I was never particularly drawn to Malick, and so he has been another gross oversight in my film viewership. But another of my vague cinematic new year’s resolutions is to never regret missing an opportunity to see something theatrically again, and so when the Cleveland Cinematheque scheduled all four of his films this month I could hardly pass them up. Badlands was great, a quirky, dark, involving film just as beautiful to look at as I’d always imagined. Already I had been converted. Hell, I had been just from the Thin Red Line trailer, a film that previously held zero appeal for me, but when the music kicks up, and Ben Chaplin says, “Who lit this flame in us?”—so easily it got to me. Still, Days of Heaven, this was something else entirely, something I wasn’t prepared for; it is unutterably beautiful. Everyone knows that about Days of Heaven, but… good lord. During the whole locust/fire sequence I felt like I might fall out of my seat at any moment. I feel rather speechless and silly over it. It should be illegal to see this film anywhere but in a proper theatre.

As expressed elsewhere, my fourth Sirk film confirms him as a filmmaker I like and respect tremendously, and consistently, but he has never been the satisfying whole experience I always expected him to be. Opulently framed, veiled critiques of 50s society are perhaps not so intrinsically interesting to me as I imagined—or I get too stuck in the superficial silliness of it all to really take pleasure in the underlying ironies as I watch. There’s Always Tomorrow is much less opulent, and much less veiled, a more direct and effective portrait of the effects social constructions have on the unwary, the great majority of perfectly decent people who will not fight for something real and before they know it it has become an impossibility. It is an unflattering and insightful portrait of contemporary masculinity (the robot metaphor was adorable, and much too much), and husbands and wives—and Joan Bennett’s chilling assertion of what a woman really wants is a sort of fascinating chicken- »»»

If it isn’t quite up to the staggering fluidity and layers of meaning of Ugetsu, this is above all things a gloriously beautiful film, reminding me why—before I had a leg to stand on (and I still don’t)—I proclaimed Mizoguchi by far my favorite Japanese filmmaker a long time ago. (It may be true, but a handful of films from each of the majors and none from the overlooked talents won’t decide the matter now.) At least, Mizoguchi’s cinema is easier for me to grab on to, easier for me to be wowed by, prettier, more identifiable. Then, Kinuyo Tanaka is better than anyone. And that’s about as far as Sumako goes for me, which is plenty far. The unrelenting melodrama and simplicity of the story tested my patience—why here and not elsewhere, I can’t say, and I recognize the unfairness in that. Expectations, I suppose: when a film opens with a monologue on personal ethics, honest living, the relationship between art and life, and then turns swiftly to bringing Ibsen’s “A Doll’s House” yes »»»

A superlative romantic comedy, although Stevens’ entries in the genre lack the speed and sass of his best contemporaries. His films make it up with thoughtfulness and sensitivity: punctuated by outbursts of zaniness, carried along by pleasant vibes of charm and sweetness, they are basically earnest affairs. Frank Capra, plainly, has more edge. At the same time, they never drift into meaningless sentiment or crass manipulation, regardless of the material (and consider how easy it would have been with something like the laughable-on-paper, much-afflicted lovers of Penny Serenade) — Stevens’ films are above all grounded in moments of refreshing human intimacy.

Merrier’s plot speaks to both the time and a screwball sensibility: in a small gesture of patriotism, amidst war and a housing shortage, kind and orderly Jean Arthur offers half her apartment for »»»

As my introduction to experimental filmmaker Stephen Dwoskin this went over much better than expected, although I can’t say it didn’t test my patience at times to spend up to twenty minutes regarding the close-up of a person’s face. (But I made it through Blow Job; I could handle this.) This possible frustration doesn’t negatively impact my opinion of the film, as so much of it deals with direct confrontation: with oneself, with another person, and certainly with the viewer. So that is merely the truth of my response given such a confrontation: evidently I can watch a woman slowly, quietly break down, and after ten minutes look away without making the sorrow my own. There, I have learned something about myself.

Dwoskin has said his films aren’t meant to be shown for a large audience in a theater but rather »»»

Godard’s disjointed, rambling anti-capitalist screed is never less than engaging, often hilarious, and occasionally astonishing. His argument is put forth sometimes directly, sometimes poetically: that modern society itself is prostitution, that we have come to value lifestyle over life. If some conclusions seem naive or facile, the overall effect is one that is frighteningly relevant forty years later. And it’s full of so many powerful images and sequences, edited perfectly. Some reviewers seem to find the film slow, and I suppose next to the guerrilla-style velocity of Week End it is, but for me it was never less than magnetic. It’s also one of Godard’s funniest, its presentation nowhere near as serious as its thesis, coming across as a nonstop stream of visual and linguistic puns and references. But then the mood will be broken with a gut punch of insight and wonderment: the world in a coffee cup; the decision of which narrative to follow. Multilayered and ambitious, and brings everything together with amazing cogency. See it in a theater if you can: it’s widescreen to tha max.

I had been looking forward to this for so long, and what a disappointment it turns out to be. The quasi-sequel to Belle de jour doesn’t do for the original what, say, Wide Sargasso Sea does for Jane Eyre in terms of revisiting and reimagining it. It’s more like the cinematic equivalent of Cliffs Notes. Half the film is spent between Husson and a bartender in Socratic dialogue rehashing the events and motivations of Severine’s past; the other half shows the reunion of the two over an uncomfortable dinner Husson finally forces her into. The film is essentially two long conversations, in which every element of Severine’s psychology is laid on the table, first in his words and then in her own, in the most plain and facile terms imaginable, until all the joy of analyzing the original film is removed. But that is what this is: criticism brought to life. An interesting idea in theory, I suppose, but the possibilities the subject matter affords make this look like a painfully wasted opportunity. I can’t imagine someone who hasn’t seen Belle de jour being interested in this, and I can’t imagine someone who has seen Belle de jour finding this entirely satisfying, but still from any perspective there are qualities and moments in this that are beautiful: shots of Paris, of dimly lit hotel rooms, the occasionally successful wryly funny homage, and the lingering weight of the regret that comes with age. In the last five minutes it achieves something of what the rest of the film might have been, and finally has the good sense to leave one or two questions unanswered. A good film, but altogether a story of might-have-beens.

Sleazy good fun, what a slut Jones was for Selznick. Wears foundation three shades too dark to play a feral half-breed, exoticised Other, lust object. It’s all absurd and possibly a bit offensive, but it creates an interesting dynamic where men are powerless before her (endless depravity — her father can barely restrain himself) but she has no real agency whatsoever — entirely & only the lust object. So after much rambling about and detours with a parade of hammy has-beens, it ends the only way it can, really: mutually assured destruction in the titular duel in the sun. One of the most satisfying climaxes ever, possibly, arguably in both senses. The film thinks way too highly of itself (prelude and exit overtures?) and is silly as often as it is impressive, but it’s an original.

An intermittently enjoyable sort of patchwork mess, but when it’s good it actually approaches brilliance. Don’t know what to say about the thing as a whole, but the middle third makes for pretty remarkable Gothic romance. What begins almost insufferably good-naturedly turns fitfully darker (and strangely, wittier) throughout till it reaches a crest of compelling creepiness… then goes completely off the deep end in a poorly conceived and oddly paced climax. Mankiewicz is all there as a writer and getting there as a director. It’s just that the film wants to be too many things at once, and everything ends up sticking out sorely — a traditionally Gothic story and setting, lines fit for a screwball script, a dementedly wry twist on things that only half the cast seem to understand… This is a plain oddity that classic film lovers have unaccountably canonized.

Lubitsch was slated to direct before he became ill, and I can’t imagine what he would have done with it… would have made an interesting item in his body of work, certainly.

Early Hitchcocks strike me as being overly concerned with the boring technique of constructing mystery plots, and lack the inventiveness and pace and smart humor of his later work. Indeed the humor here is as flat and awkward as the “tense moments” it’s meant to relieve. Many wasted opportunities that stick out particularly because they remind me of what he later did with similar set-ups; for example, the Albert Hall scene lacks all the tension and interest of the auction in North By Northwest or the Mr Memory show of The 39 Steps, this film’s immediate follow-up. Most of what is interesting, and at least camp-level effective, in this routine genre film lies in the gradual initiation into the world of the bizarre assassination plotters, and particularly in Peter Lorre’s character, who gets his first English-language role here and is still doing good trade on his M creepiness.