Housekeeping

It's been quiet around here, I know. There is, however, a good explanation for it. I want to reserve this blog for more meaningful, long-form writing, so to that end I've decided to get back into the tumblr game. Henceforth, all perfunctory image and video posts will be found at http://terminalsigma.tumblr.com/.

In the meantime, I've been working on another film review and I hope to have it up here in the next few days.

Intolerance (1916)

D. W. Griffith's Intolerance is one of those films whose considerable reputation precedes it. Indeed, the only thing bigger than the film's reputation might be the film itself. Everything about Intolerance is grandiose, from the film's set design to its ambitious narrative scope. Even the film's subtitle -- Love's Struggle Through the Ages -- has an epic flourish about it. In one leviathan of a production, D. W. Griffith attempts to weave four episodes from human history into a single cohesive narrative, centering on the theme of the ruinous effect of intolerance on the course of human events. That Intolerance represents one of the watershed moments in the history of cinema is well documented, so it isn't necessary for me to give a dissertation about that aspect of the film. More interesting, rather, is the question of how well Griffith's film works as a individual opus. Was Griffith able to accomplish his goal of integrating four disparate stories into a single piece while simultaneously delivering a poignant message about the perils of intolerance? The answer is a resounding "sort of" -- the ambitious nature of the film is one of its strongest assets, yet at the same time, its most glaring weakness.

Intolerance is divided into four stories -- Judea at the time of Jesus, the Babylonian Empire, 16th century France and contemporary America (contemporary, that is, as of the 1910s). In each era, Griffith presents the audience with a different example of social or religious strife, and proceeds to illustrate how it has catastrophic consequences for those involved. In the modern world, a combination of puritanical social reformers and ruthless capitalists nearly ruins the lives of a working class boy and girl; in France, enmity between the Catholics and the Huguenots boils over in the form of the St. Bartholomew's Day Massacre; discord between followers of Ishtar and worshipers of Bel-Marduk leads to the conquest of Babylon by Cyrus the Great of Persia. As for Jesus, I think just about everyone knows what happened to him. Interspersed with all of this is a recurring image of a mother rocking the cradle while the three fates hover ominously in the shadows nearby. To make something of an understatement, there is a lot going on in this film.

Of the four episodes, far and away the most interesting is the story of Babylon. There is hardly a single shot of this segment that doesn't ooze with spectacle. Perhaps the most enduring image of the Babylonian segment is that of the Great Hall set, rightfully so -- the set was not just a model, and it most certainly wasn't computer-generated, but was a massive structure built to scale. A still image fails to do it justice; to truly appreciate the immensity of the set, one has to see it in motion, with legions of extras milling about it like bees in a gargantuan hive. No less impressive is the epic battle scene between the Babylonians and the besieging Persians, complete with siege towers, swarms of arrows, boiling oil, severed heads -- the first decapitations in film history, perhaps! -- and some sort of Babylonian flamethrower-tank which, despite being of dubious historical accuracy, is awesome as hell none the less. Add to this already potent mixture a few gratuitous scenes of scantily-clad harem girls going about their scantily-clad business (which apparently entails doing some sort of funky Babylonian macarena -- and the result is that D. W. Griffith seems to have captured the essence of Heavy Metal some sixty years before its inception! Finally, the Babylonian sequence also includes the most memorable character in the film: the Mountain Girl, as portrayed by Constance Talmadge. Not only is the Mountain Girl a certifiable badass -- she drives a chariot and launches arrows at the invading Persians during the siege of the city -- but Constance appears to be having the time of her life playing the character (for what it's worth, she actually piloted the chariot herself).

Although not without its highlights, the remainder of the film doesn't quite hold up to this lofty standard. The modern day storyline has a good deal of potential, but jumps the proverbial shark with a chase scene that seems a bit out of place in the film; it might be more at home in a slapstick comedy. There is, however, a particularly notable moment where we see that the trapdoor of the gallows where the nameless protagonist is sentenced to hang is triggered by the severing of three cords --  a timely visual allusion to the three fates of Greek mythology. Despite its drawbacks, the story still hangs together nicely.

Less captivating is the portion of the film which occurs in 16th century France. This segment is not as fleshed-out as its Babylonian and 20th century counterparts, and the acting is occasionally a bit too histrionic at times (King Charles, in particular, chews the scenery like nobody's business). Douglas Fairbanks does will in his role, and the St. Bartholomew's Day massacre is quite effective, but the build-up to the climax just isn't all that compelling. Finally, the biblical portion of the film feels tacked-on, as though it were a means of beating the audience about the head and ears with a religious and moral message (subtlety, it seems, was not D. W. Griffith's forte).

What is unfortunate about all this is that each of the four scenarios presented in Intolerance would likely work quite well if produced as individual feature films. Indeed, the excellent Babylonian segment did receive such a treatment -- Griffith re-released it as a stand-alone film in 1919 as The Fall of Babylon, and in the same year the modern storyline was re-released as The Mother and the Law. With a bit more development, the French scenario could work as the sort of swashbuckling historical adventure for which Douglas Fairbanks became famous. As for the biblical plot, the sheer number of (at least commercially) successful films about Jesus -- from King of Kings to The Passion of the Christ -- is proof that the story holds a wide and lasting appeal. Cramming all these elements into a single production, however, is like tap dancing and building a ship in a jar at the same time -- it's a classic example of trying to do too much at once.

My other complaint lies with the film's ending. In the closing minutes of the film,  D. W. Griffith sermonizes on the importance of tolerance with a series of heavy-handed visuals -- smiling children, prisoners miraculously vanishing from jails, soldiers laying down their weapons and a heavenly host of angels hovering overhead. Rather than allow the common theme of his four stories speak for itself, Griffith opts to beat the audience over the head with the point he's trying to make. It's about a subtle as an axe to the forehead.

Intolerance was a critical -- if not commercial -- success when it was released, and continues to be regardes as one of the most important films ever made. Although I do have my complaints about the film, I cannot disagree about its significance. Intolerance was a paradigm shift in the history of film and in the art of film making. It is not without its flaws and its style may be somewhat dated, but the film's monumental importance makes it required viewing. Besides, the Babylonian sequence alone makes Intolerance worth watching at least once. If, as happened to me, you should find yourself stuck in a blizzard with an afternoon to kill, consider it a golden opportunity to watch one of the most epic pictures ever set in celluloid.

First in the Talkies

The four Warner brothers (Bette Davis not pictured).

The more films I watch from the early sound era, the more it seems that Warner Bros. had the superior track record in comparison to MGM. Metro may have had the prestige, the star power and the production values, but Warners' comparably modest pictures seem to have aged much better. Much of this, I suspect, has to do with the material the two studios chose to adapt to the screen.

In its glory days, Metro-Goldwyn-Mayer gave every indication that it thought of itself as a purveyor of high-minded and respectable material. This approach, if nothing else, was certainly profitable -- it played quite well to the American social mores of the day. To be sure, MGM did make quite a few good films at the onset of the talkies, but as the years have gone by many MGM productions of the time have begun to feel stodgy and antiquated. Many Metro pictures of the day were society dramas, adapted from the stage -- at their core, episodes in the lives of attractive, well-to-do Anglo-Americans with problems,  typically of the marital variety. There are several such films that remain quite watchable to this day, but most feel a bit highfalutin and tedious.

Although Warner Bros. did try its hand at several such pictures, that studio demonstrated a much greater willingness to probe uncharted territories (indeed, it was Warner Bros. who began the talking pictures revolution with The Jazz Singer in 1927). Where MGM stuck with glamor, Warners' took a decidedly grittier angle -- the studio came to be specialize in pictures seemingly torn from the real world of the depression, in the process virtually inventing the gangster film as we know it today. The studio also imported from the theater the right kind of talent for these pictures -- James Cagney, Edward G. Robinson, Joan Blondell and Paul Muni, to name just a few (a bit later, the studio brought in a guy named Humphrey Bogart; you might have heard of him).

The pre-code crime drama was not the only area where Warner Bros. proved willing to blaze a trail. In 1932, the studio gambled on revitalizing the then-stagnant genre of the musical, beginning production of 42nd Street. The picture was a major success when it premiered in February of the next year, and  Warner Bros. followed up with a series of successful musical pictures.

In both categories, MGM had to play catch-up. Although Metro had cornered the market on musicals by the 1950s, it never did achieve what Warner Bros. in the field of the crime drama. Fortunately for them, Metro's prestige pictures remained wildly popular, and in flux of new talent -- both on-screen and behind the scenes -- allowed the studio to be the only consistently profitable studio throughout the depression. Yet even if its pictures were not as immediately lucrative, the willingness of Warner Bros. to push the envelope has given many of its films a far more lasting appeal.

[Image Sauce]

Characters I like, Ep. 2

*Jean Arthur not included.

More than once I've wondered what I would do if I were to somehow come into a major financial windfall. My inner cynic suspects that I would probably blow a significant portion of my money on a luxury condominium and a high-end booze (lots and lots of high-end booze), but the better angels of my nature would, I hope, convince me to devote at least as much wealth to some noble act of philanthropy, very much in the spirit of Gary Cooper's Longfellow Deeds.

Longfellow Deeds is the eponymous character in Frank Capra's 1936 picture Mr. Deeds Goes to Town, in which an unassuming guy from the picturesque burg of Mandrake Falls inherits a fortune from a distant uncle in New York. When he arrives in the city, Mr. Deeds is besieged by all manner of spongers and opportunists out to turn a profit at the expense of the rube cynically dubbed the "Cinderella Man." Far from being a small-town dullard, however, Longfellow Deeds is a quirky mix of pragmatism and eccentricity. Put simply, he's the sort of fellow who will insist on hearing the treasurer's report before allowing the Opera committee to make a decision on funding, but on the other hand will slide down the banister of his staircase, chase after firetrucks in hopes of helping to put out a fire, and play his tuba in order to concentrate.

Such personality quirks are an essential part of the reason why I identify with the character like I do. Just as Longfellow's tuba-playing is cited as evidence of his being "pixilated", I too have a few unconscious tics that manifest themselves when I am thinking about something (these habits were once mistaken for symptoms of autism when I was a kid). Another aspect of Longfellow's personality to which I can relate quite well is the fact that he is no suave lady-killer -- the slightest attention from a pretty girl causes him to act like a big dope. This is most perfectly illustrated by a scene wherein Deeds, following a successful date with girl reporter Babe Bennett (played memorably by the inimitable Jean Arthur), is so excited that he runs down the street at full speed, only to crash headlong into a garbage can. Undeterred, he gets right back up and charges around the corner (at which point we hear him plow into another trash can as the scene fades out). It's precisely the same sort of oafish thing I would probably do (if I ever had occasion to, anyway). Along similar lines, I can't help but appreciate his seemingly out-of-place sense of chivalry -- specifically, Longfellow dreams of rescuing a lady in distress. I don't know that I've ever held such romantic delusions, but I can certainly understand the sentiment.

As Longfellow Deeds, Gary Cooper nailed the "average schmuck" angle so perfectly that it allowed him to virtually reinvent his screen persona. Previously primarily a dashing hero of western and adventure pictures, Cooper came, in the wake of Mr. Deeds, to typify the everyman protagonist (not that he wouldn't return to the Western hero well a few times in his career). Indeed, he and director Frank Capra  reunited five years later for a similarly-themed film entitled Meet John Doe. To make a tired point, it's virtually impossible not to like Longfellow Deeds as Gary Cooper portrays him, and it's very nearly as difficult not to identify with him in a least some way. Even if Gary Cooper hadn't brought him to life so perfectly, the character of Longfellow Deeds would still be an agreeable one -- I find it hard not to like a guy who has a left hook like Jake LaMotta and yet plays the tuba to help himself think.

Pink Floyd - The Division Bell (1994)

As the years have gone by, my tastes in music have evolved and changed drastically. To give but one example, in 2007 I was very much into Black and Death Metal, whereas nowadays I am much more likely to listen to Benny Goodman or Starship Amazing than, say, Deathspell Omega. Yet amidst the ebb and flow of ever-changing musical tastes, there have been a few bands, albums and even songs that have stood the test of time. Foremost among this select few may be counted Pink Floyd, one of the most enduring bands in the history of Rock music. When pressed to name a favorite album of, most Pink Floyd enthusiasts will pick either Dark Side of the Moon or Wish You Were Here. These are certainly difficult choices to argue against -- although I am curious as to what degree these choices might be influenced by nostalgic recollections of listening to the albums on 8-track tapes whilst hot-boxing the back of a van -- but I would have to go with a more unorthodox option: 1994's The Division Bell.

This is perhaps a difficult choice to justify. Despite achieving double-platinum status in a matter of months, The Division Bell was panned by critics upon its release. Much of the bellyaching seems to revolve around the fact that The Division Bell sounds so very different from other Pink Floyd albums. This is an understandable complaint -- much of the music here seems more like experimental Space Rock than the sort of Classic Rock prevalent in Pink Floyd's earlier work (indeed, one critic dismissed it as "New Age noodling"). It should be remembered, however, that this was not the same Pink Floyd that recorded Dark Side or Wish You Were Here. Roger Waters had ended his association with the band nearly a decade earlier, and his absence is audible on The Division Bell -- put simply, the album just feels much different from its predecessors. Why, though, should that be such a bad thing? The Division Bell deserves to be judged on its own merits.

Those merits, it turns out, are considerable. With David Gilmour at the helm, the music here has a decidedly introspective and meditative character about it. Throughout the album there is a recurring theme of human communication, on various scales, whether it be a song of two humans, a cacophony of nations or a single man's alienation from the world around him. The point is perhaps made most manifest by none other than Stephen Hawking who, in one song, reminds us that "all we need to do is keep talking." Some critics have claimed that Gilmour's guitar work is somehow uninspired in comparison to his earlier work, but to perfectly honest, I just don't hear it. The musicianship on The Division Bell is no less impeccable as any of Gilmour's work before or since.

Although every track on the album is enjoyable, "High Hopes" would have to be my favorite. All at once it feels like both an overture and an encapsulation for the album as a whole. It is also the most personal song on the album, written by Gilmour from an autobiographical perspective. The song feels very epic -- not merely because it is long, but because it carries with it so much weight. More than any other song  on the album, "High Hopes" is highly evocative of images. It's difficult to explain, but give it a listen and I'm sure you'll get what I'm on about.

The Division Bell was the last studio album ever released by Pink Floyd. It may not be as critically acclaimed as earlier entries in the Pink Floyd catalog, but it is nevertheless a great album in its own right, and a worthy concluding chapter to the history of one the most influential bands of the last century.