Reviews

When engaging with Shakespeare, a film producer or director is always faced with the question, How much will remain original Shakespeare and how much will be rewritten and adapted to modern tastes? In the case of this Cymbeline, director Michael Almereyda chose to rewrite for modern taste by updating the action and cutting some dialogue; otherwise Shakespeare's English is left intact, and only the setting and costuming has changed. For me this works; I feel the film succeeds in communicating an authentic Shakespearean atmosphere: it is gritty, grim and bleak, as befits WS' late fantasies. These are neither comedies nor tragedies, but spare tapestries on which an array of often illogical and ill-motivated characters can be seen to work themselves into situations they can't get out of; the poet then creates fantasy characters (in this case, Posthumous' dead father and the god Jupiter, omitted in the film -- he is only mentioned in the dialogue as invoked for his aid --) who mysteriously enter the action and magically bring about resolution, either bloody or bloodless; in the case of Cymbeline, bloody. If as a viewer you know all this, then you can be prepared for a fascinating opportunity to see your favorite TV, Hollywood, or video-game actors grin and bare it, and make an attempt to show they truly have artistic intentions when they go before the camera. I say this because it is the casting that does not impress me in Almereyda's Cymbeline. I was uncomfortable with Ethan Hawke's performance, which seemed muscle-bound but without any real motivation (in the play, Iachimo is quite the cur, and expresses blameful intentions regarding Imogen). Hawke also has the tendency to whisper his lines, making them inaudible; apparently he was told this makes them seem more authentic or more grim; but Milla Jovovich (the Queen) also whispers and is breathless half the time, and her Queen is still insufficiently wicked in body language and facial expression to convince a viewer that her intentions are wholly evil from the start, as they are supposed to be. Other players are to be praised, in my opinion. Leguizamo is stalwart as the King's right-hand man; Dakota Johnson is easily the ingenue who makes all the wrong decisions until she sees the error of her ways (basically when Pizanio/Leguizamo confronts her with the truth about her rebel husband Posthumous' distrust of her fidelity.) The cleverest moment visually is when Belarius, wonderfully played by Delroy Lindo, asks Imogen/Johnson her name. She is disguised as a boy in order to escape from Iachimo's plan to kill her, and when she spies the Che Guevara imprint on the tee-shirt Harley Ware/Alviraragus (the King's long lost son, raised by Belarius) is wearing, she answers 'Fidel,' which is of course the name WS gives her in his play. This scene, and the gritty burial of (the still-living) Imogen and (the dead and headless) Cloten, the Queen's son, are original contributions to this otherwise grim and angst-ridden comedy. (Comedy in the sense that at its end, all conflicts are resolved.) Shaw famously disliked Cymbeline and re-wrote the ending, but I find the unmasking of Imogen, the revelation that Belarius' two 'sons' are in fact the King's (freeing Imogen to marry her beloved Posthumous, the frustration of which is what put the whole play in motion to begin with) satisfying and emotionally rich. Despite its acting flaws, then, I liked Cymbeline, but I recommend it only to those who are prepared for WS' rich lyrical language and the complex interweaving of characters which gives his late plays their flight of fancy.

I hate to carp, but this mostly watchable film, Roy Neill's last, is not film noir at all, although it has elements of mystery and crime drama combined. A weak and wayward script introduces Duryea arriving on a gritty Wilshire Blvd and then leaves him out of the film for twenty minutes; dispenses with the most interesting character of the film, singer Mavis Marlowe (wonderfully played by Constance Dowling) after ten minutes; presents a completely new character, Kirk Bennet, without any introduction or setting, as the husband of still another unknown character, a Mrs Bennet (June Vincent), who turns out to be the central female role; and even presents us with a completely anonymous character who seems to be central to Duryea's Martin Blair -- a wavering tippler- turned-songwriter -- who flits in and out of the film like a jack-in- the-box without explanation or rationale, but seems very concerned about Blair's well-being (is he his agent? his manager? a liquor salesman? We'll never know.) Neill directs this ambivalent script with occasional flair, like the sweep up from street-level Wilshire Blvd to Mavis Marlowe's flat on an upper floor of the apartment building across the street, which we then enter via a crack in the Venetian blinds. But much of the film is wasted on unnecessary moments like Bennet's trial, or Bennet being grilled by an almost-svelte Broderick Crawford playing the hard-boiled police captain (complete with an early version of what today is called good cop-bad cop.) I didn't like the film but Paul Ivano's photography is captivating and the film-score is unique: many popular songs found in big studio B&W's from this period (just before and just after WW II) can be banal and lifeless, but the three songs featured in Black Angel are well-crafted and complex songs in the popular idiom of the day. They are well-integrated into the plot, well-sung, and with stirring and original Jack Brooks lyrics and subtle melodies from Edgar Fairchild. Frank Skinner's score is also stirring and grand. BTW, June Vincent is not singing and Duryea is definitely not playing piano, for those curious: his fingers remain taut and straight throughout his first number, and in pianism the hand must be slightly arched if it is going to strike keys; but both he and June Vincent are well-mimed. This is good B entertainment, but contains about three plots in one: who did the murder, will the Duryea-Vincent match-up work out, and will the Duryea character ever recover from his alcohol addiction? Actually a fourth story line, will the Kirk Bennet character be saved from the gallows, is thrown in for good measure. Worth watching for the good acting, the unique pairing of Duryea-Vincent, the good photography, and Lorre's thinly-scripted but always-nearly-sadistic characterization of Duryea's nemesis.

To my critical sensibilities, it seems that one can view Cassandra's Dream in a number of ways: as an attempt to subvert melodrama in film, as an attempt at minimalist drama (in the sense of underplayed, underwritten, under-photographed cinema)or as an attempt to deal in new cinematic terms with an outworn cinematic theme; or, perhaps, as all three.

What clearly should not happen, however, is pre-judgment of the film -- going into it with the idea that, because it is written and directed by Woody Allen, it will be witty, clever, full of humorous dialogue, perhaps a touch of schmaltz (i.e., sentimentality) toward the end. Not so with this film: Allen has clearly entered a new phase as he has aged, and apart from the aesthetic notion that an artist should be allowed to create freely, without the restraint of audience taste, there is certainly precedent amongst film directors for allowing a change of viewpoint, a new approach to style, and even a change in cinematographic technique as they enter old age. Two giants of cinema, Hitchcock and Fellini, both underwent such changes, and others come to mind as well: Kubrick, de Sica, Truffaut, Lang, Antonioni -- many directors who have aspired to be "auteurs" -- that is, in complete control of their work so that it reflects their own artistic ideals -- have striven towards change as they come to the end of their careers. There does not seem to be any reason why Allen shouldn't be among them.

With this forewarning, one can view Cassandra's Dream more objectively; it seems to me to be one of a number of Allen's recent films in which he has tried to forge a truly American film style while embracing the more serious and moralistic European cinematic themes. I find the change admirable, and I've always found the 'late period' of film makers intriguing, especially when they became well-known for a completely different approach to film making at the start of their careers. Regarding the idea that these are somehow British films, or that Allen is making some kind of statement by filming in Britain, regardless of his reasons, Allen's change to England seems in keeping with his overall thrust, and that is, away from Hollywood, which he has always abhorred, and towards Europe, whose film culture he has always admired. The midway point, England, seems a happy compromise; it seems safe to say that he is not about to start filming in a language other than his own.

Surprising are the many confused responses to this film found in the reviews here on IMDb. A number of viewers actually found the film funny -- they note the humorous dialogue or the smirking faces of the actors. Quite a number find the approach to melodrama unconvincing -- that Allen cannot film violence or cannot bring tension to the screen. I would suggest that Allen seems now to have embraced minimalist technique in his late phase. In such an aesthetic, what is omitted is more important than what is filmed. Actually viewing the climactic moment would be anti-climactic; hence the look of horror and pity on Colin Farrell's face ** SPOILER** as he discovers what he has done to his brother -- the only person he has apparently ever loved, except himself -- is climax enough. We do not need to see what happens next, as we know what will happen.**SPOILER ENDS** The ironic final moment as the brothers' fiancées shop for new clothes, remarking that "Terry will like this, don't you think?" is sufficient to leave an audience limp, it seems to me -- if they have grasped that the film does not really address the question, "Is it right or wrong to commit murder?" -- the answer to which is clearly assumed -- but rather deals carefully and analytically with the relationship of two brothers to each other, peeling this relationship away like the layers of an onion.

In so far, then, as the film deals with this deteriorating relationship, it is successful; whether or not the fulcrum for this see-saw battle between the two men should have been the question of murder -- that is, whether or not this is a realistic device for the analysis of their relationship -- well, I will leave that to each viewer. I would reiterate that this is film, not philosophy, and cinema, not anthropology.

Witty the film is not, however -- as far as I can tell -- though I know there was a moment of comic relief in the film, significantly, I cannot recall it. I can agree with most reviewers that the acting is tops -- naturalistic and never overdone -- a big relief from the overblown hamming of the Mission Impossible fancies of American films.

I did not care for Match Point -- the message there was too overstated and the "life is a game of tennis-- who knows which way the ball will bounce" metaphor too broad for my taste. I found even the acting to be wooden, and the script overwhelmed with drollery and cliché. Further, as far as evoking London in these British films -- well, I can't say I agree. Allen's "British" films could be filmed anywhere. Apart from a few red double-decker buses one would not know the setting (which really isn't important in these character-driven dramas) was London.

After Crimes and Misdemeanors (Allen's finest 'straight' subversive melodrama) Cassandra's Dream comes in a close second.

I did not like this film. I did not like it at all. Hence be prepared, for my comments are entirely negative. I too love Hitchcock, and I place him and Fritz Lang in the front line of innovative directors from the Golden Age of cinema...but even Homer nodded, as the expression goes, and there is much in Hitchcock that can make one yawn, fidget in one's seat, and ultimately get up and change the DVD. The Parradine Case and the disastrous Mr and Mrs Smith are often cited as Hitch-failures, but for me, Rebecca and The Lady Vanishes are also both unwatchable: drab, dreary, confusing, cheerless, humourless, one-note films with excessively mannered acting and production values that shout out, "Please look at me, I'm a (gothic, noir, or what-have-you) film." Secret Beyond the Door joins these over-the-top scorchers; to me, these films are all failures at what used to be called "women's weepies" (films made chiefly with the female audience in mind) with noir and Gothic elements added with a view towards widening the audience appeal.

In Secret Beyond the Door, Lang (or someone who paid Lang a sum of money) clearly wanted to make a film to rival Hitch, and he chose -- dismayingly, as far as I'm concerned -- Rebecca as his model. I enter a plea of guilty, as Cecil Vyse in Forster's Room With a View would have remarked: I did not care for Miklos Rosza's excessively worked-up score, Stanley Cortez' unremarkable cinematography, and Lang's lustreless direction, which goes nowhere (ex: the town Michael Redgrave's Mark lives in is Levender Falls...when we arrive there with Joan Bennet's Celia, where are we? Nowhere. A colourless, non-descript postcard blown up for the background matte shot...a few bicycles, someone dressed up like a porter...we could be anywhere and are nowhere. Besides, what does Levender Falls mean? Spoiled lavender? ***spoiler*** Later at the station Joan Bennet picks what looks like a sprig of lavender and puts it in her lapel before running to greet Mark as he gets off the train...as he is about to kiss her, he spies the lavender and goes into this crazy trance that marks his obsessive-compulsive neurosis. ***end spoiler*** All of this is photographed as if we are at a Sunday school picnic and Lang and Cortez are scoutmasters.)

There are so many other examples of trite imagery, stale sets, and failure to follow up on motivic set-ups, that they are not worth mentioning. The one plus is Joan Bennet, looking remarkably luminous in this film and as breezy and nonchalant as ever -- though I must admit she was never so good as she was in Lang's true Hollywood masterpiece, Woman in the Window. Proof that a strong script and committed actors can provide a director with the impetus needed to work a celluloid miracle.

Unfortunately somebody was asleep at the wheel in Secret Beyond the Door, and it wasn't the audience.

A film to skip unless you are a devoted Lang aficionado (as I am) who wants to watch even the bad ones that blooped up from his Hollywood era.