Gladiator (2000)

 

Gladiator begins with an epic, brutal battle sequence that lasts about twelve minutes, and it’s a brilliant strategy to start with something so physical and action-packed. Director Ridley Scott has always been good at directing action movies, and while this might have easily been a throwback to those earlier, rather corny gladiator movies from the 1950s and 1960s, Scott’s film is filled with great sequences, many of them taking place in various arenas and featuring intense encounters between some of the biggest gladiators imaginable.

The film follows the story of the Roman General Maximus Decimus Meridius (played with more stoicism than probably necessary by Russell Crowe), who leads the Roman army to victory over the forces in Germania in the opening sequence. So beloved and revered and successful is Maximus that the Emperor, Marcus Aurelius (Richard Harris, who departs the move far too quickly), favors him over the presumptive heir to the throne, his son Commodus (Joaquin Phoenix, channeling evil personified). Commodus is not a good person and not a promising leader, and Phoenix lets us see the jealousy and hatred that have rotted him to the core of his being.

Marcus Aurelius dislikes his son so much that he plans to make Rome into a republic again rather than have Commodus succeed him, and he wants Maximus to be the leader under the new republic. Do you even have to guess how Commodus responds to this? In short order, he kills his own father, has Maximus’ wife and son murdered, and tries to have Maximus himself killed. Commodus assumes the title of Caesar and gives the people what he thinks they want or need: a seemingly endless supply of distractions like gladiator battles and bread. It keeps them pacified, but he seems to think that it will make them love him. Why are there so many movies about men who turn into awful humans because they think they didn’t get the love they deserved from their fathers? It must be because there are too many men in real life who turned out that way.

After being captured by slave traders while trying to recover from his wounds, Crowe’s Maximus starts developing a real talent for killing others in the battle arenas as a gladiator, and the series of scenes featuring those battles are among the best in the film. They’re particularly well shot. He acquires the nickname of “the Spaniard,” for reasons that were never fully clear to me. However, he becomes quite proficient at using his anger and hatred and pain to kill gladiators who would be expected to overpower him. By the time he delivers the famous “Are you not entertained?” line in the film, we have to agree that, yes, we are being very entertained, especially if we like watching grown men beat each up and blood flowing all over the ground of the arena.

Just as an aside, the fight scenes are so spectacular that The Boyfriend kept saying to me while we were watching the film again in preparation for Gladiator II that these battles were the Romans’ form of entertainment since they didn’t have movies or television. He’s not wrong, and I guess it’s pretty clear to anyone who watches the film that these “entertainments” were clearly used as a means to keep the people in check while their government engages in horrible acts. Thankfully, no one does any such actions these days. Right? Right?

Maximus’ goal, of course, is to get his revenge against Commodus, not necessarily to be a free man again, so as he keeps learning new and bloodier ways to kill someone, we acknowledge that he’s really in training to kill Commodus. He even tells the emperor this to his face after Commodus meets him in the middle of a large arena and asks Maximus to remove his mask. This, naturally, does not sit well with Commodus, so he starts scheming to have the gladiator killed. One of the most astonishing sequences has Maximus facing off against a gigantic guy from Gaul while chained tigers try to attack them if they ventures too closely to the large, hungry beasts. I don’t know how historically accurate such an approach might be, but it certainly does keep your attention.

The role of Maximus is a physically demanding role, and Crowe seems fully committed to the hard work of being an efficient killing machine in the arena. By the time he faces Commodus in the ring face-to-face, he’s clearly destined to kill the emperor, but you know that someone like the emperor is never going to play fair. He hasn’t been fair at any point during the film, so why should he start now? The ending of the film is a bit too, um, comfortable for my tastes, but after seeing flashbacks of his wife and son throughout the film, it’s no surprise that Maximus would want to “reunite” with them. There is often some sort of spiritual dimension to Scott’s film, and sometimes it’s more plausible or acceptable than at other times.

Gladiator features a strong supporting cast. I’ve already mentioned Harris, who has only a few moments on screen at the beginning. Djimon Hounsou plays a fellow gladiator, and the great Oliver Reed, in his final film role, plays Proximo, the “owner” and trainer of a band of gladiators. Derek Jacobi is Gracchus, a key member of the senate who faces reprisals from Commodus after the emperor learns that Gracchus and his own sister and others have been plotting against him – as you would if you were being ruled by a tyrant. The sister, Lucilla, is played by the talented Connie Nielsen. Her scenes with Crowe give more than a few hints that the two were former lovers, and they seem to have had a child together as well. How else can you have a sequel? The child in question is played by Spencer Treat Clark, whose face is very expressive.

I’d be remiss if I didn’t also mention the production design for the film. It’s very evocative of the era that it depicts, and the recreation of the Colosseum is spectacular. The locations of the emperor’s residence and of the senate meetings and even Gracchus’s house, which is seen only for a few seconds, get a great deal of attention. The production design was nominated for an Oscar, and the costume design deservedly won in its category. The various costumes demonstrate the kind of stratification of Roman society, and the smallest details on someone’s robes, for example, are visible and perfect. Scott’s films that cover historical periods are always very attuned to displaying what would have been common at the time. It’s just another element in a film that strives to be entertaining, and isn’t that what Maximus wanted for us, after all?

Oscar Wins: Best Picture, Best Actor (Russell Crowe), Best Sound, Best Costume Design, and Best Visual Effects

Other Oscar Nominations: Best Director (Ridley Scott), Best Supporting Actor (Joaquin Phoenix), Best Screenplay Written Directly for the Screen/Original Screenplay, Best Original Score, Best Art Direction, Best Cinematography, and Best Film Editing

Ben-Hur (1959)

 

As much as you might admire the scale of moviemaking involved, Ben-Hur is really an incredibly long, slow film. It won the Oscar for Best Film Editing (among its record-setting eleven wins), but since it clocks in at more than 3.5 hours, you have to wonder if it wouldn’t move a bit faster if about an hour (or two) had been sliced out of it. Honestly, only the chariot race sequence – which comes in the last third of the movie – is brilliantly edited. It’s full of energy, and the excitement of the race is clearly evident on the screen. The rest is not quite as thrilling.

Before we viewers can get to the chariot race, we have to slog through a couple of hours of a plot involving two former friends who seem to turn on each other through a strange sequence of events. Judah Ben-Hur (played by a rather wooden Charlton Heston) is a Jewish prince, and Messala (Stephen Boyd, a bit less stiff compared to Heston) is his Roman friend from childhood who returns to Jerusalem as the commander of a Roman contingent. Messala wants to know which Jews have refused to swear allegiance to Rome so that they might be punished. Ben-Hur refuses both to give up any names and to swear his allegiance to Rome. That’s only his first mistake in his interactions with Messala.

The sequence involving their reunion has been one of some controversy over the years. Allegedly, novelist Gore Vidal, one of the many people who were asked to help rewrite the script, told Boyd to play the part as though Messala and Judah were former lovers. The film’s director, the great William Wyler, and others involved in making the movie have disputed this assertion, Heston being the most vocal in his denouncing of Vidal’s claim. Of course, Vidal claims the idea was kept a secret from Heston, so how would Heston know what Boyd was told? Either way, it’s tough now not to look at the way that Boyd looks at Heston and not contemplate if he’s lusting after his “friend.” Having that as a possibility actually makes the interaction between Boyd and Heston and, by extension, Messala and Judah more intriguing.

During a processional of Roman soldiers – the film features several such processionals, and they’re all rather unnecessarily lengthy – some roofing tiles fall from where Judah and his sister are watching. The horses get scared and throw some riders, including the new governor of Judeah, so someone has to be punished. Ben-Hur is forced to serve on a ship’s galley as a rower, and his mother and sister are sentenced to prison, where they contract leprosy. Messala uses Judah as an example: even a formerly close friend has to suffer if he refuses to bow down to Roman rule. It still seems like a rather harsh sentence for watching some old guy fall off his horse without even getting seriously injured. However, all of this is played very seriously, particularly by Heston.

After three years as a galley rower, Heston’s Judah is, as the kids might say, “jacked.” Even in 1959 (or ancient times), rowing was a great upper body workout. This must be why Heston appears without his shirt (and wearing little else) during this sequence. It’s not a bad look for him, honestly. During a sea battle whose special effects have aged rather badly, Judah saves the Roman consul onboard, Arrius, and so grateful is Arrius that he adopts Ben-Hur. Isn’t Judah a grown man at this point? How can someone adopt a grown-up? The Romans just had different rules for everything, it seems.

Judah also trains to become a charioteer, but we’re getting ahead of ourselves and overlooking a few of the side trips that the film takes along the way. For example, earlier in the film, Judah has freed one of his slaves, Esther (a lovely Haya Harareet), so that she can marry. Of course, it’s quite clear that they have the hots for each other, so I’m not sure why he doesn’t just marry her himself. When he reunites with her, she, for reasons that make no sense, tells him that his mother and sister are dead instead of just saying that they’re now lepers and living in a cave. The truth would have been harsh, but certainly it would have been less painful.

I would like to point out that the book upon which the film is based is entitled Ben-Hur: A Tale of the Christ (by Lew Wallace). This film is sometimes even referred to as a religious epic. However, the figure of Christ only appears four times that I was able to count, and each time that figure is somewhat muted. The film actually begins with Jesus’s birth and the arrival of the Magi or Three Wise Men, but the image of Jesus is rather obscured in the background. Later in the film, we only see the back of Jesus’s head and his hand as he gives Judah water (an interesting turnaround from Biblical accounts). Near the film’s end, a group of people are listening to Jesus preach what must be the Sermon on the Mount even though it is never clearly identified as such. We are also witness to the crucifixion (from a distance) followed by a cleansing rain that erases the leprosy from Ben-Hur’s mother and sister. It seems a bit disingenuous to identify this as a religious film when the most overt moment of religiosity is when Hugh Griffith’s Sheik IIderman gives Ben-Hur a Star of David before the big chariot race. Why an Arab would have in his possession a symbol of Judaism is a bit mysterious, though.

As I stated earlier, the chariot race is really the highlight of the film, and it appears in the final third of the movie. Messala is driving something called a “Greek” chariot with spikes extending from the wheels, very dangerous looking stuff. He tries to destroy Judah’s chariot and even attacks his former friend with a whip. However, he’s the one who winds up falling from his chariot and being run over by another competitor. The makeup people did a good job of showing how injured Messala is, but you can’t help wondering what such an effect would look like today. (Well, I suppose you could watch the 2016 remake, but I’m not sitting through this story again. Ever.) Messala tells Ben-Hur where his mother and sister are, and they are reunited with him just in time for Jesus to cure their leprosy.

Ben-Hur was the first film to earn 11 Academy Awards, a record that lasted until 1997’s Titanic won the same number. The Lord of the Rings: The Return of the King from 2003 joined that august company a few years later. Ben-Hur only lost in one category for which it was nominated: Best Screenplay Based on Material from Another Medium. It’s a big movie, and everything is on such a large scale that it would be tough to ignore such a film when it came to awards recognition. There are enormous sets, tons of costumes and props, and elaborate processionals and celebrations. You sometimes need reminders like this film that Hollywood had to use actual locations and real people in the past, not computers and whatever passes for Artificial Intelligence these days in order to make big movies.

Oscar Wins: Best Picture, Best Actor in a Leading Role (Charlton Heston), Best Actor in a Supporting Role (Hugh Griffith), Best Director, Best Color Cinematography, Best Color Art Direction-Set Decoration, Best Color Costume Design, Best Sound, Best Film Editing, Best Special Effects, and Best Scoring of a Dramatic or Comedy Picture

Other Oscar Nomination: Best Screenplay Based on Material from Another Medium

Gone with the Wind (1939)

 

Writing about Gone with the Wind poses an interesting dilemma. On the one hand, it’s one of the most accomplished epics in film history, with great performances and astonishing visuals that keep audiences returning to the movie again and again. On the other hand, it is clearly sympathetic to the Southern side of the Civil War, and its depictions of African Americans and Yankees and (at times) even Southerners are remarkably stereotypical and offensive. It’s like watching The Birth of a Nation. While you might admire the technical accomplishments of the film, it’s very tough to sit through some of the more objectionable material.

So how do you tackle an examination of such a film? I’d start by noting that I’ve always felt that the focus is less upon the Civil War and Reconstruction – although those pivotal historical periods are certainly important to the plot and provide its central context – and more upon the story of a remarkable woman, Scarlett O’Hara. It’s one of the greatest roles an actress could have, and Vivien Leigh is just perfection as one of the most complex and complicated and contradictory heroines in film. We watch as Scarlett marries two men she doesn’t love, the first as a means to make her purported lover jealous and the second to secure a safe financial future for herself and her family. When she finally does marry someone she should love (and ultimately does), she takes so many opportunities to sabotage her happiness by continuing to pine for Ashley Wilkes (a rather wan Leslie Howard) instead of just loving the man who loves her, Rhett Butler (Clark Gable, never better).

Everything in the movie indicates that Scarlett should be with Rhett, yet she keeps missing the cues that the universe seems to be sending to her. When her first husband, Charles Hamilton, dies from measles before he can even join a battle, her only fun as a very unrepentant widow is when Rhett shows up and “bids” to dance with her. Her second husband, Frank Kennedy, gets shot in the head when he and some of the other men are trying to scare the residents of a “shantytown” where Scarlett was attacked. (It seems pretty clear to me that Frank and the other men are a part of the Ku Klux Klan, but the film doesn’t directly state their affiliation.) Her way of mourning Frank’s death involves drinking heavily, not out of sadness over his death but more over the fact that she’s still young and already twice widowed.

Even the man Scarlett longs for throughout the movie is rather a disappointment. What, exactly, does she see in Ashley? He’s honorable and stoic and, well, boring. He’s not even especially handsome or dapper. I don’t get what his cousin-wife Melanie sees in him either. Howard is not the most expressive actor, which perhaps explains why he was one of few major performers in the cast not to be nominated for an Oscar. Gable’s Butler, by contrast, is fun and exciting and just enough of a “bad guy” to make him immensely more attractive. He certainly makes his intentions clear from almost the first time we see him on screen, and his roguishness is just the kind of spark that someone like Scarlett needs in her life.

The film’s Oscar-winning screenplay is filled with great lines throughout the story. “Frankly, my dear, I don’t give a damn” is justifiably famous, and “As God is my witness, I’ll never go hungry again” serves as a great finish to the first half of the film. Gable gets most of the best lines, honestly, and he knows just how to deliver them with the correct dose of smirk and slyness. If there’s a second place for best line delivery, it would have to go to Hattie McDaniel, who takes the stock character of Mammy and infuses it with knowing facial expressions and sharpness. She and Gable, Leigh, and Olivia de Havilland as Melanie Hamilton Wilkes were all nominated for their performances, and McDaniel and Leigh richly deserved their Oscar wins.

Given the film’s length – almost four hours if you watch the version with the entrance and exit music and the intermission and entr’acte music – there’s time to showcase some great visuals. The siege of Atlanta (and Rhett and Scarlett’s escape with Melanie and her baby and Prissy through the burning of much of it) is quite spectacular. Similarly, when Scarlett arrives at a makeshift hospital to get the doctor’s help in delivering Melanie’s baby, the reverse zoom that keeps expanding our view of the dying and the dead is an impressive accomplishment. We sometimes forget that CGI has not always been available, so the ability to wrangle huge numbers of actual people on screen is a skill that many directors could not manage, but Victor Fleming (plus George Cukor and Sam Wood, the other directors credited with working on the film for a time) works wonders with his crowds. There’s an energy and an excitement to those big moments.

The scale of the production was massive, and the production design must have been a monumental undertaking. The filmmakers needed the interiors and exteriors of several Southern mansions, and they needed to make the town of Atlanta just so they could burn much of it down. Even the little touches that help to create a clear sense of what the interiors of the homes would look like are carefully done. I’ve always marveled at the sequence involving the women having to take a nap in the middle of the afternoon just so they won’t be too tired for the barbecue later that evening. The number of beds and large fans alone is mind-boggling. I’d also like to mention the costumes by Walter Plunkett. Even though Costume Design wasn’t an Academy Award category when Gone with the Wind was made, he surely would have been a contender for the range of dresses that Scarlett alone has to wear.

The film does spend too much of its time discussing the “Southern way of life,” which is really just code for slavery. Before the Civil War begins, the white Southern characters (well, the men, primarily) discuss the possibility of their way of life disappearing. During the war and the Reconstruction period that followed, Ashley, in particular, expresses a sense of loss for the way things used to be. Gone with the Wind really does take that silly myth about “moonlight and magnolias” before the war and devotes far too much energy to trying to make us care that slavery has ended. Having read the Margaret Mitchell novel upon which the film was based – and which is even longer than the film, if you can believe that – I know that the filmmakers were being dutifully respectful to the text, but they ended up making a film that doesn’t particularly age well in those moments.

Likewise, most of the depictions of the people who were enslaved are very limited and resort too easily to stereotypes. It’s only through the talent of actors like McDaniel that some dignity emerges. Otherwise, we’re left with characters like Pork (Albert Polk) and Prissy (Butterfly McQueen), who have very little to work with in terms of the story to make much of an impression. The actor who plays Big Sam (Everett Brown) seems only to appear when Scarlett (the film’s primary white woman) needs rescuing. I’ve often wondered why Mammy, Pork, and Prissy continue to stay with their white former “owners” after the war ends. When Prissy sees the new mansion that Rhett builds for Scarlett in Atlanta, she says, “We’s rich now.” No, they’re not. They’re still basically enslaved, but their loyalty to their former masters is meant to suggest something (ridiculous) about how they were treated in slavery. Watching the film now is tough when you see how what the movie often does to its African American characters, but I have a feeling that even in 1939, it was tough to watch some of these particularly offensive moments. It is/was certainly a product of its time.

The film does a better job with some of its minor white characters. I’d single out Ona Munson’s performance as Belle Watling. Of course, the filmmakers couldn’t directly state that Belle is a prostitute in 1939, but it’s clear from the way that she’s dressed in red and heavily made up that she’s not a “nurse” in the traditional sense. Munson is so direct and fresh, though, that we start to sympathize with her. In her few moments on screen, we learn so much about her character’s life and what she’s endured. She’s a tough woman who manages to convey just how difficult it was for a woman during the time period Gone with the Wind covers.

And that’s a good point at which to return to Scarlett O’Hara. She has the instincts of a solid business owner. She, unlike her second husband, knows that the lumber business is where the money will be as the South starts to rebuild. She also manages to meet whatever difficulties she faces with a straightforward sense of purpose. She delivers a baby without a doctor’s assistance, she turns around the fate of Tara by making a shrewd business decision even at great personal cost, and she even kills a Yankee soldier who tries to steal from her. She also faces the loss of her beloved mother, the death of two husbands, and the accidental death of her only child. The film’s focus on the remarkable life of this central character is perhaps the key to its lingering impact.

Oscar Wins: Outstanding Production, Best Actress (Vivian Leigh), Best Actress in a Supporting Role (Hattie McDaniel), Best Directing, Best Screenplay, Best Color Cinematography, Best Art Direction, and Best Film Editing

Special Award: John Cameron Menzies for “outstanding achievement in the use of color for the enhancement of dramatic mood in the production of Gone with the Wind”

Technical Achievement Award: R.D. Musgrave for “pioneering in the use of coordinated equipment in the production Gone with the Wind”

Other Oscar Nominations: Best Actor (Clark Gable), Best Actress in a Supporting Role (Olivia de Havilland), Best Sound Recording, Best Special Effects, and Best Original Score

Best One-Reel Short Subject of 1940

London Can Take It! is a short documentary about the German blitz on London during the early years of World War II. Quentin Reynolds, an American war correspondent, serves as the narrator for a series of images of the kinds of preparations that the citizens are making in advance of the nightly attacks on their city. As the sirens wail, they close their curtains and relocate to shelters. From 8 p.m. to 6 a.m., much of the city goes into hiding as the German planes bomb different sectors. The next morning, the destruction of various sections of the city is heartbreaking to witness, but the Londoners go about cleaning up their neighborhoods and going back to work and even getting ready for another cycle of attacks. The film, produced by England’s GPO (General Post Office) Film Unit for the Ministry of Information, is meant to be a testament to the resilience of the people of London, and it is an effective, understated piece of propaganda. The film presents what should be disturbing images in a very matter-of-fact way, and the narration by Reynolds is also quite low-key. Despite all of this, though, watching the film is quite an emotional experience because you get to see the strength of the English people as they live their lives in the midst of the horrors of war. It’s an inspiring, powerful film even though it only lasts about 9 minutes.

More about Nostradamus is really rather less about the famed predictor of the future than it is about the predictions he made that seem to match what was going on in Europe just prior to American involvement in World War II. The short begins with a nobleman leading a group of grave robbers to Nostradamus’s tomb on July 2, 1626, sixty years after Nostradamus’s death. He learns the hard way to follow the warning on the tomb, “Encroach not upon the repose of the one lying here,” as it collapses on him, killing him just as was predicted on a scroll included in the tomb. That’s supposed to be a shocker of an opening and perhaps a way to solidify the idea of Nostradamus’s accuracy. A short biography follows, highlighted by his prediction that a young cleric will one day become pope. When it comes true, everyone goes back to read the thousands of predictions in his Prophetic Centuries. The film then gives a series of examples to demonstrate further the accuracy of his prognostications: the defeat of the Spanish Armada, the creation and eventual failure of the League of Nations, and a host of World War I events. It’s the slipperiness of the language that allows people to think that Nostradamus was so spot-on with his predictions. Of course, “fishes of steel” could be submarines and “machines of flying fire” could be airplanes, and Germany could be the “miserable republic usurped by a new leader,” Adolf Hitler. This is when the “real” focus of the film becomes more apparent: the predictions about the situation in Europe at the time of the film’s completion in 1940. Vichy France and the bombing of England are among his predictions (if, of course, you accept the interpretations of his language as applying to them), and the film then uses the prediction that the “daughter of the English Isles” will help to end the war. A shot of the Statue of Liberty that ends the film couldn’t be more obvious about its plea to have the United States fulfill its “destiny” by entering the war. The use of both re-enactments of historical events and contemporary newsreel footage is quite effective, and the narration increases in intensity and emotion as the film progresses, reflecting the heightening concern over the events in Europe at the time.

Quicker ‘n a Wink was the second (and last) Pete Smith Specialties entry to receive an Academy Award. It features the work of Dr. Harold E. Edgerton at the Massachusetts Institute of Technology, who invented the process of stroboscopic (“super high speed”) photography. Edgerton’s process allows us to see in slow motion the kinds of actions like the whir of fan blades and the breaking of a soap bubble that occur too quickly for us to be able to examine them with the naked eye or even to capture with the conventional photographic process. We get to see some unusual effects such as a bullet shattering a light bulb and a golf ball punching a hole in a telephone book. At times, there are comparisons between Edgerton’s photographic process and “standard” photography, such as the moment when a football player’s foot comes into contact with a football. The film (and Edgerton, I suppose, by extension) spends a great deal of time using milk. We see the coronas formed by milk drops and the tall spire created when a golf ball drops into a vat of milk. It was intriguing to see how a cat’s tongue curls when it drinks milk, but not all of the images are equally interesting. The beating wings of a hummingbird are fascinating to watch, but getting to see a dentist’s drill in slow motion is hardly a highlight for most people. As a scientific document, this short captures the beginning of the use of high-speed photography to study the details of motion too quick to discern with only our eyes. Even though it’s really just a series of shots, Quicker ‘n a Wink remains a fascinating historical film.

Siege provides quite shocking timely footage of the devastating German attack on Warsaw, Poland, at the start of World War II. It’s a simple and powerful series of images of the kind of damage that was inflicted upon the city by the German bombers. Journalist Julien H. Bryan arrived in Warsaw just after the end of the first week of bombing and stayed for two weeks to witness a series of air raids and the destruction that followed. The German goal was to destroy the bridges to and from the city, but that never happened. What resulted instead was the loss of many lives and homes and buildings such as churches and hospitals. We get to see the bread lines for limited supplies of food as well as the gutted structures and the bullet holes that riddle walls.  Incendiary bombs caused fires almost every day, and families became accustomed to moving their possessions around the city to avoid having them destroyed. Bryan’s almost day-by-day account is quite moving. His story of the maternity hospital where the patients and their four-day-old babies had to be moved to the basement is quite heartwarming, and his story about how quickly the women re-entered a field to dig potatoes after an air raid had killed some of their fellow citizens is astonishing. He appears in the footage sometimes himself, talking to the residents and recounting their testimony for the viewer. Interestingly, the footage itself almost didn’t survive the attacks. Bryan and his small crew had to find a place to get it developed quickly before it was destroyed or rendered unable to be developed. This film was released two years before American involvement in World War II, and it seems clearly designed to increase U.S. support for entering the war effort by showing the suffering that the people of Warsaw and Poland and the rest of Europe endured under the German attacks.

Oscar Winner: The Academy selected the only entry that didn’t involve some aspect of World War II, Quicker ‘n a Wink. Perhaps there was some concern in Hollywood over supporting the war so early after its inception.

My Choice: I would pick either London Can Take It! or Siege instead. Both deal with the aftermath of the German attack on a city. However, Siege is more likely to invoke pity based upon the kinds of images that it shares, and London Can Take It! leaves viewers with perhaps a more upbeat feeling about the strength of those undergoing the bombings. Both had to be very effective in building American sentiment for supporting the countries involved in what would come to be known as World War II.  

Casablanca (1943)

Since its release, Casablanca has become engulfed in as much nostalgia and mythology as any film ever made. Set before the U.S. involvement in World War II, it takes place in French Morocco during the era of Vichy France. Much of the action takes place in and around Rick’s Café Americain, whose owner is played to world-weary perfection by Humphrey Bogart. As the saying goes, “everyone comes to Rick’s,” and that’s certainly the case with the French, Moroccans, Germans, Russians, Bulgarians, Italians, and others who frequent the café. The importance of what transpires over the course of the film is less about what happens, honestly, and more about the interactions between sharply drawn characters. Explaining the magic of Casablanca is almost impossible because it is such an exemplar of how each of the pieces is perfect on its own and contributes somewhat unexpectedly to the greatness of the whole.

The plot is both engaging and engrossing. It is a love story, a war movie, and a suspense film all at once. The premise is rather simple: One of the greatest of the Czechoslovakia Resistance leaders, Victor Laszlo (played by Paul Henreid), is coming to Morocco in search of two letters of transit that will ensure safe passage for him and his wife to Lisbon, Portugal, and then America. The letters are among the greatest of film MacGuffins. They serve as a central focus to the plot and everyone wants to find these letters, but really we are more intrigued by what appear at first to be a series of subplots. For example, the love triangle between Bogart’s Rick, Ingrid Bergman’s Ilsa, and Henreid’s Victor keeps viewers wondering whether Ilsa will stay with her husband, the noble and respected Victor, or go with the man she loved in Paris, Rick. Given that Rick can at times be excessively cruel to Ilsa, you might think the choice is obvious, but Bergman (who was nominated as Best Actress in a Leading Role for a different film in 1943, For Whom the Bell Tolls) reveals just how difficult the choice truly is. Indeed, the romantic plot is what propels much of the main narrative of the film.

There’s also a lively subplot involving the friendship between Rick and Capt. Renault (the great Claude Rains, stealing the film whenever he appears on screen). They are often at odds with each other, such as when Rick helps a young wife gather enough funds to avoid Renault’s planned advances on her in exchange for passage out of Casablanca. Renault understands how to survive, though, and he admires Rick’s perseverance even though he doesn’t know all of the café owner’s background. There’s some intriguing wordplay exchanged between the two men, and they sometimes come across more as a romantic couple than just friends. And then there’s Renault’s description of Rick: “Rick is the kind of man that… well, if I were a woman, and I were not around, I should be in love with Rick.” It wouldn’t take much to tease out the playful homoeroticism of their relationship in the film.

For the most part, the plot is rather linear. However, the narrative makes very effective use of a flashback to Rick and Ilsa in Paris before the Germans took over the city. It shows such a sharp contrast in personality to the man Bogart plays in the  contemporary timeline. Seeing how much in love they were before the war separated them reveals how a man who was once on the side of rebels and patriots could feel like he has lost everything, including his concern about what happens to himself. The screenplay also features  other brief powerful moments too, such as when Laszlo has the band play the “Marseillaise” loudly to drown out the Germans singing in the café, a rousing threat to German authority and power. And then there are lovely little interchanges between Yvonne and Sasha that serve as little moments of comic relief. Even at a somewhat brisk 102 minutes, the film takes the time to develop even small moments as embellishments to the main plot.

Casablanca also has one of the greatest casts ever assembled, particularly in supporting roles. Bogart and Bergman are at their best here, and the camera truly loves Bergman. Watch as her face changes during the flashback set in Paris; it’s very clear that something has changed for her. Or watch the rapturous way that she listens to Dooley Wilson playing “As Time Goes By.” Even when silent, Bergman is so very emotionally expressive. Henreid is solid, but he does sometimes play Laszlo as more of an ideal than an actual man. I’ve already mentioned Rains and his great work here (perhaps the best work he ever did in a long and distinguished career), but the rest of the supporting players were some of the best character actors in Hollywood. Just consider Sydney Greenstreet as the duplicitous Ferrari, the owner of the rival Blue Parrot; Peter Lorre at his oiliest and most unctuous as Ugarti, the thief who initially stole the letters of transit; Conrad Veidt as the venomous German Major Strasser; and S.Z. Sakall as Carl, the sentimental waiter at the café. It’s a series of beautifully modulated performances.

The film also has some of the most quoted (and most quotable) lines in film history. The screenplay by the Epstein Brothers (Julius and Philip G.) and Howard Koch features sharp, incisive, and witty dialogue. It’s a delight to watch over and over, and repeated viewings always reveal new insights, new aspects of the rich intricacies of the interchanges between characters. The final sequence at the airport is justifiably hailed as a masterpiece of closure, and you’d be hard pressed to find a monologue that compares with Bogart’s interchange with Bergman as the audience waits to see whether or not he will join her. And you should always correct anyone who misquotes Ilsa: “Play it, Sam. Play ‘As Times Go By.” No one in the film says, “Play it again,” but there’s no need to do so.

Many of the lines have justifiably been cited as perfectly written. Just a few brief samples illustrate the clever nature of the screenplay’s use of language:

·         “I don’t mind a parasite. I object to a cut-rate one.”

·         “I stick my neck out for nobody.”

·         “I remember every detail. The Germans wore gray, you wore blue.”

·         “I told my men to be especially destructive. You know how that impresses Germans.”

Those are, certainly, lesser known examples, but if you’ve watched the film, you are already familiar with “Here’s looking at you, kid” and “I think this is the beginning of a beautiful friendship.” Even if you haven’t watched the film, you likely have heard some reference to its dialogue, such as the phrase “the usual suspects.”

All of the components here add up to represent the very best of classical Hollywood studio filmmaking. Finding out that none of the film was shot on location doesn’t detract from its impact. The backlot at Warner Brothers and the Van Nuys Airport wouldn’t necessarily remind anyone of an exotic African city, but here they ably work to depict the café and its environs. Learning that Bogart and Bergman weren’t the original choices for the leads doesn’t detract from the pleasure of their performances here, either. The studios controlled a lot of people’s lives during that era, thanks to very restrictive contracts, so when you were assigned to work on a film, you did so.  It’s the final product that has deservedly endured as a classic even though no one might have expected it to be so when they were making it.

One side note: In case you’re wondering why “As Time Goes By” wasn’t nominated for the Best Original Song, it wasn’t written for Casablanca. It was actually written for a Broadway musical from eleven years earlier, Everybody’s Welcome. It took Casablanca to popularize the song and make it one of the most memorable movie songs of all time, but oddly enough, it’s actually not a film song at all.

Oscar Wins: Outstanding Motion Picture, Best Director (Michael Curtiz), and Best Screenplay

Other Nominations: Best Actor in a Leading Role (Humphrey Bogart), Best Actor in  Supporting Role (Claude Rains), Best Black-and-White Cinematography, Best Film Editing, and Best Score of a Dramatic or Comedy Picture 

The Hurt Locker (2009)

The Hurt Locker wastes no time putting us into the action of the war in Iraq. The opening sequence involves attempts by members of an Army bomb unit to locate and detonate an IED (improvised explosive device) that has been hidden in what appears to be a pile of refuse on the street. Guy Pearce's Sergeant Thompson takes command of the situation when the remote unit they've been using loses a wheel on its wagon. He dons a suit that allegedly offers protection during a blast and walks toward the bomb's location. However, as he approaches, a man emerges from a butcher shop and punches some numbers into a cell phone, exploding the bomb and killing Thompson. It's a real eye-opener of a beginning to a film, and after that sequence finishes, you're left in shock for a little while. After all, it isn't every film that kills off in the first few minutes a character being portrayed by a movie star with some name recognition.

What follows is a series of encounters with various bombs. We watch one incident after another as the soldiers respond to calls about potential threats and then attempt to eliminate or reduce the threat of harm. The unit is now under the leadership of Staff Sergeant William James (played with remarkable intensity by Oscar nominee Jeremy Renner), and he leads these men through some dangerous situations, such as a series of bombs that are linked to each other or to explosives that have been strapped to and then locked onto an Iraqi man. As the film progresses, we learn how many days remain in the unit's time in Iraq, how much more time they have to keep taking on these dangerous missions. They only have about a month left when the movie begins, and it's a tense countdown to see if the three men in the group will all survive until the last day of their duty.

The reason for that tension is, of course, SSgt. James himself. He's a rebel in a job that calls for people who are willing to live on the edge a little, but doing so can also put his fellow soldiers and the citizens of Iraq in danger. James doesn't like following orders or doing things the way that they've always been done. He has too much of a drive to figure out situations, and he's really very cocky about his abilities at times. When he's working on defusing a bomb, for example, he will throw off his headset if one of the other men is talking too much and distracting him from the task at hand. He even takes off the protective suit during one encounter, claiming, "If I'm gonna die, I want to die comfortable." It's little wonder that the other two men become very cautious around James.

We never truly find out what it is about defusing bombs that thrills James so much. He's an adrenaline junkie, to be sure, but the cause is never explained. We do get to see the stark contrast between his days in Iraq and his time back home with his (estranged?) wife, played by Lost's Evangeline Lilly, and his baby boy. There's little danger facing him as he goes grocery shopping or cleans the leaves out of the gutters. Perhaps the film is trying to suggest that some men—and it does really seem to be a movie about men—just can't be happy with a mundane existence. They need the constant possibility of danger, a thrill at all times.

The film raises some interesting questions about masculinity and what it takes to be a "real man." James and Sgt. Sanborn (the great Anthony Mackie) talk about having sons. James, of course, already has one, proving his cocksmanship, I suppose. He's not a particularly good father, though, especially considering the conversation he tries to have with his baby boy about the loss of expectations that you have when you grow up. All the little boy wants to do is play with his jack-in-the-box. Sanborn isn't ready for a child, he claims, although his girlfriend talks about wanting to have a baby. James suggests that Sanborn, in so many words, "give her your sperm," but Sanborn hesitates. At one point, a drunken Sanborn asks James if he (Sanborn) is ready to put on the bomb squad's protective suit and try to defuse a bomb himself. James, also drunk but still lucid, says no. Apparently, only "real men," makers of babies like James, can handle this kind of work. Maybe that explains James' impatience when he has to work with other people. They just don't live up to his standard of masculinity.

The Hurt Locker doesn't necessarily take sides in the debate over the war. Its politics, if it has any, are not readily apparent. At times, I think we are meant to pity James, but at other times, you have to admire the determination his job requires. He's a soldier doing his job, just like his two colleagues, and they all readily admit that there are always risks. This isn't a film, though, where the characters are always having debates about why they are fighting in this desert country (although our central characters sometimes express this dislike of it). It isn't meant to be a war film in the traditional sense. It chooses instead to focus on the different kinds of soldiers who go to war.

The film also doesn't make all of the Iraqi people out to be villains. Certainly, there are some bad guys in the movie, such as the snipers who attack the bomb unit while they are trying to help a group of English soldiers whose vehicle has a flat tire. And those who planted the IEDs, usually invisible people in the narrative anyway, are meant to be villainous. However, there's a genuine friendship that develops between James and a young Iraqi who calls himself Beckham after the English soccer player. It's that attachment to Beckham that causes James to do some of the most foolhardy of his actions, perhaps indicating the possible danger that arises when soldiers and civilians become friends, especially when you have someone like James who might be considered almost fanatical in his determination.

The film actually begins with a quote from journalist Chris Hedges: "The rush of battle is often a potent and lethal addiction, for war is a drug." We don't really understand the context for the quote until Renner's SSgt. James appears and starts approaching the job in such a radical way. James is obviously addicted to the danger that his kind of work presents. It's as if he wants to cheat death constantly, that he wants to put himself in the greatest danger possible, just to see if he can come back alive. There's an almost maniacal chuckle/laugh Renner has when James is particularly proud of some stunt he's pulled. It's a telling gesture about the kind of man James is portrayed to be.

I've spoken already about Renner and Mackie, but I'd also like to mention the third man in the unit, Specialist Owen Eldridge, played by Brian Geraghty. Geraghty has such a baby-faced innocence to him that we can't help but imagine that Eldridge is as naive as his appearance would lead us to believe. He lives in constant fear, expressed to the company's resident psychiatrist, that he will be killed in battle. It's a rather morbid obsession he has with dying during wartime, yet he's also the soldier who perhaps best represents the conflicting emotions held by most soldiers. While he wants to serve his country and perform his duties to the best of his ability, he also wants to return home safely and be able to reintegrate into mainstream American society, leaving Iraq behind. It's a challenging role, but Geraghty does a fine job as the character with whom we as an audience might empathize the most.

I'd also like to mention at least one technical aspect of the film, the use of slow motion at various times to depict an explosion. What could be a hokey device in lesser hands than director Kathryn Bigelow's is, instead, effective here at making the devastation even more dramatic. Watching the opening sequence, especially the rust vibrating off an abandoned car, is jaw-dropping. You can almost feel the shock waves in the theater itself. Bigelow and her crew use this device sparingly, but when it does appear, it's quite powerful in its impact on a viewer.

Oscar Wins: Best Motion Picture of the Year, Best Achievement in Directing (Kathryn Bigelow, the first woman ever to win this honor in Oscar history), Best Original Screenplay, Best Achievement in Film Editing, Best Achievement in Sound Mixing, and Best Achievement in Sound Editing

Other Nominations: Best Performance by an Actor in a Leading Role (Jeremy Renner), Best Achievement in Cinematography, and Best Achievement in Music Written for Motion Pictures/Original Score

The Lord of the Rings: The Return of the King (2003)

I doubt anyone watching the Academy Awards telecast for 2003 was surprised that The Lord of the Rings: The Return of the King received the Oscar for Best Picture. It had long been rumored that the members of the Academy planned to honor director Peter Jackson and his collaborators for their work on all three films by concentrating on the final film in the trilogy based upon the works of J.R.R. Tolkien. The Return of the King received a total of eleven Oscars that night, winning in every category in which it was nominated and tying it with Ben-Hur and Titanic for most Oscars for a single film. I'd have to say that The Return of the King is the only one of those three that deserved that much recognition. It's a remarkable and remarkably satisfying conclusion to the trilogy.

Oddly enough, I think that's why the Academy was so stingy with nominations for The Two Towers. Its members didn't nominate Jackson for his direction in 2002 or he and his co-writers for the script of the middle film. I suppose they figured that if the first two parts of the trilogy were this good, why not "save" the awards until the final part was complete. That's really too bad; each film should be able to stand on its own, regardless of its place in the series, and I think they all do. It's also a shame that the Oscar victories for The Return of the King didn't include any for the cast. Thankfully, the Screen Actors Guild has an award for Best Ensemble, and the large cast of Jackson's epic received that honor. The success of a film or even a trilogy of films rests, at least in part, upon how convincing the performers are. We have to believe that they are truly in this fantastical world that has been created. They have to make it seem realistic even though it's completely fictional, and many times the actors in fantasy or science fiction films don't receive the credit that they deserve.

The title of the film should suggest one of the outcomes of the narrative. After proving himself to be a worthy leader through battle, Aragorn (Viggo Mortensen) does, indeed, assume the throne of Gondor. You sense that Middle Earth has, at last, a man who is ready to be a good and just king, someone who will maintain alliances with the other populations of Middle Earth, the elves and dwarfs, for example, as well as the other kingdoms. Aragorn is just too noble and decent of a character not to be that kind of monarch. If you contrast him with the previous steward of Gondor, who had become greedy with the power his position has afforded him and was apparently on the verge of madness if not fully insane, it's tough not to read some sort of political allegory to our own world at work there.

The rest of the original Fellowship also reach the end of their adventures. Frodo (Elijah Wood at his most fragile and sympathetic) and Samwise (Sean Astin) finally reach Mount Doom, but they are almost thwarted in their attempt to destroy the ring by the last-ditch efforts of Gollum (Andy Serkis). And Frodo himself has a hard time giving up the ring which seems to have take over possession of his soul at times. It's thanks to the intervention of Sam that Frodo is able to see how his behavior has almost led to his own destruction. In fact, much of the storyline involving Frodo and Sam is about the strength of their friendship, their need for each other. It's quite touching and more than a little homoerotic, to be honest.

Speaking of the homoerotic, the reunion of Merry (Dominic Monaghan) and Pippin (Billy Boyd), who are separated from each other for much of The Return of the King, is also more like the reunion of lovers than of mere friends. In fact, much of The Return of the King is about the bonds between men (or males, whichever is more appropriate for describing hobbits et al.). You can make of that what you will, but this film, more than the two earlier films, is about pairings of male characters: Samwise and Frodo, Merry and Pippin, Legolas (Orlando Bloom) and Gimli (John Rhys-Davies)--figure out what you think it means if you don't agree with me. Even the one strong female character for much of the movie, Eowyn (Miranda Otto), assumes male armor so that she can participate in the battle over Minas Tirith. And then she tells Merry to stay with her; even in drag, you have two "male" characters together. Yes, I know you're going to suggest that it's about the bonds that men have with each other, and while I agree with you about that, I wonder what you might make of the professions of love between these male characters, especially the admission of "friendship" between the elf and the dwarf just before they go into battle. (I'm not the first one to note this tendency in the trilogy, by the way.)

Minas Tirith, by the way, is the site of the ultimate battle in the trilogy. It's the stronghold of the kings of Gondor, and if it falls, that could be the last dominion of man to fall under the control of Sauron, the Dark Lord. The battle scenes in The Return of the King are almost as spectacular as those in The Two Towers, with new creatures and weapons being used to break the defenses of the city carved out of a white mountain. It's during the battle scenes that Bloom's Legolas and Rhys-Davies' Gimli get to shine. Neither actor gets much to do throughout the trilogy except fight, but when a battle gets underway, they are kept quite busy. Legolas, in particular, seems never to miss with his bow and arrow. He can hit any object even when he's in motion. What Gimli lacks in stature, he makes up for in strength. He wields an ax like it's another arm, cutting a path through orcs or whatever other obstacle he faces. It's fun to watch the two of them keeping count of the numbers of enemies they've killed. You know it's all in jest anyway, this boyish competition between them.

Once again, I've left out too many details. I haven't talked about the thrill of watching green armies of the dead fighting under Aragorn's command in order to rid themselves of their guilt for being murderers and traitors under previous kings. I also haven't mentioned the scariest spider in the history of movies, the one that attacks Frodo--he does seem to have the worst luck--and that tries to attack Samwise. I hate spiders, and this one will give you nightmares. And I haven't described what I think is the most touching scene, the one where the newly crowned Aragorn bows down to the four brave hobbits after saying, "My friends, you bow to no one." It gets me every time.

I do wish the film had ended with Aragorn's coronation. The remainder of the movie feels a bit like an afterthought, but I know it's an attempt to tie up a few loose strands of the plot. If there is one good aspect to the last half hour or so, it's Frodo's wondering to himself, "How do you pick up the threads of an old life?" The truth is you can't. Once you've had an adventure like he's had, lasting thirteen months of his young life, there's no way to go back to a previous way of living without some unease. You've been changed too deeply and profoundly, and perhaps that's the final lesson we should take from the trilogy, most especially from The Return of the King. We are the product of our experiences, and we have to acknowledge them as a part of our growth and development. Perhaps that's why Frodo adds his own story to the book that Bilbo has written, "There and Back Again: A Hobbit's Tale." There's even room left for Samwise to contribute his version of events, and we have space as viewers to imagine what our own lives might be like had we ever encountered such a world as the one Jackson and his many, many collaborators--just watch how long it takes the credits to roll--have given us.

The Last Emperor (1987)

The Last Emperor won the Oscar for Best Picture of 1987, and it's a glorious spectacle of a movie. Ostensibly the story of the last man to serve as emperor of China, Pu Yi, it is also a historical account of what happened to China during much of the 20th Century. Director Bernardo Bertolucci and his crew managed to get permission to film within the so-called "Forbidden City," and they spared no expense in presenting what life was like for the emperors during the latter years of their reign. The Academy voters were very fond of large-scale or epic filmmaking like this for a long period of time in the 1980s and 1990s, and while some of their choices (ahem, Dances with Wolves) were truly bad ones, I think The Last Emperor is deserving of its Oscar for Best Picture due to its blending of the story of an individual man into the sweep of historical events that enfolded him.

Much of the film is told in flashback by the adult Pu Yi, who is accused in the 1950s of war crimes for having collaborated with the Japanese before World War II. He is subjected to repeated interrogations by the Communists in control of China, and they want to know the details of his life and how he came to betray (their word) his country. He is asked to write down the story of his life and to confess his sins, as are all of the prisoners, but nothing he writes satisfies the Communists. He must repeatedly return to be questioned.

In these flashbacks, we are given glimpses into key moments of Pu Yi's life, such as when he is named at age 3 to be the new emperor. Rather than listen carefully to the aged Dowager Empress as she makes the proclamation that will change his life, he plays a game of hide and seek. It's a charming sequence, following by an image of the young Pu Yi walking from the throne room out into the courtyard filled with eunuchs and soldiers and hangers-on. You've undoubtedly seen this sequence, with its yards of flowing yellow fabric and that first shot of the assembled crowd in the courtyard. It's pretty amazing to consider how difficult that sequence was to film.

With the establishment of the Republic of China and the installation of a president, the emperor loses whatever power he might have had. The Forbidden City is walled in, both to keep the Republic from entering what remains of the empire and to keep the emperor from leaving. There follows a time of control of China by warlords who battle each other for control, and then the takeover of China by the Communists occurs. You won't get the full flavor of Chinese history by watching The Last Emperor, of course, but you should have a rather clear sense of the broad outline of historical events from the time period. No one could do true justice to the tumultuous history of this large Asian country even in the almost three hours that this film takes to unfurl.

I enjoyed the moments involving the teenaged Pu Yi (played with a sly sense of humor by Wu Tao), particularly his interactions with his new English tutor, Reginald Fleming Johnston (played with archness by the great Peter O'Toole). The young emperor gains a wife, a bicycle, and a pair of glasses during this time. The moments between the emperor and his new empress (Wan Jung, played by Joan Chen) are especially charming. I liked the line from their first night together, "Yes, the emperor would like to see the face of the empress." Of course, he would; she was chosen for him, and he has no idea what he's gotten in the transaction.

What gets Pu Yi into trouble is his desire for reform. He cuts off the ponytail that is traditional. He demands a detailed inventory of the storerooms because he thinks the eunuchs have been stealing from him. When they burn the storerooms rather than be caught, he banishes them from the Forbidden City. (It's quite an intriguing moment to watch them carry their severed "organs" in jars as they leave the city. That's the price of being a eunuch.) He had even tried to negotiate with the Japanese over the territory of Manchuria, his homeland, especially after the Kuomintang, under the leadership of Chiang Kai-shek, robs the tombs of Manchuria and destroys the bodies. The Japanese, of course, later invade Manchuria and seize control, triggering another Sino-Japanese war.

Interestingly, Pu Yi learns about much of what happened in China during this time while being forced to watch a documentary while in prison. He is forced to watch the bombing of Shanghai and the massacre of 200,000 Chinese by the Japanese. He himself is depicted in the film as being little more than a puppet emperor. It's a shock for him to discover how others felt and thought about him during this time; he's unprepared for the revelation.

You have to admire so many of the details of this film. The costumes, the sets, the cinematography, the music--all are handled with such delicate, careful attention. The Last Emperor won nine Oscars, including ones for all of the areas mentioned above. In fact, it won every Oscar for which it was nominated. Oddly enough, it's one of the few Best Picture winners not to receive any acting nominations. Certainly, several members of the cast are outstanding. Lone, as the adult Pu Yi, manages to age several decades throughout the narrative, and he brings a sense of gravity to every moment he's on screen. He has several outstanding moments when he's facing his interrogators, and the scene at the end of the film where Pu Yi purchases a ticket to see his old throne room in the Forbidden City is particularly charming. O'Toole is up to his usual scene-stealing standards in the few sequences in which he appears, and I'd also give kudos to Joan Chen for the range of emotions she's allowed to portray as the Empress.

Most people tend to think of biopics like The Last Emperor as boring history lessons, and to be honest, most of them are. They tend to be presented in such a dull, earnest manner that it's difficult to care much about the people involved in the story. It would be easy to get lost in the pageantry and decor of this film, to pay closest attention to the colors and objects. However, to do so, you'd lose out on a story of how far a man can fall. The Last Emperor shows us what can happen to an individual when the forces of history--forces over which he has no control despite his title--influence a man's life. That's still the heart of this movie, and Bertolucci and Lone and the rest of the cast and crew make that apparent to a viewer throughout the film.

The Life of Emile Zola (1937)

The Life of Emile Zola is quite a snooze-fest of a movie. Undoubtedly, it won the Oscar because it is a Prestige Picture, one of those movies designed to showcase the studio's talent for picking serious material and presenting it with dignity. It's supposed to be high-minded and literary, but I just found it overly long and quite tedious. It seems to last far longer than its alleged two-hour running time, and the moments when the plot grinds to a halt so that a character, usually Zola himself, can deliver a pompous speech about society and its obligations and such just make the film even more unbearable.

The ubiquitous Paul Muni plays the title character, the French novelist who was perpetually in trouble because of the controversial subject matter of his books. For example, he meets a prostitute (no, not in that way) and interviews her. She becomes the subject of his novel Nana. Of course, everyone is scandalized that a book about a prostitute would even be published, but that doesn't stop everyone from wanting a copy. Zola is repeatedly accused of writing books that are bad for the morals of society and is even given an official warning from the public prosecutor, but he continues to write about topics that were typically off-limits at the time.

Much of the early part of the film is about his career as a writer, and there is the inevitable moment showing a series of books on the shelf, letting us know just how prolific a writer Zola was. However, the largest portion of the film is taken up with what became known as the Dreyfus Affair. It's an interesting historical moment, perhaps for its revelation of anti-Semitism in France at the time as much for the notion that the military could be just as corrupt as any other segment of society. Unfortunately, it's the handling of the Dreyfus Affair that is the dullest and most problematic aspect of the film, which is odd since that’s actually more of a focus for the movie than Zola’s life. I mean, the most interesting thing I learned about Zola is that he was friends with the painter Paul Cezanne. They were both struggling artists and supported each other as they were gaining a measure of fame and prestige. Otherwise, it’s a lot about the Dreyfus Affair

I promise to cover this history lesson as briefly as possible, something the movie itself certainly doesn't do. Dreyfus was an officer who was accused of revealing military secrets when the real culprit was another, better-liked officer, Major Walsin Esterhazy. Everyone involved in the incident knows that Dreyfus is innocent, yet the military needs a scapegoat, and Dreyfus is Jewish, a fact which some officers use to stir resentment against him (although the words "Jewish" or "anti-Semitic" are never uttered in the entire movie, a cowardly move on the part of the studio). He is court-martialed after being charged with treason and is sent to the notorious Devil's Island prison off the coast of South America.

Dreyfus' friends, knowing that Zola is a bit of a rabble-rouser, attempt to get the novelist involved in the officer's case. Even Dreyfus' wife, played by the lovely Gale Sondergaard, pleads his case. When the mistake is uncovered and exposed to the public, the military officers, led by Donald Crisp's Maitre Labori, work to ensure that they are not ridiculed or even criticized in public. It’s quite appalling to see how the members of the military coalesce around a single goal: to ensure that Dreyfus’ conviction remains in prison. A court martial of Esterhazy ensues wherein he is, of course, found innocent, thereby reinforcing Dreyfus' alleged guilt. As the word of what has happened becomes even more public, the pressure on Zola becomes more intense. After he publishes J'Accuse, which criticizes the military's handling of the case and demands a new trial for Dreyfus, the military begins a smear campaign against him, perhaps as much out of anger over his earlier “civilian” criticism of the army as for his involvement in the Dreyfus Affair. His books are destroyed, and he is burned in effigy in the streets of Paris.

What is ostensibly the most interesting part of the movie begins when Zola is taken to court on charges of defamation. The judges, all of them solidly on the side of the military, refuse to reopen the Dreyfus case, and witness after witness refuses to come to court to testify because they are all acting under military orders. There are even people sitting in court, all of them planted by the military, to disrupt the proceedings when it seems that any information might be forthcoming that could damage the reputation of the military. It's all pretty blatant stuff, frankly. Clearly, there’s a lesson here about why we shouldn’t be so trusting of the established institutions of society; they will have their own self-interests served before they would consider doing the right thing.

Muni gets to deliver quite a damning speech about the dangers of justice being co-opted by outside influence, but you know it's not going to matter. He will still be punished despite the growing acknowledgement that the military has covered up its crime. After receiving a one-year prison sentence and a 3000-franc fine, Zola flees to London. The pressure continues, though, to release Dreyfus, a process that is eventually successful. However, Zola dies on the day that Dreyfus is reinstated into the army, promoted to the rank of commandant, and awarded the Legion of Honor, a ceremony at which the two men were to meet in person at last. Historically, that's not what happened, of course, but for the sake of narrative clarity and impact, we'll let it go this time.

I haven't talked very much about the performances yet, but perhaps I just wasn't as overwhelmed as Academy voters were. Muni is his usual solid self. He had a way of disappearing into roles. So long as he had a beard or make-up or some other disguise, he seemed to become the person he was playing, and he was given quite a few biopics over the years. Sondergaard is solid as always as well, especially when she’s pleading with Zola to help her husband. Most of the supporting cast is made up of studio regulars like Crisp and Louis Calhern and Harry Davenport, all recognizable faces. Hardly anyone has a true French accent, of course, but I suppose that's quibbling. Most of the Hollywood studio pictures of the time that were period pieces didn't even try to represent accents faithfully.

The most surprising performance, undeniably, has to be that of Joseph Schildkraut as Captain Dreyfus. What is so astonishing about it is that he won Best Supporting Actor that year even though he has only a few minutes of screen time, and most of those minutes are shots of him crying in a prison cell. I don't know if the Academy voters were just trying to find another way to reward a film that addressed Important Issues or if they truly felt that he gave the best performance that year. At least, when they gave Beatrice Straight and Judi Dench Oscars for brief performances, those two women had parts that were filled with memorable lines.

Oscar Wins: Outstanding Production, Best Supporting Actor (Joseph Schildkraut), and Best Screenplay

Other Oscar Nominations: Best Actor (Paul Muni), Best Director (Robert Dieterle), Best Original Story, Best Art Direction, Best Sound Recording, Best Assistant Director (Russell Saunders), and Best Music Score

It Happened One Night (1934)

It Happened One Night, winner of the Oscar for Best Picture of 1934, is a charming romantic comedy starring Clark Gable and Claudette Colbert as two people who meet and fall in love under some strange circumstances. This film is often called one of the earliest screwball comedies. It is certainly the combination of verbal humor and farcical situations that are the source of its success. This was the first movie to win the top five awards (Best Picture, Best Director, Best Actor, Best Actress, and Best Adapted Screenplay), and it deserved them all. In fact, it received every Oscar for which it was nominated, and that happens very rarely when there are multiple nominations. Only standout films are able to break into that special company, and It Happened One Night was the one that got there first in both cases.

Colbert is Ellie Andrews, a rich young woman who has defied her father and married an aviator. Her father (Walter Connolly) is holding her hostage on his yacht in Miami, and she jumps overboard and swims to shore with plans to escape to New York to be with her new husband, King Westley (Jameson Thomas). In an attempt to avoid the press, she buys a bus ticket for an overnight trip. She meets Gable's Peter Warne, a newspaperman who's a bit down on his luck, while fighting over the last seat on the bus. Gable inevitably discovers her identity and agrees to accompany her to New York if he can have the exclusive rights to her story, thereby getting him back his old newspaper job. She has very little money remaining after her luggage is stolen, and he plans to assist her until he can be reimbursed for his expenses.

What follows is a series of misadventures. Ellie is late returning to the bus one morning and is surprised to find that it has already left despite her telling the driver to wait for her; she's a bit uninformed about the way the "real world" tends to operate. She and Peter wind up spending the night together in an auto camp (an early form of a motel) when another bus gets stuck in the mud. They have to share a third night on a farm sleeping on piles of hay (separate ones, of course). Through all of this, they begin to like each other more and more, but of course, you knew that would happen, didn't you? All I can say is to remember that such a storyline wasn't yet a cliche in 1934.

The performances by Gable and Colbert (as well as the supporting cast) are great. Gable gets several drunk scenes and a few scenes where he's "allowed" to show his temper. When you put this performance next to his work in Mutiny on the Bounty and Gone with the Wind, you realize just how talented an actor Gable truly was, how much of a range he had. Colbert is his equal here, at turns maddeningly naive and then stunningly radiant. It's easy to see why any of the men in the movie fall in love with her. And the wedding dress she wears late in the film is quite the stunner after watching her in the same jacket and skirt for more than an hour.

Two famous scenes in particular are worthy of note. Everyone is already familiar with Peter's failed attempts to hitch a ride from one of the passing cars, only to have Colbert's Ellie raise her skirt and stop the first car that passes by. It still a funny scene, one that earns its laughs just as honestly now as it did then. You see it almost any time that a clip from the movie is show and deservedly so. It captures the gender politics of the film quite astutely. The other famous moment is the "Walls of Jericho" scene in the auto camp when Peter hangs a blanket between the two beds in order to give them a sense of privacy in the small room they share. To get the full effect of that moment, though, you'll have to stay for the end of the movie. However, I'd like to talk about the first time they are together with just a blanket between them. Legend has it that when Gable took off his shirt and revealed that he wasn't wearing an undershirt, sales of men's undershirts plummeted and never quite fully recovered. That's a pretty clear example of the power that the medium of film is capable of displaying.

Director Frank Capra was perhaps the most famous director in Hollywood during the Great Depression. What is admirable about this and other movies he helmed during that time is the attention that he gives to the poor people of the United States. Ellie may be rich, but during her trip to New York, she is surrounded by those who are less fortunate, and she has several instances where she has to realize that wealth does not make her better than other people. Even Peter has to point out to her that she doesn't know how to dunk her donut in coffee properly and that her father never even taught her how to ride piggyback the correct way. There's no overt class warfare in the film, but Capra never lets you forget that you're watching a movie about a member of the idle rich learning how to live like all of those people without money.

I can't say that I truly understand why the film is entitled It Happened One Night. The events happen over several nights. Well, actually, they occur over several weeks. However, that's a relatively small criticism when you've got such a delightful film overall. You'd be hard pressed to find many wrong notes in it, and true to the fashion of the time, you get the happy ending you deserve.

Gigi (1958)

Gigi, winner of the Oscar for Best Picture of 1958, is an almost perfect example of the skill with which MGM made musicals. Producer Arthur Freed had, by this time, perfected the art of bringing together some of the most talented individuals to work on movie musicals. A long-time member of the so-called Freed Unit, Vincente Minnelli was the director for Gigi, adding to his list of triumphs such as An American in Paris, The Band Wagon, and Brigadoon. And, perhaps most important of all, the great Cecil Beaton oversaw the entire "look" of the production, from sets to costumes and everything in between. It's all rather sumptuous, even when we're supposed to believe that the title character's family lives in poverty. (All of the impoverished should live so well.) They knew how to make movies look good in those days.

However, despite all of the technical skill involved in its creation, Gigi is a rather slight confection. The story is a rather simple one: a young girl is groomed by her grandmother and aunt for life as a courtesan since she would have very low prospects for marrying well. Of course, this being 1958 and MGM, no such word as "courtesan" ever gets uttered on screen. You have to figure it out for yourself, but it's not that difficult. Gigi, played by Leslie Caron, is supposed to be a relatively naive French schoolgirl. She enjoys spending time with family friend Gaston, played by Louis Jourdan. He's a rich playboy who goes from one woman to another as casually as he travels from Paris to Monte Carlo. Everything is boring to him, except for the moments that he spends with Gigi, of course.

You can perhaps sense where the story is headed already. Yes, Gaston falls in love with Gigi after taking her and her grandmother to the sea for the weekend. Upon their return, Gigi's Aunt Alicia (Isabel Jeans) sets her sights on Gaston as Gigi's future benefactor, and all of the pieces begin to fall into place. All of them except, of course, for Gigi's consent. She doesn't want to be a courtesan, not really. She wants to fall in love and marry the man she loves. She just doesn't realize it's Gaston, at first. Gaston, being a man of the world, initially agrees to "keep" Gigi as his lover, but eventually he too begins to re-evaluate his feelings for her. If you've seen enough MGM musicals from this era, you already know how it ends, so I'm not going to tell you.

Jeans gets some of the best lines in the film. As she tries to teach Caron's Gigi to be ladylike, she passes on the wisdom she has accumulated throughout her many liaisons with the wealthy men of Europe. Her reaction when Gigi guesses that one of her jewels is a topaz, for example, is priceless, as is her withering dismissal of another woman's pearls as "dipped." My favorite remark of hers, though, is when she tries to teach Gigi how to "insinuate" herself into a chair. The look on Jeans' face sums up just how poorly Gigi lives up to this standard.

I've also mentioned Caron and Jourdan already, both of whom are very charming here. But the real heart of the movie is the performances by the older cast members. Maurice Chevalier, as Gaston's uncle, Honoree, is a delight. Honoree is sort of a mentor for Gaston in the ways of being a playboy. The movie begins with his famous rendition of "Thank Heaven for Little Girls," and it's a charming way to start the narrative. It certainly gives you all of the insight you need into his character. (A short reprise of the song also ends the film.) The other great performance is by Hermione Gingold as Madame Alvarez, Gigi's grandmother. She's so much fun to watch whenever she's on screen, and her duet with Chevalier, "I Remember It Well," is such a lovely ode to lost love. I would have preferred to watch a film version of their adventures instead, but youth must be the focus, I suppose. None of the cast members were nominated for their performances, oddly enough, a rarity among movies that win Best Picture.

A good musical must be judged by its songs, and you don't get much better at choosing songwriters than Alan Jay Lerner and Frederick Loewe, who are no doubt more famous for their musical My Fair Lady. They made some fine music for Gigi as well, including "The Night They Invented Champagne" and the two songs I've already mentioned. My personal favorite is "I'm Glad I'm Not Young Anymore," sung by Chevalier. It's a somewhat bittersweet song, but Chevalier brings to it a wealth of history. If there are any songs that don't seem to measure up, the one that stands out the most is the title track, which won the Oscar that year for Best Song. "Gigi" sounds to me like an obvious retread of "I've Grown Accustomed to Her Face" from My Fair Lady. Even the pacing of the song is very similar, not to mention the overall rhythm and content. Still, one weak song in the bunch is a pretty good average.

Gigi won nine Oscars in 1958, a record number at that time, and a lot of them were in the technical categories such as art direction and music and costume design. In fact, it won every Oscar for which it was nominated. It had some pretty interesting competition for Best Picture of 1958, a comedy (Auntie Mame) and three dramas (Cat on a Hot Tin Roof, The Defiant Ones, and Separate Tables). I think it's really a testament to the Freed Unit that Gigi was the winner. It is all beautifully made, even if there is little substance to the story. There's no social message involved, no deep meaning, perhaps, just a bit of light entertainment set to a lovely score.