’t feel like a crone, and I’m not ready to be one.

Billions of women have undergone this rite of passage, but what I’m starting to understand is that it’s going to be unpleasant — not because of the discomfort, which can be considerable, or the changes, which can be dramatic, but because my body is doing these things behind my back and without my permission.

Perimenopause and menopause are inevitable for women who live long enough, but I don’t see how you can prepare for it, any more than you could for puberty. If the one marks the beginning of the entry into adulthood, the other marks the beginning of the end. As an animal, my useful (reproductive) life is over. Logic can’t always overcome the underlying finality and sadness of that simple truth.

Yesterday J. decided to stop by on his way to work to take a walk with me (part of his determination to be more active), but while driving he talked himself out of working. I was waiting for him with tea in an insulated cup so we could combine activity with something comforting.

In spite of the darkness (the lights were off), we walked around Promontory Point and to the 57th Street underpass. Along the way we spotted four parties with fires blazing in the stone circles. The fires worried me because they were large, and the wind was floating sparks from them everywhere. I half expected to see the Point in ashes this morning. At each fire, J. stopped to contemplate the beauty of the flames and then pointedly reassured me each time that he is not a pyromaniac.

Because he had decided not to go to work, I made him watch Buster Keaton’s The General. It’s a brilliant movie — comedy with a touch of adventure, and chase scenes that have never been equaled. Every obstacle is an example of Keaton’s inventive genius, and every exquisitely timed stunt a testament to his physical prowess. His character’s love interest is played by Marion Mack, who is more than the obligatory eye candy. She turns in a delightful performance that ranges from expressive (when she thinks that her man wasn’t even in the line to enlist) to as stone-faced as Keaton himself as she grimly feeds the General’s boiler with delicate sticks of wood. When Keaton strangles her in frustration, then kisses her violently mid-pursuit, it’s more than a comic bit; it’s an erotic moment that should be remembered as one of cinema’s great kisses — anger turned to passion.

The General is not just a gag-filled chase; through visuals and only a handful of captions, it tells a satisfying story. To me, it’s one of the most nearly perfect movies ever made.

This morning a nightmare woke me up. When I did, I could feel the earth trembling and wondered if there was more shaking going on along the New Madrid fault.

Then I realized the trembling was a sensation caused by the pounding of my terrified heart.

Precious Bane (the movie)

words and images Posted on by

After dinner at Pizzeria Due on a snowy New Year’s Eve, J. and I came home to my place at The Flamingo, where I subjected him to one of my favorite movies — Precious Bane, originally shown on PBS in 1989 and gone missing since. Based on the novel by Mary Webb, Precious Bane is not an ideal holiday movie, but somehow I was in the mood to see it and to share it.

For J., who has not read the book or heard of the movie, it was difficult to follow, partly because of the dialect. He did not understand why the characters believed in witchcraft and curses at such a late date. When Gideon tells Prue, “You’ll never wed,” he seemed to think it might be because the harelip marred her looks, but Gideon meant that no one would marry a woman with so evident a curse upon her.

I remember that I too had difficulty at first following the story when it was new to me; so much of it is alien to contemporary experience. Because it is so well told, however, it soon sweeps you into its world of isolation, ignorance, and superstition.

Underneath the ugliest elements — the superstition and narrowness of the villagers, the brutality of the Sarn men, Gideon’s greed and ironic self-righteousness, Beguildy’s abuse of his perceived powers — Precious Bane is a magnificent love-wish fulfillment story. After surviving all the suffering that life and human frailty create, two odd, deserving people ride off to what we are sure will be a life of love and contentment in each other, for they are kindred spirits. There’s no more satisfying — or unlikely — ending. Even the change of heart among the villagers seems surreal as they egg on the ringleaders, then turn against them. Whether we feel cursed or not (I sometimes do), it’s the denouement to a satisfying drama that anyone could wish for.

What most struck me, then and now, and when I read the book, was Prue’s passion for learning how to read and write. It’s an ability we take for granted because we don’t know what it’s like not to have it. We don’t always understand that the ability to read and write contributes to independence and helps us to stay connected socially and emotionally. For Prue, trapped on her farm by her obligation to her brother, poverty, and superstition, reading and writing are her lifeline to something greater than herself, to a life beyond the narrow one she knows. It is also the only way she has to open her heart, however obliquely, to the one person she knows to be a kindred spirit — the one person who sees past the curse into her blessed heart.

Today, when most of us can read and write, how do we use this powerful ability? Parents and teachers are thrilled that children read the Harry Potter books, because otherwise they might not read at all on their own. We send e-mails and messages that fulfill certain obligations but that do not communicate much beyond facts — certainly not feelings. “Thanks for your e-mail. School starts on the 10th. We’re not ready for it yet. Suzy outgrew another pair of shoes.” Expressing genuine emotion, which provide so much relief to Prue and took away the power of the curse forever (“No more sad talk! I’ve chosen my bit of Paradise. ‘Tis on your breast, my dear acquaintance!”) seems to be unacceptable, even vaguely subversive, now that we have the means to do it easily, even beautifully. To do so is to take a risk, that of revealing too much and of embarrassing ourselves in an irrevocable way. Even expressing gratitude to a persona who helped to shape our live and our perspective, is a terrible risk. What if they don’t remember us or don’t care?

I’m willing to take that risk.

I will write it.

But I don’t have to send it . . .

Too late. I did.

Edits: I didn’t receive a response, but for some reason I didn’t quite expect one. As a child, I would have been hurt. Now it doesn’t really matter.

Here’s a wonderful entry, with photos, about the Shropshire of Precious Bane.

A Christmas Carol: 1938

words and images Posted on by

Although A Christmas Carol with Alastair Sim is my favorite film version of the Charles Dickens story, I’ve found myself enjoying the 1938 movie with Reginald Owen several times. Filling in for the injured Lionel Barrymore, Owen delivers some lines a little too hurriedly, but captures the essence of the crusty capitalist before, during, and after his transformation.

As a side note, this film mentions that the poor take their dinners to the baker. This was of special interest to me because Elizabeth Gaskell notes the same tradition in Cranford. My edition of the novel explains that the poor used the leftover heat from the baker’s morning production to cook. I don’t know if this is in the original Dickens story, but it’s wonderful to see a small insight into daily life like that in a contemporary book and then in a film produced nearly 80 years later.

This version of the film focuses on the differences between childhood and adulthood, children and adults. When the juvenile Ebenezer is left behind at school for the holidays, he explains haughtily to a departing friend that he is to stay to continue his studies and that Christmas and its traditions are for children. Barely out of childhood, he justifies his father’s edict with the grim resignation of an adult. When his sister Fanny comes to retrieve him after his father’s reversal of mind, Ebenezer responds with a delight that mirrors Fanny’s own. This scene serves as a glimpse into Scrooge’s formative years, when he is neither child nor man.

Earlier, both Scrooge’s nephew, Fred, and his clerk, Bob Cratchit, had been portrayed as men-children. When he comes upon boys sliding down an icy hill, Fred cannot resist taking a few turns himself, attracting the notice of two of the Cratchit boys. Then, on his way home, Bob Cratchit turns a snowball attack on his formal adult person into a lesson on the fine art of making the perfect snowball. When one of the street urchins announces, “Here comes a topper!” Cratchit gleefully impresses his young friends with the accuracy of his aim — knocking the top hat off his curmudgeonly employer. Within an instant, Cratchit is transformed from impish boy into a careworn — and unemployed — father.

When the Ghost of Christmas Past tries to take Scrooge away from the reawakened memories of his childhood and youth, he demands to stay, like a difficult child. At a party in honor of Fred and his fiancee, Scrooge watches a game of blind man’s bluff with the wide eyes of a child (and seems not to notice the couple kissing in the foreground). When the Ghost of Christmas Present tells him it is time to leave, he pettishly refuses, stamping his feet and pounding his fists like the child within himself he is rediscovering.

In contrast, the Ghost of Christmas Yet to Come takes Scrooge to the relentlessly dark world of adulthood. With the death of Tiny Tim, the ebullient spirit of Bob Cratchit and his family is diminished if not lost. Scrooge’s own death brings out only the sarcasm and greed of the “men of business” who are his peers; Scrooge leaves no children behind to mourn him.

By the end, Scrooge finds his inner child, the spirit of openness, generosity, and even fun that makes the poorest of street urchins and the lowliest of clerks happier than he. In his new-found joy, Scrooge gleefully engages an urchin to bring him a prize turkey for the Cratchit table.

Christmas is a time for family and friends and for the unspoiled spirit and wonder of childhood. In this movie, Scrooge becomes a good, even a great man by opening his elderly heart to the child he had never been allowed to be. I would not be surprised if he broke Fred and Peter’s record slides on the icy hill.

Spencer Tracy as Jekyll and Hyde

words and images Posted on by

I’m sure they’ve been around for a while, but I’ve only recently discovered free on-demand movies. I’ve never bothered with a DVD player or a service like Netflix, so this is a good opportunity for me to see old movies with frequent breaks to accommodate my inborn restlessness.

Over the weekend, I watched Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde, the 1941 version with Spencer Tracy, Lana Turner, and Ingrid Bergman. I wish I could remember the novel, but it has been decades since I read it. Even if the movie is not true to the book, it stands on its own as an interesting story.

I found the premise somewhat confusing; Dr. Jekyll seems to think that good and evil could be separated, although I’m not sure how the yelling man at the church service fit into this. He appears to be mentally ill (schizophrenia) rather than evil, and there are many worse crimes against humanity than disrupting a church service or interrupting the minister.

Like other fictional scientists of the 19th century, Dr. Jekyll experiments with the fundamental concepts of existence. Frankenstein creates life, while Dr. Jekyll tries to penetrate the secrets of the human soul.

According to Wikipedia, “Spencer Tracy’s performance in this film, out of all the performances he ever gave, was judged inadequate, and was one of his few critically roasted roles (Tracy was not considered frightening enough as Mr. Hyde, though he was quite good as Jekyll) . . . Tracy’s performance was routinely savaged when compared with March’s more monstrous version.”

My reaction was a little different. Tracy is not convincing as either a Victorian or as a scientist too ambitious to consider the ethical ramifications of his work. He doesn’t quite convey the single-minded devotion to his idea that is the hallmark of the mad, or nearly mad, scientist. The story line has him engaged to the Lana Turner character, although he is pointedly shown missing society dinners and functions with his fiancée and her father to indicate his commitment to his work. I’m not familiar with Tracy, but his Jekyll lacks an edge that seems vital to the character. He’s so bland that he doesn’t even seem to notice the very obvious advances of Ingrid Bergman’s barmaid/prostitute.

In this production, Hyde is more malicious prankster than personification of pure evil. While he is not handsome, he is not homely, either. The choice to use minimal makeup and effects makes Hyde even creepier than if he were shown to be a physical monstrosity, as he was in other versions. It is the combination of his words, his leering eyes, and his toothy smile that Ivy Peterson (Bergman) finds disturbing. Then, with much racy innuendo for 1941, she learns the painful way that he is not only a rapist, but a sadist who punishes her for the hatred he feels toward the man she loves — Dr. Jekyll.

The Victorians believed in physiognomy, the idea that outer appearance reflects inner temperament and character. This movie is better for eschewing this approach because a normal appearance encourages us to let down our guard. Unconsciously, we still expect a monster to act monstrously; we don’t expect a handsome, seemingly normal man like Ted Bundy to be a serial killer. Tracy’s Hyde dresses and looks like a gentleman, with a touch of something unsettling behind his eyes. While he is a prankster, slyly tripping a waiter and instigating a brawl, he is much darker, too, not only raping, beating, and murdering, but also gleefully gloating over the fear and loathing he inspires. His crimes are the culmination of the sadistic thrills that feed his existence. Ivy would rather die than live with the uncertainty of the depravities in which he may indulge. As I watched the movie, I did not experience a specific, all-out fear, but a more subtle, insidious, persistent anxiety, similar to Ivy’s.

Lana Turner is believable as the virtuous fiancée. She conveys the kind of sexuality that must have driven sexual tension in repressed Victorian society. When Dr. Jekyll says, “We love each other very much and want to be together,” his vision does not seem to be one of home, hearth, and family, the Victorian ideal, but of a sexy Lana Turner in his arms at last.

Unlike others, I was unimpressed by Bergman’s portrayal of the barmaid/prostitute, Ivy. In her first encounter with Dr. Jekyll, her rolling eyes and self-conscious smirks are hammy rather than naughty, flirty, or seductive. She can’t decide between her own accent and a lower-class English one. She also wavers between a tough-as-nails woman-of-the-street persona and a weak, naive one that finds Hyde’s depravities horrifying, perhaps even shocking. Her breakdown before Dr. Jekyll, as she asks for his protection, seems staged rather than spontaneous.

Despite the weaknesses in casting and performances, the flatness of the setting and atmosphere (which lack seediness and menace), and the glossing over of the ethical questions central to the story, Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde still manages to disturb me and to remind me that horror doesn’t arise from what is seen and known, but from what is felt and anticipated. Hyde isn’t a monster because he’s ugly, physically deformed, and criminal; he’s a monster because our imagination gives him the power to frighten us with what he might do, and an ignited imagination is more powerful than any reality — or any film.

Deliverance

words and images Posted on by

I’m reading A Walk in the Woods by Bill Bryson, and he mentions Clayton, Georgia, and Billy Redden, who appeared in the film adaptation of Deliverance.

I saw Deliverance only a few years ago, when my cousin’s daughter lived in a converted hunting cabin in Pennsylvania. This seemed appropriate a venue from an aesthetic/ambiance viewpoint — somewhat remote (well, in the woods and a bit of an uphill driveway off the road, with a steep hillside looming immediately off the living room picture window, waiting for a hard or a long rain to have an excuse to knock the house down the rest of the hill into the road).

Not being a fan of suspenseful or violent movies, I couldn’t comfortably sit through it without closing my eyes, wandering to the kitchen, the bathroom, etc. This fit in perfectly with the ambiance of the occasion — it was over the Christmas holidays, and my cousin, his wife, his daughter, her husband, his hound dog (a beagle), and miscellaneous other furry friends were ambling among all the rooms in the same manner I was, so I didn’t stick out too much like the proverbial sore thumb, well, except for constantly saying, “I can’t take suspenseful or violent movies, so I can’t watch this . . .” Deliverance was in the VCR because my cousin’s son-in-law had gotten it as a gift.

Like many, I was struck by the boy who appeared to play the banjo in the “Dueling Banjos” scene. “Appeared” because not only could he not play the banjo, but he could not fake playing the banjo; apparently, there’s another kid’s arm in the sleeve faking the playing.

The face that you don’t forget when you see Deliverance belonged to a backward boy of fifteen named Billy Redden, who had the role of a retarded banjo player. The thin-lidded eyes and simple grin are haunting on film, and they were just as disturbing to see on the set.

Summer of Deliverance by Christopher Dickey

A short time later in the movie would appear a woman and child who were equally “disturbing” and underdeveloped. Then there are, of course, the two men who attack the Ned Beatty character.

My gut reaction was to think, “Oh, who would believe this — that this kind of thing existed in 1970s America?” I was a skeptic. I posted my doubts to a mailing list that happened to have a lifelong Georgian on it, and he told me that such people do indeed exist, especially in the northern part of the state, and nothing in the movie was an exaggeration.

I thought back to a young adult book I’d been given years ago named Christy by Catherine Marshall, about a young urban girl, living at perhaps turn of the century or a little after, who is drawn to the Appalachians to serve as a Christian missionary. It’s been years since I read it so I don’t remember details, but Christy is taken aback and unnerved by the poverty, ignorance, and backwardness she sees everywhere. The only person who can really understand her perspective and that of the local people is a Scots doctor who grew up in the area.

There is no such thing as sanitation, so typhoid is rampant. When babies are “tetchy,” the mother shakes them as a “cure” — often resulting in the baby’s death. Trepanning is high-tech surgery. There is an otherworldliness to Christy that is difficult to explain, just as there is an otherworldliness that comes across briefly in Deliverance. The awesome beauty of nature populated by people who are little evolved from ancestors hundreds of years ago — and who clearly suffer the result of generations of inbreeding.

I find this otherworldliness, for all its suffering, brutality, and primitivism, strangely haunting and fascinating. My mind, overwhelmed by urban and suburban sprawl, a mushrooming population, media saturation, the Internet, people and technology and information everywhere until I feel a desperate need to escape at any cost, cannot fathom that there are, or were in the 1970s at least, parts of the country where everything I feel crushed by barely exists.

I would love to see northern Georgia today. Somehow, I suspect I would find satellite and cable/digital TV, an onslaught of advertising, and even a computer or two. I would be disappointed.

You see, Deliverance (and Christy) are trips in time, to a past that we no longer remember or care about, when America was covered in forest and young and brutal and backwards. That time is past, but the snapshot may still be there, and that is surely a wonder.