This is the kind of film that does not require critical analysis to dissuade people from seeing it. A mere detached, no-comment description is enough to make you give it a wide berth, especially if you find Robin Hardy and Anthony Shaffer's original cult classic a masterpiece of mood and atmosphere and a near-perfectly realized film. From Nic The Dog-Faced Boy gormlessly assaying a role that was meant to personify sexual repression and is here rewritten to signify nothing much at all, and a sadly-desperate-to-work Ellen Burstyn playing the Christopher Lee role with her face painted blue, to the very idea of trying to Americanize a story that is entirely dependent on Celtic paganism to have any meaning whatsoever, this is a Cook's Tour of Hollywood inanity. The crowning "achievement," of course, is the idea that this material would find its best reinterpretation at the hands of director Neil LaBute, a man best known for biting, dark, and arguably misanthropic satires like "Your Friends and Neighbors" and "In The Company of Men." LaBute takes a thoughtful meditation on how the reactionary forces of repression can intrude upon and undermine entire cultures and turns it into yet another one of his tiresome misogynistic screeds. Previously, these were mere subplots in wider-ranging polemics about the general vileness of humanity. In "The Wicker Man," LaBute's hostility to women comprise the sole purpose of this misbegotten exercise. Even if you don't subscribe to the notion that there is such a thing as a film that just shouldn't be remade, no one who sees this atrocity can be persuaded that "The Wicker Man" needed to be remade **this way.** The saddest part is, you can tell that even if you never saw the original.
Reviews
5 Reviews
The Man with a Cloak
(1951)
He May Be In a Cloak, But He's Not Too Tightly Wrapped
26 December 2008
Warning: Spoilers
Joseph Cotten has the thankless eponymous role in this plodding, talky, and aridly cerebral botch of a thriller. He's a "mysterious stranger," a poet recently arrived in New York whose name, the film explicitly states, is an alias. The opening title card claims that at the time in which the film is set he was obscure, but that his "real name" would soon "become immortal." Moreover, one of the scenes, which are almost-exclusively expository, implies that Cotten's Dupin is deliberately misleading Leslie Caron's Madeline when he allows her to infer that he's a French expatriate.
False or not, Dupin's name helps him ingratiate himself with Caron as an emigree from Paris in deep distress, fearing for the life of her elderly host and benefactor, played with scenery-chomping brio by a shamelessly scene-stealing Louis Calhern. Caron believes, but can't be certain, that one of the household staff who despise the old man (Barbara Stanwyck, in one of those spine-of-steel caricatures she would exploit so well on television; a wonderfully creepy Joe DeSantis; and the marvelously naturalistic Margaret Wycherly) is trying to dispatch him prematurely.
The film, however, appears to have been intended not so much as a whodunit per se as a who's-gonna-do-it (and what is this guy in the cloak gonna do about it?). It's less a murder mystery than a suspense drama: the old man doesn't die until the third act. Perhaps the film's focus, whatever the filmmakers may have intended that to be, got lost in the course of adapting a story by John Dickson Carr. Carr could be aptly described as a Poor Man's Cornell Woolrich; he is best remembered today -- if at all -- as the co-developer and first story editor of the classic dramatic radio program "Suspense."
That series began with Agatha Christie-ish drawing room whodunits, but Carr introduced the format, later perfected by others, that earned "Suspense" its amazing two-decade run: closed mysteries, sometimes even told in internal monologue from the point of view of the criminal as he plans and carries out his evil deed, building tension by holding the central reveal until the twist ending.
(Incidentally, one of those others who perfected the format was contributing writer Lucille Fletcher, who wrote the most famous of all "Suspense" dramas, "Sorry, Wrong Number," Hal Wallis's Paramount adaptation of which gave Stanwyck one of her biggest hits in 1948.)
Perhaps this Carr story, "The Gentleman From Paris," was never adapted for "Suspense" -- unlike so many other of his works -- because waiting for that central reveal isn't all that suspenseful: why are we supposed to care who that really is in the cloak? And even if we could be made to invest in Dupin's true identity, whatever suspense the question might have generated is vitiated by the clues the film plants, which are so ham-fistedly obvious that merely describing them here would result in spoilers.
Other flaws aggravate the film's flaccidity and slackness. Genuinely effective suspense -- as Hitchcock's notes and storyboards show us -- has to be paced and edited to within an inch of its life. Yet "Cloak"'s screenplay seems to meander off in several directions at once, with screen time equally divided among them. This gives rise to the pure speculation on this writer's part that the film was re-cut by M-G-M. Every scene feels chock-a-block with exposition, as if each were included not in service to the picture's overall rhythm and pacing, but simply so that the final cut could make any sense at all.
What else can explain why Jim Backus as a bartender, largely superfluous to the plot, seems to spend as much time on screen as Louis Calhern and his laughably unconvincing French dialect? Equally curious is that Stanwyck seems not to get much more play than any other name in the main titles. Her part -- reportedly turned down by Marlene Dietrich -- seems written as the second female lead after Caron's Mlle. Minot, yet Stanwyck gets leading lady billing.
Further indicative of the film's structural problems is that it devotes as much screen time to Dupin's alcoholism (Cotten has to play most of his tedious speeches while guzzling and weaving); his true identity; and his teasingly aloof yet seductive relationship with both Caron and Stanwyck, as it devotes to whatever danger Calhern might be in.
Most revealingly of all, at 81 minutes "Cloak" has a suspiciously short running time for something that doesn't quite look like a 'B' picture. (Contrary to suggestions elsewhere among these comments, neither Cotten's nor Stanwyck's star had yet dimmed: he would go on to many 'A' leads, including "Niagara" opposite Marilyn Monroe, and Stanwyck still had Fritz Lang's "Clash By Night" and John Sturges's "Jeopardy" in her future.) The short length plus the "de-facto ensemble cast" that belies Cotten's and Stanwyck's star billing make one wonder if "Cloak" weren't once a longer, weightier film from which much was deleted.
All this suggests that the sumptuously photographed but visually pedestrian "Man With a Cloak" may have been a troubled production. And perhaps it was. It's the third of only four features directed by radio wunderkind Fletcher Markle, who achieved a certain notoriety as an alcoholic in ex-wife Mercedes McCambridge's memoir, "The Quality of Mercy." McCambridge candidly portrayed her years with Markle as a kind of "Days Of Wine and Roses" existence which aggravated her own struggles to remain sober. But no matter what the reason, booze or better prospects in television, for which medium Markle directed as well as produced many series, following the dismal "Cloak," Markle would not direct another theatrical feature for twelve years. Suffice to say that his penultimate directorial effort delivers its payoff in its final scene, but by that time, even after only 81 minutes, the viewer no longer cares.
False or not, Dupin's name helps him ingratiate himself with Caron as an emigree from Paris in deep distress, fearing for the life of her elderly host and benefactor, played with scenery-chomping brio by a shamelessly scene-stealing Louis Calhern. Caron believes, but can't be certain, that one of the household staff who despise the old man (Barbara Stanwyck, in one of those spine-of-steel caricatures she would exploit so well on television; a wonderfully creepy Joe DeSantis; and the marvelously naturalistic Margaret Wycherly) is trying to dispatch him prematurely.
The film, however, appears to have been intended not so much as a whodunit per se as a who's-gonna-do-it (and what is this guy in the cloak gonna do about it?). It's less a murder mystery than a suspense drama: the old man doesn't die until the third act. Perhaps the film's focus, whatever the filmmakers may have intended that to be, got lost in the course of adapting a story by John Dickson Carr. Carr could be aptly described as a Poor Man's Cornell Woolrich; he is best remembered today -- if at all -- as the co-developer and first story editor of the classic dramatic radio program "Suspense."
That series began with Agatha Christie-ish drawing room whodunits, but Carr introduced the format, later perfected by others, that earned "Suspense" its amazing two-decade run: closed mysteries, sometimes even told in internal monologue from the point of view of the criminal as he plans and carries out his evil deed, building tension by holding the central reveal until the twist ending.
(Incidentally, one of those others who perfected the format was contributing writer Lucille Fletcher, who wrote the most famous of all "Suspense" dramas, "Sorry, Wrong Number," Hal Wallis's Paramount adaptation of which gave Stanwyck one of her biggest hits in 1948.)
Perhaps this Carr story, "The Gentleman From Paris," was never adapted for "Suspense" -- unlike so many other of his works -- because waiting for that central reveal isn't all that suspenseful: why are we supposed to care who that really is in the cloak? And even if we could be made to invest in Dupin's true identity, whatever suspense the question might have generated is vitiated by the clues the film plants, which are so ham-fistedly obvious that merely describing them here would result in spoilers.
Other flaws aggravate the film's flaccidity and slackness. Genuinely effective suspense -- as Hitchcock's notes and storyboards show us -- has to be paced and edited to within an inch of its life. Yet "Cloak"'s screenplay seems to meander off in several directions at once, with screen time equally divided among them. This gives rise to the pure speculation on this writer's part that the film was re-cut by M-G-M. Every scene feels chock-a-block with exposition, as if each were included not in service to the picture's overall rhythm and pacing, but simply so that the final cut could make any sense at all.
What else can explain why Jim Backus as a bartender, largely superfluous to the plot, seems to spend as much time on screen as Louis Calhern and his laughably unconvincing French dialect? Equally curious is that Stanwyck seems not to get much more play than any other name in the main titles. Her part -- reportedly turned down by Marlene Dietrich -- seems written as the second female lead after Caron's Mlle. Minot, yet Stanwyck gets leading lady billing.
Further indicative of the film's structural problems is that it devotes as much screen time to Dupin's alcoholism (Cotten has to play most of his tedious speeches while guzzling and weaving); his true identity; and his teasingly aloof yet seductive relationship with both Caron and Stanwyck, as it devotes to whatever danger Calhern might be in.
Most revealingly of all, at 81 minutes "Cloak" has a suspiciously short running time for something that doesn't quite look like a 'B' picture. (Contrary to suggestions elsewhere among these comments, neither Cotten's nor Stanwyck's star had yet dimmed: he would go on to many 'A' leads, including "Niagara" opposite Marilyn Monroe, and Stanwyck still had Fritz Lang's "Clash By Night" and John Sturges's "Jeopardy" in her future.) The short length plus the "de-facto ensemble cast" that belies Cotten's and Stanwyck's star billing make one wonder if "Cloak" weren't once a longer, weightier film from which much was deleted.
All this suggests that the sumptuously photographed but visually pedestrian "Man With a Cloak" may have been a troubled production. And perhaps it was. It's the third of only four features directed by radio wunderkind Fletcher Markle, who achieved a certain notoriety as an alcoholic in ex-wife Mercedes McCambridge's memoir, "The Quality of Mercy." McCambridge candidly portrayed her years with Markle as a kind of "Days Of Wine and Roses" existence which aggravated her own struggles to remain sober. But no matter what the reason, booze or better prospects in television, for which medium Markle directed as well as produced many series, following the dismal "Cloak," Markle would not direct another theatrical feature for twelve years. Suffice to say that his penultimate directorial effort delivers its payoff in its final scene, but by that time, even after only 81 minutes, the viewer no longer cares.
My Fellow Americans
(1996)
Enormously Entertaining
26 December 2008
"My Fellow Americans" boasts a well-crafted and quite funny script about two former presidents and longtime political rivals who must team up to expose a criminal scheme in which the sitting chief executive is implicated. Along the way, their efforts result in numerous farcically-staged attempts on their lives. That the screenplay works quite well in political thriller terms, with dramatically satisfying plot twists throughout, is rewarding enough; it's so much icing on the cake that the accompanying gags are equally strong, making this one of the most facile blends of suspense and comedy since the films of Colin Higgins. The screenplay's considerable entertainment value -- particularly for a political junkie -- is enhanced and brought to its full potential by solid direction and cutting, as well as the unassailable professionalism of a first-rate cast. The on screen chemistry and formidable comic timing of Jack Lemmon and James Garner as the former presidents, in their first and only screen pairing, is delightful, and thankfully so: one or both dominate almost every scene in the film. They receive equally expert support from Lauren Bacall, demonstrating her rarely-exploited talent for comedy; Dan Aykroyd in an uncharacteristically restrained performance; and the always-solidly professional John Heard, as well as an extraordinarily sharp supporting cast studded with many familiar faces -- such as Wilford Brimley ("China Syndrome"), Sela Ward, and Esther Rolle of "Good Times" fame -- though not all are necessarily household names. Any lover of political satire or action-oriented farce will find this film's running time to be time well spent, and C-SPAN addicts -- provided that they have a sense of humor about their passion will be richly rewarded.
Obliging Young Lady
(1942)
Very Odd To Say The Least
25 November 2008
This weirdly inept attempt at screwball comedy is undone by the casting of its three leads. Edmond O'Brien -- best remembered today as the desperate poisoning victim in the 1950 cult classic "D.O.A." and the alcoholic senator in "Seven Days In May" (1964) -- and Ruth Warrick -- known primarily for playing Charles Foster Kane's first wife in "Citizen Kane" and a long run on a TV soap opera -- were never known as adept farceurs. And moppet actress Joan Carroll has the kind of physical and verbal precocity that makes the audience wonder if perhaps she might not be a midget (OK, "little person," if we have not yet appropriately repudiated the silliness of political correctness). And she's a little person with a distracting tendency to let her mouth hang open in closeup reaction shots, at that.
The script -- rewritten (over Frank Ryan) by Bert Granet, suggesting that a certain paucity of talent may have been what redirected him to demi-success as a TV producer in the '50s and '60s -- is littered with what are presumably meant to be running gags, but bespeak a lack of understanding that to merit that classification, the shtik must be funny, not merely repetitive. These "runners" include the bizarre notion of a train's sound mimicking the name of a famous baseball player of the period, Heinie Manusch, and every passenger on the train getting the name stuck in their head, treating us to tedious extended sequences of extras chanting the name over and over again in syncopation with the chugging of the locomotive. There is also Carroll's character, Bridget, who repeatedly demands, for no apparent reason, "What's wrong with the name Bridget?"
This farrago of badly-executed ideas is ultimately ill-served by the direction of B movie hack Richard Wallace, whose coverage is so inadequate that the cutter is repeatedly forced to go from masters to two-shots in which actors' positions and expressions change radically, making startling jump cuts out of what should be seamless transitions. Wallace even manages to undermine the usually-redoubtable Eve Arden, evidently sabotaging her trademark talent for wringing laughs from the lamest one-liners by underplaying. It almost looks like Wallace coaxed her to overact. It's painful to watch...not unlike the film as a whole.
The script -- rewritten (over Frank Ryan) by Bert Granet, suggesting that a certain paucity of talent may have been what redirected him to demi-success as a TV producer in the '50s and '60s -- is littered with what are presumably meant to be running gags, but bespeak a lack of understanding that to merit that classification, the shtik must be funny, not merely repetitive. These "runners" include the bizarre notion of a train's sound mimicking the name of a famous baseball player of the period, Heinie Manusch, and every passenger on the train getting the name stuck in their head, treating us to tedious extended sequences of extras chanting the name over and over again in syncopation with the chugging of the locomotive. There is also Carroll's character, Bridget, who repeatedly demands, for no apparent reason, "What's wrong with the name Bridget?"
This farrago of badly-executed ideas is ultimately ill-served by the direction of B movie hack Richard Wallace, whose coverage is so inadequate that the cutter is repeatedly forced to go from masters to two-shots in which actors' positions and expressions change radically, making startling jump cuts out of what should be seamless transitions. Wallace even manages to undermine the usually-redoubtable Eve Arden, evidently sabotaging her trademark talent for wringing laughs from the lamest one-liners by underplaying. It almost looks like Wallace coaxed her to overact. It's painful to watch...not unlike the film as a whole.
The Rat Race
(1960)
Never Mind the Rat, This Thing's The Cheese
16 March 2008
If Garson Kanin's stage version were successful enough to earn a movie treatment by producers Perlberg and Seaton, whose adaptation of Clifford Odets's "The Country Girl" is famously exquisite, one can only assume that the play was more honest and less preposterously disingenuous than this laughable adaptation.
Written by Kanin himself, who must have swallowed a fair amount of bile at the bowdlerizing mandated by the Hollywood Production Code, the film addresses its central question, which appears to be whether "dance hall girl" Debbie Reynolds (!) is or isn't a prostitute, with pages and pages of jaw-droppingly elliptical dialogue that bears no resemblance to human speech -- lines on the order of, "I'd never think you'd...you know..." and "How could you think I'm the kind of girl you think I am?" Those are not necessarily exact quotes, but you get the idea.
The film is sunk by other equally bizarre choices at every turn, including not only the female lead's spectacular miscasting but her co-star's as well. Presenting Tony Curtis as a Midwestern naif being conned by heartless Manhattanites produces such howlingly funny utterances as "And on my foist day in New Yawk!" '30s Paramount comedy star Jack Oakie and Kay Medford, Dick Van Dyke's mother in the stage version of "Bye, Bye, Birdie," comprise a kind of greasy-spoon Greek chorus, a bartender and his only barfly, Reynolds's landlady, whom we first meet sitting at the bar drinking orange soda! In this Times Square saloon which, like many other sets in the film, reveals the art director's painful fascination with red walls, there is more mugging going on than in Central Park.
But all of this is topped by the grotesquely overwrought, bug-eyed and nostril-flaring performance of Don Rickles, who quickly demonstrates why he found his true calling in standup rather than film acting. You're better off reading the play, but only reading it, because no impresario has the bad taste to mount a revival of it any more.
Written by Kanin himself, who must have swallowed a fair amount of bile at the bowdlerizing mandated by the Hollywood Production Code, the film addresses its central question, which appears to be whether "dance hall girl" Debbie Reynolds (!) is or isn't a prostitute, with pages and pages of jaw-droppingly elliptical dialogue that bears no resemblance to human speech -- lines on the order of, "I'd never think you'd...you know..." and "How could you think I'm the kind of girl you think I am?" Those are not necessarily exact quotes, but you get the idea.
The film is sunk by other equally bizarre choices at every turn, including not only the female lead's spectacular miscasting but her co-star's as well. Presenting Tony Curtis as a Midwestern naif being conned by heartless Manhattanites produces such howlingly funny utterances as "And on my foist day in New Yawk!" '30s Paramount comedy star Jack Oakie and Kay Medford, Dick Van Dyke's mother in the stage version of "Bye, Bye, Birdie," comprise a kind of greasy-spoon Greek chorus, a bartender and his only barfly, Reynolds's landlady, whom we first meet sitting at the bar drinking orange soda! In this Times Square saloon which, like many other sets in the film, reveals the art director's painful fascination with red walls, there is more mugging going on than in Central Park.
But all of this is topped by the grotesquely overwrought, bug-eyed and nostril-flaring performance of Don Rickles, who quickly demonstrates why he found his true calling in standup rather than film acting. You're better off reading the play, but only reading it, because no impresario has the bad taste to mount a revival of it any more.
Tell Your Friends