The Godfather Coda: The Death of Michael Corleone

This is a version of a review airing on ABC Radio Ballarat and South West Victoria on December 18, 2020.

(M) ★★★

Director: Francis Ford Coppola.

Cast: Al Pacino, Andy Garcia, Diane Keaton, Talia Shire, Sofia Coppola, Eli Wallach, Joe Mantegna, George Hamilton, Bridget Fonda, Raf Vallone, Franc D'Ambrosio, Donal Donnelly, Richard Bright.

"You're right. That is a close shave."

Read my review of The Godfather here and The Godfather Part II here.

The Godfather Part III doesn't appear on many lists of the greatest films of all time. When it does, it's begrudgingly lumped in with its superior predecessors and listed as part of The Godfather Trilogy. 

The film has all the hallmarks of an after-thought, much like its inclusion on those lists. Indeed, Coppola admitted he only made the film because he was in so much financial trouble after his musical One From The Heart bombed hard, forcing him to go from auteur to jobbing director. He also admitted the story of the Corleone family was complete after parts I and II.

But Part III exists, and has been the much-maligned unnecessary threequel ever since. Now, re-edited for its 30th anniversary, the film has been re-titled as The Godfather Coda. It's a fitting name for this half-interesting epilogue, and the re-edit is a definite improvement from all reports (I have to admit I hadn't bothered to watch Part III until now). 

coda

noun

the concluding passage of a piece or movement, typically forming an addition to the basic structure

The story centres on the now-legitimate Corleone family trying to make a business deal with the Vatican, which would set Michael Corleone (Pacino) and his descendants up for life. But the old ways come knocking - "Just when I thought I was out, they pull me back in," laments Michael in the film's most quoted moment. Forced back into the fight once more, he takes his nephew Vincent (Garcia) under his wing and tries to find a peaceful outcome in order to protect his family.

Part III is not as bad as many make out and has its definite highlights. Key among those is Garcia, well worthy of an Oscar nom for his role as Vincent, the bastard son of Sonny Corleone (played by James Caan in the first two films). He brings swagger and confidence to bear, somehow invoking Sonny while also making Vincent feel like a new, modern character in this ageing world.

The script boasts some great lines and in its readjusted "Coda" format, it flows nicely. It's still somewhat messy, although reportedly much better than before. The theme of redemption is particularly interesting, and the film's view of Michael Corleone (Pacino) is intriguing. It's somewhat off-putting at first to see him smiling and joking. This is no longer the villain of Part II - this a man wrestling with his past, his conscience, his regrets, and his very soul. He is righting wrongs as best he can.

The scenes he shares with his ex-wife Kay (Keaton) are fantastic, as the two try to reconcile who they are as people, separate from the family business, only to realise that Michael can never leave the business. Equally compelling are Michael and Vincent's scenes - the newly magnanimous Michael sees Vincent as part of his redemption, and initially hopes to save Vincent's soul if he can't save his own.

The downsides are many though. Robert Duvall's absence due to a pay dispute leaves a hole in the family that Tommy Hagen would have filled perfectly, especially given the big personalities of the previous films are down to just Michael and Connie (Shire). 

Much has been made of Sofia Coppola's performance as Mary. To be fair, she tries her best with some dire lines and does a pretty good job in places, particularly when Vincent breaks her heart. But she's woefully miscast.

And as good as the script is in places, there's a slight weirdness to proceedings. There's the weird cousin-love thing, the helicopter shoot-out gets a little goofy, Michael's diabetic seizure feels weird, there's an overuse of jaw harp in the score, and lines like "even the new Pope is in danger!" die even in the mouth of Al Pacino.

By the way, "Can Michael Corleone save the new Pope?" is the tagline this film needed back in 1990.

Also it's evident Coppola has lost his mojo. Look at the long-table board meetings in parts I and II and how they're filmed in a similar style to each other - they have class and panache and tension. A similar meeting in Part III is flat and lifeless, with no rolling camera. The celebration scene at the start (with its weird sound mix) doesn't capture the liveliness and symbolism of the opening parties in parts I and II. There are flashes of the visual style and grace of the previous films, notably in the third act opera and its simultaneous killings, but the flair and daring isn't there.

The Godfather Coda is not worthless, nor is it wholly necessary. The re-edit certainly seems to be an improvement on its original form - indeed, it's theme of redemption now seems to somewhat carry over to Coppola himself. One of the thorns in his legacy appears to have been plucked, healing it enough to make The Godfather Series more worthy of a group listing among the greatest films of all time.

AFI #32: The Godfather Part II (1974)

This is a version of a review airing on ABC Radio Ballarat and South West Victoria on December 18, 2020.

This is part of a series of articles reviewing the American Film Institute's Top 100 Films, as unveiled in 2007. Why am I doing this? Because the damned cinemas were closed and I had to review something, and I can't stop now until I finish.

(M) ★★★★★

Director: Francis Ford Coppola.

Cast: Al Pacino, Robert Duvall, Diane Keaton, Robert De Niro, John Cazale, Talia Shire, Lee Strasberg, Michael V. Gazzo, G. D. Spradlin, Richard Bright, Gastone Moschin, Tom Rosqui, Bruno Kirby, Frank Sivero, Francesca De Sapio, Morgana King.

"Kiss me like you mean it."

The Godfather Part II is the only sequel on the AFI 100 list. Others are worthy. The Empire Strikes Back is better than Star Wars, Toy Story 3 is better than Toy Story, and The Two Towers and Return Of The King are both better than Fellowship Of The Ring. But Star Wars, Toy Story and Fellowship were firsts - they were groundbreaking masterpieces that moved the goal posts for everyone that followed, which is why they're on this list, and their sequels aren't. Yet The Godfather Part II makes the cut, arguably because it set a template those other sequels would follow - dig deeper, hit harder, push further.

Like all good sequels, The Godfather Part II is a continuation of an already great story, reaping what was sown in the first film, but also ploughing new ground. Part I follows the downfall of a good man, who crosses lines he never intended to cross in order to honour his father and his family's business.

But Part II shows the cost of that man's actions, and while it demonstrates how far the apple has fallen from the tree, it also shows the inevitability of violence within the Corleone family. It's a fate Michael Corleone can't escape, and it consumes him in Part II. It's telling that Michael Corleone (an incandescent Pacino) is an anti-hero in the first film, yet is a downright villain in the second. The AFI even put him at #11 in their list of the greatest cinematic villains of all time thanks to his actions in The Godfather Part II.

This amazing video sums all this up and more:

As before, Michael is a man struggling to maintain control. In the first film, he's helping his family do this. In the sequel, he's a lone wolf, heading a pack that is fraying and straying. The schisms are many - he has feuds, minor and major, with his siblings Tommy (Duvall), Connie (Shire) and Fredo (Cazale), his wife Kay (Keaton), disgruntled capo Frank Pentangeli (Gazzo), and influential businessman Hyman Roth (Strasberg). Michael shows there is no line he won't cross to settle these feuds and ultimately expand his empire.

Part II's brilliance is the way it demonstrates the growing dark that engulfs Michael's soul largely through the juxtaposition between Michael and the backstory of his father Vito (a subdued yet powerful De Niro). Almost every crime Vito commits is for a justifiable reason - he turns to theft after unfairly losing his jobs, kills a ruthless Don who rules his neighbourhood with an iron fist, and eventually avenges the deaths of his family at the end of a knife. Meanwhile Michael's crimes are dire non-negotiables driven by paranoia that are harder to excuse. Similarly, compare the way father and son treat their wives. Michael's journey to the dark side is complete in Part II. 

Coppola, given full creative control following the huge success of Part I, delivers in spades. The macro view of the film across its hefty runtime (200 minutes) is perfect, and despite its immense size it moves at a good pace and balances its dual stories beautifully, aided in no small part by the editing team of Peter Zinner, Barry Malkin and Richard Marks under Coppolla's watchful eye.

But the micro view of the film is immaculate as well. The beautiful look, courtesy again of series cinematographer Gordon Willis, is stunning, with every shot a masterpiece - a darkness tingeing Michael's story, the sepia of the past in Vito's. As one study guide put it, "the cinematography of The Godfather Part II involves certainly one of the most amazing uses of photography and lighting in the movie history". 

The first Godfather had three Oscar wins from 10 nominations; Part II won six out of 11 nods. None of these nominations were for cinematography sadly (Collins would finally get nominated for Part III), but its wins were worthy. Part II won best film (beating another Coppola film The Conversation), best director, best dramatic score, best adapted screenplay, and best art direction (it's recreation of Little Italy circa 1917 is remarkable).

Rounding out the Oscar wins was De Niro, edging out co-stars Gazzo and Strasberg for the best supporting actor Academy Award. Fresh off Scorsese's Mean Streets, it's a commanding performance, almost entirely in Italian too, that's far more subtle than the later roles that would make him famous. He re-imagines Vito (a role which also earnt Marlon Brando an Oscar) as a quiet watcher and decisive doer. There is no bombast in his performance, with everything taking place behind an expression that gives away little.

Pacino failed to win the Oscar for best actor, just as he had lost in the best supporting category for The Godfather. Art Carney's win in '74 is rightly regarded as one of the Academy's biggest mistakes, sparking the wonderfully named "Carney Consequence". History has looked far more favourably on Pacino's turn in Part II, which is rightly regarded as one of the greatest performances of all time. 

The cliched Pacino "explosion" is born here - he goes from calm to killer in seconds. But it's used sparingly and is more measured than it would be in Pacino's latter years, and it sits alongside moments when he doesn't explode but could, which makes it more potent when he does. The scene where he discovers Fredo's betrayal is a masterclass, but so is every other second that Michael dominates the screen. It's a performance of quiet menace punctuated by brutal ferocity and dying embers of humanity, capped off by a growing realisation that Michael is, by film's end, almost entirely alone despite all his "success". 

But everywhere you look is a great performance - Keaton, Shire, Duvall, Strasberg, Gazzo, Cazale, Spradlin; it's an embarrassment of riches. And that's probably the key word here: "riches". The Godfather Part II is about the lust for riches and their corrupting power, but the film itself is also a treasure trove in every way you want a film to be; from its text and subtext to its visual and actorly displays. 

I would humbly submit that Part I is superior, but only by a matter of inches. But the argument over which is better is irrelevant when both films together represent one of the greatest one-two punches in cinematic history.

AFI #31: The Maltese Falcon (1941)

This is a version of a review airing on ABC Radio Ballarat and South West Victoria on November 27, 2020.

This is part of a series of articles reviewing the American Film Institute's Top 100 Films, as unveiled in 2007. Why am I doing this? Because the damned cinemas were closed and I had to review something, and I can't stop now until I finish.

(PG) ★★★★

Director: John Huston.

Cast: Humphrey Bogart, Mary Astor, Lee Patrick, Sydney Greenstreet, Peter Lorre, Elisha Cook Jr., Barton MacLane, Ward Bond, Jerome Cowan, Gladys George.

"I'm tellin' ya, it's chocolate. With a nougat centre."

When I wrote my first crime novel, my far-more-experienced co-writer sent me a list of tips and tricks to help me find my feet in this new world of murder and mayhem. The list included this incredible piece of advice:

"Use oblique dialogue. Try to generate conflict at all times in your writing. Attempt the following experiment at home or work: spend the day refusing to answer your family and colleagues’ questions directly. Did you generate conflict? I bet you did. Apply that principle to your writing and your characters will respond likewise."

Please don't try that at home or work.

Perhaps the greatest example of this infuriating principle is The Maltese Falcon, the novel by Dashiell Hammett and adapted here by John Huston. Part of the intrigue that drags you through the film is that the characters rarely speak the truth, and when they do, it's impossible to be sure if they really are. The story is a mess of low morals fuelled by greed, and only a similarly low-moral detective will be able to unpick the fact from the fiction. 

And thus, film noir was born. 

Mind you, as discussed in my review of Double Indemnity, the origins of film noir are harder to pin down than a snitch in a crowded speakeasy. But it's universally agreed that The Maltese Falcon played a significant part in defining the genre. 

There had been film detectives before - Hammett's novel had already been adapted for the screen twice previously. But Sam Spade, as portrayed by Bogart under the watchful eye of first-time director Huston, was cut from a different cloth. He is what would become the quintessential noir private eye - a real hat-and-trenchcoat detective who keeps a bottle by the bed, is constantly rolling cigarettes, and isn't afraid to clock someone or tell the cops to take a hike.

The Maltese Falcon hasn't aged as well as other noirs, such as Double Indemnity or Sunset Boulevard, but both those films owe Huston's debut a debt. His film does a lot to help set the beats, tone and formula for film noir. Huston's script lifts Hammett's dialogue straight from the page to achieve this, but he's also not afraid to let the film mess around in the Hayes Code-approved muck of morality.  

As Barry Norman put it in his 100 Best Films Of The Century, The Maltese Falcon "is in many ways a significant movie, but if it were that alone it would by now be merely a footnote in books of cinematic history". 

"That it has avoided such a fate is due to the fact that it's also marvellous entertainment, beautifully played and most skilfully crafted," wrote Norman.

It certainly is entertaining, moving at a ferocious clip out of the blocks. Within the first 17 minutes, we get two murders, an affair and the first of many double crosses. After that, it twists and turns through about 20 more double crosses as everyone lies their pants off in an effort to get hold of the titular MacGuffin.

One of the film's great strength is its script. Huston had 10 co-written screenplays under his belt before The Maltese Falcon, but this was his first solo outing behind both the typewriter and the camera. Kim Newman, writing for 1001 Movies You Must See Before You Die, noted that Citizen Kane came out the same year, but that The Maltese Falcon announced "the arrival not of an enfant terrible but of a consummate professional". 

Indeed, as a film noir, visually the film is "sparing in its use of symbolic shadows", as Newman put it, and it adheres to the afore-mentioned obliqueness of Hammett's dialogue, but it's writing is impressively sharp. Just look at how we're introduced to Spade through his relationship with short-lived detective agency partner Archer (Cowan). We learn Spade has no problem sleeping with Archer's wife and struggles to eulogise him, yet feels it's his absolute duty to defend Archer's honour and solve the mystery of his death. Everything we need to know about Spade is shown through the lens of this relationship - that's some great writing.

The film's only major let-downs also come through the script sadly. The love/lust friction between Spade and proto-femme fatale O'Shaughnessy (Astor) is utterly unconvincing, partly because of the mass lie fest, yet by film's end we're supposed to believe it was the real deal. Similarly, the "everyone's lying" motif grinds occasionally as it spirals into absurdity. Spade's first chat with the villainous Gutman (Greenstreet) is utterly ridiculous, with both characters playing an infuriating game of verbal chess with each other that tests the audience's limits. It's both the boon and bane of the film.

But more often than not, the fast-talkin' double-talkin' sings in the mouths of its cast. Bogart's performance is a star-maker. He's the right mix of wit and menace, of callous and caring, of careful and carefree, creating an intelligent tough guy with borderline morals that has echoed down through the ages, to James Bond, Han Solo, Dirty Harry and more. Barry Norman called him "the prototypical antihero, a cynical romantic as tough, mercenary and ruthless as any of the crooks who oppose him".

Astor is marvellous as a woman trying to act tough yet fragile at the same time, but it's the duo of Greenstreet and Lorre that steal the show. Greenstreet, in his screen debut, earnt a worthy Oscar nomination, doling out mountains of exposition as if it was chocolate ice-cream. Lorre, who had already given one of the greatest film performances in the history of cinema in Fritz Lang's M, demonstrated his ability, as Huston put it, to be "doing two things at the same time, thinking one thing and saying something else". Relegated to "memorable sideman" despite his incredible abilities, Lorre's career was effectively saved from B-movie hell by Huston.

It's rude to read over someone's shoulder.

(Sidenote: the casting in The Maltese Falcon inadvertently created a "stock company" out of Bogart, Lorre, and Greenstreet, who added Claude Rains to their troupe for Casablanca and Passage To Marseilles. Lorre and Greenstreet paired 10 times in total, Lorre and Bogart five times.)

Huston's sharp script (from excellent source material), his workmanlike direction (with some artful long takes and noir flourishes), and a top-notch cast of mostly B-graders set The Maltese Falcon above anything vaguely similar from the time, while helping create something new in the process. As "a cornerstone of film noir" (Newman), "the first of the great private-eye films" (William Bayer), and "one of the most influential noirs" (Rotten Tomatoes consensus), its place in history is assured. But it happens to be a cracking good murder-mystery at the same time. 

AFI #30: Apocalypse Now (1979)

This is a version of a review airing on ABC Radio Ballarat and South West Victoria on November 27, 2020, and on ABC Radio Central Victoria on December 7.

This is part of a series of articles reviewing the American Film Institute's Top 100 Films, as unveiled in 2007. Why am I doing this? Because the damned cinemas were closed and I had to review something and now I can't stop until I finish.

(R) ★★★★★

Director: Frances Ford Coppola.

Cast: Martin Sheen, Robert Duvall, Marlon Brando, Frederic Forrest, Sam Bottoms, Larry Fishburne, Dennis Hopper, G. D. Spradlin, Jerry Ziesmer, Harrison Ford.

"I took this much drugs."

The first time I saw Apocalypse Now, I was 18 and had just started a writing course. Screenwriting lessons only ran for two hours, so our teacher, unable to fit Apocalypse Now into the allotted time frame, instead screened Hearts Of Darkness: A Filmmaker's Apocalypse, perhaps hoping it would inspire us to go out and hire the film from a video shop on our own time. Either that, or he was trying to scare us off making movies.

You should totally watch Hearts Of Darkness by the way. It's one of the greatest docos of all time.

The next day, one of my classmates and I skipped class, rented a copy of Apocalypse Now on VHS (I'm really showing my age here), and once we were back at my mate's place, we drew the curtains and pressed "play".

Two and a half hours later, we were too afraid to open the curtains. The world had changed. It suddenly seemed more savage, more dangerous, and more insane. Eventually, I walked home in a wary haze, grappling with what I'd seen. The horror....

Since that day Apocalypse Now has been burnt into my memory. But re-watching it for this project presented me with a conundrum I hadn't had first time around: which version should I watch - the 1979 original, 2001's Redux, or 2019's Final Cut? Hell, I could even watch the five-hour-long first assembly if I really wanted to.

(In case you're wondering, here's a full break-down of the differences between the original and Redux, and between Redux and Final Cut.)

I went with the original, partly to see if it could have the same impact, all these years later, but also because nothing I've read has convinced me the re-cuts improve on an already-perfect film (maybe I'll get around to them one day). 

Because Apocalypse Now is perfect. The film is indelibly linked to its famously troubled production, which you can learn about here, here, here and here, but setting that aside, it's an astounding piece of work. That it was made under such duress only makes it all the more remarkable.

The film holds a dirty mirror up to the Vietnam War, which had finished less than a year before Coppola and his crew began arriving in the Philippines to start filming. But what the mirror reflects back is a surreal distortion that, perversely, makes it one of the most realistic war films of all time. The absurdity and insanity of war - not just Vietnam, but all wars - is painted in acid-soaked splatters of sudden violence, of creeping madness, of primitive ridiculousness. And in a metaphorical and lyrical sense it's the absolute truth, despite none of it ever actually happening.

Taking Joseph Conrad's novella Heart Of Darkness and transplanting its up-river journey from late 19th-century Congo to 1970s 'Nam is a stroke of genius courtesy of screenwriter John Milius. His script went through many variations on its way to the screen, and it's hard to be sure what went into the jungle on paper and what was conjured there, but the story and dialogue are surprisingly sharp for such a beleaguered project. Coppola dithered on what the ending should be, but found something with a depth and power that matched everything that had preceded it.

So much of Apocalypse Now is memorable, including that ending, but the stuff around the most iconic moments is just as amazing. The use of The Doors' The End and Wagner's Ride Of The Valkyries is classic, but the score itself (done by Coppola and his father Carmine) is wonderful - an unnerving, retro-futurist soundscape full of fat ominous synths, chopper oscillations, and the occasional haunting flute. Duvall's Kilgore has some of cinema's most memorable lines - "I love the smell napalm in the morning", "Charlie don't surf" - but the way he says "some day, this war's gonna end" with dangling ambiguity is supremely under-rated. And the introduction to Sheen's Willard, where a for-real drunk Sheen for-real cuts his hand by punching a mirror is cool, but the rest of his performance as a bewildered just-passing-through protagonist is gold.

What makes the film so effective is that it ruminates on war and insanity and never separates the two. It uses its absurdities to demonstrate the insanity of war, and it uses war to demonstrate the insanity of humans. The film's success thrives on these linked notions and never stops showing us how crazy everything and everyone is. From waterskiing to The Rolling Stones behind a patrol boat to surfing during a battle, from holding a church service against a backdrop of explosions and a flying cow to hosting a Playboy bunny cabaret show in a warzone, from setting your comrades boat on fire to wandering through a shootout with a puppy while you've got a headful of acid; it's all fucking crazy, man. And yet somehow, it never feels like a bridge too far, logic-wise.

Willard is crazy. Kurtz is crazy. Kilgore is crazy. Dennis Hopper was crazy and so's his character. Just about everyone encountered along the way is crazy, just in varying degrees. And the performances match that. Sheen is subdued for the most part, but carries a powder keg beneath the surface, and for a glimmering, wondering moment, we see him contemplate becoming Kurtz, and it's a masterful piece of acting and editing. Brando plays Kurtz like a shadowy saint awaiting judgement. Duvall is brilliant as military might and the American way personified. The boat crew - Forrest, Hall, Bottoms and Fishburne - all add colour and depth to the journey. Deaths still hit hard, as does the strain and stress. Everyone acquits themselves beautifully.

The real hero is, of course, Coppola. Apocalypse Now capped off an amazing four-film run that included the first two Godfathers and The Conversation, and he would never make anything in the same league again. It's as if he burnt himself out, pouring everything he had into those four films, culminating in this film's brain-breaking 238-day shoot. 

But his skills here are impossible to ignore. Matching The Door's The End to shots of helicopters and a burning jungle, then layering that image with Willard, and a ceiling fan, spinning like a chopper blade, as Willard intones his broken-man monologue... it's masterful stuff. It's high art. And it's only the beginning.

Along with cinematographer Vittorio Storaro, Coppola summons a nightmare in the jungle. It encompasses bravura battle sequences (that are still impressive to this day), out-of-nowhere bloody violence, hallucinogenic trippiness, and then a finale that is confronting (you don't easily forget that poor water buffalo) and narratively satisfying. The shot of Willard rising up out of the swamp is one of the greatest shots of all time, but it appears among two and a half hours of amazing shots.

Apocalypse Now's brilliance lies in its ability to use the fantastical to represent reality in a way only cinema can do. By winding a myth-like script through a modern setting, it pulls apart the truth and hypocrisy of war, scratching at the insanity underneath to create something hallucinatory yet true. Masterfully shot and meticulously edited, it is a mammoth of a movie with nary a hair out of place.

AFI #29: Double Indemnity (1944)

This is a version of a review airing on ABC Radio Ballarat and South West Victoria on October 16, 2020.

This is part of a series of articles reviewing the American Film Institute's Top 100 Films, as unveiled in 2007. Why am I doing this? Because the damned cinemas are closed and I have to review something.

(PG) ★★★★★

Director: Billy Wilder.

Cast: Fred MacMurray, Barbara Stanwyck, Edward G. Robinson, Porter Hall, Jean Heather, Tom Powers, Byron Barr, Richard Gaines.

Intrigue among the paracetamol.

At the risk of sounding like a best man's speech, Encyclopaedia Britannica defines Double Indemnity as an "American film noir... considered the quintessential movie of its genre". Hard to argue with an encyclopaedia.

Defining film noir and its origin point is somewhat trickier - Fritz Lang's stunning 1931 film M has to go close to being the first movie of the genre, although contemporary assessment's often point to the otherwise forgotten Stranger On The Third Floor (1940) as the first "true" film noir. The Maltese Falcon (1941) also helped set the "rules of the style" (some argue film noir isn't a genre). 

But it's 1944's Double Indemnity that consolidated everything; the femme fatale, the shadowy cinematography, the ill-fated crims, the double-crosses, the bleakness, the hard-boiled dialogue, the narration, the moral corruption. Despite lacking a fedora-wearing, hard-drinking detective in a trench coat, Double Indemnity "is the archetypal film noir," writes Kim Newman in 1001 Movies You Must See Before You Die - "the tale of a desperate dame and a greedy man, of murder for sordid profit, and sudden violent betrayal".

Based on James M Cain's novel, and scripted by Wilder and pulp specialist Raymond Chandler, the film has some neat tricks to it that don't seem archetypal. For starters, the focus is not on the nominal "good guy" but rather the silly sap whose male gaze and hubris are his undoing. The story's real hero is actually third-billed Robinson's insurance-claims investigator Barton Keyes. Keyes is a far-from-glamourous character - he's a dogged do-gooder who's too noble to be working in the shifty world of insurance, and who gets indigestion when something ain't right.

Instead the story follows the more unpleasant heel Walter Neff (an against-type MacMurray). A sucker for a set of legs and an ankle bracelet, he fools himself into believing he's the brains in a perfect insurance scam that involves knocking off the husband of the owner of the aforementioned legs (Stanwyck). Too late he realises, via wonderfully orchestrated narration and flashback, that he was in over his head all along.

It's a momentous moment in Hollywood that we take for granted. As Otto Penzler noted in his book 101 Greatest Films Of Mystery & Suspense, "for the first time, audiences saw a murder planned and carried out as the two protagonists risked everything for greed and lust". The Hayes Code officials initially said it couldn't be made. Wilder wouldn't take "no" for an answer.

The film boasts an ingenious set-up, similar to another of Wilder's noirs - the Hollywood takedown Sunset Boulevard. Where Sunset Boulevard starts with a dead man recapping how he wound up floating face down in a swimming pool, Double Indemnity opens with a dying man similarly running through his own impending demise. It's a great device, probably ripped straight from the pages of a pulp pot-boiler, that pulls you through the story.

Film noirs are filled with stoic loners who think they're a step ahead of the game, and gullible saps who'll do anything for a dame. As is often the case, Neff is both, which makes for a fascinating character and a great plot. We know he's doomed from the intro, where he dictates his "not a confession" while nursing a bullet wound. But seeing how he got there is brilliant, even though he's a sleazy chauvinist who has no problem hitting on a married woman. This is actually part of the appeal - we know this slimy insurance salesman is going to get his comeuppance, so we're happy to follow him on his journey into the heart of darkness.

The Oscar-nominated script was the result of a fractious but fruitful relationship between Wilder and Chandler, and is a beautiful example of combined strengths. Chandler had an ear for hardboiled dialogue, and brought the necessary cynicism and wit to the words of the characters, while Wilder knew how to build a screenplay beat by beat. Wilder already had three Oscar noms for best screenplay or story prior to Double Indemnity, though it would be his next film - The Lost Weekend - before he won one. But for all the best laid plains, some of the tensest moments - most notably a car not starting and the film's ultimate ending - were last-minute decisions from Wilder. 

(In case you didn't realise, Wilder was a genius - I've already reviewed two other films of his on this list. If you've got time, this is the first part of a three-hour doco on his greatness.)

Hidden beneath its murder and Hayes Code-testing moral degradation, is a surprisingly tender heart in the shape of the relationship between Neff and Keyes. Their friendship, built on a fondness borne of familiarity, is gradually revealed to be deeper than even Neff realises. When he states Keyes "couldn't figure this one … because the guy you were looking for was too close – right across the desk from you", Keyes replies, with pain in his eyes: "Closer than that, Walter." It's a beautiful coda that rewards repeat viewings, drawing the audience's eye away from Phyllis (Stanwyck) and Neff, and on to Keyes and Neff.

The trio of Stanwyck, MacMurray and Robinson is as brilliant as it is unlikely. MacMurray was best-known for fluffy roles in comedies, Stanwyck typically played leading ladies in rom-coms and screwball comedies, while Robinson's star was on the decline. They were still box office attractions, but none of them play to type here. It's a marvel of casting, and the trio give great performances, particularly Stanwyck, whose turn is far more subtle than her hideous wig. It's tempting to point out her New York accent doesn't match her character's supposed Californian upbringing, but maybe that's part of the charade - Phyllis is duplicitous and it's more than likely her entire backstory is fabricated.

One of the forgotten heroes of the film, and indeed the genre of film noir, is cinematographer John Seitz. His work on Double Indemnity made him a go-to guy for these kinds of movies. Wilder would collaborate with him again on The Lost Weekend and Sunset Boulevard, and in between he would lend his abilities to noirs such as The Unseen, Calcutta, and Chicago Deadline. Each of those films wanted what he brought to Double Indemnity, with its Venetian-blind lighting, subtly looming shadows, moody mansions, and growing darkness. He stood on the shoulders of giants, such as Arthur Edeson's brilliant work on Casablanca, The Maltese Falcon, and even Frankenstein, and German cinematographer Fritz Arno Wagner (M, Nosferatu, The Testament Of Dr Mabuse), but there's no doubting Seitz's contributions to film's visual language, in particular to film noir. Coupled with Wilder's growing confidence (this was just his fourth film as director), it really is a landmark moment in moviemaking.

Film noir casts a long shadow through Hollywood that lasts to this day, and Double Indemnity has a lot to do with that. But even shorn of its noirish stylings and daring censor-baiting, it's a cracking tale of a man's descent into darkness, told with plenty wit, wisdom, and world-weary cynicism.

AFI #28: All About Eve (1950)

This is a version of a review airing on ABC Radio Ballarat and South West Victoria on October 16, 2020.

This is part of a series of articles reviewing the American Film Institute's Top 100 Films, as unveiled in 2007. Why am I doing this? Because the damned cinemas are closed and I have to review something.

Here's a piece I wrote for the ABC about All About Eve and Sunset Boulevard's importance 70 years on.

(PG) ★★★★★

Director: Joseph L. Mankiewicz.

Cast: Anne Baxter, Bette Davis, George Sanders, Celeste Holm, Gary Merrill, Hugh Marlowe, Thelma Ritter, Gregory Ratoff, Marilyn Monroe, Barbara Bates, Walter Hampden.

"Yes, I know I've got 'Bette Davis eyes'. I'm Bette fucking Davis."

Hollywood loves movies about movies. From Sunset Boulevard to Singin' In The Rain, from The Artist to Argo, from The Player to The Purple Rose of Cairo, films about films hit Hollywood in its sweet spot. Just look at those six films - 34 Oscar nominations for 11 wins. 

The Grand Dame of these self-congratulatory/self-flagellating odes to Tinseltown is All About Eve - the story of ageing Broadway star Margo Channing (Davis) and Eve (Baxter), the young diehard fan who slowly and unsuspectingly ingratiates herself into Margo's life. While technically about the theatre, its commentary on stardom, actresses, writers, directors, ageism, the entertainment industry's views on women, audience appetites, and the power of critics is equally applicable to film. In fact, Hollywood looms over the movie as a near-mythical realm promising endless fortune or critical ruin, depending on how you look at it - it's a place to be derided and looked down upon but secretly worshipped and respected.

Oddly, All About Eve and Sunset Boulevard were released in the same year, went head-to-head at the Academy Awards. All About Eve attracted an equalled-but-never-bettered 14 nominations, including four nominations for four of its actresses across two categories (still a record). When combined with Sunset Boulevard, the two films won nine Oscars (six for Eve, three for Boulevard) - almost every eligible award they could win between them. It's all the more interesting when you consider how negatively both films portrayed Hollywood - 1001 Movie You Must See Before You Die called All About Eve "one of the sharpest and darkest films ever made about show business" while describing Sunset Boulevard as "acidic".

Writer William Bayer explains it thusly: "Sunset Boulevard tells us that old forgotten stars are bundles of megalomaniacal nerves; All About Eve tells us how they get that way". 

Both films remain as relevant today as they were in 1950. But where Sunset Boulevard took a noir-ish knife to the movie-land mythos, All About Eve abounds with gossipy theatricality as it peeks behind the curtain. The latter film's dialogue is deliberately stagey, its players overly melodramatic, and it both relishes and reviles its world. As The Wordsworth Book of Classic Movies puts it, All About Eve is "a venomous story of backbiting showbusiness folk, with dialogue etched in acid and cynicism expressed in the most piquant and quotable manners".

Mankiewicz's script is the best he ever wrote, and it switches between two modes - pontificating and biting - with ease. It's the kind of dialogue actors kill for. There are big speeches and snide asides, grandiose diatribes and sizzling zingers. It has it all, and while its unnatural approach takes a bit of getting used to for modern audiences, it's worth it for the gold. 

The best of this gold is delivered by Bette Davis. A performance worthy of her Oscar nom (Gloria Swanson deserved to win for Sunset Boulevard but didn't), it showcased her famed ability to play "bitches", but also her skill at drawing sympathy. Margo is an actress with a reputation (not a million miles away from Davis' own image), but we care about her. We empathise with her concerns, which largely relate to the ageism of her industry, and how at the age of 40 she is cognisant of being "on the way out". She's also an amazing drunk. It's a wonderfully written role, beautifully realised.

The bulk of Margo's million-dollar quips are aimed in the vicinity of the increasingly creepy Eve, who Baxter makes impossibly intense yet still a very real person. There are depths to Baxter's performance that really shine through on repeated viewings. Listen to the way Eve speaks when she lays out her life story in the dressing room of her idol Margo Channing (Davis) - it's a monologue, written, rehearsed and delivered in a classic theatre style. The way Baxter unfolds Eve in time with the perfectly paced script is magnificent, and her ability to evolve from starstruck ingenue to diabolical beast to trapped victim in the space of two hours is dynamite. 

While Eve is the nominal antagonist, the film's true villain in the end is Sanders' hissable Addison DeWitt (a role that I can't help but imagine Orson Welles playing). DeWitt, a theatre critic, is obviously a swipe at the profession that would make Charlie Kaufmann proud. A vile, manipulative viper, he's also the only person bothering to find out the truth, or who can see what's really going on.

In a list entirely comprised of male directors and dominated by male-led films, All About Eve stands out. It's forward-thinking view of career women (though written by a man) is both of-its -time and smartly feminist, and gives the best roles to its female cast. "All the wittiest lines in the film belong to the women," says film critic Molly Haskell. "Mankiewicz is so fascinated by women and sympathetic towards them: he gives them importance, he gives them idiosyncrasy, he gives them their personalities.”

Case in point is Marilyn Monroe's five-minute cameo. It's the tiniest of roles, made significantly less-tiny by Monroe's sparkle and timing, but blown up to memorable proportions when combined with Mankiewicz's diamond-grade script. Davis, Baxter, Holm, Ritter and Monroe - you'd be hard-pressed to find a better film with five better female performances and five better-written roles. Ironically, it was the men who won the Oscars (except for famed fashion designer Edith Head) - all four nominated actresses (the afore-mentioned minus Monroe) missed out. 

"I'm well-nigh besotted by (women)," said Mankiewicz. "Writing about men is so limited. Men react as they're taught to react. Women are, by comparison, as if assembled by the wind."

All About Eve certainly demonstrates this idea. Amid a list of movies by men about men, it stands out like the proverbial rose among the thorns. But regardless of this, its script, performances and ideas remain fascinating, intriguing and enjoyable 70 years on. 

AFI #27: High Noon (1952)

This is a version of a review airing on ABC Radio Ballarat and South West Victoria on September 18, 2020, and ABC Radio Central Victoria on October 19, 2021.

This is part of a series of articles reviewing the American Film Institute's Top 100 Films, as unveiled in 2007. Why am I doing this? Because the damned cinemas are closed and I have to review something.

(PG) ★★★★★

Director: Fred Zinnemann.

Cast: Gary Cooper, Grace Kelly, Thomas Mitchell, Lloyd Bridges, Katy Jurado, Otto Kruger, Lon Chaney, Harry Morgan, Ian MacDonald, Eve McVeagh, Morgan Farley, Harry Shannon, Lee Van Cleef, Robert J. Wilke, Sheb Wooley.

Bourke Street in Melbourne wasn't the same during lockdown.

There's a shot in High Noon that is one of the all-time greats. It comes in the lead-up to the shoot-out that marks the film's crescendo, right after Marshal Will Kane (Cooper) has just had a down-and-dirty fist fight with his former deputy (Bridges). Battered and bruised, Kane realises he must face the impending stand-off with Big Bad Frank Miller and his men on his own. As his eyes dart around the empty main street of Hadleyville, the camera pulls back and up until Kane is an awkward, small figure, very much alone. 

"It’s still a haunting and gorgeous shot that really emphasizes Kane’s loneliness and abandonment," writes wonderfully named film reviewer The Love Pirate. "It’s the only shot of its kind in the film, the only technical trick, and it’s used perfectly as both a moment of artistry and performance and as a way to further explore the story."

In a single wordless shot, the peril and reality of Kane's situation is demonstrated beautifully. It's a powerful moment in one of the high watermarks of the western genre. 

Unlike many westerns, High Noon was about more than just cowboys and bad guys, right and wrong. It shows a town struggling on its day of reckoning, wandering in the grey zone of its own morality, sense of justice, and responsibility. The townsfolk make fine arguments for and against supporting Kane, as symbolised by the game of tug-of-war taking place among the children outside the church as these very arguments take place. In the end though, they all fall down, and one man is left standing by himself to face the storm.

So resonant is the story, the film has been seen as a metaphor for the Cold War, US involvement in the Korean War, and Hollywood's blacklist era. The latter is probably the closest to the intended allegory - screenwriter Carl Foreman was blacklisted after refusing to name names in front of McCarthy's communist witchhunt AKA the House of Un-American Activities Committee. While the blacklisting happened after the script for High Noon was written, Foreman probably knew the sharks were circling, given he'd been a member of the American Communist Party a decade earlier. All his concerns - about being a "man of principle, deserted by his erstwhile friends" as critic Barry Norman put it - came to fruition when he was forced to sell-up and flee Hollywood part-way through production of High Noon.

"Zinnemann's film is at once a great suspense western and a stark allegory of the climate of fear and the suspicion prevailing during the McCarthy era," wrote critic Kim Newman in 1001 Movies You Must See Before You Die. 

But Zinnemann himself was less concerned with any allegorical notions of anti-McCarthyism and more enamoured by his preferred theme of the protagonist who stands alone against forces bigger than they are. In the director's eyes, Kane "merely represented a man prepared to do what a man had to do", according to Barry Norman. Zinnemann would mine a rich seam of individuals doing just this in From Here to Eternity (1953), A Man For All Seasons (1966), and Julia (1977), but High Noon was the first and best exploration of this theme.

The film's assessments of violence and responsibility continue to see High Noon so deliciously open to discussion almost 70 years on. A pacifist Quaker sees a need to resort to violence. Townsfolk argue that Kane could flee, but Kane's pride makes him stay. Indeed, despite Kane's adherence to his lawful duties above all else, even in the face of having handed in his badge and gotten married, some saw the film as "un-American". 

After all, here's a hero who admits he needs help and is scared. He's afraid to die, but is compelled to pick up his gun and tin star one last time for a town of patriotic Americans that have turned their backs on him. "(This) was what made the portrayal of the character of Will Kane so jarring," writes author Jesse Schultz. "In movies we’re accustomed to seeing the hero face down and defeat armies of opponents as if it were merely a day at the office - alone and betrayed, Kane is understandably terrified."

Its biggest critics were director Howard Hawks and John Wayne (who turned down the lead role), and ended up making (the also excellent) Rio Bravo in response. "I didn't think a good town marshal was going to run around town like a chicken with his head cut off asking everyone to help," scoffed Hawks. "And who saves him? His Quaker wife. That isn't my idea of a good Western." This assessment is at odds with many US presidents - it was a favourite film of Eisenhower, Clinton and Reagan.

High Noon's influence is huge and diverse. It wasn't the first feature film to use the real-time narrative device (that credit is believed to belong to 1949's The Set-Up), but it drew attention to the idea due to the film's widespread success at the box office (US$12m) and winning four Oscars, four Golden Globes and many more awards. The film wouldn't be as powerful without its countdown to the midday train - the tension rises alongside the growing odds that are stacked against Kane, enhancing the already palpable tension of the situation. 

High Noon also helped popularise the notion of westerns having a theme song. Alongside the occasionally ticking Oscar-winning score by Dimitri Tiomkin, the melody of The Ballad Of High Noon (AKA Do Not Foresake Me, Oh My Darling) drifts through the film to help articulate its mood and tension.

The other unwitting influence of High Noon is on what's known as the "Die Hard Scenario". The idea of the one-vs-many shootout was inevitable (and High Noon wasn't necessarily the first to use it), but it's one of the best early examples of the action sub-genre. The film's finale is Die Hard In An Old Western Town, in the same way Passenger 57 is Die Hard On A Plane, and Under Siege is Die Hard On A Boat.

Cooper won his second Oscar for this, but it's a weird performance. His line delivery is constantly offhand, or through gritted teeth with minimal facial movement. It makes Kane a tightly wound spring of a man, and when his emotions get the better of him later, such as in a quiet moment by himself in the sheriff's office, they really burst out. But it's definitely not a conventional performance. 

Better is Grace Kelly (age difference between her and Cooper = 29 years), who is magnetic in a tiny but pivotal role as Kane's new Quaker wife Amy. Even better again is Katy Jurado, who rightly won a Golden Globe for her turn. Helen Ramirez is a fascinating character who is part of High Noon's more progressive view of the west (and maybe part of John Wayne's beef with the film) - she's a businesswoman and an ex of the hero. She's smart and shrewd and has no time for bullshit. Oh, and she's Latino, though nothing is made of that in the film, which is pretty forward-thinking for 1952 and waaaaay different than the type of roles typically offered to Latino actors at the time.

Also of note is a silent Lee Van Cleef in his first role, especially given the way it would typecast him in the future. A boyish Lloyd Bridges (though he was 39 at the time) makes the most of his moments, bringing bravado, bluff, bluster and brashness to his slighted deputy sheriff. And there's Thomas Mitchell again, doing is usual best as a perpetual also-starring, and making his fourth appearance in a film in the top 27 on this list (see also Gone With The Wind, It's A Wonderful Life, and Mr Smith Goes To Washington).

From its wordless introduction to its bad-ass mic-drop ending, High Noon is tense yet thoughtful. It walks a high wire between building to a balls-to-the-wall shootout while still carrying a moral weight. It's a western that dares to whistle its own tune and it's a memorable, influential, and powerfully enjoyable tune at that.

AFI #26: Mr Smith Goes To Washington (1939)

This is a version of a review airing on ABC Radio Ballarat and South West Victoria on September 18, 2020.

This is part of a series of articles reviewing the American Film Institute's Top 100 Films, as unveiled in 2007. Why am I doing this? Because the damned cinemas are closed and I have to review something.

(G) ★★★

Director: Frank Capra.

Cast: James Stewart, Jean Arthur, Claude Rains, Edward Arnold, Guy Kibbee, Thomas Mitchell, Eugene Pallette, Beulah Bondi, H. B. Warner, Harry Carey, Astrid Allwyn.

"Won't anyone read my Fast & Furious fan fiction?"

No other film is as still-relevant and yet sadly out-of-date as Mr Smith Goes To Washington. 

It's central plot of a media magnate controlling politicians and spinning the news to favour their own ends has never been more timely. Indeed, the Machiavellian manoeuvrings of tycoon Jim Taylor (Arnold) pale into significance compared to what one particular multimedia mogul has wrought across the US, UK and Australia. Building dams is nothing compared to having the world crafted to suit your purposes, and there is a sad level of prescience in a finale where water cannons are turned on protesters who are merely demanding justice for the little guy.

Political corruption may be forever, but doe-eyed patriotism is not. The film is "Capra's hymn of praise to the American system of government" (according to 1001 Movies You Must See Before You Die's R. Barton Palmer), and more than 80 years on from its release, it's hard to find anything praiseworthy in such a broken machine. Through no fault of Capra, the issues he saw growing in Washington have metastasised and have become incurable, no matter how pure a Jefferson Smith you find.

As a result it's hard to stomach the notions of fealty Smith (Stewart) espouses in regards to his nation due to the way his own patriotism has been misappropriated and bastardised since. Watching a starry-eyed Smith wander Washington's political landmarks in a flag-waving montage of propaganda is maddening and saddening because it now bears an uncanny resemblance to an election campaign ad, rather than a true-hearted display of respect for America. And seeing him raging against the machine is equally frustrating because good people get crunched and broken in the gears and cogs these days, right before they get steamrolled into the mud.

To today's eyes, Smith and the film are naïve to the point of being twee. All films are the product of their era, but the passage of time has rendered much of Mr Smith... as subtle as a bag of sledgehammers while also rendering its idealism sadly dead, its version of politics and patriotism unrecognisable.

Mr Smith Goes To Washington is both great and frustrating for all these reasons. At its heart is another great Stewart performance, Rains is his usual level of wonderful, while the character of Saunders is amazing, and feels almost revolutionary despite her inability to resist melting at Senator Smith's "aw shucks" integrity. A long take of Saunders drunk at lunch is a showcase of the brilliance of the under-revered Jean Arthur, as well as yet another reminder of perpetual sideman Thomas Mitchell's talents (seriously, Mitchell is in four films in the top 30 of this list).

The film is also funny and cynical, and has a couple of key messages at its core - 1) the system is broken and 2) never trust a politician. But even if we ignore its used-by politics, there is some average film-making here. Capra - an Oscar-winning director for It Happened One Night - uses awkward edits through the first half of the film that are jarring now (and surely were then). Meanwhile, a dinner table scene involving a group of kids has a too-short depth of field so the speakers at the table are regularly out of focus. There's also a single long take involving a hat that beats the gag out of itself. None of these directorial choices speak to the talent of Capra; in fact, they demonstrate the opposite.

Capra was a migrant who saw the US as the oft-promised land of opportunity. Mr Smith... was his Hail Mary of hope - a longshot from way-down-town that declared honesty could overcome corruption. Within a couple of years, Capra would be making WW2 propaganda films for the US, once again pushing his barrow of Hope. He believed in America, and that's clear in Mr Smith... - part of the film's beauty is that it highlights the flaws but sees a way to fix them. And that solution is in the American people. Just as he showed in It's A Wonderful Life, Capra values the virtues of humanity. But in Mr Smith..., he seeks them inside a soulless institution, one which can be brought down by a callow scout leader and a hard-nosed secretary. It's a tough pill to swallow in 2020.

Its ambition and influence on educating the US populace about its own political system is admirable. Its themes are just. Its performances are excellent - Stewart's filibuster hits almost every colour in the palette, and the aforementioned Arthur is one out of the box. The smirking president of the senate (played by the great Harry Carey) is also a highlight.

But Mr Smith Goes To Washington is pure fantasy now - a fantasy that's impossible to believe in. It's a dark depressing fable because the truth is Smith would never win in 2020. He couldn't. And that's the thorn in the side of contemporary viewings - the knowledge that the Smiths of the world don't stand a chance against the Jim Taylors. The problem lies not in the film, but the world in which we watch it. Or maybe the problem is with me. I look at Trump's America (from the outside, I might add), and see a once-great country eating itself as it spirals toward Civil War. It is every horrible part of Mr Smith... come to life, and watching the film is a reminder of what was, what could have been, and what has come to pass. As it stands, Mr Smith... is a too-naïve version of the past that doesn't register any more.

AFI #25: To Kill A Mockingbird (1962)

This is a version of a review airing on ABC Radio Ballarat and South West Victoria on September 4, 2020.

This is part of a series of articles reviewing the American Film Institute's Top 100 Films, as unveiled in 2007. Why am I doing this? Because the damned cinemas are closed and I have to review something.

(M) ★★★★★

Director: Robert Mulligan.

Cast: Gregory Peck, Mary Badham, Phillip Alford, John Megna, Frank Overton, Rosemary Murphy, Brock Peters, Estelle Evans, Paul Fix, Collin Wilcox, James Anderson, Robert Duvall, Kim Stanley.

Damn. It was Judge Judy again.

In the American Film Institute's 2003 list of the greatest cinematic heroes of all time, Atticus Finch topped the list. Ahead of Indiana Jones, in front of James Bond, and ousting Ellen Ripley was a down-South lawyer/single dad who fights for justice in the face of a system rigged against his client.

What's even more amazing about Finch reaching #1 is that - SPOILER ALERT - he fails in his task. It's tempting to paint him as the ultimate Great White Saviour, but in terms of the plot and his goal, he's a Great White Failure. He's a lawyer who not only doesn't win, but whose client gets killed on the way back to prison. Finch stands up against the systemic racism of America and fails. 

But that obviously misses the point of why Atticus Finch is a great hero - indeed, the fact he doesn't win makes him an even greater hero. Outside of the plot's win-loss machinations, he is a great man. He's a single dad (though he hires a black maid) with a unique parenting style for the time - he preaches tolerance and understanding, doesn't talk down to his kids, and is highly cognisant of the fact they're smart and very aware of the world around them. Finch's ability to turn the other cheek is next level. His humility is off the chart and without trying to, he puts all of us to shame. He's a hero in a way we don't often think about - he's resilient, caring, empathetic, hard-working, loving, dignified, moral, and desperate to help make a better world.

This saint-like virtuousness is lifted straight off Harper Lee's pages by Horton Foote's true-to-the-spirit screenplay, but its Gregory Peck's flawless performance that has lodged Atticus Finch in the collective psyche as a paragon of principle. He is a beautiful balance of firm and gentle, of outraged and zen, of defiant and humble. Peck's Oscar-winning turn was reportedly Peck just being himself, and in an esteemed career, it's the high watermark. From his towering courtroom closing to his firm-but-fair parenting, Peck is magnetic.

Atticus Finch dominates To Kill A Mockingbird the same way a father is so prominent in a child's world. That's part of the movie's magic. Told almost exclusively from the perspective of Scout Finch (Badham) and her brother Jem (Alford), To Kill A Mockingbird sets up this viewpoint beautifully during its opening credits via humming, marbles, crayons, and scribbling. Through its highly literate voice over, it's confirmed we're seeing a pivotal snapshot in a young girl's life.

Director Robert Mulligan occasionally veers from this child's-eye view of proceedings, and it's the only weakness of the film; that it doesn't fully commit to Scout and Jem's POV. We get conversations that continue once the kids are out of earshot, providing important information, but slightly breaking the spell of childish naivety. 

The kids' perspective wouldn't have worked without two great child performances, and Badham and Alford's turns are all-time. There have been great examples of juvenile acting dating back to Jackie Coogan's heartbreaking turn in The Kid in 1921, but Badham and Alford's work here is in the same ballpark of greatness. 

But the other amazing performance, and perhaps the best in the entire film, is Brock Peters' oft-overlooked turn as Tom Robinson. He only appears on screen for about half an hour, but he is absolutely electrifying. Peters throws everything into Robinson's time in the witness box, and the film is infinitely better for it. A lesser performance could have killed the movie stone cold dead right there, but Peters captures the fire that burns within this wronged man - he is doing all that he can to remain dignified in the face of certain death. Robinson speaking his truth, despite knowing the cost, is the most powerful and gut-wrenching performance of the film.

Mulligan's work is somewhat under-rated - certainly no other film in his catalogue is revered like To Kill A Mockingbird - but the way he captures the small town vibe and flips it in a heartbeat to haunted Southern Gothic is impressive. The story is two-in-one (a racially fired courtroom drama and a kid's own mystery) and Mulligan balances the differing tones beautifully. He's also happy to let ride the finale's weird sense of ill-fitting justice - "Let the dead bury the dead," as the town sheriff puts it - helping fuel hundreds of high-school essays in the process.

Any perceived faults of To Kill A Mockingbird's portrayal of race seem to miss that this is a young girl's story about her father (Harper Lee's own father was a Finch-like white lawyer who represented black clients). We are seeing the horrible systemic racism from the point of view of a couple of kids who don't fully grasp what is happening - they just see their father striving to be a good and kind man to all. He is a beacon in their world - a beacon of decency and humanity. Mulligan's film is "a message movie done right", but its message is less about the black experience, and more about a little girl's view of that world.

Even in the aftermath of his defeat, when Finch comes face-to-face with the villain of the piece - racist spit-in-your-eye drunk Bob Ewell (Anderson) - Finch maintains his dignity. He never stoops to Ewell's level. This is Finch's real victory - a moral one. Win or lose, he can hold his head high in the eyes of his children. And those eyes, through which we view much of this powerful saga, offer a viewpoint as important as anyone else's. There will always be innocence, and it's up to the Atticus Finches of the world to ensure it grows and learns, but is never corrupted. And that is the task of a true hero.

AFI #24: E.T. The Extra-Terrestrial (1982)

This is a version of a review airing on ABC Radio Ballarat and South West Victoria on November 13, 2020.

This is part of a series of articles reviewing the American Film Institute's Top 100 Films, as unveiled in 2007. Why am I doing this? Because the damned cinemas are closed and I have to review something.

(PG) ★★★★★

Director: Steven Spielberg.

Cast: Henry Thomas, Robert MacNaughton, Drew Barrymore, Dee Wallace, Peter Coyote, K. C. Martel, C. Thomas Howell, Sean Frye, Erika Eleniak, Pat Welsh.

The new series of The Bachelor was pretty whack.

E.T. The Extra-Terrestrial was bigger than Star Wars. It's a weird thing to realise, but it's true. George Lucas' Star Wars bumped Steven Spielberg's Jaws off the top of the "biggest grossing films ever" list, but Spielberg had the last laugh, knocking his friend's space opera from top spot with this simplistic-seeming tale of a boy and his alien friend.

Of course, Star Wars went on to spawn a franchise-worth of sequels, prequels, spin-offs, TV shows, comics, books, and games. E.T. - aside from a then-insane level of merchandise including a famously bad video game - is basically just E.T.. No billion-dollar franchise - just one little film to rule them all.

Not counting this somewhat touching ad:

So why was E.T. the biggest film ever (for about a decade until Spielberg's Jurassic Park set a new benchmark)?

I've been thinking about this for weeks and I keep coming back to the fact E.T. is a deceptively deep fairy tale, perfectly told. There's not a hair out of place on its charming, alien-shaped head, and it has unexpected layers to its characterisation and themes. It's direction perfectly matches its subject matter, and it's enormously enjoyable, family-friendly and satisfying - these latter points are part of why Variety called it "the best Disney movie that Disney never made". 

E.T. doesn't push the boundaries of film-making like Citizen Kane or The General or even Star Wars. It doesn't set a benchmark in genre like The Searchers or Singin' In The Rain or 2001: A Space Odyssey. 

But it does something few other great films do (not even Star Wars) - E.T. speaks to our inner child in a deeply realistic and touching way. In fact, it does it better than any other film ever produced. It has a kids-eye view of the world, and understands what it's like to be a youngster in this strange, scary world full of confusing grown-ups. Its hero Elliot (Thomas) is a wonderful innocent who can't comprehend why adults do the things they do, whether it be break-up with his mum or try to capture a wandering alien. He just wants to do the right thing, which is to be caring and good, and spread love in a way that even he doesn't understand. To Elliot, the real indecipherable creatures that may as well be from another world are grown-ups. Or flip it, and take into account Elliot and E.T.'s strange symbiosis, and Elliot is the alien, trying to fit into a world he doesn't understand.

Spielberg's genius move is to enhance this directorially, taking every opportunity to make this Elliot's story, even on a subconscious level. For most of the film, adults are faceless drones (except Mum), it's largely filmed from Elliot's height, almost every scene is about him, and we don't see E.T. properly until Elliot does. 

Originally starting as a horror movie called Night Skies, screenwriter Melissa Mathison pulled out a subplot about the lone good alien befriending an autistic child and turned that into what we know and love as E.T. The Extra-Terrestrial. Matthew Robbins, who wrote Spielberg's The Sugarland Express, claims to have done an uncredited re-write, and indeed the film also seems to be partly based on a script he co-wrote that focused on growing up in suburbia. 

But lying beneath the surface of Mathison's beautiful writing and Robbins' sharpening is wonderful thematic depths - there's a Christ parable in there, deep streaks of anti-authoritarianism, and a fascinating look at single-parent family life in America. Best of all is the film's hopeful and positive attitude; as critic Barry Norman put it while naming E.T. one of the best movies of the 20th century, "along with the adventure and (genuine) sentiment, the film contains a warning against bigotry and prejudice: we should not judge others by their appearance or colour or creed but by their character and their behaviour".

"The message is understated but clear and gives E.T. the moral edge that makes it the ideal modern fairy tale," continues Norman.

The technical brilliance abounds too. Carlo Rambaldi's remarkable alien model, John William's profound and stirring score, and that magical moon shot are all exemplary, and the 20th anniversary touch-ups are largely worthwhile. Add in great performances (with seven-year-old Barrymore a stand-out), and E.T. shines as an incredibly well-made piece of all-ages entertainment.

For the record, here are the 2002 changes, compared with the original:

Like most good films, and indeed the majority of the films on this list, E.T. The Extra-Terrestrial is more than just its surface. It's a parable and a fairy tale that speaks to the child in us all, and wishes that we could all be more like Elliot, and less like the grown-ups.