waking into a dream journal 12.09.07

this morning's dose of mild chuckling
the mesmerist
director: // 2001
cinema 4 rating: 5

someday, the world will stop making doogie howser, m.d. jokes, and admit as a group that neil patrick harris is, in the words of another how i met your mother character (though never used to actually describe harris' character) awesome -- awesome in everything except this -- he's still good here, and delivers the farcical material well, but seems strangely miscast -- i've seen some odd poe adaptations, but why someone didn't think of this before is beyond me -- the facts in the case of m. valdemar rewritten (and transfigured slightly) almost as a stage farce -- makes me wonder if this indeed had been produced on the stage originally, though the credits (as near as I can tell) do not betray this -- so, at least jessica capshaw is a better actress than her mother, which isn't saying much, but as daisy she looks the part of a virginal daddy's girl, and she has a good way with the pseudo-fifties semi-snobby dialogue -- interesting that harris almost seems to flinch when he has to kiss her, as if mentally crossing his fingers -- nice to see howard hesseman again, though since i have been watching wkrp lately, it's hard for me to see anybody but the good doctor -- the musical sequence sets up nicely, though the payoff is not what it should have been -- a quite clever idea, but done too small, should have gone for gloriously over-the-top in that bit, where the instrumentation gets ridiculously grand -- am i in love with jo champa as the italian housekeeper with the spanish name, consuela? -- maybe it's all of the giallo i have been watching lately -- consuela: we could have an orgy! dr. hoffler: oh, no, no, no. i was thinking more along the lines of a board game. consuela: we could have an orgy on a board! -- she can take me into her bosom anytime --

this morning's earworm: we stand a chance/baby we stand a chance / i could be wrong / but you never know / we could stand the chance of a real love (t. petty)

waking into a dream journal 12.08.07

this morning's reason to hit the snooze alarm:
dead mary
director: robert wilson // 2006
cinema 4 rating (final): 4

perhaps I left off with this film the other morning at exactly the moment when any admiration I may have had for its few good points had reached their apex -- i did think that perhaps some reflection upon what I saw initially might open me up to what the film was offering -- turns out, reflection only reminding that the film had nothing to offer -- i care even less for these people this morning, though i will say that the acting is still pretty far beyond what is normally required in these features -- the bridget fonda-lookalike though, who is actually a paris hilton-act-alike, is not part of that group -- strange how i am watching a film where dominique swain is getting drenched in the rain and i don't give a rat's ass -- how the mighty fine have fallen -- should i give kudos to a film about college reunion kids in a remote cabin for not going the t-and-a route, or should i give it demerits? -- as far as i can tell, if you don't really establish any rules for the supernatural element in your story, then you don't have to worry about following them -- the lines seems to be crossing themselves here, and the plot doesn't make a lick of sense to me by this point -- and finally, this film ends about 20 minutes past the interest mark -- all more of a shame since it is a decently shot film, with some imaginative bits -- it almost feels like a classic that should have been -- nice try, but too dull by half, and ultimately unfulfilling...

My Lucky 13: The Perils of Pauline (1967)

Oh, how I have hated Prince Benji since I was roughly the same age as his character in The Perils of Pauline, a patched-together theatrical film released in 1967 from the discarded remains of a failed television pilot. Ostensibly a remake or reworking of the then-thrilling 1914 girl-in-constant-peril silent serial featuring the amazing stuntwork of Pearl White, this version slams together four episodes of the never-aired series, and pairs off a stunning blank-eyed Barbie doll named Pamela Austin with the bland-as-sand theatrical stumblings of Pat Boone as her moonstruck millionaire suitor. If this casting alone makes you long for the use of the guillotine on the necks of asinine Hollywood producers, well, even though I am against capital punishment, I can't say I do not agree with you.

But, here's the skinny: I loved this film as a child, mostly because I had never seen the source material on which it was extremely loosely (and mockingly) patterned, and at that age, anything stupidly silly won an instant place in my heart. (I has since shed most of the lesser material by this point in time; most, but certainly not all...) It was fast-paced, loaded with slapstick bits, featured Terry-Thomas as one of the sort-of villains, and slammed full with ridiculous one-liners. It also featured a cryogenic machine, an outer-space walk, gorilla-suit action, sharks, Arab sheiks, wild car chases and evil, conniving Soviets. Except for the icky lovey-dovey woo-pitching, what was not to love by a ten-year-old in 1974?

Well, Prince Benji, most assuredly -- even a tremendous pain-in-the-ass kid his age such as moi knew he was an even bigger pain-in-the-ass. In our school, we wouldn't have bothered feeding him to the sharks; his would have been the slow, pants-wetting death of societal displacement, a sort of group silent treatment that would grant him permanent castaway status and which could serve to drive the subject mad in a relatively short time. That, and an occasional toilet dunking now and then. (Making someone lick a jockstrap was always good, too.) Sure, this sort of behavior possibly led to Columbine, etc., etc., but in its day -- before children became far too coddled -- it worked magnificently on somebody like Prince Benji (i.e., it shut him up and kept him away). Plus, even in the time before metal detectors, a brat marching around with a scimitar would have landed him in lockdown pretty much straight away. Especially when combined with Benji's need to point the thing at people and threaten them with bodily harm unless he got his whiny, bratty way.

And this leads me to Prince Benji's voice. Apparently, the child actor in question, one Rick Natoli, whose short career (at least, according to IMDB) seemed to consist almost entirely of a set of single episode gigs on several series, must have had a terrible way with words. It wouldn't be out of bounds for this to be the case, as just his every facial contortion and gesture is evidence of his lack of even the most modest form of talent; clearly his parents must have had something on somebody in Hollywood for him to get the dozen or so parts that he did. I figure he was cast in Pauline for the sole purpose of making it seem as if Pamela Austin were actually a halfway decent actress. If so, the producers' gambit almost works, but only because they are usually in the same scenes together. But only his body makes it onto film; his undoubtedly stilted child's voice does not. To make up for Natoli's clear lack of ability, the producers dubbed Benji's voice with that of animation goddess June Foray, famed for portraying, amongst others, Rocket J. Squirrel, Natasha Fatale, Nell Fenwick, Witch Hazel and Granny, Tweety's stern but often befuddled mistress. (If I have to explain any of these characters to you, and their importance within our popular culture, please leave now...)

As much as I absolutely adore Ms. Foray, the effect here is one of utter annoyance, as she fills Benji's mouth with an unceasingly grating edge of pouting obstinance. This may be completely on purpose, and possibly called for by the producers after Natoli couldn't produce the desired result, and let's say for argument's sake that if this is so, it is the one point in this film where they succeeded in fulfilling their intentions. But let's not mistake this success for entertainment. When bringing a character like this to life, especially one that is basically a living cartoon character -- there is only so much that an audience can take. Sure, kids are notorious for enjoying things that would drive adults mad, but there is no enjoyment to be had in the character of Prince Benji, even by the least discerning of children. It has nothing to do with Benji's actions -- many of them are the type which any child would literally kill to get away with -- no, it has everything to do with his very existence as a character.

There is even a point in The Perils of Pauline where one gets the feeling that this might turn out to be OK... until Benji shows up. Even Terry-Thomas' semi-villainous turn can't right this ship, nor can the legitimately humorous appearance of Hamilton Camp as Boone's valet, who gets several key lines and appears aware of just how to deliver them. Sadly, this is not the modus operandi of the remainder of the cast, though the chief error made in Pauline is the volatile use of slapstick by those clearly not trained in its proper deployment. Two years before this movie was spit out, Blake Edwards, a man well-trained in the use of such methods, put out a film somewhat based on the same style of material as Pauline, The Great Race. You can argue against it if you wish -- in my home, your judgment would fall on the deafest of ears, as I consider Race to be an admittedly elephantine but underrated source of tremendous personal joy -- but even those who dislike it would be remiss in not accepting that Edwards knows what he is doing when it comes to the proper use of slapstick. His early Sellers films prove this even further. I don't really know what reasoning the producers of Pauline followed in deciding to do a film with elements on which they certainly did little research. Pratfall after pratfall occur without the threat of imminent chuckling; as a result, more than one scene falls flat because of the loss of a payoff which depended on a sight gag or physical shtick.

The Brady Bunch did a desperate-for-material episode where they all dressed up as Keystone Kops and threw pies at one another. Memorable? Certainly. Maureen McCormick was covered in white stuff; what's not to love for the prurient amongst us? But truly funny? Try watching it without the laugh track influencing your reflexes. Two problems: one, it's not really funny, and two, the lack of sound makes the scene seem twice as long. Likewise, in addition to being something that did not make the leap with me from childhood, much like The Brady Bunch, Pauline is not really funny, but is absolutely sold on the fact that is. If earnestness were an Oscar category, surely this would be a contender. But in trying to sell the audience on what it believes itself to be, it reveals its naivete in the style in which it is touting itself to be an expert.

The one thing they do get right (and therefore wrong, technically) is producing the film in sound. If they had done their version of slapstick atrocities as a silent film, this Pauline would seem twice as long, too. And that's a peril even the most resilient of us do not want to face. And Prince Benji, even less so...

waking into a dream journal 12.06.07

this morning's chukka...
the smart set
director: jack conway // 1928
cinema 4 rating for 2nd 1/2: 5 // overall: 6

left this film yesterday at the tail end of a riotous, slapstick-laden dinner party; start this morning inside a melodrama -- did someone switch films on me? -- tommy van buren (played by haines) gets what his drunken, conceited brat is due: his father sells his polo ponies after he is kicked off the u.s. national polo team -- the fifteen minutes at the beginning of this half are full of weeping and worrying on the part of several characters, and if you have seen even one other haines silent, you know this sets up his rise back to the top by film's end -- though i like haines, his character is more haves -- really, they could end the film here and i would feel fulfilled by it -- this half really seems like another film -- the pathos cast by the stable boy and haines over the sale of pronto the polo pony is just a little too over the edge for my taste, though i have seen a lot of silents and realize this is standard for the day -- see, alice day is adorable! she has saved the day! (for now) -- the stable fire sequence is exceedingly well done and exciting for its brevity -- i don't think haines has a stunt double; color me impressed -- interesting how the film uses haines as his own comedy relief through the first half, but then once he has been established as a character on the mend, they switch to a black couple attending the final polo match -- though they are as well-dressed and posh-looking as the rest of the polo crowd, their dialogue and mannerisms are sadly set in the established norm of the day -- (spying two Indian gentlemen crossing the field) wife: "Why am dem extinguished lookin' gentlemen wearin' towels around dere heads?" husband: "Can dey help it if dey all is got headaches?" -- (when Tommy gets to join the U.S. vs. England match) husband: "Wid dat Van Buren playin' de band bettah start playin' ...Gawd Save de King!!" -- final match has some thrilling moments; standard horse moves in the movies, though grabbing the mallet off the ground is pretty sweet -- still want to see a live match... interesting that the USMPA website goes the distance to show the demographics of polo attendees or participants -- at no point does my lowly yearly income even come close to appearing on the page -- six figures only for that lot -- I'd be given the high hat...

waking into a dream journal 12.05.07

this morning's breeze...
the smart set
director: jack conway // 1928
cinema 4 rating for 1st 1/2: 6

have told myself over and over again since i moved here to check into seeing a polo match -- must be mickey's polo team (with animated marx bros.!) influencing me the most, though i have seen the game played in numerous films and shows over the years -- just want to see one live on the grass; want to see the speed, want to see the glorious horses up close, want to know how it looks without a tight camera shot influencing my eye -- "you can't part in front of a fire-plug, lady." "i didn't know you were expecting a fire today" -- i know those days were that of the "whoopsie!" jokes about gays, but were audiences of that time that blind to william haines' quite apparent homosexuality? they must have been, since he was highly popular, and i can't imagine that the crowds would be the same (in 1928) were his secret out in the open. and yet, every third motion he makes in this film is just too, too, too out there -- tales of ribaldry: "what a beautiful figure!" "yes, a neck like a swan." "i don't know... I never necked a swan!" -- oh, yes... and quite funny most of the time -- this is only the second film of his i have seen, and his appeal is very understandable -- "the english call it "sausage," the french call it "pâté de foie gras," but no matter how you slice it, it's still baloney" -- alice day is adorable in the film; a little too resigned at times, perhaps in keeping with societal expectations, but she shows enough fire when faced with haines' shenanigans to not be a mere wallflower -- lovely legs in the store scene, too -- haines' devotion in trying to win her character over is completely necessary, as she warrants such devotion -- this day and age, though, it's called stalking, molestation and assault...

waking into a dream journal 12.04.07

this morning's jolt:
dead mary
director: robert wilson // 2006
cinema 4 rating for 1st hour: 5

isn't there already a movie called candyman? -- never had a game like this when i was a kid -- childhood was already stuffed too full of monsters; no room for a dead witch in a mirror -- and why only 3 times for the name-chanting? this seems like a game made up by the least inventive childwhy not make it 27 times or something more inventive, like, you have to stand on one foot and hop and burn 7 eyelashes in the candle (you are holding a candle apparently) and cross your toes on the hopping foot -- truthfully, there is more of an evil dead feel to this one (living dead action, cabin in the woods, body possession, evil witch) than candyman -- haven't seen one damn bee in this film (and since I got stung in the neck on sunday, this is a good thing -- little fucker...) -- dominique swain? not still getting it done (in tony kornheiser terms); 27 but looking a trashed-out 40 -- starting to get those leonine lines on either side of her mouth that trailer moms get when they start mainlining mickey d's and popping out humanoid waste capsules -- body is still nice enough, but when I watch a film and she is the least attractive of the four actresses in it, something must be up... for her -- film is far more subtle than i expected, and while the ol' "college pals reuniting in the woods and something terrible happens" plotline is employed, the acting is far more subdued and realistic than i could have ever imagined -- problem is i don't care about any of their drama issues, and they are supplementing it with massive amounts of weed -- disconnect disconnect disconnect -- i think its funny that they are mocking the youngest, newest girl for looking like a dirty catholic schoolgirl, when it is exactly the sort of role swain has made her living off up until this point (which she now can't, apparently...) -- didn't expect the body possession bit; thought a witch was just going to jump out and start killing people -- should have known from the mood setting that the filmmakers were going for a different feel, but with the run of horror films over the last 15 years or so, have stopped hoping for subtlety... nice gore on victim #1, and i like how they only show his hand moving in the air in the forced angle foreframe as they attack the body to stop it for good -- trams of old london, taking my baby into the past...

Spout Mavens Disc #6: The Rocket (2005)

The Rocket [Maurice Richard]
Director: Charles Binamé // Canadian, 2005
Cinema 4 Rating: 7

Of course we generally go to movies in which we either have an interest in a personality involved in the film, whether it be a star or director or even the author of the source material, or we love a particular genre and wish to see new examples of such, or we have heard or deduced that there is an element within the plot which forms that interest. In most cases, those that love dinosaurs are more apt to see a film if it involves dinosaurs than a film that doesn't, and more so than those that don't appreciate large, lumbering prehistoric beasts.

The wall into which I have slammed my nose time and again through the brief period I have been part of the Spout Mavens group is constructed firmly by layers of DVDs containing films and subjects which I have absolutely zero interest in confronting in real life. And I have mentioned this time and again as well, though I have managed thus far to spew out some sort of nonsense resembling what is commonly called a review, if only to fulfill my obligations to the group. Were I an actual reviewer for a paper or television, I would regularly face off against such films, and most likely the bulk of them would be the sort of Hollywood pap that I usually am lucky to avoid. The beauty of simply blogging about films is that I can pick and choose my victims, and if I end up seeing a film that I hate unreservedly, most assuredly it is within a genre or regarding a subject which I normally find attractive, if indeed it isn't merely a starlet or a favorite actor that hasn't waltzed across my scope. And I found myself hoping that someday a disc might arrive from Spout which fell more into my comfort zone.

One finally did. Or so it would seem. Five years ago, The Rocket, a most intriguing biographical profile of Montreal hockey god Maurice Richard, would have plopped into a recliner in that comfort zone and propped its skates up on the ottoman for a pleasant but tough evening's entertainment. But not now. Five years ago, that was when I still mostly cared about sports, and the last time I gave two shits for hockey. Now, I'm living in a city proudly boasting the current Stanley Cup champions, and I have yet to even consider getting a ticket to a game since I moved here. The closest I have come is shaking a fist at the Honda Center ("The Pond-a") because of all the traffic gumming up the surrounding streets following a Cup victory, while we were trying to get home from the movies. I have never seen a live NHL game, so you'd think this would be on my list of worthwhile pursuits. And yet, I am still quite well-versed on most of the major sports to this day. But here's the rub (and you might be surprised to find that it has nothing to do grumbling about striking millionaires): while I talk a good game at work, the truth is that I have grown increasingly tired of sports. I now find the devotion required to follow such events to be an ever emptier pursuit.

Yes, I follow the Packers as much as I have throughout my life, but only to keep a conversational touchstone with my father. Outside of this team, I do not watch the NFL at all. Once the Pack is out of the playoff picture, the picture on my TV switches to a movie. I barely have a favorite team in any other sport anymore, outside of baseball. And while I can still work up a lather of concern over a Mariners or Reds game even in late May, my stock in baseball overall has dipped to an all-time low on the index. I've never believed ever that baseball was the Great Game of Innocence that its most ardent defenders constantly assure us was the historical case -- pro baseball has always been graced by a certain level of playful corruption -- but it is going to be hard to go to Angel Stadium next spring and pretend that the efforts on the field aren't the work of nefarious outside chemistry. The harshest part for me when watching sports now, and especially the fans, is remembering Seinfeld's statement that, due to the yearly turnover of players on any given team, that all we are really doing is "rooting for laundry." Since I do not generally subscribe to landmass allegiances, why would I do this for a sports uniform? It's hard to continue the rah-rah-sis-boombah once that gets earwormed into your brain. (The funniest part? My bread is buttered by my 9-to-5 work for a sports organization. Ironic, no?)

One other fear I had to quell before diving into The Rocket was the problem that most sports movies have: that certain lack of inertia that comes when these films hew too closely to the tried-and-true formula. I'm not going to repeat the formula; we have all faced it time and again, nearly every time a sports movie comes out. Certainly more than just sports movies can give a viewer the feeling that they know exactly how a film is going to end; following the generic sports movie formula, a viewer can know exactly how every reel will end. Double this feeling when the film is also supposed to serve as biography. Certainly, there are many great sports movies, and the best of them (Raging Bull, Eight Men Out, The Pride of the Yankees) generally concentrate more on the tortured psyches or fractured bodies of the athletes who did or didn't win, rather than on what they won and who they beat to do it. Not all winners are necessarily heroes, (nor losers, villains, as it turns out), but the sports formula, with its comeback training montages, its inspirational speeches or the right person taking a seat in the stands just when it seems all is lost, generally doesn't recognize that fact. The formula films, when fused with biography, also confuse surface facts with viewer interest. Look, we all know who won the game and who lost -- we saw it on TV or read it in the paper; nothing would be more boring to me than watching a film about a team that wins the World Series by actually showing them winning the World Series. Give us a look at what it takes to even face off in such a competition, let alone the mettle it takes to actually persevere in it. Even Rocky, which sets out initially to be one of these types of formula flicks, was slightly more concerned about getting Rocky laid, and since people remember every element of his rise to the near top (especially the montages), they often forget that he loses the closing fight.

The Rocket couldn't be less concerned structurally with who won the games; it just wants to show us what drove Richard to play the way he did. Far beyond my expectations, The Rocket not only show us Maurice Richard's mettle, but how he built it punch by punch over several years through battles both on the ice and in the NHL league offices. The film opens in chaos in 1955, a dozen years and three Stanley Cups into his pro career, as we hear radio reports of thousands of Montreal fans hitting the streets in an infamous riot protesting NHL president Clarence Campbell's presence at a game after Richard was given a huge suspension (rest of the season and through the playoffs) for decking a linesman. How did it get to this point? And how did Richard inspire such devotion? The reasons were possibly far more politically and socially driven than it might seem at first, seeing how it stemmed from a mere hockey game.

The film then jumps backward to 1937 to bring us Richard's hardscrabble formative years in Junior Hockey and his struggles to land a spot on Quebec's Montreal Canadiens of the NHL, all the while supporting his young wife as a low-paid machinist. Through his battles on the ice, constant bickering with the league's front office, and constantly striving to prove himself both to his coach and himself, Richard surges stubbornly forward over every obstacle, taking revenge on his on-ice oppressors and firing back at his critics via the press. To a complete outsider to Québécois culture (and largely one to what it takes to succeed in hockey), such as myself, this appears to be mere bullheadedness, but then we begin to see a fuller portrait of a man who simply refuses to let anyone push him around or tell him how he should behave, be it a father-in-law, a coach, an entire league, or anyone believing him to be an idiot because of his Francophone heritage.

But one needs a remarkable actor to not only make us believe in this man, but also that he is embodying one of the greatest stars in the history of sports, especially in a time when helmets didn't cover up a player's head (and would thus make it harder to employ a stunt double in key action shots). That remarkable actor is Roy Dupuis, probably best known in American as Michael on the TV series version of La Femme Nikita, who previously played Richard in both a short film and a television movie. It is a brutal, bloody role, and Dupuis impresses greatly by showing both Richard's toughness and tortured soul, while still selling fully the notion of Richard as one of the fastest and most prolific scorers in the game of that era.

The film itself is solidly produced, and I derived my greatest pleasure from the film's generous glimpses into both a time period (war-time Canada) and occupation (pro hockey in the '40s & '50s) not often seen on American screens. While I had some quibbles over the need for some The rest of the cast performs admirably, and I especially enjoyed veteran Stephen McHattie, whom I don't often enjoy, as gruff (what else?) and demanding Montreal coach Dick Irvin. Julie LeBreton does a solid, quiet turn as Richard's loyal, long-suffering wife, Lucille, though my one major gripe is that she never seems to be quite as young as she is portraying, at least, in the early years. A smaller gripe is that many of the dramatic scenes involving side characters have a TV movie quality to them, and I could do without what are supposed to be "grounding" scenes with Richard's barber, who seems to be a font of folk wisdom that rings false to me.

Overall, five years away from giving two shits about hockey, this one was a surprise. I'm now buying some skates so I can kick them up on the ottoman and watch the thing again.