AFI #12: The Searchers (1956)

This is a version of a review airing on ABC Radio Ballarat and South West Victoria on June 26, 2020, and on ABC Central Victoria on June 29, 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) ★★★★½

Director: John Ford.

Cast: John Wayne, Jeffrey Hunter, Vera Miles, Ward Bond, Natalie Wood, John Qualen, Olive Carey, Henry Brandon, Ken Curtis, Harry Carey Jr, Antonio Moreno, Hank Worden, Beulah Archuletta, Walter Coy, Dorothy Jordan, Pippa Scott.

She loved watching his ass as he rode away.

The western has been deconstructed, reconstructed, satirised, bowdlerised, bastardised, discounted, denounced, defiled, and had its last rites read more than any other type of film. And throughout this history of re-evaluation, re-invention, and re-animation, there is no film more important to the genre than The Searchers.

Like the girl being sought by the titular seekers, the movie is caught between two worlds. It pushes the genre into new territory; into deeper, darker places the western hadn't ventured in its previous half a century. It's surprisingly subtle and psychological in some ways, and its hero is a more complicated man than any gunslinger seen on the screen before. 

But it's also still a product of its time and what has come before. It has a literal "bwah bwah bwah bwaaaaaaah" moment, some of the hammiest acting you've ever seen, and some comedic diversions that leave a lot to be desired. A romantic subplot that fills up way too much screen time is like a quaint relic from a lesser western. 

Yet these flaws are not enough to drag The Searchers down. No matter how you look at it, it's a film as monumental as its landscape (it's literally filmed in Monument Valley, see what I did there?). It's one of the Big Three in the 20-something-film partnership of John Ford-John Wayne alongside Stagecoach and The Man Who Shot Liberty Valance. Allan Hunter, writing in The Wordsworth Book of Movie Classics, called The Searchers "the summit of (Ford's) achievement in the western genre".

Monumental. Get it?

"The great strength of The Searchers," wrote Hunter, "lies in the way it takes one of the most basic of all western plotlines and transforms it into a psychologically and imagistically rich reflection on the genre itself and the myths it reflects."

The key to this transformation is John Wayne, who spent much of his career epitomising the man's man of the Old West. He was usually the laconic gunslinger who never betrayed much emotion. His characters typically had little time for niceties, society or modernity - they were disgruntled loners who got the job done by shot whoever needed shooting before riding off into the sunset.

But here, as Ethan Edwards, he is all that and more. He's a man with a dark past. He's a horribly racist Confederate soldier, and more than likely a criminal to boot. It's also possible Ethan knocked up his sister-in-law Martha and fathered a child, which is probably the child he's searching for in the film. 

The movie never admits this possible parentage explicitly, and some people debate that it's there, but the subtle, lingering looks (and some not-so-subtle looks) early on between Ethan and Martha speak volumes. It's the film's great mystery, and it's a piece of the puzzle that makes Ethan's five-year quest a richer experience.

Ford and Wayne also manages to endear us to Ethan, despite his appalling racism. He's not likeable, but we can, at the very least, empathise with his drive and determination, even if we don't like what he does. It says a lot for Ford's direction, Frank S Nugent's script, and Wayne's performance that we are willing to follow this man, who has more in common with the Native Americans he reviles than he would care to admit. And is he going to kill the girl when he finds her, or rescue her? These questions help drive the film, all the while knocking some of the romanticism out of the genre's sails. This is no mythic ode to the Old West - this is acknowledging the racism, violence and weird moral code that dominated the setting and drove many of its once-lionised figures.

"Edwards is a hero in the contemporary mould," wrote James Monaco in How To Read A Film. "(He's) lonely and obsessive, as well as heroic, neurotically compulsive as well as faithful."

As well as re-shaping the genre's prototypical protagonist, Ford's film was part of the growing re-assessment of Native Americans. While far from being a nuanced take, The Searchers at least begins to acknowledge them as more than just a faceless enemy. Here, they have a culture, a purpose, and an understanding of the land, as well as a difference from tribe to tribe. There are still "evil savages", but the counterpoint in The Searchers is that, from a certain point of view, so is Ethan Edwards.

The high art of the movie extends beyond its content to its visuals. While most western directors were content to shoot in studios, Ford was all about the sun and the soil. The way he captures the beauty and harshness of Monument Valley (standing in for Texas) inspired David Lean to do the same with the deserts of Arabia. And like Lean's Lawrence Of Arabia, the men in Ford's movie are often mere dots in a brutal landscape. But the iconic imagery extends beyond the wide vistas of the west - the opening and closing shots, which frame Edwards through an open doorway, are just as beautiful and powerful, symbolising his status as an outsider and his rejections of society.

Yes, he was born in a tent.

It's tempting to look at the The Searchers' ranking on the AFI list and think it is the best western of all time. But it's not the best. The Searchers is flawed - there are some second-rate performances (notably Hunter, Carey Jr and Curtis), and the film loses pace during a letter narration and the romantic subplot. It's more accurate to say The Searchers is the most important western of all time, but more than that, it's one of the most important movies of all time. The film's influence on the genre is massive, but it extends beyond the genre's boundaries - Scorsese, Lucas, Bogdanovich, Kurosawa, Spielberg, Lean and Welles all raved about and borrowed from Ford and The Searchers. 

Some suggest Stagecoach was where people started to take the western seriously, and that The Searchers is where Ford elevated it to an artform. "One has the feeling," wrote William Bayer in The Great Movies, "that ... Ford for years was working toward some ultimate western. That quest it seems was resolved in the film The Searchers."

AFI #11: City Lights (1931)

This is a version of a review airing on ABC Radio Ballarat and South West Victoria on June 12, 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: Charlie Chaplin

Cast: Charlie Chaplin, Virginia Cherrill, Harry Myers, Al Ernest Garcia, Florence Lee, Hank Mann, Robert Parrish, Henry Bergman.

Luckily for Charlie and his mate, they were both white.

 

Picking the best film of Charlie Chaplin's career is tough. The American Film Institute would have us believe it's City Lights, his sweetest, gentlest comedy, and they're probably right. When you line it up with the other contenders for Chaplin's Champion - The Kid, The Gold Rush, Modern Times, The Great Dictator - City Lights sits right in the middle in terms of release, but pokes its nose above the rest like a molehill on a plateau of greatness. 

"The most recently seen ... is always the favourite," wrote William Bayer, in his book The Great Movies on the "impossible (task of naming) the Chaplin masterpiece". 

"The problem is always complicated by the fact that (his typical main character) The Tramp is always different," Bayer wrote. "Sometimes more jaunty and resilient, at other times more depressed, more crushed. And, too, there is the element of social comment. It is always there, but depending on one's taste in Chaplin, one will prefer the film that contains the desired quotient."

Bayer nails it here, and perhaps inadvertently highlights why City Lights "stands as one of Chaplin's most universally loved films", as The Wordsworth Book Of Movie Classics puts it. Less overtly political than Modern Times and The Great Dictator, City Lights bears his trademark themes of class disparity, but what he has to say is cleverly buried inside "a comedy romance in pantomime". If you don't care for the social commentary, this is just a beautifully executed love story with one of the all-time-great endings and some of the best skits in the history of cinema. But if you want the bigger ideas, scratch the surface and sniff out what he's saying about the haves and the have-nots.

Where City Lights has the edge on The Kid and The Gold Rush, and indeed many comedies, is its story flows simply and beautifully; its jokey sequences never deviate too far from that storyline at the film's heart but are sidesplitters. 

The truly remarkable thing about City Lights is that it's defiantly silent, not counting the hilarious whistle sequence. While working on the film in 1928, Chaplin was acutely aware that "talking pictures" were on the rise. He reportedly agonised in pre-production about whether to make the film a talkie. But Chaplin rolled on with what he knew, and was dismissive in the press about the new moviemaking trend: "I give the talkies three years, that's all," he said. But by the time City Lights' premiere rolled around in January 1931, it was obvious talking pictures weren't merely a fad.

But Chaplin couldn't fathom his Tramp, nor his style of movie-making, in a verbal world. He even opened City Lights with a scene that mocks talking, with Chaplin replacing the words of several speechmakers with unintelligible sounds. It's the perfect middle finger to the talkies, signifying Chaplin's determination to do his own thing.

And Chaplin had carte blanche to do his own thing. He was part-owner/co-founder of United Artists with D. W. Griffith, Mary Pickford, and Douglas Fairbanks, and on his films he wore many hats - for City Lights he was director, actor, write and composer. With no one to say 'no', he pressed ahead with his unfashionable silent endeavour, and though it was snubbed by the Oscars (not a single nomination), it was adored by audiences and was #1 at the US box office in 1931. He was vindicated then, just as he is vindicated now - City Lights is probably his best loved film.

Ninety-plus years on, the movie is just as funny and endearing as it was in 1931. The universality of the Tramp shines through - he's the ultimate underdog, which allows the pathos and humour to work together in magical ways. The boxing match is not just a work of pinpoint perfect comedy genius (that apparently took four days of rehearsal to choreograph), it's underscored by the desperation of the Tramp's situation - it's hilarious but also gripping. This balance between story, laughs, and heart is part of the key to City Lights enduring adoration, almost a century on.

The social themes also remain poignant, though they're understated and simple. The Tramp is down on his luck, the Blind Girl (Cherrill) has it worse, yet it's the Eccentric Millionaire (Myers) who feels he has it so bad that he's suicidal. The Millionaire is also the one who has no regard for the value of money, and no inkling that the cash and the cars he's so willing to throw away have the capacity to improve the lives of others. It's only when he's in an altered state - ie. shitfaced - that he has compassion for his fellow man.

It all culminates in a scene that is still stirring today. Edward F Dolan Jr, in his book History Of The Movies, says the finale of City Lights "may be the single finest scene that Chaplin ever put on film". "A superb exercise in facial pantomime, the scene is deservedly one of the most famous in screen history," he wrote. And back in 1949, critic/screenwriter James Agee was even more gushing in his essay Comedy's Greatest Era saying, "It is enough to shrivel the heart to see, and it is the greatest piece of acting and the highest moment in movies".

Even if its ending doesn't shrivel your heart, you'd have to be heartless to not find yourself enjoying City Lights, which Chaplin said was his favourite of his films. His ability to turn the mundane into unexpected hilarity, while keeping a head and a heart in the story, is at its zenith in this endlessly charming film.

You've read the review, now watch the movie:

AFI #10: The Wizard Of Oz (1939)

This is a version of a review airing on ABC Radio Ballarat and South West Victoria on June 12, 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: Victor Fleming

Cast: Judy Garland, Ray Bolger, Jack Haley, Bert Lahr, Frank Morgan, Billie Burke, Margaret Hamilton, Charley Grapewin, Clara Blandick.

Apple Maps had failed Dorothy once again.

Oh, how I adore this film. It's part of my most-watched holy trinity, alongside Raiders Of The Lost Ark and The Muppet Movie. It's the first movie I ever owned - a VHS for my fourth birthday. 

"It doesn't matter how many times you've seen The Wizard Of Oz, it still feels fresh with every new viewing," wrote Matt Mueller in Film magazine's 100 Greatest Movies Of All Time list (which saw Oz land at #83). 

No argument here, but it's really bloody hard (and odd) to review a movie that's so ingrained in my DNA, and so many other people's DNA for that matter. I assume everyone has seen this movie at least once, right? So what is there left to say about The Wizard Of Oz (although the same could be said of all these reviews I'm doing)?

So many aspects of this film are perfect, or close to perfection. In many ways, it's a how-to for modern blockbusters, long before the birth of the modern blockbuster (or even the birth of the term 'blockbuster'). Its themes are simple, its plot streamlined, its character motivations clear, and its visual spectacle unlike anything seen before.

The script, for example, is used in screenwriting classes as an explainer for the classic hero's journey. It's simple storytelling, flowing in an easy-to-follow and uncomplicated way, which is amazing when you consider it took 14 writers (only three of which were credited). 

It rarely cuts away from Dorothy and her pals, except for some quick scenes to see what the Wicked Witch is up to, and again when they get separated after Dorothy is captured. This kind of direct storytelling makes it easy for kids to follow, but also keeps things focused and sharp. 

The script itself is also economical. The pre-tornado scenes are particularly tight, and even though they're a bit hammy by modern standards, they don't waste a second, only pausing to take a breath so Judy Garland can sing what would become her theme song, Over The Rainbow. In 20 minutes of sepia-toned scene-setting, we're introduced to eight key characters (and a dog), six of whom are going to re-appear as dreamworld alter-egos with fully formed desires and personalities, all hinted at in the preceding 20 minutes. 

It's worth noting that, yes, the "it was all a dream" twist is a cop out, but The Wizard Of Oz is the only film that can get away with it in my book (except maybe Inception). But cop-out endings aside, the script is sharp. There are some great gags, including Frank Morgan's double-taking as Professor Marvel, and the not-so-hapless Uncle Henry (Grapewin) and his interactions with Miss Gulch (Hamilton), not to mention Dorothy's comedic side-trio of Lion, Scarecrow and Tin Man. 

But like the Tin Man by film's end, the screenplay also has heart. As much as it's about the adventure-crushing mantra of "there's no place like home", it's really about kindness and courage. It's age-old appeal stems not only from its eye-candy and mellifluousness, but its good deeds and friendship. As Dorothy helps her new companions one-by-one (including slapping some sense into the Cowardly Lion), dragging them out of their metaphorical ruts and leading them to personal betterment, they in turn are willing to lay down their lives to help her. And is there a better line in any movie than the Wizard's "hearts will never be practical until they can be made unbreakable"?

All of these lines are delivered by a note-perfect cast that were almost all second choices. Garland donned the gingham only after Shirley Temple was unavailable, Haley got the call-up as the Tin Man after Buddy Ebsen had a near-fatal allergic reaction to the costume, Morgan took on his five roles when WC Fields passed, and Hamilton became the Wicked Witch after Edna May Oliver and Gale Sondergaard turned it down. Each is great in their role, and you can add Bolger and Lahr to that list of (accidental) pitch-perfect casting.

Much of the myth of The Wizard Of Oz comes from this "accidental" quality - this is the quintessential studio film that is better than it has any right to be. Not only was the cast a last-minute assemblage, but the director's chair was an ejector seat. Oscar-winning director Norman Taurog was dumped after filming test footage, replaced by Richard Thorpe, who was sacked for failing to get the film's tone or look to match producer Mervyn LeRoy's vision. George Cukor, famed director of The Philadelphia Story, Adam's Rib and My Fair Lady, held the fort in the meantime, making crucial changes to costumes, make-up and vibe of the film, before departing to start on Gone With The Wind upon the arrival of credited director Victor Fleming. Fleming would eventually depart to replace Cukor on Gone With The Wind, leaving an uncredited King Vidor to shoot the remainder of the film, which was predominantly the sepia-toned Kansas sequences. 

(This video is awesome (stick with it):)

These are not the kind of machinations that usually lead to a film with a singular vision, but not so much in 1938-'39, where the "producer is God" mentality of film-making ruled. This means much credit for Oz's outcome goes to LeRoy, who steered the film from its inception, although William Bayer's 1973 book The Great Movies credits uncredited associate producer Arthur Freed for Oz's unified vision. Bayer writes that Oz is the first in a string of musicals adhering to Freed's methodology; that musicals "should be an organic whole... in which stories, songs and dances are integrated and unified by a strong dramatic line". 

"Songs... must flow out of the dramatic material and advance the story... the transition from dialogue to music should be as smooth as possible, triggered usually by the emotion of a character," he writes, stating the Oz was the first of many Freed musicals that fit this formula.

(Sidenote: It was only rare films like Citizen Kane, rare directors such as Hitchcock, and then later the New Hollywood movement of the '60s and '70s that birthed the "director as auteur" school of film-making, temporarily laying waste to producer domination.)

As much as Freed was re-writing the film musical lexicon, it was the team LeRoy put together that proved to be flawless. Cinematographer Harold Rosson beautifully captured the fantastical palette - those the dazzling yellows and greens, but also the darkness and grey of the trek to the Witch's castle. He also gave the film scope - it was only as I got older that I marvelled at the beauty of those painted backdrops and realised that this massive fantasy land was brought to life on a studio soundstage. Rosson would go on to capture a similar vibrancy Gene Kelly and Stanley Donen's equally studio-bound Singin' In The Rain.

Then there is the mononymed costumer Adrian (who gave Dorothy her signature slippers), make-up  artist Jack Dawn (who helped the Scarecrow and Lion look the way they do), and special effects artist Arnold Gillespie (whose remarkable tornado sequence looks as good today as it did then).

But if The Wizard Of Oz is memorable for anything - aside from its fun-lovin' Munchkins - it's its music, written by Harold Arlen and lyricist Yip Harburg (the latter being one of the many uncredited screenwriters too). For mine, this is the best musical of all time. Every song works perfectly, and their now-classic melodies can be brought to mind purely by naming the titles - Ding-Dong! The Witch Is Dead, If I Only Had A Brain, We're Off To See The Wizard, We Welcome You To Munchkinland. Even the lesser songs If I Were King Of The Forest and The Merry Old Land Of Oz are great, with the former particularly hilarious.

But the one song to rule them all, and indeed most movie tunes, is Over The Rainbow. Instantly recognisable from that opening octave leap, it's a magical musical moment that has transcended its source material, while giving the ill-fated Garland a tragically suitable theme song, used with devastating effect in last year's biopic Judy. And to think it was almost cut from the film. 

There is so much more I could say - about winged monkeys, about the transition from sepia to colour, about Garland's performance - but you get the picture. The Wizard Of Oz is a masterpiece.

AFI #9: Vertigo (1958)

This is a version of a review airing on ABC Radio Ballarat and South West Victoria on May 29, 2020, and ABC Radio Central Victoria on August 7, 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) ★★★★½

Director: Alfred Hitchcock

Cast: James Stewart, Kim Novak, Barbara Bel Geddes, Tom Helmore, Henry Jones, Raymond Bailey, Ellen Corby, Konstantin Shayne.

The Matrix sequel was filming next door.

God, this is such a weird film. 

Following an hypnotic, unique-for-its-time opening credit sequence, it begins as a detective story with an unexpected kink. From there, Vertigo becomes a ghost story in broad daylight, then a peculiar whodunnit, a downward-spiralling tale of obsession, and a manic (if somewhat dated) look at mental illness.

This strange combination of styles, plus the peculiar way the story unfolds, as well as its bizarre "hero's journey" make it unlike any other Hollywood production of its time (or for a long time after, for that matter). As The Wordsworth Book Of Movie Classics puts it, Vertigo is "one of the bleakest, most perverse offerings to come out of mainstream American cinema in the 1950s". It's also a gripping watch, right from the get-go, despite (or perhaps because of) its unconventional nature.

Vertigo, like many films on this list, was not widely praised on its release. The Daily Mail famously labelled it "Hitch-poppycock", while The New Yorker judged it as "far-fetched nonsense". As 1001 Movies You Must See Before You Die puts it, much of the criticism centred on its "unlikely plot dependent on a fiendishly implausible murder scheme on the part of a thinly characterised villain".

Vertigo is indeed a great film, and has been re-evaluated by critics, rising in prestige in the decades that followed its release to even surpass Citizen Kane on some lists. Even the AFI's voters looked at it differently between 1998 and 2007, bumping it up 52 spots. But the issues about its ridiculous murder plot haven't disappeared since they were flagged by the reviewers in 1958 - it remains one of the daffiest assassinations committed to celluloid, and it's something that keeps Vertigo just short of perfection.

Equally as stodgy then as it is now is the hard-to-swallow age gap and attraction between Stewart's acrophobic ex-cop and Novak's mysterious blonde.  Even Hitchcock himself said that while Vertigo was one of his favourite films, he conceded the 49-year-old Stewart looked too old to play the 24-year-old Novak's love interest, even going so far as to blame this for the film's failure on release.

But several factors have ensured the film has endured beyond it's silly murder machinations and unbelievable romance (and creaky rear projections, while we're at it).

Hitchcock's visuals are part of the ongoing acclaim. The script may not be immediately quotable, but what lingers is the imagery, and the way it creates a chilling mood (aided by Bernard Herrmann's eerie score, Robert Burks' cinematography and Edith Head's costuming). When we first see "the wife" (she isn't named until about 40 minutes in - unless I missed it - as if she's merely some unnamed possession), she floats by like a disembodied spirit, the camera transfixed by her. Later, dressed in ghostly white, she seemingly disappears amid the sequoias, like a spectre in a dream.

It's part of the haunting quality of the film, which evolves into a sense of uncomfortable nausea that Hitchcock amplifies by bathing one particular scene in sickly neon green (and uses a brilliant rear projection trick that makes you forgive how bad the previous ones looked). Throw in some odd angle choices and the now-famous dolly zoom (which reportedly cost almost US$170,000 in today's money for a few seconds of film), and Vertigo is a fine example of how directors can throw viewers off-kilter.

But even more enduring is the mystique around the film. What is it really about? The shortlist from my first rewatching in more than 20 years is that it's about obsession, possession, mental illness, identity, and misogyny, but Vertigo, more than most films, has generated endless streams of analysis, meta-analysis, and psychoanalysis. What other movie can stir up a review like this which references Freud, Jung and Christianity in one breath, and then lines up authors such as Poe, Stevenson, and Melville in another? Elsewhere it forms a central part in a discussion on the male gaze in cinema, is studied in school for its disturbing takes on love, guilt and reality, and is even touted as kicking of the American New Wave of film-making that flourished in the '60s. Others have called it a meditation on film itself, a reveal of Hitchcock's own sexual predilections and love of dominating icy blondes, and the middle part of his Anxiety Trilogy (between Rear Window and North By Northwest).

And there's this brilliant video that shows Hitchcock's mastery in simply blocking out a scene:

 

Sight & Sound magazine, in crowning it the greatest film of all time, called it "the ultimate critics' film". Part of this, aside from the way it welcomes almost infinite dissection, is Vertigo's unconventional nature. Its structure is bizarre - a major character dies around the halfway point, the film's big reveal also comes with plenty of time to play, all of which leaves space for the film to plummet headlong into some weird territory involving its central disturbing relationship before climaxing with a truly crazy, out-of-nowhere ending.

It also gives us a wonderfully against-type performance from Stewart. He's the hero, yes, but he becomes damned unlikable by film's end. His relationship with his friend/ex Midge (a terrific Geddes) rings alarm bells early on as to the nature of Stewart's Scottie. And leaving the age gap aside, the Stewart-Novak combination is unnerving, which helps make the film both fascinating and unexpected. Novak is also amazing, adding layers to a role that could have been a mere mannequin.

Much like its freaky dream sequence, Vertigo was bold and ahead of its time. It's also gripping and entertaining. But it's not perfect, and unlike the other films I've watched so far on this list, it feels hokey in places, largely due to its ropey rear projections, its outdated psychology, and its wacky murder plot.

Still, this is Hitchcock pushing boundaries and the artform like few other Hollywood directors of the time dared. I'd put Psycho and even North By Northwest above Vertigo - they are closer to perfect for mine. But this is indelible, difficult and intriguing film-making. As The Incredible Suit notes, Vertigo is "Hitch's most awful, brilliant achievement", and it's impossible to argue with that. 

(And if you can't be bothered watching the whole thing, Faith No More summarises the film pretty well in this great clip for an awesome song.)