Reviews

Contains spoilers.

What I find most interesting in the U.S. Depression-era films is finding out what the filmmakers braved or didn't brave saying in political terms.

Like most (but not all) Hollywood films of the time, Hallelujah I'm a Bum takes such clear pains to defang its political impact that-- whether Hecht et al. intended it or not-- it's not difficult to argue that the ultimate effect of the movie is rather reactionary. In other words, it could almost have been a script concocted by the wealthy and powerful to convince the newly impoverished masses that they should simply enjoy their newfound freedom and-- for God's sake!-- NOT challenge the fairness of the system in any way.

This is done most prominently early in the film when the 'happy bums' of Central Park (about whom the city mayor cares so much) angrily reject the 'radical,' 'red' grumblings of 'Egghead,' who suggests there are freeloading parasites atop the economic system as well as at the very bottom. There are numerous other lines and plot moments that drill in this message: 'Homelessness can be fun if you look at it the right way, so don't get any ideas about clambering for social justice.' That said, there are least two mild exceptions to this message that are allowed to slip through: 1. Many Depression-era films have an 'Egghead' character to distance the impoverished main characters from the dangerous Marxist types. Usually these characters are buffoonish cartoons, and usually they turn out to be nefarious and hypocritical in the end. In this film, Egghead does have his expected moment of 'inconsistency,' and he is certainly rather cartoonish in his dopey demeanor, but he is ultimately allowed to remain a positive character to the end.

2. One surprising line from Frank Morgan's Mayor character is left in the movie: When Bumper insists on distributing his thousand dollars to all the homeless of Central Park, the city mayor says something like, "OK, go ahead with your socialism if you insist," and then the ensuing distribution of money to all the poor is clearly shown in a positive light, even if some of the tramps don't spend the money in the most prudent of manners.

However, it is no surprise that this films ends with the narrator making a supreme sacrifice for the sake of the happiness of the wealthy, and resigning himself to his permanently impoverished state.

No specific spoilers.

So many viewers, in my opinion, have unfairly maligned Lloyd's transition to talkies, including several reviewers here. I think that from a retrospective, critical point of view, Lloyd was reasonably successful in this switchover (in fact, he has much of the manic quality and all of the voice of Woody Allen in his most successful talkie, _Movie Crazy_). Although it is a flawed film, _The Cat's-Paw_ is, on the whole, another such success.

While the film's controversial ending may be a tad facile, and while the reviewer Patricia Parker very capably articulates the full, disturbing political implications of this ending, it is precisely the outrageous, provocative nature of the plot's culmination that makes this film more engrossing to watch today.

Some other reviewers have commented on the film's racism, asking us to excuse it as typical of the time. However, again I feel that these viewers are slightly skewing the issue. Yes, the movie is an interesting document of the utter prevalence of casually racist attitudes in the United States of the 1930s. However, I would say that 95% of the time, _the film itself_ is not racist (there are a few moments of racial condescension, such as Lloyd's too-precious quip about white women looking alike, and there is a stock-stereotype black character introduced at the end); rather it is numerous _negative characters_ who express racist attitudes. References to brutality and misogyny aside, for the most part Chinese culture is accorded a fair degree of respect in this film, and is indeed used as a foil for the corrupt and ignorant world of Stockport, USA. Note, for instance, Lloyd's response whenever another character uses the slur 'ch*nk': he winces every time (or at least pauses with displeasure), and then answers in a manner that tries to maintain dignity for the Asian culture and individuals being referenced. While this is not to say this is a bold, crusading film, nonetheless, some credit should be given for this attitude in the early 1930s; it is, in its own clumsy sort of way, a gently anti-racist film.

And credit should also be given for the engrossingly cynical view of society put forward here, as well as the comically dark resolution of the plot, even if that resolution is ultimately fairly problematic in its political implications.

[contains opening scene spoiler] Is there really any great difference between the original release version of "Touch of Evil" and the 1998 restoration? In my opinion, yes. The difference is subtle but very significant. In fact, while I'd say that while the former is an excellent movie by any standard, the latter is (in my opinion) one of the two or three greatest films ever made.

The 1998 restoration took a quirky but fun film and revealed the unmitigated masterpiece beneath. Yes, in a sense the change was only one of subtle nuances, but that made all the difference in the film coming together as a coherent work of art.

The standard blurb on "Touch of Evil" used to be that it was the "greatest B-movie ever made," with critics taking perverse delight in seeing the "grand master" reduced to bad tv movies, commercials, embarrassing acting roles, and low-budget movies like "Evil" in the twilight of his career. (The fact is, though he did anything to finance his endeavors, some of his greatest work came at the end of his career, imo.) Then, with the new restoration, says this conventional wisdom, we can discern better the A-film awkwardly crying to be free, and we can then reflect on the B-movie alterations forced on the flick by the low-brow studio, etc.

To my mind, this 'A' and 'B' stuff is pretty meaningless. A film is either good or bad, regardless of budget or caliber of stars. Writing, acting, and direction determine a film's true status. And this is exactly what comes to the fore with the '98 restoration: the direction suddenly makes sense, thereby illustrating the genius of the writing, and in turn bringing out the depths of the acting. (For example, the famous line at the end-- "He was just a man..."(etc.) is no longer just a cool-sounding, but essentially meaningless line to add atmosphere to the end of a b-flick; it becomes a final focal point through which the entire film's meaning can be pondered.)

But without going on and on about it too long, I can sum up what the '98 restoration actually restores in one word: balance. The studio cut up the film to focus on the (I'll use the term again) B-movie male hero, the Charlton Heston character. He dominates long stretches of the film, and we soon get the sense that the plot follows a familiar formula: the one true good guy fights corruption in a sordid world. James Stewart could almost play the part.

However, the restoration follows Welles' original editing plan, in which the story is evenly balanced between Ramon Vargas (Heston) and his wife Susan (Janet Leigh). The plot alternates evenly from a Ramon scene to a Susan scene to a Ramon scene, etc. (some Susan scenes were cut for the original release and restored in '98). What does this do for us? Well, the sense of balance, and the new juxtapositions of scenes, facilitate new depths of meaning in the film. In short, it is a film obsessed with binarisms: man vs. woman, Hispanic vs. Anglo, South vs. North, "Third World" vs. "First World," poor vs. rich, police state vs. democracy, law upholders vs. law breakers, respectable society vs. the demi-monde, darkness vs. light (black hair vs. blonde, light streets vs. dark alleyways, neon vs. shadow, etc.), good vs. evil. The delicately balanced binary direction not only brings out these dichotomies in more vivid relief, but it begins to play with our expectations of what each opposition is about, surreptitiously asking us to rethink them, perhaps to seek some of what we thought was the "other" in the self, and most importantly, to recognize the self in the other. Suddenly the film's title and the closing line-- "He was just a man, like any other"-- take on a great deal of meaning.

With this sense of opposition, every scene of the film deepens, as the control of details we're used to observing in, say, Citizen Kane, can now be seen here. The famous opening scene, with its long winding continuous shot, is amazing in either version. However, in the restored version, the credits are taken away so that you can actually see every aspect, and Mancini's blaring theme music is cut, so that you can actually hear the street scene. As a result, so much of the film's greater motifs can be seen to have their start here. As the Anglo-Hispanic couple weave their way through traffic toward the border, they come in and out of close proximity with a big American car, one that will explode once it crosses the border. They walk past Anglo tourists and Hispanic locals. As they pass cars and establishments, various types of music blare out, with U.S. and Mexican music alternating. They pass in and out of light and shadow, weaving now into the foreground, now into the background... until they cross the border with a bang. And from that moment on, every detail of the film stands up to scrutiny in a way that few if any other directors are capable of maintaining.