The Browning Version Criterion
Starring Michael Redgrave, Jean Kent
Directed by Anthony Asquith
Reviewed by Mark Pittman
In the audio commentary of this new Criterion DVD, film historian Bruce Eder gives the perfect summary of The Browning Version: “anti-Chips.” That is, it’s the anti-Goodbye Mr. Chips. Where Robert Donat’s character in Goodbye Mr. Chips ends his tenure at a British public school well-loved and celebrated, in The Browning Version Michael Redgrave’s character is finishing his 18-year career teaching classical Greek at a boy’s school universally disliked and ridiculed. Redgrave’s Mr. Crocker-Harris (or “The Crock” as the boys call him), lives his life emotionally distanced from everyone around him. He treats his students as incompetents who never translate Greek well enough and never act appropriately and logically enough. For this reason, the boys and faculty invent a secret nickname for Crocker-Harris: “The Himmler of the Lower Fifth.”
While such a character seems hardly likeable enough to be the focus of an entire movie, Michael Redgrave and the film’s director Anthony Asquith somehow make the viewer care for Crocker-Harris almost immediately. Part of this is due to the dramatic build-up to his entrance which is surely one of the longest and best-developed in film. We hear through conversation that Crocker-Harris’s wife sees him as a failure, that most of the boys view him as a tyrant, and that one of the more thoughtful boys thinks he’s simply a man who has no feelings and should be pitied because of it. This last viewpoint immediately precedes Redgrave’s entrance, which is why the viewer from the beginning wants to discover why “The Crock” acts the way he does.
Towards the middle of the film, Crocker-Harris’s bossy, hateful wife tells him prior to a formal dinner party: “You know you have to change.” That’s the payoff of this film: to watch Crocker-Harris learn to care to enough about himself and his situation to become something more than an “anti-Chips”.
This film is a masterpiece, and I’m surprised that it’s not better known. The acting, the direction, the cinematography—everything about the film is executed with supreme subtlety and intelligence. After watching The Browning Version I wanted to learn more about everyone involved: Michael Redgrave, who gives the “performance of his career” according the DVD notes; director Anthony Asquith who also directed Pygmalion; but especially The Browning Version’s screenwriter, the playwright Terence Rattigan. According to Eder’s commentary, Rattigan, a homosexual, was a well-respected and successful British playwright who had difficulty addressing issues surrounding homosexuality in his plays, due to its being illegal in England at the time (1920s-1950s). It’s fascinating to re-watch The Browning Version knowing about Rattigan’s dilemma and determine how he worked through these concerns in language vague enough to be construed by the British censors in any number of ways.
Also included in the DVD is a video interview with British director Mike Figgis, who directed the 1994 remake of The Browning Version. Figgis relates how he discovered the 1951 version of the film on television one night by accident and how a strange coincidence at a dinner party allowed him to direct the remake. Throughout the interview Figgis comes across as both likeable and intelligent, and, luckily for the viewer, the information he provides on both The Browning Version and its creators overlaps little with Bruce Eder’s equally informative film-long audio commentary.
I very strongly recommend the new Criterion disc of The Browning Version which is one of the best examples of British film, and DVD production, that I have ever seen. I can’t imagine any serious fan of cinema not enjoying it.
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Starring Ayuko Fujishiro, Taizo Fukami, Mie Kitahara, Harold Conway, and Masumi Okada
Directed by Ko Nakahira
Reviewed by Russell Bartholomee
Film:
Extras: 
Okay, here’s the story, more or less. It’s the 1950s, and a group of disaffected teenagers who come from privilege are bored with everything. They don’t respect the traditions of their society or their parents. And they have no concrete plans for the future. So they drink, get into fights, and live the jaded moment, embracing boredom as a creed. One of the troubled boys meets a troubled girl, and they fall for each other. But she’s also being pursued by another troubled boy. Tension ensues and builds to a tragic, shocking, and largely unresolved climax.
Based on that description, you might assume I’m reviewing Rebel without a Cause, when in fact, I’m talking about Criterion’s recent release of the controversial debut film Crazed Fruit, by Japanese director Ko Nakahira. You’d be more than forgiven for making that assumption, since the film borrows some of Rebel’s attitude, and one of its stars (Yujiro Ishihara) is often called the “James Dean of Japan.” But while it shares several common elements, Crazed Fruit is not ultimately derivative. Though it was deemed scandalous for its frank depiction of then-taboo subject matter upon its release in 1956, the film was one of the “sun tribe” films, a watershed movement in Japanese cinema that brought the art form into the very troubled present of post-WW2 Japan. And in terms of technique (favoring jump cuts and hand held, in-your-face camera work), the film has more in common with the French New Wave than the American “troubled youth” cinema of the 1950s. In fact, according to the commentary, Truffaut was a fan of the film.
The story follows the summer exploits of two brothers, Natsuhisa (Yujiro Ishihara) and Haruji (Masahiko Tsugawa). Natsuhisa is the older, more experienced brother, and he hangs with a jaded, well-off crowd who spend listless, aimless days chasing girls, gambling, drinking, cruising, and picking fights. Haruji is put off by the vulgarity of his brother’s friends, even as he is drawn to the excitement. Torn between his traditional upbringing and the modern contempt for authority, he sits squarely on the fence until he meets and falls in love with Eri, a mysterious and beautiful young woman. He begins a traditional and chaste courtship with her. Trouble is, she’s married to an American businessman who’s usually away—something she tries to keep secret. Worse, Natsuhisa is attracted to her as well, partly out of jealousy that his little brother could have such luck. When he discovers Eri’s secret, he makes her the dastardly proposition that if she will sleep with him, he’ll keep his mouth shut. Eri reluctantly agrees; she’s both repulsed by and attracted to the offer, even as she seems to genuinely be taken with Haruji.
With this set up, it’s clear that things are headed for disaster. What’s remarkable is how unflinchingly Nakahira follows things through to the astonishing end. For a debut film, the director shows how fully he is in command of his craft. For example, On Haruji and Eri’s first date, the tension between them as they lie on the rocks together in the sun is palpable. They never touch, but with subtle movements of the hands and legs, we know that they want to. The sexual tension is underscored by the gentle lapping of the waves against the rocks and the (revolutionary for its time) seductive jazz score in the background. In the climactic final scene, the director steadily speeds up the pace, cutting back and forth between ever shorter close-ups of the rival brothers. The conclusion is as terrifying and ultimately unsettling as it is powerfully profound.
The print is what you’d expect from a Criterion release. The film’s grain is preserved, without looking dirty. The sound is authentic (good old mono), and the subtitles are clear. The commentary track, by Japanese film scholar Donald Richie is quite informative, if a little dry.
In all, Crazed Fruit is a more than worthy addition to your collection, especially if your impression of Japanese cinema is limited to samurai films and Godzilla movies (not that there’s anything wrong with either). It’s an intelligent, thought-provoking film that manages to avoid a simplistic moral. What at first seems to be an essay on the uselessness of traditional Japanese culture slowly evolves into a tale that cautions the audience not to completely abandon their values. The “crazed fruit” of the title is attractive to behold and sweet to the taste, but ultimately forbidden for good reason.
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The Daily Show with Jon Stewart - Indecision 2004 Paramount Home Video
Reviewed by Brent Farnham
Fake journalism has been taken to a new plateau. The Daily Show with Jon Stewart has created a niche for itself on cable television with politically-charged comedy that is equally intelligent and irreverent.
For the first time, the show’s devoted fans can own a piece of The Daily Show on DVD. Indecision 2004 chronicles last fall’s U.S. Presidential election in a 3-disc set that is hilarious and provocative, but not exactly comprehensive.
Often rude, sometimes borderline-inappropriate, Stewart’s bold team of correspondents conduct interviews and investigations in their patented style. Of course, each member has her or her own unique methods, but in most cases they rely on tension and awkward responses created by constantly playing the devil’s advocate, no matter how ridiculously obvious the topic or issue is. Most importantly, they are not at all hindered by humility or journalistic integrity. Some of their trade secrets are given away in the commentary tracks (which are worth listening to, as the team shows how much fun they can have with just audio).
The first two discs contain coverage of the Democratic and Republican National Conventions, respectively. Disc three is full of relevant segments from various episodes prior to the election (in which even the infrequent correspondents are featured at least once), as well as debate coverage, and the live, hour-long special broadcast on election night.
Standout comedic highlights include the team’s reaction to Senator Zell Miller’s disgraceful keynote address at the R.N.C., and Stephen Colbert’s interview with the always-perspicacious Don King, who promotes the Republican Party with his own incoherent brand of electrisplosivity (random phrases and some words that don’t exist). The cast does not pretend to hide their bias (which was especially evident in the studio atmosphere on the night of the election), and yet their material is far from propaganda. No public figure from any party is safe from their acerbic scrutiny.
The price tag for this collection is a little high, considering the sum of the material can be exhausted in a night or two of viewing. Despite some genuinely radiant moments, this purchase is advisable only for hardcore fans and the ‘collector types’. Jon.
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Starring Gene Hackman and Al Pacino
Directed by Jerry Schatzberg
Reviewed by Michael Allen
The rural cousin of Midnight Cowboy, Jerry Schatzberg’s Scarecrow is a lost gem from the last golden age of American cinema. It tells the story of two drifters who wander across an economically depressed America with dreams of opening a carwash in Pittsburgh. Oh, and it features Al Pacino and Gene Hackman before they became parodies of their iconic selves.
Pacino and Hackman act up a storm in this small 1973 film after having hit the big time with The Godfather and The French Connection. Pacino has yet to develop his eNUNciaATING and gives a wistful performance that occasionally opens up for some show-stopping, yet believable silliness (he has a killer method of distracting a clerk from Hackman’s shoplifting). He plays Francis, an AWOL sailor who believes that you can get anything you want if you make people laugh. Francis meets up with Max (Hackman), an ex-con from San Quentin who’s always pontificating about the importance of investing your money. See, Max isn’t just hitchhiking to sightsee America; he plans on opening a carwash and Francis tags along to reunite with his family. The characters are sketched with their belongings: Max has a beat-up suitcase and ledger while Francis carries around a gift-wrapped lamp for a child he’s never seen. He doesn’t know if it’s a boy or a girl so he figures that a lamp will work either way.
The only noticeable false step is the occasional overacting by the supporting cast. See for your very own eyes Pacino underact a scene with a histrionic ex-wife! It’s shocking what he can do with a mute look rather than eyeball rolling. Hackman’s anger builds slowly, but you eventually see his character shed his defenses (and his clothes) as he grows closer to Pacino.
Working with legendary cinematographer Vilmos Zsigmond, Schatzberg wisely chooses an anamorphic frame to not only capture the decaying industrial vistas but also to fit two gifted actors in the same frame. Both compete noticeably without showing off and occasionally crack the other up with an improv. In a long, uninterrupted take, Pacino and Hackman create a continent of subtext while eating breakfast at a diner.
Warner Brothers shows admirable commitment for a movie few people have ever seen. In its first-ever widescreen release, the Scarecrow looks great, with Zsigmond’s washed-out grainy image effectively realized. Scarecrow captures two actors at the top of their game in a virtually plot-less film about the human need for grand schemes and friends to implement them. American cinema of the 70s was fertile ground for its great directors, but it was also broad enough to allow the non-geniuses like Schatzberg, Sidney Pollack, and Alan J. Pakula to create works of great integrity and personal expression.
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Starring Rex Harrison, Linda Darnell, and Rudy Vallee
Directed by Preston Sturges
Reviewed by Russell Bartholomee
“O, beware, my lord, of jealousy; it is the green-eyed monster which doth mock the meat it feeds on”—Iago, in Shakespeare’s Othello
What is it about jealousy that is so funny to watch and yet so painful to experience? Irrational behavior, wild speculation, groundless suspicion, and frantic emotions that are awful to endure personally, nevertheless elicit a certain amount of schadenfreude when observing someone else’s foolish antics as a result of unfounded doubt. While it might be sick to admit to taking pleasure in someone else’s pain, it’s also the basis of many of Hollywood’s great dark comedies. Unfaithfully Yours is one such film, a lesser known masterpiece of dark comedy written and directed by Preston Sturges, the genius behind such classics as The Lady Eve, The Palm Beach Story, and Sullivan’s Travels. Though not a commercial success when originally released, the film deserves to be regarded as at the bottom of the top tier of Sturges’ illustrious career.
Rex Harrison is Sir Alfred De Carter, a world-renowned conductor living in the United States. His doting wife, Daphne (Linda Darnell), only has eyes for him, and he for her. Their opening, sickeningly sweet exchange of dialogue literally turns the stomach of the other lead characters. Through a comedy of errors initiated by his idiot brother-in-law (the delightfully thick Rudy Vallee), Sir Alfred obtains a report from a private detective that suggests that Daphne has not been faithful to him during his last trip abroad. Though he initially dismisses the information as impossible, he cannot shake the growing root of doubt which is now planted. Having finally become convinced of her infidelity, Sir Alfred begins to fantasize about his revenge while conducting his orchestra in a magnificent performance. During each of the three pieces in the performance, he imagines a different way to respond to his wife’s imagined affair, ranging from carefully plotted murder to magnanimous forgiveness. Each of the three fantasy-revenge scenes is a mirror of the mood of the piece being played by the orchestra. Though the concert audience is unaware of the jealous turmoil in the conductor’s mind, they are treated to an astounding and highly emotional performance.
Sturges’ eye for detail is enviable. The orchestra is full of real musicians, not handsome, non-musical actors, who are actually performing the pieces as we hear them. The dialogue is trademark Sturges—quick and witty, bringing to mind the snappy quips delivered by P.G. Wodehouse’s characters. The writing is savagely funny, and the comic timing of Harrison, Darnell, and the rest of Sturges’ ensemble cast is terrific. In the hilarious final act, Harrison attempts to carry out his murder fantasies in the real world, but he proves himself to be entirely devoid of the slick polish of his fantasy self. In a sustained section of near-silent slapstick, Harrison proves incapable of executing even the simplest elements of his plan, making a fool of himself and utterly trashing his posh apartment in a few short minutes. Sturges’ use of machinery and pratfall here rank with the automatic feeding machine in Modern Times.
One of the most remarkable things about the film is that none of the real plot of the film happens in the real world. Everything begins and ends in De Carter’s imagination. To everyone else, he’s just behaving exceptionally oddly—they’ve no idea he comes within minutes of murder. Though the story’s resolution is a bit too sitcom perfect, the film is on the whole a glorious achievement in comedy.
Bonus features include an interview with Sturges’ widow, in which we discover how much of De Carter’s character is based on Sturges himself, as well as a very funny and informative introduction by Monty Python’s Terry Jones. There are also a series of letters and telegrams from David O. Selznick which reveal how extensively the studio interfered with Preston Sturges’ vision for the film, cutting, for example, nearly 40 minutes of the final footage. It’s a shame that cut footage is not extant; it would be great to see what Sturges intended in the first place. Perhaps if they had let him do what he did best, the film would have been remembered as yet another classic in Sturges’ already spectacular string of successes.
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