“Explosive sexuality” in Golden Age cinema, apropos of My Favorite Wife and Irene Dunne

Gap-Toothed Women

La Salamandre

This wild, wry, narrative-subverting and subtly political “color film in monochrome” reminded me a lot of Rivette’s Paris Belongs to Us and Celine & Julie. Two writers attempt to piece together the story of a seemingly inconsequential mystery through different points of view; the lead character in that mystery, Rosemonde, enters their lives and takes them on a wild goose chase through fact and fiction, identity and memory, sex, society… It may lack fundamental coherence in the same way Paris Belongs to Us does, but it does have a strange rhythm and perhaps even an unspeakable interior logic. The deadpan comic performances and abrupt outbursts of political sentiment effectively keep one’s attention even if one can’t quite make sense of just what it all means.

When a Woman Ascends the Stairs

It’s shocking how unknown Naruse is, and that (with such a long filmography) this is the only film yet released on DVD (at least R1). This is an exceptional modern melodrama, reminiscent of Mizoguchi and in some ways Antonioni in its examination of women’s place in contemporary society, the vacuous and disconnected quality in modern life, &c. Keiko is a complex character both driven and restricted by her place in society, chance misfortunes and opportunities, and her own values. Ultimately the film’s narrative is a spiraling one, as she makes attempt after attempt to move forward in a ‘career’ she’s bound to, to do the right thing for her family, and to remain true to herself despite being offered marriage proposals of varying levels of attractiveness; I was deeply engrossed in her life and began as hopeful as she herself did, but as each power play landed her in the same place, the truth about her life gradually became starkly evident.

Venus

This is alternately acerbic and tender in the same ways Grumpy Old Men is; although it has a larger share in both qualities, I would not say it is a much deeper film. Peter O’Toole is also a lecherous, wisecracking old man — and enough of a dude to capture the hearts of both a nubile young thing and an ever-stately Vanessa Redgrave. The relationship between the man at the end of his life and the young woman he takes a “theoretical interest” in is realistic and involving, but altogether I would not class this among the best films of last year, nor (is this blasphemy?) would I put O’Toole’s performance among the best of last year, or anywhere near his own best work. If he had won the Oscar, it would have been a de facto lifetime achievement award, and hell, they already gave him one of those!

I’ve Heard the Mermaids Singing

This was the most frustrating viewing experience I’ve had in a long time. Imagine a film that is so much like your life: your experience, your future, people you’ve known, feelings you’ve felt. It’s all there, except the character that would be you is INSUFFERABLE.

How personal shall I make this? I’m a bit drunk, and it’s my journal, so I’ll egotrip if I want to. Here we have… a red-haired woman, all right, who at 31 still has no ambition nor has found a meaningful romantic configuration; she begins to work as a temporary secretary (or “Person Friday”) for an older woman, a French-Canadian art gallery curator reminiscent of a slightly less glamorous Catherine Deneuve, and — she “thinks” — falls in love with her, but without “the kissing and stuff.” Oh, it’s all there, the curator is every professor I ever had a slightly perverse asexual crush on, but DAMMIT Sheila McCarthy, I will not identify myself with you!

It is so strange for me to read this was a breakthrough, much-heralded role for McCarthy. To me, her plucky, naive — no, rather: stupid, unfunny heroine is, yes, in a word, insufferable. I cannot tolerate her glib, hammy performance. I could probably make a case against her that isn’t so damnably subjective. Humor through the vessel of this character consists of ordering milk inappropriately at a sushi restaurant and getting a white mustache drinking it. Rolling Eyes That sort of thing, on and on, for 90 minutes.

Ugh. Axe McCarthy, recast this with me, see if Deneuve is available (though I’ll take this Paule Baillargeon), and then we’d be in business. I don’t know how to actually rate this film (it’s more than acceptable, really); I’m far too caught up in my Ultimate Fantasy Gone Freakishly Wrong.

Letters from Iwo Jima

Regardless, this is an accomplished, humane film, of a piece with Eastwood’s greatest ‘late period’ films. His recent work — most fully realized with Million Dollar Baby – has earned him a place in my book as one of the great American directors. This is, as most would agree, far superior to the (very good) companion piece Flags of Our Fathers, which also succeeds in capturing the real feelings of human beings unnaturally forced to become soldiers, but is tainted by a strange Hollywood atmosphere: too many pretty boys emoting, perhaps; too hackneyed in both narrative and character development (the drunkard native American? Must we? Lucky Adam Beach was so good). In contrast, Letters gives us surprising characters, particularly well developed for a fairly large ensemble, and an affecting window into another culture’s conflicts and values (I can only hope it is passably true to reality: I have no knowledge myself to judge its cultural or historical accuracy).

Anyway as the well-respected but mainstream American films of 2006 go, this rightfully stands out among the pack, but it is thoroughly classical in every sense save point of view. This isn’t a flaw, but most of us prefer to look beyond Hollywood, and no one should fantasize that this is anything but that.

Morvern Callar

Basically, I find it difficult to criticize this film on any of the narrative or ideological grounds raised by IMDb posters; the only thing that stands between me and this film is Morvern herself. For all viewers who at least like the film, I think the difference between “just liked it,” “really liked it,” or “loved it” lies in how strongly that viewer connects to this character. Morvern’s response to the sudden tragedy and windfall in her life seems believable to me, and watching her move in a half-catatonic, half-rapturous state through her surroundings is intriguing. Morton’s performance, without a doubt, is intense and heartfelt. But somehow I never got in Morvern’s head, and I think that’s essential to existentialist work (and perhaps something that works better in the novel). I was never fully “there” with her, seeing with her eyes, feeling through her; not in the way I imagine those who really love this film do. So in the final analysis, I think this is a special gem of a film, not the most deeply felt experience I have ever had (I know I certainly experienced it differently than sidehacker), but promising of great things to come from the young & talented Ramsay.

Broken English

Disappointing offering from the last Cassavetes-Rowlands kid to entertain the notion that talent is genetic: I can’t speak about Xan yet, but her brother Nick is, so far, no more impressive. Well, this is an implausible, derivative romance, driven by its likable but privileged and self-pitying “woman lost” heroine. Nora is a realistic character, if not very deeply drawn, but above all Parker Posey breathes life into her in a way that is impressive to watch. Outside her performance, the film is hit & miss. Oh, and my heart skipped a beat when I first caught sight of my Gena, still luminous after all these years; and it tickles me to see her married to Peter Bogdanovich here (as Ben Gazzara elsewhere). Anyway, a pleasant unremarkable film.

La Grande bouffe

Anyone surprised I would like this film still doesn’t know me very well. It’s The Seventh Continent meets Ace Ventura; would make a great double bill with Cook, Thief; is very interesting so close on the heels of La Caza. In short, four middle-aged men (masters all, Mastroianni, Piccoli, Tognazzi, Noiret at their hammiest) decide — for societal or personal reasons left to the viewer to assign — to kill themselves by gorging on gourmet food for as long as it takes. In the meantime, a string of whores and otherwise found women help pass the time. I’m working on the theory, but I like to read this as homoeroticism in the extreme. The men alone are agents, and interested only in each other: explicitly, the women are shown to be as useful as bare-assed sculpture or a cow. The men share a bed, with women really only a conduit, an empty vessel, between them. When Ugo is in his death throes, Phillipe feeds him lovingly as Andrea jerks him off. Yes: holes are holes, ingest at one end and ejaculate at another… anyway, at all opportunities women, food, and death are juxtaposed, leaving our heroes — united in affectionate brotherhood, in hardship, in… dare I say it? desire! — to navigate this bizarre masculine landscape. (”In hardship!” Har!) Oh, I could go on for days: of course this is a film for me! Morbidly hilarious. Very naughty. A must-see.