国际电影影片词典（英文版）：1-2

285 D DAHONG DENGLONG GAOGAO GUA (Raise the Red Lantern) Hong Kong-China, 1991 Director: Zhang Yimou Production: Era International, Hong Kong, in association with China Film Co-production Corporation; colour, 35mm; running time: 125 minutes. Producers: Chiu Fu-Sheng, Hou Xiaoxian, Zhang Wenze; screen- play: Ni Zhen, based on a short story by Su Tong; photography: Zhao Fei; editor: Du Yuan; assistant directors: Zhang Haniie, Gao Jingwen; art directors: Cao Jiuping, Dong Huamiao; music: Zhao Jiping, Naoki Tachikawa; sound: Li Lanhua; make-up: Sun Wei; costumes: Huang Lihua. Cast: Gong Li (Songlian); Ma Jingwu (Chen Zuoqian); He Caifei (Meishan); Cao Cuifeng (Zhuoyun); Jin Shuyuan (Yuru); Kong Lin (Yan’er); Ding Weimin (Mother Song); Cui Zhigang (Doctor Gao); Zhou Qi (head servant). Publications Articles: Chute, David, ‘‘Golden Hours’’ in Film Comment (Denville, New Jersey), March/April 1991. Reynaud, Berenice, ‘‘China—On the Set with Zhang Yimou’’ in Sight and Sound (London), July 1991. Variety (New York), 7 October 1991. Reynaud, Berenice, ‘‘Ghosts of the Future,’’ in Sight and Sound, (London), November 1991. Niogret, H., ‘‘Rouge, noir et blanc’’ in Positif (Paris), January 1992. Bassan, R., Revue du Cinéma (Paris), January 1992. Glaessner, V., Sight and Sound (London), February 1992. Garcia, M., Films in Review (London), May-June 1992. Fortin, P., Séquences (Montreal), September 1992. Younis, R., Cinema Papers (Victoria), October 1992. Sutton, D.S., ‘‘Ritual, History and the Films of Zhang Yimou,’’ in East-West (Honolulu), July 1994. Klawans, S., ‘‘Zhang Yimou,’’ in Film Comment (New York), vol. 31, September-October 1995. Young-Sau Fong, Suzie, ‘‘The Voice of Feminine Madness in Zhang Yimou’s Dahong Denglong Gaogao Gua,” in Asian Cinema (Drexel Hill), Spring 1995. Lee, Joann, ‘‘Zhang Yimou’s Raise the Red Lantern: Contextual Analysis of Film through a Confucian/Feminist Matrix,’’ in Asian Cinema (Drexel Hill), Spring 1996. Kong, Haili, ‘‘Symbolism through Zhang Yimou’s Subversive Lens in His Early Films,’’ in Asian Cinema (Drexel Hill), Winter 1996–1997. Wei, Y., ‘‘Music and Femininity in Zhang Yimou’s Family Melo- drama,’’ in CineAction (Toronto), no. 42, 1997. *** Raise the Red Lantern was one of the rare Chinese films success- fully marketed in America and its success has been ascribed to its exotic formula of a man with five wives and the radiant beauty of the star Gong Li. The film has certainly capped the international reputa- tion of its director Zhang Yimou and made him the most successful director among the ‘‘Fifth Generation’’ filmmakers (including Chen Kaige, Tian Zhuangzhuang, Wu Ziniu) who first made their mark in Chinese cinema in the mid-1980s. Superficially at least, Raise the Red Lantern has all the hallmarks of a sizzling soap-opera melodrama featuring the beautiful Gong Li as the fourth wife of Master Chen, a wealthy, traditionalist husband of the Chinese gentry class. Master Chen’s mansion is divided into four quarters or courtyards—each occupied by one of his wives, who are all enjoined to live harmoniously under one roof. It is a manor dominated by the observance of arcane rituals, family rules and regulations—a central ritual being the hanging of red lanterns in the quarters of the master’s choice of sleeping partner for the night. The plot ingredients of a melodrama come into play as three of the wives—Zhuoyun (the second wife), Meishan (the third wife, an opera singer), and Songlian (the fourth and most recent wife, played by Gong Li),—become rivals for the master’s affections (the first wife being too old to be a serious rival). Zhuoyun is deceptively friendly, showing her true colours in the course of the film, as the most treacherous of the master’s wives. Meishan hides her tragic vulnerability beneath a bitchy, cunning veneer, while Songlian is equally vulnerable but much less equipped to handle the politics of rivalry and jealousy. The object is not only to win the master’s affections but to exert authority over the wider household of other concubines and servants. As a servant says, ‘‘authority is where the lantern is hung.’’ To complicate matters, Songlian’s servant, Yan, has ambitions of her own to become one of the master’s mistresses. Yan taunts Songlian by being mildly rebel- lious and insolent (going against regulations, she hangs up torn and patched red lanterns in her own room), and informs on her mistress’ activities in Zhuoyun. The story works as a kind of gothic melodrama when Songlian discovers a locked room on the roof of the mansion and is told that it DAHONG DENGLONG GAOGAO GUA FILMS, 4 th EDITION 286 Dahong denglong gaogao gua was the place where two women had died tragically by hanging themselves. It is this room that rounds off the film’s climax (as third mistress Meishan, discovered for her infidelity, is dragged and locked up there) and precipitates Songlian’s tragedy. The chronology of the narrative takes place over the seasons of the year; the events are confined to the settings of a single household, done in the elaborate style of a Chinese manor-house complete with multiple courtyards, rooms, antechambers, and servants’ quarters, separated by walls and lanes. This architectural marvel is as much a part of the story as are the characters, who often seem minuscule against the grand setting of the building (alone in a courtyard, or standing behind a towering facade). Indeed, the film is distinguished by Zhang Yimou’s penchant for long shots which take full advantage of his marvellous location and interior sets. There are almost no close-ups in the film—the camera getting no closer to the characters than the medium shot. When closer shots are employed, Zhang almost always favours his female characters—the one overtly conscious sign of the director’s story- telling sensibility motivating his series of films, beginning with Red Sorghum, that are all centred around women (all played by Gong Li). The master of the household is, in fact, always in long shots, with the camera deliberately avoiding showing this character in full face. The device accentuates the distance of the one significant male character, both from the perspectives of the audience as well as those of the key female characters. The long shot is a trait shared by Zhang’s Fifth Generation colleagues (Chen Kaige, in particular, for whom Zhang served as director of photography on his first two films) and is a manifestation of the objective eye. In Fifth Generation work, the objective eye functions primarily as a visual endowment of film narratives. It points up the stunning visual qualities of the director’s compositions, and ‘‘fills in’’ the narrative space that is not covered by dialogue. On the other hand, the long shot tends to reinforce the structural look of a film and gains a semiotic, symbolic function as well. In Raise the Red Lantern, the structural compositions and their symbolic derivatives shore up the sense of distance in time and space and the psychology of the female characters as they engage in what modern feminists would consider absurd rivalry and power-play. The strength of the Fifth Generation directors lies in the ability to exploit historical objectivity and a highly personal approach to narrative filmmaking, thus breaking with the tradition of didacticism and literary approaches in Chinese cinema. That Zhang’s success in the West is attributed to exoticism is a price he must pay as his films LES DAMES DU BOIS DE BOULOGNEFILMS, 4 th EDITION 287 assume more formalized and realist, down-to-earth properties (as may be seen in The Story of Qiu Ju and his latest, To Live). —Stephen Teo LES DAMES DU BOIS DE BOULOGNE (Ladies of the Bois de Boulogne) France, 1945 Director: Robert Bresson Production: Films Raoul Ploquin; black and white, 35mm; running time: originally 96 minutes, but edited down to 84 minutes for initial release, current versions are usually 90 minutes. Released 21 Septem- ber 1945. Filmed summer 1944 in France. Producer: Robert Lavellée; screenplay: Robert Bresson; dialogue: Jean Cocteau, from a passage in ‘‘Jacques le fataliste et son ma?tre’’ by Denis Diderot; photography: Philippe Agostini; editor: Jean Feyte; sound: René Louge, Robert Ivonnet, and Lucien Legrand; production designer: Max Douy; music: Jean-Jacques Grunenwald. Cast: Paul Bernard (Jean); Maria Casares (Hélène); Elina Labourdette (Agnès J); Lucienne Bogaert (Madame D); Jean Marchat (Jacques); Yvette Etievant (Chamber maid); with Bernard Lajarrige, Nicole Regnault, Marcel Rouzé, Emma Lyonnel, Lucy Lancy, Marguerite de Morlaye, and the dog Katsou. Awards: Louis Delluc Award, France, 1945. Publications Script: Bresson, Robert, and Jean Cocteau, Les Dames du Bois de Boulogne, in Avant-Scène du Cinéma (Paris), 15 November 1977. Books: The Films of Robert Bresson, New York, 1969. Armes, Roy, French Cinema Since 1946, Volume 1: The Great Tradition, New York, 1970. Cameron, Ian, The Films of Robert Bresson, London, 1970. Schrader, Paul, Transcendental Style on Film: Ozu, Bresson, Dreyer, Los Angeles, 1972. Bresson, Robert, Notes sur le cinématographe, Paris, 1975; as Notes on the Cinema, New York, 1977. de Pontes Leca, C., Robert Bresson o cinematografo e o sinal, Lisbon, 1978. Sloan, Jane, Robert Bresson: A Film Guide, New York, 1983. Hanlon, Lindley, Fragments: Bresson’s Film Style, Cranbury, 1986. Quandt, James, editor, Robert Bresson, Toronto, 1998. Reader, Keith, Robert Bresson, Manchester, 2000. Articles: Sadoul, Georges, in Lettres Fran?aises (Paris), 29 September 1945. Becker, Jacques, ‘‘Hommage à Robert Bresson,’’ in Ecran Fran?ais (Paris), 17 October 1946. Lambert, Gavin, ‘‘Notes on Robert Bresson,’’ in Sight and Sound (London), Summer 1953. Truffaut, Fran?ois, in Arts (Paris), 22 September 1954. Gow, Gordon, ‘‘The Quest for Realism,’’ in Films and Filming (London), December 1957. Baxter, Brian, ‘‘Robert Bresson,’’ in Film (London), September- October 1958. Roud, Richard, ‘‘The Early Work of Robert Bresson,’’ in Film Culture (New York), no. 20, 1959. Roud, Richard, ‘‘French Outsider with an Insider Look,’’ in Films and Filming (London), April 1960. New York Times, 4 April 1964. Sarris, Andrew, ‘‘Robert Bresson,’’ in Interviews with Film Direc- tors, New York, 1967. Sontag, Susan, ‘‘Spiritual Style in the Films of Robert Bresson,’’ in Against Interpretation, New York, 1969. Skoller, Donald S., ‘‘Praxis as a Cinematic Principle in the Films of Robert Bresson,’’ in Cinema Journal (Evanston, Illinois), Fall 1969. ‘‘Robert Bresson,’’ in Current Biography Yearbook, New York, 1971. Samuels, Charles Thomas, ‘‘Robert Bresson,’’ in Encountering Direc- tors, New York, 1972. Polhemusin, H. M., ‘‘Matter and Spirit in the Films of Robert Bresson,’’ in Film Heritage (Dayton, Ohio), Spring 1974. ‘‘Les Dames du Bois de Boulogne Issue’’ of Avant-Scène du Cinéma (Paris), 15 November 1977. ‘‘Robert Bresson Issue’’ of Caméra/Stylo (Paris), January 1985. Signorelli, A., ‘‘Les dames du Bois de Boulogne di Robert Bresson,’’ in Cineforum, vol. 27, no. 9, 1987. Predal, R., in Avant Scène du Cinéma (Paris), January-February 1992. Michalczyk, J.J., and Paul Guth, in French Review, no. 4, 1992. Botermans, Jan, in Film en Televisie + Video (Brussels), Octo- ber 1996. *** Les Dames du Bois du Boulogne, Robert Bresson’s second film, premiered just at the moment of the Liberation of France. Considered a difficult and extraordinary work, it was the first recipient of the Louis Delluc Award for the year’s most important French film. What was it that made this film so difficult, and how could Bresson’s severe style have attracted the attention it did? First of all, the stifling studio look, by which Bresson was able to control every shadow, was perfectly suited to the hermetic era of the Occupation in which the film was made and to the strict moral drama of the film’s literary source. The story was culled from Diderot’s 18th-century classic Jacques le fataliste. Seemingly updated to in- clude automobiles, electric lights, etc., Bazin once claimed that LES DAMES DU BOIS DE BOULOGNE FILMS, 4 th EDITION 288 Les Dames du Bois de Boulogne Bresson’s adaptation is in fact back-dated, that it is the aesthetic equivalent of Racine. Bresson has indeed essentialized a picaresque, ironic drama into a tragic struggle of absolutes. More accurately, he has pitted the absolute and tragic world view of Hélène, the injured, icy heroine played elegantly by Maria Casares, against the more modern and temperate world views held by the lover who has left her, and by the two women she vengefully introduces him to in the Bois du Boulogne. Here is the crux of the film’s difficulty, for 20th-century spectators are required to identify with the hardened Hélène as she spins the web of her trap, using modern, attractive characters as bait. Yet the film succeeds because Bresson has supported her with his style, if not his moral sympathy. We experience her anguish and determination within the decisive clarity of each shot and within the fatal mechanism made up by the precise concatenation of shots. No accident or spontaneous gesture is permitted to enter either Hélène’s world or Bresson’s mise-en-scène. Jean Cocteau’s dialogue, compressed like some dense radioactive element, continually points up the absolute stakes at play; further- more, the lines he has written play antiphonally with the images to produce a reflective space in which every perception has already been oralized. A good example of this process is found when Jean enters Agnès’s room. He takes in this closed space and then transforms it in words: ‘‘This is her lamp, her flowers, her frame, her cushion. This is where she sits to read, this, her piano.’’ And yet throughout this recitation we see only his face. The dialogue sums up and closes off sentiments, cooling passions, abstracting emotions. We observe Hélène lying wrathful on her bed for some time before she leans forward to speak her incredibly cold, ‘‘Je me vengerai.’’ Although this style insists on the overpowering strength of Hélène’s response to life (in which a single errant word warrants death and damnation), the plot supports the more ordinary characters whom she has manipulated to the end. For after her plans have run their course, after she has announced to Jean at the church that he has married a loose woman, her power is spent. The grace of love, of the love born between these two humble and minor mortals, points to a life or a purpose beyond Hélène. Bresson’s Jansenism mixes severity (style) and the disclosure of grace (plot). Only the dead-time of the Occupation could have permitted such a refined and distant love story. Its timeless values, though, reflect on that period, particularly its concern with weakness, forgiveness, and the future in a world controlled by absolute political powers. More DANCE, GIRL, DANCEFILMS, 4 th EDITION 289 important is the full expression of a style that demands to be taken morally. Even if Bresson has since rejected this effort as too theatrical (with its music, acting, and studio lighting), the fact is that Les Dames du Bois du Boulogne showed the world the value of his search, a search that is at once stylistic and metaphysical, and one his later work has justified. It is a tribute to the French film community that they recognized the presence and importance of something truly different. —Dudley Andrew THE DAMNED See LA CADUTA DEGLI DEI DANCE, GIRL, DANCE USA, 1940 Director: Dorothy Arzner Production: RKO-Radio Pictures; black and white; running time: 90 minutes. Released September 1940. Producers: Erich Pommer and Harry Edington; screenplay: Tess Slesinger, Frank Davis, from the novel by Vicki Baum; assistant director: James H. Anderson; photography: Russell Metty; editor: Robert Wise; sound: Hugh McDowell, Jr.; art director: Van Nest Polglase; associate art director: Al Herman; gowns: Edward Ste- venson; music director: Edward Ward; dances: Ernst Matray. Cast: Maureen O’Hara (Judy); Louis Hayward (Jimmy Harris); Lucille Ball (Bubbles); Ralph Bellamy (Steve Adams); Virginia Field (Elinor Harris); Maria Ouspenskaya (Madame Basilova); Mary Carlisle (Sally); Katherine Alexander (Miss Olmstead); Edward Brophie (Dwarfie); Walter Abel (Judge); Harold Huber (Hoboken Gent); Ernest Truex (Bailey 1); Chester Clute (Bailey 2); Vivian Fay (Ballerina); Lorraine Krueger (Dolly); Lola Jensen (Daisy); Emma Dunn (Ms. Simpson); Sidney Blackmer (Puss in Boots); Ludwig Stossel (Caesar); Erno Verebes (Fitch). Publications Books: Johnston, Claire, Notes on Women’s Cinema, London 1973. Rosen, Marjorie, Popcorn Venus: Women, Movies and the American Dream, New York, 1973. Haskell, Molly, From Reverence to Rape: The Treatment of Women in the Movies, New York, 1974. Smith, Sharon, Women Who Make Movies, New York, 1975. Johnston, Claire, editor, The Work of Dorothy Arzner: Towards a Feminist Cinema, London, 1975. Kay, Karyn, and Gerald Peary, editors, Women and the Cinema: A Critical Anthology, New York, 1977. Slide, Anthony, Early Women Directors, South Brunswick, New Jersey, 1977. Heck-Rabi, Louise, Women Filmmakers: A Critical Reception, Metuchen, New Jersey, 1984. Penley, Constance, editor, Feminism and Film Theory, London, 1988. Mayne, Judith, Directed by Dorothy Arzner, Bloomington, 1995. Articles: Crowther, Bosley, in New York Times, 11 September 1940. Kine Weekly (London), 12 September 1940. Monthly Film Bulletin (London), vol. 7, no. 81, 1940. Feldman, J., and H. Feldman, ‘‘Women Directors,’’ in Films in Review (New York), November 1950. Pyros, J., ‘‘Notes on Women Directors,’’ in Take One (Montreal), November-December 1970. Henshaw, Richard, ‘‘Women Directors,’’ in Film Comment (New York), November 1972. Parker, F., ‘‘Approaching the Art of Arzner,’’ in Action (Los Ange- les), July-August 1973. Velvet Light Trap (Madison, Wisconsin), Fall 1973. Castle, W., ‘‘Tribute to Dorothy Arzner,’’ in Action (Los Angeles), March-April 1975. Kaplan, E. Ann, ‘‘Aspects of British Feminist Film Theory,’’ in Jump Cut (Berkeley), nos. 12–13, 1976. Glaessner, Verina, in Focus on Film (London), Summer-Autumn 1976. Laemmle, Ann, in Cinema Texas Program Notes, 28 February 1978. Bergstrom, J., ‘‘Rereading the Work of Claire Johnston,’’ in Camera Obscura (Berkeley), Summer 1979. Forster, A., in Skrien (Amsterdam), September-October 1984. Chell, S. L., ‘‘Dorothy Arzner’s Dance, Girl, Dance,’’ in CineAction (Toronto), Summer-Fall 1991. *** Dance, Girl, Dance is one of the few films directed by a woman in what is known as the ‘‘classical Hollywood’’ era, when, it has been argued, the conventional narrative codes of cinema were fixed. This unique position has inevitably informed the ways in which the film has been studied. Although Dorothy Arzner herself was not a femi- nist, it is due to feminism that she has been reassessed. In the mid- 1970s feminist critics argued that while Dance, Girl, Dance may appear to be just one example of the popular musical comedies and women’s pictures produced by RKO in the 1930s and 1940s, Arzner’s ironic point of view questions the very conventions she uses. The film was made in the relative flexibility of RKO’s production system, whereby independent directors were contracted to work under minimal supervision. It was in this context that Arzner was reputedly able to rework a confusing and scrappy script to focus on the ambivalent relationship between the two strong, but very differ- ent, main female characters, Judy, an aspiring ballerina, and Bubbles, a gold-digging showgirl. Bubbles, after finding work in burlesque, DAOMA ZEI FILMS, 4 th EDITION 290 brings Judy’s ‘‘classy act’’ into her show, where Judy is humiliated as her stooge. One night, Bubbles announces that she has married Jimmy Harris, a weak heavy-drinking millionaire divorcé with whom Judy has fallen in love. Consequently, in a scene that has been much discussed, Judy, overwhelmed with frustration, furiously confronts her heckling audience. The standing ovation she receives infuriates Bubbles, and they fall into a vicious fight. Judy, unrepentant, is sent to jail, but the next day, Steve Adams, a ballet director who has been pursuing her, pays her bail and summons her to his office. He intends to train her to be a professional ballerina and, it is implied, his wife. Arzner’s portrayal of the complex relationship between the two women is one of the ways in which the apparent opposition set up between art (offering ‘‘self-expression’’) and entertainment (impos- ing exploitation) is undermined. The ways in which each woman’s dance numbers are presented subvert the stereotypes of a sexual Bubbles and an artistic Judy. For example, when Judy dances at the night-club, Fitch, Steve’s associate, comments in surprise at her impressive (i.e., artistic) footwork. Steve, however, leers that ‘‘her eyes aren’t bad either.’’ Arzner pinpoints with terrible clarity the tension between a woman’s struggle for integrity and a male gaze that by its very nature undermines that struggle. Where, then, does this leave Bubbles? When she dances at the burlesque, the ironies of her performances are a real delight for the cinema audience. When she calls and points to her audience she is challenging them, from within the licensed confines of burlesque conventions, in a way that parallels Judy’s later outburst. Both women challenge, from the stage, the men who watch them, and thereby resist their passive status. So while we are invited to gaze upon Bubbles as a non-artistic spectacle, she is also knowing, controlling, with a voice of her own. It is the sheer power of this ‘‘voice,’’ Bubbles’s potent screen presence, that subverts her implied position as less worthy than Judy. Much of the critical attention paid to Judy’s furious speech has suggested that the artistic and moral criticism of the lecherous gaze of the burlesque audience also functions as a not-so-veiled attack on the cinema audience. However, the film has much invested in drawing in its audience to enjoy the display of women’s bodies, and this impulse arguably triumphs over the conflicting impulse to alienate the audi- ence, or to chastise it for its voyeurism. Judy’s gesture is thus defused by being applauded, and leading into the titillating catfight. But the irony is that she has found a voice and can defiantly assert, ‘‘I’m not ashamed,’’ not within the structures of the ballet, but in those of the burlesque. As in Arzner’s earlier work, and within the conventions of the women’s film, it is the scenes featuring women that are the most striking and subtle, and in contrast, the heterosexual romance appears hollow. Although a weak love-story element runs through the film, the women’s desires are channelled less towards coupledom than independence. After a date with Jimmy, Judy wishes on a star that she might become a dancer too. She wants it all, romance and artistic integrity, and the latter is never submerged in the former. Bubbles, on the other hand, desires economic rather than artistic independence. Both her dancing and her sexual desires are grounded in a cynicism about heterosexual relationships that affords her one of the film’s finest throwaway lines, describing the burlesque owner as ‘‘a great big capitalist in the artificial limbs business.’’ However, the position of strong female protagonists in a Holly- wood text is a precarious one, and it is in the final scene that this is tragically realised. Steve, in a humiliating tirade, asserts that Judy has been a silly, stubborn ‘‘girl.’’ The incongruously huge hat that she wears in this scene hides her face until, as Steve embraces her and tells her to ‘‘go ahead and laugh,’’ it is revealed that she is, in fact, weeping. Arzner’s final irony offers the potential for a critique of the traditional boy-gets-girl resolution, and, implicitly, of the classical Hollywood text itself. —Samantha Cook DAOMA ZEI (Horse Thief) China, 1986 Director: Tian Zhuangzhuang Production: Xi’an Film Studio; Eastmancolour, Scope, 35mm; run- ning time: 96 minutes. Filmed in Tibet. Distributed in the United States by China Film Import and Export. Executive producer: Wu Tianming; screenplay: Zhang Rui; pho- tography: Hou Yong, Zhao Fei; assistant director: Pan Peicheng; production manager: Li Changqing; editor: Li Jingzhong; art director: Huo Jianqi; lighting: Yao Zhuoxi; music: Qu Xiaosong. Cast: Tseshang Rigzin (Norbu); Dan Jiji (Dolma); Jayang Jamco (Tashi); Gaoba (Nowre); Daiba (Granny); Drashi (Grandfather). Publications Book: Berry, Chris, Perspectives on Chinese Cinema, London, 1991. Articles: Variety (New York), 2 September 1987. Combs, R., Monthly Film Bulletin (London), September 1987. Stanbrook, A., ‘‘Sky-burial,’’ in Sight and Sound (London), Autumn 1987. Bourgignon, T., ‘‘Documentaire magique,’’ in Positif (Paris), Decem- ber 1991. Cheng, Scarlet, ‘‘Directors: A Rebel’s Cause,’’ Asiaweek, February 16, 1994. Sklar, Robert, ‘‘People and Politics, Simple and Direct,’’ in Cineaste (New York), vol. 20, no. 4, 1994. Gladney, D.C., ‘‘Tian Zhuangzhuang, the 5th Generation, and Minori- ties in Film in China,’’ in Public Culture, vol. 8, no. 1, 1995. Buchet, J.-M., ‘‘Le voleur de chevaux,’’ in Les Cine-Fiches de Grand Angle, May 1997. *** DAWANDEHFILMS, 4 th EDITION 291 It is 1923, on the remote Tibetan plains. Two horsemen dressed in sheepskin gallop over a ridge on their way to rustle a coral of horses. Half drama and half reconstructed documentary on a life long past, Horse Thief is director Tian Zhuangzhuang’s romantic peaen to China’s Noble Savage. Norbu is the Savage in question. With his long mass of tangled hair, his well-tanned and sinuous torso, and his dark flashing eyes, he rides a horse with as much dignity and naturalness as he strides the arid plains. He may steal horses and waylay Muslim travelers in the desert, but he is, nevertheless, a devoted husband to his wife, Dolma, and doting father to his young son, Tashi. In this film we become witness to the rites and passages of traditional Tibetan life—the ritualistic offerings to the gods; a funeral wake that ends with the corpse being laid out to be pecked apart by vultures; a visit by Norbu, his wife, and son to a temple to spin a row of vertical prayer wheels mounted on columns. In one especially stunning scene, a crowd of men gather in the valley to worship the Mountain God. They set up an endless wailing as they push the sacred sheep ahead of them. They toss wads of votive paper into air. Caught by gusts of wind, the papers swirl forward, like giant snowflakes, blanketing the valley amidst a spooky chorus of voices. In another hypnotic scene Norbu and Dolma stand, pray, and prostrate themselves across the plain against a series of superimposed religious objects and temple architecture. The sound of bells, the drone of chanting, the rhythm of a single drum—all help transport us into the primeval world of legend. Horse thievery is one thing—but desecration is another. One day Norbu and his outlaw partner come upon a sacred ground, where offerings have been left strewn about. They begin to pick through the jewelry and ornaments. ‘‘The big pile is for the temple, the small ones we’ll split between us,’’ says Norbu. Then something catches his eye. From a pile he picks out a golden medallion, which he exchanges for something of his own. Returning home, he gives it to his chortling boy: but here in the pristine, primeval world, everything is linked, and there is no crime without punishment. As the village elder says, ‘‘Norbu has offended God. He stole the official’s temple gifts.’’ He continues, ‘‘The officials demand a serious punishment, but no matter what, he’s a member of my clan. According to our rules, he is to be driven out forever.’’ As Noble Savage, Norbu manfully accepts his fate and leaves at once. Exile, however, is not the worst punishment. His young son soon falls ill. Norbu brings back Holy Water from the temple to dab his son’s forehead; he rocks the sick child in his arms, singing, ‘‘Go to sleep and I will give you a horse/ There’s a saddle ready for you, and I have a bridle, too/ I will catch a star just for you....’’ But for all of Norbu’s tenderness, the boy dies. Even the land itself is sick. As stock animals die off in droves, Norbu’s tribe is forced to move west, and Norbu himself must steal again. In the end, he pays a desperate price for his transgressions. Director Tian (b. 1952) entered the Beijing Film Academy in 1978, and yet he had to go elsewhere to make the two films on which his reputation is based—to the Inner Mongolia Film Studio for On the Hunting Ground (1985; a film about Mongolian horsemen) and to Xian Film Studio for Horse Thief. In Horse Thief, using only sparse dialogue, Tian has created a stunning poetry with visuals, editing, and sound that convey the very experience of living in an ancient tribal universe, a world of myth and immutable laws. Although the film was not well received in China, selling just seven prints, Tian himself dismissed the lack of audience. As he said in a controversial interview with Yang Ping for the magazine Popular Cinema: ‘‘I shot Horse Thief for audiences of the next century to watch.’’ —Scarlet Cheng DAWANDEH (The Runner) Iran, 1984 Director: Amir Naderi Production: Tehran Institute for the Intellectual Development of Children and Young Adults; colour, 35mm; running time: 94 minutes. Executive producer: Fathola Dalili; screenplay: Amir Naderi, Behruz Gharibpur; photography: Firuz Malkzadeh; editor: Bahram Beyza’i; assistant director: Mohammmad Hassanzadeh; production design: Gholam Reza Ramezani; sound: Nezam-e-Din Kia’i. Cast: Majid Nirumand (Amiro); Musa Torkizadeh (Musa); A. Gholamzadeh (Uncle Gholam); Reza Ramezani (Ramezan). Publications Articles: Variety (New York), 2 October 1985. Sabouraud, F., ‘‘L’enfant double,’’ in Cahiers du Cinéma (Paris), December 1986. Glaessner, Verina, in Monthly Film Bulletin (London), August 1988. Skrien (Amsterdam), April-May 1990. *** Dawandeh follows the day-to-day life of 13-year-old Amiro. The boy ekes out a living amongst the underclass of an Iranian port community. Depicting the details of his life—collecting bottles discarded from ships, shining shoes, and at home on a derelict boat on the shoreline—this is a remarkable story of a boy who rises above all odds to better himself. Amiro is charged with a will to survive: in addition to struggling to earn enough money to feed himself, he takes himself to school for literacy classes. Everything to the boy is a challenge, and the almost palpable spark within him drives him onward in his quest for triumph. DAYS OF HEAVEN FILMS, 4 th EDITION 292 Amiro yearns for things outside his grasp: he runs along the shoreline shouting and waving at the great ships; he’s fascinated by a light plane he sees at a local aerodrome and is overjoyed to see it take off, seemingly able to whisk people away from his reality of grinding poverty to a new world. To overcome the difficulties of his life, Amiro learns to outrun his adversaries. When he joins a gang of boys collecting bottles dumped from ships and bobbing about in the shallows, he learns the quickest worker can collect the most—a lesson not without cost, he discovers, as his speed at this task leads to a fight with one of the regular collectors. Another of his attempts to earn a living is selling iced water to the dock workers. This involves buying ice some distance away from the port and running back with it. Amiro’s running skills and determination are proven when he is able to wrest the melting ice away from an adult thief. Amiro must pay for everything in his life: the inner-tube he uses to float out into the bay for the bottle collection, the ice to sell on the port, and even a burnt-out light bulb with which to decorate his makeshift home in an attempt to emulate the ‘‘glamour’’ of the outdoor cafe where he is a shoeshine boy. When one of the customers at the cafe accuses Amiro of stealing his lighter, the boy is aghast at this allegation, as he is innately honest. This story of a poverty-ridden existence is superbly realised by director Amir Naderi, not only because it is an autobiographical account of his childhood, but also because the filmmaking is of such a high standard. Majid Nerimand as Amiro is wonderful, bringing real feeling and acting skill to his role. Naderi obviously knows his locale intimately and this shows in the film. We see life from Amiro’s point of view and accept it for what it is. We have the insider’s view of this world and the film gains from that—the unpretentious, yet intimate, forum is Dawandeh’s strongest quality. —Lee Sellars A DAY IN THE COUNTRY See UNE PARTIE DE CAMPAGNE DAY OF WRATH See VREDENS DAG DAYBREAK See LE JOUR SE LEVE DAYS AND NIGHTS IN THE FOREST See Aranyer din Ratri DAYS OF BEING WILD See AHFEI ZHENG ZHUAN DAYS OF HEAVEN USA, 1978 Director: Terrence Malick Production: O.P. Productions; Metrocolor, 35mm, Dolby sound; running time: 95 minutes. Released 13 September 1978. Filmed on location in the Midwest; cost: $2.5 million. Producers: Bert and Harold Schneider; executive producer: Jacob Brickman; screenplay: Terrence Malick; photography: Nestor Almendros with additional photography by Haskell Wexler; editor: Billy Weber; sound mixers: George Ronconi, Barry Thomas; special sound effects: James Cox; art director: James Fisk; music: Ennio Morricone and Leo Kottke; special effects: John Thomas and Mel Merrells; costume designer: Patricia Norris. Cast: Richard Gere (The Brother); Brooke Adams (The Girl); Sam Shepard (The Farm owner); Linda Manz (The Sister); Robert Wilke (The Foreman); Jackie Shultis; Stuart Margolin; Tim Scott; Gene Bell; Doug Kershaw (Fiddle player). Awards: Oscar for Best Cinematography, 1978; New York Film Critics Award for Best Director, 1978; Cannes Film Festival, Best Director, 1979. Publications Articles: Schreger, C., in Variety (New York), 13 September 1978. Fox, T. C., in Film Comment (New York), September-October 1978. Riley, B., ‘‘Nestor Almendros Interviewed,’’ in Film Comment (New York), September-October 1978. Films in Review (New York), November 1978. Insdorf, A., in Take One (Montreal), November 1978. Hodenfield, Chris, ‘‘Terrence Malick: Days of Heaven’s Image Maker,’’ in Rolling Stone (New York), 16 November 1978. Films and Filming (London), December 1978. Christian Century (Chicago), 3 January 1979. Schlesinger, Arthur M., ‘‘Days of High Seriousness,’’ in Saturday Review (New York), 6 January 1979. Corliss, Richard, in New York Times, 8 January 1979. Maraval, P., ‘‘Dossier: Hollywood 79—Terrence Malick,’’ in Cinématographe (Paris), March 1979. Combs, Richard, ‘‘The Eyes of Texas: Terrence Malick’s Days of Heaven,’’ in Sight and Sound (London), Spring 1979. Carcassone, P., in Cinématographe (Paris), June 1979. Coleman, John, in New Statesman (London), 1 June 1979. Morris, M., in Cinema Papers (Melbourne), September-October 1979. Alpert, Hollis, ‘‘The Rise of Richard Gere,’’ in American Film (Washington, D.C.), October 1979. Ciment, Michel, and B. Riley, ‘‘Le Jardin de Terrence Malick,’’ in Positif (Paris), December 1979. Pérez Turrent, T., ‘‘Dias de Gloria y Badlands: Terrence Malick, nueva personalidad del cine norteamericano,’’ in Cine (Mexico City), March 1980. DAYS OF HEAVENFILMS, 4 th EDITION 293 Days of Heaven Bedoya, R., in Hablemos de Cine (Lima), November 1980. Donough, M., ‘‘West of Eden: Terrence Malick’s Days of Heaven,’’ in Post Script (Jacksonville, Florida), Fall 1985. Taubin, A., in Village Voice (New York), 8 June 1993. Wondra, Janet, ‘‘A Gaze Unbecoming: Schooling the Child for Femininity in Days of Heaven,’’ in Wide Angle (Baltimore), vol. 16, no. 4, October 1995. Séquences (Haute-Ville), March/June 1997. Positif (Paris), March 1999. *** Of Terrence Malick’s two feature films to date, Badlands is perhaps the more satisfying, Days of Heaven the more remarkable. Malick’s achievement must be seen first and foremost in terms of its opposition to the dominant Hollywood shooting and editing codes of the period. Those codes are centred on the television-derived misuse and overuse of the telephoto (plus zoom) lens, in the interests of speed and economy rather than from any aesthetic interest in its intrinsic properties; this is seconded by the lyrical use of shallow focus and focus-shifts as an instant signifier of ‘‘beauty’’ (flowers in focus in the foreground, out-of-focus lovers in the background, shift focus to the lovers behind a foreground of out-of-focus flowers). Bo Widerberg’s use of this in Elvira Madigan (the decisive influence) had a certain authenticity and originality, but it quickly lapsed into automatic cliché. Within such a context the sharp-etched, crystal-clear, depth- of-field images of Malick and his magnificent cameraman, Nestor Almendros, in Days of Heaven assume the status of protest and manifesto. They restore the concept of ‘‘beauty’’ from its contempo- rary debasement. There is a further consequence of this—what one might call the resurrection of mise-en-scène, theorized in the 1950s and 1960s as the essential art of film, and seemingly a lost art since. In place of the ‘‘one-shot—one point’’ of the flat, perfunctory images derived from television, Malick suddenly has a frame within which to compose in depth, where every segment of the image potentially signifies. The desire for precision and definition within the image here combines naturally with a most delicate feeling for nuances of emotion and interchange between the characters. Joseph Conrad’s description of Henry James as ‘‘the historian of fine consciences’’ comes to mind. Aptly enough; for what is Days of Heaven but a re-working of the DE CIERTA MANERA FILMS, 4 th EDITION 294 subject of James’s The Wings of the Dove, with the sexes reversed and the protagonists transposed to the working class? Given the film’s concern with the realities of democratic cap- italism—manifest inequality, poverty, class oppression—the ‘‘beauty’’ is a potential problem. Indeed it comes perilously close (especially in its opening sequences) to aestheticizing misery in the manner of, for example, Lean’s Doctor Zhivago, where the response ‘‘Isn’t that terrible?’’ is completely superseded by ‘‘Isn’t that beautifully photo- graphed?’’ The distinction of Days of Heaven lies partly in its careful separation of its sense of beauty from the human misery and tension depicted. The pervasive suggestion is that human existence could correspond to the natural and aesthetic beauty the film celebrates, were it not for the oppressive systems of organization that men [sic] have developed: the film’s sense of tragedy is firmly grounded in an awareness of class and gender oppression. As in Heaven’s Gate, the woman expresses her ability and freedom to love both men. It is the men who precipitate catastrophe by demanding exclusivity and ownership as their right, and as a means of bolstering their threat- ened egos. Badlands explicitly acknowledged, in its final credits, the influ- ence of Arthur Penn; in fact, its relation to Bonnie and Clyde is at once obvious and tenuous, restricted to its subject. Far more important seemed the influence of Godard, especially in Les Carabiniers and Pierrot le fou. The film’s counterpointing of verbal narration and image is extremely sophisticated and, in relation to classical Holly- wood narrative, audaciously unconventional. Days of Heaven simul- taneously modifies and develops this strategy; the verbal narration of Linda Manz represents a less jarring dislocation than the use of Sissy Spacek’s diary in the earlier film, but provides a continuous and subtle distancing which contributes significantly to the film’s unique flavor, in which irony co-exists with intense involvement. —Robin Wood DE CIERTA MANERA (One Way or Another) Cuba, 1977 Director: Sara Gómez Production: Instituto Cubano del Arte e Industria Cinematográficos (ICAIC); black and white, 35mm, originally shot in 16mm; running time: 79 minutes; length: 2147 meters. Released 1977. Producer: Camilo Vives; scenario: Sara Gómez and Tomas González Pérez; screenplay: Tomas Gutíerrez Alea and Julio García Espinosa; assistant directors: Rigoberto López and Daniel Diaz Torres; pho- tography: Luis García; editor: Iván Arocha; sound: Germinal Hernández; production designer: Roberto Larraburre; music: Sergio Vitier; songs: Sara González. Cast: Mario Balmaseda (Mario); Yolanda Cuellar (Yolanda); Mario Limonta (Humberto). Publications Books: Adelman, Alan, editor, A Guide to Cuban Cinema, Pittsburgh, 1981. Chanan, Michael, The Cuban Image: Cinema and Cultural Politics in Cuba, London, 1985. Articles: Chijona, Geraldo, in Cine Cubano (Havana), no. 93. López, Rigoberto, ‘‘Hablar de Sara: De cierta manera,’’ in Cine Cubano (Havana), no. 93. ‘‘Special Sections’’ of Jump Cut (Berkeley), December 1978 and May 1980. Lesage, Julia, ‘‘One Way or Another: Dialectical, Revolutionary, Feminist,’’ in Jump Cut (Berkeley), May 1979. Marrosu, A., in Cine al Día (Caracas), June 1980. Pym, John, in Monthly Film Bulletin (London), July 1980. Chanan, M., ‘‘Otra mirada,’’ in Cine Cubano (Havana), no. 127, 1989. Lezcano, J. A., ‘‘De cierta manera con Sara Gómez,’’ in Cine Cubano (Havana), no. 127, 1989. Lopez, A. M., ‘‘Parody, Underdevelopment, and the New Latin American Cinema,’’ in Quarterly Review of Film and Video (New York), no. 1–2, 1990. Davies, Catherine, ‘‘Modernity, Masculinity and Imperfect Cinema in Cuba,’’ in Screen (Oxford), Winter 1997. *** Here is a revolutionary film: dialectical in form and content, humble in the face of real human experience, proposing no final answers except the unending struggle of a people to make something out of what history has made of them. De cierta manera is that powerful hybrid—the fictional documentary set to a tropical beat— for which the cinema of revolutionary Cuba is justifiably famous. In this instance, the documentary deals with the destruction of slum housing and the struggle against the culture of marginality generated in such slums through the creation of a new housing project (Miraflores) and an accompanying educational program. The fictional embodi- ment of this historical process is seen in the clash of attitudes between Mario (a product of the slums), his lover Yolanda (a teacher who has come to Miraflores to help integrate such marginal elements into the revolution), and his friend Humberto (a fun-loving slacker). In the course of telling these stories, and others, De cierta manera demol- ishes the categories of fiction and documentary, insisting that both forms are equally mediated by the intention of the filmmaker, and that both thus require a critical stance. This insistence on a critical attitude is conveyed, first of all, in the dialectical resonance of the film, a structure characteristic of the best of the Cuban cinema. Visually this resonance is achieved through a rich blending of fictional present and historical recreation with documentary and semi-documentary. In fact, it becomes impossible to distinguish the different forms; fictional characters are set in documentary sequences where they interact with real people and real people re-enact historical re-constructions which are not visually in accordance with their own telling of the stories. Further, the film repeats various sequences several times, twisting the film back on itself and requiring the audience to participate actively in analyzing the different perspectives offered on the problems posed by the film. THE DEADFILMS, 4 th EDITION 295 The sound track is as creatively textured as are the images, and is every bit as demanding of the audience. The film sets up a tension between the classical documentary and its omniscient narrator, cine- ma-verité interviews, and fictional cinema. The omniscient documen- tary provides sociological data on different facets of marginality. Although this data establishes one framework for the ‘‘fictional’’ core of the film, its deliberately pompous tone warns us that we must critically question even such ‘‘official’’ pronouncements. This omniscient narrator is juxtaposed to the conversations which take place around different aspects of marginalism. The manifesta- tions of the culture of marginality are seen to be manifold—work absenteeism, machismo, delinquency—and the problem is hotly debated by everyone. Humberto is criticized for taking off from work on an unauthorized four-day jaunt with a girlfriend, while lying about his ‘‘sick mother.’’ Mario is criticized for denouncing Humberto, not because his attitude was counterproductive, but because Humberto accused him of being an informer—a violation of male-bonding rules. Yolanda criticizes the mothers of children who misbehave in school, and is in turn criticized by her co-workers for her inability to empathize with women whose background is so different from hers. Although trenchant and acute, these critiques are also loving and constructive. Just as individuals in the film leave these confrontations with a clearer understanding of the revolutionary process to which they are committed, so too does the audience leave the film with a more precise notion of dialectical film. At the end of the film, the factory workers meet where the fictional confrontation of Mario and Humberto took place and enter into a discussion of the case. They seem to rise up and incorporate themselves into the actual production of the film itself. This is as it should be, for this film demands the participation of all: real people and actors, workers and marginal elements, teachers and housewives, audience and filmmaker. The wrecking ball (in a sequence repeated several times during the film) is not only destroying the slums and (metaphorically) the slum mentality, it may also be demolishing some of the more cherished assumptions of moviegoers in bourgeois cultures. —John Mraz THE DEAD UK/US/West Germany, 1987 Director: John Huston Production: Liffey; color; running time: 83 minutes. Filmed in Dublin, Ireland, and Valencia, California. Producer: Wieland Schulz-Keil, Chris Sievernich, William J. Quigley (executive); screenplay: Tony Huston, from a story by James Joyce; cinematographer: Fred Murphy; editor: Roberto Silvi; music: Alex North; casting: Nuala Moiselle; production design: Stephen B. Grimes, J. Dennis Washington; set decoration: Josie MacAvin; costume design: Dorothy Jeakins; production manager: Tom Shaw; makeup: Fern Buchner, Keis Maes, Anthony Cortino, Louise Dowling, Anne Dunne, Christopher Shihar. Cast: Anjelica Huston (Gretta Conroy); Donal McCann (Gabriel Conroy); Helena Carroll (Aunt Kate); Cathleen Delany (Aunt Julia); Dan O’Herlihy (Mr. Browne); Donal Donnelly (Freddy Malins); Marie Kean (Mrs. Malins); Frank Patterson (Bartell D’Arcy); Rachael Dowling (Lily); Ingrid Craigie (Mary Jane); Maria McDernottroe (Molly Ivors); Sean McGlory (Mr. Grace); Kate O’Toole (Miss Furlong); Maria Hayden (Miss O’Callaghan); Bairbre Dowling (Miss Higgins); Lyda Anderson (Miss Daly); Colm Meaney (Mr. Bergin); Cormac O’Herlihy (Mr. Kerrigan); Paul Grant (Mr. Duffy); Paul Carroll (Young Gentleman); Patrick Gallagher (Mr. Egan); Dara Clarke (Miss Power); Brendan Dillon (Cabman); Redmond Gleeson (Nightporter); Amanda Baird (Young Lady). Awards: National Society of Films Critics Award for Best Film, 1987; Special Achievement Award (John Huston), Tokyo Interna- tional Film Festival, 1987; Independent Spirit Awards for Best Director and Best Actress (Angelica Huston), 1988; Best American Film Award, Bodil Festival, 1989. Publications: Books: McCarty, John, The Films of John Huston, Secaucus, New Jer- sey, 1987. Grobel, Lawrence, The Hustons, New York, 1989. Studlar, Gaylyn, editor, Reflections in a Male Eye: John Huston and the American Experience, Washington, D.C., 1993. Cooper, Stephen, Perspectives on John Huston, New York, 1994. Brill, Lesley, John Huston’s Filmmaking, New York, 1997. Cohen, Allen, John Huston: A Guide to References and Resources, New York, 1997. Articles: ‘‘Zenith and Huston to Team on The Dead,’’ in Variety (New York), vol. 325, 17 December 1986. Harmetz, A., ‘‘Patient: John Huston; Rx: Film,’’ in The New York Times, 8 March 1987. Huston, T., ‘‘Family Ties,’’ in American Film, vol. 12, Septem- ber 1987. Cart, T. McCarthy, ‘‘Film Legend John Huston Dead at 81: Final Pic Bows at Venice,’’ in Variety (New York), vol. 328, 2 Septem- ber 1987. Wiener, D.J., ‘‘The Dead: A Study in Light and Shadow,’’ in American Cinematographer (Hollywood), vol. 68, November 1987. Sante, L., ‘‘The Last Chapter: The Dead,’’ in Premiere (Boulder), vol. 1, December 1987. Cargin, P., ‘‘Huston’s Finale,’’ in Film (London), no. 10, Decem- ber 1987. Kael, P., ‘‘The Current Cinema: Irish Voices,’’ in New Yorker, vol. 63, 14 December 1987. O’Brien, T., ‘‘Screen: Ethnic Colorings—Emperor, The Dead, and Wannsee,’’ in Commonweal, vol. 114, 18 December 1987. Kauffman, S., ‘‘Stanley Kauffmann on Films: Last Rites,’’ in The New Republic, vol. 197, 21 December 1987. Baxter, B., in Films and Filming (London), no. 399, December 1987. Pulleine, T., ‘‘A Memory of Galway,’’ in Sight & Sound (London), vol. 5, no. 1, 1987/1988. THE DEAD FILMS, 4 th EDITION 296 The Dead Burgess, A., ‘‘The Task of Turning Joyce’s Prose to Film Poetry,’’ in The New York Times, vol. 137, section 2, 3 January 1988. Denby, D., ‘‘The Living,’’ in New York Magazine, vol. 21, 18 January 1988. Varjola, M., ‘‘Elava Kuollut,’’ in Filmihullu (Helsinki), no. 4, 1988. James, C., ‘‘Film View: When Film Becomes a Feast of Words,’’ in The New York Times, vol. 138, section 2, 30 July 1989. Cardullo, B., ‘‘Epiphanies,’’ in Hudson Review, vol. 41, no. 4, 1989. Shout, J.D., ‘‘Joyce at Twenty-Five, Huston at Eighty-One: The Dead,’’ in Literature/Film Quarterly (Salisbury), vol. 17, no. 2, 1989. Yetya, N., ‘‘Los Muertos,’’ in Dicine, no. 36, September 1990. ‘‘The Angel Gabriel,’’ in New Yorker, vol. 68, 28 December1992/4 January 1993. Pederson, A., ‘‘Uncovering The Dead: A Study of Adaptation,’’ in Literature/Film Quarterly (Salisbury), vol. 21, no. 1, 1993. Pilipp, F., ‘‘Narrative Devices and Aesthetic Perception in Joyce’s and Huston’s The Dead,’’ in Literature/Film Quarterly (Salis- bury), vol. 21, no. 1, 1993. *** It’s hard to think of a major filmmaker who relied more on literary adaptations than John Huston. The great majority of his 36 features— and virtually all the best ones—were drawn from novels, short stories, or plays; and he was invariably, though never slavishly, faithful to the spirit of the original. This quality of loving respect for his source material shines through the culminating film of his long career, The Dead. A bitter-sweet meditation on transience and mortality, The Dead is taken from the last and longest story in James Joyce’s 1914 collection Dubliners. The setting is Dublin in the winter of 1904 when two elderly sisters, Kate and Julia Morkan, and their niece, Mary Jane, give their annual dinner party and dance. The scenario, by Huston’s son Tony, sticks closely to the original story and often uses Joyce’s own dialogue. On the surface, very little happens. (‘‘The biggest piece of action,’’ Huston noted ironically, ‘‘is trying to pass the port.’’) The guests assemble; they eat, drink, dance, banter, and in one or two cases flirt mildly; the party winds to its end; and in the closing fifteen minutes we follow two of the company as they return to their hotel. We seem to be watching the casual, happening flow of life, convivial but unremarkable. No voices are raised, except now and then in song; no dramatic emphases in the acting, scoring, or camerawork urge our attention. Yet every detail, unobtrusively DEAD OF NIGHTFILMS, 4 th EDITION 297 placed, contributes to the final effect: a rare depth of poignancy, all the more moving for being so quietly expressed. When he made The Dead Huston was himself dying, and knew it. Suffering from terminal emphysema, he directed from a wheelchair, hooked up to an oxygen cylinder. He had hoped to make the film in Ireland, as a farewell to the country where he had lived for twenty years and whose citizenship he’d taken, but it proved impractical. Instead, a wintry Dublin was convincingly recreated in a warehouse in Valencia, north of Los Angeles, with a second unit sent to Ireland to pick up location shots. Much of the time, constrictions of space made it impossible for Huston to be on set with the actors, and he directed via a TV monitor. None of these limitations shows in the film, which feels effortlessly relaxed and natural. Throughout the long party sequence that takes up the first hour of the film, Huston’s camera roams around the various groupings, picking up snatches of conversation, conveying unspoken nuances in a gesture or a glance. Matters of politics and religion are touched on, sketching in a sense of the period: an assertive young woman, Molly Ivors, mocks the hostesses’ nephew, Gabriel Conroy, for being a ‘‘West Briton’’ who neglects Irish culture, and Aunt Kate tactfully refers to the Protestant Mr. Browne as being ‘‘of the other persua- sion.’’ The scapegrace Freddy Malins arrives tipsy, to the alarm of his mother who anxiously steers him away from further boozing. Mary Jane plays a showy piece on the piano; older guests listen politely while the younger ones escape to the drinks table in the next room. The cast, all Irish except Anjelica Huston (who, having grown up in Ireland, fits in seamlessly) and many of them from the Abbey Theatre company, give a note-perfect display of ensemble acting. Gradually, beneath the light comedy, more sombre themes emerge. The older, frailer sister, Miss Julia, is persuaded to sing a Bellini aria; her quavery voice suggests this will be the last year she’ll be there to sing it. Talk turns to lost glories of the past, to friends now dead, to monks who sleep in their coffins as a reminder of ‘‘their last end.’’ And alongside these intimations of mortality comes the idea of a love absolute and all-consuming when one of the guests recites an old Irish poem, the sole notable element in the film not drawn from Joyce’s original: ‘‘You have taken the East and the West from me, you have taken the sun and the moon from me. . . .’’ During this, Gabriel casts a glance at his wife Gretta (Huston) who is listening, rapt. This brief shot foreshadows the turning moment of the film. The party is breaking up, Gabriel and Gretta are on their way downstairs, when from above comes the voice of a tenor singing a melancholy old ballad, ‘‘The Lass of Aughrim.’’ Gretta stops on the stair, transfixed, her whole posture suggesting a sorrow long held within her like an unborn child. At the hotel she tells Gabriel how the song was once sung by a gentle boy who died—perhaps for love of her. She weeps herself to sleep, while Gabriel gloomily reflects how prosaic, by comparison, is his love for her, ‘‘how poor a part I’ve played in her life.’’ He muses on the dead boy, on his aunt soon to die, on others departed, and as the snow swirls outside the window, his voice-over thoughts ease into the words that end Joyce’s story: ‘‘Snow is general all over Ireland. . . falling faintly through the universe, and faintly falling, like the descent of their last end, upon all the living and the dead.’’ John Huston’s last film, an elegy for Ireland and for himself, closes on a grace-note at once regretful and reconciled. —Philip Kemp DEAD OF NIGHT UK, 1945 Directors: Alberto Cavalcanti, Charles Crichton, Basil Dearden, Robert Hamer Production: A Michael Balcon Production for Ealing Studios; filmed as a set of five stories, with a linking narrative directed by Dearden from a story by E. F. Benson: ‘‘Christmas Party’’ (director: Cavalcanti, from a story by Angus Macphail), ‘‘Hearse Drivers’’ (director: Dearden, from a story by E. F. Benson), ‘‘The Haunted Mirror’’ (director: Hamer, from a story by John V. Baines), ‘‘Golfing Story’’ (director: Crichton, from a story by H. G. Wells), ‘‘The Ventriloquist Dummy’’ (director: Cavalcanti, from a story by John V. Baines); black and white; running time: 102 minutes. Released Septem- ber 1945. Producer: Michael Balcon; associate producers: Sidney Cole, John Croydon; screenplay: John V. Baines, Angus Macphail; additional dialogue: T. E. B. Clarke; photography: Stan Pavey, Douglas Slocombe; editor: Charles Hasse; art director: Michael Relph; music: Georges Auric. Cast: Linking narrative: Mervyn Johns (Walter Craig); Renee Gadd (Mrs. Craig); Roland Culver (Eliot Foley); Mary Merrall (Mrs. Foley); Frederick Valk (Dr. van Straaten); Barbara Leake (Mrs. O’Hara). ‘‘Christmas Party’’: Sally Ann Howes (Sally O’Hara); Dead of Night DEAD RINGERS FILMS, 4 th EDITION 298 Michael Allan (Jimmy); Robert Wyndham (Dr. Albury). ‘‘Hearse Driver’’: Antony Baird (Hugh); Judy Kelly (Joyce); Miles Malleson (Hearse Driver/Bus Conductor). ‘‘The Haunted Mirror’’: Googie Withers (Joan); Ralph Michael (Peter); Esme Percy (Antique Dealer). ‘‘Golfing Story’’: Basil Radford (George); Naunton Wayne (Larry); Peggy Bryan (Mary). ‘‘The Ventriloquist’s Dummy’’: Michael Redgrave (Maxwell Frere); Hartley Power (Sylvester Kee); Elisabeth Welch (Beulah); Magda Kun (Mitzi); Garry Marsh (Harry Parker). Publications Books: Klaue, Wolfgang, and others, Cavalcanti, Berlin, 1952. Pirie, David, A Heritage of Horror: The English Gothic Cinema 1946–1972, London, 1973. Everson, William K., Classics of the Horror Film, New York, 1974. Barr, Charles, Ealing Studios, London, 1977. Perry, George, Forever Ealing, London, 1981. Eberwein, Robert T., Film and the Dream Screen: A Sleep and a Forgetting, Princeton, 1984. Brown, Geoff, Michael Balcon: Pursuit of Britain, New York, 1990. Barr, Charles, Ealing Studios, Berkeley, 1999. Articles: Documentary Newsletter (London), no. 7, 1945. Kine Weekly (London), 6 September 1945. Variety (New York), 19 September 1945. Monthly Film Bulletin (London), 30 September 1945. Hollywood Reporter, 28 June 1946. New York Times, 29 June 1946. Variety (New York), 3 July 1946. Motion Picture Herald (New York), 6 July 1946. Villegas Lopez, Manuel, ‘‘Analisis de los valores, Al morir la noche,’’ in Cinema: Técnica y estatica del arte nuevo, Madrid, 1954. Agee, James, Agee on Film 1, New York, 1958. Barr, Charles, ‘‘Projecting Britain and the British Character’’ (2 parts), in Screen (London), Spring and Summer 1974. Brossard, Chandler, in Film Comment (New York), May-June 1974. Ecran Fantastique (Paris), no. 2, 1977. Ecran Fantastique (Paris), September 1986. Branagh, K., in Premiere (Boulder), February 1993. Aachen, G., ‘‘Dead of Night,’’ in Reid’s Film Index (Wyong), no. 30, 1997. *** Dead of Night’s status as the first British horror film of note (advanced most convincingly by David Pirie in his book A Heritage of Horror) rests largely on the Robert Hamer-directed ‘‘Haunted Mir- ror’’ episode. Certainly this masterful piece of work, with its depic- tion of a destructive sexuality emerging from the 19th-century setting reflected in the mirror, anticipates elements of Hammer horror in the 1950s and 1960s. However, the film as a whole can also be seen as a response to the social dislocations caused by the end of the war, and in particular a confusion in masculine identity arising from difficulties in integrat- ing a large part of the male population back into civilian life. On one level, Dead of Night reveals a male fear of domesticity, which is here equated with emasculation and the presence of strong, independent women who are seen to have usurped male authority (one thinks of Googie Withers organising her wedding while her fiancée waits passively in his flat, and of Sally Ann Howes violently rejecting the amorous advances of a fellow teenager). The film is full of weak, crippled, and/or victimised male characters: an injured racing driver, a boy murdered by his elder sister, a meek accountant dominated first by his fiancée and then by the influence of the ‘‘haunted mirror,’’ and—in an extraordinary performance by Michael Redgrave—a neurotic ventriloquist who eventually collapses into complete insan- ity. It is significant in this light that the character whose dream the film turns out to be is an architect, a symbolically charged profession at a time of national reconstruction. That this architect is indecisive, frightened, and, at the end of his dream, shown as harbouring murderous desires underlines the film’s lack of confidence in the future. This can be connected with what is in effect a systematic under- mining of one of the characteristic themes of British World War II cinema, namely the formation of a cohesive group out of diverse social elements. (Ealing Studios, which produced Dead of Night, contributed to this with, among others, San Demetrio London and The Bells Go Down.) Dead of Night begins with a group of characters coming together, but here this is not in the interests of establishing a national consensus. Instead this group is fragmented by the film’s insistent stress on the ways in which each individual is trapped within his or her own perceptions and mental processes. Each story tells of a private experience, something that more often than not is witnessed by only one person. The sense of alienation thereby produced further manifests itself in the many references in the film to acts of vision which are unreliable or compromised in some way. Repeatedly characters stare disbelievingly at the ‘‘impossible’’ events unfolding before them. Seeing is no longer believing. The faith in an objective reality central to British wartime documentaries and which also contributed to the style adopted by many fiction films has been eroded. Dreams and fantasies have taken its place, to the extent that, as one character puts it, ‘‘None of us exist at all. We’re nothing but characters in Mr. Craig’s dream.’’ The complexities of Dead of Night are beautifully crystallised in the moment where the psychoanalyst who throughout the film has argued for logic and reason accidentally breaks his spectacles. The clarity of vision induced by a wartime situation has been similarly shattered. All that remains is an uncertainty and fear which the film records in an obsessive and disturbing detail. —Peter Hutchings DEAD RINGERS Canada, 1988 Director: David Cronenberg Production: Mantle Clinic II Ltd., in association with Morgan Creek Productions; colour, 35mm; running time: 115 minutes. Producers: David Cronenberg and Marc Boyman; executive pro- ducers: Carol Baum and Sylvio Tabet; screenplay: David Cronenberg DEAD RINGERSFILMS, 4 th EDITION 299 Dead Ringers and Norman Snider, based on the book Twins by Bari Wood and Jack Geasland; photography: Peter Suschitzky; editor: Ronald Sanders; music: Howard Shore; art director: James McAteer; production designer: Carol Spier; sound: Bryan Day; costumes: Denise Cronenberg; special effects design: Gordon Smith. Cast: Jeremy Irons (Beverly Mantle/Elliot Mantle); Geneviève Bujold (Claire Niveau); Stephen Lack (Anders Wolleck); Heidi von Palleske (Cary); Shirley Douglas (Laura); Barbara Gordon (Danuta); Nick Nichols (Leo); Lynn Cormack (Arlene); Damir Andrei (Birchall); Miriam Newhouse (Mrs. Bookman). Publications Books: Moorman, David, David Cronenberg: A Horror Filmer in Transfor- mation, Rotterdam, 1990. Cronenberg, David, Cronenberg on Cronenberg, London, 1992. Shaviro, Steven, The Cinematic Body, Minneapolis and London, 1993. Parker, Andrew, ‘‘Grafting David Cronenberg,’’ in Media Spectacles edited by Marjorie Garber and others, New York and Lon- don, 1993. Morris, Peter, David Cronenberg: A Delicate Balance, Milford, 1994. Articles: Jaehne, Karen, ‘‘Double Trouble,’’ in Film Comment (New York), September 1988. Variety (New York), 7 September 1988. Gleiberman, O., ‘‘Cronenberg’s Double Meanings,’’ in American Film (Marion), October 1988. Elia, M., Séquences (Paris), November 1988. Lee, N., ‘‘Visuals for Dead Ringers Inspire Belief,’’ in American Cinematographer (New York), December 1988. Beauchamp, M., ‘‘Frères de sang,’’ in 24 Images (Montreal), Winter 1988–89. Stanbrook, A., ‘‘Cronenberg’s Creative Cancers,’’ in Sight and Sound (London), Winter 1988–89. Baron, A.-M., Cinéma (Paris), January 1989. DEAD RINGERS FILMS, 4 th EDITION 300 Bunbury, S., ‘‘David Cronenberg Doubles Up,’’ in Cinema Papers (Melbourne), January 1989. Cook, P., and A. Billson, Monthly Film Bulletin (London), Janu- ary 1989. Garcia, M., Films in Review (New York), January 1989. Katsahnias, I., and others, ‘‘La beauté intérieure,’’ in Cahiers du Cinéma (Paris), February 1989. Dadoun, R., ‘‘L’épouvante intérieure ou Qu’est-ce que l’homme a dans le ventre,’’ in Positif (Paris), March 1989. Ramasse, F., and others, ‘‘La chair dans l’ame,’’ in Positif (Paris), March 1989. Ross, P., Revue du Cinéma (Paris), March 1989. Kay. S., ‘‘Double or Nothing,’’ in Cinema Papers (Melbourne), July 1989. Nguyen, D. T., ‘‘The Projectile Movie Revisited,’’ in Film Criticism (Meadville, Pennsylvania), Spring 1990. Creed, B., ‘‘Phallic Panic: Male Hysteria and Dead Ringers,’’ in Screen (London), Summer 1990. Breskin, David, ‘‘David Cronenberg: The Rolling Stone Interview,’’ in Rolling Stone (New York), 6 February 1992. Winnert, Derek, ‘‘Doctor in Double Trouble,’’ in Radio Times (London), 30 May 1992. ‘‘Special Issue,’’ Post Script (Commerce), vol. 15, no. 2, Winter- Spring 1996. Lucas, Tim, and John Charles, in Video Watchdog (Cincinnati), no. 36, 1996. *** Since his first commercial film Shivers premiered in the early seventies, David Cronenberg has been saddled with the confining stereotype best exemplified in the nickname the ‘‘Baron of Blood.’’ With subsequent films such as Rabid, Scanners, and The Fly Cronenberg has kept this reputation intact and his films rather foreboding to those uninitiated to the Cronenberg vision. With three films in the early 1990s (Dead Ringers, Naked Lunch, and M. Butterfly) however, Cronenberg departed from the conventional science-fiction/horror brand of cinema he has been known for. Dead Ringers is Cronenberg’s first attempt at a conventional, tragic, human drama. The film functions in this respect so well that one is left emotionally drained and extremely melancholic after viewing it. In Cronenberg on Cronenberg, the director describes the film as follows: ‘‘[It] has to do with that element of being human. It has to do with this ineffable sadness that is an element of human existence.’’ The production saga of Dead Ringers began when Cronenberg first saw a headline that read something like, ‘‘Twin Docs Found Dead in Posh Pad’’ and decided that it was a story worth telling. ‘‘It was too perfect,’’ the director has since said. In 1981, the project began its gestation when Carol Baum approached Cronenberg with the vague idea of doing a film about twins. Although they initially differed on subject matter they eventually settled on the story of Stewart and Cyril Marcus, twin gynecologists who, as the above headlines stated, were found dead, the perpetrators of a joint suicide. Cronenberg next read a book loosely based on the twins called, appropriately enough, Twins, by Bari Wood and Jack Geasland (the name of the film would later be changed from Twins to Dead Ringers prior to release at the request of Cronenberg’s old colleague Ivan Reitman so as not to clash with the Arnold Schwarzenegger comedy vehicle). Baum and Cronenberg then enlisted producer Sylvio Tabet and chose Norman Snider to write a script. The script Snider produced however was found unacceptable to Cronenberg due to Snider’s attempt to fit too much of the book into the script (Cronenberg wanted as little of the book as possible) and a re-write was commissioned. Tabet’s reservations about the rewritten script killed the project at this time however and, in 1982, it seemed as though the film would never be made. Two years later, Cronenberg along with producer Mark Boyman tried to raise interest in the project once again. But, the project was to be met less than enthusiastically, with the main complaint being along the lines of: ‘‘Do they have to be gynecolo- gists? Couldn’t they be lawyers?’’ This question signalled to Cronenberg the inability of the studio executives to ‘‘get it,’’ so the search for financial backing continued with Cronenberg directing The Fly (1986) in the interim. It was eventually Dino De Laurentiis’s DEG company (the company that had produced The Dead Zone) that took on the project. Unfortunately, the De Laurentiis group went bankrupt shortly after agreeing to produce and Cronenberg Productions was left to produce the film independently. Dead Ringers is the tragedy of identical twin gynecologists Beverly and Elliot Mantle (both played by Jeremy Irons). The Mantles are wunderkind doctors from Toronto who operate the famous Mantle fertility clinic where actress Claire Niveau (Geneviève Bujold) comes seeking advice on how she can become pregnant. Unfortunately, Claire is diagnosed as ‘‘trifurcate’’ (possession of three cervixes—a ‘‘mutant’’ woman) and incapable of bearing child- ren. That evening, Elliot sleeps with Claire and then, in keeping with the twins’ sharing of everything, urges Beverly to take his place the following night. Beverly, however, falls in love with Claire until, upon learning of the deception, Claire ends the ruse by refusing to see either of them. Beverly’s descent begins here and he becomes addicted to both alcohol and drugs. Following a reunion with Claire, Beverly becomes insanely jealous when she leaves for a shoot and mistakenly believes she is having an affair then falls further into his drug induced depression. Elliot, who has been out of town pursuing his own career, returns to supervise his brother’s detoxification but ultimately gives up when Beverly commissions the creation of gynecological instruments for operating on mutant women and uses them on actual patients, consequently destroying the clinic’s reputa- tion and the twins’ practice. Elliot, in an effort to restore the perfect equilibrium they shared before they met Claire, then tries to synchro- nize their drug taking and keeps Beverly locked up until Claire returns and he goes to her. A week later, Claire reluctantly allows Beverly to return to his brother who has descended even further than Beverly had. The twins now lock themselves up in the clinic and gradually regress until Beverly operates on Elliot to ‘‘separate’’ them and kills him. Beverly then calls Claire but cannot speak and returns to the clinic and dies silently while lying across Elliot’s body. A major concern embedded in Dead Ringers is the notion of control. Cronenberg acknowledges this in the following way in Cronenberg on Cronenberg: ‘‘The whole concept of free will resists the idea of anything determining destiny. Freedom of choice rests on the premise of freedom from physical and material restrictions.’’ The Mantles are the device Cronenberg uses ‘‘to investigate that, not as an aberration but as cases in point of genetic power.’’ In fact, the twins have little control over their own lives until the end of the film. Cronenberg consciously constructed their world and lighted it in such a way that it resembles an enormous aquarium wherein the twins are nothing more than inhabitants who consistently run through the monotony of a fragile daily existence. The twins’ synchronized world is so fragile in fact that the introduction of Claire as something the twins refuse to share completely decimates them. It is only through THE DEER HUNTERFILMS, 4 th EDITION 301 death that the twins assert their free will and attain the control they have lacked throughout the film. Therefore, suicide becomes the only instance in the twins’ life in which they exert complete control over the outcome and sever the bizarre biological link to destiny. Although Dead Ringers is a classic story of control, problems with analyzing it as such arise when categorizing that control. The determi- nation of who is controlling who is an endless conundrum within the film. For example, the twins control Claire (who functions as a sort of symbolic representation of women) through gynecology by under- standing her body in ways she cannot (Cronenberg’s purely narrative construction of mutant women and instruments for operating on them is indicative of this control). At the same time, however, Claire wields control over the twins by using the same device in the guise of her sexuality. It is Claire who, through her control of Beverly, dictates the demise of the twins. The omnipresent nature of control in the film is ultimately its tragedy—you can’t escape control. This tragedy erupts from the concept that biology is destiny. Cronenberg succeeds in questioning this theory while at the same time subscribing to it by suggesting that the concept of free will is the destroyer of destiny. That is, while the brothers’ profession as gynecologists allows them to control biology to a certain degree, it is death that ultimately triumphs, although they still maintain a certain amount of control over that. Beginning with Dead Ringers, Cronenberg has made films which seem to suggest that he has abandoned his hybrid-horror child and adopted a more cerebral and suspenseful and less sci-fi narrative style. The maturity with which these films address the Cronenbergian concerns of biological control of destiny and usurpation of that control illustrates that the new Cronenberg film is indeed grounded more in the realm of dramatic tragedy and less in either science fiction or horror. —Michael J. Tyrkus DEADLY IS THE FEMALE See GUN CRAZY DEATH BY HANGING See KOSHIKEI DEATH IN VENICE See MORTE A VENEZIA DEATH OF A CYCLIST See MUERTE DE UN CICLISTA DECALOGUE See DEKALOG THE DEER HUNTER USA, 1978 Director: Michael Cimino Production: EMI Films; Panavision, Technicolor, Dolby Stereo; running time: 183 minutes. Released November 1978. Producers: Barry Spikings, Michael Deeley, Michael Cimino, John Peverall; production consultant: Joan Carelli; screenplay: Deric Washburn; story: Michael Cimino, Deric Washburn, Louis Garfinkle, Quinn K. Redeker; assistant directors: Charles Okun, Mike Grillo; photography: Vilmos Zsigmond; editor: Peter Zinner; sound edi- tors: Teri E. Dorman, James Fritch; art directors: Ron Hobbs, Kim Swados; costumes: Eric Seelig; special make-up: Dick Smith, Daniel Striepeke; music: Stanley Myers; main title theme per- formed by: John Williams; military adviser: Richard Dioguardi; Vietnamese adviser: Eleanor Dawson. Cast: Robert De Niro (Michael Vronsky); John Cazale (Stan, ‘‘Stosh’’); John Savage (Steven); Christopher Walken (Nikanor Chevotarevich, known as Nick); Meryl Streep (Linda); George Dzundza (John); Chuck Aspegren (Axel); Shirley Stoler (Steven’s Mother); Rutanya Alda (Angela); Pierre Segui (Julien); Mady Kaplan (Axel’s Girl); Amy Wright (Bridesmaid); Mary Ann Haenel (Stan’s Girl); Richard Kuss (Linda’s Father); Joe Grifasi (Bandleader); Joe Strand (Bingo Caller); Helen Tomko (Helen); Paul D’Amato (Sergeant); Dennis Watlington (Cab Driver); Charlene Darrow (Redhead); Jane-Colette Disko (Girl Checker); Michael Wollett (Stock Boy); Robert Beard, Joe Dzizmba (World War Veterans); Father Stephen Kopestonsky (Priest); John F. Buchmelter III (Bar Patron); Frank Devore (Bar- man); Tom Becker (Doctor); Lynn Kongkham (Nurse); Nongnuj Timruang (Bar Girl); Po Pao Pee (Chinese Referee); Dale Burroughs (Embassy Guard); Parris Hicks (Sergeant); Samui Muang-Intata (Chinese Bodyguard); Sapox Colisium (Chinese Man); Vitoon Winwitoon (N.V.A. Officer); Somsak Sengvilia (V.C. Referee); Charan Nusvanon (Chinese Boss); Hillary Brown (Herself), Choir of St. Theodosius Cathedral, Cleveland, Ohio. Awards: Oscars for Best Picture, Best Director, Best Supporting Actor (Walken), Best Editing, and Best Sound, 1979. British Acad- emy of Film and Television Award for Best Cinematography (Zsigmond), 1979. Publications Books: Adair, Gilbert, Vietnam on Film: From ‘‘The Green Berets’’ to ‘‘Apocalypse Now,” New York, 1981; revised edition, as Holly- wood’s Vietnam, London, 1989. Smurthwaite, Nick, The Meryl Streep Story, London, 1984. THE DEER HUNTER FILMS, 4 th EDITION 302 The Deer Hunter Maychick, Diana, Meryl Streep, New York, 1984. Bliss, Michael, Martin Scorsese & Michael Cimino, Lanham, 1985. Cameron-Wilson, James, The Cinema of Robert De Niro, Lon- don, 1986. McKay, Keith, Robert De Niro: The Hero Behind the Masks, New York, 1986. Wood, Robin, Hollywood from Vietnam to Reagan, New York, 1986. Articles: Carducci, M., ‘‘Stalking the Deer Hunter: An Interview with Michael Cimino,’’ in Millimeter (New York), March 1978. Henderson, Scott, ‘‘Behind the Scenes of The Deer Hunter,’’ in American Cinematographer (Los Angeles), October 1978. Variety (New York), 29 November 1978. Literature/Film Quarterly (Salisbury, Maryland), vol. 7, no. 4, 1979. Combs, Richard, in Monthly Film Bulletin (London), March 1979. Gow, Gordon, in Films and Filming (London), March 1979. Listener (London), 8 March 1979. Pilger, John, in New Statesman (London), 16 March 1979. Fox, Terry Curtis, in Film Comment (New York), March-April 1979. Pym, John, ‘‘A Bullet in the Head: Vietnam Remembered,’’ in Sight and Sound (London), Spring 1979. Auster, Al, and Leonard Quart, ‘‘Hollywood and Vietnam: The Triumph of the Will,’’ in Cineaste (New York), Spring 1979. Positif (Paris), April 1979. Kinder, Marsha, and others, in Film Quarterly (Berkeley), Sum- mer 1979. Mineo, T., ‘‘Una falsa storia Vietnamita per rimuovere la colpa americana,’’ in Cinema Nuova (Bari), August 1979. Journal of Popular Film and Television (Washington, D.C.), vol. 7, no. 4, 1980. Franz, R. C., ‘‘Apocalypse Now and The Deer Hunter: The Lies Aren’t Over,’’ in Jump Cut (Chicago), October 1980. Krohn, B., ‘‘Entretien avec Michael Cimino,’’ in Cahiers du Cinéma (Paris), June 1982. Koper, B., ‘‘Can Movies Kill?’’ in American Film (Washington, D.C.), July-August 1982. Burke, F., ‘‘In Defense of The Deer Hunter: The Knee Jerk Is Quicker Than the Eye,’’ in Literature/Film Quarterly (Salisbury, Mary- land), January 1983. DEKALOGFILMS, 4 th EDITION 303 Francis, D., ‘‘The Regeneration of America: Uses of Landscape in The Deer Hunter,’’ in Literature/Film Quarterly (Salisbury, Mary- land), January 1983. De Marinis, G., in Cineforum (Bergamo), January-February 1983. Wander, P., ‘‘The Aesthetics of Fascism,’’ in Journal of Communica- tion (Philadelphia), Spring 1983. Greene, N., ‘‘Coppola, Cimino: The Operatics of History,’’ in Film Quarterly (Berkeley), Winter 1984–5. ‘‘Vietnam Issue’’ of Wide Angle (Athens, Ohio), vol. 7, no. 4, 1985. Salminen, K., ‘‘Poliittenen ooppera vieraantuneesta sankarista,’’ in Filmihullu (Helsinki), no. 7–8, 1988. Burke, F., ‘‘Reading Michael Cimino’s The Deer Hunter: Interpreta- tion as Melting Pot,’’ in Literature/Film Quarterly (Salisbury, Maryland), no. 3, 1992. Nery, Robert, ‘‘How to Have Your Cake and Eat It Too,’’ in Filmnews, December-January 1992–1993. Morice, Jacques, in Cahiers du Cinéma (Paris), Hors-série, 1993. Man, G., ‘‘Marginality and Centrality: The Myth of Asia in 1970s Hollywood,’’ in East-West Film Journal (Honolulu), no. 1, 1994. Suarez, E., ‘‘Deliverance: Dickey’s Original Screen Play,’’ in South- ern Quarterly, vol. 33, no. 2–3, 1995. Worsley, Wallace, ‘‘Worsley’s Year of Deliverance,’’ in DGA (Los Angeles), vol. 12, no. 2, May-June 1997. *** When it was first released, The Deer Hunter was widely praised as the first American film to concern itself with the aftermath, social and psychological, of the Vietnam War. Because of this film, in fact, Hollywood discovered that audiences were eager for cinematic treatments of the subject and a number of films dealing with Vietnam were produced in the early 1980s. The Deer Hunter, however, is not a war film in the ordinary sense: although central episodes treat developments in the late stages of the Vietnam conflict, the main emphasis is on the experiences shared by a group of young men growing up in a small Pennsylvania industrial town. Like many of the so-called ‘‘buddy films’’ of the 1970s, The Deer Hunter is a male melodrama that treats the difficulties, discontents, and triumphs of the growth into manhood, including but not domi- nated by going to war. It also connects directly to the ‘‘artistic’’ trendiness of the loosely coordinated movement on the part of certain directors in the late 1960s and early 1970s (including Francis Ford Coppola, Stanley Kubrick, and Martin Scorsese) to create a ‘‘new wave’’ American film and to redefine the creative/commercial posi- tion of the director (who was to become more of an auteur in the continental sense). Like Coppola with The Godfather or Kubrick with A Clockwork Orange, Cimino dominated the production of The Deer Hunter, stamping it with his own developing style and thematic obsessions: it was intended to be an intensely ‘‘personal’’ film, and both commercial and artistic at the same time. The Deer Hunter opens with a long and richly detailed examina- tion of the young men whose lives are dominated by dangerous and grueling manual labor in the steel mills and the release of drinking and carousing. Mike (Robert De Niro), Nick (Christopher Walken), and Stevie (John Savage) are just about to depart for military training, having volunteered to go to Vietnam together. Stevie, before he leaves, is to get married to Angela, a local girl pregnant by another man, and Mike and Nick are planning to leave that same night for their annual hunting trip in the nearby mountains with three others. This slice of life is dominated by a concern with masculine styles and attitudes. Mike is cool, laconic, self-contained yet capable of self- destructive wildness. Nick is less sure of himself, competent with others and well-liked, but obviously a follower, not a leader. Stevie is the weakest of the trio, a man satisfied with a marriage of convenience to a woman considered to be a tramp and an opportunist, a man unsure of what he wants from life and who seems content to shape his life after Mike’s and Nick’s. In the New Hollywood style, the narrative is made to appear undirected, a random and ‘‘realistic’’ examination of working-class ethnic life, although it is in fact a careful character study. Classic Hollywood expository modes are often subverted here (withheld establishing shots or no introductions for new characters, for example), while the acting is archly naturalist in the method tradition (broken sentences, overlapping dialogue, an emphasis on inner, unspoken struggle and, inevitably, male emotion). An excessive, ‘‘realistic’’ representation marks the difference between The Deer Hunter and the classic Hollywood film. But the masculine values advanced, tested, and endorsed in the film’s open- ing sequences are thoroughly traditional. Vietnam is viewed by the trio of friends as yet another test, yet another opportunity to do the right thing and be a man. The film takes no political stand on the issue of the war. In fact, like the more recent Platoon, it depoliticizes the war, turning it into a morality play where positive and negative qualities of the American character act out a deadly, self-destructive drama. In both films, the real enemy is forgotten: the war becomes a struggle between different masculine styles and philosophies. Mike learns the dangers of the code he had lived by; he survives. Nick lives out the logical and psychological consequences of that code; he dies, in effect, a suicide. The treatment of maleness, however, is hopelessly compromised. Stevie lacks courage and competence; he becomes a pitiful paraplegic, married to a woman who doesn’t love him. While the hero may renounce his ‘‘right’’ to assert himself, he remains a hero, at least in large part, because of his willingness to risk life and limb, to be fearless and graceful under pressure. This contradiction, at the same time, is likely what made the film’s narrative so attractive to a mass audience, one willing to accept a ‘‘softened’’ maleness only as a renunciation of power, not as an alternative to it. Historically, The Deer Hunter is important as the last successful realist epic produced by the artistically minded directors of the Hollywood Renaissance. Cimino’s subsequent efforts in this form have met with little success. The Deer Hunter, however, was able to achieve an outstanding and surprising success because of its carefully calculated combination of traditional Hollywood melodrama with a style and themes borrowed, to a large degree, from the art cinema. —R. Barton Palmer DEKALOG (Decalogue) Poland, 1988 Director: Krzysztof Kie?lowski Production: Polish Television, TOR Studios; colour, 35mm; running time: 10 films 53–57 minutes each. Released 1989. Decalogue 5 and Decalogue 6 released theatrically in 1989 as A Short Film About DEKALOG FILMS, 4 th EDITION 304 Killing and A Short Film About Love. Filmed on location in War- saw, 1988. Producer: Ryszard Chutkowski; screenplay: Krzysztof Kie?lowski, Krzysztof Piesiewicz; photography: Wieslaw Zdort (Decalogue 1), Edward Klosinski (2), Piotr Sobocinski (3, 9), Krzysztof Pakulski (4), Slawomir Idziak (5), Witold Adamek (6), Dariusz Kuc (7), Anrzej Jaroszewicz (8), Jacek Blawut (10); editor: Ewa Smal; sound: Malgorzata Jaworska (1, 2, 4, 5), Nikodem Wolk-Laniewski (3, 6, 7, 9, 10), Wieslawa Demblinska (8); production designer: Halina Dobrowolska; music: Zbigniew Preisner. Cast: 1: Henryk Baranowski (Krzysztof), Wojciech Klata (Pawel), Maja Komorowska (Irena). 2: Krystyna Janda (Dorota), Alexander Bardini (Consultant), Olgierd Lukaszewicz (Anrzej). 3: Daniel Olbrychski (Janusz), Maria Pakulnis (Ewa). 4: Adrianna Biedrzynska (Anka), Janusz Gajos (Michal). 5: Miroslaw Baka (Jacek), Krzysztof Globisz (Piotr). 6: Grazyna Szapolowska (Magda), Olaf Lubaszenko (Tomek). 7: Anna Polony (Ewa), Maja Barelkowska (Majka). 8: Maria Koscialkowska (Zofia), Teresa Marczewska (Elzbieta). 9: Ewa Blaszczyk (Hanka), Piotr Machalica (Roman). 10: Jerzy Stuhr (Jerzy), Zbigniew Zamachowski (Arthur). Publications Script: Kie?lowski, Krzysztof, and Krzysztof Piesiewicz, The Decalogue, London, 1991. Kie?lowski, Krzysztof, and Krzysztof Piesiewicz, Dekalog, in Iskusstvo Kino (Moscow), March-December 1993. Books: Michalek, Boleslaw, and Frank Turaj, The Modern Cinema of Poland, Bloomington, 1988. Kie?lowski, Krzysztof, Kie?lowski on Kie?lowski, London, 1993. Garbowski, Christopher, Krzysztof Kie?lowski’s Decalogue Series: The Problem of the Protagonists and Their Self-Transcendance, Boulder, 1996. Coates, Paul, editor, Lucid Dreams: The Films of Krzysztof Kie?lowski, Wiltshire, 1999. Insdorf, Annette, Double Lives, Second Chances: The Cinema of Krzysztof Kie?lowski, New York, 1999. Articles: Variety (New York), 27 September 1989. Baron, A.-M., Cinéma (Paris), November 1989. Ciment, M., and others, Positif (Paris), December 1989. Rigney, F.J., Film Criticism (Meadville, Pennsylvania), Spring 1990. Magny, J., and A. de Baecque, ‘‘Les régles du hasard,’’ in Cahiers du Cinéma (Paris), March 1990. Tobin, Y., and others, Positif (Paris), May 1990. Cavendish, Phil, ‘‘Kie?lowski’s Decalogue,’’ in Sight and Sound (London), Summer 1990. Insdorf, Annette, ‘‘The Decalogue: Re-Examining God’s Commands,’’ in New York Times (New York), 28 October 1990. Tarantino, Michael, ‘‘The Cave,’’ in Artforum (New York), Decem- ber 1990. Charbonneau, A., 24 Images (Montreal), Summer 1991. Elia, M., ‘‘L’art du risque calculé,’’ in Séquences (Montreal), Sep- tember 1991. Klinger, M., ‘‘Strazce brany,’’ in Film a Doba (Prague), Sum- mer 1992. Holden, Stephen, ‘‘Chance, Fate and the Bible,’’ in New York Times (New York), 8 March 1996. Falkowska, J., ‘‘Krzysztof Kie?lowski’s Decalogue Series: The Prob- lem of Protagonists and Their Self-transcendence,’’ in Canadian Journal of Film Studies (Ottawa), no. 2, 1997. Perlmutter, R., ‘‘Testament to the Father: Kie?lowski’s The Deca- logue,’’ in Film Criticism (Meadville), no. 2, 1997/1998. *** Krzysztof Kie?lowski, who died in Warsaw at the age of 54 while this essay was being prepared for publication, was the last great director to have emerged from Communist Poland. His Decalogue, made for Polish television in 1988–89, was, perhaps, the last master- piece from what used to be ‘‘Eastern Europe.’’ A product of Kie?lowski’s odd preoccupation with cycles (Eric Rohmer is the only other major director, similarly obsessed, who comes to mind), Deca- logue is not a film, but a compendium of 10 hour-long films, based, presumably, on the Ten Commandments. The premise demands moralizing. The result is far from it. The actual meaning of each film is not in how a dictum is illustrated, and not even in a twist that each story (all of them set in the present-day Poland) gives an old maxim, but in how the material transcends the dogma into a sphere of existential mystery. There are artists who are late bloomers, who must try out various timbres before they find their own voice. It took Antonioni over ten years and a dozen films, both fiction and documentary, to make Il Grido, his first truly ‘‘Antonionian’’ film. It took Kie?lowski over ten years and two dozen films, both fiction and documentary, to make Decalogue, which marks both the climax of a long search and a dramatic shift in direction and quality. That the seed was there is clear in the 1981 feature Blind Chance, which sketches out three possible futures for a man who, like a tabula rasa, is open to either one. The film shows how the filmmaker sensed what was soon to become his territory in art, but didn’t yet have the formal means to make that territory his own. That Decalogue changed Kie?lowski’s life is evident in the way that all his following films—The Double Life of Veronique, Blue, White and Red—stem from Decalogue, develop- ing the earlier work’s motifs and sharpening its filmic finesse. From Decalogue on, Kie?lowski focused exclusively on the invisible and how it can be seen. He himself could show it with an incomparable grace: the mysterious links that tie us all together; the signs and omens that nature, uselessly, sends our way; the doom, materialized in things and machines; the sadness of the pond and the clouds. In this world, an ink-spill prophesies trouble, and when somebody dies, holy water freezes in the church. This kind of cinema dangerously balances between the profound and the pretentious. But if Kie?lowski slipped into pretentiousness in the occasionally ponder- ous Blue, Decalogue has a luminosity of milk, left (in Decalogue 1) out in the cold overnight and turned into white ice. Its light breaks the glass of the gratuitous bottle. Decalogue’s world—the world of a grim Warsaw housing devel- opment where all the stories originate—is not a collection of entities DELIVERANCEFILMS, 4 th EDITION 305 and events, but a dense substance in which everything is connected with everything. The focus is shifted from things to what lies between them. This philosophy puts Kie?lowski into a glorious chain of artists—Dreyer, Bresson, Iosseliani (the line continues with Atom Egoyan and Wong Kar-wai)—and explains why his preoccupation with cycles may not be so odd after all. As people are linked in his films, so are the films themselves. The heroine of Blue shows up in the courtroom of White and then, along with the principals of White, in the coda of Red. A fictitious Dutch Renaissance composer Van den Budelmayer from Red originates in Decalogue 9, as does White’s tragi-comic theme of male impotence. The brothers from Decalogue 10 don’t want to stay home; they spill into the story of White. A model auteur, Kie?lowski in all his later years shot one film; perhaps his decision to stop, which he made in 1994 after completing the Three Colors trilogy, grew out of a realization that his film had come to an end. (It has been reported that Kie?lowski was planning another project at the time of his death.) Like Fassbinder’s 14-part Berlin, Alexanderplatz, Decalogue bril- liantly utilizes its format: from television it takes not the lack of light and cinematic quality, but the extreme intimacy between the charac- ters and the audience. Most meaningfully, it tells chamber sto- ries in close angles. A cast of the best Polish actors, headed by Maja Komorowska, Krystyna Janda, Grazyna Szapolowska, Daniel Olbrychski, Janusz Gajos, Jerzy Stuhr, and Zbigniew Zamachowski, the work of nine terrific cinematographers, and a touching, minimalist score by Zbigniew Preisner all make Kie?lowski’s vast ambition possible. From the first, heartbreaking film that puts a computer in place of the ‘‘other God,’’ that ‘‘thou shalt not have,’’ through the two highlight novellas, later expanded by the director into A Short Film About Killing (Decalogue 5) and A Short Film About Love (Deca- logue 6), this is a cinema that mesmerizes you while it’s showing and haunts you long after it’s all over. —Michael Brashinsky DELIVERANCE USA, 1972 Director: John Boorman Production: Warner Brothers, Elmer Enterprises; Technicolor; Panavision; running time: 109 minutes. Released July 1972. Producer: John Boorman; production manager: Wallace Worsley; screenplay: James Dickey, from his own novel; assistant directors: Al Jennings, Miles Middough; photography: Vilmos Zsigmond; 2nd unit photography: Bill Butler; editor: Tom Priestley; sound editor: Jim Atkinson; sound recordist: Walter Goss; sound re- recordist: Doug Turner; art director: Fred Harpman; music: ‘‘Du- elling Banjos’’ arranged and played by Eric Weissberg, with Steve Mandel; creative associate: Rospo Pallenberg; special effects: Mar- cel Vercoutere; technical advisers: Charles Wiggin, E. Lewis King. Cast: Jon Voight (Ed); Burt Reynolds (Lewis); Ned Beatty (Bobby); Ronny Cox (Drew); Billy McKinney (Mountain Man); Herbert ‘‘Cowboy’’ Coward (Toothless Man) James Dickey (Sheriff Bullard); Ed Ramey (Old Man); Billy Redden (Lonny); Seamon Glass (1st ‘‘Griner’’); Randall Deal (2nd ‘‘Griner’’); Lewis Crone (1st Dep- uty); Ken Keener (2nd Deputy); Johnny Popwell (Ambulance Driver); John Fowler (Doctor); Kathy Rickman (Nurse); Louise Coldren (Mrs. Biddiford); Pete Ware (Taxi Driver); Hoyt T. Pollard (Boy at Gas Station); Belinda Beatty (Martha Gentry); Charlie Boorman (Ed’s Boy). Publications Script: Dickey, James, Deliverance, Carbondale, Illinois, 1982. Books: Piccardi, Adriano, John Boorman, Florence, 1982. Streetbeck, Nancy, The Films of Burt Reynolds, Secaucus, New Jersey, 1982. Ciment, Michel, John Boorman, Paris 1985; London 1986. Articles: Gow, Gordon, in Films and Filming (London), February 1972. Variety (New York), 19 July 1972. Strick, Philip, in Sight and Sound (London), Autumn 1972. Milne, Tom, in Monthly Film Bulletin (London), September 1972. Ciment, Michel, in Positif (Paris), October 1972. Allombert, G., in Image et son (Paris), November 1972. Grisolia, M., ‘‘L’Amerique s’est dissociée de la nature, par un sort de névrose commune,’’ interview with John Boorman in Cinéma (Paris), November 1972. Dempsey, M., ‘‘Deliverance/Boorman: Dickey in the Woods,’’ in Cinema (Beverly Hills), Spring 1973. Armour, Robert, ‘‘Deliverance: Four Variations of the American Adam,’’ in Literature/Film Quarterly (Salisbury, Maryland), Sum- mer 1973. Willson, Robert F. Jr., ‘‘Deliverance from Novel to Film: Where Is Our Hero?’’ in Literature/Film Quarterly (Salisbury, Maryland), Winter 1974. ‘‘Boorman Issue’’ of Positif (Paris), March 1974. Dunne, Aidan, ‘‘Labyrinth of Allusion,’’ in Film Directions (Belfast), vol. 1 no. 4, 1978. Combs, Richard, ‘‘Male Myths,’’ in The Listener (London), 4 July 1985. Griffith, J. J., ‘‘Damned If You Do, and Damned If You Don’t: James Dickey’s Deliverance,’’ in Post Script (Jacksonville, Florida), Spring-Summer 1986. Williams, Linda Ruth, ‘‘Blood Brothers,’’ in Sight & Sound (Lon- don), September 1994. Suarez, E., ‘‘Deliverance: Dickey’s Original Screen Play,’’ in South- ern Quarterly, no. 2/3, 1995. Atkinson, M., ‘‘Jon Voight in Deliverance,’’ in Movieline (Escondido), May 1996. Worsley, W., ‘‘Worsley’s Year of Deliverance,’’ in DGA Magazine (Los Angeles), no. 2, 1997. *** DELIVERANCE FILMS, 4 th EDITION 306 Deliverance In the early 1970s, accelerated no doubt by Watergate, the optimistic liberal tradition was in some crisis. Conspiracy and para- noia had become common currency in popular culture, a trend evident in such otherwise diverse films as Peckinpah’s Straw Dogs, Pakula’s The Parallax View, Coppola’s The Conversation, and Boorman’s Deliverance. Where ten years earlier movie protagonists routinely triumphed over adversity, the heroes of these and other 1970s films were increasingly to find themselves trapped and destroyed by the relentless logic of events. This is the claustrophobic plight of Deliverance’s four central characters: a group of urban men caught in an escalating series of violent confrontations with the Appalachian wilderness and its (to them) alien inhabitants. Carried along by the very linearity of the narrative’s voyage structure (the four are canoeing down a wild river before it is dammed to form a lake) we directly experience the constraining force of events in the movie’s unremitting emphasis on physical detail. Fat Bobby, struggling in the dirt, groped and fondled at some length before he is forcibly buggered; the close-up sight and sound of an arrow pulled from the body of his attacker; the frenzied scrabbling of the group as they dig a grave with their bare hands; the viscera hanging from the wound in Lewis’s leg; Drew’s body trapped against a boulder, his arm impossibly twisted behind his head. Such scenes are constant reminders of the brute materiality of this wilder- ness and of the quartet’s inability to do anything but react to a succession of real and imagined provocations. Even after their deliverance, Ed wakes screaming, haunted by the fear and guilt embodied in his nightmare image of a hand emerging from the lake. As the credits roll, he lies in bed, unable to sleep. At this level Deliverance is a pessimistic and absorbing piece of story-telling. But it is also more than that. In charting the collapse of ‘‘civilised’’ values, the film invokes larger, almost metaphysical themes. While they are never simply emblematic, Deliverance’s four central characters do represent different aspects of the failings of civilised society, failings crystallised in their confrontation with the wilderness. ‘‘There is something in the woods and the water that we have lost in the city’’ opines Bobby, the brash salesman. ‘‘We didn’t lose it,’’ Lewis replies, ‘‘we sold it.’’ Happily, any tendency to promote a mystic commitment to Nature over Civilisation (all too apparent in Boorman’s later ecological parable, The Emerald Forest) is undercut by the fact that Lewis, the self-proclaimed survivor and man of the wilderness, is never elevated into the kind of sub- Nietzschean superman found in, say, The Deer Hunter. Instead, he LA DENTELLIèREFILMS, 4 th EDITION 307 serves as a foil to the other three, and especially to Ed, whose self- image as a decent, pipe-smoking family man is progressively eroded as the world proves more intractable than he could ever imagine. In the end, though, he does survive, forced to kill and lie to do so. Significantly, it is Drew who dies, his simple belief in the goodness of human nature (exquisitely expressed in his guitar and banjo duet with the moon-faced child and in his evident disappointment when the boy subsequently ignores him) an inadequate defence against a malevo- lent world. The film’s downbeat mood is sustained in its cinematography as well as its dramaturgy. Seeking to lend what he called an ‘‘ominous quality’’ to the ‘‘pleasant and restful’’ greens and blues of sky, river and trees, Boorman (in conjunction with Technicolor) developed a new color desaturation technique for Deliverance. The result is a film shot in threatening grey-greens, not so much washed-out as evacuated of conventionally pretty nature imagery. Although the big Panavision images of river, cliffs, and forest are impressive enough (there are some breath-taking moving compositions of the two canoes, exploiting both the format and the long lens’s flattened perspective) the desaturated color always ensures that they do not become merely picturesque. As befits a story of liberal complacency confronted by brutal antagonism, it is the struggle to survive that predominates, the big screen used more to document that in close-up than to celebrate the pictorial splendours of the setting. When the survivors emerge from the last rapids onto the lake, it is not—as it might have been—a comforting expanse of calm water that greets them and us. It is the rusting bulk of a wrecked automobile, water lapping around its fender. Bobby splashes through the shallows towards it. ‘‘We’ve made it, Ed,’’ he cries, grateful for this equivocal symbol of civilised society. It is an appropriately two-edged image in a film which, to the last, refuses to accept that there are simple solutions to the moral dilemmas that it poses. —Andrew Tudor LA DENTELLIèRE (The Lacemaker) Switzerland-France-West Germany, 1977 Director: Claude Goretta Production: Citel Films (Geneva), Actions Films (Paris), and Filmproduktion (Frankfort); Eastmancolor, 35mm; running time: 108 minutes. Released May 1977, France. Filmed in France. Producer: Yves Peyrot with Yves Gosser; screenplay: Claude Goretta and Pascal Laine, from the novel by Laine; photography: Jean Boffety; editor: Joelle Van Effenterre; sound: Pierre Gemet and Bernard Chaumeil; production design: Serge Etter and Claude Chevant; music: Pierre Jansen; music editor: Georges Bacri. Cast: Isabelle Huppert (Béatrice); Yves Beneyton (Fran?ois); Flor- ence Giorgietti (Marylène); Anne-Marie Duringer (Béatrice’s mother); Jean Obe (Fran?ois’ father); Monique Chaumette (Fran?ois’ mother); Michel de Re (The Painter); Renata Schroeter (Francois’ friend); Sabine Azema (Student). Awards: Cannes Film Festival, Ecumenical Prize, 1977. Publications Script: Goretta, Claude, and Pascal Laine, La Dentellière, Paris, 1981. Articles: Moskowitz, G., Variety (New York), 25 May 1977. Roulet, C., in Cinématographe (Paris), June 1977. Maillet, D., ‘‘Claude Goretta,’’ in Cinématographe (Paris), June 1977. Jong, A., ‘‘Claude Goretta en La Dentellière,’’ in Skoop (Amster- dam), June-July 1977. Chevassu, F., in Image et Son (Paris), September 1977. Milne, Tom, in Monthly Film Bulletin (London), November 1977. International Film Guide 1978, London, 1978. Leroux, A., in Séquences (Montreal), January 1978. Pruks, I., in Cinema Papers (Melbourne), April-June 1978. Peterson-Schultz, B., in Kosmorama (Copenhagen), Summer 1978. Kass, Judith, ‘‘Claude Goretta and Isabelle Huppert,’’ in Movietone News (Seattle), 14 August 1978. Parker, G., in Film Quarterly (Berkeley), Fall 1978. Günter, J., in Film und Fernsehen (Berlin), October 1978. Brossard, Jean-Pierre, ‘‘Trotz allem hoofe ich,’’ in Film und Fernsehen (Berlin), October 1978. Termino, L., in Cinema Nuovo (Bari), February 1980. Cèbe, Gilles, ‘‘Une Martyre de l’amour,’’ in Avant-Scène du Cinéma (Paris), 15 April 1981. Millar, Gavin, in Listener (London), 3 March 1983. Télérama (Paris), 6 November 1996. *** Claude Goretta’s third feature film, his first made in France, tells a deceptively simple story of lost innocence against the picturesque background of the Normandy coast and the contemporary ambience of Paris. The Lacemaker is marked by the economy, close observa- tions, and compassion of its director and the virtuoso performance of its star, Isabelle Huppert, who plays Béatrice, nicknamed ‘‘Pomme,’’ a shy young assistant in a Paris beauty parlor. The film depicts her first romance with a well-bred Sorbonne student named Fran?ois (Yves Beneyton), who meets her while on vacation in the resort town of Cabourg and rejects her some months later, bringing on an emotional and physical collapse. Goretta has synthesized several potentially sentimental genres—Bildungsroman, pastoral, seduction story, poor-meets-rich romance—and managed to evoke fresh re- sponses to his film’s own particular time and place. The Lacemaker begins by exploring the friendship between Pomme and Marylène (Florence Giorgietti), a slightly older and far more LA DENTELLIèRE FILMS, 4 th EDITION 308 La Dentellière experienced beautician. Like her illustrious namesake, Marilyn Mon- roe, whose poster adorns a wall in her high-rise apartment, Marylène is blonde, restless, and seductive, a compulsive poseur. Pomme seems her complete opposite: small, quiet, utterly guileless. While Marylène’s extroverted personality, sensuousness, and superior position in the shop clearly present her as a foil in the opening sequences, she is soon shown to be no less vulnerable to men than Pomme will become. The opening movement of The Lacemaker thus concludes with Marylène being jilted by her married boyfriend and deciding to forget her troubles by taking Pomme along on a vacation at the seacoast. Marylène soon meets a new man and moves out of the hotel room she briefly shared with Pomme, who acquiesces silently. Fran?ois sees her eating an ice cream at an outdoor cafe and introduces himself to the shy girl as a brilliant student of literature from Paris. Goretta departs from his customary unobtrusive cinematic style at this point with a beautiful sequence of long tracking shots and cross-cutting to depict Fran?ois and Pomme looking for each other the next day. The distance between them in the panoramic vistas and the high camera placements suggest both the separate worlds they inhabit and the fate that draws them together. When they finally meet on the boardwalk, Pomme wears a white dress and Fran?ois a dark t-shirt and jeans, visually underscoring their differences at the very moment their romance begins. Goretta depicts the development of their relationship through a series of delicately woven vignettes, the most clearly symbolic of which involves a game of blindman’s bluff on a steep cliff overlook- ing the Channel. Fran?ois leads her to the very edge, but Pomme continues to follow his commands without ever opening her eyes. When she finally does, standing at the very edge of the precipice, Fran?ois has to grab her to keep her from falling with fright. Soon after this strangely disturbing interlude, Pomme agrees to sleep with him, her first time with a man. Back in Paris and now living in Fran?ois’s flat near the university, Pomme happily cleans and cooks after her own work at the beauty parlor is done so that he might pursue his studies. Their life together seems epitomized in a scene where she tries to eat an apple silently (her nickname, ‘‘pomme,’’ means ‘‘apple’’) without disturbing his concentration, and he becomes annoyed not so much by the sound as by her effort at self-effacement. The film’s pivotal scene occurs during the couple’s visit with Fran?ois’s parents in the country. When the dinner conversation turns to news about Fran?ois’s successful young friends and questions about what she does for a living, Pomme DER VAR ENGANG EN KRIGFILMS, 4 th EDITION 309 is overcome by a violent fit of choking. In moments such as these, Goretta reveals the subtle unraveling of their romance, without a single argument between them. In a high-angle long shot foreshad- owing their parting, and mirroring the panoramic views of Cabourg, Fran?ois rushes across a city boulevard, leaving Béatrice stranded on a traffic island. Some time after Fran?ois explains how breaking up will be best for both of them and returns her to her mother’s apartment, Béatrice collapses in the middle of a busy intersection. The Lacemaker’s final sequence takes place in a sanatorium where Fran?ois comes to visit Béatrice, whose altered appearance is pro- foundly disquieting. She wears a shapeless black dress like a shroud; she moves and speaks mechanically, drained of all her former charm. As they pass the time together in a park filled with fallen yellow leaves, Fran?ois asks what she has been doing since they parted. When Béatrice tonelessly describes a trip to Greece with someone she met, Fran?ois seems relieved to learn she has taken other lovers. In the closing shot, however, the camera tracks in on the therapy room where Béatrice sits alone in a corner knitting in front of a bright poster of Mykonos. Her foreign travel was an illusion, both a deception and farewell gift for the guilt-ridden Fran?ois. As the truth dawns, she turns to the camera with a chilling expression which Goretta then freezes. The closing title appears, with its reference to the anonymous working women—seamstresses, water-girls, lacemakers—of the paint- ings of the Old Masters. Goretta’s film, like his heroine’s face, is deceptively simple. While seemingly inviting interpretation as a modern parable of innocence betrayed, a Marxist allegory on the plight of the working class, feminist tract against patriarchal society, or even a clinical study of mental breakdown, The Lacemaker remains ultimately less moralistic than Eric Rohmer’s films, less political than Godard’s or Tanner’s, less intellectual than Resnais’s. Goretta’s deepest concern— and the film’s ultimate ‘‘meaning’’—lies with Béatrice herself, with what she has lost and, just possibly, what she has gained. —Lloyd Michaels DER VAR ENGANG EN KRIG (Once There Was a War) Norway, 1966 Director: Palle Kjaerulff-Schmidt Production: Nordisk Films Kompagni; black and white, 35mm, widescreen; running time: 94 minutes; length: 2565 meters, or 8460 feet. Released 16 November 1966, Copenhagen. Filmed in Denmark. Producer: Bo Christensen; screenplay: Klaus Rifbjerg; assistant director: Tom Hedegaard; photography: Claus Loof; editor: Ole Steen; sound: Niels Ishsy and Hans W. S?ensen; art director: Henning Bahs; music: Chopin, Beethoven, and Leo Mathisen; cos- tume designer: Lotte Dandanell. Cast: Ole Busck (Tim); Kjeld Jacobsen (Father); Astrid Villaume (Mother); Katja Miehe Renard (Kate, the sister); Birgit Bendix Der var engang en krig Madson (Jane); Christian Gottschalck (Grandfather); Yvonne Ingdal (Lis); Karen Marie L?wert (Lis’s mother); Gregers Ussing (Frank); Jan Heinig Hansen (Markus); Birgit Brüel (Markus’s mother); J?rgen Beck (Friend); Elsa Kourani (Friend’s wife); Henry Skjar (Headmas- ter); Holger Perfort (Teacher in gymnastics). Publications Script: Rifbjerg, Klaus, and Palle Kjaerulff-Schmidt, Der var engang en krig, Copenhagen, 1966. Books: Stormgaard, Uffe, and Soren Dyssegaard, Danish Films, Copenha- gen, 1973. Passek, Jean-Loup, editor, Le Cinéma danois, Paris, 1979. Articles: Variety (New York), 30 November 1966. Kosmorama (Copenhagen), December 1966. Hollywood Reporter, 2 November 1967. Film Quarterly (Berkeley), Winter 1967–68. DETOUR FILMS, 4 th EDITION 310 Today’s Cinema, 13 June 1969. Monthly Film Bulletin (London), August 1969. Films and Filming (London), September 1969. Semprun, Jorge, and Palle Kjaerulff-Schmidt, in Chaplin (Stock- holm), no. 3, 1976. Monty, Ib, ‘‘Danish Film,’’ in Factsheet Denmark, Copenhagen, 1983. Film Dope (Nottingham), January 1985. Schepelern, Peter, in Kosmorama (Copenhagen), Summer 1987. Mitchell, G.J., ‘‘Filmmaking History in Denmark,’’ in American Cinematographer (Hollywood), February 1989. *** Apart from Carl Th. Dreyer’s Gertrud, Der var engang en krig is the most important Danish film of the 1960s. It is a portrait of a 15- year-old boy from middle-class Copenhagen during the German occupation. The German occupation of 1940–45 has been described in several documentaries, most notably in the unique Your Freedom Is at Stake, based on illegally shot material and reflecting the views of the resistance movement—a view quite critical towards the official Danish collaboration policy. Sixteen feature films were inspired by this important period in recent Danish history, most of them stressing the heroic aspects of the resistance. Contrary to this approach, Der var engang en krig uses the war as a background, but reflects the daily life of the Danes in a more authentic and honest manner. The film is structured as a chain of incidents, showing the boy in relation to family, friends, teachers, and girls. The main story centers on the boy’s love for one of his older sister’s girlfriends. To her he is a boy, to him she is the object of his adolescent dreams. He fantasizes about her, seeing himself as a resolute hero in a number of daydream sequences, which are among the most problematic scenes in an otherwise beautifully controlled film. It is based on a meticulous care for authentic detail, and its intensity of feeling grows out of these carefully recollected views of the past. Though visually it can be considered within a realistic tradition, it is the situations, the excel- lently written dialogue, the characters, and the way it brings a period to life which make the film engaging and emotionally rich. The film is not without humor; but as the narrative is from the boy’s point of view, he is never presented in an ironic way. The stronger feelings are condensed in the long travelling shots and pans, when the boy is cycling, expressing his feelings in physical activity. The film was written by Klaus Rifbjerg who, like Palle Kjaerulff- Schmidt, the director, takes advantage of personal experiences to enhance his work. Rifjberg is the finest poet and author of his generation, and he and Kjaerulff-Schmidt started collaborating on films in 1959. In 1962 they made Weekend, a study of young adults and their emotional problems. Weekend was considered one of the films heralding a new, more modern era in the Danish cinema. Reality has finally returned to the Danish film after a long barren period. The collaboration between Rifbjerg and Kjaerulff-Schmidt culminated with Der var engang en krig, their finest achievement and one of the highlights of contemporary Danish cinema. Influenced by Truffaut (especially The 400 Blows) and similar to films by Ermanno Olmi and Milos Forman, Der var engang en krig represents the best in intimate realism. The film was received very well by Danish critics and also got very fine reviews abroad, especially in England. —Ib Monty LE DERNIER TANGO à PARIS See LAST TANGO IN PARIS DETOUR US, 1945 Director: Edgar G. Ulmer Production: Producers Releasing Corp.; black and white, 35mm, Spherical; running time: 69 minutes. Producer: Leon Fromkess, Martin Mooney (assistant producer); screenplay: Martin Goldsmith, Martin Mooney (uncredited); cinematographer: Benjamin H. Kline; editor: George McGuire; music: Leo Erdody; sound: Max Hutchison; art director: William A. Calihan, Jr., Edward C. Jewell; set decoration: Glenn P. Thomp- son; costume design: Mona Barry. Cast: Tom Neal (Al Roberts, alias Charles Maxwell, Jr.); Ann Savage (Vera); Claudia Drake (Sue Harvey); Edmund McDonald (Charles Haskell Jr.); Tim Ryan (Diner Proprietor); Esther Howard (Holly); Roger Clark (Man); Pat Gleason (Man); Don Brodie (Used Car Salesman). Awards: Named to National Film Registry, National Film Preserva- tion Board, 1992. Publications Books: Sarris, Andrew, The American Cinema: Directors and Directions 1929–1968, Chicago, 1968. Truffaut, Francois, The Films in My Life, New York, 1975. Peary, Danny, Cult Movies, New York, 1981. Hirsch, Foster, Film Noir: The Dark Side of the Screen, New York, 1981. Bogdanovich, Peter, Who the Devil Made It: Conversations with Legendary Film Directors, New York, 1997. Articles: Schrader, Paul, ‘‘Notes on Film Noir,’’ in Film Comment (New York), vol. 8, no. 1, Spring 1972. Combs, R., ‘‘Detour,’’ in Monthly Film Bulletin (London), vol. 49, no. 582, July 1982. Pulleine, T., ‘‘Detour,’’ in Films and Filming (South Croydon, Surrey), no. 335, August 1982. DETOURFILMS, 4 th EDITION 311 Detour Belton, John, ‘‘Edgar G. Ulmer,’’ in American Directors, vol. 1, New York, 1983. Miller, Ron, ‘‘Detour to Immortality,’’ in San Jose Mercury News, 16 October 1983. Piccardi, A., ‘‘Detour di Edgar G. Ulmer,’’ in Cineforum, vol. 27, no. 261, January-February 1987. Garsault, A., ‘‘Un artiste,’’ in Positif (Paris), no. 358, Decem- ber 1990. McBride, J., ‘‘Family Drive,’’ in American Film (Marion, Ohio), vol. 15, no. 11, August 1990. Atkinson, Michael, ‘‘Noir and Away. Notes on the Two Detours,’’ in Bright Lights (Cincinnati, Ohio), no. 15, 1995. *** There are more elegant and ambitious examples of classic film noir—Jacques Tourneur’s Out of the Past and Robert Aldrich’s Kiss Me Deadly leap to mind—but it’s unlikely that you will find a more tightly plotted or single-minded example of the postwar, German Expressionist-rooted style than Edgar G. Ulmer’s Detour. Indeed, the argument could be made that this Poverty Row gem distills noir to its basic components: suffocating fatalism, sexual paranoia, the down- on-his-luck patsy/protagonist born to come to a bad end. Detour also contains what for many students is the definitive noir plaint. ‘‘It was just my luck, picking her up on the road,’’ says Al Roberts (Tom Neal) in morose voice-over. ‘‘It couldn’t be Helen . . . or Mary or Evelyn or Ruth; it had to be the very last person I should ever have met. That’s life. Whichever way you turn, Fate sticks out a foot to trip you.’’ Of course Fate has less to do with Al’s ultimate undoing than Al himself. Fate is noir’s all-purpose fall guy. The real cause is Al’s obsessive-compulsive personality. A frustrated pianist in a New York dive called the Break O’ Dawn Club, Roberts juggles (poorly) dual obsessions: a stalled concert career (he fancies himself a budding Shoshtakovich) and a relationship with the club’s pretty vocalist, Sue (Claudia Drake). Sue’s decision to try her luck in Hollywood sets up her beau’s fall. Eaten alive by those twin betes noires, jealousy and desperation, Al ‘‘takes it on the thumb’’ and follows his worst instincts west. Half of this compact (69 minute) programmer is devoted to Al’s misfortunes on the road. In Arizona he is picked up by a obnoxious bookie named Haskell (Edmund MacDonald), who rambles on about DEUS E O DIABO NA TERRA DO SOL FILMS, 4 th EDITION 312 a childhood duel and some nasty scratches compliments of ‘‘the most dangerous animal in the world—a woman.’’ As Al takes his turn at the wheel, Haskell nods off, has a heart attack, and dies. In the pounding rain, Al, true to form, makes a suspicious situation worse by taking Haskell’s clothes, car, and identity. His muddled reasoning: ‘‘By that time I’d done just what the police would say I did, even if I didn’t.’’ Al gets himself in deeper when he picks up a sullen vixen named Vera (Ann Savage parodying the trampy, consumptive Bette Davis). Vera knows Al isn’t Haskell and uses the information to blackmail him into an inheritance scam. Al, thinking only of Sue, resists both the scam and Vera’s drunken advances. A fight ensues and, in an all-too- plausible accident involving a phone chord, Al finds himself fleeing another ‘‘murder’’ scene. Unable to buck Fate, he surrenders to it. ‘‘Someday a car will stop to pick me up for a ride that I never thumbed,’’ he says as a police car pulls up and a door swings open. ‘‘Yes, Fate, or some mysterious force, can put the finger on you or me for no good reason at all.’’ Adapted by Martin Goldsmith from half of his 1939 novel (which unfolds from both Al’s and Sue’s perspectives) and told in flashback from a Nevada diner playing, mockingly, Sue’s hit song, ‘‘I Can’t Believe That You’re in Love with Me,’’ Detour was shot in six days for the notoriously cheap Producers Releasing Corp. The Czechoslo- vakian-born Ulmer, who had apprenticed with F.W. Murnau before emigrating to Hollywood in 1931, was, as The Black Cat (1934) and Bluebeard (1944) demonstrate, a past master at employing shadows, tight two-shots, and minimalist set design to create ambience and stretch a budget. After a brief rehearsal period, he told interviewers, he could shoot 60 to 80 setups in a day. Forced again to economize, this time on less than $30,000, Ulmer turned Detour into an unrelenting journey down what he called ‘‘that long road of Fate.’’ Each element of the mise-en-scene (mirrors, fog, motel blinds, the fuming Vera in profile) serves a distinctly noir overview and sensibility. On the cross-country drive, process shots further distance the already-alienated Al from his surroundings. In the Nevada diner sequences, artificial spotlighting (of Al’s twitching eyes) and exaggerated sound underscore Al’s agitated mental state. As he surveys the second ‘‘murder’’ scene, Al’s disorientation is suggested by a roaming camera that, as it picks out Vera’s things strewn about the room, keeps going out of focus. Tracking shots down foggy roads give the impression that Al is on a conveyor belt, being dragged, inexorably, to his final destination. Released by PRC as a routine crime ‘‘meller’’ (the tawdry poster contained the come-on ‘‘I Used My Body for Blackmail!’’), Detour, like many of the great noirs, was championed by France’s Cahiers du Cinéma critics (who dubbed its director ‘‘le plus maudit des cineaste’’ or unjustly cursed) before being discovered by their American counterparts, most notably Andrew Sarris and, in his influential Notes on Film Noir (1972), Paul Schrader. Francois Truffaut, writing in 1956, called Ulmer ‘‘the least-known’’ of American auteurs and his The Naked Dawn (1955) ‘‘a small gift from Hollywood.’’ The first observation no longer applies as scholars find references to Detour in Hitchcock’s Psycho and, more recently, the noir-infused works of David Lynch and Ethan and Joel Coen. The second Truffaut comment is more applicable to Detour, which, for too long, was an unappreci- ated gift from 1940s Hollywood. Ironically, Fate wound up putting the finger on some of those connected with this film. Ulmer, confined to a wheelchair after a series of strokes, didn’t live long enough to enjoy Detour’s critical reappraisal (he considered it his best film, along with The Black Cat and Naked Dawn). Widow Shirley Ulmer, in a 1983 interview, said he died a disappointed man. Savage went from low-budget to lowbrow, graduating to such epics as Renegade Girl and Pygmy Island. Neal fared worse. A hopeless alcoholic with a hair-trigger temper, he was imprisoned in 1965 for the murder of his third wife. Perfect tabloid- fodder, he died destitute in 1972 at age 58. An execrable, almost shot- for-shot video remake of Detour appeared in 1992. It was directed by Wade Williams and starred Tom Neal Jr., a dead ringer for his father. —Glenn Lovell DEUS E O DIABO NA TERRA DO SOL (Black God, White Devil) Brazil, 1964 Director: Glauber Rocha Production: Copacabana Films (Rio de Janeiro); black and white, 35mm, running time: 125 minutes. Filmed in Monte Santo, Bahia, 1963. Released in Rio de Janeiro, 1 June 1964. Producer: Luiz Augusto Mendez; associate producers: Glauber Rocha, Jarbas Barbosa; director and screenplay assistant: Walter Lima, Jr.; director and dialog assistant: Paulo Gil Soares; screen- play: Glauber Rocha; photography: Waldemar Lima; editor: Rafael Justo Verde: art director: Paulo Gil Soares; music: Heitor Villa- Lobos and Sergio Ricard (songs by Glauber Rocha). Cast: Geraldo Del Rey (Manuel); Ioná Magalh?es (Rosa); Othon Bastos (Corisco); Lídio Silva (Sebasti?o); Mauricio do Valle (An- tonio das Mortes); S?nia dos Humildes (Dadá); Marrom (Blind Julio); Jo?o Gama (The priest); Ant?nio Pinto (The ‘‘Coronel’’); Milton Rosa (‘‘Coronel’’ Moraes). Awards: Prize of the Mexican Critic at the International Festival of Acapulco (México), 1964; Great Prize, Festival of Free Cinema (Italy), 1964; Gold Naiade—International Festival of Porreta Terme (Italy), 1964; Great Prize Latin American, at the International Mar Del Plata Festival (Argentina), 1966. Publications Script: Rocha, Glauber, Deus e o Diabo na Terra do Sol, Editora Civiliza??o Brasileira, Rio de Janeiro, Brazil, 1965. DEUS E O DIABO NA TERRA DO SOLFILMS, 4 th EDITION 313 Deus e o Diabo na Terra do Sol Books: Rocha, Glauber, Revis?o critica do cinema brasileiro, Rio de Janeiro, 1963. Gardier, René, Glauber Rocha, Paris, 1974. Amengual, Barthélemy, Glauber Rocha e os caminhos da liberdade, in Glauber Rocha, Rio de Janeiro, 1977. Bernadet, Jean-Claude, Brasil em tempo de cinema, Rio de Janeiro, 1977. Rocha, Glauber, Revolu??o do cinema novo, Rio de Janeiro, 1981. Torrres, Augusto M., Glauber Rocha, Madrid, 1981. Gerber, Raquel, O mito da civiliza??o Atlantica: Glauber Rocha, Cinema, Politica e a Estética do Inconsciente, Rio de Janeiro, 1982. Rocha, Glabuer, O século do cinema, Rio de Janeiro, 1983. Xavier, Ismail, Sert?o Mar—Glauber Rocha e a Estética da Fome, S?o Paulo, Brazil, 1983. Hollyman, Burnes, Glauber Rocha and the Cinema Novo in Brazil: A Study of his Critical Writings and Films, New York, 1983. Johnson, Randal, Cinema Novo X5—Masters of Contemporary Bra- zilian Film, (Chapter 4: Glauber Rocha: Apocalypse and Resur- rection), Austin, Texas, 1984. Nazário, Luis, à margem do cinema, S?o Paulo, Brazil, 1986. Pierre, Sylvie, editor, Glauber Rocha: Textes et Entretiens de Glauber Rocha, Collection ‘‘Auteurs,’’ Paris, 1987. Passek, Jean-Loup, editor, Le Cinéma Brésilien, Paris, 1987. Pierre, Sylvie, Glauber Rocha, Paris 1987. Armes, Roy, Third World Film-making and the West, Berkeley, 1987. Articles: Variety (New York), 20 May 1964. Prédal, René, Jeune Cinéma (Paris), October 1967. Gardies, René, ‘‘Terres en transes,’’ in Image et Son (Paris), Decem- ber 1967. Rocha, Glauber, ‘‘Memorias de Dios y el Diablo en las Tierras de Monte Santo y Coco-Robo,’’ in Cine-Cubano (Havana), 1967. Levy, J., ‘‘Mythologies: un continent en trois,’’ in Cahiers du Cinéma (Paris), January 1968. Zele, Van, Image et Son (Paris), no. 233, 1969. Francovich, Alan, Film Quarterly (Berkeley), Winter 1969–70. Houston, P., Sight and Sound (London), Spring 1970. Dawson, J., Monthly Film Bulletin (London), April 1970. DEUTSCHLAND IM HERBST FILMS, 4 th EDITION 314 Tarrat, M., Films and Filming (London), May 1970. Williams, B., ‘‘Splintered Perspectives: Counterpoint and Subjectiv- ity in Modernist Film Narrative,’’ in Film Criticism (Meadville, Pennsylvania), Winter 1991. Valdes, Z?e, ‘‘El Desear poder Querer,’’ in Cine-Cubano (Havana), October-November 1992. Diegues, C., Positif (Paris), June 1994. *** ‘‘You could say that Deus e o Diabo na Terra do Sol (Black God, White Devil) was a film provoked by the impossibility of doing a truly great Western, as, for instance, John Ford could. Equally, there was a trail of inspiration from Eisenstein, from The General Line, from The Battleship Potemkin, and further ideas from Visconti and Rossellini, from Kurosawa and from Bu?uel. Deus e o Diabo arose from this tussle between Ford and Eisenstein, from the anarchy of Bu?uel, and from the savage strength of the lunacy of surrealism.’’ So Glauber Rocha defined the multiple influences which contrib- uted to Deus e o Diabo in an April 1981 interview with Jo?o Lopes (in the book Glauber Rocha, by Sylvie Pierre), four months before his death at the age of 42. Shown at Cannes in 1964, Deus e o Diabo, together with Nelson Pereira dos Santos’ Vidas Secas (Barren Lives), introduced the international viewing public to the Cinema Novo, an artistic movement which strove, in the name of a political conscience, for a Brazilian identity and ethos. Enthusiastically received at Cannes— Georges Sadoul considered its style ‘‘revolutionary’’— Deus e o Diabo genuinely lived up to the Cinema Novo’s motto: ‘‘an idea in the head and a camera in the hand.’’ Glauber Rocha, the Cinema Novo’s most controversial figure, was the author of bombastic writings, such as the manifesto ‘‘The Aesthetics of Hunger,’’ (pre- sented in Genova in January 1965 during the Rese?a del Cine Latinoamericano), in which he stated that ‘‘our originality is our hunger.’’ And the concept of hunger—both literally and in reference to a hunger for social justice—is central to Deus e o Diabo na Terra do Sol. The film’s opening is prosaic enough: Manuel (Geraldo Del Rey), a poor herdsman, married to Rosa (Yoná Magalh?es) and living in the dry, barren countryside of Northeastern Brazil in the early 1940s, decides to sell his cows and buy a plot of land. Things go awry when he ends up killing the buyer of his cows. Fleeing his destiny, he embraces the first option in the gospel according to Glauber Rocha: religious fanaticism, embodied by the Negro god, Beato Sebasti?o (Lídio Silva), a synthesis of the messianic leaders of that time and region. Sebasti?o promises his flock divine salvation and foretells the day when ‘‘the dry lands will turn into sea and the sea into dry land,’’ which is the leitmotif of the film. Glauber Rocha believed that ‘‘the people of the Northeast are truly obsessed by the desire to see the sea, a sea which signifies the broadest sort of liberty.’’ As Manuel and Rosa follow the fanatic priest, Antonio das Mortes (Maurício do Valle) enters the scene; he is famous for exterminating cangaceiros, the rural and very violent bandits of the region. Hired to kill Sebasti?o, Antonio das Mortes is a quasi-mythological figure in his intimidating black cape. His character is further developed in a subsequent film, O Drag?o da Maldade contra o Santo Guerreiro (Antonio das Mortes). By the time the killer reaches Sebasti?o, it is too late: the fanatic has already been killed by Rosa in a sacrificial ritual. On the run again, Manuel and Rosa join Corisco (Othon Bastos), the blonde devil. The physical embodiment of bitterness and cruelty, Corisco’s ambition is to avenge the death of the legendary cangaceiro Lampi?o while proffering impassioned speeches in de- fense of the poor. Antonio das Mortes and Corisco face off in a stylized duel in one of the film’s most effective sequences. Corisco is shot and dies screaming ‘‘the power of the people will win out.’’ Manuel and Rosa, true representatives of Corisco’s ‘‘people,’’ flee headlong through the interior, leaving behind them the fanaticism and the violence until the crazy Sebasti?o’s words become true: the dry lands become sea and the sea becomes dry land. Herein lies the utopia of Glauber Rocha. The voice of the blind man is heard explaining the reasons for so much suffering: ‘‘divided up the way it is, the world is wrong. The land belongs to man, not to God nor to the devil.’’ In Deus e o Diabo, Glauber Rocha’s second feature, launched after Barravento in 1961, the director created a tragic and convulsive northeastern opera; it is strongly allegorical, with symbols for ‘‘good’’ and ‘‘evil’’ in constant interaction. Some true-to-life portrayals, such as Manuel and Rosa, contrast with others of a classically theatrical tone, notably Corisco, inspired, according to Rocha, by Brecht. Linking aspects of popular culture with elements of the western, the film is narrated and sung by a blind man, a simplification of the Greek chorus. The outstanding sound track alternates Bach with Villa- Lobos, whose Fifth Bachiana contributes to one of the film’s most striking moments: the love scene of Corisco and Rosa, choreographed and rhythmical, an unexpected outpouring of guileless poetry against a desolate backdrop marked by poverty and violence. A true exponent of the author’s cinema style, with the strong political and social concern of the 1960s, Glauber Rocha’s restless- ness is felt through the impatient use of the hand-held camera, the originality of his framings, and the rhythm of the editing. The use of panoramics, travellings, zooms, and close-ups produces a tense and eloquent narrative, punctuated by philosophical interjections—‘‘fate is greater than we are;’’ ‘‘we have nothing to take but our fate,’’ and ‘‘man learns nothing in peace, he needs to fight to live and he needs to die to win.’’ Thirty years after it was made, Deus e o Diabo retains its contesting tone and the revolutionary personality of Glauber Rocha. At the age of 25, with a camera in his hand and a whirlwind of ideas in his head, Glauber Rocha created one of the most important Brazilian films through the undeniable strength, originality, and beauty of this furious fable about good and evil. —Susana Schild DEUTSCHLAND IM HERBST (Germany in Autumn) West Germany, 1978 Directors: Alf Brustellin, Hans Peter Cloos, R. W. Fassbinder, Alexander Kluge, Maximiliana Mainka, Beate Mainka-Jellinghaus, Edgar Reitz, Katja Rupé, Volker Schl?ndorff, Peter Schubert, and Bernhard Sinkel Production: Project Filmproduktion/Filmverlag der Autoren; color/ black and white, 35mm; running time: 116 minutes. Filmed October 1977. Released in West Germany, 17 March 1978. DEUTSCHLAND IM HERBSTFILMS, 4 th EDITION 315 Deutschland im Herbst Producers: Project Filmproduktion/Filmverlag der Autoren/ Halle- lujah Film/Kairos Film Munich; screenplay: Heinrich B?ll, Alf Brustellin, Hans Peter Cloos, R. W. Fassbinder, Alexander Kluge, Maximiliane Mainka, Edgar Reitz, Katja Rupé, Volker Schl?ndorff, Peter Schubert, Bernhard Sinkel, Peter F. Steinbach; photography: Michael Ballhaus, Günter H?rmann, Jürgen Jürges, Bodo Kessler, Dietrich Lohmann, Werner Lüring, Colin Mounier, J?rg Schmidt- Reitwein; editors: Alexander Kluge, Beate Mainka-Jellinghaus, Heidi Genée, Mulle Goetz-Dickopp, Juliane Lorenz, Tania Schmidbauer, Christine Warnck. Cast: Mario Adorf (TV committee member); Wolfgang B?chler, Heinz Bennent, Joachim Bissmeier, Joey Buschmann, Caroline Channiolleau, Hans Peter Cloos (‘‘Foreigner’’); Horst Ehmke, Otto Friebel, Hildegard Friese, Vadim Glowna (Freiermuth); Michael Gahr, Helmut Griem (Mahler’s interviewer); Horatius H?berle, Hannelore Hoger (Gabi Teichert); Petra Kiener, Dieter Laser, Lisi Mangold, Enno Patalas (TV committee member), Lila Pempeit, Wer- ner Possardt, Franz Priegel, Leon Rainer, Manfred Rommel, Katja Rupé (Franziska Busch); Walter Schmidinger, Gerhard Schneider, Corinna Spies, Franziska Walser (Ismene); André Wilms, Angela Winkler (Antigone); Eric Vilgertshofer, Manfred Zapatka. Appearing as themselves: Wolf Biermann (radical poet/singer/songwriter exiled from DDR in 1977), Rainer Werner Fassbinder, Horst Mahler, and Armin Meier. Awards: Film Strip in Gold for Outstanding Individual Achieve- ment: Film Conception (for the entire film team), German Film Awards, 1978. Publications Books: Elsaesser, Thomas, New German Cinema: A History, New Brunswick, New Jersey, 1989. Kaes, Anton, From Hitler to Heimat: The Return of History as Film, Princeton, New Jersey, 1989. DEUTSCHLAND IM HERBST FILMS, 4 th EDITION 316 Corrigan, Timothy, New German Cinema: The Displaced Image, Bloomington, Indiana, 1994. Elsaesser, Thomas, Fassbinder’s Germany: History, Identity, Sub- ject, Amsterdam, 1996. Articles: Hansen, Miriam, ‘‘Cooperative Auteur Cinema and Oppositional Public Sphere,’’ in New German Critique, no. 24–25, Fall/Winter, 1981–82. Silberman, Marc, ‘‘Introduction to Germany in Autumn,’’ in Dis- course, no. 6, 1983. Lacoue-Labarthe, Philippe, Rainer Werner Fassbinder, Jurgen Habermas, and Heiner Muller, ‘‘Germany in Autumn,’’ in Documenta X: The Book: Politics Poetics, edited by Catherine David and Jean-Francois Chevrier, Ostfildern, Germany1997. *** Germany in Autumn is a politically engaged combination of documentary, media footage, and fictional and autobiographical episodes that covers the emotional gamut from concern, to irony, to despair. A landmark film for the New German Cinema, this collabora- tive effort between nine acclaimed directors and several prominent writers, songwriters, and poets protests the political oppression of West Germany in the late 1970s. The film’s nine vignettes document the rise of urban terrorism, police militancy, and the resurgence of fascist tendencies in postwar Germany. In the fall of 1977, Germany was almost a nation under siege by its own police, security, and military forces. The headlines told of a plane hijacking and the kidnapping and subsequent murder of German industrialist Hans-Martin Schleyer. Schleyer’s kidnappers, the Baader- Meinhof group, were a left-wing terrorist offshoot of the notorious Red Army Faction (RAF). Schleyer had been kidnapped in an effort to negotiate the release of the RAF’s most prominent members, Andreas Baader, Gudrun Enslin, and Karl Raspe, who had been imprisoned for terrorist acts. After the failed kidnapping effort resulted in Schleyer’s murder, the leaders of the RAF were found dead in Stammheim, a maximum security federal prison. The suspi- cious circumstances of their deaths led many to conclude that they were murdered by the state, although officials declared and still maintain otherwise. In any case, the treatment of the Baader-Meinhof group confirmed the fears of the political left that the state was willing to use extreme violence to silence its critics. With these events as its historical backdrop, the film takes on three urgent tasks for the postwar generation: a protest against censorship and political repression; a confrontation with the persistence of fascism reflected in current events; and facing their parents’ lack of accountability for the Nazi period. The films sections address these issues from various perspectives and diverse styles, and are marked by the signature styles of their directors. One sees the overall influence of Alexander Kluge, who together with Beate Mainka- Jellinghaus edited the nine hours of material into a 134 minute film. According to Kluge—social theorist, filmmaker, author, and one of the most prominent directors of New German Cinema—the contradictions in the film ‘‘belong to one nation: only if the contradic- tions are together, can one accept this history and understand it.’’ Although there is no real plot, the footage is sequenced around various themes: the role of the media and the importance of debate in the public sphere, confronting the Nazi past, and the necessity to resist police brutality. At a time of official government news blackout, this acclaimed team of filmmakers offered a counter-history, an unofficial response to the official absence of reportage. The experimental montage of short fictionalized pieces even mimics the look of television, with its collection of interviews, documentary, fiction, and autobiographical pieces. Several of the film’s sections explicitly address the theme of state and media censorship and the lack of open debate. Other sections illustrate the political power wielded by those who control the media. The section by Schl?ndorf and Heinrich B?ll offers an ironic sketch of a contrived meeting of TV officials who ban the dramatic produc- tion of Sophocle’s Antigone. The classic drama’s portrayal of siblings in defiance of the state is seen as advocating a pro-terrorist view too analogous to recent events. This segment’s satirical yet pointed testament to the political power of the media demands a public sphere in which debate is encouraged and allowed. On a thematic level, several sections of Germany in Autumn addressed Germany’s difficult recent history and the burden of the historical memory of the Third Reich. Kluge based his critically acclaimed feature film The Patriot on his short section about Gabi Teichert, a high school teacher intent on (literally) digging up Germany’s past with a hand spade; in this film, however, the past is not about the extermination of the European Jews in Europe, but about the losses and deprivation of the immediate postwar period; that is, it is about German suffering. Fassbinder’s 24 minute episode, the most personal and emotion- ally charged of the sections, also addresses the weight of the past but from a different perspective: he confronts the effects of the generational conflict between parents and children. In a staged but highly convinc- ing and seemingly realistic interview with his mother, he elicits the statement from her that what Germany needs today is another ‘‘benevolent dictator.’’ Interspersed with this interview, spectators witness the historical transmission of violence on a domestic, private level. Fassbinder alternately abuses, rejects, caresses, and rants with his lover in a dark claustrophobic apartment filled with booze, drugs, and misery. The message seems to be that history is accountable for interpersonal problems as well as political and governmental ones. Germany in Autumn is also about collective mourning. Funeral scenes frame the various episodes; indeed, the opening and closing of the film documents the funeral of Hans Martin Schleyer as well as the burial of the Red Army leaders. Lastly, the film explores the fine line between patriotism and nationalism. The film uses the national anthem as an ironic leitmotif, underlining the filmmaker’s distrust of the government as a result of police brutality directed at so-called leftist sympathizers. The rich texture of the images and the densely layered scenes of Germany in Autumn skillfully merge the terrorism of the present with the fascist totalitarianism of the past. The film remains both an artistic achievement and a statement of the political efficacy of film-making. —Jill Gillespie DEVIL IN THE FLESH See LE DIABLE AU CORPS THE DEVIL IS A WOMANFILMS, 4 th EDITION 317 THE DEVIL IS A WOMAN USA, 1935 Director: Josef von Sternberg Production: Paramount Pictures; black and white, 35mm; running time: 80 minutes, some sources list 82 minutes. Released 1935. Filmed in Paramount studios. Screenplay: Josef von Sternberg, adapted by John Dos Passos and S. K. Winston, from the novel The Woman and the Puppet by Pierre Louys; photography: Josef von Sternberg and Lucien Ballard; production designer: Hans Dreier; music and lyrics: Ralph Rainger and Leo Robin. Cast: Marlene Dietrich (Concha Perez); Cesar Romero (Antonio Galvan); Lionel Atwill (Don Pasqual); Edward Everett Horton (Don Paquito); Alison Skipworth (Se?ora Perez); Don Alvarado (Morenito); Morgan Wallace (Dr. Mendez); Tempe Pigott (Tuerta); Jil Dennett (Maria); Lawrence Grant (Conductor). Publications Books: Harrington, Curtis, An Index to the Films of Josef von Sternberg, London, 1949. Griffith, Richard, Marlene Dietrich—Image and Legend, New York, 1959. Von Sternberg, Josef, Fun in a Chinese Laundry, New York, 1965. Sarris, Andrew, The Films of Josef von Sternberg, New York, 1966. Josef von Sternberg: Dokumentation: Eine Darstellung, Mann- heim, 1966. Weinberg, Herman G., Josef von Sternberg, Paris, 1966; as Josef von Sternberg: A Critical Study, New York, 1967. Kobal, John, Marlene Dietrich, New York, 1968. Dickens, Homer, The Films of Marlene Dietrich, New York, 1968. Baxter, John, The Cinema of Josef von Sternberg, New York, 1971. Silver, Charles, Marlene Dietrich, New York, 1974. Morley, Sheridan, Marlene Dietrich, London, 1976. Higham, Charles, Marlene: The Life of Marlene Dietrich, New York, 1977. Mérigeau, Pascal, Josef von Sternberg, Paris, 1983. Navacelle, Thierry de, Sublime Marlene, London, 1984. Seydel, Renate, Marlene Dietrich: Eine Chronik ihres Lebens in Bilden und Dokumenten, East Berlin, 1984. Walker, Alexander, Dietrich, London, 1984. Spoto, Donald, Falling in Love Again: Marlene Dietrich, Bos- ton, 1985. Wilson, George M., ‘‘Narration in Light‘‘: Studies in Cinematic Point-of-View, Baltimore, 1986. Zucker, Carole, The Idea of the Image: Josef von Sternberg’s Dietrich Films, Rutherford, 1988. Dietrich, Marlene, Ich bin, Gott sei dank, Berlinerin, Frankfurt, 1987; as My Life, London, 1989. Bowman, Barbara, Master Space: Film Images of Capra, Lubitsch, Sternberg, and Wyler, New York, 1992. Baxter, Peter, Just Watch!: Sternberg, Paramount and America, London, 1993. Bogdanovich, Peter, Who the Devil Made It, New York, 1997. Articles: New York Times, 4 May 1935. Variety (New York), 8 May 1935. ‘‘Creative Film Director,’’ in Cue (New York), 14 December 1935. Dekobra, Maurice, ‘‘Comment Marlene Dietrich est devenue star,’’ in Cinémonde (Paris), 16 April 1939. Knight, Arthur, ‘‘Marlene Dietrich,’’ in Films in Review (New York), December 1954. Weinberg, Herman G., ‘‘The Lost Films: Part 1,’’ in Sight and Sound (London), August 1962. Weinberg, Herman G., ‘‘Josef von Sternberg,’’ in Film Heritage (Dayton, Ohio), Winter 1965. Green, O. O., ‘‘Six Films of Josef von Sternberg,’’ in Movie (Lon- don), Summer 1965. Higham, Charles, ‘‘Dietrich in Sydney,’’ in Sight and Sound (Lon- don), Winter 1965–66. Eisenschitz, Bernard, ‘‘L’Oeuvre de Josef von Sternberg,’’ in Avant- Scène du Cinéma (Paris), March 1966. Positif (Paris), May 1966. Bowser, Ellen, and Richard Griffith, in Film Notes, edited by Bowser, New York, 1969. Martineau, Barbara, ‘‘Thoughts on the Objectification of Women,’’ in Take One (Montreal), November-December 1970. Flinn, Tom, ‘‘Joe, Where Are You?’’ in Velvet Light Trap (Madison, Wisconsin), Fall 1972. Rheuban, Joyce, ‘‘Josef von Sternberg: The Scientist and the Vamp,’’ in Sight and Sound (London), Autumn 1973. Magny, Joel, in Téléciné (Paris), November 1976. Baxter, P., ‘‘On the Naked Thighs of Miss Dietrich,’’ in Wide Angle (Baltimore), vol. 2, no. 2, 1978. Combs, Richard, in Monthly Film Bulletin (London), May 1978. Tessier, Max, in Revue du Cinéma (Paris), July-August 1985. Thomas, Fran?ois, in Positif (Paris), January 1986. Listener (London), 7 January 1988. Jenkinson, P., ‘‘Sternberg’s Last Interview,’’ in Film Culture (New York), June 1992. Koch, Gertrude, and M. Gerber, ‘‘Dietrich’s Destiny: Strike a Pose,’’ in Sight & Sound (London), September 1992. Morgan, M., ‘‘Sternberg & Dietrich Revisited,’’ in Bright Lights (Cincinnati), July 1993. *** The Devil Is a Woman is the final film starring Marlene Dietrich made by director Josef von Sternberg. The identifying characteristics of the von Sternberg/Dietrich collaboration, including the ambiguity, often difficult for viewers to accept, are evident here. The Devil Is a Woman is a perfect culmination to an enigmatic relationship and a breathtaking series of visually stunning films. Based on Pierre Louys’s novel, The Woman and the Puppet, the film is a quintessential example of the von Sternberg filmed universe. To follow the story is to travel through a narrative labyrinth, follow- ing the many changes of mood, mind, character and costume of the central character, Concha (Dietrich), the devilish woman of the title. THE DEVIL IS A WOMAN FILMS, 4 th EDITION 318 The Devil Is a Woman The contradictory Concha is all surface and no depth, a beautiful, fickle, unpredictable woman, or at least that is how she is presented as Don Pasqual (Lionel Atwill) tells Antonio (Cesar Romero) about her. Concha exists at the center of the film, and von Sternberg favors the audience with as few fulfilled expectations and explanations as she has favored her lovers. At the end, Concha (through von Sternberg) has demonstrated the same cruel control over viewers as she has over her lovers, leaving an audience with nothing to grasp, much less to embrace or understand. The Devil Is a Woman defines the von Sternberg approach to cinema, which is unique. As a film artist, he defies the conceptions most have about what film is or what it can or should do. He seldom develops a logical narrative pattern, with ordinary character motiva- tions. On the contrary, a von Sternberg character frequently makes an abrupt shift that, in literary terms, is unexpected and unjustified. ‘‘I changed my mind,’’ Concha offers as an explanation when she turns back across the border to rejoin her rejected former lover. This arbitrary change of mind is the essence of the von Sternberg film, which forces viewers to realize that the act of seeing is itself the truest meaning of the film. By removing conventional forms of dramatic tension, character development and plot motivation, he asks viewers to accept the things that usually supplement a film story as if they were the story themselves. In never fully explaining Concha, he seduces viewers into observing her more and more closely. The Devil Is a Woman presents an illusionary world, filled with irony, mockery, androgyny, and a certain amount of implied deca- dence. As is true of all his films with Dietrich, it is somewhat of a von Sternberg autobiography, with Atwill, a von Sternberg look-alike, playing the character who is toyed with by Concha. The relationship of these two characters is a complicated interplay of master and victim, puppet and manipulator, with no clear indication of which is truly the master and which the puppet. With The Devil Is a Woman, von Sternberg worked against the tradition of Hollywood in the 1930s, in that he reduced narrative tension to a state in which very little seemed to be happening. ‘‘The best source for a story,’’ he said, ‘‘is an anecdote.’’ Although The Devil Is a Woman is based on a famous novel, von Sternberg liked trivial plots, and never took up great social or political themes. This led to an inevitable rejection of von Sternberg by both critics and audiences, and The Devil Is a Woman was a failure. Seen today, it is a stunning example of pictorial beauty. The use of light and shadow in intricate interplay, the long takes connected by luxuriously slow LE DIABLE AU CORPSFILMS, 4 th EDITION 319 dissolves, the ironic music, the elegant compositions, and the compli- cated, layered images make it the work of a major visual artist. —Jeanine Basinger LE DIABLE AU CORPS (Devil in the Flesh) France, 1947 Director: Claude Autant-Lara Production: Transcontinental Films; black and white, 35mm; run- ning time: 110 minutes. Released 1947. Screenplay: Jean Aurenche and Pierre Bost, from a novel by Ray- mond Radiguet; photography: Michel Kelber; editor: Madeleine Gug; production designer: Max Douy; music: René Clo?rec. Cast: Gérard Philipe (Fran?ois); Micheline Presle (Marthe); Denise Grey; Jean Debucourt. Publications Script: Autant-Lara, Claude, Le diable au corps, Paris, 1984. Books: Philipe, Anne, and Claude Roy, Gérard Philipe: Souvenirs et temoignages, Paris, 1960; revised edition, 1977. Sadoul, Georges, Gérard Philipe, Paris, 1967; revised edition, 1979. Perisset, Maurice, Gérard Philipe, Paris, 1975. Armes, Roy, French Cinema Since 1946, Volume 1: The Great Tradition, New York, 1976. Cadars, Pierre, Gérard Philipe, Paris, 1984. Autant-Lara, Claude, Le bateau coule: discours de réception à l’Académie des beaux-arts, Paris, 1989. Articles: Jeanne, Rene, and Charles Ford, ‘‘Styles du cinéma fran?ais,’’ in La Livre d’or du cinéma fran?ais 1947–48, Paris, 1948. Philipe, Gérard, ‘‘In the Margin,’’ in Sequence (London), Spring 1949. Billard, Ginette, ‘‘Gérard Philipe,’’ in Films and Filming (London), October 1955. Durgnat, Raymond, ‘‘The Rebel with Kid Gloves,’’ in Films and Filming (London), October and November 1960. Le diable au corps Autant-Lara, Claude, ‘‘Comment j’ai pu realiser Le diable au corps,’’ in Ikon (Milan), January-March 1972. Autant-Lara, Claude, ‘‘La Chasse aux escargots,’’ in Cahiers de la Cinémathèque (Perpignan), Spring 1973. Oms, Marcel, ‘‘La Parole est à Claude Autant-Lara’’ (interview), in Cahiers de la Cinémathèque (Perpignan), Summer 1973. Dazat, O., ‘‘Lecons de morale,’’ in Cinematographe (Paris), June 1986. Oms, M., in Nosferatu (San Sebastian), no. 10, October 1992. Jeune Cinéma (Paris), January/February 1997. *** Le diable au corps was certainly the French film of 1947. Winner of several European awards, the film was also banned in communities across the Continent. While a proud tribute to the French literary tradition, it posed as the most avant-garde example of postwar cinema in that country. There is no paradox here, for the aesthetic ideology of the ‘‘cinema of quality,’’ of which this film serves as an outstanding example, openly mixes an interest in iconoclastic subject matter, high art tradition, and a refined studio treatment. Aurenche and Bost’s careful reworking of a youthful and rebellious novel points up its key social and psychological oppositions. Claude Autant-Lara was then able to put these oppositions into play through the psychological realism of his handling of actors, and through the narrational com- mentary wrung out of decor, music, and cinematic figures. Their grim intelligence and determined passion made Gérard Philipe and Micheline Presle an instantly legendary couple; he as LES DIABOLIQUES FILMS, 4 th EDITION 320 a precocious teenage malcontent, son of an upright bourgeois, she the older woman whose husband is off at the front in World War I. Autant-Lara evinces sympathy for their questionable moral position by rendering the action through a series of flashbacks from the boy’s point of view. The war is over and the town celebrates the return of its veterans, but he must hide in the room of their forbidden love and go through the anguish of recalling that love. This flashback structure, together with the doomed love of the couple, reminded critics of Le jour se lève, and made the public see Gérard Philipe as the heir of Jean Gabin. But the limpid expressiveness of the prewar realism had been complicated after the war. Philipe’s gestures were calculated to display his passion and anguish, whereas Gabin had moved and spoken instinctively, without the hesitation of either good taste or intelligence, hallmarks of the postwar style. The same holds true for the direction. While Carné and Prévert had devised a number of highly charged objects, Autant-Lara multiplies effects wherever he can. The incessant play of reflections in mirrors and by the ferry insists on the significance of the drama, but does so from the outside. Similarly the famous 360-degree camera movement that circles the bed of the couple’s lovemaking demands to be noticed as a figure supplied by an external narrator, especially since it begins on a crack- ling fire and ends on dying embers. This is more than a metaphor for passion, it is a poetic display that lifts an ordinary drama into telling significance. Altogether Le diable au corps stuns its audience with the cocki- ness of its presentation as well as with the audacity of its subject matter. This is its conquest as well as its loss; for in only a few years the New Wave critics, led by Truffaut, would clamor for the downfall of psychological realism and of the paternalistic, elitist narration that preaches a liberal morality. If Radiguet, the novelist, likewise con- demned a suffocating society, he did so from within, from the perceptions and language of his hero. Autant-Lara has used Radiguet’s rebelliouness, has packaged it approvingly, but has made of it a mature, stylish film. Radiguet, legend has it, put everything of himself into this novel and then died. The movie pays tribute to his effort and his views, but is just another very good movie. —Dudley Andrew LES DIABOLIQUES France, 1954 Director: Henri-Georges Clouzot Production: Filmsonor (Paris); black and white, 35mm; running time: 110 minutes. Released 1954. Filmed in France. Producer: Louis de Masure; screenplay: Henri-Georges Clouzot, Jér?me Géronimi, René Masson, and Frédéric Grendel, from the novel Celle qui n’était plus by Boileau and Narcejac; photography: Armand Thirard; editor: Madeleine Gug; sound: William-Robert Sivel; production designer: Léon Barsacq; music: Georges van Parys. Cast: Simone Signoret (Nicole); Véra Clouzot (Christina); Paul Meurisse (Michel); Charles Vanel (Fichet); Jean Brochard (Plantiveau); No?l Roquevert (M. Herboux); Georges Chamarat (Dr. Loisy); Jac- ques Varennes (Professor Bridoux); Michel Serrault (M. Raymond). Awards: Prix Louis Delluc (France), 1955; New York Film Critics Award for Best Foreign Film (shared with Umberto D), 1955. Publications Books: Lacassin, Francis, and others, Le Procès Clouzot, Paris, 1964. Pilard, Philippe, H. G. Clouzot, Paris, 1969. Armes, Roy, French Cinema Since 1946, Volume 1: The Great Tradition, New York, 1976. Sandre, Didier, Simone Signoret, Paris, 1981. Bocquet, José-Louis, Henri-Georges Clouzot cinéaste, with Marc Godin, Sèvres, 1993. David, Catherine, Simone Signoret, New York, 1995. Articles: Brunelin, Andre G., in Cinéma (Paris), November 1954. Brulé, Claude, ‘‘Clouzot est-il vraiment diable?’’ in Ciné-Revue (Paris), 1955. New York Times, 22 November 1955. ‘‘Frenchman’s Horror,’’ in Newsweek (New York), 28 Novem- ber 1955. Goulder, Stanley, ‘‘The Necrophilist,’’ in Films and Filming (Lon- don), December 1955. Tennant, Sylvia, ‘‘Henri-Georges Clouzot,’’ in Film (London), March- April 1956. Forestier, J., and G. P. Richer, ‘‘H. G. Clouzot, L’homme diabolique du cinéma fran?ais,’’ in Lettres Fran?aises (Paris), July 1960. Schrader, Paul, ‘‘An Interview with Henri-Georges Clouzot,’’ in Cinema (Beverly Hills), no. 4, 1969. Lacourbe, Roland, ‘‘Henri-Georges Clouzot,’’ in Anthologie du cinéma 10, Paris, 1979. Devillers, M., in Cinématographe (Paris), March 1984. Pulleine, Tim, in Films and Filming (London), December 1985. Brown, G., ‘‘Suspicion,’’ in Village Voice (New York), 25 Octo- ber 1994. Herpe, No?l, ‘‘Les films criminels de Clouzot,’’ in Positif (Paris), January 1996. Hottell, Ruth A., ‘‘The Diabolic Dialogic,’’ in Literature/Film Quar- terly (Salisbury), vol. 24, no. 3, 1996. ‘‘Special Issue,’’ Avant-Scène du Cinéma (Paris), June 1997. *** Henri-Georges Clouzot is a key member of the generation of filmmakers who emerged during the Occupation and dominated DIRTY HARRYFILMS, 4 th EDITION 321 French cinema for a dozen years or so after the war. Les diaboliques is not a masterpiece to rank with such earlier Clouzot films as Le corbeau or Le salaire de la peur, but its particular contradictions allow the principal aspects of what was later to be dubbed the ‘‘tradition of quality’’ to be clearly observed. The political events of these years—the war in Indo-China leading to the fall of Dien Bien Phu, and the beginning of the Algerian revolution which was to lead to eight years of savage fighting and eventually bring down the Fourth Republic—are ignored, and Clouzot, like so many of his contemporaries, offers a studio reconstruction of the world which is meticulously realist in detail, but essentially timeless. Les diaboliques is set in one of Clouzot’s favorite locations—a shabby, rundown provincial school—and the tensions here between a bullying headmaster, his ailing wife and forceful mistress are methodically set up. The craftsmanship involved in the creation of this world is enormous, and nothing is allowed to stand between the director and his conception of his film. Before 1939 actors had been the monstres sacrés of French cinema and every aspect of a film was subordinate to their will. But Clouzot was from the first renowned for the harsh treatment he meted out to his actors. If the story that he served bad fish to the actors in Les diaboliques and made them eat it so as to capture an authentic sense of disgust is probably apocryphal, it certainly conveys perfectly his essential attitude. The 1940s and early 1950s was also a time of the totally scripted film in which the diversity and contradictions of life were reduced to a single narrative line relentlessly followed. Though there might be a rich counterpoint of incident as well as the creation of multiple ironies, there was no space for gaps within the plot which would unfold with all the precision of a watch mechanism. In works like Le corbeau and Quai des Orfèvres, Clouzot had shown himself to be a master of the thriller structure, with all the subtle manipulation of audience responses which that implies. But as so often in other aspects of his work, Clouzot seems to have been driven by a desire to take the creation of suspense to extreme limits. For him, as for his contemporary, Alfred Hitchcock, whom he much admired, there could be no half measures. In Les diaboliques Clouzot is tempted into a display of his own narrative skills, and the logic of the film, which has plotted its first murder with brutal precision, is slowly taken apart. Inexplicable things start to happen, and the spectator’s confidence in his own perceptions, in the truth of what he has seen and heard, is undermined. The contradictions are resolved in a virtuoso passage of plot twisting in the final reel, but this very ingenuity destroys the psychological realism on which the film’s opening is constructed. Les diaboliques is exhilarating at first viewing, and proved to be both commercially successful and controversial on its first release. For most critics, however, the contrivance of the ending renders a second viewing meaningless, since it underlines the film’s remoteness from a livid reality and even makes Clouzot’s deeply felt black vision seem trite and superficial. —Roy Armes DIARY OF A COUNTRY PRIEST See JOURNAL D’UN CURE DE CAMPAGNE DIARY OF A LOST GIRL See TAGEBUCH EINER VERELORENEN DIE LEGENDE VON SüNDE UND STRAFE See SODOM UND GOMORRHA DIRTY HARRY USA, 1971 Director: Don Siegel Production: Warner Bros., Malpaso; Technicolor, Panavision; run- ning time: 101 minutes. Released December 1971. Executive producer: Robert Daley; producer: Don Siegel; screen- play: Harry Julian Fink, Rita M. Fink, Dean Riesner; assistant director: Robert Rubin; photography: Bruce Surtees; editor: Carl Pingitore; sound: William Randall; art director: Dale Hennesy; music: Lalo Schifrin. Cast: Clint Eastwood (Harry Callahan); Harry Guardino (Lt. Bressler); Reni Santoni (Chico); John Vernon (The Mayor); Andy Robinson (Killer); John Larch (Chief); John Mitchum (De Georgio); Mae Mercer (Mrs. Russell); Lyn Edgington (Norma); Ruth Kobart (Bus Driver); Woodrow Parfey (Mr. Jaffe); Josef Sommer (Rothko); William Paterson (Bannerman); James Nolan (Liquor Proprietor); Maurice S.; Argent (Sid Kleinman); Jo de Winter (Miss Willis); Craig G. Kelly (Sgt. Reineke). Publications Books: Kaminsky, Stuart M., Don Siegel: Director, New York, 1974. Douglas, Peter, Clint Eastwood: Movin’ On, Chicago, 1974. Kaminsky, Stuart M., Clint Eastwood, New York, 1974. Agan, Patrick, Clint Eastwood: The Man behind the Mask, New York, 1975. Downing, David, Clint Eastwood, All-American Anti-Hero: A Criti- cal Appraisal of the World’s Top Box-Office Star and His Films, London, 1977. Lovell, Alan, Don Siegel: American Cinema, New York, 1977. Ferrari, Philippe, Clint Eastwood, Paris, 1980. Smijewsky, Boris, The Films of Clint Eastwood, Secaucus, New Jersey, 1982. DIRTY HARRY FILMS, 4 th EDITION 322 Dirty Harry Kapsis, Robert E., Clint Eastwood: Interviews, Jackson, 1999. Schickel, Richard, Clint Eastwood: A Biography, New York, 1999. Articles: Variety (New York), 22 December 1971. Milne, Tom, in Sight and Sound (London), Spring 1972. Velvet Light Trap (Madison, Wisconsin), Spring 1972. Combs, Richard, in Monthly Film Bulletin (London), May 1972. Films and Filming (London), June 1972. Shadoian, J., ‘‘Dirty Harry: A Defense,’’ in Western Humanities Review (Salt Lake City), Spring 1974. Friedman, Bruce Jay, ‘‘Could Dirty Harry Take Rooster Cogburn?’’ in Esquire (New York), September 1976. Velvet Light Trap (Madison, Wisconsin), Fall 1976. Bell, Philip, in Australian Journal of Screen Theory (Kensington, New South Wales), no. 5–6, 1979. Alpert, Robert, ‘‘Clint Eastwood Plays Dumb Cop,’’ in Jump Cut (Berkeley), May 1979. Listener (London), 14 February 1985. Fenwick, H., ‘‘Dirty Harry Comes Clean,’’ in Radio Times (London), 26 November 1988. Sarris, Andrew, ‘‘Don Siegel: the Pro,’’ in Film Comment (New York), vol. 27, no. 5, September-October 1991. Hampton, H., ‘‘Sympathy for the Devil: In the Cinematic Sniper’s Nest,’’ in Film Comment (New York), November-December 1993. Grenier, Richard, ‘‘Clint Eastwood Goes PC (Politically Correct) Movies,’’ in Commentary, vol. 97, no. 3, March 1994. Duncan, Andrew, ‘‘‘If People Really Found Out About Me They’d Be Disappointed’,’’ in Radio Times (London), 9 September 1995. Persellin, K., ‘‘Ariadne’s Thread,’’ in Spectator (Los Angeles), no. 2, 1995. Rabinowitz, Paula, ‘‘Screen Memories,’’ in Wide Angle (Baltimore), October 1996. *** ‘‘I know what you’re thinking,’’ says Harry Callahan, Inspector 71 of the San Francisco police, to the bank robber he’s just shot. ‘‘Did he fire six shots or only five? Well, to tell the truth, in all this DISTANT VOICES, STILL LIVESFILMS, 4 th EDITION 323 excitement I kinda lost track myself. But being this is a .44 magnum, the most powerful handgun in the world, and would blow your head clean off, you’ve got to ask yourself one question. ‘Do I feel lucky?’’’ The humourless smile widens. ‘‘Well, do you, punk?’’ For many, this speech is the most memorable thing about Dirty Harry. But while the film seems destined to be Siegel’s masterpiece, it would be an error to confuse Callahan’s challenge with the director’s own ethic. A gibe in The Line Up (1958) is closer to his concerns. ‘‘Ordinary people of your class,’’ says the killer Dancer, ‘‘you don’t understand the criminal’s need for violence.’’ What Siegel illustrates in his work is the implicit contract that exists between criminals and society. We need criminals to act out our own fantasies of violence. Siegel finds proof of this symbiosis in our legal system, an imperfect tool which we ourselves sabotage. His films mock its structures. The police force of Madigan is corrupt. Riot in Cell Block 11 and Escape from Alcatraz attack the prison system. Coogan’s Bluff, like Dirty Harry, parodies sociology, legal proce- dure, and especially the concept of rehabilitation. Siegel’s special subject is killers, whichever side of the law they may work on. But his murderers and vigilantes are creatures of the imagination. In them, he encourages us to see mirrored our own urges for violence and anarchy. When they die, it is, in effect, for our sins. By contrast with most real-life murderers, who usually kill loved ones in the heat of passion, Siegel’s murderers are loners, conscienceless and mad. They kill for profit, as a profession, or for fun. Andy Robinson’s Scorpio in Dirty Harry is his most malevolent creation, leering, anonymous, malign. We’d assume his weaponry had its genesis in Vietnam were it not for his twisted peace symbol belt buckle: evil has no pedigree, just as Scorpio has no biography. Scorpio preys on innocence; a girl swimming in a penthouse pool, a 10-year-old boy, a teenager he rapes and buries alive. Other targets are a priest, an exaggeratedly effeminate homosexual, a much-robbed liquor store owner, and finally a bus filled with schoolchildren. All that stands between Scorpio and these, the helpless, is Harry Callahan— ‘‘Dirty’’ Harry, because he draws every dirty job, but equally dirty because he does not flinch from violence in doing them. Harry’s methods are endorsed when he tracks the wounded killer to a football stadium. Ignoring gibbering appeals for a lawyer and a doctor, he grinds a heel into the bleeding leg until Scorpio reveals the location of the buried girl. Bruce Surtees’s camera pulls back in a vertiginous helicopter shot, losing hunter and prey in night-time mist and the glare of the floodlights. This nightmare image dissolves into a blue dawn above the Golden Gate bridge as a nude corpse is hauled out of her grave and carried away. Birdsong shows nature indifferent to her death, as is the sleeping city. Only Callahan cares. Harry has flouted every legal procedure, so the murderer goes free, and hijacks a school bus. Taking justice into his own hands, Callahan kills Scorpio, and, as the body sinks into a sump like a slaughtered horror movie monster, flings his police badge after it. Thus Dirty Harry’s first and last images are of this badge. The film opens on a marble honour roll of dead cops. A gold inspector’s star, superimposed over a list of the dead, dissolves into the silenced barrel of Scorpio’s rifle, fair warning of a significant visual subtext. Neutral behind dark glasses, Callahan initially appears almost disdainful of his duty. Over the credits, he climbs a building to find the place where Scorpio shot from, the first of many ascents in the film. From that moment, he appears in charge of the city, its avenging angel—a role for which the satanic Scorpio challenges him. (The first word heard in the film is Callahan’s expletive when he finds Scorpio’s extortion note—‘‘Jesus.’’) The film thereafter is filled with Christian imagery. The square where Scorpio sets up his second killing is dominated by a church, and Callahan stakes it out from a rooftop where a revolving neon sign announces ‘‘Jesus Saves.’’ For the payoff of the ransom, Scorpio chooses a hilltop park dominated by a gigantic cross. Critics, especially The New Yorker’s Pauline Kael, thought Dirty Harry fascistic. Others blamed it for the Death Wish/Walking Tall vigilante films which followed, ignoring the fact that, without excep- tion, they lacked Dirty Harry’s moral and psychological dimensions. To classify Harry Callahan as just another right-wing hard-hat was to miss the point of the film as surely as those who call him ‘‘Dirty’’ Harry miss the irony of his nickname. Given the spread of urban violence and the resulting change in public opinion in favour of law and order, vigilantes, gun control, and the death penalty, it must be acknowledged that, while they did not create the New York, Wash- ington and Los Angeles of the 1980s, Siegel and his writers antici- pated them with a special prescience. —John Baxter THE DISCREET CHARM OF THE BOURGEOISIE See LE CHARME DISCRET DE LA BOURGEOISIE DISTANT VOICES, STILL LIVES UK, 1988 Director: Terence Davies Production: British Film Institute, in association with Channel 4/ ZDF; Metrocolor; running time: 84 minutes. Released 1988. Producer: Jennifer Howarth; screenplay: Terence Davies; assistant directors: Andy Powell, Glyn Purcell, Marc Munden, Matthew Evans; photography: William Diver, Patrick Duval; camera opera- tor: Harriet Cox; editor: William Diver; collaborative editors: Geraldine Creed, Toby Benton; sound editor: Alex Mackie; sound recordists: Moya Burns, Colin Nicolson; sound re-recordists: Aad Wirtz, Ian Turner; art directors: Miki van Zwanenberg, Jocelyn James; stunt coordinator: Alf Joint. Cast: Freda Dowie (Mother); Pete Postlethwaite (Father); Angela Walsh (Eileen); Dean Williams (Tony); Lorraine Ashbourne (Maisie); Sally Davies (Eileen as a child); Nathan Walsh (Tony as a child); Susan Flanagan (Maisie as a child); Michael Starke (Dave); Vincent Maguire (George); Antonia Mallen (Rose); Debi Jones (Micky); Chris Darwin (Red); Marie Jelliman (Jingles); Andrew Schofield (Les); Anny Dyson (Granny); Jean Boht (Aunty Nell); Alan Bird (Baptismal Priest); Pauline Quirke (Doreen); Matthew Long (Mr. Spaull); Fran- ces Dell (Margie); Carl Chase (Uncle Ted); Roy Ford (Wedding Priest). DISTANT VOICES, STILL LIVES FILMS, 4 th EDITION 324 Distant Voices, Still Lives Awards: International Critics Prize, Cannes Film Festival, 1988. Publications Books: Friedman, Lester, editor, Fires Were Started: British Cinema and Thatcherism, Minneapolis, 1993. Winston, Wheeler, editor, Re-viewing British Cinema, 1900–1902: Essays and Interviews, Albany, 1994. Articles: Stills (London), November 1985. Wyeth, P., ‘‘Voices from the Past,’’ in Stills (London), March 1986. Wilson, David, in Sight and Sound (London), Autumn 1988. Film Comment (New York), September-October 1988. Barker, Adam, in Monthly Film Bulletin (London), October 1988. Floyd, Nigel, ‘‘A Pebble in the Pool and Ships like Magic,’’ in Monthly Film Bulletin (London), October 1988. Interview with Terence Davies in Time Out (London), 5 Octo- ber 1988. Interview with Terence Davies in City Limits (London), 13 Octo- ber 1988. Listener (London), 13 October 1988. ‘‘Valladolid,’’ in Film (London), December 1988. In Film & Kino (Oslo), no. 4A, 1989. Lochen, K., ‘‘Stemmer fra fortiden,’’ in Film & Kino (Oslo), no. 5, 1989. Cargin, P., ‘‘Diver on Distant Voices,’’ in Film (London), Janu- ary 1989. Carr, Jay, ‘‘Davies’ Dark Pool of Memories,’’ in Boston Globe, 13 August 1989. Billson, A., ‘‘The Long and Short of It,’’ in Village Voice (New York), 15 August 1989. Kerr, P., ‘‘Sound Movie,’’ in Village Voice (New York), 15 August 1989. Turroni, G., ‘‘Cuginanze, ovvero territori contigui,’’ in Filmcritica (Rome), November 1989. Lavery, D., ‘‘Functional and Dysfunctional Autobiography: Hope and Glory and Distant Voices, Still Lives,’’ in Film Criticism (Meadville, Pennsylvania), no. 1, 1990. Iversen, J., ‘‘Man kan ikke forklare magi, kan man vel?’’ in Z Filmtidsskrift (Oslo), no. 4, 1990. Wahlstedt, T., ‘‘Minnets rorelse mot centrum,’’ in Chaplin (Stock- holm), no. 4, 1990. Quart, Leonard, in Cineaste (New York), vol. 28, no. 3, 1990. DISTANT VOICES, STILL LIVESFILMS, 4 th EDITION 325 Keighron, P., ‘‘Condition Critical,’’ in Screen (Oxford), no. 2, 1991. Lochen, K., ‘‘I minnenes rike,’’ in Film & Kino (Oslo), no. 5, 1992. Joris, L., ‘‘Terence Davies: Rode schoenen, Hitchcock and een spion,’’ in Film en Televisie + Video (Brussels), November 1992. White, A., ‘‘Remembrance of Songs Past,’’ in Film Comment (New York), May-June 1993. Coe, Jonathan, ‘‘Jolly and Grim (Terence Davies),’’ in Sight & Sound (London), vol. 5, no. 10, October 1995. Davies, Terence, ‘‘Twilight Time,’’ in New Statesman, vol. 126, no. 4344, 25 July 1997. *** It is not often that British films win prizes at international film festivals. Truffaut, despite his penchant for Hitchcock, and Satyajit Ray have both remarked that the British are more or less temperamen- tally incapable of holding movie cameras. A low-budget, BFI- financed account of a working-class childhood in post-war Liverpool hardly seems likely to set the continental critics alight. Nonetheless, Distant Voices, Still Lives received the International Critics Prize at the Cannes Festival, and also shared the Golden Leopard at the Locarno Festival. Perhaps as a result of its European reception, the film was apotheosized by British critics, who, while lavishing ex- travagant praise, insisted on writing about it as if it were a remake of A Room with a View, as if it were yet another piece of cosy, Edwardian nostalgia: Terence Davies, the ‘‘proletarian Proust,’’ had, we were told, ‘‘wrenched high art from the lower depths of his deprived Liverpool childhood.’’ His film was like ‘‘Coronation Street by Bresson.’’ (It is ironic that a film which recreates an era largely through its popular culture should be treated as a piece of ‘‘art house’’ cinema.) The film is a diptych. Distant Voices was shot in the autumn of 1985. At that time Still Lives, which was shot in 1987, had not even been written. However, the narrative is elliptical. Depicting various key moments—wedding, christening, illness, war—in the life of a Liverpool family, it jumps from tableau to tableau: there is no jarring disjunction between the two halves. If anything, the gap between them helps to give a real sense of time passing and enables characters to age convincingly. There is an absolute refusal to see the past through rose or sepia tinted glasses. Visually, the film does not so much evoke 1950s working-class Liverpool as excoriate it, presenting the period in a self-consciously sombre fashion. Through a ‘‘Bleach-By-Pass printing process’’ (also used in Michael Radford’s 1984) all colours are desaturated; there are no primary colours, and the emphasis is always on the brown, the grey, on giving a dull clarity. Lurking ominously at the core of the film, a morose and tacitum presence, is the father, played by Pete Postlethwaite. A splenetic, bitter man, given to arbitrary fits of violence, he beats his wife (Freda Dowie) and daughters, and terrorizes the household in a constant attempt to stifle the ‘‘feminine’’ culture—a culture embodied in radio, cinema, and song—that it represents. As much as he is demonized, the wife and mother is idealized: patient, quietly suffer- ing, holding the family together, hers are the values with which Davies identifies. In the book and film of The Last of England, Derek Jarman reveals a similar split in his familial loyalty. He also reacted against a patriarchal father, allying himself with his mother. Bullying dads seem to have had a strong and positive influence on 1980s British filmmakers. It is not only the father, with whose death the first half of the film is concerned, but men in general that Davies regards with alarm: a curious belching, farting breed who lock away their wives, on the one hand demanding respect and obedience from them, and on the other, depending on them for food and clothing, and guidance home from the pub when they are too drunk to make their own way. The spectre of the father pervades the film, making it a peculiarly anguished and lugubrious rekindling of childhood. However, in comparison to Terence Davies’s earlier Trilogy, filmed in penumbral monochrome and steeped in sexual and religious guilt, isolation, and fear of death, Distant Voices, Still Lives is a positive romp. At least it has music. Davies has spoken of the importance of music in the film’s construction. The film is full of songs: British songs, American songs, songs to be born to, songs to die to, songs to sing in the pub, songs on the radio, songs in the cinema. (Davies elicited the help of broadcast- ers Denis Norden, Steve Race, and Roy Hudd, among others, in tracing many of these, of which he could often remember only a phrase or a line.) Visual bleakness is counterpointed with an extraordinary aural extravagance: song cements both family and community together, enabling the women and children to endure the brutal vagaries of the men, overcoming the noise of German bombs, diffusing the horror of death. The music is almost too positive. The central characters, detested father, adored mother, are one dimensional, and the locations, home, pub, street, are all too familiar. Even if Davies is trying not to sentimentalize the period, the constant singalongs in the pub and the community spirit which so easily transcends the brutal men’s attempt to dampen it lend the proceedings an air strangely familiar to that of David Lean’s This Happy Breed. Davies risks rejoicing in the good old days of rationing and bad housing. What enables the film to avoid falling into either Noel Cowardly cooing arms or the kitchen sink is its structure. It discards linear narrative, instead progressing from snapshot to snapshot. There is a constant freezing of images—literally making ‘‘still lives.’’ The use of overlapping sound to link discrete scenes; the constant tension between image and sound; the way that sound motivates, humanizes, lends colour to the film’s visually drab backcloth: these all combine to fracture narrative unity. One is conscious of the camera from the opening shot, a slow track through the door of the house, approaching the staircase opposite and then revolving to confront the door: before we see anyone, we hear the voice, off screen, of the mother: the voices create character, not vice versa. The film, we are told, is autobio- graphical, but there is no character portrayed with whom we can immediately identify the filmmaker. It is as if he has removed himself from the family: he is detached, and is looking in at his own life. His character is the camera, recording, remembering. Arthur Miller professed surprise when Death of a Salesman, to him a quintessentially American play, was successfully produced in China. Distant Voices, Still Lives, despite being located in so specific a time and place, has a similar universality of appeal. It taps into British and American cultural memory; in the way it recreates an era through its media habits, its cinema-going and wireless listening, it is akin to Woody Allen’s Radio Days. But its themes, marriage, birth, death, memories of the anguishes and pleasures of family life, make it accessible to almost anyone, even to xenophobic continental critics who still find it impossible to link the idea of ‘‘cinema’’ with that of ‘‘Britain.’’ —G. C. Macnab DIVA FILMS, 4 th EDITION 326 DIVA France, 1981 Director: Jean-Jacques Beineix Production: Les Films Galaxie/Greenwich Film Production/Antenne 2; color, 35mm; running time: 117 minutes; some prints are 123 minutes. Filmed on location in Paris and Normandy (Gatteville Lighthouse). Producer: Irene Silberman; screenplay: Beineix and Jean Van Hamme, from the novel by Delacorta; photography: Philippe Rousselot; editors: Monique Prim, Marie-Josephe Yoyotte; sound: Jean-Pierre Ruh; art director: Hilton McConnico; production de- signer: Ully Pickard; costume design: Claire Fraisse; music: Vladimir Cosma, with arias by Alfredo Catalini (‘‘Ebben? . . . Ne andrò lontanno’’ from La Wally) and Charles Gounod (‘‘Ave Maria’’). Cast: Wilhelminia Wiggins Fernandez (Cynthia Hawkins); Frédéric Andréi (Jules); Richard Bohringer (Gorodish); An Luu Thuy (Alba); Jacques Fabbri (Jean Saporta); Anny Romand (Paula); Patrick Floersheim (Zatopek); Gerard Darmon (L’Antillais); Dominique Pinon (Le curé) Awards: César Awards for Best Cinematography, Best Music, Best New Director and Best Sound, 1982; National Society of Film Critics (USA) Award for Best Cinematography, 1982. Publications Script: Beineix, Jean-Jacques, Diva (scenario), in Avant-Scène Cinéma (Paris), December 1991. Books: Parent, Denis, et al., Jean-Jacques Beineix, version originale, Paris, 1989. Powrie, Phil, French Cinema in the 1980s: Nostalgia and the Crisis of Masculinity, Oxford, 1997. Articles: Kelly, Ernece B., ‘‘Diva: High Tech Sexual Politics,’’ in Jump Cut (Berkeley), 1984. Interview in Film Comment (New York), February 1987. Hagen, W.M., ‘‘Performance Space in Diva,’’ in Literature/Film Quarterly (Salisbury), 1988. Peary, ‘‘A Tough Act to Follow,’’ in American Film (Hollywood), January 1990. Jameson, Frederick, ‘‘Diva and French Socialism,’’ in Signatures of the Visible, New York, 1992. Yervasi, Carina L., ‘‘Capturing the Elusive Representations in Beineix’s Diva,’’ in Literature/Film Quarterly (Salisbury, Maryland), 1993. Olivier, Bert, ‘‘No Recording Please! This Is Art. Or: What Do Cynthia Hawkins and Walter Benjamin Have in Common (Not)?’’ in South African Journal of Philosophy, February 1996. *** Diva was welcomed internationally as an early crest of a French Newer Wave and a major work by a first-time director. Though not truly radical either politically or stylistically—say, in the manner of such ‘‘old’’ New Wavers as Godard or Rivette—it had a hip 1980s sensibility that overlay its indebtedness to the lighter sort of Alfred Hitchcock thriller, in which an innocent but not quite guiltless person becomes the target of an international conspiracy. In contrast to the equally Hitchcockian murder-among-the-haute-bourgeoisie thrillers of Claude Chabrol, Diva was more of a pop entertainment, its hero a moped-riding postal worker who lives in a really cool industrial space, and one of the villains is a punk of the shaven-head-and- sunglasses variety. Moreover, the film featured multiracial casting and a savvy mix of very different kinds of music, from Italian opera to technopop and New Age. Director Jean-Jacques Beineix was not exactly a prodigy—he was 35 and a veteran assistant director when it was released—but Diva, if somewhat of a period piece today, remains brimful of youthful energy. Beineix’s script asks the viewer to accept an exceedingly unlikely premise. It is not so much that a world-class operatic soprano believes so strongly in the power and integrity of live performance that she refuses to make recordings and has never even heard her own voice— but that no one besides the film’s young hero has ever smuggled a high-quality tape recorder into a concert hall to make an illicit tape of her. The whole plot hinges upon this presumption, beginning with the sinister attempts of two Taiwanese record pirates sitting behind Jules at the concert to get the tape by any means possible. To be sure, if one goes beyond the literal and the expedient (to set the plot in motion), there is much that is fascinating about this situation: for example, the spectacle of a man trying to capture the ‘‘essence’’ of a woman by robbing her, even ‘‘violating’’ her as the diva later claims; or the paradox that the sacred act of live performance, the aura of the glorious moment, can be represented by the endlessly reproduc- ible medium of cinema. The other moment that sets the plot in motion is the sort of coincidence common among thrillers: a woman about to be stabbed by a member of an international drug and prostitution ring slips an incriminating tape into Jules’ moped bag. The presence of two tapes and two sets of criminals leads to the sort of massive confusion that can only be resolved by a final shootout. But several factors make Diva fresher than most conventional thrillers, and more complex than other hits of its era. One such factor is the casting. Frédéric Andréi as Jules (an old- fashioned name according to the diva—one which ‘‘fits you so badly that it fits you very well’’) is the type of slight-of-build, intense young Frenchman embodied most famously perhaps by Jean-Pierre Léaud around the time of Baisers Volées (Stolen Kisses). Wilhelminia Wiggins Fernandez, recruited from the opera stage, may not be a true diva, but as Cynthia Hawkins she is lovely enough of voice and regal DIVAFILMS, 4 th EDITION 327 Diva enough in demeanor to play one very well. And An Luu Thuy as Alba, the street kid alert to all things ‘‘cool’’ (her word in French), brings into play a very different cultural world from Cynthia’s, while Jules appears to straddle both worlds. (Perhaps the film’s initial success was due in some measure to the ‘‘exotic’’ casting of an African American and a Vietnamese women as the French hero’s potential love interests.) Alba and Jules, becoming pals rather than lovers, parallel each other in interesting ways. Both are shown stealing music—he Cynthia’s voice (and incidentally her gown); she record- ings from a store—and both are involved with an older person, though actual sexual relations in either case are unspecified. Jules manages to talk his way into Cynthia’s hotel suite and becomes increasingly intimate with her; Alba evidently lives with Gorodish, a sort of New Age guru whose loft apartment is as vast as Jules’ but more serenely spare. Gorodish, played with unflappable calm by Richard Bohringer, has a curious function in the plot: seemingly detached from all the goings-on, he takes charge during the last third of the film, rescuing Jules and thwarting the villains pretty much single-handedly by doing little more than operating a few gadgets. Diva is quite deftly edited, and photographed with great flair by Philippe Rousselot, who went on to works as diverse as Henry and June and A River Runs Through It. The crew’s panache is amply in evidence in the film’s most famous action sequence, a chase through the Métro with Jules on his moped and a cop (rather improbably) keeping up on foot; but there are less showy scenes that are superbly accomplished, like the opening sequence at the concert hall. Few sopranos on film can have had made a more portentous appearance onstage, with Beineix’s camera alert to every detail of the stripped- down (half-renovated?) gray auditorium—so perfect a foil to the glamorous gown and voice of the diva—plus the mirrorshaded Taiwanese, the wheels of Jules’ tape recorder turning and the tear running down his cheek, all set to music which begins serenely, yet suspensefully, and expands to Italianate passion. The sets and locations often seem to be the actual stars of the film. The Parisian exteriors are gritty or blatantly romantic (Jules’ and Cynthia’s misty dawn walk), as the occasion demands. A Normandy lighthouse-hideaway is austerely monumental and not the least pic- turesque. Jules’ garage/loft is a cross between an automobile grave- yard and a chic art gallery, with surrealistic murals of floating cars with real headlights beyond the wrecks of actual vehicles and his elaborate sound system. Gorodish may have a conventional kitchen for teaching the Zen of baguette-buttering, but most of his loft is DO BIGHA ZAMIN FILMS, 4 th EDITION 328 empty dark blue space, suitable for Alba to roller-skate around in, with just a few free-standing objects: a wave sculpture, a functioning bathtub, a jigsaw puzzle of a wave. One other truly distinctive feature of Diva is its juxtapositions of very different kinds of music. The film elevated Catalini’s Act I aria from La Wally from a number known mainly to connoisseurs to Puccinian popularity; its several repetitions along with other vocal music—as when Cynthia rehearses at the piano with a damp-from- the-bath Jules at her side—provide moments of great calm amidst the frantic goings-on of the thriller plot. In other scenes, Gorodish plays the sort of New Age music one expects to hear while buying crystals; Jules rides his moped around to stormy operatic interludes we could take for soundtrack music until he abruptly cuts off his motor; and Vladimir Cosma’s actual soundtrack has an appropriate Europop beat. One satisfying auditory joke comes near the end when we discover that the icepick-wielding punk villain has been listening to Parisian cafe music, concertina and all, on his headset. The pastiche of musical styles was one of a great many features which made Diva seem a perfect example of postmodernism to its early critics, including both those who loved it and those who reviled it for the same thing: being all glittering surface and attitude. In any case, Beineix’s much anticipated second feature, The Moon in the Gutter (1983), received little but scorn upon its appearance (partly for the artifice of its sets, as in Francis Coppola’s 1982 One From the Heart). Since then he has completed only a handful of other films, notably the erotic drama Betty Blue (1986). But Diva, whether analyzed for its representations (perhaps objectification) of women or its postmodern sensibility or celebrated for its perspectives on young love and love of music and Paris—passionate and ‘‘cool’’ at once— remains an important document of its era. —Joseph Milicia DO BIGHA ZAMIN (Two Acres of Land) India, 1953 Director: Bimal Roy Production: Black and white, 35mm; running time: 138 minutes. Released 1953. Filmed in India. Producer: Bimal Roy; screenplay: Hrishikesh Mukerjee, from a story by Salil Chaudhury; photography: Kamal Bose; editor: Hrishikesh Mukerjee; music: Salil Chaudhury. Cast: Balraj Sahni (Sambhu); Nirum Roy; Rattan Kumar. Awards: Prize for Social Progress, Karlovy Vary Film Festival, 1954; received one of the 10 international awards at the Cannes Film Festival, 1954. Publications Books: Barnouw, Erik, and S. Krishnaswamy, Indian Film, New York, 1963; revised edition, 1980. Willemen, Paul, and Behroze Gandhy, Indian Cinema, London, 1982. Ramachandran, T. M., 70 Years of Indian Cinema (1913–1983), Bombay, 1985. Bhattacharya, R., Bimal Roy: A Man of Silence, Indus Publish- ing, 1994. Articles: Ray, S. K., ‘‘New Indian Directors,’’ in Film Quarterly (Berkeley), Fall 1960. Sarha, Kolita, ‘‘Discovering India,’’ in Films and Filming (London), December 1960. Roy, Manobina, ‘‘The Bimal Roy Only I Knew,’’ in Illustrated Weekly of India, 3 August 1980. ‘‘Film India: Indian Film Festival, Part 2: Historical Perspective,’’ in Museum of Modern Art Department of Film (New York), Sum- mer 1981. Tesson, Charles, ‘‘Le rêve indien,’’ in Cahiers du Cinéma (Paris), March 1985. Seton, Marie, ‘‘The Indian Film,’’ in Film (London), March 1985. Binford, Mira Reym, and others, ‘‘Indian Cinema,’’ in Quarterly Review of Film and Video (Reading), October 1989. Garda, B.D., ‘‘The Great Romantics,’’ in Cinema in India (Bombay), no. 10, 1991. *** Into a cinema devoted chiefly to gaiety and adventure, Bimal Roy’s Do bigha zamin introduced an element of seriousness and naturalism. Roy did not break with tradition in his film: Do bigha zamin includes songs and dances and the usual patterned dialogue. But Roy enlarged the operatic scope of popular films to include location shots of an ordinary, undramatic character (e.g., the look of trees and fields as the peasant leaves the country for Calcutta); well- observed natural actions (e.g., the habitual manner in which the peasant’s wife puts out a pan to catch fresh rainwater); and grave subject matter (e.g., the stacking of legal justice against those un- skilled in legalities). Roy’s use of the familiar musical and melodra- matic style enabled audiences to comprehend his films; at the same time the new naturalistic elements prepared the ground for the more uncompromising and formally innovative political cinema of the 1970s. Do bigha zamin tells the story of a peasant whose meager two acres come in the way of the landlord’s scheme to sell a large parcel of the village land to speculators. The landlord fabricates evidence of an unpaid debt and the peasant must leave for the city to earn the cash the landlord requires. The acting in the film veers between the rapid DO THE RIGHT THINGFILMS, 4 th EDITION 329 responsiveness of performers in a melodrama and the slow surfacing of responses characteristic of naturalism. At the landlord’s, the peasant (played by the deeply intelligent actor Balraj Sahni) acts by formula, but his leave-taking from his wife is simple; his fears for her emerge into natural, unemphatic expression on his face and in his bearing. The lighting, too, varies between the full lighting charac- teristic of Bombay sets and the chiaroscuro of available light cinematography. The landlord’s house is amply lit, but the rickshaw- puller’s quarters in Calcutta retain a natural look of charcoal dilapidation. In sum, an important, earnest, transitional film, which bespeaks the influence of Italian neorealism on Hindi cinema. It won the Prix Internationale at the 1954 Cannes film festival and the Prize for Social Progress at the Karlovy Vary film festival. —Satti Khanna DO THE RIGHT THING USA, 1989 Director: Spike Lee Production: 40 Acres and a Mule Filmworks; distributed by Univer- sal Pictures; color (DuArt); running time: 118 minutes; Dolby SR; length: 3,292 meters (approx. 10,598 feet). Released 30 June 1989; filmed in Brooklyn, New York; cost: $6,500,000. Producers: Jon Kilik, Spike Lee, and Monty Ross; screenplay: Spike Lee; photography: Ernest R. Dickerson; editor: Barry Alex- ander Brown; sound: Tom Fleischman and Skip Lievsay; produc- tion designer: Wynn Thomas; costume designer: Ruth E. Carter; music: Bill Lee. Cast: Danny Aiello (Sal); Ossie Davis (Da Mayor); Ruby Dee (Mother Sister); Richard Edson (Vito); Giancarlo Esposito (Buggin’ Out); Spike Lee (Mookie); Bill Nunn (Radio Raheem); John Turturro (Pino); Samuel L. Jackson (Mister Se-or Love Daddy); Rosie Perez (Tina). Awards: Los Angeles Film Critics Association Awards for Best Picture, Best Director (Spike Lee), Best Music (Bill Lee), and Best Supporting Actor (Danny Aiello), 1989; New York Film Critics Circle Award for Best Cinematography (Ernest R. Dickerson), 1989; National Film Preservation Board (USA) selection for the National Film Registry, 1999. Publications Script: Lee, Spike, Do the Right Thing: A Spike Lee Joint, New York, 1989. Books: Reid, Mark A., Spike Lee’s Do the Right Thing, New York, 1997. Articles: Sanoff, Alvin P., ‘‘Doing the Controversial Thing. (Director Spike Lee’s Movie Do the Right Thing),’’ in U.S. News & World Report, 10 July 1989. Johnson, Victoria E., ‘‘Polyphony and Cultural Expression: Interpret- ing Musical Traditions in Do the Right Thing,’’ in Film Quarterly (Berkeley), Winter 1993. Lindroth, Colette, ‘‘Spike Lee and the American Tradition,’’ in Literature/Film Quarterly (Salisbury, Maryland), January 1996. McKelly, James C., ‘‘‘The Double Truth, Ruth’: Do the Right Thing and the Culture of Ambiguity,’’ in African American Review (Bloomington), Summer 1998. Radtke, Jennifer, ‘‘Do The Right Thing in Black and White: Spike Lee’s Bi-Cultural Method,’’ in The Midwest Quarterly (Pitts- burgh), Winter 2000. *** Before the release of Do the Right Thing, Spike Lee had made a name for himself as an independent filmmaker who helped to spearhead the rise of film festivals as a market place for independent cinema in the late 1980s. His first two features, She’s Gotta Have It (1986) and School Daze (1988), were unique not only because they were made outside of a studio on shoestring budgets and featured primarily black actors, but also because they managed to get main- stream distribution and turn a modest profit as well. The industry cachet these two films earned Lee enabled him to make Do the Right Thing, which was inspired by an actual incident in Howard Beach, New York, in which a group of white kids chased down and killed a young black man. The result is a brilliant film about racism in America that many consider Lee’s best to date. The story takes place on the hottest day of the summer and revolves around Sal’s Famous Pizzeria, apparently the only white- owned business in the Brooklyn neighborhood in which the film is set. Sal and his two sons, Nino and Vito, are not without their racist tendencies (especially Nino), but they nevertheless manage to coexist with their black customers. Rather than being a film about clear rights and wrongs, Do the Right Thing is instead a cultural melange that is cumulatively an intricately detailed portrait of an ethnically diverse contemporary urban American neighborhood. In the first three quar- ters of the film Lee masterfully establishes the tone and texture of the neighborhood by introducing us to a series of interesting characters whose lives intermittently intersect. Among the most important are Mookie, who works as a pizza delivery man for Sal’s; Da Mayor and Mother Sister, the neighborhood’s elder statespeople; Radio Raheem, whose always booming box is a source of constant irritation for Sal; and Buggin’ Out, who in his anger over Sal’s wall of fame featuring exclusively Italian Americans will eventually urge his fellow African DO THE RIGHT THING FILMS, 4 th EDITION 330 Do the Right Thing American Brooklynites to boycott Sal’s Famous, which in part leads to the film’s electrifying climax. The catalyst to the film’s rising racial tensions is the heat. Accordingly, Lee’s mise en scene is carefully constructed so as to visually convey the oppressiveness of Brooklyn’s dreadful heat and humidity in the dead of summer. The film as a whole was shot in saturated color, thus rendering the summer heat almost palpable. In addition to close ups of his characters’ faces drenched in sweat, Lee time and again features the color red as dominant in the various frames. The characters constantly lament the heat as they all the while move slowly so as not to exert any more effort than absolutely necessary. Further contributing to his audience feeling as ill at ease as his characters is Lee’s repeated use of discomforting Dutch angle shots. As the heat slowly rises, so too does his characters’ volatility. The tensions that build throughout the film eventually explode in what is among the most controversial endings in cinematic history. The differences between the Italians and the blacks in the neighbor- hood are accentuated by Lee’s skillful use of music to compliment his characters’ ethnicities. While the Italians favor Sinatraesque ballads, the African American characters frequently listen to rap, most notably by Public Enemy. This all comes to a head when Radio Raheem refuses to turn down his radio while in Sal’s. Sal and Radio get in a fight and the police are called. An ugly situation turns worse when the police arrive and kill Radio in their efforts to subdue him. The crowd outside of Sal’s, gathered by Buggin’ Out to protest Sal’s ethnically singular wall of fame, quickly turns into a mob. Mookie starts a full scale riot by throwing a garbage can through Sal’s front window. Bedlam ensues as Sal’s is first looted and then burned to the ground. This scene forces viewers to take sides. The film’s deceptive title becomes not so much an exhortation as a question: What is the right thing to do and what factors should people consider when determining what’s right for them? This question has colored the wide and passionate range of critical responses to the film’s climax. Its critics are angered by what they feel is Lee’s slanted point of view, a frequently cited example of which is the pointed graffiti—‘‘DUMP KOCH’’—in the background of many scenes (at the time of filming, New York Mayor Ed Koch, who many blacks felt was ineffectual in his dealings with racial issues, was running for re-election; Lee was openly opposed to his re-election). Conversely, the film’s champions DR. JEKYLL AND MR. HYDEFILMS, 4 th EDITION 331 claim that Do the Right Thing is remarkably evenhanded in its treatment of race, thus leaving it up to viewers to decide just what the right thing is. As Alvin Sanoff writes, in discussing his film Lee has said, ‘‘It wasn’t made to incite riots but to provoke discussion about racism, something people do not want to talk about.’’ Ultimately, whether one sides with the film’s defenders or its detractors is beside the point; in arriving at their own conclusions, viewers can’t help but consider the state of race relations in America, which in the end is what Lee most hoped to accomplish by making Do the Right Thing, the amazing film that, along with Malcom X, will likely be his cinematic legacy. —Robert C. Sickels DR. JEKYLL AND MR. HYDE USA, 1931 Director: Rouben Mamoulian Production: Paramount Pictures; black and white, 35mm; running time: 82 minutes, some sources list 90 minutes. Released 1931. Filmed in Paramount studios. Producer: Rouben Mamoulian; screenplay: Samuel Hoffenstein and Percy Heath, from the novel by Robert Louis Stevenson; photog- raphy: Karl Struss; editor: William Shea; sound: the Paramount sound department; production designer: Hans Dreier. Cast: Frederic March (Dr. Henry Jekyll/Mr. Hyde); Miriam Hopkins (Ivy Pearson); Rose Hobart (Muriel Carew); Halliwell Hobbes (Briga- dier General Carew); Holmes Herbert (Dr. Lanyan); Edgar Norton (Poole). Awards: Venice Film Festival citations for Most Original Film and Favourite Actor (March), 1932, note: there were not official awards that year, but acknowledgements were by public referendum; Oscar for Best Actor (March), 1932. Publications Script: Hoffenstein, Samuel, and Percy Heath, Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde, edited by Richard Anobile, New York, 1976. Books: Sarris, Andrew, Interviews with Film Directors, New York, 1967. Milne, Tom, Rouben Mamoulian, London, 1969. Burrows, Michael, Charles Laughton and Frederic March, New York, 1970. Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde Silke, James, editor, Rouben Mamoulian: Style Is the Man, Washing- ton, D.C., 1971. Quick, Lawrence J., The Films of Frederic March, New York, 1971. Everson, William K., Classics of the Horror Film, Secaucus, New Jersey, 1974. Aylesworth, Thomas G., Movie Monsters, Philadelphia, 1975. Luhr, William, and Peter Lehman, Authorship and Narrative in the Cinema, New York, 1977. Prawer, S. S., Caligari’s Children: The Film as Tale of Terror, New York, 1980. Klein, Michael, and Gillian Parker, The English Novel and the Movies, New York, 1981. McCarty, John, Psychos: Eighty Years of Mad Movies, Maniacs, and Murderous Deeds, New York, 1986. Prinzler, Hans Helmut, and Antje Goldau, Rouben Mamoulian: Eine Dokumentation, Berlin, 1987. Articles: New York Times, 2 January 1932. Variety (New York), 5 January 1932. Tozzi, Romano, ‘‘Frederic March,’’ in Films in Review (New York), December 1958. Robinson, David, ‘‘Painting the Leaves Black,’’ in Sight and Sound (London), Summer 1961. Sarris, Andrew, ‘‘Fallen Idols,’’ in Film Culture (New York), Spring 1963. DR. JEKYLL AND MR. HYDE FILMS, 4 th EDITION 332 ‘‘Mamoulian on His Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde,’’ in Cinefantastique (Oak Park, Illinois), Summer 1971. Atkins, T., in Film Journal (Hollins College, Virginia), January- March 1973. Prawer, S. S., ‘‘Book into Films: Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde,’’ in Times Literary Supplement (London), 21 December 1979. Huskins, D. Gail, in Magill’s Survey of Cinema 1, Englewood Cliffs, New Jersey, 1980. Wide Angle (Athens, Ohio), vol. 5, no. 3, 1983. Sevastakis, Michael, ‘‘The Stylistic Coding of Characters in Mamoulian’s Jekyll and Hyde,’’ in Journal of Film and Video (River Forest, Illinois), Autumn 1985. Weaver, T., ‘‘Rose Hobart,’’ in Filmfax (Evanston, Illinois), October- November 1991. Fyne, Robert, ‘‘Reinventing Reality: The Life and Art of Rouben Mamoulian,’’ in Historical Journal of Film, Radio and Television (Abingdon), vol. 15, no. 1, March 1995. Newitz, Annalee, ‘‘A Lower-class Sexy Monster: American Liberal- ism in Mamoulian’s Dr. Jekyll & Mr. Hyde,’’ in Bright Lights (Cincinnati), no. 15, 1995. O’Neill, Eithne, and others, ‘‘Stephen Frears,’’ in Positif (Paris), May 1996. Norman, Barry, ‘‘Which is the Best Jekyll and Hyde?’’ in Radio Times (London), 19 April 1997. Turner, George, ‘‘Wrap Shot,’’ in American Cinematographer (Hol- lywood), August 1997. Arnold, Gary, ‘‘Overlooked American Achievements (Directors Left Out of the ‘100 Greatest American Movies’ List),’’ in Insight on the News, vol. 14, no. 43, 23 November 1998. *** Rouben Mamoulian’s Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde is perhaps the most stylish and technically innovative of any of the several versions of Robert Louis Stevenson’s classic novel, for Mamoulian integrated both the new and established film technologies into his individual filmmaking style. Dissolves, superimpositions, camera movements, and expressionistic lighting are synthesized into his vision of the struggle within man, which is the heart of Stevenson’s tale. While other directors seemed shackled by the then infant sound technology, Mamoulian freely moved the camera within the frame. Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde in fact opens with an extensive tracking shot that the viewer quickly realizes represents the subjective point of view of Dr. Jekyll. The effect of characters directly addressing the camera (as Dr. Jekyll) is disarming. Not only is such a shot a masterful technical innovation, in light of the obstacle posed by sound record- ing, but it is a striking narrative device as well. Mamoulian’s subjective camera foreshadows the use, some 50 years later, of the same device to similar ends by John Carpenter in Halloween. Since Halloween, it has become a characteristic element of those kinds of films which indeed bear resemblance to Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde. No less striking is the 360-degree pan which accompanies Dr. Jekyll’s initial transformation to Hyde. The shot underscores the duration of the transformation, solidly placing it in time and space. Mamoulian claims that the pan was the first of its kind in Hollywood film. The shot not only presented the obvious challenge of lighting, but also posed unique problems for recording sound. Mamoulian overcame this by mixing a sound effects track. The track is dominated rhythmi- cally by a heartbeat (Mamoulian’s own) and serves as an early example of a complex sound mix in a Hollywood film. In addition, as he had done earlier in City Streets and particularly in Applause, Mamoulian utilized multiple microphones for recording live sound. He even pioneered a mobile microphone used in situations such as the opening shot of Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde. This version of Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde is ahead of its time in Mamoulian’s exploitation of the potential eroticism of Stevenson’s novel. Miriam Hopkin’s streetwalker, Ivy, is at once sympathetic and highly sensual. Unlike Stevenson’s gnarled, diminutive Hyde, Mamoulian’s representation of Hyde is that of an enlarged, powerful, bestial man. Both characterizations heighten the intensity of their moments together on screen. Jekyll first meets Ivy in her room where he has gone to return a discarded garter. He finds her nearly undressed as she slips beneath the bedcovers and taunts him coquettishly. The scene closes with Ivy’s legs dangling from beneath the covers deliciously—superimposed on the image of Jekyll and his friend Lanyon departing below. Superimpositions and dissolves were not new to the cinema in 1932. However, Mamoulian’s use of them to heighten aesthetically the impact of various scenes was not characteristic of Hollywood in the 1930s. For example, the superimpositions used in the scene where Jekyll meets Ivy suggest that the image of Ivy’s leg lingers in Jekyll’s mind. Mamoulian’s use of dissolves may be somewhat more tradi- tional in that they are the primary means for showing Jekyll’s transformations into Hyde. Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde represents the strengths of Mamoulian’s style. Perhaps as an extension of his experience directing theater and opera, where the proscenium limits space, Mamoulian’s style empha- sizes lighting and framing. In the film, when Hyde’s passion for Ivy becomes rage, he begins to strangle her. The two figures fall, struggling below the frame. Only when Hyde returns to frame does the viewer understand Ivy’s fate. Similarly, when Jekyll undergoes his first transformation, he falls, writhing out of frame. Mamoulian combines this technique with lighting in a later scene to create an enormous shadow—Hyde. The shadow is formed as Hyde runs from the frame, his departure signalled by his ever increasing shadow on the wall. This shot echoes a similar shot in F. W. Murnau’s Nosferatu where Count Dracula’s shadow gradually engulfs the cowering figure of Jonathan Harker. Several nuances of Mamoulian’s style are also reinforced with this film. Split-screen is used, for example, to suggest a symbolic proxim- ity between otherwise distant spaces and events. Another characteris- tic is the use of counterpoint to heighten dramatic effect. When Jekyll arrives to tell his fiancée, Muriel, that they must separate it is accompanied not by a dirge, but by the waltz to which they had danced earlier. Counterpoints such as this create a dynamism between the visuals and the sound. The waltz serves as a powerful reminder of Jekyll’s price for tampering with nature. Perhaps the strongest exam- ple of Mamoulian’s individuality as a filmmaker is the final shot, where Lanyon and the authorities stand over the body of the fallen Jekyll. Shot from inside and behind the flames of the fireplace, it is a complete synthesis of the medium’s potential for narrative discourse. —Robert Winning DR. MABUSE THE GAMBLER See DOKTOR MABUSE DER SPIELER DR. STRANGELOVEFILMS, 4 th EDITION 333 DR. STRANGELOVE; OR, HOW I LEARNED TO STOP WORRYING AND LOVE THE BOMB UK, 1964 Director: Stanley Kubrick Production: Hawk Films, a Stanley Kubrick Production; black and white, 35mm; running time: originally 102 minutes, edited down to 93 minutes. Released 30 January 1964. Cost: $1,500,000. Producer: Stanley Kubrick; associate producer: Victor Lyndon; screenplay: Stanley Kubrick, Terry Southern, and Peter George, originally conceived as a serious adaptation of Red Alert by Peter George, main titles by Pablo Ferro; photography: Gilbert Taylor; editor: Anthony Harvey; sound supervisor: John Cox; sound recordist: Richard Bird; dub mixer: John Aldred; sound editor: Leslie Hodgson; production designer: Ken Adam; art director: Peter Murton; music: Laurie Johnson, song ‘‘We’ll Meet Again,’’ is the original recording by Vera Lynn; special effects: Wally Veevers; travelling matte: Vic Margutti; costume designer: Pamela Carlton; aviation advisor: Capt. John Crewdson. Cast: Peter Sellers (Group Capt. Lionel Mandrake/President Muffley/ Dr. Strangelove); George C. Scott (Gen. Buck Turgidson); Sterling Hayden (Gen. Jack D. Ripper); Keenan Wynn (Col. Bat Guano); Slim Pickens (Maj. T. J. ‘‘King’’ Kong); Peter Bull (Ambassador de Sadesky); Tracy Reed (Miss Scott); James Earl Jones (Lieut. Lothar Zagg); Jack Creley (Mr. Staines); Frank Berry (Lieut. H. R. Dietrich); Glenn Beck (Lieut. W. D. Kivel); Shane Rimmer (Capt. G. A. ‘‘Ace’’ Owens); Paul Tamarin (Lieut. B. Goldberg); Gordon Tanner (General Faceman); Robert O’Neil (Admiral Randolph); Roy Stephens (Frank); Laurence Herder, John McCarthy, Hal Galili (Burpelson defense team members). Award: New York Film Critics’ Award, Best Direction, 1964. Publications Books: Austen, David, The Cinema of Stanley Kubrick, London, 1969. Walker, Alexander, Stanley Kubrick Directs, New York, 1972. Kagan, Norman, The Cinema of Stanley Kubrick, New York, 1972. Devries, Daniel, The Films of Stanley Kubrick, Grand Rapids, Michi- gan, 1973. Bobker, Lee R., Elements of Film, New York, 1974. Phillips, Gene D., Stanley Kubrick: A Film Odyssey, New York, 1975. Leyda, Jay, editor, Voices of Film Experience, New York, 1977. Monaco, James, How to Read a Film, New York, 1977. O’Connor, John E., and Martin A. Jackson, editors, American His- tory/American Film: Interpreting the Hollywood Image, New York, 1979. Ciment, Michel, Kubrick, Paris, 1980; revised edition, 1987; trans- lated as Kubrick, 1983. Kolker, Robert Phillip, A Cinema of Loneliness: Penn, Kubrick, Coppola, Scorsese, Altman, Oxford, 1980; revised edition, 1988. Hummel, Christoph, editor, Stanley Kubrick, Munich, 1984. Brunetta, Gian Piero, Stanley Kubrick: Tempo, spazia, storia, e mondi possibili, Parma, 1985. Articles: Hart, Henry, in Films in Review (New York), February 1962. Kubrick, Stanley, ‘‘How I Learned to Stop Worrying and Love the Cinema,’’ in Films and Filming (London), June 1963. Prideaux, T., ‘‘Take Aim: Fire at the Agonies of War,’’ in Life (New York), 20 December 1963. Tornabene, Lyn, ‘‘Contradicting the Hollywood Image,’’ in Saturday Review (New York), 28 December 1963. Milne, Tom, in Sight and Sound (London), Winter 1963–64. Taylor, Stephen, in Film Comment (New York), Winter 1964. Crowther, Bosley, in New York Times, 31 January 1964. Forbes, Bryan, in Films and Filming (London), February 1964. Sarris, Andrew, in Village Voice (New York), 13 February and 11 June 1964. Burgess, Jackson, in Film Quarterly (Berkeley), Spring 1964. Milne, Tom, ‘‘How I Learned to Stop Worrying and Love Stanley Kubrick,’’ in Sight and Sound (London), Spring 1964. Goldberg, Joe, ‘‘Dr. Kubrick,’’ in Seventh Art (New York), Spring 1964. Price, James, ‘‘Stanley Kubrick’s Divided World,’’ in London Maga- zine, May 1964. Russell, Lee, ‘‘Stanley Kubrick,’’ in New Left Review (New York), Summer 1964. Macklin, F. A., ‘‘Sex and Dr. Strangelove,’’ in Film Comment (New York), Summer 1965. MacFadden, Patrick, in Film Society Review (New York), Janu- ary 1967. Manchel, Frank, in Media and Methods (Philadelphia), Decem- ber 1967. Edelman, Rob, in Magill’s Survey of Cinema 1, Englewood Cliffs, New Jersey, 1980. Verstappen, W., ‘‘Dr. Strangelove: Analyse op de montagetafel,’’ in Skoop (Amsterdam), October 1980. Hoberman, J., ‘‘When Dr. No Met Dr. Strangelove,’’ in Sight and Sound (London), December 1993. Lefcowitz, Eric, ‘‘Dr. Strangelove Turns 30. Can it Still be Trusted?’’ in New York Times, 30 January 1994. Southern, T., ‘‘Strangelove Outtake: Notes from the War Room,’’ in Grand Street, no. 49, Summer 1994. Tweg, S., ‘‘Reading Dr. Strangelove,’’ in Metro Education (Mel- bourne), no. 6, 1995. Séquences (Haute-Ville), September-October 1995. Kubrick, Stanley, ‘‘Une comédie cauchemardesque,’’ in Positif (Paris), September 1997. Bourguignon, Thomas, in Positif (Paris), September 1997. Macnab, Geoffrey, ‘‘Will it Dress?’’, an interview with set designer Ken Adams, in Sight & Sound (London), September 1999. *** Stanley Kubrick’s Dr. Strangelove, which has won wide and continued acceptance from the time of its release, has come to be considered one of the screen’s great masterpieces of black comedy. Yet Kubrick had originally planned the film as a serious adaptation of Peter George’s Red Alert, a novel concerned with the demented General Jack D. Ripper (Sterling Hayden) and his decision to order DR. STRANGELOVE FILMS, 4 th EDITION 334 Dr. Strangelove a group of B-52 bombers to launch an attack inside Russia. Gradually Kubrick’s attitude toward his material changed: ‘‘My idea of doing it as a nightmare comedy came in the early weeks of working on the screenplay. I found that in trying to put meat on the bones and to imagine the scenes fully, one had to keep leaving out of it things which were either absurd or paradoxical, in order to keep it from being funny; and these things seemed to be close to the heart of the scenes in question.’’ Kubrick remembers that he kept revising the script right through the production period. ‘‘During shooting many substantial changes were made in the script, sometimes together with the cast during improvisations. Some of the best dialogue was created by Peter Sellers himself.’’ Sellers played not only the title role of the eccentric scientist, but also the president of the United States and Captain Mandrake, a British officer who fails to dissuade General Ripper from his set purpose. General Ripper’s mad motivation for initiating a nuclear attack is his paranoid conviction that the explanation of his diminishing sexual potency can be traced to an international Communist conspiracy to taint the drinking water. Kubrick subtly reminds us of the general’s obsession by a series of suggestive metaphors that occur in the course of the film. The very opening image of the film shows a nuclear bomber being refueled in mid-flight by another aircraft, with ‘‘Try a Little Tenderness’’ appropriately playing on the sound track to accompany their symbolic coupling. As Ripper describes to Mandrake his concern about preserving his potency, which he refers to as his ‘‘precious bodily essence,’’ Kubrick photographs him in close-up from below, with a huge phallic cigar jutting from between his lips while he is talking. Later, when the skipper of a B-52 bomber (Slim Pickens) manages to dislodge a bomb that has been stuck in its chamber and unleash it on its Russian target, he sits astride this mighty symbol of potency clamped between his flanks, as it hurtles toward the earth. Black ironies abound throughout the picture. During an emer- gency conference called by President Muffley, a disagreement be- tween General Buck Turgidson (George C. Scott) and the Russian ambassador (Peter Bull) threatens to turn into a brawl, and the president intervenes by reminding them, ‘‘Please, gentlemen, you can’t fight here; this is the War Room!’’ Later, when Mandrake tries to reach the president in order to warn him about the imminent attack on Russia, he finds that he lacks the correct change for the pay telephone he is using, and that the White House will not accept DOG STAR MANFILMS, 4 th EDITION 335 a collect call. He then demands that Colonel Bat Guano (Keenan Wynn) fire into a Coca-Cola machine in order to obtain the necessary coins. Guano reluctantly agrees, ruefully reminding Mandrake that it is he who will have to answer to the Coca-Cola Company. Guano blasts the machine, bends down to scoop up the silver—and is squirted full in the face with Coca-Cola by the vindictive machine. Kubrick had originally included a scene in which the Russians and the Americans in the War Room engage in a free-for-all with custard pies, but deleted it from the final print of the film when he decided that ‘‘it was too farcical, and not consistent with the satiric tone of the rest of the film.’’ Very much in keeping with the satiric, dark humor of the picture is the figure of Dr. Strangelove himself, Kubrick’s grim vision of man’s final capitulation to the machine: he is more a robot than a human being, with his mechanical arm spontaneously saluting Hitler, his former employer, and his mechanical hand, gloved in black, at one point trying to strangle the flesh and blood still left in him. In the end a single U.S. plane reaches its Russian target, setting off the Russian’s retaliatory Doomsday machine. There follows a series of blinding explosions, while on the sound track we hear a popular song which Kubrick resurrected from World War II: ‘‘We’ll meet again, don’t know where, don’t know when.’’ (Kubrick used the original World War II recording by Vera Lynn, which brought popularity back not only to the song but to Ms. Lynn as well.) One critic summed up the film by saying that the black comedy which Kubrick had originally thought to exclude from Dr. Strangelove provides some of its most meaningful moments. ‘‘They are made up of the incongruities, the banalities, and misunderstandings that we are constantly aware of in our lives. On the brink of annihilation, they become irresistibly absurd.’’ The theme that emerges from Dr. Strangelove is the plight of fallible man putting himself at the mercy of his ‘‘infallible’’ machines and thus bringing about his own destruction. Kubrick, who is always on the side of humanity in his films, indicates here, as in 2001: A Space Odyssey, that human fallibility is less likely to destroy man than the relinquishing of his moral responsibilities to his supposedly faultless machinery. Summing up his personal vision as it is reflected in Dr. Strangelove, the director has said: ‘‘The destruction of this planet would have no significance on a cosmic scale. Our extinction would be little more than a match flaring for a second in the heavens. And if that match does blaze in the darkness, there will be none to mourn a race that used a power that could have lit a beacon in the stars to light its funeral pyre.’’ —Gene D. Phillips DOG STAR MAN USA, 1964 Director: Stan Brakhage Production: Color and black and white, 16mm; silent; running time: 75 minutes (24 f.p.s.); released 1964. The film is composed of five parts which appeared separately before being brought together in the complete Dog Star Man; the parts are: Prelude (26–1/2 minutes, 1961), Part 1 (31 minutes, 1962), Part 2 (6–1/2 minutes, 1963), Part 3 (8 minutes, 1964), and Part 4 (7 minutes, 1964). Distributors continue to make the sections available for rent individually or together as a single, complete work; released in complete form on video by Mystic Fire Video, 1987. Producer, photography, and editing: Stan Brakhage, assisted by Jane Brakhage. Cast: Stan Brakhage and Jane Brakhage Publications: Books: Clark, Dan, Brakhage, New York, 1966. Brakhage, Stan, Metaphors on Vision, New York, 1976. Sitney, P. Adams, Visionary Film: The American Avant-Garde, 1943–1978, 2nd ed, New York, 1979. James, David, Allegories of Cinema: American Film in the Sixties, Princeton, New Jersey, 1989. Wees, William C., Light Moving in Time: Studies in the Visual Aesthetics of Avant-Garde Film, Berkeley, California 1992. Articles: McClure, Michael, ‘‘Dog Star Man: The First 16mm Epic,’’ Film Culture (New York), no. 29, Summer 1963. Wees, William C., ‘‘Visual Renewal in Stan Brakhage’s Dog Star Man,’’ in Atropos (Montreal), vol. 1, no. 2, Spring 1979. *** Widely recognized as one of the monuments of experimental/ avant-garde/personal film, Dog Star Man is a compendium of unor- thodox filmmaking techniques applied to a deceptively simple narra- tive: a man (played by Brakhage) carrying an axe and accompanied by a dog, struggles up a steep mountainside and chops down a dead tree. Originally, Brakhage has said, ‘‘I thought it would be a little, simple film on a woodsman, myself as the woodsman, the wood-gatherer,’’ but ‘‘it ended up as . . . an exploration of the whole history of man. I mean, as I climb this hill the images suggest in many ways, metaphorically and in other ways, the history of man himself and his endeavor, and the meaning of whatever it is he does and makes.’’ While that claim may sound excessively grand, it is in keeping with the formal and thematic complexity of the work, not to mention the unusually heavy demands it places on viewers’ patience, visual literacy, and interpretive skills. If Dog Star Man is a ‘‘difficult’’ work, it nevertheless repays close study and repeated viewing. Moving from complete darkness, to intermittent flares and flickers of light, and then to quick glimpses of seemingly unrelated images, Prelude, the first of the film’s five parts, introduces the principal images and formal techniques that will recur as the film progresses. Most shots are brief and combined with other shots through superimposition and intricate, highly kinetic montage. Dynamic DOKTOR MABUSE DER SPIELER FILMS, 4 th EDITION 336 camera movement—usually hand-held—adds to the intense, com- pelling rhythm of the work. The surge and flow of light, color, texture, and rapidly changing images propel the film forward and engage the viewer in ‘‘an adventure of perception,’’ as Brakhage has called it, but the significance of the images is, at first, hard to determine— immediate perceptual impact prevails over conceptual understanding. But through repetition and associations built up among groups of related images, graspable meanings and the rudiments of a narrative begin to emerge. Like the leitmotifs in Richard Wagner’s Ring cycle, key images—the axe-bearing woodsman, a full moon, a birth, a lac- tating breast, a naked woman, mountains and trees that appear to stretch and writhe, a weathered, grey, dead tree, to mention just a few—return numerous times but nearly always modified in some way: in color or texture (including being painted over or scratched on), in length and clarity, in combination with other images. The images thus accumulate multiple meanings—literal, metaphoric, symbolic—as the work progresses. ‘‘The images,’’ Jonas Mekas has suggested, ‘‘become like words: they come back again, in little bursts, and disappear, and come back again—like in sentences—creating visual and mental impressions, experiences.’’ P. Adams Sitney finds the images related to ‘‘four basic visual themes,’’ which he summarizes as, ‘‘(1) the four ele- ments, air, earth, fire and water; (2) the cosmos represented in stock footage of the sun, the moon, and the stars; (3) Brakhage’s household— himself, his dog and cat, his baby, and particularly his wife’s nude body; and (4) artificial, yet purely filmic devices such as painting or scratching on film, distorting lenses, double exposure and clear leader.’’ A fifth important theme involves microscopic footage of blood vessels, close-ups of a beating heart, and other images of viscera and bodily fluids. Part 1 offers a change of pace from Prelude’s ‘‘pyrotechnic, split- second montage with as much varied material as [Brakhage] could force into a half hour’’ (Sitney). Many of its shots are longer and there is only one layer of images. Its principal subject is the woodsman, with his axe and dog, working his way up a snowy mountainside, slipping and stumbling in a kind of two-steps-forward-one-step-back progression (echoed in microscopic images of the advance and retreat of blood in a vein or artery at the end of Part 1). Part 2, in which two layers of images are superimposed, features extreme close-ups of a new-born child and a technique that is new to the film: bits of images inserted into holes punched in successive frames of the film to produce a kind of animated mosaic or collage-like effect suggesting the infant’s initial, disjointed engagement with the world outside the womb. Among the superimposed images are more shots of the woodsman working his way upwards as Part 2 begins, and falling backwards as it ends. Adding a third layer of superimposition, Brakhage devotes Part 3 to the erotic body. Bare flesh, breasts and buttocks, vagina and penis, caressing hands and undulating bodies meet, overlap, merge, dis- solve, and metamorphose. Distinctions between male and female and markers of separate individualities become increasingly blurred, and near the end the camera ‘‘penetrates’’ the fleshy, erotic surface of the body to display a beating heart and other more ambiguous images connoting the body’s interior fluids, tissues, cavities, and organs. Finally, within the density of four layers of superimposition, images of the woodsman chopping the dead tree dominate Part 4, until the final moments when, as at the beginning of Prelude, the screen returns, by way of abstract flashes of light, to total darkness. As even a brief and inadequate summary of the complete Dog Star Man indicates, particular images and themes introduced in Prelude predominate in different parts of the film, but never to the complete exclusion of the others. The result is an organic unity between the parts and the whole, reflecting, in formal terms, the work’s theme of the interrelatedness of all things—animal, vegetable and mineral; microcosmic and macrocosmic; male and female; natural and artifi- cial; external and internal (dreams, desires, the imagination, and what Brakhage has called ‘‘closed-eye vision’’ and ‘‘patterns that move straight out from the inside of the mind through the optic nerves’’). In an interview conducted while he was in the midst of editing Dog Star Man, Brakhage summed up this urge to bring everything together—to ‘‘bring forth children and films and inspire concerns with plants and rocks and all sights seen.’’ While deeply personal in inspiration, Dog Star Man is also the preeminent example of an avant- garde film with epic scope and a hero of mythic proportions, compa- rable to other twentieth century, modernist classics like Ezra Pound’s Cantos or James Joyce’s Ulysses. —William C. Wees DOKTOR MABUSE DER SPIELER; DAS TESTAMENT DES DR. MABUSE Director: Fritz Lang DOKTOR MABUSE DER SPIELER (Dr. Mabuse the Gambler) Germany, 1922 Production: Uco-Film Studios; black and white, 35mm; silent; length: Part I (Der grosse Spieler—Ein Bild der Zeit) originally 3496 meters, Part II (Inferno—Ein Spiel von Menschen unserer Zeit) 2560 meters. Released 17 April 1922 (Part I) and 26 May 1922 (Part II). Filmed 1921–22. Part I in 8 weeks and Part II in 9 weeks; in Uco-Film studios in Berlin. Screenplay: Fritz Lang and Thea von Harbou, from a novel by Norbert Jacques published in Berliner Illustrierte Zeitung; photogra- phy: Carl Hoffman; art directors: Carl Stahl Urach (died during production), Otto Hunte, Erich Kettelhut, and Karl Vollbrecht; cos- tume designer: Vally Reinecke. Cast: Rudolph Klein-Rogge (Dr. Mabuse); Aud Egede Nissen (Cara Carezza, the dancer); Gertrude Welcker (Countess Told); Alfred Abel (Count Told); Bernhard Goetzke (Detective von Wenck); Paul Richter (Edgar Hull); Robert Forster-Larringa (Dr. Mabuse’s ser- vant); Hans Adalbert Schlettow (Georg, the chauffeur); Georg John (Pesche); Karl Huszar (Hawasch, manager of the counterfeiting factory); Grete Berger (Fine, Mabuse’s servant); Julius Falkenstein DOKTOR MABUSE DER SPIELERFILMS, 4 th EDITION 337 Das Testament des Dr. Mabuse (Karsten, Wenck’s friend); Lydia Potechina (Russian woman); Julius E. Herrman (Schramm, the proprietor); Karl Platen (Told’s servant); Anita Berber (Dancer); Paul Biensfeldt (Man with the pistol); Edgar Pauly (Fat Man); Lil Dagover. Publications Books: Rotha, Paul, The Film Till Now, London, 1930. Weinberg, Herman G., An Index to the Creative Work of Fritz Lang, London, 1946. Kracauer, Siegfried, From Caligari to Hitler: A Psychological His- tory of the German Film, Princeton, 1947. Eisenstein, Sergei, Film Form, New York, 1949. Courtade, Francis, Fritz Lang, Paris, 1963. Moullet, Luc, Fritz Lang, Paris, 1963. Eibel, Alfred, editor, Fritz Lang, Paris, 1964. Jensen, Paul M., The Cinema of Fritz Lang, New York, 1969. Eisner, Lotte, The Haunted Screen, Berkeley, 1969. Johnston, Claire, Fritz Lang, London, 1969. Manvell, Roger, and Heinrich Fraenkel, The German Cinema, New York, 1971. Henry, Michael, Le Cinéma expressioniste allemand, Paris, 1971. Grafe, Frieda, Enno Patalas, and Hans Helmut Prinzler, Fritz Lang, Munich, 1976. Eisner, Lotte, Fritz Lang, London, 1977. Armour, Robert, Fritz Lang, Boston, 1978. Ott, Frederick W., The Films of Fritz Lang, Secaucus, New Jer- sey, 1979. Jenkins, Stephen, editor, Fritz Lang: The Image and the Look, London, 1979. Kaplan, E. Ann, Fritz Lang: A Guide to References and Resources, Boston, 1981. Maibohm, Ludwig, Fritz Lang: Seine Filme—Sein Leben, Munich, 1981. Dürrenmatt, Dieter, Fritz Lang: Leben und Werk, Basel, 1982. Bronner, S. E., and D. Kellner, Passion and Rebellion: The Expres- sionist Heritage, London, 1983. Schnauber, Cornelius, Fritz Lang in Hollywood, Wein, 1986. DOKTOR MABUSE DER SPIELER FILMS, 4 th EDITION 338 Jacques, Norbert, Dr. Mabuse, der Spieler: Roman, Film, Dokumente, St. Ingbert, 1987. Humphries, Reynold, Fritz Lang: Genre and Representation in His American Films, Baltimore, 1989. McGilligan, Patrick, Fritz Lang: The Nature of the Beast, New York, 1997. Phillips, Gene D., Exiles in Hollywood: Major European Film Directors in America, London, 1998. Articles: Berliner Tageblatt, 30 April 1922. Variety (New York), 2 June 1922. Ihering, Herbert, in Berliner B?rsen-Courier, 11 June 1922; reprinted in Von Reinharft bis Brecht, East Berlin, 1958. Lang, Fritz, ‘‘Kitsch: Sensation-Kultur und Film,’’ in Das Kulturfilmbuch, edited by E. Beyfuss and P. Kossowsky, Ber- lin, 1924. New York Times, 10 August 1927. Hooper, Trask C., in New York Times, 20 May 1928. Goetz, Fritz, in New York Times, 9 August 1928. Eisner, Lotte, ‘‘Notes sur le style de Fritz Lang,’’ in Revue de Cinéma (Paris), 1 February 1947. Wilson, Harry, ‘‘The Genius of Fritz Lang,’’ in Film Quarterly (London), Summer 1947. Gesek, Ludwig, ‘‘Fritz Lang: Suggestion und Stimmung,’’ in Gestalter der Filmkunst von Asta Nielsen bis Walt Disney, Vienna, 1948. Lang, Fritz, in Penguin Film Review (London), vol. 5, 1948. Franju, Georges, ‘‘Le Style de Fritz Lang,’’ in Cahiers du Cinéma (Paris), November 1959. Everschor, Franz, in Film-Dienst (Dusseldorf), 5 April 1961. Taylor, John Russell, ‘‘The Nine Lives of Dr. Mabuse,’’ in Sight and Sound (London), Winter 1961. Gregor, Ulrich, and Enno Patalas, ‘‘Deutschland: Expressionismus und neue Sachlichkeit,’’ in Geschichte des Films, Gütersloh, 1962. Shivas, Mark, ‘‘Fritz Lang Talks about Dr. Mabuse,’’ in Movie (London), November 1962. Berg, Gretchen, editor, ‘‘La Nuit viennoise: Une Confession de Fritz Lang,’’ in Cahiers du Cinéma (Paris), August 1965. Freund, Rudolf, ‘‘Zwischen Kunst und Kolportage,’’ in Filmspiegel (East Berlin), 1 December 1965. Legrand, Gérard, ‘‘Nouvelles notes pour un éloge de Fritz Lang,’’ in Positif (Paris), April 1968. Toeplitz, J., in Kino (Warsaw), March 1972. Burch, No?l, ‘‘De Mabuse a M: Le Travail de Fritz Lang,’’ in Revue d’Esthétique (Paris), 1973. Sayre, Nora, in New York Times, 15 October 1973. Milne, Tom, in Monthly Film Bulletin (London), May 1974. Boost, C., ‘‘Fritz Lang,’’ in Skoop (Amsterdam), February 1975. Blumenberg, Hans, ‘‘Kino der Angst,’’ in Die Zeit (Hamburg), 13 September 1976. Jubak, J., ‘‘Lang and Parole: Character and Narrative in Doktor Mabuse, der Spieler,’’ in Film Criticism (Edinboro, Pennsylva- nia), no. 1, 1979. Fischer, Lucy, ‘‘Dr. Mabuse and Mr. Lang,’’ in Wide Angle (Athens, Ohio), Winter 1980. Kane, P., ‘‘Revoir Mabuse,’’ in Cahiers du Cinéma (Paris), March 1980. Burch, No?l, ‘‘Notes on Fritz Lang’s First Mabuse,’’ in Ciné-Tracts (Montreal), Spring 1981. Johnston, S., in Films and Filming (London), July 1982. Bergstrom, J., ‘‘Expressionism and Mabuse,’’ in Iris (Iowa City), Autumn 1992. Brandlmeier, T., ‘‘Mabuse komplett,’’ in EPD Film (Frankfurt), April 1995. Elsaesser, Thomas, ‘‘Fritz Lang: The Illusion of Mastery (German Film Director),’’ in Sight and Sound (London), vol. 10, no. 1, January 2000. DAS TESTAMENT DES DR. MABUSE (The Last Will of Dr. Mabuse) Germany, 1933 Production: Nero-Film A.G. Studios; black and white, 35mm; running time: about 122 minutes; length 3334 meters. Released 5 December 1933 in Vienna, a French version (95 minutes) was shot simultaneously with the same technical crew and released April 1933 in Paris. Filmed in 10 weeks in 1932 in Nero-Film A.G. studios in Berlin. Producer: Seymour Nebenzal; screenplay: Thea von Harbou and Fritz Lang, from the characters in a novel by Norbert Jacques; photography: Fritz Arno Wagner and Karl Vass; art directors: Karl Vollbrecht and Emil Hasler; music: Hans Erdmann. Cast: Rudolph Klein-Rogge (Dr. Mabuse); Oskar Beregi (Dr. Baum); Karl Meixner (Landlord); Theodor Loos (Dr. Kramm, assistant to Baum); Otto Wernicke (Detective Lohmann); Klaus Pohl (Müller, Lohmann’s assistant); Wera Liessem (Lilli); Gustav Diessl (Thomas Kent); Camilla Spira (Jewel-Anna); Rudolf Schündler (Hardy); Theo Lingen (Hardy’s friend); Paul Oskar H?cker (Bredow); Paul Henckels (Lithographer); Georg John (Baum’s servant); Ludwig St?ssel (Worker); Hadrian M. Netto (Nicolai Grigoriew); Paul Bernd (Black- mailer); Henry Pless (Dunce); A. E. Licho (Dr. Hauser); Karl Platen, Anna Goltz, and Heinrich Gretler (Sanitarium Assistants); Gerhard Bienart, Paul Bernd, Ernst Ludwig, Klaus Pohl, and Paul Rehkopf (Detectives). Publications Articles: Variety (New York), 9 May 1933. Rotha, Paul, in Cinema Quarterly (London), Autumn 1934. Crowther, Bosley, in New York Times, 20 March 1943. Romano, Sergio, in Cinema (Rome), 10 November 1948. ‘‘One Facet of Lang’s Art Prophetic of Hitlerism,’’ in Herald Tribune (New York), 21 March 1949. Ruppert, Martin, in Frankfurter Allgemeine Zeitung, 13 Septem- ber 1951. G.J., in Monthly Film Bulletin (London), January 1954. Kipfmuller, Erwin, ‘‘Gespr?ch mit Fritz Lang,’’ in Film (Munich), December 1956. DOKTOR MABUSE DER SPIELERFILMS, 4 th EDITION 339 Mardore, Michel, ‘‘Le Diabolique Docteur Mabuse,’’ in Cinéma (Paris), August-September 1961. Rhode, Eric, ‘‘Fritz Lang (The German Period, 1919–1933),’’ in Tower of Babel, London, 1966. New York Times, 6 December 1973. Greenspun, Roger, in Film Comment (New York), March-April 1973. William, Paul, in Village Voice (New York), 12 September 1974. Phillips, Gene D., ‘‘Fritz Lang Gives His Last Interview,’’ in Village Voice (New York), 16 August 1976. Lang, Fritz, ‘‘On Dr. Mabuse,’’ in Monthly Film Bulletin (London), April 1978. Audibert, L., in Cinématographe (Paris), December 1979. Cluny, C. M., in Cinéma (Paris), January 1980. Legrand, Gérard, ‘‘Le Nom de l’innommable,’’ in Positif (Paris), March 1980. Werner, G., ‘‘Fritz Lang and Goebbels: Myth and Facts,’’ in Film Quarterly (Berkeley), no. 3, 1990. Lenne, Gérard, ‘‘Le testament du Dr Mabuse: les inventions de Lang,’’ in Mensuel du Cinéma, no. 10, October 1993. Brandlmeier, T., ‘‘Mabuse komplett,’’ in EPD Film (Frankfurt), April 1995. Also see list of publications following the Doktor Mabuse, Der Spieler credits. *** The popular novelist Thea von Harbou began her unbroken 12- year scripting association with Fritz Lang in 1920. Divorcing the actor Rudolf Klein-Rogge, she married Lang in 1924, working with him until 1932 when they separated and subsequently divorced after Lang’s hasty departure from Germany. Lang had already gained considerable success as the writer-director of Die Spinnen. In Thea von Harbou, he found an ideal writing partner to develop the psychological potentiality of a psychotic genius and master-criminal, Dr. Mabuse. Mabuse became the protagonist in Lang’s two celebrated films of 1922 and 1933. Dr. Mabuse the Gambler, Part I, began by showing Mabuse making a fortune on the stock market and using hypnotism to win $50,000 from Edgar Hull, whom Mabuse finally murders after inducing his own exotic mistress, the dancer Cara Carezza, to seduce him. He induces Cara to commit suicide when she is faced with arrest. Opposed to Mabuse is von Wenck, the public prosecutor; in Part II Wenck manages to resist Mabuse’s attempts to hypnotise him and traces the criminal to his head-quarters, a building placed under siege by the police. When arrested Mabuse goes insane. Reviving the character of Mabuse 10 years later in The Last Will of Dr. Mabuse Lang and Harbou show how the insane Mabuse uses his hypnotic powers to induce Dr. Baum, director of the asylum where he is being held, to maintain his criminal activities outside and, indeed, on Mabuse’s death to accept that he is the reincarnation of the mad doctor. Commissioner Lehmann (the dedicated police superintendent Lang had introduced in M), exposes Baum, who finally goes mad after the model of Mabuse and inhabits the criminal’s original cell. Mabuse was revived, according to Lang, as a projection of Hitler: ‘‘I put all the Nazi slogans into the mouth of the ghost of the criminal,’’ he has stated. In 1933 Goebbels banned both Mabuse films. ‘‘Out of the Mabuses,’’ Lang wrote later when The Last Will of Dr. Mabuse was salvaged and released in America in 1943, ‘‘came the Heydrichs, the Himmlers and the Hitlers.’’ He added, ‘‘This film was made as an allegory to show Hitler’s processes of terrorism.’’ Lang always insisted that the original character of Mabuse had contemporary significance even in 1922. He seems to represent an arch criminal of that period of galloping inflation that destroyed the German currency, and with it German social morale. According to Lotte Eisner, Lang’s friend and biographer, the Berlin critics accepted his reference to the times without demur. Writing of the period, Lang himself said, ‘‘The First World War brought changes. In Europe, an entire generation of intellectuals embraced despair; young people, myself among them, made a fetish of tragedy.’’ This helps to account for the fact that insanity in various forms became a recurrent theme in German cinema of the 1920s. Lang regarded his film not merely as a box-office thriller but as a document of the time, and Siegfried Kracauer terms Mabuse, ‘‘a contemporary tyrant,’’ a symbol of mad, anti-social domination, combining a lust for absolute tyranny with the desire to effect social chaos. Like Caligari before him, he is insane and makes continual use of hypnosis to overcome his victims: an attempt is even made to hypnotise the audience. Lang indeed was concerned to give his film a contemporary psychological touch; Mabuse’s thirst for power and his Protean manifestations in a ceaseless flow of disguises make him seem ever-present and ever-active in society. Eric Rhode, writing in Tower of Babel (1966), sees the original film and the character of Mabuse as a myth of its time reflecting ‘‘not only the confusion and anxieties of the Weimar Republic,’’ but also Oswald Spengler’s romantic, fatalistic thesis in his bestseller, The Decline of the West (1918), in which he claimed that city-bound man is doomed through his power-lust for money. This was relevant not only to Lang’s Mabuse but to his most spectacular work of the 1920s, Metropolis. In Mabuse his primary settings are gambling dens, depraved nightclubs, and the Stock Exchange. Mabuse is a vampire gambler and cheat extraordinary, operating against society on a uni- versal scale, typified here by such characters as the wealthy, degener- ate Count and Countess Told. As played by Rudolf Klein-Rogge, Mabuse has all the appearance of an actor-like, romantic genius—the penetrating eyes and the flowing mane of hair swept back from a towering brow. Lang, whose father was a Viennese architect and whose training had been in art, had a strongly developed visual and structural eye. Paul Rotha, himself trained as an artist, admits that Mabuse ‘‘was far ahead of its time in décor.’’ He writes of ‘‘the perfection of camera work and lighting effects’’ in Lang’s films. Lang employed the irising device to dramatic effect, double, triple and quadruple exposures, and chiaroscuro lighting: for visual effect, Eric Rhode suggests the scene when the ‘‘mad count wanders with a candelabrum through his twilit mansion.’’ Lang, he points out, ‘‘favours middle or long distance shots, and a rim lighting that gives his characters both dimension and solidity. In Dr. Mabuse rooms tend to be ample, while streets are so narrow that cars jam and bump into each other.’’ Sergei Eisenstein, who had assisted Esther Shub in re-editing Dr. Mabuse for Russian audiences, commented on ‘‘the mystic criminal reaching out towards us from our screens showing us a future as an unrelieved night crowded with sinister shadows.’’ Lang was to make one further film featuring Mabuse in 1960, working again in Germany. Though adroitly made, The Thousand Eyes of Dr. Mabuse, a somewhat pale revival of Mabuse in the form of a madman who believes himself the reincarnation of the dead criminal but turns out to be Mabuse’s son, seemed out of place by the 1960s. —Roger Manvell LA DOLCE VITA FILMS, 4 th EDITION 340 LA DOLCE VITA (The Sweet Life) Italy-France, 1960 Director: Federico Fellini Production: Riama Film (Rome) and Pathé Consortium Cinéma (Paris); black and white, 35mm. Totalscope; running time: 180 minutes. Released February 1960. Rome. Filmed 16 March-27 August 1959 in Rome, the Odescalchi Palace, Fregene, and in the studios of Cinecittà. Producers: Giuseppe Amato with Angelo Rizzoli, and Franco Magli as executive producer; screenplay: Federico Fellini, Tullio Pinelli, Brunello Rondi, and Ennio Flaiano, from an original story by Federico Fellini, Tullio Pinelli and Ennio Flaiano; photography: Otello Martelli; editor: Leo Cattozzo; sound: Agostino Moretti; art director: Piero Gherardi; music: Nino Rota; costume designer: Piero Gherardi; artisic collaborator: Brunello Rondi. Cast: Marcello Mastroianni (Marcello Rubini); Walter Santesso (Paparazzo, the photographer); Anouk Aimée (Maddalena); Adriana Moneta (Prostitute); Yvonne Furneaux (Emma, Marcello’s mistress); Anita Ekberg (Sylvia, a Hollywood star); Lex Barker (Robert, Sylvia’s fiancée); Alan Dijon (Frankie Stout); Alain Cuny (Steiner); Valeria Ciangottini (Paola); Annibale Ninchi (Marcello’s father); Magali La dolce vita Noel (Fanny, a chorus girl); Nadia Gray (Nadia); Jacques Sernas (Matinee idol); Polidor (Clown). Awards: Cannes Film Festival, Gold Palm, 1960; Oscar for Best Foreign Picture, 1961; New York Film Critics Award, Best Foreign Film, 1961. Publications Script: Fellini, Federico, and others, La dolce vita, edited by Tullio Kezich, Bologna, 1960; translated as La Dolce Vita, New York, 1961; also included in Quattro film, Turin, 1974. Books: Renzi, Renzo, Federico Fellini, Lyons, 1960. Agel, Henri, Le Cinéma et le sacré, Paris, 1961. Lo Duca, Giuseppe, editor, La Dolce Vita, Paris, 1961. Borde, Raymond, and André Bouissy, Nouveau cinéma italien, Lyons, 1963. Budgen, Suzanne, Fellini, London, 1966. Huss, Roy, and Norman Silverstein, The Film Experience, New York, 1968. Richardson, Robert, Literature and Film, Bloomington, Indiana, 1969. Ketcham, Charles, Federico Fellini: The Search for a New Mythol- ogy, New York, 1976. Rosenthal, Stuart, The Cinema of Federico Fellini, London, 1976. Strich, Christian, editor, Fellini on Fellini, New York, 1976. Stubbs, John, Federico Fellini: A Guide to References and Resources, Boston, 1978. Alpert, Hollis, Fellini: A Life, New York, 1981. Fruttero, Carlo, and Franco Lucentini, Je te trouve un peu pale: Récit d’été avec trente fantasmes féminins de Federico Fellini, Paris, 1982. Costello, Donald, P., Fellini’s Road, Notre Dame, Indiana, 1983. Grazzini, Giovanni, editor, Federico Fellini, Intervista sul cinema, Rome, 1983. Burke, Frank, Federico Fellini: Variety Lights to La Dolce Vita, Boston, 1984. Chandler, Charlotte, The Ultimate Seduction, New York, 1984. Fava, Claudio F., and Aldo Vigano, The Films of Federico Fellini, Secaucus, New Jersey, 1985. Murray, Edward, Fellini the Artist, New York, 1985. Kezich, Tullio, Fellini, Milan, 1987. Bondanella, Peter, The Cinema of Federico Fellini, Princeton, 1992. Secchiaroli, Tazio, Tutto Fellini, New York, 1994. Costantini, Costanzo, Conversations with Fellini, San Diego, 1996. Chandler, Charlotte, I, Fellini, Collingdale, 1998. Articles: ‘‘Su La dolce vita la parola a Fellini,’’ in Bianco e Nero (Rome), January-February 1960. Aristarco, Guido, in Cinema Nuovo (Turin), January-February 1960. Bruno, Edoardo, in Filmcritica (Rome), February 1960. Pasolino, Pier Paolo, ‘‘L’irrazionalismo cattolico di Fellini,’’ in Filmcritica (Rome), February 1960. LA DOLCE VITAFILMS, 4 th EDITION 341 Rondi, Brunello, ‘‘Dialettica de La dolce vita,’’ in Filmcritica (Rome), February 1960. Laura, Ernesto, ‘‘La stagione delle mele d’oro,’’ in Bianco e Nero (Rome), March-April 1960. Delouche, Dominique, ‘‘Un Fellini baroque,’’ in Etudes Cinématographiques (Paris), Spring 1960. Grandi, Libero, ‘‘Filming La Dolce Vita in Black-and-White and Wide-Screen,’’ in American Cinematographer (Los Angeles), April 1960. Lane, John Francis, ‘‘Fellini Tells Why,’’ in Films and Filming (London), June 1960. Agel, Henri, in Etudes Cinématographiques (Paris), Summer 1960. Laugier, Jean-Louis, ‘‘Il dolce Fellini,’’ in Cahiers du Cinéma (Paris), July 1960. Mardore, Michel, in Positif (Paris), July-August 1960. Lefèvre, Raymond, in Image et Son (Paris), October 1960. Rhode, Eric, in Sight and Sound (London), Winter 1960. Durgnat, Raymond, in Films and Filming (London), January 1961. ‘‘Quattro domande sul cinema italiano,’’ in Cinema Nuovo (Turin), January-February 1961. Mekas, Jonas, in Village Voice (New York), April 1961. Alpert, Hollis, in Saturday Review (New York), 15 April 1961. Crowther, Bosley, in New York Times, 20 April 1961. Kauffmann, Stanley, in New Republic (New York), 1 May 1961. Lane, John Francis, in Films and Filming (London), June 1961. Hart, Henry, in Films in Review (New York), June-July 1961. Franchi, R. L., in Film Quarterly (Berkeley), Summer 1961. Holland, Norman, ‘‘The Follies Fellini,’’ in Hudson Review (New York), Autumn 1961. Peri, Enzo, ‘‘Federico Fellini: An Interview,’’ in Film Quarterly (Berkeley), Fall 1961. Duprey, Richard, ‘‘Bergman and Fellini, Explorers of the Modern Spirit,’’ in Catholic World (Paramus, New Jersey), October 1961. Bergtal, Eric, ‘‘The Lonely Crowd in La Dolce Vita,’’ in America (New York), 7 October 1961. Flaus, John, in Film Journal (Evanston, Illinois), April 1962. Kael, Pauline, ‘‘The Come-Dressed-As-the-Sick-Soul-of-Europe Par- ties,’’ in Massachusetts Review (Amherst), Winter 1963. Harcourt, Peter, ‘‘The Secret Life of Federico Fellini,’’ in Film Quarterly (Berkeley), Spring 1966. Levine, Irving R., ‘‘I Was Born for the Cinema,’’ in Film Comment (New York), Fall 1966. Wood, Robin, ‘‘The Question of Fellini Continues,’’ in December (London), nos. 2–3, 1967. Baldelli, P., ‘‘Dilatazione visionaria del documento e nostalgia della madre chiesa in Fellini,’’ in Cinema dell’ambiguità: Rossellini, De Sica e Zavattini, Fellini, Rome, 1971. Lefèvre, Raymond, ‘‘Fellini,’’ in Image et Son (Paris), January 1971. Julia, Jacques, ‘‘Psychanalyse de Fellini,’’ in Cinéma (Paris), May 1971. Martin, Marcel, ‘‘Un Artiste sous le chapiteau,’’ in Cinema (Paris), May 1971. Torres Fernández, A., in Contracampo (Madrid), June-July 1981. Villien, Bruno, in Cinématographe (Paris), September 1981. Film Criticism (Meadville, Pennsylvania), Autumn 1984. Pulleine, Tim, in Films and Filming (London), September 1987. Nowell-Smith, Geoffrey, in Monthly Film Bulletin (London), Octo- ber 1987. Rhodie, S., ‘‘How Sweet It Is: La Dolce Vita,’’ in Cinema Papers (Fitzroy), March 1989. Kiarostami, Abbas, ‘‘De Sophia Loren à La dolce vita,’’ in Positif (Paris), June 1994. Childebert, T., and André Moreau, ‘‘Dolce vita dolorosa: La dolce vita,’’ in Télérama (Paris), 26 October 1994. Amengual, Barthélemy, ‘‘Propositions pour un portrait du jeune Fellini en néo-réaliste,’’ in Positif (Paris), July-August 1995. Hutera, Donald, interview with David Glass, in Time Out (London), 3 April 1996. Castiel, E., in Séquences (Haute-Ville), no. 189, March/June 1997. Statta, Gloria, ‘‘The Buzz About Paparazzi: Marcello Mastroianni Remembers Working with Federico Fellini and Tazio Secchiaroli, the First Paparazzo,’’ in Aperture, no. 150, Winter 1998. Gundle, Stephen, La Dolce Vita, in History Today, vol. 50, no. 1, January 2000. *** Fellini’s epic study of the loss of values at the climax of the Italian ‘‘economic miracle,’’ delineates the daily activities of a writer, turned reporter for a sensationalist journal, who is too deeply compromised by the degeneracy around him to see it, never mind report on it. The opening and closing scenes of the film are cleverly matched allusions to Dante which underscore the moral loss and its consequences for Italy, at the very moment when the revival of Fascism was beginning to make a difference in the balance of political powers. Marcello follows a helicopter delivering a monumental statue of Christ, on a tow line, to the Vatican. From his own helicopter, he flirts with women sunbathing on a roof. The noise of the machine drowns out his voice as he tries to shout for their telephone numbers. In a parallel scene of shot-countershot the film ends with Marcello accosted by a charming and innocent girl who had once waited on his table. A stretch of water separates them and the noise of the sea makes her words inaudible to him. An Italian audience might recognize the allusion to the Medusa of the Inferno in the grotesquely reified image of Christ soaring through the Roman sky; even more evident would be the figure of Matilda at the top of Purgatorio who represents the summit of earthly beauty, irradiated by divine grace. Marcello has lost the ability to react to the grossness of the former and the saving promise of the latter. The world he inhabits is as lost as he is: Marcello moves from prostitutes to aristocratic women while, at the same time, deceiving his girlfriend; his intellectual friend, Steiner, who had urged him to find more fulfilling work, kills himself and his children; he covers for his newspaper the scene of a false miracle where someone is trampled by the enthusiastic crowd; he follows an American movie star as she utters banalities and poses for the press. In the center of the film Marcello accompanies his father on his first night in Rome since he was one of Mussolini’s blackshirts (this is subtly suggested by the old man’s references, never bluntly stated). The father’s physical collapse and profound embarrassment when he fails to perform with a prostitute predicts the hero’s eventual confron- tation with the limitation of his values, just as its suggests that the playboy figure of 1959, brilliantly represented by Marcello Mastroianni, is a modern version of the Fascist ideal. The moral atmosphere of La dolce vita reflects that in all of Fellini’s films, but the grandeur of its scale, the refusal to resort to a pitiful or lovable protagonist, and the accuracy of its caricatures make it one of his most enduring achievements. Its initial success was, however, due in great part to the supposedly daring and sensational manner with which it dealt with sexual themes. Actually, it was one of DOM ZA VESANJE FILMS, 4 th EDITION 342 three films to emerge from Italy at the end of the 1950s which heralded a powerful renewal of that national cinema. The others were Michelangelo Antonioni’s L’avventura and Luchino Visconti’s Rocco e i suoi fratelli, both released in 1960. —P. Adams Sitney DOM ZA VESANJE (Time of the Gypsies) Yugoslavia-USA, 1989 Director: Emir Kusturica Production: Forum Film, Sarajevo TV and Columbia Pictures; colour, 35mm; running time: 142 minutes. Producer: Mirza Pasic; executive producer: Milan Martinovic; co-producer: Harry Saltzman; screenplay: Emir Kusturica, Gordan Mihic; photography: Vilko Filac; editor: Andrija Zafranovic; as- sistant directors: Maja Gardinovacki, Dragan Kresoja; production design: Miljen Kljakovic; music: Goran Bregovic; sound: Gordana Petakovic, Ivan Zakic, Srdan Popovic, Theodore Mitchel Yannie, Mladen Prebil. Cast: Davor Dujmovic (Perhan); Bora Todorovic (Ahmed Dzida); Ljubica Adzovic (Baba); Husnija Hasmovic (Uncle Merdzan); Sinolicka Trpkova (Azra); Zabit Memedov (Zabit); Elvira Sali (Daca); Suada Karisik (Dzamila); Ajnur Redzepi (Perhan’s son). Awards: Best Director, Cannes 1989. Publications Books: Horton, Andrew, ‘‘Time of the Gypsies,’’ Writing the Character Centered Screenplay, Berkeley, 1994. Horton, Andrew, ‘‘Ethnic Godfathers and Grandmothers: Emir Kusturica & Time of the Gypsies’s Balkan Makeover of Coppola’s Godfathers’’ in Play It Again, Sam: Retakes on Remakes, edited by Andrew Horton & Stuart McDougal, Berkeley, 1996. Bertellini, Giorgio, Emir Kusturica, Milano, 1996. Articles: Variety (New York), 17 May 1989. Brisset, S., and G. Ptillat, Cinéma (Paris), October 1989. Grugeau, G., ‘‘Entre ciel et terre’’ in 24 Images (Montreal), Fall 1989. Gauthier, G., Revue du Cinéma (Paris), November 1989. Gili, G.A., and others, ‘‘Emir Kusturica’’ in Positif (Paris), Novem- ber 1989. Katsahnias, I., ‘‘Freaks, freaks. . .’’ in Cahiers du Cinéma (Paris), November 1989. Insadorf, Annette, ‘‘Gypsy Life Beguiles a Film Maker’’ in The New York Times, February 4, 1990. Brown, G., Monthly Film Bulletin (London), April 1990. Beauchamp, M., and G. Grugeau, ‘‘La quête du pays’’ in 24 Images (Montreal), Summer 1990. Schupp, P., Séquences (Montreal), June 1990. Feldvoss, Marli, in EPD Film (Frankfurt), September 1991. Binder, David, ‘‘A Bosnian Movie Maker Laments the Death of the Yugoslav Nation’’ in The New York Times, October 25, 1992. Iskusstvo Kino (Moscow), December 1992. Dakovic, Nevena, ‘‘Mother, Myth, and Cinema: Recent Yugoslav Cinema,’’ in Film Criticism (Meadville), vol. 21, no. 2, Winter 1996–1997. Wrathall, John, ‘‘Gypsy Time,’’ in Sight & Sound (London), Decem- ber 1997. Rouyer, Philippe, and Michel Ciment, ‘‘Emir Kusturica,’’ in Positif (Paris), October 1998. ‘‘Misdirected Pride (Bosnian Filmmaker Emir Kusturica),’’ in Econo- mist, vol. 351, no. 8115, 17 April 1999. Horton, Andrew, ‘‘’But to Have Dreamed It All’: The Balkans’ Healing Irony (Balkan Cinema),’’ in Chronicle of Higher Educa- tion, vol. 45, no. 43, 2 July 1999. *** It is one of the ironies of contemporary cinema that one of the most celebrated filmmakers anywhere is Emir Kusturica, a Bosnian Mus- lim from Sarajevo, who has been able to draw upon his rich yet troubled former country to weave memorable tales of humor, horror and pathos, all under the banner word he calls ‘‘joy.’’ When Father Was Away On Business won the Palm D’Or at the Cannes Film Festival in 1985 as a powerful tale about the survival of a Muslim family under the anti-Stalinist terrorism in Yugoslavia in the 1950s, and he won the Palm D’Or a second time in 1995 for Underground, a darkly carnivalesque vision of the breakup of Yugoslavia mixing equal doses of realism and Balkan surrealism. And Time of the Gypsies won the Cannes Best Director Award in 1989 for this exuberant yet pessimistic narrative based on a true story of Yugoslav gypsies selling their own children into a form of slavery in Italy. An appreciation of Kusturica’s film today, of course, comes with the uneasy awareness of how strangely cinematic narratives can sometimes foreshadow history. For while Kusturica’s tale which echoes Coppola’s Godfather trilogy in a number of ways does not speak of ethnic cleansing and religious intolerance, the forces of chaos suggested in the film do seem to provide some insight into the horrors of the current Bosnian and Balkan conflicts. Kusturica manages a difficult balancing act in this film as he was able to use American financing (Columbia Pictures produced and released the film) to shoot a film almost entirely in the gypsy language which meant it would need subtitles in every country, including the DOM ZA VESANJE FILMS, 4 th EDITION 343 Dom za vesanje soon-to-collapse Yugoslavia. He also took a chance on a number of gypsy actors and actresses including the wonderful Hasnija Hasmovic who plays an almost mythical Earth Mother-Grandmother figure at the center of everything in the film. At its core, Time of the Gypsies is a coming-of-age story in line with Kusturica’s previous work including Do You Remember Dolly Bell? (1981), his first feature, which tracks a teenage Bosnian Muslim would-be rock star through his first love and sexual experience in 1970s Sarajevo. Similarly When Father Was Away on Business follows an eight-year-old son who is trying both to grow up and hold onto a childhood in a world fragmented by political, religious and ethnic hatreds. Writing with one of Yugoslavia’s most talented screenwriters, Goran Mihic, Kusturica fashioned in Time of the Gypsies a tale of young Pehan who passes through the joy and heartbreak of first love onto his rites of passage as a gypsy gangster protégé of a flamboyant gypsy Godfather played with memorable brio by Yugoslavia’s John Wayne-like icon, Bora Todorovic. Kusturica and Mihic draw strict tensions between the orphaned Pehan’s love for his grandmother who is raising him and her centered life in Yugoslavia, and his desire to help his ailing sister by working as a pickpocket and common thief in Northern Italy under Todorovic’s exploitive gaze. Completely caught in the middle is Azra, the girl next door, whom he marries at last, but cannot trust. At turns tragic and comic, realistic and touching on magic realism (Pehan, for instance, has telekinetic powers that come into play for the unusual revenge scene at the end), Time of the Gypsies is also a vibrant hymn to the ‘‘time of cinema’’ on the big screen with big sound and big themes—the homeless, the downtrodden, the impor- tance of love, self worth, loyalty and friendship. It almost seems not an accident that this film came out the same year as Cinema Paradiso which also celebrates the power of cinema through a male coming-of-age tale. Kusturica’s film is the more tragic simply because the Balkans themselves are more troubled than the sun drenched lands of Southern Italy seen in Cinema Paradiso. But, rather than depressed, the viewer comes away with an admiration of a simple tale told with such elaborate gusto as well as with appreciation for what a filmmaker working at the peak of his powers can do with the craft and art of cinema. For while this film is firmly rooted in the Balkans, it is also a tribute to world cinema. Kusturica has made it abundantly clear that he is strongly influenced by John Ford, Luis Bunuel, Coppola, various Russian and Czech DONA FLOR E SEUS DOIS MARIDOS FILMS, 4 th EDITION 344 directors (he was educated like many Yugoslav directors of his generation in Prague at the well-known FAMU Academy) and Chaplin. For all the heartbreak and humor, the final image of this troubled epic is of the Uncle figure, back to the camera, jacket clutched around him, doing a funny little walk, going away from us, looking amaz- ingly like Chaplin going down the road of life as he did in the final shot of almost all of his films. For Chaplin too played the Outsider, the Homeless One, the Unlucky in Love fellow who survives and hopes and travels. —Andrew Horton DONA FLOR E SEUS DOIS MARIDOS (Dona Flor and Her Two Husbands) Brazil, 1976 Director: Bruno Barreto Production: Produ??es cinematográficas L.C. Barreto; Eastmancolor, 35mm; running time: 110 minutes. Released in 1976. Filmed in Salvador and Rio de Janeiro. Producers: Luis Carlos Barreto, Newton Rique, Cia Serrador, Paula Cezar Sesso, Nelson Potro; screenplay: Bruno Barreto; adapters: Eduardo Coutinho, Leopoldo Serran; photography: Maurilo Salles; editor: Raimundo Higino; assistant director: Jorge Duran, Emiliano Ribeiro; art director: Anisio Medeiros; music: Chico Buarque de Holanda; songs: Simone; sound: Walter Gulart, Antonio Cezar. Cast: Sonia Braga (Dona Flor); José Wilker (Vadinho); Mauro Mendon?a (Teodoro); Dinorah Brillanti (Rozilda); Nelson Xavier (Mirand?o); Arthur Costa Filho (Carlinhos); Rui Rezende (Cazuza); Mario Gusm?o (Arigof); Nelson Dantas (Clodoaldo); Haydil Linhares (Norma); Nilda Spencer (Dinorá); Silvia Cadaval (Jacy); Helio Ary (Venceslau Diniz); Mara Rúbia (Claudete); Manfredo Colassanti (Pelanchi). Publications Books: Mitchell, Robert, in Magill’s Survey of Cinema: Foreign Language Films, Volume 2, edited by Frank Magill, Englewood, New Jersey, 1985. Aycock, Wendell, and Michael Schoenecke, editors, Film and Lit- erature: A Comparative Approach to Adaptation, Lubbock, Texas, 1988. Articles: Ribeiro, Leo Gilson, Jornal da Tarde (S?o Paulo), 23 Novem- ber 1976. Veja, ‘‘Dona Flor e o cinema brasileiro,’’ Editora Abril (S?o Paulo), 1 December 1976. Vartuck, Pola, O Estado de S?o Paulo (S?o Paulo), 2 December 1976. Ferreira, Fernando, O Globo (Rio de Janeiro), 16 December 1976. Queiroz, Dinah Silveira, O Imparcial (S?o Luís), 7 January 1977. Amado, Jorge, ‘‘A minha Dona Flor,’’ Estado de Minas (Belo Horizonte), 29 January 1977. Stigger, Ivo Egon, Correio do Povo (Porto Alegre), 17 April 1977. Nascimento, Helio, Jornal do Comércio (Porto Alegre), 20 April 1977. Branco, Heloísa Castello, Jornal do Brasil (Rio de Janeiro), 10 August 1977. Variety (New York), 14 September 1977. Lefévre, R., Cinéma (Paris), October 1977. Pilla, M. R., and P. A. Paranagua, ‘‘Deux éléphants ?a trompe énormément,’’ in Postif (Paris), November 1977. Haun, Harry, Daily News (New York), 2 February 1978. Schiller, Beatriz, Jornal do Brasil (Rio de Janeiro), 23 February 1978. Maslin, Janet, New York Times, 27 February 1978. Ferreira, Sonia Nolasco, O Globo (Rio de Janeiro), 1 March 1978. Jornal da Tarde (S?o Paulo), 20 March 1978. Francis, Paulo, Folha de S?o Paulo (S?o Paulo), 10 June 1978. Webb, Michael, Jornal do Brasil, 25 July 1978. Revista Filme e Cultura, number 33, May 1979. Auty, M., Monthly Film Bulletin (London), June 1979. Critical Dossiers. Embrafilme, Rio de Janeiro, Brazil. Stjerne, H., Chaplin (Stockholm), vol. 22, no. 5, 1980. Santos Moray, Mercedes, Cine Cubano (Habana), no. 119, 1987. Horton, Andrew, ‘‘Bakhtin, Carnival Triumph, and Cinema: Bruno Barreto’s Do?a Flor and Her Two Husbands and Dusan Makavejev’s Innocence Unprotected Reconsidered,’’ Quarterly Review of Film and Video (Reading), May 1990. Edinger, C., ‘‘Do?a Flor in Two Cultures,’’ Literature/Film Quar- terly (Salisbury), October 1991. *** Irrespective of its other qualities, Dona Flor e seus dois maridos is noteworthy for having attracted an audience larger than any other Brazilian film. Due to the serious crisis curtailing the output of the Brazilian film industry over the last few years, the film’s public of 12 million spectators is unlikely to be surpassed before the end of the century. Bruno Barreto was aged 21 when Dona Flor was launched in November 1976, but, despite his youth, was not a newcomer on the film scene. He is the son of Luiz Carlos Barreto, one of the most important Brazilian producers, responsible for several significant films during the Cinema Novo period. Bruno Barreto grew up in the film world; at the age of 11 he started to film in 16 mm, and at the age of 17 concluded his first feature film, Tati, a Garota, establishing not only his precocity, but also a propensity for easy communication with the masses. What, then, is the secret of the incredible success of Dona Flor, whose impact in Brazil is unparalleled and whose repercussion DONA FLOR E SEUS DOIS MARIDOSFILMS, 4 th EDITION 345 Dona Flor e seus dois maridos abroad was such as to provoke a lackluster remake (Kiss Me Goodbye, directed by Robert Mulligan, with Sally Field and James Caan in the leading roles)? In one sequence, Dona Flor (Sonia Braga) shows pupils at her tiny cookery school how to prepare a typically Bahian dish, spicy and exotic. Bruno Barreto used a variety of related ingredients in teasing the palate of the public: he took to the screen the best-selling novel of Brazil’s premier popular author, Jorge Amado; he gave the title role to Sonia Braga, then a star of daily television series, whose greatest success to date had been the lead in Gabriela Clove and Cinnamon, also by Jorge Amado. To these, Barreto added other piquant—for their times—ingredients: the nudity of Sonia Braga and the bed scenes, which took on a forbidden flavour in a country traumatized, both culturally and politically, by the repression of the military regime. A contemporary evaluation of Dona Flor, abstracted from the impact caused by its launch, reveals the keeping qualities of a deli- cious comedy of good and bad manners. It is set in the provincial city of Salvador, Bahia, in the early 1940s. The lightheartedness and folklore of Brazilian carnival are shared early on; beautiful girls dance for the camera and the men in drag so typical of street carnival are seen on their scandalous progress. The most outrageous of these revellers is Vadinho (José Wilker), who dies as he lived: partying. His lovely but much-abused young widow, Dona Flor, joins his grieving friends. In a vivid and sensual flash-back, she recalls with the viewer not only his gambling, drinking and womanizing, but also his talents in bed. Dona Flor, whose dichotomous existence comprised not only the circumspect behaviour of the 1940s but also the liberated sexuality expected by moviegoers of the late 1970s, enters into a period of traditional mourning. When she finally emerges she is courted by the pharmacist Teodoro (Mauro Mendon?a), a timid, hardworking and methodical man—the exact antithesis of the late Vadinho. Pressed by her mother and friends, she agrees to remarry, after a platonic courtship. Her second honeymoon is a far cry from her first, with Teodoro dressed in yellow pajamas talking about the stars and promising fidelity until death. They make love in the dark under cover of the sheets, which would have been sacrilege to Dona Flor’s first husband. Vadinho, the eternal rake, had not hesitated in abandoning his new wife after some lively lovemaking on their wedding night to go gambling in the casino. Dona Flor accepts the rules of her new marriage, at least overtly. Her sleep, however, is tortured by the ghost of her late husband, which DOUBLE INDEMNITY FILMS, 4 th EDITION 346 emerges from The Hereafter to remind her of more exciting times, especially in bed. Vadinho’s ghost can be interpreted either as a crystallization of Dona Flor’s fantasy or as the return of a spirit which refuses to die, as in the Bahian religion, candomblé. The ghost is as irreverent as Vadinho was in life, and before long is making up a threesome with Dona Flor and Teodoro in the marriage bed. This unorthodox three-way relationship is the high point of the film. The scene in which Vadinho’s ghost sits shaking with laughter on top of the wardrobe observing Dona Flor and Teodoro making love is priceless. Before long, Dona Flor and Vadinho are reunited in bed in a stormy outpouring of sexuality. Thus Dona Flor solves all her problems by acquiescing in the ‘‘presence’’ of Vadinho and wel- comes him into her married life; in the fantasy world of Dona Flor all are free and all are equal—the living and the dead. Freed of the pressure for narrative innovation which marked the previous decade and especially the Cinema Novo period, Dona Flor has won its place through its technical qualities and its outstanding popular appeal. Its success is also due to its easy consumption by the international market, captivated by the exuberance of the Bahian atmosphere, the postcard scenery and the intensity of its regional characters. The sound track is greatly enhanced by Chico Buarque de Holanda’s ‘‘O Que será,’’ a ballad laden with lyricism and sensuality. Dona Flor turned Sonia Braga into a box-office phenomenon who was seen, for a time, as the epitome of Brazilian female sexuality. Bruno Barreto attempted, in 1983, to repeat the successful recipe with Gabriela, an international co-production, starring Sonia Braga in the role she had made famous on television and Marcello Mastroianni. Despite having some of the same ingredients, the production came nowhere near the spice of the delicious Dona Flor. Gabriela is to Dona Flor approximately what the dull Teodoro is to vital Vadinho. —Susana Schild DOOMED See IKIRU DOOMED LOVE See AMOR DE PERDICAO DOUBLE INDEMNITY USA, 1944 Director: Billy Wilder Production: Paramount Pictures; 1944; black and white, 355mm; running time: 107 minutes. Released 7 September 1944. Filmed 27 September-24 November 1943 in Paramount studios, and on location in Jerry’s Market in Los Angeles. Producer: Joseph Sistrom; screenplay: Billy Wilder and Raymond Chandler, from the novel 3 of a Kind by James M. Cain; photogra- phy: John F. Sitz; editor: Doane Harrison; sound: Stanley Cooley; art director: Hal Pereira; supervisor: Hans Dreier; set decora- tion: Bertram Granger; music: Miklos Rozsa; costume designer: Edith Head. Cast: Fred MacMurray (Walter Neff); Barbara Stanwyck (Phyllis Dietrichson); Edward G. Robinson (Barton Keyes); Porter Hall (Mr. Jackson); Jean Heather (Lola Dietrichson); Tom Powers (Mr. Dietrichson); Byron Barr (Nino Zachette); Richard Gaines (Mr. Norton); Fortunio Bonanova (Sam Gorlopis); John Philliber (Joe Pete); Clarence Muse (Black man). Publications Script: Chandler, Raymond, and Billy Wilder, Double Indemnity, in Best Film Plays 1945, edited by John Gassner and Dudley Nichols, New York, 1946. Books: Del Buono, Oreste, Billy Wilder, Parma, 1958. Madsen, Axel, Billy Wilder, Bloomington, Indiana, 1969. Wood, Tom, The Bright Side of Billy Wilder, Primarily, New York, 1970. Smith, Ella, Starring Miss Barbara Stanwyck, New York, 1973. Vermilye, Jerry, Barbara Stanwyck, New York, 1975. Zolotow, Maurice, Billy Wilder in Hollywood, New York, 1977. Seidman, Steve, The Film Career of Billy Wilder, Boston, 1977. Silver, Alain, and Elizabeth Ward, editors, Film Noir, Woodstock, New York, 1979. Sinyard, Neil, and Adrian Turner, Journey Down Sunset Boulevard: The Films of Billy Wilder, Ryde, Isle of Wight, 1979. Kaplan, E. Ann, editor, Women in Film Noir, London, 1980. Dick, Bernard F., Billy Wilder, Boston, 1980. Ciment, Michel, Les Conquérants d’un nouveau monde: Essais sur le cinéma américain, Paris, 1981. Giannetti, Louis, Masters of the American Cinema, Englewood Cliffs, New Jersey, 1981. Jacob, Jerome, Billy Wilder, Paris, 1988. Seidl, Claudius, Billy Wilder: Seine Filme, sein Leben, Munich, 1988. Schickel, Richard, Double Indemnity, London, 1992. Phillips, Gene D., Exiles in Hollywood: Major European Film Directors in America, Bethlehem, 1998. Sikov, Ed., On Sunset Boulevard: The Life and Times of Billy Wilder, New York, 1998. Wilder, Billy, Conversations with Wilder, with Cameron Crowe, New York, 1999. DOUBLE INDEMNITYFILMS, 4 th EDITION 347 Double Indemnity Articles: Variety (New York), 26 April 1944. New York Times, 7 September 1944. Pryor, Thomas, ‘‘End of a Journey,’’ in New York Times, 23 Septem- ber 1945. Luft, Herbert, and Charles Brackett, ‘‘Two Views of a Director: Billy Wilder,’’ in Quarterly of Radio, Television, and Film (Berkeley), Fall 1952. McVay, Douglas, ‘‘The Eye of a Cynic,’’ in Films and Filming (London), January 1960. Domarchi, Jean, and Jean Douchet, ‘‘Entretien avec Billy Wilder,’’ in Cahiers du Cinéma (Paris), August 1962. Higham, Charles, ‘‘Cast a Cold Eye: The Films of Billy Wilder,’’ in Sight and Sound (London), Spring 1963. Ringgold, Gene, ‘‘Barbara Stanwyck,’’ in Films in Review (New York), December 1963. Ciment, Michel, ‘‘Sept réflexions sur Billy Wilder,’’ in Positif (Paris), May 1971. Farber, Stephen, ‘‘The Films of Billy Wilder,’’ in Film Comment (New York), Winter 1971. Ecran (Paris), July 1972. Bourget, Jean-Loup, ‘‘Le Dernier Carré,’’ in Positif (Paris), April 1973. Jensen, Paul, ‘‘Raymond Chandler and the World You Live In,’’ in Film Comment (New York), November-December 1974. Corliss, Richard, ‘‘The Author-Auteurs,’’ in Talking Pictures: Screenwriters in the American Cinema, New York, 1975. Borde, Raymond, and E. Chaumeton, in Avant-Scène du Cinéma (Paris), 1 October 1979. Leese, Elizabeth, in Magill’s Survey of Cinema 1, Englewood Cliffs, New Jersey, 1980. Bernts, T., ‘‘Film noir: Fiktie in de fiktie,’’ in Skrien (Amsterdam), November-December 1984. Alsted, C., ‘‘Kvinder uden samvittighed—en arketypisk film noir,’’ in Kosmorama (Copenhagen), July 1985. Buchsbaum, J., ‘‘Tame Wolves and Phony Claims: Paranoia and Film Noir,’’ in Persistence of Vision (Maspeth, New York), Sum- mer 1986. Gallagher, B., ‘‘Sexual Warfare and Homoeroticism in Billy Wilder’s Double Indemnity,’’ in Literature/Film Quarterly (Salisbury, Mary- land), vol. 15, no. 4, 1987. Combs, Richard, in Listener (London), 4 June 1987. DOUGLAS TRILOGY FILMS, 4 th EDITION 348 Rozgonyi, J., ‘‘The Making of Double Indemnity,’’ in Films in Review (New York), June-July 1990. Pichler, O. H., ‘‘Some Like It Black,’’ in Blimp (Graz, Austria), Fall 1991. Marling, W., ‘‘On the Relation Between American Roman Noir and Film Noir,’’ in Literature/Film Quarterly (Salisbury, Maryland), no. 3, 1993. Biesen, S.C., ‘‘Censorship, Film Noir, and Double Indemnity,’’ in Film & History, no. 25, 1995. Ross, Tony, ‘‘Updated Noir,’’ in Creative Screenwriting (Washing- ton, D.C.), Spring 1995. Naremore, James, ‘‘Making and Remaking Double Indemnity,’’ in Film Comment (New York), January-February 1996. Arthur, P., ‘‘Los Angeles as Scene of the Crime,’’ in Film Comment (New York), July/August 1996. Armstrong, R., ‘‘Double Indemnity: An American Tragedy,’’ in Audience (Simi Valley), February/March 1997. *** Although James M. Cain’s memorable novel of crime and pas- sion, The Postman Always Rings Twice, predated his equally potent, similarly themed Double Indemnity by almost a decade, it is Indem- nity that has proven the more influential, due largely to the uncompro- mising and suspenseful film writer-director Billy Wilder made from it. Wilder’s film remains the model for just about every film noir of this type (Born to Kill, The Prowler, The Pushover, Body Heat, et al.) to come our way since. Cain’s novel was translated to the screen with the full force of the author’s ugly tale of lust, greed, and murder intact. In fact, the film version is in many ways tougher than its source. Wilder’s intention to make it so prompted his longtime partner, writer-producer Charles Brackett, to back away from the project even though he and Wilder were one of Hollywood’s most successful teams. Brackett found Cain’s book distasteful and felt the film would be little more than a ‘‘dirty movie.’’ He told Wilder to get another collaborator. Wilder tried to get Cain himself, but the author was busy on another project, and Wilder opted for Raymond Chandler instead. Chandler detested working with Wilder and disliked the final film. Cain on the other hand totally approved of what Wilder had done to his book, even considered it an improvement. The two works are certainly different. In addition to changing the names of Cain’s main characters (in the book they are Walter Huff and Phyllis Nirdlinger), Wilder changed the ending and altered other aspects of the story as well. Whereas Cain unfolded his tale in a linear manner, Wilder revealed the fate of his protagonist in the opening scene. Insurance investigator MacMurray arrives at his office mortally wounded and confesses into the dictaphone of his colleague, Robinson, the murder plot and insurance scam gone awry that led to MacMurray’s downfall. Wilder cuts back to the dying MacMurray several times, but for the most part the film unfolds as a series of flashbacks showing how MacMurray got embroiled with femme fatale Stanwyck in a scheme to murder her oilman husband, make it look like an accident, collect a bundle on the husband’s double indemnity claim, and run away together. But when their scheme began to unravel, their relationship fell apart, and they wound up shooting each other. (In the book, the lovers get away with the crime because the Robinson character who is hot on their trail has no proof, but are doomed anyway due to their growing mistrust of one another.) Cain loosely based his novel on the real-life Roaring Twenties case of Ruth Snyder and Judd Gray who conspired to murder Snyder’s husband for $100,000 in insurance money. Snyder and Gray were caught and went to the chair. An enterprising newspaper reporter smuggled a camera into the execution chamber and snapped a shot of Snyder moments before the juice was turned on. The ghoulish shot caused a furor when it was published in the paper. Wilder wanted to end his film with a similar scene showing MacMurray’s execution in California’s gas chamber. The scene was shot, but Wilder decided against using it; he felt it to be too strong and anticlimactic as well. He replaced it with the trenchantly written and beautifully performed final confrontation scene between the self-destructive MacMurray and the fatherly Robinson that movingly concludes this exceptionally fine and biting film noir. As MacMurray slumps to the floor, he tells Robinson how he’d been able to elude the dogged investigator. ‘‘Because the guy you were looking for was too close, Keyes. Right across the desk from you.’’ ‘‘Closer than that,’’ Robinson responds emotionally as the film fades to black. —John McCarty DOUGLAS TRILOGY Director: Bill Douglas MY CHILDHOOD UK, 1972 Production: British Film Institute Production Board; black and white, 16mm and 35mm; running time: 48 minutes. Producer: Geoffrey Evans; screenplay: Bill Douglas; photogra- phy: Mick Campbell; additional photography: Gale Tattersall, Bahram Manocheri; editor: Brand Thumin; assistant director: Nick Moes; sound editor: Tony Lewis; sound recording: Bob Withey; sound mixer: Mike Billings. Cast: Stephen Archibald (Jamie); Hughie Restorick (Tommy); Jean Taylor Smith (Grandmother); Karl Fiesler (Helmut); Bernard Mckenna (Tommy’s father); Paul Kermack (Jamie’s father); Helena Gloag (Tommy’s mother); Ann Smith (Nurse); Helen Crummy (Schoolteacher). Awards: Silver Lion and Critic’s prize, Venice 1972. MY AIN FOLK UK, 1973 Production: British Film Institute Production Board; black and white, 16mm; running time: 55 minutes. DOUGLAS TRILOGYFILMS, 4 th EDITION 349 Douglas Trilogy: My Childhood Producer: Nick Nascht; screenplay: Bill Douglas; photography: Gale Tattersall; editor: Peter West, Brand Thumin; sound editor: Michael Ellis, Peter West; sound recording: Peter Harvey. Cast: Stephen Archibald (Jamie); Hughie Restorick (Tommy); Jean Taylor Smith (Grandmother); Bernard Mckenna (Tommy’s father); Munro (Jamie’s grandfather); Paul Kermack (Jamie’s father); Hel- ena Gloag (Father’s mother). MY WAY HOME UK, 1978 Production: British Film Institute Production Board; black and white, 35mm; running time: 72 minutes. Production supervisor: Judy Cottam; screenplay: Bill Douglas; photography: Ray Orton; editor: Mick Audsley; art director: Olivier Boucher, Elsie Restorick; assistant director: Martin Turner; sound editor: Peter Harvey; sound recording: Digby Rumsey. Cast: Stephen Archibald (Jamie); Paul Kermack (Jamie’s father); Jessie Combe (father’s wife); William Carrol (Archie). Awards: Firesci Prize, Berlin 1979. Trilogy: Interfilm Jury Special Prize, Berlin 1979. Publications Script: Dick, Eddie, and others, Bill Douglas—A Lanternist’s Account, London 1993. Books: Dick, Eddie, From Limelight to Satellite: A Scottish Film Book, London, 1990. Dick, Eddie, and Andrew Noble, and Duncan Petrie, editors, Bill Douglas: A Lanternist’s Account, London, 1993. DOUGLAS TRILOGY FILMS, 4 th EDITION 350 Articles: Variety (New York), 13 September 1972. Wilson, D., Sight and Sound (London), Spring 1973. Torok, J.-P., ‘‘Village of the Damned’’ in Positif (Paris), Decem- ber 1975. Wilson, D., ‘‘Images of Britain’’ in Sight and Sound (London), Spring 1974. Variety (New York), 20 November 1974. Sussex, E., Monthly Film Bulletin (London), December 1974. Hardwick, C., Jeune Cinema (Paris), September/October 1973. Cannière, P., ‘‘Portrait d’enfance’’ in Cinéma (Paris), Summer 1978. Pym, J., Sight and Sound (London), November 1978. Pulleine, T., Monthly Film Bulletin (London), November 1978. Variety (New York), 15 November 1978. Elley, Derek, ‘‘My Way Home,’’ Films & Filming, December 1979. Malmberg, C.-J., ‘‘Hem till natten,’’ Chaplin (Stockholm), vol. 24, no. 2, 1982. Hassan, Mamoun, and J. Caughie, ‘‘His ain man: The Way Home,’’ Sight & Sound (London), November 1991. Hodgson, P. and, B. Douglas, ‘‘My Childhood,’’ Trafic (Paris), no. 23, Fall 1997. Bénoliel, Bernard, ‘‘Ma vie de chien,’’ Cahiers du Cinéma (Paris), June 1997. *** The three intimate autobiographical films written and directed by Bill Douglas under the auspices of the BFI production board in the 1970s collectively represent one of the most original and visceral contributions to British cinema during a decade remembered more for its mediocrity than its inspiration. Yet the Trilogy remains as a testa- ment to the power of the image to fundamentally move the viewer, even when rendered with a quiet and deceptive simplicity. The films chart the harrowing and poverty-stricken childhood and adolescence of a boy in a Scottish mining village in the aftermath of World War II. Jamie’s path towards adulthood and the acquisition of understanding of self and others is relentless in its brutality. Yet this is ultimately a tale of redemption, of the triumph of the human spirit over material suffering, which avoids the usual sentimental and melodramatic impulses of such narratives. The force of the Trilogy is rooted in Douglas’s idiosyncratic approach to the medium. Eschewing the visual pyrotechnics which became popular in the 1960s and 1970s, Douglas pares his aesthetic to the very bone. The black-and-white images are marked by a profound stillness in both space and time. Not only is there minimal camera movement in the three films but individual shots are frequently left to dwell, slowly absorbing the subject matter. The only exception is the 360-degree pan around the room at the very end of My Way Home, a shot which signifies a subjective return to the house where Jamie spent much of his childhood. The soundtrack is also largely subordi- nated to the image. The dialogue is minimal and non-diegetic music entirely absent from the Trilogy, evoking an affinity with silent cinema. This desire for stillness is related to Douglas’s humanistic belief in the power of the camera to reveal certain ontological truths. This also explains his casting of non-actors in many of the key roles, including those of the two young boys in the film, Jamie and his cousin Tommy—the idea being that real rather than imagined experience would be rendered on screen through the faces of the performers. The pained expression of Stephen Archibald, aged beyond his years, which haunts the Trilogy bears witness to the success of this strategy. But Douglas is also well served by the professionals in his cast, particularly Jean Taylor Smith as the wraith-like maternal grand- mother, fighting both the rigours of poverty and extreme emotional distress in the struggle to raise her two grandsons. Yet while the images of Bill Douglas invoke poets like Dreyer or Bresson, these images are contained within highly formalized mon- tage structures derived from Soviet stylists such as Donskoi and Dozvhenko. The Trilogy is constructed out of filmic blocks which progress in a relationship of dialectical tension described by John Caughie in terms of ‘‘aesthetic distance and intense intimacy,’’ serving to both objectively analyze the material poverty of Jamie’s childhood while providing insights into his own limited understand- ing. The films also resound with narrative ellipses and echoes, providing an almost organic coherence to the meticulously crafted structures. My Childhood centres around the triangular relationship between Jamie, Tommy, and their grandmother. The narrative is one of a groping on the part of the child towards a self knowledge. The confusion over his parentage—his mother is confined to an asylum, his father as yet unknown to him—leads him to seek companionship in Helmut, a German POW, who works in the local fields. Helmut cannot speak English, yet communication between the two is achieved through emotional warmth rather than language. There are also powerful juxtapositions of almost casual brutality with fleeting moments of tenderness which tragically capture the tenacity of humanity in the most inhumane of circumstances. My Childhood concludes with Granny’s death. My Ain Folk leads Jamie to the house of his paternal grandmother, an embittered old woman whose intense jealousy fires her hatred towards Jamie’s mother and by extension to the young boy himself. He spends much of the film cowering in corners or hiding under the table. Yet he can never escape her malevolence. There are enough glimmers of pathos to cast her as yet another victim, a product of a brutal uncaring existence. My Ain Folk also extends the narrative to take in the wider community. The film begins with the image of a Technicolor se- quence from a ‘‘Lassie’’ film. We see Tommy’s engrossed face watching the movie in wonderment. The next cut is to a view of the mine workings, an image framed as if by a cinema screen. The camera then descends into the earth as we realize that this is the point of view of the miners starting their shift. In a later sequence which begins with Jamie fleeing his grandmother, the individual suffering of the child opens out into the context of the classroom where he sits in a puddle of his own urine. This then cuts to a shot of the miners going to work signifying an inevitable progression, a grim future for the children already mapped out. By the end of My Ain Folk Jamie is taken into care, echoing Tommy at the beginning. My Way Home shifts the attention away from childhood onto the problems of adolescence. Jamie, at last, has found some comfort in the children’s home yet the world of work beckons. He returns to the village but quickly realizes it has nothing to offer but a life down the mine. He lodges with a foster mother in Edinburgh and starts a job but rejects both and ends up in a dosshouse. After a final desperate return to his village the film cuts to the bright sunlight of the Egyptian desert. James has been called up and is serving in the canal zone. This journey away from home is to inadvertently provide the means whereby Jamie finds himself (the way home proving to be a rather different kind of journey) through his friendship with Robert, a young DRACULAFILMS, 4 th EDITION 351 Englishman passionately interested in the arts who opens up un- dreamt-of horizons. The seeds of hope and redemption have been sown enabling Jamie finally to grow and realize his own humanity. —Duncan Petrie DRACULA USA, 1931 Director: Tod Browning Production: Universal Pictures; black and white, 35mm; running time: 84 minutes, some sources list 76 minutes; length: 6978 feet. Released Valentine’s Day, 1931. Re-released 1938. Filmed in Universal studios. Producer: Carl Laemmle Jr.; screenplay: Garrett Fort, dialogue by Dudley Murphy, from Hamilton Deane’s and John L. Balderston’s stage adaptation of the novel by Bram Stoker; photography: Karl Freund; editor: Milton Carruth; editing supervisor: Maurice Pivar; sound: C. Roy Hunter; production designer: Charles Hall; music director: David Broekman; makeup: Jack P. Pierce. Cast: Bela Lugosi (Count Dracula); Helen Chandler (Mina); David Manners (Jonathan Harker); Dwight Frye (Renfield); Edward Van Sloan (Professor Van Helsing); Herbert Bunston (Dr. Seward); Frances Dade (Lucy Weston); Joan Standing (Briggs); Charles Gerrard (Martin); Moon Carroll (Maid); Josephine Velez (Nurse); Donald Murphy (Man in coach); Michael Visaroff (Innkeeper). Publications Script: Fort, Garrett, and others, Dracula: The Original 1931 Shooting Script, Absecon, New Jersey, 1990. Books: Butler, Ivan, The Horror Film, New York, 1967. McBride, Joseph, editor, Persistence of Vision: A Collection of Film Criticism, Madison, Wisconsin, 1968. Huss, Roy, and T. J. Ross, Focus on the Horror Film, Englewood Cliffs, New Jersey, 1972. Edelson, Edward, Great Monsters of the Movies, New York, 1973. Everson, William K., Classics of the Horror Film, Secaucus, New Jersey, 1974. Frank, Alan G., Horror Movies, Secaucus, New Jersey, 1974. Lamberti, Mark, Transylvanian Catalogue, Mount Vernon, New York, 1974. Lenning, Arthur, The Count—The Life and Films of Bela ‘‘Dracula’’ Lugosi, New York, 1974. Annan, David, Beyond the Dream Machine, New York, 1975. Pattison, Barrie, The Seal of Dracula, New York, 1975. Gifford, Denis, Monsters of the Movies, London, 1977. Halliwell, Leslie, The Dead That Walk: Dracula, Frankenstein, the Mummy, and Other Favorite Movie Monsters, New York, 1988. Marrero, Robert, Dracula: The Vampire Legend on Film, Key West, Florida, 1992. Prüssmann, Karsten, Die Dracula-Filme von Friedrich Wilhelm Murnau bis Francis Ford Coppola, Munich, 1993. Skal, David J., Dark Carnival: The Secret World of Tod Browning, Hollywood’s Master of the Macabre, New York, 1995. Articles: New York Times, 13 February 1931. Variety (New York), 18 February 1931. Addams, Charles, ‘‘Movie Monster Rally,’’ in New York Times Magazine, 9 August 1953. Geltzer, George, ‘‘Tod Browning,’’ in Films in Review (New York), October 1953. Everson, William K., ‘‘A Family Tree of Monsters,’’ in Film Culture (New York), no. 1, 1955. Gur, Roy, ‘‘The Browning Version,’’ in Cinema (Beverly Hills), June-July 1963. Halliwell, Leslie, ‘‘The Baron, the Count, and Their Ghoul Friends,’’ in Films and Filming (London), June 1969. Evans, W., ‘‘Monster Movies: A Sexual Theory,’’ in Journal of Popular Film (Washington, D.C.), Fall 1973. Rosenthal, Stuart, ‘‘Tod Browning,’’ in The Hollywood Profession- als 4, London, 1975. Garsault, A., ‘‘Tod Browning: A la recherche de la réalité,’’ in Positif (Paris), July-August 1978. Huxner, V. I., in Magill’s Survey of Cinema 1, Englewood Cliffs, New Jersey, 1980. Turner, George, ‘‘The Two Faces of Dracula,’’ in American Cinema- tographer (Los Angeles), May 1988. McBride, W. T., ‘‘Dracula and Mephistopheles: Shyster Vampires,’’ in Literature/Film Quarterly (Salisbury, Maryland), no. 2, 1990. Thomson, David, ‘‘Really a Part of Me,’’ in Film Comment (New York), January-February 1995. Haas, R., ‘‘The Monster Boomer: An Interview with David J. Skal,’’ in Post Script (Commerce), no. 3, 1996. Holt, Wesley G., ‘‘Dracula,’’ in Filmfax (Evanston), August-Sep- tember 1996. Ford, J.E., ‘‘Dracula,’’ in Films of the Golden Age (Muscatine), Fall 1997. ‘‘Dracula Revived (Restoration that Features a New Score Composed by Philip Glass),’’ in Stereo Review’s Sound & Vision, vol. 64, no. 8, October 1999. *** Like other horror films of the period (e.g., Frankenstein, 1931, Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde, 1932, Island of Lost Souls, 1933), Dracula is about sex—perverse and passionate—and, like those other pictures, it has a short running time for an ‘‘A’’ film because it suffers from self- and outside censorship; material was excised from the screenplay or DRACULA FILMS, 4 th EDITION 352 Dracula (1931) the finished film because of its ‘‘questionable’’ aspects. This and other deficiencies dilute the movie’s effectiveness for contemporary audiences. For example, the heroine, Mina, tells Professor Van Helsing that she’s seen her dead friend Lucy walking about ‘‘alive.’’ The Profes- sor promises that he will put Lucy to rest forever. In the novel, this leads to a harrowing scene wherein Van Helsing and Lucy’s fiancé stake and behead the recently undead woman. Arthur Lennig says that Lucy ‘‘actually was dispatched by Van Helsing, but this episode, along with the others, was not in the release prints.’’ Later, after Mina’s tearful confession, almost thrown away on the soundtrack, that Dracula opened a vein in his arm (a phallic metaphor) and made her drink, the count again visits her in her bedroom. (There’s a discreet fade-out as he bends over to bite her neck; actual penetration is never shown in Dracula.) Then everybody converges upon Carfax Abbey for the finale. How they get there (and why they go there) is not shown. After a half-dozen remakes of Dracula (none of which completely captures the excitement of the book or gets the plot right), and hundreds of other vampire films, where the sexual nature of vampirism is more explicit, it’s difficult for contemporary viewers to understand the filmmakers’ reticence or to feel the impact the movie had when it first opened. Universal advertised the film (released, appropriately perversely, on Valentine’s Day, 1931) as ‘‘the strangest love story ever told’’ (partly because there was no established horror genre to exploit), and it certainly was that. The attraction of the foreign lover is present in the vampire Count’s power over women, but the sexual liberation (wantonness) vampirism inspires in his female victims is absent. His three ‘‘brides’’ are not the quick, alluring, dangerous creatures of the novel but staid, staring zombies. So is Lucy, in the one shot we see of her as a vampire. Only Mina is allowed a brief glimmer of desire when she eyes her fiancé’s neck, but her—off-screen—coitus is interrupted by ever- vigilant Van Helsing. The lack of a score hampers the film. It has to work harder to create mood, and often images alone aren’t enough to accomplish this. The filmmakers, still laboring under the delusion that all onscreen music must spring from a ‘‘realistic’’ physical source, dispensed with it altogether, except over the opening and closing credits and during the famous scene in the theatre, where the lights go down as the music comes up, and Dracula makes his tragi-romantic assertion, ‘‘To die, to be really dead—that must be glorious.’’ DRACULAFILMS, 4 th EDITION 353 Frankenstein suffers from the same deficiencies as Dracula (censorship, scorelessness) but it remains a more thrilling, fluid film. That’s because Frankenstein was directed by the eccentric James Whale, whereas Dracula was directed by Tod Browning, a pedestrian director with a taste for the grotesque (no doubt because of his circus background) but no feeling for the supernatural. Except for Dracula, his films are all solidly, stolidly grounded in reality. Given Browning’s limitations and his particular cinematic bent, he really couldn’t bring much to a subject like Dracula. The begin- ning at the Count’s castle and the ending on the seemingly endless stairs of Carfax Abbey are impressive because Browning and the cinematographer Karl Freund had good sets to shoot, but neither knew what to do with the long, stagey middle section of Dracula, taken from the Balderston-Dean play. (Significantly, the effective Transylvanian opening and the theatre scene were written by the uncredited scenarist Louis Bromfield). So all that the viewer is left with is a lot of static shots, almost a series of still photos instead of a moving picture, animated only by some mellow performances and ripe language. For, despite its lack of background music, Dracula is very much a sound movie, full of memorable dialogue memorably delivered, especially by Bela Lugosi with his mellifluous accent, Edward Van Sloan with his pompous pronouncements, and Dwight Frye with his maniacal cackling. In contemporary jargon, it’s a film about competing discourses, and on that rests its continuing appeal. —Anthony Ambrogio DRACULA (Horror of Dracula) UK, 1958 Director: Terence Fisher Production: Hammer; Eastmancolor; running time: 82 minutes. Released May 1958. Producer: Anthony Hinds; screenplay: Jimmy Sangster, from the novel by Bram Stoker; photography: Jack Asher; camera operator: Len Harris; editors: James Needs, Bill Lenny; sound: Jock May; art director: Bernard Robinson; music: James Bernard. Cast: Peter Cushing (Dr. Van Helsing); Christopher Lee (Count Dracula); Michael Gough (Arthur); Melissa Stribling (Mina); Carol Marsh (Lucy); Olga Dickie (Gerda); John Van Eyssen (Jonathan); Valerie Gaunt (Vampire Woman). Publications Script: Sangster, Jimmy, Dracula, in Avant-Scène du Cinéma (Paris), July- September 1975. Books: Pirie, David, Heritage of Horror: The English Gothic Cinema 1946–1972, London, 1973. Eyles, Allen, Robert Adkinson, and Nicholas Fry, The House of Horror: The Story of Hammer Films, London, 1973; revised edition, 1981. Glut, Donald F., The Dracula Book, Metuchen, New Jersey, 1975. Rohle, Jr., Robert W., and Douglas C. Hart, The Films of Christopher Lee, Metuchen, New Jersey, 1983. Articles: Variety (New York), 7 May 1958. Motion Picture Herald (New York), 10 May 1958. Today’s Cinema (London), 19 May 1958. Kine Weekly (London), 22 May 1958. Monthly Film Bulletin (London), July 1958. Huss, Roy, ‘‘Vampire’s Progress: Dracula from Novel to Film via Broadway,’’ in Focus on the Horror Film, edited by Huss and T. J. Ross, Englewood Cliffs, New Jersey, 1972. Photon, no. 27, 1976. Schneider, M., ‘‘Hammer Horrors: The Dracula Films of Christopher Lee,’’ in Monsterscene (Lombard), no. 3, Fall 1994. Ray, F.O., ‘‘The Hammer Factory,’’ in Midnight Marquee (Balti- more), no. 47, Summer 1994. Brunas, M., in Midnight Marquee (Baltimore), no. 49, Summer 1995. Fischer, D., ‘‘Colossus/Silent Running,’’ in Cinefantastique (Forest Park), no. 8, 1997. Thornton, S., ‘‘Barbara Shelley,’’ in Midnight Marquee (Baltimore), no. 54, Summer 1997. *** Many consider Terence Fisher’s Dracula to be the director’s finest film. It is certainly Fisher’s most visible work, but it is unfortunate that its fame obscures the many other excellent films which he created in his lifetime. It does seem that in reviving the Gothic tradition in Britain, Fisher found a comfortable niche for himself with both the public and Hammer. Dracula (1958) is just one of a series of excellent Gothic romances Fisher made during Ham- mer’s ‘‘Golden Age’’ (roughly 1957–65). As late as 1967, Fisher showed that he was capable of first-rate work with The Devil Rides Out. There is no question that he was the finest director working for Hammer during this period, but there is also no question that his current high critical reputation has been long in coming. The reason for this is simple: horror films have always been considered on the fringe of respectable cinematic discourse, because they push the limits of graphic representation. When Dracula first appeared, the reviews in the popular press were almost uniformly negative, despite the great popular acclaim the film received. Hammer, for their part, did little to discourage any sort of publicity, and took the bad reviews in stride. As long as the film made money, Hammer was satisfied. Fisher’s earlier films for Rank were simply ignored, and he was considered by most to be simply a commercial director with no personal investment in the films he created. Nothing could be further from the truth. Dracula is more than a stylish, rapidly paced redaction of Bram Stoker’s novel; it is a film which explores and explodes the surface of Victorian society, using Dracula as a metaphor for the release of THE DRAUGHTSMAN’S CONTRACT FILMS, 4 th EDITION 354 sexual urges which had long been repressed or sublimated. Dracula is also seen by Fisher as a parable of righteousness against the attraction of evil; although Dracula enslaves his victims, Fisher shows that there is considerable allure in the life of the undead. Those who fall under Dracula’s spell are addicted to vampirism, as one is addicted to drugs; the power of free will alone cannot save the newly recruited vampires. If Dracula is ‘‘evil incarnate,’’ as Fisher insisted he was on several occasions, the scholar/scientist represented by Cushing’s Van Helsing is at once a redemptive figure who combines in equal parts faith and knowledge, with respect for the separate powers inherent in each. Lee’s Dracula is a radical departure from the role as interpreted by Bela Lugosi; for the first time, Dracula is seen as a figure of sexual magnetism, rather than a rapacious animal slavering for blood alone. Fisher’s Dracula is an aristocrat first, who hides his rupture with society beneath precisely clipped speech and elegant manners. It is only the night which liberates Dracula’s other personality, based entirely on need, addiction, and the use and abandonment of others as mere vessels of momentary satisfaction. What makes Dracula all the more remarkable is the precise assurance with which Fisher handles his camera. The opening of the film, detailing Jonathan Harker’s abortive trip to rid the world of Dracula, is framed within the confines of a diary narrative. Yet the device of the diary notebook is never allowed to slow down the film; rather, Harker comes face to face with castle Dracula in the first seven shots of the film, placing him in immediate jeopardy. Fisher stages Harker’s entry into the castle in smooth, contemplative tracking shots, mirroring the ease with which Dracula moves about his domain. When Dracula himself does appear, in a shot which has become justly famous, he is framed in silhouette at the top of a long staircase, which he noiselessly descends. Demonstrating his characteristic economy, Fisher holds on the shot until Dracula walks directly to the camera and addresses it in the first person (the shot is from Harker’s point-of- view), dominating the frame. One must remember that, after early work as a clapper boy, magazine loader, and third assistant director, Fisher spent most of his time in the cutting room, working on many of the most important British films of the early 1940s. This precision in editorial construction thus comes from a thorough understanding of the uses and abuses of camera coverage, and it comes as no surprise to learn that Fisher shot very little more than he needed, although he never story-boarded a film in the Hitchcock manner. Jack Asher’s cinematography creates a world of blues, reds, and greens, which punctuate rather than dominate Fisher’s compositions. In addition, Asher’s lighting locates the actors within the confines of the set as figures fixed in stygian gloom, illuminated by shafts of light from above or from the side, but never bathed in light. This makes the final sequence in the library all the more effective, as Van Hesling runs down the refectory table, rips the curtains from the window, grabs two candlesticks to form a hastily improvised cross, and, with a combination of light and faith, sends Dracula to his doom. We realize during this climactic scene that we have been living in a world of night, or twilight, a world entirely under the control of Dracula, for most of the film. It is the light we all share, and the light of faith: these forces alone will account for our salvation. Asher’s gloomy, moody lighting during the main body of the film reinforces this, and works in perfect harmony with the over-dressed, claustro- phobic sets of Bernard Robinson. The role of Dracula made Christopher Lee a star, and Peter Cushing made an indelible mark as Van Helsing, but both continued to work outside the horror genre. Fisher, however, was typecast as a horror director, and a Hammer director, and made few attempts to break away from this public perception of his work. In part this was because Fisher enjoyed making Gothics; he believed in the films he made, and spent a great deal of time and care with them, within the confines of the time and budgetary constraints imposed by Hammer. Nevertheless, Fisher’s work there, using the services of Hammer’s excellent technical staff and superlative stable of character and lead actors, revitalized, transformed, and re-created the horror film for an entire new generation of viewers, who enthusiastically enjoyed Fisher’s work while their elders denigrated it in favor of the Universal expressionist Gothics of the 1930s and 1940s. It is now clear that Fisher was simply ahead of his time, and the degree of graphic violence which pervades his horror films was simply a response to the needs of the viewing audience for greater generic realism. Fisher’s work stands as one of the signal achievements of the British cinema, and paved the way for the next cycle of horror films, which would start with George Romero’s Night of the Living Dead, a film shot through with a pessimistic spirit Fisher would never have allowed to inhabit his films. Though the battle may be vigorous and hazardous in Fisher’s films, good, being infinite, will inevitably triumph over the finite evil of Dracula and his minions. Some see this as a structural weakness in Fisher’s vision; if so, it is a weakness shared by Britain’s two greatest Gothic writers, Mary Shelley and Bram Stoker. —Wheeler Winston Dixon O DRAGAO DA MALDADE CONTRA O SANTO QUERREIRO See ANTONIO DAS MORTES THE DRAUGHTSMAN’S CONTRACT UK, 1982 Director: Peter Greenaway Production: British Film Institute Production Board, in associa- tion with Channel 4; colour; 16mm; running time: 108 minutes. Released 1982. Executive producer: Peter Sainsbury; producer: David Payne; screenplay: Peter Greenaway; assistant director: Andy Powell; photography: Curtis Clark; rostrum camera: Hugh Gordon; assist- ant photographer: Luke Cardiff; editor: John Wilson; assistant editor: John Taylor; sound editor: Doctor Lion; sound recordists: Godfrey Kirby, Martin Rex; sound re-recordist: Tony Anscombe; art director: Bob Ringwood; assistant designers: Jane Hamilton, Digby Howard; costumes: Sue Blane; music: Michael Nyman; music producer: David Cunningham. Cast: Anthony Higgins (Mr. Neville); Janet Suzman (Mrs. Herbert); Anne Louise Lambert (Sarah Talmann); Neil Cunningham (Thomas Noyes); Hugh Fraser (Louis Talmann); Dave Hill (Mr. Herbert); David Gant (Mr. Seymour); David Meyer and Tony Meyer (The Poulencs); Nicolas Amer (Mr. Parkes); Suzan Crowley (Mrs. Pierpoint); Lynda Marchal (Mrs. Clement); Michael Feast (The THE DRAUGHTSMAN’S CONTRACTFILMS, 4 th EDITION 355 The Draughtsman’s Contract Statue); Alistair Cummings (Philip); Steve Ubels (Mr. van Hoyten); Ben Kirby (Augusta); Sylvia Rotter (Governess); Kate Doherty (Maid); Joss Buckley (Mr. Porringer); Mike Carter (Mr. Clarke); Vivienne Chandler (Laundress); Geoffrey Larder (Mr. Hammond); Harry van Engel and George Miller (Servants). Publications Script: Greenaway, Peter, ‘‘Meurtre dans un jardin anglais,’’ in Avant- Scène du Cinéma (Paris), no. 333, 1984. Articles: Brown, Robert, in Sight and Sound (London), Winter 1981–82. Variety (New York), 8 September 1982. Forbes, Jill, ‘‘Marienbad Revisited,’’ in Sight and Sound (London), Autumn 1982. Brown, Robert, ‘‘From a View to Death,’’ in Monthly Film Bulletin (London), November 1982. McVay, D., in Films and Filming (London), November 1982. Malmberg, C.-J., and D. Joyeux, in Chaplin (Stockholm), vol. 25, no. 5., 1983. Stills (London), May-June 1983. Newman, B., and B. Evans, ‘‘Super 16 for The Draughtsman’s Contract: An Interview with Curtis Clark,’’ in American Cinema- tographer (Los Angeles), September 1983. Zocaro, E., ‘‘Conversando con Peter Greenaway,’’ in Filmcritica (Florence), October 1983. Vecchi, P., in Cineforum (Bergamo), December 1983. Malcomson, S., in Film Quarterly (Berkeley), Winter 1983–84. Jaehne, K., ‘‘The Draughtsman’s Contract: An Interview with Peter Greenaway,’’ in Cineaste (New York), vol. 13, no. 2, 1984. Ciment, Michel, and others, in Positif (Paris), February 1984. Blanchet, C., and others, in Cinéma (Paris), March 1984. Tessier, Max, in Revue du Cinéma (Paris), March 1984. Villien, Bruno, and others, in Cinématographe (Paris), March 1984. Welsh, H., in Jeune Cinéma (Paris), April 1984. ‘‘Special Issue’’ of Avant-Scène du Cinéma (Paris), October 1984. DIE DREIGROSCHENOPER FILMS, 4 th EDITION 356 Frauen und Film (Berlin), August 1986. Goerling, R., ‘‘Barocke Peruecken and postmoderne spielregein,’’ in Filmwaerts (Hannover), Winter 1992. In Avant-Scène du Cinéma (Paris), December-January 1992–93. Andrew, Geoff, ‘‘Contract Chiller,’’ in Time Out (London), 18 May 1994. Gras, V., ‘‘Dramatizing the Failure to Jump the Culture/Nature Gap: The Films of Peter Greenaway,’’ in New Literary History, no. 1, 1995. Castoro Cinema (Milan), May/June 1995. Dicine, January/February 1996. Aldersey-Williams, Hugh, ‘‘Framing the Future (Filmmaker Peter Greenaway),’’ in New Statesman, vol. 128, no. 4466, 13 Decem- ber 1999. *** The Draughtsman’s Contract marks something of a caesura in the Greenaway oeuvre. For one thing it cost a great deal more than any of his previous films. His earlier British Film Institute projects, A Walk Through H and The Falls, came in at ￡7500 and ￡35,000 respectively. The production of The Draughtsman’s Contract coincided with the BFI’s decision to finance fewer but larger projects, and was budgeted at ￡120,000. However, the final budget was around ￡300,000, of which half came from Channel 4, here making one of its most spectacularly successful early investments in feature film production. Secondly, the film was the nearest that Greenaway had then come to a conventional feature. This is not to say that The Draughtsman’s Contract is a conventional feature—far from it—but simply to note certain structural traits. For example, it is the first film in which Greenaway uses actors playing characters who speak to each other and are involved in various sets of relationships. It is also his first film to be set in a specific location in the known world. The film also develops a linear narrative, in which music plays the same kind of punctuating and expressive roles as in other, more straightforward, cinematic fictions. And thirdly, The Draughtsman’s Contract marks the point at which Greenaway moved from being the maker of quirky, obsessive conceits to a major figure in international art house cinema with films such as A Zed and Two Noughts and The Belly of an Architect. The Draughtsman’s Contract has been described as ‘‘an elaborate conspiracy thriller about class, sex and landscape, set at the feverish close of the 17th century.’’ It tells the story of Mr. Neville, an ambitious young draughtsman, who, in 1694, is contracted by Mrs. Herbert for 12 drawings of her husband’s country property at Compton Anstey. On arrival he soon becomes involved in the household’s complex affairs, and is also perturbed to find that every time he begins a new drawing an item of the absent Mr. Herbert’s clothing is stubbornly in view. Then Mr. Herbert is discovered dead, floating in the moat. Greenaway’s films, in which a formal concern with structures rubs shoulders with something decidedly more Romantic and even absurdist, have been described as revolving around the contradiction between ‘‘the encyclopaedic minutiae of a constructed world-in-microcosm and the aleatory perception of a contingent Nature,’’ and The Draughts- man’s Contract is no exception to this schema. In particular, the way in which the businesslike, dispassionate Mr. Neville is constantly intruded upon by human passions and their visible traces on the landscape testifies to the impossibility of purely abstract systems of any kind—systems of representation included. Indeed, even the landscape in which Compton Anstey is set, and which forms the background to the drawings, is far from being simply natural or neutral. As both Nikolaus Pevsner and W. G. Hoskins have repeatedly pointed out, the English landscape in particular always carries the traces of human activity upon it, and can thus be read as a kind of social and political map, as well as a simply geographical one. Neville’s mistake is to fail to ‘‘read’’ the landscape in which he finds himself: narrowly limiting himself to what he can see in his viewing frame, to formal composition and to the formal terms of his contract, he fails to understand the relations of patronage and inheritance that are inscribed upon the landscape, or to see the signs of passion and intrigue which keep breaking through onto the otherwise orderly surface. This notion of landscape as something to be ‘‘read’’ becomes abundantly clear after Mr. Herbert’s death, when the various mem- bers of the household scrutinise Neville’s drawings for clues to the identity of the murderer. It is its concern with landscape that, above all else, marks out The Draughtsman’s Contract as a Peter Greenaway film. However, there is much else besides—the deliberately literary dialogue shot through with puns and conceits, the concern with visual symmetry (which results in a stylised, stilted mise-en-scène which is sometimes remi- niscent of Last Year at Marienbad), and Michael Nyman’s not-quite- pastiche score, with its echoes of Purcell. It is less hermetic than his earlier films, less obsessed with purely structural matters and more concerned with telling a story. As usual the range of reference— cinematic and otherwise—is enormously wide (with Restoration comedy to the fore), but perhaps two of the strongest (and most unexpected) reference points are the costume drama and the country- house murder mystery, both of which add their curious resonances to this playful, idiosyncratic charade about the interconnections be- tween representation, property, and sex in the England of William of Orange. —Sylvia Paskin DIE DREIGROSCHENOPER (The Threepenny Opera) USA-Germany, 1931 Director: G. W. Pabst Production: Warner Bros. First National (USA), Tobis Klang-Film, and Nero-Film (Germany); black and white, 35mm; running time: 111 minutes (German version) and 104 minutes (French version); length 3097 meters (German version). Released 19 February 1931, Berlin. Filmed in Berlin. Producer: Seymour Nebenzahl; screenplay: Leo Lania, Bela Balàsz and Ladislaus Vajda, from the play by Berthold Brecht; adaptation for the French version: Solange Bussi, André Mauprey, and Ninon Steinhoff; photography: Fritz Arno Wagner; editors: Hans Oser (German version), Henri Rust (French version); sound: Adolf Jan- sen; production designer: Andrei Andreiev; music: Kurt Weill; orchestration: Theo Mackeben. Cast: German: Rudolph Forster (Mackie Messer); Carola Neher (Polly); Reinhold Schünzel (Tiger Brown); Fritz Rasp (Peachum); DIE DREIGROSCHENOPERFILMS, 4 th EDITION 357 Die Dreigroschenoper Valeska Gert (Mrs. Peachum); Lotte Lenya (Jenny); Hermann Thimig (Vicar); Ernst Busch (Street-singer); Vladimir Sokolov (Smith); Paul Kemp, Gustav Puttjer, Oskar H?cker, and Kraft Raschig (Mackie’s Gang); Herbert Grünbaum (Filch); French: Albert Préjean (Mackie Messer); Florelle (Polly); Jack Henley (Tiger Brown); Gaston Modot (Peachum); Jane Markem (Mrs. Peachum); Margo Lion (Jenny); Antonin Artaud, Vladimir Sokolov, and Merminod (Mackie’s Gang). Publications Scripts: Lania, Leo, Bela Balasz, and Ladislaus Vajda, Die Dreigroschenoper, in Masterworks of the German Cinema, edited by Roger Manvell, London, 1973; also published separately, Berlin, 1978. Books: Rotha, Paul, Celluloid: The Film Today, London, 1931. Kracauer, Siegfried, From Caligari to Hitler: A Psychological His- tory of the German Film, Princeton, 1947. Joseph, Rudolph, editor, Der Regisseur: G. W. Pabst, Munich, 1963. Buache, Freddy, G.W. Pabst, Lyons, 1965. Amengual, Barthélemy, Georg Wilhelm Pabst, Paris, 1966. Aubry, Yves, and Jacques Pétat, ‘‘G. W. Pabst,’’ in Anthologie du cinéma 4, Paris, 1968. Eisner, Lotte, The Haunted Screen, Berkeley, 1969. Masterworks of the German Cinema: Nosferatu, M, the Threepenny Opera, introduction by Roger Manvell, New York, 1973. Barsacq, Leon, Caligari’s Cabinet and Other Grand Illusions: A His- tory of Film Design, New York, 1976. Atwell, Lee, G. W. Pabst, Boston, 1977. Articles: Chavance, Louis, ‘‘Un Mystérieux Musée de figures de cire,’’ in La Revue du Cinéma (Paris), 1 May 1931. New York Times, 18 May 1931. Variety (New York), 20 May 1931. Close Up (London), June 1931. Potamkin, Harry, ‘‘Pabst and the Social Film,’’ in Hound and Horn (New York), January-March 1933. Bachmann, Gideon, editor, ‘‘Six Talks on G. W. Pabst,’’ in Cinemages (New York), no. 3, 1955. ‘‘Special Issue’’ of Filmkunst (Vienna), no. 18, 1955. Seitling, Mark, in Films in Review (New York), August-Septem- ber 1960. Croce, Arlene, in Film Quarterly (Berkeley), Fall 1960. Stanbrook, Alan, in Films and Filming (London), April 1961. Tyler, Parker, in Classics of the Foreign Film, New York, 1962. Luft, Herbert, ‘‘G. W. Pabst,’’ in Films and Filming (London), April 1967. Brecht, Bertolt, and V. Gerhage, ‘‘Het Driestuiversproces—een sociologies experiment,’’ in Skrien (Amsterdam), November- December 1973. Rayns, Tony, in Monthly Film Bulletin (London), July 1974. Pitera, Z., in Kino (Warsaw), August 1976. ‘‘Special Issue’’ of Avant-Scène du Cinéma (Paris), 1 December 1976. Horak, J. C., ‘‘Three Penny Opera: Brecht vs. Pabst,’’ in Jump Cut (Chicago), no. 15, 1977. Virmaux, Alain, and Odette Virmaux, ‘‘L’Affaire: Quat sous de dommages et intérêts,’’ in Cinématographe (Paris), December 1986. ‘‘Cinema and Opera Issue’’ of Avant-Scène du Cinéma (Paris), May 1987. Film Dope (Nottingham), April 1994. L?ser, Claus, ‘‘Ein ehrenvolles Schicksal,’’ in Film-Dienst (Co- logne), 7 November 1995. Mahrenholz, S., in EPD Film (Frankfurt), November 1995. Kemp, Philip, ‘‘Mud in Your Eye,’’ in Sight & Sound (London), October 1998. *** G.W. Pabst’s film version of Bertolt Brecht and Kurt Weill’s The Threepenny Opera is a fascinating though flawed curio. The property, initially presented on the stage in 1928, is an adaptation of John Gay’s The Beggar’s Opera, a parody of Italian musical dramas first per- formed 200 years earlier. While Brecht retained the basic plot of The Beggar’s Opera, he updated it and related the satirical elements to his own era. At the same time, he was concerned more with ideas than coherent storyline or character development. In cinematizing the play, Pabst treated the plot and characters far more realistically, with greater emphasis on the feelings and motivation of the principal roles; in this regard, the film bears more the mark of Pabst than Brecht or Weill. The sets, lighting and props are very stylized (except for the sequence detailing a beggar’s demonstration) resulting in an odd DRIFTERS FILMS, 4 th EDITION 358 conglomeration of surrealism and reality. Brecht originally collabo- rated on the film, but the script was rewritten when his ideas clashed with those of Pabst. Brecht and Weill were displeased with the filmmaker’s interpretation, and took out a lawsuit over the material’s copyright. Brecht’s social satire is still preserved though, along with this unaffected lyricism. The theme is as relevant to the present as to 1928 or 1728: the government and the underworld are as equally amoral in terms of self-interest. A once orderly world—which may only exist in the fantasies of those nostalgic for the ‘‘good old days’’ that in reality were never really so good—has been polluted by economic and political chaos. The setting is a dreary Victorian London of pimps and prostitutes, thieves and killers, and crooked politicians. (The Threepenny Opera was banned in London after a single showing). Polly Peachum, with the members of Mackie Messer’s gang, opens a bank, in the belief that ‘‘honest’’ thievery is more profitable than larceny outside the law. In the end Polly’s father (who is king of the beggars), Tiger Brown (the corrupt police commissioner), and Mackie become part- ners in the bank—and mainstays of society. Weill’s songs, so important in the stage production, seem less so here: some—‘‘Ballad of Sexual Dependency,’’ ‘‘The Tango Ballad,’’ and ‘‘The Ballad for the Hangman’’—were omitted by Pabst. On one level the film is difficult to evaluate because current prints are faded; and the soundtrack seems archaic because of the technology then available for recording dialogue and music. But the disunity of style (a fault) and the keenly realized satire (an asset) are both lucidly apparent. The Threepenny Opera is one of a trio of films Pabst directed in the 1930s that were anti-capitalist, stressing the importance of friend- ship and the moral obligation to oppose the forces of evil. The others were Westfront 1918 and Kameradschaft. Though The Threepenny Opera is far more romantic and stylized than the first two, all are united thematically. The film was released on the eve of Hitler’s seizure of power in Germany. Pabst captured the essence of the atmosphere which allowed the existence of the Nazi state, and all original German prints were destroyed by the Third Reich. The film was shot simultaneously in both German and French, with different casts; the French Threepenny Opera became a success in Paris, and was hailed as a masterpiece, but the German version is more well-known in America. A complete negative of the latter was reconstructed by film distributor Thomas J. Brandon in 1960, after a decade-long search through Europe for sections and scenes. —Rob Edelman DRIFTERS UK, 1929 Director: John Grierson Production: New Era Studios for the Empire Marketing Board; black and white, 35mm; running time: about 40 minutes. Released 10 November 1929, premiered at the London Film Society. Filmed 1929 in a small fishing village in Northern England, and on board a herring boat at sea. Cost: Grierson declares cost to have been about ￡2500, while Rotha remembers it as being less than ￡2000. Produced, scripted, directed, and edited by John Grierson; photo- graphed by John Grierson and Basil Emmott. Publications Books: Rotha, Paul, Documentary Film, London, 1952. Grierson, John, Grierson on Documentary, edited by Forsyth Hardy, London, 1966. Jacobs, Lewis, editor, The Documentary Tradition: From Nanook to Woodstock, New York, 1971. Barsam, Richard, Nonfiction Film: A Critical History, New York, 1973. Barnouw, Erik, Documentary: A History of the Non-Fiction Film, New York, 1974. Sussex, Elizabeth, The Rise and Fall of the British Documentary: The Story of the Film Movement Founded by John Grierson, Berke- ley, 1975. Barsam, Richard, Nonfiction Film: Theory and Criticism, New York, 1976. Beveridge, James, John Grierson, Film Master, New York, 1978. Hardy, Forsyth, John Grierson: A Documentary Biography, Lon- don, 1979. Ellis, Jack C., John Grierson: A Guide to References and Resources, Boston, 1986. Ellis, Jack C., The Documentary Idea, Englewood Cliffs, New Jersey, 1989. Articles: Close Up (London), November 1929. Bioscope (London), 27 November 1929. Grierson, John, ‘‘E.M.B. Film Unit,’’ in Cinema Quarterly (London), Summer 1933. Blumer, Ronald, ‘‘I Derive My Authority from Moses,’’ in Take One (Montreal), no. 9, 1970. Sussex, Elizabeth, ‘‘John Grierson,’’ in Sight and Sound (London), Spring 1972. Sight and Sound (London), Summer 1972. ‘‘Grierson’s Hammer,’’ in Films and Filming (London), July 1972. Sussex, Elizabeth, ‘‘Grierson on Documentary: Last Interview,’’ in Film Quarterly (Berkeley), Fall 1972. Travelling (Lausanne), Summer 1979. Forsyth, Scott, ‘‘The Failures of Nationalism and Documentary: Grierson and Gouzenko,’’ in Canadian Journal of Film Studies (Ottawa), vol. 1, no. 1, 1990. Bernstein, Matthew, ‘‘Film and Reform: John Grierson and the Documentary Film Movement,’’ in Film Quarterly (Berkeley), vol. 47, no. 2, Winter 1993. Acland, Charles R., ‘‘National Dreams, International Encounters: The Formation of Canadian Film Culture in the 1930s,’’ in Canadian Journal of Film Studies (Ottawa), Spring 1994. Crothall, Geoffrey, ‘‘Images of Regeneration: Film Propaganda and the British Slum Clearance Campaign, 1933–1938,’’ in Historical DRIFTERSFILMS, 4 th EDITION 359 Drifters Journal of Film, Radio and Television (Abingdon), vol. 19, no. 3, August 1999. *** Drifters was John Grierson’s first film, and the only one of thousands of films for which he was responsible that he completely controlled creatively. Not only did he write the script, produce, direct and edit, but, according to Forsyth Hardy in his biography of Grierson, he shot much of the film himself. In its editing he was assisted by Margaret Taylor, who became his wife. About the work of herring fishermen in the North Sea, Drifters has a simple narrative structure. The men board their ships in harbor, sail to the banks, lay the nets, haul in the catch in the midst of a storm, race homeward to the auction of the catch at quayside. It includes images of Scotland and the sea, both important in Grierson’s life and recurring in the films he produced. Herring fishing was a canny choice since the Financial Secretary to the Treasury was an authority on the subject. Drifters marked the beginning of the British documentary film and served as a prototype for many of the films that followed. But, rather than evidence of an innovative genius, it represents the work of a brilliant analyst and synthesist who had absorbed what was at hand for the making of the kind of films he wanted to see made. In it are reflections of Flaherty’s Nanook of the North, with brave men eking out their existence in the face of the elements. Eisenstein’s Potemkin is even more heavily called upon. In Drifters the loving long takes of a Flaherty are cut up and banged together in Eisensteinian montage to provide a modern energy and rhythm, and the individual accomplish- ments of Nanook are replaced by the collective efforts of a crew, as in Potemkin. It is unlike both models, however, in eschewing the exotics of Flaherty and the heroics of the Soviets. In Drifters the drama is in the everyday workaday. By ending on the fish being sold at market, Grierson sets the fishermen’s work within the context of the economic actualities of contemporary Britain. Its premiere at the Film Society in London was as the first half of a double bill on which the British premiere of Potemkin was the main attraction, with Eisenstein in attendance. Though risking the compari- son must have taken considerable nerve on Grierson’s part, he knew that the audience for that event would comprise the intellectual elite and correspondents for the national press. Drifters was very well received and went on to modest commercial distribution. It was the DU RIFIFI CHEZ LES HOMMES FILMS, 4 th EDITION 360 first instance in English cinema in which work had been given this sort of importance and members of the working class were presented with dignity rather than as comic relief. As a silent film it was severely handicapped, however; at the time of its release the transition from silence to sound was becoming complete. Rather than continuing as a personal filmmaker, as he might have done, Grierson used the success of Drifters as the basis for establish- ing the Empire Marketing Board Film Unit, for hiring others who would make more films and develop the British documentary film movement. —Jack C. Ellis DU RIFIFI CHEZ LES HOMMES (Rififi) France, 1955 Director: Jules Dassin Production: Miracle Productions for Indus, Pathé, and Prima (France); black and white, 35mm; running time: 113 minutes, some sources list 116 minutes. Released 1955 in France. Screenplay: René Wheeler, Jules Dassin, and Auguste le Breton, from the novel by Auguste le Breton; photography: Philippe Agostini; editor: Roger Dwyre; sound: J. Lebreton; art director Auguste Capelier; music: Georges Auric. Cast: Jean Servais (Tony le Stephanois); Carl Mohner (Jo le Suedois); Robert Manuel (Mario); Perlo Vita (Cesar); Magali Noe (Viviane); Marie Subouret (Mado); Janine Darcy (Louise); Pierre Grasset (Lou- ise); Robert Hossein (Remi); Marcel Lupovici (Pierre); Dominique Maurin (Tonio); Claude Sylvain (Ida). Awards: Cannes Film Festival, Best Director (shared with Serge Vasilierv), 1955. Publications Books: Ferrero, Adelio, Jules Dassin, Parma, 1961. McArthur, Colin, Underworld USA, London, 1972. Parish, James R., and Michael R. Pitts, The Great Gangster Pictures, Metuchen, New Jersey, 1976. Siclier, Fabien, and Jacques Levy, Jules Dassin, Paris, 1986. Articles: Chabrol, Claude, and Fran?ois Truffaut, interview with Dassin, in Cahiers du Cinéma (Paris), April-May 1955. Wilcox, John, in Sight and Sound (London), Autumn 1955. Raper, Michael, in Films and Filming (London), September 1955. Hart, Henry, in Films in Review (New York), June-July 1956. Crowther, Bosley, in New York Times, 6 June 1956. Bourjaily, Vance, in Village Voice (New York), 4 July 1956. Mayer, Andrew, in Quarterly of Film, Radio, and Television (Berke- ley), Winter 1956. Grenier, Cynthia, ‘‘Jules Dassin,’’ in Sight and Sound (London), Winter 1957–58. Bluestone, George, ‘‘An Interview with Jules Dassin,’’ in Film Culture (New York), no. 17, 1958. Johnson, Ian, in Films and Filming (London), April 1963. Dassin, Jules, ‘‘Style and Instinct,’’ in Films and Filming (London), February 1970. Carcassonne, P., ‘‘Trois hommes du milieu,’’ in Cinématographe (Paris), December 1980. Carril, M., ‘‘Los vaivenes de Jules Dassin,’’ in Cinemateca Revista (Montevideo), July 1981. Verdone, M., ‘‘Rififi,’’ in Rivista del Cinematografo, April Supple- ment, 1993. Lewis, Kevin, ‘‘Love and Noir with Jules Dassin,’’ in DGA Magazine (Los Angeles), April-May 1995. McGilligan, Patrick, ‘‘I’ll Always Be an American,’’ in Film Com- ment (New York), November-December 1996. Hanisch, Michael, ‘‘Fremder in Hollywood,’’ in Film-Dienst (Co- logne), 17 December 1996. *** Despite his Gallic-seeming name, Du Rififi chez les hommes was Jules Dassin’s first French film. In the late 1940s he had pioneered a vivid new style of urban thriller, bringing an incisive, documentary- influenced realism to the mean streets of New York (The Naked City) and San Francisco (Thieves’ Highway). Forced into exile by McCarthyism, he discovered an equally stark vision of London (Night and the City) before crossing the Channel to make (in the opinion of most critics) the finest film of his career. The richly textured evoca- tion of Paris which Dassin created for Rififi perhaps betrays, in the sheer profusion of its detail, the eye of a fascinated visitor rather than the intimate glance of a native. But the film is convincingly authentic in its exact sense of milieu, its close attention to the tawdry glitter and stoic conventions of the small-time underworld it describes. Along with Jean-Pierre Melville’s Bob le flambeur and Jacques Becker’s Touchez pas au Grisbi, Rififi stands as one of the most accomplished French thrillers of the 1950s, all three films acknowledging, while never slavishly imitating, their American sources. Like Grisbi, Rififi derives from a novel by Auguste le Breton, and shares the same downbeat, doom-laden atmosphere. The characters of Rififi inhabit a small, hermetic world, bounded by rigid precepts, in which even the police scarcely seem to figure. Danger threatens, not from the forces of law and order, but from rival gangs: the final shoot- out takes place in a half-built villa on the outskirts of Paris, a setting as ramshackle, bleak and devoid of bystanders as any Main Street in a western. From the first reel, the final outcome of events is never in doubt. With his racking cough and air of aging, existential gloom, Tony le Stephanois is marked down for destruction. The best he can hope for is a good death, according to his own strict code of honor. The plot follows the accepted caper format, as laid down by John Huston’s The Asphalt Jungle: a robbery is meticulously planned, DUCK SOUPFILMS, 4 th EDITION 361 Du Rififi chez les hommes flawlessly executed—but the gang is subsequently betrayed by its own weaknesses or internal dissensions, and all is lost. Rififi’s most notable innovation, for which the film is still best remembered, is the classic half-hour sequence covering the robbery, executed in unprece- dented detail and total silence, mesmerizing in its coolly sustained suspense. The gang members are depicted as conscientious crafts- men, carrying out their task steadily and skillfully, to a predetermined system. This sequence has since been much imitated (not least by Dassin himself, in Topkapi), but never yet surpassed. Dassin portrays his doomed criminals with warmth and sympathy, aided by fine performances from a cast which includes (under the stage name of Perlo Vita) the director himself, as the dapper Italian cracksman whose susceptibility to women brings about the gang’s downfall. Rififi marks the high point—and, regrettably, the conclusion— of Dassin’s urban thriller cycle. Soon afterwards came the meeting with Melina Mercouri, and his descent into the pretensions of Phaedra and the cheerful hokum of Never on Sunday. Nothing in his subsequent career recaptured a fraction of the atmosphere and control of Rififi. —Philip Kemp DUCK SOUP USA, 1933 Director: Leo McCarey Production: Paramount Pictures; 17 November 1933; black and white, 35mm; running time: 72 minutes, some sources list 68 minutes. Released 22 November 1933. Screenplay: Bert Kalmar and Harry Ruby, dialogue by Nat Perrin and Arthur Sheekman; photography: Henry Sharp; editors: Hans Dreier and Arthur Johnston; music director: Arthur Johnston. Cast: Groucho Marx (Rufus T. Firefly); Harpo Marx (Brownie); Chico Marx (Chicolini); Zeppo Marx (Bob Rolland); Raquel Torres (Vera Marcal); Louis Calhern (Ambassador Trentino); Margaret Dumont (Mrs. Teasdale); Edgar Kennedy (Lemonade Seller); Edmund Breese (Zander); Edwin Maxwell (Minister of War); William Worthington (Minister of Finance); Leonid Kinsky (Agitator); Vera DUCK SOUP FILMS, 4 th EDITION 362 Duck Soup Hillie (Secretary); George MacQuarrie (Judge); Fred Sullivan (Judge); Davison Clark (Minister); Charles B. Middleton (Prosecutor); Eric Mayne (Judge). Publications Script: Kalmar, Bert, and others, Monkey Business and Duck Soup, Lon- don, 1972. Books: Crichton, Kyle, The Marx Brothers, New York, 1951. Marx, Harpo, Harpo Speaks, New York, 1961. Eyles, Allen, The Marx Brothers: Their World of Comedy, Lon- don, 1966. Zimmerman, Paul, and Burt Goldblatt, The Marx Brothers and the Movies, New York, 1968. Anobile, Richard, Why a Duck? Visual and Verbal Gems from the Marx Brothers Movies, New York, 1971. Matthews, J.H., Surrealism and American Feature Film, Boston, 1971. Anthologie du Cinéma 7, Paris, 1973. Gehring, Wes, Leo McCarey and the Comic Anti-Hero in American Film, New York, 1980. Articles: M.H., in New York Times, 23 November 1933. Rowland, Richard, in Hollywood Quarterly, April 1947. Kurnitz, Harry, ‘‘Return of the Marx Brothers,’’ in Holiday (New York), January 1957. Davey, S., and J. L. Noames, ‘‘Taking Chances: Interview with Leo McCarey,’’ in Cahiers du Cinéma in English (New York), Febru- ary 1965. Carey, Gary, in Film Notes, edited by Eileen Bowser, New York, 1969. Adamson, Joseph, ‘‘Duck Soup for the Rest of Your Life,’’ in Take One (Montreal), September-October 1970. Silver, C., ‘‘Leo McCarey: From Marx to McCarthy,’’ in Film Comment (New York), September-October 1973. Rosenblatt, R., ‘‘Taking Stock of Duck Soup,’’ in New Republic (New York), 20 November 1976. ‘‘Marx Brothers Issue’’ of Avant-Scène du Cinéma (Paris), 1 April 1985. Winokur, M., ‘‘Smile, Stranger: Aspects of Immigrant Humor in the Marx Brothers Humor,’’ in Literature/Film Quarterly (Salisbury, Maryland), July 1985. DUVIDHAFILMS, 4 th EDITION 363 Smith, M., ‘‘Laughter, Redemption, Subversion in Eight Films by Leo McCarey,’’ in Cineaction (Toronto), Summer-Fall 1990. Groch, J.R., ‘‘What Is a Marx Brother?: Critical Practice, Industrial Practice, and the Notion of an Auteur,’’ in Velvet Light Trap (Austin), Fall 1990. Haas, S., ‘‘The Marx Brothers, Jews & My Four-Year-Old Daugh- ter,’’ in Cineaste (New York), vol. 19, no. 2–3, 1992. Amengual, Barthélemy, in Positif (Paris), June 1998. Arnold, Gary, ‘‘Overlooked Achievements (Directors Left Out of ‘100 Greatest American Movies’ List),’’ in Insight on the News, vol. 14, no. 43, 23 November 1998. *** Duck Soup was the fifth movie made under the Marx Brothers’ five-picture contract with Paramount, and circumstances surrounding its production were not especially promising. The Paramount com- pany was internally turbulent at the time, and in the early part of 1933 the Marx Brothers became involved in a dispute with the studio about the proceeds of some of their earlier films. Leo McCarey, whom they had selected as their director, was not enthusiastic about the project, and there were difficulties in completing the script. However, eventu- ally all disagreements were resolved, and, amid the usual confusion surrounding Marx Brothers movies, the film was made. McCarey, often described as the only ‘‘real’’ director the Marx Brothers ever had, has said that he did not consider it one of his best pictures; later critics do not agree with him. The virtue of Duck Soup is its simplicity. The unembellished plot, involving the rivalry of the Ruritanian principalities of Freedonia and Sylvania, is both a parody of the ‘‘mythical kingdom’’ genre and an ideal environment for Marx Brothers material; the setting is, in Gerald Weales’s phrase, congenial rather than antagonistic to their style. There are no interpolated harp or piano solos for Harpo or Chico; in fact, there are only three musical numbers in all: a song for Groucho, and two enormous, impeccably staged and filmed production num- bers, perfectly integrated into the action. There is no love interest for Zeppo, and no attempt to provide a conventional social framework for the zany personae of the stars. Within this setting, the story is carried forward almost operatically by a remarkable profusion of gags and comedy routines. A great deal has been written about the sources of these routines; some, particu- larly those involving Edgar Kennedy, have been traced to the Laurel and Hardy films on which Leo McCarey had worked earlier. Many gags were recycled from other Marx Brothers material; as many as 15 routines were identified in the rediscovered scripts of Flywheel, Shyster & Flywheel, the 1932–33 radio program starring Groucho and Chico. Even the superlative mirror scene has it antecedents else- where; it is a traditional vaudeville and music hall number, described by Variety in its 1933 review of the film as ‘‘the old Schwartz Bros. mirror routine,’’ and used by others previously on film. But all these apparent borrowings might be viewed as no more than the use of material from a common pool of comedic material going back much further than any of these sources. What is significant in Duck Soup is the aptness of the material selected, and the elegance of its presentation. McCarey, whose relaxed personality and improvisational meth- ods seem to have combined well with those of his stars, had an unerring sense of what was best about the Marx Brothers style, and a remarkably fresh approach to its use. Harpo is still a satyr in Duck Soup, rather than the pixie he later became, and McCarey is not afraid to let us watch him perform his mayhem. Chico, as the spy Chicolini, perfectly logically chooses to be an Italian peanut vendor as ‘‘cover,’’ thereby setting up encounters with Edgar Kennedy’s lemonade ven- dor in routines which combine the rhythms of Laurel and Hardy with Marx Brothers gags. And Groucho, the consummate verbal come- dian, has some of his most famous dialogue scenes but also, astoundingly, performs the totally silent, completely physical, and justly renowned mirror scene with Harpo. The film contains the only musical number to feature all four of the Marx Brothers together; it marks the welcome return of Margaret Dumont as Groucho’s foil; and it displays wonderful supporting performances by Louis Calhern as a sleek and impeccably tailored diplomat and Raquel Torres as a sinuous secret agent, simultaneously spoofing all Mata Hari movies and providing something for the baldheads to look at. McCarey’s timing and that of the Marx Brothers work perfectly together in the overall pacing of the film; despite his insistence that he was most comfortable with physical comedy, McCarey was sensitive to the internal logic of Marx Brothers humor, which takes place at the level of the word or sentence, rather than the concept or situation. Comparatively few critics liked the film when it was first released. Variety was almost alone in giving it an unreservedly favorable review, and the picture did not do well at the box office. However, later writers on film have had a great deal to say about it, and it has become a favorite with revival audiences. French critics have consid- ered it, with the rest of the Marx Brothers oeuvre, as a work of surrealism. Other writers have treated it as a deliberate satire on government diplomacy, and war, or as an overtly pacifist statement. Most of the people involved with the making of Duck Soup have denied that they were consciously attempting anything other than entertainment, but it is certainly the case that the war in Duck Soup has a very silly cause, and is fought as a very silly war. If depicting a silly war can be construed as making the statement that war is silly, then Duck Soup is a pacifist film. Duck Soup was the last film the Marx Brothers made for Para- mount. When it was completed, Zeppo retired from show business, and Groucho, Chico, and Harpo moved to MGM where, under the guidance of Irving Thalberg, they began A Night at the Opera—an entirely different kind of film, and one perceived at the time as a comeback for the team. Despite its initial lack of success, Duck Soup has come to be considered one of the best and perhaps the most characteristic of the Marx Brothers films. Critical literature about the Marx Brothers and their work now probably exceeds the work itself in volume; indicative of the status of Duck Soup in the Marx Brothers canon is the fact that the periodical devoted in its entirety to Marx Brothers research is called The Freedonia Gazette. —Annette Fern DUVIDHA (Two Roads) India, 1973 Director: Mani Kaul Production: Mani Kaul Productions; colour, 35mm; running time: 81 minutes. Filmed on location in Rajasthan. DUVIDHA FILMS, 4 th EDITION 364 Producer: Mani Kaul; screenplay: Mani Kaul, based on a short story by Vijaydan Detha; photography: Navroze Contractor; editor: Ravi Shankar Patnaik; music: Ramzan Khan, Hammu Khan, Latif, and Ski Khan. Cast: Ravi Menon (The Husband); Raisa Padamsee (The Wife); Hardan (The Father); Shambudan (The Shepherd). Publications Articles: Variety (New York), 19 November 1976. Singh, Madan Gopal, ‘‘The Cinematic Exploration,’’ in Filmikon, volume 5, number 1, December 1976. Ray, Satyajit, ‘‘Four and a Quarter,’’ in Our Films, Their Films, Orient Longman, Calcutta, 1976. Kaul, Mani, ‘‘Towards a Cinematic Object,’’ in Indian Cinema Superbazaar, Vikas Publishing, 1983. Kaul, Mani, ‘‘Seen from Nowhere,’’ in Concepts of Space: Ancient and Modern, Indira Gandhi National Centre for Art/Abhinav Publications, New Delhi, 1991. ‘‘Mani Kaul (Interview with Indian Film Director),’’ in UNESCO Courier, July-August 1995. Roy, L. Somi, ‘‘Mani Kaul at Flaherty,’’ in Wide Angle (Baltimore), vol. 17, no. 1–4, 1995. Roy, I.Y., P. Chatterjee, and M.G. Singh, and U. Vajpeyi, ‘‘Mani Kaul,’’ in Cinemaya (New Delhi), Winter 1995/1996. *** Mani Kaul’s third feature, his first in colour, continued his path- breaking experimentation with what he called the ‘‘cinematic ob- ject.’’ The film is very much a part of the director’s early work (which has changed remarkably over the decades, e.g. his latest, the big budget multi-cast Idiot, 1919). His first two, Uski Roti (1969) and Ashad Ka Ek Din (1971), and then Duvidha, posed the question with great rigour—and for the first time in the long history of Indian cinema—of what the cinematic form itself was, and what it could do. For him, at the time he made these films, cinema was explicitly not a composite of disciplines arriving at a specificity. He argued that whereas most forms preceding the cinema attempt transforma- tions into specific modes, in film in sharp contrast, the extreme particularization of image/sound denotation inhibits any finite cine- matic linguistic, and furthermore, that it is only when the specificity of the image/sound formation is treated as substantial and unique that a violation of this specificity becomes disciplined and positive: open to development (1983). Towards that end he attempted a process of self-conscious speci- ficity, emphasizing the particular, in order to be able to bracket it and eventually open it out. In Duvidha the location of the film’s plot itself is significant to the formalist effort: it tells a Rajasthani folk story of a merchant’s son who returns to his village with his new bride. He has to leave the village on business, leaving her alone. A ghost, hiding in a tree, witnesses his arrival and departure, and impersonating the husband, starts living with the wife. In time, a child is born to the woman and her ghost-husband. When the real husband returns, this causes a major dilemma, solved when the ghost is trapped by a shepherd in a leather bag. The socializing of the crisis and its neat solution, as the real husband is reinstated, of course, takes place without anyone taking the wife’s feelings into account. Her silent desolation, at the end, leads the film itself to conclude with a strongly stated feminist position, one usually ignored by critics in favour of its more obviously stated formalist experiments. Kaul himself presents in his cinematic object essay a hypothetical example that evidently relates to Duvidha: In feudal social formations it was adequate to respond to oppression as an internal phenomenon, since the exter- nal social structure was absolutely fixed. An internal- ized violence totalized the imagined and lived world of mythos. With the disappearance of the feudal order a violent reality externalized solidly, upon the social landscape. The course of the individual in society sud- denly appeared hazardous. The older, subtler myths now appear meaningless with the collapse of an out- moded world . . . the solid mass is not able to will: nothing moves. A new abstraction. It can be reasonably argued that in the film, the totalized internal- ized violence of the woman is ‘‘solidly externalized’’ by the ghost’s physical presence. The trapping of the ghost into a bag in the end, like the trapping of the world of ‘‘mythos’’ by a new social system appears to be a solution, but its utter inability to solve the hazardous journey of the wife’s attempt at individuation eventually means that it is no solution at all. The film intervenes into the process of looking, of taking in that process, but instead of replicating its specificity, tries instead to seek for that abstraction which may allow for a frozen historical situation to find its mobility again. The frozen nature of the film is of course its most critical aspect: attacked, above all by Satyajit Ray (‘‘Four and a Quarter’’ in Our Films Their Films) for its unrealism, its exotica and its sparse visual and sound, contrasted as it was especially by the full-throated songs by Ramzan and Hammu on the title track. Into that historical freeze, however, Kaul brings in a variety of historically contradictory, till then considered hierarchical languages. The woman—especially as she enters the village in a palanquin—clearly evokes the Basohli and Kangra miniature forms, extended into the framing, editing and the colour schemes used. Contrasted by the folk nature of the tale itself, and the music that represents the form in which it is traditionally told, Kaul also orchestrates with extraordinary skill the way that classical and folk forms apparently contradict, eroticize and freeze each other, both refusing to let the other go beyond apparent specificities and into a form that can develop and adapt to historical change. Duvidha was made with the informal support of a multi-arts co-op led by the noted painter Akbar Padamsee. Although this film was extensively screened and telecast in Europe (to a point where Kaul, nearly a dozen films later is still associated with this relatively early work), it may be added that the apparent commercial failure of this film forced the director to make only non-fiction for over 15 years, a genre to which he has returned only in the 1990s, with his explorations of Dostoevsky (Nazar, 1989 and Idiot, 1991). —Ashish Rajadhyaksha 365 E THE EARRINGS OF MADAME DE . . . See MADAME DE . . EARTH See ZEMLYA EAST OF EDEN USA, 1955 Director: Elia Kazan Production: Warner Bros. Pictures, Inc. and First National; Techni- color (Warnercolor), 35mm, CinemaScope; running time: 115 min- utes; length: 3415 meters. Released 9 April 1955, New York. Producer: Elia Kazan; screenplay: Paul Osborn; dialogue: Guy Tomajean, from the novel by John Steinbeck; photography: Ted McCord; editor: Owen Marks; sound engineer: Stanley Jones; art directors: James Basevi and Malcolm Bert; music: Leonard Rosenman; costume designer: Anna Hill Johnstone. Cast: James Dean (Cal Trask); Julie Harris (Abra); Raymond Massey (Adam Trask); Richard Davalos (Aron Trask); Jo Van Fleet (Kate); Burl Ives (Sam Cooper, the Sheriff); Albert Dekker (Will Hamilton); Lois Smith (Ann); Harold Gordon (Mr. Albrecht); Timothy Carey (Joe); Mario Siletti (Piscora); Roy Turner (Lonny Chapman); Nick Dennis (Rantany). Awards: Cannes Film Festival, Prix du Film Dramatique, 1955; Oscar, Best Supporting Actress (Van Fleet), 1955. Publications Script: Osborn, Paul, in Avant-Scène du Cinéma (Paris), November 1975. Books: Bast, William, James Dean: A Biography, New York, 1956. Thomas, T. T., I, James Dean, New York, 1957. Tailleur, Roger, Elia Kazan, revised edition, Paris, 1971. Basinger, Jeanine, John Frazer, and Joseph W. Reed, Jr., Working with Kazan, Middletown, Connecticut, 1973. Ciment, Michel, Kazan on Kazan, New York, 1974. Dalton, David, James Dean—The Mutant King, San Francisco, 1974. Herndon, Venable, James Dean—A Short Life, New York, 1974. Whittman, Mark, The Films of James Dean, London, 1974. Giannetti, Louis, Masters of the American Cinema, Englewood Cliffs, New Jersey, 1981. Bourget, Jean-Loup, James Dean, Paris, 1983. Morrissey, Steven, James Dean Is Not Dead, Manchester, 1983. Pauly, Thomas H., An American Odyssey: Elia Kazan and American Culture, Philadelphia, 1983. Dalton, David, and Ron Cayen, James Dean: American Icon, Lon- don, 1984. Devillers, Marcel, James Dean, London, 1985. Michaels, Lloyd, Elia Kazan: A Guide to References and Resources, Boston, 1985. Beath, Warren Newton, The Death of James Dean, London, 1986. Jones, David Richard, Great Directors at Work: Stanislavsky, Brecht, Kazan, Brook, Berkeley, 1986. Kazan, Elia, Elia Kazan: A Life, New York, 1988. Ciment, Michel, An American Odyssey: Elia Kazan, London, 1989. Articles: Gavin, Arthur, ‘‘The Photography of East of Eden,’’ in American Cinematographer (Los Angeles), March 1955. Gerstle, Ralph, in Films in Review (New York), March 1955. Cole, Clayton, in Films and Filming (London), April 1955. Sarris, Andrew, in Film Culture (New York), May-June 1955. Prouse, Derek, in Sight and Sound (London), Summer 1955. Bazin, André, ‘‘L’Indéniable Puissance lyrique de Kazan,’’ in France- Observateur (Paris), 3 November 1955. Archer, Eugene, ‘‘The Genesis of a Style,’’ in Film Culture (New York), no. 8, 1956. Truffaut, Fran?ois, ‘‘Les Haricots du Mal,’’ in Cahiers du Cinéma (Paris), February 1956. Archer, Eugene, ‘‘Genesis of a Genius,’’ in Films and Filming (London), January 1957. Connolly, Ray, ‘‘Eden Revisited,’’ in Motion (London), Winter 1961–62. Bean, Robin, ‘‘The Young Agony,’’ in Films and Filming (London), March 1962. Stein, Jeanne, ‘‘Raymond Massey,’’ in Films in Review (New York), August-September 1963. Bean, Robin, in Films and Filming (London), May 1964. Bean, Robin, ‘‘Dean—10 Years After,’’ in Films and Filming (Lon- don), October 1965. Delahare, Michel, ‘‘Preface to an Interview,’’ in Cahiers du Cinéma in English (New York), October 1966. EAST OF EDEN FILMS, 4 th EDITION 366 East of Eden ‘‘A Natural Phenomenon: Interview with Elia Kazan,’’ in Cahiers du Cinéma in English (New York), November 1966. Benayoun, Robert, ‘‘Cain, Abel et le dollar,’’ in Positif (Paris), May 1967. Byron, Stuart, and Martin L. Rubin, ‘‘Elia Kazan Interview,’’ in Movie (London), Winter 1971–72. Hillier, Jim, in Movie (London), Winter 1971–72. Kitses, Jim, ‘‘Elia Kazan: A Structuralist Analysis,’’ in Cinema (Los Angeles), Winter 1972–73. Truffaut, Fran?ois, ‘‘James Dean est mort,’’ in Avant-Scène du Cinéma (Paris), November 1975. Small, Edward S., in Magill’s Survey of Cinema 1, Englewood Cliffs, New Jersey, 1980. Comuzio, Ermanno, in Cineforum (Bergamo), August 1984. Rathgeb, D.L., ‘‘Kazan as Auteur: The Undiscovered East of Eden,’’ in Literature/Film Quarterly (Salisbury), January 1988. Dancyger, K., ‘‘The Bigger Picture: A Consideration of the Influence of Journalism and Theatre on the Feature Length Screenplay,’’ in Journal of Film and Video (Los Angeles), no. 3, 1990. Simmons, Jerrold, ‘‘The Production Code & Precedent,’’ in Journal of Popular Film and Television (Washington, D.C.), Fall 1992. Larue, Johanne, in Séquences (Haute-Ville), September 1992. Kino (Warsaw), June 1993. Séquences (Haute-Ville), July-August 1995. ‘‘A Tune Is Worth 1,000 Pictures: The Neglected Craft of Film Music,’’ in Economist, vol. 343, no. 8018, 24 May 1997. *** If East of Eden were remembered only for introducing to the screen its legendary star, James Dean, its place in film history would be assured. As it is, however, the techniques developed by the director to capture and translate the actor’s performance most effectively within a widescreen format also lend the film the artistic distinction of being one of the first serious attempts at a creative use of CinemaScope. Elia Kazan’s bag of stylistic tricks, regarded by many critics as technical abnormalities, consisted of such devices as canting the camera to distort angles, use of swinging pans to sustain a sense of movement in stagy scenes, unusually moody lighting effects, hori- zontal pans, and experiments with soft focus lenses. Through these techniques, the director used his camera to accompany his actors’ performances, effectively and imaginatively enhancing their work. At EASY RIDERFILMS, 4 th EDITION 367 the same time, he effected a visual impression of continuous move- ment while constantly redirecting the viewer’s attention to the appro- priate area of the screen, maximizing the dramatic advantages of its vast expanse. The resulting effect is an amplification of the film’s symbolic motifs through their placement in shifting but visually highlighted contexts. In a sense, the effective translation of East of Eden to the large screen required a visual equivalent to the acting method pioneered by the Actors Studio, of which Kazan was a co-founder. Drawing on his own ‘‘emotional memory,’’ the actor recalls feelings comparable to those experienced by a fictional character. A number of Kazan’s actors, particularly Dean and Marlon Brando (in A Streetcar Named Desire), were practitioners of ‘‘the Method,’’ which required a con- siderable degree of adaptation in terms of the cinematography. Through Kazan’s visual style in East of Eden, the camera, in a manner similar to that used in the German Expressionist films of the 1920s, reflects the psychological aspects of the characters under its scrutiny. For example, the story, a modern version of the Biblical tale of Cain and Abel, centers on the relationship between a father and his two sons. Its point of view is that of the youngest son Cal who, like his Biblical counterpart Cain, performs certain acts that are subject to at least two interpretations. Viewed simplistically, they can, in the case of both characters, be seen as the vile deeds of an inherently evil son. Yet, through Dean’s eccentric interpretation, the modern boy can also be recognized as a psychologically complex, insecure child who is starved for parental love. In scenes in which Cal appears with his father Adam (Raymond Massey), Kazan tilts the camera to dramati- cally characterize both figures as being in an essentially aberrant, distorted relationship. Both actor and camera combine to place the character’s actions within an abnormal family context and reveal Cal’s actions to be those of a boy consumed by an overwhelming need to win his father’s approval. It is significant that the angle of vision is most distorted in the scene in which Adam refuses his son’s heartfelt but slightly tainted gift of money. Adam cannot look beneth the surface of the act to assess its meaning in terms of their relationship. Interspersed throughout the film are long, almost theatrical scenes, indicative of the director’s stage experience, which provide the film with its thematic unity as ideas are raised which will later result in violent confrontations. Even in these scenes, there is a constant sense of movement expressed through the use of settings such as a Ferris wheel or swing. Additional coherence is provided by the film’s glimpse of the plight of California’s immigrant population, a subject close to Kazan’s heart. Some scholarship makes a case for East of Eden as the first in a series of Kazan films which examine various psychological and sociological aspects of the immigrant experience, a series continued by Wild River, America, America and The Arrangement. —Stephen L. Hanson EASY RIDER USA, 1969 Director: Dennis Hopper Production: Raybert Productions and Pando Company; Technicolor, 35mm (LSD sequence shot in 16mm); running time: 94 minutes; length: 2561 meters. Released 14 July 1969, New York. Filmed 1968–69 on location between California and New Orleans. Cost: about $375,000. Producers: Peter Fonda with Bert Schneider and William L. Hay- ward; screenplay: Peter Fonda, Dennis Hopper, and Terry Southern; photography: Laszlo Kovacs; editor: Donn Cambern; sound: Ryder Sound Service; sound mixer: Leroy Robbins; art director: Jerry Kay; music: Steppenwolf, The Byrds, The Band, The Holy Modal Rounders, Fraternity of Man, The Jimi Hendrix Experience, Little Eva, The Electric Prunes, The Electric Flag, and Roger McGuinn; special effects: Steve Karkus; stunt gaffer: Tex Hall. Cast: Peter Fonda (Wyatt); Dennis Hopper (Billy); Antonio Mendoza (Jesus); Phil Spector (Connection); Mac Mashourian (Bodyguard); Warren Finnerty (Rancher); Tita Colorado (Rancher’s Wife); Luke Askew (Stranger on Highway); Luana Anders (Lisa); Sabrina Scharf (Sarah); Sandy Wyeth (Joanne); Robert Walker, Jr. (Jack); Robert Ball, Carmen Phillips, Ellie Walker, and Michael Pataki (Mimes); Jack Nicholson (George Hanson); George Fowler, Jr. (Guard); Keith Green (Sheriff); Hayward Robillard (Cat Man); Arnold Hess, Jr. (Deputy); Buddy Causey Jr., Duffy Lamont, Blase M. Dawson, and Paul Guedry (Customers in the Café); Toni Basil (Mary); Karen Black (Karen); Lea Marmer (Madame); Cathi Cozzi (Dancing Girl); Thea Salerno, Anne McClain, Beatriz Monteil, and Marcia Bowman (Hookers); David C Billodeau and Johnny David (Men in pickup truck). Awards: New York Film Critics’ Award, Best Supporting Actor (Nicholson), 1969; Cannes Film Festival, Best First Film, 1969. Publications Script: Easy Rider: Original Screenplay by Peter Fonda, Dennis Hopper, Terry Southern plus Stills, Interviews, and Articles, edited by Nancy Hardin and Marylin Schlossberg, New York, 1969. Books: Springer, John, The Fondas: The Film and Careers of Henry, Jane, and Peter Fonda, New York, 1970. Mast, Gerald, A Short History of the Movies, New York, 1971. Downing, David, Jack Nicholson: A Biography, London, 1983. Cagin, Seth, and Philip Dray, Hollywood Films of the Seventies: Sex, Drugs, Violence, Rock’n’Roll, and Politics, New York, 1984. Rodriguez, Elean, Dennis Hopper: A Madness to His Method, New York, 1988. Stayton, Richard, Dennis Hopper, New York, 1997. Articles: Tuten, Frederick, in Film Society Review (New York), May 1969. Sarris, Andrew, in Village Voice (New York), 3 July and 14 August 1969. Reif, Tony, and Iain Ewing, ‘‘Fonda,’’ in Take One (Montreal), no. 3, 1969. EASY RIDER FILMS, 4 th EDITION 368 Easy Rider Fonda, Peter, and Leslie Reyner, ‘‘Thoughts and Attitudes about Easy Rider,’’ in Film (London), Autumn 1969. Macklin, F. A., ‘‘Easy Rider: The Initiation of Dennis Hopper,’’ in Film Heritage (Dayton, Ohio), Fall 1969. Milne, Tom, in Sight and Sound (London), Autumn 1969. Polt, Harriet, in Film Quarterly (Berkeley), Fall 1969. ‘‘What Directors Are Saying,’’ in Action (Los Angeles), September- October 1969. Farber, Stephen, in Film Quarterly (Berkeley), Winter 1969–70. Warshow, Paul, in Sight and Sound (London), Winter 1969–70. Sullivan, Tom R., ‘‘Easy Rider: Comic Epic Poem in Film,’’ in Journal of Popular Culture (Bowling Green, Ohio), Spring 1970. Sullivan, Mary Rose, ‘‘Easy Rider: Critique of the New Hedonism,’’ in Western Humanities Review, no. 24, 1970. Hampton, Charles, in Film Comment (New York), Fall 1970. Kael, Pauline, in New Yorker, 3 October 1970. ‘‘Easy Rider Issue’’ of Avant-Scène du Cinéma (Paris), Septem- ber 1971. Cohen, M. S., ‘‘The Corporate Style of BBS,’’ in Take One (Montr- eal), November 1973. Herring, H. D., ‘‘Out of the Dream and into the Nightmare: Dennis Hopper’s Apocalyptic Vision of America,’’ in Journal of Popular Film and Television (Washington, D.C.), Winter 1983. Hugo, Chris, ‘‘Easy Rider and Hollywood in the 1970s,’’ in Movie (London), Winter 1986. McGilligan, Patrick, ‘‘The Ballad of Easy Rider (Or, How to Make a Drug Classic),’’ in Los Angeles Magazine, March 1994. MacGregor, Jeff, ‘‘The Hot Day Terry Southern, Cool and Fatalistic, Strode In. . . ,’’ in New York Times, 12 November 1995. Hirschman, E.C., ‘‘A Cinematic Depiction of Drug Addiction: A Semiotic Account,’’ in Semiotica, no. 104, 1995. Laderman, D., ‘‘What a Trip: The Road Film in American Culture,’’ in Journal of Film and Video (Los Angeles), no. 48, 1996. Redman, Nick, in DGA Magazine (Los Angeles), July-August 1996. Hampton, Howard, ‘‘Scorpio Descending: In Search of Rock Cin- ema,’’ in Film Comment (New York), March-April 1997. Singer, Mark, ‘‘Whose Movie is This (How Much of Easy Rider Belongs to Novelist Terry Southern),’’ in New Yorker, vol. 74, no. 17, 22 June 1998. *** Easy Rider remains a cinematic hallmark primarily for negative reasons; the preeminent film dealing with the subject and style typifying the late 1960s, it remains an interesting cultural and historical document of the industry’s response to ‘‘youth culture.’’ Unfortunately, the film seemed trite even two years after its initial L’ECLISSEFILMS, 4 th EDITION 369 critical and public triumph. Produced for $375,000, it made over $50,000,000 and spawned a number of less-effective imitators; the film’s profits convinced even the most reticent backers in Hollywood that the youth market was ready to be tapped. In fact, it may have been its imitators that made the original date so quickly; many of the films produced after Easy Rider were of such inferior quality that they couldn’t be sold to television after their initial release in regular theaters. The film is not without value. Film historian Gerald Mast sees Easy Rider as a landmark of the ‘‘New Hollywood’’ as well as the culmination of films representing our experience of the American West through the narrative device of the journey, the film being a sort of New Wave cowboy epic. It reflects the sexual and social values of the American counter-culture of the period: the protagonists are social misfits and outlaws. Unlike filmic outlaws of the past—Little Caesar, Scarface—these heros can be charming, good-humored, warm and often compassionate. Their humorless and finally deadly pursuers, predictably, represent the ‘‘older generation.’’ In Mast’s words, ‘‘Given the outlaw protagonists, the new obligatory ending was the unhappy rather than happy one. The protagonists die; law triumphs over lawlessness. However, good did not triumph over evil, for law and good were antithetical.’’ Easy Rider dealt openly with violence and paranoia, appropriate themes given the ideological divisions of the United States in the late 1960s. As David Cook notes, the film ‘‘was praised for its radical social perspective far beyond its value as a film.’’ For him as well it is the western/quest film revisited: two ‘‘hippies,’’ their journey made on motorcycles rather than horses, go ‘‘in search of America.’’ The film concerns freedom, or the illusion of freedom—for ultimately the bikers ‘‘can’t find it anywhere,’’ as the promotional copy read. Easy Rider merges the American past and present, city and country, gangsters and cowboy through the main characters played by Dennis Hopper and Peter Fonda. Civilization is personified by small- town bigots and the county sheriff, and characterized by institutional- ized love (a whorehouse), and even institutionalized death (a very large cemetery). The romantic journey seems less than it should be; a commune of hip kids from the city acts with as much hostility towards the easy riders as the ‘‘straights’’ in the towns. Freedom is represented by the road, but as the ending of the film illustrates, even that cannot last. Andrew Sarris stressed the ‘‘assortment of excellences . . . lift Easy Rider above the run and ruck of its genre. The first and foremost is the sterling performance of Jack Nicholson as George Hanson, a refreshingly civilized creature from Southern comfort and inter- planetary fantasies.’’ Among the film’s other strengths are its travel- ing shots on the road accompanied by the rock music of Jimi Hendrix, The Byrds, Steppenwolf, The Band, Bob Dylan, Roger McGuinn, and others. But Sarris’s main point is that ‘‘with all the rousingly rhythmic revelry and splendiferously scenic motorcycling, Easy Rider comes to resemble a perceptual precredit sequence, but reasonably pleasant withal.’’ However, ‘‘there is something depressingly deja vu about the moralistic view of America from a motorcycle.’’ And this from a critic who essentially likes the film. Critical opprobrium of its time not withstanding, Easy Rider’s jury still hasn’t returned a less than contradictory verdict. For all its apparent triteness, for all of its ‘‘Man-cool mumbles,’’ even main- stream critics like Sarris warn, ‘‘beware of all generalizations, includ- ing this one; the nouvelle vague tricks and Bergman-Fellini-Antonioni mannerisms are no more voguish today than the UFA German Expressionist and Soviet montage tricks were in the late twenties.’’ The film has dated badly, yet its value lies in capturing one of the United States’ most divisive times, illustrating where the frontier legacy begun with Stagecoach seems to have led. It’s often impossi- ble to tell the heros from the villains in Easy Rider, as now. —Deborah H. Holdstein L’ECLISSE (The Eclipse) Italy-France, 1962 Director: Michelangelo Antonioni Production: Interopa Film and Cineriz (Rome) and Paris Film Production (Paris); black and white, 35mm; running time: 125 minutes. Released 1962. Filmed in Italy. Producers: Robert and Raymond Hakim; screenplay: Michelangelo Antonioni and Tonino Guerra, with Elio Bartolini and Ottiero Ottieri; photography: Gianni Di Venanzo; editor: Eraldo Da Roma; sound: Claudio Maielli and Mario Bramonti; production design: Piero Poletto; music: Giovanni Fusco. Cast: Alain Delon (Riccardo); Monica Vitti (Vittoria); Francisco Rabal; Lilla Brignone; Rosanna Rory; Mirella Ricciardi; Louis Seignier. Awards: Cannes Film Festival, Special Jury Prize and Catholic Film Office Award, 1962. Publications Scripts: Antonioni, Michelangelo, and Tonino Guerra, L’eclisse, 1962; trans- lated in Screenplays of Michelangelo Antonioni, New York, 1963. Books: Leprohon, Pierre, Michelangelo Antonioni: An Introduction, New York, 1963. Cowie, Peter, Antonioni, Bergman, Resnais, New York, 1963. Strick, Philip, Antonioni, London, 1965. Cameron, Ian, and Robin Wood, Antonioni, London and New York, 1969. Samuels, Charles Thomas, Encountering Directors, New York, 1972. Poague, Leland, and William Cadbury, Film Criticism: A Counter Theory, Ames, Iowa, 1982. Rifkin, Ned, Antonioni’s Visual Language, Ann Arbor, Michigan, 1982. Barthes, Roland, and others, Michelangelo Antonioni, Munich, 1984. Biarese, Cesare, and Aldo Tassone, I film di Michelangelo Antonioni, Rome, 1985. Dervin, Daniel, Through a Freudian Lens Deeply: A Psychoanalysis of Cinema, Hillsdale, New Jersey, 1985. Antonioni, Michelangelo, That Bowling Alley on the Tiber: Tales of a Director, Oxford, 1986. L’ECLISSE FILMS, 4 th EDITION 370 L’Eclisse Perry, Ted, and Rene Prieto, Michelangelo Antonioni: A Guide to References and Resources, Boston, 1986. Tinazzi, Giorgio di, Michelangelo Antonioni, Firenze, 1989. Giaume, Jo?lle Mayet, Michelangelo Antonioni: le fil intérieur, Crisnée, Belgium, 1990. Rohdie, Sam, Antonioni, London, 1990. Prédal, René, Michelangelo Antonioni, ou, La vigilance du désir, Paris, 1991. Arrowsmith, William, Antonioni: The Poet of Images, New York, 1995. Brunette, Peter, The Films of Michelangelo Antonioni, Cambridge, 1998. Scemama-Heard, Céline, Antonioni: le désert figuré, Paris, 1998. Articles: Lane, John Francis, ‘‘Antonioni Diary,’’ in Films and Filming (London), March 1962. ‘‘Antonioni Issue’’ of Film Quarterly (Berkeley), Fall 1962. Barthelme, Donald, in New Yorker, 2 March 1963. Gerard, L. N., ‘‘Antonioni,’’ in Films in Review (New York), April 1963. ‘‘Antonioni Issue’’ of 7th Art (New York), Spring 1963. ‘‘Antonioni Issue’’ of Motion, no. 5, 1963. Nowell-Smith, Geoffrey, ‘‘Shape Around the Black Point,’’ in Sight and Sound (London), Winter 1963–64. Houston, Penelope, ‘‘Keeping Up with the Antonionis,’’ in Sight and Sound (London), Autumn 1964. Nowell-Smith, Geoffrey, ‘‘The Event and the Image,’’ in Sight and Sound (London), Winter 1964–65. Godard, Jean-Luc, ‘‘Night, Eclipse, and Dawn: An Interview with Michelangelo Antonioni,’’ in Cahiers du Cinéma in English (New York), January 1966. Andrew, J. Dudley, ‘‘The Stature of Objects in Antonioni’s Films,’’ in Triquarterly (Evanston, Illinois), Winter 1968. Gow, Gordon, ‘‘Antonioni Men,’’ in Films and Filming (London), June 1970. Perry, Ted, ‘‘A Contextual Analysis of Antonioni’s L’eclisse,’’ in Speech Monographs, June 1970. Tudor, Andrew, ‘‘Antonioni: The Road to Death,’’ in Cinema (Lon- don), August 1970. Hernacki, T., ‘‘Michelangelo Antonioni and the Imagery of Disinte- gration,’’ in Film Heritage (Dayton, Ohio), Autumn 1970. DIE EHE DER MARIA BRAUNFILMS, 4 th EDITION 371 Decaux, E., ‘‘Une Musique: L’eclisse,’’ in Cinématographe (Paris), November 1980. Affron, Mirella Joan, ‘‘Text and Memory in Eclipse,’’ in Literature/ Film Quarterly (Salisbury, Maryland), vol. 9, no. 3, 1981. Tarnowski, J. F., ‘‘Identification d’une oeuvre,’’ in Positif (Paris), January 1983. Esposito, J., ‘‘Antonioni and Benjamin: Dialectical Imagery in Eclipse,’’ in Film Criticism (Meadville, Pennsylvania), Fall 1984. Perez, G., ‘‘The Point of View of a Stranger: An Essay on Antonioni’s Eclipse,’’ in Hudson Review (New York), no. 2, 1991. Tomasulo, F. P., ‘‘The Architectonics of Alienation: Antonioni’s Edifice Complex,’’ in Wide Angle (Baltimore), no. 3, 1993. Predal, R., ‘‘L’eclisse, l’ellipse,’’ in Avant Scène du Cinéma (Paris), February 1993. Peck, Ron, ‘‘Chance Encounters,’’ in Sight & Sound (London), December 1994. Landrot, Marine, ‘‘Identification d’un cinéaste,’’ in Télérama (Paris), 6 September 1995. Moore, K.Z., ‘‘Eclipsing the Commonplace: The Logic of Alienation in Antonioni’s Cinema,’’ in Film Quarterly (Berkeley), vol. 48, no. 4, Summer 1995. Nowell-Smith, G., ‘‘Antonioni,’’ in Sight & Sound (London), Decem- ber 1995. Chatman, Seymour, ‘‘The Films of Michaelangelo Antonioni,’’ in Film Quarterly (Berkeley), vol. 53, no. 1, Fall 1999. *** Michelangelo Antonioni’s L’eclisse is the most succinct expres- sion of moral ambiguities of the Italian ‘‘economic miracle’’ of the late 1950s and early 1960s to come from the national cinema. It is the complement of Federico Fellini’s La dolce vita. Whereas Fellini dwells upon the hellish and grotesque dimensions of Roman life during that period, Antonioni focuses upon its inauthenticity and its impermanence. The ‘‘eclisse’’ of the title refers primarily to the brief affair of the protagonists Vittoria, a translator, and Piero, a stock jobber; and secondarily to a brief tailspin in the stockmarket which forms the backdrop of their liaison. In an even wider sense, it alludes to the brief span of human life on earth, literalized in a scene in a natural history museum which the filmmaker had to cut perhaps under pressure from the producers. The sole vestige of this dimension is a fossil Vittoria hangs as a decoration on her wall. From the opening scene of Vittoria arranging objects in a frame to the final, magnificent montage of the nearly empty, vespertinal streets of Rome’s fashionable and modernistic E.U.R. district, Antonioni’s typical love of composition and attention to significant detail is in evidence. In this film, things overwhelm people. Even the accidental meeting of Piero and Vittoria for the first time occurs during an ominous pause—a literal ‘‘minute of silence’’ in the stock exchange honoring a dead broker—and they whisper to each other around a monumental pillar (the Roman stock market is built in the ruins of an ancient temple). The rootlessness of this couple is emphasized in the scenes of their mutual seduction which take place, not in their modern apartments, but in their parents’ stuffier dwellings in the center of the city. By locating their amours in the vacant parental apartments, Antonioni underlines the dimensions of compulsion and regression in their relationship. Without pain, almost cheerfully, they exploit each other, playing at seriousness and constancy. The ironic counterpoint to their homelessness is Vittoria’s neigh- bor, Marta, who longs for her family plantation in Kenya. Her home is decorated with African trophies and giant enlargements of photo- graphs of East Africa. A nostalgist and a racist, who refers to the natives as ‘‘apes,’’ she had reified her environment. Antonioni underscores the illusory status of her feeling for Africa by depicting her hysterical attitude to her effeminately mannered poodle amid the vestiges of safaris. The final minutes of the film sustain a remarkable suspense as the viewer is lead to expect either Vittoria or Piero to appear at the corner of their assignations. Instead, the camera focuses upon the objects and people that had been backdrops and tangents of their actions. As we come to realize that neither will appear, we get a glimpse of a man reading a newspaper (one of the many false identifications of the protagonists) with the headline about the threat of atomic war. The final, sustained close-up of a street light suggests a nuclear explosion which can eclipse human time. —P. Adams Sitney DIE EHE DER MARIA BRAUN (The Marriage of Maria Braun) West Germany, 1978 Director: Rainer Werner Fassbinder Production: Albatros Film (M. Fengler), Trio Film, WDR, and Filmerlog Der Autoren (all of West Germany); Fujicolor, 35mm; running time: 120 minutes; length: 10,764 feet. Released 1978, Germany, and 28 February 1979, United States. Filmed in Germany. Producer: Michael Fengler; screenplay: Peter M?rthesheimer and Pea Fr?hlich; dialogue: Rainer Werner Fassbinder; from an idea by Fassbinder; photography: Michael Ballhaus; editors: Juliane Lor- enz and Franz Walsch (Fassbinder); sound recordists: Jim Willis and Milan Bor; art directors: Norbert Scherer, Helga Ballhaus, Claus Kottmann, and Georg Borgel; music: Peer Raben; costume designers: Barbara Baum, Susi Reichel, George Kuhn, and Ingeborg Pr?ller. Cast: Hanna Schygulla (Maria Braun); Klaus L?witsch (Hermann Braun); Ivan Desny (Karl Oswald); Gottfried John (Willi Klenze); Gisela Uhlen (Mother); George Byrd (Bill); Elisabeth Trissenaar (Betty Klenze); Rainer Werner Fassbinder (Dealer); Isolde Barth (Vevi); Peter Berling (Bronski); Sonja Neudorfer (Red Cross Nurse); Lieselotte Eder (Frau Ehmke); Volker Spengler (Train Conductor); Michael Ballhaus (Counsel, Anwalf); Günther Kaufmann (American on train); Karl-Heinz von Hassel (Prosecuting counsel). Awards: Berlin Film Festival, Best Actress (Schygulla) and Best Technical Team, 1979. DIE EHE DER MARIA BRAUN FILMS, 4 th EDITION 372 Die Ehe der Maria Braun Publications Script: Fassbinder, Rainer Werner, Peter M?rthesheimer, and Pea Fr?hlich, The Marriage of Maria Braun, in Rutgers Films in Print 4, Rutgers, New Jersey, 1984. Books: Sandford, John, The New German Cinema, Totowa, New Jersey, 1980. Baer, Harry, Schlafen kann ich, wenn ich tot bin: Das atemlose Leben des Rainer Werner Fassbinder, Cologne, 1982. Eckhardt, Bernd, Rainer Werner Fassbinder: Im 17 Jahren 42 Filme—Stationen eines Lebens für den deutschen Film, Munich, 1982. Iden, Peter, and others, Rainer Werner Fassbinder, Munich, 1982. Raab, Kurt, and Karsten Peters, Die Sehnsucht des Rainer Werner Fassbinder, Munich, 1982. Foss, Paul, editor, Fassbinder in Review, Sydney, 1983. Franklin, James, New German Cinema: From Oberhausen to Ham- burg, Boston, 1983. Bauschinger, Sigrid, Susan Cocalis, and Henry A. Lea, editors, Film und Literatur: Literarische texte und der neue deutsche film, Munich, 1984. Fassbinder, Rainer Werner, Film Befreien den Kopf: Essays und Arbeitsnotizen, edited by Michael T?teburg, Frankfurt, 1984. Hayman, Ronald, Fassbinder: Film-maker, London, 1984. Phillips, Klaus, New German Filmmakers: From Oberhausen through the 1970s, New York, 1984. Fassbinder, Rainer Werner, Die Anarchie der Phantasie: Gespr?che und Interviews, edited by Michael T?teburg, Frankfurt, 1986. Katz, Robert, and Peter Berling, Love Is Colder Than Death: The Life and Times of Rainer Werner Fassbinder, London, 1987. Elsaesser, Thomas, The New German Cinema, London, 1989. Lardeau, Yann, Rainer Werner Fassbinder, Paris, 1992. Shattuc, Jane, Television, Tabloids, and Tears: Fassbinder and Popular Culture, Minneapolis, 1995. Elsaesser, Thomas, Fassbinder’s Germany: History, Identity, Sub- ject, Amsterdam, 1996. Kardish, Lawrence, editor, with Juliane Lorenz, Rainer Werner Fassbinder, New York, 1997. Articles: Dawson, Jan, ‘‘Den kvinnohatande feministen: Om Fassbinder’s kvinnosyn och Die Ehe der Maria Braun,’’ in Chaplin (Stock- holm), no. 2, 1979. Moskowitz, G., in Variety (New York), 28 February 1979. Hosman, H., ‘‘Interview with Fassbinder,’’ in Skoop (Amsterdam), August 1979. Kauffmann, Stanley, in New Republic (New York), 29 Septem- ber 1979. Canby, Vincent, in New York Times, 14 October 1979. Sarris, Andrew, in Village Voice (New York), 15 October 1979. Rich, F., in Time (New York), 22 October 1979. Hatch, R., in Nation (New York), 27 October 1979. Adler, Renata, in New Yorker, 29 October 1979. Kroll, Jack, in Newsweek (New York), 29 October 1979. Curran, T., in Films in Review (New York), November 1979. Lardeau, Y., in Cahiers du Cinéma (Paris), February 1980. Sauvaget, D., in Image et Son (Paris), February 1980. Bonnet, J.-C., in Cinématographe (Paris), March 1980. Domecq, J.-P., ‘‘Comment désire la femme au temps du miracle allemand,’’ in Positif (Paris), March 1980. McCormick, R., in Cineaste (New York), Spring 1980. Noonan, T., in Film Quarterly (Berkeley), Spring 1980. Orto, N., in Cinema Nuovo (Bari), June 1980. Combs, Richard, in Monthly Film Bulletin (London), August 1980. Elley, Derek, in Films (London), December 1980. Reimer, R. C., ‘‘Memories of the Past: A Study of The Marriage of Maria Braun,’’ in Journal of Popular Film and Television (Wash- ington, D.C.), Fall 1981. Koskinen, M., ‘‘Fassbinders kvinnotrilogo—en allegori ?ver det tyska undret,’’ in Chaplin (Stockholm), vol. 25, no. 1, 1983. Ledgard, R., in Hablemos de Cine (Lima), February 1983. Feinstein, Howard, ‘‘BRD 1–2-3: Fassbinder’s Postwar Trilogy and the Spectacle,’’ in Cinema Journal (Champaign, Illinois), Fall 1983. Kaes, A., ‘‘History, Fiction, Memory: Fassbinder’s The Marriage of Maria Braun,’’ in Persistence of Vision (Maspeth, New York), Fall 1985. Haralovich, M. B., ‘‘The Sexual Politics of The Marriage of Maria Braun,’’ in Wide Angle (Baltimore), no. 1, 1990. Moeller, H.-B., ‘‘Fassbinder’s Use of Brechtian Aesthetics,’’ in Jump Cut (Berkeley), April 1990. ELIPPATHAYAMFILMS, 4 th EDITION 373 New German Critique, no. 63, Fall 1994. Télérama (Paris), 15 February 1995. Séquences (Haute-Ville), September-October 1995. Medhurst, A., ‘‘The Long Take,’’ in Sight & Sound (London), February 1996. Hogan, D.J., ‘‘The Music from Rainer Werner Fassbinder Films,’’ in Filmfax (Evanston), no. 65, February/March 1998. Dixon, Wheeler Winston, ‘‘Rainer Werner Fassbinder,’’ in Film Quarterly (Berkeley), vol. 51, no. 4, Summer 1998. *** The importance of The Marriage of Maria Braun, released in Germany in 1978, can be seen on a number of levels. It is the first of Rainer Werner Fassbinder’s works to win him popularity not only in his own country but also abroad. Prior to this film, Fassbinder’s foreign success was limited to art-house audiences. The Marriage of Maria Braun belongs to the trilogy of films in which Fassbinder examines post-World War II Germany. These films unfold through the stories of three women whose names provide the titles—The Marriage of Maria Braun, Veronika Voss, and Lola—and whose stories present a glimpse into the history of the Federal Republic. Maria Braun also belongs to a special group of Fassbinder films which are indebted in structure to the melodramas of Douglas Sirk. Fassbinder gave the conventional melodrama, of which Sirk’s films are a prime example, new life by infusing it with the social and political concerns of modern Germany. At the same time he foregrounded and laid bare the structures of film melodrama itself. The structure of Maria Braun is so deeply embedded in the content that a study of one inevitably illuminates the other. The fusing of these two elements may account for the popular and also critical success of the film; audiences could easily relate to the emotionally charged story of a woman struggling to survive, while simultaneously, through the same actress in the same film, understand the options faced by a Germany struggling to survive. Born in 1945, Fassbinder grew up in a country rebuilding itself with American aid during the ‘‘economic miracle’’ of the 1950s. Germany was surfeited with American films during this period, including the melodramas of Sirk. Fassbinder, familiar with these, attempted to discover what made them so successful, and to duplicate that success with his own work. The intensity of the emotional scenes in Maria’s story (for example, her marriage, her search for her husband, her realization that he is dead) is emphasized by lighting, music, and expressive camera angles. All of these elements stretch the limits of the conventional style of film melodrama. Yet they are undercut by the deadpan acting of Hanna Schygulla in the title role, and by the sheer profusion of heartrending situations in which Maria finds herself. The audience is drawn into the emotionally charged moment, then distanced from it and forced to look elsewhere for content. It looks instead to the social and political background to Germany’s economic miracle. That history and Maria’s story are so closely intertwined that the viewer may hardly notice the shift in attention. The scene, for example, in which Maria announces to her American G.I. lover that her husband is dead, implying that she is now free to go with him, ought to be feverish with emotion, but it is completely cooled by Schygulla’s unemotional delivery of the line ‘‘Mein Mann ist tot.’’ The scene is heavy with the symbolism of a despondent Germany which, after the war, turned to America. Maria comes to her G.I. lover not out of love but out of need to be cared for and because he is there and willing to give. All the trappings of great emotion are present, but there is no emotion on her face or in her voice. Likewise, Germany follows America out of the same need down the capitalistic road but with no thought or emotion that would imply that it is a true alliance. Schygulla, with a great deal of class, moves through scene after scene of a devastated Germany. Surrounded by bombed-out buildings and broken walls, she moves through the debris with courage and skill, but no integrity. The camera follows her in long sweeping movements which reflect the aplomb of her transactions; the same way, the rigid frequently off-centered cinematography reflects the starkness of the world around her. Vincent Canby sums up the essence of Schygulla’s character when he refers to Maria as a Mother Courage type who wouldn’t be caught dead pulling a cart. The most important characteristic of The Marriage of Maria Braun is its ability to successfully blend the elements of classical melodrama with aspects of modernist theory and contemporary social-political themes. Fassbinder has not only prolonged the life of the melodramatic mode, but has also embedded the sometimes confusing characteristics of an alienating modernism into the ro- mance of the melodrama. —Gretchen Elsner-Sommer 8? (EIGHT AND A HALF) See 8? (OTTO E MEZZO) ELIPPATHAYAM (The Rat Trap) India, 1981 Director: Adoor Gopalakrishnan Production: General Films; Eastmancolour, 35mm; running time: 121 minutes. Producer: Ravi; screenplay: Adoor Gopalakrishnan; photography: Ravi Varma; editor: M. Mani; assistant directors: Meera, Mohan, Babu; art director: Sivan; music: M. B. Srinivasan; sound record- ing: Deva Das, Chandran, Suresh; costumes: Ganeshan. Cast: Karamani (Unni); Sarada (Rajamma); Jalaja (Sridevi); Rajam K. Nair (Janamma); Prakash (Janamma’s son); Sonan (Estate Manager). ELIPPATHAYAM FILMS, 4 th EDITION 374 Elippathayam Publications Articles: Variety (New York), 10 February 1982. Daney, Serge, in Cahiers du Cinéma (Paris), March 1982. Pulleine, T., Monthly Film Bulletin (London), November 1984. Dissanayake, W., ‘‘Self and Modernization in Malayalam Cinema,’’ in East-West (Honolulu), June 1987. Film a Doba (Prague), October 1989. ‘‘Not So Servile: Indian Films (Film Industry in India),’’ in Econo- mist, vol. 331, no. 7863, 14 May 1994. Ganguly, S., ‘‘Mapping Interiors: An Interview with Adoor Gopalakrishnan,’’ in Asian Cinema (Drexel Hill), no. 1, 1997. Tournès, Andrée, and Lucien Logette, ‘‘Pesaro 1997,’’ in Jeune Cinéma (Paris), May-June 1998. *** Gopalakrishnan’s melodrama hinges around the paranoic central character of Unni. Utterly dependent for the running of his home, and for his personal needs on his unmarried sister Rajamma, Unni demonstrates his pathological insecurities with, for example, a horror of getting mud on his spotless clothing, of cows entering his ancestral yard, and through his utter inability to intervene into—or even address—the growing difficulties posed to his family by a decaying feudal system. His elder sister arrives asking for a division of the family property; his coconut grove is invaded by thieves; his youngest sister Sridevi elopes with a flashy youth working in the Middle East. Eventually, when Rajamma collapses under the strain, Unni withdraws, literally like a rat into a hole. The motif of the rat trap is written large into the film. It begins with a whimpering Unni, calling for assistance when a rat enters his room, and replicates the early chase for the rat with the villagers chasing Unni himself in the film’s end. This is Adoor Gopalakrishnan’s third feature, his first in colour, and the film that established him as one of India’s foremost indepen- dent directors. His first two, Swayamvaram (1972) and Kodiyettam (1977), were both melodramas, in which he worked with a specific, relatively unchanging style: with a few characters, an episodic narrative, and a style of quite literally shooting close to his central characters. He tries a larger expanse here, with a circular, slow pattern of shooting: typically through close-ups, tracking cutaways onto the different characters of his plot, thereby creating a series of narrative bridges from person to person, space to space. The spaces are patches of light and dark, and the soundtrack often consists of isolated units of realist effects and long silences. The result is a numbing, obsessive style, which is the only way his drama—which actually features something as abstract as a decaying feudal system—can focus on specific characters, and from them onto a loaded, obvious, repeatedly mentioned, metaphoric image of the rat caught in a trap. Crucial to the understanding of the film is the fact that Unni comes from Kerala’s Nair community: the community that, together with the Namboodiris (Brahmins) formed the land-owning class of the state. Historically a military caste, later moving towards administrative service with the formation of a modern state in Travancore (now Southern Kerala), the Nairs are most distinctive for their matrilineal family structure ‘‘so loosely arranged as to raise doubts as to whether ‘marriage’ existed at all’’ (Nossiter, 1982). It was, as Nossiter shows, the end of a long era: ‘‘the ending of the warrior role, the abolition of agrestic slavery, the growth of a money economy, and the impact of Western education that combined to undermine the relevance of Nair traditions. The young men of the tarawad (joint family) were con- demned to idleness; the management of the estates was more difficult; the expenses of customary practices more burdensome; and the competition of rival communities, notably the Syrian Christians and Ezhavas, more challenging.’’ Most of these issues are directly illustrated by Gopalakrishnan’s plotting: Unni’s undefined marital status, his effort to keep Rajamma under his control when the three sisters—notably the eldest, Janamma— have clear rights to the family property, the thief Meenakshi’s barely concealed effort to seduce the vacillating hero, Janamma’s son Ravikuttan smoking idly behind the barn. In this, to some extent, the film adheres to an established literary genre pioneered by the noted novelist M. T. Vasudevan Nair, featuring the Nair community’s decline in several existentialist stories (some of which he later adapted to film). The film, however, differs from that established genre in signifi- cant ways: particularly in consonance with Gopalakrishnan’s contro- versial next movie, Mukha Mukham (1984). The Nair community, it is known, were among the strongest supporters of Congress, Congress socialist, and Communist parties during the turbulent 1940s that effectively saw Travancore catapult directly from a re- gressive, authoritarian feudal state into one ruled by a communist LES ENFANTS DU PARADISFILMS, 4 th EDITION 375 agenda. Gopalakrishnan, it is arguable, attempts in both these films, Elippathayam and Mukha Mukham, to create something like a back- dated social reform for a people who saw no measured historical transition into modernity. It is as though he critiques feudalism in his state, but from a perspective that sees Kerala’s emergence into modernity as a process that it had no means to comprehend. It is as though he now wishes to provide his people with that perspective through using his cinema, his slow visuals and soundtrack, so that the tragedy of Unni could itself be bracketed through a metaphor, for defining—but also evacuating—that tragic, existential, history of noncomprehension. —Ashish Rajadhyaksha THE EMPIRE STRIKES BACK See STAR WARS SAGA THE END OF ST. PETERSBURG See KONYETS SANKTA-PETERBURGA LES ENFANTS DU PARADIS (The Children of Paradise) France, 1945 Director: Marcel Carné Production: S. N. Pathé Cinema; black and white, 35mm; running time: originally 195 minutes for both parts, current version—Part I is 100 minutes, Part II is 86–88 minutes; length: current versions—Part I is 9066 feet, Part II is 7762 feet. Released 9 March 1945, Paris. Filming began August 1943, but was interrupted by WWII, resuming 9 November 1943; filmed in Joinville studios, Paris, La Victorine studios in Nice, and on an outdoor set constructed by Carné’s crew in Nice. Screenplay: Jacques Prévert; scenario structure: Marcel Carné, from an original idea by Marcel Carné and Jacques Prévert; photog- raphy: Marc Fossard and Roger Hubert; editors: Henri Rust and Madeleine Bonin; sound engineer: Robert Teisseire; production designers: Léon Barsacq, Raymond Gabutti, and Alexandre Trauner; music: Joseph Kosma, Maurice Thierte and Georges Mouque; music director: Charles Munch; costume designer: Antoine Mayo. Cast: Jean Louis Barrault (Baptiste Debureau); Arletty (Garance); Pierre Brasseur (Frederick Lama?tre); Marcel Herrand (Lacenaire); Pierre Renoir (Jericho); Fabien Loris (Avril); Louis Salou (Count de Montray); Maria Cassares (Nathalie); Etienne Decroux (Anselm Debureau); Jeanne Marken (Madame Hermine); Gaston Modot (Blind Man); Pierre Palau (Director); Albert Remy (Scarpia Barigni); Paul Frankeur (Inspector of Police). Award: Venice Film Festival, Special Mention, 1946. Publications Scripts: Prévert, Jacques, and Marcel Carné, Les enfants du paradis, in Avant- Scène du Cinéma (Paris), July-September 1967; also as Children of Paradise, New York, 1968. Carné, Marcel, Children of Paradise, New York, 1988. Books: Beranger, Jean-Louis, Marcel Carné, Paris, 1945. Sadoul, Georges, French Film, Paris, 1947. Quéval, Jean, Marcel Carné, Paris, 1952. Landry, Bernard, Marcel Carné: Sa vie, ses films, Paris, n.d. Garbicz, Adam, and Jacek Klinowski, editors, Cinema, The Magic Vehicle: A Guide to Its Achievements: Journey 1, the Cinema Through 1949, Metuchen, New Jersey, 1975. Armes, Roy, French Cinema Since 1946: The Great Tradition, New York, 1976. Barsacq, Leon, Caligari’s Cabinet and Other Grand Illusions: A His- tory of Film Design, New York, 1976. Perez, Michel, Les films de Carné, Paris, 1986. Turk, Edward B., Child of Paradise: Marcel Carné and the Golden Age of French Cinema, Cambridge, Massachusetts, 1989. Forbes, Jill, Les enfants du paradis, London, 1997. Articles: Sadoul, Georges, in Lettres Fran?aises (Paris), 17 March 1945. Manvell, Roger, in Sight and Sound (London), Spring 1946. Phillips, James, in Hollywood Quarterly, July 1946. New York Times, 20 February 1947. Variety (New York), 26 February 1947. Lambert, Gavin, ‘‘Marcel Carné,’’ in Sequence (London), Spring, 1948. Bodian, Alan, in Village Voice (New York), 23 November 1955. Agee, James, in Agee on Film 1, New York, 1958. Hedges, William, in Film Quarterly (Berkeley), Summer 1959. Stanbrook, Alan, ‘‘The Carné Bubble,’’ in Film (London), Novem- ber-December 1959. Durgnat, Raymond, in Films and Filming (London), October 1965. ‘‘Les enfants du paradis Issue’’ of Avant-Scène du Cinéma (Paris), July-September 1967. Chaumeton, E., in Cahiers du Cinéma (Paris), Winter 1973. LES ENFANTS DU PARADIS FILMS, 4 th EDITION 376 Les enfants du paradis LES ENFANTS DU PARADISFILMS, 4 th EDITION 377 Lefèvre, Raymond, in Cinéma (Paris), February 1974. Turk, E. B., ‘‘The Birth of Children of Paradise,’’ in American Film (Washington D.C.), July-August 1979. Oms, Marcel, ‘‘Les enfants du paradis: La Mutation cinématographique du mélodrame,’’ in Cahiers de la Cinématheque (Perpignan), no. 28, 1979. Chion, M., ‘‘Le Dernier mot du muet,’’ in Cahiers du Cinéma (Paris), December 1981. Freadman, A., ‘‘Reading the Visual,’’ in Framework (London), nos. 30–31, 1986. Szots, I., ‘‘Komamasszony, hol az ollo?,’’ in Filmkultura (Budapest), no. 1, 1990. Zagari, P., ‘‘Carné e Resnais echi dal boulevard,’’ in Cinema Nuovo (Rome), March-April 1990. Stonehill, Brian, ‘‘Forbidden Games,’’ in Film Comment (New York), November-December 1991. Turan, Kenneth, ‘‘Children of Paradise Regained,’’ in Los Angeles Times, 16 January 1992. Sellier, Genevieve, ‘‘Les enfants du Paradis dans le cinema de l’occupation,’’ in 1895, no. 22, July 1997. Vincendeau, G., ‘‘Paradise Regained,’’ in Sight and Sound (London), vol. 7, 1997. *** Marcel Carné described his greatest work, Les enfants du paradis, as a ‘‘tribute to the theatre,’’ and the story breathes with the very life and soul of French theatrical tradition. Three of its characters are based on historical personages famous during the reign of Louis- Phillippe (two actors, the pantomimist, Debureau and the ambitious romantic actor, Frederick Lema?tre, and a debonair but ruthless criminal known as Lacenaire). Their meeting ground is Paris in the vicinity of the Théatre des Funambules, in the Boulevard du Temple, sometimes called the Boulevard du Crime because it was the scene for many unsolved thefts and murders. A quarter of a mile of street fronts, as well as the complete theater, were constructed at great cost. The film, made during the Nazi occupation of Paris, took over two years to complete. Production was often deliberately sabotaged, or halted because actors had disappeared and had either to be found again or their roles re-cast. Some performers active in the Resistance arranged to have their scenes shot secretly. The Nazis, anxious to keep film production active in France, were more than willing to cooperate. German films were not patronized by the French people, and the Nazis decided that making films in the French language was essential to the Occupation. Over 350 feature films were shot in occupied France, and the most ambitious of these was Les enfants du paradis, yet Carné contrived to slow up produc- tion, sometimes deliberately hiding key reels already shot from Nazi supervisors, waiting hopefully for the Germans to be forced to evacuate Paris before the film was premiered. On March 9, 1945, Les enfants du paradis was finally presented in Paris, the first important movie premiere after the end of the Occupa- tion. It was received with adoration by the public. Comprised of two parts, each of which is feature-length, the film’s running time was originally 195 minutes. This shortened by 45 minutes when the picture was first shown in New York. Most of the edited film was later restored, and prints of Les enfants du paradis now run 188 minutes. The genesis for the story occurred in Cannes during the second year of the Occupation when actor Jean-Louis Barrault met over lunch with director Carné and screenwriter Jacques Prévert. When Barrault learned that they were seeking a subject for filming, he suggested a story be written about Debureau, who had been France’s greatest pantomimist. (In 1950, Sacha Guitry, forced into inactivity during the immediate postwar years, would create a play on this subject in verse.) Carné and Prévert’s fame was established by three fatalistic, romantic melodramas, Quai des brumes, H?tel du nord and Le jour se lève, generally considered to exemplify ‘‘poetic realism.’’ Under the Occupation such films were banned, and they turned to a radically different style of period spectacle, first seen in the medieval fable Les visiteurs du soir. The scope of the movie envisioned by Carné, Prévert and Barrault was very wide. Its message—that the drama could only flourish where men are free—required a subtlety of interpretation that eluded the Nazi mind; otherwise they would never have authorized production of the film. The script is one of Prévert’s finest, full of wit and aphorism; farce and tragedy are effortlessly combined. Carné’s handling of both his all-star cast and the complex crowd scenes is masterly. In French, ‘‘paradis’’ is the colloquial name for the gallery or second balcony in a theater, where common people sat and viewed a play, responding to it honestly and boisterously. The actors played to these gallery gods, hoping to win their favor, the actor himself thus being elevated to an Olympian status. The French theatre at the time was as Dumas knew it, and as Balzac subsequently wrote about it. It was a theatre for the people, catering to their romantic and extravagant tastes. Mountebanks, clowns, and courtesans quickened its rich blood. Debureau, whose father was an actor, became the idol of his time, touching the emotions of his public with a few well-timed gestures. He rose to fame at the same time as Lema?tre captured the fancy of the nation. Their fates mingled with that of the daring criminal, Lacenaire. All three loved and were loved, however briefly, by Garance, the beautiful adventuress idolized as an actress. In the film she is presented as a woman who rejects those men who try to possess her. However, only when she learns that Debureau is the father of a young son does she abandon her hold on him, relinquishing him to his wife and child while she pursues a new chapter in her life, praying that it will lead her to ultimate freedom. Garance becomes a forerunner of this century’s emanci- pated woman, a sophisticate knowing everything about living, and resisting all attempts to control her. Had the Germans even guessed that in authorizing production of Les enfants du paradis, they were condoning the exploits of a woman like Garance, they would have withdrawn their approval of the film immediately. She symbolized the activating spirit of the Free French, a spirit of revolt and independence, a spirit that can never be broken or subjugated, as Hitler’s generals soon learned. Beautifully cast, with the triumphant Arletty as Garance, the picture also boasts the presence of Jean-Louis Barrault as Debureau. He was the finest pantomimist of his generation in the French theatre, and he simply transferred his special gifts to the role he was playing. Handsome Pierre Brasseur is an immaculate Lema?tre, and Marcel Herrand offered a stunning portrayal of the criminal. Lovely Maria Casarès is very appealing as the wife of Debureau. All in all, Les enfants du paradis, in spite of its large canvas, remains a very intimate study of the French theatre, inviting its DER ENGEL MIT DER POSAUNE FILMS, 4 th EDITION 378 audience not only to know and appreciate its people, but also acquainting them with the Free French spirit. —DeWitt Bodeen DER ENGEL MIT DER POSAUNE (The Angel with the Trumpet) Austria, 1948 Director: Karl Hartl Production: Vindobona Film; black and white, 35mm; length: 3370 meters. Released 19 August 1948 in Salzburg, Austria. Producer: Karl Ehrlich; screenplay: Karl Hartl, Franz Tassié, from the novel by Ernst Lothar; photography: Günther Anders; art directors: Otto Niedermoser, Walter Schmiedl; music arranger: Willy Schmidt-Gentner. Cast: Paula Wessely (Henriette Alt); Attila H?rbiger (Franz Alt); Oskar Werner (Hermann Alt); Hans Holt (Hans Alt); Maria Schell Der Engel mit der Posaune (Selma Rosner); Paul H?rbiger (Otto Eberhard Alt); Helene Thimig (Gretel Paskiewicz); Carl Günther (Oberst Paskiewiecz); Hedwig Bleibtreu (Sophie Alt); Fred Liewehr (Kronprinz Rudolf); Curd Jürgens (Count Poldo Traun); Gustav Waldau (Simmerl); Karlheinz B?hm (son of Hans); Hermann Erhardt (Drauffen, painter); Adrienne Gessner (Countess Pauline Metternich); Karl Paryla (Czerny, worker); Erni Mangold (Martha Monica Alt). Awards: Sascha-Pokal, Vienna, 1948; Venice Festival, 1948. Publications Books: Lothar, Ernst, Angel with the Trumpet, New York, 1944. Lothar, Ernst, Das Wunder des überlebens, Vienna and Hamburg, 1961. *** On August 19, 1948, people in the American occupation zone in Salzburg, Austria, could witness the premiere of a film which claimed to be an Austrian national epos, spanning the time from the suicide of Crown Prince Rudolf in Mayerling in 1889 to the present. The film was based on a novel of the same name by Ernst Lothar (1890–1974), a successful Austrian writer, theater director, and friend of Max Reinhardt. Like so many others, Lothar had to flee into exile in the United States in 1938. He joined the American army to return to Austria as soon as possible, and in June 1946 he arrived in Vienna charged with reviving the theaters, operas, and the Salzburg festival. He also took part in the de-Nazification of actors and musicians. Lothar had published his book in English during his American emigration; the German edition also met with success. He wanted to expose the scandals hidden behind the attractive baroque facade of the Viennese home of the wealthy Alt family, decorated by the angel with the trumpet. This house symbolizes Austria: The piano manufacturer Franz Alt and his brother Otto Eberhard imitate the Emperor Franz Joseph’s dedication to the status quo and suffocation of progressive ideas; Franz’s wife Henriette lives a life of outward submission and deception; their son Hans, well-meaning but without orientation, represents the typical Austrian, in Lothar’s view. Lothar entrusted the filming to the experienced director Karl Hartl, the production head of Wien-Film during the Nazi era from 1938 to 1945, although he himself was no Nazi. Hartl gathered prominent actors of divergent ideological positions: returned exiles like Helene Thimig, Max Reinhardt’s widow who also directed the Salzburg Festival, and Adrienne Gessner, Lothar’s wife, as well as Paula Wessely and Attila H?rbiger, who had starred in the notorious anti-Semitic Nazi film Heimkehr (1940). It is at least surprising, if not tactless and inappropriate, that Wessely would play Henriette, this half-Jewish woman who ultimately fell victim to the Nazis. But Lothar himself reports in his autobiography, Das Wunder des überlebens, that the Americans wanted Wessely for this role as a means of restoring her acting career: they considered the film ENTOTSU NO MIERU BASHOFILMS, 4 th EDITION 379 a vehicle for helping Austrians to overcome the past. The filming promoted reconciliation over the settling of accounts. The Austrian past is mirrored in the family history of the Alts and their four-story villa in the first district of Vienna. When Franz Alt, neither young nor good-looking, marries Henriette, the worldly daughter of a Jewish university professor, he knows that she had been close to Crown Prince Rudolf. However, as a patriarchal male, he never suspects that Rudolf had been his wife’s great love and that she only married him when she recognized that there would be no life with Rudolf. The wedding is interrupted by the news of the Crown Prince’s sudden death at Mayerling. Henriette knows that the prince committed suicide because of his father’s mistreatment, but at her audience with the emperor she consoles him with the lie that he did not cause his son’s death. Several years later, the bored Henriette begins an affair—portrayed as platonic in the film, in contrast to the book—with Rudolf’s friend Count Poldo Traun. The wordly count makes her all the more conscious of the restricted life in which she is trapped. When by chance her husband discovers the relationship, he challenges Count Traun to a duel, kills him, and then calmly returns to his business as usual. The end of World War I brings not only the collapse of the monarchy and with it the value system of the Alts, but also claims other sacrifices: Franz has become paralyzed; Hans, a prisoner of war, does not return for six years but at any rate healthy; Hermann becomes a weapons dealer and Hitler follower. Hans takes control of the family piano factory, marries an aspiring pianist, and has a family with her. In 1938, when three Nazi storm troopers try to arrest Henriette, the old woman throws herself out of the window. Lothar’s book is more brutal: she is strangled by the Nazis. In 1945 Vienna lies in ruins from the bombing attacks. Only the angel with the trumpet projecting out of the rubble marks the Alt House. Hans, who now has a grown family, expresses modest optimism for the future to his workers and his children, speaking for Austria as well as for his business. He personifies the self-righteous Austria that is not conscious of any guilt. The film offers a tame version of Ernst Lothar’s angry, unsparing book. The splendid performance of Paula Wessely also leads the film in the direction of the usual lighthearted Viennese film; Henriette appears as a positive heroine, which she definitely is not in Lothar’s novel. Most viewers therefore accept the film as a generational love story set in Old Vienna rather than as a mirror of the darker side of the Austrian soul and of Austrian history. Numerous compromises were made to ensure the film’s commer- cial success. Since film had become prudish in the late 1940s and the 1950s, care was taken to avoid offensive or controversial topics. In the book Henriette had sexual relationships with the Crown Prince and Count Traun, but the film pretends that these relationships stayed platonic. Neither is Hans the wholesome character portrayed in the film. In the book his wife Selma continues her career as an actress at the Burgtheater, while in the film she sacrifices her career as a pianist to devote herself solely to her family. Her representation as the virtuous German hausfrau reflects involuntarily that, perhaps uncon- sciously, the female role model of the Third Reich was still present in the fifties. The Aryanization of the Alts’ piano factory is never mentioned in the film. Clearly, one did not want to stir up such matters. Hermann’s attraction to Nazism is glossed over by explaining that his character was damaged in the First World War. His preference for modern American dances instead of classical music proves he has a criminal character, the same naive suggestion made in some 1950s Heimatfilme which equate bad character with modern music or art. The film tries to serve the purpose of reconciliation by explaining the difficult political ordeal which Austria had to undergo in a relatively short time span. The success of the film induced Sir Alexander Korda, who knew Hartl from the time they worked together for the Austrian film pioneer Count Sascha Kolowrat, to produce a British version, The Angel with the Trumpet (1950). Only the actors of minor roles were retained, including Maria Schell and Oskar Werner, for whom this film signified the beginning of their international career. —Gertraud Steiner Daviau THE ENIGMA OF KASPAR HAUSER See JEDER FUR SICH UND GOTT GEGEN ALLE ENTOTSU NO MIERU BASHO (Where Chimneys Are Seen; The Four Chimneys) Japan, 1953 Director: Heinosuke Gosho Production: Studio 8 Productions and Shin Toho Co.; black and white, 35mm; running time: 108 minutes; length: 9678 feet. Released 5 March 1953, Japan. Filmed in Japan. Producer: Yoshishige Uchiyama; screenplay: Hideo Ogunil, from the novel Mujaki na Hitobito by Rinzo Shiina; assistant director: Akira Miwa; photography: Mitsuo Miura; editor: Nobu Nagata; sound: Yuji Dogen; art director: Tomoo Shimogahara; music: Yasushi Akutagawa. Cast: Ken Uehara (Ryukichi Ogata); Kinuyo Tonaka (Hiroko Oyata); Hiroshi Akutagawa (Kengo Kubo); Hideko Takamine (Senko Azuma); Cheiko Seki (Yukiko Ikeda); Haruo Tanaka (Chujiro Tsukahara); Ranko Hanai (Katsuko Ishibashi). Awards: Kinema Jumpo, Tokyo Citizen Film Concours Prize, 1953; Berlin Film Festival, International Peace Prize, 1954. Publications Books: Mellen, Joan, The Waves at Genji’s Door, New York, 1976. Bock, Audie, Japanese Film Directors, New York, 1978; revised edition, Tokyo, 1985. ENTR’ACTE FILMS, 4 th EDITION 380 Garbicz, Adam, and Jack Klinowski, editors, Cinema, The Magic Vehicle: A Guide to Its Achievements: Journey 2, Metuchen, New Jersey, 1979. Anderson, Joseph, and Donald Richie, The Japanese Film: Art and Industry, revised edition, Princeton, 1982. Articles: Anderson, Joseph, and Donald Richie, ‘‘The Films of Heinosuke Gosho,’’ in Sight and Sound (London), Autumn 1956. Gillett, John, ‘‘Coca-Cola and the Golden Pavilion,’’ in Sight and Sound (London), Summer 1970. Gillett, John, ‘‘Heinosuke Gosho,’’ in Film Dope (London), April 1980. Tessier, Max, ‘‘Heinosuke Gosho,’’ in Image et Son (Paris), June 1981. Chevrie, Marc, ‘‘1. Gosho, cinéaste de la réconciliation,’’ in Cahiers du Cinéma (Paris), March 1984. Le Fanu, Mark, ‘‘To Love Is to Suffer,’’ in Sight & Sound (London), Summer 1986. Calderale, Mario, ‘‘Sette giorni di nome Gosho,’’ in Segnocinema (Vicenza), September 1989. Johnson, William, ‘‘The Splitting Image,’’ in Film Comment (New York), January-February 1991. *** The film’s title Where Chimneys are Seen, refers to an industrial- residential area in Tokyo’s downtown, where a set of huge chimneys is a familiar sight to its lower-middle-class inhabitants. The protago- nist discovers that, according to where you are, the number of these chimneys varies from one to four. This observation typifies the philosophy of Rinzo Shiina (who wrote the original story) that nothing is absolutely true or false; everybody has to believe some- thing or pretend to. Director Heinosuke Gosho takes splendid advan- tage of his most familiar subject, the life of ordinary people, and elegantly portrays their humor and pathos. The story develops around the four main characters; Ryukichi, an honest salesman at a wholesale socks store; his diligent wife Hiroko whose previous marriage was unofficially terminated by her hus- band’s disappearance during the war; their young upstairs lodgers, Kengo, a serious and good natured tax officer, and Senko, a pretty and vivacious bargain announcer on a commercial street. As Gosho seems to be more interested in depicting each character’s personality and emotional situation and their interrelationships than in detailing a completed plot, he successfully makes the viewer feel intimate with these likable and good-willed people. The film’s light and humorous tone is first manifested in the opening narration by Ryukichi. In an aerial shot, the camera shows us downtown Tokyo, focusing on Ryukichi’s busy neighborhood with its small houses packed together; his usual neighbors are presented as a constant yet unwitting source of humor (e.g., the weird, loud morning chanting of a religious leader and the radio repairman with seven children). Finally his modest household is shown, and the habitual peace is broken by the sudden appearance of the baby left by Hiroko’s previous husband to Hiroko and Ryukichi. Though it obviously creates tension between the couple, ultimately the baby becomes a symbol of unification: the childless couple confirm their love through their care for the sick baby; Kengo’s (the young man upstairs) voluntary efforts to locate the baby’s parents make Senko aware of his character, thus drawing the couple closer together; and the baby’s mother finally realizes her responsibility to reclaim the baby. The film’s narrative structure involves numerous episodes which look simplistic, but cumulatively show the charms of everyday life. A memorable example is the scene in which Senko plays with pencils on Kengo’s desk during their conversation on his daily, frustrating search for the baby’s parents. This scene is noteworthy not only for its intimate humor, but also for its meditative effect, for the pencils, like the chimney, make Senko realize the relativity of life. Another good example is the scene in which Senko’s modern girlfriend follows an older woman on the river bank—after the older one’s sandal gets broken, the other also takes off one of her shoes. This lame pair create a wryly humorous image through their leisurely walking in the airy, bright morning light. Gosho here, as in his other films, makes use of many close ups to indicate the subtle expressions of its characters. He also uses occa- sional long shots and long takes. Particularly effective is a long-shot sequence from a bus window where Kengo, after an exhausting search, notices the mystery of the chimneys. The fluidly vibrating image of the chimneys as the scenery swiftly passes is visually refreshing. This film distinctively reflects the Japanese film’s shomin-geki genre (films about the lives of ordinary people), with its superb characterizations, successful portrayal of everyday life and emotions, rich depiction of details and the particular bittersweet atmosphere created by skillful timing, comfortable pace and excellent acting. Overall, the film displays Gosho’s belief that the sincere efforts of good people are understood and rewarded. This film not only has won the highest critical acclaim, but has also remained one of the most beloved of Gosho’s films in Japan. —Kyoko Hirano ENTR’ACTE France, 1924 Director: René Clair Production: Black and white, 35mm, silent; running time: 22 min- utes. Released 1924, at the Theatre des Champs Elysées between acts of the ballet ‘‘Relache’’ by Francis Picabia as performed by the Ballets Suédois, Paris. Re-released 1968 with musical soundtrack directed by Henri Sauguet. Filmed 1924 in and around Paris. Producer: Rolf de Maré; scenario: from an outline by Francis Picabia, adapted by René Clair; photography: Jimmy Berliet; edi- tor: René Clair; music composed specially for the film: Erik Satie. Cast: Jean Borlin; Francis Picabia; Man Ray; Marcel Duchamp; Erik Satie; Marcel Achard; Pierre Scize; Louis Touchagues; Rolf de Maré; Roger Lebon; Mamy; Georges Charensol; Mlle. Friis. ENTR’ACTEFILMS, 4 th EDITION 381 Publications Scripts: A Nous la liberté, and Entr’acte: Films by René Clair, New York, 1970. Clair: Four Screenplays, New York, 1970. Books: Viazzi, G., René Clair, Milan, 1946. Bourgeois, J., René Clair, Geneva, 1949. Charensol, Georges, and Roger Regent, Un Ma?tre du cinéma: René Clair, Paris, 1952. Solmi, A., Tre maestri del cinema, Milan, 1956. De la Roche, Catherine, René Clair: An Index, London, 1958. Amengual, Barthélemy, René Clair, Paris, 1963; revised edition, 1969. Mitry, Jean, René Clair, Paris, 1969. Samuels, Charles Thomas, Encountering Directors, New York, 1972. McGerr, Celia, René Clair, Boston, 1980. Barrot, Olivier, René Clair; ou, Le Temps mesuré, Renens, Switzer- land, 1985. Greene, Naomi, René Clair: A Guide to References and Resources, Boston, 1985. Dale, R.C., The Films of René Clair, Metuchen, New Jersey, 2 vols., 1986. Articles: New Republic (New York), 15 September 1926. Potamkin, Harry, ‘‘René Clair and Film Humor,’’ in Hound and Horn (New York), October-December 1932. Causton, Bernard, ‘‘A Conversation with René Clair,’’ in Sight and Sound (London), Winter 1932–33. Jacobs, Lewis, ‘‘The Films of René Clair,’’ in New Theatre (New York), February 1936. Lambert, Gavin, ‘‘René Clair,’’ in Sequence (London), Winter 1948–49. ‘‘Clair Issue’’ of Bianco e Nero (Rome), August-September 1951. Ford, Charles, ‘‘Cinema’s First Immortal,’’ in Films in Review (New York), November 1960. ‘‘Picabia, Satie, et la première d’Entr’acte,’’ in Avant-Scène du Cinéma (Paris), November 1968. Beylie, Claude, ‘‘Entr’acte, le film sans ma?tre,’’ in Cinéma (Paris), February 1969. Gallez, D. W., ‘‘Satie’s Entr’acte: A Model of Film Music,’’ in Cinema Journal (Evanston, Illinois), no. 1, 1976. Carroll, No?l, ‘‘Entr’acte, Paris, and Dada,’’ in Millenium (New York), Winter 1977–78. Dale, R. C., ‘‘René Clair’s Entr’acte, or Motion Victorious,’’ in Wide Angle (Athens, Ohio), no. 2, 1978. Brunius, Jacques, in Travelling (Lausanne), Summer 1979. Sandro, P., ‘‘Parodic Narration in Entr’acte,’’ in Film Criticism (Meadville, Pennsylvania), no. 1, 1979. Magill’s Survey of Cinema: Silent Films, Englewood Cliffs, New Jersey, 1982. Amengual, Barthélemy, ‘‘Entr’acte et ses mystères,’’ in Avant-Scène du Cinéma (Paris), 1 February 1982. Herpe, No?l, ‘‘René Clair ou l’or du silence,’’ in Positif (Paris), February 1993. Trémois, Claude-Marie, ‘‘La belle époque de René Clair,’’ in Télérama (Paris), 8 September 1993. Faulkner, Christopher, ‘‘René Clair, Marcel Pagnol and the Social Dimension of Speech,’’ in Screen (Oxford), Summer 1994. Clair, R., ‘‘De Stroheim a Chaplin,’’ in Positif (Paris), January 1998. *** In November of 1924, Paris anticipated another performance by The Swedish Ballet, a company which had outraged its audience since its residency began in 1920. The centerpiece of one particular evening was to be a new work created by Francis Picabia, the Dadaist artist. When Picabia learned that the opening night might be obstructed by censors, he ruefully entitled the work Relache, or Theatre Closed or Performance Suspended. When the event did not take place on the announced night (due to an illness rather than censorship), patrons surmised this to be simply another Dadaist prank. Opening night finally did occur, and the events became firmly inscribed in French cultural history. That infamous evening included a screening of the film Entr’acte. Shown between the two acts of Relache, it was greeted with as much hissing and booing as it was with applause; the Dadaist philosophy, based in part on offending its audience, was once again triumphantly realized. While Relache remained mostly unknown until the Joffrey Ballet revived it in New York City during its 1980 season, Entr’acte has long since become a staple of film classes as an example of the French avant-garde cinema of the 1920s and as the prime exemplification of the Dada spirit in the film. In his search for ‘‘pure’’ cinema, René Clair followed the Dadaist approaches of photomontage (as advocated by John Heartfield—a technique which involved ‘‘the meeting place of a thousand spaces’’), and the random (as advocated by Tristan Tzara). True to those premises, Clair juxtaposed images and events as disparate as a chess game played by Marcel Duchamp and Man Ray, a cannon ignited by Erik Satie and Francis Picabia, a funeral where the coat of arms bearing the initials of Satie and Picabia was displayed, a ballerina, a sniper, inflatable balloon heads, the Luna Park rollercoaster, etc. These events were shot from a number of angles (including the ballerina from below through a plate of glass), and at varying speeds (from Satie and Picabia jumping toward the cannon in slow motion to the funeral procession racing off at the speed of the Keystone cops). While the images stressed the content as play, the director stressed the style as playfulness. Through his film Clair invoked the entire catalogue of available cinematic techniques, abandoned the notion of narrative causality, and in true Dadaist style, espoused the overthrow of the bourgeois norm. The audience was assaulted with a series of non-related and often provocative images—from a ‘‘legless’’ man rising from his wagon and running away at full tilt, to a ballerina transformed into a bearded man—within a work which stressed the pleasure of inventing new spatial and temporal relations while provoking random laughter. While Clair often referred to this film as ‘‘visual babblings,’’ audiences of today can see the film as a serious attempt to subvert traditional values, both cinematic and social. —Doug Tomlinson ERASERHEAD FILMS, 4 th EDITION 382 EQUINOX FLOWER See HIGANBANA ERASERHEAD USA, 1976 Director: David Lynch Production: David Lynch, AFI Centre for Advanced Film Studies; black and white, 16mm; running time: 89 minutes. Filmed in Los Angeles, 1971–76. Producer: David Lynch; screenplay: David Lynch; photography: Frederick Elmes, Herbert Cardwell; editor: David Lynch; produc- tion designer: David Lynch; sound: Alan Splet; special effects: David Lynch; special photographic effects: Frederick Elmes; art director: Jack Fisk. Cast: Jack Nance (Henry Spencer); Charlotte Stewart (Mary); Allan Joseph (Bill); Jeanne Bates (Mary’s mother). Publications Books: Peary, Danny, Cult Movies, New York, 1983. Hoberman, J., and Jonathan Rosenbaum, Midnight Movies, New York, 1983. Samuels, Stuart, Midnight Movies, New York, 1983. Kaleta, Kenneth, David Lynch, New York, 1992. Alexander, John, The Films of David Lynch, London, 1993. Lynch, David, Images, New York, 1994. Chion, Michel, David Lynch, Bloomington, 1995. Nochimson, Martha P., The Passion of David Lynch, Austin, 1997. Woods, Paul A., Weirdsville U.S.A., London, 1997. Rodley, Chris, Lynch on Lynch, New York, 1999. Articles: Variety (New York), 23 March 1977. Taylor, D., Monthly Film Bulletin (London), March 1979. Braun, E., Films and Filming (London), April 1979. Island, Russ, Cinemonkey (Portland, Oregon), Spring 1979. Rosenbaum, J., ‘‘Eraserhead à New York,’’ in Cahiers du Cinéma (Paris), April 1981. Godwin, K. George, ‘‘Eraserhead: The Story behind the Strangest Film Ever Made and the Cinematic Genius Who Directed It,’’ in Cinefantastique (New York), September 1984. Angst, W., ‘‘David Lynch,’’ in Dark Movies, no. 6, 1989. Breskin, David, ‘‘The Rolling Stone Interview with David Lynch,’’ in Rolling Stone, no. 586, 6 September 1990. Thomas, J.D., ‘‘A Divide Erased,’’ in Village Voice (New York), 7 June 1994. Ostria, V., in Cahiers du Cinéma (Paris), July/August 1994. Satuloff, Bob, ‘‘Movie Memories,’’ in Christopher Street, no. 225, May 1995. Landrot, Marine, ‘‘Le ma?tre d’immonde: Eraserhead,’’ in Télérama (Paris), 18 October 1995. Poussu, Tarmo, in Filmihullu (Helsinki), no. 4–5, 1997. *** In Midnight Movies, which devotes an entire chapter to Eraserhead, Jonathan Rosenbaum and J. Hoberman describe David Lynch’s first feature as ‘‘an intellectual splatter film-cum-thirty-five-millimetre nightmare sitcom of the urban soul.’’ Significantly, mainly through footnotes, Rosenbaum and Hoberman qualify their account of the film as art work and cult case history with hints that neither of them like it all that much. In a ‘‘Personal View’’ accompanying a retrospec- tive piece in Cinefantastique, K. George Godwin compares Eraserhead with the archetypal midnight cult movie, Jim Sharman’s The Rocky Horror Picture Show (1975): They [the audience] come to laugh, to talk back at the screen, to participate. As the film begins, they are loud, jeering, laughing at any and everything . . . but as it progresses, the laughter thins, becomes more nervous and defensive. The film, for all of its weird humour, is not funny; it is strange, and its strangeness is of an unfamiliar kind. There is something uniquely disturbing about it, something which works even on those who have not come to take it seriously. Unlike Sharman’s film, Eraserhead steadfastly refuses to provide a com- munal experience . . . somehow it instead isolates the individual viewer, absorbs him into a nightmare of personal experience. Seeing Eraserhead is an unshared experience: it is as if the film plays not on the screen but inside one’s own head. Lynch is an American original, committed enough to his own vision to wagon-master Eraserhead through nearly seven years of low-budget production, persuading collaborators to endure severe hardships (actor Jack Nance sported his character’s Bride of Frankenstein quiff year after year as shooting continued) in the service of the end product. Eraserhead seems a free-form nightmare, but it has a tight narrative and strains for extreme technical sophistica- tion. Asked what inspired the film, Lynch, in typically reductive fashion, has cited Philadelphia, where he lived in a bad neighbourhood for a while. The urban nightmare, weighed down by alienation and physical disgust, is played out in dingy apartments whose windows afford views of brick walls, with few ventures out onto grimy industrial streets and occasional fantastic plunges into a vaudeville dreamland behind a hissing radiator. Henry Spencer (Nance), who adopts Lynch’s trademark blank stare, is on vacation from his job and finds himself drawn back into a relationship with Mary X (Charlotte Stewart), who invites him to her family apartment for a hideous ERASERHEADFILMS, 4 th EDITION 383 Eraserhead dinner where he is presented with a tiny living cooked chicken to carve and is also shown a rabbit-like skinless mutant Mary claims is his own baby. Mary and Henry move in together with the eternally- mewling creature, but Mary leaves and Henry has a strange tryst with the Beautiful Girl Across the Hall (Judith Anna Roberts) which segues into a dream in which Henry is decapitated from within by the parasitical baby and his head is mined for rubber to put on the ends of pencils. One of the film’s wryer ideas is the redundancy of featuring a ‘‘nightmare sequence’’ which is no more nor less realistic or fantastical than the surrounding scenes. In the climax, Henry tenta- tively dissects the baby, which disgorges a tide of excrement and a giant plant creature who could be the humourless twin of Audrey Jr. frm The Little Shop of Horrors (1960). Henry is sucked into the light where, in an almost upbeat touch repeated in Twin Peaks: Fire Walk with Me (1992), he is embraced by an angel, the fungus-cheeked Lady in the Radiator (Laurel Near). The whole story is bracketed by an observer, the Man in the Planet (art director Jack Fisk), who guides the audience into and out of Lynch’s private horror show. Of all the underground artist-turned-filmmakers, Lynch is the one who can also function as a Hollywood (or even television) profes- sional: Eraserhead was ‘‘written, produced, and directed’’ by its auteur. The film probes unhealthy spots and nightmare extremes but does so with a steady, professional fascination that refuses to be classed as trash: no Warholian letting the camera run on and on without caring what’s in front of it, no Kuchar Brothers home movie melodrama, no John Waters-ish community panto production values and strident amateur performances, no George Romero reliance on the conventions and concerns of low-rent horror films. These direc- tors and their collaborators, let alone other painter-cum-filmmakers like Derek Jarman, Michael Snow, or Peter Greenaway, have never risked Academy Award nominations while Lynch (a Best Director nominee for The Elephant Man) and several of his crew—art director Fisk, sound designer Alan Splet (who won an Oscar for his work on The Black Stallion, 1979), even set decorator Sissy Spacek—have secured resident alien status in Hollywood. Eraserhead is remarkably concentrated and consumed with dis- gust for the physical, free-associating weirdness as it plays out the grimy anecdote of Henry’s entrapment, destruction, and (perhaps) redemption. In subsequent work, from The Elephant Man (1980), through Dune (1984), Blue Velvet (1986), Wild at Heart (1990), and the Twin Peaks TV series and movie, Lynch would adopt a more mainstream disguise for his concerns, adding character (especially in EROICA FILMS, 4 th EDITION 384 The Elephant Man), colour (especially in Blue Velvet), and almost- warm wit (especially in Twin Peaks), increasingly embracing the trappings of popular culture (music, B movies, soap opera, horror films, pretty stars). Here, working in isolation from commercial cinema, he was either less compromizing or more recalcitrant, creating a work of slick strangeness which remains the dark heart of his developing oeuvre and whose almost subliminal artistic (and political) conservatism perhaps explains its lasting cult success. Withal, it remains—unlike much of Lynch’s later films—a work of genius it is impossible to love, so personal for its makers and its individual audience members that its many admirable or astonishing features still don’t make it a film whose world one cares to revisit at all often. —Kim Newman EROICA Poland, 1958 Director: Andrzej Munk Production: Film Polski, ZAF ‘‘Kadr,’’ and WFD (Warsaw); black and white, 35mm; running time: 87 minutes; length: 7787 feet. Filmed in Poland. Released January 1958. Producer: Stanis?aw Adler; screenplay: Jerzy Stefan Stawiński, from the collection of Stawiński’s short stories, Wegrzy and Ucieczka; photography: Jerzy Wójcik; editors: Jadwiga Zajiczek and Miros?awa Garlicka; sound: Bohdan Jankowski; art director: Jan Grandys; music: Jan Krenz. Cast: Scherzo alla polacca: Edward Dziewoński (Dzidziu? Górkiewicz); Barbara Polomska (Zosia Górkiewicz); Ignacy Machowski (Major Grzmet); Leon Niemszyk (Hungarian officer); Kazimierz Opaliński (Commander of Mokotów); Ostinato lugubre: Kazimierz Rudzki (Turek); Henryk Bak (Krygier); Mariusz Dmochowski (Korwin Makowski); Roman K?osowski (Szpakowski); Bogumil Kobiela (Lieu- tenant Dabecki); Józef Kostecki (Zak); Tadeusz Lomnicki (Lieuten- ant Zawistowski); Józef Nowak (Kurzawa); Wojciech Siemion (Marianek). Award: Prize of the International Film Press, the ‘‘Fipresci,’’ 1959. Publications Books: Haudiquet, Philippe, Nouveaux cinéastes polonais, Lyons, 1963. Andrzej Munk, Warsaw, 1964. Liehm, Antonin, and Mira Liehm, The Most Important Art: East European Film after 1945, Berkeley, 1977. Garbicz, Adam, and Jacek Klinowski, editors, Cinema, The Magic Vehicle: A Guide to Its Achievements: Journey 2, Metuchen, New Jersey, 1979. Historia filmu polskiego 4, Warsaw, 1981. Articles: Thirard, P.-L., ‘‘Experience du Cinéma polonais,’’ in Lettres Fran?aises (Paris), no. 790, 1959. Variety (New York), 20 May 1959. Sadoul, Georges, ‘‘Andrzej Munk,’’ in Lettres Fran?aises (Paris), no. 894, 1961. Sight and Sound (London), Autumn 1961. Monthly Film Bulletin (London), September 1961. Film (West Germany), August-September 1964. ‘‘Andrzej Munk Issue’’ of Etudes Cinématographiques (Paris), no. 45, 1965. Moullet, Luc, ‘‘Andrzej Munk,’’ in Cahiers du Cinema (Paris), February 1965. Brighton Film Review, April 1970. Gyula, K., in Filmkultura (Budapest), July-August 1975. Cieslar, J., ‘‘Andrzej Munk (1921–1961),’’ in Film a Doba (Prague), October 1981. Modrzejewska, E., in Iluzjion, no. 3, 1986. Film Dope (Nottingham), 1991. Kino (Warsaw), May and June, 1994. Litka, P., in Rezyser (Warsaw), no. 59, 1996. *** Eroica, Andrzej Munk’s third film, is based on the contemporary drama Czlowiek na torze. As in his debut Blekitny krzyz, he returns again to World War II for subject matter. The film consists of two parts, both of which deal with the theme of heroism which in a certain historical situation becomes myth. The initial episode, centered on the tragic Warsaw uprising of 1944, sounds a new note in Munk’s artistic method as well as for Polish cinema. It is the presentation of an ironic, sarcastic anti-hero and his deeds, a view that is quite exceptional within the body of Polish film that treated either the uprising or the war in general. The protagonist is a Warsaw good-for-nothing who is calculating and forever oscillating between cowardice and a utilitarian world view. Suddenly, and against his will, he becomes a hero. In drawing his character Munk does not obscure a single negative feature; in certain sections of the story Munk consistently emphasizes aspects of charac- ter and plot that lead the protagonist to greedy calculations of profit and loss. However, the hero is not a schematic one-dimensional character. At the moments when he sets aside his own principles to defend the uprising, Munk lends him a certain grandeur, which flows from the tragedy of the solitary deed that is ultimately useless and unnecessary. The director’s ability to find elements of the comic and the grotesque even in tragic events has enabled him to catch some of the paradoxes of the Warsaw uprising. However, the film is not a satire, as has been charged by some Polish critics. Munk does not mock his hero but shows how the atmosphere of the time can influence a totally unheroic individual and impel him to act. The second episode unfolds on a tragic plane. It takes place in a POW camp, where a significant moment in the joyless lives of the EROTIKONFILMS, 4 th EDITION 385 Eroica Polish officers occurs when the rumor that one of their comrades has managed to escape is heard. The story is false—the fugitive hides until his death inside the camp. Here Munk contemplates the meaning of an artificially sustained myth and, in this connection, examines and traces its influence on the entire camp. In this case, too, he is not demeaning the importance of the rumor; from the outset he even ascribes to it a certain power that should help the captives in their struggle for survival. Analysis of the mechanics of the story, however, gradually reveals its destructive nature, for it paralyzes activity and displaces courage and the will to act. The structure of Eroica is loosely built according to the rules of musical composition using contrastive means. The tragi-comic hero of the first novella, who belongs nowhere and to nobody, is placed in the boundless space of a large city in ruins, among streets that no longer have names; the viewer does not learn where these streets lead, where they end or where they begin. The officers of the second novella, on the other hand, move within a strictly limited geometric space tightly compressed into a tense order accented by non-dynamic compositions. These images not only convey hopelessness but also show the sophistication of the enemy, who suppress their opponents through psychological stress. They understand quite well that the worst punishment for prisoners is having to live with each other. One further note of interest: Eroica was supposed to have had three parts. The third section had a rather intricate and elusive story that unfolded in a mountain setting and involved a spurious nun. This novella, however, did not come up to the level of the first two, and Munk himself eliminated it from the film. —B. Urgosíkova EROTIKON (Bonds That Chafe) Sweden, 1920 Director: Mauritz Stiller Production: Svensk Filmindustri; black and white, 35mm, silent; length: 5998 feet. Released 8 November 1920, Sweden. Filmed in Sweden, theater scenes shot in Royal Opera House, Stockholm. Screenplay: Mauritz Stiller and Arthur Norden, from the play A Kék Róka by Ferenc Herczeg; photography: Henrik Jaenzon; produc- tion designers: Mauritz Stiller and Axel Esbensen; musical score which accompanies film: Kurt Atterburg. EROTIKON FILMS, 4 th EDITION 386 Erotikon Cast: Tora Teje (Irene Charpentier); Lars Hanson (Preben); Karin Molander (Marthe, the niece); Anders de Wahl (Prof. Leo Charpentier); Wilhelm Bryde (Baron Felix); Elin Lagergren (Irene’s mother); Torsten Hammaren (Prof. Sedonius); Stina Berg (Servant); Gucken Cederborg (Cook); Vilhelm Berntsson (Butler); Bell Hedqvist (Friend of Baron Felix); John Lindlof (Friend of Preben’s); Greta Lindgren (Model); Carl Wallin (Furrier); Carina Ari and Martin Oscar (Ballet dancers). Publications Books: Idestam-Almquist, Bengt, Den Svenska Filmens Drama: Sj?str?m och Stiller, Stockholm, 1938. Hardy, Forsyth, Scandinavian Film, London, 1951. Waldenkranz, Rune, Swedish Cinema, Stockholm, 1959. Beranger, Jean, La Grande Aventure du cinéma suedois, Paris, 1960. Lauritzen, Einar, Swedish Film, New York, 1962. Cowie, Peter, Swedish Cinema, London, 1966. Werner, Gosta, Mauritz Stiller och hans filmer, Stockholm, 1969. Klinowski, Jacek, and Adam Garbicz, editors, Cinema, The Magic Vehicle: A Guide to Its Achievement: Journey 1, The Cinema Through 1949, Metuchen, New Jersey, 1975. Articles: Potamkin, M. C., ‘‘The Golden Age of Scandinavian Film,’’ in Cinema (London), September 1930. Idestam-Almquist, Bengt, ‘‘The Man Who Found Garbo,’’ in Films and Filming (London), August 1956. ‘‘Mauritz Stiller,’’ in Anthologie du Cinéma, vol. 3, Paris, 1968. Combs, Richard, in Monthly Film Bulletin (London), November 1977. Robertson, Jo Anne, ‘‘Mauritz Stiller,’’ in Monthly Film Bulletin (London), December 1977. *** By 1920 the artistic achievements of the Swedish cinema, under the inspired leadership of Victor Sj?str?m and Mauritz Stiller, were EL ESPIRITU DE LA COLMENAFILMS, 4 th EDITION 387 universally recognized. Most of these films reflected the life of rural Sweden. Stiller, a cultured man, decided to make a film set in a sophisticated urban milieu. His scriptwriter, Arthur Norden, brought to his attention Ferenc Herczeg’s play, A KéK Róka, which he and Norden adapted to their purpose, dropping any acknowledgement to the author. From its premiere at the Roda Kvarn Cinema in Stockholm on the 8 November 1920, its success was assured. Stiller lavished attention on this film, building elaborate sets and commissioning a special exotic ballet for the theatre scenes which were shot in the Royal Opera House of Stockholm, with a host of society extras for an audience. The film reflected the fashionable life of the city and a modernity indicated by the inclusion of scenes with airplanes. The story about a professor of entomology who is sustained in his work by his devoted niece while his neglected wife seeks consolation elsewhere seems more like the work of Noel Coward than Selma Lagerl?f, who contributed so much to the Swedish cinema. It is handled with the lightest of touches; the irony of the scene where the man who tries to reconcile the married pair becomes the wife’s lover is reminiscent of Ernst Lubitsch. Stiller’s stylish direction works well with his talented players. Tore Teje’s delightful portrayal of the wife is witty, wise and worldly. It is in striking contrast with the peas- ant role she had played the previous year in Sj?str?m’s Karin Ingmarsdotter. Karin Molander’s charming performance as the young niece is equally effective; Torsten Hammaren’s caricature of a dry old stick is inspiring; and Lars Hanson and Anders de Wahl maintains the elegant style of the film. Erotikon helped create a new genre of social comedy, and at- tracted considerable attention in the movie world. Jean Renoir ad- mired it very much; Lubitsch mentioned it as one of the best films he had ever seen and it may well have influenced his work from The Marriage Circle onwards; Chaplin would have seen it during his European tour and the style of A Woman of Paris may have been influenced by it. On the other hand, while admiring its freshness of approach, the socially conscious critic Georges Sadoul regretted that the social satire had not gone further, ‘‘There is no satiric intention in Erotikon; the humor is gentle and pleasant, defensive rather than attacking . . . . we are far from Beaumarchais or even Marivaux.’’ Stiller never made another film like Erotikon, which is curious, for it represented his own outlook on life. His next great success was the monumental G?sta Berlings Saga, which introduced Greta Garbo to the world. The delicacy and subtlety of the acting and the gentle observation of human foibles make Erotikon a film that transcends its time and fashion. —Liam O’Leary EL ESPIRITU DE LA COLMENA (Spirit of the Beehive) Spain, 1973 Director: Victor Erice Production: Eastmancolor, 35mm; running time: 98 minutes; length 8785 feet. Released 1973. Filmed in Spain. Producer: Elias Querejeta; screenplay: Francisco J. Querejeta, from an idea by Victor Erice and Angel Fernandéz Santos; assistant director: José Ruis Marcos; photography: Luis Cuadrado; editor: Pablo G. del Amo; sound: Luis Rodriguez; sound effects: Luis Castro and Sire Castro; art director: Adolfo Cofi?o; music: Luis de Pablo. Cast: Fernando Fernan Gomez (Fernando); Terésa Gimpera (Te- resa); Ana Torrent (Ana); Isabel Telleria (Isabel); Lady Soldevilla (Don Lucia); Miguel Picazo (Doctor); José Villasante (Frankenstein); Juan Margallo (Outlaw). Publications Books: Ellis, Jack C., A History of Film, Englewood Cliffs, New Jer- sey, 1979. Schwartz, Ronald, Spanish Film Directors (1950–1985): 21 Profiles, Metuchen, New Jersey, 1986. Articles: Gillett, John, in Sight and Sound (London), Winter 1973–74. Rabago, J., ‘‘Film Spanje,’’ in Skoop (Amsterdam), February 1974. Mortimore, R., ‘‘Spain: Out of the Past,’’ in Sight and Sound (London), Autumn 1974. Gow, Gordon, in Films and Filming (London), Autumn 1974. Monthly Film Bulletin (London), November 1974. McGuinness, R., in Thousand Eyes Magazine (New York), Octo- ber 1976. Simon, John, ‘‘From Ineptitude to Incompetence,’’ in New York, 4 October 1976. Canby, Vincent, in New York Times, 10 October 1976. Bodeen, DeWitt, in Films in Review (New York), November 1976. Abet, A., in Cinéma (Paris), December 1976. Jordan, I., ‘‘La Couleur du rêve,’’ in Positif (Paris), February 1977. Chevalier, J., in Image et Son (Paris), March 1977. Dubroux, D., ‘‘La Lumière et l’ombre,’’ in Cahiers du Cinéma (Paris), March 1977. Predal, R., in Jeune Cinéma (Paris), March 1977. Benelli, D., ‘‘Mysteries of the Organism: Character Consciousness and Film Form in Kasper Hauser and Spirit of the Beehive,’’ in Movietone News (Seattle), June 1977. Troeslen, A., in Kosmorama (Copenhagen), Winter 1977. Rotker, S., in Cine al Dia (Caracas, Venezuela), November 1977. Vrdlovec, Z., ‘‘Duh panja,’’ in Ekran (Ljublana), no. 9–10, 1979. Duarte, R., and J. Matos-Cruz in Celuloide (Rio Major, Portugal), May 1980. Pellizzari, L., in Cineforum (Bergamo), December 1982. Arata, L. O., ‘‘I Ana: The Plat of the Imagination in The Spirit of the Beehive,’’ in Quarterly Review of Film Studies (New York), Spring 1983. Paranagua, P. A., ‘‘La Solitude de Victor Erice,’’ in Positif (Paris), April 1984. Cobos, J., and M. Rubio, ‘‘Tunteiden heijastumia,’’ in Filmihullu (Helsinki), no. 8, 1989. Castro, A., Interview with Victor Erice, in Revue Belge du Cinéma (Brussels), Winter 1989. EL ESPIRITU DE LA COLMENA FILMS, 4 th EDITION 388 El espiritu de la colmena Ehrlich, L. C., ‘‘The Name of the Child: Cinema as Social Critique,’’ in Film Criticism (Meadville, Pennsylvania), no. 2, 1990. Kovacs, K. S., ‘‘The Plain in Spain: Geography and National Identity in Spanish Cinema,’’ in Quarterly Review of Film and Video (New York), no. 4, 1991. Martin-Marquez, S. L., ‘‘Monstrous Identity: Female Socialization in El espíritu de la colmena,’’ in New Orleans Review, no. 2, 1992. Toles, G., ‘‘Being Well-Lost in Film,’’ in Raritan (New Brunswick, New Jersey), no. 2, 1993. Morgan, R., ‘‘Victor Erice: Painting the Sun,’’ in Sight and Sound (London), April 1993. Hellman, M., in Positif (Paris), June 1994. Bagh, Peter von, in Filmihullu (Helsinki), no. 4, 1995. Poulet, Jacques, ‘‘Espace mental et filmique dans le cinéma espagnol,’’ in Cinemaction (Conde-sur-Noireau), April 1995. Ehrlich, Linda C., ‘‘Interior Gardens: Victor Erice’s Dream of Light and the Bodegón Tradition,’’ in Cinema Journal (Austin), Win- ter 1995. *** Most critical attention paid to El espiritu de la colmena has focused on its elliptical relationship with precise moments in Spanish history, both the immediately post-Civil War (1940) of its setting and the tail-end of Franco’s regime (1973) in which it was made. Whether its tactful reticence in political matters was due to artistic intent or a desire to skirt censorship, this is actually a film whose significance is as universal as it is specific. The static images and haunted faces suggest situations that have endured for centuries and which will persist no matter who rules the country. The wounded refugee from the war who turns up late in the film as a reminder of the unseen conflict stands less for adult concerns than he does an answer to the yearning fantasies of Ana, the pre-teenage heroine. To Ana, the soldier is just as real and just as magical as the Frankenstein Monster, another lost soul whom she encounters in the vicinity of her parents’ desolate Castillian home. In 1940, Ana and her slightly older sister, Isabel, attend a travel- ling film show and are hugely impressed by James Whale’s 1931 Frankenstein, a work which even penetrates their bee-keeping fa- ther’s veil of obsession as he is distracted from his books by snatches of Colin Clive’s ranting visionary dialogue dubbed into Spanish. Discussing the film, Isabel tells Ana that the monster is a spirit who ET . . . DIEU CREA LA FEMMEFILMS, 4 th EDITION 389 can never die, whereupon many tiny details come to convince the girl that the spirit is close: a primitive anatomy lesson in which pupils slot wooden organs into the torso of an artificial man is a reminder of the creation of the monster, a large bootprint in which Ana’s tiny foot is dwarfed suggest Karloff’s asphalt-spreader’s boots, and the fleeing soldier—whom she unwittingly betrays to a quiet mob as dangerous as the torch-bearing peasantry of Universal’s horror films—is another kindred spirit to the gentle, pained big baby of film and folklore. The snippet from Frankenstein which we see is the still-powerful lakeside vignette between the monster and the little girl, which ends with his accidental drowning of her. This is the scene which is recreated in the eerily delicate finale as Ana’s reflection in a pool ripples and is replaced by that of the monster, who gently joins her for a communion that ends not in death but an awakening. Choosing to inhabit entirely Ana’s world, and never explaining any of the mun- dane or marvelous elements, Victor Erice only hints at what has passed between Ana and the monster and how it will affect her relationship with family and community, but young Ana Torrent’s quite remarkable performance shows quite clearly how at odds this child is with her world. At the time of the film’s release, Erice—who has not subsequently been a prolific director—said that he would like to return to Ana’s story in 30 years, to see what manner of adult she became, suggesting that he too was mystified by the qualities Torrent brought to the role. The rest of the cast seem locked into a slightly over-Bergmanesque rut—the father toiling amid his hives, the mother writing to an adopted child in France, the sister playing malevolent games with the cat and faking her own death. Ana, whose personality is as unformed as that of Karloff’s creature, is far freer than these sad souls, and is the only person in the film who actually seems to be in motion. While they focus on their obsessions Ana is forever examining and being intrigued by things, allowing Erice to isolate the traces of life in his mostly poised still images. Ana resists being interpreted as a stand-in for all Spain, simply because her huge-eyed stare, which ranges across cinema from Karloff’s heavy-lidded monster to Kubrick’s star child, betokens too much unsettling individuality. —Kim Newman ET . . . DIEU CREA LA FEMME (And . . . God Created Woman) France, 1956 Director: Roger Vadim Production: Iena-Films-U.C.I.L.-Cocinor; Eastmancolor, 35mm, CinemaScope; running time: 95 minutes. Released 28 November 1956, Paris. Filmed in St. Tropez. Producer: Raoul-J. Levy; screenplay: Roger Vadim and Raoul-J. Levy; photography: Armand Thirard; editor: Victoria Mercanton; sound engineer: Pierre-Louis Calvet; production designers: Jean Andre with Jean Forestier and Georges Petitot; music: Paul Misraki Cast: Brigitte Bardot (Juliette Hardy); Curt Jurgens (Eric Carradine); Jean-Louis Trintignant (Michel Tardieu); Christian Marquand (Antoine Tardieu); Georges Poujouly (Christian Tardieu); Jeanne Marken (Mme. Morin); Isabelle Corey (Lucienne); Jean Lefebvre (René); Philippe Grenier (Perri); Jacqueline Ventura (Mme. Vigier-Lefranc); Jean Tissier (M. Vigier-Lefranc); Jany Mourey (Young Girl); Mary Glory (Mme. Tardieu); Jacques Giron (Roger); Paul Faivre (M. Morin); Leopoldo Frances (Dancer); Toscano (René). Publications Script: Vadim, Roger, and Raoul-J. Levy, ‘‘Et Dieu créa la Femme’’ (excerpts), in Avant-Scène du Cinéma (Paris), 15 November 1962. Books: Carpozi, George, The Brigitte Bardot Story, New York, 1961. De Beauvoir, Simone, Brigitte Bardot and the Lolita Syndrome, London, 1961. Alpert, Hollis, The Dreams and the Dreamers, New York, 1962. Frydland, Maurice, Roger Vadim, Paris, 1963. Armes, Roy, French Cinema Since 1946: The Personal Style, New York, 1966. Durgnat, Raymond, Films and Feelings, Cambridge, Massachu- setts, 1973. Evans, Peter, Bardot: Eternal Sex Goddess, New York, 1973. Vadim, Roger, Memoirs of the Devil, New York, 1977. Crawley, Tony, Bebe: The Films of Brigitte Bardot, London, 1975. Frischauer, Willi, Bardot: An Intimate Biography, London, 1978. Vadim, Roger, Bardot, Deneuve, Fonda, New York, 1986. Articles: Truffaut, Fran?ois, in Arts (Paris), November 1956. Rivette, Jacques, in Cahiers du Cinéma (Paris), May 1957. Godard, Jean-Luc, in Cahiers du Cinéma (Paris), July 1957. Mardore, Michel, ‘‘Roger Vadim,’’ in Premier Plan (Lyons), Octo- ber 1959. Billard, G., ‘‘Ban on Vadim,’’ in Films and Filming (London), November 1959. Burch, No?l, ‘‘Qu’est-ce que la Nouvelle Vague?’’ in Film Quarterly (Berkeley), Winter 1959. ‘‘Two Actors,’’ in Films and Filming (London), October 1960. ‘‘Nouvelle Vague Issue’’ of Cahiers du Cinéma (Paris), Decem- ber 1962. Durgnat, Raymond, ‘‘B.B.,’’ in Films and Filming (London), Janu- ary 1963. Haskell, Molly, ‘‘Jean-Louis Trintignant,’’ in Show (Hollywood), 20 August 1970. ‘‘Conversation with Roger Vadim,’’ in Oui (Chicago), October 1975. Copie Zero (Montreal), no. 3, 1979. Mancini, M., ‘‘A Moved Feast: French Filmmakers in America,’’ in Film Criticism (Meadville), no. 2, January 1983. Maslin, J., in New York Times, no. 137, 4 March 1988. McCarthy, T., in Variety (New York), no. 330, 9 March 1988. ET . . . DIEU CREA LA FEMME FILMS, 4 th EDITION 390 Et ... Dieu créa la femme E.T.—THE EXTRATERRESTRIALFILMS, 4 th EDITION 391 Allen, M., in Film Journal (New York), no. 91, April 1988. Chase, D., ‘‘Close-ups: Roger Vadim,’’ in Millimeter (Cleveland), no. 16, April 1988. Harvey, S., in Premiere (Boulder), no. 1, April 1988. Kauffmann, S., ‘‘Stanley Kauffmann on Films: Stale Roles,’’ in New Republic, no. 198, 4 April 1988. Matthews, T., in Boxoffice (Chicago), no. 124, May 1988. Williamson, B., ‘‘Movies,’’ in Playboy, no. 35, May 1988. Beauchamp, M., in 24 Images (Montreal), no. 39, Fall 1988. Vincendeau, Ginette, ‘‘L’ancien et le nouveau: Brigitte Bardot dans les années,’’ in Cinémaction (Courbevoie), no. 67, March 1993. Review, in Séquences (Haute-Ville), no. 179, July-August 1995. *** Conventional accounts of the nouvelle vague commence with the annus mirabilis of 1959, when the new directors Truffaut, Camus and Resnais swept the Cannes Film Festival. But the true beginning took place three years earlier, when ex-Paris Match journalist Roger Vadim, then 28, released his debut feature Et . . . Dieu créa la femme. Its initial succès de scandale was reflected at the box office, and for the first time independent producers opened their purses to the frustrated generation of the new French filmmakers. In 1952 Vadim had married 19-year-old Brigitte Bardot. After working as assistant to Marc Allegret, he felt confident enough to direct a vehicle for her sullen, bitchy beauty. Producer Raoul Levy helped raise funds via ex-band leader Ray Ventura. German actor Curt Jurgens agreed to take a role and guarantee the obligatory international appeal. Jean-Louis Trintignant, then unknown, played opposite the provocative Bardot, and would soon have a well- publicized affair with her. Vadim wrote the story, based on fact, of two fisherman brothers feuding over a girl in the remote town of St. Tropez. Bardot, nude, pouting, deceitful, embodied the popular public stereotype of dissi- dent youth. Christian Marquand and Trintignant were the brothers, Jurgens the rich man fascinated by a woman he can’t buy. Pursuing his theories about the dramatic and erotic impact of color, Vadim set the tanned Bardot against white—sand, linen—to spectacular effect. Her appearance sun-bathing behind sun-dried bed sheets, and later at her own wedding breakfast wrapped in a sheet, were spectacular proof of Vadim’s skill. Shrewdly shot in Eastmancolor and CinemaScope, Et . . . Dieu créa la femme sold speedily to international markets, its notoriety feeding Bardot’s fame and announcing to audiences everywhere that a new spirit was stirring in French cinema. Vadim’s career did not flourish, but Bardot’s did: in creating a character who followed her instincts in her contempt for money and for the sensibility of others, Vadim produced an emblem for the ‘‘Me Decade.’’ Jeanne Moreau is unequivocal about the significance of Et . . . Dieu créa la femme and Bardot’s potency as a symbol. ‘‘Brigitte was the real modern revolutionary character for women. And Vadim, as a man and a lover and a director, felt that. What was true in the New Wave is that suddenly what was important was vitality, eroticism, energy, love and passion. One has to remember it was Vadim who started everything, with Bardot.’’ In 1987, Vadim re-made the film in a New Mexico setting with Rebecca de Mornay and Frank Langella. It was not a success. —John Baxter E.T.—THE EXTRATERRESTRIAL USA, 1982 Director: Steven Spielberg Production: Universal Pictures; DeLuxe color, 70mm, Dolby sound; running time: 115 minutes. Released June 1982. Producers: Steven Spielberg and Kathleen Kennedy; associate producer: Melissa Mathison; production supervisor: Frank Mar- shall; screenplay: Melissa Mathison; photography: Allen Daviau; editor: Carol Littlestone; production designer: James D. Bissell; music: John Williams; special effects: Industrial Light and Magic; supervisor: Dennis Muren; E.T. created by: Carlo Rimbaldi. Cast: Dee Wallace (Mary); Henry Thomas (Elliott); Peter Coyote (Keys); Robert MacNaughton (Michael); Drew Barrymore (Gertie); K.C. Martel. Publications Books: Kolker, Robert Phillip, A Cinema of Loneliness: Penn, Kubrick, Scorsese, Spielberg, Altman, Oxford, 1980; revised edition, 1988. Crawley, Tony, The Steven Spielberg Story, London, 1983. Short, Robert, The Gospel from Outer Space, San Francisco, 1983. Goldau, Antje, and Hans Helmut Prinzler, Spielberg: Filme als Spielberg, Berlin, 1985. Mott, Donald R., and Cheryl McAllister Saunders, Steven Spielberg, Boston, 1986. Smith, Thomas G., Industrial Light and Magic: The Art of Special Effects, London, 1986. Weiss, Ulli, Das Neue Hollywood: Francis Ford Coppola, Steven Spielberg, Martin Scorsese, Munich, 1986. Godard, Jean-Pierre, Spielberg, Paris, 1987. Sinyard, Neil, The Films of Steven Spielberg, London, 1987. Ebert, Roger, and Gene Siskel, The Future of the Movies, Kansas City, 1991. Von Gunden, Kenneth, Postmodern Auteurs: Coppola, Lucas, De Palma, Spielberg & Scorsese, Jefferson, 1991. Sanello, Frank, Spielberg: The Man, the Movies, the Mythology, Dallas, 1996. Brode, Douglas, The Films of Steven Spielberg, Secaucus, New Jersey, 1997. Perry, George, Steven Spielberg—Close Up, New York, 1998. Gish, Melissa, Steven Spielberg, Mankato, 1999. McBride, Joseph, Steven Spielberg, Cambridge, 1999. E.T.—THE EXTRATERRESTRIAL FILMS, 4 th EDITION 392 E.T.—The Extraterrestrial Articles: Variety (New York), 26 May 1982. McCarthy, Todd, ‘‘Sand Castles: An Interview with Steven Spielberg,’’ in Film Comment (New York), May-June 1982. Interview with Spielberg in Casablanca (Madrid), September 1982. Gartenberg, J., in Films in Review (New York), October 1982. Schupp, P., in Séquences (Montreal), October 1982. ‘‘The Making of E.T.,’’ in Cinefantastique (Chicago), November- December 1982. Marsh, J., in Stills (London), November-December 1982. Amiel, M., in Cinema (Paris), December 1982. Combs, Richard, in Monthly Film Bulletin (London), December 1982. Conn, R., in Cinema Papers (Melbourne), December 1982. Iversen, E., in Kosmorama (Copenhagen), December 1982. Pede, R., in Film en Televisie (Brussels), December 1982. Strick, Philip., in Films and Filming (London), December 1982. Tessier, Max, in Image et Son (Paris), December 1982. Den Uyl, B., in Skoop (Amsterdam), December 1982-January 1983. Adair, Gilbert, in Sight and Sound (London), Winter 1982–83. Bartolone, A., Interview with Spielberg, in Filmcritica (Florence), June 1982. Lannes-Lacroutz, M., and B. Philbert, in Cinématographe (Paris), January 1983. Marias, M., in Casablanca (Madrid), January 1983. Sammon, P. M., ‘‘Turn On Your Heartlight: Inside E.T.,’’ in Cinefex (Riverside, California), January 1983. Tarnowski, J. F., in Positif (Paris), January 1983. Turner, George, and others, in American Cinematographer (Los Angeles), January 1983. Vallerand, F., ‘‘Accords parfaits et dissonances,’’ in Séquences (Montreal), January 1983. Zapiola, G., in Cinemateca Revista (Montevideo), January 1983. Martini, E., and others, in Cineforum (Bergamo), January-Febru- ary 1983. Jameson, R. T., in Film Comment (New York), February 1983. Lewis, B., in Films and Filming (London), February 1983. ‘‘E.T. Section’’ of Filmcritica (Montepulciano), April 1983. Balzola, A., in Cinema Nuovo (Bari), April 1983. Michalek, B., in Kino (Warsaw), April 1983. Richardson, M. A., ‘‘A Dream in the Making,’’ in Cinefex (Riverside, California), April 1983. Deutsch, P., in Jump Cut (Berkeley), April 1983. Heung, M., ‘‘Why E.T. Must Go Home: The New Family in Ameri- can Cinema,’’ in Journal of Popular Film and Television (Wash- ington, D.C.), Summer 1983. Benabou, R., ‘‘L’Erotisme anal dans le film E.T.,’’ in Positif (Paris), November 1983. DER EWIGE JUDEFILMS, 4 th EDITION 393 Horgas, B., in Filmkultura (Budapest), November-December 1983. Dassone, M. Marcone, in Cinema Nuovo (Bari), December 1983. ‘‘E.T. Section’’ in Movie (London), Winter 1983. Ledgard, M., in Hablemos de Cine (Lima), March 1984. Shumaker, C., ‘‘More Human than Humans: Society, Salvation, and the Outsider in Some Popular Films of the 1980s,’’ in Journal of American Culture (Bowling Green, Ohio), no. 4, 1990. Bick, Ilsa J., ‘‘The Look Back in E.T.,’’ in Cinema Journal (Austin), vol. 31, no. 4, Summer 1992. Review, in Séquences (Haute-Ville), no. 181, November-Decem- ber 1995. Cole, James, ‘‘E.T.: The Scenes Left Behind,’’ in Video Watchdog (Cincinnati), no. 38, 1997. Dursin, A., and J.H. Lee, in Film Score Monthly (Los Angeles), no. 2, 1997. Redman, Nick, ‘‘E.T.: The Extraterrestrial—The Signature Collec- tion,’’ in DGA Magazine (Los Angeles), vol. 22, no. 2, May- June 1997. *** In itself, E.T. would hardly concern us; if not entirely negligible (it manifests certain skills, and contains a few memorable turns of dialogue, such as the question of how one explains ‘‘school’’ to a ‘‘higher intelligence’’), it has no greater claim on the attention than countless other minor Hollywood movies. It does demand considera- tion as a cultural phenomenon: not merely the film itself and what it signifies, but the commercial hype, the American critics’ reviews, the public response, the T-shirts, the children’s games, the candy adver- tisements. It represents a moment in American cultural history. The film is distinguishable from the Disney live action movies it otherwise so closely resembles only by virtue of Steven Spielberg’s evident commitment to his own infantile fantasy. Where the Disney films seemed more or less shrewd commercial exploitations of the child- audience, we have the sense here of a filmmaker infatuated with what he is doing. Just what difference that makes is open to argument: bourgeois society sets a high value on ‘‘sincerity,’’ regardless of what the possessor of that virtue is being ‘‘sincere’’ about. Suffice it to comment that the precise quality of Spielberg’s sincerity remains open to question. I am not convinced that it is entirely innocent and uncompromised. E.T. belongs to the Reagan era as surely as the genuinely distin- guished works of the period (the films of Martin Scorsese and Michael Cimino, or even of a minor figure like Brian De Palma) do not. It is an era profoundly inimical to serious art, especially within the field of popular culture. ‘‘Serious art’’ is, by definition, challeng- ing and progressive; what is wanted now—after the upheavals of the 1970s, the era of Vietnam and Watergate, the era when every American institution was called into question and radical movements suddenly flourished—is reassurance, the restoration of the symbolic Father, preferably in a form that allows one simultaneously to believe and disbelieve. The premise of E.T. is essentially the appearance of the ‘‘Other’’ within the bourgeois home. Roland Barthes suggests in Mythologies that bourgeois ideology has two ways of coping with Otherness: it either denies it, and if possible exterminates it, or converts it into a replica of itself. American civilization was founded upon the denial/ extermination of the Other (in form of the Indians); during the 1970s the Other erupted in numerous forms—women, blacks, gays— demanding recognition. Now, in the Reagan era, Spielberg presents the Other in the shape of a lovable, totally innocuous little extra- terrestrial, who just wants to go home (to his own nuclear family?). The treatment of E.T. himself is shamelessly opportunistic for he becomes whatever is convenient to the development of the narrative from scene to scene: mental defective, higher intelligence, child figure, father figure. The film is extremely sexist. Spielberg seems unable to conceive of women as anything but wives and, in particular, mothers. Apart from almost dying, the worst thing that happens to E.T. is being dressed in female clothes, an event which is shown to deprive him of his dignity. At the end of the film, as all-purpose friend, Christ figure and patriarch, he lays his finger on Elliott’s head to transmit to him his power and knowledge, but tells the boy’s younger sister to ‘‘be good.’’ (I have not yet found a woman who likes the film: the fantasy about childhood that it enacts is heavily male-oriented.) Crucially, the cultural phenomenon presented in E.T. signifies a choice made by the critical establishment, the public, and the Academy of Motion Picture Arts and Sciences, who nominated it for many Academy Awards even though they ultimately found in Gandhi an even more respectable and archetypal liberal/bourgeois recipient of honors. One must compare E.T. with the commercial/critical failure of the infinitely more interesting Blade Runner (released the same week) and its troubling and complex presentation of the Other. The most pertinent comparison remains, however, with the two It’s Alive films of Larry Cohen, which provide numerous suggestive parallels. Critically despised, they lack E.T.’s aura of expensiveness, an essential component of reassurance within the context of capital- ism’s decline. —Robin Wood EVERY MAN FOR HIMSELF AND GOD AGAINST ALL See JEDER FUR SICH UND GOTT GEGEN ALLE DER EWIGE JUDE Germany, 1940 Director: Fritz Hippler Production: Deutsche Film Gesellschaft; black and white, 35mm, documentary; running time: 78 minutes, other versions include a 67- minute print; length: 1753 feet, other versions include a 1830-foot DER EWIGE JUDE FILMS, 4 th EDITION 394 Der ewige Jude print. Released 4 November 1940 in Uraufführung, Germany. Filmed in Poland and Germany, with library footage from many sources, including the United States. Scenario: Eberhard Taubert; photography: A. Endrejat, A. Hafner, A. Hartman, F. C. Heere, H. Kluth, E. Stoll, and H. Winterfield; editors: Hans Dieter Schiller and Albert Baumeister; music: Franz R. Friedl. Publications Books: Albrecht, G., Nationalsozialistische Filmpolitik: Eine Soziologische Untersuchung uber die Spielfilme des Dritten Reichs, Stuttgart, 1969. Hull, David Stewart, Film in the Third Reich, Berkeley, 1969. Baird, J. W., The Mythical World of Nazi War Propaganda, Minne- apolis, 1974. Leiser, Erwin, Nazi Cinema, New York, 1974. Welch, David, Propaganda and the German Cinema 1933–1945, Oxford, 1983; revised edition, 1987. Ahren, Yizhak, Der Ewige Jude: Wie Goebbels Hetzte, Untersuchungen zum Nationalsozialistischen Propagandafilm, Aachen, 1990. Articles: Doob, L. W., ‘‘Goebbels’ Principles of Propaganda,’’ in Public Opinion and Propaganda, edited by D. Katz, New York, 1954. Hoffman, Hilmar, ‘‘Manipulation of the Masses through the Nazi Film,’’ in Film Comment (New York), Fall 1965. Filmstudio, January 1966. Walker, G., ‘‘An Analysis of Der ewige Jude: Its Relationship to Nazi Anti-Semitic Ideas and Policies,’’ in Wide Angle (Athens, Ohio), no. 4, 1980. Welch, David, ‘‘Nazi Wartime News-Reel Propaganda,’’ in Film and Radio Propaganda, edited by K. R. M. Short, London, 1983. EXOTICAFILMS, 4 th EDITION 395 Kimmel, Daniel M., ‘‘Goebbels’ Work,’’ in Film Comment (New York), November-December 1986. Friedman, R. M., ‘‘Juden-Ratten,’’ in Frauen und Film (Frankfurt), September 1989. Hornshoj-Moller, S., and D. Culbert, ‘‘Der ewige Jude: Joseph Goebbels’ Unequaled Monument to Anti-Semitism,’’ in Histori- cal Journal of Film, Radio and Television (Abingdon, United Kingdom), no. 1, 1992. Avisar, Ilan, ‘‘The Historical Significance of Der ewige Jude,’’ in Historical Journal of Film, Radio & TV (Abingdon), August 1993. Hornshoj-Moller, S., ‘‘Kultfilm der Neonazis,’’ in Medium (Frank- furt am Main), no. 3, 1994. Kracauer, S., ‘‘Program Notes by Siegfried Kracauer for Fritz Hippler’s The Eternal Jew,’’ in Wide Angle (Baltimore), vol. 19, no. 2, 1997. *** Fritz Hippler’s Der ewige Jude was an exemplary moment in the history of Nazi cinema. A dutiful Nazi Party functionary, Hippler was unrestrained by considerations of objectivity, balance, or even the sensibilities of the less fanatical members of his audience. Indeed, his virulent anti-Semitic excesses so repelled some German audiences that in a few cities the film attracted ‘‘only the politically active’’ segments of the populace. Artistically, the film is a ‘‘black masterpiece’’ of the cinematic conventions of 1940; a German version of The March of Time style that included animated maps, falsely labeled stock footage, segments of feature films borrowed to make some ideological point, stills, decoupages of evocative bookjackets and headlines, and an omnis- cient voice-over narration. The importance of Der ewige Jude lies not in its technique but in its brutal service to the cause of Nazi racism. Hippler, after reading law and sociology at Heidelberg, entered the German Propaganda Ministry, specializing in military films such as Westwall, Feldzug in Polen, and Sieg im Westen. On orders from Joseph Goebbels himself, Hippler in 1940 began an anti-Semitic film that, according to its official synopsis, would ‘‘fill the spectator with a feeling of deep- seated gratification for belonging to a people whose leader has absolutely solved the Jewish problem.’’ In fact, it has been asserted that Der ewige Jude helped prepare the German people to accept the eventual policy of genocide inflicted upon Jews. The controlling metaphor—the Jew as parasite in an otherwise healthy host—is found throughout the film in several forms, all of them designed to reveal to Germans the ‘‘true’’ Jew underneath the veneer of European culture that concealed Jewish parasitism. Jews are introduced as a foreign, swarthy, hook-nosed, untidily bearded, sullen presence that clogs the teeming streets of middle Europe. They haggle, squabble over food at the table, hoard with wealth, conceal it from tax collectors, and grow sleek and fat at the expense of good Germans. Their religion and culture are seen as cabalistic sources of secret powers. Animated maps alive with pulsing, arterial tentacles extending outward from Palestine invoke a history of Jewish expansion into Europe. Even distant America offers no immunity from the spread of Jewish power. Stock shots of Wall Street and outtakes from the American movie The House of Rothschild throb with new meaning given them by the voice-over. The world seems in the thrall of a network of great Jewish banking houses whose interlocking pedi- grees are traced in animated diagrams. Reinforcing the image of the Jew as international parasite, Hippler punctuates the film with cutaways to rats crawling out of sewers, plundering granaries, and scurrying pellmell through the streets of Europe. So compelling was the imagery, the government reported the collective relief expressed by audiences at the appearance of Hitler at the end, comforting the nation with the news that Nazi race laws had saved the day. The Nazi period of Hippler’s life ended with his capture by the British in 1944. He escaped prosecution as a criminal when Allied tribunals failed to convict other filmmakers, notably Veit Harlan. After a process of ‘‘de-Nazification’’ Hippler served the American Army as a translator. In later life, he lived apart from cinema circles, earning a living as a travel agent. —Thomas Cripps EXOTICA Canada, 1994 Director: Atom Egoyan Production: Ego Film Arts and Miramax Films; color, 35 mm, Spherical; running time: 104 minutes; length: 2953 meters. Filmed in Toronto, Ontario; cost: $5 million (Canadian). Producers: Atom Egoyan, Camilia Frieberg, Robert Lantos, David J. Webb (associate); screenplay: Atom Egoyan; cinematographer: Paul Sarossy; music: Mychael Danna, Leonard Cohen; editor: Susan Shipton; production design: Linda Del Rosario, Richard Paris; art direction: Linda Del Rosario, Richard Paris; costume design: Linda Muir. Cast: Mia Kirshner (Christina); Elias Koteas (Eric); Bruce Green- wood (Francis Brown); Don McKellar (Thomas Pinto); Victor Garber (Harold); Arsinée Khanjian (Zoe); Sarah Polley (Tracey); Calvin Green (Customs Officer); David Hemblen (Inspector); Peter Krantz (Man in Taxi); Damon D’Oliveira (Man at Opera); Jack Blum (Scalper); Billy Merasty (Man at Opera); Ken McDougall (Doorman). Awards: Genie Awards for Best Art Direction/Set Direction, Best Cinematography, Best Costume Design, Best Director, Best Film, Best Screenplay, Best Supporting Actor (McKellar), and Best Score, 1994; FIPRESCI Award, Cannes Film Festival, 1994; Best Canadian Feature Film, Toronto International Film Festival, 1994. Publications: Script: Egoyan, Atom, Exotica, Toronto, 1995. EXOTICA FILMS, 4 th EDITION 396 Exotica Books: Desbarats, Carole, Atom Egoyan, Paris, 1993. Weinrichter, Antonio, Emociones formales: el cine de Atom Egoyan, Valencia, 1995. Articles: Banning, K., ‘‘Lookin’ in All the Wrong Places: The Pleasures and Dangers of Exotica,’’ in Take One (Toronto), no. 6, Fall 1994. James, Caryn, ‘‘Innocence Beyond the Erotic Glimmer,’’ in The New York Times, 24 September 1994. Johnson, Brian D., ‘‘Exotic Atom: With Exotica, Atom Egoyan Has Become the Most Celebrated Canadian Film-Maker of His Gen- eration,’’ in Maclean’s, vol. 107, no. 40, 3 October 1994. Dubeau, Alain, ‘‘Exotica: l’anti-catharsis canadienne,’’ in Séquences (Haute-Ville), no. 175, November-December 1994. Masson, Alain, and others, ‘‘Atom Egoyan,’’ in Positif (Paris), no. 406, December 1994. Calhoun, John, ‘‘The New York Film Festival,’’ in TCI, vol. 29, no. 1, January 1995. Winters, Laura, ‘‘Atom Egoyan Is Watching Us,’’ in Interview, vol. 25, no. 3, March 1995. Maslin, Janet, ‘‘Bucking the System, but Still Part of the Buzz: Atom Egoyan May Have His Breakthrough in Exotica,’’ in The New York Times, 5 March 1995. Harcourt, Peter, ‘‘Imaginary Images: An Examination of Atom Egoyan’s Films,’’ in Film Quarterly (Berkeley), vol. 48, no. 3, Spring 1995. Kobel, Peter, ‘‘They Like to Watch,’’ in Entertainment Weekly, no. 267, 24 March 1995. Edelstein, David, ‘‘Discovering Atom,’’ in Vogue, vol. 185, no. 3, March 1995. Johnston, Trevor, ‘‘Atomic Energy,’’ in Time Out (London), no. 1288, 26 April 1995. Romney, Jonathan, Tony Rayns, and Amanda Lipman, ‘‘Exploita- tions/ Everybody Knows/ Exotica,’’ in Sight & Sound (London), vol. 5, no. 5, May 1995. Wise, Wyndham, ‘‘The True Meaning of Exotica,’’ in Take One (Toronto), no. 9, Fall 1995. Baber, Brendan, ‘‘Big Worlds in Small Packages,’’ in Interview, vol. 27, no. 12, December 1997. EXOTICAFILMS, 4 th EDITION 397 Jones, Kent, ‘‘The Cinema of Atom Egoyan,’’ in Film Comment (New York), vol. 34, no. 1, January 1998. Johnson, Brian D., ‘‘Atom’s Journey: Canada’s Celebrated Director Reveals the Rite of Passage Behind His Cinematic Obsessions,’’ in Maclean’s, 13 September 1999. *** On the basis of Exotica alone, writer-director Atom Egoyan could rightly be called ‘‘the un-Hitchcock.’’ Where Hitchcock takes the point of view of a particular character through whom the clearly told, well-defined plot is revealed, Egoyan is the objective observer, cutting back and forth between seemingly unconnected scenes and frequently leading the audience to make incorrect assumptions until, at last, the various strands start fitting together. Egoyan does not confuse for confusion’s sake; in Exotica, form follows function, and by allowing viewers to draw their incorrect assumptions, he is illustrating that, whenever we first meet someone, we invariably draw the wrong conclusions because people are always much more com- plex than any set of assumptions we might make based on mere outward appearances. Egoyan is not so much concerned with reveal- ing plot as revealing character, while dealing with such concerns as the universal need for a feeling of family, the need for sex (which in a way is an extension of the need for family), and the psychic contortions individuals undergo in order to feel whole. The film begins with a customs inspector training a new em- ployee. As the two look through a one-way mirror at Thomas (Don McKellar), a young man having his bags inspected, the trainer says, ‘‘You have to ask yourself what brought the person to this point. . . You have to convince yourself that this person has something hidden that you have to find.’’ As the viewer soon discovers, every major character in the film has something hidden, including Thomas and his trainee. The film moves to the interior of Exotica, a gentlemen’s club where strippers perform onstage, then do table dances for those willing to spend an extra five dollars. The beautiful young Christina (Mia Kirshner) comes onstage wearing a schoolgirl’s uniform, and when she begins her table dance for the middle-aged, bearded Francis (Bruce Greenwood), most viewers make the same assumptions about the dynamic involved, assumptions that prove to be totally wrong. When Francis is seen paying another young woman while dropping her off in a seedy section of town, more assumptions can be drawn— the single discordant note being when Francis says to the girl, ‘‘Say hi to your dad.’’ Other major characters include the strip club’s pregnant female owner, Zoe (Arsinée Khanjian), and the club’s emcee, Eric (Elias Koteas), who was once Christina’s lover. How these various plot strands weave together tells volumes about all the characters involved. The film brings together a number of ideas Egoyan had been toying with for years. As a youth he was involved with a girl he later learned was a victim of child abuse. In the film, Christina was abused, and her dancing is a parody of her own sexual identity as she attempts to convince herself that that part of herself which has been destroyed is suitable for mockery, and therefore trivial; otherwise it would be too painful to deal with. Egoyan was also fascinated by such awkward encounters as those between a table dancer and the man watching her, or between a father and the baby sitter he is driving home—a situation Egoyan has referred to as ‘‘the first encounter many adolescent women have with older men’’ and ‘‘fraught with sexual tension.’’ In both cases there is little to be said, yet small talk seems mandatory because without it the tension, the weirdness of the situation, would become unbearable. Egoyan agrees with Andrei Tarkovsky’s descrip- tion of film as ‘‘sculpting in time,’’ and one of the things that makes this film so intriguing is what he has chosen not to show. We see Eric and Christina before and after their relationship, but never during their relationship. We see the bizarre ritual that Christina and Eric repeatedly play out, but never how it evolved. According to Egoyan, all the relationships in the film are defined by the exchange of money because money ‘‘makes tangible that which is too terrifyingly abstract otherwise.’’ Asking a woman to dance at your table or to baby-sit your nonexistent child may be grotesque or pathological but, by putting a dollar amount on the act, it begins to seem as normal as anything else in a market economy. ‘‘It’s a way of saying, ‘Hey! This is quite normal, because I pay for it.’’ And in this and other films, Egoyan has had an interesting slant on such ‘‘normal’’ jobs as insurance adjuster (in his film The Adjuster) or tax auditor or customs inspector (in Exotica). As Egoyan told the New York Times, ‘‘From the outside these may appear to be very banal, but they’re jobs that are infused with all sorts of psychological needs. They involve digging into someone else’s life, and they’re a way of legitimizing what might otherwise be pathological behavior.’’ All his characters demonstrate extraordinary impulses beneath mundane surfaces. Egoyan’s particular genius here is his ability to weave these and other interests and concerns into a coherent work of art that illumi- nates the human condition, while creating a film language unlike anything preceding it, perhaps helping the cinema to break further away from its written-word and theatrical-stage antecedents. Exotica won the International Critics’ Prize at the 1994 Cannes Film Festival and top awards in Belgium and France; it swept the Genies in Canada; both Siskel and Ebert put it on their Top Ten lists; and it was also a commercial success, indicating that it may very well influence future filmmakers. Exotica shows how much a film’s structure may be bent while remaining coherent and, more importantly, it suggests new structures for films far removed from mere storytelling—films that are fragmented and elusive, and therefore a better reflection of how we know and feel about the real people in our lives, as opposed to fictional characters. While simple structures may be optimal for relating plots, something more complex may be needed to relate character. As Egoyan himself has said, ‘‘There’s nothing simple about representing a human being.’’ —Bob Sullivan THE EXTRAORDINARY ADVENTURES OF MR. WEST IN THE LAND OF THE BOLSHEVIKS See NEOBYCHANYE PRIKLYUCHENIYA MITERA VESTA V STRANE BOLSHEVIKO EYES WITHOUT A FACE See LES YEUXS SANS VISAGE 399 F FACES USA, 1968 Director: John Cassavetes Production: Maurice McEndree; colour, 16mm; running time: 130 minutes. Producer: Maurice McEndree; screenplay: John Cassavetes; pho- tography: Al Ruban; editor: Al Ruban, Maurice McEndree; assist- ant director: George O’Halloran; art director: Phedon Papamichael; music: Jack Ackerman; sound: Don Pike. Cast: John Marley (Richard Forst); Gena Rowlands (Jeannie Rapp); Lynn Carlin (Maria Forst); Fred Draper (Freddie); Seymour Cassel (Chet); Val Avery (McCarthy); Dorothy Gulliver (Florence); Joanne Moore Jordan (Louise); Darlene Conley (Billy Mae); Gene Darfler (Jackson); Elizabeth Deering (Stella). Publications Script: Cassavetes, John, Faces, New York, 1970. Books: Adler, Renata, A Year in the Dark: Journal of a Film Critic 1968–69, New York, 1969. Kael, Pauline, Going Steady, New York, 1970. Sarris, Andrew, Confessions of a Cultist: On the Cinema 1955–1969, New York, 1970. Kauffman, Stanley, Figures of Light: Film Criticism and Comment, New York, 1971. Simon, John, Movies into Film: Film Criticism 1967–70, New York, 1971. Kinder, Marsha, Close-up: A Critical Perspective on Film, New York, 1972. Bowers, Ronald, in Magill’s Survey of Cinema: Volume 2, edited by Frank Magill, Englewood, New Jersey, 1981. Alexander, George, John Cassavetes, Munich, 1983. Carney, Raymond, American Dreaming: The Films of John Cassavetes and the American Experience, Berkeley, 1985. Gavron, Laurence, and Denis Lenoir, John Cassavetes, Paris, 1985. Carney, Raymond, The Films of John Cassavetes: Pragmatism, Modernism and the Movies, Cambridge, 1994. Amiel, Vincent, Corps au cinèma: Keaton, Bresson, Cassavetes, Paris, 1998. Articles: Variety (New York), 26 June 1968. Austen, David, ‘‘Masks and Faces,’’ in Films and Filming (London), September 1968. Madsen, Axel, Sight and Sound (London), Autumn 1968. Dawson, J., Monthly Film Bulletin (London), December 1968. Gow, G., Films and Filming (London), December 1968. Clouzot, C., Film Quaterly (Berkeley), Spring 1969. Benoliel, B., ‘‘L’idéal du collectivisme,’’ in Revue du Cinéma (Paris), March 1992. Nevers, C., Cahiers du Cinéma (Paris), March 1992. De Bruyn, O., Positif (Paris), June 1992. Carney, Ray, ‘‘Seven Program Notes from the American Tour of the Complete Films: Faces, Husbands, Minnie and Moskowitz, A Woman Under the Influence, The Killing of a Chinese Bookie, Opening Night, Love Streams,’’ in Post Script (Commerce), vol. 11, no. 2, Winter 1992. Levich, Jacob, ‘‘John Cassavetes: An American Maverick,’’ in Cineaste (New York), vol. 20, no. 2, 1993. Hejll, A., ‘‘Nargangen Kamera,’’ in Filmrutan (Sundsvall), vol. 36, no. 1, 1993. Review, in Télérama (Paris), no. 2365, 10 May 1995. *** An admirer of the stark cinema verite style of documentarians Lionel Rogosin and Shirley Clarke, actor-director John Cassavetes strived to achieve the same sense of in-your-face realism in his fiction films. Cassavetes’s modus operandi was to bring together a group of his committed actor-artist friends, hand them a script that served mainly as a blueprint, then let them cut loose before his camera, capturing their improvisational investigations of character like a roving news- reel photographer, shooting on nights and weekends over several months, even years, until he had a feature length film in the can. The end product, typically, was a somehat ragged, even amateur- ish, type of moviemaking in the technical sense—but a blow-out demonstration of the actor’s art. Cassavetes’ style of moviemaking, which he termed ‘‘actor’s cinema’’ rather than ‘‘director’s cinema,’’ was to foster a creative environment that enabled his actors to do their own thing—and thereby surprise him, even though he’d written the script—with the behavioral tics, twists, and turns they revealed about his characters. In a sense, his actors were left free to unmask themselves through their characters, unleashing an emotional inten- sity rare in the Hollywood-style American films in which Cassavetes and his chums regularly made their living. As often as not, Cassavetes’s actors, many of whom (Peter Falk, Ben Gazzara) were big name stars, FACES FILMS, 4 th EDITION 400 Faces gave the performances of their lives in his films—performances that often went unnoticed by most moviegoers as Cassavetes’s low- budget, independent features seldom received widespread circulation. Faces, a tale of suburban angst and adultery, was an exception. It was a major hit. Faces wound up on many important film critics’ Ten Best lists and scored three Oscar nominations, two in the Best Supporting Actor and Actress categories (for Seymour Cassel and Lynn Carlin, respectively) and one for Cassavetes’s original screen- play. None of them won, but their accomplishment was no mean feat in the face of the competition Cassavetes’s $50,000 black-and-white film had that year from such films as Oliver!, 2001: A Space Osyssey, The Lion in Winter, and Rosemary’s Baby (in which Cassavetes had co-starred). Faces was Cassavetes’s fourth feature as a director. He had previously helmed two films for the major studios, Too Late Blues (with Stella Stevens and Bobby Darin) and A Child is Waiting (with Judy Garland and Burt Lancaster). Finding the studio system too restrictive for his semi-improvisational style, he opted to work outside that system, bankrolling his own films from his fees as an actor in big-budget Hollywood movies and using his friends as players (they were paid a percentage of the profits, if there were any, rather than a salary), as he had done with his debut feature, Shad- ows (1960). Cassavetes financed Faces from his earnings in two Hollywood blockbusters, The Dirty Dozen and Rosemary’s Baby. He shot the picture over a four-year period with a hand-held 16mm camera, using his own home, the houses of his cast members and other readily accessible (i.e. inexpensive) locales. The first cut was six hours long, but Cassavetes and his editor reduced this to a releasable 129 minutes. He then had the film blown up to 35mm, the standard gauge for theatrical distribution, and launched a tireless campaign single- handedly to get the film noticed and acquired. Traveling the film festival circuit with the cans of film under his arm, and using his status as a popular movie star to trumpet his movie on talk shows from coast to coast, Cassavetes marketed Faces into a small but lucrative hit. In addition to those already mentioned, the standout cast includes John Marley portraying the TV producer husband of Carlin who seeks solace from his stale marriage in the arms of a prostitute (played by Gena Rowlands, Cassavetes’s real-life wife and a ubiquitous pres- ence in most of the actor-director’s handmade productions). Seymour Cassel’s sympathetic hippie, who picks up Carlin when she visits a discotheque with some girlfriends, then saves her from a suicide FANNY OCH ALEXANDERFILMS, 4 th EDITION 401 attempt brought on by her guilt over their affair, serves as the film’s conscience. There aren’t a lot of laughs in Faces, but there is a lot of laughter— most of it on the verge of hysteria—as Cassavetes’s eavesdropping camera relentlessly exposes, with power and precision, the layers and layers of supturating emotional wounds and longstanding despair ripping apart the lives of his desperate middle-aged suburbanites. —John McCarty FANNY See MARIUS TRILOGY FANNY OCH ALEXANDER (Fanny and Alexander) Sweden, 1982 Director: Ingmar Bergman Production: Cinematograph, for the Swedish Film Institute/Swed- ish Television STV 1/Gaumont/Personafilm/Tobis Filmkunst; Eastmancolor. Released for the cinema in a 189 minute version, 1982; also released as a 300 minute version in four parts. Executive producer: J?rn Donner; screenplay: Ingmar Bergman; assistant director: Peter Schildt; photography: Sven Nykvist; as- sistant photographers: Lars Karlsson, Dan Myhrman; editor: Sylvia Ingemarsson; sound recordists: Owe Svensson, Bo Persson, Bj?rn Gunnarsson, Lars Liljeholm; art director: Anna Asp, costume de- sign: Marki Vos; music: Daniel Bell; special effects: Bengt Lundgren; laterna magica: Christian Wirsén; puppets: Arne Hogsander. Cast: The Ekdahl Residence: Kristina Adolphson (Siri, Housemaid); B?rje Ahlstedt (Carl Ekdahl); Pernilla Allwin (Fanny Ekdahl); Kristian Almgren (Putte); Carl Billquist (Police Superintendent); Axel Düberg (Witness); Allan Edwall (Oscar Ekdahl); Siv Ericks (Alida, Emilie’s Cook); Ewa Fr?ling (Emilie Ekdahl); Patricia Gelin (Statue); Majlis Granlund (Vega, Helena’s Cook); Maria Granlund (Petra Ekdahl); Bertil Guve (Alexander Ekdahl); Eva von Hanno (Berta, Helena’s Housemaid); Sonya Hedenbratt (Aunt Emma); Olle Hilding (Old Clergyman); Svea Holst (Ester, Helena’s Parlour Maid); Jarl Kulle (Gustav Adolf Ekdahl); K?bi Laretei (Aunt Anna); Mona Malm (Alma Ekdahl); Lena Olin (Rosa, New Nursemaid); G?sta Prüzelius (Dr. Fürstenberg); Christina Schollin (Lydia Ekdahl); Hans Str??t (Clergyman at the Wedding); Pernilla Wallgren (Maj, Emilie’s Nursemaid); Emilie Werk? (Jenny Ekdahl); Gunn W?llgren (Helena Ekdahl); Inga Alenius (Lisen, Emilie’s Housemaid); The Bishop’s Palace: Marianne Aminoff (Blenda Vergérus, the Bishop’s Mother); Harriet Andersson (Justina, Kitchen Maid); Mona Ander- son (Karna, Housemaid); Hans Henrik Lerfeldt (Elsa Bergius, the Bishop’s Aunt); Jan Malmsj? (Bishop Edward Vergérus); Marianne Nielsen (Selma, Housemaid); Marrit Olsson (Malla Tander, Cook); Kerstin Tidelius (Henrietta Vergérus, the Bishop’s Sister); Theatre: Anna Bergman (Miss Hanna Schwartz); Gunnar Bj?rnstrand (Filip Landahl); Nils Brandt (Mr. Morsing); Lars-Owe Carlberg, Hugo Hasslo, and Sven Erik Jakobsen (Glee Singers); Gus Dahlstr?m (Props Man); Heinz Hopf (Tomas Graal); Maud Hyttenberg-Bartoletti (Miss Sinclair); Marianne Karlbeck (Miss Palmgren); Kerstin Karte (Prompter); Tore Karte (Office Manager); Ake Lagergren (Johan Armfeldt); Sune Mangs (Mr. Salenius); Per Mattson (Mikael Bergman); Lick? Sj?man (Grete Holm); Jacobi’s House: Erland Josephson (Isak Jacobi); Stina Ekblad (Ismael); Mats Bergman (Aron); Viola Aberlé, Gerd Andersson, and Anne-Louise Bergstr?m (Japanese Ladies). Awards: Oscars for Best Foreign Language Film, Best Art Direction, Best Cinematography, and Best Costume Design, 1983. Publications Books: Jones, G. William, editor, Talking with Ingmar Bergman, Dallas, Texas, 1983. Lefèvre, Raymond, Ingmar Bergman, Paris, 1983. Dervin, Daniel, Through a Freudian Lens Deeply: A Psychoanalysis of Cinema, Hillsdale, New Jersey, 1985. Gado, Frank, The Passion of Ingmar Bergman, Durham, North Carolina, 1986. Bergman, Ingmar, Laterna Magica, Stockholm, 1987; as The Magic Lantern: An Autobiography, London, 1988. Steene, Birgitta, Ingmar Bergman: A Guide to References and Resources, Boston, 1987. Cohen, James, Through a Lens Darkly, New York, 1991. Bjorkman, Stig, and Torsten Maans, and Jonas Sima, Bergman on Bergman: Interviews with Ingmar Bergman, Cambridge, 1993. Cohen, Hubert I., Ingmar Bergman: The Art of Confession, New York, 1993. Long, Robert Emmet, Ingmar Bergman: Film & Stage, New York, 1994. Tornqvist, Egil, Between Stage and Screen: Ingmar Bergman Directs, Amsterdam, 1995. Blackwell, Marilyn J., Gender and Representation in the Films of Ingmar Bergman, Rochester, 1997. Lloyd, Michaels, editor, Ingmar Bergman’s Persona, New York, 1999. Articles: Marker, L., and F. J., ‘‘The Making of Fanny and Alexander,’’ interview with Ingmar Bergman, in Films and Filming (London), February 1983. Chaplin (Stockholm), February 1983. Jensen, N., ‘‘Fanny og Alexander og alle de andre i Bergmans univers,’’ in Kosmorama (Copenhagen), March 1983. Pym, John, in Sight and Sound (London), Spring 1983. Milne, Tom, in Monthly Film Bulletin (London), April 1983. FANNY OCH ALEXANDER FILMS, 4 th EDITION 402 Fanny och Alexander Bonizto, P., and M. Chion, ‘‘Portrait de l’artiste en jeune mythomane: Bergman et Alexandre,’’ in Cahiers du Cinéma (Paris), April 1983. Bonnet, J.-C., and M. Lannes Lacroutz, in Cinématographe (Paris), April 1983. Lefèvre, Raymond, in Revue du Cinéma (Paris), April 1983. Benayoun, Robert, and others, in Positif (Paris), May 1983. Corliss, Richard, and W. Wolf, ‘‘God, Sex, and Ingmar Bergman,’’ in Film Comment (New York), May-June 1983. Strick, Philip, in Stills (London), May-June 1983. McLean, T., ‘‘Knocking on Heaven’s Door,’’ in American Film (Washington, D.C.), June 1983. Solman, G., in Films in Review (New York), August-September 1983. Quart, B., and L. Quart, in Film Quarterly (Berkeley), Fall 1983. Giguère, A., in Séquences (Montreal), October 1983. Timm, M., in Chaplin (Stockholm), December 1983. Comuzio, E., and G. De Santi, in Cineforum (Bergamo), January- February 1984. Fagiani, E., in Filmcritica (Florence), January-February 1984. Pintus, P., in Bianco e Nero (Rome), January-March 1984. Block, B. A., ‘‘Sven Nykvist, ASC, and Fanny and Alexander,’’ in American Cinematographer (Los Angeles), April 1984. Aghed, J., in Positif (Paris), March 1985. Bergman, Ingmar, ‘‘Propos,’’ in Positif (Paris), March 1985. Literature/Film Quarterly (Salisbury), vol.16, no.3, 1988. Werner, A., ‘‘Nocy dnia,’’ in Kino (Warsaw), May 1991. Salinger, E., ‘‘Fanny et Alexandre: Ingmar Bergman,’’ in Cahiers du Cinéma (Paris), Hors-série, 1993. Hayes, J., ‘‘The Seduction of Alexander Behind the Postmodern Door: Ingmar Bergman and Baudrillard’s De la seduction,’’ in Literature/Film Quarterly (Salisbury), no. 1, 1997. Jablonski, Witold, ‘‘W poszukiwaniu utraconej familii,’’ in Kino (Warsaw), vol. 31, no. 359, May 1997. *** Ingmar Bergman has said that he made Fanny and Alexander as his final film. It is an ingratiating and expansive film, ultimately a festive comedy, with its bleakest moments embedded between two extended family celebrations, the Christmas during which the father of Fanny and Alexander dies, and the christenings of the sister their mother had from her second husband and the cousin a maid conceived from their married uncle. In its scope, its concatenation of realism and FANTASIAFILMS, 4 th EDITION 403 fantasy, and its emotional reversals, the film owes something to Charles Dickens—perhaps to Our Mutual Friend, in particular, for a fire that rids the story of its villains and the intercessions of a benevolent stage Jew. More overtly, Bergman pays homage to Shakespeare and Strindberg, for the children of the title are part of the third generation of a theatrical family; their father collapses during a rehearsal of Hamlet in which he played the ghost, and dies shortly afterwards. (Throughout the film, he haunts Alexander.) The film ends with their grandmother reading the then-fresh script of Strindberg’s A Dream Play. Despite the title, Alexander is the unmistakable center of the film. Bergman’s autobiography, The Magic Lantern, indicates that much of the film is based on his life; he has given Alexander a number of autobiographical traits, including a fascination with a magic lantern, and found an actor to portray him who looks remarkably like the pre- adolescent Bergman. Yet the film projects an idealized version of that childhood, as Dickens often did; it is, in fact, Bergman’s richest instance of what Freud called ‘‘the family romance.’’ Set in turn-of- the-century Uppsala, it chronicles the Ekdahl family, their friends, servants and lovers. Plot is secondary to characterization. After the death of Oscar Ekdahl, his widow, Emilie, marries the severe and brutal Bishop Vergérus, taking Fanny and Alexander to live with her in the Bishop’s house with his two sisters. The children suffer prolonged isolation in the attic of the house, and Alexander is severely beaten for lies and defiance. Eventually Isak Jacobi, a Jewish cabalist who had been the lover of Helena, the Ekdahl matriarch, spirits away the children in a magical chest. He hides them in his shop of puppets and occult wonders until a fire destroys the Vergérus household except for Emilie, who gives birth to a daughter and rejoins her children and the Ekdahls. The universe of Fanny and Alexander is ‘‘the little world’’ (Oscar’s phrase) of the theater, an affectionate environment that reflects the greater exterior world while defending itself against it. Thus Alexander’s active imagination includes an intricate meshing of fantasies, visions, lies, theatricalizations, and magical violence. At the climax of the film Bergman ambiguously intercuts parallel scenes of the Vergérus home and its inhabitants consumed by flames with an encounter between Alexander and Isak’s nephew, Ismael, himself ambiguously played by a woman, so that we can read the montage as merely simultaneous or sinisterly causal. As Ismael—whom Alexan- der visits in his locked room against Isak’s warning—caresses him in a manner suggestive of anal intercourse, he encourages the frightened and pained boy to imagine the cruel death of his antagonist. The film is 189 minutes long; a version in four parts ran as a television serial for a total of 300 minutes. It did not alter substan- tially the plot of the film; rather it showed more of the Ekdahl theater and enlarged the portraits of Alexander’s uncles, the morose profes- sor Carl, and the high spirited adulterer Gustav Adolf. It also included a parable, invented by Bergman but presented as a translation from the Hebrew by Isak, into which Alexander imaginatively projects himself. The published script of the film gives Fanny and Alexander a sister, Amanda, two years older. Its ‘‘Prologue’’ informs us that all three of Emilie’s children from her marriage to Oscar were from different fathers, implying Oscar’s impotence. —P. Adams Sitney FANTASIA USA, 1940 Story Directors: Joe Grant and Ben Sharpsteen Production: Walt Disney Productions; Technicolor, 35mm, anima- tion, Fantasound; running time: 126 minutes, British version cut to 105 minutes, later versions cut to 81 minutes; length: originally 11,361 feet, cut to 9405 feet for British version. Released 13 Novem- ber 1940 by RKO/Radio. Re-released every 5–7 years, beginning in 1946. Re-released in 1982 with soundtrack in digital audio. Filmed in Walt Disney Studios. Cost: $2,280,000. Producer: Walt Disney; story developers: Lee Blair, Elmer Plummer, and Phil Dike (‘‘Toccata and Fugue in D Minor’’ episode); Sylvia Moberly-Holland, Norman Wright, Albert Heath, Bianca Majolie, and Grahm Heid (‘‘The Nutcracker Suite’’ segment); Perce Pearce and Carl Fallberg (‘‘The Sorcerer’s Apprentice’’ segment); William Martin, Leo Thiele, Robert Sterner, and John Fraser McLeish (‘‘The Rite of Spring’’ segment); Otto Englander, Webb Smith, Erdman Penner, Joseph Sabo, Bill Peet, and George Stallings (‘‘Pastoral Symphony’’); Martin Provensen, James Bodrero, Duke Russell, and Earl Hurd (‘‘Dance of the Hours’’); Campbell Grant, Arthur Heinemann, and Phil Dike (‘‘Night on Bald Mountain/Ave Maria’’ segment); directors: Samuel Armstrong (‘‘Toccata and Fugue in D Minor’’ and ‘‘The Nutcracker Suite’’ segments); James Algar (‘‘The Sorcerer’s Apprentice’’ segment); Bill Roberts and Paul Satterfield (‘‘The Rite of Spring’’ segment); Hamilton Luske, Jim Hangley, and Ford Beebe (‘‘Pastoral Symphony’’); T. Hee and Norman Ferguson (‘‘Dance of the Hours’’ segment); Wilfred Jackson (‘‘Night on Bald Mountain/Ave Maria’’ segment); animation direc- tors: Samuel Armstrong (‘‘Toccata and Fugue in D Minor’’ and “The Nutcracker Suite’’); Bill Roberts (‘‘The Rite of Spring’’); James Algar (‘‘The Sorcerer’s Apprentice’’); Hamilton Luske, Jim Handley and Ford Beebe (‘‘Pastoral Symphony’’); T. Hee and Norman Fergu- son (‘‘Dance of the Hours’’); and Wilfred Jackson (‘‘Night on Bald Mountain/Ave Maria’’); musical film editor: Stephen Csillag; sound and music recordists: William E. Garity, C. O. Slyfield, and J. N. A. Hawkins; sound system, called Fantasound, designed especially for the film; art directors: Robert Cormack (‘‘Toccata and Fugue in D Minor’’ segment); Robert Cormack, Al Zinnen, Curtiss D. Perkins, Arthur Byram, and Bruce Bushman (‘‘The Nutcracker Suite’’ seg- ment); Tom Codrick, Charles Phillippi, and Zack Schwartz (‘‘The Sorcerer’s Apprentice’’ segment); McLaren Stewart, Dick Kelsey, and John Hubley (‘‘The Rite of Spring’’ segment); Hugh Hennesy, Kenneth Anderson, J. Gordon Legg, Herbert Ryman, Yale Gracey, and Lance Nolley (‘‘Pastoral Symphony’’ segment); Kendall O’Connor, Harold Doughty, and Ernest Nordli (‘‘Dance of the Hours’’ segment); Kay Nielson, Terrell Stapp, Charles Payzant and Thor Putnam (‘‘Night on Bald Mountain/Ave Maria’’ segment); music director: Edward H. Plumb; music conductor: Leopold Tokowski (Irwin Kostal for 1982 release); music: selections include Bach’s ‘‘Toccata and Fugue in D Minor’’; Tchaikovsky’s ‘‘The Nutcracker Suite’’; Dukas’ ‘‘The Sorcerer’s Apprentice’’; Stravinsky’s ‘‘The Rite of Spring’’; Beethoven’s ‘‘Pastoral Symphony’’; Ponchielli’s ‘‘Dance of the Hours’’; Mussorgsky’s ‘‘Night on Bald Mountain’’; and Schubert’s ‘‘Ave Maria’’; special animation effects: Joshua Meador, Miles E. Pike, John F. Reed, and Daniel Leonard Pickely; animation FANTASIA FILMS, 4 th EDITION 404 Fantasia supervisors: Fred Moore and Vladamir Tytla (‘‘The Sorcerer’s Apprentice’’ segment); Wolfgang Reitherman and Joshua Meador (‘‘The Rite of Spring’’); Fred Moore, Ward Kimball, Eric Larsen, Arthur Babbitt, Oliver Johnson Jr., and Don Townsley (‘‘Pastoral Symphony’’ segment); Norman Ferguson (‘‘Dance of the Hours’’ segment); Vladamir Tytla (‘‘Night on Bald Mountain/Ave Maria’’ segment); animators: Cy Young, Art Palmer, Daniel MacManus, George Rowley, Edwin Aardal, Joshua Meador, and Cornett Wood (‘‘Toccata and Fugue in D Minor’’ segment); Arthur Babbitt, Les Clark, Don Lusk, Cy Young, and Robert Stokes (‘‘The Nutcracker Suite’’ segment); Les Clark, Riley Thompson, Marvin Woodward, Preston Blair, Edward Love, Ugo D’Orsi, George Rowley, and Cornett Wood (‘‘The Sorcerer’s Apprentice’’ segment); B. Wolf, J. Campbell, J. Bradbury, J. Moore, M. Neil, B. Justice, J. Elliotte, W. Kelly, D. Lusk, L. Karp, M. McLennan, R. Youngquist and H. Mamsel (‘‘Pastoral Symphony’’ segment); J. Lounsbery, H. Swift, P. Blair, H. Fraser, H. Toombs, N. Tate, H. Lokey, A. Elliott, G. Simmons, R. Patterson, and F. Grundeen (‘‘Dance of the Hours’’ segment); John McManus, W. N. Shull, Robert Carlson Jr., Lester Novros, and Don Patterson (‘‘Night on Bald Mountain/Ave Maria’’ segment). Cast: Deems Taylor (Narrative Introductions). Awards: New York Film Critics’ Special Award, 1940; Oscars, Special Awards (certificates), to Walt Disney, William Garity, John N. A. Hawkins, and RCA for Contributions to the Advancement of Sound in Motion Pictures, 1941; Oscar, Special Award (certificate), to Leopold Stokowski for his Achievement in the Creation of a New Form of Visualized Music, 1941. Publications Books: Taylor, Deems, Walt Disney’s Fantasia, New York, 1940. Field, Robert D., The Art of Walt Disney, New York, 1942. Manvell, Robert, and J. Huntley, The Technique of Film Music, New York, 1957. Stevenson, Ralph, Animation in the Cinema, New York, 1967. Schickel, Richard, The Disney Version: The Life, Times, Art, and Commerce of Walt Disney, New York, 1968; revised edition, 1986. FANTASIAFILMS, 4 th EDITION 405 Bessy, Maurice, Walt Disney, Paris, 1970. Finch, Christopher, The Art of Walt Disney: From Mickey Mouse to the Magic Kingdoms, New York, 1973; revised edition, 1999. Maltin, Leonard, The Disney Films, New York, 1973; revised edition, 1984, 2000. Thomas, Bob, Walt Disney: An American Original, New York, 1976. Edera, Bruno, Full-length Animated Features, edited by John Halas, New York, 1977. Leebron, Elizabeth, and Lynn Gartley, Walt Disney: A Guide to References and Resources, Boston, 1979. Thomas, Frank, and Ollie Johnston, Disney Animation: The Illusion of Life, New York, 1982. Culhane, John, Walt Disney’s Fantasia, New York, 1983. Bruno, Eduardo, and Enrico Ghezzi, Walt Disney, Venice, 1985. Mosley, Leonard, Disney’s World: A Biography, New York, 1985; as The Real Walt Disney, London, 1986. Culhane, Seamus, Talking Animals and Other People, New York, 1986. Thomas, Frank, and Ollie Johnston, Too Funny for Words: Disney’s Greatest Sight Gags, New York, 1987; revised edition 1999. Grant, John, Encyclopedia of Walt Disney’s Animated Characters: From Mickey Mouse to Hercules, New York, 1998. Thomas, Bob, Building a Company: Roy O. Disney and the Creation of an Entertainment Empire, New York, 1998. Smith, Dave, Disney A to Z: The Updated Official Encyclopedia, New York, 1999. Solomon, Charles, The Art of Disney, New York, 2000. Articles: Variety (New York), 21 August 1940. Robins, S., ‘‘Disney Again Tries Trailblazing,’’ in New York Times Magazine, 3 November 1940. Variety (New York), 13 November 1940. New York Times, 14 November 1940. Time (New York), 18 November 1940. Hollering, F., in Nation (New York), 23 November 1940. Ferguson, O., in New Republic (New York), 25 November 1940. Hartung, P. T., in Commonweal (New York), 29 November 1940. Gessner, Robert, ‘‘Class in Fantasia,’’ in Nation (New York), 30 November 1940. Hollister, P., ‘‘Walt Disney, Genius at Work,’’ in Atlantic (Boston), December 1940. Isaacs, H. R., in Theatre Arts (New York), January 1941. Peck, A. P., ‘‘What Makes Fantasia Click?,’’ in Scientific American (New York), January 1941. Boone, Andrew R., ‘‘Mickey Mouse Goes Classical,’’ in Popular Science Monthly (New York), January 1941. Haggin, B. H., in Nation (New York), 11 January 1941. Iwerks, Ub, in Popular Mechanics (New York), January 1942. Ericsson, Peter, ‘‘Walt Disney,’’ in Sequence (London), no. 10, 1950. Fallberg, Carl, ‘‘Animated Film Technique’’ (series of nine articles), in American Cinematographer (Los Angeles), July 1958 through March 1959. Hicks, Jimmie, in Films in Review (New York), November 1965. Zinsser, W., ‘‘Walt Disney’s Psychedelic Fantasia,’’ in Life (New York), 3 April 1970. ‘‘Disney Issue’’ of Kosmorama (Copenhagen), November 1973. Moritz, W., ‘‘Fischiner at Disney; or, Oscar in the Mousetrap,’’ in Millimeter (New York), February 1977. Paul, William, ‘‘Art, Music, Nature, and Walt Disney,’’ in Movie (London), Spring 1977. Canemaker, J., ‘‘Disney Animation: History and Technique,’’ in Film News (New York), January-February 1979. Canemaker, J., in Millimeter (New York), February 1979. Coleman, John, in New Statesman (London), 30 March 1979. Stuart, A., in Films and Filming (London), April 1979. Andrault, J. M., in Revue du Cinéma (Paris), November 1979. Prouty, Howard H., in Magill’s Survey of Cinema 2, Englewood Cliffs, New Jersey, 1980. Starburst (London), vol. 3, no. 2, 1980. Mallow, S., ‘‘Lens Cap: Finding Fantasia,’’ in Filmmakers Newslet- ter (Ward Hill, Massachusetts), March 1980. Braun, E., in Films (London), August 1982. Soundtrack! (Los Angeles), September 1982. Adler, Dick, ‘‘Hippo’s Revenge: A Behind-the-Cels Look at Fanta- sia on the 50th Anniversary of What They Called Walt’s Folly,’’ in Los Angeles Magazine, September 1990. Adler, Dick, ‘‘The Fantasy of Disney’s Fantasia,’’ in Chicago Tribune, 23 September 1990. Alexander, M., ‘‘Disney Sweeps the Dust off Fantasia at 50,’’ in New York Times, 30 September 1990. Solomon, Charles, ‘‘It Wasn’t Always Magic,’’ in Los Angeles Times, 7 October 1990. Phinney, K., ‘‘Shot by Shot,’’ in Premiere (New York), Novem- ber 1990. Review, in Listener, vol. 125, no. 3197, 3 January 1991. Heuring, D., and G. Turner, ‘‘Disney’s Fantasia: Yesterday and Today,’’ in American Cinematographer (Hollywood), Febru- ary 1991. Magid, Ron, ‘‘Fantasia-stein,’’ in American Cinematographer (Hol- lywood), vol. 71, no. 10, October 1991. Barron, J., ‘‘Who Owns the Rights to ‘Rites’?’’ in New York Times, no. 142, 22 January 1993. Review, in Séquences (Haute-Ville), no. 178, May-June 1995. Evans, G., ‘‘Disney Dishes New Look for Fantasia in 1998,’’ in Variety (New York), no. 358, 6/12 February 1995. Lyons, M., ‘‘Fantasia 2000,’’ in Cinefantastique (Forest Park), no. 9, 1998. *** According to Deems Taylor, writing in 1940 (although the story was later denied by Disney sources), Fantasia first began as a come- back vehicle for Mickey Mouse after the Disney Studio had turned from modest cartoon production to large-scale animation features. Certainly Disney had used the Silly Symphony format to introduce additional cartoon figures—Pluto in 1930, the Three Pigs in 1933, and then Donald Duck in 1934, who went on to challenge Mickey’s top billing. Also in 1934 Disney began work on Snow White and the Seven Dwarfs, a considerable gamble that came to be regarded as ‘‘Disney’s Folly,’’ but went on to turn a profit of $8 million in its first release in 1937 and earned a special Oscar from the Motion Picture Academy. Pinocchio followed the success of Snow White, introduc- ing Jiminy Cricket as an ingenuous narrator. At this point, then, in 1938, Disney began thinking about a new role for Mickey. Disney’s solution was to make Mickey the lead figure of a special cartoon rendering of ‘‘The Sorcerer’s Apprentice’’, a fairy tale that had been set to music by the French composer Paul Dukas. Needing musical advice, Disney broached the project to the conductor of the FARGO FILMS, 4 th EDITION 406 Philadelphia Orchestra, Leopold Stokowski, who was interested not only in the Dukas/Mickey idea but also in extending the project to an animated concert feature. Disney then began thinking in terms of ‘‘The Concert Feature’’ that was to become Fantasia. Whether the idea to expand was Disney’s or Stokowski’s has also been disputed. At any rate, Deems Taylor, the radio voice of the Metropolitan Opera, was brought in to provide further advice and to handle the narrative transitions among the concert film’s various ‘‘movements,’’ involving eight different musical compositions. Disney presumably saw the project as a challenging experiment in animated technique rather than an opportunity to use animation merely as a means of popularizing classical music for the masses. In the Bach Toccata and Fugue portion, for example, Disney artists were encouraged to experiment visually and boldly, in ways never before imagined. This sequence, early in the film, signals its experimentalism, departing from the usual Disney style and moving in abstract directions, imitating the techniques of Oscar Fischinger, who was originally to direct that sequence but left the project before completing it, after discovering the studio had altered his original designs. Other experi- ments are elsewhere in evidence, as when the sound track is visual- ized through animation midway through the film, recalling the abstract experiments of Len Lye and anticipating those of Norman McLaren. More conventional Disney whimsy is elsewhere in evi- dence, however, and there is perhaps the danger of vulgarizing the music through the imposed visual patterns. In fact, the sequences are diverse and uneven. The film has been criticized for its ‘‘ponderous didacticism’’ (the visualization of the ‘‘paleontological cataclysm’’ in the Stravinsky Rite of Spring sequence, for example, and the simplistic contrasts of the final sequences—Moussorgsky’s Night on Bald Mountain against Schubert’s Ave Maria, with Good triumphing over Evil in a finale of Christian tranquility) and praised for those sequences in which Disney contented himself with being Disney and avoided self- conscious attempts at being ‘‘artistic.’’ Fantasia came to Disney at a time when risks were being taken. After the demonstrated success of ‘‘Disney’s Folly,’’ animation began on Fantasia early in 1938. The production cost $2,280,000, including $400,000 for the music alone. Disney began thinking in terms of wide-screen production, multiplane Technicolor, and ‘‘Fantasound,’’ representing a major technical innovation involving the use of stereophonic sound and employing a new four-track optical stereophonic system. The achievement of ‘‘Fantasound’’ was some- thing of a compromise: according to Peter Finch, Disney ‘‘developed a sound system utilizing seven tracks and thirty speakers,’’ but the system was ‘‘prohibitively expensive’’ and only installed in a few theatres. The score was recorded at the acoustically splendid Acad- emy of Music in Philadelphia. For the first time, moreover, Disney became his own distributor with Fantasia, since, as Variety reported, the film was so different as to require a different sales approach. It premiered on 13 November 1940, at the Broadway Theatre in New York, and was not an immediate success. Its original running time, with an intermission, was about 130 minutes, later cut to 81 minutes. It was reissued in 1946, but it would only build its audience strength over time. By 1968, for example, it had earned $4.8 million in North American markets, more than doubling its original investment, and finally taking its place among the top 200 grossing films. In musical terminology, a fantasia is ‘‘a free development of a given theme.’’ Disney’s achievement, though often impressive and no doubt ahead of its time, has nonetheless had its detractors. Stravinsky was not pleased that his music had been restructured and that the instrumentation had been changed. ‘‘I will say nothing about the visual complement,’’ Stravinsky remarked, ‘‘as I do not wish to criticize an unresisting imbecility . . . ‘‘The film succeeds best when it is at its most playful—the hippopotamus ballerinas in the ‘‘Dance of the Hours’’ sequence, for example, which Richard Schickel has described as ‘‘a broad satirical comment on the absurdities of high culture.’’ The visuals for Beethoven’s Pastoral Symphony strain contrivedly for a mythic charm in an Arcadian setting populated by fabulous creatures. Far more interesting are the animated dances from Tchaikovsky’s Nutcracker Suite, and the whimsical treatment of Ponchielli’s ‘‘Dance of the Hours’’ or Mickey’s struggle with the dancing brooms in ‘‘The Sorcerer’s Apprentice,’’ the conceptual core of the picture. John Tibbetts has written that the results of Mickey’s ‘‘union with high art were questionable for some, just as Walt’s collision with the likes of Stravinsky, Beethoven, and Moussorgsky raised (or lowered) many a brow.’’ Disney’s undertaking Fantasia brings to mind an artisan who has only a superficial knowledge of religion undertaking to sculpt a monu- mental pieta out of sand as the tide moves in, threatening to erode it. Some passers-by will no doubt pause to watch out of curiosity, but the spectacle will not for most of them constitute a conversion. If anything, Fantasia does not teach a musical lesson, but it often fascinates and delights the eye. Reviewing Fantasia in 1940, Otis Ferguson called it ‘‘a film for everybody to see and enjoy,’’ despite its ‘‘main weakness—an absence of story, of motion, of interest.’’ Bosley Crowther was less harsh, remarking that the images often tended to overwhelm the music, but praising the film for its ‘‘imaginative excursion’’ and concluding that it was a milestone in motion picture history. Despite its sometimes elaborate pretensions and its many innovations, the boldness of its concept quite overrides the ‘‘disturbing jumble’’ of its achievement. It is, indeed, a ‘‘milestone’’ in the history of ani- mated film. —James Michael Welsh FAREWELL See PROSHCHANIE FAREWELL MY CONCUBINE See BA WANG BIE JI FARGO US, 1996 Director: Joel Coen Production: Gramercy Pictures, PolyGram Filmed Entertainment, Working Title Films; color, 35mm; running time: 98 minutes; length: FARGOFILMS, 4 th EDITION 407 Fargo 2732 meters. Filmed in Minnesota and North Dakota; cost: $7 million. Producers: Ethan Coen, Tim Bevan (executive), Eric Fellner (execu- tive); screenplay: Joel Coen, Ethan Coen; cinematographer: Roger Deakins; music: Carter Burwell; editors: Ethan Coen (as Roderick Jaynes), Joel Coen (as Roderick Jaynes); casting: John Lyons; production design: Rick Heinrichs; art direction: Thomas P. Wilkins; set decoration: Lauri Gaffin; costume design: Mary Zophres; makeup: John Blake, Daniel Curet. Cast: William H. Macy (Jerry Lundegaard); Steve Buscemi (Carl Showalter); Frances McDormand (Marge Gunderson); Peter Stormare (Gaear Grimsrud); Kristin Rudrüd (Jean Lundegaard); Harve Presnell (Wade Gustafson); Tony Denman (Scotty Lundegaard); Gary Hous- ton (Irate Customer); Sally Wingert (Irate Customer’s Wife); Kurt Schweickhardt (Car Salesman); Larissa Kokernot (Hooker #1); Melissa Peterman (Hooker #2); Steve Reevis (Shep Proudfoot); Warren Keith (Reilly Diefenbach); Steve Edelman (Morning Show Host); Sharon Anderson (Morning Show Hostess); Larry Brandenburg (Stan Grossman); James Gaulke (State Trooper); and others. Awards: Cannes Film Festival Best Director Award (Coen), 1996; National Board of Review Awards for Best Actress (McDormand) and Best Director (Coen), 1996; Australian Film Institute Best Foreign Film Award, 1996; Casting Society of America Artios Award (John S. Lyons), 1996; Academy Award for Best Actress (Frances McDormand) and Best Writing, Screenplay Written Directly for the Screen (Ethan Coen and Joel Coen), 1997; American Cinema Editors Eddie Award for Best Edited Feature Film, 1997; Bodil Festival Award for Best American Film, 1997; British Academy Awards David Lean Award for Direction (Joel Coen), 1997; Writers Guild of America Screen Award for Best Screenplay Written Directly for the Screen (Coen and Coen), 1997; Screen Actors Guild Award for Outstanding Performance by a Female Actor in a Leading Role (McDormand), 1997; and many other awards. Publications: Script: Coen, Joel, and Ethan Coen, Fargo, London, 1996. FARGO FILMS, 4 th EDITION 408 Books: Wood, Paul A., Blood Siblings: The Cinema of Joel and Ethan Coen, Austin, 1999. Ashbrook, John M., and Ellen Cheshire, Joel and Ethan Coen, Harpenden, 2000. Korte, Joel and Ethan Coen, Cambridge, 2000. Articles: Sante, Luc, ‘‘The Rise of the Baroque Directors,’’ in Vogue, vol. 182, no. 9, September 1992. Friend, Tad, ‘‘Inside the Coen Heads,’’ in Vogue, vol. 184, no. 4, April 1994. Robertson, William Preston, ‘‘The Coen Brothers Made Easy,’’ in Playboy, vol. 41, no. 4, April 1994. Lally, K., ‘‘Up North with the Coen Brothers,’’ in Film Journal (New York), vol. 99, February 1996. Dafoe, W., ‘‘Frances McDormand,’’ in Bomb, no. 55, Spring 1996. Probst, Christopher, ‘‘Cold-Blooded Scheming,’’ in American Cinema- tographer (Hollywood), vol. 77, no. 3, March 1996. Biskind, Peter, ‘‘Joel and Ethan Coen,’’ in Premiere (Boulder), vol. 9, no. 7, March 1996. Fuller, Graham, ‘‘Do Not Miss Fargo,’’ in Interview, vol. 26, no. 3, March 1996. McCarthy, Todd, and Derek Elley, ‘‘Global Helmers Fill Croisette Coffers,’’ in Variety (New York), vol. 362, no. 11, 15 April 1996. Blake, R.A., ‘‘Whiteout,’’ in America, vol. 174, 20 April 1996. Simon, J., ‘‘Forgo Fargo,’’ in National Review, vol. 48, 22 April 1996. Francke, Lizzie, ‘‘Hell Freezes Over,’’ in Sight & Sound (London), vol. 6, no. 5, May 1996. Andrew, Geoff, ‘‘Pros and Coens,’’ in Time Out (London), no. 1343, 15 May 1996. ‘‘Special Issue on Fargo,’’ in Avant-Scène du Cinéma (Paris), no. 456, November 1996. Roman, Monica, ‘‘New York Crix Circle Takes Trip to Fargo,’’ in Variety (New York), vol. 365, no. 7, 16 December 1996. Probst, Christopher, ‘‘Exemplary Images,’’ in American Cinema- tographer (Hollywood), vol. 78, no. 6, June 1997. Norman, Barry, ‘‘A Case of Knowing When to Go to Fargo,’’ in Radio Times (London), vol. 294, no. 3839, 30 August 1997. *** ‘‘This is a true story,’’ reads the on-screen caption at the beginning of Fargo. Ethan Coen’s introduction to the published script tells it rather differently: ‘‘The story . . . aims to be both homey and exotic, and pretends to be true.’’ Either way, this teasing, typically Coenesque ambiguity is something of a red herring (since fiction, in the classic definition, is a lie that tells the truth) but it makes an apt introduction to a film where the only people who win out are those who make no pretense to being anything other than they are. Fargo marks a significant tonal shift in the Coens’ work. It shares several favorite black-comedy elements with their earlier films—the solemnly off-the-wall dialogue, the laughably inept yet lethal heavies, the snowball effect of a relatively minor act of deception spiraling disastrously out of control—but also for the first time sets up a center of normality to counterpoint the off-kilter eccentricities on display elsewhere. Some previous Coen films do provide a focus for our sympathies, such as the childless Hi and Ed (Nicolas Cage and Holly Hunter) in Raising Arizona, but that pair are themselves fairly advanced-state deranged. Fargo’s Marge Gunderson (Frances McDormand), the heavily pregnant police chief, and her aptly-named husband Norm (John Carroll Lynch) present a picture of married life that’s conventional to the point of stodginess, but sustained by a mutually supportive love. Though Marge serves as the film’s moral center, it’s a full thirty minutes before she appears on screen. By then, the picture’s been all but stolen by William H. Macy in his breakthrough role as Jerry Lundegaard, the hapless car salesman so desperate for money that he arranges to have his own wife kidnapped. With his wide, unhappy grin and paper-thin bonhomie (‘‘You’re darn tootin’!’’), Jerry is visibly flailing on the edge of the abyss—and as so often happens in the Coens’ tortuous world, the people he turns to for help are just as inept, and far less scrupulous, than he is. Even in the rich gallery of Coen villains, the mismatched pair of Carl Showalter and Gaear Grimsrud stand out as relishably vivid. (A running gag is that none of the witnesses can ever describe this highly distinctive duo beyond saying they were ‘‘kinda funny- lookin’.’’) Right from the start it is clear that the teaming of the small, twitchy, voluble Carl (Steve Buscemi at his most weaselly) and the huge, menacingly taciturn Gaear (Peter Stormare) is headed for a particularly vicious meltdown. Gaear, whose name and demeanor suggest one of the less savory denizens of the Icelandic sagas, is another of those monstrous figures-from-the-id who recur in the Coens’ films, close kin to the Lone Biker of the Apocalypse in Raising Arizona or Charlie Meadows in Barton Fink. He also seems to be blood-brother to Paul Bunyan, whose mad-eyed effigy we glimpse by the highway outside Brainard, carrying an axe much like the one Gaear eventually buries in Carl’s neck. (Following through on these forestry impulses, he proceeds to feed his ex-partner into a wood-chipper.) Embodiments of the destructive instinct at its most self-defeating, Carl and Gaear casually bump off anybody who irritates them or even momentarily incommodes them. The death of the luckless Jean Lundegaard, Jerry’s kidnapped wife, rates just two lines—Carl: ‘‘The fuck happen to her?’’ Gaear: ‘‘She started shrieking, y’know.’’ Against these lethal clowns Marge Gunderson initially seems a hope- lessly inadequate opponent, with her waddling, pregnant walk and slow speech. (The Coens, themselves Minnesota-born, have fun with local Scandinavian speech-patterns; most exchanges consist largely of ‘‘Oh, yah?’’ ‘‘Yah.’’) But Marge, compassionate but not sentimen- tal, combines her nurturing role with the tenacity of the tough cop whose accepted image she so little resembles. Carl, Gaear, and Jerry violate everything her down-to-earth common sense believes in, summed up in her remarks to the captured Gaear: ‘‘And for what? For a little bit of money. There’s more to life than a little money, y’know.... And it’s a beautiful day. I just don’t understand it.’’ Marge’s innate decency, and her comfortably affectionate rela- tionship with Norm, provide Fargo with the core of warmth that was often lacking from the Coens’ earlier films. The filmmakers also, for the first time, admit the intrusion of genuine grief in the reaction of Jerry’s son Scotty to his mother’s kidnaping. Their next film, The Big Lebowski, features ‘‘Dude’’ Lebowski (Jeff Bridges) a character whose instinctive (if dope-hazed) humanity stands in contrast to the cheats, double-dealers, and thugs around him. Such elements seem set to add a deeper emotional investment to the FARREBIQUEFILMS, 4 th EDITION 409 Coens’ work, without in the least detracting from their wit, inventive- ness, and stylistic bravura. —Philip Kemp FARREBIQUE France, 1947 Director: Georges Rouquier Production: L’Ecran Fran?ais and Les Films Etienne Lallier; black and white, 35mm; running time: 100 minutes; some versions are 85 minutes. Released 11 February 1947. Filmed from about 1944 to 1946 on location at the farm Farrebique. Producer: Jacques Girard; screenplay: Georges Rouquier, from an idea by C. Blanchard; photography: André Danton; editor; Made- leine Gug; sound: Lecuyer; music: Henri Sauguet; special effects: Jean Painleve, Daniel Senade, and Jean-Jacques Rebuffet. Cast: The Owners of the farm of Farrebique and some of their neighbors as themselves. Publications Script: Rouquier: Album de Farrebique, Paris, 1947. Books: Barnouw, Erik, Documentary: A History of Non-Fiction Film, New York, 1974. Armes, Roy, French Film Since 1946: The Great Tradition, New York, 1976. Auzel, Dominique, Georges Rouquier: cinéaste, poète & paysan, Rodez, 1993. Articles: Sight and Sound (London), Winter 1946–47. Revue du Cinéma (Paris), January 1947. Cinéma Fran?ais (Paris), 15 February 1947. New York Times, 24 February 1948. New Republic (New York), 1 March 1948. Time (New York), 15 March 1948. Monthly Film Bulletin (London), 30 April 1948. Agee, James, in Agee on Film 1, New York, 1958. Bowser, Eileen, ‘‘New Acquisitions: Le Tempestaire and Farrebique,’’ in Museum of Modern Art. Film Notes, (New York), 2 and 4 April 1978. Weiss, J. H., ‘‘An Innocent Eye? The Career and Documentary Vision of Georges Rouquier,’’ in Cinema Journal (Evanston, Illinois), Spring 1981. Jeune Cinéma (Paris), January 1984. Olive, Jean-Louis, ‘‘Farrebique, Biquefare ou les mor?eaux de la memoire,’’ in Cahiers de la Cinématheque, no. 41, Winter 1984. Berelowitch, Iréne, and Jacques Siclier, ‘‘Le printemps revient toujours. Farrebique ou les quatre saisons: Biquefarre,’’ in Télérama (Paris), no. 2252, 10 March 1993. Auzel, Dominique, ‘‘Georges Rouquier, cinéaste, poète et paysan,’’ in Séquences (Haute-Ville), no. 170, March 1994. Sorlin, Pierre, ‘‘‘Stop the Rural Exodus’: Images of the Country in French Films of the 1950s,’’ in Historical Journal of Film, Radio and Television, vol. 18, no. 2, June 1998. *** The roots of the style which George Rouquier brought to full maturity with his first feature-length film, Farrebique, released in 1946, lie in a number of short documentary studies of rural crafts, such as Le tonnelier and Le charron, which the director had made during the Occupation years. In the immediate post-war years, Farrebique’s picture of French farming life was hailed as a break with the past, its deeply-felt concern to present realist detail being con- trasted with the escapist fantasy that was felt to characterize the cinema of the Pétain years. Certainly this aspect of the film remains impressive. The everyday activity of the farming family is precisely observed—the breadmaking, ploughing and harvesting, evening prayers, and trips to church or bistro—and forms the context for the film’s fictionalized sequence of events. They include the grandfa- ther’s account of the family history, his death and the birth of a baby, the younger son’s injury and engagement, and they are staged in a slightly clumsy fashion which is in perfect keeping with the film’s strategy of presenting its story as a ‘‘real’’ document. The understate- ment of joys and sorrows and the unemphatic playing reinforce this tone. But the film as a whole does not have any of the coldness or objectivity that such a stance might lead one to expect, for these family events are not presented neutrally but are fitted into what can be aptly characterised as a pageant of the seasons. The director views nature with true poetic intensity, stressing always its dynamic aspect, particularly in the long lyrical passage celebrating the coming of the spring. This vision allows the film to remain optimistic and affirma- tive despite the inclusion of such events as the grandfather’s death, which can be seen as part of a rhythm of change and development. Though moving in itself, this death is merely part of the process of seasonal renewal and can be supplanted by the son’s engagement and the promise of spring. In the mid- and late-1940s, Farrebique was generally seen as belonging alongside René Clément’s documentary drama La bataille du rail, about the French railway workers’ efforts to resist the German occupiers, as an example of the postwar French realism which failed to develop on the lines of that emerging during these years in Italy. Comparisons with Italian neorealism are fruitful, for it is immediately apparent that Rouquier has not attempted to integrate rural life into a wider social framework. In Farrebique virtually the only contact with the outside world concerns the installation of electricity, and even this is treated as a comparatively minor incident and incorpo- rated in the film’s conception of change as part of a natural rhythm. Certainly Rouquier offers none of the social analysis which characterises Luchino Visconti’s La terra trema, a study of an equally isolated fishing community made some two years later. But while such an approach to Farrebique has great relevance and considerable LA FEMME DU BOULANGER FILMS, 4 th EDITION 410 Farrebique value, relating closely to André Bazin’s 1940s advocacy of realist styles, it can be seen in retrospect as somewhat limited. Bazin’s formulation of the problematics of realism leaves out of account any consideration of political issues. Yet from today’s perspective one of the most fascinating aspects of Farrebique is the way it questions the neat separation of Occupation years from the postwar renewal that underpins so many accounts of France in the 1940s. Planned during the Occupation, Farrebique reflects the all-pervasive influence of the Pétainist ideology of ‘‘work, family and fatherland’’ at least as strongly as it affirms a new postwar realist approach. Far from lessening the value and significance of Farrebique, this essenial ambiguity makes it a key document for the re-examination of French culture that looks beneath the comfortable myths of Occupation and Resistance. —Roy Armes FATHER PANCHALI See THE APU TRILOGY LA FEMME DU BOULANGER (The Baker’s Wife) France, 1938 Director: Marcel Pagnol Production: Les Films Marcel Pagnol; black and white, 35mm; running time: 120 minutes, some sources list 110 minutes. Released 1938. Screenplay: Marcel Pagnol, from Jean le Bleu by Jean Giono; photography: G. Beno?t, R. Lendruz, and N. Daries; editors: Suzanne de Troye, Marguerite Houllé, and Suzanne Cabon; music: Vin- cent Scotto. Cast: Raimu (Aimable Castenet); Ginette Leclerc (Aurélie Castenet); Charpin (M. de Monelles); Robert Vattier (Priest); Basac (Teacher); Charles Moulin (Dominique); Delmont (Mailleterre); Alida Rouffe LA FEMME DU BOULANGERFILMS, 4 th EDITION 411 (Marie); Maximilliene (Angèle); Maupi, Dullac, Blavette, Odette Roger, Castan, Maffre, and Charblay. Publications Books: Sadoul, Georges, French Film, London, 1953. Armes, Roy, French Film, New York, 1970. Domeyne, P., Marcel Pagnol, Paris, 1971. Beylie, Claude, Marcel Pagnol, Paris, 1972. Castans, Raymond, Marcel Pagnol’s m’a raconte . . . , Paris, 1975. Leprohon, Pierre, Marcel Pagnol, Paris, 1976. Castans, R., Il etait une fois Marcel Pagnol, Paris, 1978. Pagnol, Marcel, Confidences, Paris, 1981. Castans, Raymond, and Andre Bernard, Les Films du Marcel Pagnol, Paris, 1982. Beylie, Claude, Marcel Pagnol: Ou, Le Cinéma en liberté, Paris, 1986, 1995. La femme du boulanger Pompa, Dany, Marcel Pagnol, Paris, 1986. Bens, Jacques, Pagnol, Paris, 1994. Articles: Variety (New York), 12 October 1938. Greene, Graham, in Spectator (London), 24 February 1939. Whitebait, William, in New Statesman (London), 25 February 1939. New York Times, 2 March 1940. ‘‘Adieu à Raimu,’’ in L’Ecran Fran?aise (Paris), 3 October 1951. ‘‘Marcel Pagnol,’’ in Current Biography Yearbook 1956, New York, 1957. ‘‘Souvenirs sur Raimu,’’ in Figaro Litteraire (Paris), 7 Septem- ber 1963. ‘‘Guiltry-Pagnol Issue,’’ of Cahiers du Cinéma (Paris), 1 Decem- ber 1965. Ford, Charles, ‘‘Marcel Pagnol,’’ in Films in Review (New York), April 1970. ‘‘L’Adieu de Marcel Pagnol à Raimu,’’ in Avant-Scène du Cinéma (Paris), July-September 1970. LA FEMME INFIDèLE FILMS, 4 th EDITION 412 Gevaudin, F., ‘‘Marcel Pagnol: Un Cinéaste mineur?’’ in Cinéma (Paris), June 1974. Harvey, S., ‘‘Pagnol, From the Source,’’ in New York Times, 21 February 1988. Brisset, S., ‘‘Pagnol, cineaste de la Mediterranee,’’ in Cinema 90, no. 470, October 1990. La Breteque, F. de, ‘‘Le gout pour la pedagogie et la didactique de Marcel Pagnol,’’ in Les Cahiers de la Cinematheque (Perpignan), no. 54, December 1990. Faulkner, C., ‘‘Rene Clair, Marcel Pagnol and the Social Dimension of Speech,’’ in Screen (Oxford), no. 2, 1994. Review, in Télérama (Paris), no. 2377, 2 August 1995. Bazin, A., ‘‘The Case of Marcel Pagnol,’’ in Literature/Film Quar- terly (Salisbury), no. 3, 1995. *** La femme du boulanger is a film which can stand as a summation of Marcel Pagnol’s work in the cinema and of a certain style of 1930s filmmaking. It was a period in which the star and his or her attendant dialogue writer reigned supreme in French cinema. Despite the film’s title, the sultry Ginette Leclerc has only a small role as the errant wife, but in compensation we are given Raimu at the height of his powers in a part shaped by Pagnol so as to give the maximum relief and humanity to the figure of a village baker deceived by his faithless wife, who runs off with a stranger. The plot could hardly be simpler: the husband now refuses to bake bread; the villagers have to join forces to ‘‘engineer’’ the wayward wife’s return and acceptance by the baker. In terms of Marcel Pagnol’s work, La femme du boulanger, though it holds together remarkably well, is in many ways a hybrid, combin- ing two divergent tendencies. The source of the film is a novel by Jean Giono, who had earlier provided the stimuli for the rural epics, Angèle and Regain. As with those films, La femme du boulanger breathes an authentic country atmosphere, with its open air meetings and sense of real village community. But here the epic qualities of Giono’s vision are scaled down, and the village, though remote, is a microcosm of the city, with its social stratifications and religious differences. The performance of Raimu calls to mind the atmosphere of Pagnol’s marvellous Marseilles trilogy—Marius, Fanny, and César—which the director and the star had completed just two years previously. This trilogy had its roots in Pagnol’s writing for the stage, and it was essentially a studio work, in which the atmosphere of the Mediterra- nean port was summoned up through vivid dialogue and accent. Raimu’s role in La femme du boulanger has the same verbal richness. These are speeches written to be performed—as in the theatre—and since Raimu was unhappy acting in the open air, many of them were restaged in the studio, giving the film its sometimes awkward combination of location and studio work. As always, the themes of Pagnol’s work are simple, bordering on the melodramatic, but they are captured in dialogue of such verbal felicity, and shaped so cunningly as drama, that they hold the attention effortlessly, espe- cially when—as here—they are set against a vividly drawn background. The controversy which surrounded Marcel Pagnol’s work in the late 1930s, the result of his enthusiastic welcoming of sound cinema as no more than a perfected means of recording and distributing theatrical works, has now subsided. His own work proved richer than the polemical positions which he adopted at the time. Despite his advocacy of the studio, he was in fact one of the first to record sound on location and take his players into the countryside around Marseil- les. Formerly regarded as a marginal provincial figure, cut off from the mainstream of Parisian cinema, Pagnol was in fact consistently able to produce two or three films a year. That made him a major figure at a time when the major production companies had long since vanished and most films were made by ephemeral companies set to organise just a single production. Owning his own production and distribution companies, his own laboratories and cinemas, Pagnol created his films en famille in a uniquely personal atmosphere. La femme du boulanger, his last film of the 1930s, conveys perfectly the strengths of this spontaneous, uninhibited approach to production. —Roy Armes LA FEMME INFIDèLE (The Unfaithful Wife) France, 1969 Director: Claude Chabrol Production: Les Films La Boétie and Cinégay; Eastmancolor (print by Deluxe), 35mm; running time: 105 minutes, English version: 98 minutes; length: 2900 meters. Released January 1969, Paris. Filmed 1968 in and around Paris. Producer: André Génovès and Georges Casati; screenplay: Claude Chabrol; photography: Jean Rabier; editor: Jacques Gaillard; sound: Guy Chichignoud; art director: Guy Littaye; music: Pierre Jansen; music conductors: André Girard and Dominique Zardi; costume designer: Maurice Albray. Cast: Stéphane Audran (Hélène Desvallées); Michel Bouquet (Charles Desvallées); Maurice Ronet (Victor Pegala); Serge Bento (Bignon); Michel Duchaussoy (Police officer); Guy Marly (Police Officer Gobert); Stéphane Di Napoli (Michel Desvallées); Louise Chevalier (Maid); Louise Rioton (Mother-in-Law); Henri Mateau (Paul); Fran?ois Moro-Giafferi (Frédéric); Dominque Zardi (Truck driver); Michel Charrel (Policeman); Henri Attal (Man in cafe); Jean-Marie Arnoux (False witness); Donatella Turri (Brigitte). Publications Script: Chabrol, Claude, ‘‘La femme infidèle,’’ in Avant-Scène du Cinéma (Paris), May 1969. Books: Wood, Robin, and Michael Walker, Claude Chabrol, New York, 1970. Fassbinder, Rainer Werner, and others, Reihe Film 5: Claude Chabrol, Munich, 1975. LA FEMME INFIDèLEFILMS, 4 th EDITION 413 La femme infidèle Taylor, John, Directors and Directions, New York, 1975. Armes, Roy, French Cinema Since 1946: The Personal Style, New York, 1976. Monaco, James, The New Wave, New York, 1976. Magny, Joel, Claude Chabrol, Paris, 1987. Blanchet, Christian, Claude Chabrol, Paris, 1989. Austin, Guy, Claude Chabrol: Autoportrait, Manchester, 1999. Articles: Comolli, Jean-Louis, in Cahiers du Cinéma (Paris), February 1969. Baxter, Brian, ‘‘Claude Chabrol,’’ in Film (London), Spring 1969. ‘‘Chabrol Issue,’’ of Avant-Scène du Cinéma (Paris), May 1969. Dewey, Langdon, ‘‘Chabrol Rides the Waves,’’ in Film (London), Summer 1969. Millar, Gavin, in Sight and Sound (London), Autumn 1969. Gow, Gordon, in Films and Filming (London), October 1969. Sarris, Andrew, in Village Voice (New York), 13 November 1969. Wood, Robin, in Movie (London), Winter 1969–70. Allen, Don, ‘‘Claude Chabrol,’’ in Screen (London), February 1970. Milne, Tom, ‘‘Chabrol’s Schizophrenic Spider,’’ in Sight and Sound (London), Spring 1970. Kernan, Margot, in Film Quarterly (Berkeley), Summer 1970. ‘‘An Interview with Claude Chabrol,’’ in Take One (Montreal), September-October 1970. Legrand, Gérard, Michel Ciment, and J. Torok, ‘‘Interview with Chabrol,’’ in Movie (London), Winter 1970–71. Nogueira, R., and N. Zalaffi, ‘‘Conversation with Claude Chabrol,’’ in Sight and Sound (London), Winter 1970–71. Haskell, Molly, ‘‘The Films of Chabrol—A Priest among Clowns,’’ in Village Voice (New York), 12 November 1970. Ebert, Roger, ‘‘This Man Must Commit Murder,’’ in New York Times Biography Edition, 29 November 1970. Harcourt, P., in Film Comment (New York), November-Decem- ber 1976. Anderson, S., ‘‘True Love and the Bourgeoisie,’’ in Filament (Day- ton), no. 2, 1982. Dennis, J., ‘‘Hitchcockian Influences on Claude Chabrol,’’ in Fila- ment (Dayton), no. 2, 1982. Jousse, T., and others, ‘‘Entretien avec Claude Chabrol,’’ in Cahiers du Cinéma (Paris), no. 437, November 1990. FESTEN FILMS, 4 th EDITION 414 Berthomieu, P., and others, ‘‘Entretien avec Claude Chabrol,’’ in Positif (Paris), September 1995. Feinstein, H., ‘‘Killer Instincts,’’ in Village Voice (New York), 24 December 1996. Magny, J., ‘‘Questions de mise en scene,’’ in Cahiers du Cinéma (Paris), Hors-serie, 1997. *** Claude Chabrol’s La femme infidèle is perhaps the director’s most characteristic film: an extraordinarily spare thriller emphasizing the subtle psychologies of its few major characters. Although the film presents Chabrol’s typical triangle—Charles and his wife, Hélène, who has taken a lover—the members of the triangle never all come together; and the film is organized very formally; one scene between Hélène and her lover, one scene between Charles and her lover, and many scenes between Hélène and Charles. The film is almost com- pletely subtext; although the film’s primary subject is the relationship between Charles and Hélène (and the sociopolitical implications of its failings), not one word ever passes between Charles and Hélène about her love affair or the problems of their marriage. The indirectness of the film seems apposite, since Chabrol indi- cates that the violence which erupts so suddenly in the film is repressed beneath the apparently civilized surface of bourgeois soci- ety. Chabrol emphasizes those surfaces: the beautiful greens of the couple’s landscaped garden, the shine on the silverware, the bouquets of flowers, the informal family grouping outdoors which is masked by a cheery blue canopy. True to his manner, Chabrol entirely eschews sentiment, and yet—although apparently cold and distant—condemns no one. If this witty, ironic film holds neither Hélène nor Charles completely responsible for her affair, it credits the act of violence the affair precipitates for the rekindling of the couple’s passions for each other, as each suddenly sees the other in a new light. By the end of the film, Hélène is all too willing to cover up her husband’s crime and lovingly accept the kind of transference of guilt typical of the Hitchcock films Chabrol so obviously admires. There are very few emotional outbursts or expressions of feeling in the film; the murder of Hélène’s lover, which comes unexpectedly; three choked sobs that Hélène gives when she discovers her lover has been killed; and one truly heartfelt embrace between husband and wife. Rather, the emotion, as repressed as the natural instincts of the characters, is displaced instead onto the decor; indeed, there are flashes of red throughout—Hélène’s earrings, a bedroom wall, a beauty shop awning, a bright dress, a lampshade, a cabinet, and so forth. As usual for Chabrol, objects are consistently used as symbols; a white, aloof statue that Charles tries to cleanse of red blood and which stands, perhaps, for Hélène; a huge cigarette lighter, which represents the passion Hélène has transferred from her husband to her lover; and the jigsaw puzzle, put together by the couple’s son, which seems to represent their marriage and/or the narrative. The cinematography by Jean Rabier and the score by Pierre Jansen are impeccable and provocative. So too are the performances, espe- cially by Chabrol’s wife, Stéphane Audran, as Hélène (note the cool expressiveness of her beauty as she descends the stairs at the end of the film), and Michel Bouquet as Charles. A small but perfect film, La femme infidèle represents only one variation on the theme in a series of films directed by Chabrol in the late 1960s and 1970s in collabora- tion with Audran, Rabier, and Jansen. —Charles Derry FESTEN (The Celebration) Denmark, 1998 Director: Thomas Vinterberg Production: Nimbus Film in collaboration with DR/TV and Swedish TV; color, 35mm; running time: 106 min. Released 19 June 1998, in Copenhagen. Cost: DKK 8 mio. Producer: Birgitte Hald; Screenplay: Thomas Vinterberg and Mogens Rukow, from an idea by Thomas Vinterberg based on an authentic case made public on Danish Radio. Photography: Anthony Dod Mantle; Editor: Valdis Oskarsdottir. Cast: Ulrich Thomsen (Christian); Thomas Bo Larsen (Michael); Henning Moritzen (Father); Paprika Steen (Helene); Birthe Neu- mann (Mother); Trine Dyrholm (Pia); Helle Dolleriis (Mette); Klaus Bondam (Toastmaster). Awards: (Major awards only) Prix de jury, Cannes Film Festival; Danish Film Academy Award (Robert) for Best Director, Best Actor, Best Actress, Best Supporting Actress, Best Editor, Best Cinema- tographer, and Best Scriptwriter; Danish Film Critics Award (Bodil) for Best Director and Best Leading Actor; Fassbinder Award as European Discovery, European Film Academy Awards, 1998; Los Angeles Film Critics Award for Best Foreign Language Film; New York Film Critics Award for Best Foreign Language Film; Swedish Film Institute Award (Guldbagge) for Best Foreign Language Film. Publications Script: Vinterberg, Thomas, and Mogens Rukow, Festen, K?benhavn, 1998. Articles: Interview and review, in Positif (Paris), no. 455, January 1999. Macnab, Geoffrey, ‘‘The Big Tease,’’ in Sight and Sound (London), February 1999. Matthews, Peter, review in Sight and Sound (London), March 1999. *** When Lars von Trier, Thomas Vinterberg, S?ren Kragh-Jacobsen, and Christian Levring signed the Dogma manifesto in 1995 their intention was to counter certain tendencies in contemporary cinema: cosmetic technical perfection, predictable dramaturgy, and superfi- cial action. The various commandments of the Dogma manifesto, which might appear to be a straitjacket, were in fact conceived as a chance to concentrate the art of film on what matters most: the plot and the characters. The Celebration, by Thomas Vinterberg, was the first Dogma film and from the very outset it was obvious that something extraordinary was afoot. The Celebration is a film born out of the happy moments FEU MATHIAS PASCALFILMS, 4 th EDITION 415 when a director unites the combination of a good story and superb acting by every member of the cast into a film narrative which makes a tremendous impact with its palpitating editing, sensitively mobile camera, and striking sense of framing and composition. The film is the story of a family party to celebrate a 60th birthday. It is attended by the birthday boy’s three children, grandchildren, and sundry friends and relatives. When Christian, one of the three sons, starts his speech by thanking his father for raping him and his twin sister, who went on to commit suicide, the black comedy commences, with baroque farce alternating with excruciatingly painful revelations of stunted family relationships. Christian then tries to depart from the paralyzed company, who don’t know whether it is a sickly inappropri- ate joke, but is persuaded by an old friend to stay and see his showdown to its conclusion. He returns to the dinner three times to maintain and elucidate his accusations, finally raising his glass to his father, ‘‘the man who murdered my sister.’’ Vinterberg moulds his story around the Aristotelian unities of time, place, and action, and composes it in blocks: arrival, before the party, the party, and the next day, with the conflicts of the night as a climactic epilogue. The night is an hour of truth for the doubting brother Michael, who now denies his father, beats him up in impotent fury, and refuses to let him see his grandchildren. It is a story and a form which might have called for an almost classical stage perform- ance or been made as a theatrically played-through film the way Fassbinder made some of his best films. But Thomas Vinterberg uses the Dogma hand-held camera rule—and lightweight video equipment— and in his pursuit of his characters learned more from Cassavetes than Fassbinder. Thus the camera pursues the characters beyond the limits of modesty, does not stop when things get painful, but pinpoints and penetrates to the very core of the pain threshold. At the same time it seems omnipresent, capable of capturing the most revealing reactions of the characters and their most secret expressions. Using extremes of motion from room to room it either follows the characters or proceeds in choreographed movements towards or across their moves, thereby generating dynamic rhythm and furious intensity. Vinterberg, whose graduation in 1993 at the age of twenty-four made him the youngest student to emerge from the National Film School of Denmark, demonstrated in his graduation film a unique talent for the film medium, for moving narrative in moving images, a talent he also demonstrated in his short fiction masterpiece, Drengen der gik bagl?ns (The Boy who Walked Backwards), about a boy who loses his brother and tries to come to terms with the pain. But in The Celebration, his second feature, he shows sharper teeth and a more mature bite in the tradition of realism in which Danish film is so rich. At the same time the film is broad enough to avoid absolute villains and absolute victims, possessing the energy and humanity to form multifaceted characters, showing if not all, then at least a large number of their facets. Christian, who makes the speech, is not only a victim, but also a stunted, introverted man and cowed son, who tries to flee but then decides to stay and assume his role of embittered avenger, choosing with suicidal stubbornness to maintain his charges until it is no longer possible to reject them as a bad joke. When his dead sister’s letter, read by his other sister, proves the ultimate trump card, we glimpse Christian’s wan but triumphant smile of revenge. His brother, Michael, who has tried to stop Christian with all his might, and who is portrayed throughout the film as a lout, vicious in his racial prejudice towards his surviving sister’s boyfriend—a racial prejudice which he gets the company to sing along to with disturbing ease—ends with the most bitter night of reckoning with his father. The father, played by one of the most beloved personalities in Danish theatre, starts as the celebrated, successful patriarch, but ends as a rotten, worm-riddled apple nobody wants anything to do with. But his brief, dignified speech in which he acknowledges his guilt and asks for forgiveness allows him to assume some dignity in the moment of defeat. The film is an ensemble performance at the highest level, orchestrated with a virtuosity that means that the day of reckoning between father and son is reflected and faceted by the entire company, many of whom have their own little personal vignettes. For good reason this film has aroused enthusiasm all over the world. The otherwise ominously well-worn incest theme is given a new lease on life by a film that casts its richly faceted light on a gallery of characters so human that we feel for and suffer with them. —Dan Nissen FEU MATHIAS PASCAL (The Late Matthew Pascal) France, 1925 Director: Marcel L’Herbier Production: Cinégraphic Albatross/Films L’Herbier; black and white, 35mm, silent; running time: English version is 192 minutes; length: 4617 feet. Filmed in Paris. Producer: Alexandre Kamenka; screenplay: Marcel L’Herbier, from the novel Il fu Mattia Pascal by Luigi Pirandello; photography: René Guichard, Jean Letort, Bourgassof, and Berliet; art directors: Alberto Cavalcanti and Lazare Meerson. Cast: Ivan Mosjoukine (Mathias Pascal); Marthe Belot (Maria Pascal, Mathias’s mother); Pauline Carton (Scolastique Pascal, Mathias’s aunt); Michel Simon (Jér?me Pomino); Marcelle Pradot (Romilde Pescatore); M. Barsac (Mariana Dondi Pescatore); Isaure Douvane (Batta Maldagna); Georges Terof (Gambler); Lois Moran (Adrienne Paleari); Philippe Hériat (Anselmo Paleari); Irma Perrot (Saldia Caporale); Jean Hervé (Térence Papiano); Pierre Batcheff (Scipion Papiano). Publications Books: Arroy, Jean, Ivan Mosjoukine, Paris, 1927. Jaque-Catelain présente Marcel L’Herbier, Paris, 1950. Klaue, Wolfgang, and others, Cavalcanti, Berlin, 1952. Sadoul, Georges, French Film, London, 1953. FEU MATHIAS PASCAL FILMS, 4 th EDITION 416 Feu Mathias Pascal Armes, Roy, French Film, New York, 1970. Burch, No?l, Marcel L’Herbier, Paris, 1973. Barsacq, Leon, Caligari’s Cabinet and Other Grand Illusions: A His- tory of Film Design, New York, 1976. Brossard, Jean-Pierre, editor, Marcel L’Herbier et son temps, La- Chaux-de-Fonds, Switzerland, 1980. Canosa, Michele, Marcel L’Herbier, Parma, 1985. Articles: Theatre Arts (New York), April 1927. O’Leary, Liam, ‘‘Ivan Mosjoukine,’’ in Silent Picture (London), Summer 1969. Blumer, R. H., ‘‘The Camera as Snowball: France 1918–1927,’’ in Cinema Journal (Evanston, Illinois), Spring 1970. Burch, No?l, ‘‘Marcel L’Herbier,’’ in Cinema d’Aujourd’hui (Paris), 1973. Ecran (Paris), January 1976. Monthly Film Bulletin (London), February 1976. ‘‘L’Herbier Issue,’’ of Avant Scène du Cinéma (Paris), 1 June 1978. Fieschi, J., in Cinématographe (Paris), December 1979. Milani, R., ‘‘Il cinema di Marcel L’Herbier: le forme evanescenti della realta,’’ in Filmcritica (Siena), vol. 37, no. 364, May 1986. ‘‘Marcel L’Herbier,’’ in Film Dope (Nottingham), no. 35, Septem- ber 1986. Review, in Variety (New York), 2 May 1990. *** Marcel L’Herbier’s Feu Mathias Pascal is a key work of French cinema of the 1920s, valuable both for its intrinsic merits and its representative qualities. It was a period of some uncertainty in the French film industry, but the very lack of any organized studio structure on the lines similar to those which had emerged in Holly- wood offered filmmakers a rare degree of freedom. This freedom was exploited to the full by filmmakers such as L’Herbier, Abel Gance and Jean Epstein, all of whom produced highly personal works the experimental and innovative visual style of which continues to astonish even today. Feu Mathias Pascal was made in conditions that the director has described as completely ideal, produced by his own Cinégraphic company in collaboration with the Société Albatros, founded three FIèVREFILMS, 4 th EDITION 417 years before by the Russian émigré producer, Alexandre Kamenka. The highly talented group around Kamenka had considerable influ- ence on the work of French-born filmmakers, and for this film L’Herbier had the advantage of the collaboration of two of the most gifted of the exiles: his star, the great silent actor Ivan Mosjoukine, and his designer, Lazare Meerson, who had arrived in Paris just one year before and was to have a crucial shaping impact on the develop- ment of French cinema over the next dozen years through his work with Clair and Feyder. The choice of subject matter points to the literary origins of filmmakers of this generation. Like Gance and Clair, L’Herbier had envisaged a career as a writer before turning to the cinema under the influence of the American films which began to be widely shown in France after World War I. Feu Mathias Pascal was the first work by Luigi Pirandello to be adapted for the screen, and it is clear from later accounts that the author’s literary prestige was one of the motivating impulses behind L’Herbier’s decision to undertake a production which was never likely to be more than a succès d’estime. In terms of L’Herbier’s own artistic development, Feu Mathias Pascal is remarkable for its unity and balance. The director was attracted by the challenge of creating a complex narrative structure, and for once the story is not simply a pretext for that play with the whole panoply of visual effects—superimpositions, masking, dream sequences and so on—so beloved of French filmmakers of the period. L’Herbier has not pushed his film towards psychological realism, however; he was evidently fascinated, rather, by the fantastic aspects of his picaresque hero’s adventures. Mosjoukine’s masterly perform- ance and magnetic personality hold the film together, and the shifts and changes of Mathias’s life offer full scope for the actor’s virtuoso talents. In other ways—in the mixture of studio work and location shooting and the resultant combination of play with shadows and at times almost documentary-style realism—the film shows characteris- tic eclecticism of the kind which had reached its extreme point in L’Herbier’s previous film, L’inhumaine. The qualities of the story and performance made Feu Mathias Pascal one of L’Herbier’s most accessible works and gave it its high reputation among traditional historians. Ironically it is precisely these factors that have to some extent worked against the film in current critical evaluations. The pioneering studies by No?l Burch, which have done so much to re-establish the director’s status as a major silent film maker, prize L’Herbier’s work for the alternative he offers, in a film like L’argent, to the dominant codes of Hollywood cinema, while Feu Mathias Pascal is in this sense one of the director’s more conventional pieces of film narrative. —Roy Armes FIèVRE France, 1921 Director: Louis Delluc Production: Société Alhambra-Film; black and white. Released 1921. Screenplay: Louis Delluc; photography: A. Gibory and Lucas; decor: Becan. Cast: Eve Francis (Sarah); Edmond Van Daele (Militis); Elena Sagrary (Orientale); Gaston Modot (Topinelli); Foottit (Man in the Grey Hat); L. V. de Malte (The Drunk); Yvonne Aurel (The Woman with the Pipe); A. F. Brunelle (The Little Clerk); Solange Rugiens (Patience); Barral (Card-Player); Gastao Roxo (Colis); Lili Samuel (The Dwarf); Marcel Delville (Pompon); Noemi Scize (La Rafigue); Waroquet (Grimail); Leon Moussinac (Cesar); Bayle (Piquignon); Line Chaumont (Peche verte); Siska (Prunelle); Jeanne Cadix (Flora); Vintiane (Javette); Bole (Tonneau); W. Bouchgard (Alvar). Publications Script: Delluc, Louis, Fièvre, in Drames de cinema, Paris, 1923. Books: Delluc, Louis, La Jungle du cinéma, Paris, 1921. Amiguet, Philippe, Cinéma! Cinéma!, Lausanne, 1923. Gance, Abel, Prisme, Paris, 1930. Francis, Eve, Temps héro?que, Paris, 1949. Tariol, Marcel, Louis Delluc, Paris, 1965. Delluc, Louis, Ecrits cinématographiques, edited by Pierre Lherminier, Paris, 2 vols., 1985–86. Articles: ‘‘Delluc Issue’’ of Ciné-Club (Paris), March 1949. Bianco e Nero (Rome), no. 8–9, 1953. Image et Son (Paris), July 1957. Francis, Eve, and others, in Lettres Fran?aises (Paris), 19 March 1964. McCreary, E. C., ‘‘Louis Delluc, Film Theorist, Critic, and Prophet,’’ in Cinema Journal (Evanston, Illinois), Fall 1976. Régent, R., ‘‘Le Delluc: Un Prix de copains,’’ in Avant-Scene du Cinéma (Paris), 15 April 1981. Abel, Richard, ‘‘On the Threshold of French Film Theory and Criticism, 1915–1919,’’ in Cinema Journal (Austin), vol. 25, no. 1, Fall 1985. Cahiers de la Cinémathèque (Perpignan), Autumn 1987. Darrigol, J., ‘‘Un homme lumiere, Louis Delluc,’’ in Mensuel du Cinéma, no. 14, January 1994. *** It was Thoreau who said that the masses of men lead lives of quiet desperation. It is in the spirit of this pessimistic observation that Delluc assembles his motley collection of the world’s misfits in a sleazy Marseilles bar. The original title of the film was La boue (The Mire) which didn’t please, for some peculiar reason, the French film censor. Indeed, the film itself was subjected to his scissors. Such FILM D’AMORE E D’ANARCHIA FILMS, 4 th EDITION 418 a film was at the time an innovation and was to inspire a whole new genre in French cinema, typical of which were the films of Marcel Carné. The action, apart from some shots of the harbour and bar exteriors, takes place within the barroom, giving it a unity and intensity. Its drama occurs within a short space of time. It draws heavily on its atmosphere, and the dramatic structure is spare and economic. The interaction of the characters is subtle and significant. Topinelli, the bar owner, is jealous of his wife Sarah, who is in love with the sailor Militis. There is also the sad introspective little oriental girl who seems to represent the ideal of beauty. As the film opens we are informed that Sarah’s lover, the sailor, has deserted her and she is now married to the brute Topinelli. There is an expectancy among the women. A ship has come into port from the Orient. The sailors arrive at the bar, including Militis, the former lover of Sarah. Exotic presents are displayed. Card playing and dancing are going on. There are rough play and scuffles. Sarah dances with Militis, who has brought with him a little oriental girl whom he bought in the Far East. Drunken tensions mount. Sarah and Militis awaken their former love for each other. A fight takes place between Militis and a customer who is attacking the little girl. In the melee Militis is killed by Topinelli who departs with the sailors leaving Sarah beside the dead body of her lover. The police arrive and arrest her. A tulip in a vase attracts the little girl. The film ends with the girl seated on the ground, the flower between her fingers, smiling with a sad frozen smile. In the hands of Delluc Fièvre is more than a mere slice of life. He moulds his scene and characters to fit into a sustained mood through- out. He evokes their psychological reactions to events and by suitable lighting expresses their personalities. As Sarah, Delluc’s wife Eve Francis gives a beautiful perform- ance, as she always does in the films of her husband and those of Marcel l’Herbier. There is an air of fatality about her which holds the centre of the action. The ubiquitous Gaston Modot as Topinelli is appropriately unsympathetic and brutal. Modot has been almost a trademark of French films from Gance to Bu?uel. All the other characters are equally impressive. It is not a very long film but within its frame Delluc has evoked an intense experience of life illuminated by his poetic vision. —Liam O’Leary FILM D’AMORE E D’ANARCHIA (Film of Love and Anarchy) Italy, 1973 Director: Lina Wertmüller Production: Europ International (Italy); Technicolor, 35mm; run- ning time: 108 minutes, some versions are 125 minutes. Released 1973. Filmed in Italy. Producer: Romano Cardarelli; screenplay: Lina Wertmüller; pho- tography: Giuseppe Rotunno; editor: Franco Fraticelli; sound: Mario Bramonti; production designer: Enrico Job; music: Carlo Savina; songs: Nino Rota; costume designer: Enrico Job. Cast: Giancarlo Giannini (Tunin); Mariangela Melato (Salomé); Lina Polito (Tripolina); Eros Pagni (Spatoletti); Pina Cei (Madame Aida); Elena Fiore (Donna Carmela); Isa Bellini; Giuliana Calandra; Isa Danieli; Anna Bonaiuto; Mario Scaccia. Award: Cannes Film Festival, Best Actor (Giannini), 1973. Publications Script: The Screenplays of Lina Wertmüller, translated by Steven Wagner, New York, 1977. Books: Michalczyk, John J., The Italian Political Filmmakers, New Jer- sey, 1986. Dokumentation: Lina Wertmüller/Martin Scorsese, edited by Filmstelle Vseth/Vsu, Zurich, 1986. Jacobsen, Wolfgang, and others, Lina Wertmüller, Munich, 1988. Articles: Delmas, J., in Jeune Cinéma (Paris), July-August 1973. Rubinstein, L., in Cineaste (New York), no. 3, 1974. Erens, Patricia, ‘‘Love and Anarchy: Passion and Pity,’’ in Jump Cut (Chicago), July-August 1974. Van Wert, W., ‘‘Love, Anarchy, and the Whole Damned Thing,’’ in Jump Cut (Chicago), November-December 1974. Gorbman, C., in Movietone News (Seattle), April 1975. Jacobs, Diane, ‘‘Lina Wertmüller,’’ in International Film Guide (London), 1977. Sternborn, B., in Filmfaust (Frankfurt), April-May 1985. *** Film d’amore e d’anarchia is Lina Wertmüller’s fourth feature and the first work to bring her critical attention in the United States. The film reveals the influence of Federico Fellini for whom Wertmüller worked as an assistant director on 8?, and it incorporates most of the elements that were to become trademarks of the Wertmüller canon. From Fellini she inherited a tendency towards comic exaggeration, both in creating types and in producing broad performances. Typical to her own concerns are the thematic interest in sexual politics, frequently set against a political backdrop; commanding heroines, and flawed, vulnerable heroes. D’amore e d’anarchia is framed by two scenes: the first depicts the childhood trauma of the peasant Tunin (Giancarlo Giannini). When Tunin’s father, a rural anarchist, is shot by the police, the young boy assumes his father’s mission to assassinate Mussolini. The FILM D’AMORE E D’ANARCHIAFILMS, 4 th EDITION 419 Film d’amore e d’anarchia second framing scene is his death in a Roman prison some decades later. The remainder of the film takes place in a Roman bordello where the adult Tunin meets Salomé (Mariangela Melato), an anar- chist sympathizer, and Tripolino (Lina Polito), a young prostitute. As protector and lover, Salomé provides Tunin with information that she extracts from a self-important client, Spatoletti, the head of Mussolini’s secret police. Yet, gradually, Tunin falls in love with Tripolino. The climax of the film takes place on the day appointed for Mussolini’s assassination. Tripolino hides the key to Tunin’s bed- room; she hopes that by allowing him to oversleep, she will prevent both the deed and the punishment. She and Salomé fight over the ‘‘key’’ to Tunin’s fate: a struggle between love and anarchy. Finally Tripolino succeeds in convincing Salomé that she should opt for personal happiness. But that is not to be; once Tunin discovers their collusion, he goes berserk, shooting widely at some policemen who have come to check the prostitute for venereal disease. The film ends with Tunin’s execution, as the police repeatedly strike Tunin’s head against the stone walls of his cell. D’amore e d’anarchia is part of that outpouring of Italian films, released between 1969 and 1972, that examines the relations of individuals and institutions of authority, particularly during the Fascist period. Included in this group are Bertolucci’s Il conformista and Strategia del ragno, Bellocchio’s Nel nome del padre, and Visconti’s La caduta degli dei. In contrast to her compatriots or the Greek Costa-Gavras (Z and The Confession, also released at this time), Wertmüller provides only minimal insight into the workings of political tyranny. Further, it is difficult to decipher her position from the evidence of the film. At the film’s conclusion, a quotation from the 19th-century anarchist Malatesta cautions against assassination as a political expedient; it refers to assassins as saints as well as heroes. Yet the one clear message of the film remains the certain failure of political naiveté and the ineffectuality of individual action. The film’s most original moments are three lyrical interludes which crystalize mood rather than further plot; they demonstrate Wertmüller’s ability to expose humor in the midst of dark circum- stances. The interludes include a break-neck motorcycle ride through the Italian countryside; a series of seduction scenes as the prostitutes begin their day’s business; and a filmic and poetic chronicle of a holiday that Tunin and Tripolino take before the final tragedy. D’amore e d’anarchia is most memorable for its spirited perform- ances; the lusty Salomé, the freckled and wide-eyed Tunin, the angelic Tripolino, and the bombastic Spatoletti. In addition, Giuseppe IL FIORE DELLE MILLE E UNA NOTTE FILMS, 4 th EDITION 420 Rotunno’s fluid camerawork, Nino Rota’s music, and Wertmüller’s exuberant scenario combine to create an overall impression of a fine Italian opera. —Patricia Erens FILM-TRUTH See KINO-PRAVDA IL FIORE DELLE MILLE E UNA NOTTE (Arabian Nights) Italy-France, 1974 Director: Pier Paolo Pasolini Production: PEA (Rome), Les Productions Artistes Associés (Paris); Technicolor; running time: 155 minutes. (GB version: 128 minutes.) Producer: Alberto Grimaldi; screenplay: Pier Paolo Pasolini; pho- tography: Giuseppe Ruzzolini; editor: Enzo Ocone, Nino Baragli, Tatiana Casini Morigi; assistant directors: Umberto Angelucci, Peter Sheperd; art director: Dante Ferretti; music: Ennio Moriccone; sound: Luciano Welisch; costumes: Danilo Donati. Cast: Ninetto Davoli (Aziz); Ines Pellegrini (Zumurrud); Franco Citti (Demon); Tessa Bouche; Margaret Clementi; Franco Merli; Francesila Noel; Ali Abdulla; Christian Alegni. Publications Books: Bertini, Antonio, Teoria e tecnica del film in Pasolini, Rome, 1979. Snyder, Stephen, Pier Paolo Pasolini, Boston, 1980. Bergala, Alain, and Jean Narboni, editors, Pasolini Cinéaste, Paris, 1981. Gerard, Fabien S., Da Accattone a Salo: 120 scritti sul cinema di Pier Paolo Pasolini, Bologna, 1982. Siciliano, Enzo, Pasolini: A Biography, New York, 1982. DeGiusti, Luciano, I film di Pier Paolo Pasolini, Rome, 1983. Greene, Naomi, Pier Paolo Pasolini: Cinema as Heresy, Princeton, New Jersey, 1990. Schwartz, Barth D., Pasolini Requiem, New York, 1995. Gordon, Robert S., Pasolini: Forms of Subjectivity, New York, 1996. Rohdie, Sam, The Passion of Pier Paolo Pasolini, Bloomington, 1996. Rumble, Patrick Allen, Allegories of Contamination: Pier Paolo Pasolini’s Trilogy of Life, Toronto, 1996. Baranski, Zymunt G., editor, Pasolini: Old & New: Surveys & Stud- ies, Dublin, 1999. Articles: Bachmann, G., ‘‘Pasolini in Persia: The Shooting of 1001 Nights’’ in Film Quarterly (Berkeley), Winter 1973–74. Variety (New York), 29 May 1974. Delmas, G., Jeune Cinéma (Paris), July-August 1974. Amiel, M., Cinéma (Paris), September-October 1974. Allombert, G., Image et Son (Paris), September-October 1974. Martin, M., Ecran (Paris), October 1974. Rayns, T., Monthly Film Bulletin (London), April 1975. Tellez, J. L., ‘‘La voluntad de narrar,’’ in Contracampo, no. 15, September 1980. Beaulieu, J., ‘‘Arabian Nights,’’ in Séquences (Haute-Ville), no. 106, October 1981. Loshitzky, Y., ‘‘The Tourist/Traveler Gaze: Bertolucci and Bowles’s ‘The Sheltering Sky’,’’ in East-West (Honolulu), no. 2, 1993. Taviani, P., and V. Taviani, ‘‘Souvenir de Pasolini,’’ in Positif (Paris), no. 400, June 1994. ‘‘La ‘Trilogia della vita’: ‘Il Decameron,’ ‘I racconti di Canterbury,’ ‘Il fiore delle mille e una notte’,’’ in Castoro Cinema (Milan), no. 166, July-August 1994. Rohdie, S., ‘‘Pasolini’s Third World,’’ in Metro Magazine (St. Kilda West), no. 107, 1996. *** Pasolini was one of the most idiosyncratic of all filmmakers, the strangeness and difficulty of his work arising from his commitment to contradiction: Arabian Nights (the crowning achievement of the trilogy begun with The Decameron and continued with The Canter- bury Tales) opens with the quotation ‘‘The complete truth lies not in one dream but in several.’’ The basis of this commitment was his refusal to abandon any of the diverse and partly irreconcilable influences that determined the nature of his art: Catholicism, Marx- ism, homosexuality, the urban slums (settings of his early novels), the peasantry (he wrote poetry in the Friulan dialect), neo-realism, an attachment to the fantastic and miraculous. While Arabian Nights seems as far removed as one can imagine from the subject-matter one associates with neo-realism (the attempt to capture both the external and internal realities of the contemporary moment), it remains re- markably faithful to the neo-realist aesthetic: the use of non-profes- sionals, location shooting, spontaneity valued above polish or delib- eration. The corollary of this is that when artifice is demanded by the subject-matter (the flight of the genie, Nureddin’s encounter with the lion in the desert), the special effects are always patently visible, as primitive and naive as possible (cf. Jesus walking on the water in The Gospel According to St. Matthew). FIRES WERE STARTEDFILMS, 4 th EDITION 421 It is the commitment to dramatizing (rather than attempting to reconcile or eradicate) contradiction that led Pasolini toward the experimentations with narrative that characterize his best work (Teorema, Medea, Salo). Nowhere is this more evident than in Arabian Nights, where the intricate interlocking of diverse tales seems motivated by the desire to juxtapose the several dreams that (taken in conjunction) might, if they cannot reveal, at least point toward, the complete truth. Using the story of Nureddin and Zumurrud as a unifying thread, Pasolini contains six other stories (organized in two groups of three) within a five-part structure as follows: Number one: Zumurrud (the ‘‘slave’’ who is allowed to choose her new ‘‘master’’) chooses the young boy Nureddin because (a) he has beautiful eyes, (b) she senses his sexual energy, (c) he is not at all an authority figure, and (d) with him she can fully express, on equal terms, her sexuality. Number two: The first trio of tales (read to Nureddin by Zumurrud): the beautiful woman seen bathing (scarcely even an anecdote); the three young men chosen by the older man to enjoy mutual pleasure; the wager between the elder couple about the relative strength of sexual attraction between a young man and a young woman. Number three: Development of the Nureddin/Zumurrud story (Zumurrud drugged and kidnapped, subsequently mistaken for a man and made king of a city; Nureddin’s frantic search for her, and first two ‘‘diversions’’ with other women). Number four: The second trio of tales: the princess’s dream; the story of Aziz and the mad Badur; the story of the two artisans. Unlike the first trio, these (a) are fully developed tales with a beginning, a middle and a resolution, (b) involve the fantastic and the supernatu- ral, and (c) are not consecutive but intertwined: we reach a point where we are watching a story within a story within a story, from which Chinese box Pasolini works his way out to return us to.... Number five: The conclusion of the Nureddin/Zumurrud story. Each trio of stories has its own internal themes. The first three (brief anecdotes) are concerned with free sexuality and equalization: the wager of the third (and most developed) ends in a tie, the demonstration that female desire and male desire are equally potent. The interwoven tales of the second trio are all concerned with notions of Fate: two stories in which fate is shown to be inescapable are enclosed within a story in which fate is overcome. Further, the story of Aziz, Aziza and Badur stands in contradiction to the framework story of Nureddin and Zumurrud. They are linked by the dictum (itself a contradiction) that ‘‘fidelity is beautiful, but no more than infidel- ity.’’ In the Aziz tale the conflict leads to death and castration, but in the framework story fidelity and infidelity are reconciled: Nureddin, in his search for his beloved, can be led into countless delightful sexual diversions, but his fidelity to Zumurrud is always triumphant over them, and finally rewarded in a happy ending that plays on (in order to repudiate) sexual power-relations. The acknowledgement and celebration of diversity is an aspect of one of the central drives of Pasolini’s work: the effort to rediscover a sense of the wonderful, the magical. In Teorema, the sense of wonder has been destroyed by the bourgeoisie and can be regained (very problematically) only through the liberation of sexuality; in Medea, the magical world of the opening is eroded by the growth of patriarchy and capitalism, until ‘‘Nothing is possible any more.’’ Of all Pasolini’s films, Arabian Nights comes closest to realizing the sense of wonder, through an eroticism purged of all contamination by the pornographic. —Robin Wood FIRES WERE STARTED (I Was a Fireman) UK, 1943 Director: Humphrey Jennings Production: Crown Film Unit, with the co-operation of the Home Office, Ministry of Home Security, and National Fire Service; black and white, 35mm; running time: 63 minutes, some sources state 60 minutes. Released 1943. Filmed in London. Producer: Ian Dalrymple; screenplay: Humphrey Jennings; pho- tography: C. Pennington-Richards; editor: Stewart McAllister; sound recordists: Ken Cameron and Jock May; production designer: Edward Carrick; music: William Alwyn; musical direction: Muir Mathieson. Cast: Officer George Gravett (Sub-Officer Dykes); Lt. Fireman Philip Dickson (Fireman Walters); Lt. Fireman Fred Griffiths (Johnny Daniels); Lt. Fireman Loris Rey (J. Rumbold); Fireman Johnny Houghton (S. H. Jackson); Fireman T. P. Smith (B. A. Brown); Fireman John Barker (J. Vallance); Fireman W. Sansom (Barrett); Asst. Group Officer Green (Mrs Townsend); Firewoman Betty Martin (Betty); Firewoman Eileen White (Eileen). Publications Books: Grierson, John, Humphrey Jennings: A Tribute, London, 1951. Hardy, Forsyth, Grierson on Documentary, revised edition, Lon- don, 1966. Lovell, Alan, and Jim Hillier, Studies in Documentary, New York, 1972. Barsam, Richard, Nonfiction Film: A Critical History, New York, 1973. Barnouw, Erik, Documentary: A History of the Non-Fiction Film, New York, 1974. Sussex, Elizabeth, The Rise and Fall of British Documentary: The Story of the Film Movement Founded by John Grierson, Berke- ley, 1975. Hodkinson, Anthony, and Rodney Sheratsky, Humphrey Jennings: More Than a Maker of Films, Hanover, 1982. Jennings, Mary-Lou, editor, Humphrey Jennings: Film-Maker/Painter/ Poet, London, 1982. FIRES WERE STARTED FILMS, 4 th EDITION 422 Fires Were Started Vaughan, Dai, Portrait of an Invisible Man: The Working Life of Stewart McAllister, Film Editor, London, 1983. Aldgate, Anthony, and Jeffrey Richards, Britain Can Take It: The British Cinema in the Second World War, Oxford, 1986. Ellis, Jack C., The Documentary Idea, Englewood Cliffs, 1989. Jennings, Humphrey, The Humphrey Jennings Film Reader, New York, 1995. Articles: Wright, Basil, ‘‘Humphrey Jennings,’’ in Sight and Sound (London), December 1950. Lambert, Gavin, ‘‘Jennings’ Britain,’’ in Sight and Sound (London), May 1951. Vedres, Nicole, ‘‘Humphrey Jennings—A Memoir,’’ in Sight and Sound (London), May 1951. Mekas, Jonas, ‘‘Index to the Creative Work of Humphrey Jennings,’’ in Film Forum (Mesdetten), 8 July 1954. Dand, Charles, ‘‘Britain’s Screen Poet,’’ in Films in Review (New York), February 1955. Strick, Philip, in Films and Filming (London), May 1961. ‘‘Jennings Issue,’’ of Film Quarterly (London), Winter 1961–62. Millar, Gavin, in Sight and Sound (London), Spring 1969. Belmans, Jacques, ‘‘Humphrey Jennings, 1907–1950,’’ in Anthologie du Cinéma 6, Paris, 1971. Bitomsky, H., ‘‘Uber Humphrey Jennings und einige seiner Filme,’’ in Filmkritik (Munich), November 1975. Sharatsky, R. E., ‘‘Humphrey Jennings: Artist of the British Docu- mentary,’’ in Film Library Quarterly (New York), vol. 8, no. 3–4, 1975. Anderson, Lindsay, ‘‘Only Connect: Some Aspects of the Work of Humphrey Jennings,’’ in Non-Fiction Film Theory and Criticism, edited by Richard Barsam, New York, 1976. Barrot, O., in Cinéma d’Aujourd’hui (Paris), February-March 1977. Colls, R., and P. Dodd, ‘‘Representing the Nation: British Documen- tary Film 1930–45,’’ in Screen (London), January-February 1985. Nowell-Smith, Geoffrey, ‘‘Humphrey Jennings: Surrealist Observer,’’ in All Our Yesterdays, edited by Charles Barr, London, 1986. Britton, A., ‘‘Their Finest Hour: Humphrey Jennings and the British Imperial Myth of World War II,’’ in CineAction (Toronto), Fall 1989. FIVE EASY PIECESFILMS, 4 th EDITION 423 Stewart, S., and Lester D. Friedman, ‘‘An Interview with Lindsay Anderson,’’ in Film Criticism (Meadville), vol. 16, no. 1–2, Fall- Winter 1991–92. Thomson, D., ‘‘A Sight for Sore Eyes,’’ in Film Comment (New York), no. 29, March/April 1993. Williams, D., ‘‘Humphrey Jennings: a Sense of Conciousness,’’ in Metro Magazine (St. Kilda West), no. 103, 1995. *** Fires Were Started was one of the semi-documentary features produced in Britain during World War II by both the government Crown Film Unit and the commercial studios following the success of such prototypes as Target for Tonight (1941) and In Which We Serve (1942). This film combined the actuality of documentary (a recreated or composite and representative event portrayed by people who had actually been involved in such an event) with the narrative line and dramatic heighting of fiction. Fires Were Started is about the work of the Auxiliary Fire Service during the dreadful German fire-bomb raids on London. It follows a new recruit through a 24-hour shift with one unit. During the day the men train and perform menial chores. Following dinner they briefly relax and their camaraderie and understated humor become fully evident. As the raid begins, they proceed to their perilous and exhausting work, on this occasion putting out a fire raging near a munitions ship docked along the Thames. Though one of their number falls from a burning building to his death, the fire is finally extinguished. The film ends with the burial of the dead fireman intercut with the munitions ship moving out to sea. As was usual with the British wartime films, the emphasis is given to the togetherness of the British people (with the cast a cross-section of classes). The propaganda function of this particular film seems to have been to show the quality and courage of the brave men and women who were working to insure that Britain would withstand the enemy assault. The enemy remains offscreen, and none of the hatred is portrayed which might have seemed an appropriate response to the bombing; instead, the destruction is treated almost as if it were a natural disaster. By using the device of the new recruit, Jennings can let us see and learn not only about the functioning of this fire-fighting service but also about the diverse and likable personalities it brings together. When the raid begins, we are able to follow, without aid of commen- tary, the tactics of the fire-fighters through their actions and conversa- tions; the phone calls from headquarters; the maps with pins stuck in them; the chalked lists of equipment. Among other things, Fires Were Started is a model of teaching without didacticism. But where its true greatness lies is in the way it simultaneously informs, persuades, and moves us. In this film Jennings goes beyond other of the semi-documentaries in differentiating and developing the characters of his non-actor firemen. Besides being very skillful at narrative, Jennings was a visual-aural poet who captured the precise image for a feeling, which also contained symbolic reverberations of English tradition and wartime exigencies—a poet who offered the exact words men might have spoken and even the songs they might have sung in the circumstances. The mood of this film may have well matched the mood of its wartime audience. It has lasted as a supple- ment to the national memory of what wartime England felt like. —Jack C. Ellis FIREWORKS See HANA-BI THE FIRST CHARGE OF THE MACHETE See LA PRIMERA CARGA AL MACHETE FISTS IN THE POCKET See I PUGNI IN TASCA FIVE EASY PIECES USA, 1970 Director: Bob Rafelson Production: B.B.S.; Technicolor; running time: 98 minutes; length: 8,828 feet. Released September 1970. Executive producer: Bert Schneider; producers: Bob Rafelson, Richard Wechsler; screenplay: Adrien Joyce, from a story by Joyce, and Bob Rafelson; assistant director: Sheldon Schrager; photogra- phy: Laszlo Kovaks; editors: Christopher Holmes, Gerald Sheppard; sound recordist: Charles Knight; art director: Toby Rafelson. Cast: Jack Nicholson (Robert Eroica Dupea); Karen Black (Rayette Dipesto); Lois Smith (Partita Dupea); Susan Anspach (Catherine Van Ost); Billy ‘‘Green’’ Bush (Elton); Fannie Flagg (Stoney); Ralph Waite (Carl Fidelio Dupea); Helena Kallianiotes (Palm Apodaca); Toni Basil (Terry Grouse); Sally Ann Struthers (Betty); Marlena Macguire (Twinky); John Ryan (Spicer); Irene Dailey (Samia Glavia); Lorna Thayer (Waitress); Richard Stahl (Recording Engineer); Wil- liam Challee (Nicholas Dupea). Publications Books: Crane, Robert David, and Christopher Fryer, Jack Nicholson—Face to Face, New York, 1975. Braithwaite, Bruce, The Films of Jack Nicholson, Farncombe, 1977. Downing, David, Jack Nicholson, London, 1983; New York, 1984. Boyer, Jay, Bob Rafelson: Film Director, Bristol, 1996. Articles: Variety (New York), 16 September 1970. Motion Picture Herald (New York), 23 September 1970. Film Heritage (Dayton, Ohio), Winter 1970–71. Mundy, Robert, in Cinema (Beverly Hills), Spring 1971. Pirie, David, in Monthly Film Bulletin (London), April 1971. Snoding, Clifton, in Films and Filming (London), May 1971. FIVE EASY PIECES FILMS, 4 th EDITION 424 Five Easy Pieces Martin, Marcel, in Cinéma (Paris), June 1971. Farber, Stephen, in Sight and Sound (London), Summer 1971. Campbell, Gregg M., ‘‘Beethoven, Chopin, and Tammy Wynette: Heroines and Archetypes in Five Easy Pieces,’’ in Literature/Film Quarterly (Salisbury), Summer 1974. Cohen, Mitchell, ‘‘The Corporate Style of BBS: Seven Intricate Pieces,’’ in Take One (Montreal), Winter 1974–75. Thousand Eyes Magazine, June 1976. Carcassone, P., ‘‘Bob Rafelson,’’ in Cinématographe (Paris), Novem- ber 1979. Combs, Richard, and John Pym, ‘‘Prodigal’s Progress: An Interview with Bob Rafelson,’’ in Sight and Sound (London), Autumn 1981. King, Norman, ‘‘Mersault Goes West: Five Easy Pieces and Art Cinema,’’ in Framework (Norwich), no. 20, 1983. Grimes, Teresa, ‘‘BBS: Auspicious Beginnings, Open Endings,’’ in Movie (London), Winter 1986. Combs, Richard, in Listener (London), 1 October 1987. Mongin, O., ‘‘Le crepuscule des emotions,’’ in Esprit, no. 10, October 1989. Seven, M., ‘‘Letters: Toast the Screenwriter, Not the Actor,’’ in New York Times, 20 October 1989. Norman, Barry, in Radio Times (London), 17 September 1994. Premiere (Boulder), no. 9, November 1995. Laderman, D., ‘‘What a Trip: The Road Film and American Culture,’’ in Journal of Film and Video, no. 1/2, 1996. Floyd, Nigel, ‘‘Blood Brothers,’’ in Time Out (London), no. 1385, 5 March 1997. *** In many ways Five Easy Pieces marks the end of the 1960s, a decade captured best in Easy Rider, another film in which Jack Nicholson appeared. The youthful drugged dropouts of the earlier film are succeeded in Five Easy Pieces by an older dropout, one who has abandoned the world of classical music to find himself in the southern California oil fields. Bobby Dupea’s new, assumed identity, evidence that he is not ‘‘really’’ an oil rigger, consists of a phoney southern accent and Rayette (Karen Black), a ‘‘country woman’’ he has impregnated. Fleeing again from responsibility, Bobby journeys to Los Angeles—his travels mirror his psychological journey—and learns from his concert-pianist sister that their father has suffered a stroke and is incapacitated at the family home in Washington. When FLAMING CREATURESFILMS, 4 th EDITION 425 Bobby and Rayette, whom he cannot escape, return to his home, the trip is literal and symbolic, for here he must confront his past. The ‘‘homecoming’’ is a disaster, for his past is his present: Carl Fidelio Dupea, his brother, is an uptight classical musician; his invalid father is still an autocrat; and his sister subscribes unthinkingly to the family’s bourgeois cultural values. In effect, the family remains the society Bobby has rejected. Attracted to his brother’s fiancée, Cathe- rine Van Ost (Susan Anspach), Bobby seduces her, partly through his accomplished playing of a Chopin prelude. Catherine, however, will not leave with him when he again flees from his past, and after he successfully evades Rayette, a solitary Bobby continues his self- destructive northward journey. Because of Nicholson’s charisma, audiences overlooked Bobby’s entertaining but indulgent tantrums and his ranting invectives against rigidity and conformity (behaviors Nicholson is particularly adept at portraying). The most memorable scene from the film is Bobby’s manic verbal attack on the waitress, a scene at once amusing and cruel. Audiences identify and empathize with the male protagonist, who expresses the anger they share and who does not alienate them because his irresponsibility and selfishness (later expressed by Nich- olson in One Flew over the Cuckoo’s Nest) is so engagingly ex- pressed. Bobby’s treatment of Rayette is similarly ignored by an audience which regards country culture and country folk with amused contempt; the cultivated, talented pianist is simply too good for the likes of Rayette. Fortunately, the film also provides another reading, one which questions easy assumptions about the male chauvinism of the film. The title Five Easy Pieces refers to a book of music which piano students must master before going on to more complex compositions, and it also suggests, through the Chopin seduction linking music and sex, Bobby’s sexual conquests. If he must similarly know himself before he can confront life, then Bobby is only an accomplished pianist and womanizer, not a master of his life in pursuit of the truth. He is a drifter whose northern journey, without the coat he has given away, will culminate in death. Five Easy Pieces concerns cultural clashes, which are reflected in the classical music associated with the Dupeas, which Bobby has mastered, and the country sound track sung by Tammy Wynette (as in Rayette), but Adrien Joyce’s screenplay (based on a story she and director Rafelson wrote) does not insist on the superiority of either class. There are real people who do know themselves and conduct themselves with dignity in both classes: Bobby’s friend Elton, Rayette and Catherine. Like Bobby, Catherine recognizes hypocrisy and corruption; unlike Bobby, she realizes that she cannot save herself through sex, flight, or power. She will remain true to her values and her work, rather than retreat through alienation and nihilism. Five Easy Pieces has been compared to Truffaut’s Shoot the Piano Player, for both concern dropouts from the world of classical music; but unlike Bobby, who plays on a moving van in a traffic jam or as a foreplay to sex, Charlie Kohler continues to play the piano. Robert Eroica Dupea (the Eroica is the Beethoven work dedicated to Napo- leon, whose promise also lapsed into ego) becomes another contem- porary American male protagonist whose life is characterized by lack of identity, impotence, and despair. When he resumes his journey at the end of the film, Bobby resembles Huck Finn ‘‘lighting out for the territory,’’ but Bobby is hardly an uneducated adolescent. Though he behaves like Huck, who comes to know himself, Bobby is an adult whose actions spring from frustrations, cruelty, and despair—he is a charming but destructive loser. —Thomas L. Erskine FLAMING CREATURES USA, 1963 Director: Jack Smith Production: Distributed by Film-Makers Cooperative; black and white, 16mm; running time: 45 minutes. Released 7 December, 1963, New York City. Filmed on a rooftop in New York City. Screenplay: Jack Smith; photography: Jack Smith. Cast: Francis Francine, Delores Flores (a.k.a. Mario Montez), Joel Markman, Shirley. Publications Books: Tyler, Parker, Underground Film: A Critical History, New York, 1969. Suarez, Juan Antonio, Bike Boys, Drag Queens, Superstars: Avant- Garde, Mass Culture, and Gay Identities in the 1960s Under- ground Cinema, Bloomington, 1996. Leffingwell, Edward, Carole Kismaric, and Marvin Heiferman, edi- tors, Jack Smith, Flaming Creature: His Amazing Life and Times, New York, 1997. Articles: ‘‘Avant-garde Movie Seized as Obscene,’’ in New York Times, 4 March 1964. Levy, Alan, ‘‘Voices of the Underground Cinema,’’ in New York Times, 19 September 1965. Lester, Elenore, ‘‘Mr. Godard, Fire That Cameraman!,’’ in New York Times, 29 January 1967. Regelson, Rosalyn, ‘‘Where Are ‘The Chelsea Girls’ Taking Us?’’ in New York Times, 24 September 1967. Hoberman, J., ‘‘Treasures of the Mummy’s Tomb,’’ in Film Com- ment (New York), vol. 33, November-December 1997. Jerome, Judith, ‘‘Creating a World Waiting to Be Created: Karen Finley and Jack Smith,’’ in Women & Performance (New York), no. 1–2, 1999. *** Though it was produced in the early 1960s, Flaming Creatures—a seminal work of the American underground cinema movement of the mid-twentieth century—is a cinematic poem born of an earlier beat FLAMING CREATURES FILMS, 4 th EDITION 426 generation. In the 1950s, this generation of poets—unfairly enshrined en masse in popular memory garbed in stereotypical black turtleneck shirts and mohair sweaters—shunned the plasticized, sterilized, march- in-step order of the decade in favor of a more shaggy, offbeat lifestyle. In keeping with the beat aesthetic, the technical values of Flaming Creatures are more primitive than they need have been, the camera movements purposefully herky-jerky. Actors appear in costumes and trinkets gathered from the finery of their home closets or perhaps from a Washington Square or East Village five-and-dime store. As a result, Flaming Creatures comes off as a homemade concoction—certainly not from the kitchen of Betty Crocker, but from the New York Greenwich Village rooftop where filmmaker Jack Smith and his friends converged to produce the film. For decades, Flaming Creatures has rarely been seen and, for this reason, it has frequently been misinterpreted, misunderstood, and analyzed in generalities. Thus it is worthwhile to examine its content in greater detail. As the film unfolds, the viewer sees the faces of women from a harem and learns that Ali Baba ‘‘comes today.’’ Then the small, handwritten credits become visible. Already difficult to read, the credits are further obscured by characters—a masked, helmeted man and a woman who sticks out her tongue—who walk left-to-right and right-to-left in front of the information. Then, with the effect of a needle hitting a phonograph turntable, the sounds of an old-fashioned, operatic rendition of ‘‘Amapola-Pretty Little Poppy’’ commence. A vamping woman and a drag queen wiggle, wave, and converse near a large vase of flowers. This pair and others, including more drag queens, put on lipstick to the soundtrack for a lipstick commercial. The group lies about, intermingling, and the camera wanders about the intertwined bodies at odd angles. As the soundtrack announces that this indelible lipstick does not come off ‘‘when you suck cocks,’’ viewers see a close-up of a penis at the face of a man wearing a large false nose. Soon we hear animal noises, as if from an out-of-control kennel. Is this a languid recovery from a sex orgy, or a drugged-out group who simply are enjoying slow-paced genital contact? Just as thoughts begin to arise of illicit lillied pipes in Limehouse opium dens, a lively, campy oriental-style song starts to play, and the action accelerates in pace. People in the group run left-to-right, right-to-left across the screen. A drag queen wrestles down a woman, who is then ravaged by several people as she screams. The camera moves to a close-up of her large, round, jiggling breast, as she gyrates and screeches. This rape sequence, to which the film returns, is a disturbing, cruel segment that seems out of place amid the otherwise offbeat but mellow exoticism. The action continues, with cutaways to a swaying ceiling lamp, a flash of lightning and, again, the vase of flowers. The group members have their orgy, including kissing and organ caressing and stimulation, and the camera shakes wildly as it explores the scene. The orgy continues amidst shrieks and wild animal sounds. Only the ravaged woman, her single breast still hanging exposed from her dress, appears to be touched against her will. She is standing, and is dragged to a spot by a blonde woman, who peacefully caresses her. The orgy continues, and is recorded in pieces—arms, legs, faces—by the lens of the curious camera. Flower petals fall on the ravaged woman, while veils blow in front of the vase of flowers. In the next section, a fly has landed on a piece of cloth. The top of a wooden coffin opens, and the music changes again. The soundtrack changes to the nasal strains of a country-western song, the lyrics of which declare ‘‘It Wasn’t God Who Made Honky Tonk Angels,’’ as a blonde, high-heeled drag queen arises from the coffin. She is a vampire; first she begins sucking blood from the neck of another drag queen, and then she masturbates. This sequence is chronicled in side shots, close-ups, and overhead shots. The two drag queens dance to a slow, torrid, campy South American-style song. At first, a new group of people watches them. They include a Spanish dancer with a rose between her teeth, a sailor, a drag queen carrying a lily, an African-American drag queen, and the muscular masked man in a loin cloth who was first seen in front of the credits. They all begin dancing; as they swirl about, the camera remains close, alternating frontal shots with overhead positions. Once more the camera notices the ravaged woman with her single exposed breast. She lies on the floor, and a disengaged finger touches near her nipple. The following shots show her and her partner, and others of the group who lie near them as if in a tableau. The camera explores the group through intimate shots, including a series of close- ups of faces and a kiss between two drag queens. The cool, deliberate beat of ‘‘Bebop a Lula, She’s My Baby’’ begins as the camera shows more close-up detail of the scene. ‘‘The End’’ finally appears on a piece of cloth, followed by one last glimpse of the jiggling, exposed breast of the ravaged woman. The individuals who appear in Flaming Creatures constitute a sexual subculture—and, surely, back in the 1950s and early 1960s, their antics never would have been depicted on The Dinah Shore Chevy Show or The Many Loves of Dobie Gillis! Indeed, whenever a ‘‘beat’’ character would appear in mainstream entertainment— Maynard G. Krebs, the beatnik pal of Dobie Gillis, is a perfect case in point—that character would be stereotyped and lampooned. Beat generation types were also demonized. In countless ‘‘B’’ teen pot- boilers, the villain—the character who attempts to seduce the virginal heroine, or turn her on to drugs—was the goateed hipster. Yet even the most broadly cliched subculture type depicted in mainstream popular culture is orthodox when compared to the eccentric personali- ties portrayed in Flaming Creatures. Drag characters and spoofs would not be accepted by mainstream audiences for decades, until the popularity of Tootsie and The Crying Game and the eventual, above- ground fame of Divine and RuPaul. And to this day, the explicit views and fondling of genitalia in Flaming Creatures would label it in many quarters as a homosexual stag film. However, the film cannot be written off as low-budget sexploitation. What seems so ragged and homespun in Flaming Creatures— resulting from Jack Smith’s use of hand-held camera, primitive lighting, and awkward, untrained actors—is a triumph of beat art structure and content. Unsurprisingly, the film was the subject of much legal controversy. In December 1963, it was banned from the Experimental Film Festival in Belgium. The following March, filmmaker/journalist/underground film distributor Jonas Mekas and three others were arrested and, according to a report in the New York Times, ‘‘charged with showing an obscene motion picture’’ at the New Bowery Theater on Manhattan’s Lower East Side. The film in question was Flaming Creatures. ‘‘The police seized reels of film, a projection machine and a portable screen,’’ continued the report. Within the underground artist communities throughout the United States, Flaming Creatures was considered a bold visual-poetic record of a subculture that most of America wanted to keep hidden. Smith’s film gained a reputation among underground artists, including Andy Warhol, who was influenced by Smith to make films in a similar crude style. Both artists played with the mix of eccentric characters and symbols of the drag queen culture with popular culture icons to create the fundamental language of an alternative cinema. —Audrey E. Kupferberg FOOLISH WIVESFILMS, 4 th EDITION 427 FOOLISH WIVES USA, 1922 Director: Erich von Stroheim Production: Universal Super Jewel; black and white; originally shot in 35mm, original length: 14,210 feet; released in a version of 2,765 feet (at 24 f.p.s), running time: 77 minutes. Producer: Carl Laemmle; screenplay: Erich von Stroheim; titles: Erich von Stroheim, Marian Ainslee; assistant directors: Edward Sowders, Jack R. Proctor, Louis Germonprez; special assistant to von Stroheim: Gustav Machaty; photography: Ben Reynolds, Wil- liam Daniels; illumination and lighting effects: Harry J. Brown; editor: Erich von Stroheim; editor for release version: Arthur D. Ripley; art directors: E. E. Sheeley, Richard Day; scenic artist: Van Alstein; technical directors: William Meyers, James Sullivan, George Williams; music: Sigmund Romberg. Cast: Rudolph Christians/Robert Edenson (Andrew J. Hughes); Miss Du Pont/Patsy Hannen (Helen Hughes); Maude George (‘‘Princess’’ Olga Petschnikoff); Mae Busch (‘‘Princess’’ Vera Petschnikoff); Erich von Stroheim (‘‘Count’’ Sergius Karamzin); Dale Fuller (Maruschka); Al Edmundsen (Pavel Pavlich, the Butler); Cesare Gravina (Signor Gaston); Malvina Polo (Marietta, Gaston’s Daugh- ter); Louis K. Webb (Dr. Judd); Mrs. Kent (Mrs. Judd); C. J. Allen (Albert I, Prince of Monaco); Edward Reinach (Secretary of State of Monaco). Publications Books: Fronval, Georges, Erich von Stroheim: Sa vie, ses films, Paris, 1939. Noble, Peter, Hollywood Scapegoat: The Biography of Erich von Stroheim, London, 1951. Bergut, Bob, Erich von Stroheim, Paris, 1960. Barna, Jan, Erich von Stroheim, Vienna, 1966. Gobeil, Charlotte, editor, Hommage à Erich von Stroheim, Ottawa, 1966. Ciment, Michel, Erich von Stroheim, Paris, 1967. Finler, Joel, Stroheim, Berkeley, 1968. Brownlow, Kevin, The Parade’s Gone By . . . , London and New York, 1969. Curtiss, Thomas Quinn, Erich von Stroheim, Paris, 1969. Buache, Freddy, Erich von Stroheim, Paris, 1972. Pratt, George C., Spellbound in Darkness, Greenwich, 1973. Weinberg, Herman G., Stroheim: A Pictorial Record of His Nine Films, New York, 1975. Bazin, André, The Cinema of Cruelty: From Bu?uel to Hitchcock, New York, 1982. Koszarski, Richard, The Man You Loved to Hate: Erich von Stroheim and Hollywood, Oxford, 1983. Bessy, Maurice, Erich von Stroheim, Paris, 1984. Lenning, Arthur, Stroheim, Lexington, 2000. Articles: New York Times, 12 January 1922. Variety (New York), 20 January 1922. Motion Picture Classic, April 1922. Kine Weekly (London), 28 September and 5 October 1922. Picturegoer, November 1922. ‘‘Stroheim Issue,’’ of Ciné-Club (Paris), April 1949. Cinema (Beverly Hills), 15 March 1954. Everson, William K., ‘‘The Career of Erich von Stroheim,’’ in Films in Review (New York), August-September 1957. ‘‘Stroheim Issue’’ of Film Culture (New York), April 1958. ‘‘Stroheim Issue’’ of Bianco e Nero (Rome), February-March 1959. ‘‘Stroheim Issue’’ of Premier Plan (Lyons), August 1963. ‘‘Stroheim Issue’’ of Etudes Cinématographiques (Paris), no. 48–50, 1966. ‘‘Stroheim Issue’’ of Cinema (Zurich), December 1973. Rosenbaum, Jonathan, in Monthly Film Bulletin (London), Novem- ber 1976. Magill’s Survey of Cinema, Silent Films, Englewood Cliffs, 1982. Blanchet, C., in Cinéma (Paris), March 1985. Tesson, C., in Cahiers du Cinéma (Paris), March 1985. Dazat, O., in Cinématographe (Paris), March 1985. Amengual, Barthélemy, ‘‘Quelques notes sur Folies de femmes de Stroheim,’’ in Jeune Cinéma (Paris), June 1985. Legrand, Gérard, in Positif (Paris), June 1985. Wide Angle (Athens, Ohio), vol. 8, no. 1, 1986. Donovan, F., in Cinema 89, no. 459, 5 September 1989. Paavolainen, Olavi, ‘‘Kaksi mestaria - kaksi vastakohtaa,’’ in Filmihullu (Helsinki), no. 5, 1992. Mensuel du Cinéma, no. 10, October 1993. Fisher, L., ‘‘Enemies, a Love Story: von Stroheim, Women and World War I,’’ in Film History (London), vol. 6, no. 4, Win- ter 1994. Cahiers du Cinéma (Paris), no. 486, December 1994. Cinegrafie, no. 8, 1995. Clair, René, ‘‘De Stroheim à Chaplin,’’ in Positif (Paris), no. 443, January 1998. *** Foolish Wives, von Stroheim’s third feature as a director, presents close analogies with his first two as the last part of a triptych on the ‘‘innocent abroad,’’ a new triangle comedy with the blind husband (this time an American ambassador), his foolish wife, and the devil with his passkey (von Stroheim himself playing a pseudo-Russian Count). Far superior to Blind Husbands (1919), and probably to The Devil’s Passkey (a lost film, 1920), its action is again set in Europe, Monte Carlo succeeding the Austrian Dolomites of the first film and the Paris of the second. To measure up its originality and boldness it has to be compared to the sophisticated comedies of the time whose greatest exponent was Cecil B. De Mille with films like Why Change Your Wife? or The Affairs of Anatol. De Mille as early as 1919 brought to the American screens a mixture of spice and sex but within strict moral limits. Von Stroheim, however, through his unsparing vision of human psychol- ogy, his probing of hidden motives, and his harsh realism made the American cinema (particularly with Foolish Wives) enter the 20th FOOLISH WIVES FILMS, 4 th EDITION 428 Foolish Wives century, away from the Victorian and romantic sensibility of Griffith and Tourneur. Chaplin would soon follow with A Woman of Paris (1923) and Lubitsch with The Marriage Circle (1924). While confirming his image of ‘‘the man you love to hate,’’ established in the war years when he played the role of the wicked German in several films, Foolish Wives, his third feature for Carl Laemmle’s Universal, created his reputation as a money-spender and an intractable director. Started on 12 July 1920, the shooting ended almost one year later on 15 June 1921. The costs were soaring as von Stroheim with his manic perfectionism insisted on the veracity of every detail. The main facades of the casino, the Hotel de France, and the Cafe de Paris were built by Richard Day (his first assignment) on the backlot of Universal. The initial budget of $250,000 ended up at $750,000 according to von Stroheim and $1,225,000 in the studio’s estimate. In the middle of production Laemmle had appointed his 20- year-old secretary Irving Thalberg as the head of Universal, and he started to oppose von Stroheim as he would do on his next films, Merry Go Round and Greed. Before release there were both censorship and length problems. In the wake of Fatty Arbuckle’s scandal the company decided to delete the most provocative shots; after screening a rough cut of six and half hours, it took the film from von Stroheim’s hands and asked Arthur Ripley to reduce it from 30 reels to 14. Ultimately it ran only ten reels. Even in its present shape, however, the film is one of the most stunning of the silent era. It also exercised a major influence on future directors, including Renoir, Bu?uel, and Vigo. Von Stroheim shows a world that lies to itself, where swindlers and rich people mix, and where the heroine reads a book called Foolish Wives. The writer- director deals with false appearances: the titles of Count Wladislas Sergius Karamzin and his two princess cousins are fake (von Stroheim himself was not an Austrian aristocrat as he would have us believe during his lifetime, but the son of a Jewish hat-maker), the money is counterfeit, and the sentiments are fraudulent; Karamzin playing at love to seduce his maid, the ambassador’s wife, and an idiotic 14- year-old girl. This hypocrisy of the social game is set in the context of World War I, which had just ended: an armless veteran, a nurse pushing a soldier in a wheelchair, a little girl on crutches, a boy playing with a military helmet. In Foolish Wives von Stroheim also gives the final—and most brilliant—touch to his portrait of the cynical seducer, equally eager for money and sex. His physical appearance is as recognisable as Chaplin’s, with his military cap, his whip, and his monocle. Unlike 42nd STREETFILMS, 4 th EDITION 429 Don Juan who seeks his own downfall or Casanova who is constantly in love and taken in by his own illusions, von Stroheim embodies here an energy and sensuality in their purest form and seeks to destroy the world around him until his final death, not unlike a de Sade character. But one should not forget the comic side of the film, its scathing irony, even its farcical moments. In many respects, Foolish Wives anticipates two subversive works that open and close the 1930s: Bu?uel’s L’age d’or and Renoir’s La règle du jeu. —Michel Ciment FORBIDDEN GAMES See LES JEUX INTERDITS 42nd STREET USA, 1933 Director: Lloyd Bacon Production: Warner Bros. Pictures, Inc.; black and white, 35mm; running time: 85 minutes, some sources list 89 minutes. Released 4 March 1933 (premiere). Filmed in Warner Bros. studios in Holly- wood, cost: budgeted at ￡400,000. Producer: Hal B. Wallis; screenplay: James Seymour and Rian James, from the novel by Bradford Ropes; photography: Sol Polito; editor: Thomas Pratt; art director: Jack Okey; music numbers: Al Dubin and Harry Warren; costume designer: Orry Kelly; choreog- raphy: Busby Berkeley. Cast: Warner Baxter (Julian Marsh); Bebe Daniels (Dorothy Brock); George Brent (Pat Denning); Una Merkel (Lorraine Fleming); Ruby Keeler (Peggy Sawyer); Guy Kibbee (Abner Dillon); Ned Sparks (Barry); Dick Powell (Billy Lawler); Ginger Rogers (Anytime Annie); George E. Stone (Andy Lee); Eddie Nugent (Terry); Allen Jenkins (MacElroy); Robert McWade (Jones); Harry Axt (Jerry); Clarence Nordstrum (Leading man); Henry B. Whitehall (The actor). Awards: National Film Registry, National Film Preservation Board, 1998. Publications Script: Seymour, James, and Rian James, 42nd Street, edited by Rocco Fuments, Madison, Wisconsin, 1980. Books: Springer, John, All Talking, All Dancing, New York, 1966. Bergman, Andrew, We’re In The Money: Depression America and Its Films, New York, 1971. 42nd Street Pike, Bob, and Dave Martin, The Genius of Busby Berkeley, Resada, California, 1973. Thomas, Tony, Jim Terry, and Busby Berkeley, The Busby Berkeley Book, New York, 1973. Stern, Lee Edward, The Movie Musical, New York, 1974. Kreuger, Miles, editor, The Movie Musical from Vitaphone to 42nd Street, New York, 1975. Meyer, William, Warner Brothers Directors, New York, 1978. Hirschhorn, Clive, The Warner Bros. Story, New York, 1979. Delameter, James, Dance in the Hollywood Musical, Ann Arbor, Michigan, 1981. Attman, Rick, editor, Genre: The Musical, London, 1981. Feuer, Jane, The Hollywood Musical, London, 1982. Roddick, Nick, A New Deal in Entertainment: Warner Brothers in the 1930s, London, 1983. Morsiani, Alberto, Il Grande Busby: Il Cinema di Busby Berkeley, Modena, 1983. Hoberman, J., 42nd Street, London, 1993. Articles: Hall, Mordaunt, in New York Times, 10 March 1933. Variety (New York), 14 March 1933. ‘‘Lloyd Bacon . . . Warner Brothers’ Ace,’’ in Cue (New York), 6 April 1935. ‘‘Obituary: Lloyd Bacon,’’ in New York Times, 16 November 1955. Thomas, Anthony, ‘‘Dick Powell,’’ in Films in Review (New York), May 1961. THE FOUR HORSEMEN OF THE APOCALYPSE FILMS, 4 th EDITION 430 Durgnat, Raymond, in Films and Filming (London), January 1962. Brion, P., and R. Gilson, ‘‘A Style of Spectacle,’’ and Comoll, J.-L. ‘‘Dancing Images,’’ in Cahiers du Cinéma in English (New York), no. 2, 1966. Jenkinson, Philip, ‘‘The Great Busby,’’ in Film (London), Spring 1966. Gruen, John, ‘‘Interview with Berkeley,’’ in Close-Up (New York), 1968. Sidney, George, ‘‘The Three Ages of the Musical,’’ in Films and Filming (London), June 1968. Gorton, D., ‘‘Busby and Ruby,’’ in Newsweek (New York), 3 Au- gust 1970. Bengtsson, Y., in Filmrutan (Stockholm), no. 1, 1973. Knight, Arthur, ‘‘Busby Berkeley,’’ in Action (Los Angeles), May- June 1974. Hodgkinson, A. W., ‘‘Forty-Second Street New Deal: Some Thoughts About Early Film Musicals,’’ in Journal of Popular Film (Wash- ington, D.C.), no. 1, 1975. Turroni, G., in Filmcritica (Rome), March 1975. Fischer, Lucy, ‘‘The Image of Women: The Optical Politics of Dames,’’ in Film Quarterly (Berkeley), Fall 1976. Dyer, Richard, ‘‘Entertainment and Utopia,’’ in Movie (London), no. 24, 1977. Belton, John, ‘‘The Backstage Musical,’’ in Movie (London), Spring 1977. Roth, Mark, ‘‘Some Warners Musicals and the Spirit of the New Deal,’’ in Velvet Light Trap (Madison, Wisconsin), Winter 1977. Delameter, James, in Wide Angle (Athens, Ohio), volume 1, no. 1, 1979. Johnson, Julia, in Magill’s Survey of Cinema, Englewood Cliffs, New Jersey, 1980. Clark, D., ‘‘Acting in Hollywood’s Best Interest; Representations of Actors’ Labor During the National Recovery Administration,’’ in Journal of Film and Video (Los Angeles), no. 4, 1990. *** 42nd Street was the first of three films released in quick succes- sion by Warner Brothers in 1933 (the other two were Gold Diggers of 1933 and Footlight Parade) that are generally regarded as having revitalized the musical as a genre. 42nd Street gave Busby Berkeley (known for his unique overhead camera shots in Eddie Cantor films) full rein to develop his ideas of choreography. The Depression-weary public was obviously fascinated: Variety listed 42nd Street as one of the top six money-making films of 1933, and it was nominated for an Oscar as best picture. Based to some extent on The Broadway Melody (MGM, 1929), 42nd Street continued the sub-genre of the ‘‘backstage musical’’ but added new dimensions with its hard-hitting references to the Depression and with Berkeley’s opulent staging of the musical numbers. The film refuses to be completely escapist: the main thrust of the narrative is the need to get a job, create a viable product (the show Pretty Lady) and to make money. The structural tension results from the separation of the production numbers (glimpses of Pretty Lady) from the narrative; those numbers are indeed escapist in nature. Richard Dyer, in ‘‘Entertainment and Utopia,’’ regards this separa- tion as an ideological method of suggesting that the musical numbers are the Utopia we all seek from the hard work of the narrative reality—that the ‘‘ills’’ of capitalism (the Depression) can be re- solved through the ‘‘means’’ of capitalism (putting on a successful show). Mark Roth puts forward a similar theory; he notes a social connection between 42nd Street and newly-elected President Roose- velt’s New Deal: by working together under a strong leader (the director), the United States (the cast and crew) can lift itself out of the Depression and towards prosperity. (42nd Street opened in Washing- ton, D.C. on March 4, 1933, the day on which Roosevelt was inaugurated). Regardless of these factors, 42nd Street is usually labelled a ‘‘Busby Berkeley musical.’’ Backstage musicals had existed since the begin- ning of sound, but they were always shot straight-on, as if on stage. Berkeley freed the camera and took advantage of its mobility. He was not a trained dancer, and consequently his ‘‘dancers’’ did not dance so much as move about; the camera did the dancing. By disrupting spatial integrity (the production numbers would begin and end on a theatrical stage but would inevitably move into a realm of limitless dimension), Berkeley created a surrealistic world that thrilled movie audiences. His predilection for beautiful women resulted in some of the most voyeuristic fantasies ever put on film. Recent feminist film critics, particularly Lucy Fischer, have justifiably attacked Berkeley’s objectification of the female body. 42nd Street also introduced Ruby Keeler and Dick Powell to movie audiences and contains that immortal line, ‘‘. . . You’re going out a youngster, but you’ve got to come back a star!’’ —Greg S. Faller THE FOUR CHIMNEYS See ENTOTSU NO MIERU BASHO THE FOUR HORSEMEN OF THE APOCALYPSE USA, 1921 Director: Rex Ingram Production: Metro Pictures Corp.; black and white, 35mm, silent; running time: about 150 minutes; length: 11 reels. Released 6 March 1921 at the Lyric Theatre, New York. Producer: Rex Ingram; scenario: June Mathis, from the novel Los cuatros jinetes del Apocalipsis by Vicente Blasco-Ibá?ez; art titles: Jack W. Robson; photography: John F. Seitz; editors: Grant Whytock and June Mathis; art directors: Walter Mayo and Curt Rehfeld; music for accompanying film: Louis F. Gottschalk; technical assistants: Amos Myers and Joseph Calder; makeup: Jean Hersholt. Cast: Rudolph Valentino (Julio Desnoyers); Alice Terry (Marguerite Laurier); Pomeroy Cannon (Madariaga, the Centaur); Josef Swickard (Marcelo Desnoyers); Brinsley Shaw (Celendonio); Alan Hale (Karl von Hartrott); Bridgetta Clark (Do?a Luisa); Mabel Van Buren (Elena); Nigel De Brulier (Tchernoff); Bowditch Turner (Argensola); John Sainpolis (Laurier); Mark Fenton (Senator Lacour); Virginia Warwick (Chichi); Derek Ghent (René Lacour); Stuart Holmes (Captain von Hartrott); Jean Hersholt (Professor von Hartrott); Henry Klaus (Heinrich von Hartrott); Edward Connolly (Lodgekeeper); THE FOUR HORSEMEN OF THE APOCALYPSEFILMS, 4 th EDITION 431 The Four Horsemen of the Apocalypse Georgia Woodthorpe (Lodgekeeper’s wife); Kathleen Key (Georgette); Wallace Beery (Lieutenant-Colonel von Richthoffen); Jacques D’Auray (Captain d’Aubrey); Curt Rehfeld (Major Blumhardt); Harry Northrup (The Count); Claire De Lorez (Mademoiselle Lucette, the model); Bull Montana (French butler); Isabelle Keith (German woman); Jacques Lanoe (Her husband); Noble Johnson (Conquest); Minnehaha (Old nurse); Arthur Hoyt (Lieutenant Schnitz); Beatrice Dominquez (Dancer); also featuring Ramon Samaniegos (later Novarro) in small role. Publications Books: Milne, Peter, Motion Picture Directing: The Facts and Theories of the Newest Art, New York, 1922. Shulman, Irving, Valentino, New York, 1967. Jacobs, Lewis, The Rise of the American Film: A Critical History, revised edition, New York, 1968. Predal, René, Rex Ingram, Paris, 1970. Lahue, Kalton C., Gentlemen to the Rescue: The Heroes of the Silent Screen, New York, 1972. Everson, William K., American Silent Film, New York, 1978. O’Leary, Liam, Rex Ingram, Master of the Silent Cinema, Dublin, 1980; updated revision 1994. Articles: Variety (New York), 18 February 1921. New York Times, 7 March 1921. Robinson, J., interview with Ingram in Photoplay (New York), August 1921. Lambert, Gavin, ‘‘Fairbanks and Valentino: The Last Heroes,’’ in Sequence (London), Summer 1949. Huff, Theodore, ‘‘The Career of Rudolph Valentino,’’ in Films in Review (New York), April 1952. Geltzer, George, ‘‘Hollywood’s Handsomest Director,’’ in Films in Review (New York), May 1952. McPherson, Mervyn, in Films and Filming (London), May 1956. O’Leary, Liam, ‘‘Rex Ingram and the Nice Studios,’’ in Cinema Studies (England), December 1961. FRANKENSTEIN FILMS, 4 th EDITION 432 Bodeen, DeWitt, ‘‘Rex Ingram and Alice Terry,’’ in Films in Review (New York), February and March 1975. Graham, Ian, ‘‘Rex Ingram: A Seminal Influence, Unfairly Ob- scured,’’ in American Cinematographer (Hollywood), vol. 74, no. 4, April 1993. Cherchi Usai, P., ‘‘Elogio dell’istinto,’’ in Segnocinema (Vicenza), no. 61, May/June 1993. Bourget, J.-L., ‘‘Entre Stroheim et David Lean: le roi Ingram,’’ in Positif (Paris), no. 404, October 1994. ‘‘Les quatre cavaliers de l’apocalypse,’’ in Séquences (Haute-Ville), no. 177, March-April 1995. *** When screenwriter June Mathis campaigned among the execu- tives of the then none-too-sound Metro Film Company to have Blasco Ibá?ez’s best-selling novel The Four Horsemen of the Apocalypse transferred to the screen, she was on shaky ground. The war had been over for two years, there had been a surfeit of war films, and people wanted to forget. She succeeded, however, and she also had the intelligence to recognize the talents of two young men—the director, Rex Ingram, and the actor, Rudolph Valentino. In production the film gathered momentum; there was an air of expectation. Ingram, who had hitherto produced distinguished work without achieving full recognition, had a talent for moulding actors, and the young and largely inexperienced Valentino, lithe and graceful as a dancer, with style and charm and a touch of the devil, proved ideal material for the screen. Ingram, who had come from an Irish rectory and an artistic training at the Yale School of Fine Arts, had inherited his father’s capacity for study and research. He had never been to France, knew nothing of European culture, and yet he succeeded in creating in Hollywood the atmosphere of Paris in wartime and the tragedy of the destruction that had ravaged Europe. The Four Horsemen was an immediate sensation, comparable in its success only to the major films of D. W. Griffith some years earlier. In all the large cities it was sumptuously presented with large orchestras and backstage sound effects for the battle scenes. Its story had all the ingredients for success: a dazzling gigolo hero and a tragic story of frustrated illicit love. It ranged from the pampas of South America and the glittering world of Paris, to the horrors of war and the invasion of a French village by the Germans. Pervading everything was the anti-war theme and the mystical element of the four terrible horsemen. It was also anti-German to the point of caricature: it was banned in Germany and indeed withdrawn from circulation many years later when a campaign was launched to suppress films promot- ing hatred between nations. But for years it was the major box-office attraction, and was revived on the death of Valentino. Indeed, it is now remembered more for its star than for the genuine achievement of Ingram himself. Yet today’s viewers, even those whose main interest is in nostalgia for Valentino, will be struck by the excellence of the film itself. With the help of his constant collaborator, the cameraman John Seitz, Ingram infused the film with great visual beauty, a sensitivity to light and shade, and an unusual feeling for composition. The effect of the film was to shore up the finances of the shaky Metro company, recently taken over by Marcus Loew. It established Valentino as a star, and it established Ingram as a major director who henceforth had carte blanche and full control of his films. A ‘‘Rex Ingram Production’’ thereafter carried as much weight as the star’s billing, and indeed Ingram can be said to have set an aesthetic standard for the screen image. —Liam O’Leary THE 400 BLOWS See LES QUATRES CENTS COUPS FRANKENSTEIN USA, 1931 Director: James Whale Production: Universal Pictures; black and white, 35mm; running time: 71 minutes. Released 1931. Filmed in Universal studios. Cost: $250,000. Producer: Carl Laemmle Jr.; screenplay: Garrett Fort, Francis Faragoh, and John L. Balderston, uncredited first draft by Robert Florey, from John Balderston’s adaptation of Mary Shelley’s novel adapted from the play by Peggy Webling; photography: Arthur Edeson; editor: Clarence Kolster; sound recording supervisor: C. Roy Hunter; art director: Charles Hall; music: David Broekman; makeup: Jack Pierce; laboratory equipment: Ken Strickfadden. Cast: Colin Clive (Dr. Henry Frankenstein); Boris Karloff (The Monster); Mae Clarke (Elizabeth); John Boles (Victor); Edward Van Sloan (Dr. Waldman); Dwight Frye (Fritz); Frederick Kerr. Publications Script: Fort, Garrett, Francis Faragoh, and John L. Balderston, James Whale’s Frankenstein, edited by Richard Anobile, New York, 1974. Books: Laclos, Michel, Le Fantastique au Cinéma, Paris, 1958. Clarens, Carlos, An Illustrated History of the Horror Film, New York, 1968. Gifford, Denis, Movie Monsters, New York, 1969. Baxter, John, Science Fiction in the Cinema, New York, 1970. Butler, Ivan, Horror in the Cinema, revised edition, New York, 1970. Huss, Roy, and T. J. Ross, editors, Focus on the Horror Film, Englewood Cliffs, New Jersey, 1972. Underwood, Peter, Karloff: The Life of Boris Karloff, New York, 1972. Gifford, Denis, Karloff: The Man, The Monster, The Movies, New York, 1973. Glut, Donald, The Frankenstein Legend: A Tribute to Mary Shelley and Boris Karloff, Metuchen, New Jersey, 1973. Bojarski, Richard, and Kenneth Beale, The Films of Boris Karloff, Secaucus, New Jersey, 1974. FRANKENSTEINFILMS, 4 th EDITION 433 Frankenstein Everson, William, Classics of the Horror Film, Secaucus, New Jersey, 1974. Jensen, Paul, Boris Karloff and His Films, New York, 1974. Barsacq, Leon, Caligari’s Cabinet and Other Grand Illusions: A His- tory of Film Design, revised and edited by Elliott Stein, Bos- ton, 1976. Tropp, Martin, Mary Shelley’s Monster: The Story of Frankenstein, Boston, 1976. Derry, Charles, Dark Dreams: A Psychological History of the Mod- ern Horror Film, New York, 1977. Ellis, Reed, Journey Into Darkness: The Art of James Whale’s Horror Films, New York, 1980. Klein, Michael, and Gillian Parker, editors, The English Novel and the Movies, New York, 1981. Curtis, James, James Whale, Metuchen, New Jersey, 1982. Articles: New York Times, 5 December 1931. Variety (New York), 8 December 1931. New York Times, 20 December 1931. Edwards, Roy, ‘‘Movie Gothic: A Tribute to James Whale,’’ in Sight and Sound, Autumn 1957. Karloff, Boris, ‘‘My Life as a Monster,’’ in Films and Filming (London), November 1957. Fink, Robert, and William Thomaier, ‘‘James Whale,’’ in Films in Review (New York), May 1962. ‘‘Memories of a Monster,’’ in Saturday Evening Post (New York), 3 November 1962. Bloom, Harold, in Partisan Review (New Brunswick, New Jersey), Fall 1965. Roman, Robert C., ‘‘Boris Karloff,’’ in Films in Review (New York), August-September 1969. Gerard, Lillian, ‘‘Boris Karloff: The Man Behind the Myth,’’ in Film Comment (New York), Spring 1970. Hitchens, Gordon, ‘‘Some Historical Notes on Dr. Frankenstein and his Monster,’’ in Film Comment (New York), Spring 1970. Jensen, Paul, in Film Comment (New York), Fall 1970. Jensen, Paul, ‘‘James Whale,’’ in Film Comment (New York), Spring 1971. Verstappen, H., ‘‘Schept vreugde met mij, horror freaks,’’ in Skoop (Amsterdam), no. 2, 1972. FRANKENSTEIN FILMS, 4 th EDITION 434 Dillard, R. H. W., ‘‘Drawing the Circle: A Devolution of Values in 3 Horror Films,’’ in Film Journal (Hollins College, Virginia), January-March 1973. Schepelern, P., in Kosmorama (Copenhagen), March 1973. Evans, Walter, ‘‘Monster Movies: A Sexual Theory,’’ in Journal of Popular Film (Washington, D.C.), Fall 1973. Evans, Walter, ‘‘Monster Movies and Rites of Initiation,’’ in Journal of Popular Film (Washington, D.C.), Spring 1975. Huskins, D. Gail, in Magill’s Survey of Cinema 1, Englewood Cliffs, New Jersey, 1980. Starburst (London), no. 32, 1981. Viviani, C., ‘‘Fauses pistes,’’ in Positif (Paris), June 1983. American Cinematographer (Los Angeles), April 1987. Mank, G., ‘‘Robert Florey, James Whale, and Universal’s Franken- stein,’’ in Midnight Marquee (Baltimore), Fall 1988. Mank, Gregory, ‘‘Frankenstein Restored,’’ in Films in Review (New York), vol. 40, no. 6–7, June-July 1989. Mank, Gregory, ‘‘Little Maria Remembers,’’ in Films in Review (New York), vol. 43, no. 9–10, September-October 1992. Holt, Wesley G., in Filmfax (Evanston), no. 35, October-Novem- ber 1992. Thompson, David, ‘‘Really a Part of Me,’’ in Film Comment (New York), vol. 31, no. 1, January-February 1995. Senn, B., ‘‘The Monster, Bride, and Sonp’’ in Monsterscene (Lom- bard), no. 4, March 1995. Pizzato, M., ‘‘The Real Edges of the Screen: Cinema’s Theatrical and Communal Ghosts,’’ in Spectator (Los Angeles), vol. 16, no. 2, 1996. Sarver, Stephanie, ‘‘Homer Simpson Meets Frankenstein: Cinematic Influence in Nathanael West’s The Day of the Locust,’’ in Litera- ture/Film Quarterly (Salisbury), vol. 24, no. 2, April 1996. Mitchell, C.P., ‘‘Marilyn and the Monster,’’ in Films of the Golden Age (Muscatine), no. 11, Winter 1997–1998. Mitchell, C.P., ‘‘The Unkindest Cut,’’ in Films of the Golden Age (Muscatine), no. 11, Winter 1997–1998. *** James Whale’s 1931 version of Frankenstein remains a cinema miracle that defies time. Some 50 years since its premiere, its sensitive craftsmanship and relentlessly macabre tone still set horror movie standards, even after decades of noisome parodies and splatter- film overkill. Whale treats his protagonist’s obsession with galvanizing life from sewn corpses as a stark and shadowy moral tale, more in keeping with the German Expressionist influence of Robert Wiene’s Caligari than Mary Shelley’s Gothic overtones. Though heavy on dialogue in the beginning, Frankenstein unfolds as an intensely visual nightmare, a sleepwalker’s journey along hideous graveyards, gibbets, and gnarly corridors—leading up to the meticulous penultimate climax when Dr. Frankenstein’s creation slowly turns his face towards the camera. Ironically, Frankenstein profits from the very qualities other critics have claimed drag it down. Its leaden mood, stagey acting and lack of a musical score make it all the more somber and bleak. Whale’s camera is quite active throughout these funereal settings and suffers very little from the manacles inherent in other early talkies. In fact, practically all of the cinematic innovations credited to Whale’s sequel Bride of Frankenstein are already here: the tracking camera, the sudden jumps from long-shot to close-up, the extreme high and low angles during the creation sequence, and the lurid sets with their demented religious icons. At the same time, Whale flaunts his theatrical origins with a reverence for the stage. The very first frames when Edward Van Sloan (who plays Frankenstein’s mentor, Dr. Waldman) confronts the footlights for his teasing introduction, and the later tracking shots along the opulent rooms of Baron Frankenstein’s castle, remind us that this is, after all, nothing but artifice, a world where scenery is a trompe l’oeil projection of Dr. Frankenstein’s subconscious fears. Frankenstein still scares viewers because it works as both a horror film and a psychological study. As Frankenstein, Colin Clive, with his harsh enunciations and jittery motions, is perfect in his portrayal of a man beleaguered by twisted dreams and ambiguous morals. Is this really, as Shelley claimed, a story about the perils of hubris, or is it more concerned with a man apprehensive about falling into a connu- bial quagmire? By suggesting more of the latter, Whale may have directly borrowed from Thomas Edison’s long lost silent version, which reportedly ends with a dissolve between the mirrored faces of Dr. Frankenstein and his Monster just before Elizabeth is about to be murdered. Edison allowed the creature to die so that the doctor could face up to marital obligations, but Whale suggests that Frankenstein’s darker passions surpass the tedium Elizabeth (an appropriately bland role for Mae Clarke) has to offer him. In this regard, the Monster is less a sub-human fiend and more like the third party in a lover’s triangle or quadrangle when we consider that Frankenstein’s friend Victor Moritz (John Boles) has eyes on the future bride. Whale’s delight in lampooning ‘‘normal’’ sexual mores (a pen- chant culminating in his 1938 film Wives under Suspicion) is but- tressed by Garrett Fort and Francis E. Farragoh’s ambivalent script which questions how the characters really feel about one another. Elizabeth has countless anxieties about her nuptial partner and even seems coy when Victor vies for her affections. On the wedding day, when news hits that the Monster is loose, Whale inserts a curious close-up of Frankenstein’s hands locking Elizabeth in her bridal chamber, suggesting perhaps that the doctor is unconsciously making her more vulnerable since the would-be killer will soon enter her room through the window. Off to reunite with his nemesis in a vigilante search, Frankenstein looks firmly into Victor’s eyes while surrendering Elizabeth into his care. The scene ends with Victor creeping towards Elizabeth’s room. As a homewrecker, Frankenstein’s Monster merits the humanity and dignity of Boris Karloff’s performance, despite the grease paint, wire clamps, wax eyelids, and a 48-pound steel spine designed by Jack Pierce. Karloff’s empathy is unfortunately diminished by the subplot in which Frankenstein’s hunchback assistant Fritz (Dwight Frye as comic relief) unwittingly acquires a ‘‘criminal’’ brain from his boss, thereby ruining the notion that the Monster’s brutality is a learned response. Whale’s film leaves us with the unsettling conclusion that the real monsters are the diurnal world’s dim-witted denizens, a fact made more apparent when Baron Frankenstein (Frederick Kerr) predicts that the townspeople revelling over his son’s wedding will soon be fighting again. Hours later, the news of little Maria’s murder turns the jocular crowd into a bloodthirsty mob. The recently restored footage (missing since its screen debut) of the Monster throwing Maria (Marilyn Harris) into a lake transpires so quickly and nonchalantly that the pedophile scenarios left to our imaginations all these years are debunked. Now we have proof that the child murder was an innocent error. Not content simply to cast his Monster as a pariah, Whale FREAKSFILMS, 4 th EDITION 435 promotes him to a Christ figure in the final scene when the creation throws his creator from the abandoned windmill into the vengeful crowd. An extreme long-shot of the burning mill resembles the cross on Calvary. Though he disapproved of the tacked-on happy ending when Frankenstein survives his fall, Whale still achieved that su- preme inversion of ‘‘good’’ and ‘‘evil’’ that makes the best horror films survive. —Joseph Lanza FREAKS USA, 1932 Director: Tod Browning Production: Metro-Goldwyn-Mayer Pictures Corp.; black and white, 35mm; running time: 90 minutes originally, later 64 minutes, some sources state that existing copies are 53 minutes. Released February 1932, New York and San Francisco. Filmed in Hollywood. Producer: Irving Thalberg with Harry Sharock (some filmographies state Dwain Esper as producer, but he was responsible for the 1940s re-issue, other sources list Browning as producer); screenplay: Willis Goldbeck, Leon Gordon, Al Boasberg, and Edgar Allen Woolf, from the book Spurs by Clarence Tod Robbins; photography: Merritt B. Gerstad; editor: Basil Wrangell; sound engineer: Gavin Barns; art directors: Cedric Gibbons with Merrill Pye; music: Gavin Barns. Cast: Olga Baclanova (Cleopatra); Henry Victor (Hercules); Wal- lace Ford (Phroso); Harry Earles (Hans); Leila Hyams (Venus); Roscoe Ates (Roscoe); Rose Dione (Mme. Tetralini); Daisy and Violet Hilton (Siamese Twins); Schlitze (Herself); Peter Robinson (Human Skeleton); Elisabeth Green (Bird Woman); Randion (Larva Man, or Living Torso); Joseph-Josephine (Androgyne); Johnny Eck (Trunk Man); Frances O’Connor and Martha Morris (Women without arms); Olga Roderich (Bearded Woman); Koo-Koo (Herself); Edward Brophy and Mat-Mac Huch (The Rollo Brothers); Angelo Rossitto (Angeleno); Daisy Earles (Frieda); Zip and Flip (Pinheads). Award: Honored at the Venice Film Festival, 1962. Publications Script: Goldbeck, Willis, and others, Freaks, in Avant-Scène du Cinéma (Paris), 15 March 1981. Books: Thomas, John, Focus on the Horror Film, New Jersey, 1972. Everson, William K., Classics of the Horror Film, Secaucus, New Jersey, 1974. Skal, David J., Dark Carnival: The Secret World of Tod Browning, Hollywood’s Master of the Macabre, New York, 1995. Articles: New York Times, 9 July 1932. Variety (New York), 12 July 1932. Geltzer, George, ‘‘Tod Browning,’’ in Films in Review (New York), October 1953. Romer, Jean-Claude, ‘‘Tod Browning,’’ in Bizarre (Paris), no. 3, 1962. Guy, Rory, ‘‘Horror: The Browning Version,’’ in Cinema (Beverly Hills), June-July 1963. Kael, Pauline, in Kiss Kiss Bang Bang, Boston, 1968. Schmidt, K., in Kosmorama (Copenhagen), September 1972. Savada, Eli, ‘‘Tod Browning,’’ in Photon (New York), no. 23, 1973. Beylie, Claude, in Ecran (Paris), July-August 1973. Rosenthal, Stuart, ‘‘Tod Browning,’’ in The Hollywood Profession- als 4, London, 1975. ‘‘Freaks et la critique,’’ in Avant-Scène du Cinéma (Paris), July- September 1975. Léger, Jean-Marie, ‘‘Ni Fantastique ni ‘normal’,’’ in Avant Scène du Cinéma (Paris), July-September 1975. James, N., in Classic Film Collector (Indiana, Pennsylvania), Fall 1976. Carcassonne, P., in Cinématographe (Paris), April 1978. Biette, J.-C., and F. Ziolkowski, ‘‘Tod Browning and Freaks,’’ in Cahiers du Cinéma (Paris), May 1978. Cluny, C. M., ‘‘Freaks dans l’oeuvre de Tod Browning,’’ in Cinéma (Paris), May 1978. Sauvaget, D., in Image et Son (Paris), May 1978. Hoberman, James, in Village Voice (New York), 17 September 1979. Film Psychology Review (New York), Summer-Fall 1980. ‘‘Freaks Issue,’’ of Avant-Scène du Cinéma (Paris), 15 March 1981. Cinématographe (Paris), May 1982. Starburst (London), no. 59, 1983. Moorman, M., in Skoop (Amsterdam), September-October 1985. Hodges, Albert, ‘‘Remembering Johnny Eck,’’ in Filmfax (Evans- ton), no. 26, April-May 1991. Douin, Jean-Luc, ‘‘L’horreur est humaine,’’ in Télérama (Paris), no. 2265, 9 June 1993. Vieira, Mark A., and Gary Morris, ‘‘Freaks: Production and Analy- sis,’’ in Bright Lights (Cincinnati), no. 1, Fall 1993. Holt, Wesley G., in Filmfax (Evanston), no. 52, September-Octo- ber 1995. Skal, David J., and Elias Savada, ‘‘’Offend One and You Offend Them All’,’’ in Filmfax (Evanston), no. 52, September-Octo- ber 1995. Skal, David J., and Elias Savada, ‘‘‘One of Us’,’’ in Filmfax (Evans- ton), no. 53, November-December 1995. Wood, Bret, ‘‘Hollywood’s Sequined Lie: The Gutter Roses of Tod Browning,’’ in Video Watchdog, no. 32, 1996. *** Although it has been seldom shown in the fifty years since its introduction in 1932 as a ‘‘masterpiece of horror,’’ Tod Browning’s Freaks has achieved near-legendary cult status and continues to exert a major influence on modern attempts at the baroque film. Certainly the powers of its wedding feast sequence was not lost on Luis Bu?uel when he staged the tramp’s ‘‘last supper’’ in his 1961 Viridiana. And the works of such diverse filmmakers as Max Ophüls, Federico Fellini, and Ingmar Bergman have shown traces of the film’s influence. FREAKS FILMS, 4 th EDITION 436 Freaks Today it is difficult to believe that the film was produced at MGM. It more closely resembles the kind of horror films being released during the 1930s by Universal Studios, which had in fact made a fortune with Browning’s earlier Dracula, as well as James Whale’s Frankenstein. However, Irving Thalberg, MGM’s president, noting the success of these two efforts, purchased Clarence Robbins’s grisly tale Spurs, hired Browning and, over considerable objections within the studio, adapted it for the screen as Freaks. Yet in the transition to film, the story deviated from the traditional horror format and evolved into gothic social commentary that closely resembled the kind of sociological treatments being attempted by Warner Bros. in their great gangster films of the period. If Freaks is not totally satisfactory to audiences of today, that is perhaps due, for the most part, to the fundamental conflicts inherent in merging horror and social criticism. Although Browning was suc- cessful in portraying his deformed subjects sympathetically and causing his viewer to re-evaluate their concepts of what is normal, he succumbs to the obvious temptation to ‘‘scare the pants’’ off his viewers in the film’s final scene. For most of the film, he portrays the freaks as human beings going about their daily rituals. (Significantly, we never see them on stage as sideshow performers.) At the wedding feast, however, when one of their number marries a ‘‘normal’’ person, we sense their solidarity as they go through an elaborate ritual to admit Cleo to their circle. This triggers a course of events in which the innate humanity of the freaks is juxtaposed with the inherent ugliness, evil and abnormality of the so-called normal people. But in the film’s final sequences, Browning emphasizes the physical grotesqueness of the freaks as they slither and crawl through the mud to exact their revenge on Cleo and the strong man Hercules after she has betrayed them. At the end of the film, we find that Cleo has turned into a freak herself at the hands of the little people. The scene, contrived as it is, clouds the image of the humanity of the deformed creatures by emphasizing the enormity of their vengeance, and because the costuming of Cleo as a freak is technically crude, it erodes the worthwhile themes of the film and makes its subjects objects of scorn. Still, individual scenes, in their power and construction, provide unforgettable images and truly extend the boundaries of baroque filmmaking. The film is still today a virtual textbook on the horror film, and enough of its nobler aspirations come through to allow it to remain as undoubtedly the ultimate challenge to the old fiction that beauty is necessarily synonymous with truth. Although it was banned FRESA Y CHOCOLATEFILMS, 4 th EDITION 437 in many countries for its graphic depiction of this theme, it was honored in 1962 at the Venice Film Festival and has been shown periodically thereafter. —Stephen L. Hanson FRESA Y CHOCOLATE (Strawberry and Chocolate) Cuba, 1993 Director: Tomás Gutiérrez Alea and Juan Carlos Tabio Production: El Instituto Cubano del Arte e Industria Cinematograficos, with the support of Instituto Mexicano de Cinematografic, TeleMadrid, La Sociedad General de Autores y Editores de Espa?a, and Tabasco Films; color, 35 mm; running time: 110 minutes. Released in the United States in 1994 by Miramax Films; Spanish with English subtitles. Producer: Georgina Balzaretti (executive), Frank Cabrera (execu- tive), Camilo Vives (executive), Nacho Cobo (associate), Juan Mu?oz (associate); screenplay: Senel Paz (based on the story, The Wolf, the Woods and the New Man) photography: Mario García Joya; editor: Miriam Talavera, Rolando Martínez, Osvaldo Donatién; production manager: Miguel Mendoza; sound editor: Germinal Hernandez; makeup: Graciela Grossas, María Elena del Toro; music: José; María Vitier; production designer: Fernando O’Reilly; costumes: Miriam Due?as. Cast: Jorge Perugorria (Diego); Vladimir Cruz (David); Jorge Angelino (Germán); Francisco Gattorno (Miguel); Mirta Ibarra (Nancy); Mari- lyn Solaya (Vivian); Antonio Carmona (Artist); Diana Iris del Puerto (Neighbor); Andrés Cortina (Santeria Priest); Ricardo ávila (Taxi Driver); María Elena del Toro (Passenger); Zolanda O?a (Passenger). Awards: ARCI-NOVA Award, Audience Award, Best Actor (Jorge Perugorría), Best Actress (Luisina Brando), Best Director, Best Supporting Actress (Mirta Ibarra), FIPRESCI Award, Grand Coral First Prize, and OCIC Award, Havana Film Festival, 1993; Special Jury Prize, Silver Bear Award, and Teddy Award for Best Feature Film, Berlin International Film Festival, 1994; Golden Kikito for Best Latin Film, Gramado Latin Film Festival, 1994; Goya Award for Best Spanish Language Foreign Film, 1995; Special Jury Award, Sundance Film Festival, 1995. Publications Books: Burton, Julianne, editor, Cinema and Social Change in Latin Amer- ica: Conversations with Filmmakers, Austin, Texas, 1986. Pick, Zuzana M., The New Latin American Cinema: A Continental Project, Austin, Texas, 1993. Cook, David. A., A History of Narrative Film, 3rd Ed. New York, 1996. Channan, Michael. ‘‘New Cinemas in Latin America’’ and ‘‘Tomás Gutierrez Alea,’’ in The Oxford History of World Cinema: The Definitive History of Cinema Worldwide, edited by Geoffrey Nowell-Smith, Oxford, 1997. Articles: Burton, Julianne, ‘‘Film and Revolution in Cuba: The First Twenty- Five Years,’’ in Jump Cut: Hollywood, Politics and Counter- Cinema, edited by Peter Steven, New York, 1985. Alea, Tomás Gutierrez, ‘‘I Wasn’t Always a Filmmaker,’’ in Cineaste (Berkeley), vol. 14, no. 1, 1985. Smith, Paul, Teresa Toledo, and Philip Kemp, ‘‘The Language of Strawberry/Intolerance/Fresa y Chocolate,’’ in Sight and Sound (London), vol. 4, no. 12, December 1994. Wise, Michael, ‘‘In Totalitarian Cuba, Ice Cream and Understand- ing,’’ in New York Times, 22 January 1995. Ebert, Roger, ‘‘’Strawberry’ Defies Notions of Cuba’s Politics and Passions,’’ in Chicago Sun-Times, 10 February 1995. Ebert, Roger, ‘‘Cuban Filmmaker Counts His Blessing; ‘Strawberry’ Harvest Tastes Better Than Making a Mint,’’ in Chicago Sun- Times, 10 February 1995. West, Dennis, ‘‘Strawberry and Chocolate, Ice Cream and Tolerance: Interviews with Tomas Gutierrez Alea and Juan Carlos Tabio,’’ in Cineaste (Berkeley), Winter-Spring 1995. Marsolais, Gilles, ‘‘Un humour décapant: coup d’oeil sur quelques films de Tomás Gutiérrez Alea,’’ in 24 Images (Montreal), no. 77, Summer 1995. Hess, John, ‘‘Melodrama, Sex, and the Cuban Revolution,’’ in Jump Cut (Berkeley), no. 41, May 1997. *** The film Fresa y Chocolate opened in Cuba in the year 1993 and within the space of a few months became one of the biggest box-office successes for Tomás Gutiérrez Alea, one of Latin America’s cele- brated and Cuba’s most revered filmmakers. The story is set in 1979, a year before the upheaval of the Mariel boatlift. We meet Diego, a flamboyant, gay man who spots the beautiful young David at an ice cream shop and sets out to woo him. ‘‘I knew he was a homosexual,’’ Diego later reveals to his roommate Miguel, ‘‘there was chocolate and he chose strawberry.’’ Diego manages to lure the supremely heterosexual and devoutly Marxist David to his apartment with the promise of books, music, and other accouterments not readily available in Cuba. Diego is immedi- ately smitten by David, who ‘‘has a face of an angel.’’ But David’s only reason for befriending the non-conformist Diego is to do his duty for the Party by exposing him as a counter-revolutionary, a charge that could bring a penalty of a decade or more in prison. Here is where the real fun begins, for with their subsequent visits the issues become cloudy. David is fascinated by the quirky, educated, and cultured Diego. Moreover, there is more to Diego than meets the eye. At one point, Diego toasts their new friendship with contraband liquor from America, dubbing it ‘‘the enemy’s whiskey.’’ Is Diego a counter- revolutionary or isn’t he? Some have criticized the inclusion of obvious gay clichés: Diego’s apartment is cluttered with a dazzling array of eclectic antiques, he serves Indian tea on exquisite china, he revels in opera, and struts his FRESA Y CHOCOLATE FILMS, 4 th EDITION 438 Fresa y Chocolate stuff in a black tank top and blue Japanese kimono. Yet this is not a ‘‘gay’’ film. There is sexual tension, but no sex. Notes film critic Robert Ebert, the film is not ‘‘about the seduction of a body, but about the seduction of a mind.’’ Nor is the film to be dismissed as simply a light comedy about manners and morality. There are many issues cleanly woven into this unique tapestry. Probably most striking to non-Cuban viewers is the film’s serious and sensitive treatment of gay characters in a Cuban film set during a period in the country’s history when anti-gay sentiment and discrimination ran especially high. For Alea however, it is more a film about tolerance than it is a call for gay rights. ‘‘The gay subtheme,’’ notes Alea in Cineaste, ‘‘is merely a convenient illustration....’’ Fresa y Chocolate examines freedom of expression, surveillance, revolutionary watchfulness, the black market, and the flaws of revolutionary Cuban society. This may seem radical, arising as it does from the camera of one of Cuba’s most devoted revolutionaries. But not so if one is familiar with the firebrand tone of Alea’s work. The Cuban director has never shied away from the contradictions in his country’s policies. His submerged criticism of the exigencies of life in communist Cuba has resonated throughout his films. ‘‘It’s seen as a communist hell or a communist paradise,’’ he was quoted as saying by the Associated Press. In one scene the two men escape to Diego’s rooftop to take in the beauty of their city. A wide shot pans a beautiful dock with clear waters, shore birds, and small sea vessels. Diego warns David to enjoy it now ‘‘before it collapses.’’ Clearly, Diego loves Cuba but is tortured by the fact that its beauty is crumbling before his own eyes. Fresa y Chocolate is a splendid piece of filmmaking by one of Latin America’s most celebrated film artists. Alea made his mark in filmmaking with the production of El mégano in 1955. This docu- mentary explored the exploitation of peasant labor in the charcoal swamps and caused Alea to be arrested by the secret police of the Batista regime. It was during this turbulent period in postwar film history that Latin American countries began to loose the stranglehold of the Hollywood machine to allow the voices of native film artists to be heard. A number of film movements emerged, including ‘‘Cinema Novo,’’ when young Latin filmmakers took on the tenants of Italian Neo-Realism and French New Wave to explore issues of coloniza- tion, slavery, economic limitation, misery, and protest, and in the process created a new Latin American cinema. It was the 1964 dark comedy Muerta de un burócrata (Death of a Bureaucrat) that helped established Alea as an international film artist. FR?KEN JULIEFILMS, 4 th EDITION 439 Fresa y Chocolate is richly photographed and filled with charm- ing portrayals and very good acting. And it makes for delightful comedy. David is a University student studying political science but is quite naive and unsophisticated. During one of many heated discussions with Diego, David confuses Truman Capote with Harry Truman for dropping the atomic bomb. He tells Diego that being gay is ‘‘in the glands.’’ Then there is Nancy, Diego’s middle-aged and sexually appealing neighbor, a part-time hooker with mental baggage who supports herself by selling contraband pantyhose and cosmetics and who becomes intensely physically drawn to David—especially when she finds out he is still a virgin. Alea, who was 69 years old at the time of the shooting of Fresa Y Chocolate, became ill and called upon his long-time colleague, filmmaker Juan Carlos Tabio, to complete the film. In 1996, after the release of his final film, Guantanamera, Alea died of cancer. —Pamala S. Deane FR?KEN JULIE (Miss Julie) Sweden, 1950 Director: Alf Sj?berg Production: Sandrew Bauman Produktion; black and white, 35mm; running time: 87 minutes, some sources list 90 minutes. Released 1950. Filmed in Sweden. Producer: Rune Waldekranz; screenplay: Alf Sj?berg, from the play by August Strindberg; photography: G?ran Strindberg; editor: Lennart Wallén; art director: Bibi Lindstr?m; music: Dag Wirén. Cast: Anita Bj?rk (Miss Julie); Ulf Palme (Jean); Anders Henrikson (The Count); Marta Dorff (Christine); Lissi Alandh (Berta, the Countess); Inga Gill (Viola); Kurt-Olof Sundstrom (The fiancé); Ake Claessens (Doctor); Jan Hagerman (Jean, as a child); Inger Norberg (Julie as a child); Ake Fridell (Robert); Max von Sydow (Groom). Award: Cannes Film Festival, Best Film (shared with Miracolo a Milano), 1951; Honored at Venice Film Festival, as part of a retrospective program, 1964. Publications Books: Cowie, Peter, Swedish Cinema, New York, 1966. Cowie, Peter, and Arne Svensson, Sweden, New York, 2 vols., 1970. Barsacq, Leon, Caligari’s Cabinet and Other Grand Illusions: A His- tory of Film Design, New York, 1976. Klinowski, Jacek, and Adam Garbicz, Cinema, the Magic Vehicle: A Guide to Its Achievement: Journey Two, Metuchen, New Jersey, 1979. Lundin, G., Filmregi Alf Sj?berg, Lund, 1979. Ek, Sverker R., Spelplatsens magi: Alf Sj?berg regikonst 1930–1957, Gidlund, 1988. Esposito, Vincenzo, Alf Sj?berg: un maestro del cinema svedese, Rome, 1998. Articles: Variety (New York), 16 May 1951. Cinématographe Fran?ais (Paris), 28 July 1951. Cahiers du Cinéma (Paris), July-August 1951. Sight and Sound (London), Autumn 1951. Monthly Film Bulletin (London), no. 216, 1952. Sight and Sound (London), January-March 1952. Films in Review (New York), May 1952. Variety (New York), 4 September 1952. De La Roche, Catherine, ‘‘Swedish Films,’’ in Films in Review (New York), November 1953. Morrisett, ‘‘The Swedish Paradox,’’ in Sight and Sound (London), Autumn 1961. Cinema Nuovo (Turin), August 1965. Coiner, M., ‘‘Myth, Style and Strindberg in Sj?berg’s Miss Julie,’’ in Literature/Film Quarterly (Salisbury, Maryland), no. 1, 1991. Bjorkin, M., ‘‘Fr?ken Julies rakkniv,’’ in Filmh?ftet (Stockholm), vol. 23, no. 1/2, 1995. *** In Miss Julie, there is a prolific use of ‘‘flashbacks,’’ one flash forward and two dream sequences, all of which serve to articulate the opposing but also disintegrating class values of Miss Julie, who represents the feudal aristocracy, and of her father’s valet, Jean, who is of lower class, servant background. The difference in director Alf Sj?berg’s use of the flashback device in Miss Julie from its standard employment in strictly conventional, (i.e. ‘‘Hollywood’’) films, is that there is not the usual cinematic punctuation demarcating exactly when the narrative is speaking about the present and when it is referring to the past. In the play, the past is evoked through the use of dialogue, which characteristically involves an exchange among two or more people seeking mutual understanding. However, the key to the success of dialogue, insofar as its communicative status is predicated upon the arrival of this understanding, is one of intentionality. The speakers must be able to make one another recognize the meaning intended in what they are trying to express. In Miss Julie the dialogue—as a means of describing for example, the conflicts Miss Julie harbors about morality, class distinction, and sexual roles—has been trans- lated cinematically into the flashback. That the flashbacks in the film are not marked off in the traditional manner indicates that they are not to be understood in the usual sense—not as simply retrogressive delineations of time. Instead they are intended by the filmmaker to illustrate, in formal terms, the indecisive and confused nature of Miss Julie’s conception of herself, of her conception of how others see her, and of what she should do or be in the world. The rules of verbal communication must be followed by the speakers involved. If they are not, of course, an incorrect meaning or set of meanings will be derived from the exchange. Specifically, flashbacks in Miss Julie are constructed so that there is no spatial and thus temporal differentiation made between the people, objects and places of the present and those of the past. Miss Julie’s mother, who is FROM HERE TO ETERNITY FILMS, 4 th EDITION 440 Fr?ken Julie dead in the present time of her daughter’s affair with Jean, walks into the ‘‘frame’’ of this time from the midst of one from the past. The camera moves with her across these two temporal dimensions passing on its way people of the present who are speaking about her in the past. This overlapping occurs as a rule of the flashback structure in the film. Its meaningful effect is one of instability, of alternating balances and contrasts of moods. The viewer understands ultimately that Miss Julie will remain an illusionary and impenetrable fiction. To further create a sense of the basic unreality and illusion of imagination in the diegesis, landscapes, objects, and the natural elements (wind, etc.) are not represented or portrayed as things existing merely in themselves. Rather, Sj?berg manipulates them in such a way that they take on a symbolic life of their own. They become anthropomorphized conveyors of the character’s emotions as well as expressive means of the larger and more pervasive moods of the film. This anthropomorphization process, which affords signifi- cance to objects usually represented statically, as devoid of meaning, does not in the overall perception of the film simply consign the narrative and its means of presentation to the realm of the melodramatic. —Sandra L. Beck FROM HERE TO ETERNITY USA, 1953 Director: Fred Zinnemann Production: Columbia Pictures Corp.; 1953; black and white, 35mm; running time: 118 minutes. Released 1953. Filmed in Hawaii at the Schofield Barracks. Producer: Buddy Adler; executive producer: Harry Cohn; screen- play: Daniel Taradash, from the novel by James Jones; photogra- phy: Burnett Guffey; editor: William A. Lyon; sound: John P. Livadary and Columbia Studio Sound Department; art director: Cary Odell; music: George Dunning. Cast: Burt Lancaster (Sergeant Milton Warden); Montgomery Clift (Robert E. Lee ‘‘Prew’’ Prewitt); Deborah Kerr (Karen Holmes); Frank Sinatra (Angelo Maggio); Donna Reed (Alma ‘‘Lorene’’); Philip Ober (Captain Dana Holmes); Ernest Borgnine (Sergeant ‘‘Fatso’’ Judson). FROM HERE TO ETERNITYFILMS, 4 th EDITION 441 Awards: Oscars for Best Picture, Best Supporting Actor (Sinatra), Best Supporting Actress (Reed), Best Director, Best Screenplay, Best Cinematography—Black and White, Best Sound Recording, and Best Editing, 1953; New York Film Critics’ Awards for Best Motion Picture, Best Actor (Lancaster), and Best Direction, 1953; Cannes Film Festival, Out of Competition Prize, 1954. Publications Books: Griffith, Richard, Fred Zinnemann, New York, 1958. Thomas, Bob, King Cohn, New York, 1967. Ringgold, Gene, and Clifford McCarty, The Films of Frank Sinatra, New York, 1971. Phillips, Gene D., The Movie Makers: Artists in an Industry, Chi- cago, 1973. Thomas, Tony, Burt Lancaster, New York, 1975. Giannetti, Louis, Masters of the American Cinema, Englewood Cliffs, New Jersey, 1981. From Here to Eternity Rausa, Guiseppe, Fred Zinnemann, Florence, 1985. Goldau, Antje, and others, Zinnemann, Munich, 1986. Zinnemann, Fred, My Life in the Movies, New York, 1992. Nolletti, Arthur, Jr., The Films of Fred Zinnemann, Albany, 1999. Articles: Look (New York), 25 August 1953. Kass, Robert, in Films in Review (New York), October 1953. Reisz, Karel, in Sight and Sound (London), January-March 1954. Wald, Jerry, ‘‘Screen Adaptation,’’ in Films in Review (New York), February 1954. Taradash, Daniel, ‘‘Into Another World,’’ in Films and Filming (London), May 1959. Zinnemann, Fred, ‘‘A Conflict of Conscience,’’ in Films and Filming (London), December 1959. Zinnemann, Fred, ‘‘From Here To Eternity,’’ in Films and Filming (London), November 1961. Zinnemann, Fred, ‘‘Montgomery Clift,’’ in Sight and Sound (Lon- don), Autumn 1966. FUKUSHU SURU WA WARE NI ARI FILMS, 4 th EDITION 442 Reid, John Howard, ‘‘A Man For All Movies: The Films of Fred Zinnemann,’’ in Films and Filming (London), May and June 1967. Schuster, Mel, ‘‘Burt Lancaster,’’ in Films in Review (New York), August-September 1969. Braun, Eric, ‘‘From Here to Esteem,’’ in Films and Filming (Lon- don), May 1970. Also April and June 1970. Colpart, G., in Cinema (Paris), November 1978. Jensen, Jeffry Michael, in Magill’s Survey of Cinema 2, Englewood Cliffs, New Jersey, 1980. Lippe, R., ‘‘Montgomery Clift: A Critical Disturbance,’’ in Cineaction (Toronto), Summer 1989. Simmons, Jerrold, ‘‘The Production Code & Precedent,’’ in Journal of Popular Film and Television (Washington, D.C.), vol. 20, no. 3, Fall 1992. Hall, P., and N. Sivulich, ‘‘Letters: Military Movies,’’ in New York Times, section 2, 25 April 1993. Vineberg, S., ‘‘Fred Zinnemann’s Actors,’’ in Film Criticism (Meadville), vol. 18/19, no. 3/1, 1994. Sternberg, D., ‘‘Real-life References in Four Fred Zinnemann Films,’’ in Film Criticism (Meadville), vol. 18–19, Spring 1994. Zinnemann, F., ‘‘Letter from Fred Zinnemann,’’ in Film Criticism (Meadville), vol. 19, no. 2, 1994/1995. Reid, J.H., in Reid’s Film Index, no. 32, 1997. Horton, R., ‘‘Fred Zinnemann,’’ in Film Comment (New York), September/October 1997. MacCabe, Colin, and Geoffrey Macnab, ‘‘Bayonets in Paradise: Soldier Stories,’’ in Sight & Sound (London), vol. 9, no. 2, February 1999. *** James Jones’s novel From Here to Eternity was a bestseller. Portraying Army life immediately before Pearl Harbor, its racy sex scenes, lively and rough language, and vivid characterizations of men under stress made it one of the most widely read books to come out of World War II. Hollywood was interested but felt that the book would be a difficult project. Obviously the realistic and explicit sex scenes were the basis for much of the book’s appeal. The book was also very lengthy and somewhat rambling. If one could conquer the problems of translating the language and sex to the screen, could a film be made that captured the spirit of the book? Hollywood wanted to try because the loss of its audience to television and divestiture of the studios’ theater chains were forcing Hollywood to provide forms of entertain- ment that could not be found elsewhere. Columbia’s chief executive Harry Cohn bought the rights and worked on the project directly with producer Buddy Adler, director Fred Zinnemann, and writer Dan Taradash. Cohn appeared on the set to make suggestions and felt that he really contributed to the project. For the first and only time in his career, his name was included in the ads for the film. But Cohn and his director did not have a smooth relationship. Zinnemann had his own ideas how to handle the film. Zinnemann was an excellent choice as a director. He was known for his respect of actors, and the film was one that for success would depend on the performance of the cast. Zinnemann had also worked on short subjects earlier in his career and had developed a technique of cutting away everything but the necessities—important in bringing From Here To Eternity down to a workable but effective size. Already evident in his work (High Noon, 1952), the thematic concern of From Here To Eternity, how an individual fights for what he believes to be right, was important to Zinnemann and a theme he would return to in later films (A Nun’s Story, 1959; A Man for All Seasons, 1966). Surprisingly, considering the Cold War temperament of the times, the film is not a glorification of military life. Although the problems of bad leadership and abuse of authority are solved by the army in the film (unlike the book), officers are shown to be pompous, arrogant and ignorant. Only some of the enlisted men are shown heroically. No glorious battles are depicted, and the climax is the Japanese sneak attack on Pearl Harbor. With love affairs involving an officer’s wife and an enlisted man, a military outcast and a prostitute, the melo- drama of military life is the focus of the film. The beach love scene of Burt Lancaster and Deborah Kerr has become a cliché, although at the time it was considered very risqué and erotic. The film was a very big moneymaker for Columbia, and the production won eight Academy Awards. One of those, for Best Supporting Actor, marked the comeback of Frank Sinatra. Probably most important of all, Hollywood learned that the American audience would support films that attempted to deal with adult situations and problems. The next year Columbia verified this theory with another successful adult drama, On the Waterfront. —Ray Narducy FUKUSHU SURU WA WARE NI ARI (Vengeance Is Mine) Japan, 1979 Director: Shohei Imamura Production: Schochiku Co. Ltd.; color, 35mm; running time: 128 minutes. Released 1979. Filmed in Japan. Producer: Kazuo Inoue; screenplay: Masaru Baba, from a book by Ryuzo Saki; photography: Shinsaku Himeda; editor: Keiichi Uraoka; music: Shinichiro Ikebe. Cast: Ken Ogata (Iwao Enokizu); Rentaro Mikuni (Shizuo Enokizu); Chocho Mikayo (Kayo Enokizu); Mitsuko Baisho (Kazuko Enokizu); Mayumi Ogawa (Haru Asano); Nijiko Kiyokawa (Hisano Asano). Award: Kinema Jumpo Award, Best Film, 1979–80. Publications Books: Bock, Audie, Japanese Film Directors, New York, 1978, revised edition, Tokyo, 1985. Tessier, Max, editor, Le cinéma Japonais au present: 1959–1979, Paris, 1980. Richie, Donald, with Audie Bock, Notes for a Study on Shohei Imamura, Sydney, 1983. Piccardi, Adriano, and Angelo Signorelli, Shohei Imamura, Bergamo, 1987. Quandt, James, Shohei Imamura, Bloomington, 1999. FUNNY GAMESFILMS, 4 th EDITION 443 Articles: Variety (New York), 26 March 1980. ‘‘New Directors/New Films,’’ in The Museum of Modern Art Film Notes, 11–23 April 1980. Sartor, F., in Film en Televisie (Brussels), May-June 1980. Hoaas, S., ‘‘Interview with Imamura,’’ in Cinema Papers (Mel- bourne), September-October 1981. Niogret, B., in Positif (Paris), January 1982. Magny, Joel, in Cinéma (Paris), November 1982. Tessier, Max, in Image et Son (Paris), November 1982. Carrere, E., in Positif (Paris), December 1982. Lardeau, Yann, ‘‘Je tue donc je suis,’’ in Cahiers du Cinéma (Paris), December 1982. Gillett, John, ‘‘Shohei Imamura,’’ in Film Dope (London), Janu- ary 1983. Thibert, X., in Cinématographe (Paris), January 1983. Welsh, H., in Jeune Cinéma (Paris), February 1983. Baecque, Antoine de, ‘‘Historie de douleur,’’ in Cahiers du Cinéma (Paris), no. 425, November 1989. Bouquet, Stéphane, ‘‘Imamura: le porc et son homme,’’ in Cahiers du Cinéma (Paris), no. 512, April 1997. Tobin, Yann, and Hubert Niogret, ‘‘Shohei Imamura,’’ in Positif (Paris), no. 440, October 1997. Eisenreich, Pierre, and Hubert Niogret, ‘‘Shohei Imamura,’’ in Positif (Paris), no. 454, December 1998. *** After a long search, in Vengeance Is Mine, the Japanese police finally capture Iwao Enokizu, an almost legendary criminal who’s left a trail of corpses to mark the last year of his murderous rampage across Japan. As the police drive him to prison, a flashback recounts the key moments in Enokizu’s life: the humiliation of his father, a Japanese Catholic, by the military during the war; Enokizu’s brutal murders; and his relationship with the proprietress of a small inn at Hamamatsu, where he has avoided the police dragnet by passing himself off as a professor from Kyoto University. After finally being brought to justice, Enokizu confronts his wife and father—who have entered into an incestuous relationship—and declares that he finally understands the reason behind his rage. Considered by many critics to be his masterpiece, Vengeance Is Mine marked a return to feature filmmaking for director Shohei Imamura after an eight year ‘‘retirement’’ during which time he worked exclusively on documentaries for Japanese television. The film was extremely successful with both Japanese audiences and critics, who voted it ‘‘Best Japanese Film of the Year’’ in the prestigious film journal Kinema Jumpo. Its box office success al- lowed Imamura to enter into an advantageous financial relationship with Shochiku Studios, which gave him the possibility of a better level of production while creating new national and international outlets for his work. Imamura’s work up until 1970 can be characterized as highly textured, almost baroque narratives which freely intertwined the sociological, the sexual, and the political; this was followed by a period in which he explored the outer limits of the documentary and the possibility of attaining a kind of ‘‘truth’’ on film. Vengeance Is Mine introduced a new stage in Imamura’s development. He returns to the narratological complexity of the pre-1970 work, but dispenses with the strong central character (usually female in the earlier films) whose odyssey structures the film. Instead, Vengeance Is Mine introduced a new series of films built on patterns of continuous disorientation, which causes each spectator to question the relation of each image to the next. Often, just the beginnings and ends of actions are shown; it is only later that we discover what actually happened. In Vengeance Is Mine the focus of the action glides between Enokizu, his father, the proprietress at Hamamatsu, and the police investiga- tion, deliberately undercutting any concentration on a single main character. Imamura instead creates a portrait of a world, of which Enokizu is perhaps the ugliest, yet most revealing, manifestation. Brilliantly photographed by Shinsaku Himeda, one of the greatest of all Japanese cinematographers and a frequent collaborator of Imamura’s, Vengeance Is Mine also features a superb performance by Ken Ogata as Enokizu. —Richard Pe?a FUNNY GAMES Austria, 1997 Director: Michael Haneke Production: Wega-Film, Vienna; distributed by Metro Tartan Dis- tributors; first released 14 May 1997; color; sound: Dolby Digital; running time: 108 minutes, 59 seconds; length: 9,808 feet. Producer: Veit Heiduschka; screenplay: Michael Haneke; photog- raphy: Jürgen Jürges; assistant director: Hanus Polak, Jr.; editor: Andreas Prochaska; art director: Christoph Kanter; sound: Walter Amann; sound editor: Bernhard Bamberger; special effects/make- up: Waldemar Poktomski; Simone Bachl; special effects/stunts: Mac Steinmeier; Danny Bellens; Willy Neuner; costumes: Lisy Christl; wardrobe: Katharina Nikl; mixer: Hannes Eder; produc- tion manager: Werner Reitmeier; united production managers: Alfred Strobl; Phillip Kaiser; post-production: Michael Katz; Ulrike Lasser; script supervisors: Katharina Biro; Jessica Hausner; ani- mals: Animal Action; dog trainer: April Morley. Cast: Susanne Lother (Anna Schober); Ulrich Mühe (Georg Schober); Arno Frisch (Paul); Frank Giering (Peter); Stefan Clapczynski (Georg ‘‘Schorschi’’ Schober); Doris Kunstmann (Gerda); Christoph Bantzer (Fred Berlinger); Wolfgang Glück (Robert); Susanne Meneghel (Gerda’s sister); Monika Zallinger (Eva Berlinger). Awards: Silver Hugo award for Best Director, Chicago International Film Festival, 1997; International Fantasy Film Special Jury Award (for Michael Haneke), Fantasporto (Portugal), 1998. FUNNY GAMES FILMS, 4 th EDITION 444 Funny Games Publications: Articles: Romney, Jonathon, ‘‘A Trial by Cinema,’’ in The Guardian (Lon- don), 15 May 1997. Haneke, Michael, ‘‘Believing Not Seeing,’’ in Sight and Sound, LFF Supplement (London), November 1997. Hoberman, J, ‘‘Head Trips,’’ in Village Voice (New York), 17 March 1998. Falcon, Richard, ‘‘The Discreet Harm of the Bourgeoisie,’’ in Sight and Sound (London), May 1998. Film Ireland (Dublin), August/September 1998. Cinema Papers (Victoria) October 1998. Andrew, Geoff, ‘‘Hurt of the Matter,’’ in Time Out (London), 21–28 October 1998. Time Out (London) 28 October-4 November 1998. Sight and Sound (London), December 1998. Engleberg, Achim, ‘‘Nine Fragments about the Films of Michael Haneke,’’ in Filmwaves (London), Winter 1999. *** A celebrated writer and director of television and theatre in Austria, Michael Haneke first grabbed the attention of the interna- tional film community with his trilogy of films reporting on ‘‘the progressive emotional glaciation’’ of his country. Manifesting his hatred for the kind of sensationalized violence that, he believes, induces audience passivity, each film was designed to show how desensitization leads to societal alienation and dehumanization. The first, The Seventh Continent (1989), focused on a family’s collective suicide; the second, Benny’s Video (1992), examined a boy’s fatal relationship with a girl and his video-camera; the third and most accessible, 71 Fragments of a Chronology of Chance (1994), foregrounded the senselessness of motiveless murder and suicide. With Funny Games Haneke went one step further to provoke his audience into considering their relationship to, and consumption of, screen violence. Challenging the conventions of the thriller genre itself, the film confounds expectation and keeps the majority of the violence off-screen, heard but not seen, witnessed only by us through the reactions of the other characters. It is this manner of stylization that most divided critics upon its release. While some were eager to praise the film for its daring originality, others accused it of being both manipulative and patronizing in its tone and approach. The narrative of the film is simple and centers on a middle-class couple and their son whose idyllic holiday in their lakeside retreat is interrupted by the arrival of two anonymous, well-spoken youths. FURYFILMS, 4 th EDITION 445 Wearing clinical white gloves and calling themselves Peter and Paul (or, with referential irony, Tom and Jerry, Beavis and Butthead), the youths proceed to subject the family to a night of mental and physical torture, referring to each act as a game. Sign-posting some classic horror/thriller conventions, the film opens upon the tranquillity of an ordered world that is soon to be disrupted by the threat of the unknown. Listening to classical music as they travel by car through the country lanes, the family is coded as safe and bourgeois. At this stage they remain blissfully unaware that, as a portent of the sudden and alarmingly vicious acts to follow, their music is being drowned out by screamingly chaotic heavy metal. Yet despite these early warning notes the film is otherwise relentlessly measured in its slow build up of tension and execution of events. Although the situation itself seems bizarre, emphasis is placed on the realism of the family’s reactions. When the son, Schorschi, is shot (his blood splashed symbolically over the television set) and the youths apparently leave, the camera fixes in excruciatingly long takes—first of the mother, Anna, and then of the father, George. Rather than attempting an immediate escape they sit motionless, caught up in their own personal humiliation and despair, too wounded to move. To further test the viewers’ perceptions of reality, Haneke seeks to increase awareness of the film’s fiction. Paul, the more dominant of the psychotic pair, occasionally makes post-modern asides to the camera, psychologically taunting us as much as he taunts the family. ‘‘What do you think?’’ he asks, having told his victims that they will be dead within twelve hours, ‘‘Do you think they have a chance of winning?’’ When Anna manages to grab the shotgun and shoot Peter, he picks up the remote and rewinds the film, bringing his partner back to life again, thereby changing the course of the narrative. At one point he winks towards the screen as if to include the spectators in his game—a hint from the filmmaker that by continuing to watch they make themselves responsible for the perpetration of screen violence. Upon the release of Funny Games Haneke contentiously declared that ‘‘anyone who leaves the cinema doesn’t need the film, and anyone who stays does.’’ Bearing in mind the director’s desire to educate, the problem with this film is its effectiveness. Although very different from most other horror/thrillers it is a worthy addition to the genre, ranking alongside other experimental works such as The Texas Chainsaw Massacre, Man Bites Dog and Henry, Portrait of a Serial Killer. Shockingly frightening and nihilistic, the spare visual style and subtle insinuation mesmerizes and intrigues rather than discourages. The manner of the two youths is extremely disquieting. These are not the archetypal villains whose behavior is a result of a terrible childhood or trauma—they play merely because they can, because they are bored of their middle-class existence and can no longer maintain any normal human connection. There is also a great sense of loss when the final member of the family to be killed, Anna (played by with devastating sincerity by Susanne Lothar), is pushed into her watery grave. The act finally makes real what has been a suspicion for the last third of the film, that the captors will get away with their crime and, contrary to any hopes and expectations, none of their victims will manage to survive. Whether or not the central message of Funny Games will make any practical difference to the way in which violence is either presented on the screen or received by its viewers remains to be seen. One suspects not, for as an arthouse rather than a mainstream hit it clearly has a limited audience. The wider audience it seems keen to preach to will therefore remain unconverted while the rest, contrary to Haneke’s wishes, will stay in the cinema, continuing to view both this and other violent films out of an ‘‘academic’’ interest. —Hannah Patterson FURY USA, 1936 Director: Fritz Lang Production: Metro-Goldwyn-Mayer; black and white; running time: 92 minutes, length: 8292 feet. Released June 1936. Producer: Joseph L. Mankiewicz; screenplay: Fritz Lang and Bartlett Cormack, from the novel Mob Rule by Norman Krasna; photogra- phy: Joseph Ruttenberg; editor: Frank Sullivan; art directors: Cedric Gibbons, William A. Horning; music: Franz Waxman. Cast: Spencer Tracy (Joe Wheeler); Sylvia Sidney (Katherine Grant); Walter Abel (District Attorney); Bruce Cabot (Kirby Dawson); Edward Ellis (Sheriff); Walter Brennan (Bugs Meyers); Frank Albertson (Charlie); George Walcott (Tom); Arthur Stone (Durkin); Morgan Wallace (Fred Garrett); George Chandler (Milton Jackson); Roger Gray (The Stranger); Edwin Maxwell (Vickery); Howard Hickman (Governor); Jonathan Hale (The Defence Counsel). Publications Script: Lang, Fritz, and Bartlett Cormack, Fury, in Twenty Best Screenplays, edited by John Gassner and Dudley Nichols, New York, 1943. Books: Courtade, Francis, Fritz Lang, Paris, 1963. Moullet, Luc, Fritz Lang, Paris, 1963. Eibel, Alfred, editor, Fritz Lang, Paris, 1964. Bogdanovich, Peter, Fritz Lang in America, New York, 1967. Deschner, Donald, The Films of Spencer Tracy, New York, 1968. Swindell, Larry, Spencer Tracy: A Biography, New York, 1969. Jensen, Paul, The Cinema of Fritz Lang, New York, 1969. Johnston, Claire, Fritz Lang, London, 1969. Tozzi, Romano, Spencer Tracy, New York, 1973. Grafe, Frieda, Enno Patalas, and Hans Prinzler, Fritz Lang, Munich, 1976. Eisner, Lotte, Fritz Lang, edited by David Robinson, New York, 1977. Armour, Robert, Fritz Lang, Boston, 1978. Ott, Frederick, The Films of Fritz Lang, Secaucus, New Jersey, 1979. Jenkins, Stephen, editor, Fritz Lang: The Image and the Look, London, 1981. FURY FILMS, 4 th EDITION 446 Giannetti, Louis, Masters of the American Cinema, Englewood Cliffs, New Jersey, 1981. Kaplan, E. Ann, Fritz Lang: A Guide to References and Resources, Boston, 1981. Maibohm, Ludwig, Fritz Lang: Seine Filme, sein Leben, Munich, 1981. Dürrenmatt, Dieter, Fritz Lang: Leben und Werk, Basel, 1982. Humphries, Reynold, Fritz Lang: Cinéaste américain, Paris, 1982; as Fritz Lang: Genre and Representation in His American Films, Baltimore, 1988. Davidson, Bill, Spencer Tracy, Tragic Idol, London, 1987. Humphries, Reynold, Fritz Lang: Genre & Representation in His American Films, Ann Arbor, 1989. Levin, David J., Richard Wagner, Fritz Lang, and the Nibelungen: The Dramaturgy of Disavowal, Princeton, 1998. McGilligan, Patrick, Fritz Lang: The Nature of the Beast, New York, 1999. Articles: New York Times, 6 June 1936. Variety (New York), 10 June 1936. Times (London), 24 June 1936. Kine Weekly (London), 25 June 1936. Sight and Sound (London), Summer and Autumn 1936. Spectator (London), 3 July 1936. Lambert, Gavin, in Sight and Sound (London), Summer and Autumn 1955. Cohn, Bernard, in Positif (Paris), February 1964. Springer, John, ‘‘Sylvia Sidney,’’ in Films in Review (New York), January 1966. Thousand Eyes Magazine (New York), January 1977. Listener (London), 13 August, 1987. Kurowski, U., ‘‘Fritz Lang,’’ in EPD Film (Frankfurt), vol. 7, no. 12, December 1990. Smedley, N., ‘‘Fritz Lang’s Trilogy: The Rise and Fall of a European Social Commentator,’’ in Film History (London), vol. 5, no. 1, March 1993. Greene, Graham, ‘‘Deux critiques,’’ in Positif (Paris), no. 441, November 1997. *** Like many of Fritz Lang’s post-Hitler films, Fury almost didn’t get made; according to Lotte Eisner, the project was a ‘‘last chance’’ effort before Lang’s one-year MGM contract lapsed. But as Lang’s inaugural Hollywood effort, Fury was certainly worth the wait, and in retrospect can be taken as emblematic of the way Lang would be treated by successive generations of reviewers and critics. A significant number of Fury’s contemporary reviewers, for example, divided the film into two halves, the first, in the words of Otis Ferguson, ‘‘a powerful and documented piece of fiction about a lynching,’’ the second ‘‘a desperate attempt to make love, lynching, and the Hays office come out even.’’ In certain respects the ‘‘two parts’’ description is accurate. Part One: En route to meet his fiancée, Katherine Grant (Sylvia Sidney), Joe Wilson (Spencer Tracy) is arrested for kidnapping on the basis of circumstantial evidence (peanuts, a five dollar bill). An anxious Katherine arrives on the scene just in time to see a mob of locals setting fire to the jailhouse while Joe watches the crowd through the bars of his second story cell. Part Two: After Joe’s ‘‘death,’’ his tormentors are put on trial for murder and the only witness who will attest to Joe’s presence in the jail is Katherine, who slowly comes to suspect (on the basis of a coat she once mended for Joe and a characteristically misspelled note) that Joe is not dead, a fact confirmed when conscience prompts Joe to halt the trial by ‘‘presenting’’ himself in court. Add to this picture of Fury’s sharply bifurcated and allegedly ill- balanced structure related complaints about the story’s overall ideo- logical trajectory (shifting the guilt from the mob to Joe) and the film’s ending (specifically the courtroom kiss of Joe and Katherine), however, and it is easy to take Fury as two films, its first M-like half the last of Lang’s expressionist/social realist masterpieces, its second half the first instance of Lang’s debilitating accommodation to the stylistic demands of the Hollywood system. Indeed, there is a substan- tial body of Lang criticism which contends that Lang never recovered from the Judas kiss of Hollywood after he bowed to MGM’s dictate on the matter of Joe and Katherine’s courtroom clinch. There is considerable Langian irony in the fact that defenders of Lang’s Hollywood films often derive the terms of their defense from critics, like Noel Burch, who condemn those movies as ‘‘a silence lasting some thirty films.’’ Burch, that is, praises Lang for perfecting the transparency of the ‘‘continuity’’ system early in his career, with Dr. Mabuse, der Spieler, after which, on Burch’s reading, Lang proceeded to deconstruct continuity conventions by systematic varia- tions, often in the form of editing and narrative ellipses (as in Spione) which finally become, with M, an ‘‘auto-nomous’’ textual system, an ‘‘(abstract) function, but in symbiosis with the plot which they both support and challenge.’’ Of the many (mostly French) critics who have written about Lang’s American films in similar terms, the most important in regards to Fury is Reynold Humphries, whose central claim is that Lang, contra Burch, never stopped experimenting with the technology and epistemology of cinema. The central figure of this epistemological concern in Fury is the repeated auto-reference in (of) the film to the fact of movie-going which culminates in the use of newsreel footage at the climax of the trial to prove that various defendants, despite their testimony to the contrary, were indeed at the scene of the riot. According to Humphries, the effect of the newsreel sequence, like the effect of Hollywood films generally, is to confirm the truth of the (film) world, just as Holly- wood confirms the truth of our world, even though the truth con- firmed is, in fact, a ‘‘fiction,’’ authored, in this case, by Joe Wilson, the fiction of Joe’s death. And the irony here, in Humphries’ view, is that the newsreel footage bears not at all on the question of the alleged crime. The result is that Fury, the frames of which exactly correspond at times to those of the newsreel image, thus undercuts its ostensible (fictive) claim to ‘‘objective’’ photographic truth. We can go Humphries one better in this analysis by noting, as it were, the ‘‘production history’’ of the newsreel footage. It is quite clear that only a single newsreel camera was at work in the film world; we see the four-man camera/sound crew en route to Strand; we see their fixed tripod camera position in a hotel room overlooking the County Jail square; the prosecuting attorney introduces the footage as the work of a single photographer. Moreover, we saw what they were ostensibly recording (though often from positions the newsreel cam- era couldn’t have occupied); the jail fire is lit from within the building, the crowd gathers in a now quiet square to watch the conflagration (here Katherine arrives), a kid announces the arrival of soldiers, and the crowd scatters while two men dynamite the jail. OS FUZISFILMS, 4 th EDITION 447 Some of the resulting footage is quickly processed and shown in movie houses; Joe sees it some 20 times, he tells his brothers, before he shows up at his gas station, seemingly convinced, almost on its basis, that he was, in fact, ‘‘murdered.’’ And yet the footage shown in court comes as a complete shock, as if none of the defendants had ever heard of or bothered to see the newsreel. And the shock is justified; what the ‘‘newsreel’’ shows it could not have seen, or have seen that way. We get closeups of Dawson helping to wield the battering ram, though we saw that action and saw no camera crew anywhere near; we see Dawson help construct and Sally Humphrey help ignite a bonfire outside the jail, from camera positions which would have come between the two participants singled out, though both seem amazed when the footage is screened in court; we see Fred Garrett gleefully cutting firehoses with an axe while others wrestle with firemen, yet no fire trucks are evident during the jail-burning sequence, and the square is cleared of bystanders by the time authorities arrive. All of which can be taken to ‘‘reverse’’ the Reynold Humphries scenario of Fury’s ‘‘subject effect’’; rather than encouraging us to take a (true) newsreel as confirming a (false) fiction, Lang encourages us to see a (false) newsreel as confirming a (true) fiction, the fiction that, among other things, human beings are capable of grotesque violence, even to their own memories (Mrs. Garrett faints in the courtroom, as if genuinely surprised by her husband’s guilt). At least part of the film’s desire is to recall to mind a national history of forgetfulness on the matter of racial and social violence. And that desire is finally well served by the epistemological hesitancy which Lang’s narrational strategies introduce into our ‘‘reading’’ of Fury. You never know when it might happen to you. —Leland Poague OS FUZIS (The Guns) Brazil, 1964 Director: Ruy Guerra Production: Copacabana Films, Embracine, and Daga Filmes (Bra- zil); black and white, 35mm; running time: 110 minutes; length: 3300 meters. Released 1964. Filmed in Milagres. Producer: Jarbas Barbosa; screenplay: Miguel Torres and Ruy Guerra, from an adaptation by Pierre Pelegri, Demosthenes Theokary, and Philippe Dumar?ay from an original story by Ruy Guerra; photography: Ricardo Aronovich; editor: Ruy Guerra; music: Moacyr Santos. Cast: Atila Lorio (Gaúcho, the truck driver); Nelson Xavier (Mario); Maria Gladys (Luisa); Leonides Bayer (Sergeant); Paulo Cesar (Soldier); Mauricio Loyola (Bearded prophet); Rui Polanah (Civil- ian); Hugo Carvana (Soldier); Joel Bacelos (Father of the dead baby); Ivan Candido. Publications Book: Johnson, Randall, and Robert Stam, editors, Brazilian Cinema, New Brunswick, New Jersey, 1982. Articles: Fieschi, J. A., and J. Narboni, Cahiers du Cinéma (Paris), April 1967. Leduc, F., ‘‘Interview with Guerra,’’ in Jeune Cinéma (Paris), April 1967. Langlois, G., ‘‘Interview with Guerra,’’ in Cinéma (Paris), June 1967. Pelegri, P., in Positif (Paris), July 1967. Zele, Van, in Image et Son (Paris), November 1969. Ciment, Michel, ‘‘Ruy Guerra,’’ in Second Wave (New York), 1970. Tarratt, Margaret, in Films and Filming (London), December 1972. Elsaesser, Thomas, ‘‘Interview with Ruy Guerra,’’ in Monogram (London), April 1974. Burns, Bradford E., and others, ‘‘History in the Brazilian Cinema,’’ in Luso-Brazilian Review (Madison, Wisconsin), Summer 1977. ‘‘The Fall: Formal Innovation and Radical Critique,’’ in Jump Cut (Berkeley), May 1979. Castillo, L., ‘‘Ruy Guerra: sonar con los pies sobre la tierra,’’ in Cine Cubano (Habana), no. 134, 1992. *** Os fuzis (The Guns) is, arguably, Ruy Guerra’s greatest political film. This landmark work is unusual in that it relies primarily on a tradition of mainstream commercial cinema—the linear narrative— to convey profoundly political themes. Guerra imaginatively and effectively blends this tradition with features typical of documentary filmmaking. The action is set in Brazil’s semi-arid, underdeveloped Northeast- ern backlands (the sert?o), and Guerra uses numerous devices, in addition to location shooting, to give his film the look of a documen- tary. Early in the film, a subtitle appears that specifies the time and place of the action. The sub-plot of the holy man and his bull is, according to Guerra, based on a historical incident. Local customs (a procession of people praying for rain) and types (the leather-clad vaqueiros) are observed. In interview-like sequences, elderly inhabi- tants recall past events and personages in the region’s history, such as religious zealot Ant?nio Conselheiro and the government he estab- lished and defended at Canudos. The film’s plot and sub-plot weave together the political problems of the oppression of the villagers by the military and by the forces of fanatic religious mysticism. Gaúcho’s solution, to battle the soldiers, fails because it springs from emotional impulses rather that from any revolutionary consciousness. Gaúcho—himself an outsider—is not a revolutionary leader; his response is personal, and it is not supported by the masses. The butchering of the sacred bull, however, is a collective revolutionary action reflecting a change of consciousness on the part of the villagers. The followers of the holy man had been seeking a fantastic solution (worshipping an animal) instead of a political and/or economic solution to the problem of hunger. The crowd’s cry, ‘‘It’s meat!,’’ heralds the downfall of the holy man: his bull has been discarded as a religious symbol; it is now perceived as a source of food. OS FUZIS FILMS, 4 th EDITION 448 Unlike many Latin American political films, Os fuzis not only avoids facile political solutions, but it also features complex charac- ters and interpersonal relations. Gaúcho initially acts like a typically exploitative truck driver, but his moral behavior evolves when he sinks as low as the starving villagers. The tortuous mise-en-scène of the love scene between Mario and his girlfriend brilliantly reflects the complex approach-avoidance conflict the girl faces; she loves Mario, but she is restrained in expressing this love by her identification with the villagers and by her revulsion over Mario’s complicity in the cover-up. At the end of the film, the villagers have derived no political profit from Gaúcho’s suicidal act, and they will continue to be subject to military oppression. The soldiers themselves remain the corrupt victims of the system. Many Brazilians see Os fuzis as a forceful condemnation of the needless killing, the corruption, and the ties to powerful landowning and entrepreneurial interests that have characterized their country’s military. The references in the film to Ant?nio Conselheiro’s rebel- lion (1896–97) remind viewers that the Brazilian military in the 1960s still operated much as it did during the infamous Canudos campaign—a totalitarian crime perpetrated against a backlands community. When first shown in Brazil in 1963, Os fuzis did poorly because many viewers considered the film’s narrative needlessly obscure and complex. Today, however, critics recognize the film as a great, typical work of the first phase of Brazil’s highly regarded Cinema Novo. Guerra, like other filmmakers of this period, opposed the ideology and aesthetics of Hollywood and Brazilian commercial cinema by favoring low-budget, independently produced films shot on location. For Guerra and his colleagues, filmmaking was a key political- cultural activity in the battle against Brazil’s neo-colonialism. —Dennis West 449 G GARAM HAWA (Hot Winds) India, 1973 Director: M.S. Sathyu Production: Unit 3MM; color, 35mm; running time: 136 minutes (some prints are 144 minutes). Released 1973. Producer: Ishan Arya, M.S. Sathyu, Abu Siwani; screenplay: Kaifi Azmi, Shama Zaidi, from the unpublished story by Ismat Chugtai; photography: Ishan Arya; editor: S. Chakrabort; music: Ustad Bahadur Khan. Cast: Balraj Sahni (Salim Mirza); Gita Shauhat Kaifi (Amina Mirza); Jalal Agha (Shamshad); Dinanath Zutski (Halim); Badar Begum (Salim’s mother); Abu Siwani (Baqar Mirza); Faroukh Shaikh (Sikander Mizra); Jamal Hashmi (Kazim). Awards: National Award for Best Film on Integration and Best Screenplay, India, 1974; Filmfare Award for Best Screenplay and Best Story Writer, India, 1974. Publications: Script: Azmi, Kafi and Shama Zaidi, Three Hindi Film Scripts, 1974. Books: Barnouw, Erik, and S. Krishnaswamy, Indian Film, New York and London, 1963. Chakravarty, Sumita S., National Identity in Indian Popular Cinema, 1947–1987, Austin, Texas, 1993. *** Garam Hawa (Hot Winds) was the first feature from director M.S. (Mysore Shrivinas) Sathyu of India. The film was controversial from its inception, as it was the first film to deal with the human conse- quences resulting from the 1947 partition of India. This action, ordered by British Lord Mountbatten, split India into religious coalitions, with India remaining Hindi and the new country of Pakistan serving as a refuge for Muslims. Despite its controversial subject matter the film was initially accepted by a commercial producer, but then pressure and fear of the critical and governmental reception of such a work led to a rapid withdrawal of the offer. Sathyu turned to the government sponsored Film Financing Corporation (FFC) for support. This agency was created as an alternative for filmmakers seeking financing for work which was not commercially embraced by institutional distributors. Its aim was to free these artists from the dominance of loan agencies and their control of film content. Sathyu secured FFC financing and his film, based on an unpublished story by Marxist activist Ismat Chughtai, was completed in the city of Agra. The production of the film was plagued by a smattering of public protests; ultimately, Sathyu had to divert attention from his actual locations by using a fake second unit crew and sending them out with an unloaded camera. Once finished, Garam Hawa was again the subject of controversy; it was banned as an ‘‘instigation to communal dissension.’’ Sathyu was strong in his conviction, however, and he showed the film to many government leaders and journalists. The influence of these people on the censorship board led to a reversal of the ban. The film went on to win a national award for its contribution to ‘‘national integration.’’ More recognition followed, including accolades that praised the film’s efforts to create ‘‘a language of common identity’’ and to humanize the situation endured by Muslims in North India who did not wish to move from their homes after the partition. The screenplay for Garam Hawa was written by Kaifi Azmi (an Indian poet and lyricist) and Shama Zaidi, Sathyu’s wife. The tale is a complex narrative assembled with loving attention to detail. The story’s main focal point is Salim Mirza, played by veteran actor Balraj Sahani in his final film before his death. Salim is a Muslim shoemaker and patriarch who does not want to relocate to Pakistan. There is the added element of a love story woven into this political narrative, however, and it is this element which adds greater meaning to the story. The filmmaker’s adept use of light and framing adds dimension to the characters and their struggles. Salim’s daughter, Amina (Gita Shauhat Kaifi), is betrothed to Kazim (Jamal Hashmi); they are shown to be deeply in love and very happy together. Kazim goes across the border to Pakistan to find work (as there is none for Muslims in Agra as the story progresses). When he returns to marry Amina, he is arrested. She pines for her lost lover, but has the attentions of Shamshad (Jalal Agha), whom she does not love and does not wish to marry. Her agony is a reflection of her father’s; these people are trapped between two worlds. Salim is powerless against the shift in attitudes and political climate; he finds himself unable to secure bank loans, unable to keep IL GATTOPARDO FILMS, 4 th EDITION 450 Garam Hawa possession of his family home, and losing his means of survival as once-loyal customers take their business elsewhere. He has done nothing wrong, yet he is punished by the post-partition environment in Agra. As Salim’s situation becomes more grave, the camera frames him in smaller spaces, implying his imprisonment in his own hometown. He says, ‘‘They have taken everything. Only our faith will survive.’’ He is strong, but he is discouraged by the exodus of family members into Pakistan. In the end, he too makes the journey to the train. On the way, Salim and his son Sikander (Faroukh Shaikh) encounter a mas- sive protest rally which seeks to unite the dispossessed of the nation. First Sikander, and then Salim, join the flag-waving mob. The train is forgotten, and the final scene brings a sense of hope as we see Salim accept his situation in a new way and begin to take charge of his life. —Tammy Kinsey GATE OF HELL See JIGOKUMON IL GATTOPARDO (The Leopard) Italy-France, 1962 Director: Luchino Visconti Production: Titanus (Rome)/SN Pathe-Cinema (Paris)/SGC (Paris); DeLuxe color (original version: Technicolor); CinemaScope (origi- nal version: Technirama); running time: 184 minutes (British ver- sion 161 minutes), original running time: 205 minutes. Dubbed. Released 1962. Producer: Goffredo Lombardo; executive producer: Pietro Notarianna; screenplay: Suso Cecchi D’Amico, Pasquale Festa Campanile, Massimo Franciosa, Enrico Medioli, Luchino Visconti, from the novel by Giuseppe Tomasi di Lampedusa; assistant direc- tors: Rinaldo Ricci, Albino Cocco, Francesco Massaro, Brad Fuller; dialogue director: Archibald Colquhoun; photography: Giuseppe IL GATTOPARDOFILMS, 4 th EDITION 451 Rotunno; editor: Mario Serandrei; sound: Mario Messina; art direc- tor: Mario Garbuglia; costumes: Piero Tosi; music: Nino Rota. Cast: Burt Lancaster (Don Fabrizio, Prince of Salina); Alain Delon (Tancredi); Claudia Cardinale (Angelica Sedara); Paolo Stoppa (Don Calogera Sedara); Rina Morelli (Maria Stella); Serge Reggiana (Don Ciccio Tumeo); Romolo Valli (Father Pirrone); Leslie French (Chevally); Ivo Garrani (Colonel Pallavicino); Mario Girotti (Count Cavriaghi); Pierre Clementi (Francesco Paolo); Lucilla Morlacchi (Concetta); Giuliano Gemma (The Garibaldino General); Ida Galli (Carolina); Ottavia Piccolo (Caterina); Carlo Valenzano (Paolo); Anna Maria Bottini (Mlle. Dombreuil); Marino Mase (Tutor); Lola Braccini (Donna Margherita); Howard N. Rubien (Don Diego). Publications Script: Visconti, Luchino, and others, Il gattopardo, Bologna, 1963. Il Gattopardo Books: Baldelli, Pio, I film di Luchino Visconti, Manduria, 1965. Guillaume, Yves, Visconti, Paris, 1966. Nowell-Smith, Geoffrey, Luchino Visconti, New York, 1968. Baldelli, Pio, Luchino Visconti, Milan, 1973. Thomas, Tony, Burt Lancaster, New York, 1975. Ferrero, Adelio, editor, Visconti: Il cinema, Modena, 1977. Rode, Henri, Alain Delon, Paris, 1977. Tornabuoni, Lietta, editor, Album Visconti, Milan, 1978. Stirling, Monica, A Screen of Time: A Study of Luchino Visconti, New York, 1979. Rondolini, Gianni, Luchino Visconti, Turin, 1981. Servadio, Gaia, Luchino Visconti: A Biography, London, 1981. Zana, Jean-Claude, Alain Delon, Paris, 1981. Bencivenni, Alessandro, Luchino Visconti, Florence, 1982. Barbier, Philippe, Alain Delon, Paris, 1983. Tonetti, Claretta, Luchino Visconti, Boston, 1983; revised edition, 1998. Clinch, Minty, Burt Lancaster, London, 1984. Hunter, Allan, Burt Lancaster: The Man and His Movies, New York, 1984. IL GATTOPARDO FILMS, 4 th EDITION 452 Ishaghpour, Youssef, Luchino Visconti: Le Sens et l’image, Paris, 1984. Sanzio, Alain, and Paul-Louis Thirard, Luchino Visconti: Cinéaste, Paris, 1984. Windeler, Robert, Burt Lancaster, London, 1984. De Guisti, Luciano, I film di Luchino Visconti, Rome, 1985. Geitel, Klaus, and others, Luchino Visconti, Munich, 1985. Mancini, Elaine, Luchino Visconti: A Guide to References and Resources, Boston, 1986. Villien, Bruno, Visconti, Paris, 1986. Lacourbe, Roland, Burt Lancaster, Paris, 1987. Schifano, Laurence, Luchino Visconti: Les Feux de la passion, Paris, 1987. Lagny, Michèle, Senso, Luchino Visconti: étude critique, Paris, 1992. Renzi, Renzo, Visconti segreto, Rome, 1994. Bacon, Henry, Visconti: His Life, His Films, New York, 1998. Bacon, Henry, Visconti: Explorations of Beauty and Decay, Cam- bridge, 1998. Articles: Cinema Nuovo (Bergamo), 1962. Sadoul, Georges, in Filmstudio, no. 41, 1963. ‘‘Visconti Issue’’ of Etudes Cinématographes (Paris), no. 26–27, 1963. Variety (New York), 17 April 1963. ‘‘Visconti, the Leopard Man,’’ in Vogue (New York), July 1963. Motion Picture Herald (New York), 21 August 1963. Cahiers du Cinéma (Paris), August 1963. Martin, Marcel, ‘‘Visconti et l’histoire,’’ in Cinéma (Paris), Septem- ber-October 1963. Sight and Sound (London), Winter 1963–64. Mendes Sargo, Tino, in Film Quarterly (Berkeley), Winter 1963–64. Monthly Film Bulletin (London), January 1964. Davies, Brenda, ‘‘Can the Leopard?,’’ in Sight and Sound (London), Spring 1964. ‘‘Visconti Issue’’ of Cinema (Rome), April 1970. Bogemski, G., in Film und Fernsehen (Berlin), October and Decem- ber 1979 and January, April, and June 1980. Turroni, G., ‘‘Le citazioni del gusto,’’ in Filmcritica (Florence), January 1982. Ehrenstein, D., ‘‘Leopard Redux,’’ in Film Comment (New York), September-October 1983. Nowell-Smith, Geoffrey, in ‘‘Lampedusa Revisited,’’ in Sight and Sound (London), Autumn 1983. Gordon, A., ‘‘Has the Leopard Got Its Spots Back,’’ in Stills (London), November-December 1983. Ranvaud, Ron, ‘‘Remounting the Leopard,’’ in Monthly Film Bulletin (London), December 1983. Lehti, S., in Soundtrack (Los Angeles), June 1984. Villier, Bruno, ‘‘Tancredi,’’ in Cinématographe (Paris), September- October 1984. Frauen und Film (Berlin), August 1986. Bouvier, M., ‘‘Entre-temps,’’ in Camera/Stylo (Paris), December 1989. Roberti, B., ‘‘Ombre allo specchio,’’ in Filmcritica (Rome), Novem- ber 1991. Piersanti, A., ‘‘Il gattopardo e morto viva il gattopardo,’’ in Revue de la Cinémathèque (Montreal), May 1992. Rotunno, Giuseppe, ‘‘Recupero dei film Il gattopardo e Le notti bianche,’’ in Cinema Nuovo (Bari), vol. 42, no. 346, November- December 1993. Cieslar, Jirí, ‘‘Concettino ohlédnutí,’’ in Film a Doba (Prague), vol. 40, no. 4, Winter 1994. Liempt, J. Van, in Film en Televisie + Video (Brussels), no. 455, October 1995. Mandolini, C., ‘‘Le guepard,’’ in Séquences (Haute-Ville), no. 189/ 190, March/June 1997. Rohdie, S., ‘‘Time and Consciousness in Luchino Visconti,’’ in Metro Magazine (St. Kilda West), no. 113/114, 1998. *** Only in recent years has it been at all possible to appreciate Il gattopardo in Britain and the United States, where the film was originally released in a hideously mutilated version rightly disowned by Visconti. Twentieth Century-Fox, who had co-financed the film with the Italian company Titanus, cut it from 206 to 161 minutes, printed it on DeLuxe as opposed to the original Technicolor stock (resulting in a look both muddy and garish), and substituted a crudely dubbed American soundtrack for the carefully prepared Italian origi- nal. The version now in circulation respects all of Visconti’s original intentions, the running time of 186 minutes being the length to which Visconti finally cut his film. Il gattopardo is based on the novel of the same name written by the Sicilian Prince Giuseppe Tomasi di Lampedusa and published in 1958. Like Visconti’s earlier Senso it is set at the time of the Risorgimento, only here the setting is Sicily and the action takes place against the background of Garibaldi’s expedition to Sicily to depose the Bourbon kingdom of Francis II and to unite the island with Italy. The film focuses on the Salina family, at the head of which stands Prince Fabrizio, who stands aloof from the whole Garibaldi affair, seeing it as little more than a change of dramatis personae in the same old play. However, his nephew Tancredi Falconeri joins Garibaldi’s army and becomes an officer in the army of Victor Emmanuel, the first king of a unified Italy. He also falls in love with Angelica, the daughter of Don Calogero Sedara, a former peasant who has risen to the rank of mayor of Donnafugata, where Prince Salina has his summer residence. Not only is she beautiful but also very rich, and Tancredi needs her money if he is to fulfil his political ambitions, since his family, though aristocratic, are relatively impecunious. Conscious of the decline of his class, Prince Salina asks Don Calogero for the hand of his daughter on Tancredi’s behalf and the film climaxes in a sumptuous ball for the noble society of Palermo at which the young couple are officially ‘‘introduced’’ to the so- cial world. The central, overriding theme of Il gattopardo, like Senso, is ‘‘trasformismo,’’ neatly encapsulated by the opportunistic Tancredi in the words ‘‘if we want things to stay as they are, things will have to change.’’ What the film presents is the gradual submergence and transformation of a noble Italian family; as Geoffrey Nowell-Smith puts it, ‘‘the bourgeoisie marry into the aristocracy and the Byronic aristocrat sinks gently into bien-pensant mediocrity as the revolution- ary storm subsides.’’ The truly remarkable ball scene, which takes up about one-third of the film’s length and involves some 200 people in 14 interconnected rooms, is not simply an incredible directorial tour- de-force; rather it decisively marks the transition from the tired, old nobility represented by Prince Salina to the thrusting ambition of the new ruling class represented by Don Calogero. Burt Lancaster’s performance during this extended climax to the film is nothing short of remarkable, as is Visconti’s consummate skill in blending the THE GENERALFILMS, 4 th EDITION 453 various intimate, personal dramas within the wider mise-en-scène. As in the rest of the film only Prince Salina seems fully aware of what is happening to his class, and as the sumptuous festivities continue he assumes an expression of increasing disgust and melancholy, at one moment pointedly studying a painting entitled The Death of the Just. However, his nobility and dignity never desert him, and, when Angelica invites him to waltz with her, his awareness of her youth and beauty eclipses his sadness for a moment and, in an extraordinarily moving scene, he symbolically hands over power with grace and pride. Il gattopardo is dominated almost equally by the presence of Prince Salina and the Sicilian landscape. At one point, in conversation with a member of the Piedmontese aristocracy, Prince Salina argues that in Sicily ‘‘the environment, the climate, the landscape’’ all militate against change, and Visconti perfectly captures the feeling of the long, oppressively hot, sleep-inducing Sicilian summers that the original novel describes so evocatively. —Julian Petley THE GENERAL USA, 1926 Directors: Buster Keaton and Clyde Bruckman Production: Buster Keaton Productions and United Artists; black and white, 35mm, silent; running time: about 74 minutes; length: 8 reels, 7500 feet. Released 18 December 1926, New York. Re- released after 1928 with musical soundtrack and sound effects. Filmed during 1926 in Oregon. Cost: $250,000 (estimated). Producers: Joseph Schenck and Buster Keaton; scenario: Al Boasberg and Charles Smith after a storyline by Buster Keaton and Clyde Bruckman, adapted by Al Boasberg and Charles Smith from The Great Locomotive Chase by William Pittinger; photography: Dev Jennings and Bert Haines; editors: Sherman Kell with Harry Barnes; production designer: Fred Gabourie; technical director: Fred Gabourie. Cast: Buster Keaton (Johnnie Gray); Marion Mack (Annabelle Lee); Glen Cavender (Capt. Anderson); Jim Farley (General Thatcher); Frederick Vroom (Southern general); Charles Smith (Annabelle’s father); Frank Barnes (Annabelle’s brother); Joe Keaton, Mike Denlin, Tom Nawm (Union generals). Publications Script: Keaton, Buster, and others, ‘‘Le Mécano de la General,’’ in Avant- Scène du Cinéma (Paris), February 1975. Books: Keaton, Buster, with Charles Samuels, My Wonderful World of Slapstick, New York, 1960; London, 1967. Turconi, Davide, and Francesco Savio, Buster Keaton, Venice, 1963. Lebel, Jean-Patrick, Buster Keaton, Paris, 1964. Oms, Marcel, Buster Keaton, Lyons, 1964. Blesh, Rudi, Keaton, New York, 1966. McCaffrey, Donald, Four Great Comedians, New York, 1968. Robinson, David, Hollywood in the Twenties, New York, 1968. Robinson, David, Buster Keaton, London, 1968. Brownlow, Kevin, The Parade’s Gone By, London and New York, 1969. Rubinstein, E., Filmguide to The General, Bloomington, Indiana, 1973. Coursodon, Jean-Pierre, Buster Keaton, Paris, 1973; revised edi- tion, 1986. Mast, Gerald, The Comic Mind: Comedy and the Movies, Chicago, 1974; revised edition, 1979. Kerr, Walter, The Silent Clowns, New York, 1975. Anobile, Richard, editor, The Best of Buster, New York, 1976. Wead, George, Buster Keaton and the Dynamics of Visual Wit, New York, 1976. Moews, Daniel, Keaton: The Silent Features Close Up, Berke- ley, 1977. Wead, George, and George Ellis, The Film Career of Buster Keaton, Boston, 1977. Dardis, Tom, Keaton: The Man Who Wouldn’t Lie Down, New York, 1979. Benayoun, Robert, The Look of Buster Keaton, Paris, 1982; Lon- don, 1984. Brunovska Karnick, Kristine, and Henry Jenkins, editors, Classical Hollywood Comedy, New York, 1995. Mead, Marion, Buster Keaton: Cut to the Chase, New York, 1995. Oldham, Gabriella, Keaton’s Silent Shorts: Beyond the Laughter, Carbondale, 1996. Amiel, Vincent, Corps au cinèma: Keaton, Bresson, Cassavetes, Paris, 1998. Knopf, Robert, The Theater and Cinema of Buster Keaton, Prince- ton, 1999. Articles: Variety (New York), 9 February 1927. Keaton, Joseph, in Photoplay (New York), May 1927. Penelope Houston, in Sight and Sound (London), April-June 1953. Agee, James, Agee on Film 1, New York, 1958. ‘‘Keaton Issue’’ of Cahiers du Cinéma (Paris), August 1958. Bishop, Christopher, ‘‘The Great Stone Face,’’ in Film Quarterly (Berkeley), Fall 1958. Baxter, Brian, ‘‘Buster Keaton,’’ in Film (London), November- December 1958. Strick, Philip, in Films and Filming (London), September 1961. ‘‘Rétrospective Buster Keaton,’’ in Cahiers du Cinéma (Paris), April 1962. Sadoul, Georges, ‘‘Le Mécano de la General,’’ in Lettres Fran?aises (Paris), 28 June 1962. THE GENERAL FILMS, 4 th EDITION 454 The General Eyles, Allen, in Films and Filming (London), October 1963. Gillett, John, and James Blue, ‘‘Keaton at Venice,’’ in Sight and Sound (London), Winter 1965–66. Sadoul, Georges, ‘‘Le Génie de Buster Keaton,’’ in Lettres Fran?aises (Paris), 10 February 1966. Mast, Gerald, ‘‘The Gold Rush and The General,’’ in Cinema Journal (Evanston, Illinois), Spring 1970. Villelaur, Anne, ‘‘Buster Keaton,’’ in Dossiers du cinéma: Cinéastes 1, Paris, 1971. Sarris, Andrew, ‘‘Buster Keaton,’’ in The Primal Screen, New York, 1973. Cott, Jeremy, ‘‘The Limits of Silent Comedy,’’ in Literature/Film Quarterly (Salisbury, Maryland), Spring 1975. Wead, George, ‘‘The Great Locomotive Chase,’’ in American Film (Washington, D.C.), July-August 1977. Warshow, Paul, ‘‘More Is Less, Comedy and Sound,’’ in Film Quarterly (Berkeley), Fall 1977. Kirby, Lynne, ‘‘Temporality, Sexuality, and Narrative in The Gen- eral,’’ in Wide Angle (Athens, Ohio), vol. 9, no. 1, 1987. Yperen, Paul van, ‘‘Het affiche: The General,’’ in Skrien (Amster- dam), no. 166, June-July 1989. Sanders, J., ‘‘Dreaming in Pictures,’’ in Film Quarterly (Berkeley), vol. 47, no. 4, 1994. Rohmer, éric, in Positif (Paris), no. 400, June 1994. Horvath, G., ‘‘Almomban Keaton,’’ in Filmvilag (Budapest), vol. 38, no. 12, 1995. Review, in Séquences (Haute-Ville), no. 178, May-June 1995. *** The General is by far the most famous of the comedy features in which Buster Keaton starred, and in several cases directed or co-directed, between 1923 and 1928. It is also one of the finest, and has appeared on many 10-best-films lists. All of his silent features followed a basic story formula (a popular one in silent comedy): a young ‘‘failure’’ finally displays prowess and wins the girl. In addition, his films demonstrated, in part or in whole, a striking cinematic imagination as well as superb comic acting. While The General may not be a greater artistic achievement than The Navigator or Sherlock, Jr., it has a number of features that have made it a special favorite of silent film fans. GERTIE THE DINOSAURFILMS, 4 th EDITION 455 The film is distinctive for its Civil War setting and location shooting. It was shot mostly in Oregon, where the necessary narrow- gauge railroad tracks were still to be found. (Compare, for contrast, the studio look of Chaplin’s The Gold Rush, made at about the same time.) The unusually fine photography (Matthew Brady comparisons are inevitable), the extensive action involving the trains, the ambi- tious subject based on history (the theft and recovery of the locomo- tive, ‘‘The General’’), and the serious element of the drama combined to give this film an epic sweep that is surely unique in silent comedy. In the typical Buster Keaton comedy the hero is at first anything but heroic: he is callow, bumbling, and even in some films effete. Through perseverance, self-teaching, and luck he becomes a success and—sometimes as a bonus but usually as the original goal—he is united with the woman of his dreams. The General is distinctive in that Johnnie Gray is an expert in at least one field, railroad engineer- ing. In fact his competence at his job is what prevents him from being accepted into the Confederate army, setting the rest of the plot in motion. Of course, he must still demonstrate bravery to win the heart of Annabelle Lee; and, to satisfy himself, must succeed as a soldier as well. To be sure, even in railroading he makes some spectacularly comic mistakes in pursuing the Yankee train-nappers. He does, however, demonstrate early on the kind of hilariously smooth effi- ciency that other Keaton characters learn only with time (as in The Navigator) or achieve in fantasy (Sherlock, Jr.): e.g., his clambering aboard The General and pressing the starter lever in one swift movement; or his deft way of knocking out a Yankee guard face-to face. The unself-conscious heroism and expertise of Johnnie Gray are simultaneously touching and amusing—though much of his success is also due to good fortune (as with the flyaway blade of his sword in the battle scene). The heroine of the film, delightfully played by Marion Mack, has a larger and more unusual role than in the other Keaton features (excepting The Navigator). Usually a Keaton heroine is either haughty or sweet, but in each case little more than the goal to be attained; Annabelle is forced by circumstances to become skilled in railroading while fleeing southward with The General. There is some stereotyp- ing of the foolish female in some of Annabelle’s earlier efforts to block the pursuers and feed the engine, but the evolving of her role from the ‘‘unattainable goal’’ to a partner in action is still refreshing. The moment in which the exasperated Johnnie feigns strangling his dream girl and then swiftly kisses her is one of the more memorable romantic gestures in silent film. The General is filled with surprising moments: brilliant comic gags or fine touches of sentiment that never go on long enough to become maudlin. Perhaps the comedy is especially striking because it grows out of a serious melodramatic pursuit—but it is particularly satisfying because it stems from the characters of the hero and heroine or from the ironic perspective of the camera. The point has often been made that the camera in Chaplin’s films was used mainly to record the body or facial movements of its pantomime hero, while in Keaton’s film the comedy often depends on special placement of the camera, or on special visual effects. A classic example in The General occurs when Johnnie has accidentally caused the cannon attachment to be aimed directly at his own train. However, he and his train are spared, and better yet, the Yankees are convinced of the powers of their pursuer(s), when the forepart of Johnnie’s train curves left and the cannon fires directly ahead—nearly blasting the back car of the train on the track ahead. The elegance of the gag centers on the placement of the camera behind and above the cannon car, grandly recording the beautifully timed action in one shot. Another famous moment in the film—this one visually simple and emotionally complex—occurs when Johnnie, rejected by Annabelle, sits disconsolately on the crossbar of the engine’s wheels as the train starts up. The crossbar carries him up and down twice before he realizes what is going on. His forlorn, unmoving body posture is at once astonishingly sad and funny; any drift into sentimentality is avoided by Johnnie’s suddenly aware look as he passes into the train shed. The overall wit and irony of the shot are dependent on the camera being placed at a sufficient distance to show the small size of Johnnie’s body against the sublimely indifferent machine. Much more could be said about this shot, and has been said by analysts of the film: e.g., the way it stresses a ‘‘togetherness’’ between Johnnie and his beloved engine, which is a major subject of the film; and the way that the final shot of the film is a counterpart to it, with both Johnnie and Annabelle sitting on the crossbar. This correspondence of shots is a reminder that the construction of the film is unusually tight and balanced in its overall arc of chase and return. The more one attempts to analyze the comedy, or merely describe certain brilliant shots—such as the one of Johnnie on the cowcatcher removing logs from the tracks—the more one admires the classic assurance and economy of the film. —Joseph Milicia THE GERMAN SISTERS See DIE BLEIERNE ZEIT GERMANY IN AUTUMN See DEUTSCHLAND IM HERBST GERTIE THE DINOSAUR USA, 1914 Director: Winsor McCay Production: Black and white, 35mm, animation, silent; running time: about 7 minutes (length varies). Released as one-reel film in 1914, though the character was created and seen in a short cartoon in McCay’s vaudeville act circa 1909. Script, animation, photography, and editing: Winsor McCay; assisted by: John Fitzsimmons. GERTIE THE DINOSAUR FILMS, 4 th EDITION 456 Gertie the Dinosaur Publications Books: Madsen, Roy, Animated Film: Concepts, Methods, Uses, New York, 1969. Everson, William, K., American Silent Film, New York, 1978. Canemaker, John, Winsor McCay: His Life and Art, New York, 1987. Articles: Phester, Montgomery, ‘‘People of the Stage: Winsor McCay,’’ in Cincinnati Commercial Tribune, 28 November 1909. ‘‘The History of the Animated Cartoon,’’ in Journal of Motion Pictures Inventors, 24 September 1933. McCay, Winsor, ‘‘Movie Cartoons,’’ in New York Evening Journal, 27 July 1934. Wilson, H., ‘‘McCay Before Disney,’’ in Time (New York), 10 January 1938. Schwerin, Jules, ‘‘Drawings That Are Alive,’’ in Films in Review (New York), September 1950. O’Sullivan, Judith, ‘‘In Search of Winsor McCay,’’ in American Film Institute Report (Washington, D.C.), Summer 1974. Canemaker, J., ‘‘Winsor McCay,’’ in Film Comment (New York), January-February 1975. Canemaker, J., ‘‘The Birth of Animation,’’ in Millimeter (New York), April 1975. Hearn, Michael Patrick, ‘‘The Animated Art of Winsor McCay,’’ in American Artist (New York), May 1975. Cornand, A., ‘‘Le Festival d’Annecy et les rencontres internationales du cinéma d’animation,’’ in Image et Son (Paris), January 1977. Blonder, R., ‘‘Mosquitoes, Dinosaurs, and the Image-ination,’’ in Animatrix (Los Angeles), no. 8, 1994/1995. *** Gertie the Dinosaur is the masterpiece of early animation. It employed 10,000 animated drawings inked on rice paper and mounted GERTRUDFILMS, 4 th EDITION 457 on cardboard. Artist Winsor McCay used full animation—a new drawing for each individual frame of film—and while he himself did all the drawings of Gertie, he hired his young neighbor John Fitzsimmons to assist him in tracing the stationary background of trees, rocks and water. Gertie is the improvement and development of McCay’s animation experiments in his first two films, Little Nemo and The Story of a Mosquito. McCay originally made Gertie for his vaudeville act as a light- ning-sketch artist. In the routine, McCay announced that he could make a drawing come to life; then a projected film depicting an animated dinosaur walking from the background into the foreground appeared. McCay talked to the cartoon Gertie and gave her com- mands to which she would respond. Gertie raised her left leg, devoured a tree stump, became distracted by a sea serpent, lay down and rolled over, tossed a passing elephant into the lake, cried like a child when scolded, and caught a pumpkin supposedly tossed to her by McCay. As the first cartoon star, she displayed the charm, personality, and mischievousness of a playful puppy. For the finale, Gertie bent down and as she got up and walked away, carried an animated man on her back, thus appearing to take McCay into the screen with her. For wider distribution, McCay turned his Gertie the Dinosaur into a one-reel film which frames the animated sequence with a live-action story. In the live-action portion, McCay accepts a bet from fellow cartoonist George McManus that he can make the dinosaur come to life. McCay is then shown with his stacks of cards demonstrating the laborious process by which he made Gertie. At a dinner of cartoonists, he unveils his masterpiece, and the animated sequence incorporates a series of title cards for McCay’s dialogue with Gertie. After the animation ends, the dinner party toasts McCay’s achievement, and McManus winds up losing the bet as well as footing the bill for dinner. In its own time, Gertie the Dinosaur overshadowed all prior animated films, and it inspired a generation of animators who would begin their careers over the next decade. Audiences today still marvel at the fluidity of the movement and the amount of animated detail— Gertie’s sides expanding and contracting as she breathes, particles of dirt falling from the tree trunk she devours, Gertie swaying back and forth. The shimmering or vibrating lines in the background (due to a primitive retracing process) hardly matter and do not detract from the captivating dinosaur in the foreground. McCay also used for the first time an animation method known as the split system. Instead of drawing an ‘‘action’’ in sequential order, he split it up into poses, drawing the first pose, the last pose, the halfway pose, and then continuing to draw the poses in between the last two drawn. In this manner, he was able to simplify timing and placement with a method that underwent further refinement only after the advent of sound cartoons in 1928, when Walt Disney insisted upon its use. McCay also discovered another labor saving device in Gertie by re-using drawings for repeated cycles of action. He drew Gertie making a gesture—breathing or swaying—and rephotographed the same series of drawings several times. While it was neither the first animated cartoon nor McCay’s first animated cartoon, Gertie the Dinosaur is generally regarded as the first important cartoon in film history. —Lauren Rabinovitz GERTRUD Denmark, 1964 Director: Carl Theodor Dreyer Production: Palladium (Denmark); black and white, 35mm; running time: 115 minutes; length: 3440 meters. Released 8 December 1964, Paris. Producers: J?rgen Nielsen with John Hilbard as executive producer; screenplay: Carl Theodor Dreyer, from the play by Hjalmar S?derberg; photography: Henning Bendtsen with Arne Abrahamsen; editor: Edith Schlüssel; sound: Knud Kristensen; art director: Kai Rasch; music and solo numbers: J?rgen Jersild; songs: Grethe Risbjerg Thomsen; costume designer: Berit Nykjaer. Cast: Nina Pens Rode (Gertrud Kanning); Bendt Rothe (Gustav Kanning); Ebbe Rode (Gabriel Lidman); Baard Owe (Erland Jansson); Axel Str?bye (Axel Nygren); Anna Malberg (Kanning’s Mother); Edouard Mielche (The Rector Magnificus); Vera Gebuhr (Kanning’s Maid); Karl Gustav Ahlefeldt; Lars Knutzon; William Knoblauch; Vals? Holm; Ole Sarvig. Gertrud GERTRUD FILMS, 4 th EDITION 458 Publications Script: Dreyer, Carl Theodor, Gertrud, in Cinque Film, Turin, 1967. Books: Bowser, Eileen, The Films of Carl Dreyer, New York, 1964. Dreyer, Carl Theodor, Om filmen, Copenhagen, 1964. Monty, Ib, Portrait of Carl Th. Dreyer, Copenhagen, 1965. Dyssegaard, Soren, editor, Carl Th. Dreyer, Danish Film Director, Copenhagen, 1968. Perrin, Claude, Carl Th. Dreyer, Paris, 1969. Carl Theodor Dreyer, Amsterdam, 1970. Milne, Tom, The Cinema of Carl Dreyer, New York, 1970. Sémolué, Jean, Carl Th. Dreyer, Paris, 1970. Schrader, Paul, Transcendental Style in Film: Ozu, Bresson, Dreyer, Berkeley, 1972. Skoller, Donald, editor, Dreyer in Double Reflection, New York, 1973; revised edition, 1991. Nash, Mark, editor, Dreyer, London, 1977. Tone, Pier Giorgio, Carl Theodor Dreyer, Florence, 1978. Bordwell, David, The Films of Carl Theodor Dreyer, Berkeley, 1981. Drouzy, Maurice, Carl Theodor Dreyer ně Nilsson, Paris, 1982. Carney, Raymond, Speaking the Language of Desire: The Films of Carl Dreyer, Cambridge, 1989. Jensen, Jytte, editor, Carl Dreyer: Films, New York, 1990. Houe, Poul, Carl Theodor Dreyer’s Cinematic Humanism, Minne- apolis, 1992. Articles: Kelman, Ken, ‘‘Dreyer,’’ in Film Culture (New York), no. 35, 1964–65. Téchiné, André, ‘‘La Parole de la fin,’’ in Cahiers du Cinéma (Paris), no. 164, 1965. Tournés, Andrée, in Jeune Cinéma (Paris), no. 5, 1965. Trolle, B?rge, ‘‘Ett spel om en dr?m: En analys av Carl Th. Dreyers film Gertrud,’’ in Filmrutan (Stockholm), no. 1, 1965. Delahaye, Michel, ‘‘Between Heaven and Hell: Interview with Carl Dreyer,’’ in Cahiers du Cinema in English (New York), no. 4, 1966. Wright, Elsa Gress, in Film Quarterly (Berkeley), Spring 1966. Trolle, B?rge, ‘‘An interview with Carl Dreyer,’’ in Film Culture (New York), Summer 1966. Bond, Kirk, ‘‘The Basic Demand of Life for Love,’’ in Film Comment (New York), Fall 1966. Lerner, Carl, ‘‘My Working Is in Relation to the Future: A Conversa- tion with Carl Dreyer,’’ in Film Comment (New York), Fall 1966. Skoller, Donald, ‘‘To Rescue Gertrud,’’ in Film Comment (New York), Fall 1966. Perruzzi, Giuseppe, ‘‘Corenza e modernità di Gertrud,’’ in Cinema Nuovo (Turin), no. 190, 1967. Jones, Chris, in Films and Filming (London), January 1969. Burch, No?l, ‘‘Propositions,’’ in Afterimage (Rochester, New York), no. 5, 1974. El Geudj, F., and E. Decaux, in Cinématographe (Paris), Octo- ber 1983. Magny, Joel, in Cinéma (Paris), October 1983. Tesson, Charles, in Cahiers du Cinéma (Paris), October 1983. Sainderichin, Guy-Patrick, ‘‘Gertrud: Amer omnia,’’ in Cahiers du Cinéma (Paris), December 1983. ‘‘Gertrud Section’’ of Avant-Scène du Cinéma (Paris), Decem- ber 1984. Rosenbaum, Jonathan, ‘‘Gertrud: The Desire for the Image,’’ in Sight and Sound (London), Winter 1985–86. Cowie, E., ‘‘Zvijace identifikacije,’’ in Ekran, vol. 16, no. 3, 1991. Miguez, M., and J.M. Minguet Batllori, and S. Torres, in Nosferatu (San Sebastian), no. 5, January 1991. Grob, Norbert, ‘‘Gertrud,’’ in EPD Film (Frankfurt), vol. 11, no. 6, June 1994. De La Fuente, Flavia, ‘‘El amor lo es todo,’’ in El Amante Cinema, no. 52, June 1996. Idstr?m, Annika, ‘‘Kuolematon ?iti,’’ in Filmihullu (Helsinki), no. 1, 1997. *** For the last 20 years of his career, Dreyer worked on a film about Jesus Christ. It was never realized, though his script was published posthumously in 1968. Near the end of his life, Dreyer was also planning a film of Medea. He was aiming at tragedy, reflected again in Gertrud, which was to be his last film. Dreyer’s last four films were based on plays. Gertrud is a 1906 play by Hjalmar S?derberg. It is a problem-drama in the manner of Ibsen, but while the play is naturalistic, the film is not. Dreyer considered the film an experiment; he wanted to co-ordinate the word and the image, to create harmony between what is seen and what is heard. The function of the images is to open up a perspective on the characters, who manifest themselves in the way they speak and move. Gertrud contains almost no close-ups; it is a film of travelling shots and long, uncut scenes. The film has only 89 shots, with very few sets and only one exterior scene. The film’s depiction of life/reality is antinaturalistic and stylized, and Dreyer treats the story as a tragedy. He called the film ‘‘a portrait of time from the beginning of the century,’’ and he has stressed typical features of that period and milieu. As in La passion de Jeanne d’Arc he has tried to transform the whole of ‘‘the past reality into camera-reality,’’ to quote Siegfried Kracauer. Gertrud is the last of Dreyer’s many portraits of women. Gertrud, however, is not a suffering woman, submissive to men; she is superior to them. A free intellectual woman with strong willpower, she rejects the men in her life. While these men prefer their careers and pleasures, for Gertrud love is all. Gertrud knows she will always come second, and prefers to abandon men and withdraw into solitude. She knows that her demands on life cannot be fulfilled, so she chooses to live in accordance with her inner demands. In Gertrud, Dreyer finds a great- ness which had also fascinated him about Jeanne d’Arc. This is not a naturalistic portrayal, but a tragic one—Gertrud is bound for defeat. Both she and the men are presented in a disquieting double light. In many ways the 75-year-old Dreyer was in harmony with the modern, younger directors. In films by Antonioni, Godard and Truffaut the women characters often demand a love which should be placed above everything else, a love which was more than most men could or would grant. Gertrud is also amazingly in harmony with the stylistic trends of the films of the 1960s. Because Dreyer never consciously tried to keep up with his time, but kept his integrity, he GIANTFILMS, 4 th EDITION 459 was more modern in his last film than many of the directors were who tried to adjust to their time. Gertrud, premiering in Paris, was badly received by most of the Danish and French reviewers. However, in the film magazines Gertrud did find more understanding critics. With his last film, Dreyer once again caused great controversy, even if he did not ask for it. Gertrud is still a film which divides its audience. —Ib Monty GIANT USA, 1956 Director: George Stevens Production: Warner Bros. Pictures Inc.; Warnercolor, 35mm; run- ning time: 198 minutes. Released 1956. Filmed in Texas. Producers: George Stevens and Henry Ginsberg; screenplay: Fred Guiol and Ivan Moffat, from the novel by Edna Ferber; photogra- phy: William C. Mellor and Edwin DuPar; editors: William Hornbeck, Philip W. Anderson, and Fred Bohanen; art director: Ralph S. Hurst; music: Dmitri Tiomkin; costume designers: Moss Mabry and Mar- jorie Best. Cast: Elizabeth Taylor (Leslie Lynnton Benedict); Rock Hudson (Bick Benedict); James Dean (Jett Rink); Mercedes McCambridge (Luz Benedict, the older); Jane Withers (Vashti Snythe); Chill Wills (Uncle Bawley Benedict); Carroll Baker (Luz Benedict, the younger); Dennis Hopper (Jordan Benedict III); Elsa Cardenas (Juana Bene- dict); Fran Bennett (Judy Benedict). Award: Oscar for Best Direction, 1956. Publications Books: Bast, William, James Dean: A Biography, New York, 1956. Richie, Donald, George Stevens: An American Romantic, New York, 1970, 1985. Hirsch, Foster, Elizabeth Taylor, New York, 1973. Phillips, Gene D., The Movie Makers: Artists in the Industry, Chi- cago, 1973. d’Arcy, Susan, The Films of Elizabeth Taylor, London, 1974. Dalton, David, James Dean, The Mutant King, San Francisco, 1974. Whittman, Mark, The Films of James Dean, London, 1974. Kelly, Kitty, Elizabeth Taylor, The Last Star, New York and Lon- don, 1981. Bourget, Jean-Loup, James Dean, Paris, 1983. Morrissey, Steven, James Dean Is Not Dead, Manchester, 1983. Dalton, David, and Ron Cayen, James Dean, American Icon, Lon- don, 1984. Wickens, Christopher, Elizabeth Taylor: A Biography in Photo- graphs, New York and London, 1984. Devillers, Marcel, James Dean, London, 1985. Beath, Warren Newton, The Death of James Dean, London, 1986. Petri, Bruce, A Theory of American Film: The Films & Techniques of George Stevens, New York, 1987. Parker, John, Five For Hollywood: Their Friendship, Their Fame, Their Tragedies, Secaucus, 1991. Tanitch, R., James Dean the Actor, London, 1999. Articles: Sarris, Andrew, in Film Culture (New York), no. 10, 1956. Rowan, Arthur, ‘‘Giant Enhanced by Bold, Offbeat Photography,’’ in American Cinematographer (Los Angeles), March 1956. Whitcomb, Jon, ‘‘Liz Taylor as Edna Ferber’s Heroine,’’ in Cosmo- politan (New York), August 1956. Time (New York), 22 October 1956. Phipps, Courtland, in Films in Review (New York), November 1956. Houston, Penelope, in Sight and Sound (London), Winter 1956–57. Archer, E., ‘‘George Stevens and the American Dream,’’ in Film Culture (New York), no. 1, 1957. Rotha, Paul, in Films and Filming (London), February 1957. Luft, Herbert H., ‘‘George Stevens,’’ in Films in Review (New York), November 1958. Stang, J., ‘‘Hollywood Romantic,’’ in Films and Filming (London), July 1959. Whitehall, Richard, in Films and Filming (London), August 1962. Mayersburg, Paul, and V. F. Perkins, in Movie (London), Novem- ber 1962. Bartlett, N., ‘‘Sentiment and Humanism,’’ in Film (London), Spring 1964. Silke, James R., and interview with George Stevens, in Cinema (Beverly Hills), December 1964-January 1965. McVay, Douglas, ‘‘Greatest—Stevens,’’ in Films and Filming (Lon- don), April and May 1965. Beresford, B., ‘‘George Stevens,’’ in Film (London), Summer 1970. Essoe, Gabe, ‘‘Elizabeth Taylor,’’ in Films in Review (New York), August-September 1970. ‘‘Stevens Issue’’ of American Film (Washington, D.C.), no. 1, 1972. ‘‘Stevens Issue,’’ of American Film (Washington, D.C.), May- June 1975. Soule, Maria, in Magill’s Survey of Cinema 2, Englewood Cliffs, New Jersey, 1980. Solman, G., in Films in Review (New York), May 1983. Leibman, Nina C., ‘‘Leave Mother Out: The Fifties Family in American Film and Television,’’ in Wide Angle (Baltimore), vol. 10, no. 4, 1988. Larue, Johanne, ‘‘à la défense de James Dean,’’ in Séquences (Haute-Ville), no. 159–160, September 1992. Reid’s Film Index, no. 11, 1993. Villaneuva, T., ‘‘Scenes from the Movie Giant,’’ in Jump Cut (Berkeley), no. 39, June 1994. GIANT FILMS, 4 th EDITION 460 Giant Meisel, M., ‘‘Giant Reawakens,’’ in Film Journal (New York), September 1996. Stevens, George Jr., ‘‘A Giant Step in Film Restoration,’’ in DGA Magazine (Los Angeles), vol. 21, no. 4, September-October 1996. Turner, George, ‘‘Giant Still Towers: Resurrecting a Giant,’’ in American Cinematographer (Hollywood), vol. 77, no. 10, Octo- ber 1996. ‘‘Resurrecting a Giant,’’ in American Cinematographer (Holly- wood), October 1996. Score (Lelystad), no. 101, December 1996. *** Giant, directed by George Stevens, is based on the novel of the same name by Edna Ferber. Stevens won an Academy Award as best director for the film. Giant is a saga about change: change in Texas, change in the lives of Bick and Leslie Benedict and their children and grandchildren, and, ultimately, change in America. It is a giant of a movie, running three hours and eighteen minutes, and covering over 25 years in the characters’ lives. It is shot in color, with a tremen- dously moving musical score by Dimitri Tiomkin. Giant is a serious picture about accepting the differences of others, be they outsiders, members of one’s own culture, or even members of one’s own family. It reflects social concerns in America at the time as well as predicting, in a way, the challenges of the civil rights movement to come. The film also contains the idea that people who have prejudices must change to accept and respect others, regardless of their race, background, and circumstances. This is not a new subject for Stevens. After World War II, his films took on a more serious nature, and the theme of acceptance can be clearly seen in I Remember Mama, where a Norwegian family has settled in San Francisco; in Shane, where farmers and cattlemen are at odds; and in The Diary of Anne Frank, where the Nazis are persecuting Jews. The theme of acceptance is the framework for Giant, upon which all of the parts are attached to form the structure. Stevens believed that a film should be guided by one vision, and in this way, a sense of appropriate structure could be achieved. He said at a symposium on the arts at The Ohio State University in the early 1970s, ‘‘I think structure in film, particularly in film of any length, is almost as important as structure in upright architecture.’’ For example, it is not good if a building is leaning, or has elements out of place, or is even falling apart. The same could be said of a film. Giant has a coherent, solid structure which allows Stevens to tell his story and create his meaning in the mind of the viewers. At the beginning of the film, Jordan Benedict II, known as Bick (Rock Hudson) visits the family of Leslie Lynnton (Elizabeth Taylor) on the East coast to purchase a stud horse named Warwinds to take GILDAFILMS, 4 th EDITION 461 back to his cattle ranch in Texas. As he emerges from the train, he almost blocks out the image of the land, and looms large over it. The Lynnton family members are cordial to Bick, but he is clearly from a different culture than they are. Bick and Leslie fall in love, and he takes her to Texas as his bride. The scene where Bick almost blocks out the image of the land in the East is echoed, but differently, as Bick and Leslie, on either side of the train window, provide a frame for the image of the land in the West. Together they will help alter it. So the first element of change is that Bick did not marry a Texan but a person from the East, and this integration of cultures will have a posi- tive effect. Bick’s sister Luz (Mercedes McCambridge) cannot accept the change marriage brings to the Benedict family. She cannot control Leslie, and is killed when she is thrown from the horse Warwinds, which she symbolically cannot master. Leslie treats the Mexican-American workers with respect, and even has the Benedict family doctor treat the sick child of a worker in the nearby town. Also, after dinner parties in her home, she doesn’t want to sit with the women, but instead wants to talk politics with the men. There is tension, as Bick is not tolerant of people with Mexican heritage and has his own ideas of a woman’s role in the home. Jett Rink (James Dean), a poor worker for the Benedicts who is constantly at odds with Bick, inherits a piece of land from Luz after her death. He discovers oil on it after Leslie, with whom he is secretly in love, visits him. Her footprint symbolically fills with the black liquid. Jett becomes rich, and eventually convinces Bick to invest in oil wells in addition to cattle at the start of World War II. The Benedicts have three children, and the theme of acceptance is stated by Leslie, who says, ‘‘All you can do is raise them. You can’t live their lives for them.’’ Bick wants son Jordan Benedict, III (Dennis Hopper) to become a cattle rancher like he is, but instead Jordan becomes a doctor and even marries a Mexican-American, Juana (Elsa Cardenas). They have a child, Jordan Benedict IV. Daughter Judy Benedict (Fran Bennett) wants to be a rancher. She even marries a rancher, but she and her husband want to have a small place of their own, thereby leaving the Benedict ranch, Reata. They also have a child, Judy Benedict II. Daughter Luz Benedict II is a rebel as well and even dates the person her father hates, the oil millionaire Jett Rink. Although Judy’s husband and Jordan both serve in World War II, it is Angel Obregon III (Sal Mineo), the son of a Mexican- American worker, who is killed in battle. In the present-day 1950s, Jett invites many rich Texans, including the Benedicts, to the opening of his new airport/hotel. Jett has always disliked those of Mexican heritage and does not allow them services in the hotel. When Juana Benedict is refused an appointment in the hotel’s beauty salon, Jordan attacks Jett but loses the fight. Bick now wants to fight Jett to avenge his son’s honor, and in a famous scene in the hotel’s wine cellar, tells the drunk Jett, ‘‘You ain’t even worth hitting.’’ Bick knocks over ranks of liquor. Jett goes to make a speech to the assembled guests and passes out from too much drink. Jett is a pathetic figure, for despite his money, he is unable to change his past attitudes. Luz II leaves him and goes with her family, and later goes to Hollywood to try to become an actress. Driving home from the hotel, Bick, Leslie and Luz II go into a diner (Sarge’s Place) with Juana and their grandson, Jordan Bene- dict IV, who resembles his Mexican-American mother. The owner, Sarge (Mickey Simpson), alludes unkindly to the child’s Mexican heritage, but will serve the Benedicts. A Mexican-American family enters and Sarge asks them to leave. Bick intervenes on their behalf and finally fights with Sarge. Bick loses the fight and almost passes out on the floor among dirty dishes. Back home, Leslie and Bick sit and watch their two grandchildren, who are in a playpen. A white sheep and a black calf are behind the playpen. One grandchild has light skin and one has dark skin. During this visual image of the importance of acceptance, Leslie, having commented on how proud she was of Bick in the restaurant, says one of the last lines of the film, which ties all of the vast elements of the structure together. She says, ‘‘After one hundred years, the Benedict family is finally a real big success.’’ By accepting change, from the East, from the children, and from the culture, Bick Benedict and his family are indeed a success, and in fact, have become the embodiment of the romantic American dream. They are rich and accepting. Jett Rink, on the other hand, could be considered the embodiment of the American nightmare. He is rich and unaccepting, and therefore is last seen alone in the vast empty ballroom where he was to make his speech, passing out not from fighting for what is right, but from drinking too much. George Stevens has, within this huge story of a Texas family, provided the viewer with a structure that has universal meaning about change and acceptance, and about hope for freedom and justice for all of us. In the final shots of the film, there are dissolves to close ups of the grandchildren’s eyes as the song ‘‘The Eyes of Texas are Upon You’’ plays on the soundtrack. The eyes of the children are the next generation looking at the viewers to see if they can live in harmony together. —H. Wayne Schuth GILDA USA, 1946 Director: Charles Vidor Production: Columbia; black and white; running time: 109 minutes; length: 9,852 feet. Released March 1946. Producer: Virginia Van Upp; screenplay: Marion Parsonnet, from Jo Eisinger’s adaptation of the story by E. A. Ellington; photogra- phy: Rudolph Maté; editor: Charles Nelson; sound recordist: Lambert Day; art directors: Stephen Goosson and Van Nest Polglase; set decoration: Robert Priestley; gowns: Jean Louis; musical direc- tor: Morris Stoloff; arranger: Marlin Skiles. Cast: Rita Hayworth (Gilda); Glenn Ford (Johnny Farrell); George Macready (Ballin Mundsen); Joseph Calleia (Obregon); Steven Geray (Uncle Pio); Joseph Sawyer (Casey); Gerald Mohr (Captain Delgado); Robert Scott (Gabe Evans); Ludwig Donath (German); Don Douglas (Thomas Langford); S. Z. Martel (Little man); George Lewis (Huerta); Rosa Rey (Maria); Eduardo Ciannelli (Bendolin). GILDA FILMS, 4 th EDITION 462 Gilda Publications Books: Ringgold, Gene, The Films of Rita Hayworth, Secaucus, New Jersey, 1974, 1984. Kobal, John, Rita Hayworth: The Time, the Place, and the Woman, New York, 1978. Silver, Alain, and Elisabeth Ward, editors, Film Noir, New York, 1979. Hill, James, Rita Hayworth: A Memoir, New York, 1983. Morella, Joe, and Edward Z. Epstein, Rita: The Life of Rita Hayworth, New York, 1983. Dick, Bernard F., Columbia Pictures: Portrait of a Studio, Lexing- ton, 1992. Kaplan, Ann, editor, Women in Film Noir, London, 1998. Articles: Hollywood Reporter, 13 March 1946. New York Times, 15 March 1946. Variety (New York), 20 March 1946. Monthly Film Bulletin (London), April 1946. Magill’s Survey of Cinema 2, Englewood Cliffs, New Jersey, 1980. Filme (Paris), no. 13, 1982. Martin, Marcel, in Revue du Cinéma (Paris), January 1983. Ménil, A., in Cinématographe (Paris), February 1983. Petat, J., in Cinéma (Paris), February 1983. Legrand, Gérard, in Positif (Paris), March 1983. Doane, M. A., ‘‘Gilda: Epistemology as Striptease,’’ in Camera Obscura (Berkeley), Fall 1983. Janssen, C., ‘‘Film Noir: Darling, are you decent?’’ in Skoop (Am- sterdam), November 1984. Aachen, G., and J.H. Reid, in Reid’s Film Index (Wyong), no. 1, 1987. Dittmar, Linda, ‘‘From Fascism to the Cold War: Gilda’s ‘Fantastic’ Politics,’’ in Wide Angle (Baltimore), vol. 10, no. 3, 1988. Doane, M. A., and B. Reynaud, ‘‘Gilda: Strip-tease epistemologique,’’ in Cinemaction (Conde-sur-Noireau, France), no. 2, 1993. McLean, A. L., ‘‘’It’s Only That I Do What I Love and Love What I Do’: Film Noir and the Musical Woman,’’ in Cinema Journal (Austin), vol. 33, no. 1, 1993. Parsi, Novid, ‘‘Projecting Heterosexuality, Or What Do You Mean by ‘It’?’’ in Camera Obscura (Bloomington), no. 38, May 1996. *** ‘‘Statistics show there are more women in the world than anything else,’’ snaps the cynical hero, Johnny Farrell (Ford), adding, with peculiar loathing, ‘‘except insects!” And yet this misogyny co-exists in the film with Gilda (Hayworth), a character who is at once a total blank and a masterful ironist whose signature tune ‘‘Put the Blame on Mame,’’ to which she performs a supremely erotic striptease involv- ing only the removal of her elbow-length velvet gloves, is a pointed exposure of the way women are made to seem responsible for the havoc wreaked by the men who become obsessed with them. Gilda exists at the crossroads between the hardboiled neo-noir adventure of the 1940s and the contemporary craze for ‘‘women’s pictures.’’ The former genre, epitomized in classic style by Casablanca and To Have and Have Not but perhaps better represented by such fringe-B quickies as Calcutta, Macao or World for Ransom, is characterized by a studio-bound ‘‘exotic’’ location, preferably cen- tering on a shady nightclub in a Third World country under whose propellor fans can be found an array of slimy, threatening characters, almost always including a slinky femme fatale, who are pitted against a hardboiled American he-man hero who emerges, emotionally bruised but morally untainted, from the twisted plot. The latter, typified by the various vehicles found for strong female stars like Joan Crawford, Bette Davis and Barbara Stanwyck, deal with the romantic, social and professional struggles of independent women who usually win through, after plentiful suffering, at the end. Both genres came to prominence at a time when, thanks to the war, cinema audiences really could be sexually polarised, and so the macho adventurers could apeal to the man in the services while the determined and enterprising women were aimed at the sweethearts and fiancées left to their own devices on the home front. Released just after the end of the war, Gilda draws much of its peculiar power from its jumble of genres, and the unexpected way its characters grind at each other. Johnny, a hardboiled gambler who looks suavely uncomfortable in his dinner jacket, becomes manager of a casino in Buenos Aires, working for Ballin Mundsen (Macready), a frozen-faced mastermind who wields a swordcane, enjoys spying on his customers and associates from a control room in the gambling joint, and forms the apex of a three-way love triangle that triggers the THE GODFATHER TRILOGYFILMS, 4 th EDITION 463 plot. Mundsen turns out to be fronting for a group of ex-Nazis, and Macready’s scarred intensity serves him well as a stereotypical movie Nazi, but the trouble in the film actually comes from his marriage to the beautiful young Gilda (Hayworth), who crucially acts throughout with an un-fatale honesty and finally reveals herself as far stronger than either of her paramours. Johnny and Gilda were once lovers, but the hero’s neurotic hatred of her comes because she has alienated the affections of Mundsen, his ‘‘best friend,’’ and when the casino owner appears dead, he plans to marry her as a way of punishing her for her treatment of the casino owner. Mundsen returns from the grave to be killed again in a coda that strains hard to get a conventional happy ending out of a situation whose implications skirt the Hays Code’s idea of the objectionable. Photographed by Rudolph Maté with a marvellously oneiric style, making full use of the central casino sets—which are almost as evocative as those of von Sternberg’s Shanghai Gesture—and bene- fiting from all the class a shaky major studio like Columbia could trot out for a prestige production, Gilda is, in many ways, an absolute triumph of the cinema-bis. Ford and Hayworth, usually limited but engaging and photogenic performers, have definitive performances drawn out of them like teeth, and Macready—elsewhere a great heavy in the likes of My Name is Julia Ross, The Bandit of Sherwood Forest and The Big Clock—has the time of his life as the complex villain, prevented from taking top billing for his lead role simply by the dictates of the star system. Charles Vidor was a journeyman otherwise noted—if at all—for his musicals—including a different take on Hayworth in Cover Girl and a replay of the obsessive triangle of Gilda with James Cagney taking over the Macready role as he tangles with Doris Day and Cameron Mitchell in Love Me or Leave Me—was here handed a studio assignment that turned out miraculously right, and has a resonance beyond its immediate exotic charm. As the posters claimed, ‘‘there never was a woman like Gilda!’’ —Kim Newman GIRLS IN UNIFORM See M?DCHEN IN UNIFORM THE GOAT HORN See KOZIYAT ROG THE GODFATHER TRILOGY Director: Francis Ford Coppola THE GODFATHER USA, 1972 Production: Paramount Pictures; Technicolor, 35mm; running time: 176 minutes. Released 11 March 1972. Filmed in New York City and in Sicily. Cost: over $5 million. Oscars for Best Picture, Best Actor (Brando), Best Screenplay, 1972; New York Film Critics’ Award, Best Supporting Actor (Duvall), 1972; Directors Guild of America, Director Award (Coppola), 1972. Producer: Albert S. Ruddy; screenplay: Francis Ford Coppola and Mario Puzo, from the novel by Mario Puzo; photography: Gordon Willis; editors: William Reynolds, Peter Zinner, Marc Lamb, and Murray Solomon; sound: Bud Granzbach, Richard Portman, Christo- pher Newman, and Les Lazarowitz; production designer: Philip Smith; art director: Warren Clymer; music: Nino Rota; costume designer: Anna Hill Johnstone. Cast: Marlon Brando (Don Vito Corleone); Al Pacino (Michael Corleone); James Caan (Sonny Corleone); Richard Castellano (Clemenza); Robert Duvall (Tom Hagen); Diane Keaton (Kay Adams); Sterling Hayden (McCluskey); Talia Shire (Connie Rizzi); John Cazale (Fredo Corleone). Publications Books: Zuckerman, Ira, The Godfather Journal, New York, 1972. Carey, Gary, Brando, New York, 1973. Jordan, René, Marlon Brando, New York, 1973. Puzo, Mario, The Making of The Godfather, Greenwich, Connecti- cut, 1973. Thomas, Tony, The Films of Marlon Brando, Secaucus, New Jer- sey, 1973. Shipman, David, Brando, London, 1974. Johnson, Robert K., Francis Ford Coppola, Boston, 1977. Pye, Michael, and Lynda Myles, The Movie Brats: How the Film Generation Took Over Hollywood, London, 1979. Kolker, Robert Philip, A Cinema of Loneliness: Penn, Kubrick, Coppola, Scorsese, Altman, Oxford, 1980; revised edition, 1988. Thomson, David, Overexposures: The Crisis in American Filmmaking, New York, 1981. Chaillet, Jean-Paul, and Elizabeth Vincent, Francis Ford Coppola, Paris, 1984. Downing, David, Marlon Brando, London, 1984. Zuker, Joel S., Francis Ford Coppola: A Guide to References and Resources, Boston, 1984. Carey, Gary, Marlon Brando, The Only Contender, London, 1985. Frundt, Bodo, and others, Francis Ford Coppola, Munich, 1985. Ray, Robert B., A Certain Tendency of the Hollywood Cinema 1930–80, Princeton, 1985. Slawson, Judith, Robert Duvall, Hollywood Maverick, New York, 1985. Weiss, Ulli, Das neue Hollywood: Francis Ford Coppola, Steven Spielberg, Martin Scorsese, Munich, 1986. Chown, Jeffrey, Hollywood Auteur: Francis Coppola, New York, 1987. Higham, Charles, Brando: The Unauthorized Biography, London, 1987. Cowie, Peter, Coppola, London, 1989. Biskind, Peter, The Godfather Companion: Everything You Ever Wanted to Know about All Three Godfather Films, New York, 1990. THE GODFATHER TRILOGY FILMS, 4 th EDITION 464 The Godfather Gardner, Gerald C. and Harriet Modell Gardner, The Godfather Movies: A Pictorial History, New York, 1993. Lebo, Harlan, The Godfather Legacy, New York, 1997. Bergan, Ronald, Francis Ford Coppola-Close Up: The Making of His Movies, New York, 1998. Ciongoli, A. Kenneth, editor, Beyond ‘The Godfather’: Italian Ameri- can Writers on the Real Italian Experience, Hanover, 1998. Browne, Nick, editor, Francis Ford Coppola’s ‘The Godfather’ Trilogy, New York, 1999. Cowie, Peter, The Godfather Book, Boulder, 1999. Articles: Kane, John, and Bruce Rubenstein, in Take One (Montreal), March- April 1971. Arnold, Gary, in Filmfacts (New York), no. 15, 1972. Berglund, P., in Chaplin (Stockholm), no. 116, 1972. Rosengren, G., ‘‘Tv? filmer om Maffian,’’ in Filmrutan (Stockholm), vol. 15, no. 3, 1972. Reilly, C. P., in Films in Review (New York), April 1972. Faltysova, H., in Film a Doba (Prague), May 1972. Kane, John, and Bruce Rubenstein, in Take One (Montreal), June 1972. Chappetta, R., in Film Quarterly (Berkeley), Summer 1972. Cowie, Peter, in Focus on Film (London), Autumn 1972. Farber, Stephen, ‘‘Coppola and The Godfather,’’ in Sight and Sound (London), Autumn 1972. Schober, S., in Filmkritik (Munich), October 1972. Amiel, M., in Cinéma (Paris), November 1972. Kael, Pauline, ‘‘Alchemy,’’ in Deeper into Movies, Boston, 1973. ‘‘How Brando Brought Don Corleone to Life,’’ and ‘‘Keeping Up with the Corleones,’’ in Films 72–73, edited by David Denby, Indianapolis, 1973. Vitoux, F., ‘‘Une Gigantesque Metaphore,’’ in Positif (Paris), Janu- ary 1973. Latimer, J. P., ‘‘The Godfather: Metaphor and Microcosm,’’ in Journal of Popular Culture (Bowling Green, Ohio), Spring 1973. Vogelsan, J., ‘‘Motifs of Image and Sound in The Godfather,’’ in Journal of Popular Culture (Bowling Green, Ohio), Spring 1973. Higham, Charles, in Action (Los Angeles), May-June 1973. ‘‘Francis Ford Coppola,’’ in Film Comment (New York), July- August 1974. THE GODFATHER TRILOGYFILMS, 4 th EDITION 465 Kauffmann, Stanley, Living Images, New York, 1975. Yates, John, ‘‘Godfather Saga: The Death of the Family,’’ in Journal of Popular Culture (Bowling Green, Ohio), no. 4, 1975. Solomon, Stanley, ‘‘The Godfather,’’ in Beyond Formula, New York, 1976. Clarens, Carlos, ‘‘The Godfather Saga,’’ in Film Comment (New York), January-February 1978. Thomson, David, ‘‘The Discreet Charm of The Godfather,’’ in Sight and Sound (London), Spring 1978. Thomson, David, ‘‘Two Gentlemen of Corleone,’’ in Take One (Montreal), May 1978. ‘‘Dialogue on Film: Mario Puzo,’’ in American Film (Washington, D.C.), May 1979. Cebe, G., ‘‘Francis Ford Coppola: La Mafia, l’orare, et l’Amérique,’’ in Ecran (Paris), 15 September 1979. Taubman, Leslie, in Magill’s Survey of Cinema 2, Englewood Cliffs, New Jersey, 1980. Wisinger, I., ‘‘Amerikai t?rtenet,’’ in Filmkultura (Budapest), May- June 1982. Greene, N., ‘‘Coppola, Cimino: The Operatics of History,’’ in Film Quarterly (Berkeley), Winter 1984–85. Ciment, Michel, in Positif (Paris), February 1985. Alexander, M., and H. Homsan, ‘‘The Godfather-saga op tv,’’ in Skoop (Amsterdam), June-July 1985. Film Comment (New York), July-August 1987. Hirsch, T., ‘‘San Francisco szultanja,’’ in Filmvilag (Budapest), no. 1, 1991. Alm, R., ‘‘Michael Corleones tapte illusjoner,’’ in Z Filmtidsskrift (Oslo), no. 2, 1991. Nordstrom, U., ‘‘Sag du gudfadern eller gudfadern—eller var det gudfadern?,’’ in Chaplin (Stockholm), no. 5, 1991. Caron, A., ‘‘Le tryptique des Godfather,’’ in Sequences (Montreal), March 1991. Ciment, M., ‘‘Lear et l’opera: entretien avec Francis Ford Coppola,’’ in Positif (Paris), April 1991. Grob, N., ‘‘The Empire Strikes Back,’’ in EPD Film (Frankfurt), April 1991. Morgan, D., ‘‘Death and Aging: A Corleone Chronicle,’’ in Cinefex (Riverside, California), May 1991. Tsyrkun, N., ‘‘Sud’ba Korleone v Amerike,’’ in Iskusstvo Kino (Moscow), no. 3, 1992. Russo, J. P., ‘‘Tra i tre Padrini quale il migliore?,’’ in Cinema Nuovo (Rome), May-June 1992. Solman, G., ‘‘Uncertain Glory,’’ in Film Comment (New York), May-June 1993. Thomson, David, ‘‘Death and its Details,’’ in Film Comment (New York), September-October 1993. Steele, G., ‘‘On Location with The Godfather,’’ in Mensuel du Cinéma, no. 16, April 1994. Rose, P. W., ‘‘The Politics of the Trilogy Form: Lucia, the Orestia, and The Godfather,’’ in Film-Historia (Barcelona), vol. 5, no. 2/3, 1995. ‘‘I Film (1963–1979),’’ in Castoro Cinema (Milan), no. 81, 2nd ed., July 1995. ‘‘The Godfather,” in Premiere (Boulder), vol. 9, March 1996. Dargis, M., ‘‘Dark Side of the Dream,’’ in Sight & Sound (London), vol. 6, August 1996. Perez, G., ‘‘Film in Review,’’ in Yale Review, vol. 85, no. 3, 1996. Sragow, M., ‘‘Godfatherhood,’’ in New Yorker, vol. 73, 24 March 1997. Thomson, D., ‘‘Ten Films That Showed Hollywood How to Live,’’ in Movieline (Escondido), vol. 8, July 1997. THE GODFATHER, PART II USA, 1974 Production: Paramount Pictures; Technicolor, 35mm; running time: 200 minutes. Released 12 December 1974, New York. Filmed in 9 months, 1973–74, on location in New York City, Lake Tahoe and Las Vegas, Nevada, Washington, Sicily, and the Dominican Repub- lic. Oscars for Best Picture, Best Director, Best Supporting Actor (De Niro), Best Screenplay, Best Art Decoration, Best Original Dra- matic Score, 1974; Directors Guild of America, Director Award (Coppola), 1974. Producers: Francis Ford Coppola, Gary Frederickson, and Fred Roos; screenplay: Francis Ford Coppola and Mario Puzo, from the novel by Mario Puzo; photography: Gordon Willis; editors: Peter Zinner, Barry Malkin, and Richard Marks; production designer: Dean Tavoularis; art director: Angelo Graham; music: Nino Rota; additional music: Carmine Coppola; costume designer: Theodora Van Runkle. Cast: Al Pacino (Michael Corleone); Robert Duvall (Tom Hagen); Diane Keaton (Kay Adams); Robert DeNiro (Vito Corleone); John Cazale (Fredo Corleone); Talia Shire (Connie Corleone); Lee Strasberg (Hyman Roth); Michael V. Gazzo (Frankie Pentangeli); Troy Donahue (Connie’s boyfriend). Publications Articles: Bachmann, Gideon, ‘‘Godfather II: Zelfkritiek van Coppola,’’ in Skoop (Amsterdam), December 1974. Cocks, T., ‘‘Outs,’’ in Take One (Montreal), December 1974. Time (New York), 16 December 1974. Kael, Pauline, in New Yorker, 23 December 1974. Quart, L., and A. Auster, in Cineaste (New York), vol. 6, no. 4, 1975. Reilly, C. P., in Films in Review (New York), February 1975. Hess, John, ‘‘Godfather II: A Deal Coppola Couldn’t Refuse,’’ in Jump Cut (Chicago), May-July 1975. Milne, Tom, in Monthly Film Bulletin (London), June 1975. Rosenbaum, Jonathan, in Sight and Sound (London), Summer 1975. Gow, Gordon, in Films and Filming (London), July 1975. Behar, H., in Image et Son (Paris), September 1975. Rabourdin, D., in Cinéma (Paris), September-October 1975. Calum, P., in Kosmorama (Copenhagen), Autumn 1975. Farber, Stephen, in Take One (Montreal), December 1975. THE GODFATHER TRILOGY FILMS, 4 th EDITION 466 Konjar, V., in Ekran (Ljubljana), no. 1, 1976. Allombert, G., in Revue du Cinéma (Paris), October 1976. Bueren, P., and W. Verstappen, in Skoop (Amsterdam), January 1977. Rule, P., ‘‘The Italian Connection in American Film: Coppola, Cimino, Scorsese,’’ in America (New York), 17 November 1979. Taubman, Leslie, in Magill’s Survey of Cinema 2, Englewood Cliffs, New Jersey, 1980. Review, in Casablanca, no. 34, October 1983. See also publications for The Godfather. THE GODFATHER, PART III USA, 1990 Production: Zoetrope, Paramount Pictures; Technicolor, 35mm; running time: 161 minutes. Producers: Francis Ford Coppola, Gray Frederickson, Fred Roos, and Charles Mulvehill; screenplay: Francis Ford Coppola and Mario Puzo, from the novel by Puzo; photography: Gordon Willis; editors: Barry Malkin, Lisa Fruchtman, and Walter Murch; production designer: Dean Tavoularis; art director: Alex Tavoularis; music: Nino Rota and Carmine Coppola; music director: Carmine Coppola; costume designer: Milena Canonero. Cast: Al Pacino (Michael Corleone); Diane Keaton (Kay Adams); Talia Shire (Connie Corleone); Andy Garcia (Vincent Mancini); Eli Wallach (Don Altobello); Joe Mantegna (Joey Zasa); George Hamil- ton (B. J. Harrison); Bridget Fonda (Grace Hamilton); Sofia Coppola (Mary Corleone); Raf Vallone (Cardinal Lamberto); Franc D’Ambrosio (Tony Corleone); Donal Donnelly (Archbishop Gilday); Richard Bright (Al Neri); Helmut Berger (Frederick Keinszig); Don Novello (Dominic Abbandando); John Savage (Andrew Hagen). Publications Articles: Cowie, P., ‘‘Coppola Remarried to the Mob,’’ in Variety (New York), 3 January 1990. Kroll, J., ‘‘The Offer He Didn’t Refuse,’’ in Newsweek (New York), 28 May 1990. Moss, M., ‘‘The Godfather Part III: Recapturing the Myth,’’ in Boxoffice (Chicago), October 1990. Harrison, Barbara Grizzuti, in Life Magazine (New York), Novem- ber 1990. Coppola, Eleanor, ‘‘The Godfather Diary,’’ in Vogue (New York), December 1990. Davis, Ivor, and Sally Ogle Davis, ‘‘It Ain’t Over till the Fat Man Directs: Francis Ford Coppola and the Making of The Godfather Part III,’’ in Los Angeles Magazine, December 1990. Garcia, G., ‘‘The Next Don?’’ in American Film (Washington, DC), December 1990. Rohter, L., ‘‘Coppola: It Was an Offer He Couldn’t Refuse,’’ in New York Times, 23 December 1990. Kroll, J., ‘‘The Corleones Return,’’ in Newsweek (New York), 24 December 1990. Cowie, P., ‘‘Gudfader med starka familjeband,’’ in Chaplin (Stock- holm), no. 1, 1991. Stivers, C., ‘‘Family Reunion,’’ in Premiere (New York), Janu- ary 1991. Nissen, D., ‘‘Mafia,’’ in Kosmorama (Copenhagen), Spring 1991. Hansen, H. J., ‘‘Papa Coppola,’’ in Levende Billeder (Copenhagen), March 1991. Clark, J., ‘‘Godfather Shoots Blanks at Palermo Premiere,’’ in Variety (New York), 18 March 1991. Grant, E., in Films in Review (New York), March-April 1991. Grob, N., ‘‘The Empire Strikes Back,’’ in EPD Film (Frankfurt), April 1991. Katsahnias, I., and N. Saada, ‘‘Entretien avec Francis Ford Coppola,’’ in Cahiers du Cinéma (Paris), April 1991. Causo, M., ‘‘La catarsi del cronotopo,’’ in Filmcritica (Rome), April- May 1991. ‘‘Il cinema di Coppola (parte III),’’ in Castoro Cinema (Milan), no. 81, 2nd ed., July 1995. See also publications for The Godfather. *** Mario Puzo has said that one of the reasons he wrote his novel, The Godfather, was to get out of debt. He was aiming for a best-seller, and he achieved his goal. Published in 1969, the novel sold 500,000 copies in hardcover and more than ten million copies in paperback by the time the film version was released. Paramount Studios bought the film rights to Puzo’s sprawling roman à clef, which concerned the history and structure of organized crime in America, in manuscript form. The studio proposed to make the film modestly and update it to the present day to avoid costly period sets and costumes. But when the book became a runaway best- seller, it was decided to make The Godfather an ‘‘event movie’’ with widespread release and higher-than-usual ticket prices. At the insis- tence of producer Al Ruddy and director Francis Ford Coppola, who got the assignment because of his Italian background and low asking price, the studio was also persuaded to return the script to its period milieu (the late 1940s). With The Godfather, Coppola took a tired cinematic genre, the gangster film, in which all had seemingly been done, and pushed it in an epic new direction. Brutal, bloody, shocking, scary, funny, socially and politically observant, and meticulously performed by everyone from the leads to the bit players, the film offered a panoramic glimpse into the closed society of organized crime—a society ruled by vendetta, where the most sought-after currency, respect, is acquired through fear and intimidation. It’s a society where murder is ‘‘nothing personal, just business’’ and casts a shadow over many other levels of American life, as well. Not for nothing has the film been dubbed ‘‘the Gone with the Wind of gangster movies.’’ The film was a financial blockbuster. Paramount demanded a se- quel, and Coppola demanded and got complete creative autonomy for The Godfather, Part II. The main criticism leveled at The Godfather GOJIRAFILMS, 4 th EDITION 467 was that Coppola had made his Mafia characters sympathetic by giving them too-human a face. Coppola’s point about the banality of evil, that members of the underworld are not all eye-rolling, saliva- dripping goons, was apparently lost on them. Still, he took the criticism to heart and in the sequel determined to make the point that Michael Corleone, an antihero who kills to hold his family together through the Mafia wars of the 1940s in the first film, is a Machiavel- lian figure whose soul is clearly lost by the final reel of the sec- ond film. Coppola saw the sequel not as a way of simply cashing in on the success of the first film but of expanding its elements into a much broader and richer tapestry. The film chronicles the business of organized crime in the United States from 1900 to the 1960s, weaving facts with fiction in the manner of its predecessor. Drawing upon previously unused material in Puzo’s book, it flashes back and forth in time to contrast the characters of Michael Corleone and his father, Vito, to reveal that what drives Michael is not what drove his father— that Michael is a more bitter and ruthless character, whereas Vito was a product of his old country ways and viewed the world as a place where only the strong survive. The Godfather, Part II was a rarity—a sequel that not only deepened our understanding of the first film but bettered it artistically. It was also a huge financial success, but, at twice the budget of its predecessor, not quite the blockbuster the original had been. But since the film ended in the 1960s with Michael Corleone very much alive, Paramount was savvy enough to realize the mine had not yet been fully exploited. It wanted another sequel. Coppola wasn’t interested, however, and shelved the idea for almost twenty years. The Godfather, Part III takes up the saga of Michael Corleone in 1979, as the now guilt-ridden sixty-year-old don is receiving the order of San Sebastian, the highest honor the Catholic Church can bestow upon a layman. In between coping with Mafia plotters, crooked Vatican officials, and cutthroat European businessmen, Michael faces trouble on the homefront, as well. His son has rejected the family business to become an opera singer, while his daughter is carrying on a tempestuous affair with her first cousin (the illegitimate son of Michael’s dead brother, Sonny). All these intrigues come to a head during the film’s vigorous final thirty minutes, when Michael blood- ily settles many scores—this time, he hopes, for good. But his beloved daughter takes an assassin’s bullet meant for him and the aging gangster collapses with grief, his daughter and dreams of redemption gone. He dies of a heart attack years later, a white-haired Lear-like figure, alone in his palazzo. The Godfather, Part III is not without its virtues. Its rich, warm photography, sumptuous production design and operatic style are all remarkably consistent with the first two films in the series. But its flaws are not insignificant. Considering its whopping $55 million budget (more than four times that of Part II), its failure to provide a conclusion to the Corleone saga in keeping with the epic vision of the first two films is a big disappointment. Coppola intended the film to be contemplative, but the effect it produces is ennui. Compared to the first two films, Part III is dull—and its similarly intricate plot is not as gripping as those of the earlier films. In fact, it is downright hard to follow at times. But the film’s biggest flaw is the change undergone by the lead characters, especially Michael, who is simply not the same man we saw at the close of The Godfather, Part II—a fact that becomes strikingly apparent if the two films are viewed consecutively. Mon- sters may get old and tired, but the outlook that made them monsters does not vanish. Guilt and the need for redemption are simply not a part of the emotionally dead, cold-eyed character Michael had become at the close of The Godfather, Part II. —John McCarty GODZILLA, KING OF THE MONSTERS! See GOJIRA GOJIRA (Godzilla, King of the Monsters!) Japan, 1954 Director: Ishir? Honda; U.S. additions, Terrell O. Morse Production: Toho, Jewell Enterprises, Embassy Pictures, Transworld Corp.; black and white, 35mm; running time: 98 minutes (Japan), 79 minutes (U.S.). Released 3 November 1954 in Japan; released 27 April 1956 in United States with English dubbing; filmed in Tokyo, Japan. Cost: $1 million. Producer: Tomoyuki Tanaka; screenplay: Ishir? Honda, Takeo Murata, from a story by Shigeru Kayama; cinematographer: Masao Tamai; editor: Yasunobu Taira; music: Akira Ifukube; production design: Satoshi Chuko, Takeo Kita; sound: Hisashi Shimonaga; special effects: Eiji Tsuburaya, Kuichiro Kishida, Hiroshi Mukoyama, Akira Watanabe, Teisho Arikawa (uncredited), Fuminori Ohashi (uncredited); stunts: Haruo Nakajima. Cast: Akira Takarada (Naval Salvage Officer Hideto Ogata); Momoko Kouchi (Emiko Yamane); Akihiko Hirata (Dr. Daisuke Serizawa); Raymond Burr (Steve Martin [U.S. version only]); Takashi Shimura (Dr. Kyohei Yamane); Fuyuki Murakami (Dr. Tabata); Sachio Sakai (Reporter Hagiwara); Toranosuke Ogawa (President of Nankai Ship- ping Company); Ren Yamamoto (Masaji Sieji); Miki Hayashi (Chair- man of Diet Committee); Takeo Oikawa (Chief of Emergency Head- quarters); Seijiro Onda (Mr. Oyama, member of Parliament); Toyoaki Suzuki (Shinkichi Sieji); Kokuten Kodo (Gisaku, Oto Island Patri- arch); Kin Sugai (Miss Ozawa, member of Parliament); Tadashi Okabe (Reporter Killed in Tower); Ren Imaizumi (Radio Opera- tor); Junpei Natsuki (Power Substation Engineer); Ishir? Honda (The Hand that Throws the Switch); Kenji Sahara (Man aboard Ship); Ryosaku Takasugi (Gojira); Katsumi Tezuka (Hagiwara’s GOJIRA FILMS, 4 th EDITION 468 Editor [Japanese version only]; Gojira); Haruo Nakajima (Gojira/ Newspaperman). Publications Books: Mellen, Joan, Voices from the Japanese Cinema, New York, Liveright, 1975. Bock, Audie, Japanese Film Directors, Tokyo, New York, and San Francisco, 1978. Glut, Donald, Classic Movie Monsters, Metuchen, New Jersey, 1978. Waldecki, Michael E., Godzilla Goes to Hollywood, M. E. Waldecki, 1985. Harmon, Jim, The Godzilla Book, San Bernardino, California, 1986. Bueher, Beverly Bare, Japanese Films: A Filmography and Commen- tary, 1921–1989, Jefferson, North Carolina, 1990. Lent, John A, The Asian Film Industry, London, 1990. Galbraith, Stuart, IV, Japanese Science Fiction, Fantasy, and Horror Films: A Critical Analysis of 103 Features Released in the United States, 1950–1992, Jefferson, North Carolina, 1994. Tucker, Guy Mariner, Age of the Gods: A History of the Japanese Fantasy Film, New York, 1996. Kalat, David, A Critical History and Filmography of Toho’s Godzilla Series, Jefferson, North Carolina, 1997. Aberly, Rachel, The Making of Godzilla, New York, 1998. Alfonsi, The Official Godzilla Compendium, New York, 1998. Lees, J. D., and Marc Cerasini, compiled and edited by Alice Lovece, Frank, Godzilla: The Complete Guide to Moviedom’s Mightiest Monster, New York, 1998. *** Gojira (better known in the English-speaking world as Godzilla), though based on American models, is a thoroughly Japanese produc- tion. Though it achieved world-wide success, becoming perhaps the most popular science fiction film in cinema history, Godzilla is a significant construction of Japanese popular culture that resonates with themes specific to that country’s postwar experience. In fact, it seems to confirm what sociologists such as Siegfried Kracauer have said of mainstream cinema, that, especially in times of profound social crisis, its offerings often screen the fears of disaster and hopes for deliverance that are deep in the unconsciousness of its eager spectators. Released with great popularity into a Japan just unwillingly liberated from secular and religious authoritarianism, the film traces the depredations of an angry sea monster, a sort of fire-breathing Tyrannosaurus Rex, whom all civilian and military efforts, except the in extremis plan of a brilliant scientist, cannot defeat. Godzilla’s sudden, inexplicable appearance, or so one of the film’s scientist heroes opines, reflects the disturbance of the natural order effected by the Hiroshima and Nagasaki bombs. It was these inconceivable weapons—Emperor Hirohito had less than a decade before empha- sized in his public proclamation of surrender—that forced him to think the unthinkable and bear the unbearable. This unanticipated and total capitulation brought about an irreversible turn of fortunes in the nation’s political life that is recalled by the sudden advent of the monster. The radiation produced by the bombs, moreover, continued to exact a toll of deformity and disease that many Japanese felt shameful, often shunning its victims. This violation of the national body is figured by Godzilla’s assault, which fills hospitals with the mutilated and dying, many of whom are beyond the power of medical science to treat. Furthermore, like the bombing campaign directed with fearful results at the Japanese homeland, Godzilla vents his destructive urges on the nation’s capital, leveling the same Tokyo that had been devastated only nine years earlier by a massive firebombing that incinerated more than a hundred thousand of its citizens. Moreover, a culturalist reading of the film might see in the army’s inability to halt this monstrous threat a post-militarist fear of being overcome by a foreign invader. This nightmare had already come true, of course, in the ongoing American military occupation, one of whose results was the transformation of the once powerful Imperial army into a lightly armed defense force. However, invasion was once again threatened at the time of the film’s release in 1954 by Commu- nist expansionism in Southeast Asia—just barely and inconclusively halted the year before in Korea—which was a traditional sphere of Japanese influence and occupation. Finally, the resigned helplessness of Tokyo’s populace in the face of Godzilla’s assaults expresses, perhaps, a collective dread at having violated, through the failure of the war effort, the submissive spirit of traditional culture, which had been largely abandoned in a society now devoted to capitalist self- aggrandizement. Denied the opportunity to die honorably in an apocalyptic defense of the home islands, the Japanese people of the postwar era had survived in the face of an ethical imperative demand- ing self-annihilation before any acceptance of national dishonor. Godzilla comes, perhaps, to expiate this failure, threatening an apocalypse that is finally averted but only after unspeakable death and destruction. In any event, the angry giant reptile, who rises from his pelagic home to attack those who have unwittingly aroused him yet is accorded something like religious awe, is unlike the monsters brought to destructive life by nuclear testing in American science fiction films of the same period, the international series to which Godzilla other- wise belongs. The giant aggressive ants in Them (l954) and the huge carnivorous grasshoppers in The Beginning of the End (1957), among other similar threats, find their origin in radiation-caused genetic changes. In these extinction scenarios may be glimpsed a profound terror at the uncontrolled destructiveness that this new weapon has visited upon American culture. Godzilla, in contrast, is no product of a new and terrifying scientific age. Instead, he is an ancient creature come to destroy those who have brought this new age into being. Significantly, however, the guilty party is not the American invaders and occupiers, the bomb droppers who, in an antirealistic gesture, are not to be glimpsed or even mentioned in the world of the film. Instead, the monster’s target is the Japanese people themselves and their national, religious capital. Though its contemporary cultural symbolism is both rich and undeniable, Godzilla actually owes its origin to the long-held desire of special effects man Eiji Tsuburaya to make not a new and potent myth, but rather his own version of King Kong, Hollywood’s most impressive monster film to date. In addition, an obvious intertextual THE GOLD RUSHFILMS, 4 th EDITION 469 influence was the outpouring from Hollywood’s ‘‘B’’ producers of similar science fiction films in the American market. This trend was well established when Tsuburaya received the go-ahead from the executives at Toho Studio to make something quite similar. Many of these Hollywood films had been produced on very low budgets, yet had earned proportionally large profits from exhibition to, largely, youthful American audiences, most notably the customers of the thriving drive-in outlets. Tsuburaya read this contemporary popular- ity accurately, but modeled his production carefully on King Kong, made some two decades earlier. On a very tight budget, however, he did use a man dressed in a rubber suit instead of miniatures for Godzilla. Haru Nakajima, who played Godzilla with talent and subtlety in this and many subsequent productions, became one of the country’s best known actors. Tsuburaya’s monster film not only did well in the domestic Japanese market, but Embassy Pictures picked up the American rights at a time when few Japanese films, outside the art cinema of Kurosawa and others, enjoyed a release in the United States. The Hollywood version of the film, released in 1956, was every bit as effective as the original even though it was partly re-produced. Director Terrell Morse shot English language sequences that matched the photographic and compositional style of the Japanese version incredibly well. Raymond Burr, playing an American newspaperman, became the main character and narrator, replacing the Japanese reporter; the other sequences were dubbed, and a new music track added. Significantly, the casting of Burr (a familiar heavy in crime melodramas) as well as an artful use of chiaroscuro effects and voice- over flashback narration connected Godzilla to native film noir in the manner of several other sci-fi films of the period, most notably Don Siegel’s Invasion of the Body Snatchers (1956). Interestingly, these noir stylizations effectively matched the tone of helpless resignation in the Japanese original. Godzilla proved an outstanding success in the United States and, indeed, in its world-wide release. Significantly, the advertising cam- paign in the United States featured comparisons with King Kong, which, until the time of Godzilla’s release, had been the most successful film of this kind ever exhibited in America. Though King Kong is gunned down by attacking airplanes, Godzilla is ultimately destroyed by the invention of a reclusive scientist, reflecting the film’s connection to the contemporary Hollywood monster film. Played by Takashi Shimura (a familiar presence in the samurai films of Akira Kurosawa), the esteemed Dr. Yamano is a kind of Japanese Einstein whose theoretical work has enabled him to perfect a process that fundamentally alters water. His weapon removes its dissolved oxygen, thereby depriving the monster of what he needs to live. Like other sea creatures, Godzilla requires gills to breathe (though, like an amphibian, he seems also to have lungs and thus can survive on land as well). Dropped into Tokyo Bay, where he has retreated from the ineffective attacks of the Japanese army, this oxygen destroyer reduces Godzilla to a stripped skeleton. This ending proved unfortunate when the film’s popularity made a sequel an attractive possibility. Even so, a sequel was soon produced by Toho: Gojira no Gyakushyu, literally ‘‘Godzilla’s Counterattack’’ but, strangely, given Godzilla’s popularity, released in the United States as Gigantis the Fire Monster. In this rather uninspired imitation, Godzilla is found alive and returns to the mainland (his target this time is Osaka), where he meets with another reawakened denizen of the Jurassic period named Angurus. After winning a titanic battle of monstrous reptiles, Godzilla flees the mainland and is destroyed once again. Short on plot and with somewhat inept special effects, Gigantis did not receive the same enthusiastic reception from the world’s filmgoers as the original Godzilla. As a result, the series of Godzilla remakes that was to prove popular in Japan and abroad for more than two decades did not derive directly from the original film and its tepid remake. It was the 1962 release King Kong vs. Godzilla that soon became a kind of mini-genre, in which the originally terrifying monster became ever more sympathetic, eventually evolving into the protector of the home islands against the attacks of resurrected pterodactyls, giant wasps, and flying turtles as big and fast as jetliners. —R. Barton Palmer THE GOLD RUSH USA, 1925 Director: Charles Chaplin Production: Charles Chaplin Studio; black and white, 35mm, silent with musical score; running time: 74 minutes; length: 2720 meters. Released 16 August 1925, New York, by United Artists. Re-released 18 April 1942 in edited version of 2150 meters with music by Chaplin, and re-released again April 1956. Filmed January 1924-May 1925 in various studios, and on location in the Sierra Nevadas. Producer: Charles Chaplin; screenplay: Charles Chaplin; photog- raphy: R. H. Totheroh and Jack Wilson; art director: Charles D. Hall; artistic consultant: Harry d’Abbadie d’Arrast, Chaplin also assisted by Charles Reisner. Cast: Charles Chaplin (The Lone Prospector); Mack Swain (Big Jim McKay); Tom Murray (Black Larsen); Georgia Hale (The Girl); Betty Morissey (Chum of the Girl); Malcolm White (Jack Cameron); Henry Bergman (Hank Curtis); John Rand, Albert Austin, Heine Conklin, Allan Garcia and Tom Wood (Prospectors). Publications Script: Shot record by Timothy Lyons, in Cinema (Beverly Hills), Sum- mer 1968. Books: Frank, Waldo, Charles Chaplin: A Portrait, New York, 1929. Bowman, William Dodgson, Charlie Chaplin: His Life and Art, New York, 1931. THE GOLD RUSH FILMS, 4 th EDITION 470 The Gold Rush THE GOLD RUSHFILMS, 4 th EDITION 471 Cotes, Peter, and Thelma Niklaus, Charlot, Paris, 1951. Huff, Theodore, Charlie Chaplin, New York, 1951. Bessy, Maurice, and Robert Florey, Chaplin et le rire dans la nuit, Paris, 1952. Sadoul, Georges, Vie de Charlot, Paris, 1953. Tyler, Parker, Chaplin, Last of the Clowns, London, 1954. Leprohon, Pierre, Charlot, Paris, 1957. Mitry, Jean, Charlot et la fabulation chaplinesque, Paris, 1957. Amengual, Barthélemy, Charles Chaplin, Paris, 1963. Chaplin, Charles, My Autobiography, New York and London, 1964. McDonald, Gerald D., Michael Conway, and Mark Ricci, editors, The Films of Charlie Chaplin, New York, 1965. Martin, Marcel, Charles Chaplin, Paris, 1966; third edition, 1983. McCaffrey, Donald W., editor, Focus on Chaplin, Englewood Cliffs, New Jersey, 1971. Mitry, Jean, Tout Chaplin, Paris, 1972. Manvell, Roger, Chaplin, London, 1974. Chaplin, Charlie, My Life in Pictures, London, 1974; New York, 1975. Moss, Robert F., Charlie Chaplin, New York, 1975. Lyons, Timothy J., Charles Chaplin: A Guide to References and Resources, Boston, 1979. Eisenstein, Sergei, Film Essays and a Lecture, edited by Jay Leyda, Princeton, 1982. Haining, Peter, editor, The Legend of Charlie Chaplin, London, 1982. Gehring, Wes D., Charlie Chaplin: A Bio-Bibliography, Westport, Connecticut, 1983. Robinson, David, Chaplin: The Mirror of Opinion, London, 1983. Kamin, Dan, Charlie Chaplin’s One-Man Show, Metuchen, New Jersey, 1984. Smith, Julian, Chaplin, Boston, 1984. Robinson, David, Chaplin: His Life and Art, London, 1985. Saint-Martin, Catherine, Charlot/Chaplin; ou, La Conscience du mythe, Paris, 1987. Silver, Charles, Charles Chaplin: An Appreciation, New York, 1990. Lynn, Kenneth S., Charlie Chaplin and His Times, New York, 1997. Mitchell, Glenn, The Chaplin Encyclopedia, Phoenix, 1997. Milton, Joyce, Tramp: The Life of Charlie Chaplin, New York, 1998. Kimber, John, The Art of Charles Chaplin, Sheffield, 2000. Articles: New York Times, 17 August 1925. Variety (New York), 19 August 1925. Wilson, Edmund, in New Republic (New York), 2 September 1925. Huff, Theodore, ‘‘Chaplin as Composer,’’ in Films in Review (New York), September 1950. Dyer, Peter John, ‘‘The True Face of the Man,’’ in Films and Filming (London), September 1958. Callenbach, Ernest, in Film Quarterly (Berkeley), Fall 1959. Mast, Gerald, ‘‘The Gold Rush and The General,’’ in Cinema Journal (Evanston, Illinois), Spring 1970. Paul, William, in Film Comment (New York), September-Octo- ber 1972. Mersand, J., ‘‘The Preparation and Use of Study Guides for the Mass Media, with a Study Guide to The Gold Rush,’’ in Literature/Film Quarterly (Salisbury, Maryland), Spring 1975. Giuricin, in Cinema Nuovo (Turin), May-August 1975. Carroll, Noel, in Wide Angle (Athens, Ohio), no. 2, 1979. Shot analysis, in Avant-Scène du Cinéma (Paris), 1 January 1979. Michaels, J. E., ‘‘Chaplin and Brecht: The Gold Rush and The Rise and Fall of the City of Mahagonny,’’ in Literature/Film Quarterly (Salisbury, Maryland), no. 3, 1980. Randisi, S., ‘‘The Flirting Angel and the Tramp,’’ in Filmfax (Evans- ton, Illinois), June-July 1993. Frumkes, R., ‘‘More Chaplin on Laserdisc,’’ in Films in Review (New York), vol. 45, July/August 1994. Gill, David, ‘‘The Gold Rush 1925–1942–1993,’’ in Griffithiana, no. 54, October 1995. ‘‘The Gold Rush,’’ in Score (Lelystad), no. 101, December 1996. Ekbom, T., ‘‘En hemlig bild av var och en,’’ Chaplin (Stockholm), vol. 37, no. 5/6, 1995/1996. *** The Gold Rush was Chaplin’s favorite among his own films, so much a favorite that he deliberately did not copyright it, allowing it to pass into the public domain as a gift to his future public. As a result, the film has been seen more frequently than any other Chaplin feature, especially between 1952 and 1972, the two decades of Chaplin’s disenchantment with America, when he withdrew all his other feature films from public circulation. Inspired by stories of the Donner Party, trapped in a desert of ice, and perhaps by the icy landscapes of Robert Flaherty’s popular documentary feature, Nanook of the North, Chap- lin took his Tramp character to the frozen gold fields where human beings endure great hardships so that they might strike it rich. As usual in a Chaplin film, the Tramp is very much an outsider in the world of The Gold Rush, even in this society of outsiders and outcasts. The Tramp is too kind, too sensitive to human needs, and too spiritual for that isolated, materialistic world. The Tramp’s kindness in befriending Georgia, an abused dance-hall girl, contrasts with other human actions in the film—with those of Jack, Georgia’s handsome boyfriend who treats her as his sex object; or with those of Black Larsen, a man so hungry for gold that he robs and kills others. Despite the serious moral issues which the film raises in its contrast of material and spiritual human pursuits, its popularity derives from the power of its comedy sequences. In one of the most famous of Chaplin’s transpositions of objects—his conversion of one kind of physical object into another—the Tramp cooks a dinner for himself and his starving friend, Big Jim McKay. Lacking anything else to eat, the Tramp sacrifices one of his own symbols, his floppy shoe, which he boils carefully in a pot, testing it with a fork for tenderness. He then carves it like a roast beef, twirls the shoestrings around his fork like spaghetti and sucks on the nails like chicken bones. In a later sequence, lacking even a shoe to eat, Charlie converts himself into a mammoth chicken—or so Big Jim imagines. The contrast of Charlie’s chickenish actions with the cannibalistic dreams of his sometime friend reveals the typical Chaplin method of making comedy out of the most basic and elemental human needs—love, shelter, hunger. Balancing the comedic scenes is one of the most effective and powerful sequences of pathos and poignancy in the entire Chaplin canon. Charlie has invited Georgia, whose picture he preserves under GONE WITH THE WIND FILMS, 4 th EDITION 472 his pillow next to a rose, and several of her friends at the dance hall to supper on New Year’s Eve. They, making fun of the pathetic little Tramp, have teasingly promised to attend the supper. As he waits for them, Charlie falls asleep and dreams of the delightful dinner that will never be. He entertains the girls by sticking two rolls on the ends of two forks and using them to dance the ‘‘Oceana Roll.’’ The sight of Charlie’s playful face, coyly peering over the tops of these two tiny, dancing legs is one of the most memorable single images in Chaplin’s work. But Charlie awakens to find that his social success has only been a dream—like his many dreams of love and success in earlier films. The pathos of his loneliness is emphasized by the communal society of revelers singing ‘‘Auld Lang Syne,’’ while Charlie, shown isolated within the frame, stands outside the circle of their friendship and observes. However, almost miraculously, the Tramp eventually finds both love and wealth in this film. Charlie, now rich from his gold strike, discovers Georgia on board the same ship on which he is travelling home. She has had enough of the frozen wasteland (Chaplin typically uses the hired dance-hall girl as a metaphor for prostitution, the conversion of female sexuality into a commodity to be bought and sold). Georgia reveals her kindness when she protects Charlie from the ship’s captain, believing him to be a stowaway. And Charlie, in turn, returns the girl’s kindness by embracing her, now that he can offer her money as well as love. In what seems Chaplin’s own conscious comment on the film’s happy ending, a group of shipboard photographers, taking pictures of the former Tramp now a million- aire, criticize a photograph of the Tramp’s kissing Georgia: ‘‘You’ve spoiled the picture.’’ Chaplin seemed to have been anticipating the film’s critics whom he expected to attack this last scene. The issue that the ending raises is whether the Tramp can ever find happiness with a romantic-sexual mate. Must the Tramp, as outcast and outsider, also be disqualified from the consummation of love, which in our society is formalized by marriage? The previous Chaplin films to end with a happy, affirmative answer to this question (The Vagabond, A Dog’s Life, The Kid) also suggest something dreamlike and impossible about such a solution. This dreamlike suggestion about the Tramp’s attainment of marital happiness becomes explicit in films like The Bank or Shoulder Arms, in which his attainment of the lady of his dreams literally turns out to be a dream. His next three films, The Circus, City Lights, and Modern Times, will return to the marriage theme with far more ambiguity and uncertainty. The Gold Rush, which lies at the crossroads of Chaplin’s lighter early work and his more mature and darker features, is probably his most successful film at producing a completely happy ending without ‘‘spoiling the picture.’’ —Gerald Mast THE GOLDEN AGE See L’AGED’OR THE GOLDEN COACH See LE CARROSSE D’OR GONE WITH THE WIND USA, 1939 Director: Victor Fleming Production: Selznick International Pictures; Technicolor, 35mm; running time: 220 minutes; length: 20,300 feet. Released 15 Decem- ber 1939 in Atlanta by MGM, some sources list the premiere date as 18 November 1939. Re-released 1947, 1954, 1967, 1969. Filmed 10 December 1938-August 1939 in RKO backlots and studios (rented to Selznick International for the film), and on location at Old Laskey Mesa, California. Cost: $4,250,000. Producer: David O. Selznick; screenplay: Sidney Howard, with structural innovations by Jo Swerling and some dialogue by Ben Hecht and John van Druten, from the novel by Margaret Mitchell; uncredited directors: George Cukor and Sam Wood; photography: Ernest Haller; cameramen: Lee Garmes, Joseph Ruttenberg, Ray Rennahan, and Wilfred Cline; editors: Hal C. Kern and James E. Newcom; sound recordist: Frank Maher; production designer: William Cameron Menzies; art director: Lyle Wheeler; musical score: Max Steiner; special effects: Jack Cosgrove and Lee Zavitz; costume designer: Walter Plunkett, Scarlett’s hats by John Frederics; consulting historian: Wilbur G. Kurtz; dance direction: Frank Floyd and Eddie Prinz. Cast: Vivien Leigh (Scarlett O’Hara); Clark Gable (Rhett Butler); Leslie Howard (Ashley Wilkes); Olivia De Havilland (Melanie Hamil- ton); Hattie McDaniel (Mammy); Thomas Mitchell (Gerald O’Hara); Barbara O’Neil (Ellen O’Hara); Caroll Nye (Frank Kennedy); Laura Hope Crews (Aunt Pittypat); Harry Davenport (Dr. Meade); Rand Brooks (Charles Hamilton); Ona Munson (Belle Watling); Ann Rutherford (Careen O’Hara); George Reeves (Stuart Tarleton), wrongly credited on screen as Brent Tarleton; Fred Crane (Brent Tarleton); Oscar Polk (Pork); Butterfly McQueen (Prissy); Evelyn Keyes (Suellen O’Hara); Jane Darwell (Mrs. Merriweather); Leona Roberts (Mrs. Meade); Everett Brown (Big Sam); Eddie Anderson (Uncle Peter); Ward Bond (Tom, a Yankee Captain); Cammie King (Bonnie Blue Butler); J. M. Kerrigan (Johnny Gallagher); Isabel Jewell (Emmy Slattery); Alicia Rhett (India Wilkes); Victor Jory (Jonas Wilkerson); Howard Hickman (John Wilkes); Mary Anderson (Maybelle Merriweather); Paul Hurst (Yankee Looter); Marcella Martin (Cathleen Calvert); Mickey Kuhn (Beau Wilkes); Zack Wil- liams (Elijah). Awards: Oscars for Best Picture, Best Director, Best Actress (Leigh), Best Supporting Actress (McDaniel), Best Screenplay, Best Cinematography-Color, Best Editing, Interior Decoration, 1939; Acad- emy of Motion Pictures Arts and Sciences Special Awards to William Cameron Menzies for Color Achievement and to Don Musgrave and Selznick International Pictures for pioneering use of coordinated equipment, 1939; New York Film Critics’ Award, Best Actress (Leigh), 1939. GONE WITH THE WINDFILMS, 4 th EDITION 473 Gone with the Wind Publications Script: Howard, Sidney, Gone with the Wind, edited by Richard Harwell, New York, 1980. Books: Thomas, Bob, Selznick, New York, 1950. Howard, Leslie Ruth, A Quite Remarkable Father, New York, 1959. De Havilland, Olivia, Every Frenchman Has One, New York, 1962. Samuels, Charles, The King: A Biography of Clark Gable, New York, 1963. Farr, Finis, Margaret Mitchell of Atlanta: The Author of Gone with the Wind, New York, 1965. Essoe, Gabe, and Ray Lee, Gable: A Complete Gallery of His Screen Portraits, Los Angeles, 1967. Dent, Alan, Vivien Leigh: A Bouquet, London, 1969. Essoe, Gabe, The Films of Clark Gable, New York, 1970. Robyns, Gwen, Vivien Leigh, New York, 1971. Selznick, David O., Memo from David O. Selznick, edited by Rudy Behlmer, New York, 1972, 1981, 1989, 2000. Lambert, Gavin, GWTW, Boston, 1973. Flamini, Roland, Scarlett, Rhett, and a Cast of Thousands: The Filming of Gone with the Wind, New York, 1975. Mitchell, Margaret, ‘‘Gone with the Wind’’ Letters, edited by Richard Harwell, New York, 1976. Tornabene, Lyn, Long Live the King: A Biography of Clark Gable, New York, 1976. Edwards, Anne, Vivien Leigh: A Biography, New York, 1977. Pratt, William, Scarlett Fever, New York, 1977. Have, Ronald, David O. Selznick’s Hollywood, New York, 1980. Fearfar, R., Clark Gable, Paris, 1981. Harwell, Richard, editor, Gone with the Wind, As Book and Film, Columbia, South Carolina, 1983. Bridges, Herb, Frankly My Dear: Gone with the Wind Memorabilia, Macon, Georgia, 1986. Howard, Sidney, Gone with the Wind: The Illustrated Screenplay, New York, 1986. GONE WITH THE WIND FILMS, 4 th EDITION 474 Bridges, Herb, The Filming of Gone with the Wind, Macon, Geor- gia, 1989. Molt, Cynthia Marylee, Gone with the Wind on Film: A Complete Reference, Jefferson, North Carolina, 1990. Harmetz, Aljean, On the Road to Tara: The Making of Gone with the Wind, New York, 1996. Vertrees, Alan D., Selznick’s Vision: Gone with the Wind & Holly- wood Filmmaking, Austin, 1997. Bridges, Herb, Gone with the Wind: The Three-Day Premiere in Atlanta, Macon, 1999. Articles: Variety (New York), 20 December 1939. Nugent, Frank S., in New York Times, 20 December 1939. ‘‘Directed by Victor Fleming,’’ in Lion’s Roar (Los Angeles), September 1941. Curtis, David, and Richard Goldhurst, in Film Culture (New York), May-June 1955. Dyer, Tom, in Films in Review (New York), May 1957. Dickens, Homer, ‘‘Leslie Howard,’’ in Films in Review (New York), April 1959. Clarens, Carlos, ‘‘Clark Gable,’’ in Films in Review (New York), December 1960. Hart, Henry, in Films in Review (New York), May 1961. Doyle, Neil, ‘‘Olivia De Havilland,’’ in Films in Review (New York), February 1962. Bowers, Ronald, ‘‘Vivien Leigh,’’ in Films in Review (New York), August-September 1965. Sarris, Andrew, in Village Voice (New York), 26 October 1967. Lightman, Herb A., ‘‘Creating the New 70mm Stereophonic Sound Version of Gone with the Wind,’’ in American Cinematographer (Los Angeles), November 1967. Reid, John Howard, ‘‘The Man Who Made Gone with the Wind,’’ in Films and Filming (London), December 1967. De Havilland, Olivia, ‘‘Dream That Never Died,’’ in Look (New York), 12 December 1967. Gow, Gordon, in Sight and Sound (London), November 1968. Stevens, J. D., ‘‘The Black Reaction to Gone with the Wind,’’ in Journal of Popular Film (Washington, D.C.), Fall 1973. Pauly, T. H., ‘‘Gone with the Wind and The Grapes of Wrath as Hollywood Histories of the Depression,’’ in Journal of Popular Culture (Bowling Green, Ohio), Summer 1974. Finney, E., ‘‘Now Hollywood Stars Achieve Success in Spite of Themselves,’’ in Classic Film Collector (Indiana, Pennsylvania), Fall 1976. Sarris, Andrew, ‘‘Frankly My Dear, We Do Give a Damn,’’ in Village Voice (New York), 29 November 1976. Gelé, C., in Ecran (Paris), March 1978. De Benedictis, M., ‘‘Scarlett e altro: Le stagioni di un nostro amore,’’ in Bianco e Nero (Rome), January-February 1979. ‘‘GWTW Quiz,’’ in Films in Review (New York), December 1979. Lindsey, R., in New York Times, 31 December 1979. Behlmer, Rudy, in Magill’s Survey of Cinema 2, Englewood Cliffs, New Jersey, 1980. Slifer, C.W.D., ‘‘Creating Visual Effects for G.W.T.W.,’’ in Ameri- can Cinematographer (Los Angeles), August 1982. Taylor, John Russell, in Films and Filming (London), June 1984. Janssen, C., in Skoop (Amsterdam), December 1984-January 1985. Valkay, S., and P. Szentmihalyi Szabo, in Filmkultura (Budapest), January 1985. Weinberger, M., in Cinéma (Paris), May 1985. Mancini, M., ‘‘Replantation,’’ in American Film (Washington, D.C.), January-February 1986. Ven de Ven, L., in Soundtrack! (Los Angeles), June 1986. Oney, Steve, ‘‘A Second Wind,’’ in American Film (Washington D.C.), December 1986. Haun, H., in Films in Review (New York), vol. 42, no. 11–12, November-December 1991. Pierpont, C. R., ‘‘A Study in Scarlett,’’ in New Yorker, 31 August 1992. Beken, Ludo, ‘‘The Making of a Legend,’’ in Film en Televisie + Video (Brussels), no. 426, November 1992. McCarver, Pat, ‘‘Gone With the Wind: The Best Movie I’ve Ever Seen,’’ in Classic Images (Muscatine), no. 218, August 1993. Lippert, R., ‘‘’You Make Me Feel Like a Natural Woman,’’ in Frauen und Film, no. 54–55, April 1994. Dagle, J., and Kathryn Kalinak, ‘‘The Representation of Race and Sexuality: Visual and Musical Reconstruction in Gone With the Wind,’’ in Post Script (Commerce), vol. 8, no. 2, Winter- Spring 1994. French, Tony, ‘‘Has Gone With the Wind Gone With the Wind? or, Can we be Intelligent About the Past?’’ in CineAction (Toronto), no. 40, May 1996. Kaufman, D., ‘‘LaserPacific Restores Luster to Gone With the Wind,’’ in American Cinematographer (Hollywood), vol. 78, September 1997. Tonkens, S., in Film Score Monthly (Los Angeles), vol. 2, no. 3, 1997. Lovell, Glenn, ‘‘Frankly, My Dear, This Is No Improvement,’’ in Variety (New York), vol. 371, no. 7, 22 June 1998. *** Gone with the Wind, based on Margaret Mitchell’s best-selling novel about the South during the Civil War and Reconstruction, made producer David O. Selznick’s name a box-office draw, made the relatively unknown Vivien Leigh an international star, and became the most popular motion picture of all time. Soon after Selznick bought the movie rights to Mitchell’s novel in July 1936, thousands of fan letters began to arrive at Selznick International Pictures, most of them demanding that Clark Gable play the role of Rhett Butler. In order to get Gable, Selznick had to make a deal with MGM and Louis B. Mayer, who held Gable’s contract. In exchange for Gable’s services and $1,125,000 of the film’s budget, MGM would receive the distribution rights and half the profits of GWTW. Since Selznick had a contract with United Artists to distribute all his films until the end of 1938, principal shooting on GWTW could not start before 1939. In order to maintain public interest in the film before shooting could begin, Selznick launched a nationwide talent search to find an unknown actress to play Scarlett O’Hara. In the course of the two-year search, 1400 candidates were interviewed and 90 were tested, at a total cost of $92,000. Among those considered for the part were Katharine Hepburn and Paulette Goddard. The role GOODFELLASFILMS, 4 th EDITION 475 eventually went to Vivien Leigh, a British actress who was largely unknown to American audiences. The production phase of GWTW began auspiciously in December 1938, with the Atlanta fire scene—the largest fire ever staged in a film up to that time. Principal shooting, which started six weeks later, was plagued by numerous problems and required seven months to com- plete. The main problem was the script, which despite the efforts of more than a dozen writers, remained a confusing mass of revisions, and revisions of revisions, until after shooting was completed. The disorganized condition of the script made shooting difficult and created tension among the production personnel. After only three weeks of principal shooting, Selznick replaced director George Cukor with Victor Fleming. Two months later, Fleming, upset by Selznick’s handling of the script, went home and refused to work. Selznick quickly hired Sam Wood to direct and when Fleming decided to return to the film two weeks later, Selznick let the two men split the directorial chores. When GWTW was finally completed, it turned out to be a monu- mental film in almost every respect. Its technical achievements included the Atlanta fire sequence, the use of matte paintings to provide distant backgrounds and to complete partially constructed sets (GWTW marked the second use in Technicolor film of the matte process in which painted backgrounds are blended with filmed scenes of live actors), and the railroad depot crane shot, in which the camera pulls back and up to reveal Scarlett O’Hara walking among thousands of wounded Confederate soldiers—about 2000 live extras and dum- mies. Its total cost was $4.25 million—equivalent to $50 million today. It had the longest running time (3 hours 40 minutes) of its day and the largest titles in cinema history—each word of the film’s title fills the screen itself. It was also the first major film to successfully challenge the Production Code’s prohibition of profanity—with Rhett Butler’s final line, ‘‘Frankly, my dear, I don’t give a damn.’’ When GWTW premiered in Atlanta on December 15, 1939, over one million people poured into the city of 300,000, hoping to see Clark Gable, Vivien Leigh, and the other stars who attended the premiere. After three days of parades, celebrations, and Confederate flag-waving, a select audience of 2500 people saw the film, and they loved it. GWTW quickly became a worldwide critical and box-office success and won ten Academy Awards, a record that stood until 1959, when Ben Hur won eleven. As of 1983, GWTW has earned $76.7 million in domestic rentals. In 1976 NBC paid $5 million for the film’s television premiere. The program, aired over two nights in November, 1976, received a 47.6 Neilsen rating—the highest rating ever received by a movie on television. CBS subsequently paid $35 million for 20 airings of GWTW over a 20-year period. When appropriate adjustments for inflation are made, GWTW is the biggest box-office success in cinema history. The current critical consensus is that GWTW is the quintessential Hollywood studio system product. —Clyde Kelly Dunagan THE GOOD, THE BAD, AND THE UGLY See IL BUONO, IL BRUTO, IL CATTIVO GOODFELLAS USA, 1990 Director: Martin Scorsese Production: Warner Bros.; Technicolour; 35mm; running time: 145 minutes. Filmed in New York City, 1989. Released September 1990, USA. Producer: Irwin Winkler; executive producer: Barbara de Fina; screenplay: Martin Scorsese, Nicholas Pileggi, based on the book Wiseguy by Nicholas Pileggi; photography: Michael Balhaus; edi- tor: Thelma Schoonmaker, James Kwei; assistant directors: Joseph Reidy, Vebe Borge, Deborah Lupard; production designer: Kristi Zea; art director: Maher Ahmad; music editor: Christopher Brooks; sound editors: Skip Lievsay, Philip Stockton, Marissa Littlefield, Fred Rosenberg, Jeff Stern, Bruce Kitzmeyer; title design: Saul Bass and Elaine Bass. Cast: Ray Liotta (Henry Hill); Lorraine Bracco (Karen Hill); Robert De Niro (Jimmy Conway); Joe Pesci (Tommy DeVito); Paul Sorvino (Paulie Cicero); Frank Sivero (Frankie Carbone); Tony Darrow (Sonny Bunz); Chuck Low (Morrie Kessler); Frank Vincent (Billy Batts); Gina Mastrogiacomo (Janice Rossi); Debi Mazar (Sandy); Frank DiLeo (Tuddy Cicero); Christopher Serrone (Young Henry). GoodFellas GOODFELLAS FILMS, 4 th EDITION 476 Awards: Venice Film Festival Award for Best Director, 1990; Oscar for Best Supporting Actor (Pesci), 1990; British Academy Award for Best Director and Best Film, 1990. Publications Script: Scorsese, Martin, and Nicholas Pileggi, GoodFellas, London, 1990. Books: Kelly, Mary Pat, Martin Scorsese: A Journey, New York, 1991. Ehrenstein, David, The Scorsese Picture: The Art and Life of Martin Scorsese, New York, 1992. Keyser, Les, Martin Scorsese, New York, 1992. Connelly, Mary K., Martin Scorsese: An Analysis of His Feature Films, Jefferson, North Carolina, 1993. Stern, Lesley, Scorsese Connection, London, 1995. Bliss, Michael, The Word Made Flesh: Catholicism and Conflict in the Films of Martin Scorsese, Lanham, 1998. Dougan, Andy, Martin Scorsese—Close Up: The Making of His Movies, New York, 1998. Friedman, Lawrence S., The Cinema of Martin Scorsese, New York, 1998. Brunette, Peter, editor, Martin Scorsese: Interviews, Jackson, 1999. Articles: Variety (New York), 10 September 1990. Kael, Pauline, New Yorker, 24 September 1990. Jousse, T., and B. Reynaud, Cahiers du Cinéma (Paris), Septem- ber 1990. Lenne, G., ‘‘De grands enfants,’’ in Revue du Cinéma (Paris), September 1990. Murphy, K., ‘‘Made Men,’’ in Film Comment (New York), Septem- ber-October 1990. Donovan, F., Cinéma (Paris), October 1990. Rollet, P., and others, ‘‘Scorsese sur Scorsese,’’ in Cahiers du Cinéma (Paris), October 1990. Tobin, Y., and others, Positif (Paris), October 1990. Beauchamp, M., ‘‘Ce que filmer veut dire,’’ in 24 Images (Montreal), November-December 1990. Bahiana, A. M., and others, Cinema Papers (Melbourne), Decem- ber 1990. Milne, Tom, Monthly Film Bulletin (London), December 1990. Caron, A., Séquences (Montreal), January 1991. Viano, M., Film Quarterly (Berkeley), Spring 1991. Quart, L., Cineaste (New York), 1991. ‘‘Film as Literature: Two Screenplays,’’ in Literature/Film Quarterly (Salisbury), vol. 23, no. 1, January 1995. Scorsese, M., ‘‘De Niro & moi,’’ in Cahiers du Cinéma (Paris), no. 500, March 1996. Lippe, R., ‘‘Style as Attitude: Two Films by Martin Scorsese,’’ in CineAction (Toronto), no. 41, 1996. Perez, G., ‘‘Film in Review,’’ in Yale Review, vol. 84, no. 3, 1996. Bauer, Erik, ‘‘Stephen King’s Other Half: Interview with Frank Darabont,’’ in Creative Screenwriting (Washington, D.C.), vol. 4, no. 2, Summer 1997. Amis, M., in Premiere (Boulder), vol. 11, October 1997. Murphy, Kathleen, ‘‘Made Men,’’ in Film Comment (New York), vol. 34, no. 3, May-June 1998. Smith, Gavin, ‘‘Street Smart,’’ in Film Comment (New York), vol. 34, no. 3, May-June 1998. *** Scorsese’s ‘‘GoodFellas’’ are the ironically glamorized criminal underclass who occupy an ambivalent textual position somewhere between a criminal rap sheet and the pages of Modern Screen. With GoodFellas, Scorsese extends and refines his examination of those shadowy figures at the edge of collective media consciousness who seem both to shun exposure and to covet a dubious celebrity. A product of the urban working-class environment, they are ‘‘movie stars with muscle,’’ familiar with the back alleys and circuitous underground routes which seem to lead to the front rows of the urban high life. Scorsese’s wise guys are the ‘‘real,’’ marginalized characters of criminal biography but also parodic figures who espouse the central- ized values of an American business ethos which prizes individual- ism, ruthless self-interest, and bold opportunism. The display of wealth and power is an essential feature of the guerilla economics practised in the criminal underworld, and as a boy, Henry Hill is attracted to the aura of success, literally to the impression his criminal heroes make upon the world: the self-conscious figures they cut, the garrulous social habits they establish, and the weight and aura of presence that accompany their proceedings. Scorsese records Henry’s recollections in loving detail as the boy detaches himself from normative family allegiances to participate in what seems an emancipatory communal self-fashioning. Henry’s childhood is the ‘‘glorious time’’ of economic expansion, of imaginative criminal subversion and empire-building. Yet it is a world in which display and concealment must be held in delicate equilibrium, where an incomprehensible chaos simmers beneath the surface textures of ‘‘normal’’ behaviours. Criminal camaraderie co-exists uneasily with virulent self-promotion; Joe Pesci’s unnerving performance as Tommy DeVito provides the central figure for an explosive and unpredictable brutality, a barbarity which is ironically both ethos and threatening ‘‘other’’ to the self- regulating world of corporate criminality. Tommy is the dangerous and disruptive ‘‘arch-criminal’’ whose pathological machismo vio- lates a more-or-less stable corporate hierarchy. His execution is less a visitation of poetic justice than a reminder of the arbitrary stratifica- tion which excludes Henry and Jimmy Conway from true success, from the ‘‘legitimacy’’ of more comfortable criminal associations. By occupation, and by carefully educating himself in a life of crime, Henry seems to choose social over familial connections. Yet the glamorized freedoms of criminal marginality seem to inevitably segue into the restrictive enclosures of traditional domesticity. When G?STA BERLINGS SAGAFILMS, 4 th EDITION 477 Henry moves in with his mistress, Jimmy and Paulie Cicero order him to ‘‘do the right thing,’’ to return to his wife. Appearances, at least, must be kept up, and deviation from normality frequently exacts the harshest of penalties. Economic freedom itself, the marginal ‘‘ex- tras’’ wise guys struggle after, becomes a form of imprisonment, and criminal conspiracy inevitably demands the social exclusivity of the traditional suburban enclave. As Karen Hill explains, no ‘‘outsiders’’ are admitted into their social circle: ‘‘Being together all the time made everything seem all the more normal.’’ With the combined pressure of constant police harassment and a radically unpredictable business environment, domestic behaviours are grotesquely exaggerated while at the same time boundaries between private and ‘‘public’’ life are eroded: Karen casually sits in front of the television as detectives execute yet another search warrant; the morning after Henry witnesses another of Tommy’s violent depravities, Karen threatens Henry for his sexual infidelities with a loaded pistol. Karen’s perception of surface normality is ironically echoed by Henry’s commentary on the acceleration of mob violence throughout the 1970’s. Shooting people simply becomes a ‘‘normal thing.’’ During a lengthy though luxurious prison stay, Henry begins to deal cocaine even though on the outside dealing is an unacceptable form of enterprise because it exposes his superiors to harsh federal penalties. The romanticized illusion of a cohesive criminal community, of conspiratorial confidence, is dissipated with Tommy’s execution and, ironically, with the final big score engineered by Morrie and Jimmy. Calculation and self-interest can no longer be glossed over by social familiarity, and the bodies of Jimmy’s former associates garishly accumulate for months after the Lufthansa robbery. In the final act, Henry has become the rogue individualist, dealing cocaine through a lucrative out-of-town connection. In a brilliantly adrenalized sequence during which he juggles the mounting pressures of state surveillance, banal domestic appointments, drug-intensified paranoia, professional treachery, and careless babysitters, Henry is finally outmanoeuvred by federal narcotics investigators. His arrest, of course, simultaneously exposes his treachery to his mob superiors, yet Henry remains adept in reading the duplicitous surface of a crimi- nal society in which he has suddenly become a dangerous liability. After his final meeting with Jimmy, Henry opts into the witness protection program which, ironically, subjects him to an inescapable suburban normality. For Henry the hardest thing is not betraying lifelong associates but ‘‘leaving the life,’’ becoming the ‘‘average nobody’’ who has to ‘‘wait around like everybody else.’’ In GoodFellas, organized crime seems to grow out of and perpetu- ate class division; it is the shortcut whereby the ambitious working class achieves only a tenuous facsimile of capitalist success. Scorsese’s obvious message is that the American dream feeds upon those it enthralls, that even the criminal ‘‘success’’ story, however perilous, replicates the image of mainstream cultural beliefs. —Tom Orman THE GOSPEL ACCORDING TO ST. MATTHEW See IL VANGELO SECONDO MATTEO G?STA BERLINGS SAGA (The Story of G?sta Berling) Sweden, 1923 Director: Mauritz Stiller Production: Svensk Filmindustri; black and white, 35mm, silent, shown in two parts; running time: 137 minutes; length: first part-2346 meters, second part-2189 meters, eventually edited by Stiller down to about current length. Released 10 and 17 March, 1924. Re-released 1933–1934 in a re-edited version by Ragner Hylten-Cavallius, with sound. Filmed fall 1923 in Sweden. Scenario: Mauritz Stiller and Ragner Hyltén-Cavillius, from the novel by Selma Lagerl?f; photography: Julius Jaenzon; art direc- tor: Wilhelm Bryde. Cast: Lars Hanson (G?sta Berling); Gerda Lundequist-Dahlstrom (Majorskan Samzelius); Otto Elg-Lundgren (Major Semzelius); Sixten Melmerfelt (Melchior Sinclaire); Karin Swanstrom (Gustafva Sinclaire); Jenny Hasselqvist (Marianne Sinclaire); Ellen Cedarstrom (Countess Martha Dohna); Mona Martenson (Countess Ebba Dohna); Torsten Hammeren (Count Hendrick Dohna); Greta Garbo (Countess Elizabeth Dohna). G?sta Berlings Saga THE GRADUATE FILMS, 4 th EDITION 478 Publications Books: Idestam-Almquist, Bengt, Den Svenska Filmens Drama: Sj?strom och Stiller, Stockholm, 1938. Hardy, Forsyth, Scandinavian Film, London, 1951. Idestam-Almquist, Bengt, Classics of the Swedish Cinema, Stock- holm, 1952. Bainbridge, John, Garbo, New York, 1955. Waldenkranz, Rune, Swedish Cinema, Stockholm, 1959. Beranger, Jean, La Grande Aventure du Cinema Suédois, Paris, 1960. Conway, Michael, The Films of Greta Garbo, New York, 1963. Cowie, Peter, Swedish Cinema, London, 1966. Pensel, Hans, Seastrom and Stiller in Hollywood, New York, 1969. Articles: Potamkin, M. C., ‘‘The Golden Age of Scandinavian Film,’’ in Cinema (London), September 1930. Verdone, Mario, ‘‘Stiller,’’ in Cinema (Milan), no. 126, 1954. Idestam-Almquist, Bengt, ‘‘The Man Who Found Garbo,’’ in Films and Filming (London), August 1956. Gronowicz, A., ‘‘Greta Garbo and My Book,’’ in Contemporary Review (London), December 1960. Robertson, Jo Anne, ‘‘Mauritz Stiller,’’ in Monthly Film Bulletin (London), December 1977. Werner, G., ‘‘Svenska giganter,’’ in Filmrutan (Stockholm), no. 3, 1981. Paavolainen, Olavi, ‘‘Kaski mestaria - kaski vastakohtaa,’’ in Filmihullu (Helsinki), no. 5, 1992. Cristalli, P., ‘‘How Little You Know About Love,’’ in Cinegrafie (Ancona), vol. 6, no. 10, 1997. *** G?sta Berlings Saga is regarded by many as Sweden’s Gone With the Wind. With an epic sweep, episodic structure, and numerous characters, it evokes 19th-century Swedish life and is imbued with a lyricism and vibrancy which places its director Mauritz Stiller among the masters of silent film. The film represents both the pinnacle and the swan song of the ‘‘golden age’’ of Swedish cinema— 1913–24. With its plot centering on the search for redemption by G?sta Berling, the defrocked priest, and the several women who disastrously fall in love with him, it numbers, along with Griffith’s Intolerance, among the earliest important films of social protest and one of the masterpieces of silent cinema. Stiller was a flamboyant dandy whose early reputation was built on sophisticated comedies exhibiting visual dexterity and artful editing. In 1919, he directed what is generally regarded as his foremost masterpiece—Sir Arne’s Treasure (The Three Who Were Doomed), based on a novel by the popular Nobel Prize-winning Selma Lagerl?f. He directed the De Mille-like sex comedy Erotikon and then returned to adapting Lagerl?f’s novels with Gunnar Hede’s Saga and finally G?sta Berlings Saga. G?sta Berlings Saga was a formidable undertaking which encom- passed many characters and themes, required elaborate sets and costumes and resulted in a four-hour production shown in two parts on consecutive evenings. Stiller eventually conceded this impracticality and edited the film to 137 minutes. His editing, while judiciously shortening many scenes rather than eliminating them, nonetheless imposed a disjunction which ultimately mars the continuity. Despite this shortcoming, G?sta Berlings Saga remains a remarkable evoca- tion of life among the Swedish aristocracy and mirrors its repression and hypocrisy. The first half of the film is devoted to exposition and the introduction of the many characters while the second half is highlighted by the dramatic fire in Ekeby Hall, a flight from wolves by sleigh across a frozen lake, and the brilliant acting of the venerable Gerda Lundequist-Dahlstrom as the shamed mistress of the manor. Stiller’s directorial technique was displayed through an expres- sive visual lyricism, an artistic use of light contrasted with shadowy darker hues and a picturesque depiction of the beauty and variety of the Swedish landscape. These elements are particularly evident in his photographing (with the masterful cinematographer Julius Jaenzon) of the then unknown Greta Garbo, who played Elizabeth. Stiller’s scenes of Garbo picking flowers in the garden, carrying a lamp through the mansion hallways at night, and her first close-up in the sleigh scene capture the luminescence and radiance that made her the most unique female screen image of all time. The success of G?sta Berlings Saga resulted in both Stiller and Garbo being hired by MGM in 1925. His three years in Hollywood destroyed Stiller and he returned to Sweden to die at the age of 45 in 1928. That same year G?sta Berlings Saga was released in the United States where a number of religious groups denounced it as ‘‘a glorified Elmer Gantry.’’ Lagerl?f disdained Stiller’s interpretation of her novel, claiming he had seen ‘‘too many poor serials.’’ For the most part G?sta Berlings Saga is remembered today as the film which introduced Garbo to the screen. However, it is a major work of the silent screen and as French critic Jean Beranger wrote: ‘‘If all but one Swedish silent film were to perish, this, probably, would be the one to save as the best witness of its period. All the charm, intelligence, profound human resonance and technical dexterity, here blend into an indissol- uble bloc.’’ —Ronald Bowers THE GRADUATE USA, 1967 Director: Mike Nichols Production: Embassy/Lawrence Turman; Technicolor; Panavision; running time: 108 minutes; length: 9,720 feet. Released Decem- ber 1967. Producer: Lawrence Turman; screenplay: Calder Willingham, Buck Henry, from the novel by Charles Webb; assistant director: Don THE GRADUATEFILMS, 4 th EDITION 479 The Graduate Kranze; photography: Robert Surtees; editor: Sam O’Steen; sound: Jack Solomon; production designer: Richard Sylbert; music: David Grusin; songs: Paul Simon; performed by: Simon and Garfunkel. Cast: Anne Bancroft (Mrs. Robinson); Dustin Hoffman (Ben Braddock); Katharine Ross (Elaine Robinson); William Daniels (Mr. Braddock); Murray Hamilton (Mr. Robinson); Elizabeth Wilson (Mrs. Braddock); Brian Avery (Carl Smith); Walter Brooke (Mr. Maguire); Norman Fell (Mr. McCleery); Alice Ghostley (Mrs. Singleman); Buck Henry (Room Clerk); Marion Lorne (Miss de Witt). Award: Oscar for Best Director, 1967. Publications Books: Schuth, H. Wayne, Mike Nichols, Boston, 1978. Holtzman, Will, Seesaw: A Dual Biography of Anne Bancroft and Mel Brooks, New York, 1979. Dagneau, Gilles, Dustin Hoffman, Paris, 1981. Sandre, Didier, Dustin Hoffman, Paris, 1981. Brode, Douglas, The Films of Dustin Hoffman, Secaucus, New Jersey, 1983; revised edition, 1988. Lenburg, Jeff, Dustin Hoffman: Hollywood’s Anti-Hero, New York, 1983. Agan, Patrick, Hoffman vs. Hoffman: The Actor and the Man, London, 1986. Articles: Variety (New York), 20 December 1967. Hollywood Reporter, 5 January 1968. Films in Review (New York), February 1968. Farber, Stephen, and Estelle Changas, in Film Quarterly (Berkeley), Spring 1968. Hudson, Chris, in Monthly Film Bulletin (London), September 1968. Film Heritage (Dayton, Ohio), Fall 1968. Austen, David, in Films and Filming (London), October 1968. Davy, Barry, interview with Mike Nichols, in Films and Filming (London), November 1968. LA GRANDE ILLUSION FILMS, 4 th EDITION 480 Dawson, Jan, ‘‘The Acid Test,’’ in Sight and Sound (London), Winter 1968–69. Sarris, Andrew, ‘‘After The Graduate,’’ in American Film (Washing- ton, D.C.), July-August 1978. Nielson, J.A., in Filmrutan (Stockholm), vol. 25, no. 1, 1982. Auster, A., and L. Quart, ‘‘American Cinema of the Sixties,’’ in Cineaste (New York), vol. 13, no. 2, 1984. ‘‘Simon Sues Embassy Over Graduate Music,’’ in Variety (New York), no. 324, 20 August 1986. Hendrykowski, Marek, ‘‘Absolwent,’’ in Iluzjion, no. 3, July-Sep- tember 1989. Denby, D., ‘‘Coo Coo Cachoo, Mrs. Robinson,’’ in Premiere (Boul- der), vol. 4, December 1990. Medich, R., ‘‘Post-‘Graduate’ Studies,’’ in Premiere (Boulder), June 1992. Engel, J., ‘‘Call This One ‘The Post-Graduate’,’’ in New York Times, vol. 142, section 2, 20 December 1992. Premiere (Boulder), vol. 9, June 1996. *** The Graduate is significant for three reasons. First, it is a major work by director Mike Nichols, who is characteristic of what the French call an auteur. (He is in complete control of his films and they contain consistent themes and elements of style.) The Graduate was Nichols’s second film after he directed Who’s Afraid of Virginia Woolf?, and it won him an Academy Award for best film direc- tor of 1967. Second, the film was very popular with young people. The Vietnam War was escalating, and many young people were question- ing not only the war but certain values of their society. But The Graduate was not a heavy protest film as Getting Straight or The Strawberry Statement were. The film’s concern was not with destroy- ing a materialistic, ‘‘plastic’’ society where people use each other as objects, but with a young man who questions this value system, decides what is important to him, and acts upon it honestly. Third, the film stands the test of time. It possesses qualities of universality and brilliance because Nichols uses the filmic symbol system to generate laughter and cheers from his viewers. The story concerns Benjamin (Dustin Hoffman in his screen debut) who returns to California from his eastern college and reacts zombie-like to his parents, their friends, and the values they live by. He is seduced by Mrs. Robinson (Anne Bancroft), the wife of his father’s business partner, but he acquiesces to this relationship only to save himself from symbolically drowning in the values and objects of the materialistic sub-culture he is in. In fact, Mrs. Robinson uses Benjamin as an object to satisfy her desire. Benjamin and Mrs. Robinson carry on their affair until he is forced by his parents to have a date with her daughter Elaine (Katharine Ross), currently home from college. One kiss from Elaine changes Benjamin from passivity to action. He now pursues Elaine, and overcoming all odds, rescues her at a church just after she marries a medical student. Benjamin and Elaine (she is still in her wedding gown) leave together on a bus. The Graduate shares with other Nichols’s films the theme of a character who finds himself or herself ‘‘drowning’’ in some way, and who attempts to change. In The Graduate, Nichols shows this drowning visually. Early in the film, Benjamin is in his room alone during his graduation party staring into an aquarium which has a model of a diver at the bottom of the tank. Mrs. Robinson comes in and asks him to drive her home, throwing the car keys into the aquarium. She symbolically has the ‘‘key’’ to his survival. At her home, she makes it clear that she is available to him. He later calls her to begin the affair after he has been humiliated by his father who has given him a diving suit for a birthday present. His father has Benjamin wear the suit to ‘‘show off’’ in front of friends. In this suit, which relates to the diver in the aquarium, Benjamin enters the backyard pool and then just sinks to the bottom. He stays underwater as the camera pulls back, making him almost disappear. His voice, calling Mrs. Robinson, is heard at the end of this shot before we see him making the call from a hotel. Thus, the affair begins his emergence into life and helps him question what is really important to him. The Graduate also shares with other Nichols films the tentative ending, where the viewer is left to ponder if enough really has changed. In the ending of The Graduate, Benjamin has rescued Elaine and they escape on a bus. They don’t speak. Simon and Garfunkel’s ‘‘Sound of Silence’’ is sung, as it was at the beginning of the film. The point Nichols is making is that perhaps not enough has changed, and that Benjamin cannot free himself from his society completely; he can only try, by seeing clearly and being true to himself and his own values. This ending is consistent with the endings in other Nichols films. In Working Girl, 21 years later, which can be compared to The Graduate, the heroine has saved herself from ‘‘drowning’’ (she has crossed the water to Manhattan on the Staten Island ferry, for example) and has become a boss, not a secretary. The last shot has her looking out the window of a huge building with many floors above her in the hierarchy of the business world, suggesting she has made a change but that there is a long way to go. Elements of style that Nichols uses so well in The Graduate that can also be found in his other films are the use of the environment to comment on the states of his characters (cool colors and white walls in The Graduate emphasize a sterile environment), heads that fill the screen while the background is often out of focus (Benjamin moving through the guests at his graduation party as the camera, concentrat- ing on him, shows his isolation), and the use of filmic technique to comment on the situation (Benjamin runs to the church to rescue Elaine but appears to be running in place without getting anywhere, since Nichols had this action shot through a very long lens that flattens perspective). The Graduate remains today as funny and profound as it was when first released. It articulates concerns about values. And for Benjamin, Elaine, and the viewer, there is a tentative note of hope. —H. Wayne Schuth LA GRANDE ILLUSION France, 1937 Director: Jean Renoir Production: Réalisations d’Art Cinématographique (R.A.C.); black and white, 35mm; running time: 117 minutes; length: 10,530 feet. LA GRANDE ILLUSIONFILMS, 4 th EDITION 481 La grande illusion Released 4 June 1937, Paris. Re-released 1946 with much footage deleted, re-released in 1959 with most original footage restored, and again in 1972. Filmed from about 30 January-2 April 1937 in Billancourt Studios, Tobis Studios, and Eclair Studios, Epinay; and on location near Neuf-Brisach, the Colmar barracks, and Haut- Koenigsbourg, Alsace. Producers: Frank Rollmer and Albert Pinkovitch; screenplay: Charles Spaak and Jean Renoir; assistant director: Jacques Becker; photog- raphy: Christian Matras (1st operator) and Claude Renoir (2nd operator); editor: Marguerite Marthe-Huguet; sound engineer: Joseph de Bretagne; production designer: Eugène Lourié; music: Joseph Kosma; lyrics: Vincent Tully and A. Valsien; costume designer: Decrais; technical advisor: Carl Koch. Cast: Erich von Stroheim (von Rauffenstein); Jean Gabin (Maréchal); Pierre Fresnay (de B?ildieu); Marcel Dalio (Rosenthal); Julien Carette (Actor); Gaston Modot (Engineer); Jean Daste (Teacher); Georges Peclet (French soldier); Jacques Becker (English officer); Sylvain Itkine (Demolder); Dita Parlo (Elsa); Werner Florian; Michel Salina; Carl Koch. Awards: Venice Film Festival, Best Artistic Ensemble, 1937; New York Film Critics’ Award, Best Foreign Film, 1938. Publications Script: Spaak, Charles, and Jean Renoir, La grande illusion, London, 1968; Paris, 1971. Spaak, Charles, and Jean Renoir, Velikaja illjuzija, in Iskusstvo Kino (Moscow), no. 3, March 1996. Books: Cauliez, Armand-Jean, Jean Renoir, Paris, 1962. Chardère, Bernard, Jean Renoir, Lyons, 1962. Analyses des films de Jean Renoir, Paris, 1966. Bennett, Susan, Study Unit 8: Jean Renoir, London, 1967. LA GRANDE ILLUSION FILMS, 4 th EDITION 482 Leprohon, Pierre, Jean Renoir, New York, 1971. Braudy, Leo, Jean Renoir: The World of His Films, New York, 1972. Daniel, Joseph, Guerre et cinéma: Grandes illusions et petits soldats 1895–1971, Paris, 1972. Predal, René, editor, La Société fran?ais (1914–45), Paris, 1972. Bazin, André, Jean Renoir, edited by Francois Truffaut, Paris, 1973; updated edition, 1992. Durgnat, Raymond, Jean Renoir, Berkeley, 1974. Renoir, Jean, My Life and Films, New York, 1974. DeNitto, Dennis, and William Herman, Film and the Critical Eye, New York, 1975. Giannetti, Louis D., Godard and Others: Essays on Film Form, Rutherford, New Jersey, 1975. Truffaut, Francois, Les Films de ma vie, Paris, 1975; as The Films in My Life, New York, 1978. Faulkner, Christopher, Jean Renoir: A Guide to References and Resources, Boston, 1979. Sesonske, Alexander, Jean Renoir: The French Films 1924–1939, Cambridge, Massachusetts, 1980. Gauteur, Claude, Jean Renoir: Oeuvres de cinéma inédites, Paris, 1981. McBride, Joseph, editor, Filmmakers on Filmmaking 2, Los Ange- les, 1983. Serceau, Daniel, Jean Renoir, Paris, 1985. Bertin, Celia, Jean Renoir, Paris, 1986. Faulkner, Christopher, The Social Cinema of Jean Renoir, Prince- ton, 1986. Vincendeau, Ginette, and Keith Reader, La Vie est à nous: French Cinema of the Popular Front 1935–1938, London, 1986. Viry-Babel, Roger, Jean Renoir: Le Jeu et la règle, Paris, 1986. Brunelin, André, Gabin, Paris, 1987. Renoir, Jean, Renoir on Renoir, New York, translated by Carol Volk, 1990. Bergan, Ronald, Jean Renoir: Projections of Paradise, New York, 1994. Schneider, Bruno F., Renoir, New York, 1995. Renoir, Jean, An Interview: Jean Renoir, with Nicholas Frangakis, Los Angeles, 1998. Articles: Fainsilber, Benjamin, ‘‘Jean Renoir fait son examen de conscience,’’ in Cinémonde (Paris), 20 May 1937. Bianco e Nero (Rome), September 1937. New York Times, 13 September 1938. Variety (New York), 14 September 1938. Hochheimer, Rita, editor, ‘‘A Guide to the Discussion and Apprecia- tion of the French Photoplay Grand Illusion,’’ in Photoplay Studies (New York), no. 1, 1939. ‘‘Renoir Issue’’ of Cahiers du Cinéma (Paris), January 1952. Hift, Fred, ‘‘American Commentary: Says M. Renoir,’’ in Today’s Cinema (London), 9 August 1956. ‘‘Renoir Issue’’ of Cahiers du Cinéma (Paris), Christmas 1957. ‘‘Un Film—La Grande Illusion—restauré comme un tableau,’’ in Lettres Fran?aise (Paris), 6 March 1958. Beylie, Claude, ‘‘Ou est la liberté?,’’ in Cahiers du Cinéma (Paris), November 1958. Beylie, Claude, in Cinéma (Paris), November 1958. Sadoul, Georges, ‘‘The Renaissance of the French Cinema—Feyder, Renoir, Duvivier, Carné,’’ in Film: An Anthology, edited by Daniel Talbot, New York, 1959. Dyer, Peter John, ‘‘Renoir and Realism,’’ in Sight and Sound (Lon- don), Summer 1960. Brunelin, André, ‘‘Jacques Becker; ou, La Trace de l’homme,’’ in Cinéma (Paris), July 1960. Whitehall, Richard, ‘‘The Screen in His Canvas,’’ in Films and Filming (London), July 1960. Kauffmann, Stanley, ‘‘The Elusive Corporal and Grand Illusion,’’ in A World on Film, New York, 1966. Beylie, Claude, in Cinéma (Paris), November 1969. Winsten, Archer, ‘‘Grand Illusion,’’ in American Film Criticism, edited by Stanley Kauffmann, New York, 1972. Diehl, Digby, ‘‘Directors Go to Their Movies: Jean Renoir,’’ in Action (Los Angeles), May-June 1972. Kauffmann, Stanley, in Horizon (Los Angeles), Summer 1972. Fofi, Goffredo, ‘‘The Cinema of the Popular Front in France (1934–38),’’ in Screen (London), Winter 1972–73. Sesonske, Alexander, in Georgia Review (Athens), Spring 1975. Gauteur, Claude, ‘‘Jean Renoir de Nana à La Grande Illusion,’’ in Image et Son (Paris), May 1975. Viry-Babel, Roger, in Cahiers de la Cinémathèque (Perpignan), Spring 1976. Perebinossoff, P. R., ‘‘Theatricals in Jean Renoir’s Rules of the Game and Grand Illusion,’’ in Literature/Film Quarterly (Salisbury, Maryland), Winter 1977. Strebel, Elizabeth Grottle, ‘‘Jean Renoir and the Popular Front,’’ in Feature Films as History, edited by K. R. M. Short, London, 1981. Toles, G., ‘‘Being Well-Lost in Film,’’ in Raritan (New Brunswick, New Jersey), no. 2, 1993. Masson, Alain, in Positif (Paris), no. 395, January 1994. Lelouch, C., ‘‘A nagy abrand,’’ in Filmvilag (Budapest), vol 37, no. 10, 1994. Lelouch, C., ‘‘La grande illusion,’’ in Cahiers du Cinéma (Paris), no. 482, July/August 1994. Casas, Q., J. E. Monterde, and S. Zunzunegui, in Nosferatu (San Sebastian), no. 17/18, March 1995. Review, in Séquences (Haute-Ville), no. 178, May-June 1995. Special Issue of Archives: Institut Jean Vigo (Perpignan), no. 70, February 1997. *** The critical estimate of La grande illusion has fluctuated with the vicissitudes of critical theory. In the days when film’s importance was attributed to the importance of its subject, it was widely regarded as Renoir’s masterpiece, a noble humanist antiwar statement. With the development of the auteur theory in the late 1950s, its reputation dwindled. It came to be perceived as a less personal, less intimate and less complex work than La règle du jeu, which superseded it as marking the summit of Renoir’s achievement. Though opposed, these views are based on the same misconception. La grande illusion is much too complex to be reduced to a thesis film, and although an antiwar statement can certainly be read from it (Renoir’s detestation of war is not in doubt), that is incidental rather than essential to the film’s meaning. In fact, it has a great deal in common with La règle du jeu: Renoir’s own account of the thematic premise of the later film applies equally to the earlier (‘‘My preoccupation is with the meeting; how to belong, how to meet’’); both have similar four-part structures, moving to a big climactic scene at the end of part two, placing the THE GRAPES OF WRATHFILMS, 4 th EDITION 483 major climax at the end of part three, with a quieter, more intimate fourth part in which the action moves out of doors or into the countryside. ‘‘How to belong, how to meet’’—another way of putting it is to say that Renoir’s perennial concern is with the boundaries; that keep people apart and the possibility of transcending them. The four-part structure enables him to develop this theme through a network of shifting, interlocking relationships presented consistently in terms of difference and the overcoming of difference. The first part consists of a prologue that introduces three of the four main characters and two of the main boundaries, class and nationality. B?ildieu and Maréchal are connected because both are French and involved in a war against Germany; B?ildieu and von Rauffenstein are connected because both are aristocrats and share a particular code that excludes the proletariat Maréchal. The film’s basic assumption—that ‘‘difference’’ is socially constructed but so thoroughly internalized and so strongly institutionalized as to be very difficult to overcome—is dramatized in the parallels between the two headquarters (French/German) which are identical in structure but different in every detail, the details insisting upon ‘‘Frenchness’’ and ‘‘German-ness’’ respectively. The second part occurs in the Prison Camp. Another main charac- ter, Rosenthal, is introduced, along with a host of minor ones who illustrate diverse aspects of the theme in the particularities of social position, profession, outlook, etc. With Rosenthal a third main boundary is established, that of race and religion. The pattern of alignments/separation becomes more complex: Maréchal/B?ildieu are linked by race and religion (Aryan, Christian) but separated by class position; B?ildieu/Rosenthal are linked by privilege but sepa- rated by class tradition (aristocrat/nouveau riche); Rosenthal/Maréchal are linked as non-aristocratic but separated by race/religion and social status. This section of the film makes frequent and expressive use of a favorite Renoir motif, the window, which stresses separation (outside/inside), but is also a boundary that can be crossed or communicated across. The second part culminates in the first big climax, the celebrated scene of the prisoners’ camp show and defiant singing of the ‘‘Marseillaise.’’ Most important here, however, is the film’s raising of the last main issue of boundary, that of gender/ sexuality, especially in the extraordinary moment when the young prisoner is seen in women’s clothes (for the show) and all activity and conversation abruptly cease. Its intensity exceeds anything explain- able in terms of nostalgia for absent women: the androgynous figure becomes the center of the men’s fascination and attraction. The third section reintroduces von Rauffenstein (now with broken vertebrae, in a sense as much a prisoner as the men he is in charge of) and the development and culmination of the B?ildieu/von Rauffenstein alignment/separation. A leading concern here again connects the film to Règle du jeu: the notion that the aristocratic order the two men represent will not survive the war. The aristocracy of Règle du jeu is significantly different; they no longer are informed and guided by a clearly defined code of nobility. Règle du jeu’s Marquis is con- nected, not to B?ildieu, but to Rosenthal (not only are the two characters played by the same actor, but we are told that ‘‘Rosenthal’’ was the name of the Marquis’s grandfather). Renoir views this inevitable destruction of a way of life with marked ambivalence. The aristocratic code is seen at once as based upon an untenable privilege and as embodying a fineness without which civilization will be poorer. This part of the film moves to the second major climax, in which Renoir magnificently ties all the major thematic and dramatic threads together: the escape of Maréchal and Rosenthal, secured by B?ildieu who sacrifices his life by compelling von Rauffenstein to shoot him. The scene echoes the climax of the second section by centering on a ‘‘theatrical’’ performance (B?ildieu playing his penny whistle on the battlements, the searchlights trained on him as ‘‘star’’). Together with the ensuing scene of B?ildieu’s death and his class friend/national enemy’s grief, the scene enacts the theme of the end of the aristocratic order (the proletarian Maréchal and the nouveau riche Rosenthal are the embryonic future). It achieves the film’s supreme irony in its play on the intimate understanding and affection between two men, one of whom must kill the other. The last section involves the escape/the farm/the border. The relation of La grande illusion to classical narrative (with its traditional pattern of order-disturbance of order-restoration of order) is complex and idiosyncratic. The narrative actually takes place in the hiatus between two orders: the order the war has destroyed and the new order that will be built when it is over. Between the two, Renoir manages at once to suggest the social order that was left behind and the possibility of a different order no longer based on artificial divisions. In the camps, the boundaries of class, race, and nationality are repeatedly crossed and eroded as new alignments (based on human need and sympathy) are formed. The last section restores what was crucially absent earlier: the presence of a woman. A series of three immediately consecutive scenes can be read as ‘‘answering’’ and containing the eruption of possible bisexuality in part two: Maréchal and Rosenthal sleep in each other’s arms (the motive is warmth, not sexuality, but nonetheless they are in close bodily proximity); awakening, they quarrel violently, Maréchal calls Rosenthal a ‘‘dirty Jew,’’ they separate, then tentatively come together again; hiding in a barn, they hear someone coming and spring to either side of the door; the door opens and, exactly between them, the woman appears. The ensuing scenes restore the heterosexuality that, at the outset, was present only as a song (‘‘Frou-Frou’’) and a memory (Maréchal’s Joséphine, the woman recalled by both B?ildieu and von Rauffenstein). This leads to the ultimate expression of togetherness/division: the Christmas celebration in which Rosenthal assists, only to be excluded as the lovers leave to go to bed. If the film celebrates the possibility of demolishing boundaries, it also acknowledges, within the existing social system, their inevitability. —Robin Wood THE GRAPES OF WRATH USA, 1940 Director: John Ford Production: Twentieth Century-Fox; black and white, 35mm; run- ning time: 128 minutes, some prints are 115 minutes. Released 24 January 1940, New York. Filmed late Summer-early Fall 1939 in Twentieth Century-Fox studios and lots; with some footage shot on THE GRAPES OF WRATH FILMS, 4 th EDITION 484 The Grapes of Wrath location on Highway 66 between Oklahoma and California. Cost: $750,000 (estimated). Producer: Darryl F. Zanuck; screenplay: Nunnally Johnson, from the novel by John Steinbeck; photography: Gregg Toland; editor: Robert Simpson; art directors: Richard Day and Mark Lee Kirk; music arranger: Alfred Newman; special sound effects: Robert Parrish. Cast: The Joad Party: Henry Fonda (Tom); Jane Darwell (Ma); Russell Simpson (Pa); Charley Grapewin (Grampa); Zeffie Tilbury (Granma); Frank Darien (Uncle John); Frank Sully (Noah); O. Z. Whitehead (Al); Dorris Bowdon (Rosasharn); Eddie Quillan (Connie Rivers); Shirley Mills (Ruthie); Darryl Hickman (Winfield); Others: John Carradine (Casey); John Qualen (Muley Graves); Ward Bond (Policeman); Paul Guilfoyle (Floyd); Charles D. Brown (Wilkie). Awards: Oscars for Best Director and Best Supporting Actress (Darwell), 1940; New York Film Critics’ Awards for Best Picture and Best Direction, 1940. Publications Script: Johnson, Nunnally, The Grapes of Wrath, in Twenty Best Film Plays, edited by John Gassner and Dudley Nichols, New York, 1943. Books: Mitry, Jean, John Ford, Paris, 1954. Kracauer, Siegfried, Theory of Film: The Redemption of Physical Reality, New York, 1960. Haudiquet, Philippe, John Ford, Paris, 1966. Bogdanovich, Peter, John Ford, Berkeley, 1968; revised edition, 1978. Burrows, Michael, John Steinbeck and His Films, 1970. Springer, John, The Fondas: The Films and Careers of Henry, Jane, and Peter Fonda, New York, 1970. Baxter, John, The Cinema of John Ford, New York, 1971. French, Warren, Filmguide to ‘‘The Grapes of Wrath,” Bloomington, Indiana, 1973. McBride, Joseph, and Michael Wilmington, John Ford, London, 1975. THE GRAPES OF WRATHFILMS, 4 th EDITION 485 Sarris, Andrew, The John Ford Movie Mystery, London, 1976. Ford, Dan, Pappy: The Life of John Ford, Englewood Cliffs, New Jersey, 1979. Sinclair, Andrew, John Ford: A Biography, London and New York, 1979. Stempel, Tom, Screenwriter: The Life and Times of Nunnally John- son, San Diego, 1980. Anderson, Lindsay, About John Ford, London, 1981. Caughie, John, editor, Theories of Authorship: A Reader, Lon- don, 1981. Fonda, Henry, and Howard Teichmann, Fonda: My Life, New York, 1981. Schatz, Thomas, Hollywood Genres: Formulas, Filmmaking, and the Studio System, New York, 1981. Goldstein, Norm, Henry Fonda: His Life and Work, London, 1982. Thomas, Tony, The Films of Henry Fonda, Secaucus, New Jer- sey, 1983. Cole, Gerald, and Wes Farrell, The Fondas, London, 1984. Reed, Joseph W., Three American Originals: John Ford, William Faulkner, Charles Ives, Middletown, Connecticut, 1984. Roberts, Allen, and Max Goldstein, Henry Fonda: A Biography, Jefferson, North Carolina, 1984. Norman, Barry, The Film Greats, London, 1985. Conger, Sydney Syndy M., and Janice R. Welsch, Narrative Strate- gies: Original Essays in Film and Prose Fiction, Urbana, Illi- nois, 1986. Gallagher, Tag, John Ford: The Man and His Films, Berkeley, 1986. Stowell, Peter, John Ford, Boston, 1986. Lourdeaux, Lee, Italian and Irish Filmmakers in America: Ford, Capra, Coppola & Scorsese, Springfield, 1990; revised, 1993. Davis, Ronald L., John Ford: Hollywood’s Old Master, Norman, 1997. Levy, Bill, John Ford: A Bio-Bibliography, Westport, 1998. Eyman, Scott, Print the Legend: The Life and Times of John Ford, New York, 1999. Articles: Benton, Thomas, in Life (New York), 22 January 1940. Collier’s (New York), 23 January 1940. New York Times, 25 January 1940. Mok, M., ‘‘Slumming with Zanuck,’’ in Nation (New York), 3 Febru- ary 1940. Ferguson, Otis, in New Republic (New York), 12 February 1940. Griffith, Richard, ‘‘The Film Since Then,’’ in The Film Till Now by Paul Rotha, revised edition, New York, 1949. Bluestone, George, Novels into Films, Baltimore, 1957. Hill, Derek, in Sight and Sound (London), Summer 1957. Springer, John, ‘‘Henry Fonda,’’ in Films in Review (New York), November 1960. Cowie, Peter, ‘‘Fonda,’’ in Films and Filming (London), April 1962. McVay, Douglas, ‘‘The Five Worlds of John Ford,’’ in Films and Filming (London), June 1962. Fonda, Henry, ‘‘Fonda on Fonda,’’ in Films and Filming (London), February 1963. ‘‘Ford Issue’’ of Focus on Film (London), Spring 1971. ‘‘Ford Issue’’ of Filmkritik (Munich), January 1972. Pauly, T. H., ‘‘Gone with the Wind and The Grapes of Wrath as Hollywood Histories of the Depression,’’ in Journal of Popular Culture (Bowling Green, Ohio), Summer 1974. Place, J., ‘‘A Family in a Ford: The Grapes of Wrath,’’ in Film Comment (New York), September-October 1976. Campbell, R., ‘‘The Ideology of the Social Consciousness Movie: Three Films of Darryl F. Zanuck,’’ in Quarterly Review of Film Studies (Pleasantville, New York), Winter 1978. Menides, L. J., ‘‘John Huston’s Wise Blood and the Myth of the Sacred Quest,’’ in Literature/Film Quarterly (Salisbury, Mary- land), 1981. Boyero, C., in Casablanca (Madrid), January 1983. Sanderson, J., ‘‘American Romanticism in John Ford’s The Grapes of Wrath: Horizontalness, Darkness, Christ, and F. D. R.,’’ in Literature/Film Quarterly (Salisbury, Maryland), no. 4, 1989. Reid’s Film Index, no. 4, 1990. Rothstein, M., ‘‘Tom Joad: By the Book,’’ in New York Times, no. 139, section 2, 18 March 1990. Nielsen, R., ‘‘Ray’s Way: Eddie Quillan,’’ in Classic Images (Muscatine), no. 194, August 1991. *** A pet project of Darryl Zanuck’s, The Grapes of Wrath exercised the packaging talents of Fox’s studio head for a large part of 1939 as he put together a team appropriate to a book with the stature of Steinbeck’s novel. John Ford was an obvious choice to direct, Dudley Nichols to write the script, and Henry Fonda to star as Tom Joad, the uneducated ex-convict ‘‘Oakie’’ who becomes the personification of flinty Midwestern integrity and moral worth. Knowing Fonda’s wish to play Joad, Zanuck lured him into signing an eight-picture contract by advertising his intention to cast in the role either Don Ameche or Tyrone Power. Ford, Nichols, Fonda and the supporting cast translated Stein- beck’s novel to the screen with proper fidelity, the distortions far outweighed by the spectacular rightness of Fonda’s casting and the remarkable cinematography of Gregg Toland, clearly influenced by the dust bowl photographs of Walker Evans and Margaret Bourke- White. The film’s opening image of Tom Joad walking with tireless application out of the flat Midwestern landscape against a counter- point of leaning telephone poles, suggests the themes of society confronted by an ecological and historical disaster against which it is helpless to act. Accustomed to such material from his frontier films, Ford took instinctive and instant command. Clearly he felt an affinity with the plight of the dispossessed Kansas farmers of Steinbeck’s story, which mirrored that of his Irish forebears turned off the land in the potato famine of the 19th century. And he had already established in films like Four Men and a Prayer the image of the family as not only unbreakable but an instrument for change, an institution that could act to improve social conditions. Throughout the film, it is the independents like John Carradine’s itinerant preacher Casey and the half-mad fugitive Muley (John Qualen) who seem lost, desperate for companionship, while Jane Darwell and Russell Simpson as Ma and Pa Joad exhale a sense of calm and confidence. As Ma affirms at the end of the film, in a scene added by Zanuck to underline the moral and blunt the harsh dying fall of the novel, no force can destroy the will of people who are determined to live. The picture Ford and Nichols draw of Depression America pulls few punches. Disinterested banks employ local strong-arm men to THE GREAT DICTATOR FILMS, 4 th EDITION 486 dispossess the share croppers and evict farmers unable to keep up mortgage payments on their own over-used, poorly maintained prop- erties. Muley’s futile stand against the bulldozers wilts when he recognizes one of his neighbors in the drivers seat. One has to eat even if it means betraying one’s own kind. Deprived of his sacred kinship with the earth, sanctified by ‘‘living on it and being born on it and dying on it,’’ Muley becomes ‘‘just an ol’ graveyard ghost’’ flitting about his crumbling house in the light of Tom Joad’s lamp. The Joads set out for California, their lurching truck loaded up with possessions, relatives and, in a touching gesture, the preacher Casey, invited along after a brief and hurried calculation of the vehicle’s strength. Casey is a classic Fordian figure, a religious madman who acts as custodian of principles, the celebrant of rituals like Mose Harper (Hank Worden) in The Searchers. He says the brief funeral oration over Grandpa Joad when he succumbs to the trials of the journey. He also turns into a primitive union organiser when greedy employers exploit the itinerants desperate for work as fruit- pickers. He’s no natural radical—just a man with a proper sense of right and wrong. Amused, he says of the bosses’ thugs who hunt him, ‘‘They think I’m the leader on account of I talk so much.’’ When he dies, murdered by the employers, it is Tom who carries on his duty, instinctively sensing his destiny. ‘‘Maybe it’s like Casey says. A feller ain’t got a soul of his own, but only a piece of a big soul.’’ And he walks off again, as he entered the story, undramatically spreading the gospel of social reform. The Grapes of Wrath abounds with examples of Ford’s skill in visual language. Poor talkers, the Joads express much in a way of standing, looking, responding to the land through which they pass. Ma Joad’s cleaning up of the old house is shown largely without dialogue, but her careful turning out of a box of mementoes, the discovery of a pair of earrings and her action of putting them on her ears and looking up into the dark at some half-forgotten moment of youthful pleasure could hardly be bettered with words. Jane Darwell is perhaps too plump, matriarchal, too Irish for her role, and Ford’s first choice, Beulah Bondi, has a greater physical claim to the part with her gaunt, stringy resilience, but so effective is Ford’s use of the actress that one can no longer imagine anyone else playing it. Fonda remains the focus of the film, his clear-eyed sceptical gaze reaching out to the camera no matter where he stands in the frame. The strength of his moral convictions is all the more striking for the imperfection of the character which supports them. Just released from jail for a murder, Tom is unrepentant: ‘‘Knocked his head plumb to squash,’’ he recalls to an alarmed truck driver who gives him a lift. He has little understanding of politics (‘‘What’s these ‘Reds’ any- way?’’), enjoys a drink and a dance, but has no time for abstract discussions. That such a man can be roused to moral wrath by injustice dramatizes the self-evident corruption of the system, and the belief in his conviction carries an audience to a conclusion startlingly radical by the standards of the time. Ford’s reactionary politics, his populism and republicanism, must have stood in direct contradiction of the book’s harsh message, which may explain his acceptance to the final suger-coated scene. Yet in Ford’s world, to keep faith meant more than any political creed; better to believe in an error than not to believe at all. When Ma Joad at the end of The Grapes of Wrath professes the absolute faith of a peasant people in simple survival, one hears Ford’s voice as clearly as that of writer, producer or star. —John Baxter THE GREAT DICTATOR USA, 1940 Director: Charles Chaplin Production: United Artists; black and white, 35mm; running time: 127 minutes. Released 1940. Producer: Charles Chaplin; screenplay: Charles Chaplin; photog- raphy: Karl Struss and Rollie Totheroh; editor: Willard Nico; art director: J. Russell Spencer; music: Meredith Wilson. Cast: Charles Chaplin (Adenoid Hynkel, Dictator of Ptomania/A Jewish Barber); Paulette Goddard (Hannah); Jack Oakie (Benzini Napaloni, Dictator of Bacteria); Reginald Gardiner (Schultz); Henry Daniell (Garbitsch); Billy Gilbert (Herring). Publications Books: Tyler, Parker, Chaplin, Last of the Clowns, New York, 1947. Huff, Theodore, Charlie Chaplin, New York, 1951. Bessy, Maurice, and Robert Florey, Monsieur Chaplin; ou, Le Rire dans la nuit, Paris, 1952. Sadoul, Georges, Vie de Charlot, Paris, 1952. Leprohon, Pierre, Charlot, Paris, 1957; revised edition, 1970. Mitry, Jean, Charlot et la fabulation chaplinesque, Paris, 1957. Amengual, Barthélemy, Charles Chaplin, Paris, 1963. Chaplin, Charles, My Autobiography, London, 1964. McDonald, Gerald, and others, The Films of Charlie Chaplin, Secaucus, New Jersey, 1965. Martin, Marcel, Charlie Chaplin, Paris, 1966; third edition, 1983. McCaffrey, Donald, editor, Focus on Chaplin, Englewood Cliffs, New Jersey, 1971. Mitry, Jean, Tout Chaplin: Tous les films, par le texte, par le gag, et par l’image, Paris, 1972. Chaplin, Charles, My Life in Pictures, London, 1974. Manvell, Roger, Chaplin, Boston, 1974. Moss, Robert, Charlie Chaplin, New York, 1975. Sobel, Raoul, and David Francis, Chaplin: Genesis of a Clown, London, 1977. Baldelli, P., Charlie Chaplin, Florence, 1977. Lyons, Timothy J., Charles Chaplin: A Guide to References and Resources, Boston, 1979. Eisenstein, Sergei, Film Essays and a Lecture, edited by Jay Leyda, Princeton, 1982. Haining, Peter, editor, The Legend of Charlie Chaplin, London, 1982. Gehring, Wes D., Charlie Chaplin: A Bio-Bibliography, Westport, Connecticut, 1983. Robinson, David, Chaplin: The Mirror of Opinion, London, 1983. Kamin, Dan, Charlie Chaplin’s One-Man Show, Metuchen, New Jersey, 1984. Smith, Julian, Chaplin, Boston, 1984. Robinson, David, Chaplin: His Life and Art, London, 1985. Saint-Martin, Catherine, Charlot/Chaplin; ou, La Conscience du mythe, Paris, 1987. THE GREAT DICTATORFILMS, 4 th EDITION 487 The Great Dictator THE GREAT DICTATOR FILMS, 4 th EDITION 488 Avisar, Ilan, Screening the Holocaust: Cinema’s Images of the Unimaginable, Bloomington, Indiana, 1988. Chaplin, Charlie, Die Schlussrede aus dem Film Der grosse Diktator, Hamburg, 1993. Lynn, Kenneth S., Charlie Chaplin and His Times, New York, 1997. Mitchell, Glenn, The Chaplin Encyclopedia, Phoenix, 1997. Milton, Joyce, Tramp: The Life of Charlie Chaplin, New York, 1998. Kimber, John, The Art of Charles Chaplin, Sheffield, 2000. Articles: Cooke, Alistair, ‘‘Charlie Chaplin,’’ in Atlantic (Boston), August 1939. Life (New York), 2 September 1940. Times (London), 16 October 1940. Variety (New York), 16 October 1940. New York Times, 16 October 1940. Todd, Daniel, in New Masses (New York), 17 December 1940. ‘‘Hitler and Chaplin at 54,’’ in New York Times Magazine, 18 April 1943. Warshow, Robert, ‘‘A Feeling of Sad Dignity,’’ in Partisan Review (New Brunswick, New Jersey), November-December 1954. Baker, Peter, ‘‘Clown with a Frown,’’ in Films and Filming (Lon- don), August 1957. Dyer, Peter John, ‘‘The True Face of Man,’’ in Films and Filming (London), September 1958. Sarris, Andrew, in Village Voice (New York), 5 and 12 March 1964. Goodman, Paul, ‘‘Film Chronicle (1940): Chaplin Again, Again, and Again,’’ in Movie (London), Winter 1964. Lyons, Timothy J., ‘‘Roland H. Totheroh Interviewed,’’ in Film Culture (New York), Spring 1972. Harvey, S., in Film Comment (New York), September-October 1972. Chevassu, F., in Image et Son (Paris), November 1972. Lefèvre, Raymond, ‘‘Le Dictateur: Un Culot inoui,’’ in Cinéma (Paris), November 1972. Tarratt, Margaret, in Films and Filming (London), March 1973. Bourget, J. L., ‘‘L’Art des transitions dans Le Dictateur,’’ in Positif (Paris), July-August 1973. Boost, C., in Skoop (The Hague), August 1973. Friedrich, J., ‘‘Die letzte Tortenschlacht: Chaplins Grosser Diktator und das Ende des Slapsticks,’’ in Filmkritik (Munich), Novem- ber 1973. Giuricin, G., ‘‘La negazione del dittatore come fenomeno di massa,’’ in Cinema Nuovo (Turin), January-February 1977. Chaplin, Charles, ‘‘Charles Chaplin (en) fran?ais,’’ in Image et Son (Paris), January 1977. ‘‘Chaplin Issue’’ of Film und Fernsehen (Berlin), March 1978. ‘‘Chaplin Issue’’ of University Film Association Journal (Houston), no. 1, 1979. Goldfarb, A., ‘‘Adolf Hitler as Portrayed in Drama and Film,’’ in Journal of Popular Culture (Bowling Green, Ohio), no. 1, 1979. Sato, Tadao, ‘‘The Comedy of Ozu and Chaplin: A Study in Con- trast,’’ in Wide Angle (Athens, Ohio), no. 2, 1979. Goldstein, R. M., in Film News (New York), March-April 1979. Bodeen, DeWitt, in Magill’s Survey of Cinema 1, Englewood Cliffs, New Jersey, 1980. Revue Belge du Cinéma (Brussels), Summer 1984. Short, K. R. M., ‘‘Chaplin’s The Great Dictator and British Censor- ship 1939,’’ in Historical Journal of Film, Radio, and Television (Abingdon, Oxfordshire), March 1985. Gyurey, V., ‘‘A Harmadik Birodalom es a Fuehrer ket nezopontbol,’’ in Filmkultura (Budapest), no. 6, 1989. ‘‘’Char’: The Great Dictator,’’ in Variety (New York), vol. 336, no. 3, 2 August 1989. Reid’s Film Index, no. 6, 1991. Delage, C., ‘‘La fiction contre l’histoire?: Le Dictateur,’’ in Vertigo (Paris), no. 13, 1995. Roth-Lindberg, O., ‘‘En ironisk rockad,’’ in Chaplin (Stockholm), vol. 37, no. 5/6, 1995/1996. Seesslen, G., ‘‘Chaplins spaete Filme,’’ in EPD Film (Frankfurt), vol. 14, August 1997. Rancière, Jacques, ‘‘La fiction difficile,’’ in Cahiers du Cinéma (Paris), no. 521, February 1998. *** The Great Dictator was Chaplin’s first dialogue film, the first film for which he wrote a script in advance, and the first film in two decades in which he does not star as the Tramp. Instead Chaplin plays a double role—a little Jewish barber, who closely resembles the Tramp, and the great dictator of Ptomania, Adenoid Hynkel, an obvious parody of Adolf Hitler, whom Chaplin ironically resembled. The funniest sequences of the film are Chaplin’s burlesques of Hitler’s rhetoric, mannerisms, and delusions of grandeur. In one of those comic sequences, Hynkel delivers a political speech that is so scorching that the microphones melt and bend. Hynkel is so inflamed by his rhetorical passion that he not only has to cool his throat with water but also splashes water down the front of his pants—a bril- liantly subtle Freudian suggestion that much of the fire of Hitler’s political persuasion derives from the urgings of his genitals. In perhaps the most memorable sequence of the film, Hynkel converts the globe of the earth into his balloon-like plaything, performing a languid, romantic, dreamlike ballet with the floating globe, reveal- ing his aspirations to possess the earth in almost sexual terms. This comic sexuality is reinforced by both the suggestions of masturbation in Hynkel’s solo dance with the globe, and in the fact that the sort of actions he performs precisely mirror the twirls and gyrations of a bubble dancer, teasingly playing with the circular globe that hides her most mysterious parts from her leering audience. In contrast to the delusions of the dictator is the earthy, pragmatic activity of the barber, a German soldier injured in World War I, suffering from amnesia, who awakens and returns to ‘‘Ptomanian’’ society only to find himself in an unfamiliar world where Jews are outcasts. In immediate response to the dictator’s dance with the globe is the Jewish barber’s snappy shaving of a customer to the precise rhythms of a Brahms Hungarian dance. The barber’s snappy, vital, human-oriented actions contrast deliberately with the dictator’s masturbatory solo. The barber also contrasts with the dictator in his relationship to language. As opposed to flaming rhetoric, the barber talks very little—another clear parallel to the Tramp. But at the end of the film, the barber, because of his physical resemblance, is mistaken for the dictator and asked to deliver the victorious speech to celebrate the invasion of ‘‘Austerlich.’’ The barber becomes very talkative, summoning his courage and feelings to deliver a direct appeal to all his viewers for hope, peace, and humanity. Although the lengthy, explicit political speech is deliberately woven into the film’s action— which has contrasted the barber and the dictator in their relationship to human speech—the monologue struck many critics as overly explicit and impassioned, inadequately translated into Chaplin’s tools of comedy, irony, and physical action. GREAT EXPECTATIONSFILMS, 4 th EDITION 489 Chaplin claims that he was unaware of the horrors of the Nazi death camps when he made the film. The outrageous sense of burlesque in the film implies the general American belief that Hitler was more of a clown to be laughed at than a menace to be feared. The reduction of Hitler’s associates and allies to buffoons reveals the same pattern—Goering becomes Herring, Goebbels becomes Barbitsch, Mussolini becomes Benzino Napaloni, impersonated by a pasta- slinging Jack Oakie. Chaplin later stated that if he had known about the seriousness and murderousness of the Nazi threat he would have never made the film. —Gerald Mast GREAT EXPECTATIONS UK, 1946 Director: David Lean Production: Rank/Cineguild; black and white, 35mm; running time: 118 minutes. Released May 1947 by Universal-International Pictures. Producer: David Lean; screenplay: David Lean and Ronald Neame with Anthony Havelock-Allan, Kay Walsh and Cecil McGivern; from the novel by Charles Dickens; photography: Guy Green; editor: Jack Harris; art direction: John Bryan; music score: Wal- ter Goehr. Cast: John Mills (Mr. Pip); Anthony Wager (Pip as a boy); Valerie Hobson (Estella); Jean Simmons (Estella as a girl); Bernard Miles (Joe Gargery); Francis L. Sullivan (Jaggers); Finlay Currie (Mag- witch); Alec Guinness (Herbert Pocket); John Forrest (Herbert as a boy); Martita Hunt (Miss Havisham); Ivor Bernard (Wemmick); Freda Jackson (Mrs. Joe); Torin Thatcher (Bentley Drummil); Eileen Erskine (Biddy); Hay Petrie (Uncle Pumblechook); George Hayes (Compeyson); Richard George (Sergeant); Everley Gregg (Sarah Pocket); John Burch (Mr. Wopsie); O. B. Clarence (Aged parent). Awards: Oscars for Best Cinematography—Black and White and Best Art Direction, 1947. Publications Books: Tynan, Kenneth, Alec Guinness, New York, 1954. Durgnat, Raymond, A Mirror for England: British Movies from Austerity to Affluence, New York, 1971. Pratley, Gerald, The Cinema of David Lean, New York, 1974. Silver, Alain, and James Ursini, David Lean and His Films, London, 1974; revised edition, 1991. Zambrano, A. L., Dickens and Film, New York, 1977. Castelli, Louis, and Caryn Lynn Cleeland, David Lean: A Guide to References and Resources, Boston, 1980. Klein, Michael, and Gillian Parker, editors, The English Novel and the Movies, New York, 1981. Hunter, Allan, Alec Guinness on Screen, London, 1982. Anderegg, Michael A., David Lean, Boston, 1984. Guinness, Alec, Blessings in Disguise, London, 1985. Missler, Andreas, Alec Guinness: Seine Filme, sein Leben, Munich, 1987. Von Gunden, Kenneth, Alec Guinness: The Films, Jefferson, North Carolina, 1987. Silverman, Stephen M., David Lean, New York, 1989; updated version, 1992. Brownlow, Kevin, David Lean, Gordonville, 1997. Articles: Variety (New York), 25 December 1947. New York Times, 23 May 1947. Lejeune, C.A., ‘‘The Up and Coming Team of Lean and Neame,’’ in New York Times, 15 June 1947. Pichel, Irving, in Hollywood Quarterly, July 1947. Ellin, Stanley, in Hollywood Quarterly, Fall 1947. Thompson, Howard, ‘‘Career Inventory from the Lean Viewpoint,’’ in New York Times, 9 November 1952. Holden, J., ‘‘A Study of David Lean,’’ in Film Journal (New York), April 1956. Agee, James, Agee on Film 1, New York, 1958. McVay, Douglas, ‘‘David Lean—Lover of Life,’’ in Films and Filming (London), August 1959. Watts, Stephen, ‘‘David Lean,’’ in Films in Review (New York), April 1959. McVay, Douglas, ‘‘Alec Guinness,’’ in Films and Filming (London), May 1961. Johnson, Ian, ‘‘Mills,’’ in Films and Filming (London), June 1962. Marill, Alvin, ‘‘John Mills,’’ in Films in Review (New York), August- September 1971. Silver, A., ‘‘The Untranquil Light: David Lean’s Great Expecta- tions,’’ in Literature/Film Quarterly (Salisbury, Maryland), Spring 1974. Zambrano, in Literature/Film Quarterly (Salisbury, Maryland), Spring 1974. Wilson, D., ‘‘Gag Bag,’’ in New Statesman (London), 9 Janu- ary 1976. MacKay, C. H., ‘‘A Novel’s Journey into Film: The Case of Great Expectations,’’ in Literature/Film Quarterly (Salisbury, Mary- land), April 1985. Hedling, E., ‘‘Skuldens labyrint,’’ in Filmhaftet (Uppsala, Sweden), December 1988. ‘‘Great Expectations Section’’ in Literature/Film Quarterly (Salis- bury, Maryland), no. 1, 1992. Reid’s Film Index, no. 13, 1994. O’Neill, Eithne, ‘‘Les grandes espérances: Là-bas, dans les marais grelottants,’’ in Positif (Paris), no. 410, April 1995. Baston, Jane, ‘‘Word and Image: The Articulation and Visualization of Power in Great Expectations,’’ in Literature/Film Quarterly (Salisbury), vol. 24, no. 3, 1996. Kendle, B., ‘‘Lean Dickens and Admirable Crichton: Film Adapta- tions of Literature,’’ in Michigan Academician, vol. 28, no. 1, 1996. Boxoffice (Chicago), vol. 133, December 1997. *** David Lean was the Great White Hope of postwar British cinema. In Which We Serve, which Lean co-directed with No?l Coward, was GREAT EXPECTATIONS FILMS, 4 th EDITION 490 Great Expectations the most popular British film of the war years, and Brief Encounter was seen by the critics as a breakthrough into serious adult realism— though working-class audiences found Celia Johnson and Trevor Howard’s over-delicate sensibilities hard to comprehend. Great Expec- tations had a wider appeal. Richard Winnington, one of the most perceptive 1940s film critics, claimed it as ‘‘the first big British film to be made, a film that confidently sweeps our cloistered virtues into the open, it casts a complete spell derived from some inner power.’’ The film was a commercial success in Britain and America (so successful that Lean couldn’t resist following it up with Oliver Twist), and it still stands out as one of the finest of all film adaptations of Dickens. John Bryan’s art direction avoids the trap so many designers fall into of striving so hard to recreate authentic period detail that Dickens’s richly imaginative world is lost amidst too solid and realistic sets. Bryan, in cooperation with the brilliant cinematographer Guy Green, succeeds in creating an evocative atmosphere which gives the film much of its power and resonance. Lean, a showman as well as an artist, talks about the need to gain the attention of audiences with a dramatic opening sequence. In Great Expectations he succeeds almost too well: the evocation of the bleak East Kent marshes and Pip’s nightmarish encounter with Magwitch in the churchyard sets such a standard of excitement that what follows is almost an anti-climax. It is to his credit, then, that he succeeds in moulding Dickens’s rambling novel into a satisfying dramatic shape. Minor characters are sacrificed, but Finlay Currie’s Magwitch, Martita Hunt’s Miss Havisham, Bernard Miles’s Joe Gargery, and Francis L. Sullivan’s Jaggers are splendid creations against which all subsequent incarnations have to be measured. In comparison, John Mills’s Pip is disappointingly colourless, and the metamorphosis of Estella from Jean Simmons to Valerie Hobson destroys the aura which surrounds her in the first half of the film. Lean’s interpretation of Dickens, like Olivier’s interpretation of Shakespeare, is inevitably timebound. There will always be alterna- tive ways of interpreting Great Expectations or Henry V, while a reinterpretation of No?l Coward’s slight play which Lean trans- formed into Brief Encounter could only be a remake of the film. Thus, where Brief Encounter’s limitations—the prissiness of the lovers’ attitudes to sex, the syrupy ending—seem movingly evocative of a lost age, Great Expectations’s weaknesses—its lapses into whimsicality, the predominance of upper-middle-class accents— seem correctable faults. That said, no other film or television adapta- tion of Great Expectations has managed to achieve anything like the GREEDFILMS, 4 th EDITION 491 dramatic intensity and visual richness of Lean’s film. Magwitch appearing like a terrifying apparition in the windswept churchyard; Miss Havisham and Estella in their eerie, cobweb-strewn mansion; the journey out to the riverside inn and the disastrous rendezvous with the packet steamer—these are so memorably filmed as to haunt the imagination for years afterwards. —Robert Murphy GREED USA, 1924 Director: Erich von Stroheim Production: Begun under Goldwyn-von Stroheim Productions for Goldwyn Pictures; released by Metro-Goldwyn Corporation as a Louis B. Mayer Presentation; black and white, 35mm, silent; running time: about 150 minutes, a 109-minute version also exists; originally 7- hours, but Stroheim was forced to edit further, first into a 4 hour version, then into a 3 hour version supervised by Rex Ingram, and finally cut to 2? hours by the studio; length: 10,212 feet (some sources list length as 10,067 feet or 10,500 feet); originally 47,000 feet, then 45,000 feet, then 42,000 feet, then 24,000 feet, then 18,000 feet, then 16,000 feet, and finally present length. Released December 1924, New York; all scenes with gold or gold-related objects were hand-tinted in original release prints. Filmed in 9 months, 1922–23 and edited in 1 year, 1923–24. Filmed in Oakland, California, and in Death Valley and the Panamint Mountains, California. Cost: over $450,000. Producers: Erich von Stroheim and Samuel Goldwyn, some sources list Irving Thalberg as producer; screenplay: Erich von Stroheim and June Mathis, from the novel McTeague by Frank Norris; original titles: Erich von Stroheim and June Mathis; released titles: Joseph Farnham; photography: William H. Daniels, Ben F. Reynolds, and Ernest B. Schoedsack; editor: Frank Hull; final version editors: Joseph Farnham and reputedly June Mathis; production designers: Capt. Richard Day and Erich von Stroheim (no actual sets used); art directors: Louis Germonprez and Edward Sowders; music: James and Jack Brennan. Cast: In the Prologue: Jack Curtis (McTeague, Sr., Shift Boss at the Big Dipper Mine) (role cut from film); Tempé Piggot (Mother McTeague); Gibson Gowland (McTeague, the Son); Günther von Ritzau (Dr. ‘‘Painless’’ Potter); Florence Gibson (Hag); In the Play: Gibson Gowland (Doc McTeague); Jean Hersholt (Marcus Schouler); Chester Conklin (Popper Sieppe); Sylvia Ashton (Mommer Sieppe); ZaSu Pitts (Trina); Austin Jewell (‘‘Owgoost’’ Sieppe); Oscar and Otto Gotell (‘‘Der Tervins,’’ the twin brothers); Joan Standing (Selina); Frank Hayes (Old Grannis); Fanny Midgley (Miss Baker); Max Tyron (Mr. Oelbermann); Hughie Mack (Heise, the Harness Maker); Tiny Jones (Mrs. Heise); J. Aldrich Libbey (Mr. Ryer); Rita Revela (Mrs. Ryer); Dale Fuller (Maria Miranda Macapa, a Scrubwoman); Cesare Gravina (Zerkow, a Junkman); Lon Poff (Lottery Agent); S. S. Simon (Joe Frenna, the Saloon Keeper); William Mollenheimer (The Palmist); Hugh J. McCauley (The Pho- tographer); Jack McDonald (Cribbens, a Prospector); James Gibson (Deputy Sheriff). Publications Script: Von Stroheim, Erich, and June Mathis, Greed, edited by Joel W. Finler, New York and London, 1972. Weinberg, Herman G., The Complete Greed by Erich von Stroheim, New York, 1972. Books: Fronval, Georges, Erich von Stroheim: Sa vie, ses films, Paris, 1939. Noble, Peter, Hollywood Scapegoat: The Biography of Erich von Stroheim, London, 1951. Bergut, Bob, Erich von Stroheim, Paris, 1960. Lawson, John Howard, Film: The Creative Process, New York, 1964. Barna, Jon, Stroheim, Vienna, 1966. Gobeil, Charlotte, editor, Hommage à Erich von Stroheim, Ottawa, 1966. Bazin, André, What is Cinema 1, Berkeley, 1967. Ciment, Michel, Erich von Stroheim, Paris, 1967. Finler, Joel W., Stroheim, Berkeley, 1968. Brownlow, Kenvin, The Parade’s Gone By, London and New York, 1969. Curtiss, Thomas Quinn, Erich von Stroheim, Paris, 1969. Buache, Freddy, Erich von Stroheim, Paris, 1972. Everson, William K., American Silent Film, New York, 1978. Bazin, André, The Cinema of Cruelty: From Bu?uel to Hitchcock, New York, 1982. Koszarski, Richard, The Man You Loved to Hate: Erich von Stroheim and Hollywood, Oxford, 1983. Bessy, Maurice, Erich von Stroheim, Paris, 1984. Rosenbaum, Richard, Greed, London, 1993. Lenning, Arthur, Stroheim, Lexington, 2000. Articles: New York Times, 5 December 1924. Variety (New York), 10 December 1924. Photoplay (New York), January 1925. Davay, Paul, ‘‘Notes sur les principaux films de Stroheim,’’ in Ecran des Arts (Paris), 1947. ‘‘Erich von Stroheim: His Work and Influence,’’ in Sight and Sound (London), Winter 1947–48. Schwerin, Jules, ‘‘The Resurgence of von Stroheim,’’ in Films in Review (New York), April 1950. Lambert, Gavin, ‘‘Stroheim Revisited,’’ in Sight and Sound (Lon- don), April-June 1953. Weinberg, Herman J., in Cinemages (New York), 1955. Fulton, A. R., in Films in Review (New York), June-July 1955. Eisner, Lotte, ‘‘Notes sur le style de Stroheim,’’ in Cahiers du Cinéma (Paris), January 1957. Everson, William K., ‘‘The Career of Erich von Stroheim,’’ in Films in Review (New York), August-September 1957. ‘‘Von Stroheim Issue’’ of Film Culture (New York), April 1958. GREED FILMS, 4 th EDITION 492 Greed ‘‘Von Stroheim Issue’’ of Bianco e Nero (Rome), February- March 1959. Premier Plan (Lyons), August 1963. Etudes Cinématographiques (Paris), no. 48–50, 1966. Recassens, G., in Téléciné (Paris), January 1967. Lee, R., ‘‘Count von Realism,’’ in Classic Film Collector (Indiana, Pennsylvania), Spring 1969. Bu?uel, Luis, in Positif (Paris), Summer 1970. Schepelern, P., in Kosmorama (Copenhagen), March 1973. Weinberg, Herman G., ‘‘An Introduction to Greed,’’ in Focus on Films (London), Spring 1973. Wolfe, C., ‘‘Resurrecting Greed,’’ in Sight and Sound (London), Summer 1975. Dahan, L., ‘‘Les Rapaces d’Erich von Stroheim,’’ in Cinématographe (Paris), April 1977. Henley, John, in Cinema Texas Program Notes (Austin), 25 Septem- ber 1978. Koszarski, Richard, ‘‘A Legend in Its Own Time,’’ in American Film (Washington D.C.), May 1983. Slater, Thomas, ‘‘June Mathis,’’ in American Screenwriters, 2nd Series, edited by Randall Clark, Detroit, 1986. Grindon, L., ‘‘From Word to Image: Displacement and Meaning in Greed,’’ in Journal of Film and Video (Los Angeles), no. 4, 1989. Dean, T. K., ‘‘The Flight of McTeague’s Soul-Bird: Thematic Differences Between Norris’s McTeague and von Stroheim’s Greed,’’ in Literature/Film Quarterly (Salisbury, Maryland), no. 2, 1990. Cremonini, G., in Cineforum (Bergamo, Italy), April 1992. ‘‘Gold Lust,’’ in New Yorker, vol. 69, 15 March 1993. Séquences (Haute-Ville), no. 177, March-April 1995. Reisz, Karel, ‘‘Stroheim revu par Karel Reisz,’’ in Positif (Paris), no. 411, May 1995. Turner, George, ‘‘Wrap Shot,’’ in American Cinematographer (Hol- lywood), vol. 78, no. 9, September 1997. McCarthy, Todd, ‘‘Mutilated Masterpiece Gets the Loving Touch,’’ in Variety (New York), vol. 376, no. 4, 13, September 1999. *** Frank Norris’ novel McTeague was the basis for Erich von Stroheim’s film Greed. Though he had purchased the rights to it, he never got the production off the ground until Irving Thalberg, GREGORY’S GIRLFILMS, 4 th EDITION 493 disgusted with von Stroheim’s method of extravagant production on Merry-Go-Round, quarrelled with him, and von Stroheim was dis- missed as Universal’s most prestigious director/producer. It did not take long for von Stroheim to sign with Goldwyn studios, where it was soon announced that his first production would be a film depiction of McTeague. The Norris novel is a dramatic and sordid but realistic preachment of the evils of greed. Heretofore von Stroheim had epitomized the grand scene. At Universal he had directed three big features that showed life on an extravagant scale: his characters were all venal and recklessly amoral; they were decadent, and offered to the public under such lurid titles as Blind Husbands, The Devil’s Passkey, and Foolish Wives. His characters were the rich in an Alpine background, on the boulevards and in the boudoirs of Paris, and in the gambling casino at Monte Carlo, which was reconstructed on the Universal lot. McTeague took place wholly in California, specifically in San Francisco, Oak- land and the Bay area, and Death Valley, in a very lower middle class, even depressed, society. The title character was a dentist from the lower classes who practiced his dentistry illegally. Both he and the girl he marries, Trina, are crass, uneducated vulgarians possessed and destroyed by a love for gold. It seemed unlike anything von Stroheim had attempted in his previous films. Early in pre-production, the project was referred to as Greed, and the name soon became the accepted title. Deliberately doing a turna- bout, von Stroheim saw it as a venture completely shot in its natural setting, the Bay area, as far as he could get from the studios of Hollywood. The company would even go to Death Valley to film the bitterly ironic finale of the story. He saw the project as a faithful adaptation of the Norris novel, an almost page-by-page recreation of a well-known American novel of the naturalist type. The film grew to monstrous proportions, eventually reaching an estimated nine-and-a- half hours. The studio forced von Stroheim to severely edit it. Secretly, his good friend, Rex Ingram, saw the film and helped him cut one version, but June Mathis was later called in to edit it down to under three hours. It remained, however, a hopelessly gargantuan project. Characters had to be eliminated so that the main story of McTeague, Trina, and Schouler became entirely the story of Greed. Ironically, it was Irving Thalberg who ordered the drastic cuts in Greed. Thalberg had moved from his berth with Carl Laemmle at Universal to join the new Metro-Goldwyn. He was soon to become head of production at the amalgamated Metro-Goldwyn-Mayer Stu- dios, where after Louis B. Mayer officially became head of produc- tion, he had his own unit. His first concern was to shape Greed out of the mountainous reels of footage which von Stroheim had so reck- lessly shot. It was at his order that Greed was released in 1924, but only a quarter of it contained footage shot by von Stroheim. That salvaged edition is the only one unreeled at von Stroheim retrospectives nowadays. The unused film was ordered melted down so that the silver in the negative could be salvaged. There would be no ultimate rediscovery of footage unused and fitted into subsequent re-issues of the picture. It would be another chapter in the obliteration of von Stroheim’s name as a great director. Not one film he made exists as he originally envisioned it. All have been cut either maliciously or out of necessity. Only one may have escaped obliteration—Universal’s The Devil’s Passkey, but it is a lost picture. To date, no print whatsoever has survived. The legend surrounding von Stroheim’s name as a great creative director survives, however, nurtured by those who have read the original McTeague written by Frank Norris. There are moviegoers who can relate whole sequences of the film that are just not in the final print. Memorable, however, in the released film are such treasured moments as the wooing of Trina under sedation in a dental chair; the miserably unromantic, even comic, wedding of Trina and McTeague; the brutalization of Trina by McTeague, leading to her murder and his escape with the gold she had even slept with; McTeague’s meeting with onetime friend, Marcus Schouler, and their journey across Death Valley. Schouler is slain by McTeague, but before Schouler dies, he handcuffs himself to McTeague, and the picture fades out on McTeague sitting in the murderous heat of Death Valley handcuffed to a corpse he slew. Greed made no profit either domestic or foreign. Costing $585,000 to film (a fortune in the mid-1920s), Greed showed a gross of only $277,000 domestically, and the foreign receipts were even more disappointing. The world’s moviegoing public simply resisted Greed. Von Stroheim and his few faithful cohorts could quite honestly say that the picture as he filmed it was never released. The studio also alibied that Greed never stood a chance of success as a product from a studio noted for creating stars. There were no box-office names in Greed. The cast was hand-chosen by von Stroheim himself—ZaSu Pitts, Gibson Gowland, and Jean Hersholt, who had never brought in a dime on their own. They were more often featured in comedies, as were fellow cast members Dale Fuller, Chester Conklin, and Hughie Mack, and Greed was certainly no comedy. A few years later, when von Stroheim had chalked up a few more disasters, he abandoned his directorial career for a successful one as an actor. He had often played in some of his own pictures, but as an actor he is a recognizable star in Renoir’s La grande illusion and in Hollywood’s Sunset Boulevard. —DeWitt Bodeen GREGORY’S GIRL UK, 1980 Director: Bill Forsyth Production: Lake Film Productions, in association with the National Film Finance Corporation and Scottish Television; color; running time: 91 minutes; length: 8,182 feet. Released May 1981. Producers: Davina Belling, Clive Parsons; screenplay: Bill Forsyth; assistant directors: Ian Madden, Terry Dalzell; photography: Michael Coulter; camera operator: Jan Pester; editor: John Gow; sound recordist: Louis Kramer; sound re-recordist: Tony Anscombe; art director: Adrienne Atkinson; music: Colin Tully. Cast: John Gordon Sinclair (Gregory); Dee Hepburn (Dorothy); Jake D’Arcy (Phil Menzies); Clare Grogan (Susan); Robert Buchanan (Andy); William Greenlees (Steve); Alan Love (Eric); Caroline Guthrie (Carol); Douglas Sannachan (Billy); Carol Macartney (Margo); Allison Foster (Madeleine); Chic Murray (Headmaster); Alex Norton (Alec); John Bett (Alistair); David Anderson (Gregory’s Dad); Billy Feeley (Mr. Anderson); Maeve Watt (Miss Ford); Muriel Romanes (Miss Welch); Patrick Lewsley (Mr. Hall); Ronald Girvan (Alan); Pat Harkins (Kelvin); Tony Whitmore (Gordon); Denis Criman (Rich- ard); Graham Thompson (Charlie); Natasha Gerson (Brenda); Chris- topher Higson (Penguin). GREGORY’S GIRL FILMS, 4 th EDITION 494 Gregory’s Girl Award: Winner of British Academy Award for Best Screenplay, 1981. Publications Script: Forsyth, Bill, Gregory’s Girl: The Filmscript, edited by Paul Kelley, Cambridge, England, 1991. Books: Park, James, Learning to Dream: The New British Cinema, Lon- don, 1985. Roddick, Nick, and Martin Auty, British Cinema Now, London, 1985. Krautz, Alfred, Mille Krautz, and Joris Krautz, editors, Encyclopedia of Film Directors in the United States & Europe: Comedy Films to 1991, Munich, 1993. Articles: Continental Film Review, March 1981. Pym, John, in Monthly Film Bulletin (London), June 1981. Millar, Gavin, in Listener (London), 18 June 1981. Adair, Gilbert, in Sight and Sound (London), Summer 1981. Interview with Bill Forsyth, in Sight and Sound (London), Autumn 1981. Hibbin, N., in Chaplin (Stockholm), vol. 24, no. 2, 1982. Variety (New York), 26 May 1982. Martineau, R., in Séquences (Montreal), July 1983. Garel, A., in Revue du Cinéma/Image et Son (Paris), July-Au- gust 1984. Lajeunesse, J., in Revue du Cinéma (Paris), Hors serie, vol. 24, 1984. Nave, B., in Jeune Cinéma (Paris), October 1984. Ardai, Z., ‘‘Gregory baratnoje,’’ in Filmvilag (Budapest), vol. 28, no. 11, 1985. *** GULING JIE SHAONIAN SHA REN SHIJIANFILMS, 4 th EDITION 495 Forsyth was a key figure in the revival of British film production in the 1980s, and Gregory’s Girl was both a popular and critical success. Forsyth’s British work has been compared to the Ealing comedies of the late 1940s and early 1950s, with his typically light comic touch, his sense of character and detail, his quirky protagonists, and his ability to find the surreal in the most everyday people and situations. His work—and Gregory’s Girl is no exception—can also be seen as typical of a particular approach to the construction of a national cinema in a Britain overwhelmed by the popularity of Hollywood films: the production of low-budget films with correspondingly modest production values and low-key drama, aimed at the domestic market and the international art market rather than going for broke on the major American circuits; the casting of good character actors rather than big-name stars; the making of tasteful romances for all the family, which carefully resist indulging in the excesses of Hollywood melodrama; and the emphasis on a decidedly ordinary and specifi- cally local or regional setting and milieu, rather than on the interna- tionally recognizable metropolitan centre. The film thus works within strongly enunciated British cinematic traditions, with something more than a nod to television drama in terms of the carefully limited scope of the action and the clean-cut, uncomplicated mise-en-scène, and a narrative structure (several sim- ple stories, cleverly interwoven) reminiscent of soap opera. The film also owes something to television advertising, with its focus on suburban consumer-land, inhabited by ‘‘ideal families’’ living in modern gadget-laden houses. The main narrative situates the film as a melodrama: gawky adolescent Gregory attempts to win the favours of the far more sophisticated Dorothy, while a conspiracy of girls effortlessly organises for him to become hitched to a far more suitable partner in Susan. But a quick look at the final four images of the film reveals a much broader filmic system, which also enables the film to articulate a network of interlocking social worlds. First there is a shot of Gregory and Susan kissing, the conventional happy ending of melodrama. In the second shot, we see Gregory and his sister, in a final incantation of the perfection and permanence of the family, in its nice, ordinary, suburban security. Thirdly, there is a reprise of the delightful running gag of Gregory’s friend Andy, and his pal, this time seen hitching to Caracas in search of ‘‘girls.’’ Forsyth, like Tati, is a master of the running gag, which produces its comedy through narrative redundance and eccentric characterisation, as with Andy’s search for girls, or the lost penguins, or the burly headteacher secretively playing whimsical tunes on the piano. The final shot of the film repeats another recurrent image: Doro- thy, running alone in the dark, a fleeting image of the impossible object of desire, accompanied by the now familiar, dream-like music. Dorothy’s character is highly ambiguous, since she is both a sweet, innocent, asexual girl, and a version of the femme fatale (the most dangerous figure in the film’s conspiracy of women), wherein female sexuality becomes a threateningly seductive but unattainable enigma, a mystery, both for Gregory and for the implied spectator who is equally kept apart from understanding the ways and means of the female sex. The film, in this sense, reproduces the point of view of the adolescent male. The film thus has all the ingredients of the adult melodrama, with Gregory lured by the image of the femme fatale, but finally making it with the right partner. But the film is carefully tailored for the family market, offering us a sweet, innocent, adolescent romance-without- sex (or violence or horror) that has been a feature of several recent British films. This address to the family market is further secured by the very ordinariness of the people and their milieu, and by the sweet lovableness of the youthful actors, aping adult behaviour but with all the innocence and uncomplicatedness of youth. This paradox of maturity and innocence is of course a key source of the film’s humour, particularly when stretched to the point of absurd incongruity (as in Gregory’s kid sister’s relationship with her boyfriend). But despite this veneer of innocence, the film is able to tackle profound social and psychic anxieties concerning heterosexuality and the family. It seems significant also that a film addressed to the family should locate its drama in the perfect communities of soap powder/breakfast cereal/kitchen technology advertisements, a world that is equally uncomplicated and superficially innocent, and which is itself one of the key sites for the construction and reconstruction of the family. And while the final shot of the film of the still unattainable Dorothy is a potentially disturbing image for patriarchy, her own apparent innocence and the innocence of the world which surrounds her diminish any such threat and restore faith in the family. —Andrew Higson GULING JIE SHAONIAN SHA REN SHIJIAN (A Brighter Summer Day) Taiwan, 1991 Director: Edward Yang Production: Yang and His Gang Filmmakers; colour; running time: 237 minutes. Producer: Yu Weiyan; screenplay: Edward Yang, Yan Hongya, Yang Shunqing, Lai Mingtang; photography: Zhang Huigong, Li Longyu; editor: Chen Bowen; assistant directors: Cai Guohui, Yang Shunqing; production design: Yu Weiyan; sound: Du Duzhi. Cast: Zhang Zhen (Xiao Si’r); Lisa Yang (Ming); Zhang Guozhu (Father); Elaine Jin (Mother); Wang Juan (Juan); Zhang Han (Lao Er); Jiang Xiuqiong (Qiong); Lai Fanyun (Yun). Publications Articles: City Limits (New York), 23 February 1989. Rayns, Tony, ‘‘Taipei Story’’ in Monthly Film Bulletin (London), March 1989. Variety (New York), 2 Septemer 1991. Jousse, T., and Y. Umemoto, ‘‘Plus de lumière’’ in Cahiers du Cinéma (Paris), April 1992. Bassan, R., ‘‘Tragique jeux d’adolescents’’ in Revue du Cinéma (Paris), May 1992. Ciment, M., and others, ‘‘Edward Yang’’ in Positif (Paris), May 1992. GULING JIE SHAONIAN SHA REN SHIJIAN FILMS, 4 th EDITION 496 Guling jie shaonian sha ren shijian Rayns, Tony, ‘‘Lonesome Tonight’’ in Sight and Sound (London), March 1993. Charity, T., Sight and Sound (London), April 1993. *** Edward Yang’s A Brighter Summer Day comes out of a unique set of circumstances. In the late 1980s the Taiwan film industry almost ceased to exist after its most powerful producer, distributor, and exhibitor—the Nationalist Government-owned Central Motion Pic- ture Corporation—drastically scaled down its activities. Consequently, technicians and actors sought their livelihoods elsewhere in the boom economy. Thus the New Cinema movement, in which Yang had been a leading figure with his three feature films, That Day, On the Beach (Guangyin de Gushi, 1982), Taipei Story (Qingmei Zhuma, 1985) and The Terroriser (Kongbufenzi, 1986), was left in disarray. In these 80s films, Yang developed a multi-character narrative style of interchanging story lines that was logistically demanding. In the new circumstances, an epic on the scale of A Brighter Summer Day, involving more than 80 speaking parts, ought to have been unimaginable. But Yang used his position as a teacher in the drama department of the National Institute for the Arts to train most of the cast and crew himself. It is one of the immediately impressive aspects of the film that the craft skills on display are superb at every level. Furthermore, the youth and freshness of the cast proved highly appropriate for a film set in 1960, when the director himself was 13, and built around a tentative love affair between two adolescents: Xiao Si’r, the 14-year-old son of a civil servant, and Ming, the girlfriend of a charismatic gang leader. Their tryst’s tragic outcome is hinted at by the Chinese title which translates literally as ‘‘The Boy in the Murder Incident on Guling Street.’’ The story was derived from a real incident remembered from Yang’s school days. In the three-hour version of the film, which won the Special Jury Prize at the 1992 Tokyo Film Festival, this relationship, with its echoes of West Side Story and Rebel Without a Cause, predominates over the carefully wrought social observation of subplot and mise-en-scène. In the released 127-minute integral version, however, the desire to explain a moment of historical crisis through the minutiae of ordinary lives is paramount. Families who fled to Taiwan from mainland China with Chiang Kai-Shek found that much of the strict tradition of family life was also uprooted. While parents were absorbed into the militarised island’s GUN CRAZYFILMS, 4 th EDITION 497 ruling elite, their children grew up under the double sway of a martial atmosphere and a promise of greater freedom inscribed in the prod- ucts of the Chinese Nationalist’s American backers. Many of these children became involved in gang warfare against the indigenous island youth. Yang describes this bitter period of highly conflicting values and tensions in terms of coolly-distanced melodrama, dis- tanced not so much by a refusal to depict the expression of emotion, as in Fassbinder, but more by a determinedly stand-back camera style of deep-focus, wide-angle group shots that gives each character equal weight. Thus Yang has Xiao Si’r drawn into the conflict between Honey’s Little Park Gang and the indigenous 217 gang not only through his fascination with Ming, but also because of the pressure of academic failure which has condemned him to a less prestigious night school and to the disdain of his ultra-correct, fatally passive father Zhang Ju. Xiao Si’r himself remains a passive observer, but not as a conduit of the audience’s point of view. His story provides the turning action of a kaleidoscope of quiet desperation until his inevitable emotional breakdown leads him to finally act violently against the person he idealises most. In Nicholas Ray’s Rebel Without a Cause, James Dean’s rage and anguish is similarly set against a passive paternal figure who won’t intervene in the mechanical processes of institutional authority. But Ray’s film plays complicit games with the narcissism of its lead character, making it primarily about a crisis of individual conscience. Instead Yang offers a position of involved critique, forcing the viewer into an analysis of Xiao Si’r’s motives even before he acts. While the macrocosmic dilemma of an entire generation of Taiwan inhabitants unfolds, the film remains mostly within Xiao Si’r’s home turf. Its nocturnal, pressure-cooker mood is circum- scribed by the night school, the club house run by the Little Park gang, the bookstores of Guling Street, the pool room and garage used by the 217 gang and the homes of Xiao and his friends. We see Ming’s boyfriend Honey, the charismatic leader of the Little Park Gang, return from exile only to be betrayed and murdered. A revenge raid on the 217 gang’s headquarters is chaotic and indiscriminately bloody. Zhang Ju’s loyalty to the state is rewarded by his arrest and interroga- tion on suspicion of having communist connections. Xiao Si’r discov- ers that Ming has been the lover of several of his acquaintances. Every move on the claustrophobic island seems to produce a self-in- flicted wound. Contrasting these apparently fatalistic results of political inevita- bility is the ethereal balm of Elvis Presley’s ‘‘Are You Lonesome Tonight?’’ as mistranslated by Xiao Si’r’s sister (the film’s English title comes from Presley’s delivery of the line ‘‘does your memory stray, to a bright uh-summer day) and performed by the Little Park Gang’s rock ‘n’ roll band. However, the semblance of transcendent hope that America represents for the protagonists is itself a chimera, presented with considerable irony by Yang. A Brighter Summer Day shares the breadth of ambition and distanced, objective point of view of Hou Xiaoxian’s 1989 allusive social panorama A City of Sadness (Beiqing Chengshi), which at- tempted to capture the earlier moment of historical crisis of the 1949 influx. In all other respects, however, it is an utterly unique achieve- ment, one that realises hidden resources of scale and complexity that have been untapped by filmmakers for some years. —Nick James GUN CRAZY (Deadly is the Female) USA, 1950 Director: Joseph H. Lewis Production: King Brothers/Universal-International/Pioneer Pictures Corporation; black and white, 35mm; running time: 87 minutes. Released as Deadly is the Female, 26 January 1950; re-released as Gun Crazy, 24 August 1950. Producers: Frank King and Maurice King; screenplay: MacKinlay Kantor and Dalton Trumbo (fronted by Millard Kaufman), from a Saturday Evening Post story by MacKinlay Kantor; photography: Russell Harlan; editor: Harry W. Gerstad; original music: Victor Young; sound: Tom Lambert. Cast: Peggy Cummins (Annie Laurie Starr); John Dall (Bart Tare); Berry Kroeger (Packett); Morris Carnovsky (Judge Willoughby); Annabel Shaw (Ruby Tare); Harry Lewis (Clyde Boston); Nedrick Young (Dave Allister); Trevor Bardette (Sheriff Boston); Mickey Little (Bart Tare, age 7); Russ Tamblyn (credited as Rusty Tamblyn) (Bart Tare, age 14); Paul Frison (Clyde Boston, age 14); Dave Bair (Dave Allister, age 14). Publications Books: Shadoian, Jack, Dreams and Deadends: The American Gangster/ Crime Film, Cambridge, Massachusetts, 1977. Silver, Alain, and Elizabeth Ward, Film Noir, New York, 1979. Tuska, John, Dark Cinema: American Film Noir in Perspective, Westport, Connecticut, 1984. Kitses, Jim, Gun Crazy, London, 1996. Articles: Anderson, Lindsay, ‘‘Gun Crazy,’’ in Sequence (London), Autumn 1950. Mysel, Myron, ‘‘Joseph H. Lewis: Tourist in the Asylum,’’ in Todd McCarthy and Charles Flynn, editors, Kings of the B’s: Working Within the Hollywood System, New York, 1975. Borde, Raymond, and Etienne Chaumeton, ‘‘A Propos du Film Noir Americain,’’ in Positif (Paris), 1976. Ruhmann, Lony, Steven Schwartz, and Rob Conway, ‘‘Gun Crazy, ‘The accomplishment of many, many minds’: An Interview with Joseph H. Lewis,’’ in The Velvet Light Trap, (Austin, Texas), Summer 1983. Sattin, R. ‘‘Joseph H. Lewis: Assessing an (Occasionally) Brilliant Career,’’ in American Classic Screen, November/December 1983. *** One of the highlights in the career of director Joseph H. Lewis, Gun Crazy is a minor classic, widely regarded as one of the best of the GYCKLARNAS AFTON FILMS, 4 th EDITION 498 ‘‘B’’ movies. Shot on a low budget as an independent film, it benefits from stylish photography by former stuntman Russell Harlan, who is probably best known as Howard Hawks’s cinematographer on Red River. Lewis is known for his distinctive style as a director, and Gun Crazy is a showcase for his repertoire of odd camera angles, elaborate scene compositions, and the variation of long and short takes for dramatic effect. In one famous scene, a bank robbery is filmed in one take from the rear seat of the getaway car, a technique that seems to involve the viewer in the heist as it takes place. As with many gangster and crime films, Gun Crazy is an adapta- tion of a short story, in this case written by novelist MacKinlay Kantor for the Saturday Evening Post. Based on the myths surrounding Bonnie and Clyde, it tells the tale of a doomed love affair between Bart and Laurie, two carnival sharpshooters who embark on a crime spree that ends in murder. Yet the ambition of the film reaches beyond its banal storyline. Bart and Laurie each have their own complex psychological reasons for acting as they do. Bart is a petty criminal lured into violence through his obsessive love for Laurie, while Laurie is a manipulative femme fatale of the most dangerous kind. Yet they seem to carry within themselves and their relationship a desire for self-destruction. In this respect, Gun Crazy is a fine example of how film noirs differ from the crime and gangster movies that preceded them. As John Tuska explains, ‘‘[t]he difference between Gun Crazy and the gangster film cycle in the early ‘Thirties is that the protagonists, instead of behaving in a fashion which proves self- destructive, behave according to self-destructive impulses.’’ While the film itself portrays Bart and Laurie’s secret life on the run, there is also an element of subterfuge in its making. Millard Kaufman, who was credited as co-writer of the film with MacKinlay Kantor, was actually ‘‘fronting’’ for a blacklisted writer, Dalton Trumbo. Trumbo, one of the ‘‘Hollywood Ten’’ filmmakers who went to prison for refusing to testify at the McCarthy hearings, wrote under various different names and was ‘‘fronted’’ by at least one other writer besides Kaufman. He was unable to collect an Academy Award for his work on Irving Rapper’s The Brave One in 1956 because the screenplay had been penned by someone called ‘‘Robert Rich’’. He did not receive official credit for his contribution to Gun Crazy from the Writer’s Guild until 1992. The influence of Gun Crazy has spread much further than its B- movie origins might have suggested. Arthur Penn’s celebrated Bon- nie and Clyde (1967) has obvious similarities in plot, though a some- what lighter tone, while Oliver Stone’s Natural Born Killers (1994) repeats the story of a young couple obsessed with violence and killing and on the run from the law. Gun Crazy is sometimes named as one of the films that began Hollywood’s postwar obsession with the connec- tion between sex and violence, an obsession Stone’s film attempts to satirize. Joseph H. Lewis went on to make films such as The Big Combo (1955) and 7th Cavalry (1956), but never again achieved the psycho- logical insight or the overall quality of Gun Crazy. The film was remade unsuccessfully as Guncrazy in 1992 with Drew Barrymore and James LeGros in the lead roles. —Chris Routledge THE GUNS See OS FUZIS GYCKLARNAS AFTON (The Naked Night; Sawdust and Tinsel) Sweden, 1953 Director: Ingmar Bergman Production: Sandrews for Svensk Filmindustri; black and white, 35mm; running time: 92 minutes; length: 2520 meters. Released 14 September 1953, Sweden. Filmed early summer 1953 in Sandrews studios in Stockholm; and exteriors shot in Arild, Sweden. Producer: Rune Waldekranz; screenplay: Ingmar Bergman; pho- tography: Hilding Bladh, G?ran Strindberg, and Sven Nykvist; editor: Carl-Olav Skeppstedt; art director: Bibi Lindstr?m; music: Karl-Birger Blomdahl; costume designer: Mago. Cast: Harriet Andersson (Anne); Ake Gr?nberg (Albert Johansson); Hasse Ekman (Frans); Anders Ek (Frost); Gudrun Brost (Alma); Annika Tretow (Agda, Albert’s wife); Gunnar Bj?rnstrand (Mr. Sjuberg); Erik Strandmark (Jens); Kiki (Dwarf); Ake Fridell (Offi- cer); Majken Torkeli (Mrs. Ekberg); Vanjek Hedberg (Ekberg’s son); Curt L?wgren (Blom). Publications Books: Béranger, Jean, Ingmar Bergman et ses films, Paris, 1959. Billquist, Fritiof, Ingmar Bergman: Teatermannen och filmskaparen, Stockholm, 1960. Burvenich, Jos., Thèmes d’inspiration d’Ingmar Bergman, Brus- sels, 1960. Siclier, Jacques, Ingmar Bergman, Paris, 1960. H??k, Marianne, Ingmar Bergman, Stockholm, 1962. Béranger, Jean, and Fran?ois Guyon, Ingmar Bergman, Lyons, 1964. Donner, J?rn, The Personal Vision of Ingmar Bergman, Blooming- ton, Indiana, 1964. Nelson, David, Ingmar Bergman: The Search for God, Boston, 1964. Oldrini, Guido, La solitudine di Ingmar Bergman, Parma, 1965. Steene, Birgitta, Ingmar Bergman, New York, 1968. Gibson, Arthur, The Silence of God: Creative Response to the Films of Ingmar Bergman, New York, 1969. Wood, Robin, Ingmar Bergman, New York, 1969. Sj?gren, Henrik, Regi: Ingmar Bergman, Stockholm, 1970. Young, Vernon, Cinema Borealis: Ingmar Bergman and the Swedish Ethos, New York, 1972. Donner, J?rn, The Films of Ingmar Bergman, New York, 1972. Simon, John, Ingmar Bergman Directs, New York, 1972. Bj?rkman, Stig, and others, editors, Bergman on Bergman, New York, 1973. Ranieri, Tino, Ingmar Bergman, Florence, 1974. Kaminsky, Stuart M., editor, Ingmar Bergman: Essays in Criticism, New York, 1975. GYCKLARNAS AFTONFILMS, 4 th EDITION 499 Gycklarnas afton Marion, Denis, Ingmar Bergman, Paris, 1979. Manvell, Roger, Ingmar Bergman: An Appreciation, New York, 1980. Mosley, Philip, Ingmar Bergman: The Cinema as Mistress, Boston and London, 1981. Petric, Vlada, editor, Film and Dreams: An Approach to Bergman, New York, 1981. Cowie, Peter, Ingmar Bergman: A Critical Biography, New York and London, 1982. Livingston, Paisley, Ingmar Bergman and the Ritual of Art, Ithaca, New York, 1982. Jones, G. William, editor, Talking with Ingmar Bergman, Dal- las, 1983. Lefèvre, Raymond, Ingmar Bergman, Paris, 1983. Dervin, Daniel, Through a Freudian Lens Deeply: A Psychoanalysis of Cinema, Hillsdale, New Jersey, 1985. Gado, Frank, The Passion of Ingmar Bergman, Durham, North Carolina, 1986. Bergman, Ingmar, Laterna Magica, Stockholm, 1987; as The Magic Lantern: An Autobiography, London, 1988. Steene, Birgitta, Ingmar Bergman: A Guide to References and Resources, Boston, 1987. Cohen, James, Through a Lens Darkly, New York, 1991. Bjorkman, Stig, and Torsten Maans, and Jonas Sima, Bergman on Bergman: Interviews with Ingmar Bergman, Cambridge, 1993. Cohen, Hubert I., Ingmar Bergman: The Art of Confession, New York, 1993. Long, Robert Emmet, Ingmar Bergman: Film and Stage, New York, 1994. Tornqvist, Egil, Between Stage and Screen: Ingmar Bergman Directs, Amsterdam, 1995. Blackwell, Marilyn J., Gender and Representation in the Films of Ingmar Bergman, Rochester, 1997. Lloyd, Michaels, editor, Ingmar Bergman’s Persona, New York, 1999. Articles: Austin, Paul, ‘‘Ingmar Bergman, Magician of Swedish Cinema,’’ in Anglo-Swedish Review (London), April 1959. Archer, Eugene, ‘‘The Rack of Life,’’ in Film Quarterly (Berkeley), Summer 1959. Alpert, Hollis, ‘‘Style Is the Director,’’ in Saturday Review (New York), 23 December 1961. GYCKLARNAS AFTON FILMS, 4 th EDITION 500 Nykvist, Sven, ‘‘Photographing the Films of Ingmar Bergman,’’ in American Cinematographer (Los Angeles), October 1962. Lefèvre, Raymond, ‘‘Ingmar Bergman,’’ in Image et Son (Paris), March 1969. Film Comment (New York), Summer 1970. Rado, P., in Cinema (Budapest), March 1975. Koustrup, A., in Kosmorama (Copenhagen), Spring 1978. Listener (London), 5 March 1987. Dahlbeck, E., ‘‘En arbetskamrat pa vag att kanoniseras,’’ in Chaplin (Stockholm), vol. 30, no. 2/3, 1988. Simon, J., ‘‘Det manskliga ansiktet,’’ in Chaplin (Stockholm), vol. 30, no. 2/3, 1988. Simon, John, ‘‘The Human Face,’’ in Chaplin (Stockholm), Special Issue, 1988. Simon, John, ‘‘Det manskliga ansiktet,’’ in Chaplin (Stockholm), vol. 30, no. 2–3, 1988. Trasatti, S., ‘‘Bergman, il paradosso di un Ateo cristiano,’’ in Castoro Cinema (Milan), no. 156, November/December 1991. *** The films of Ingmar Bergman have been considered by commer- cial distributors as ‘‘intellectual’’ films rather than simple entertain- ment. The themes Bergman has chosen to present in his work—death, fate, love, loneliness—are thought to have only intellectual appeal. The Naked Night exhibits many typical Bergman themes and has been selected by some critics as his best film. However, this favorable acceptance of the film does not reflect the initial popular reaction. The Naked Night was the first of Bergman’s films to be given a wide release in the United States (although it was his eighteenth film as a director). A few of his early films had a limited distribution here, but they were mainly exploited for their nudity as soft-core pornogra- phy. The Naked Night was also publicized in this manner, as evi- denced by the American title. A more literal translation of Gycklarnas Afton is ‘‘twilight of the jugglers.’’ France released the film as Night of the Clowns and England released the film as Sawdust and Tinsel. Only the American version was labeled with a suggestive title. As in many of Bergman’s films, the main theme of The Naked Night is the idea of fate. Fate dictates the kind of lives the characters must lead and they cannot escape their destinies. Their attempts to do so only make their lives more miserable. For example, Albert, the owner of a travelling circus, seeks a more secure life in the traditional family unit. When he tries to make amends with his estranged wife, she rejects him and even thanks him for having left her in the first place. Albert’s visit to his wife prompts his mistress, Anne, to have an affair with a local actor. The actor later humiliates Albert in public by bragging about his new conquest. Albert’s humiliation leads him to attempt suicide, but he cannot escape his fate and the attempt fails. This string of events eventually comes full circle, until Albert once again sets out on the road with Anne, following the only choice fate allows him. The Naked Night, not surprisingly, considering the subject matter, does not have a happy ending. Obviously 1953 audiences were not ready for this kind of film as it was quite unsuccessful, not just financially but critically. The film was also unsuccessful in Sweden, as well as in most foreign markets. Critics termed the film too ‘‘complex’’ and ‘‘depressing.’’ The failure of The Naked Night affected Bergman deeply. He knew he would have to make changes if he was going to continue to find financial backing for his films. As a result, Bergman’s next three pictures were comedies (A Lesson in Love, Dreams, and Smiles of a Summer Night). These films continued to address the issues of his earlier work (fate, love, etc.), but in a lighter vein. This new approach made his films more popular and critically recognized. The change in the reaction to his films encour- aged Bergman to turn toward ‘‘serious’’ films again, such as Persona and Cries and Whispers. In the mid-1960s critics rediscovered Gycklarnas Afton, regarding it in a new, more positive light as one of the most significant films of his career. —Linda J. Obalil 501 H HADAKA NO SHIMA (The Island) Japan, 1961 Director: Kaneto Shindo Production: Kindai Eiga Kyokai (Japan); black and white, 35mm; running time: 92 minutes, English version is 96 minutes. Released 1961, Japan. Producers: Kaneto Shindo and Eisaku Matsura; screenplay: Kaneto Shindo; photography: Kiyoshi Kuroda; editor: Toshio Enoki; sound: Kunie Maruyama; music: Hikaru Hayashi. Cast: Nobuko Otowa (Toyo); Taiji Tonoyama (Senta); Shinji Tanaka (Taro); Masanori Horimoto (Jiro). Publications Book: Anderson, Joseph, and Donald Richie, Japanese Cinema: Art and Industry, New York, 1960; revised edition, Princeton, New Jer- sey, 1982. Articles: ‘‘About the Moviemaker,’’ in Newsweek (New York), 10 Septem- ber 1962. Kuhn, Helen, in Films in Review (New York), October 1962. Gow, Gordon, in Films and Filming (London), December 1962. Noxor, Gerald, in Cinema Journal (Iowa City, Iowa), no. 3, 1963. Fradier, George, ‘‘Dialogue on the Film The Island,’’ in UNESCO Courier, April 1963. ‘‘Note,’’ in International Film Guide (London), no. 2, 1965. Potrel-Dorget, M. L., in Image et Son (Paris), July-August 1978. Pasquini, C., ‘‘Venezia 79: Kosatsu,’’ in Filmcritica (Siena), vol. 30, no. 298, September 1979. *** Hadaka no shima (The Island) is the thirteenth feature written and directed by Kaneto Shindo, best known for his depictions of women’s lives. The film stars Nobuko Otowa who has appeared in most of his films. Released in 1961, it is Shindo’s best known work outside Japan. Constructed like a documentary drama, the film tells the story of a husband (Senta) and wife (Toyo), who live on a small island with their two sons. Their lives are consumed by the necessity of obtaining water from a nearby island twice a day. Like Robert Flaherty’s Nanook and Man of Aran, the film focuses on the family’s struggle against nature for survival. Hadaka no shima is innovative on two levels. First, the narrative is presented without dialogue. Like F. W. Murnau’s silent classic, Der letzte Mann, which is rendered without inter-titles (save one), Hadaka no shima is almost purely visual. Shindo utilizes action, gesture, camera movement, rhythmic editing, close-ups, music and sound effects to make his points. Second, Shindo experiments with elliptical editing. One scene in particular is noteworthy. On the road Senta and Toyo move towards the audience, carrying their buckets. As soon as they come close to the camera, Shindo cuts and they are once again seen in the distance in the exact position of the opening shot. This device gives the impression of a film loop, serving to emphasize the Sisyphean effort of repeating arduous chores in a never-ending cycle. The film contains only minimal action. The main events are the accidental spilling of water, which prompts Senta to knock Toyo to the ground; the death of the oldest son after a brief illness; Toyo’s reaction to this loss (she deliberately dumps water on the ground and tramples the plants); and, finally, the family’s visit to the mainland where they unsuccessfully attempt to sell a fish. The remainder of the film details the twice-daily trips to the main island, the slow climb up the hill, the watering of plants, and the family’s eating and bathing. Shindo is fond of close-ups intercut between long sequence shots. He uses parallel editing, connecting the dining of the family with the eating of the animals, to provide a commentary on the simplicity and poverty of their lives. Shindo likewise includes ‘‘pillow shots’’ similar to the insertions found in Yasujiro Ozu films. Primarily these consist of the image of a small boat which the family uses to row to the main island. The shot functions as a meditative moment which possesses associational meaning like images in a haiku poem. Shindo offers a portrayal of a primitive way of life, which is contrasted to the frantic mechanized life of the main island. Despite the hardships on the island, the family possesses dignity, persever- ance and stamina. Their lives have purpose and meaning. There is joy at the day’s end when their labors cease and they can relax with a bath and the communal meal. The couple exhibits a stoicism bred of necessity and the knowledge that life must go on. After Toyo angrily spills the water, she picks herself up and resumes work. Throughout, the family personifies a Buddhist attitude toward life: a sense of harmony with nature, resignation to man’s insignificance in the universe, acceptance of the flux of life and death. Hadaka no shima is thus pervaded with a sense of mono no aware, a sad awareness of the transience of all things worldly. This attitude is expressed through the film’s dominant metaphor—the island, a small sanctuary surrounded by a vast body of water. Like the famous Zen sand gardens composed of rocks surrounded by raked sand, the island represents everything from the isolated family, to the Japanese people of the island nation, to mankind itself. LA HAINE FILMS, 4 th EDITION 502 Hadaka no shima was critically acclaimed in the United States. Most of the popular critics were taken with its quiet power and simplicity. Only Pauline Kael questioned whether less was really more and wondered at the adulation of such a primitive way of life. Such sentiments were also shared by several Japanese commentators who wondered at the film’s foreign popularity and worried about the effect of portraying Japan as an esoteric, primitive people rather than a modern industrial nation. After Hadaka no shima, Shindo turned to new subject matter. —Patricia Erens LA HAINE (Hate) France, 1995 Director: Mathieu Kassovitz Production: Les Productions Lazennec, with Studio Canal+, La Sept Cinema, Kasso Inc. Productions, and Gramercy Pictures; black and white, 35 mm; running time: 95 minutes; length: 2,731 meters. Released 31 May 1995. Producer: Christophe Rossignon; associate producers: Adeline Lecallier, Alain Rocca; screenplay: Mathieu Kassovitz; photogra- phy: Pierre Aim, Georges Diane; assistant directors: Eric Pujol; editors: Mathieu Kassovitz, Scott Stevenson; sound: Dominique Dalmasso; sound design: Vincent Tulli; production design: Giuseppe Ponturo; set decoration: Sophie Quiedeville; costume designer: Virginie Montel. Cast: Vincent Cassel (Vinz); Hubert Kounde (Hubert); Said Taghmaoui (Sayid); Francois Levantal (Asterix); Edouard Montoute (Darty); Marc Duret (Inspector ‘‘Notre Dame’’); Tadek Lokcinski (Monsieur Toilettes); Karin Viard (Gallery Girl); Julie Mauduech (Gallery Girl); Vincent Lindon (‘‘Really’’ Drunk Man); Karim Belkhadra (Samir); Abdel Ahmed Ghili (Abdel); Solo Dicko (Santo); Joseph Momo (Ordinary Guy); Heloise Rauth (Sarah); Rywka Wajsbrot (Vinz’s Grandmother); Olga Abrego (Vinz’s Aunt); Laurent Labasse (Cook); Choukri Gabteni (Said’s Brother); Peter Kassovitz (Gallery Patron); Mathieu Kassovitz (Young Skinhead). Awards: Best Director, Cannes Film Festival, 1995; Best Young Film, European Film Awards, 1995; Best French Film, Best Producer, and Best Editor, Cesar Awards, 1996. Publications Articles: Alexander, K., and D. Styan, ‘‘La Haine,’’ in Vertigo (Paris), no. 5, 1995. Leahy, J., ‘‘The Children of Godard and 90s TV,’’ in Vertigo (Paris), no. 5, 1995. Lochen, K., ‘‘Verden tilhorer deg,’’ in Film & Kino (Oslo), no. 7, 1995. Trofimenkov, M., ‘‘O nenavisti- o nenavisti,’’ in Iskusstvo Kino (Moscow), no. 10, 1995. Trofimenkov, M., ‘‘Predchuvstvie prazhdanskoi voiny,’’ in Iskusstvo Kino (Moscow), no. 10, 1995. Morrison, S., ‘‘La haine, Fallen Angels, and Some Thoughts on Scorsese’s Children,’’ in CineAction (Toronto), no. 39, 1995. Jousse, T., ‘‘Prose combat,’’ in Cahiers du Cinéma (Paris), June 1995. Lebouc, G, ‘‘La Haine,’’ in Grand Angle (Mariembourg, Belgium), June 1995. Vasse, C., ‘‘La Haine,’’ in Positif (Paris), June 1995. Sibony, D., ‘‘Exclusion intrinsique,’’ in Cahiers du Cinéma (Paris), July-August 1995. Nazzaro, G.A., ‘‘L’odio,’’ in Cineforum (Bergamo, Italy), Octo- ber 1995. Reader, K., ‘‘After the Riot,’’ in Sight and Sound (London), Novem- ber 1995. Kelly, B., ‘‘La Haine Hip-Hops,’’ in Variety (New York), 22–28 January 1996. Schubert, G., ‘‘Zuhanas kozben,’’ in Filmvilag (Budapest), no. 1, 1996. Noh, D., ‘‘Kassovitz’s Parisian Hate: Not La Vie en Rose,’’ in Film Journal (New York), February 1996. Swenson, K., ‘‘Hommeboys,’’ in Premiere (New York), Febru- ary 1996. Hammerschmidt, T., ‘‘Filme des Monats,’’ in Medien Praktisch (Frankfurt), February 1996. Winters, L., ‘‘Boyz in the Banlieu,’’ in Village Voice (New York), 6 February 1995. Evans, G., ‘‘Gramercy Levels Hate at Young Americans,’’ in Variety (New York), 12–18 February 1996. Reynaud, B., ‘‘Le Hood,’’ in Film Comment (New York), March/ April 1996. Hollstein, M., ‘‘Hass.,’’ In Medien Praktisch (Frankfurt), May 1996. Royer, G., ‘‘La Haine,’’ in Sequences (Quebec), March-June 1997. *** Hate may be a French-language film, set in a specific place and time, but its depiction of alienated, dead-end teens who clash with authority is universal. As such, the film is an explosive, cutting-edge portrait of twisted, wasted lives. Hate is an instant classic of its genre, ranking alongside adolescent angst dramas from Nicholas Ray’s 1950s breakthrough, Rebel Without a Cause (whose characters are misunderstood upper-class Southern Californians), to John Single- ton’s Boyz N the Hood and the Hughes Brothers’ Menace II Society. The latter are gutsy, non-romanticized portraits of urban African- America in the 1990s, where guns, drive-by shootings, and ‘‘gangsta’’ attitude are as much a part of everyday life as flipping on a television set. In their depictions of young lives wasting away in an environment of helplessness and hopelessness, Boyz N the Hood and Menace II Society directly parallel the sensibility that permeates Hate. Much of the scenario of Hate, written and directed by 29-year-old Mathieu Kassovitz, is set in a public housing project just outside Paris. As it begins, adolescents and police have just violently clashed, with the conflict sparked by the brutal beating by the cops of a young man named Abdel, who lies near death in a hospital. The main characters are Abdel’s three friends: the Arab Sayid, the Jewish Vinz, and the black Hubert. LA HAINEFILMS, 4 th EDITION 503 La Haine Of the trio, Vinz is the most sociopathic. He idolizes one of the most celebrated of all celluloid psychos: Travis Bickle, the character played by Robert De Niro in Martin Scorsese’s Taxi Driver. As he glares into a mirror and imitates Travis, Vinz does not exude a ‘‘you- talkin’-to-me’’ cool. Rather, he contorts his face, becoming a hideous and horrifying symbol of contemporary alienated youth. The genial Sayid is content to play tag-along, following in Vinz’s shadow. Hubert, meanwhile, is the most self-aware. He is the only one who can articulate the fact that he will be unable to flourish if he cannot escape the projects. Yet Hubert, Sayid, and Vinz remain inexorably linked by their nonexistent futures. They have neither jobs nor job prospects. The concept of a ‘‘career’’ and economic indepen- dence is not in their realm. All they do is hang out and smoke marijuana, and they are constantly harassed by the police. These young men are not inherently violent or bad, yet their economic status, age, and demeanor allow the authorities to single them out as troublemakers. Forebodingly, Vinz comes into possession of a Smith & Wesson .44. He promises that, if Abdel dies, he will get revenge by ‘‘whack- ing a pig.’’ It seems inevitable that Abdel will die—so watching Hate is like watching a firecracker waiting to explode. Hate is loaded with perverse irony. The teens are haunted by a phrase—‘‘The World Is Yours’’—from an advertisement that is ever-present on billboards. Yet clearly, the reality is that the world is not theirs. These young men have no choices. Their lives are predetermined and, if they protest, there are plenty of police around to keep them in their places. Another key to the film is the all-encompassing impact of Ameri- can culture and consumerism on Sayid, Hubert, and Vinz, who refer to themselves as ‘‘homeboys’’ and their neighborhood as ‘‘the hood.’’ Their speech is laced with American pop cultural references, from the movies Lethal Weapon and Batman to the animated charac- ters Sylvester and Tweetie and Mickey Mouse. A secondary character wears a Notre Dame jacket. Another dons a T-shirt which proclaims that ‘‘Elvis Shot JFK.’’ One puts down another by exclaiming, ‘‘Your mother drinks Bud.’’ Another, who is a fence, is nicknamed ‘‘Walmart.’’ Kassovitz also cannily demonstrates how poverty and hopeless- ness extend beyond racial barriers. Here, a Jew, an Arab, and a black are united by their common experience, and are equally alienated and anti-social. The Jew and Arab do not clash over, for example, the politics of the state of Israel, a conflict that is far removed from their daily lives. The characters are who they are as individuals, rather than being political or sociological, let alone stereotypical, mirrors of their ethnicity. They are not separated by race or religion, but rather are united by age and economic background, by drugs and wretched educations, and by the allure of the culture of violence. At one juncture, Vinz asks his younger sister why she is not in school. ‘‘It HAIZI WANG FILMS, 4 th EDITION 504 burned down,’’ is the blunt reply. All of this helps to make Hate seem ever more real. Vinz, Hubert, and Sayid may live in the shadow of the Eiffel Tower and the Champs élysées, yet the affluence and romance symbolized by these monuments to French civilization are unattain- able. Because they live in a battle zone that is closer to the South Central Los Angeles depicted in Boyz n the Hood and Menace II Society, Hate has more in common with these films than with the French-language features that celebrate Paris and l’amour. Kassovitz’ choice to shoot the film in black-and-white is appropri- ate, as the lack of an on-screen color palette helps to stress the bleakness and sterility of his characters’ surroundings. His use of a hand-held camera gives the film a gritty, cinema-verite feel, and mirrors their disorientation. Not for an instant are Vinz, Hubert, Sayid, and their cronies in any way romanticized. And that is how it should be. —Rob Edelman HAIZI WANG (King of the Children) China, 1987 Director: Chen Kaige Production: Xi’an Film Studio; Eastmancolour, 35mm; running time: 106 minutes. Producer: Wu Tianming; screenplay: Chen Kaige, Wan Zhi, based on the short story by Ah Cheng; photography: Gu Changwei; editor: Liu Miaomiao; lighting: Jia Tianxi; assistant director: Qiang Xiaolu; art director: Chen Shaohua; music: Qu Xiaosong; sound record- ing: Tao Jing, Gu Changning; sound editor: Liu Miaomiao. Cast: Xie Juang (Lao Gan); Yang Xuewen (Wang Fu); Chen Shaohua (Headmaster Chen); Zhang Caimei (Laidi); Xu Guoqin (Lao Hei); Le Gang (Cowherd); Tan Tuo (Village Team Leader); Gu Changwei (Secretary Wu); Wu Xiao (Class Monitor); Liu Haichen (Father). Publications Books: Chen Kaige and Rayns, Tony, King of the Children and the New Chinese Cinema, London, 1989. Articles: Aubert, J.P., ‘‘La cinquième génération’’ in Cahiers du Cinéma (Paris), April 1988. Variety (New York), 18 May 1988. Haizi Wang Cahiers du Cinéma (Paris), June 1988. Stanbrook, A., Films and Filming (London), August 1988. Glaessner, V., and Rayns, Tony, ‘‘Tearing Down the Temple of Culture’’ in Monthly Film Bulletin (London), September 1988. Tessier, M., Revue du Cinéma (Paris), April 1989. Baecque, A. de, ‘‘L’école en feu’’ in Cahiers du Cinéma (Paris), June 1989. Niel, P., ‘‘Traitement de texte’’ in Positif (Paris), July-August 1989. Cinemaya (New Delhi), Winter 1989–90. Chen Kaige, ‘‘Breaking the Circle: The Cinema and Cultural Change in China’’ in Cineaste (New York), no.3, 1990. Chow, R., ‘‘Male Narcissism and National Culture: Subjectivity in Chen Kaige’s King of the Children,’’ in Camera Obscura, Janu- ary-May 1991. CinémAction (Courbevoie), March 1993. Brochu, D., ‘‘Marques d’un cinéma moderne: Le roi des enfants,’’ in Cinémas (Montreal), vol. 3, no. 2–3, Spring 1993. Rayns, Tony, ‘‘The Narrow Path: Chen Kaige’’ in Projections 3, edited by John Boorman and Walter Donoghue, London, 1994. Lu, A., ‘‘Chen Kaige,’’ in Film Comment (New York), vol. 33, September/October 1997. *** King of the Children is a deceptively simple film. It tells the story of a young man who becomes a teacher of junior high school students in the Yunnan countryside and realizes, in a heart-wrenching way, the HALLELUJAHFILMS, 4 th EDITION 505 extent of his task. He discovers that his students are not given any textbooks and that they are used to learning by rote. The time is the Cultural Revolution. Lan Gan, the young man, was part of a brigade made up of city youths sent to the remote countryside for re-education by working alongside illiterate peasants. He gains a transfer from his brigade to a softer job as a teacher even though he is not qualified, having hardly graduated from high school himself. The young man’s experiences mirror director Chen Kaige’s own experiences during the Cultural Revolution as a zhishi qingnian, or ‘‘intellectual youth.’’ Sent to Yunnan to work in a production brigade in the late 1960s, early 1970s, Chen was attracted to the story by novelist A. Cheng (a fellow production brigade member in Yunnan) because of its simplicity. But the director has invested his own aesthetic references in the adaptation. These references are entirely visual—their meanings and significance are implicit and open to interpretation. What cannot be denied is the film’s emotive power conveyed entirely through its images and an interesting montage- mixture of sound effects which illustrate certain scenes (sounds of tree felling, a voice chanting folk melodies, and so on). To begin with, Chen films his protagonist Lan Gan mostly in distant long shots, locating him in an environment of harsh, primitive beauty (by the by recalling the stunning compositions in Chen’s first film, The Yellow Earth, where earth seems to engulf a man). As well as reinforcing the effect of rural stupor, lethargy and boredom felt by the lead character, these long shots reveal the immensity of space and the concrete, objective world in which the character finds himself. He can no more hope to transcend this space than the problems of humanity within that space. Similarly, we first see the central setting of the school in a very long shot (which in point of fact, opens the film), in a photographic time-lapse sequence from mist to clear sky to sunset. The school, where the central drama unfolds, is seen in open air, flanked by mountains—it appears as a minor, unchanging spot in a flurry of changing time. The narrative is punctuated with elliptical cuts, deliberate omis- sions, and long-held shots which impart information on a subliminal level but which in fact hold the key to Chen’s mode of visual story- telling. A direct, linear mode is avoided. Instead, we look to visual detail and the behaviour of the characters to draw narrative (and emotional) sustenance. Thus, the film’s spare use of medium to close shots, as in the scenes of Lan Gan reacting to his students in class (particularly the sensitive Wang Fu with whom he strikes an uneasy rapport), gain even more impact. Time and space are wondrously controlled. A second viewing of the film shows how tightly edited and temporally well-sustained the narrative actually is (the film even feels shorter than its nearly two hours running time) and also reveals more clearly the rich metaphorical layers which Chen creates to underline the simple story. The metaphor of objective space to illustrate man’s smallness is obvious while it also points out the results of the more complex, and destructive urges, of man, small as he is. The protagonist is shown at crucial points in still shots standing in a wilderness of burned tree stumps. The final scenes of these tree stumps manifested as wooden statues of strawmen and other grotesque figures, the burning of the forest (for swidden agriculture), and the intriguing sub-plot of the young cowherd urinating on the ground to disconcert cows too stubborn to move along (which gives rise to Lao San’s explanation of his use of a compound word made of the characters of ‘‘cow’’ and ‘‘water’’ in his valedictory lesson to his students) are all a manifesta- tion of man making a mark on earth. The last message of Lan Gan to Wang Fu as he leaves the school (having been dismissed for his unorthodox teaching methods) may be summed up in one word: creativity—he implores Wang Fu not to learn by rote and to start thinking for himself. However, man’s creativity is compromized, Chen seems to say, by man’s failure to understand and come to terms with his environment. On the other hand, even as Chen underscores the effects of human alienation, poverty and neglect, there is no simplistic explanation offered for the obviously disastrous effect that human foolishness has waged on human affairs (the devastation wrought by the Cultural Revolution on a generation of students, for example). Chen has succeeded in bringing out the abstract core of his story without diminishing its effective simplicity. In fact, the film comes across as a moving indictment of China’s education policy, its politics, and the country’s backwardness and endemic poverty. King of the Children is also the first film in which Chen deals with the disaster of the Cultural Revolution in personal terms. It is a subject that Chen and other Fifth Generation directors have a great deal to say about having experienced it at first hand. It offers great human drama, ranging from the tragic to the absurd. In King of the Children, Chen depicts the Cultural Revolution as a national tragedy but he does not condemn it outright. In that sense, Chen is less interested in the political implications of the Cultural Revolution. A philosophical- minded director, Chen has shown that his real subject is man and the ambiguities and implications of his behaviour. —Stephen Teo HALLELUJAH USA, 1929 Director: King Vidor Production: Metro-Goldwyn-Mayer Pictures Corp.; black and white, 35mm, sound and silent versions; running time: about 100 minutes, some sources list 107 minutes; length: 6579 feet (silent), 9711 feet (sound). Released 20 August 1929. Filmed 1929 in MGM Studios in Culver City, California and on location in and around Memphis, Tennessee. Producer: King Vidor; scenario: Wanda Tuchock; treatment: Richard Schayer; dialogue: Ranson Rideout, from an original story by King Vidor; titles for silent version: Marian Ainslee; photogra- phy: Gordon Avil; editors: Anson Stephenson (silent), Hugh Wynn (sound); sound recordist: Douglas Shearer; art director: Cedric Gibbons; music: traditional with 2 songs by Irving Berlin; costume designer: Henrietta Frazer. Cast: Daniel Haynes (Zeke); Nina Mae McKinney (Chick); William Fountaine (Hot Shot); Harry Gray (Parson); Fannie B. DeKnight (Mammy); Everett McGarrity (Spunk); Victoria Spivey (Missy Rose); Milton Dickerson (One of the Johnson kids); Robert Couch (One of the Johnson kids); Walter Tait (One of the Johnson kids); Dixie Jubilee Singers. HALLELUJAH FILMS, 4 th EDITION 506 Hallelujah Publications Books: Noble, Peter, The Negro in Films, London, 1950. Vidor, King, A Tree Is a Tree, New York, 1953. Rotha, Paul, and Richard Griffith, The Film Till Now, New York, 1960. Jacobs, Lewis, The Rise of the American Film: A Critical History, New York, 1968. Bogle, Donald, Toms, Coons, Mulattoes, Mammies, and Bucks: An Interpretative History of Blacks in American Films, New York, 1973. Murray, James, To Find an Image, Indianapolis, 1973. Maynard, Richard A., The Black Man on Film: Racial Stereotyping, Rochelle Park, New Jersey, 1974. Leab, Daniel J., From Sambo to Superspade: The Black Experience in Motion Pictures, Boston, 1975. Patterson, Lindsay, Black Films and Film-Making: A Comprehensive Anthology from Stereotype to Superhero, New York, 1975. Pines, Jim, Blacks in Film: A Survey of Racial Themes and Images in the American Film, London, 1975. Baxter, John, King Vidor, New York, 1976. Cripps, Thomas, Slow Fade to Black: The Negro in American Film 1900–1942, New York, 1977. Sampson, Henry T., Blacks in Black and White: A Source Book on Black Films, Metuchen, New Jersey, 1977. Comuzio, Ermanno, King Vidor, Florence, 1986. Dowd, Nancy, and David Shepard, King Vidor, Metuchen, New Jersey, 1988. Vidor, King, King Vidor, Lanham, 1988. Durgnat, Raymond, and Scott Simmon, King Vidor—American, Berkeley, 1989. Articles: Hall, Mordaunt, in New York Times, 21 August 1929. Variety (New York), 28 August 1929. Braver-Mann, B. G., ‘‘Vidor and Evasion,’’ in Experimental Cinema, vol. 1, no. 3, 1931. Harrington, Curtis, ‘‘The Later Years: King Vidor’s Hollywood Progress,’’ in Sight and Sound (London), April-June 1953. Vidor, King, ‘‘Hollywood Hallelujah,’’ in Films and Filming (Lon- don), May 1955. HANA-BIFILMS, 4 th EDITION 507 Higham, Charles, ‘‘King Vidor,’’ in Film Heritage (Dayton, Ohio), Summer 1966. ‘‘King Vidor at NYU: Discussion,’’ in Cineaste (New York), Spring 1968. Luft, Herbert G., ‘‘A Career That Spans Half a Century,’’ in Film Journal (New York), Summer 1971. Durgnat, Raymond, in Film Comment (New York), July-August 1973. ‘‘Vidor Issue’’ of Positif (Paris), September 1974. Combs, Richard, in Monthly Film Bulletin (London), September 1974. Leiris, M., in Positif (Paris), November 1974. Baumgarten, Marjorie, in Cinema Texas Program Notes (Austin), 11 October 1977. Cocchi, John, in Magill’s Survey of Cinema 2, Englewood Cliffs, New Jersey, 1980. Brody, S., and P. Bates, ‘‘Film and Photo League,’’ in Jump Cut (Berkeley), no. 33, February 1988. Ribemont-Dessaignes, G., in October, no. 60, Spring 1992. Hoberman, J., ‘‘Race to Race,’’ in Village Voice (New York), vol. 39, 22 February 1994. Lindvall, T.R., and others, ‘‘Spectacular Transcendence: Abundant Means in the Cinematic Representation of African American Christianity,’’ in The Howard Journal of Communications, vol. 7, no. 3, 1996. Vidor, K., ‘‘Transcript of Tape Recording Made by King Vidor,’’ in Wide Angle (Baltimore), vol. 19, no. 2, 1997. *** Hallelujah has fair claim to being the first masterpiece of the sound era. Certainly King Vidor could have realized his frequently- proposed all-black film only at a moment when the Broadway success of Rouben Mamoulian’s Porgy, rumors of a similar project at Fox (Hearts of Dixie), and Vidor’s own willingness to gamble his salary all combined with corporate confusion at MGM—the last major studio to equip for sound. Ultimately, however, Hallelujah’s accom- panying music couldn’t quite make it a musical, nor defuse its savagery; and it had as much trouble with bookings in the North as in the South. The film tends to be remembered now under a Birth of a Nation stigma common to ‘‘Southerns’’—admired technically while damned for its racism. It is true that the contented matriarchal family of cotton- pickin’ blacks, singing while they work their patch of land, can seem an image of slave-based Southern prosperity, and the violence of the melodramatic plot can seem straight out of Mrs. Stowe. But the characters are Uncle Tom-ish only outside the context of Vidor’s other work: the same documentary of an agrarian lifestyle is at the root of his idealized white cooperative in Our Daily Bread; emotional intensity is everywhere a Vidorian trademark; and an identical ferocity characterizes Northwest Passage and Duel in the Sun. Ruby Gentry, with another murder-in-the-swampwater finale, comes clos- est to being his whitefolks version of Hallelujah. One needs to recall that Vidor was working at a time when respectable British critic James Agate could dismiss the film with: ‘‘Personally, I don’t care if it took Mr. Vidor ten years to train these niggers; all I know is that ten minutes is all I can stand of nigger ecstasy.’’ If the film is flawed from the standpoint of social morality, it’s for the complete exclusion of whites, which renders imprecise the family’s relationship to the land they apparently sharecrop. Additionally, the four brief shots which make an ellipsis of Zeke’s prison term for murdering his rival ‘‘Hot Shot’’ deny the experience of punishment—he’s soon strummin’ on the ol’ banjo riding home to Mammy. Whatever Vidor may have said in interviews about the film’s ‘‘good vs. evil’’ structure, its tension comes from pitting against each other two mutually exclusive ‘‘goods’’: family-as-religion vs. pas- sionate sexuality. And the temptress Chick, whose dance-hall sensu- ality elevates easily into religious fervor, isn’t inauthentic in either incarnation. She tempts Zeke from his revivalist preaching, but considering Vidor’s very consistent repudiation of narrow religion, from The Sky Pilot (1921) right through Solomon and Sheba (1959), that too might be for the best. The surrealist Ado Kyrou is close to the mark in reading Hallelujah as a celebration of desire. Early sound equipment limits the musical numbers to relatively static takes, but by any criterion Hallelujah is technically remarkable— the ironic result of Vidor’s having had to shoot location sequences silent and post-synch the often expressionistic sound effects of ecstatic wails or physical violence (a procedure which, so Vidor claims, drove his sound editor to a nervous breakdown). The aural expressionism might be written off as circumstantially unavoidable if it hadn’t its visual equivalent in such shots as the featureless black half-screen into which Zeke futilely shouts for aid for his dying brother. But to stress expressionism is to ignore the ways Hallelujah anticipates the early-Visconti variety of neorealism, with its authentic dialects, its quirky, slack dialogue, its inexperienced actors, its documentary tracing of rural life, and its relentless analysis of the crime passionel. —Scott Simmon HANA-BI (Fireworks) Japan, 1997 Director: Takeshi Kitano Production: Television Tokyo Channel, Tokyo FM Broadcasting Company, Office Kitano, Bandai Visual; color, 35mm; running time: 101 minutes. Released 3 September 1997 (Venice Film Festival), 11 November 1997 in Germany (theatrical premiere), 24 January 1998 in Japan, and 20 March 1998 in the United States. Producers: Masayuki Mori, Yasushi Tsuge, Takio Yoshida; screen- play: Takeshi Kitano; photography: Hideo Yamamoto; editors: Takeshi Kitano, Yoshinori Oota; art director: Norishiro Isoda; set decorator: Tatsuo Ozeki; original music: Jo Hisaishi; costume designer: Masami Saito; sound: Senji Horiuchi. Cast: Takeshi Kitano (billed as ‘‘Beat’’ Takeshi) (Yoshitaka Nishi); Kayoko Kishimoto (Miyuki, Nishi’s wife); Ren Osugi (Horibe); Susumu Terajima (Nakamura); Tetsu Watanabe (Tesuka); Hakuryu HANA-BI FILMS, 4 th EDITION 508 Hana-Bi (Yakuza Hitman); Yasuei Yakushiji (Criminal); Taro Istumi (Kudo); Kenichi Yajima (Doctor); Makoto Ashikawa (Tanaka); Yuko Daike (Tanaka’s Widow). Awards: European Film Awards Five Continents Award, Venice Film Festival Golden Lion, Sao Paolo International Film Festival Critics Award, Camerimage Golden Frog (Hideo Yamamoto), 1997. Publications Articles: Rooney, D., in Variety (New York), 8–14 September 1997. Burdeau, E. and others, interview in Cahiers du Cinéma (Paris), November 1997. Saada, N., ‘‘Mirage de la vie,’’ in Cahiers du Cinéma (Paris), November 1997. Ciment, Michel, interview in Positif (Paris), November 1997. Goudet, S., in Positif (Paris), November 1997. Vasse, C., in Positif (Paris), November 1997. Buccheri, V., in Segnocinema (Vicenza, Italy), November/Decem- ber 1997. Rayns, Tony, ‘‘Silent Running,’’ interview in Sight & Sound (Lon- don), December 1997. Rayns, Tony, ‘‘Flower and Fire,’’ in Sight & Sound (London), December 1997. Kehr, Dave, in Film Comment (New York), March/April 1998. *** Superficially, the main character in Takeshi Kitano’s Hana-Bi might be the hero of a generic Hollywood cops-and-robbers thriller. He is Yoshitaka Nishi, a tough veteran police detective who is the picture of cookie-cutter cool. Nishi rarely is without his trademark sunglasses, and he hardly ever displays emotion while going about his professional duties. In this regard, he parallels Clint Eastwood’s Dirty Harry and Charles Bronson’s character in Death Wish. Yet effort- lessly, if not breathlessly, the character and the film transcend these cosmetic trappings, with Nishi becoming a tragic hero of Shakespear- ean proportion. There are dents in his armor and, as his world crashes in around him, this cop is no indestructible Superman. Nishi (who is A HARD DAY’S NIGHTFILMS, 4 th EDITION 509 played by the filmmaker, billed as ‘‘Beat’’ Takeshi) starts out with a couple of strikes against him, as his young daughter has recently died and his wife is fatally ill. A third strike directly relates to the hazards of his business; over the image of two men tossing a baseball, it is noted that Nishi’s ‘‘daughter dies, [his] wife gets sick, and he’s a damn cop.’’ The reality of police work is that it is a brutal, high- pressure profession. A cop may die in the line of duty, or he may be crippled, or a blunder may result in incalculable tragedy. All of these catastrophes befall Nishi. Once upon a time, he and his longtime partner and friend, Detective Horibe, were ‘‘a great team.’’ Yet at the outset, Horibe is shot and crippled. Additionally, Nishi is involved in a bloody confrontation with a criminal, resulting in the death of one colleague and the maiming of another. Nishi’s sense of responsibility towards his wife and the deceased cop’s widow leads him to borrow money from the yakuza, whose emissaries now are calling for a payback. In Hana-Bi, the characters of Nishi and Horibe are laden with obstacles. But are there solutions? In a standard Hollywood entertain- ment, a happy ending would be de rigeur; it would transcend whatever anguish is experienced by the hero during the course of the scenario. Suffice to say, Hana-Bi is no Hollywood escapist product, no cotton-candy amusement. The wheelchair-bound Horibe, who has been abandoned by his family, commences contemplating nature and painting what he observes. Whatever pleasure he derives from this pastime is transitory and meaningless. ‘‘I paint pictures to kill time,’’ he says, matter-of-factly. Meanwhile, Nishi responds to his stresses by becoming prone to increasing outbursts of violence. Not all of his victims are the thugs who harass him for money; Nishi will arbitrarily smack an unsuspecting stranger who has the temerity to mix with him. For instance, he beats up a man who innocently chides Nishi’s wife for watering dead flowers on a beach. Conversely, when in the company of his wife, Nishi is gentle and loving: a model of compassion in a cruel contemporary world. In this regard, Hana-Bi offers a stinging portrait of an icy-cold society in which cityscapes and bright lights and all the modern conveniences are poor substitutes for warmth, caring, and basic humanity. Society, as depicted by Kitano, is defined by violence and gangsterism—and Nishi, the officer of the law, is reduced to the level of the street thug as he is impacted by his work, his surroundings, and his personal hell. Throughout the film, characters suffer ill luck. When they or their loved ones are afflicted with disease or paralysis, they are left to their own inner resources, their own inner demons, their own solitude. Hana-Bi is a soulful film, with Kitano often employing the soft sounds of pianos or violins to create moods of melancholy. Most impressive of all, the film is loaded with visual and aural juxtapositions that infuse it with a profound sense of irony. Sometimes, the opposites are strictly in the imagery; on other occasions, an image may be contrasted to a sound, or a penetrating silence. For example, a shot of Nishi quietly, somberly lighting a cigarette while visiting his wife in her hospital room is followed by one of a gun blasting into the gut of Horibe, who grimaces and falls to the pavement. The second shot begins just as Nishi lights the cigarette. Later on, Nishi peacefully sits in a bar. Violent images pass through his mind. Kitano visualizes these thoughts, which appear in slow motion and without sound. As a result, the serenity of the moment is contrasted to the violence replaying in Nishi’s head. A shot of blood flowing out of the mouth of a thug Nishi has just smacked is followed by a long shot of waves crashing into a beach and two adults and a child walking in the sand. A medium shot of a man standing passively is accompanied by the groans and grunts of a violent confrontation. Nishi aims a gun at a man who is running from him; just as he pulls the trigger, Kitano cuts to Horibe splashing a glob of blood-red paint across his latest artistic creation. Occasionally, Nishi’s wife utters a giggle in response to some- thing he does or says. Otherwise, she is silent throughout the entire film—until its final moments. ‘‘Thank you. Thank you for every- thing,’’ she tells her husband, as she tenderly rests her head on his shoulder. Here, Kitano incorporates the film’s final juxtaposition. His camera lingers on a long shot of an idyllic sand-and-waves setting. Then, to emphasize the point that there will be no reprieve for Nishi and his wife, the lilting music on the soundtrack is interrupted by the sound of two gunshots. The literal English translation of Hana-Bi is ‘‘fireworks.’’ Split in two, the title is made up of the words ‘‘flower’’ (‘‘hana’’) and ‘‘fire’’ (‘‘bi’’): a contrast that potently mirrors the two aspects of Nishi’s character. He is a cop who knows all too well that violence is an intrinsic part of contemporary society; when stretched to his limit, he is a willing purveyor of violence. Yet concurrently, in his dealings with his wife, he is capable of extreme tenderness. All of this is most poignantly played out in Kitano’s visual and aural juxtapositions, which ultimately mix devotion with outrage, beauty with anguish. —Rob Edelman HARAKIRI See SEPPUKU A HARD DAY’S NIGHT UK, 1964 Director: Richard Lester Production: Proscenium Films; black and white, 35mm; running time: 85 minutes. Released July 1964, London. Filmed 1964 in London. Producers: Walter Shenson and Denis O’Dell; screenplay: Alun Owen; title design: Robert Freeman; photography: Gilbert Taylor; editors: John Jympson and Pamela Tomlin; sound recordists: H. L. Bird and Stephen Dalby; sound editor: Gordon Daniel; art director: Ray Simm; music director: George Martin; songs by: John Lennon, Paul McCartney and George Harrison; performed by: The Beatles; costume designer: Julie Harris. Cast: John Lennon (John); Paul McCartney (Paul); George Harrison (George); Ringo Starr (Ringo); Wilfrid Brambell (Grandfather); Norman Rossington (Norm); Victor Spinetti (Television director); A HARD DAY’S NIGHT FILMS, 4 th EDITION 510 A Hard Day’s Night John Junkin (Shake); Deryck Guyler (Police inspector); Anna Quayle (Millie); Kenneth Haigh (Simon); Richard Vernon (Man on train); Michael Trubshawe (Club manager); Eddie Malin (Hotel waiter); Robin Ray (Television floor manager); Lionel Blair (Television choreographer); Alison Seebohm (Secretary); David Jaxon (Young boy); Marianne Stone (Society reporter); David Langton (Actor); Clare Kelly (Barmaid). Publications Script: Owen, Alun, The Beatles in Richard Lester’s ‘‘A Hard Day’s Night,’’ edited by Philip DiFranco, New York, 1977. Books: Manvell, Roger, New Cinema in Britain, New York, 1969. Kantor, Bernard, Directors at Work: Interviews with American Film- Makers, New York, 1970. Betts, Ernest, The Film Business: A History of the British Cinema, New York, 1973. Walker, Alexander, Hollywood U.K., New York, 1974. Rosenfeldt, Diane, Richard Lester: A Guide to References and Resources, Boston, 1978. Sinyard, Neil, The Films of Richard Lester, London, 1985. Yule, Andrew, The Man Who ‘‘Framed’’ the Beatles, New York, 1994. Yule, Andrew, Richard Lester and the Beatles: A Complete Biogra- phy of the Man Who Directed a Hard Day’s Night, and Help!, New York, 1995. Articles: Bean, Robin, ‘‘Keeping Up with the Beatles,’’ in Films and Filming (London), February 1964. Baker, Peter, in Films and Filming (London), August 1964. Sarris, Andrew, in Village Voice (New York), 27 August 1964. Nowell-Smith, Geoffrey, in Sight and Sound (London), Autumn 1964. Seelye, John, in Film Quarterly (Berkeley), Fall 1964. Hagen, Ray, in Films in Review (New York), October 1964. A HARD DAY’S NIGHTFILMS, 4 th EDITION 511 French, Philip, ‘‘Richard Lester,’’ in Movie (London), Autumn 1965. Bluestone, George, ‘‘Lunch with Lester,’’ in Film Quarterly (Berke- ley), Summer 1966. Sugg, Alfred, ‘‘The Beatles and Film Art,’’ in Film Heritage (Dayton, Ohio), Summer 1966. Lester, Richard, ‘‘The Art of Comedy,’’ in Film (London), Spring 1967. ‘‘Richard Lester,’’ in New Yorker, 28 October 1967. Shivas, Mark, and Ian Cameron, ‘‘An Interview with Richard Les- ter,’’ in Movie (London), Winter 1968–69. Corliss, Richard, ‘‘A Hard Day’s Night: 10 Years After,’’ in Film Comment (New York), May-June 1974. Johnson, Timothy, in Magill’s Survey of Cinema 2, Englewood Cliffs, New Jersey, 1980. Lefèvre, Raymond, in Image et Son (Paris), November 1982. Bortolussi, S., in Cineforum (Bergamo), April 1983. Hanke, K., ‘‘The British Film Invasion of the 1960s,’’ in Films in Review (New York), April 1989. Hanke, K., ‘‘The British Film Invasion of the 1960s, part II,’’ in Films in Review (New York), May 1989. Savage, J., ‘‘Snapshots of the Sixties,’’ in Sight and Sound (London), May 1993. Clements, M., ‘‘My Technology’s in Turnaround,’’ in Premiere (Boulder), vol. 8, November 1994. Boxoffice (Chicago), October 1996. Hampton, Howard, ‘‘Scorpio Descending: In Search of Rock Cin- ema,’’ in Film Comment (New York), vol. 33, no. 2, March- April 1997. *** Following the runaway success of Rock Around the Clock in 1956, both British and North American filmmakers sought to capitalize on the box-office appeal of pop music. Although the resulting features were often commercial hits, they also rated low in critical prestige. The pop music film was characteristically a low-budget quickie, designed to cash in on a passing musical trend, and generally devoid of artistic ambitions other than to pack in as many musical numbers as possible or show off the film’s stars to best advantage. The release of A Hard Day’s Night, in this respect, represents something of a mile- stone in the history of the genre. Although a vehicle for the Beatles, aimed at exploiting the rising tide of ‘‘Beatlemania,’’ the film successfully challenged many of the old conventions of the pop film by introducing a new approach to both plot and visual presentation. The film, for example, discards the hitherto standard pop film plots—both the ‘‘let’s put on a show’’ formula which director Richard Lester had already made affectionate fun of in his earlier It’s Trad, Dad (1962) and the ‘‘rags to riches’’ structure used in, among others, the early Elvis Presley films (such as Loving You and Jailhouse Rock). Scripted by the Liverpool playwright, Alun Owen, A Hard Day’s Night opts instead for a much looser ‘‘a day in the life of’’ format which, also unlike the Elvis movies, requires that the Beatles play, not fictional characters, but themselves. Indeed, no small part of the film’s fascination is its playful confusion of the boundaries between fact and fiction whereby what we see is all staged for the camera (and contains no actuality footage) but nonetheless assumes the air of a documentary presentation (so that the concluding televi- sion performance is often taken to have been a real one). The film, in this regard, is heavily indebted to the French new wave and shares its characteristic blend of ciné-vérité (hand-held camera, location shooting, improvised performances, and a generally casual approach towards filming) and modernism (a self-conscious use of film technique, anti-realist editing, and cinematic pastiche). This mix is well illustrated by the film’s lengthy train sequence. This is filmed on a real train using a hand-held camera (with wide-angle lens). The ‘‘realism’’ which this generates, however, is dramatically ruptured when the four Beatles decide to torment the stuffy commuter who has prevented them from opening the compartment window or playing their transistor. In one shot, the four Beatles are standing in the train corridor, their faces glued to the compartment window; in the shot of them which follows, John, Paul, and George are suddenly seen outside, running (and, in George’s case, cycling) alongside the train and still shouting at the increasingly harassed passenger inside. This indifference to the norms of ‘‘realism’’ is extended to the film’s treatment of the musical numbers, and represents one of its most important contributions to the genre. Lester had already demon- strated a remarkable visual inventiveness in his filming of the acts in It’s Trad, Dad, but had confined himself to realistically motivated performances (in the recording studio, in concert, on TV). A Hard Day’s Night is no less reliant on the TV concert but also attempts to integrate plot and music more securely and present its musical numbers in ways other than the simulated performance. Two of these attempts are particularly striking. In the first, the Beatles end their train journey in the guard’s van where they embark upon a game of cards. ‘‘I Should Have Known Better’’ is heard on the soundtrack and, shortly after, John produces a harmonica and begins to sing. The camera then cuts to the group, sitting in the same position, but now playing their instruments. As the song finishes, the instruments simply ‘‘disappear’’ and the boys bring their game to a conclusion. The song, in one sense, is ‘‘performed’’ but in a manner which would be impossible other than on film. In the second case, the element of performance is dispensed with entirely. In the course of the concert rehearsals, the group escapes through a fire door to a deserted playing field outside. As ‘‘Can’t Buy Me Love’’ begins on the soundtrack, their sense of release is cleverly communicated through a spectacular montage of movement involving aerial photography and accelerated motion. For possibly the first time, the pop film demonstrated it was possible to present a musical number without the illusion of an actual performance. Ironically, it is often this very element of technical ostentation which is condemned in Lester’s work as superficial gimmickry. In the case of A Hard Day’s Night, however, it is the very humbleness of the pop film genre, and its lack of social and moral earnestness, which makes such a complaint inappropriate. For while the film may lack substance, it does not pretend otherwise. Moreover, it is precisely because of its rather eclectic modishness that it evokes so successfully both the spirit of the music and the era which spawned it (the ‘‘swinging sixties’’). In this respect, the film wears rather better than most of the more ambitious and ‘‘serious minded’’ Lester films which were to follow. —John Hill HARP OF BURMA See BIRUMA NO TAGEGOTO HE LIU FILMS, 4 th EDITION 512 HATE See LA HAINE HE LIU (The River) Taiwan, 1997 Director: Tsai Ming-liang Production: Color; running time: 115 minutes. Released in France, 27 August 1997, and in England, 20 March 1998; filmed in Tai- pei, Taiwan. Producer: Chiu Shun-Ching, Hsu Li-Kong, Chung Hu-pin (execu- tive), Wang Shih-Fang (associate); screenplay: Tsai Ming-liang, Tsai Yi-chun, Yang Pi-ying; cinematographer: Liao Pen-jung; editor: Chen Sheng-Chang, Lei Chen-Ching; production designer: Tony Lan; art direction: Lee Pao-Lin; set decoration: Cheng Nien-Chiu, Kuo Mu-Shan; costume design: Yu Wang; makeup: Yen Pei-Wen. Cast: Chen Chao-jung (Anonymous Man); Chen Shiang-chyi (Girl); Ann Hui (Director); Lee Kang-sheng (Kang-Sheng, Xiao-Kang); Lu Hsiao-Ling (Mother); Lu Shiao-Lin (Mother’s lover); Miao Tien (Father); Yang Kuei-Mei (Girl in Hotel). Publications Articles: Interview with Tsai, in Sight & Sound (London), March 1997. Herpe, N., and M. Ciment, ‘‘Tsai Ming-liang,’’ in Positif (Paris), no. 439, September 1997. Roy, André, ‘‘Les noyés de Taipei,’’ in 24 Images (Montreal), no. 90, Winter 1998. Kemp, Peter, ‘‘Bodily Fluids,’’ in Sight and Sound (London), vol. 8, no. 4, April 1998. *** Tsai Ming-Liang is one of the most distinctive and idiosyncratic of the younger generation of Taiwanese directors. So far, unlike his predecessors such as Hou Hsiao-Hsien and Edward Yang, he’s shown no interest in dealing directly with Taiwan’s history; instead, he focuses on the outcome of that history, the youth of present-day Taipei—the disaffected heirs of a society that once set greater store by tradition, that held the spirits of the past in higher awe, than any other. Isolated, obscurely dissatisfied, unable or unwilling to form emo- tional connections with friends, lovers, or family, his young protago- nists wander through a city that’s bulldozed its past and jerry-built its future. The River, the third in Tsai’s Taipei cycle, shares cast, characters and motifs with its two predecessors, Rebels of the Neon God (Qing Shaonian Nezha, 1992) and Vive l’Amour (Aiqing Wansui, 1994). The lead is again taken by the pensive, delicate-featured Li Kangsheng, as before playing a youth called Xiaokang. He shares an apartment with an older couple, but so rarely do any of the three communicate with each other that it’s a while before we realize they’re his mother and father. (They’re played by Miao Tian and Lu Hsiao-ling, who took the same roles in Rebels.) At one point when Xiaokang is sitting in a hospital corridor his parents, one after the other, walk straight past him without recognizing him. Xiaokang’s sole evident emotional attachment is to his scooter; astride it he roams the Taipei streets with an air of obscure discontent, plainly looking for something but unlikely to know it when he finds it. What he does find, unlooked-for, is pain. The agony that afflicts him, contorting his neck and reducing him to near-suicidal despair, seems on the face of it to result from his immersion in the noxiously polluted waters of the Tanshui river. But after his ducking and before the affliction strikes, Xiaokang has sex with an ex-classmate, Xiangqi; she’s affectionate and gentle, but he remains blankly uninvolved throughout. His pain can be seen, not simply as the result of a viral infection, but as an index of his emotional denial; Tsai leaves us to make up our own minds. Still, Xiaokang’s suffering at least attracts the concern of his parents, making them talk to him if not to each other. In a recurrent image, comic but touching, we see the father riding pillion behind Xiaokang on the scooter, holding his son’s head upright. As ever in Tsai’s films, water represents an insidious and disrup- tive force. In Rebels of the Neon God a high-rise apartment is constantly and inexplicably flooded to a depth of several inches, with loose rubber flip-flops floating forlornly about the kitchen; the same watery theme recurs in Tsai’s most recent film The Hole (Dong, 1998). In The River not only is Xiaokang possibly poisoned by his swim, but the father finds water seeping, then trickling, and finally pouring through the ceiling of his room. Rather than trying to stop it, he rigs up an intricate system of pipes and plastic sheets to deflect the flow out of the window. Since he too is an emotional amputee, estranged from his wife and seeking loveless sex in gay saunas, it’s tempting to see this downpour as a symbol of the elements in his own life that he deflects but refuses to confront. But water can also be taken as the metaphor of a society in a state of uncontrollable flux, where all fixed points have been abandoned. In this high-obsolescence city, where it seems that virtually every building is, or overlooks, a construction site, tradition can be of little help. Besides trying the regular hospital, Xiaokang’s parents haul him round to a string of healers, but none of them does him the slight- est good. Tsai (who was born to Chinese expatriate parents in Sarawak) shows scant affection for his adopted city; his Taipei is a transient, comfortless place of drab apartments and hotel rooms, their walls painted in fecal browns and greens. His people occupy these spaces but scarcely seem to live in them, let alone personalize them with HEAVENLY CREATURESFILMS, 4 th EDITION 513 possessions or decor. Much of the film’s action takes place in corridors—especially in the gay saunas frequented by the father, whose atmosphere offers rather less erotic excitement than the average supermarket. Even when a conjunction occurs, it’s brief and joyless—no one speaks, let alone smiles, and only a muted shudder signals climax. Just once, after father and son have unwittingly coincided in an act of masturbatory incest, is there something more. When realization dawns, the father gives a groan of fury and slaps his son’s face. Compared to the previous couplings (both gay and hetero), it seems almost like a caress. All of which might sound terminally depressing. But there’s a sly humor in Tsai’s gaze, and a quiet, quizzical regard for his bemused wanderers, that rescues his films from misanthropy or facile pessi- mism. His aim in making The River, he says, was ‘‘to go as deeply as possible into the minds of the characters.’’ Despite the laconic action and minimal dialogue, he succeeds in revealing them to us—and also, unexpectedly, in making them sympathetic. —Philip Kemp A HEART IN WINTER See UN COEUR EN HIVER HEAVENLY CREATURES New Zealand, 1994 Director: Peter Jackson Production: Wingnut Films with Fontana Film Corporation GmbH, in association with the New Zealand Film Commission; color, Super 35 (2:35:1); running time: 99 minutes; original running time in New Zealand and Australia, 108 minutes. Released by Miramax Films; filmed in Christchurch, Victoria Park, and other New Zealand loca- tions. Cost: $10,000,000 (estimated). Producer: Jim Booth; screenplay: Peter Jackson and Frances Walsh; photography: Alun Bollinger; editor: Jamie Selkirk; art director: Jill Cormack; production designer: Grant Major; music: score by Peter Dasent, with additional music by Giacomo Puccini. Cast: Melanie Lynskey (Pauline Parker); Kate Winslet (Juliet Hulme); Sara Peirse (Honora Parker); Diana Kent (Hilda Hulme); Clive Merrison (Henry Hulme); Simon O’Connor (Herbert Rieper); Jed Brophy (John/Nicholas); Peter Elliott (Bill Perry); Gilbert Goldie (Dr. Bennett); Geoffrey Heath (Reverend Norris); Kirsti Ferry (Wendy Rieper); Ben Skjellerup (Jonathan Hulme); Darien Takle (Miss Stewart); Elizabeth Waller (Miss Waller); Peter Jackson (bum outside theatre, uncredited). Awards: Silver Lion Award for outstanding achievement, Venice Film festival, 1994; Critics’ Prize for outstanding achievement, Toronto Film Festival, 1994; New Zealand Film Awards for Best Director, Best Actress (Melanie Lynskey), Best Supporting Actress (Sara Peirse), Best Screenplay, Best Cinematography, Best Foreign Performer (Kate Winslet), Best Film Score, Best Editing, and Best Design, 1995. Publications Articles: ‘‘Peter Makes His Bid: Dustin Makes a Call,’’ in Onfilm (Auckland), vol. 9, no. 9, 1992. ‘‘Heavenly Creatures a ‘Global’ Creation,’’ in Onfilm (Auckland), vol., 10, no. 1, 1993. Wakefield, P., ‘‘Heavenly Creatures to Debut at NZ Fests,’’ in Onfilm (Auckland), vol. 11, no. 4, 1994. Murray, S., ‘‘Peter Jackson: Heavenly Creatures,’’ in Cinema Papers (Fitzroy), no. 97–98, April 1994. Feinstein, H., ‘‘Death and the Maidens,’’ in Village Voice (New York), vol. 39, 15 November 1994. Weinraub, Bernard, ‘‘Making a Film from the Horror of a Mother’s Brutal Murder,’’ in The New York Times, 24 November 1994. ‘‘‘Divinely Wicked’ Film Wins New Yorkers,’’ in Onfilm (Auckland), vol. 11, no. 11, 1994/1995. Jones, A., in Cinefantastique (Forest Park), vol. 26, no. 2, 1995. Ribeiro, L.F., in Film Quarterly (Berkeley), vol, 49, no. 1, 1995. Charity, Tom, ‘‘Gut Reaction,’’ in Time Out (London), no. 1275, 25 January 1995. Atkinson, Michael, ‘‘Earthy Creatures,’’ in Film Comment (New York), vol. 31, no. 3, May-June 1995. Walsh, Frances, and Peter Jackson, and Tod Lippy, ‘‘Heavenly Creatures: Writing and Directing Heavenly Creatures,’’ in Sce- nario, vol. 1, no. 4, Fall 1995. Murray, J.C., in Metro Magazine (St. Kilda West), no. 102, 1995. Henderson, J., ‘‘Hose Stalking: Heavenly Creatures as Feminist Horror,’’ in Canadian Journal of Film Studies (Ottawa), vol. 6, no. 1, 1997. Hardy, A., ‘‘Heavenly Creatures and Transcendental Style: A Literal Reading,’’ in Illusions (Wellington), no. 26, Winter 1997. *** Heavenly Creatures is one of a handful of true crime films, a genre more noted for sensationalism than psychological insight, that strives to do more than just recount the events of the crime it dramatizes—in this case, matricide. It grapples with the larger issue of why? and relentlessly probes for the answer with such extraordinary cinematic verisimilitude that, like the most gripping and multi-leveled fiction, it succeeds in making us comprehend the incomprehensible. The New Zealand case that inspired the film was one of the most sensational in that country’s history. In 1954, two teenage girls, Pauline Yvonne Parker and her school chum Juliet Hulme, conspired HEAVENLY CREATURES FILMS, 4 th EDITION 514 Heavenly Creatures to murder Pauline’s mother, Mrs. Honora Parker. Juliet’s parents were divorcing and planned to ship their daughter to South Africa to stay with relatives. Mrs. Parker denied Pauline’s impassioned but unrealistic request to accompany Juliet. The threat of impending separation prompted Pauline to launch a plan for removing the perceived obstacle by killing her mother—a plan Juliet willingly agreed to take part in. During an outing with Mrs. Parker, Pauline and Juliet bludgeoned the woman to death, then claimed she had died from an accidental fall. Suspicion of murder fell on the two girls following the discovery of Pauline’s diary. In it, Pauline outlined the murder scheme and chronicled the obsessively close-knit relationship and elaborate fan- tasy life governing the friends’ behavior which sparked the crime. Charged with murdering Mrs. Parker, the girls admitted the crime, and voiced no remorse. They were found guilty and sent to prison, but paroled for good behavior in 1960 on the condition that they never meet again. Forty years later, as a result of the hoopla surrounding Jackson’s film about the case, a reporter for a New Zealand newspa- per looked into what happened to Pauline Parker and Juliet Hulme and found that Parker had changed her name and dropped from sight to lead a life of obscurity presumably ‘‘somewhere’’ in New Zealand. Hulme, on the other hand, had grown up to become Anne Perry, an internationally best selling author of mystery novels set in Victorian England! Heavenly Creatures (a title derived from a notation in Pauline’s diary) by no means turns a blind eye to the frightfulness of the crime the two girls committed, but it is sympathetic in its portrait of them and the reasons for their intense relationship as well as remarkably non-judgmental about it. The movie—which Jackson and co-writer Frances Walsh (the director’s wife) based on court records, inter- views with people who knew Parker and Hulme at the time, and Parker’s diary—portrays the girls not as monstrous bad seeds ap- proaching full growth but, despite their keen intelligence and preco- ciousness, two lonely, socially immature children who found in each other a kindred spirit—and the missing piece in themselves. The more unbearably intrusive and uncontrollable real life be- comes for them, the more the girls seek refuge in their fantasy world where they exercise complete control—as long as they are together. So that we understand the bizarre fantasy world the girls create for self-protection but which overtakes then horrifyingly engulfs them, Jackson plunges us headlong into that world, mixing reality and illusion (just as the girls do) with every cinematic technique available HEIMAT; DIE ZWEITE HEIMATFILMS, 4 th EDITION 515 to explore the girls’ inner lives and expose the psychic wounds that lead, with disturbing inexorability, to tragedy. Heavenly Creatures is a must-see for anyone interested in compelling true crime dramas and a masterpiece of its genre. —John McCarty HEIMAT; DIE ZWEITE HEIMAT Director: Edgar Reitz HEIMAT (Homeland) West Germany, 1984 Production: Edgar Reitz Filmproduktions/WDR/SFB; black and white, parts in color; running time: 924 minutes; length: 83,130 feet. Released September 1984. Later shown on television in 11 parts. Producer: Edgar Reitz, co-producers: Joachim von Mengershausen, Hans Kwiet; screenplay: Edgar Reitz, Peter Steinbach; assistant directors: Elke Vogt, Martin H?ner; photography: Gernot Roll; assistant photographer: Rainer Gutjahr; editor: Heidi Handorf; sound recordist: Gerhard Birkholz; sound re-recordist: Willi Schwadorf; art director: Franz Bauer; costume designers: Reinhild Paul, Ute Schwippert, Regine B?tz; pyrotechnics: Charly Baumgartner; music: Nikos Mamangakis. Cast: Marita Breuer (Maria Simon, née Wiegand); Michael Lesch (Young Paul Simon); Dieter Schaad (Paul Simon); Karin Kienzler (Young Pauline Kr?ber); Eva Maria Bayerswaltes (Pauline Kr?ber); Rüdiger Weigang (Eduard Simon); Gertrud Bredel (Katharina Simon, née Schirmer); Willi Berger (Mathias Simon); Johannes Lobewein (Alois Wiegand); Kurt Wagner (Glasisch-Karl); Marliese Assmann (Apollonia); Eva Maria Schneider (Marie-Goot); Wolfram Wagner (M?thes-Pat); Alexander Scholz (H?nschen Betz); Arno Lang (Rob- ert Kr?ber); Otto Henn (Glockzieh); Manfred Kuhn (Wirt); Karin Rasenack (Lucie Simon); Helga Bender (Martina); Rolf Roth (Young Anton Simon); Markus Reiter (Anton Simon); Mathias Kniesbeck (Old Anton Simon); Ingo Hoffmann (Young Ernst Simon); Roland Bongard (Ernst Simon); Michael Kausch (Old Ernst Simon); Andrea Koloschinski (Young Lotti Schirmer); Anke Jendrychowski (Lotti Schirmer); Gabriel Blum (Old Lotti Schirmer); Virginie Moreno (Horsewoman); Rudolph Wessely (Emigrant); Gertrud Sherer (Mar- tha Wiegand); Hans-Jürgen Schatz (Wilfried Wiegand); Kurt Wolfinger (Gauleiter Simon); J?rg Hube (Otto Wohlleben); Johannes Metzdori (Fritz Pieritz); Konrad Lindenkreuz, Ulrich Lindenkreuz (Todt Work- ers); Joachim Bernard (Pollak); Sabine Wagner (Martha Simon); Gerd Riegauer (Gschrey); Roswitha Werkheiser (Erika 1); Heike Macht (Erika 2); Hans-Günter Kylau (Captain Zielke); Alexander Katins (Ursel); Ralph Maria Beils (Specht); Gudrun Landgrebe (Klarchen Sisse); Joseph E. Jones (Chauffeur); Andreas Mertens (Horstchen); Frank Kleid (Hermannchen); J?rg Richter (Young Hermann Simon); Peter Harting (Hermann Simon); Ann Ruth (Nurse). Award: BAFTA Special Award 1986. Publications Script: Reitz, Edgar, and Peter Steinbach, Heimat: Eine deutsche Chronik, Nordlingen, 1985. Book: Elsaesser, Thomas, New German Cinema: A History, London, 1989. Kaes, Anton, From Hitler to Heimat: The Return of History As Film, Cambridge, 1992. Articles: Lughi, P., in Cinema Nuovo (Bari), August-October 1984. Film (West Germany), September 1984. Variety (New York), 12 September 1984. Nave, B., and others, in Jeune Cinéma (Paris), November 1984. Pawlikowski, P., ‘‘Home Movies,’’ in Stills (London), Novem- ber 1984. Detassis, P., in Positif (Paris), December 1984. Frodon, J. M., ‘‘L’Allemagne se souvient,’’ in Cahiers du Cinéma (Paris), December 1984. Chalmer, M., in Framework (Norwich), no. 26–27, 1985. ‘‘Dossier Edgar Reitz,’’ in Bianco e Nero (Rome), January-March 1985. Elsaesser, Thomas, ‘‘Memory, Home, and Hollywood,’’ in Monthly Film Bulletin (London), February 1985. Petit, Chris, in Time Out (London), 14–20 February 1985. City Limits (London), 15–21 February 1985. Le Roux, H., in Cahiers du Cinéma (Paris), March 1985. Ranvaud, Don, and John Pym, ‘‘Heimat, Home, and the World,’’ in Sight and Sound (London), Spring 1985. Syberberg, H. J., ‘‘The Abode of the Gods,’’ in Sight and Sound (London), Spring 1985. Elsaesser, Thomas, ‘‘Our Germany,’’ in American Film (Washing- ton, D.C.), May 1985. Koch, Gertrud, ‘‘Kann man naiv werden?,’’ in Frauen und Film (Berlin), May 1985. Bachman, G., ‘‘The Reitz Stuff,’’ in Film Comment (New York), July-August 1985. Baron, Saskia, ‘‘Home Truths,’’ in Cinema Papers (Melbourne), July 1985. Hager, F., in Filmkunst, August-September 1985. Berndts, T., in Skrien (Amsterdam), Winter 1985–86. Soderbergh Widding, A., in Chaplin (Stockholm), vol. 28, no. 1, 1986. Listener (London), 10, 17, and 24 April 1986. Birgel, Franz E., interview with Edgar Reitz, in Film Quarterly (Berkeley), Summer 1986. Schneider, R., ‘‘Aux antipodes du simplisme hollywoodien: Heimat,’’ in Cinemaction (Conde-sur-Noireau, France), October 1990. Angier, C., ‘‘Edgar Reitz,’’ in Sight and Sound (London), no. 1, 1990–91. Andres, A., ‘‘The Music of Heimat,’’ in Film Score Monthly (Los Angeles), no. 51, November 1994. Papen, M. von, ‘‘Keeping the Home Fires Burning?: Women and the German Homefront Film 1940–1943,’’ in Film History (London), vol. 8, no. 1, 1996. Liebman, Stuart, ‘‘Heimat: A Chronicle of Germany,’’ in Cineaste (New York), vol. 22, no. 3, December 1996. HEIMAT; DIE ZWEITE HEIMAT FILMS, 4 th EDITION 516 DIE ZWEITE HEIMAT (Leaving Home; Heimat II) Germany, 1992 Production: An Edgar Reitz Production; colour/black and white; running time: 1,532 minutes. Premiered at London Film Festival, November 1992. Producer: Edgar Reitz; screenplay: Edgar Reitz; photography: Gernot Roll (parts 1–5), Gerard Vanderberg (6–8), Christian Reitz (9–13); editor: Susanne Hartman; assistant director: Robert Busch; production designer: Franz Bauer; music: Nikos Mamangakis; sound: Heiko Hinderks, Haymo Heyder, Manfred Banach, and Reiner Wiehr; costumes: Bille Brassers and Nikola Hoeltz. Cast: Henry Arnold (Hermann); Salome Kammer (Clarissa); Anke Sevenich (Schnusschen); Daniel Smith (Juan); Michael Schonborn (Alex); Franziska Traub (Renate); Hannelore Hoger (Elisabeth Cerphal); Hanna Kohler (Frau Moretti); Gisela Muller (Evelyne); Michael Seyfried (Ansgar); Armin Fuchs (Volker); Martin Maria Blau (Jean-Marie); Lena Lessing (Olga); Peter Weiss (Rob); Frank Roth (Stefan); Laszlo I. Kish (Reinhard); Susanne Lothar (Esther); Veronika Ferres (Dorli); Franziska Stommer (Frau Ries); Manfred Andrae (Gerold Gattinger). Publications Articles: Angier, C., ‘‘Edgar Reitz,’’ in Sight and Sound (London), Winter 1990–91. Nodolny, Sten, ‘‘On Leaving Home and Perfecting Oneself,’’ in The Sequel to Heimat, Jutta Muller, editor, Cologne, 1991. Albano, L., ‘‘Tra arte e vita,’’ in Filmcritica (Rome), September- October 1992. Angier, C., ‘‘Like Life Itself,’’ in Sight and Sound (London), Novem- ber 1992. Hansen, E., Variety (New York), 7 December 1992. Kilb, A., ‘‘Scènes de la vie parallele,’’ in Positif (Paris), Janu- ary 1993. Holloway, R., in Kino (Warsaw), May 1993. Pezzotta, A., ‘‘Imitation of Life,’’ in Segnocinema (Vicenza), no. 63, September/October 1993. Holden, S., ‘‘Critic’s Notebook: a 25 1/2-hour German Epic of Discovery and Art,’’ in New York Times, vol. 142, 17 June 1993. Mepham, John, ‘‘Visionary Storytelling,’’ in Vertigo, Spring 1994. Andres, A., ‘‘The Music of Heimat,’’ in Film Score Monthly (Los Angeles), no. 51, November 1994. Feldvoss, M., ‘‘Hannelore Hoger: Energie und Eigensinn,’’ in EPD Film (Frankfurt), March 1998. *** Described as a ‘‘chronicle in 11 parts,’’ Heimat tells the story of the (fictional) village of Schabbach in the Hunsruck, a rural area of the southern Rhineland, between the years 1919 and 1982, focusing in particular on the members of one family, the Simons. It was shown on West German television in 1984, and was also screened as a film (over two days) in cinemas there. It has been widely seen, both as a film and a television series, in other European countries and in America. When Heimat was shown in Germany it was a major media event, surpassed only by the television screening of the American mini- series Holocaust in 1979. In fact, the genesis of Heimat lay in its director Edgar Reitz’s reaction to Holocaust. Reitz accused Holo- caust of reducing the misery caused by the Nazis to a ‘‘welcome background spectacle for a sentimental family story,’’ of trivializing German history and, indeed, of willfully expropriating it for simplis- tic, entertainment purposes. He argued that what Germans needed to do was to take ‘‘narrative possession of our past’’ thus ‘‘breaking free of the world of judgments and dealing with it through art.’’ The way to do this, he argued, was to tell stories: ‘‘there are thousands of stories among our people worth filming, which are based on endless minutiae of experience. These stories individually rarely seem to contribute to the evaluation and explanation of history, but taken together they could compensate for this lack. We should no longer forbid ourselves to take our personal lives seriously.’’ The source of the problem is, of course, the Nazi past: ‘‘we Germans have a hard time with our stories. It is our own history that is in our way. The year 1945, the nation’s ‘zero hour,’ wiped out a lot, created a gap in people’s ability to remember. As Mitscherlich put it, an entire people has been made ‘unable to mourn.’ In our case that means ‘unable to tell stories’ because our memories are obstructed by the great histori- cal events they are connected with. Even now, 40 years after the war, we are still troubled by the weight of moral judgments, we are still afraid that our little personal stories could recall our Nazi past and remind us of our mass participation in the Third Reich. . . . Our film, Heimat, consists of these suppresed or forgotten little stories. It is a chronicle of both a family and a village and is an attempt of sorts to revive memories. . . .We try to avoid making judgements.’’ Heimat, then, is an example of what has come to be known as ‘‘history from below,’’ an interest in which has increasingly come to the fore in many European countries. It is concerned with oral history, the personal experiences of ordinary people, folklore, the local, the regional, ‘‘popular memory’’ and so on. Heimat is not only a celebration of the ‘‘positive human values and hopes’’ of the rural community, it is also a lament for their passing. Indeed, a sense of loss and of nostalgia imbues the film’s very title, which cannot be adequately translated into English. As Reitz himself has explained: ‘‘the word is always linked to strong feeling, mostly remembrances and longing. ‘Heimat’ always evokes in me the feeling of something lost or very far away, something which one cannot easily find or find again.’’ In a remarkable study of the film, Anton Kaes traces the concern with ‘‘Heimat’’ back to the late nineteenth century and the reaction against rapid industrialisation and urbanisation: ‘‘Heimat was precisely that which was abandoned on the way into the cities; from then on the word ‘Heimat’ began to connote ‘region,’ ‘province’ and ‘country’. . . . Heimat means the site of one’s lost childhood, of family, of identity. It also stands for the possibility of secure human relations, unalienated, precapitalist labour, and the romantic harmony between the country dweller and nature. Heimat refers to everything that is not distant and foreign. . . . It conjured up a rural, archaic image of the German Reich and a German community rooted in ahistorical, mythic time.’’ Reaction to the film in Germany, and elsewhere in Europe, was extremely positive. It was only when Heimat was shown in the United HEIMAT; DIE ZWEITE HEIMATFILMS, 4 th EDITION 517 States that the negative opinions which had been expressed in Germany gained a wider hearing. In the light of the above this should not have been surprising; as Thomas Elsaesser noted, calling a Ger- man film Heimat was a ‘‘calculated provocation and was bound to be controversial.’’ Likewise Anton Kaes: ‘‘scenes of provincial life are never innocent in Germany.’’ According to its critics, Heimat’s main problems lie as much in what it does not show as what it does. The argument here is one leveled against any broadly realist text, namely, that it cannot escape from the mental horizons of its protagonists. The same criticism can be leveled at some versions of the ‘‘history from below’’ mentioned earlier. Major political events and wider economic factors, which undoubtedly have their influences on individual private lives, are ignored or glossed over because that is what the characters themselves do. This might matter rather less if that history did not include the Third Reich. Indeed, almost half of the film takes place in the years 1933–45. Writing in the New York Review of Books, Timothy Garten Ash stated: ‘‘when you show the 1930s as a golden age of prosperity and excitement in the German countryside, when you are shown Germans as victims of the war, then you inevitably find yourself asking: But what about the other side? What about Auschwitz?’’ Or as one of the film’s sternest critics, Gertrud Koch, has it: ‘‘in order to tell the myth of ‘Heimat,’ the trauma of Auschwitz had to be shut out of the story.’’ The Third Reich seems almost to take place off screen, and when Nazi activities are presented (which is not often) it’s in a curiously elliptical fashion and usually without much explanation— on the grounds, presumably, that this is how they were actually experienced by the characters. Accommodation with the Nazi regime is shown largely as comical, or merely opportunistic, or as the result of seduction of one form or another. Admittedly one or two characters— a Jew, a Communist—disappear, but no one seems to show the slightest curiosity about this. Again, all this might matter less were it not for the historical fact that the countryside was extraordinarily important to the National Socialists ideologically, politically andeco- nomically, and found a good deal of support amongst the peasantry. Reitz himself has said that to have taken on the Jewish question would have ‘‘overburdened the narrative’’ and that ‘‘the story would have immediately taken a different turn.’’ He has also argued that there were very few Jews in the Hunsruck and that people there were largely ignorant of Nazi genocide. Unease about the representation of the Third Reich period is further compounded by the way in which postwar, modern Germany is shown. In short, it appears to be downhill all the way, and the main villain here is definitely America. (One begins to see why it was in America that misgivings about the film were voiced). But this is only the most extreme instance of a process throughout the film whereby no good comes from events, influences or people outside the Edenic, pastoral idyll of the Hunsruck. This comes dangerously close to a reactionary agrarian romanticism with disturbing similarities to the ‘‘Blood and Soil’’ ideology; moreover, it also seems to suggest that all of Germany’s contemporary problems, whether it’s the despoilation of the countryside or people’s inability to connect with their past, can be laid at the door of the Americans, thereby neatly letting the past 100 years of German capitalism (in which the Third Reich and the ‘‘Wirtschaftswunder’’ were both highly significant episodes) neatly off the historical hook. Die Zweite Heimat is a project even more epic than its predeces- sor, although it spans a much more limited time period. The entire film runs a remarkable 26 hours (cinema screenings are normally spread over three or four days, television over 13 episodes) and took a total of seven years to make, of which 552 days were taken up by shooting. There are 71 main roles, 310 smaller ones, and 2300 extras. The budget of DM40m was put together by television companies in Germany, Britain, Spain, Finland, Denmark, Norway and Austria, an indication of the enormous popularity of Heimat outside Germany. Although extremely well received both in Germany and abroad it was not a media event of the same proportions as the first film and, to date at least, has attracted rather less critical attention. This may be because the subject matter, and Reitz’s handling of it, is simply less controversial, but it would be paradoxical indeed if this were to limit discussion of what is an undoubted masterpiece. Die Zweite Heimat’s central character is Hermann Simon, born in 1940 in the Hunsruck into the family at the centre of Heimat. At the start of the film he moves to Munich, vowing never to return home, to devote his life to music, and never to love again. Eventually all three vows are broken, and his love affair with the young musician Clarissa runs like a connecting thread throughout the length of the film. If Heimat is about the country, stability, older generations, people who lived and died where they were born, Die Zweite Heimat is about the city, change, the young, those who pull up their roots. In the first film people are connected by blood ties and the pull of an ancient, close-knit community; in the second by friendship, love, commitment to art and ideas, rejection of the past, and a desire for a better present and future. Quite clearly the title signifies much more than that this is the second part of Heimat; there is a very strong sense of ‘‘second home’’ here. As Hermann puts it at the start of the film: ‘‘I left for Munich’s bright lights and mysteries I refused to look back even once. Ahead of me lay freedom. I would be born a second time, not from my mother’s body but from my own mind. I would seek my own, my second home.’’ And, since these are very much times remembered from a distance, times which include Reitz’s own youthful experi- ences, the sense of loss and longing that imbues the word ‘‘Heimat’’ is as present here (if perhaps less obviously so) as in the first film. With 26 hours at its disposal, Die Zweite Heimet succeeds where many films fail—it captures the feeling of life as it is actually lived. Characters appear, disappear, reappear much later, or not at all; at different moments different characters are predominant or subordi- nate; things are left unexplained and unresolved; pace and tone change from episode to episode, sometimes even within the same episode. Reitz has drawn the analogy with a stream which sometimes flows on the surface, then disappears below ground, only to rise again much later on and further away. If one of the problems with Heimat was that its basically realist aesthetic meant that it was tied to the limited perceptions of its provincial characters, Reitz avoids this here by presenting us with a very different set of characters and, more importantly, by adopting a different aesthetic approach. Hermann and his friends are people who spend their lives thinking and analysing, they live and breathe ideas, they want their lives to connect with the wider world of history and politics, and above all they’re interested in the relationship between their various forms of artistic practice and society at large. Indeed, the whole epic project of Die Zweite Heimat can be seen as a profound reflection on the nature and value of avant-garde artistic activity, and the fact that it eventually founders here is due not to the shortcomings of its practitioners but to the destructive influence of external, indeed global, forces. Reitz, as himself, along with Alexan- der Kluge, one of the most aesthetically radical of the new German filmmakers at one time with films such as Cardillac, Geschichten HENRY V FILMS, 4 th EDITION 518 vom Kubelkind and Das Goldene Ding, presents us with a remarkably insightful and sympathetic portrait of the avant-garde, but ultimately he does not shy away from suggesting that whilst these artists were dreaming of creating the alternative society, the history that was being made behind their backs was preparing to render their efforts some- what irrelevant. However, unlike in Heimat, Reitz here remembers the avant-garde critique of the shortcomings of realism, and although he by no means abandons realism entirely, he subverts it to a quite remarkable degree. Perhaps the clearest example of Reitz’s approach here is provided by the end of the crucial episode which includes the assassination of Kennedy and signals the beginning of the end for Hermann and his friends. On hearing the news, the group gather in Hermann’s room, and the episode closes with a deliberately stagey, clearly fabricated and non-naturalistic shot as they all look up simultaneously to a mirror, on which there is a photo of Kennedy and Khruschev, and contemplate their collective image. This is one of the film’s most obvious and decisive breaks with realism and, as Mepham has put it: ‘‘What this shot exemplifies is Reitz’s method of moving beyond naturalistic image-making and the conventions of realist storytelling, to conjure up a polysemic image, which transcends its literal meaning and proposes a symbolic framework in terms of which we can read the entire episode.’’ One could also mention, in this context of breaks with realism, the remarkable number of times that the film self-reflexively foregrounds moments of performance of one kind or another, but even more striking, in this respect, is its use of colour and black-and-white. As a general (though by no means unbroken) rule, Reitz uses black-and- white for the daytime scenes, and colour for the night ones. The spectator is thus forced to take notice of colour, rather than uncon- sciously accepting it as part and parcel of the apparently literal representation of the fictional world. Here, colour, or black-and- white, become significant in their own right, and are clearly labelled as such. In a general sense, black-and-white signifies that, for Hermann and his friends, the days are dull, banal and anodyne, whilst the use of colour underlines the fact that it is at night that they really come alive. But it is much more complex than that; as Mepham puts it, throughout the film ‘‘the literal or naturalistic quality of the image is always in question, because there is no one style of image which we can accept as simply showing us what the fictional world is like. Therefore we become used to looking for more than literal signifi- cance. Visual poetry becomes the norm, and light and colour become radiant with meaning.’’ Again, the Kennedy episode provides a good example. This opens with one of the most beautiful and haunting images of the entire film: a slow pan in the early morning light across bare trees in which crows are settling. The scene is accompanied by a song about crows, which contains the line: ‘‘soon it will snow. Lucky is he who still has a home.’’ There is no question but that this scene has hugely symbolic, connotative overtones; we, the spectators, know exactly what is going to happen on this day, but the characters most certainly do not. However, there is no question of us being asked to accept their viewpoints here—and indeed, this opening is not observed by any of them, it is pure directorial inervention, a deliberate establishing of the symbolic framework which imbues the entire episode, much of whose poignancy stems from the spectator (and of course Reitz) knowing what the characters do not and cannot know. Here, as in many other striking scenes in this truly extraordinary film, Reitz manages triumphantly to pull off the extremely difficult feat of departing from conventional realist practices whilst at the same time presenting an epic fiction which is not only entirely coherent in its own right but deeply moving and thought-provoking at the same time. —Julian Petley THE HEIR OF GENGHIS KHAN See POTOMOK CHINGIS-KHANA HENRY V UK, 1944 Director: Laurence Olivier Production: Two Cities Film, presented by Eagle-Lion; Technicolor, 35mm; running time: 153 minutes, some versions are 137 minutes. Released 22 November 1944, Carlton Theatre, London. Filmed 9 June 1943–12 July 1944 in Enniskerry, Eire; and at Denham and Pinewood Studios, England. Cost: about ￡400,000. Producers: Laurence Olivier with Dallas Bower; screenplay: Lau- rence Olivier and Alan Dent, from the play by William Shakespeare; photography: Robert Krasker; editor: Reginald Beck; sound recordists: John Dennis and Desmond Drew; art directors: Paul Sheriff assisted by Carmen Dillon; scenic art: E. Lindgaard; music: William Walton; conductor: Muir Mathieson; played by: London Symphony Orchestra; special effects: Percy Day; costume design- ers: Roger Furse assisted by Margaret Furse; the film is dedicated to the Commandos and Airborne Troops of Great Britain—‘‘the spirits of whose ancestors it has humbly attempted to recapture’’ Cast: Leslie Banks (Chorus); Felix Aylmer (Archbishop of Canter- bury); Robert Helpmann (Bishop of Ely); Vernon Greeves (English Herald); Gerald Case (Earl of Westmorland); Griffith Jones (Earl of Salisbury); Morland Graham (Sir Thomas Erpingham); Nicholas Hannen (Duke of Exeter); Michael Warre (Duke of Gloucester); Laurence Olivier (King Henry V); Ralph Truman (Montjoy, the French Herald); Ernest Thesiger (Duke of Berri, French Ambassa- dor); Frederick Cooper (Corporal Nym); Roy Emerton (Lieutenant Bardolph); Robert Newton (Pistol); Freda Jackson (Mistress Quickley, the Hostess); George Cole (Boy); George Robey (Sir John Falstaff); Harcourt Williams (King Charles VI of France); Leo Genn (Consta- ble of France); Francis Lister (Duke of Orleans); Max Adrian (Dauphin); Jonathan Field (French Messenger); Esmond Knight (Fluellen); Michael Shepley (Gower); John Laurie (Jamy); Nial MacGinnis (Macmorris); Frank Tickle (Governor of Harfleur); Renée Asherson (Princess Katherine); Ivy St. Helier (Lady Alice); Janet Burnell (Queen Isabel of France); Brian Nissen (Court, camp-boy); Arthur Hambling (John Bates); Jimmy Hanley (Michael Williams); Ernest Hare (Priest); Valentine Dyall (Duke of Burgundy); and Infantry and Cavalry by members of the Eire Home Guard. Awards: Special Oscar to Laurence Olivier for his Outstanding Achievement as Actor, Producer, and Director in bringing Henry V to the screen, 1946; New York Film Critics’ Award, Best Actor, 1946; Venice Film Festival, Special Mention, 1946. HENRY VFILMS, 4 th EDITION 519 Henry V Publications Script: Olivier, Laurence, and Alan Dent, Henry V, in Film Scripts One, edited by George P. Garrett, New York, 1971. Books: Oakley, C. A., Where We Came In: 70 Years of the British Film Industry, London, 1964. Whitehead, Peter, and Robin Bean, Olivier-Shakespeare, London, 1966. Darlington, W. A., Laurence Olivier, London, 1968. Eckert, Charles W., editor, Focus on Shakespearian Films, Englewood Cliffs, New Jersey, 1972. Geduld, Harry M., editor, A Filmguide to Henry V, Bloomington, Indiana, 1973. Perry, George, The Great British Picture Show, from the 90s to the 70s, New York, 1974. Barsacq, Leon, Caligari’s Cabinet and Other Grand Illusions: A His- tory of Film Design, New York, 1976. Morley, Margaret, editor, Olivier: The Films and Faces of Laurence Olivier, Godalming, Surrey, 1978. Hirsch, Foster, Laurence Olivier, Boston, 1979; revised edition, 1984. Daniels, Robert, Laurence Olivier: Theatre and Cinema, London, 1980. Olivier, Laurence, Confessions of an Actor: An Autobiography, New York, 1982. Barker, Felix, Laurence Olivier: A Critical Study, Tunbridge Wells, Kent, 1984. Bragg, Melvin, Laurence Olivier, London, 1984. Silviria, Dale, Laurence Olivier and the Art of Filmmaking, Ruther- ford, New Jersey, 1985. Tanitch, Robert, Olivier: The Complete Career, London, 1985. Dunster, Mark, Olivier, Hollywood, 1993. Spoto, Donald, Laurence Olivier: A Biography, New York, 1993. Lewis, Roger, The Real Life of Laurence Olivier, New York, 1999. Granger, Derek, Laurence Olivier: The Life of an Actor: The Author- ized Biography, New York, 1999. Articles: Variety (New York), 24 April 1946. New York Times, 16 June 1946. Agee, James, Agee on Film 1, New York, 1958. McVay, Douglas, ‘‘Hamlet to Clown,’’ in Films and Filming (Lon- don), September 1962. HERR ARNES PENGAR FILMS, 4 th EDITION 520 Brown, Constance, in Film Quarterly (Berkeley), Summer 1967. Hart, Henry, ‘‘Laurence Olivier,’’ in Films in Review (New York), December 1967. McCreadie, M., ‘‘Onstage and on Film,’’ in Literature/Film Quar- terly (Salisbury, Maryland), Fall 1977. Manheim, M., ‘‘Olivier’s Henry V and the Elizabethan World Pic- ture,’’ in Literature/Film Quarterly (Salisbury, Maryland), July 1983. Reid’s Film Index (Wyong), no. 4, 1990. Martini, E., in Cineforum (Bergamo, Italy), July-August, 1990. Nichols, Peter, ‘‘A Classy Tale,’’ in Sight & Sound (London), vol. 1, no. 6, October 1991. Deats, S. M., ‘‘Rabbits and Ducks: Olivier, Branagh, and Henry V,’’ in Literature/Film Quarterly (Salisbury, Maryland), no. 4, 1992. Manheim, M., ‘‘The Function of Battle Imagery in Kurosawa’s Histories and the Henry V Films,’’ in Literature/Film Quarterly (Salisbury), vol. 22, no. 2, April 1994. Buhler, S.M., ‘‘Text, Eyes, and Videotape: Screening Shakespeare’s Scripts,’’ in Shakespeare Quarterly, vol. 46, no. 2, 1995. Crowdus, Gary, in Cineaste (New York), vol. 22, no. 1, April 1996. Bibliography, in Shakespeare Quarterly, vol. 47, no. 5, 1996. Griffin, C.W., ‘‘Henry V’s Decision: Interrogataive [sic] Texts,’’ in Literature/Film Quarterly (Salisbury), vol. 25, no. 2, April 1997. Royal, Derek, ‘‘Shakespeare’s Kingly Mirror: Figuring the Chorus in Olivier’s and Branagh’s Henry V,’’ in Literature/Film Quarterly (Salisbury), vol. 25, no. 2, April 1997. Bibliography, in Shakespeare Quarterly, vol. 48, no. 5, 1997. *** At the beginning of his career Laurence Olivier did not specialize in interpreting Shakespearean roles on the screen. He had played many of Shakespeare’s greatest characters on stage, and was espe- cially praised for having alternated with John Gielgud in the roles of Romeo and Mercutio in the 1935 production of Romeo and Juliet at London’s New Theatre. He was charming in the 1936 film production of As You Like It as Orlando, but he really didn’t take his film career seriously until 1939, when he played Heathcliff in Goldwyn’s pro- duction of Wuthering Heights. With the coming of war, his filmmaking was largely curtailed, but more than halfway through the conflict, when the Allied victory seemed certain, Olivier was released from his military duties to produce, direct, and star in a film to be made from Shakespeare’s Henry V. Because the play is so patriotic, it was thought by the British government that the project would create a wonderful piece of nationalistic propaganda. Olivier had already played Henry V at the Old Vic, and knew what he wanted to achieve—a movie version that would restore glory to the common man’s thinking about his own country. There were some preliminary setbacks. David O. Selznick refused to allow Vivien Leigh to play the role of the French Princess Katherine; he thought it too small a role for the star of Gone with the Wind. Olivier chose Renée Asherson, Robert Donat’s wife, for the part. He wanted William Wyler as director, because Wyler had directed him in Wuthering Heights. But Wyler was busy on another project, and suggested that Olivier himself direct the film. Olivier considered it, and began preproduction work, but the film might never have been made, were it not for the efforts of an Italian lawyer, Filippo del Giudice, who had been the driving force behind N?el Coward in In Which We Serve. Del Giudice wanted another patriotic classic, and he eased Olivier’s working budget of ￡300,000 upward more than another ￡100,000 for Henry V. Olivier, preparing his own screenplay from the Shakespearean text, cut the play nearly a quarter so that he could give ample time to the staging of the Battle of Agincourt. He lifted the death of Falstaff from the last scenes of Henry IV, Part II, wisely casting a music hall comedian, George Robey, as Falstaff. He decided to begin his picture and end it as if it were a performance at the Globe Theatre in the time of Shakespeare, who had created the device himself when, in the lines of the Chorus in the Prologue, he instructs the audience, ‘‘On your imaginary forces work,’’ leaving the way open for a very inventive cinematic trick: the camera pulls back, and we are out of the Globe and immediately into the conflict. The critic for Time wrote: ‘‘At last there has been brought to the screen, with such sweetness, vigor, insight and beauty that it seemed to have been written yesterday, a play by the greatest dramatic poet who ever lived.’’ Henry V ran for five months in London, and it played on Broadway for 46 weeks. It opened the door for Olivier to other Shakespearean films. His Hamlet (1948) came next; then Richard III (1955). Ten years later in 1965 it was Othello, with Olivier as the Moor of Venice. —DeWitt Bodeen HERR ARNES PENGAR (Sir Arne’s Treasure) Sweden, 1919 Director: Mauritz Stiller Production: Svenska Biografteatern; black and white; running time: 100 minutes (78 minutes at 18 f.p.s.); length: 5,226 feet. Released 1919. Screenplay: Gustav Molander, Mauritz Stiller, from the novel by Selma Lagerl?f; photography: Julius Jaenson; art directors: Harry Dahlstrom, Alexander Bako; costumes: Axel Esbensen. Cast: Mary Johnson (Elsalill); Richard Lund (Sir Archy); Hjalmar Selander (Sir Arne); Concordia Selander (Arne’s Wife); Wanda Rothgardt (Berghild); Erik Stocklassa (Sir Philip); Bror Berger (Sir Donald); Axel Nilsson (Torarin); Gustaf Aronson (Ship’s Captain); Stina Berg (Innkeeper); with Dagmar Ebbeson, G?sta Gustafsson. Publications Books: Idestam-Almquist, Bengt, Den Svenska Filmens Drama: Sj?str?m och Stiller, Stockholm, 1938. Hardy, Forsyth, Scandinavian Film, London, 1951. HERR ARNES PENGARFILMS, 4 th EDITION 521 Herr Arnes Pengar Idestam-Almquist, Bengt, Classics of the Swedish Cinema, Stock- holm, 1952. Waldekranz, Rune, Swedish Cinema, Stockholm, 1959. Beranger, Jean, La Grande Aventure du cinéma suedois, Paris, 1960. Lauritzen, Einar, Swedish Films, New York, 1962. Cowie, Peter, Swedish Cinema, London, 1966. Anthologie du cinema 3, Paris, 1968. Werner, G?sta, Mauritz Stiller och hans filmer, Stockholm, 1969. Werner, G?sta, P. A. Norstedt, and Soners Forlag, Herr Arnes Pengar, Stockholm, 1969. Articles: Bioscope (London), 15 January 1920. Kine Weekly (London), 15 January 1920. Film Daily, 11 December 1921. New York Times, 25 December 1921. Variety (New York), 2 December 1925. O’Leary, Liam, in Films and Filming (London), August 1960. Milne, Tom, in Monthly Film Bulletin (London), December 1977. Robertson, JoAnne, ‘‘Maurice Stiller,’’ in Monthly Film Bulletin (London), December 1977. Brewster, B., and G. Sadoul, in Filmviews (Mitcham), vol. 30, no. 123, Autumn 1985. Lefebvre, Thierry, ‘‘Mary Johnson: Le trésor du Trésor d’Arne,’’ in Archives: Institut Jean Vigo (Perpignan), no. 60, February 1995. Short Review, in Télérama (Paris), no. 2354, 22 February 1995. *** Nineteen-hundred and nineteen was a good year for cinema: The Cabinet of Dr. Caligari, Lubitsch’s Madame Dubarry, Griffith’s Broken Blossoms and Gance’s J’accuse. From Sweden came what is probably Mauritz Stiller’s best film, Herr Arnes Pengar. Based on Selma Lagerl?f’s story this ‘‘winter ballad’’ won universal acclaim for its sensitive artistry and technical skill. The sophisticated and authoritarian Stiller evoked the mood and feeling of sixteenth-century Sweden in the reign of John the Third. Set in a ravaged landscape during a severe winter, it tells of the activities of three mercenary Scottish officers who have escaped from prison HIGANBANA FILMS, 4 th EDITION 522 after their armies have been banished by the king. Crazed by hunger and drink, they set fire to the parsonage of Solberga and murder all but one of the family, the adopted child Elsalill. Laden with the treasure they have stolen, they escape across the ice. By a quirk of fate Elsalill unknowingly falls in love with Sir Archy, one of the three murderers. On discovering his guilty secret, she is persuaded to denounce him to the town guard. Using her as a shield, he escapes his would-be captors but Elsalill diverts a spear-thrust meant for him to herself. At last a ship that will take him home is reached although it is still frozen in the bay. He sits beside Elsalill’s body until the guards arrive to seize the guilty men. The people of Marstrand file across the frozen harbour and carry the body of Elsalill back to the town. With the evil-doers removed, the ice binding the ship melts and it sails into the open sea. The dramatic structure is such that suspense is ever present and the doomed love affair moves to its tragic close in a deeply felt visual treatment. The camera is used most effectively to create a series of unforgettable images with taste and discretion. The moving camera is used sparingly while the iris ‘‘in and out’’ is used both for emphasis and smooth transition in the advancement of the story. The snowy Swedish landscape dominates the film. The dwellings and the behaviour of the people have an air of authenticity. The texture of the costumes is a feature of the sensitive camerawork. A historical period is convincingly brought to life. There is a dark occult motivation in the film, too, which plays a considerable part: the vision of the parson’s wife before the attack: ‘‘Why are they sharpening knives at Braneh?g?’’ Elsalill’s dream leads her to the tavern where she hears Sir Archy and his companions talking about their loot from the parsonage. The fisherman Torarin’s dog, Grim, senses the evil that is near. Visually the film is very impressive, especially in the scenes of the escape of the murderers across the ice, laden with their ill-gotten treasure chest. The great finale of the procession of the Marstranders across the frozen harbour to the ship must have influenced Eisenstein’s treatment of the procession of the people of Moscow to Ivan the Terrible at Alexandrov. The film owes much to the camerawork of Julius Jaenson, a valued collaborator in the great films of Stiller and Sj?str?m. Mary Johnson as Elsalill gives a memorable performance and was moulded by Stiller for the role in the same way he was later to introduce Garbo to the screen. Stiller was an autocratic director and made difficult demands on his players. The physical conditions involved in the production did much to give a painful realism to the film, and the winter hazards encountered during production became part of the mise-en-scène. The film won critical acclaim outside its country of origin. English critics, for example, could say: ‘‘It is notable for its very advanced and original technique as for its brilliant acting it is a credit to the art of the film.’’ And again, ‘‘It stands out clearly amongst the greatest of screen productions. It is great art.’’ Certainly it is one of the greatest adornments of the Golden Age of Swedish cinema. —Liam O’Leary HIDDEN STAR See MEGHE DHAKA TARA HIGANBANA (Equinox Flower) Japan, 1958 Director: Yasujiro Ozu Production: Schochiku; Agfacolor, 35mm; running time: 118 min- utes. Released 1958. Screenplay: Kogo Noda, Yasujiro Ozu, from a novel by Ton Satomi; photography: Yushun Atsuta; editing: Yoshiyasu Hamamura; sound: Yoshisaburo Seno; art direction: Tatsuo Hamada; lighting: Akira Aomatsu; music: Takayori Saito. Cast: Shin Saburi (Watara Hirayama); Kinoyo Tanaka (Kiyoko Hirayama); Ineko Arima (Setsuko Hirayama); Miyuki Kuwano (Hisako Hirayama); Keiji Sada (Masahiko Taniguchi); Chieko Naniwa (Hajime Sasaki); Fujiko Yamamo (Yukiko Sasaki); Nobuo Nakamu (Toshihiko Kawai); Chishu Ryu (Shukichi Mikami); Yoshiko Kuga (Fumiko Mikami); Teiji Takahashi (Shotaro Kondo); Fumio Watanab (Ichiro Naganuma). Publications Books: Anderson, Joseph, and Donald Richie, The Japanese Film: Art and Industry, New York, 1960. Richie, Donald, Five Pictures of Yasujiro Ozu, Tokyo, 1962. Richie, Donald, The Japanese Movie: An Illustrated History, Tokyo, 1966. Richie, Donald, Japanese Cinema: Film Style and National Charac- ter, New York, 1971. Sato, Tadao, Ozu Yasujiro no Geijutsu [The Art of Yasujiro Ozu], Tokyo, 1971. Satomi, Jun, and others, Ozu Yasujiro: Hito to shigoto [Yasujiro Ozu: The Man and His Work], Tokyo, 1972. Schrader, Paul, Transcendental Style in Film: Ozu, Bresson, Dreyer, Berkeley, 1972. Burch, Noel, Theory of Film Practice, New York, 1973. Tessier, Max, in Anthologie du Cinema 7, Paris, 1973. Richie, Donald, Ozu, Berkeley, 1974. Schrader, Leonard, and Haruji Nakamura, editors, Masters of Japa- nese Film, Tokyo, 1975. Bock, Audie, Japanese Film Directors, New York, 1978; revised edition, Tokyo, 1985. Burch, Noel, To the Distant Observer, Berkeley, 1979. Tessier, Max, editor, Le Cinéma japonais au présent 1959–1979, Paris, 1980. Sato, Tadao, Currents in Japanese Cinema, Tokyo, 1982. HIGANBANAFILMS, 4 th EDITION 523 Higanbana Shindo, Kaneto, Joyu Tanaka Kinuyo, Tokyo, 1983. Bordwell, David, Ozu and the Poetics of Cinema, Princeton, 1988. Articles: Uni-Japan Quarterly, January 1959. Film Quarterly (Berkeley), Fall 1959. Whitebait, William, in New Statesman (London), 31 October 1959. ‘‘Ozu Issue’’ of Kinema Jumpo (Tokyo), February 1964. Philippe, Jean-Claude, ‘‘Yasujiro Ozu,’’ in Dossiers du cinema 1, Paris, 1971. Branigan, Edward, ‘‘The Space of Equinox Flower,’’ in Screen (London), Summer 1976. Thompson, Kristin, and David Bordwell, ‘‘Space and Narrative in the Films of Ozu,’’ in Screen (London), Summer 1976. ‘‘Ozu Issue’’ of Cinéma (Paris), February 1981. Liola, S., and A. Iwaskak, ‘‘Gesprek met Ozu,’’ in Skrien (Amster- dam), Winter 1983–84. ‘‘Ozu, la vita e la geometria dei film,’’ in Castoro Cinema (Florence), no. 151, 1991. Wood, R., ‘‘The Noriko Trilogy,’’ in Cineaction (Toronto), Win- ter 1992. Casas, Q., ‘‘Flores de equinoccio,’’ in Nosferatu (San Sebastian), no. 25/26, December 1997. Zunzunegui, S., ‘‘Voces distantes,’’ in Nosferatu (San Sebastian), no. 25/26, December 1997. *** Though one can agree with Noel Burch (To the Distant Observer) that Ozu’s work declined into academicism, it is possible to date the decline much later, restricting it to his last few films: it seems significant that two of them (Ohayo and Floating Weeds) are remakes of much earlier works and inferior to the originals, giving an impres- sion of fatigue. It may also be significant that, when he began to work in colour, Ozu abandoned camera movement altogether, thereby relinquishing an expressive and/or formal potential the more effective for being used so sparingly. There is not a single camera movement in Ozu’s last six films: his obsession with precise composition seems to have intensified, and he refused to disturb the constructed image by moving the camera. One can analyse in most of Ozu’s films a tension HIGH NOON FILMS, 4 th EDITION 524 between conservative and radical impulses; towards the end, the conservatism dominates, as one can see if one compares Late Autumn to Late Spring. Equinox Flower, the first of the six colour films, stands quite apart from its successors, retaining a wonderful freshness of invention, a sense of energy and playfulness; it is also (and this is surely no coincidence) the closest Ozu came to making an explicitly feminist film (one might borrow a title from Mizoguchi and rename it Victory of Women). Here, the radical impulse triumphs, and the film’s consistent vivacity comes across as a celebration of this. It can be read as a coda to what can be called Ozu’s Setsuko Hara trilogy. Hara was clearly too old to play ‘‘her’’ character (resisting, here, not marriage per se, but arranged marriage); accordingly, the character is named not Noriko but Setsuko. Here, as in Early Summer and unlike in Late Spring, the young woman wins the right to decide her own destiny. This is essentially why Late Spring had to be a tragedy and Equinox Flower a comedy. There has been very little critical discussion of the question of identification in Ozu’s films. Understandably: Western critics have been preoccupied with the uniqueness of Ozu’s methodology, and every component of it seems calculated to preclude the possibility of identification. ‘‘Seems’’ but isn’t: identification is a complex phe- nomenon and the achievement of a contemplative distance does not preclude it but merely redefines its nature. Ozu totally rejects the technical apparatus of identification, most obviously the point-of- view shot. Early Summer actually contains what (given Ozu’s well- documented knowledge of and fondness for the Hollywood cinema) we must take as a Hitchcock joke: Two characters walk down a corridor, the camera tracking back before them; cut to a forward point-of-view tracking shot. But then we realize that this is a different corridor in a different building, unconnected with the characters whose point-of-view we thought we were sharing. Ozu’s camera is never judgmental: the most unsympathetic characters are filmed in exactly the same way as the most sympathetic. Our judgement of them, unprejudiced by camera angle, lighting, ‘‘significant’’ music, must therefore be truly ours: we are left free to assess their behaviour, actions, values, virtues, limitations. This does not so much preclude identification as set it free: the play of our sympathies can shift from character to character, or be divided between two or more characters at the same time. The films can be argued to be (often) about the complexity of point of view, though they are certainly not reducible to ‘‘Everyone has his reasons’’ or ‘‘Tout comprendre, c’est tout pardonner.’’ Ozu’s judgement is always firm and clear, but it is defined in the movement of the scenario, not imposed by cinematic rhetoric. Two conflicting levels of sympathy/identification are always present in Ozu’s work, the conflict becoming central to the later, post- World War II films: identification with the figure of the threatened or displaced patriarch, identification with the female characters. Equi- nox Flower enacts this conflict most vividly. The theme of the film is the education by women of the traditional Japanese patriarch (Mi- chael Uno’s The Wash contains so many thematic and structural parallels that one wonders whether there was a direct connection between the two films). The strong feminist thrust of Ozu’s films (which few seem to have perceived, though the last 15 minutes of Tokyo Story alone should be enough to make it obvious) is strength- ened, not weakened, by the empathy he evidently feels for his patriarchs: he understands their position completely, he knows how they feel because a part of him feels the same way, and he knows that their position has become untenable. The logical climax of Equinox Flower, absolutely demanded by narrative convention, is the wedding of the patriarch’s daughter to the man that she, not her father, has chosen. Ozu declines to show it, substituting the reunion of the father with his aging ex-fellow students, which culminates in a communal expression of nostalgia for values that they all recognize to be obsolete. After it, the ‘‘victory of women’’—to which all the female characters variously contribute (the film is magnificent on the subject of female solidarity)—can be completed, and the father is led to accept his daughter’s right to her own judgement and choice. The film never sentimentalizes love matches by suggesting that they are likely to be any more successful than arranged ones, but it is quite unam- biguous on the woman’s right to reach her own decision. The celebratory effect of the film’s ending is underlined by Ozu’s use of colour. He was fascinated by bright red, and in his first colour film he allowed this predilection free play. Especially, a red chair in the family’s hallway figures prominently in shot after shot, yet it is always empty. Then, when the women’s victory is confirmed by the phone-call in which the father finally agrees to visit his daughter and her husband, the wife at last sits in it in triumph, as on a throne. Ozu cuts to a line of washing on which a scarlet shirt stands out: a fireworks display could not have been more eloquent. Finally, note the exactness of the film’s title: ‘‘Equinox Flower,’’ the flower that blossoms out of a time of change. —Robin Wood HIGH NOON USA, 1952 Director: Fred Zinnemann Production: Stanley Kramer Productions; black and white, 35mm; running time: 84 minutes. Released 1952 by United Artists. Producer: Stanley Kramer; screenplay: Carl Foreman, from the story ‘‘The Tin Star’’ by John W. Cunningham; photography: Floyd Crosby; editors: Elmo Williams and Harry Gerstad; sound: James Speak; art director: Rudolph Sternad; music: Dmitri Tiomkin; song: ‘‘High Noon’’ by Dmitri Tiomkin and Ned Washington, sung by Tex Ritter. Cast: Gary Cooper (Will Kane); Thomas Mitchell (Jonas Hender- son); Lloyd Bridges (Harvey Pell); Katy Jurado (Helen Ramirez); Grace Kelly (Amy Kane); Otto Kruger (Percy Mettrick); Ian MacDonald (Frank Miller); Lon Chaney (Martin Howe); Harry Morgan (Sam Fuller); Eve McVeagh (Mildred Fuller); Harry Shannon (Cooper); Lee Van Cleef (Jack Colby); Bob Wilke (James Pierce); Sheb Wooley (Ben Miller); Tom London (Sam); Ted Stanhope (Station master); Larry Blake (Gillis); William Phillips (Barber); Jeanne Blackford (Mrs. Henderson); James Millican (Baker); Jack Elam (Charlie). Awards: Oscar for Best Actor (Cooper), Best Film Editing, Best Scoring of a Dramatic or Comedy Picture, and Best Song, 1952; New York Film Critics’ Awards for Best Motion Picture and Best Direc- tion, 1952. HIGH NOONFILMS, 4 th EDITION 525 High Noon Publications Script: Foreman, Carl, High Noon, in Three Major Screenplays, edited by Malvin Ward and Michael Werner, New York, 1973. Books: Griffith, Richard, Fred Zinnemann, New York, 1958. Fenin, George N., The Western: From Silents to Cinerama, New York, 1962. Gehman, Richard, The Tall American: The Story of Gary Cooper, New York, 1963. Dickens, Homer, The Films of Gary Cooper, New York, 1970. Jordan, Rene, Gary Cooper, New York, 1974. Nachbar, Jack, editor, Focus on the Western, Englewood Cliffs, New Jersey, 1974. Wright, Will, Sixguns and Society: A Structural Study of the Western, Berkeley, 1975. Parish, James Robert, and Michael Pitts, editors, The Great Western Pictures, Metuchen, New Jersey, 1976. French, Philip, Westerns, New York, 1977. Arle, Hecton, Gary Cooper: An Intimate Biography, New York, 1979. Kaminsky, Stuart M., Coop: The Life and Legend of Gary Cooper, New York, 1980. Swindell, Larry, The Last Hero: A Biography of Gary Cooper, New York, 1980. Chardair, N., Gary Cooper, Paris, 1981. Giannetti, Louis, Masters of the American Cinema, Englewood Cliffs, New Jersey, 1981. Rausa, Giuseppe, Fred Zinnemann, Florence, 1985. Goldau, Antje, and others, Zinnemann, Munich, 1986. Buscombe, Ed, BFI Companion to the Western, London, 1988. Zinnemann, Fred, My Life in the Movies, New York, 1992. Drummond, Phillip, High Noon, London, 1997. Meyers, Jeffrey, Gary Cooper: An American Hero, New York, 1998. Nolletti, Arthur, Jr., The Films of Fred Zinnemann, Albany, 1999. Articles: Films in Review (New York), May 1952. Zinnemann, Fred, ‘‘Choreography of a Gunfight,’’ in Sight and Sound (London), Summer 1952. Burton, Howard, ‘‘High Noon: Everyman Rides Again,’’ in Quar- terly of Film, Radio, and Television (Berkeley), Fall 1953. Warshow, Robert, ‘‘Movie Chronicle: The Westerner,’’ in Partisan Review (New Brunswick, New Jersey), March 1954. Schein, Harry, ‘‘The Olympian Cowboy,’’ in American Scholar (Washington, D.C.), Summer 1955. Houston, Penelope, and Kenneth Cavender, ‘‘Interview with Carl Foreman,’’ in Sight and Sound (London), Summer 1958. Clarens, Carlos, ‘‘Gary Cooper,’’ in Films in Review (New York), December 1959. Zinnemann, Fred, ‘‘A Conflict of Interest,’’ in Films and Filming (London), December 1959. Fenin, George, ‘‘Son of Uncle Sam,’’ in Films and Filming (London), October 1962. Reid, John Howard, ‘‘A Man for All Movies,’’ in Films and Filming (London), May and June 1967. Barsness, John A., ‘‘A Question of Standard,’’ in Film Quarterly (Berkeley), Fall 1967. Folsom, James, ‘‘Westerns as Social and Political Alternatives,’’ in Western American Literature (Logan, Utah), Fall 1967. Allombert, P., ‘‘Le Train sifflera trois fois,’’ in Image et Son (Paris), no. 269, 1973. Interview with Carl Foreman, in American Film (Washington, D.C.), April 1974. Giannetti, Louis, ‘‘Fred Zinnemann’s High Noon,’’ in Film Criticism (Meadville, Pennsylvania), Winter 1976–77. Bodeen, DeWitt, in Magill’s Survey of Cinema 2, Englewood Cliffs, New Jersey, 1980. Alfredsson, K., ‘‘Sheriffen,’’ in Filmrutan (Stockholm), 1983. Palmer, R. B., ‘‘A Masculinist Reading of Two Western Films, High Noon and Rio Grande,’’ in Journal of Popular Film and Televi- sion (Washington, D.C.), Winter 1984–85. Bergan, Ronald, in Films and Filming (London), May 1986. Combs, Richard, in Monthly Film Bulletin (London), June 1986. McReynolds, D. J., ‘‘Taking Care of Things: Evolution in the Treatment of a Western Theme,’’ in Literature/Film Quarterly (Salisbury, Maryland), no. 3, 1990. Rapf, J. E., ‘‘Myth, Ideology, and Feminism in High Noon,’’ in Journal of Popular Culture (Bowling Green, Ohio), no. 4, 1990. Ronnberg, M., ‘‘Pliktgubbe moter rattsfajter,’’ in Filmhaftet (Uppsala, Sweden), May 1990. Comuzio, E., ‘‘Tempo reale e tempo iconico allo scoccare del Messogiornio di fuoco,’’ in Cineforum (Bergamo, Italy), January- February 1992. HIGH NOON FILMS, 4 th EDITION 526 Reid’s Film Index (Wyong), no. 13, 1994. Foster, Gwendolyn Audrey, ‘‘The Women in High Noon: a Metanarrative of Difference,’’ in Film Criticism (Meadville), vol. 18–19, no. 3–1, Spring 1994. Prince, Stephen, ‘‘Historical Perspectives and the Realist Aesthetic in High Noon,’’ in Film Criticism (Meadville), vol. 18–19, no. 3–1, Spring 1994. Zinnemann, F., ‘‘Letter from Fred Zinnemann,’’ in Film Criticism (Meadville), vol. 19, no. 2, 1994/1995. Prince, S., ‘‘Steven Prince Replies,’’ in Film Criticism (Meadville), vol. 19, no. 2, 1994/1995. Short Review, in Séquences (Haute-Ville), no. 179, July-August 1995. Caparros-Lera, J.M., ‘‘Cinematic Contextual History of High Noon,’’ in Film-Historia (Barcelona), vol. 6, no. 1, 1996. Boon, Kevin A., ‘‘Scripting Gender: Writing Differences,’’ in Crea- tive Screenwriting (Washington, D.C.), vol. 4, no. 1, Spring 1997. Orme, A., ‘‘The Impossibility of Inscribing Meaning: Interdeterminacy and the Interpretive Act in High Noon and John Cunningham’s The Tin Star,’’ in Michigan Academician, vol. 29, no. 3, 1997. Lefebvre, J., ‘‘High Noon: le western devient majeur,’’ in Cinemaction (Conde-sur-Noireau), no. 86, 1998. Petit, O., ‘‘Sherif et marshal garants de l’ordre social,’’ in Cinemaction (Conde-sur-Noireau), no. 86, 1998. *** High Noon was responsible for setting the career of Gary Cooper moving again and is considered by many the single most important film in his career. However, no one knew or thought the film was destined for big things when it was first conceived. Cooper was not producer Stanley Kramer’s first choice to play Marshal Will Kane. In fact, he was fairly far down the list below Marlon Brando and Montgomery Clift. Charlton Heston was also offered the role. The chief financial backer of the film, however, a Salinas lettuce tycoon, wanted Cooper. The backer threatened to pull his money out and Kramer couldn’t change his mind about using Cooper, so the script had been sent to Coop. Later Cooper said he took the film, even though he was ill and emotionally troubled, because it represented what his father had taught him, that law enforcement was everyone’s job. In an interview, Fred Zinnemann gave his recollections of Cooper and High Noon: ‘‘His recurring hip problem bothered him on one or two occasions. It made it difficult for him to do the fight with Lloyd Bridges, but it didn’t stop him from working very hard and very long hours under some trying conditions. If I remember correctly, we made the entire film in 31 shooting days. Not once were we delayed or held up by him for whatever reason. For most of the time he had seemed in good health, and it was only two or three months after shooting had been completed that he became ill. ‘‘He did in fact look quite haggard and drawn, which was exactly what I wanted for the character, even though this was in contrast to the unwritten law, then still in force, that the leading man must always look dashing and romantic. If I remember correctly, we used a mini- mum of makeup for Coop, which was perhaps a bit of a novelty in those days. ‘‘Cooper seemed absolutely right for the part. It seemed com- pletely natural for him to be superimposed on Will Kane.’’ According to Zinnemann, High Noon ‘‘is the one picture I directed which more than any other was a team effort. There was a marvelous script by Carl Foreman, a brilliant job of cutting by Elmo Williams, an inspired musical score by Dimitri Tiomkin, a solid contribution by Stanley Kramer. And Gary Cooper was the personification of the honor-bound man. He was in himself a very noble figure, very humble at the same time, and very inarticulate. And very unaware of himself.’’ (Interestingly, in a 1979 interview in American Film, Carl Foreman claimed that he and Zinnemann had made the film apart from the Kramer company. According to Foreman, ‘‘neither Kramer nor anyone around him had any use for the film from the beginning.’’) In the film, Coop’s first line is the same as the first line he had ever uttered in a film back in 1928 in Shopworn Angel —‘‘I do.’’ Kane is marrying Amy on a Sunday morning. It is just past 10:30 when the tale begins, and it ends a few minutes after noon. The length of the story and the length of the film almost coincide. The film is filled with reminders of the passing time, time that brings Marshal Kane closer to having to face Frank Miller when he gets off the noon train in Hadleyville and seeks revenge against Kane, who sent him to prison. Clocks in the background show the time and tick ominously. People refer to meetings in five minutes. One by one the people whom Kane assumes he can count on in the battle against Miller and his gang find reasons or excuses to stay out of the coming fight. Only the town drunk comes forth, but Kane turns him down, realizing he is more of a liability than an asset. At one point Kane, alone in his office, puts his head down on his desk, possibly to weep, and then wearily pulls himself up again. In the final confrontation with Miller and his gang, Kane does stand alone until the last moment, when Amy saves his life by shooting Frank Miller. Kane then throws down his badge in a sign of contempt for the town and rides out with his bride. For his performance in High Noon, Cooper won his second Academy Award. Yet it is a performance in which he does less with the character than he had done with almost any of his major roles before. His walk is stiff and pained. His arms remain at his sides through most of the film. He hasn’t a single extended speech. What audiences apparently responded to was the look that Zinnemann had captured and that Cooper, with years of experience, had played on. They also responded to the simple story of a man who is not supported by his community in a time of mortal crisis and who triumphs alone through courage and determination. Will Kane and Gary Cooper were tired, sick men of 51. Cooper’s performance is basically put together in relatively short takes and scenes. This was exactly what Zinnemann wanted and what he got, and it was interpreted by a public that loved Cooper as a supreme performance. Cooper later said that when High Noon was finished, he was ‘‘acted out,’’ and that pained weariness is exactly what is seen on the screen. Perhaps for the first time, he had truly become the character he portrayed, for Gary Cooper and Will Kane were the same persona. Kane’s pain came from fear and his betrayal by others. Cooper’s was a result of illness and domestic and career worries. As he got older, Cooper tended more and more to be concerned about the West and its portrayal and tended to be disturbed by the lack of historical authenticity in western films. Since his own career as a western star had helped to reinforce the myth of the American fictional West rather than a re-creation of historical data, it is ironic that Cooper should turn to that position. High Noon is indeed not a tale about the true West, but like so many westerns a presentation of contemporary ideas in the most durable popular genre, the western. In a sense, the myths of the West—and Cooper as an actor is one of them—are as culturally important as what actually transpired on the frontier a century ago. HIGH SIERRAFILMS, 4 th EDITION 527 Will Kane tells us more about how we view our history and myths than any real data we might find out about Wild Bill Hickok, Billy the Kid or Buffalo Bill. Cooper’s career as a western figure lasted 35 years, as long, in fact as the time between the end of the Civil War and the start of the twentieth century, as long as the historical time of the real West. —Stuart M. Kaminsky HIGH SIERRA USA, 1941 Director: Raoul Walsh Production: Warner Bros.; black and white; running time: 100 minutes; length: 8,964 feet. Released January 1941. Executive producer: Hal B. Wallis; associate producer: Mark Hellinger; screenplay: John Huston and W. R. Burnett, from a novel by Burnett; assistant director: Russ Saunders; dialogue director: Irving Rapper; photography: Tony Gaudio; editor: Jack Killifer; sound: Dolph Thomas; art director: Ted Smith; music: Adolph Deutsch; special effects: Bryon Haskin, H. F. Koenekamp. Cast: Humphrey Bogart (Roy Earle); Ida Lupino (Marie); Alan Curtis (Babe); Arthur Kennedy (Red); Joan Leslie (Velma); Henry Hull (Doc Banton); Henry Travers (Pa); Jerome Cowan (Healy); Minna Gombell (Mrs. Baughman); Barton Maclane (Jake Kranmer); Elizabeth Risdon (Ma); Cornel Wilde (Louis Mendoza); Donald McBride (Big Mac); Paul Harvey (Mr. Baughman); Isabel Jewell (Blonde); Willie Best (Algernon); Spencer Charters (Ed); George Meeker (Pfiffer); Robert Strange (Art); John Eldredge (Lon Preiser); Zero the dog (Pard). Publications Script: Huston, John, and W.R. Burnett, High Sierra, edited by Douglas Gomery, Madison, Wisconsin, 1979. Books: McCarty, Clifford, Bogey: The Films of Humphrey Bogart, New York, 1965. Michael, Paul, Humphrey Bogart: The Man and His Films, Indian- apolis, 1965. Marmin, Michel, Raoul Walsh, Paris, 1970. Canham, Kingsley, The Hollywood Professionals, New York, 1973. Hardy, Phil, editor, Raoul Walsh, Colchester, Essex, 1974. Walsh, Raoul, Each Man in His Time, New York, 1974. Benchley, Nathaniel, Humphrey Bogart, Boston, 1975. Eyles, Allen, Bogart, New York, 1975. Shadoian, Jack, Dreams and Dead Ends, Cambridge, Massachu- setts, 1977. Pettigrew, Terence, Bogart: A Definitive Study of his Film Career, London, 1981. Comuzio, Ermanno, Raoul Walsh, Florence, 1982. Winkler, Willi, Humphrey Bogart und Hollywoods Schwarze Serie, Munich, 1985. Giuliani, Pierre, Raoul Walsh, Paris, 1986. Fuchs, Wolfgang J., Humphrey Bogart: Cult-Star: A Documentation, Berlin, 1987. Coe, Jonathan, Humphrey Bogart: Take It & Like It, New York, 1991. Bogart, Stephen H., and Gary Provost, Bogart: In Search of My Father, New York, 1995. Schlesinger, Judith, Bogie: A Life in Pictures, New York, 1998. Sperber, A.M., Bogart, New York, 1998. Cunningham, Ernest W., Ultimate Bogie, Los Angeles, 1999. Duchovnay, Gerald, Humphrey Bogart: A Bio-Bibliography, Westport, 1999. Meyers, Jeffery, Bogart: A Life in Hollywood, New York, 1999. Articles: Variety (New York), 22 January 1941. Motion Picture Herald (New York), 25 January 1941. New York Times, 25 January 1941. Cinema (Beverly Hills), 28 May 1941. Monthly Film Bulletin (London), June 1941. Times (London), 4 August 1941. Whitebait, William, in New Statesman (London), 9 August 1941. Vermilye, J., ‘‘Ida Lupino,’’ in Films in Review (New York), May 1959. Dienstfrey, Harris, ‘‘Hitch Your Genre to a Star,’’ in Film Culture (New York), Fall 1964. Huston, John, in Film Quarterly (Berkeley), Fall 1965. Burnett, W. R., in Toronto Film Society Notes, 14 February 1966. Alley, Kenneth D., ‘‘High Sierra: Swansong for an Era,’’ in Journal of Popular Film (Washington, D.C.), vol. 5, no. 3–4, 1976. Simons, John L., ‘‘Henry on Bogie: Reality and Romance in Dream Song No. 9 and High Sierra,’’ in Literature/Film Quarterly (Salisbury, Maryland), Summer 1977. Magill’s Survey of Cinema 2, Englewood Cliffs, New Jersey, 1981. Mate, Ken, and Patrick McGilligan, interview with W. R. Burnett, in Film Comment (New York), January-February 1983. Marling, W., ‘‘On the Relation Between American Roman Noir and Film Noir,’’ in Literature/Film Quarterly (Salisbury, Maryland), no. 3, 1991. Marling, W., ‘‘On the Relation Between American Roman Noir and Film Noir,’’ in Literature/Film Quarterly (Salisbury), vol. 21, no. 3, 1993. Howard, T., in Reid’s Film Index (Wyong), no. 15, 1995. *** Jean-Luc Godard canonizes High Sierra at the end of Breathless when he mimes the orphic structure of Raoul Walsh’s action melo- drama. Walsh depicts an army of police chasing his hero up Mount Whitney, enlisting a sniper to shoot him in the back and send him plummeting down the slope. His body is mourned by a girlfriend, Marie (Ida Lupino), and a cynical bystander, a news reporter named Healy, amidst a chorus of troopers. Godard flattens the hubris that Walsh obtains from a mix of Shakespeare, Greek tragedy, and film noir by having his two adolescents ‘‘play’’ at the fear and terror evinced in High Sierra. If Godard’s first feature figures at a threshold HIGH SIERRA FILMS, 4 th EDITION 528 High Sierra between two eras of film, it suggests why Walsh’s feature owns a central place in the history of cinema. On the one hand, the film concretizes elements common both to Walsh as an auteur and to the Hollywood industry in general. Destined to die, an ordinary figure is caught in a skein of tragic forces woven in the later years of the Depression. The protagonist figures as a hero set in a world that has lost its legends, but he is ultimately a pawn in a plot of magnitude beyond his ken. Following Warner Brothers’ affiliations with the New Deal, the film shows a world of humans caught in social contradiction. Fate is cast, the film implies, either by gods of nature, the failure of capitalism, or a highly corrupt government. In a montage following the credits that scroll upwards to the majestic sky over Mount Whitney, the initial dissolves suggest that an unnamed state official—ostensively a governor—has Roy Earle (Humphrey Bogart, whose name bears resemblance to ‘‘King Lear,’’ a figure too late for his milieu, and to a sign of energy, or ‘‘oil,’’ the hidden term of the film) sprung from prison in order to engineer a holdup at Palm Springs. Between the narrative and the visual design the plot is staged to show how profit can be gained when common news items are inflated into national media events. The ‘‘real’’ story does not entail the holdup at the Tropico hotel in Palm Springs but, as Godard intuited, at the end of High Sierra itself: when Earle is pursued up the mountain, a limelight is projected onto its rocky curtain. A radiocaster hypes the silence of the landscape into a drama that inculpates all viewers and listeners as agents of a crime, like the film, collectively contrived. On the other hand, High Sierra makes obvious its own mechanism of illusion. The image-track effectively theorizes the tenets of the narration. When the squadron of police cars and motorcycles pursues Earle up the winding road, a panoramic shot of 720° encircles the steeplechase. Poised at the opening of the angle of a hairpin turn, the camera follows Earle’s coupe, pans around and down to catch the oncoming motorcade, and continues its career. It thus spots its presence in the film as the origin of the narrative ‘‘destiny.’’ Else- where it portrays the hero incriminating the spectator with his brutally frontal stare. Facing the windshield of his car, the camera registers Bogart’s looking directly at the viewer, almost in defiance of the laws of obliquity that hold in films of the period. Ocularity becomes so pervasive that all illusion of narrative space and time is flattened: Earle stares us down as he looks ahead and into the space moving away in the rearview mirror. The depth of field contains elements that utterly flatten it. Optical stratagems kill the hero. Before he is DER HIMMEL üBER BERLINFILMS, 4 th EDITION 529 ambushed Earle appears as a speck on a landscape that has lost all cardinal bearings. And earlier, quick dissolves superimpose charac- ters over writing of vitrines and billboards so as to show how fate legibly casts its spell over the characters and narrative alike. These objects locate where Walsh’s signature is written into the film. Through car mirrors, headlights, monocular forms (an eight- ball, a ring, the circular marquee heralding the Circle Auto Court), and bar-like shadows cast over the frame, tragedy is rendered both deep and matte. Forms arch back to the director’s own history of enucleation. In High Sierra, however, it is seen as symbolic castration that literally produces the viewing ‘‘subject,’’ the spectator whose vision is skewed and access to nature denied. In a sequence located in neither W.R. Burnett’s novel that inspired the film nor John Huston’s screenplay, a volley of shots catches a jackrabbit crossing the high- way on the western mesa just as Earle overtakes a jalopy sputtering westward. The animal darts across the road, the two cars swerve and almost collide. Although the near-miss primes the fate of the narra- tive, inner allusion is made to an event that deprived Walsh of his right eye in 1928: when he was driving from the site of In Old Arizona, a hare jumped in front of his vehicle and struck its windshield, smashing the glass and lodging a splinter in his right eye. The traumatic instant of his own enucleation is tipped into High Sierra as if to draw attention to a simultaneous play of monocular and binocular views, or of coextensive flatness and deep focus, that Walsh uses, along with Renoir, Ford, and Welles, to theorize the visibility of cinema in general. Staged carefully in this film, the event recurs often throughout his oeuvre (in The Cockeyed World, They Drive by Night, Colorado Territory, a western remake of High Sierra, Pursued, White Heat, and so on), but in High Sierra it is turned toward broad questions entailing the ideology of Hollywood cinema. Out of the same visual trauma come elements of film noir and, of course, much of the speculations of New Wave theoreticians. High Sierra shows that Raoul Walsh is far from the simple ‘‘action director’’ of fast-paced films of keen craft and slight content. Close viewing reveals a wealth of transfilmic themes and obsessions that mark an output of over 120 films (his longevity and productivity making him a Victor Hugo of American cinema), but also the strategies of Hollywood and their transformations from the silent period to the 1960s. The film is a complex study of visibility concealed in what it is: a timelessly captivating, fast-paced, action melodrama. —Tom Conley DER HIMMEL üBER BERLIN (Wings of Desire) Germany, 1987 Director: Wim Wenders Production: Road Movies (Berlin), Argos Films (Paris), Westdeut- scher Rundfunk (K?ln); black-and-white and color (Kodak), 35mm; running time: 130 minutes. Released 18 May 1987. Filmed on location in Berlin. Cost: $3–3.5 million. Producers: Wim Wenders, Anatole Dauman; executive producer: Ingrid Windisch; screenplay: Wim Wenders, Peter Handke; photog- raphy: Henri Alekan; assistant director: Claire Denis; editor: Peter Przygodda; sound: Jean-Paul Mugel, Axel Arft; art director: Heidi Lüdi; costume designer: Monika Jacobs; music: Jürgen Knieper, Laurent Petitgand (circus music), Nick Cave and the Bad Seeds (songs). Cast: Bruno Ganz (Damiel); Solveig Dommartin (Marion); Otto Sander (Cassiel); Curt Bois (Homer); Peter Falk (himself); Nick Cave and the Bad Seeds (themselves); Lajos Kovacs (Marion’s acrobatics coach). Awards: Cannes Film Festival Award for Best Director, 1987; Bavarian Film Award for Best Director, 1988; German Film Awards for Outstanding Feature Film and Best Cinematography, 1988; Euro- pean Film Awards for Best Director and Best Supporting Actor (Bois), 1988; National Society of Film Critics Award for Best Cinematography, 1988; New York Film Critics Circle Award for Best Cinematography, 1988; Los Angeles Film Critics Association Award for Best Foreign Film and Best Cinematography, 1988; Sao Paolo International Film Festival Audience Award for Best Feature, 1988; Independent Spirit Award for Best Foreign Film, 1989. Publications Script: Wenders, Wim, and Peter Handke, Der Himmel über Berlin, ein Filmbuch, Frankfurt, 1987. Books: Kolker, Robert Phillip, and Peter Beicken, Wim Wenders: Cinema as Vision and Desire, Cambridge, 1993. Morgues, Nicole de, Les ailes du désir, Der Himmel über Berlin: étude du film de Wim Wenders, Linnebonne, 1998. Articles: Jaehne, Karen, ‘‘Angel Eyes: Wenders Soars,’’ in Film Comment (New York), June 1988. Paneth, Ira, ‘‘Wim and His Wings,’’ in Film Quarterly (Berkeley), Fall 1988. Fusco, Coco, ‘‘Angels, History and Poetic Fantasy: An Interview with Wim Wenders,’’ in Cineaste (New York), vol. 16, no. 4, 1988. Helmetag, Gharles H., ‘‘Of Men and Angels: Literary Allusions in Wim Wenders’ Wings of Desire,’’ in Film/Literature Quarterly (Salisbury, Maryland), vol. 18, no. 4, 1990. Hooks, Bell, ‘‘Representing Whiteness: Seeing Wings of Desire,’’ in Yearning: Race, Gender, and Cultural Politics, Boston, 1990. Cook, Roger F., ‘‘Angels, Fiction and History in Berlin: Wim Wenders’ Wings of Desire (1991),’’ in The Cinema of Wim Wenders: Image, Narrative, and the Postmodern Condition, by Cook and Gerd Gemunden, Detroit, 1997. Ehrlich, Linda, ‘‘Meditations on Wim Wenders’ Wings of Desire,’’ in Literature/Film Quarterly (Salisbury) vol. 19, no. 4, 1991. DER HIMMEL üBER BERLIN FILMS, 4 th EDITION 530 Der Himmel über Berlin Caldwell, David, and Paul W. Rea, ‘‘Handke’s and Wenders’ Wings of Desire: Transcending Postmodernism,’’ in German Quarterly (Philadelphia) vol. 64, no. 1, 1991. Caltvedt, Les, ‘‘Berlin Poetry: Archaic Cultural Patterns in Wenders’ Wings of Desire,’’ in Literature/Film Quarterly (Salisbury), vol. 20, no. 2, 1992. *** On one level, Wings of Desire’s plot outline could be seen as the purest Hollywood-style claptrap: an angel falls in love with a mortal woman—a trapeze artist, no less!—and trades in his wings to be with her. On another level, it may be taken as a meditation on themes that have preoccupied German literature since before the age of Goethe: oppositions of spirit and matter, eternity and time, the abstract and the concrete. Of course, the film gloriously refuses to exist on merely one level, or address itself to one kind of culture—it prefers to have Rilke’s angels from the Duino Elegies hobnob with TV’s Columbo. The film could be called perfectly postmodern, except that its meanings are not all scattered on a glittering surface; rather, like a number of the great modernist works, starting with Joyce’s Ulysses, Wings of Desire is a rich amalgam of high and low culture. Wim Wenders has pointed out that the pun in his German title (Himmel means both sky or heavens and Heaven) is untranslatable into English, besides the problem that ‘‘The Sky Over Berlin sounded like a war movie and Heavens Over Berlin was too romantic.’’ On the other hand, ‘‘desire’’ (French désir) does not, according to Wenders, translate properly into German, so he sees both titles as valid. Whichever title one uses, the film is certainly—on one level, one must keep adding—about Berlin itself as much as anything else. Indeed, the film now serves as a document of those last years before the Wall came down, when Potsdamer Platz was still a no-man’s-land of the most forlorn bleakness, yet graffiti on the Western side of the Wall was making political/aesthetic statements of protest and re- newal. One can imagine Wenders spinning his fantasy plot outward from the monuments of Berlin itself: the winged Victory Column inspiring the angels and their lofty perspective; the Wall suggesting every sort of division between humans (one of the characters com- plains that nowadays everybody needs a password or a toll payment to talk to another person); a modernistic library building—austere and yet somehow spiritual and grandly calming—serving as a suitable hangout for the angels, who love to accumulate knowledge; Potsdamer DER HIMMEL üBER BERLINFILMS, 4 th EDITION 531 Platz and other empty spaces representing the memory erasures and feelings of desolation of postwar German life (though even these spaces can be enlivened by a circus or a mural!); and in opposition to the Wall and the vacant lots, the ubiquitous coffee-and-sandwich stands, which bring people (and angels) casually together. Berlin’s dark Nazi past is evoked both through intercuts of newsreel footage and through the subplot of a movie being shot that uses the fall of Berlin as the backdrop for a detective story starring Peter Falk. (The set featuring a half-bombed building is truly Piranesian in its shadowy depths, though these scenes of the film, showing Nazi horrors made grist for the entertainment mill, also tell us something about the endless self-replications of the postmodern 1980s.) Wenders’ Berlin is also an international city: many languages are heard briefly in the course of the film, and two of the major characters, Falk and Marion, speak (and are heard thinking) in English and French respectively. To be sure, a viewer might perceive the entire film not as about Berlin but the other way around, with the city merely providing convenient metaphors for the human condition—but this would ignore the film’s rich specificity. As for what Wenders means by ‘‘desire,’’ one must first consider what the angels lack—which means figuring out what they are. These soberly dressed but ponytailed creatures that hover over the city and lean over the shoulders of its citizens are not messengers in the biblical manner, or charioteers to the afterlife as in the ghastly sentimental remake, City of Angels. They are, however, recorders and comforters. They take notes and share stories with one another of lovely, quirky details of humans’ lives, or of the natural world in the days before human occupation. (Evidently the angels have inhabited the local terrain since prehistory; only with humankind’s arrival have they learned to speak—and laugh.) They do appear to bring moments of peace or inexplicable joy to people in unhappy straits, though they cannot prevent accidents or suicides. Children see them, and are amused, but as in Wordsworth, they lose their intimations of some kind of immortality as they age. Often the angels seem to be an allegory of a certain type of artist, whether poet or painter or filmmaker (Cassiel keeps a notebook; ex-angel Falk is a sketch artist; Wenders’ camera and microphone seem endlessly curious): they feel deeply, they love the particulars of everyday life, but they don’t make contact, they don’t exactly live, they only record. Significantly, they are color blind—a ‘‘dimension’’ is missing. Thus when Damiel falls in love with Marion she is not only an actual woman but the embodiment of life in the flesh, of ‘‘becoming’’ (including changing and dying) rather than pure ‘‘being.’’ When he wakes up mortal, he does go looking for her at once, but he is also eager to ask a passerby the names of the colors he now sees decorating the Wall, and to taste his first cup of coffee. A number of critics have argued that the film falls into a very traditional male—or male filmmaker’s—perspective, regardless of whether Marion is a woman, Woman in the abstract, or ‘‘earthly delights’’; put most simply, the angels and Wenders’ camera are voyeurs, most obviously when Damiel watches Marion undress in her room. However, it is important to note that Damiel wants not merely to watch—or to dominate/possess through seeing—but to make contact with Marion, to communicate. Later, when he and Marion finally meet, is it she who finds him—his back is to the camera as she approaches him—and she who does the talking in a rather remarkable and lengthy speech. Kolker and Beicken’s book on Wenders claims that the director and his co-writer Peter Handke reclaim male domi- nance at the point when Marion tells Damiel the choice is now his (they also find her speech leaning toward fascism when she proposes conceiving what they call a ‘‘master race’’ with him). But telling someone he must act is not the same as relinquishing one’s own free will, and the intense close-ups of both characters at the end of the speech suggest a relation of equality. One must say too about Marion’s speech that however serious it may look in script form, it is so extravagant (especially compared to most bar pickup lines), and its very first words—‘‘Now it’s time to get serious’’—are so bold and spoken with such quiet amusement by Solveig Dommartin, that it is outrageously romantic and droll at the same time. Indeed, the entire film has an essential component of whimsy, even outright comedy, which is often overlooked by critics. One finds it in the almost goofy earnestness of Bruno Ganz’s Damiel, and in the casting of Peter Falk as an ex-angel. (Falk’s down-to-earth geniality—though he also has a serious awareness of Berlin’s past— casts a kind of spell over much of the picture.) There is whimsy too in the very idea of an angel falling in love with—and literally looking up to—a trapeze artist who even wears little wings as part of her act. (Early in the film, when a stagehand makes a joke to Marion about ‘‘an angel passing by,’’ he is just alluding to her wings, but the invisible Damiel is comically thunderstruck.) And let us not forget that these angels who often seem on the verge of quoting Rilke are also quite serious fans of punk rocker Nick Cave and the Bad Seeds. Though far from making a joke of his whole proceedings, Wenders does undercut his own (or perhaps Handke’s) tendency toward solemnity again and again. When Damiel talks with Cassiel about his frustration with his own ‘‘spiritual existence’’—as they sit in a BMW convertible in a showroom!—he speaks abstractly about wanting ‘‘now’’ instead of ‘‘forever,’’ but concludes that ‘‘it would be quite something to come home after a long day, like Philip Marlowe, and feed the cat.’’ When he actually becomes human—falling asleep and gently placed by Cassiel on the West side of the Wall, a moment echoing Wagner’s The Valkyrie, when the newly mortal, formerly winged-helmeted Brunnhilde is laid to rest by Wotan—he is rudely awakened by his angel’s armor crashing down upon him. But most purely hilarious is the inexpressibly weird jacket he trades his armor for. Finally, turning from drollery to a child’s delight, one must consider the circus setting in itself. Circuses are by no means always amusing in movies, and American viewers should keep in mind that in much European art the acrobat is not a frivolous, ‘‘flighty’’ person but a richly poetic figure; but Wenders does stress the pleasure children take in the whole show, while seeming himself as fascinated by Marion’s act (shown to us at great, even self-indulgent length) as they or Damiel. For all its leanings toward abstraction and symbol, and its moods of deep seriousness, Wings of Desire is not only surprisingly light- hearted, and hopeful about love relationships (Wenders’ previous Paris, Texas had shown some hesitant moves in that direction), but consistently sensuous in image and sound. Much admiration has been expressed for the cinematography of Henri Alekan, whose camera does its own swooping and calm gliding, even when not directly implying an angel’s point-of-view. The film has a wonderful sense of light even in shots of the most ordinary city streets, and Wenders never sinks to the spiderwebs-glistening-with-dewdrops cliches of some other filmmakers when conveying the beauty of the everyday. The switch from black and white to color when Damiel loses his wings may be a trick Wenders learned from The Wizard of Oz and another angel movie, the Powell/Pressburger A Matter of Life and HIROSHIMA MON AMOUR FILMS, 4 th EDITION 532 Death, but it is not a simple gimmick, for he uses color shots earlier in the film to cue us in that there are other ways of seeing besides the angels’, and he will continue to render Cassiel’s scenes in black and white. As for the sound design of Wings of Desire, it is in many ways as brilliant as the images, and unusually complex in its weaving of voiceovers of people’s thoughts with an ongoing poem of Handke that speaks of ‘‘When the child was a child.’’ and with music ranging from the somber strings of Jürgen Knieper’s soundtrack to the live circus music and the hypnotic performances of Nick Cave. Wings of Desire inspired a 1997 American remake, which has some fine images of angels on the rooftops and beaches of Los Angeles but is leaden in almost every other respect. (The profession of acrobat not deemed ‘‘serious’’ enough, Marion becomes a brain surgeon, and dies in an accident, while much of the film is occupied with debate over believing in the supernatural—an issue not of the least concern in Wenders’ film.) Wenders himself made a sequel in 1993, Faraway, So Close, in which Cassiel too becomes mortal and a number of new characters are introduced, including an allegorical figure of Time. Though filled with moments of great interest, the relatively baroque plot and the repeating of some familiar material make the sequel seem less fresh, less beautifully clear in its outline, than the original. Sad and funny, conceptual and sensuous, densely complex and as airily simple as a child’s storybook, Wings of Desire is a remarkably balanced achievement and a landmark in Ger- man cinema. —Joseph Milicia HIROSHIMA MON AMOUR France-Japan, 1959 Director: Alain Resnais Production: Argos Films-Como Films (Paris), Pathé Overseas, and Daiei (Tokyo); 1959; black and white, 35mm; running time: 91 minutes, some sources list 88 minutes. Released June 1959. Filmed September-December 1958 in film studios in Tokyo and Paris, and on location in Hiroshima and Nevers. Producers: Sacha Kamenka, Shirakawa Takeo, and Samy Halfon; screenplay: Marguerite Duras; photography: Sacha Vierny and Michio Takahashi; editors: Henri Colpi, Jasmine Chasney, and Anne Sarraute; sound: Pierre Calvet and Yamamoto, and Rene Renault; art directors: Esaka, Mayo, and Petri; music: Giovanni Fusco and Georges Delerue; costume designer: Gérard Collery; literary advi- ser: Gerard Jarlot. Cast: Emmanuelle Riva (She); Eiji Okada (He); Bernard Fresson (The German); Stella Dassas (The Mother); Pierre Barbaud (The Father). Awards: Cannes Film Festival, International Critics’ Award and Film Writers’ Award, 1959; New York Film Critics’ Award, Best Foreign Film, 1960. Publications Script: Duras, Marguerite, Hiroshima mon amour, Paris, 1959; translated as Hiroshima, Mon Amour, New York, 1961; London, 1966. Books: Cordier, Stéphane, Alain Resnais; ou, La Création au cinéma, Paris, 1961. Pingaud, Bernard, Alain Resnais, Lyons, 1961. Bounoure, Gaston, Alain Resnais, Paris, 1962. Ravar, Raymond, editor, Tu n’as rien vu à Hiroshima, Brussels, 1962. Cowie, Peter, Antonioni, Bergman, Resnais, London, 1963. Armes, Roy, The Cinema of Alain Resnais, London, 1968. Ward, John, Alain Resnais; or, The Theme of Time, New York, 1968. MacDonald, Dwight, On Movies, Englewood Cliffs, New Jersey, 1969. Bertetto, Paolo, Alain Resnais, Italy, 1976. Kreidl, John Francis, Alain Resnais, Boston, 1977. Monaco, James, Alain Resnais: The Role of Imagination, New York, 1978. Benayoun, Robert, Alain Resnais: Arpenteur de l’imaginaire, Paris, 1980; revised edition, 1986. Sweet, Freddy, The Film Narratives of Alain Resnais, Ann Arbor, 1981. Trastulli, Daniela, Della parola all imagine: Viaggio nel cinema di Marguerite Duras, Geneva, 1982. Etzkowitz, Janice, Toward a Concept of Cinematic Literature: An Analysis of ‘‘Hiroshima Mon Amour,” New York, 1983. Vergerio, Falvio, I film di Alain Resnais, Rome, 1984. Borgomano, Madeleine, L’Ecriture filmique de Marguerite Duras, Paris, 1985. Brossard, Jean-Pierre, editor, Marguerite Duras: Cinéaste, écrivain, La Chaux-de-Fonde, 1985. Guers-Villate, Yvonne, Continuité/discontinuité de l’oeuvre Durassienne, Brussels, 1985. Fernandes, Marie-Pierre, Travailler avec Duras: La Musica deuxième, Paris, 1986. Roob, Jean-Daniel, Alain Resnais: Qui êtes-vous?, Lyons, 1986. Riambau, Esteve, La ciencia y la ficción: El cine de Alain Resnais, Barcelona, 1988. Guillaume, Catherine, Trahir la passion: des égarements passionnels aux égards du traitement, Paris, 1992. Bersani, Leo, and Ulysse Dutoit, Arts of Impoverishment: Beckett, Rothko, Resnais, Cambridge, 1994. Articles: ‘‘Hiroshima mon amour, film scandaleux?,’’ in Lettres Fran?aises (Paris), 14 May 1959. Sadoul, Georges, ‘‘Un Grand Film, un grand homme,’’ in Lettres Fran?aises (Paris), 14 May 1959. Delahaye, Michel, interview with Alain Resnais, in Cinéma (Paris), July 1959. Cahiers du Cinéma (Paris), July 1959. Marcorelles, Louis, Henri Colpi, and Richard Roud, ‘‘Alain Resnais and Hiroshima, Mon Amour,’’ in Sight and Sound (London), Winter 1959–60. Colpi, Henri, ‘‘Editing Hiroshima, Mon Amour,’’ in Sight and Sound (London), Winter 1959–60. HIROSHIMA MON AMOURFILMS, 4 th EDITION 533 Hiroshima mon amour Roud, Richard, ‘‘Conversations with Marguerite Duras,’’ in Sight and Sound (London), Winter 1959–60. Colpi, Henri, ‘‘Musique d’Hiroshima,’’ in Cahiers du Cinéma (Paris), January 1960. Egly, Max, interview with Alain Resnais, in Image et Son (Paris), February 1960. Burch, No?l, ‘‘A Conversation with Alain Resnais,’’ in Film Quar- terly (Berkeley), Spring 1960. Weiler, A. H., in New York Times, 17 May 1960. Mekas, Jonas, in Village Voice (New York), 25 May 1960. Hart, Henry, in Films in Review (New York), June-July 1960. Alexander, A. J., in Film Culture (New York), Summer 1961. Labarther, Andre, and Jacques Rivette, interview with Alain Resnais, in Cahiers du Cinéma (Paris), September 1961. Hart, Henry, in Village Voice (New York), 4 October 1961. Kael, Pauline, ‘‘Fantasies of the Art House Audience,’’ in Sight and Sound (London), Winter 1961–62. Durgnat, Raymond, in Films and Filming (London), May 1962. Stanbrook, Alan, ‘‘The Time and Space of Alain Resnais,’’ in Films and Filming (London), January 1964. Le Troquer, J., in Téléciné (Paris), February 1973. Pór, P., in Filmkultura (Budapest), March-April 1973. Hanet, K., ‘‘Does the Camera Lie? Notes on Hiroshima, Mon Amour,’’ in Screen (London), Autumn 1973. Helman, A., in Kino (Warsaw), September 1974. Van Wert, W. F., ‘‘Point Counterpoint in Hiroshima, Mon Amour,’’ in Wide Angle (Athens, Ohio), no. 2, 1978. Mercken-Spaas, C., ‘‘Destruction and Reconstruction in Hiroshima, Mon Amour,’’ in Literature/Film Quarterly (Salisbury, Mary- land), no. 4, 1980. Boer, L., in Skoop (Amsterdam), December-January 1980–81. Glassman, D., ‘‘The Feminine Subject as History Writer in Hiro- shima, Mon Amour,’’ in Enclitic (Minneapolis), Spring 1981. Cardullo, B., ‘‘The Symbolism of Hiroshima mon amour,’’ in Film Criticism (Meadville, Pennsylvania), Winter 1984. Moses, John W., ‘‘Vision Denied in Night and Fog and Hiroshima, Mon Amour,’’ in Literature/Film Quarterly (Salisbury, Mary- land), vol. 15, no. 3, 1987. Astala, E., ‘‘Hiroshima, rakastettumme,’’ in Filmihullu (Helsinki), no. 1, 1990. Della Casa, S., ‘‘Amnesia land: il cinema del dimenticare,’’ in Ikon (Milan), October 1990. HIROSHIMA MON AMOUR FILMS, 4 th EDITION 534 Lane, N., ‘‘The Subject In/Of History: Hiroshima, mon amour,’’ in Florida State University Conference on Literature and Film, vol. 15, 1990. Grange, M.-F., ‘‘Paysage resnaisien ou variations autour de la mise en espace du temps,’’ in Cinemas, vol. 5, no. 1/2, 1994. Samson, P., ‘‘Le montage comme articulation entre reel et fiction,’’ in Cinemaction (Conde-sur-Noireau), vol. 72, no. 3, 1994. O’Connell, Vincent, ‘‘The Human Heart,’’ in Sight & Sound (Lon- don), vol. 6, no. 3, March 1996. Michiels, Dirk, ‘‘Onuitwisbaar oorlogsstigma,’’ in Film en Televisie + Video (Brussels), no. 462, May 1996. *** Hiroshima mon amour was the first feature directed by Alain Resnais. Besides establishing the director’s international reputation, the film was one of several released in 1959 signalling the emergence of a new generation of French filmmakers working in a modernist narrative vein. Indeed, the film is considered something of a landmark in the history of modernist cinema. The film is also seen as an exemplary instance of artistic collaboration. The scenario by Marguerite Duras, photography of Sacha Vierny, editing of Henri Colpi, and musical score by Giovanni Fusco and Georges Delerue contribute to its dense patterns of repetition and counterpoint. In the film, an initially casual romantic encounter between a Japa- nese architect (‘‘He’’), and a French actress (‘‘She’’) working in Hiroshima on a film about peace provides the basis for exploring the nature of memory, experience, and representation. The love affair is important primarily for the chain of memory it triggers, as the woman gradually discloses the story of her first love, a story she has never told before. During World War II, in Nevers, she fell in love with a German soldier. On the day the city was liberated, he was shot and killed. She was subsequently submitted to public disgrace, followed by a period of imprisonment and near-madness in her parents’ home. She finally recovered enough to leave home permanently, arriving in Paris on the day the war ended after the bombing of Hiroshima and Nagasaki. This story is only revealed in stages, and establishes a complex of metaphoric relations between the past and present. The woman’s first memory image is prompted by a direct visual comparison: the twitching hand of her sleeping Japanese lover resembles, and moti- vates a cut to, the twitching hand of the dying German soldier. This transition is a specific instance of a more complex network of comparisons constructed throughout the course of the film, a concise figure for the film’s general pattern of development. A structure of metaphoric logic takes the place of the linear causality, clearly defined goals, and conscious motivation associated with dominant narrative. For example, the German lover from the past and Japanese lover in the present are comparable as former mutual enemies of France. At the same time, we see the woman victimized in the past for her relations with the German. Her victimization is likened to the victims of the atom bomb seen in the film’s opening sequence in a series of images—documentary and reconstructed—depicting the effects of the bomb. These images of destruction and deformity include loss of hair and burnt, distorted skin. Later, we see the woman’s head shaved in the public square in Nevers to mark her illicit ‘‘collaboration’’ and her skin broken and bloody as she scrapes it on the walls of her parents’ cellar. While the woman is thus ‘‘like’’ the Japanese, a victim of the war’s end, she is nevertheless liberated from her private torture, allowed to go free, at the same time the bomb is dropped on Hiroshima. Through the accumulation of images and narrative information, Hiroshima mon amour provides material for recognizing a complex network of comparison and contrast linking disparate events. As the film progresses, the terms of association become more abstract, a function of formal repetition, as tracking shots through the streets of Hiroshima are intercut with tracking shots through the streets of Nevers. Two places and times converge through the continuity afforded by the camera’s point of view. At the same time the relationship between the man and woman in the present is infused with the potency of memory. The Japanese man asks the woman to stay in Hiroshima (not a viable option in any conventional sense, since she has a family in France and his wife is due home from a trip shortly), as she comes to emblemize the inconsolable memory of the past. Yet her story, once told, transforms the experience and its memory into the order of history. The woman acknowledges this shift in value. She confronts herself in the mirror and addresses her dead lover, announcing her betrayal. At one point, she refers to the event as a ‘‘two-penny romance,’’ a common, even trivial affair. This change is a function of narration; having been recounted, the experience has undergone a change in nature. This is one way in which the film explores the nature of representation in relation to experience and memory. In the course of exploring this issue, Hiroshima mon amour clearly suggests that the mediated account, whether verbal or visual, is qualitatively different from, and supplants, personal experience. The very opening of the film promotes this view, challenging any easy equation of representation and experience. Images of the Hiro- shima museum and its repository of documents are accompanied by a woman’s voice saying she saw and felt everything in Hiroshima— the heat, the suffering, and so on. Voice and image seem to confirm and validate one another. But a male voice denies her assertions, insisting, ‘‘No, you saw nothing.’’ The viewer not only wonders who is speaking, but also is forced to question the woman’s certainty, and his own, about the nature of what he is watching. Seeing, in this way, may become misbelieving. If the woman’s narrative of her past displaces the event as pure experience, the initial recounting is not an easy task. Bringing the experience to the level of verbal presence involves the painful eruption of the past (‘‘inconsolable memory’’) into the present. Temporal distinctions get provisionally confused, and past and pres- ent seem to merge, as she first tells the story to her Japanese lover. Her language involves shifts in tense and pronoun use, as past events are spoken of in the present tense and the woman replaces the ‘‘he’’ of her story (referring to the past German lover) with ‘‘you’’ (an apparent address to her present Japanese lover). In this way the nature and act of narrating emerge as a further concern of the film. If the process of narrative is a personal and difficult activity, merging the speaking subject with event, the product eludes the control of the teller. The woman’s deeply personal experience, once told, counts as a public story to be judged in the context of narrative history. For all of these reasons the film is seen to exemplify practices associated with modernist aesthetics. It rejects linear, causal narrative progression, constructs its characters as figures involved in the process of representation, and problematizes the nature of this proc- ess. The implications of this investigation extend beyond the charac- ters in the fiction to include the film and its audience, as Hiroshima HIS GIRL FRIDAYFILMS, 4 th EDITION 535 mon amour challenges the viewer to recognize the metaphoric relations that confer its coherence, and also to question the value and meaning of its own representations. —M. B. White HIS GIRL FRIDAY USA, 1940 Director: Howard Hawks Production: Columbia Pictures Corp.; black and white, 35mm; running time: 92 minutes. Released 18 January 1940. Producer: Howard Hawks; screenplay: Charles Lederer, with uncredited assistance by Ben Hecht, from the play Front Page by Ben Hecht and Charles MacArthur; photography: Joseph Walker; edi- tor: Gene Havlick; art director: Lionel Banks; music: Morris W. Stoloff; costume designer (gowns): Kalloch. Cast: Cary Grant (Walter Burns); Rosalind Russell (Hildy Johnson); Ralph Bellamy (Bruce Baldwin); Gene Lockhart (Sheriff Hartwell); Helen Mack (Mollie Malloy); Porter Hall (Murphy); Ernest Truex (Benslinger); Cliff Edwards (Endicott); Clarence Kolb (Mayor); Roscoe Karns (McCue); Frank Jenks (Wilson); Regis Toomey (Sanders); Abner Biberman (Louis); Frank Orth (Duffy); John Qualen (Earl Williams); Alma Kruger (Mrs. Baldwin); Billy Gilbert (Joe Pettibone); Pat West (Warden Cooley); Edwin Maxwell (Dr. Egelhoffer). Publications Script: Lederer, Charles, and Alyssa Gallin, and Molly Haskell, ‘‘His Girl Friday: From The Front Page to His Girl Friday: Woman’s Work. The Proto-feminism of His Girl Friday,’’ in Scenario, vol. 1, no. 4, Fall 1995. Books: Bogdanovich, Peter, The Cinema of Howard Hawks, New York, 1962. Milliaen, Jean-Claude, Howard Hawks, Paris, 1966. Wood, Robin, Howard Hawks, London, 1968. Gili, Jean, Howard Hawks, Paris, 1971. McBride, Joseph, editor, Focus on Howard Hawks, Englewood Cliffs, New Jersey, 1972. Haskell, Molly, From Reverence to Rape, New York, 1973. Johnston, Claire, Notes on Women’s Cinema, London, 1973. Mast, Gerald, The Comic Mind, New York, 1973. Vermilye, Jerry, Cary Grant, New York, 1973. Willis, Donald, The Films of Howard Hawks, Metuchen, New Jer- sey, 1975. Yanni, Nicholas, Rosalind Russell, New York, 1975. Deschner, Donald, The Films of Cary Grant, Secaucus, New Jer- sey, 1978. Murphy, Kathleen A., Howard Hawks: An American Auteur in the Hemingway Tradition, Ann Arbor, 1978. Cavell, Stanley, Pursuits of Happiness: The Hollywood Comedy of Remarriage, Cambridge, Massachusetts, 1981. Ciment, Michel, Les Conquérants d’un nouveau monde: Essais sur le cinéma américain, Paris, 1981. Giannetti, Louis, Masters of the American Cinema, Englewood Cliffs, New Jersey, 1981. Mast, Gerald, Howard Hawks, Storyteller, Oxford, 1982. McBride, Joseph, editor, Hawks on Hawks, Berkeley, 1982. Poague, Leland, Howard Hawks, Boston, 1982. Britton, Andrew, Cary Grant: Comedy and Male Desire, Newcastle- upon-Tyne, 1983. Schickel, Richard, Cary Grant: A Celebration, London, 1983. Dupuis, Jean-Jacques, Cary Grant, Paris, 1984. Simsolo, No?l, Howard Hawks, Paris, 1984. Branson, Clark, Howard Hawks: A Jungian Study, Los Angeles, 1987. Higham, Charles, and Ray Moseley, Cary Grant: The Lonely Heart, New York, 1989. Buehrer, Beverly B., Cary Grant: A Bio-Bibliography, Westport, 1990. Hillier, Jim, Howard Hawks: American Artist, Champaign, 1997. McCarthy, Todd, Howard Hawks: The Grey Fox of Hollywood, New York, 1997. McCann, Graham, Cary Grant: A Class Apart, New York, 1998. Articles: Variety (New York), 10 January 1940. Nugent, Frank S., in New York Times, 12 January 1940. Roman, Robert, ‘‘Cary Grant,’’ in Films in Review (New York), December 1961. Agel, Henri, ‘‘Howard Hawks,’’ in New York Film Bulletin, no. 4, 1962. Sarris, Andrew, ‘‘The World of Howard Hawks,’’ in Films and Filming (London), July and August 1962. ‘‘Hawks Issue’’ of Cahiers du Cinéma (Paris), January 1963. Rivette, Jacques, and Fran?ois Truffaut, interview with Howard Hawks, in Interviews with Film Directors, edited by Andrew Sarris, New York, 1967. Ringgold, Gene, ‘‘Rosalind Russell,’’ in Films in Review (New York), December 1970. Wise, Naomi, ‘‘The Hawksian Women,’’ in Take One (Montreal), January-February 1971. Brackett, Leigh, ‘‘A Comment on the Hawksian Women,’’ in Take One (Montreal), July-August 1971. Cooney, K., ‘‘Demonology,’’ in Movietone News (Seattle), April 1975. Powers, T., ‘‘Screwball Liberation,’’ in Jump Cut (Chicago), April 1978. HIS GIRL FRIDAY FILMS, 4 th EDITION 536 His Girl Friday Yeck, Joanne L., in Magill’s Survey of Cinema 2, Englewood Cliffs, New Jersey, 1980. Guarner, J. L., in Casablanca (Madrid), July-August 1981. Film Reader (Evanston, Illinois), no. 5, 1982. Wide Angle (Athens, Ohio), no. 3, 1983. American Film (Washington, D.C.), July-August 1983. Cieutat, M., ‘‘Spéciale première: Les Trois Versions de The Front Page ou le cinéma-roi,’’ in Positif (Paris), September 1983. Smith, J. A., ‘‘His Girl Friday in the Cell: A Case Study of Theatre- to-Film Adaptation,’’ in Literature/Film Quarterly (Salisbury, Maryland), April 1985. Stevens, J. F. D., ‘‘The Unfading Image from The Front Page,’’ in Film and History (Newark, New Jersey), December 1985. Review, in EPD Film (Frankfurt), vol. 6, no. 7, July 1989. Masson, Alain, ‘‘La dame du vendredi: De la satire à comédie,’’ in Positif (Paris), no. 389–390, July-August 1993. Vatrican, Vincent, ‘‘La dame du vendredi: Howard Hawks,’’ in Cahiers du Cinéma (Paris), Hors-série, 1993. Lake, J.M., ‘‘What Are Little Girls Made Of?’’ in Michigan Academi- cian, vol. 26, no. 2, 1994. Hietala, V., ‘‘Meidan vastaeronneiden kesken,’’ in Filmihullu (Helsinki), no. 6, 1995. Mulvey, Laura, ‘‘His Girl Friday,’’ in Sight & Sound (London), vol. 7, no. 3, March 1997. *** Hollywood director Howard Hawks said he got the idea for His Girl Friday at a dinner party at which the guests were doing a reading of the Ben Hecht and Charles MacArthur play The Front Page. Hawks had handed the male reporter’s part (Hildy Johnson) to one of the women while he took the managing editor’s lines (Walter Burns). After a few pages of dialogue, Hawks grew excited and decided that the play was better with a girl playing Hildy Johnson. He called Hecht and suggested changing the reporter’s sex for a future film project. Hecht liked the idea, but he had other project commitments; so Hawks hired Charles Lederer to write additional dialogue for a new script. Lederer had written the script of the 1931 movie version of The Front Page, directed by Lewis Milestone, and had co-written other Holly- wood screenplays with Hecht. On His Girl Friday, he worked with HITLER: EIN FILM AUS DEUTSCHLANDFILMS, 4 th EDITION 537 Hecht (who receives no screen credit) to revamp characters and dialogue while preserving the wit and style of the original. His Girl Friday’s pivotal plot issue is Hildy’s (Rosalind Russell) decision whether to marry the tepid, dull Bruce Baldwin (Ralph Bellamy) or team up with her ex-boss and ex-husband, newspaper editor Walter Burns (Cary Grant). Although film critic Molly Haskell praised the way that the movie allows a woman to find her identity in a non-domestic sphere, Hildy still faces rather restrictive options— marriage to home, children, and pallid Bruce or marriage to career and ego with a maniacal Walter. Hildy’s choice to remain with the press is less a decision to relinquish her ‘‘feminine’’ longings for home and family than a commitment to the continued excitement and kinetic activity of the world of journalism. Her decision to remarry Walter grows out of their mutual understanding, respect, and love for professionalism. Hildy’s ultimate decision for an active, motion- filled life is her only possible choice in a ‘‘Hawksian’’ world. As Hawks himself suggested, her solution is the only way that she can work up enough sense of speed so that she won’t have to think about how limited her options really are and how bad life really is. When His Girl Friday premiered in 1940, it baffled and excited critics and public alike for just one reason—its speed. Hawks’s actors overlapped their dialogue; they spoke in lower tones of voice; conversations ran almost simultaneously. Hawks reinforced the sen- sation of speed by keeping his characters in constant activity. For example, when he finds out that Hildy is getting married, Walter nervously reacts by rubbing his hand, touching the phone, picking up a carnation from a vase and slipping it into his buttonhole. All the while, he struggles to keep an impassive face. When he tries to convince Hildy to postpone her wedding plans so that she can write an important story, his impassioned, aggressive speech drives her around the room, first clockwise and then counter-clockwise. When Hawks cannot rely on his characters’ motions, he uses such techniques as rapid cuts between the reporters talking into their telephones or a searchlight sweeping across the room to keep the pace frenetic. Hawks’s comedy clocks in at 240 words-per-minute, about 100–140 words per minute faster than the average speaking rate; but his timing, camerawork and editing make it seem still faster. The film is so mannered, especially in its pacing, that the degree of stylization calls attention to itself. When Walter Burns describes Bruce Baldwin, he says that he looks like ‘‘That actor—Ralph Bellamy.’’ He later quips to one of the film’s characters, ‘‘The last man that said that to me was Archie Leach just a week before he cut his throat.’’ (Archie Leach is Cary Grant’s real name.) Such refer- ences do not really disrupt the film but merely add to the movie’s hilarious message on the absurdity of believing in the characters as real people. Coupled with the timing and acting, the parodic elements contribute to the development of an essay on the absurdity of any kind of ethical or moral commitments—any commitments to ‘‘normal values’’—in the modern world. His Girl Friday was the first screwball comedy to depart from the money-marriage-ego conflicts of Holiday, My Man Godfrey, and The Philadelphia Story, inserting into the same comic structure and pattern of action a conflict between career and marriage. Throughout the 1940s, career-marriage decisions for women provided the crises in several screwball comedies. His Girl Friday marked the transition from the subversion of women working for ends other than marriage to more explicit statements regarding money-marriage-sex roles in the genre in the 1940s. —Lauren Rabinovitz HITLER: EIN FILM AUS DEUTSCHLAND (Hitler: A Film From Germany; Our Hitler) West Germany, 1977 Director: Hans-Jürgen Syberberg Production: TMS Film (Munich), WDR (Cologne), BBC (London), INA (Paris), in color; running time: 400 minutes. Released 1977. Executive producer: Harry Nap; screenplay: Hans-Jürgen Syberberg; photography: Dietrich Lohmann; editor: Jutta Brandstaedter; sound recordist: Heymo H. Heyder. Cast: Heinz Schubert; André Heller; Harry Baer; Peter Kern; Hellmuth Lange; Rainer V. Artenfels; Peter Moland; Martin Sperr; J. Buzalsky; Peter Lühr; and others. Awards: BFI Special Award, London Film Festival, 1977. Publications Script: Syberberg, Hans-Jürgen, Hitler: Ein Film aus Deutschland, Ham- burg, 1978. Books: Sontag, Susan, Under the Eye of Saturn, New York, 1980. Syberberg, Hans-Jürgen, Die Freudlose Gesellschaft: Notizen aus dem letzen Jahr, Munich, 1981. Corrigan, Timothy, New German Film: The Displaced Image, Austin, Texas, 1983. Rentschler, Eric, West German Film in the Course of Time, New York, 1984. Elsaesser, Thomas, New German Cinema: A History, London, 1989. Articles: Pym, John, ‘‘Syberberg and the Tempter of Democracy,’’ in Sight and Sound (London), Autumn 1977. Syberberg, Hans-Jürgen, in Cahiers du Cinéma (Paris), October 1977. Robinson, David, in Times (London), 25 November 1977. Variety (New York), 30 November 1977. Andrews, Nigel, ‘‘Hitler as Entertainer,’’ in American Film (Wash- ington, D.C.), April 1978. Stimpson, Mansel, in Montage (London), Summer 1978. Interview with Syberberg, in Cinématographe (Paris), June 1978. Courant, Gérard, in Cinéma (Paris), July 1978. Interview with Syberberg, in Ecran (Paris), July 1978. HITLER: EIN FILM AUS DEUTSCHLAND FILMS, 4 th EDITION 538 Hilter: Ein Film aus Deutschland Lajeunesse, Jacqueline, in Image et Son (Paris), August 1978. ‘‘Special Issue’’ of Cahiers du Cinéma (Paris), September 1978. Oudart, Jean-Pierre, in Cahiers du Cinéma (Paris), November 1978. Brandlmeier, Thomas, in Medien und Erziehung (Munich), no. 1, 1979. Frey, Reiner, in Filmfaust (Frankfurt), April-May 1979. Buckman, Peter, in Listener (London), 16 August 1979. DiMatteo, Robert, in Kino (Berlin), October 1979. Hoberman, J., in Voice (Los Angeles), 14 January 1980. Pichter, Henry, in Cineaste (New York), Spring 1980. Sharrett, C., ‘‘Epiphany for Modernism: Anti-Illusionism and Theat- rical Tradition in Syberberg’s Our Hitler,” in Millenium (New York), Fall 1981-Winter 1982. Chaput, L., in Séquences (Montreal), January 1982. D’Andrea, R., in Cinema Nuovo (Bari), August-October 1982. Erkkila, Betsy, ‘‘Hans-Jürgen Syberberg: An Interview,’’ in Litera- ture/Film Quarterly (Salisbury, Maryland), October 1982. Piemme, J.-M., and others, in Revue Belge du Cinéma (Brussels), Spring 1983. ‘‘On the Cinematic Photograph and the Possibility of Mourning in Hitler and Nostalgia,” in Wide Angle (Athens, Ohio), vol. 9, no. 1, 1987. Socci, S., ‘‘Dal paradiso perduto all’inferno culturale (Hitler),’’ in Castoro Cinema (Florence), September-October 1989. Koshar, R., in American Historical Review, vol. 96, no. 4, 1991. Santner, E.L, ‘‘The Problem with Hitler: Postwar German Aesthetics and the Legacy of Fascism,’’ in New German Critique, vol. 57, Fall 1992. ‘‘Az inas monologja,’’ in Filmvilag (Budapest), no. 1, 1992. Elsaesser, Thomas, ‘‘Filming Fascism,’’ in Sight & Sound (London), vol. 2, no. 5, September 1992. Hammond, Wally, ‘‘Deutsch Courage,’’ in Time Out (London), no. 1150, 2 September 1992. Bacon, Henry, ‘‘Hitler—elokuva Saksasta,’’ in Filmihullu (Helsinki), no. 3, 1993. Elsaesser, Thomas, ‘‘Istorija—vseogo li?’ staryj fil’m?’’ in Iskusstvo Kino (Moscow), no. 10, October 1994. *** Hans-Jürgen Syberberg’s Hitler: A Film from Germany is the most controversial film produced in post-war Germany. The central thesis of the film propounds the notion that Hitler is within all of us. HOOP DREAMSFILMS, 4 th EDITION 539 Syberberg attempts to illuminate the German soul and German myth—and as such recalls romanticism’s themes and preoccupations. Moreover, in his seven hour film, Nazi Germany is depicted as a gargantuan spectacle in which Hitler becomes the ultimate show- man-filmmaker; thus Syberberg does not only challenge what a film about Hitler should be like, but also raises important questions about cinematic representation in general. Hitler and the previously published book about the film had so annoyed the German critical establishment that when a section was previewed at Cannes in 1977, the film was virtually boycotted by all the major German reviewers. In protest, Syberberg, who felt himself deliberately misunderstood, withdrew the film from the Berlin Film Festival and blocked its screening in his native land for a couple of years. The world premier was held at the London Film Festival in 1977 and Hitler was awarded the B.F.I.’s annual prize for ‘‘the most original and imaginative film of the year.’’ Subsequently the film was on general release for several months in Paris and Cahiers du Cinema enthusiastically devoted a whole issue to Syberberg and his film. Susan Sontag acclaimed Hitler ‘‘one of the great works of art of the twentieth century.’’ Hitler, with two earlier films, Ludwig—Requiem for a Virgin King (1972) and Karl May—In Search of Paradise Lost (1974), forms a trilogy which meditates on German and European history and on the cinema itself. As in the two earlier films, a refined and innovative system of front projection is deployed. Syberberg perceives the idea of projection, in the symbolic sense, as the dominant idea governing the film: ‘‘We will show the world of Hitler in the form of projections, fantastic dreams, projections of the will that gave shape to these visions.’’ Syberberg attempts nothing less than a counter-projection which takes the form of cinematic exorcism, to justify the necessary Trauerarbeit (the toil of mourning), i.e. to accept the guilt and loss, and also to register it as such and not to repress it. Hitler is radically anti-realistic in style, relying on hyperbole, parody, stylization, and montage. Syberberg’s aesthetic conception fuses such apparent oppositions as romanticism and modernism. The Wagnerian ideal of Gesamtkunstwerk is evoked through using his music and through the depiction of romantic yearnings and ecstasies— visions of renewal, paradise, and hell. Yet the Brechtian notion of epic theatre is also applicable in strategies of estrangement and distanciation. History is produced as a circus show where famous historical figures (e.g., Caligula and Napoleon) parade as Hitler. Against the back- ground of huge projected slides (Hitler’s chancellery and his house in Berchtesgarden), puppets (a toy-dog with Hitler’s face), cut-out doubles, and dummies are used to portray the social imaginary of Nazi Germany. The film unfolds through a series of tableaux, endless monologues, direct address, and original sound-material. Syberberg wants to draw parallels to cinema on different levels. He makes reference to Melies’s A Trip to the Moon, Welles’s Citizen Kane, and Lang’s M (the final scene, where Peter Lorre defends his evil deeds because he can’t help himself, is here reenacted by Peter Kern dressed as an SS officer). Cardboard figures from Caligari to Nosferatu punctuate the film, therefore linking them to the idea of Hitler being a subject for projection of the most evil desires in us. Moreover, Syberberg perceives the trend towards ever-increasing conformity in the developments of cinematic codes as a further basis for his comparison with facism. Thus Greed and its botching by MGM becomes an example, but he also examines Sergei Eisenstein’s persecution under Stalin. The figures of Hitler and Himmler are shown to be merely representations and not embodiments, when delegating their roles to various actors, historical personalities, and marionettes. The condemnation of commercial cinema culminates in the polemical comparison between Auschwitz and McCarthy’s Hol- lywood. In Syberberg’s view it was not the actual physical presence of Hitler which historically mobilized the masses, but Hitler as representation and Nazism as spectacle. He is convinced of the vitality of the myth, which is why he wants to break its fascination through mechanisms of estrangement and montage. And this is the crux of the controversial German reception of Hitler. It is not so much Syberberg’s aesthetics per se, but the fear that his aestheticisation of politics might seduce the spectator since it is bordering on aestheticising Nazism. His ‘‘creative irrationality,’’ many critics argue, leads to further mystification and connects too problematically to Nazi-mythology. —Ulrike Sieglohr HOMELAND See HEIMAT; DIE ZWEITE HEIMAT HONG GAO LIANG See RED SORGHUM HOOP DREAMS USA, 1994 Director: Steve James Production: Kartemquin Films/KCTA-TV; color, 35mm (blown-up from 16mm); running time: 169 minutes. Released 1994. Filmed in and around Chicago, Illinois, and at the University of Illinois between 1986 and 1991. Producers: Frederick Marx, Steve James, and Peter Gilbert; photog- raphy: Peter Gilbert; editors: Frederick Marx, Steve James, and Bill Haugse; sound: Adam Singer and Tom Yore; music: Ben Sidran. Cast: William Gates; Arthur Agee; Emma Gates; Curtis Gates; Willie Gates; Sheila Agee; Arthur ‘‘Bo’’ Agee; Tomika Agee; Joe ‘‘Sweetie’’ Agee; Earl Smith; Gene Pingatore; Isiah Thomas; Dick Vitale; Bobby Knight; Kevin O’Neill; Joey Meyer; Spike Lee; Bo Ellis. Awards: Best Documentary, Sundance Film Festival; Best Docu- mentary, Los Angeles Film Critics Association; Best Documentary, New York Film Critics Circle; Best Documentary, Boston Society of Film Critics; Best Documentary, Texas Film Critics Awards; Best Documentary, National Board of Review; Best Documentary, National Society of Film Critics; Golden Globe Award, Best Documentary. HOOP DREAMS FILMS, 4 th EDITION 540 Hoop Dreams Publications Books: Joravsky, Ben, Hoop Dreams: A True Story of Hardship and Tri- umph, Atlanta, 1995, 1996. Pierson, John, Spike, Mike, Slackers & Dykes: A Guided Tour Across a Decade of American Independent Cinema, New York, 1995. Articles: Seigel, Jessica, ‘‘Hoop Dreams Rises to the Top at Sundance,’’ in Chicago Tribune, 31 January 1994. Ebert, Roger, in Chicago Sun-Times, 13 February 1994. Collin, Glenn, in the New York Times, 21 February 1994. Zwecker, Bill, in Chicago Sun-Times, 15 July 1994. Christiansen, Richard, in Chicago Tribune, 17 July 1994. Zwecker, Bill, in Chicago Sun-Times, 16 September 1994. Wilmington, Michael, ‘‘When Film Dreams Come True,’’ in Chi- cago Tribune, 2 October 1994. Poe, Janita, ‘‘High School Calls a Foul, Sues Over Basketball Film,’’ in Chicago Tribune, 6 October 1994. Berkow, Ira, ‘‘Dreaming Hoop Dreams,” in the New York Times, 9 October 1994. McGavin, Patrick Z., ‘‘From the Streets and the Gyms to the Courtrooms and Beyond,’’ in the New York Times, 9 Octo- ber 1994. Kornheiser, Tony, ‘‘Living a Dream and Dreaming to Live,’’ in the Washington Post, 3 November 1994. Howe, Desson, in the Washington Post, 13 November 1994. Will, George, ‘‘Salvation Through Basketball,’’ in the Washington Post, 24 November 1994. Dretzka, Gary, ‘‘Hoop Dreams Shooting for Best-Picture Oscar,’’ in Chicago Tribune, 10 December 1994. Cox, Dan, ‘‘Fine Line Has Dreams of Best Pic,’’ in Variety (New York), 2 January 1995. ‘‘Acad Rebounds After Hoop Airball,’’ in Variety (New York), 20 February, 1995. Corliss, Richard, ‘‘How the Winner Lost,’’ in Time (New York), 27 February 1995. Angell, Roger, ‘‘Two Dreams: One Gets Oscar’s Nod, One Gets Gumped,’’ in The New Yorker, 13 March 1995. Spillane, Margaret, ‘‘Slam-dunked,’’ in The Nation (New York), 13 March 1995. Ansen, David, ‘‘Why Did Oscar Drop the Ball on Hoop Dreams?” in Newsweek (New York), 27 March 1995. Diamos, Jason, ‘‘Hoop Dream Shot Clock is Slowly Ticking Away,’’ in the New York Times, 27 March 1995. Diamos, Jason, ‘‘A New Chapter in the Gates Story,’’ in the New York Times, 29 March 1995. ‘‘Dream of Conquest,’’ in Sight and Sound (London), April 1995. Marvel, M., in Interview (New York), April 1995. Arthur, Paul and Janet Cutler, ‘‘On the Rebound: Hoop Dreams and its Discontents,’’ in Cineaste (New York), Summer 1995. Short review, in Séquences (Haute-Ville), no. 177, March-April 1995. Gower, Mike, ‘‘Hoop Fantasies,’’ in Sight & Sound (London), vol. 5, no. 7, July 1995. Sperber, Murray, and Lee Jones, ‘‘Hollywood Dreams: Hoop Reali- ties,’’ in Jump Cut (Berkeley), no. 40, March 1996. Terry, Cliff, ‘‘Kartemquin: a Different Kind of Dream Factory,’’ in American Cinematographer (Hollywood), vol. 77, no. 4, April 1996. *** Hoop Dreams is a richly human and profoundly American film. It is at once an allegory about striving to achieve, and the politics and pressures of achievement; and a story of the anguish of poverty in urban America and an indictment of the meat market aspect of contemporary scholastic and professional athletics. While the film is a documentary, there is as much drama and suspense as any deftly plotted fiction. The difference is that the emotions and lives unfolding on screen are real. The film opens with the NBA All-Star game being played in Chicago. Just a few miles beyond the fanfare, two boys are coming of age in rough urban neighborhoods. Both watch the game on televi- sion, almost in awe, while nurturing aspirations for stardom as professional basketball players. Both dream of one-way tickets out of the ghetto, complete with new houses and spiffy cars. William Gates and Arthur Agee have honed their athletic skills on the neighborhood playgrounds. William is seen practicing slam- dunks in a park, by a bare brick building: a world away from the glare of a Madison Square Garden or an Orlando Arena. Both teens are recruited to play basketball at St. Joseph, a suburban Catholic high school. Years earlier, former Detroit Pistons hoop star Isiah Thomas (who also appears in the film) graduated from St. Joseph. The film now asks the question: ‘‘If Isiah can become not only a professional LA HORA DE LOS HORNOSFILMS, 4 th EDITION 541 athlete but a perennial All-Star and certain Hall of Famer, why not William and Arthur?’’ As William’s career at St. Joseph progresses, the media compares him to Isiah, while Gene Pingatore, the school’s basketball coach, sees within Arthur the potential to become a ‘‘great player.’’ Later on, the image of Arthur shooting hoops in a playground garbed in a red basketball uniform with the name ‘‘Thomas’’ stitched on the back speaks volumes about his dream. Being accepted at St. Joseph, however, is the initial step of a lengthy, arduous process. Arthur and William will have to acclimate themselves to a school outside their neighborhood, in an interracial climate. Each day, they must endure a three-hour commute to and from school. Once there, they will have to succeed academically as well as athletically. Hoop Dreams is an up-close-and-personal look at five years in the lives of William and Arthur. It opens with their enrollment at St. Joseph, and concludes with their heading off to college. In between are the traumas and victories they experience on and off the basketball court, and the answering of questions which are posed as the boys begin attending St. Joseph: How will William and Arthur relate to the school, and how will the school and the drill sergeant-like coach relate to them? How will their athletic skills develop? How will their lives and perspectives change over the years? How will all this impact on their relatives? Arthur’s dad, Bo, is a failed athlete who feels he ‘‘could have made the pros,’’ and does not want his son to experience the ‘‘bad things’’ he has known in his life. William’s older brother Curtis is another ex-jock who lives through his sibling while observ- ing that ‘‘all my basketball dreams are gone.’’ With keen insight, the film reflects on the value system of contemporary American society. Their basketball prowess certainly affords Arthur and William an opportunity for education, and self- improvement, in an academic environment far superior to their neighborhood high school. When William begins his freshman year at St. Joseph, his reading skills are at the fourth grade level but, by the time he is a sophomore, his reading level has gone up several grades. The film raises several societal questions here, including: ‘‘What about all the ghetto kids who do not have William’s physical aptitude?’’ and ‘‘How many kids will never have their ability tapped because they are unable to slam a ball through a hoop?’’ Furthermore, Arthur and William are attending St. Joseph not out of altruism. Are they being exploited for their talents? Are they perceived as being little more than bodies, who will help a team win a championship? If they were to fail on the court, or suffer a potentially career-ending injury, will they be discarded? Arthur is only on a partial scholarship and is booted out of school because his parents cannot keep up tuition payments, then loses all academic credit. St. Joseph refuses to release his transcript until his family pays $1800 in back tuition. The welfare of the teenager becomes secondary to the collecting of a bill from a family where the breadwinner is a minimum wage-earner. In telling the story of William, Arthur, and their respective families, Hoop Dreams serves to reaffirm the humanity of black males. Bo Agee sadly fits a negative stereotype of the African- American man as an irresponsible, violent, drug-abusing loser. At one point, he even abandons his family and is later seen pushing drugs in the playground where his son plays basketball. Bo’s fall continues when he becomes a crack addict, beats his wife, is arrested for battery, and spends seven months in jail for burglary. While his behavior is not condoned in the film, it is clear that he is unable to adequately support his family on a minimum wage and is tragically weakened by his loss of self-esteem. Despite the specifics of its setting and subject, Hoop Dreams is a film with universal meaning. Arthur is eventually enrolled in a Chicago high school, and leads his unranked team to the city championship. He and his teammates then travel downstate, to play for the state title. In one sequence, Arthur’s parents are seen walking across the University of Illinois campus, where the game will be played. One of them notes that ‘‘a child’’ should have the experience of attending such a school. This idle observation expresses every dream that every parent has ever had for any child. But what resonates long after seeing Hoop Dreams is an unavoid- able fact of contemporary American life. For every Michael Jordan, Shaquille O’Neal, or Isiah Thomas, there are thousands of young men like Arthur Agee and William Gates: young hoop dreamers who are forged in the ghetto, and who never will earn all of the glory and affluence they so desperately crave. —Rob Edelman LA HORA DE LOS HORNOS (The Hour of the Furnaces) Argentina, 1968 Director: Fernando E. Solanas Production: Grupo Cine Liberación; black and white, 16 and 35mm; running time: 260 minutes, French version: 200 minutes; the film is composed of 3 parts: ‘‘Neocolonialismo y violencia’’ - 90 minutes, ‘‘Acto para la liberación’’ - 120 minutes, and ‘‘Violencia y liberación’’ - 45 minutes. Released 1968. Filmed in Argentina. Producer: Fernando E. Solanas; screenplay: Fernando E. Solanas and Octavio Getino; photography: Juan Carlos de Sanzo with Fernando E. Solanas; editor: Fernando E. Solanas; sound: Octavio Getino; music: Fernando E. Solanas. Publications Books: Solanas, Fernando E., and Octavio Getino, Cine, cultura y descolonización, Mexico City, 1973. Pick, Zuzana, editor, Latin American Filmmakers and the Third Cinema, Ottawa, 1978. Solanas, Fernando E., La mirada: reflexiones sobre cine y cultura, with Horacio González, Buenos Aires, 1989. Monteagudo, Luciano, Fernando Solanas, Buenos Aires, 1993. Articles: Marcorelles, Louis, ‘‘Solanas: Film as a Political Essay,’’ in Ever- green (New York), July 1969. ‘‘Cinema as a Gun: An Interview with Fernando Solanas,’’ in Cineaste (New York), Fall 1969. Avant-Scène du Cinéma (Paris), October 1969. LA HORA DE LOS HORNOS FILMS, 4 th EDITION 542 ‘‘Fernando Solanas: An Interview,’’ in Film Quarterly (Berkeley), Fall 1970. MacBean, James Roy, in Film Quarterly (Berkeley), Fall 1970. Matthews, John, ‘‘And After?: A Response to Solanas and Getino,’’ in Afterimage (London), Summer 1971. Haycock, Joel, ‘‘Notes on Solanas and Godard,’’ in Film Society Review (New York), November and December 1971. Getino, Octavio, and Fernando Solanas, ‘‘Towards a Third Cinema,’’ in Cineaste (New York), Winter 1971. ‘‘Algunas preguntas a Octavio Getino,’’ in Cine Cubano (Havana), no. 73–75, 1972. Solanas, Fernando, and Octavio Getino, ‘‘Voor een derde cinema,’’ in Skrien (Amsterdam), Spring 1972. Wilson, David, ‘‘Aspects of Latin American Political Cinema,’’ in Sight and Sound (London), Summer 1972. Films and Filming (London), November 1972. MacBean, James Roy, ‘‘Fernando Solanas: An Interview,’’ in Film Quarterly (Berkeley), Winter 1972. Sibon-Blanc, A., in Image et Son (Paris), no. 269, 1973. Carestia Greenwood, Concetta, ‘‘The New South American Cinema: From Neo-Realism to Expressive Realism,’’ in Latin American Library Review, Spring 1973. Hennebelle, G., ‘‘Le Réalisme magique et les élans du coeur,’’ in Ecran (Paris), 15 March 1979. Ranvaud, Don, ‘‘Fernando Solanas: An Interview,’’ in Framework (Norwich), Spring 1979. Solanas, Fernando, and others, ‘‘The Cinema: Art Form or Political Weapon,’’ in Framework (Norwich), Autumn 1979. Stam, Robert, ‘‘Hour of the Furnaces and the Two Avant-Gardes,’’ in Millenium (New York), Fall-Winter 1980–81. Medina, R., ‘‘La Hora de los hornos: Imagen de un pueblo vivo,’’ in Cine Cubano (Havana), 1981. Danvers, Louis, in Visions (Brussels), February 1986. ‘‘Interview with Solanas,’’ in Cineaste (New York), volume 16, nos. 1–2, 1987–88. ‘‘Solanas Issue’’ of Avant-Scène du Cinéma (Paris), January-Febru- ary 1989. Pick, Z. M., ‘‘The Dialectical Wanderings of Exile,’’ in Screen (Oxford), no. 4, 1989. Thompson, F., ‘‘Metaphors of Space: Polarizations, Dualism and Third World Cinema,’’ in Screen (Oxford), no. 1, 1993. Menna, C., and V. Cervetto, ‘‘Cine militante clandestino en Argen- tina,’’ in Film-Historia (Barcelona), vol. 6, no. 2, 1996. Chanan, Michael, ‘‘The Changing Geography of Third Cinema,’’ in Screen (Oxford), vol. 38, no. 4, Winter 1997. *** The liberation struggles of the 1960s were a fertile seedbed for La hora de los hornos. Independence movements in the colonies and neo-colonies of the Third World, student revolts in the United States and Western Europe, and the brief protest by Czechoslovakians against the dull grey bureaucracy of the Soviet Union were the world context in which Fernando E. Solanas and Octavio Getino’s film exploded. Argentina moved closer to a social revolution than it ever had before (or since), and Hora was an important expression of that movement, as well as a pivotal example for cineastes involved in national liberation movements throughout the world. The film is a documentary of such length (4‘‘ hours) that most viewers outside of Argentina have probably seen only the first part. Perhaps influenced by the work of the Cuban documentarist, Santiago Alvarez, the directors have created a film that takes the form of a didactic collage, committed to the denunciation of imperialism and its cultural influences. As is stated in the film: ‘‘Mass communica- tions are more effective for neo-colonialism than napalm. What is real, true, and rational is to be found on the margin of the Law, just as are the people.’’ That which is most interesting about the film’s form is its relation to the audience. Rather than the conventional finished cinematic product, ready for viewer consumption, the work is conceived as an open-ended militant act, in which the film itself is only important as a ‘‘detonator’’ or ‘‘pretext for dialogue.’’ Parts 2 and 3 were struc- tured with pauses in which the projector was to be turned off and discussion was to take place; groups using the film were encouraged to employ their own visual or sound accompaniment and to cut or add to the film as they saw fit. Of course, the very context in which the film was shown contributed to the sense of audience participation. Because the film was illegal, no one in the audience was a mere spectator: ‘‘On the contrary, from the moment he decided to attend the showing, from the moment he lined himself up on this side by taking risks and contributing his living experience to the meeting, he became an actor, a more important protagonist than those who appeared in the films. The situation turned everyone into accomplices of the act.’’ Argentina’s climate of political repression also required a novel approach to production. Conceiving of their work as a guerrilla act, Solanas and Getino ‘‘provided a model for clandestine activity under an aggressively hostile regime which no filmmakers in Latin America or elsewhere have surpassed,’’ noted the American critic Julianne Burton. Strict discipline and tight security were the rule, and all who participated in the film’s production were required to develop inter- changeable skills. One example of the measures required by the situation was that the film’s footage had to be constantly disassem- bled and reassembled so that technicians in the processing laborato- ries would have no hint as to its subversive content. The film’s strident manichaeism (‘‘our culture and their culture, our films and their films, our sense of beauty and their sense of beauty’’) and its puerile historical analysis seem dated today. But, the current situation in Latin America leaves little room for doubt that more such films are both needed and forthcoming. As Solanas and Getino stated in Hora, ‘‘At this time in Latin America there is room for neither passivity nor innocence. The intellectual’s commitment is measured in terms of risks as well as words and ideas; what he does to further the cause of liberation is what counts.’’ What Solanas and Getino did for the cause of liberation was make La hora de los hornos, which, as they reminded us in their first public statement about the film ‘‘is an act before it is a film—an act of liberation.’’ —John Mraz HORROR OF DRACULA See DRACULA (1958) HORSE THIEF See DAOMA ZEI HOWARDS ENDFILMS, 4 th EDITION 543 HOT WINDS See GARAM HAWA THE HOUR OF THE FURNACES See LA HORA DE LOS HORNOS HOWARDS END UK, 1992 Director: James Ivory Production: Merchant Ivory Productions; Technicolor, 35mm; run- ning time: 142 minutes. Filmed in London, Oxfordshire, Shropshire, 1991. Producer: Ismail Merchant; screenplay: Ruth Prawer Jhabvala, based on the novel by E. M. Forster; photography: Tony-Pierce Roberts; editor: Andrew Marcus; assistant directors: Chris Newman, Simon Moseley, Carol Oprey; production designer: Luciana Arrighi; art director: John Ralph; music: Richard Robbins; sound editors: Campbell Askew, Sarah Morton; sound recordists: Mike Shoring, Keith Grant; costume design: Jenny Beaven, John Bight. Cast: Anthony Hopkins (Henry Wilcox); Emma Thompson (Marga- ret Schlegel); Vanessa Redgrave (Ruth Wilcox); Helen-Bonham Carter (Helen Schlegel); James Wilby (Charles Wilcox); Samuel West (Leonard Bast); Prunella Scales (Aunt Juley); Joseph Bennett (Paul Wilcox); Adrian Ross Magenty (Tibby Schlegel); Jo Kendall (Annie); Jemma Redgrave (Evie Wilcoz). Awards: Oscars for Best Actress (Thompson), Best Adapted Screen- play, and Best Art Direction, 1992. Publications Books: Long, Robert Emmet, Films of Merchant Ivory, New York, 1991. Pym, John, and James Ivory, Merchant Ivory’s English Landscape: Rooms, Views, and Anglosaxon Attitudes, New York, 1995. Articles: Bates, P., Cineaste (New York), 1992. Variety (New York), 24 February 1992. Anderson, P., Films in Review (New York), March-April 1992. Francke, L., Sight and Sound (London), May 1992. Guerin, M., ‘‘Le collectioneur,’’ in Cahiers du Cinéma (Paris), May 1992. Roth-Bettoni, D., Revue du Cinéma (Paris), June 1992. Sineux, M., Positif (Paris), June 1992. McFarlane, B., ‘‘Literature-Film Connections,’’ in Cinema Papers (Melbourne), August 1992. Benjamin, D., Séquences (Montreal), September 1992. Grugeau, G., 24 Images (Montreal), September 1992. Frook, J.E., ‘‘Sony Unit’s ‘Howard’ Slow Rollout Pays Off,’’ in Variety (New York), 11 January 1993. Novelli, I., ‘‘Casa Howard,’’ in Film (Rome), no. 1, January-Febru- ary 1993. Jacobs, J., ‘‘Indies Play the Smiling Game as Academy Honors Outsiders,’’ in Film Journal (New York), vol. 96, March 1993. Jaro?, Jan, in Film a Doba (Prague), vol. 39, no. 2, Summer 1993. Hipsky, M., ‘‘Anglophil(m)ia: Why Does America Watch Merchant- Ivory Movies?’’ in Journal of Popular Film and Television (Washington, D.C.), vol. 22, no. 3, 1994. *** Brand name producer-director teams are a rarity in the movies. Merchant-Ivory is one of the few producer-director teams. It is also the most successful. Audiences know exactly what to expect of a Merchant-Ivory production: A literate script adapted from an esteemed (and seem- ingly unfilmable) literary source, sumptuous period decor and cos- tumes, and impeccable acting of the classically trained rather than Method school—a genteel journey into the well-mannered past with not a car chase or explosion in sight nor a foul word to be heard. In other words, a fastidious cinematic equivalent of an episode of public television’s long-running series ‘‘Masterpiece Theatre’’—a compari- son Merchant-Ivory’s detractors usually point to as the team’s major weakness. Merchant-Ivory’s approach certainly flies in the face of conven- tional wisdom as to what constitutes marketability these days. But their films have been so successful in luring a lucrative new market, the ever-growing over-50 crowd, into theatres that Hollywood could no longer ignore them. As a result, Merchant-Ivory have now been folded into the gargantuan Disney organization and been given the financial backing to up their output, with guaranteed distribution for their elegant period pieces extending far beyond the art house theatres that were previously the team’s domain. In addition, other producers have begun adopting the team’s formula, turning out one Merchant- Ivory-type film after another like Enchanted April, The Age of Innocence, Shadowlands, Tom and Viv, and Sense and Sensibility, to name but a few. Producer Ismail Merchant and director James Ivory (who had initially sought entrance into the movies as a set designer) have been making films since 1963. Their trademark combination of literariness, elegance, and well-bred sophistication did not manifest itself until 1979 with their adaptation of Henry James’s novel The Europeans. But their fortunes turned most dramatically with the 1992 Howards End, the team’s most popular film up to that time and third adaptation of an E. M. Forster novel following such earlier forays into Forster territory as A Room With a View, a modest success and multiple Academy Award winner that proved to be a harbinger of things to come, and Maurice, a relative flop. Like A Room With a View, Howards End scored big come Academy Award night in some of the ‘‘lesser’’ categories as Best Screenplay, Best Art Direction, and Best Costume Design. But it also captured the Best Actress prize for star Emma Thompson, adding millions of dollars to the picture’s already substantial box office take. A study of class distinction in Edwardian England, Howards End focuses on three families whose lives intersect with tragic and ironic results. Thompson and Bonham Carter play Margaret and Helen, HOWARDS END FILMS, 4 th EDITION 544 Howards End sisters of obvious breeding but little means, who befriend working class bank clerk Leonard (West) in an effort to better his situation. They encourage him to get another job when they’re tipped that his present employer may go under. They get the tip from wealthy businessman Henry Wilcox (Hopkins) whose wife, Ruth (Redgrave), has befriended Margaret for much the same purpose. Ruth learns that the sisters are faced with losing their home. When Ruth dies, she makes a last-minute bequest, leaving Howards End, her ancestral cottage in the country, to the soon-to-be-displaced Margaret. But Henry and his rotter son, Charles (James Wilby), keep the bequest a secret in order to keep the cottage in the family, even though it goes unused. After Ruth’s death, widower Henry takes up with the vibrant Margaret and eventually marries her. Meanwhile, Helen is made pregnant by Leonard—whose low-class wife had been seduced as a young girl, then tossed aside, by Henry himself. When Margaret learns of her manipulative husband’s past indiscretion, she forgives him and requests that Helen be allowed to take up residence at Howards End to have her illegitimate baby. But Henry refuses, hypocritically spurning Helen for her indiscretion, even though it mirrors his own. The perpetually down-on-his-luck Leonard, unaware that Helen is pregnant, shows up for another hand-out from his benefactors and is accidentally killed by Charles after being subjected to a thrashing. The ensuing scandal and exposed wounds of family dysfunction and class hostility boil to a head and Margaret threatens to leave Henry, a basically decent, albeit misguided man. Like the sisters and even the dead Leonard, he has always sought to do what’s right, but achieved mostly wrong instead due to class difference. To hold onto Margaret, he agrees to her single demand that Howards End be turned over to her lock, stock, and barrel. Ironically, the tragic collision of classes has resulted in the property winding up in her hands just as the dying Ruth had long ago wished. And Helen, who had earlier been rejected as a suitable wife by another of Henry’s sons, is free to live there and raise the offspring of her lower-class union. The machinations of Forster’s plot may strike some as a bit too reliant on coincidence. But Merchant-Ivory and their superlative crew and cast, lead by the engaging Thompson, bring the period story and characters so vividly to life that the coincidences seem not just credible, but inevitable. Long, slow but never boring, Howards End trenchantly observes the foibles of its characters while creating a remarkable degree of HUANG TUDIFILMS, 4 th EDITION 545 empathy for them and concern for their respective fates. It grips the eye and the emotions like a good read—the good read, in fact, from which it sprang. —John McCarty HUANG TUDI (Yellow Earth) China, 1984 Director: Chen Kaige Production: Youth Production Unit, Guangxi Film Studio; Eastmancolor; running time: 89 minutes; length: 8,010 feet. Released 1984. Subtitled version released 1986. Filmed in Mandarin and Shaanxi dialect. Producer: Guo Keqi; screenplay: Zhang Ziliang, from the essay ‘‘Echo in the Valley’’ by Ke Lan; photography: Zhang Yimou; lighting: Zhang Shubin; editor: Pei Xiaonan; sound recordist: Lin Lin; sound re-recordist: Liu Quanye; art director: He Qun; cos- tumes: Tian Geng and Chen Bona; music: Zhao Jiping; music performed by: The Orchestra and Traditional Music Ensemble of Xi’an Academy of Music; subtitles: Tony Rayns. Cast: Xue Bai (Cuiqiao); Wang Xueqi (Gu Qing); Tan Tuo (Father); Liu Qiang (Hanhan); The Peasant Waistdrum Troupe of Ansai County. Publications Books: Berry, Chris, editor, Perspectives on Chinese Cinema, Ithaca, New York, 1985. Quiquemelle, Marie-Claire, and Jean-Loup Passek, Le Cinéma chinois, Paris, 1985. Armes, Roy, Third World Filmmaking and the West, Berkeley, 1987. Clark, Paul, Chinese Cinema: Culture and Politics since 1949, Cambridge, 1987. Semsel, George Stephen, editor, Chinese Film: The State of the Art in the Chinese Republic, New York, 1987. Kaige, Chen, and Tony Rayns, King of the Children & the New Chinese Cinema, New York, 1989. McDougall, Bonnie S., The Yellow Earth: A Film by Chen Kaige with a Complete Translation of the Filmscript, Hong Kong, 1991. Articles: Interview with Chen Kaige, in Skoop (Amsterdam), February 1986. Elley, Derek, in Films and Filming (London), August 1986. Frodou, Jean-Michel, ‘‘Lettre de Chine,’’ in Cahiers du Cinéma (Paris), September 1986. Huang Tudi Rayns, Tony, in Monthly Film Bulletin (London), October 1986. Films in Review (New York), December 1986. Positif (Paris), January 1987. Jaivin, Linda, in Cinema Papers (Melbourne), March and Septem- ber 1987. Film Quarterly (Berkeley), Winter 1987–88. Sight and Sound (London), Winter 1987–88. Rayns, Tony, in Monthly Film Bulletin (London), March 1988. Interview with Chen Kaige, in Time Out (London), 17 August 1988. Chow, R., ‘‘Silent is the Ancient Plain: Music, Filmmaking, and the Conception of Reform in China’s New Cinema,’’ in Discourse (Bloomington, Indiana), Spring-Summer 1990. Farquhar, M. A., ‘‘The ‘Hidden’ Gender in Yellow Earth,’’ in Screen (Oxford), no. 2, 1992. Short Review, in Film en Televisie + Video (Brussels), no. 429, February 1993. Sutton, D.S., ‘‘Ritual, History, and the Films of Zhang Yimou,’’ in East-West Film Journal (Honolulu), vol. 8, no. 2, 1994. Donald, Stephanie, ‘‘Women Reading Chinese Films: Between Orientalism and Silence,’’ in Screen (Oxford), vol. 36, no. 4, Winter 1995. Lu, A., ‘‘Chen Kaige,’’ in Film Comment (New York), vol. 33, September/October 1997. *** Yellow Earth is a pivotal film in China artistically, from the point of view of competing notions of film practice, and explicitly for its THE HUSTLER FILMS, 4 th EDITION 546 place within the continuing debate about film in that country. Both Chen Kaige and his cinematographer Zhang Yimou are members of the ‘‘Fifth Generation’’ of Chinese film makers, the first group of students to graduate from the newly reopened Beijing Film Academy, China’s only film school. It had been closed during the Cultural Revolution, and both personally experienced the dislocations in- flicted by the policies of the ‘‘revolution,’’ having had their formal education curtailed during their teens and suffering exile to distant rural areas to labour alongside the peasants. The film became a test case for ‘‘innovative’’ or art films. Temporarily withdrawn from circulation it was then re-released and a booklet of articles about it published in China. On its international success at foreign film festivals was hung the polemic of an important speech given in 1986 by the head of the Shanghai Film Studio, demanding that less importance be given to making ‘‘salon suc- cesses’’ and more to ‘‘popular’’ films for a local audience. (The debate is outlined by Tony Rayns in Monthly Film Bulletin.) Yellow Earth is a film deeply rooted in both the realities of Chinese peasant life and, more specifically, the facts of recent Chinese history. Set in 1939, its spare narrative tells of the visit of a young soldier from the Eighth Route Army to a poverty-stricken North Shaanxi village researching folk songs for adaptation by the Party for more polemical use. (One credo of Chinese Marxism was to learn from the people.) The film tells of the impact of his visit upon one family—a father, aged beyond his 45 years, his daughter, about to be sold into an arranged marriage, and her ‘‘silly’’ brother. The dialogue is notably spare, but the film conveys its burden through Chen’s monumental direction, Zhang Yimou’s impressive cinematography, which refuses to isolate the characters from the bare, played-out fields of the Loess plateau which determine their mode of existence, and the spare and fierce beauty of the songs themselves, each telling its tale of women’s oppression. Chen’s austere and unwaveringly grave vision allows for no digression into melodrama, social comment, or the merely folkloric. He is not content to docu- ment peasant lives. By seeing his story in Shaanxi he ties it to the heart of Chinese Communism. It was there that Mao’s legendary Long March terminated in 1935 and that he framed the discourse on art and literature that was to bear such equivocal fruits. The ‘‘timelessness’’ of the feudal struggle for existence is shown in scenes unflinchingly illustrative of the direst poverty, meals consumed almost before they are served, a bridal feast that makes do with a carved wooden replica of the traditional fish course no one can afford, the simplicity of the domestic arrangements. Unlike earlier films in which soldiers or teachers carried the promise of revolution to distant parts, the result of soldier Gu’s arrival is anything but a foregone conclusion. Gu respects the peasants’ ways and speaks gently of the possibilities for change, specifically for change in women’s conditions. Women soldiers have short hair and read and write. But the girl Ciuqiao’s attempt to replace her traditional lament for her plight with Gu’s campaign song ends with its promise of Communist victory choked off before she can complete it, by the waters closing over her head as she attempts to swim across the river to Gu’s base. It is a scene which stands as an eloquent memorial to the struggles of a nation. The same metaphorical force binds together the few crowd scenes—that of the dance to the Dragon King pleading for rain is shown to be not so different (it is viewed in much the same way) from the dance marking the farewell of the soldiers, for instance. Chen throughout shows a fine sense of overall structure and great delicacy in the handling of his performers. Yellow Earth is perhaps the boldest and most essentially Chinese of the films produced in that country during the last decade. —Verina Glaessner THE HUMAN BEAST See LA BETE HUMAINE THE HUMAN CONDITION See NINGEN NO JOKEN HUNGER See SULT THE HUSTLER USA, 1961 Director: Robert Rossen Production: 20th Century-Fox/Robert Rossen Enterprises; black and white; CinemaScope; running time: 135 minutes; length: 12,109 feet. Released September 1961. Producer: Robert Rossen; screenplay: Robert Rossen, Sidney Car- roll, from the novel by Walter Tevis; assistant directors: Charles Maguire, Don Kranz; photography: Gene Shufton (Eugen Schüfftan); editor: Deedee Allan; sound: James Shields; art directors: Harry Horner, Albert Brenner; music: Kenyon Hopkins; technical advisor: Willie Mosconi. Cast: Paul Newman (‘‘Fast’’ Eddie Felson); Jackie Gleason (Minne- sota Fats); Piper Laurie (Sarah Packard); George C. Scott (Bert Gordon); Myron McCormick (Charlie Burns); Murray Hamilton (Findlay); Michael Constantine (Big John); Stefan Gierasch (Preacher); Jake LaMotta and Vincent Gardinia (Bartenders); Gordon B. Clarke (Cashier); Alexander Rose (Score Keeper); Carolyn Coates (Wait- ress); Carl York (Young Hustler); Clifford Pellow (Turk). Awards: Oscars for Best Art Direction and Best Black and White Cinematography, 1961. British Film Academy Awards for Best Film from any Source, and Best Actor (Newman), 1961. Publications Script: Rossen, Robert, The Hustler, in Three Screenplays, New York, 1972, 1985. THE HUSTLERFILMS, 4 th EDITION 547 Books: Casty, Alan, The Films of Robert Rossen, New York, 1969. Hamblett, Charles, Paul Newman, London, 1975. Harbinson, Allen, George C. Scott: The Man, The Actor, The Legend, New York, 1977. Godfrey, Lionel, Paul Newman, Superstar: A Critical Biography, New York, 1978. Landry, J.C., Paul Newman, London, 1983. Quirk, Lawrence J., The Films of Paul Newman, Secaucus, 1986. Oumano, Elena, Paul Newman, Gordonville, 1989. Quirk, Lawrence J., Paul Newman: The Man Behind the Steel Blue Eyes, Dallas, 1997. Lax, Eric, Newman: A Celebration, London, 1999. Articles: Motion Picture Herald (New York), 27 September 1961. Variety (New York), 27 September 1961. Baker, Peter, in Films and Filming (London), December 1961. Houston, Penelope, in Monthly Film Bulletin (London), Decem- ber 1961. Oakes, Philip, in Sight and Sound (London), Winter 1961–62. Manchel, Frank, and Dan Ort, in Screen Education, March-April 1968. Lloyd, Christopher, in Brighton Film Review, March 1970. Royer, J.-P., in Cinématographe (Paris), May 1982. Baxter, Bryan, in Films and Filming (London), November 1985. Jenkins, Steve, in Monthly Film Bulletin (London), February 1986. Legrand, Gérard, Positif (Paris), May 1987. Breakwell, Ian, ‘‘The Fat Man Within,’’ in Sight & Sound (London), vol. 4, no. 6., June 1994. Stévenin, Jean-Fran?ois, ‘‘économie d’énergies (sur L’arnaqueur),’’ in Positif (Paris), no. 400, June 1994. Premiere (Boulder), vol. 10, October 1996. Schaefer, R., in Metro Magazine (St. Kilda West), no. 113/114, 1998. *** Unlike many other self-consciously ‘‘serious’’ American films of its period—the kind of movies Andrew Sarris once described as dealing ‘‘Realistically with a Problem in Adult Terms’’— The Hustler has aged remarkably well. So much so, in fact, as to encourage the retrospective conviction that more of the movie’s long list of Oscar nominees merited the ultimate accolade. As it is, the film did receive awards for art direction and cinematography, the latter particularly well deserved by the German émigré cameraman Eugen Schüfftan, whose skilled monochrome work on The Hustler remains an object lesson in framing and lighting the wide CinemaScope image. In 1961 that was no mean achievement, for commercial anamorphic cinematography was still less than a decade old. Nor was it only a question of adapting the 1:2.25 aspect ratio to existing criteria of pictorial elegance or of harnessing it to the particular requirements of The Hustler’s distinctively seedy milieu. Schüfftan also found ways of framing the movie’s characters so as to underline and comment upon their changing relationships, but without that process seeming unduly obtrusive. In so doing he introduced a specifically visual element into the style of Robert Rossen, a director whose films, while always exhibiting the more ‘‘literary’’ values of careful writing and characterization, had hitherto not been especially distinguished by their visual flair. Rossen was invariably a good director of actors, however, and all the principal performances in The Hustler are of the highest quality. Paul Newman’s account of Fast Eddie Felson is still, perhaps, his most accomplished film characterization, Eddie’s internal stresses finding expression in a kind of controlled physicality—used to enormous effect after the thumb-breaking sequence, when, with his hands encased in plaster, he is unable to light a cigarette or hold a cup, let alone wield a pool cue. As Eddie’s Mephistopheles, the gambler Bert Gordon, George C. Scott smiles like a benevolent shark, modu- lating that now familiar sandpaper voice across a range from whiplash harshness to silky persuasion. Jackie Gleason and Myron McCormick are impeccable as Eddie’s principal opponent and discarded partner respectively, while Piper Laurie captures Sarah’s enigmatic self- destructiveness with such conviction as to make one deeply regret that, after The Hustler, she retired from acting until Carrie in 1976. This last judgment, it should be noted, was not wholly shared by reviewers of the period, several of whom identified the Sarah sub-plot as the film’s main weakness. In hindsight, however, it is clear that this is not Piper Laurie’s failing. While it is true that Sarah is observed tangentially, that she is not as clearly defined as Eddie or Bert, it is that ambiguity that makes her significant. She is, after all, central to the film’s resolution. Without her intervention, Eddie’s character could not plausibly meet the developmental requirements of this most classical of narratives. Through her he comes to understand what is really meant by Bert’s facile explanation of his failure to beat Minnesota Fats: that he lacks ‘‘character.’’ But he reaches that understanding not simply because she loves him, a narrative contri- vance which, on its own, would be as banal as it is common in the movies, but because her suicide forces him to recognize the price of his own self-absorption. ‘‘I loved her, Bert,’’ he concedes at the film’s end; ‘‘I traded her in on a pool game.’’ There is, then, a real difficulty about Sarah’s role, but it is intrinsic to the movie’s single-minded focus on Eddie’s progress toward ‘‘maturity.’’ To make that work, a significant part of Sarah’s motiva- tion has to remain oblique for, if she kills herself solely because of Eddie’s behaviour, he would then be beyond redemption. But if we are made to see her as already self-destructive, as in some part ‘‘Perverted, Twisted, Crippled’’ (the final message she scrawls over her own mirror image), it is then conventionally acceptable for Eddie to transcend the tragedy, defeat Minnesota Fats, and, as an appropri- ate expression of his new found ‘‘character,’’ sacrifice his future in big-time pool. It is that redemption, of course, which is the whole point of the film. Eddie must overcome his and our irresponsible impulses—here given metaphorical form in the pool hustler’s need for self-restraint in the cause of ultimate victory—if he is to realize humane values on behalf of us all. Our reward is the spine-tingling satisfaction of that final dignified exchange with Minnesota Fats, an exchange appropri- ately set in the pool hall Eddie has earlier dubbed the ‘‘church of the good hustler.’’ ‘‘Fat man,’’ he says, ‘‘you shoot a great game of pool.’’ ‘‘So do you, Fast Eddie.’’ Redemption indeed. —Andrew Tudor 549 I I AM A FUGITIVE FROM A CHAIN GANG USA, 1932 Director: Mervyn LeRoy Production: Warner Bros. Pictures, Inc.; black and white, 35mm; running time: 93 minutes. Released 10 November 1932. Filmed 28 July-7 September 1932 in Warner Bros. studios. Cost: $195,845. Producer: Hal Wallis; screenplay: Howard J. Green and Brown Holmes, from the autobiography I Am a Fugitive from a Georgia Chain Gang by Robert E. Burns; photography: Sol Polito; editor: William Holmes; art director: Jack Okey; music conductor: Leo F. Forbstein; costume designer: Orry-Kelly; technical advisors: S. H. Sullivan and Jack Miller, uncredited assistance by Robert E. Burns. I Am a Fugitive from a Chain Gang Cast: Paul Muni (James Allen); Glenda Farrell (Marie); Helen Vinson (Helen); Noel Francis (Linda); Preston Foster (Pete); Allen Jenkins (Barney Sykes); Edward Ellis (Bomber Wells); John Wray (Nordine); Everett Brown (Sebastian); Hale Hamilton (The Reverend Robert Allen); Louise Carter (Mother); Sally Blane (Alice); Berton Churchill (Judge); David Landau (Warden); Willard Robertson (Prison Board Chairman); Robert McWade (Attorney); Robert Warwick (Fuller). Publications Script: Green, Howard J., and Brown Holmes, I Am a Fugitive from a Chain Gang, edited by John E. O’Connor, Madison, Wisconsin, 1981. Books: LeRoy, Mervyn, It Takes More Than Talent, New York, 1953. Warner, Jack L., with Dean Jennings, My First Hundred Years in Hollywood, New York, 1964. Gussow, Mel, Don’t Say Yes Until I Finish Talking: A Biography of Darryl F. Zanuck, New York, 1971. The Warner Bros. Golden Anniversary Book, New York, 1973. Lawrence, Jerome, Actor: The Life and Times of Paul Muni, New York, 1974. LeRoy, Mervyn, with Dick Kleiner, Take One, New York, 1974. Lorentz, Pare, Lorentz on Film: Movies 1927–1941, New York, 1975. Roddick, Nick, Warner Bros. in the 1930s: A New Deal in Entertain- ment, London, 1983. Articles: ‘‘Article on Robert Burns,’’ in New York Herald Tribune, 27 Novem- ber 1932. ‘‘Champion of the Underdog,’’ in Silver Screen (New York), Decem- ber 1932. LeRoy, Mervyn, ‘‘The Making of Mervyn LeRoy,’’ in Films in Review (New York), May 1953. Campbell, Russell, in Velvet Light Trap (Madison, Wisconsin), June 1971. Ebert, J., ‘‘Kracauers Abbildtheorie,’’ in Filmkritik (Munich), April 1977. Pulleine, Tim, in Monthly Film Bulletin (London), March 1979. Siclier, J., in Avant-Scène du Cinéma (Paris), 1 October, 1979. Cohen, Joan, in Magill’s Survey of Cinema 2, Englewood Cliffs, New Jersey, 1980. IDI I SMOTRI FILMS, 4 th EDITION 550 ‘‘Mervyn LeRoy ‘Revisited’,’’ in Image et Son, no. 378, Decem- ber 1982. Checklist and critical notes on Mervyn LeRoy, in Film Dope (Nottingham), no. 35, September 1986. *** During the 1930s Warner Brothers earned a well-deserved reputa- tion of being a studio with a strong social conscience. Hal Wallis, who was production chief at the studio for much of that decade, recalled that ‘‘the general impression was that we were very liberal in our selection of material.’’ Among the Warners’ productions which helped to create that image was I Am a Fugitive from a Chain Gang, a well-made film that earned the studio’s sound department and Paul Muni Oscar nominations. This production ranks, to use the words of film historian Clive Hirschhorn, as ‘‘one of the most vehement, eloquent, and far-reaching of social protest films.’’ I Am a Fugitive from a Chain Gang is based on a book by Robert E. Burns, who recounts his adventures with the prison system in Georgia and his two escapes from the chain gangs. The movie is generally faithful to its sources (although for various reasons Georgia is never mentioned), with some melodramatic flourishes added. The story is deceptively simple: a World War I veteran from a good family returns home after the war and becomes dissatisfied with his circum- stances. He takes to the road and becomes innocently involved in a stick-up; found guilty he is sentenced for some years to a chain gang. The film in stark fashion depicts the sadistic brutality and dehumaniz- ing violence with which chain gang inmates are treated. He escapes, goes North, makes something of himself, but is forced into marriage with a woman who has discovered his past; when ultimately he tries to leave her for another woman she denounces him to the authorities. Attempting to clear his record by going South voluntarily to serve a nominal term, he is doublecrossed and returned to the chain gang. He escapes once more, and comes out of hiding one night to see his sweetheart. Restless, fear-ridden, terrified of being returned to the chain gang, he is but a haunted shadow of his former self. In what film critic Pauline Kael has called ‘‘one of the great closing scenes in the history of films,’’ he retreats into the shadows at hearing a sound, and responds to his sweetheart’s question of how he lives by saying ‘‘I steal’’ as the movie ends. The film is a harsh indictment of the chain gang, and American movie audiences were made aware of the terrible conditions prevalent in the penal system of the South. Moreover, these audiences were presented with a bleak view of contemporary American life in keeping with the harsh realities of the Great Depression which was just then peaking in terms of its impact on life in the United States. Although the bulk of the film’s action is set in the 1920s, the indictment and conditions depicted easily translated to the hard times of the early 1930s. I Am a Fugitive from a Chain Gang, thanks to a thoughtful script, taut direction, and vibrant central performance remains a powerful indictment and pungent commentary on so- cial ills. —Daniel Leab I AM CUBA See Soy Cuba I EVEN MET HAPPY GYPSIES See SKUPLIJACI PERJA I WAS A FIREMAN See FIRES WERE STARTED IDI I SMOTRI (Come and See) USSR, 1985 Director: Elem Klimov Production: Byelarusfilm, Mosfilm; Sovcolor; running time: 142 minutes. Production manager: J.Tereshenko; screenplay: Ales Adamovich, Elem Klimov, based on works by Ales Adamovich, including The Khatyn Story and A Punitive Squad; photography: Alexei Rodionov; editor: V. Belova; assistant director: V. Pondchevni, Z. Rogozovskaya; production designer: Viktor Petrov; music: Oleg Yanchenko; music editor: M. Blank; costumes: E. Semenova; sound; V. Mors. Cast: Alexei Kravshenko (Florya); Olga Mironova (Glasha); Liubomiras Laucevicius, Vladas Bagdonas, Victor Lorents. Publications Articles: Diaz Torres, D., ‘‘Ven y mira,’’ in Cine Cubano (Habana), no. 114, 1985. Variety (New York), 17 July 1985. Portal, M., ‘‘Klimov, un cinéaste visionnaire’’ in Jeune Cinéma (Paris), November-December 1985. Strick, P., Monthly Film Bulletin (London), March 1987. LeFanu, M., ‘‘Partisan’’ in Sight and Sound (London), Spring 1987. Bassan, R., and M. Martin, Revue du Cinéma (Paris), May 1987. Goethals, Piet, ‘‘Idi I smotri: die Leiden des jungen Florya,’’ in Film en Televisie + Video (Brussels), no. 371, April 1988. Makkonen, V. -P., ‘‘Elem Klimov elokuviensa takana,’’ in Filmihullu (Helsinki), no. 6, 1988. IDIOTERNEFILMS, 4 th EDITION 551 Noel, J., and D. Fischer, ‘‘Viens et vois,’’ in Les Cine-Fiches de Grand Angle, vol. 15, no. 105, May 1988. Simons, Jan, ‘‘Beeld van de oorlog,’’ in Skrien (Amsterdam), no. 174, October-November 1990. Youngblood, D.J., ‘‘Post-Stalinist Cinema and the Myth of World War II: Tarkovskii’s Ivan’s Childhood (1962) and Klimov’s Come and See (1985),’’ Historical Journal of Film and Television (Abingdon), vol. 14, no. 4, 1994. Interviews: Cinéma (Paris), 23 September 1987. Donets, L., ‘‘Preodolenie,’’ in Iskusstvo Kino (Moscow), no. 5, 1995. *** Come and See is set in Byelorussia in 1943, and tells the story of German atrocities against the population through the eyes of a young boy, Florya, who, at the start of the film, joins the partisans. Whilst he is away his entire village, including his mother and little sisters, are butchered by the Germans. Returning with a partisan girl, Glasha, he discovers the awful truth, an event which virtually unhinges him. Roaming through the bleak Byelorussian countryside with an ever- dwindling band of displaced people, he eventually witnesses the German destruction of the village of Perekhody and the slaughter of its inhabitants—an event from which he narrowly escapes with his own life. The German unit responsible is caught and destroyed by the partisans, whom Florya, now aged almost beyond recognition by his terrible experiences, rejoins. The events portrayed in Come and See have been drawn from at least three separate books by Ales Adanovich (who also worked on the screenplay), so that, as Philip Strick put it, ‘‘what has been reconstructed is a symbolic tragedy, drawing together a multiplicity of terrible episodes into one condensed nightmare.’’ Indeed, an end credit tells us that there were 628 Perekhodys in Byelorussia, but new evidence unearthed since the fall of the Soviet Union suggests there were far more. Likewise a good deal of recent work emanating from Germany itself—and, in particular, a major exhibition in Hamburg in 1995—has cast a great deal of doubt on the conventional view that atrocities on the Eastern Front were carried out by the SS and various ill-assorted non-German Nazis, whilst the professional Wehrmacht got on with the job of being ordinary soldiers. So whilst it may indeed be the case, as some critics have complained, that Come and See will do little to foster good East-West relations, its representation of German soldiery in Byelorussia as glorying in the most vile and degraded behaviour imaginable, at least has the virtue of historical accuracy, and of puncturing the assiduously cultivated myth of the dutiful Wehrmacht. Come and See has aptly been described as an ‘‘epic of derange- ment,’’ and long before the horrors of Perekhody are presented in 25 almost unbearable minutes, the spectator has been submerged in a world that seems to have gone stark raving mad. Whether in the opening scene, in which two boys dig for buried guns in a bleak, Beckett-like landscape of sand dunes; Florya and Glasha’s agonised struggle through a swamp to reach an encampment of lamenting women surrounding a charred, but still living, body; or the picaresque cross-country journey to find food, accompanied by a death’s-head- like effigy of Hitler, in which only Florya survives just, this is a film informed with the spirit of Goya’s The Disasters of War. Philip Strick has drawn a parallel with the ‘‘fevered expressionism’’ of Chukrai’s Ballad of a Soldier and Kalatozov’s The Cranes are Flying, and whilst it is true that there are plenty of bravura sequences involving long, mobile, hand-held shots, there is nothing particularly heroic about the vision of war on offer here. Indeed, from the moment Florya leaves home—not entirely willingly—it is presented as one long, utterly brutalising experience which leaves him looking like a wiz- ened old man. In the early scene at the partisan camp in which the partisans are photographed in an heroic group pose, and the soundtrack fills with a patriotic song, it’s as if Klimov is actually poking fun, not at the partisans themselves of course, but at the conventionalised image which they acquired in the post-war Soviet Union. The sense of derangement is massively augmented by the film’s remarkably orchestrated soundtrack. Aural distortion is present right from the start, when one of the boys looking for guns addresses the camera in a voice that seems to have come straight out of The Exorcist. It becomes much more pronounced, however, after the scene in which the partisan camp is bombed, which causes damage to Florya’s hearing. From then on in the soundtrack is what Strick has described as a ‘‘stunning tinnitus of distorted tones,’’ in particular making great play with variations on and treatments of the drone of the lone aircraft which reappears throughout the film like the sword of Damocles circling overhead. Not since Raging Bull or The Texas Chainsaw Massacre have the expressive possibilities of the soundtrack been exploited to such devastating effect. —Julian Petley IDIOTERNE (The Idiots) Denmark 1998 Director: Lars von Trier Production: Zentropa Entertainments and Liberator Productions; color; running time: 117 min. Released 17 July 1998, Copenhagen. Cost: DKK 12 mio. Producer: Vibeke Windel?v; screenplay: Lars von Trier; photogra- phy: Lars von Trier; editor: Molly Malene Stensgaard; assistant director and photography: Kristoffer Nyholm, Jesper Jargil, Casper Holm; set designer: Lene Nielsen. Cast: Bodil J?rgensen (Karen); Jens Albinus (Stoffer); Louise Hassing (Susanne); Troels Lyby (Henrik); Nikolaj Lie Kaas (Jeppe); Henrik Prip (Ped); Luis Mesonero (Miguel); Louise Mieritz (Josephine); Knud Romer J?rgensen (Axel); Trine Michelsen (Nana); Anne- Grethe Bjarup Riis (Katrine). IDIOTERNE FILMS, 4 th EDITION 552 Awards: FIPRESCI International Critics Award, London Film Festi- val, 1998. Publications Scripts: Von Trier, Lars, and Mogens Rukow, Idioterne, Gyldendal, 1999. Articles: Skotte, Kim, ‘‘Triers gruppeknald,’’ in Politiken, 17 July 1998. Piil, Morten, article in Gyldendals filmguide: Danske film fra A til Z, Gyldendal, 1998. Brooks, Xan, ‘‘Burn, Baby, Burn,’’ in Sight and Sound (London), May 1999. Schepelern, Peter, ‘‘Filmen if?lge dogme,’’ in FILM, no. 1, Danish Film Institute, 1999. *** When the Dogma 95 manifesto was presented, the general view in Denmark was that Lars von Trier was primarily responsible for it. In all his films and projects he has worked with sets of rules, and now there were some new ones that in addition to saluting the nouvelle vague of French cinema in the 1960s might also have been inspired by the fact that in Breaking the Waves (1996) von Trier had just completed his biggest, most expensive production, and needed a change. It was all seen as rather a joke, but the presentation at Cannes 1998 of Thomas Vinterberg’s Festen and Lars von Trier’s Idioterne showed that they meant it seriously. Whereas Vinterberg’s film could have been a grand, polished production and even as a Dogma film is an aesthetic pleasure, von Trier’s film is a radical breach with ordinary aesthetic rules for film as an idiom and narrative, and is an equally radical breach with the norms and conventions for film content. In this way, too, the film has its roots in the new wave of French film in the 1960s as well as the alternative ways of life and the showdown with middle-class conven- tions of the same period. In those days people freaked out; in Trier’s hands the characters play a game in which they act the idiot, for the film seems to have the romantic notion that it is only via children and idiots that we can access our authenticity, our primitive character. At the same time the film is also a criticism of those who only regard the game as a playful opportunity for a few intense summer months, while the character with genuine pain in her past carries the game into her real life and is left as the only person to truly accept its radical qualities. This person is Karen. She starts the film by meeting the ‘‘idiots’’ at a restaurant and is indignant when she finds out their behavior is just a game. But she joins the group and in a beautiful scene in the middle of the film she manages to shed her reservations and allow her ‘‘inner idiot’’ to speak out. The film has three layers, each getting darker and darker. The first part of the film seems to be a game with reality, where a drink at a pub, a tour of a factory, and outings to a swimming pool and a woods provide opportunities to play the idiot in an open, anonymous social space. The second layer brings the characters closer to home, and the film becomes more painful and simultane- ously grotesquely funny when the idiots confront specific individuals: good citizens who are forced to buy hopeless Christmas decorations, potential buyers of the house where the idiots hang out, the civil servant who wants to send them out of his wealthy municipality to one crowded with dysfunctional losers, and not least, the group of bikers who believe that the idiots are genuine, an illusion that must be preserved at all costs. After these encounters the film becomes even darker in tone and perspective, for the third layer concentrates on the group itself. The costs of this serious game are revealed. When a father comes to get his daughter and breaks up a tender, burgeoning love affair the young couple’s desperate farewell through a car windscreen becomes one of the emotional peaks and a distillation of the opposition between the efforts of the idiots and the reactions of the people around them. The moving climax is reached when it turns out that Karen, whose moral qualms have made her take longer than anyone else to accept the idiot game, proves to be the only one capable of playing the idiot among people she knows and loves. In the closing scene, when Karen is in the bosom of her family, for whom concealing problems is the abiding principle, and she begins to play the idiot, one loses all one’s reservations about the film and its intent, and surrenders completely. Karen plays the idiot to reconcile herself with her traumatic pain over her dead baby and to get through to her lower-middle-class, conven- tion-ridden family, for whom attendance at the funeral is the only conceivable way to express your grief. With her reservations regarding the grotesque game of ‘‘idiot,’’ which she and many viewers find offensive, Karen becomes the figure the viewer identifies with and her pain, a pain we feel and understand. She comes into the group as a solitary figure and by the end is the only person left who is capable of carrying out the game in her own real life. She is a searching sister to Bess of Breaking the Waves, a woman who gives up everything, sheds her inhibitions, and shatters prejudices. Von Trier tells his story using a hand-held camera and a radically anti-aesthetic idiom in which the scenes do not seem composed but resemble roughly-hewn fragments of a film not completed. This is emphasised by the meta-layer of the film in which von Trier inter- views the idiots and they talk about their experiences, emotions, and attitudes to the group as if with hindsight after the group has split up. This lends the project the character of an improvised experiment that von Trier has been following, and the film assumes the character of an uncontrolled film, an anarchic experiment, or a home movie which failed. But the project has been controlled down to the tiniest detail, and is just as formally implemented as his earlier films. One might say that von Trier is playing the idiot with the language of film, and that just as the group breaches the conventions of middle-class society, he breaches the linguistic conventions of cinema in his own quest for authenticity. —Dan Nissen IF. . . FILMS, 4 th EDITION 553 IF. . . UK, 1968 Director: Lindsay Anderson Production: Memorial Enterprises; color with tinted black and white sequences (EastmanColor), 35mm; running time: 112 minutes, Ameri- can version 111 minutes. Released December 1968, London. Filmed beginning 8 March 1968 at Cheltenham College, England. Cost: budgeted at ￡250,000. Producers: Roy Baird with Michael Medwin and Lindsay Anderson; screenplay: David Sherwin, from the original script ‘‘Crusaders’’ by David Sherwin and John Howlett; photography: Miroslav Ondricek; editor: David Gladwell; sound recordist: Christian Wangler; pro- duction designer: Jocelyn Herbert; art director: Brian Eatwell; music: Marc Wilkinson; costume designer: Shura Cohen. Cast: Malcolm McDowell (Mick); David Wood (Johnny); Richard Warwick (Wallace); Christine Noonan (Girl); Rupert Webster (Bobby Philips); Robert Swann (Rowntree); Hugh Thomas (Denson); Michael Cadman (Fortinbras); Peter Sproule (Barnes); Peter Jeffrey (Head- master); Arthur Lowe (Mr. Kemp); Mona Washbourne (Matron); Mary MacLeod (Mrs. Kemp); Geoffrey Chater (Chaplain); Ben Aris (John Thomas); Graham Crowden (History Master); Charles Lloyd Pack (Classics Master); Anthony Nicholls (General Denson); Tommy Godfrey (Finchley); Guy Ross (Stephans); Robin Askwith (Keating); Richard Everett (Pussy Graves); Philip Bagenal (Peanuts); Nicholas Page (Cox); Robert Yetzes (Fisher); David Griffen (Willens); Gra- ham Sharman (Van Eyssen); Richard Tombleson (Baird); Richard Davis (Machin); Brian Pettifer (Biles); Michael Newport (Brunning); Charles Sturridge (Markland); Sean Bury (Jute); Martin Beaumont (Hunter). Awards: Cannes Film Festival, Grand Prix, 1969. Publications Script: Anderson, Lindsay, and David Sherwin, If. . . : A Film by Lindsay Anderson, New York, 1969. Books: Manvell, Roger, New Cinema in Britain, New York, 1969. Sussex, Elizabeth, Lindsay Anderson, New York, 1969. Gelmis, Joseph, The Film Director as Superstar, New York, 1970. Walker, Alexander, Hollywood, England: The British Film Industry in the Sixties, London, 1974. Silet, Charles L. P., Lindsay Anderson: A Guide to References and Resources, Boston, 1981. Graham Allison, Lindsay Anderson, Boston, 1981. Hedling, Erik, Lindsay Anderson: Maverick Film Maker, New York, 1998. Lambert, Gavin, Lindsay Anderson, New York, 2000. Articles: Schrader, Paul, in Cinema (London), no. 3, 1968. Robinson, David, ‘‘Anderson Shooting If... ,’’ in Sight and Sound (London), Summer 1968. Miller, Gavin, in Sight and Sound (London), Winter 1968. Shivas, Mark, in Movie (London), Winter 1968. Powell, Dilys, in Sunday Times (London), 22 December 1968. Gladwell, David, ‘‘Editing Anderson’s If... ,’’ in Screen (London), January-February 1969. Canby, Vincent, in New York Times, March 1969. Kael, Pauline, in New Yorker, New York, March 1969. Spiers, David, in Screen (London), March-April 1969. Cocks, Jay, in Time (New York), 21 March 1969. Hartung, Philip, in Commonweal (New York), 21 March 1969. Baker, Russell, ‘‘Observer: Youth Without Rose-Colored Glasses,’’ in New York Times, 13 May 1969. Ebert, Roger, in Chicago Sun Times, 1 June 1969. Arnold, Gary, in Washington Post, 13 June 1969. Corliss, Richard, ‘‘Hollywood and the Student Revolt,’’ in National Review (New York), 17 June 1969. Farber, Stephen, ‘‘Before the Revolution,’’ in Hudson Review (New York), Autumn 1969. Craddock, John, ‘‘If. . . High School Unless,’’ in Film Society Review (New York), September 1969. Young, Vernon, ‘‘Film Chronicle: Notes on the Compulsive Revolu- tion,’’ in Hudson Review (New York), Winter 1969. Welsh, James, ‘‘Bergman and Anderson for Sophomores,’’ in Cin- ema Journal (Evanston, Illinois), Fall 1971. Jensen, N., ‘‘Lindsay Anderson—romantisk ironiker,’’ in Kosmorama (Copenhagen), November 1973. Marszalek, Rafal, ‘‘Lindsay Anderson,’’ in Kino (Warsaw), Octo- ber 1974. Rumalho, Jose Jorge, ‘‘Un Filme que Evoca Jean Vigo,’’ in Celuloide (Rio Major, Portugal), November 1974. Lovell, Alan, ‘‘Brecht in Britain—Lindsay Anderson,’’ in Screen (London), Winter 1975. Durgnat, Raymond, ‘‘Britannia Waives the Rules,’’ in Film Comment (New York), July-August 1976. Hedling, E., ‘‘Han sag sig om i vrede,’’ in Filmhaftet (Uppsala, Sweden), May 1990. Sen, M., ‘‘La révolte des adolescents,’’ in Positif (Paris), no. 400, June 1994. Turcsanyi, S., ‘‘A szabadsag fantomjai,’’ in Filmvilag (Budapest), vol. 37, no. 12, 1994. *** Lindsay Anderson’s film If... , related to Rudyard Kipling’s poem of the same name, has raised much debate politically, stylistically, and structurally, particularly concerning the director’s use or misuse IF. . . FILMS, 4 th EDITION 554 If... of Brechtian theory. Based on a script by David Sherwin and John Howlett entitled Crusaders, the film uses the British public-school system as a microcosm of society to demonstrate the repression of the individual by authority. In the published screenplay of If... , Ander- son also credits another source of inspiration for the film, Jean Vigo: ‘‘We especially saw Zéro de conduite again, before writing started, to give us courage.’’ The mid-1950s marked significant changes in Britain. The New Left emerged, the Free Cinema began, John Osborne was energizing the theater, and Brecht was re-discovered. It was also the period Anderson was writing for Sight and Sound. Not unexpectedly, the influences of that period can be traced to If... . The film has a sense of ‘‘documentary realism’’ (Osborne), surprising surrealistic passages (Free Cinema), a drive to overthrow authority (New Left), and a use of self-reflexive devices (Brecht). If... functions predominantly within a kind of realism typical of classic narrative films, but one that is undercut by Brechtian concerns and surrealistic images. Anderson himself declared that ‘‘I think that If... is a rather Brechtian film.’’ There are inherent difficulties with this statement (and regarding ‘‘Brechtian cinema’’ in general), but If... does exhibit two ostensible examples of the well-known verfremdungseffekt: the oft-cited black- and white- sections and the title cards. The film is constructed in a series of eight vignettes, each one introduced by a title card. The overall design conveys some idea of a chronology, but the ordering of the scenes could be altered without changing the thematic drive. This type of structural flexibility was central to Brecht’s early writings. The use of black- and white- sections within a color film was entirely random, based on economic and practical considerations. Notwithstanding, both devices are meant to distance the spectator from the film, calling into question the produc- tion of the film as text and, theoretically, permitting cool observations of societal machinations. The fact that the fantasy sequences scattered throughout If... (the chaplain in a drawer, the naked woman at the cafe, the headmaster’s wife wandering the empty corridors, and possibly the ending) are not delineated from the accepted diegetic reality reflects Anderson’s belief that there are no rigid distinctions between what is real and what is fantasy. This use of surrealism blends nicely with the Brechtian aspects of the film in that it raises similar questions about constructed images and the supposed truth of realism. To a lesser degree, If... also deals with sexuality, especially the repression of desires with its deleterious effects, and the covert IGLAFILMS, 4 th EDITION 555 homosexuality of an all-male school brought to the fore in certain relationships. Anderson has said that no authority is necessary and that his sympathies are always with the revolutionaries. If... presents contra- dictions inherent in any authoritarian system and states that without resolution, radical action will be the only means of change—the quite literal ‘‘if’’ of the film. —Greg S. Faller IGLA (The Needle) USSR, 1989 Director: Rashid Nugmanov. Production: Kazakhfilm; color; 35mm; running time: 81 minutes. Filmed on location in Alma-Ata and at the Aral Sea. Producer: Rashid Nugmanov; screenplay: Alexander Baranov, Bakhyt Kilibayev; photography: Murat Nugmanov; design: Murat Musin; music: Viktor Tsoi. Cast: Viktor Tsoi (Moro), Marina Smirnova (Dina), Pyotr Mamanov (Doctor), Aleksander Baschirov (Spartak). Publications Books: Horton, Andrew, and Michael Brashinsky, The Zero Hour: Glasnost and Soviet Cinema in Transition, Princeton, New Jersey, 1992. Lawton, Anna, editor, The Red Screen: Politics, Society, Art in Soviet Cinema, London and New York, 1992. Horton, Andrew, editor, Inside Soviet Film Satire: Laughter with a Lash, 1993. Brashinsky, Michael, and Andrew Horton, editors, Russian Critics on the Cinema of Glasnost, 1994. Thompson, Kristin, and David Bordwell, Film History: An Introduc- tion, New York, 1994. Articles: Abramovich, A., Soviet Film (Moscow), February 1989. Plakhov, Andrei, ‘‘Soviet Cinema into the 90’s,’’ in Sight & Sound (London), Spring 1989. Ciesol, Forrest, ‘‘Kazakhstan Wave,’’ in Sight and Sound (London), Fall 1989. Drozdova, M., and E. Stisova, Isskustvo Kino (Moscow), March 1989. Variety (New York), 31 May 1989. Horton, A., ‘‘Nomad from Kazakhstan,’’ in Film Criticism (Meadville, Pennsylvania), Winter 1989–90. Brashinsky, Michael, ‘‘The Ant Hill in the Year of the Dragon,’’ in New Orleans Review (New Orleans), Spring 1990. Horton, Andrew, ‘‘Nomad from Kazakhstan: An Interview with Rashid Nugmanov,’’ in Film Criticism, Summer 1990. Hayes, N., ‘‘Recent Soviet Film,’’ in Enclitic, vol. 11, no. 4, 1994. *** In the bleak filmscape of glasnost, The Needle stood out as a black sheep of a movie. The most playful and offbeat of the Soviet films of the period, it contrasted sharply to the mainstream, which was overwhelmed with revisionism of the Stalinist past and nihilistic social criticism. Made in 1988 by a young Kazakh director, Rashid Nugmanov, fresh out of VGIK (the national film school), The Needle was a pioneering effort in several ways. Having come from a remote, stagnant republic of Kazakhstan, the picture set off a movement that has come to be known as the ‘‘Kazakh New Wave.’’ Represented by such works as Alexander Baranov’s and Bakhyt Kilibayev’s The Three (1988) and Woman of the Day (1990); Kilibayev’s The Tick (1990); Baranov’s He and She (1990); Abai Karpykov’s Little Fish in Love (1989); and Serik Aprymov’s The Last Stop (1989), the Kazakh New Wave was for the agonizing Soviet film of the late 1980s what the French New Wave was for the dusty French film of the late 1950s. The Needle was the movement’s a bout de souffle. The film also became a model for the Russian version of postmodernism—uninhib- ited and uninformed, compensating for the lack of culture, skill, and resources with mischief and wit. A young man named Moro (played by Viktor Tsoi, the late rock ‘n’ roll legend from the St. Petersburg band ‘‘Kino’’) returns to his Asiatic hometown only to find his ex- girlfriend, Dina (Marina Smirnova), becoming a drug addict and himself becoming involved in the bizarre life of the city’s under- world. In an attempt to save Dina, Moro takes her away to the Aral Sea, turned into a barren desert by the time they arrive. There Dina seems cured, but back in town everything starts anew. Almost desperate, Moro decides to fight the drug dealers, led by a hospital doctor (played by another rock ‘n’ roll star, eccentric leader of the ‘‘Sound of Mu’’ band and the future star of Taxi Blues, Pyotr Mamonov), when one of them stabs him in a deserted park. ‘‘My film is really about friends who got together to have fun, while playing in filmmaking.’’ What could have been a quote from Godard or Fassbinder is in fact a remark from Rashid Nugmanov. The Needle is indeed neither about drugs nor about a generation of Soviet youth, lost between the East and West, communism and capitalism, cynicism and romanticism (though its poignant tone hints on the latter). The film’s essence emerges from the director’s manipulation of various cultural stereotypes rather than social or psychological problems. The picture is dedicated ‘‘to the Soviet television’’—an ironic show of Nugmanov’s trendy obsession with media technology (he likes filling the screen with television screens). In a nod to the Jackie Chan cult, the epilogue plays the outtakes of the action sequences. An inventive predecessor of Pulp Fiction, The Needle weaves its soundtrack out of the Soviet ‘‘surfer music’’ from the 1950s. Every twist of the narrative is ‘‘forewarned’’ by a syrupy voice-over in a manner suggestive of a children’s program a la ‘‘Sesame Street.’’ On top of all this, the film, made by an ethnic Kazakh who never learned Kazakh and starring a Soviet-Korean from IKIRU FILMS, 4 th EDITION 556 St. Petersburg, speaks in various tongues—Kazakh, Russian, Italian, German, and English—which creates the image of a Tower-of-Babel- like world, maybe facing a similar future. Yet The Needle works best when it plays on the popular image of its star and the genre scenarios it provides. Viktor Tsoi, who followed the tracks of James Dean and Wajda’s early protagonist Zbigniew Cybulski when he drove into a tree and into untimely, mythical immortality in 1990, was cultivated in the Soviet pop scene as ‘‘the last romantic.’’ That is why and how he was cast in The Needle. Tsoi’s romanticism was that of a generation which skipped Byron and Schiller and went straight for Clint Eastwood. It was an ersatz romanticism which could neither admit to nor accept its own secondariness—precisely what made it so unique and attractive in the context of the ‘‘tired culture’’ of remakes and references. In parallel with the Kazakh filmmakers, and indeed unbeknownst to them, the Hong Kong auteurs, especially John Woo, were exercising the same kind of romanticism—violent, stylized, extravagant. Its generic con- stituents—in The Needle, or in Woo’s Killer and Hard-Boiled—are hard to miss: a trenchcoat (both in Alma-Ata and Hong Kong the weather suggests rather a t-shirt); sunglasses, reflecting a gun- wielding opponent; a cigarette, hanging in the corner of a mouth, its smoke not obstructing the view of a target; a wet sidewalk at night; a bluesy score; and a doomed romance—but where Rashid Nugmanov, educated behind the iron curtain, learned the art of cool remains a mystery. Whatever the source of his inspiration— smuggled comic strips or, more likely, Godard with his love/hate relationship with American pop culture and happy sensibility of the ‘‘poor cinema’’— The Needle stands proudly on its own. That its promise of a new filmic language was never quite realized makes it no less appealing. —Michael Brashinsky IKIRU (To Live; Doomed) Japan, 1952 Director: Akira Kurosawa Production: Toho (Tokyo); black and white, 35mm; running time: 143 minutes; length: 3918 meters. Released 9 October 1952. Filmed 1952 in Tokyo. Producer: Shojiro Motoki; screenplay: Shinobu Hashimoto, Hideo Oguni, and Akira Kurosawa; photography: Asakazu Nakai; editor: Koichi Iwashita; sound: Fumio Yanoguchi; art director: So Matsuyama; music: Fumio Hayasaka; lighting: Shigeru Mori. Cast: Takashi Shimura (Kanji Watanabe); Nobuo Kaneko (Mitsuo Watanabe); Kyoko Seki (Kazue Watanabe); Makoto Kobori (Kiichi Watanabe); Kumeko Urabe (Taysu Watanabe); Yoshie Minami (Maid); Miki Odagiri (Toyo Odagiri); Kamatari Fugiwara (Ono); Minosuke Yamada (Saito); Haruo Tanaka (Sakai); Bokuzen Hidari (Ohara); Shinichi Himori (Kimura); Nobuo Nakamura (Deputy Mayor); Kazuo Abe (City assemblyman); Masao Shimizu (Doctor); Ko Kimura (Intern); Atsushi Watanabe (Patient); Yunosuke Ito (Novelist); Yatsuko Tanami (Hostess); Fuyuki Murakami (Newspaperman); Seiji Miyaguchi (Gang-Boss); Daisuke Kato (Gangmember); Kin Sugai, Eiko Miyoshi, Fumiko Homma (Housewives); Ichiro Chiba (Police- man); Minoru Chiaki (Noguchi); Toranosuke Ogawa (Park Section Chief); Tomoo Nagai and Hirayoshi Aono (Reprters); Akira Tani (Old man at bar); Toshiyuki Ichimura (Pianist at cabaret). Award: The David O. Selznick ‘‘Golden Laurel’’ Award, 1961. Publications Script: Hashimoto, Shinobu, Hideo Oguni, and Akira Kurosawa, Ikiru, New York, 1969; also in Contemporary Japanese Cinema, edited by Howard Hibbet, New York, 1977. Books: Anderson, Joseph, and Donald Richie, The Japanese Film: Art and Industry, New York, 1960; revised edition, Princeton, 1982. Richie, Donald, Japanese Movies, Tokyo, 1961; as Japanese Cin- ema: Film Style and National Character, New York, 1971. Ezratti, Sacha, Kurosawa, Paris, 1964. Richie, Donald, The Films of Akira Kurosawa, Berkeley, 1965; revised edition, 1970; 1989; 1999. Kenny, Don, editor, The Complete Works of Akira Kurosawa, Tokyo, 1971. Mesnil, Michael, Kurosawa, Paris, 1973. Bock, Audie, Japanese Film Directors, New York, 1978; revised edition, Tokyo, 1985. Burch, No?l, To the Distant Observer, Berkeley, 1979. Erens, Patricia, Akira Kurosawa: A Guide to References and Resources, Boston, 1979. Anderson, Joseph, and Donald Richie, The Japanese Film: Art and Industry, expanded edition, Princeton, 1982. Kurosawa, Akira, Something Like an Autobiography, New York, 1982. Sato, Tadao, Currents in Japanese Cinema, Tokyo, 1982. Tassone, Aldo, Akira Kurosawa, Paris, 1983. Goodwin, James, Akira Kurosawa & Intertextual Cinema, Balti- more, 1993. Goodwin, James, Perspectives on Akira Kurosawa, New York, 1994. Prince, Stephen, The Warrior’s Camera, Princeton, 1999. Articles: Anderson, Joseph, ‘‘The History of Japanese Movies,’’ in Films in Review (New York), June-July 1953. Leyda, Jay, ‘‘The Films of Akira Kurosawa,’’ in Sight and Sound (London), Autumn 1954. Miner, Earl Roy, ‘‘Japanese Film in Modern Dress,’’ in Quarterly Review of Film, Radio, and Television (Berkeley), Summer 1956. IKIRUFILMS, 4 th EDITION 557 Ikiru Bazin, André, in Cahiers du Cinéma (Paris), March 1957. Anderson, Lindsay, ‘‘2 Inches off the Ground,’’ in Sight and Sound (London) Winter 1957. Dyer, Peter John, in Films and Filming (London), August 1959. Crowther, Bosley, in New York Times, 30 January 1960. Mekas, Jonas, in Village Voice (New York), 10 February 1960. Roman, Robert, in Films in Review (New York), March 1960. Bernhardt, William, in Film Quarterly (Berkeley), Summer 1960. Filmfacts (New York), no. 3, 1960. McVay, Douglas, in Films and Filming (London), July and August 1961. ‘‘Kurosawa Issue’’ of Etudes Cinématographiques (Paris), Spring 1964. Richie, Donald, ‘‘Kurosawa on Kurosawa,’’ in Sight and Sound (London), Summer and Autumn 1964. Kauffmann, Stanley, in A World of Film: Criticism and Comment, New York, 1966. Passek, Jean-Loup, in Cinéma (Paris), December 1974. Simone, R. Thomas, ‘‘The Myths of ‘The Sickness unto Death’. . . ,’’ in Literature/Film Quarterly (Salisbury, Maryland), Winter 1975. Sineaux, Michel, ‘‘Eloge de la Folie,’’ in Positif (Paris), Janu- ary 1975. Martin, Marcel, in Image et Son (Paris), February 1980. Magny, Joel, in Cinéma (Paris), March 1980. Van Beek, S., in Skoop (Amsterdam), August 1980. Labre, C., ‘‘Humilié et initié,’’ in Positif (Paris), October 1980. Nygren, S., ‘‘Doubleness and Idiosyncrasy in Cross-Cultural Analy- sis,’’ in Quarterly Review of Film and Video (New York), no. 1–3, 1991. Torres, S., ‘‘Vivir,’’ in Nosferatu (San Sebastian), no. 11, Janu- ary 1993. MacKinnon, Gillies, ‘‘Haunting Visions,’’ in Sight & Sound (Lon- don), vol. 4, no. 11, November 1994. Bovkis, Elen A., ‘‘Ikiru: the Role of Women in a Male Narrative,’’ in CineAction (Toronto), no. 40, May 1996. Carr, Barbara, ‘‘Goethe and Kurosawa: Faust and the Totality of Human Experience—West and East,’’ in Literature/Film Quar- terly (Salisbury), vol. 24, no. 3, 1996. *** Akira Kurosawa’s popularity in the West has been based primarily on his jidai-geki (period films). The gendai-geki (contemporary IM LAUF DER ZEIT FILMS, 4 th EDITION 558 dramas), despite the championship of many critics, have been rela- tively neglected. Ikiru is the major exception to this rule. Its reputation rested initially on the seriousness of its subject (how does a man with only a few months left to live find meaning in life?), its humanism (Kurosawa’s commitment to individual heroism, discovered in an apparently insignificant and undistinguished person), its social criti- cism (the satire on bureaucracy), and the power and directness of its emotional appeal. The film also became central to the anit-Kurosawa backlash led by certain auteur critics bent on attacking the notion that the importance of a film had any connection with the importance of its subject; to them, the humanism seemed naive, the social satire obvious, the emotional effects contrived, laborious and rhetorical. Neither view accounts for the particularity—in some ways the oddity—of Kurosawa’s work. The emphasis on a formal analysis of Ikiru in No?l Burch’s brilliant book on Japanese cinema, To the Distant Observer, goes some way towards rectifying the inadequacy of previous approaches. Burch discusses the film in terms of its elaborate and rigorous formal system of symmetries and asymmetries contained within the overall ‘‘rough-hewn geometry’’ that he sees as Kurosawa’s most distinctive general characteristic. The film falls into two strongly demarcated sections, the break coming about two-thirds of the way through. The first part begins and ends with the voice of an off-screen narrator, who tells us that Watanabe has only six months to live, and, later, that he has died. The intervening narrative takes us through Watanabe’s discovery of his situation and his search to find a meaning for his life, culminating in his moment of decision. The second part (marked formally by the narrator’s last intrusion and, in terms of narrative, by the death of the film’s hero and central consciousness) shows Watanabe’s funeral wake. The two parts are linked by a formal device: each contains five flashbacks the precise pattern of which is inverted in part two. At the same time, each part has its own highly organized formal structure. Part one consists of a prologue which includes the time preceding Watanabe’s discovery of his fatal disease, and three sections. The prologue is clearly marked off from the rest by the only use in the film of a striking technical device: the shutting off of the soundtrack in the shot where Watanabe leaves the clinic in a state of shock, totally absorbed by his plight, and is nearly run down by a truck (the sound crashing in again at that moment). The ensuing three sections show the three phases of his search for meaning, each ending in disillusionment: his reevaluation of his relationship with the son to whom his life has been devoted; his plunge into the hedonism of Tokyo’s nightlife; his relationship with the young girl who used to work in his office. The first part, then, covers a considerable extent of time and space; the second part (flashbacks and a brief epilogue apart) is contained within a single night and a single room. The three-section structure of part one is ‘‘answered’’ in part two by the three intrusions of outsiders into the wake: the reporters, the women from the district that has benefited from Watanabe’s achievement, and the policeman who recounts the manner of his death. Where each of the three sections of part one marked a phase in the search for meaning, each of the intrusions marks a stage in the revelation of the truth about his achievements. The ‘‘rough-hewn geometry,’’ the use of the narrator, the abrupt narrative break, and the frequently disruptive editing all combine to produce a strong sense of distanciation. What is remarkable about Ikiru, and crucial to the Kurosawa ‘‘flavor,’’ is the way in which this collides with the film’s equally strong emotional rhetoric, setting up a continuous tension between involvement and distance. —Robin Wood IM LAUF DER ZEIT (Kings of the Road) West Germany, 1976 Director: Wim Wenders Production: Wim Wenders Produktion; black and white, 35mm; running time: 165 minutes, some sources list 176 minutes; length: 15,740 feet. Released 17 March 1976. Filmed along the border regions between West and East Germany. Producer: Wim Wenders; executive producer: Michael Wiedemann; screenplay: Wim Wenders; photography: Robbie Müller and Martin Sch?fer; editor: Peter Przygodda; sound recordists: Martin Müller and Bruno Bollhalder; sound re-recordist: Paul Sch?ler; art direc- tors: Heidi Lüdi and Bernd Hirskorn; music: Axel Linst?dt; per- formed by: Improved Sound Limited. Cast: Rüdier Vogeler (Bruno Winter); Hanns Zischler (Robert Lander); Lisa Kreuzer (Cashier); Rudolf Schündler (Robert’s father); Marquard B?hm (Man who has lost his wife); Dieter Traier (Garage owner); Franziska St?mmer (Cinema owner); Patrick Kreuzer (Little boy). Award: Cannes Film Festival, International Critics Award, 1976. Publications Script: Wenders, Wim, ‘‘Casem’’ (script extract) in Film a Doba (Prague), August 1977. Books: Sandford, John, The New German Cinema, Totowa, New Jersey, 1980. Geist, Kathe, The Cinema of Wim Wenders 1967–1977, Ann Arbor, Michigan, 1981. Johnston, Sheila, Wim Wenders, London, 1981. Buchka, Peter, Augen kann man nicht Kaufen: Wim Wenders und seine Filme, Munich, 1983. Corrigan, Timothy, New German Cinema: The Displaced Image, Austin, Texas, 1983. Franklin, James, New German Cinema from Oberhausen to Ham- burg, Boston, 1983. Grob, Norbert, Die Formen des filmische Blicks: Wenders: Die fruhen Filme, Munich, 1984. Phillips, Klaus, editor, New German Filmmakers: from Oberhausen through the 1970s, New York, 1984. IM LAUF DER ZEITFILMS, 4 th EDITION 559 Im Lauf der Zeit Devillers, Jean-Pierre, Berlin, L.A., Berlin: Wim Wenders, Paris, 1985. Boujut, Michel, Wim Wenders, 3rd edition, Paris, 1986. Geist, Kathe, The Cinema of Wim Wenders: From Paris, France to Paris, Texas, Ann Arbor, Michigan, 1988. Elsaesser, Thomas, New German Cinema: A History, London, 1989. Wenders, Wim, The Logic of Images, New York, 1992. Kolker, Robert P., and Peter Beicken, The Films of Wim Wenders, New York, 1993. Cook, Roger F., and Gerd Gemunden, The Cinema of Wim Wenders: Image, Narrative, and the Postmodern Condition, Detroit, 1997. Wenders, Wim, The Act of Seeing, New York, 1999. Articles: Variety (New York), 17 March 1976. Wiedemann, H., and F. Mueller-Scherz, Interview with Wenders in Film und Ton Magazine (Munich), May 1976; also in Cinéma (Paris), December 1976. Skoop (Amsterdam), May 1976. Grant, J., in Cinéma (Paris), June 1976. Maraval, P., in Cinématographe (Paris), June 1976. Bracourt, Guy, in Ecran (Paris), July 1976. Filmkritik (Munich), July 1976. Bonitzer, Pierre, ‘‘Allemagne, années errantes,’’ in Cahiers du Cinéma (Paris), July-August 1976. Tarratt, Margaret, in Films and Filming (London), May 1977. Combs, Richard, in Monthly Film Bulletin (London), July 1977. ‘‘Wim Wenders on Kings of the Road,’’ in Monthly Film Bulletin (London), July 1977. Hallen, S., in Chaplin (Stockholm), vol. 20, no. 4, 1978. Kass, J. M., in Movietone News (Seattle), 22 February 1978. ‘‘De Emotionele reizen van Wim Wenders,’’ in Skrien (Amsterdam), April 1978. Alvarez, R., in Filmcritica (Rome), February 1979. Bencivenni, A., in Bianco e Nero (Rome), May-June 1979. Balzola, A., ‘‘L’afasia del cinema nel silenzio di Wenders,’’ in Cinema Nuovo (Bari), October 1980. Huttunen, T., ‘‘Hidas kotiinpaluu,’’ in Filmihullu (Helsinki), no. 2, 1989. Gemuenden, G., ‘‘On the Way to Language: Wenders’ Kings of the Road,’’ in Film Criticism (Meadville, Pennsylvania), no. 2, 1991. IN A LONELY PLACE FILMS, 4 th EDITION 560 Hurtado, J.A., ‘‘Da viajes y nomadas,’’ in Nosferatu (San Sebastian), no. 16, October 1994. Torreiro, M., ‘‘En el curso del tiempo,’’ in Nosferatu (San Sebastian), no. 16, October 1994. *** The first image of Im Lauf der Zeit is a title specifying where and when the film was shot. The importance of location becomes obvious from the length of screen time devoted to images of the land, the road, and the small towns along the itinerary which, rather than a script, was the organizing structure of the film. The choice of subject was made early in the production. The preeminence of the itinerary insured that the spatial dimension would structure the narrative. The choice of route allowed the filmmakers to photograph the east/west borderline guard towers, providing a visual metaphor that functions on several levels. Wenders claims to have chosen the area because it was seldom photographed, an under- populated, forgotten area he wanted to record on film. He was also able to preserve images of the disappearing small town cinema houses, which served as subject matter in terms of both the condition of the German film industry in 1975 and the history of German cinema. These two facets of the same subject are introduced in a pseudo-interview conducted with an actual movie house owner by a fictional character. Just as important as location is an exactness of time. Wenders and cameraman Robbie Müller were able to make use of the natural light to evoke a precise sense of time of day. Another significant production decision was to shoot chronologi- cally, allowing the crew to react to what was found along the route— to react to their subject in the sense of documentary filmmaking. It allowed for the workings of chance. The film does not attempt to reveal the characters psychologically through the editing style. While the film does to a certain extent represent the consciousnesses of its two protagonists, a distance is maintained. The acting is relatively unrevealing, there is little dia- logue, and the camera pulls out to extreme long shot at intervals. Most important is an editing style that de-emphasizes point-of-view tech- niques. This includes the frequent absence of either the glance or reaction shot, a lack of signification registered in the reaction when it is present, and a tendency to cut just after the glance has turned away, rather than on the look. A primary characteristic of the film is its length, or more exactly the length of time between ‘‘events,’’ resulting in its slowness, or sense of duration. The film covers six and a half days in three hours. It is the time between events that shifts the emphasis from story to setting. These are the summary sequences, transition scenes punctu- ated by wipes and dissolves. The sense of duration also comes from the types of events portrayed on the screen. It is as if Wenders wanted to record actions which usually are excluded from films—the time it takes to enter a room, climb a stairway or the process of an everyday task—in the same way that he wanted to film in an area that is usually ignored as a film location. Ellipses in this film tend to be between scenes, not within them. The third part of a loosely connected trilogy (with Alice in den St?dten and Falsche Bewegung), Im Lauf der Zeit possesses a docu- mentary quality dependent primarily on its descriptive nature, a pre- occupation with recording and preserving events and a concern for surfaces. Its ending suggests the possibility of change for its protago- nists, but it is not so optimistic for the future of film in Germany. The last movie house owner has closed her theater, waiting for a change in the industry, but at least no longer complacent and willing to exhibit whatever she is given. —Ann Harris IN A LONELY PLACE USA, 1950 Director: Nicholas Ray Production: A Santana Production for Columbia; black and white; running time: 93 minutes; length: 8,375 feet. Released May 1950. Producer: Robert Lord; screenplay: Andrew Solt, from a novel by Dorothy B. Hughes; photography: Burnett Guffey; editor: Viola Lawrence; art director: Robert Peterson; music: George Antheil. Cast: Humphrey Bogart (Dixon Steele); Gloria Grahame (Laurel Gray); Frank Lovejoy (Brub Nicolai); Carl Benton Reid (Captain Lochner); Art Smith (Mel Lippman); Jeff Donnell (Sylvia Nicolai); Martha Stewart (Mildred Atkinson); Robert Warwick (Charlie Waterman); Ruth Gillette (Martha). In a Lonely Place IN A LONELY PLACEFILMS, 4 th EDITION 561 Publications Books: McArthur, Colin, Underworld U.S.A., London, 1972. Eyles, Allen, Bogart, New York, 1975. Kreidl, John, Nicholas Ray, Boston, 1977. Pettigrew, Terence, The Bogart File, London, 1977. Kaplan, E. Ann, editor, Women in Film Noir, London, 1978. Silver, Alan, and Elizabeth Ward, editors, Film Noir, London, 1981. Masi, Stefano, Nicholas Ray, Florence, 1983. Blaine, Allan, Nicholas Ray: A Guide to References and Resources, Boston, 1984. Hillier, Jim, editor, Cahiers du cinema 1: Neo-realism, Hollywood, New Wave, London, 1985. Erice, Victor, and Jos Oliver, Nicholas Ray y su tiempo, Madrid, 1986. Giuliani, Pierre, Nicholas Ray, Paris, 1987. Wagner, Jean, Nicholas Ray, Paris, 1987. Coe, Jonathan, Humphrey Bogart: Take It and Like It, New York, 1991. Eisenschitz, Bernard, Nicholas Ray, New York, 1993, 1996. Bogart, Stephen H., and Gary Provost, Bogart: In Search of My Father, New York, 1995. Schlesinger, Judith, Bogie: A Life in Pictures, New York, 1998. Sperber, A.M., Bogart, New York, 1998. Cunningham, Ernest W., Ultimate Bogie, Los Angeles, 1999. Duchovnay, Gerald, Humphrey Bogart: A Bio-Bibliography, Westport, 1999. Meyers, Jeffery, Bogart: A Life in Hollywood, New York, 1999. Articles: Today’s Cinema, 18 May 1950. Motion Picture Herald (New York), 20 May 1950. Monthly Film Bulletin (London), June 1950. Place, J. A., and L. S. Peterson, ‘‘Some Visual Motifs of Film Noir,’’ in Film Comment (New York), January-February 1974. McVay, Douglas, ‘‘Outcast State: In a Lonely Place,’’ in Bright Lights (Los Angeles), no. 7, 1978. Ménil, A., ‘‘Le Violent,’’ in Cinématographe (Paris), July-Au- gust 1983. Telotte, J. P., ‘‘Film noir and the Dangers of Discourse,’’ in Quarterly Review of Film Studies (New York), Spring 1984. Palmer, J. W., ‘‘In a Lonely Place: Paranoia in the Dream Factory,’’ in Literature/Film Quarterly (Salisbury, Maryland), July 1985. Williamson, Judith, in New Statesman (London), 22 January 1988. Oplustil, K., in EPD Film (Frankfurt), vol. 6, October 1989. Chiacchiari, F., ‘‘Il diritto di uccidere di Nicholas Ray,’’ in Cineforum (Bergamo, Italy), October 1990. Bawden, James, ‘‘In a Lonely Place,’’ in Films in Review (New York), vol. 45, no. 7–8, July-August 1994. King, N., ‘‘Interview with Dana Polan,’’ in Metro Magazine (St. Kilda West), no. 97, Autumn 1994. Castoro Cinema (Milan), no. 105, 2nd ed., September 1995. Chase, D., ‘‘In Praise of the Naughty Mind: Gloria Grahame,’’ in Film Comment (New York), vol. 33, September/October 1997. *** According to Nicholas Ray, ‘‘Bogie had seen my first film, They Live by Night, and had admired it greatly. He approached me to make Knock on Any Door, optioned me for a second film and exercised the option immediately in the form of In a Lonely Place.’’ This second actor/director collaboration—an examination of the underside of Hollywood—was made by Humphrey Bogart’s production company, Santana, with Bogart also taking the lead role of the screenwriter, Dixon Steele. In preparing this, his fourth feature, Ray immediately dismissed the 1947 novel by the successful suspense writer Dorothy B. Hughes, which was to have formed the basis of the film. He did so, claiming he was interested ‘‘in doing a film about the violence in all of us, rather than a mass murder film or one about a psychotic.’’ As with many of Ray’s early films, In a Lonely Place involves a thoughtful examination of the nature of violence, particularly how an individual can be forced to such behavior, either by circumstances beyond his control or by the desperate need to compensate for loneliness. Ray effectively begins the film by illustrating both the issues of loneliness and violence. As Dixon drives alone late one night down Santa Monica Boulevard, his violent nature comes to the fore as he is provoked by the insensitive comments of a fellow driver. His tend- ency toward violent solution erupts again later, and more dramati- cally, when he brutally assaults and almost kills a young college student who taunts him on the road. While the former violent outburst was encouraged by others, the latter is a result of Dixon’s mounting frustration at being wrongly suspected of the murder of a young coat check girl. This situation has also taken its toll on his current relationship with Laurel Gray (Gloria Grahame), a neighbor who provided him with an alibi by telling the police that Dixon was at home when the murder was committed. While this relationship with Miss Gray has been of great importance to Dixon—personally, it has helped to heal the wounds of loneliness; professionally, it has been instrumental in his return to the typewriter—the ensuing murder investigation elicits several violent outbursts and brings about his downfall. With others encouraging her suspicions, Laurel begins to fear for her life; ultimately, in the moments before the real murderer confesses, Dixon, crazed with Laurel’s doubts, attempts to strangle her. Using this film also critically to examine Hollywood life, Ray positions Dixon Steele as a representative of what happens to many in Hollywood, as an individual whose loneliness and frustration are the direct result of a hostile artistic climate. And this is where Bogart’s influence as producer (uncredited) is most felt. According to Ray, it was Bogart who insisted on the subplot of a has-been actor, Charlie Waterman (Robert Warwick), as a way of further illustrating the violence that men inflict upon each other. Dixon is the only person who defends the aging alcoholic; to everyone else he is a subject for derision. Throughout the film, Ray effectively translates his thematic concerns of loneliness and violence into key aspects of the film’s design. As J. A. Place and L. S. Peterson note in their seminal essay ‘‘Some Visual Motifs of Film Noir,’’ In a Lonely Place is characteris- tic of this cinematic style in its effective establishment of a mood of claustrophobia, paranoia, despair, and nihilism. Many of the film’s key scenes occur at night, the lack of light accentuating both the loneliness of the protagonist and impending violence in the city. Early in the film, Dixon is regularly shown alone in his apartment: by day, the light harshly pierces the room through blinds which adorn the windows; by night, the light from Laurel’s apartment accentuates the space that separates them. Perhaps most notably, Ray’s tight compo- sitional framings and stark lighting contrasts distinguish this as among the best of the film noir cycle. INDIA SONG FILMS, 4 th EDITION 562 Originally, the film was to have ended ambiguously, with the spectator never knowing whether Dixon had actually strangled Laurel or not. After shooting that ending, however, Ray cleared the set and spontaneously directed the ending which now exists, an ending in which, after almost killing Laurel, Dixon learns he has been exoner- ated in the murder case, only to realize that his violence has destroyed his relationship. He then exits Laurel’s apartment and is seen against the criss-crossing patterns of the complex courtyard—a lonely figure in a harsh environment. —Doug Tomlinson IN SEARCH OF FAMINE See AKALER SANDANE IN THE REALM OF THE SENSES. See AI NOCORRIDA INDIA SONG France, 1975 Director: Marguerite Duras Production: Sunchild, Les Films Armorial, S. Damiani and A. Cavaglione; color, 35mm. Released 1975. Producer: Stephane Tchalgaldjeff; screenplay: Marguerite Duras; photography: Bruno Nuytten; editor: Solange Leprince; sound: Michel Vionnet; original music: Carlos D’Alessio, recording at the ORTF: Gaston Sylvestre, Beethoven selection: Gerard Fremy, ‘‘India Song Blues’’ interpreted by: Raoul Verez. Cast: Delphine Seyrig (Anne-Marie Stretter); Michel Lonsdale (Vice- Counsel of France); Matthieu Carriere (Young attaché to the Ambas- sador); Didier Flamand (Young escort to Stretter); Claude Mann (Michael Richardson); Vernon Dobtcheff (Georges Crawn); Claude Juan (A guest); Satasinh Manila (Voice of the beggar); Nicole Hiss, Monique Simonet, Viviane Forrester, Dionys Mascolo, and Marguerite Duras (Voices of Time); Fran?ois Lebrun, Benoit Jacquot, Nicole- Lise Bernheim, Kevork Kutudjan, Daniel Dobbels, Jean-Claude Biette, Marie-Odile Briot, and Pascal Kane (Voices from the reception). Publications Script: Duras, Marguerite, India Song: Texte—theatre—filme, Paris, 1973; translated as India Song, New York, 1976. Books: Bernheim, N.-L., Marguerite Duras tourne un film, Paris, 1976. Ropars-Wuilleumier, Marie-Claire, La Texte divisé, Paris, 1981. Trastulli, Daniela, Dalla parola all imagine: Viaggio nel cinema di Marguerite Duras, Geneva, 1982. Borgomano, Madeleine, L’Ecriture filmique de Marguerite Duras, Paris, 1985. Brossard, Jean-Pierre, editor, Marguerite Duras: Cineaste, écrivain, La Chaux-de-Fonde, Switzerland, 1985. Guers-Villate, Yvonne, Continuité/discontinuité de l’oeuvre durassienne, Brussels, 1985. Hofmann, Carol, Forgetting & Marguerite Duras, Boulder, 1991. Hill, Leslie, Marguerite Duras: Apocalyptic Desires, New York, 1993. Schuster, Marilyn R., Marguerite Duras: Revisited, New York, 1993. Harvey, Robert, and Helene Volat, Marguerite Duras: A Bio-Bibliog- raphy, Westport, 1997. Williams, James S., The Erotics of Passage: Pleasure, Politics, & Form in the Later Work of Marguerite Duras, New York, 1997. Knapp, Critical Essays on Marguerite Duras, New York, 1998. Ricouart, Janine, Marguerite Duras Lives On, Lanham, 1998. Ladimer, Bethany, Colette, Beauvoir and Duras: Age & Women Writers, Gainesville, November 1999. Cody, Gabrielle H., Impossible Performances: Duras As Dramatist, New York, 2000. Articles: Clouzot, C., in Ecran (Paris), April 1975. Amiel, M., in Cinéma (Paris), June 1975. Moskowitz, G., in Variety (New York), 18 June 1975. Amengual, Barthélemy, ‘‘Les Yeuxs fertiles,’’ in Positif (Paris), July- August 1975. Bonitzer, Pierre, in Cahiers du Cinéma (Paris), July-August 1975. Lanol, A., in Jeune Cinéma (Paris), July-August 1975. Dawson, Jan, ‘‘India Song, a Chant of Love and Death: Marguerite Duras Interviewed,’’ in Film Comment (New York), November- December 1975. Clarens, Carlos, in Sight and Sound (London), Winter 1975–76. Tarantino, M., Interview with Duras in Take One (Montreal), no. 4, 1976. ‘‘Marguerite Duras,’’ in Film en Televisie (Brussels), November 1976. McWilliams, D., in Wide Angle (Athens, Ohio), no. 4, 1977. Pym, John, in Monthly Film Bulletin (London), November 1977. Straram, P., ‘‘Tanner and Duras,’’ in Cinéma Quebec (Montreal), no. 10, 1977. Schepelern, P., in Kosmorama (Copenhagen), Summer 1978. ‘‘India Song Issue’’ of Avant-Scène du Cinéma (Paris), 1 April 1979. Escudero, I., in Cinema 2002 (Madrid), October 1979. Forster, A., ‘‘Marguerite Duras,’’ in Skrien (Amsterdam), Septem- ber 1980. Duras, Marguerite, and E. Lyon, in Camera Obscura (Berkeley), Fall 1980. De Kuyper, E., in Skrien (Amsterdam), May 1981. Undercut (London), nos. 2–5, August 1981-July 1982. Porte, M., ‘‘The Places of Marguerite Duras,’’ in Enclitic (Minneapo- lis), Fall 1983. Loutti, M. A., ‘‘Duras’ India,’’ in Literature/Film Quarterly (Salis- bury, Maryland), vol. 14, no. 3, 1986. INDIA SONGFILMS, 4 th EDITION 563 India Song Murphy, C. J., ‘‘Duras’ New Narrative Regions: The Role of Desire in the Films and Novels of Marguerite Duras,’’ in Literature/Film Quarterly (Salisbury, Maryland), vol. 14, no. 3, 1986. Holmlund, C. A., ‘‘Displacing Limits of Difference: Gender, Race, and Colonialism in Edward Said and Homi Bhabha’s Theoretical Models and Marguerite Duras’s Experimental Films,’’ in Quar- terly Review of Film and Video (New York), no. 1–3, 1991. Williams B., ‘‘Splintered Perspectives: Counterpoint and Subjectiv- ity in the Modernist Film Narrative,’’ Film Criticism (Meadville, Pennsylvania), no. 2. 1991. Tesson, C., ‘‘J’ecoute India Song,’’ in Cahiers du Cinéma (Paris), no. 459, September 1992. Jutel, T., ‘‘Marguerite Duras et le cinema de la modernite: tout [est] ce qu’il n’y a pas dans India Song,’’ in French Review, vol. 66, no. 4, 1993. Strauss, Frédéric, ‘‘India Song: Marguerite Duras,’’ in Cahiers du Cinéma (Paris), Hors-série, 1993. Badir, S., ‘‘India Song ou le temps tragique,’’ in Cinemas, vol. 5, no. 1/2, 1994. Vajdovich, G., ‘‘Antiregény és antifilm,’’ in Filmkultura (Budapest), vol. 31, no. 4, April 1995. McMullen, K., in Vertigo, vol. 1, no. 6, 1996. Everett, Wendy, ‘‘Director as Composer: Marguerite Duras and the Musical Analogy,’’ in Literature/Film Quarterly (Salisbury), vol. 26, no. 2, April 1998. *** India Song is radical in both form and content. Like Alain Resnais’s L’année dernière à Marienbad, Duras’s film offers an ambiguity of narrative—a type of enigma which paradoxically calls for a reading and yet makes any reading tentative. The film asks, who is Anne-Marie Stretter, the protagonist? What is her relation to men? To India? Or to a beggar woman whose destiny somehow parallels her own? In answering these questions or, more precisely, in eluding any definitive answer, the film expresses some important feminist per- spectives while making innovations in film narrative. Duras, in this film, finally puts into full practice what Sergei Eisenstein posed in theory 45 years earlier—non-synchronous sound. She separates the verbal track of the film from the visual track in such a way that either the narrator or the dialogue is over-voiced with images that do not correspond on a simple story level. Both the verbal THE INFORMER FILMS, 4 th EDITION 564 and visual tracks offer us fragmented and disparate pieces of the puzzle of Anne-Marie Stretter that the viewer must reassemble. Duras has structured the plot in layers. Madame Stretter, wife of the French Ambassador to colonial India, has a doppelg?nger in an insane beggar woman who haunts the embassy gardens. While we never see the woman, we hear her distant off-camera cries. Often these cries are juxtaposed with the restrained stance and expression of Madame Stretter. It is as if these cries spring from Madame Stretter’s inner self, which has no outlet in the oppressive society she inhabits. The beggar woman, whom we learn has followed Madame Stretter from French Indo-China, perhaps is emblematic of India or other lands burdened by European imperialism; her cries may also be theirs. A sense of the oppressive lends unity to the film. While we never see colonial India beyond the embassy walls, Duras conveys, through actors’ movements and details in the mise-en-scène, the oppressively humid atmosphere. Colonialism is shown oppressing not only the Indians but the Europeans who seem in power. There is a double meaning in Madame Stretter’s sexual enslavement of the men around her—all members of the apparent ruling-class. She and India are ineluctable forces that elude and, even to some degree, control the male hierarchy which only seems to oppress them. Duras explores stasis in all of its forms and ramifications. The characters often remain immobile under the influence of both the sultry atmosphere and class-imposed decorum. India Song treats death and life at once, or more precisely, death in life; for Madame Stretter lives a death amid a mise-en-scène filled with funeral objects and flowers. Further, since sound and visuals do not match in a realistic sense, narration and dialogue seem something vaguely heard from beyond the tomb. Interlacing the destiny of one woman with another and then comparing their situation to nations occupied by foreigners suggests that India Song be read as a film about political oppression on all levels—from personal to national. While some might find Duras’s view—that women and, by extension, nations are able to transcend oppression—somewhat naive, the innovative techniques she uses gives this work a haunting quality beyond mere polemics. —Rodney Farnsworth THE INFORMER USA, 1935 Director: John Ford Production: RKO/Pictures Inc.; black and white, 35mm; running time: 91 minutes; length: 10 reels. Released 1935. Producer: Cliff Reid; screenplay: Dudley Nichols, from the novel by Liam O’Flaherty; photography: Joseph H. August; editor: George Hively; sound: Hugh McDowell Jr.; art directors: Van Nest Polglase and Charles Kirk; music: Max Steiner; costume designer: Walter Plunkett. Cast: Victor McLaglen (Gypo Nolan); Heather Angel (Mary McPhillip); Preston Foster (Dan Gallagher); Margot Grahame (Katie Madden); Wallace Ford (Frankie McPhillip); Una O’Connor (Mrs. McPhillip); J. M. Kerrigan (Terry); Joseph Sauers (Bartly Mulholland); The Informer Neil Fitzgerald (Tommy Connor); Donald Meek (Peter Mulligan); D’Arcy Corrigan (Blind man); Gaylord Pendleton (Dennis Daly); May Boley (Madame Betty); Leo McCabe (Donahue); Francis Ford (Flynn); Grizelda Harvey (The Lady); Dennis O’Dea. Awards: Oscars for Best Director, Best Actor (McLaglen), Best Screenplay, Best Score, 1935; Best Screenplay, Venice Film Festival, 1935; New York Film Critics Awards for Best Picture and Best Director, 1935. Publications Scripts: Nichols, Dudley, ‘‘The Informer’’ (condensed screenplay), in Thea- tre Arts (New York), August 1951; as ‘‘Le Mouchard,’’ in Avant- Scène du Cinéma (Paris), February 1965. Books: Mitry, Jean, John Ford, Paris, 1954. Bluestone, George, Novels into Films, Berkeley, 1961. Haudiquet, Philippe, John Ford, Paris, 1966. Baxter, John, The Cinema of John Ford, New York, 1971. McBride, Joseph, and Michael Wilmington, John Ford, London, 1975. Bogdanovitch, Peter, John Ford, Berkeley, 1978. INTOLERANCEFILMS, 4 th EDITION 565 Ford, Dan, Pappy: The Life of John Ford, Englewood Cliffs, New Jersey, 1979. Sinclair, Andrew, John Ford, New York, 1979. Anderson, Lindsay, About John Ford, London, 1981. Caughie, John, editor, Theories of Authorship: A Reader, Lon- don, 1981. Schatz, Thomas, Hollywood Genres: Formulas, Filmmaking, and the Studio System, New York, 1981. Gallagher, Tag, John Ford: The Man and His Films, Berkeley, 1986. Stowell, Peter, John Ford, Boston, 1986. Lourdeaux, Lee, Italian & Irish Filmmakers in America: Ford, Capra, Coppola & Scorsese, Springfield, 1990; 1993. Davis, Ronald L., John Ford: Hollywood’s Old Master, Norman, 1997. Girus, Sam B., Hollywood Renaissance: The Cinema of Democracy in the Era of Ford, Capra, & Kazan, New York, 1998. Levy, Bill, John Ford: A Bio-Bibliography, Westport, 1998. Eyman, Scott, Print the Legend: The Life and Times of John Ford, New York, 1999. Articles: New York Times, 10 May 1935. Variety (New York), 15 May 1935. Greene, Graham, in Spectator (London), 11 October 1935. Mitry, Jean, ‘‘John Ford,’’ in Films in Review (New York), August- September 1955. Stanbrook, Alan, in Films and Filming (London), July 1960. Barkun, Michael, ‘‘Notes on the Art of John Ford,’’ in Film Culture (New York), no. 25, 1962. McVay, Douglas, ‘‘The Five Worlds of John Ford,’’ in Films and Filming (London), June 1962. ‘‘Special Issue’’ of Avant-Scène du Cinéma (Paris), February 1965. ‘‘John Ford Issue’’ of Présence du Cinéma (Paris), March 1965. ‘‘John Ford Issue’’ of Cahiers du Cinéma (Paris), October 1966. ‘‘John Ford Issue’’ of Velvet Light Trap (Madison, Wisconsin), August 1971. ‘‘John Ford Issue’’ of Focus on Film (London), Spring 1971. Anderson, Lindsay, ‘‘John Ford,’’ in Cinema (Beverley Hills), Spring 1971. ‘‘Ford’s Stock Company’’ in Filmkritik (Munich), January 1972. Scapperotti, Dan, in Magill’s Survey of Cinema 2, Englewood Cliffs, New Jersey, 1980. Veress, J., in Filmkultura (Budapest), January 1985. Reid’s Film Index (Wyong), no. 3, 1989. Fuller, Samuel, ‘‘Comment John Ford et Max Steiner ont fait mon film préféré,’’ in Positif (Paris), no. 400, June 1994. *** John Ford was the perfect choice to direct the film version of Liam O’Flaherty’s novel about the Sinn Fein Rebellion in Dublin in 1922 as Ford’s Irish heritage proved invaluable in setting the background for the film. The Informer was Ford’s 74th film as a director and he would do 48 more before his retirement in 1966. Flaherty’s novel was first filmed as an early talkie in Great Britain in 1929 with Lars Hansen in the leading role. Six years later, Ford’s version was released through RKO Radio Pictures. The mood piece surprised everyone, including the studio, by winning four Academy Awards and moving John Ford into the top echelon of Hollywood directors and Victor McLaglen into the role of one of the film industry’s most trusted character actors. Strictly observing the unities of time and space, the film traces Gypo Nolan from betrayal to death in just one 12-hour period. Whether Ford was aware he was making a film noir or not, he preceded the 1940s spate of ‘‘dark’’ films by having The Informer take place entirely at night. The film opens with Gypo encountering a poster stating that there is a reward out for information leading to the capture of Frankie McPhillip, his rebel friend. Tearing the sign down and tossing it away, Gypo goes on his way only to discover, in one of Ford’s most brilliant visual moments, that the poster takes on a life of its own and follows him down the street, eventually blowing onto his leg and clinging to it. The visual imagery continues as the viewer is introduced to Gypo’s girlfriend Katie as a lovely madonna who suddenly changes into a bleach-blonde street-walker by merely removing her scarf. Reasoning that he and Katie would be able to get a boat to the United States with the money offered to turn Frankie in, Gypo informs on the fugitive to the police. As Frankie visits clandestinely with his mother and sister, he is ambushed and killed. Gypo gets his reward, but is soon under suspicion by rebel leader Dan Gallagher. Celebrating by getting drunk, Gypo is caught and, having spent all the blood money, confesses. He hides in Katie’s apartment and when she innocently reveals his whereabouts, he is shot. The wounded Gypo staggers to a church where Frankie’s mother is praying. She forgives him and he dies under the altar. Much has been said about composer Max Steiner’s contribution to The Informer. The music suitably underscores all the action from the atmospheric beginning to the religious ending. The flawless cast, composed mainly of Irish-born actors, make the film and the plot believable, and the lighting, costuming, art direction and cinematography all contribute to the stifling and tense atmosphere. Although over 60 years old, this melodrama still holds up well in a period when another Irish rebellion has been raging in the 1990s. —James Limbacher INTOLERANCE USA, 1916 Director: D. W. Griffith Production: Wark Producing Company, some sources list studio as Epoch Releasing Corp.; black and white (with some scenes tinted in original release prints), 35mm, silent; running time: about 220 minutes, some versions are 129 minutes, original version 8 hours. Released 5 September 1916, New York. Filmed fall 1914-July 1916 in Hollywood, basically on outdoor sets constructed by Griffith and his crew. Cost: about $386,000, though figures differ in various sources. Re-released with new score by Carl Davis, London Film Festival 1988. Producer: D. W. Griffith; scenario: D. W. Griffith; photography: G. W. (Billy) Bitzer and Karl Brown; editors: James and Rose Smith; production designer (set decorator and architect): Frank Wortman; art directors: Walter L. Hall and others; music score which accom- panied the film on its initial release: Joseph Carl Breil and D. W. INTOLERANCE FILMS, 4 th EDITION 566 Intolerance Griffith; assistants on film: Eric von Stroheim, W. S. Van Dyke, Tod Browning, Joseph Henabery, Edward Dillon, George Siegman, Lloyd Ingraham, and others. Cast: The Modern Story: Mae Marsh (The Dear One); Robert Harron (The Boy); Fred Turner (The Girl’s Father); Sam de Grasse (Jenkins); Vera Lewis (Miss Jenkins); Walter Long (Musketeer of the Slums); Ralph Lewis (The Governor); Monte Blue (Strike Leader); Tod Browning (Race car owner); Miriam Cooper (The Friendless One). The Babylonian Story: Alfred Page (Belshazzar); Constance Talmadge (The Mountain Girl); Elmer Clifton (The Rhapsode); Seena Owen (The Princess Beloved); George Siegman (Cyrus the Persian); Tully Marshall (High Priest of Bel); Carl Stockdale (King Nabonidus); Elmo Lincoln (Mighty Man of Valor); Jewel Carmen, Carol Dempster, Mildred Harris, Alma Rubens, Pauline Starke, Eve Southern, Natalie Talmadge, and Anna Mae Walthall (Slave girls and dancers); Frank Campeau, Donald Crisp, Douglas Fairbanks, DeWolfe Hopper, Wilfred Lucas, Owen Moore, Sir Herbert Beerbohm Tre, Tammany Young, others (Soldiers, courtiers, etc.). The French Story: Margery Wilson (Brown Eyes); Eugene Pallette (Prosper Latour); Spottiswoode Aitken (Father); Ruth Handford (Mother); Josephine Crowell (Catherine de Medici); Frank Bennett (Charles IX); Maxfield Stanley (Duc d’Anjou); Constance Talmadge (Marguerite de Valois). The Judean Story: Howard Gaye (The Nazarene); Lillian Langdon (Mary); Olga Grey (Mary Magdalene); Bessie Love (Bride of Cana); George Walsh (Bridegroom); W.S. Van Dyke (Wedding guest); Lillian Gish (The Woman Who Rocks the Cradle). Publications Script: Griffith, D. W., Intolerance: Shot-by-Shot Analysis by Theodore Huff, New York, 1966; narrative scheme also published in Cahiers du Cinéma (Paris), Spring 1972. Books: Wagenknecht, Edward, The Movies in the Age of Innocence, Norman, Oklahoma, 1962. Lindgren, Ernest, The Art of the Film, New York, 1963. INTOLERANCEFILMS, 4 th EDITION 567 Brownlow, Kevin, The Parade’s Gone By, London and New York, 1969. Gish, Lillian, The Movies, Mr. Griffith, and Me, New York, 1969. O’Dell, Paul, Griffith and the Rise of Hollywood, New York, 1970. Griffith, D. W., The Man Who Invented Hollywood: The Autobiogra- phy, edited by James Hart, Louisville, Kentucky, 1972. Henderson, Robert, D. W. Griffith: His Life and Work, New York, 1972. Bitzer, Billy, His Story, New York, 1973. Brown, Karl, Adventures with D. W. Griffith, New York and London, 1973; revised edition, 1988. Niver, Kemp, D. W. Griffith: His Biograph Films in Perspective, Los Angeles, 1974. Wagenknecht, Edward, and Antony Slide, The Films of D. W. Griffith, New York, 1975. Giannetti, Louis, Masters of the American Cinema, Englewood Cliffs, New Jersey, 1981. Brion, Patrick, editor, D. W. Griffith, Paris, 1982. Mottet, Jean, editor, D. W. Griffith, Paris, 1984. Schickel, Richard, D. W. Griffith and the Birth of Film, London, 1984. Graham, Cooper C., and others, D. W. Griffith and the Biograph Company, Metuchen, New Jersey, 1985. Drew, William M., D. W. Griffith’s ‘‘Intolerance’’: Its Genesis and Its Vision, Jefferson, North Carolina, 1986. Jesionowski, Joyce E., Thinking in Pictures: Dramatic Structures in D. W. Griffith’s Biograph Films, Berkeley, 1987. Gunning, Tom, D.W. Griffith and the Origins of American Narrative Film: The Early Years at Biograph, Champaign, 1991. Leondopoulos, Jordan, Still the Moving World: Intolerance, Modern- ism, and Heart of Darkness, New York, 1991. Simmon, Scott, The Films of D.W. Griffith, New York, 1993. Schickel, Richard, D.W. Griffith: An American Life, New York, 1996. Articles: New York Times, 6 September 1916. Soule, George, in New Republic (New York), 30 September 1916. Dell, Floyd, in Masses (New York), November 1916. Bitzer, Billy, in International Photographer (Los Angeles), Octo- ber 1934. Joad, C. E. M., in New Statesman and Nation (London), Febru- ary 1949. Trewin, J. C., ‘‘Rush Hour in Babylon,’’ in Sight and Sound (Lon- don), Spring 1949. Feldman, Joseph and Harry, ‘‘The D. W. Griffith Influence,’’ in Films in Review (New York), July-August 1950. Dunham, Harold, ‘‘Bessie Love,’’ in Films in Review (New York), February 1959. Esnault, Philippe, in Cinéma (Paris), 1960. Tozzi, Romano, ‘‘Lillian Gish,’’ in Films in Review (New York), July-August 1962. Bodeen, DeWitt, ‘‘Blanche Sweet,’’ in Films in Review (New York), November 1965. Meyer, Richard J., ‘‘The Films of David Wark Griffith,’’ in Film Comment (New York), Fall-Winter 1967. Casty, Alan, ‘‘The Films of D. W. Griffith: A Style for the Times,’’ in Journal of Popular Film (Washington, D.C.), Spring 1972. Oms, Marcel, ‘‘Essai de lecture thematique de Intolérance,’’ in Cahiers du Cinéma (Paris), Spring 1972. ‘‘Dossier Intolérance,’’ in Cahiers de la Cinémathèque (Perpignan), Spring 1972. Bruno, E., in Filmcritica (Rome), November-December 1972. Hanson, Bernard, ‘‘D. W. Griffith: Some Sources,’’ in Art Bulletin (New York), December 1972. Beylie, Claude, in Ecran (Paris), February 1973. Stern, Seymour, ‘‘D. W. Griffith’s Intolerance: A Sun-Play of the Ages,’’ in The Essential Cinema, New York, 1975. Belluccio, A., ‘‘Cabiria e Intolerance,’’ in Bianco e Nero (Rome), May-August 1975. ‘‘Griffith Issue’’ of Films in Review (New York), October 1975. Kepley, Vance, Jr., ‘‘Intolerance and the Soviets: A Historical Investigation,’’ in Wide Angle (Athens, Ohio), no.1, 1979. Merritt, Russell, ‘‘On First Looking into Griffith’s Babylon: A His- torical Investigation,’’ in Wide Angle (Athens, Ohio), no.1, 1979. Pym, John, in Monthly Film Bulletin (London), May 1979. Belaygue, C., and others, ‘‘Redecouvrir Intolérance,’’ in Cinéma (Paris), 27 November 1985. Chevrie, M., ‘‘Le Miroir du muet,’’ in Cahiers du Cinéma (Paris), December 1985. Hansen, M., ‘‘The Hieroglyph and the Whore: D. W. Griffith’s Intolerance,’’ in South Atlantic Quarterly (Durham, North Caro- lina), no. 2, 1989. Leondopoulos, J., ‘‘Lost in a Climate of Opinion: Intolerance Revis- ited,’’ in Literature/Film Quarterly (Salibury, Maryland), no. 2, 1990. Everson, W. K., in Films in Review (New York), January-Febru- ary 1990. Bassetti, S., ‘‘Una questione di omogeneita,’’ in Filmcritica (Rome), November 1990. Toeplitz, Jerzy, ‘‘Wspaniale widowisko: Kalendarz filmowy,’’ in Iluzjion, no. 3–4, July-December 1991. Werner, G?sta, ‘‘Intolerance och Griffiths sax,’’ in Filmrutan (Sundsvall), vol. 36, no. 3, 1993. Dupre la Tour, C., ‘‘The Written Word and Memory in Griffith’s Intolerance and Dreyer’s La passion de Jeanne d’Arc,’’ in Iris (Iowa City), no. 19, Autumn 1995. Merritt, R., ‘‘’Bloody Ludlow’ auf der Leinwand,’’ in KINtop, vol. 6, 1997. Ent, M. van der, ‘‘Muzikaal commentaar,’’ in Skrien (Amsterdam), no. 212, February/March 1997. *** Critical judgment remains sharply divided on Intolerance, D. W. Griffith’s most expensive and flamboyant spectacle. Those critics who pronounce the film a failure generally point to the four stories, which, they claim, are thematically too diverse to be effectively collated. Taking their cue from Eisenstein’s famous indictment, they argue that the film suffers from purposeless fragmentation and thematic incoherence. Others, notably Vachel Lindsay, Georges Sadoul, Edward Wagenknecht, and more recently Pauline Kael, list Intolerance among the masterworks, stressing its formal complexity, experimental daring, and thematic richness. René Clair, taking a mid- dle position, writes, ‘‘it combines extraordinary lyric passages, real- ism, and psychological detail, with nonsense, vulgarity, and painful sentimentality.’’ Historians agree, however, that Intolerance remains Griffith’s most influential film, and that among its most precocious students were the Soviet directors of the 1920s. As Vance Kepley states, ‘‘When Intolerance was shown in the Soviet Union in 1919, it popularized a montage style already evolving in the hands of Soviet INVASION OF THE BODY SNATCHERS FILMS, 4 th EDITION 568 artists. It was reputedly studied in the Moscow Film Institute for the possibilities of montage and ‘agitational’ cinema (agit-film) and leading Soviet directors, including Eisenstein, Pudovkin, and Kuleshov, acknowledged a debt to Griffith in their writings.’’ True to his customary practice of starting one film while finishing another, Griffith began work on Intolerance while editing The Birth of a Nation in the fall of 1914. Intolerance began with the modern story, originally entitled ‘‘The Mother and the Law.’’ It was intended as a companion piece to The Escape (released by Mutual earlier that year), a study of white slavery and the corruption of city slums. ‘‘The Mother and the Law’’ was virtually completed before The Birth of a Nation was released. Not until May, 1915, after Birth’s controversies were at their peak, did he resume work on it. Deter- mined to surpass the Civil War movie, he decided to expand his modern story to epic proportions. He built lavish sets (notably, the Mary Jenkins ballroom and the Chicago courtroom) and—most important—expanded the story to include the famous strike sequence. This was, in part, an effort to capitalize on the headlines surround- ing John D. Rockefeller, Jr., who had been called up before the Commission on Industrial Relations to explain his role in the 1914 Ludlow massacre. Intolerance’s strike is loosely based on this inci- dent, in which 23 striking employees of Rockefeller’s Colorado Fuel and Iron Company were shot down by the national guard. In these new sequences, Griffith also attacked the Rockefeller Foundation, which, like its founder, came under severe public criticism as the creation of a hypocritical plutocrat, a philanthropy paid for by the exploitation of workers to enhance the reputation of their taskmaster. Griffith continued shooting his modern story through the summer of 1915. Meanwhile, he began work on a French story, directly patterned after Meyerbeer’s Les Huguenots which had enjoyed great popularity at the Metropolitan Opera with Caruso and Toscanini. Originally, this was to be the lustrous counterpoint to the drab modern story. In original prints, the interiors of the Louvre palace were hand- tinted, while considerable attention was paid to royal costumes and lavish Paris sets. Not until the end of the year did he begin his most elaborate and expensive story. The Hall for Belshazzar’s Feast has become perhaps the best-known set created for a silent film. Griffith had his set festooned with Egyptian bas-reliefs, Hindu elephant gods, and Assyrian bearded bulls. Practically every Near Eastern style was represented somewhere on the walls or in the costumes—except the styles of Babylon. Until Douglas Fairbanks’s castle set for Robin Hood, it remained the largest backdrop ever created for a movie scene. The result, when combined with the Passion sequence, was a conglomerate of stories and styles in search of a unifying principle. Part morality play and part three-ring circus, the movie was part of the new eclectic aesthetic that had all but buried the older ideal of organic synthesis. Along with Scott Joplin’s Treemonisha and Charles Ives’s Third Symphony, it remains one of the period’s great hybrids. As such, it won uniformly enthusiastic critical notices, but proved disappointing at the box office. Produced at a cost of $386,000 (almost four times the expense of The Birth of a Nation) and endowed with an extraordinary cast, it left audiences cold. Although the film cost considerably less and earned more than historians have generally reported, Griffith himself was convinced he had failed. Two years after its release, he released the modern and Babylonian episodes as two separate films. Traditionally, these productions have been dis- missed as footnotes to Intolerance, simple attempts to relieve the producer of Intolerance’s burden of debt. Several recent critics, however, have argued that the modern story—released as The Mother and the Law—is improved when separated from the other stories and should be evaluated as a self-contained feature. Griffith was the most eclectic of American directors, an artist whose work consistently absorbed and reflected American popular culture. Of all his films, Intolerance remains the one most firmly rooted in its own time, a work representing the cultural phenomena of its day. Probably no film before Citizen Kane touched on as many aspects of American popular taste. Griffith’s instincts cannot be called infallible. In his sweeping dragnet of the fine arts, he intuitively missed every important art movement of his time; the raw materials he gathered were an unsorted miscellany of official art treasures (like the Cluny unicorn tapestries and the Assyrian winged bulls) and parochial 19th century kitsch. As a muckraker, he had trouble distinguishing important social evils (like America’s bloody labor wars and horrible prison conditions) from ephemeral parochial problems. The demons he fought most bitterly, like the Anti-Saloon League, the Rockefeller Foundation, and settle- ment workers, represented issues far more complex than he ever perceived. He had infinite charity for prodigals, but none for Pharisees, and he depicts ‘‘uplifters’’ as onesidedly in Intolerance as he depicted blacks in The Birth of a Nation. Today, Intolerance is usually discussed according to memorable isolated sequences, notably Belshazzar’s feast, beginning with its famous crane shot; the strike sequence; the courtship of Mae Marsh and Bobby Harron; the courtroom scene with the famous close-ups of Mae Marsh’s hands; and the Babylonian battles. Although consider- able attention has recently been paid to Griffith’s treatment of mise- en-scène, the most durable aesthetic debate continues to center on his intercutting techniques, especially the rhythmic climax built on four intertwined catastrophes, one averted, the others not. —Russell Merritt INVASION OF THE BODY SNATCHERS USA, 1956 Director: Don Siegel Production: Allied Artists Pictures Corp.; black and white, 35mm, Superscope; running time: 80 minutes. Released 5 February1956. Filmed 1955. Producer: Walter Wanger; screenplay: Daniel Mainwaring, and according to some sources uncredited scriptwriting by Sam Peckinpah, from the novel The Body Snatchers by Jack Finney; photography: Ellsworth Fredericks; editor: Robert S. Eisen; sound engineer: Ralph Butler; sound editor: Del Harris; production designer: Joseph Kish; art director: Edward Haworth; music: Carmen Dragon; music editor: Jerry Irvin; special effects: Milt Rice. Cast: Kevin McCarthy (Dr. Miles Bennel); Dana Wynter (Becky Driscoll); Larry Gates (Dr. Dan Kauffmann); King Donovan (Jack); Carolyn Jones (Theodora); Jean Willes (Sally); Ralph Dumke (Nick Grivett); Virginia Christine (Wilma Lentz); Tom Fadden (Uncle Ira Lentz); Kenneth Patterson (M. Driscoll); Whit Bissell (Dr. Hill); Sam INVASION OF THE BODY SNATCHERSFILMS, 4 th EDITION 569 Invasion of the Body Snatchers Peckinpah (Charlie Buckholtz, gas company employee); Guy Way (Sam Janzek); Eileen Stevens (Mrs. Grimaldi); Beatrice Maude (Grandmother Grimaldi); Bobby Clark (Jimmy Grimaldi); Jean Andren (Aunt Eleda Lentz); Everett Glass (Dr. Ed Percy); Richard Deacon (Dr. Harvey Bassett); Dabbs Greer (Mac); Marie Selland (Martha); Pat O’Malley (Man carrying baggage). Publications Script: Mainwaring, Daniel, ‘‘L’Invasion des profanateurs de sepultures,’’ in Avant-Scène du Cinéma (Paris), 15 July 1979. Books: Steinbrunner, Chris, and Burt Goldblatt, Cinema of the Fantastic, New York, 1972. Johnson, William, editor, Focus on the Science-Fiction Film, Englewood Cliffs, New Jersey, 1972. Kaminsky, Stuart M., Don Siegel: Director, New York, 1974; revised edition, Chicago, 1983. Kaminsky, Stuart M., American Film Genres, Dayton, Ohio, 1974. Lovell, Alan, Don Siegel: American Cinema, London, 1977. Parish, James Robert, editor, The Science-Fiction Pictures, Metuchen, New Jersey, 1977. Vaccino, Roberto, Donald Siegel, Florence, 1985. Siegel, Don, A Siegel Film, New York, 1993. Articles: Sarris, Andrew, in Film Culture (New York), Spring 1963. Martin, Marcel, in Letters Fran?aises (Paris), 15 November 1967. Austen, David, in Films and Filming (London), May 1968. Durgnat, Raymond, in Films and Filming (London), February 1969. Farber, Manny, ‘‘The Films of Don Siegel and Sam Fuller,’’ in December (Los Angeles), nos. 1–2, 1970. Mundy, Robert, ‘‘Don Siegel: Time and Motion, Attitude and Genre,’’ in Cinema (London), February 1970. Bracourt, Guy, in Image et Son (Paris), April 1970. INVASION OF THE BODY SNATCHERS FILMS, 4 th EDITION 570 Tarratt, Margaret, ‘‘Monsters from the Id,’’ in Films and Filming (London), December 1970. Gregory, Charles T., ‘‘The Pod Society vs. the Rugged Individual- ist,’’ in Journal of Popular Film and Television (Washington, D.C.), Winter 1972. Kaminsky, Stuart, and Peter Bogdanovitch, in Take One (Montreal), June 1972. Kass, Judith M., ‘‘Don Siegel,’’ in The Hollywood Professionals 4 (London), 1975. Norgaard, P., in Kosmorama (Copenhagen), Summer 1975. Tarnowski, Jean-Fran?ois, in Ecran Fantastique (Paris), no. 3, 1977. Verstappen, W., ‘‘Body Snatchers op de montagetafel: Pseudo-lijken in peulen’’ (shot analysis), in Skoop (Amsterdam), December 1978-January 1979. Johnson, G. M., ‘‘We’d Fight . . . We Had To: The Body Snatchers,’’ in Journal of Popular Film and Television (Washington, D.C.), no. 1, 1979. Freund, C., ‘‘Pods over San Francisco,’’ in Film Comment (New York), January-February 1979. ‘‘Invasion of the Body Snatchers Issue’’ of Avant-Scène du Cinéma (Paris), 15 July 1979. Svehla, G. J., in Midnight Marquee (Baltimore), September 1979. McDermott, Elizabeth, in Magill’s Survey of Cinema 2, Englewood Cliffs, New Jersey, 1980. Beltran, A., ‘‘El otro, el mismo,’’ in Contracampo (Madrid), Febru- ary 1981. Higashi, S., in Jump Cut (Berkeley), March 1981. Combs, Richard, in Listener (London), 13 November 1986. Telotte, J.P., ‘‘The Doubles of Fantasy and the Space of Desire,’’ in Film Criticism (Meadville), vol. 11, no. 1/2, 1987. Kurtz, F., in Monsterscene (Lombard), no. 1, October 1992. Schuman, Howard, ‘‘Gone to Pod,’’ in Sight & Sound (London), vol. 2, no. 8, December 1992. Jousse, Thierry, ‘‘Invasion of the Body Snatchers: Don Siegel,’’ in Cahiers du Cinéma (Paris), Hors-série, 1993. Reid’s Film Index (Wyong), no. 13, 1994. Heredero, C.F., in Nosferatu (San Sebastian), no. 14/15, Febru- ary 1994. Hoberman, J., ‘‘Paranoia and the Pods,’’ in Sight & Sound (London), vol. 4, no. 5, May 1994. Smith, D.G., ‘‘Invaders from Mars and Invasion of the Body Snatchers,’’ in Midnight Marquee (Baltimore), no. 51, Sum- mer 1996. Zemnick, D.J., in Cinefantastique (Forest Park), vol. 28, no. 1, 1996. Turner, George, ‘‘A Case for Insomnia,’’ in American Cinema- tographer (Hollywood), vol. 78, no. 3, March 1997. *** There are no moments of great violence in Invasion of the Body Snatchers. We see no one die on screen and, technically, no one dies in the film. There are no monsters and only a few special effects, which are confined totally to the construction of a few pods shown but briefly. The essence of Invasion of the Body Snatchers is its aura of normalcy. It is normalcy, the acceptance of the status quo, the desire to escape from the pain of the abnormal that creates the sense of horror in the film. The thematic goals of Invasion of the Body Snatchers are beauti- fully expressed in content (the dialogue primarily) and style (the visual body). The fact that one cannot escape from the body-snatching pods is indicated by the director, Don Siegel, in the way the pods are hidden before they take over the minds of the humans. We see them in basements, automobile trunks, a greenhouse, and on a pool table. That the pods are virtually indestructible is shown by Dr. Miles Bennel’s repeated attempts to destroy them. When Miles discovers the pods growing in the greenhouse, we are shown a ritual vampire killing. The camera is low in the point of view of the pod. We see Miles’s anguished face as he drives the pitchfork down and leaves it like a stake through the heart. But it is not enough. Other pods appear in his trunk. He burns them in much the same way we have seen so many monsters burning in films, only to rise again in a sequel. The pods are not traditional terrors; they are indestructible modern terrors. There is no catharsis in the presentation of a monster being destroyed by love or religious ritual. Here it is the monsters who will prevail. Siegel expects that his warning of a ‘‘pod invasion’’ will not be heeded. This is indicated in the film in a variety of ways. Perhaps the most striking is that of the small boy, Jimmy Grimaldi, whom we meet along with Miles at the beginning of the picture. As Jimmy runs down the road, he is stopped by Miles. Jimmy informs him that Mrs. Grimaldi (who has become a pod) is not his mother any more. Miles doesn’t believe him. The world will not believe him and eventually the boy becomes a pod. Near the end of the film we also see Miles running down the road, searching for someone to tell that the people of Santa Mira (the very name of the town—‘‘mira’’ in Spanish means ‘‘look’’—calls attention to itself, and cries to be understood or heeded as a warning) have been consumed by pods. Like Jimmy, we know Miles will not be believed. A sense of impending doom, or a sense of helplessness in combating the pods, is indicated by depicting Miles as constantly being driven into dark corners and forced to hide. His world is threatened by the pods, and he is reduced to constricted areas of existence. For example, he and Becky Driscoll have to hide in a closet in his office; the camera moves with them into the closet. Through a small hole in the door we see a human-turned-pod turn on a light outside. Later Miles and Becky are forced to hide in a hole in the floor of a cave which they cover with boards. We see the pod people rush over them from Miles’s and Becky’s point of view. In effect, the places to run have been repeatedly reduced and we suffer the confinement of choices with the protagonists. One of the most striking and famous sequences in the film is where Miles, having finally escaped from Santa Mira, suddenly finds himself on a highway with hundreds of cars passing him, full of people who are unwilling to listen to him, and thus unwilling to save themselves. The setting is dark with Miles in a sea of machines; the people are hiding within these machines, perhaps the first step toward becoming pods. As he stands on the highway, a truck passes with the names of various cities on it. In the truck, Miles finds the pods, and he realizes they are being taken to the big cities listed on the side of the truck. We feel as hopeless in the face of the image as Miles. Finally, an important contribution to the total power of the film lies in the performances. Kevin McCarthy (as Miles) conveys a grow- ing frenzy combined with an unfaltering sense of determination. A less restrained actor might well have proved a disaster. The other actors have the burden of appearing normal while at the same time suggesting that they are not. It is in the performances that this ambiguity is carried. Siegel seldom relies on low key lighting, ominous shadows, radical camera angles or shock cutting to carry the terror of the situation. It is in the matter-of-fact quality of the presentation that the film holds its power; and it is Siegel’s handling of actors which contributes considerably to the film which Leslie ISTORIA ASI KLIACHINOIFILMS, 4 th EDITION 571 Halliwell calls ‘‘the most subtle film in the science-fiction cycle, with no visual horror whatever.’’ —Stuart M. Kaminsky THE ISLAND See HADAKA NO SHIMA ISTORIA ASI KLIACHINOI KOTORAIA LUBILA DA NIE VYSHLA ZAMUZH (The Story of Asia Kliachina Who Loved but Didn’t Get Mar- ried; Asya’s Happiness) USSR, 1967/1987 Director: Andrei Konchalovsky Production: Mosfilm; black and white; running time: 99 minutes; length: 2713 meters. Finished December 1966; received censorship permit for distribution, March 1967; restored and released, 1987. Screenplay: Yuri Klepikov; photography: Georgy Rerberg; art director: Michael Romadin; music: Viacheslav Ovchinnikov; sound: Raisa Margacheva. Cast: Iia Savvina (Asia); Aleksander Surin (Stepan); Liubov Sokolova (Maria); Gennadii Jegorychev, Michail Krylov, Nickolai Nazarov, Ludmila Zaiceva, Ivan Petrov, Boris Parfenov, and others. Award: FIPRESSI Award—Honorable Mention, Berlin Interna- tional Film Festival, 1988. Publications Books: Konchalovsky, Andrei, Parabola zamysla (Parabola of Concept), Moscow, 1977. Zorkaya, Neya, The Illustrated History of Soviet Cinema, New York, 1989. Fomin, Valery, Polka (Shelf), Moscow, 1992. Articles: ‘‘Istoria Asi Kliachinoi,’’ in Variety Film Reviews, Vol. 15, New York, 1983. Zorkaya, Neya, ‘‘Ne stoit selo bez pravednicy,’’ in Iskusstvo Kino (Moscow), no. 1, 1989. Canby, Vincent, ‘‘Fable of Life on Collective Farm,’’ in New York Times Film Reviews, 1987–1988, New York, 1990. *** Istoria Asi Kliachinoi kotoraia lubila da nie vyshla zamuzh (The Story of Asia Kliachina Who Loved but Didn’t Get Married) has a long and troubled history. Production was completed in late 1966 and the film was approved by Soviet censors for release in March of 1967, but then, after numerous revisions, changes, and edits, it never was released. Movie fans had to wait twenty years, until 1987, for their first opportunity to view the film. Even the name of the film was changed numerous times: At first, it was to be called Istoria Asi Khromonozhki (Asia, the Lame One). Then it was renamed The Story of Asia Kliachina, Who Loved, but Didn’t Get Married because She Was Too Proud. After a number of revisions, the film was given the more optimistic title Asia’s Happi- ness. When it was finally released in 1987 it bore the title The Story of Asia Kliachina, Who Loved, but Didn’t Get Married. Yuri Klepikov’s screenplay was entitled ‘‘The Year of the Tranquil Sun.’’ During the discussion phase of the script by the Committee on Cinematography (the organization which exercised total control over the movie industry in the Soviet Union), the disorder of the protagonists’ lives, the crudeness of their speech, and the stark realism of many of the scenes in the movie were called into question. In preparing the director’s script, Andrei Konchalovsky (also known as Andrei Mikhalkov-Konchalovsky) was compelled to make a series of correc- tions, change some scenes, and eliminate others. Filming began in the summer of 1966. The entire film was shot on location in the village of Bezvodnoe in the Gorky region. It was shot using multiple cameras, almost without retakes, since the majority of the ‘‘actors’’ were non-professionals—they were real collective farm workers from the Gorky and Voronezh regions. There were only three professional actors in the film: Iia Savvina, Liubov Sokolov, and Alexander Surin. By December, the film’s editing had been com- pleted and it was shown to filmmakers. The film astounded the professionals. It seemed at the time that the documentary style of filming and the surprisingly truthful, forthright depiction of the lives of the people, heretofore unseen in Soviet cinema, would open brand new paths for Russian filmmakers. This film, from a creative standpoint, further developed the traditions of Italian neorealism, the achievements of the ‘‘thaw’’ period (the 1960s), and the successes of Russian ‘‘village’’ prose (Rasputin, Belov, Abramov, Shukshin). We must also remember that at this same time the tragic story of the banning of Andrei Tarkovsky’s film Andrei Rublev, one of the screenwriters of which had been Andrei Konchalovsky, was being played out. But while Tarkovsky refused to give in to the demands of the authorities and was able to defend his prized work, Konchalovsky agreed to make extensive edits and drastic changes. As a result, Rublev was finally released, while Asia had to wait twenty years to be seen. This is understandable: Tarkovsky’s historical fresco, from an ideological standpoint, was far less dangerous in the eyes of the Soviet authorities than the dismal depiction of contemporary life in the Russian villages. Among the many criticisms of the film were its pessimism, the poverty of collective farm life, the disorderly lives of its heroes, the crassness of their language, drunkenness, and the naturalism of many of its scenes (including the rape scene, the scene of Asia’s attempted suicide, and the childbirth scene.) And although the film was offi- cially passed by the censors (#2047/67 on March 1, 1967), it was never released for viewing. The campaign mounted against the film included not only the Party leader of the Gorky region, but also the ISTORIA ASI KLIACHINOI FILMS, 4 th EDITION 572 Istoria Asi Kliachinoi kotoraia lubila da nie vyshla zamuzh chairman of the KGB. The director submitted ‘‘corrected’’ versions of the film three times and each time more and more scenes were cut, dialogue was rewritten, songs were added, etc. For example, the director changed the reason for old man Tikhomir’s eight-year absence from the village (he had been in a concentration camp), and shortened the childbirth scene and the scene of the attempted rape, among other things. The final version of the film (running approxi- mately 90 minutes) was considerably different from the original version, but even it did not suit the Party leadership. At the center of the film is the lame collective farm cook Asia. As played by Iia Savvina, Asia is a truly Russian character: kind, hard- working, loving, lonely, but proud. Although she is the target of endless derision from her fellow villagers (she is, after all, a cripple), Asia is optimistic and is certain of what she wants out of life. She lives in a dark hut with her great grandmother, grandmother, mother, and niece. There are no men in the house: a typical situation in Russia as the result of war. She lives according to her conscience and for love. She is in love with a shallow, stupid guy named Stepan who treats her contemptibly and has no intention of ever marrying her. A man named Chirkunov arrives from the city and offers Asia his hand in marriage and a comfortable life in a city apartment with indoor plumbing. But Asia does not love him and turns her suitor down. In desperation, Chirkunov tries to rape the pregnant Asia. The birth of her child (which in the first version of the film is a very intense and naturalistic scene) transforms Asia. From a slave to Stepan, she becomes a proud, independent woman and mother: she now has a child, a purpose in life. The talented acting of Iia Savvina made her indistinguishable from the non-professionals in the film. In addition to the main story line of Asia’s life, the film also contains a number of mass scenes (collecting the harvest, the making of the first bread, seeing a gypsy off to the army, and others), and also three dramatic monologues about life filmed in cinema verite style with a practically still camera, and total naturalness, simplicity, and sincerity on the part of the storyteller. The first story is told by a crippled war veteran, the second by the hunch-backed chairman of a collective farm, and the third by the old man, Tikhomir, who spent eight years in a Stalinist labor camp. These people lived through very hard times, but had not lost their dignity and optimism. Here, contemporary life was closely intertwined with the themes of war, Stalinist repressions, death, and love. Official Soviet songs are played, but no one listens to them. Yet when the women begin singing a folk song, everyone enthusiastically IT HAPPENED ONE NIGHTFILMS, 4 th EDITION 573 joins in. The film’s rich soundtrack includes the news being con- stantly broadcast on the radio, the roar of jet fighters flying overhead, shooting exercises, and tanks rolling by. In Parabola of Concept, Konchalovsky reveals some of the principles that guided his work on this film. At its core was the use of improvisation. Other integral components were black-and-white im- ages; the use of non-professional actors; the use of two or three cameras at once to shoot the film; the simultaneous recording of the sound; the filming of entire episodes without any cutaway shots and subsequent montage; and the predominance of wide angles, rather than close-ups. The entire film was shot in natural interiors or on location. All of these factors ‘‘created the feeling of authenticity, spontane- ity, the sense of getting a glimpse of a true slice of life’’ that the director sought to achieve. The revisions which Konchalovsky was forced to make were undoubtedly a detriment to the film. Elements were introduced that were typical of Soviet propaganda cinematography at the time (the scene of the first bread, the optimistic Soviet songs, the soldiers who help get Asia to the hospital where she gave birth, and others). As a result of the edits, it became difficult to understand what was going on in the suicide scene and old man Tikhomir’s story about the Stalinist camps was abridged to the bare minimum. In 1987, the decision was made to restore the original version of the film and release it for viewing. However, the director was unable to completely reconstruct the original version. The Story of Asia Kliachina has joined the ranks of a number of important films of world cinema which became legendary before they were ever seen by the public. —Val Golovskoy IT HAPPENED ONE NIGHT USA, 1934 Director: Frank Capra Production: Columbia Pictures Corp.; black and white, 35mm; running time: 105 minutes. Released 23 February 1934. Filmed between Thanksgiving and Christmas 1933. Producer: Harry Cohn; screenplay: Robert Riskin, from the story ‘‘Night Bus’’ by Samuel Hopkins Adams; photography: Joseph Walker; editor: Gene Havlick; sound recordist: E. E. Bernds; art director: Stephen Gooson; music director: Louis Silvers; costume designer: Robert Kalloch. Cast: Clark Gable (Peter Warne); Claudette Colbert (Ellie Andrews); Walter Connolly (Alexander Andrews); Roscoe Karns (Mr. Shapely); Jameson Thomas (King Westley); Alan Hale (Danker); Wallis Clark (Lovington); Harry Bradley (Henderson); Arthur Hoyt (Zeke); Blanche Frederic (Zeke’s wife); Ward Bond (Bus driver). Awards: Oscars for Best Picture, Best Actor (Gable), Best Actress (Colbert), Best Directing, and Best Writing—Adaptation, 1934. Publications Script: Riskin, Robert, It Happened One Night, in Four-Star Scripts, edited by Lorraine Noble, New York, 1936. Books: Griffith, Richard, Frank Capra, London, 1951. Essoe, Gabe, The Films of Clark Gable, New York, 1970. Capra, Frank, The Name above the Title, New York, 1971. Silke, James, Frank Capra: One Man—One Film, Washington, D.C., 1971. Willis, Donald, The Films of Frank Capra, Metuchen, New Jer- sey, 1974. Glatzer, Richard, and John Raeburn, editors, Frank Capra: The Man and His Films, Ann Arbor, 1975. Poague, Leland, The Cinema of Frank Capra, New York, 1975. Scherle, Victor, and William Turner Levy, The Films of Frank Capra, Secaucus, New Jersey, 1977. Garceau, Jean, and Inez Cooke, Gable: A Pictorial Biography, New York, 1977. Malard, Charles J., American Visions: The Films of Chaplin, Ford, Capra and Welles, New York, 1977. Bohnenkamp, Dennis, and Sam Gross, Frank Capra Study Guide, Washington, D.C., 1979. Malard, Charles, Frank Capra, Boston, 1980. Giannetti, Louis, Masters of the American Cinema, Englewood Cliffs, New Jersey, 1981. Cavell, Stanley, Pursuits of Happiness: The Hollywood Comedy of Remarriage, Cambridge, Massachusetts, 1981. Fearfar, R., Clark Gable, Paris, 1981. Quirk, Lawrence, Claudette Colbert: An Illustrated Biography, New York, 1985. Zagarrio, Vito, Frank Capra, Florence, 1985. Carney, Raymond, American Vision: The Films of Frank Capra, Cambridge, 1986; 1996. Wolfe, Charles, Frank Capra: A Guide to References and Resources, Boston, 1987. McBride, Joseph, American Madness: The Life of Frank Capra, New York, 1989. Lourdeaux, Lee, Italian & Irish Filmmakers in America: Ford, Capra, Coppola and Scorsese, Springfield, 1993. Wayne, Jane Ellen, Clark Gable, New York, 1994. Gehring, Wes D., Populism and the Capra Legacy, Westport, 1995. Girus, Sam B., Hollywood Renaissance: The Cinema of Democracy in the Era of Ford, Capra, and Kazan, Cambridge, 1998. Sklar, Robert, editor, Frank Capra: Authorship and the Studio System, Philadelphia, 1998. Articles: Hall, Mordaunt, in New York Times, 23 February 1934. Variety (New York), 27 February 1934. Baskette, Kirtley, in Photoplay (New York), December 1934. IT HAPPENED ONE NIGHT FILMS, 4 th EDITION 574 It Happened One Night Interview with Frank Capra, in Motion Picture (New York), July 1935. Agee, James, ‘‘Comedy’s Greatest Era,’’ in Life (New York), 4 Sep- tember 1949. Films and Filming (London), May-June 1958. Clarens, Carlos, ‘‘Clark Gable,’’ in Films in Review (New York), December 1960. Martin, Marcel, in Lettres Fran?aises (Paris), 27 December 1962. Price, James, ‘‘Capra and the American Dream,’’ in London Maga- zine, January 1964. Richards, Jeffrey, ‘‘Frank Capra and the Cinema of Populism,’’ in Cinema (London), February 1970. Pacheco, Joseph B., Jr., ‘‘Claudette Colbert,’’ in Films in Review (New York), May 1970. Thompson, Howard, ‘‘Capra, 74, Looks Back at Film Career,’’ in New York Times, 24 June 1971. ‘‘Capra Issue’’ of Positif (Paris), December 1971. Handzo, Stephen, ‘‘A Decade of Good Deeds and Wonderful Lives: Under Capracorn,’’ in Film Comment (New York), November- December 1972. Stein, Elliott, ‘‘Capra Counts His Oscars,’’ in Sight and Sound (London), vol. 41, no. 3, 1972. Corliss, Richard, ‘‘Capra and Riskin,’’ in Film Comment (New York), November-December 1972. Richards, Jeffrey, ‘‘Frank Capra: The Classic Populist,’’ in Visions of Yesterday, London, 1973. Sklar, Robert, ‘‘The Making of Cultural Myths: Walt Disney and Frank Capra,’’ in Movie-Made America, New York, 1975. Manns, T., in Chaplin (Stockholm), no. 4, 1976. Poague, Leland, ‘‘As You Like It and It Happened One Night: The Generic Pattern of Comedy,’’ in Literature/Film Quarterly (Salis- bury, Maryland), Fall 1977. Gehring, Wes, ‘‘McCarey vs. Capra: A Guide to American Film Comedy of the ‘30s,’’ in Journal of Popular Film and Television (Washington, D.C.), vol. 7, no. 1, 1978. Brown, G., in Monthly Film Bulletin (London), February 1978. Interview with Frank Capra, in American Film (Washington, D.C.), October 1978. Phelps, G.A., ‘‘The ‘Populist’ Films of Frank Capra,’’ in Journal of American Studies (London), no. 3, 1979. Self, L., and R. Self, ‘‘Adaptation as Rhetorical Process: It Happened One Night and Mr. Deeds Goes to Town,’’ in Film Criticism (Edinboro, Pennsylvania), Winter 1981. IT’S A WONDERFUL LIFEFILMS, 4 th EDITION 575 Frank, Sam, ‘‘Robert Riskin,’’ in American Screenwriters, edited by Robert E. Morsberger, Stephen O. Lesser, and Randall Clark, Detroit, 1984. Journal of Popular Film and Television (Washington, D.C.), Autumn 1985. Tobin, Yann, in Positif (Paris), December 1986. Reid’s Film Index (Wyong), no. 3, 1989. Ching, B., and R. Barnard, ‘‘From Screwballs to Cheeseballs: Comic Narrative and Ideology in Capra and Reiner,’’ in New Orleans Review, no. 3, 1990. Shumway, D. R., ‘‘Screwball Comedies: Constructing Romance, Mystifying Marriage,’’ in Cinema Journal (Austin, Texas), no. 4, 1991. Hicks, J., ‘‘Frank Capra,’’ in Films in Review (New York), January- February 1993. Sibley, Brian, ‘‘The Wonderful Mr. Capra,’’ in Radio Times (Lon- don), vol. 294, no. 3819, 12 April 1997. Mistichelli, Bill, ‘‘The State of the Union: Capra, Altruism, and the Sociobiologists,’’ in Journal of Popular Film and Television, vol. 25, no. 3, Fall 1997. Premiere (Boulder), vol. 10, May 1997. *** It Happened One Night is the film generally credited with launch- ing the ‘‘screwball comedy’’ genre popular in the 1930s and 1940s. A difficult genre to define, the screwball comedy revolves around the characters’ contradictory desires for individual identity and complete union in heterosexual romance. The films pit the couple’s erotic moments of courtship against their verbal combats, battles of wit spiced with rapid-fire, brilliant repartee. Because of the resurgence of censorship in 1934 coupled with an American reluctance to be frank about sex, screwball comedies capitalized on the necessity to mask and to express verbally sexual tensions and conflicts. Screwball comedies usually relied upon a final reconciliation or marriage to establish the couple’s unity but undercut it as a resolution to the couple’s ongoing differences. It Happened One Night established these generic rules and provided a model for incorporating into a comic structure attitudes, fears, and tensions about social, sexual, and economic roles. It Happened One Night, the story of a runaway madcap heiress who is befriended by an individualistic journalist so he can ‘‘scoop’’ her story, simply adapted for a Depression-era context a popular movie formula of the 1920s. Movies such as Dancing Mothers or A Woman of the World presented man-woman, husband-wife relation- ships in which both parties were witty, intelligent, charming, and thoroughly at odds with each other. Unlike the screwball comedies that arose later, these films extolled aristocratic life styles and proper behavior while resolving the sexual issues on superficial terms. German-emigré director Ernst Lubitsch strengthened the structural integrity of the formula and created the prototype for the screwball comedy in Trouble in Paradise and Design for Living. Impressed and influenced by Lubitsch’s films, Frank Capra borrowed the comic romantic structure that Lubitsch had evolved in order to deal with middle-class sexual and social proprieties. But Capra used the for- mula as a vehicle for the resolution of all economic and social differences in one vast American middle class united by the virtues of caring and sharing. Capra’s simple Depression-era philosophy, often labelled ‘‘Capra- corn,’’ is conveyed in It Happened One Night as a modern folk tale reversal of Cinderella. Rich girl Ellie Andrews flees her father so she can marry the worthless playboy of her dreams. Penniless and thrown on her own, she runs into the out-of-work ace reporter Peter Warne. In exchange for her ‘‘story,’’ Warne helps her return to the playboy. Traveling by bus, foot, and auto across the backroads of 1930s America, they discover a mutual independence of spirit, feistiness, and resiliance. Warne gets the story, Andrews gets her playboy, but both discover that what they had really been seeking they had found in each other. The rich girl ultimately gets the poor boy proving that even the wealthy, if given a chance, will subscribe to the working class values that were deemed a prescription for fighting the Depression. One of the most successful films of its time, It Happened One Night is in its making and reception a ‘‘rags-to-riches’’ story. When Capra first proposed the film based on a story serialized in Cosmo- politan, Columbia Pictures executives disliked the idea and thought that the fad had passed for bus movies. At least five Hollywood stars turned down the leading roles. Colbert initially hated the picture, and Gable only made the movie because angry MGM executive Louis B. Mayer had loaned him to Columbia as a punishment. When the finished film finally opened, poor reviews and indifferent moviegoers led to the movie’s closing after only one week. The film resurfaced, however, and went on to win the top five Academy Awards. The film made stars of Colbert, Gable, and Capra, and Gable’s bare-chested appearance in one scene has been said to be responsible for a 50 percent drop in undershirt sales within the year. Critics have since tried to explain the secret of the film’s enduring popularity. They have generally credited Capra with inventing a message that audiences wanted to hear. The nutty romance, a down-to-earth courtship that maintains a spirit of crazy adventure in spite of adversities, showed audiences then as well as today, as critic Andrew Sarris said, ‘‘the private fun a man and a woman could have in a private world of their own making.’’ —Lauren Rabinovitz AN ITALIAN STRAW HAT See UN CHAPEAU DE PAILLE D’ITALIE IT’S A WONDERFUL LIFE USA, 1946 Director: Frank Capra Production: Liberty Films; black and white, 35mm; running time: 129 minutes. Released 1946 by RKO/Radio. Producer: Frank Capra; screenplay: Frances Goodrich, Albert Hackett, and Frank Capra with additional scenes by Jo Swerling, from the story ‘‘The Greatest Gift’’ by Philip Doren Stern; photography: Joseph Walker and Joseph Biroc; editor: William Hornbeck; sound: Rich- ard Van Hessen, Clem Portman, and John Aalberg; art director: Jack Okey; music: Dmitri Tiomkin; special effects: Russell A. Cully; costume designer: Edward Stevenson. IT’S A WONDERFUL LIFE FILMS, 4 th EDITION 576 It’s a Wonderful Life Cast: James Stewart (George Bailey); Donna Reed (Mary Hatch); Lionel Barrymore (Mr. Potter); Thomas Mitchell (Uncle Billy); Henry Travers (Clarence); Beulah Bondi (Mrs. Bailey); Gloria Grahame (Violet Bick); H. B. Warner (Mr. Gower); Ward Bond (Bert); Frank Faylan (Ernie); Samuel S. Hinds (Pa Bailey); Mary Treen (Cousin Tilly); Frank Hagney (Bodyguard); Sheldon Leonard (Nick); Alfalfa Switzer (Freddie). Publications Script: Goodrich, Frances, and others, in The ‘‘It’s a Wonderful Life’’ Book, edited by Jeanine Basinger, New York, 1986. Books: Griffith, Richard, Frank Capra, London, 1951. Jones, Ken, D., The Films of James Stewart, New York, 1970. Capra, Frank, The Name above the Title, New York, 1971. Silke, James, Frank Capra: One Man—One Film, Washington, D.C., 1971. Willis, Donald, The Films of Frank Capra, Metuchen, New Jer- sey, 1974. Thompson, Howard, James Stewart, New York, 1974. Glatzer, Richard, and John Raeburn, editors, Frank Capra: The Man and His Films, Ann Arbor, 1975. Poague, Leland, The Cinema of Frank Capra, New York, 1975. Scherle, Victor, and William Levy, The Films of Frank Capra, Secaucus, New Jersey, 1975. Malard, Charles J., American Visions: The Films of Chaplin, Ford, Capra, and Welles, New York, 1977. Bohnenhamp, Dennis, and Sam Grogg, Frank Capra Study Guide, Washington, D.C., 1979. Malard, Charles, Frank Capra, Boston, 1980. Giannetti, Louis, Masters of the American Cinema, Englewood Cliffs, New Jersey, 1981. Eyles, Allen, James Stewart, London, 1984. Hunter, Allan, James Stewart, New York, 1985. Robbins, Jhan, Everybody’s Man: A Biography of Jimmy Stewart, New York, 1985. Zagarrio, Vito, Frank Capra, Florence, 1985. Ray, Robert B., A Certain Tendency of the Hollywood Cinema 1930–80, Princeton, 1985. Carney, Raymond, American Vision: The Films of Frank Capra, Cambridge, 1986. IT’S A WONDERFUL LIFEFILMS, 4 th EDITION 577 Wolfe, Charles, Frank Capra: A Guide to References and Resources, Boston, 1987. McBride, Joseph, American Madness: The Life of Frank Capra, New York, 1989. Lourdeaux, Lee, Italian & Irish Filmmakers in America: Ford, Capra, Coppola & Scorsese, Springfield, 1993. Gehring, Wes D., Populism and the Capra Legacy, Westport, Con- necticut, 1995. Hawkins, Jimmy, It’s a Wonderful Life: The Anniversary Scrapbook, Philadelphia, 1996. Hawkins, Jimmy, It’s a Wonderful Life Trivia, New York, 1997. Thomas, Tony, A Wonderful Life: The Films and Career of James Stewart, Secaucus, 1997. Girus, Sam B., Hollywood Renaissance: The Cinema of Democracy in the Era of Ford, Capra, and Kazan, Cambridge, 1998. Sklar, Robert, editor, Frank Capra: Authorship and the Studio System, Philadelphia, 1998. Quirk, Lawrence J., James Stewart: Behind the Scenes of a Wonderful Life, New York, 1999. Articles: New York Times, 23 December 1946. Variety (New York), 25 December 1946. Parsons, L. Q., in Cosmopolitan (New York), January 1947. Mannock, P. L., in Films and Filming (London), September 1956. Price, James, ‘‘Capra and the American Dream,’’ in London Maga- zine, January 1964. Sweigart, William R., ‘‘James Stewart,’’ in Films in Review (New York), December 1964. ‘‘Capra Issue’’ of Positif (Paris), December 1971. Handzo, Stephen, ‘‘A Decade of Good Deeds and Wonderful Lives: Under Capracorn,’’ in Film Comment (New York), November- December 1972. Richards, Jeffrey, ‘‘Frank Capra and the Cinema of Populism,’’ in Cinema (London), February 1970. Bergman, Mark, ‘‘The Telephone Company, the Nation, and Perhaps the World,’’ in Velvet Light Trap (Madison, Wisconsin), Winter 1971–72. Richards, Jeffrey, ‘‘Frank Capra: The Classic Populist,’’ in Visions of Yesterday, London, 1973. Sklar, Robert, ‘‘The Making of Cultural Myths: Walt Disney and Frank Capra,’’ in Movie-Made American, New York, 1975. Rose, B., ‘‘It’s a Wonderful Life: The Stand of the Capra Hero,’’ in Journal of Popular Culture (Bowling Green, Ohio), vol. 6, no. 2, 1977. Wood, Robin, ‘‘Ideology, Genre, Auteur,’’ in Film Comment (New York), January-February 1977. Quart, Leonard, ‘‘Frank Capra and the Popular Front,’’ in Cineaste (New York), Summer 1977. Phelps, G. A., ‘‘The ‘Populist’ Films of Frank Capra,’’ in Journal of American Studies (London), no. 3, 1979. Scheer, R., ‘‘Double Vision: TV Remakes Frank Capra,’’ in Journal of Popular Film (Washington, D.C.), 1980. Dickstein, M., ‘‘It’s a Wonderful Life, But,’’ in American Film (Washington, D.C.), May 1980. Silverman, K., in Framework (Norwich), Spring 1981. ‘‘Capra Issue’’ of Film Criticism (Edinboro, Pennsylvania), Win- ter 1981. ‘‘Capra Issue’’ of Positif (Paris), July-August 1982. Rodrig, A., in Cinématographe (Paris), December 1983. Ahrlich, Evelyn, ‘‘Frances Goodrich and Albert Hackett,’’ in Ameri- can Screenwriters, edited by Robert E. Morsberger, Stephen O. Lesser, and Randall Clark, Detroit, 1984. Weinberger, M., in Cinéma (Paris), January 1984. Napoleon, D., ‘‘Wonderful Life: Broadway Bound,’’ in American Film (Washington, D.C.), May 1986. Film Comment (New York), November-December 1986. Raynes, Doug, ‘‘It’s a Wonderful Life,’’ in Soundtrack!, vol. 8, no. 29, March 1989. Rothman, William, ‘‘Hollywood and the Rise of Suburbia,’’ in East- West Film Journal (Honolulu), vol. 3, no. 2, June 1989. Lamm, R., ‘‘Can We Laugh at God? Apocalyptic Comedy in Film,’’ in Journal of Popular Film and Television (Washington, D.C.), vol. 19, no. 2, Summer 1991. Gordon, A., ‘‘You’ll Never Get Out of Bedford Falls! The Inescap- able Family in American Science Fiction and Fantasy Films,’’ in Journal of Popular Film and Television (Washington, D.C.), vol. 20, no. 2, Summer 1992. Diski, Jenny, ‘‘Curious Tears,’’ in Sight & Sound (London), vol. 2, no. 4, August 1992. Gysin, C., ‘‘The Real George Bailey,’’ in Premiere (Boulder), vol. 6, January 1993. Magny, Jo?l, ‘‘La vie est belle: Frank Capra,’’ in Cahiers du Cinéma (Paris), Hors-série, 1993. Clements, M., ‘‘My Technology’s Turnaround,’’ in Premiere (Boul- der), vol. 8, November 1994. Nicola?, M., ‘‘Les anges du ciné,’’ in Télérama (Paris), no. 2345, 21 December 1994. Herwitz, D., ‘‘Expectations of Mastery,’’ in Spectator (Los Angeles), vol. 16, no. 2, 1996. Fallows, Randall, ‘‘George Bailey is the Vital Center: Postwar Liberal Politics and It’s a Wonderful Life,’’ in Journal of Popular Film & Television (Washington, D.C.), vol. 25, no. 2, Sum- mer 1997. Alter, J., ‘‘It’s a Wonderful Legacy,’’ in Newsweek, vol. 130, 14 July 1997. Deneen, P.J., ‘‘George Bailey’s Secret Life,’’ in Commonweal, vol. 124, 19 December 1997. *** When Frank Capra returned to Hollywood after coordinating the Why We Fight propaganda series during the war, he resumed the total artistic control over his films for which he had fought during the 1930s. It’s a Wonderful Life was made for Liberty Films, the production company organized by Capra, George Stevens, William Wyler and Sam Briskin. The film exemplifies the concept of the independent producer-director, and Capra has called it his favorite film. In the year of its release its importance was overshadowed by Wyler’s The Best Years of Our Lives (not made for Liberty Films), but it has since gone on to be one of the most frequently revived of Capra’s works. The impetus and structure of It’s a Wonderful Life recall the familiar model of Capra’s pre-war successes. Mr. Deeds Goes to Town, Mr. Smith Goes to Washington and Meet John Doe. In each of these films, the hero represents a civic ideal and is opposed by the forces of corruption. His identity, at some point misperceived, is finally acclaimed by the community at large. The pattern receives perhaps its darkest treatment in It’s a Wonderful Life. The film’s IVAN GROZNY FILMS, 4 th EDITION 578 conventions and dramatic conceits are misleading. An idyllic repre- sentation of small-town America, a guardian angel named Clarence and a Christmas Eve apotheosis seem to justify the film’s perennial screenings during the holiday season. These are the signs of the ingenuous optimism for which Capra is so often reproached. Yet they function in the same way ‘‘happy endings’’ do in Moliere, where the artifice of perfect resolution is in ironic disproportion to the realities of human nature at the core of the plays. George Bailey is presumably living the ‘‘wonderful life’’ of the title. Having abandoned his ambition to become an architect in order to run a building- and loan- association, and facing arrest for a dis- crepancy in the books, George is on the verge of suicide. His guardian angel offers him the chance to find out what would have happened had he not been born. George then sees the town as a nightmarish vision of corruption. No one knows him. Even his mother, a benevolent image through the rest of the film, appears hard-bitten and cruel, and refuses to recognize him in a scene that dramatizes a primal identity crisis. George does regain his identity and is euphorically acknowledged by everyone. But this joyous finale caps a film that so often represents pain and despair—from a slap that draws blood from young George’s ear, to a marriage proposal expressed in utter frustration, to the images (both inside and outside the fantasy section of the film) of George in a rage, furious with himself and with those he loves. Here, as in Mr. Smith Goes to Washington, James Stewart embodies the hysterical energy of Capra’s quintessential American hero, thereby conveying, along with the director, the ambiguities of the American dream along with its promises. —Charles Affron IVAN GROZNY (Ivan the Terrible) USSR, 1944 (Part I: Ivan Grozny) and 1958 (Part II: Boyarskii Zagovor—The Boyars’ Plot) Director: Sergei Eisenstein Production: Part I—Alma-Ata Studio, Part II—Mosfilm Studio; Part I—black and white, 35mm, Part II—black and white and Agfacolor, 35mm; length: Part I—2745 meters, Part II—2373 meters. Released Part I—1944, Part II—1958. Shooting for Part I was begun 1 Febru- ary 1943; Part II was shot September-December 1945, though not released until 1958. Scenario: Sergei Eisenstein; photography: A. Moskvine and E. Tisse; editor: E. Tobak; sound: V. Bogdankevitch and B. Volsky; production designer: I. Chpinel; music: Sergei Prokofiev; songs: V. Louzowsky; costume designers: L. Naoumova and N. Bouzina for Part I, and L. Naoumova and M. Safonova for Part II; ballet choreographer: R. Zakharov. Cast: N. Tcherkassov (Ivan); M. Jarov (Maluta Skouratov); A. Boutchma (Alexei Basmanov); M. Kouznetzov (Fedor Basmanov); Kolychev (Monk Philippe); A. Mguebrov (Pimen, Architect of Novgorod); V. Balachov (Piotr Volynetz); S. Birman (Efrossinia Staritzka?a); P. Kadotchnikov (Vladimir Andrevitch); M. Nazvanov (Prince Andrei Kourbsky) (Part II only); P. Massalsky (Sigismond, King of Pologne) (Part II only); Erik Pyriev (Ivan as a child) (Part II only); L. Tzelikovska?a (Czarina Anastassia Romanovna) (Part I only); Vladimir Staritsky (Son of Staritzka?a) (Part I only); M. Mikha?lov (Archdeacon) (Part I only); V. Pudovkin (Nikolai) (Part I only); S. Timochenko (Ambassador of the Livonien Order) (Part I only); A. Roumnev (The Stranger) (Part I only). Publications Script: Eisenstein, Sergei, Ivan the Terrible: A Screenplay, New York, 1962; script of unpublished third part published in Avant-Scène du Cinéma (Paris), nos. 50–51, 1965. Books: Eisenstein, Sergei, Film Sense, edited by Jay Leyda, New York, 1942. Eisenstein, Sergei, Film Form, edited by Jay Leyda, New York, 1948. Seton, Marie, Sergei Eisenstein, London 1952. Eisenstein, Sergei, Notes of a Film Director, London, 1959. Leyda, Jay, Kino: A History of the Russian and Soviet Film, Lon- don, 1960. Moussinac, Leon, Sergei Eisenstein: An Investigation into His Films and Philosophy, New York, 1970. Barna, Yon, Eisenstein, Bloomington, Indiana, 1973. Fernandez, Dominique, Eisenstein, Paris, 1975. Sudendorf, W., and others, Sergei M. Eisenstein: Materialen zu Leben und Werk, Munich, 1975. Swallow, N., Eisenstein: A Documentary Portrait, London, 1976. Mitry, Jean, S. M. Eisenstein, Paris, 1978. Aumont, Jacques, Montage Eisenstein, Paris, 1979; translated as Montage Eisenstein, London, 1987. Thompson, Kristin, Eisenstein’s Ivan the Terrible: A Neoformalist Analysis, Princeton, 1981. Leyda, Jay, and Zina Vignow, Eisenstein at Work, New York, 1982. Eisenstein, Sergei M., Immoral Memories: An Autobiography, Bos- ton, 1983. Marshall, Herbert, Masters of the Soviet Cinema: Crippled Creative Biographies, London, 1983. Polan, Dana B., The Political Language of Film and the Avant-Garde, Ann Arbor, 1985. Montagu, Ivor, With Eisenstein in Hollywood, Merrimac, 1987. Bordwell, David, The Cinema of Eisenstein, Cambridge, 1993. Goodwin, James, Eisenstein, Cinema, and History, Champaign, 1993. Taylor, Richard, editor, The Eisenstein Reader, Bloomington, 1998. Bergan, Ronald, Sergei Eisenstein: A Life in Conflict, New York, 1999. Articles: Maddow, Ben, ‘‘Eisenstein and the Historical Film,’’ in Hollywood Quarterly, October 1945. Chartier, Jean-Pierre, in Revue du Cinéma (Paris), 1 October 1946. Garga, B. D., in Sight and Sound (London), Spring 1958. Weinberg, Herman, in Film Culture (New York), no. 20, 1959. O’Leary, Liam, in Films and Filming (London), January 1959. IVAN GROZNYFILMS, 4 th EDITION 579 Ivan Grozny Leyda, Jay, in Film Quarterly (Berkeley), Spring 1959. Films and Filming (London), November 1959. Mekas, Jonas, in Village Voice (New York), 9 December 1959. Valentin, Gregory, in Films in Review (New York), January 1960. Robinson, David, in Sight and Sound (London), Spring 1960. Yourenev, Rostislav, ‘‘Eisenstein,’’ in Anthologie du Cinéma 44 (Paris), 1964. Gerstein, Evelyn, in Film Comment (New York), Fall 1968. Oudart, Jean-Pierre, in Cahiers du Cinéma (Paris), March 1970. Morse, David, ‘‘Style in Ivan the Terrible,’’ in Monogram, April 1971. Aristarco, G., in Cinema Nuovo (Turin), July-August 1973. Levaco, R., ‘‘The Eisenstein-Prokofiev Correspondence,’’ in Cinema Journal (Evanston, Illinois), Fall 1973. Bordwell, David, ‘‘Eisenstein’s Epistemological Shift,’’ in Screen (London), Winter 1974–75. Thompson, Kristin, ‘‘Ivan the Terrible and Stalinist Russia: A Re- examination,’’ in Cinema Journal (Evanston, Illinois), Fall 1977. Gallez, Douglas W., on the Eisenstein-Prokofiev correspondence, in Cinema Journal (Evanston, Illinois), Spring 1978 (and addenda in Autumn 1978 issue). Machwitz, Z., in Kino (Warsaw), November 1979. Iskusstvo Kino (Moscow), May 1980. Téllez, J. L., ‘‘Ivan Grozni: El abismo y la mascara,’’ in Contrecampo (Madrid), April-June 1981. Kinder, Marsha, ‘‘The Image of Patriarchal Power in Young Mr. Lincoln and Ivan the Terrible, Part I,’’ in Film Quarterly (Berke- ley), Winter 1985–86. Guibbert, Pierre, ‘‘Du vitrail à la scène,’’ in Cahiers de la Cinémathèque (Perpignan), No. 45, 1986. Christie, Ian, in Monthly Film Bulletin (London), December 1987. Pescatore, G., ‘‘La grana del cinema,’’ in Cinema & Cinema (Bolo- gna), January-August 1989. Guneratne, A. R., ‘‘History as Propaganda: The Portrait of Stalin as Medieval Hero, and its Epic Frame,’’ in Cinefocus (Bloomington, Indiana), no. 2, 1990. Costa, A., ‘‘Ivan e la sua ombra (Ejzenstejn, Bazin e la ‘prospettiva rovesciata’),’’ Cinema & Cinema (Bologna), September-Decem- ber 1990. Hoberman, J., ‘‘Cut ups,’’ in Village Voice (New York), 23 March 1993. Griffiths, P., ‘‘Screening the Music,’’ in New Yorker, 31 July 1995. Deltcheva, R., and E. Vlasov, ‘‘From the Wax of History: Leni’s Das Wachsfigurenkabinett and the Cinema of German Expressionism IVAN GROZNY FILMS, 4 th EDITION 580 as a Source for Eisenstein’s Ivan Groznyi,’’ in Studies in the Humanities, vol. 23, no. 1, 1996. Nesbet, Anne, ‘‘Inanimations: Snow White and Ivan the Terrible,’’ in Film Quarterly (Berkeley), vol. 50, no. 4, Summer 1997. *** Ivan the Terrible is in structure an unfinished trilogy of three films: Part I, Ivan the Terrible, Part II, the Boyars, Part III, Ivan’s Struggles. Recent criticism has made the mistake of viewing the two extant parts as one film. Each part presented to Eisenstein different formal and ideological problems which he solved with varying degrees of success; thus, Parts I and II will be considered separately in this essay before any generalizations will be made on the trilogy as a whole. Part I takes up the history of Ivan when he is about to take on the trappings of the Byzantine Emperors and the title of Czar (Caesar) instead of the title of his predecessors—Grand Prince of Moscow. The first scene shows his second coronation—that as Czar. This scene also sets the style of the trilogy, in that it prepares the audience for the extremely stylized expression and gestures modeled on Wagnerian music-drama, Marinsky ballet, and Japanese Kabuki theatre. Further, the first scene acts as a sort of overture introducing the three main themes of the trilogy: the personal life of Ivan; domestic problems within Russia and foreign problems of war and trade. The interweav- ing of these themes into a complex tapestry makes Part I one of the supreme masterpieces of cinematic art. Ivan, in the solitude of absolute power, is often shown seeking companionship; with two friends, Kolychev and Kourbsky, who eventually betray him and side with his enemies, the boyars; in Anastasia, who is poisoned by Efrossinia, the leader of the boyars; and finally, near the end of the film, with the Oprichniki. Problems with the boyars are crucial to the structure and ideology of the work because Ivan seeks to create a monarchy with a centralized power at the expense of the fragmented powers of the aristocracy. The film is an attempt at embodying in art a part of the Marxist theory—the step from the feudal order to the stage in which the urban merchants (that is, budding capitalists) form an alliance with the monarch to break the power of the aristocrats. Of equal importance is Ivan’s desire to change Russia’s foreign policy from that of a princedom to that of an empire. He seeks to break the backs of the Poles and Germans to the west, as well as the Tartars to the south and east. Important too is the idea of foreign trade; for in an essay written in 1928, Eisenstein said that if he ever made a film on Ivan, it would show a ‘‘merchant-czar’’ rather than a character from a horror story by Poe. In Part I, Ivan seeks to establish trade with the other great developing European nation- state—England; but his way is blocked by the Poles and Germans. All three themes come together in the finale of the film: Ivan, after forming the Oprichniki, retreats to a monastery outside Moscow; word is brought that English trading ships have bypassed the Germans and Poles by means of a northern route through the White Sea; and, the townspeople arrive from Moscow to join with their monarch in the great alliance against the boyars. This final scene, which Ivan refers to as his true coronation by the people, formally recapitulates the coronation in the opening scene of the film. The shots of the large figure of the Czar and the tiny figures of the people beyond and below—capture the quintessential relationship between the people and their leader. Part II remains flawed by its problematic genesis: both it and the aborted Part III were to form one film and were to carry forth the three main themes. Unfortunately, the decision was made to divide this original second part into two and expand the material of the boyar’s plot. Part II unfortunately resulted in a hypertrophy of the ‘‘cloak and dagger’’ material. Since Ivan’s final victory against the Poles and the Germans was now saved for the third part, only two out of the three themes were allowed to be developed in the second part. The personal aspects of the Czar, as Eisenstein admitted himself, are developed at the expense of the public figure. At one point, this symbol of ineluctable power all but grovels before his childhood friend Kolychev. The Oprichniki, important figures in his war against the boyars, are shown as mere companions for an orgy. There is nothing inherently wrong with any of these aspects of Ivan’s charac- ter, except that each, when developed out of proportion to the whole sacrifices any formal and psychological integrity found in Part I. The Oprichniki-orgy scene proved to be a perfect chance for Eisenstein to experiment for the first time with color film stock. At several points in this scene, the filmmaker transcends the usual naturalistic use of color in order to suggest psychological states. In keeping with its excessive emphasis on the private man, the second part makes Ivan’s power struggle seem more like a palace soap-opera, and less like a political struggle of national significance. Family jealousies and murder/ revenge become the motive of what in the first part had been a fully rounded historical figure, Ivan IV. Worst of all, the theme of foreign policies is awkwardly tacked onto the conclusion of the film in the form of a speech by Ivan. Taking both parts as a unity, Ivan the Terrible stands as one of the most courageous experiments in film art. The two completed parts of the trilogy (particularly the first) stand as a testimony against film theorists who claim that filmmaking demands by its very nature a realistic approach. Ivan also demonstrates that film can draw upon the other arts and yet not lose its aesthetic integrity. In this work, the great talents of Eisenstein were supplemented by those of the impor- tant Soviet composer Sergei Prokofiev to create a work that can be termed operatic—a film in which words, image, and music achieve a perfect dramatic union. Moreover, Part I taken by itself stands as perhaps the only masterpiece of any art which fully embodies the aesthetics preached by Stalin—namely, Soviet Socialist Realism. The first part of Ivan the Terrible offers a figure who is both positive and fully rounded in human complexities, yet who does not wallow excessively in the darker side of the human psyche. —Rodney Farnsworth 581 J JA CUBA See SOY CUBA J’ACCUSE France, 1919 Director: Abel Gance Production: Charles Pathé (major investor); black and white, 35mm, silent; length: 1500 meters. Released 1919. Cost: about 456,000 francs. Scenario (at least in part): Abel Gance; photography: L. H. Burel, Bujord, and Forster; editor: André Danis; assistant director: Blaise Cendrars. Cast: Séberin Mars (Fran?ois Lauron); Romuald Joubé (Jean Diaz); Maryse Dauvray (Edith); Desjardins; Blaise Cendrars. Publications Script: Gance, Abel, J’accuse, Paris, 1922. Books: Daria, Sophie, Abel Gance, hier et demain, Paris, 1922. Icart, Roger, Abel Gance, Toulouse, 1960. Brownlow, Kevin, The Parade’s Gone By, London and New York, 1969. Sadoul, Georges, French Film, New York, 1972. Monaco, Paul, Cinema and Society: France and Germany during the 20s, New York, 1976. Kramer, Steven, and James Welsh, Abel Gance, Boston, 1978. Icart, Roger, Abel Gance; ou, Le Promethée foudroyé, Lausanne, 1983. King, Norman, Abel Gance: A Politics of Spectacle, London, 1984. Groppali, Enrico, Abel Gance, Florence, 1986. Articles: Kine Weekly (London), 29 April 1920. Bioscope (London), 29 April 1920. New York Times, 10 October 1921. Variety (New York), 14 October 1921. Esnault, Philippe, ‘‘Filmographie d’Abel Gance,’’ in Cahiers du Cinéma (Paris), January 1955. ‘‘Gance Issue’’ of Ecran (Paris), April-May 1958. Brownlow, Kevin, ‘‘Abel Gance: Spark of Genius,’’ in Films and Filming (London), November 1969. Lenning, Arthur, ‘‘The French Film—Abel Gance,’’ in The Silent Voice: A Text (New York), 1969. ‘‘Film as Incantation: An Interview with Abel Gance,’’ in Film Comment (New York), March-April 1974. Kramer, Steven, and James Welsh, ‘‘Abel Gance’s Accusation against War,’’ in Cinema Joursenal (Evanston, Illinois), Spring 1975. Debacker, J., ‘‘Dossier: La Censure, Monsieur J. Brunin: J’Accuse,’’ in Apec-Revue Belge du Cinéma (Brussels), no. 4, 1976. Brownlow, Kevin, ‘‘Abel Gance,’’ in Film Dope (London), Septem- ber 1979. Cluny, C. M., ‘‘Abel Gance: Trop grand pour le cinéma?,’’ in Cinéma (Paris), December 1981. King, Noel, ‘‘The Sound of Silents,’’ in Screen (Oxford), vol. 25, no. 3, May-June 1984. Veray, L., ‘‘J’accuse: un film conforme aux aspirations de Charles Pathe et a l’air de temps,’’ in 1895, no. 21, December 1996. *** Abel Gance was one of the most innovative filmmakers of the silent era. Most famously, in his masterpiece Napoleon, he projected three images on screen at once in a process he called Polyvision. But this film is not Gance’s only epic. Eight years before Napoleon, there was J’accuse. While Napoleon celebrates the exploits of its title character, J’accuse is unabashedly anti-military. The setting is a small French town. A gentle poet, who opposes war and all hostility, loves the wife of a hunter. War is declared, and the husband goes off to fight; jealous of his rival, he dispatches his wife to the Ardennes. When she is captured by the Germans, the poet himself enlists. By the finale, the hunter has been killed in battle, the wife is raped, and the poet, driven mad by the destruction that has destroyed his life, drops dead. While he does not die in combat, his demise—and the tainting of his spirit, his zest for life, his inner peace and love of beauty—becomes the symbol of the pointlessness of war. J’accuse is one of the earliest cinematic indictments of war. This fact alone earns the film its status in film history. But, additionally, it is one of the first French films to use montage and superimposed shots. In a stunning series of images, closeups of hands grasp each other, pray and raise glasses of wine as soldiers leave to fight. Gance communicates with his audience with visual metaphors: at the film’s outset, the head of a dog is placed over the head of the hunter and, at the declaration of war, the Grim Reaper is placed over the poet’s work; the filmmaker’s rapid montage cutting highlights the horror of the battle sequences, shot by Gance after joining a French army unit. (He perfected this last technique in La Roue, a melodrama released in 1923, and in Napoleon.) The most famous sequence in J’accuse JANA ARANYA FILMS, 4 th EDITION 582 J’accuse occurs near the finale, when the crazed poet imagines the ghosts of his dead comrades returning from the battlefield and through the country- side to observe the results of their sacrifices. Tragically, many of the real soldiers Gance utilized as extras did not themselves survive the war. (The film was shot during the final stages of the conflict. They were hired while on leave, just prior to their slaughter at Verdun.) J’accuse was, upon its release, condemned for its anti-war senti- ment by those basking in the German defeat. Gance wanted to make two sequels, to be called The Scars (Les cicatrices) and The League of Nations (La Société des Nations). Although these films were never completed, he did revise J’accuse four years after its release, most notably comparing the return of the dead soldiers sequence with a victory celebration. Gance remade J’accuse with sound in 1937. He wrote that this new version was ‘‘intended as a challenge to the countries of Europe for permitting the gradual development of a situation that made war inevitable. Before the present menace became a reality, I wrote an introduction to the film which expresses the prophetic message it conveys from the screen: ‘This film is dedicated to those who will die in the new war of tomorrow, although I am sure that they will view it skeptically and will fail to recognize themselves in it. . . .’’’ Unfortunately, like Renoir’s Grande illusion, J’accuse had no effect on altering the events which resulted in the next Great War. —Rob Edelman THE JACKAL OF NAHUELTORO See CHACAL DE NAHUELTORO JANA ARANYA (The Middleman) India, 1975 Director: Satyajit Ray Production: Indus Films; black and white, 35 mm; running time: 133 minutes. Filmed in Calcutta. JANA ARANYAFILMS, 4 th EDITION 583 Producer: Subir Guha; screenplay: Satyajit Ray, adapted from the novel Jana Aranya by Manisankar ‘‘Sankar’’ Mukherjee (also known as Samkara and Shankar); photography: Soumendu Roy; editor: Dulal Dutta; art director: Asok Bose; musical director: Satyajit Ray; sound: J.D. Irani, Anal Talukdar, Adinath Nag, Sujit Ghosh. Cast: Pradip Mukherjee (Somnath Banerjee); Satya Banerjee (Somnath’s Father); Dipankar Dey (Bhombol); Lily Chakravarti (Kamala); Aparna Sen (Somnath’s girlfriend); Gautam Chakravarti (Sukumar); Sudesna Das (Kauna, known as Juthika); Uptal Dutt (Bisu); Rabi Ghosh (Mr. Mitter) Bimal Bhattacharya (Mrs. Ganguli); Padma Devi (Mrs. Biswas); Soven Lahiri (Goenka); Santosh Dutta (Hiralal). Publications Books: Samkara, Jana Aranya, India, 1974. Articles: Moskowitz, G., in Variety, 28 July 1976. Houston, Penelope, in Sight and Sound (London), no. 2, 1977. Coleman, J., in New Statesman (London), 11 February 1977 Brown, G., in Monthly Film Bulletin (London), March 1977. Elley, Derek, in Films and Filming (London), May 1977. Kuthna, M., in Film (London), 11 May 1977. Ghosal, Sumantra, in International Film Guide (London), 1978. *** Jana Aranya is a representative Satyajit Ray film in that it features an acutely observed, personality-driven narrative and characters who are well-defined products of their surroundings. At the same time, its concerns are distinctly political, as it offers stinging commentary on the economic plight of contemporary India and the manner in which the individual is destined to be crushed and devoured by a callous material environment. At its core, Jana Aranya is a story of tainted innocence. Its hero is an unsophisticated young man who is surrounded by depravity. None of the rogues in his midst are blatantly evil. Rather, their villainy is subtle, and they justify their unsavory ethics in the name of rat-race survival. Somnath Banerjee is a sweetly handsome young man. At the outset, he is about to graduate from Calcutta University when he is victimized by a myopic instructor who cannot read his exam answers, depriving him of a graduation with honors. And so Ray starts out by offering a biting satire of a ludicrous educational bureaucracy. Yet all of Somnath’s experiences while a student, and all of his book learning, have left him ill-prepared for the cruel realities he will face while attempting to enter the job market. Harsh fact first intrudes when he is told, ‘‘You’re so young. It’ll be ages before you’re established.’’ These words are prophetic. Long months pass, and Somnath is unable to secure employment. At this point, he can compromise his ideals by marrying a young woman he has never met, enabling him to take over her father’s business. But Somnath refuses. Instead, he agrees to go into ‘‘business’’ with an acquaintance. He remains trusting, even upon being told that the young man he is replacing has been missing for two months. Somnath’s job is to act as a middleman, a go-between. He will be ‘‘ordering supplies’’ and, as such, he is to ‘‘study the market’’ and ‘‘buy cheap.’’ ‘‘What do I sell?’’ he asks. ‘‘Anything,’’ is the response. He remains oblivious to the implications of his being instructed to set up bogus companies, and flash different business cards to different clients. ‘‘You’ll be fine on your own,’’ the contact tells Somnath. ‘‘In two days you’ll learn everything, and if you get into trouble . . . of course you’ll have to clean up your own mess.’’ Somnath’s ‘‘business’’ results in his inevitable mixing with an assortment of wizened, corrupt characters. His maturation process climaxes when he is called upon to act as a pimp in a business transaction, a job requirement he finds reprehensible. Furthermore, the prostitute in question is a friend’s sister, who is attempting to support her family. Somnath’s integrity is irrevocably tainted when his sense of self-preservation obliterates his morality, and he agrees to go along with the scheme. In so doing, he now is trafficking in human beings as well as goods. He has become just as much of a whore as the sister. All Somnath wants is an honest job, a not-unreasonable request in a fair and equitable world. However, within the parameters of society, the young man—in order to insure his own survival—does not have the luxury of spurning those who would taint him. ‘‘Was anyone ever rewarded for saintliness?’’ asks one of Somnath’s contacts, a ‘‘public relations’’ expert. ‘‘Name a single person—no matter how high up— whose reputation is spotless.’’ Jana Aranya is neither the first nor the last film to offer a morality tale in which individuals, in order to guarantee their survival, immerse themselves in mire. What makes it a product of a specific time and place are the economic and political conditions existing in India. ‘‘I felt corruption, rampant corruption all around, and I didn’t think there was a solution,’’ Ray declared, in reference to why he chose to make Jana Aranya. ‘‘I was only waiting, perhaps subconsciously, for a story that would give me an opportunity to show this.’’ In Jana Aranya, Ray also explores a theme that is a constant in his work: familial relations, and the psychology that exists between parent and child. Somnath’s obstacles are not all job-related, in that he is influenced by his widowed father’s high expectations for him. The old man, lacking in understanding of the manner of the modern world, accordingly is alienated from Somnath. In his earliest films, the ones that cemented his reputation, Ray offered revealing, humanist portraits of the inner lives of his charac- ters. By the time he made Jana Aranya, he had expanded his cinematic concerns; his films had become more overtly social and political—and the scenario of Jana Aranya is uncompromising as it spotlights the economic dilemmas confronting contemporary India. Its narrative is uncomplicated; primarily, it is a portrait of a young man and the manner in which he is stripped of his impeccability. The film is at its most astute when Ray offers up knowing vignettes featuring the subtly and not-so-subtly repulsive characters with whom Somnath deals. On strictly visual terms, the filmmaker cleverly lampoons bureaucratic inanity. Repeated shots of young men posting job application letters convey the mind-boggling competition Somnath will face as he sets out to secure a job. He also is seen waiting on countless lines, typing and attaching photos to endless job applica- tions, and being asked ludicrous, rapid-fire questions by job interviewers. In these sequences, Jana Aranya is amusing. Yet it primarily is a serious and sobering film, an unsentimental account of the battle JAWS FILMS, 4 th EDITION 584 between maintaining one’s scruples and doing what one must in order to survive. —Rob Edelman LE JARDINIER ET LE PETIT ESPIEGLE See L’ARROSEUR ARROSE JAWS USA, 1975 Director: Steven Spielberg Production: Universal Pictures; Technicolor, 35mm; running time: 124 minutes. Released 20 June 1975. Filmed summer 1974 on location on Martha’s Vineyard. Producers: Richard D. Zanuck and David Brown with William S. Gilmore, Jr.; screenplay: Peter Benchley and Carl Gottlieb, from the novel by Benchley; photography: Bill Butler; editor: Verna Fields; sound: Robert L. Hoyt, Roger Herman, Earl Madery, and John Carter; music: John Williams. Cast: Roy Scheider (Brody); Robert Shaw (Quint); Richard Dreyfuss (Hooper); Lorraine Gary (Ellen Brody); Murray Hamilton (Vaughan); Carl Gottlieb. Awards: Oscars for Best Sound, Best Editing, and Best Original Score, 1975. Publications Books: Gottlieb, Carl, The Jaws Log, New York, 1975. Blake, Edith, On Location on Martha’s Vineyard: The Making of the Movie Jaws, New York, 1975. Monaco, James, American Film Now: The People, the Power, the Money, the Movies, Oxford and New York, 1979. Pye, Michael, and Lynda Myles, The Movie Brats: How the Film Generation Took Over Hollywood, London, 1979. Kolker, Robert Phillip, A Cinema of Loneliness: Penn, Kubrick, Scorsese, Spielberg, Altman, Oxford, 1980; revised edition, 1988. Daly, David Anthony, A Comparison of Exhibition and Distribution Patterns in Three Recent Feature Motion Pictures, New York, 1980. Crawley, Tony, The Steven Spielberg Story, London, 1983. Goldau, Antje, and Hans Helmut Prinzler, Spielberg: Filme als Spielzeug, Berlin, 1985. Mott, Donald R., and Cheryl McAllister Saunders, Steven Spielberg, Boston, 1986. Smith, Thomas G., Industrial Light and Magic: The Art of Special Effects, London, 1986. Weiss, Ulli, Das neue Hollywood: Francis Ford Coppola, Steven Spielberg, Martin Scorsese, Munich, 1986. Godard, Jean-Pierre, Spielberg, Paris, 1987. Sinyard, Neil, The Films of Steven Spielberg, London, 1987. Von Gunden, Kenneth, Postmodern Auteurs: Coppola, Lucas, De Palma, Spielberg & Scorsese, Jefferson, 1991. Brode, Douglas, The Films of Steven Spielberg, Secaucus, 1997. Yule, Andrew, Steven Spielberg, New York, 1997. Knight, Bertram, Steven Spielberg: Master of Movie Magic, Parsippany, 1998. Perry, George, Steven Spielberg-Close Up: The Making of His Movies, New York, 1998. Taylor, Philip M., Steven Spielberg: The Man, His Movies and Their Meaning, New York, 1998. Articles: Riger, R., ‘‘On Location with Jaws—Tell the Shark We’ll Do It One More Time,’’ in Action (Los Angeles), July-August 1974. ‘‘What Directors Are Saying,’’ in Action (Los Angeles), September- October 1974. Cribben, M., ‘‘On Location with Jaws,’’ in American Cinema- tographer (Los Angeles), March 1975. Murphy, A. D., in Variety (New York), 18 June 1975. Magill, M., in Films in Review (New York), August-September 1975. Shear, D., in Film Heritage (Dayton, Ohio), Autumn 1975. Milne, Tom, in Monthly Film Bulletin (London), December 1975. Monaco, James, in Sight and Sound (London), no. 1, 1975–76. Bonitzer, P., and S. Daney, in Cahiers du Cinéma (Paris), April- May 1976. Blacher, R., ‘‘Le Point de vue d’un psychiatre sur Les Dents de la mer,’’ in Cinéma (Paris), April 1976. Fieschi, J., ‘‘La Religion du monstre,’’ in Cinématographe (Paris), April-May 1976. Paini, D., ‘‘Toujours à propos des Dents de la mer,’’ in Cinéma (Paris), May 1976. Martin, Marcel, and others, ‘‘Vérités et mensonges du cinéma américain,’’ in Ecran (Paris), September 1976. Dagneau, G., in Revue du Cinéma (Paris), October 1976. Cumbow, R. C., ‘‘The Great American Eating Machine,’’ in Movietone News (Seattle), 11 October 1976. Michalek, B., in Kino (Warsaw), December 1976. Dworkin, M. S., ‘‘In the Teeth of Jaws,’’ in Ikon (Milan), January- March 1977. Kapralov, G., in Iskusstvo Kino (Moscow), October 1977. Caputi, J. E., ‘‘Jaws as Patriarchal Myth,’’ in Journal of Popular Film and Television (Washington, D.C.), no. 4, 1978. Verstappen, W., in Skoop (Amsterdam), February 1978. ‘‘Readers’ Forum,’’ in Journal of Popular Film and Television (Washington, D.C.), no. 2, 1979. Erickson, Glenn, in Magill’s Survey of Cinema 2, Englewood Cliffs, New Jersey, 1980. Vega, F., in Casablanca (Madrid), July-August 1981. Fauritte, A., ‘‘Super Star Jaws,’’ in Revue du Cinéma (Paris), April 1984. Fried, B., in Chaplin (Stockholm), 1985. Noel, J., ‘‘Steven Spielberg (Suite No. 3),’’ in Grand Angle (Mariembourg, Belgium), July 1990. Sheehan, H., ‘‘The Panning of Steven Spielberg,’’ in Film Comment (New York), May-June 1992. JAWSFILMS, 4 th EDITION 585 Jaws Torry, R., ‘‘Therapeutic Narrative: The Wild Bunch, Jaws, and Vietnam,’’ in Velvet Light Trap (Austin, Texas), Spring 1993. Griffin, Nancy, ‘‘In the Grip of Jaws,’’ in Premiere (New York), October 1995. Askari, Brent, ‘‘Jaws: Beyond Action,’’ in Creative Screenwriting (Washington, D.C.), vol. 3, no. 1, Summer 1996. Lucas, Tim, ‘‘Jaws: Limited Edition Signature Collection,’’ in Video Watchdog (Cincinnati), no. 33, 1996. Dursin, A., ‘‘The Laserphile,’’ in Film Score Monthly (Los Angeles), no. 76, December 1996. Jones, Alan, ‘‘Just When You Thought You Knew Everything About Jaws,’’ in Radio Times (London), vol. 295, no. 3849, 8 Novem- ber 1997. *** Jaws initiated the era of the Hollywood blockbuster. This tale of shark terror, which earned more than $100 million in six months, easily surpassed The Godfather as the all-time Hollywood box-office champ. Although Star Wars, E.T. and Raiders of the Lost Ark set new records, Jaws created marketing precedents that became Hollywood standards: it proved that one film under careful guidance from its distributor, could precipitate a national pop cultural ‘‘event.’’ Universal opened Jaws in 409 American houses in June 1975, establishing late May/early June as the beginning of the movie season. To milk the most from its ‘‘national’’ premiere, Universal fully utilized ‘‘saturation advertising’’ on television. The company purchased at least one 30-second ad on every prime-time network television program during the evening of the three days preceding the premiere; the cost was a million dollars. So successful was this advertising campaign that it became standard operating procedure in the American film industry (thereafter New York premieres and limited newspaper advertising were the exceptions, not the rule). Jaws convinced movie executives that television should be fully exploited for advertising, not avoided as in the past. In 17 days, Jaws earned an extraordinary $36,000,000. House records were established in cities around the country, and record grosses continued through the summer. Indeed, Universal turned 1975 into the year of the shark. The film inspired pop songs and other films. And there were, of course, the ubiquitous spin-offs: posters, T- shirts, beach towels, shark tooth pendants. The stock of Universal’s parent company, MCA, moved up 22? points in less than a month. THE JAZZ SINGER FILMS, 4 th EDITION 586 Jaws proved that a single film, marketed in the right way, could make millions of dollars for everyone connected with it. One direct beneficiary was director Steven Spielberg, who com- pleted the film before his 30th birthday. This film school graduate learned the Hollywood system with his television work for Universal; he directed episodes of Owen Marshall, Marcus Welby, Columbo, and television movies such as the now cult film Duel. The dollars generated by Jaws and by his other films, Close Encounters of the Third Kind, Raiders of the Lost Ark, and E.T., have made Spielberg the most successful box-office director of all time. But Jaws won few awards, for critics did not consider it a complex artefact. Rather, Jaws was singled out as an example of the success of Hollywood as an entertainment machine. Social and cultural critics have ‘‘read’’ the film in two different ways. Jaws can be seen as a ‘‘Watergate’’ film. In it a public official (the mayor) seeks to hush up a threat to the public good (a shark attack); it takes an heroic outsider (the chief of police) to kill the shark and return things to normal. The overt message seems clear enough: the world does indeed work, if ‘‘true heroes’’ stand up to be counted. But Jaws also skillfully exploits the machine of modern cinema. From the opening sequences Spielberg associates the camera’s point-of-view (under the water) and the major musical motif with the danger of the shark attack. Jaws manipulates our gaze, simultaneously providing the viewer with both enjoyment and fear. It remains a remarkable example of how well Hollywood can control a viewer’s vision to produce pain and pleasure. Jaws is about Watergate America, but it is also about the experience of filmgoing in the 1970s. —Douglas Gomery THE JAZZ SINGER USA, 1927 Director: Alan Crosland Production: Warner Bros. Pictures, Inc.; black and white, 35mm, silent with synchronized musical numbers; running time: 89 minutes. Released October 1927, New York. Filmed June through August 1927 in Warner Bros. studios, and on location in Hollywood, and the Lower East Side and in front of Shuberts’ Winter Garden theater in New York City. Cost: $500,000. Scenario: Alfred A. Cohn, from the story and play The Day of Atonement by Samson Raphaelson; titles: Jack Jarmuth; photogra- phy: Hal Mohr; editor: Harold McCord; sound: George R. Groves; music score and direction: Louis Silvers. Cast: Al Jolson (Jakie Rabinowitz, later Jack Robin); Warner Oland (Cantor Rabinowitz); Eugenie Besserer (Sara Rabinowitz); Otto Lederer (Moisha Yudelson); Bobby Gordon (Jakie, age 13); Richard Tucker (Harry Lee); May McAvoy (Mary Dale); Nat Carr (Levi); William Demarest (Buster Billings); Anders Randolf (Dillings); Will Walling (Doctor); Roscoe Karns (Agent); Myrna Loy, Audrey Ferris (Chorus girls); Cantor Josef Rosenblatt (Himself, in concert number); Jane Arden, Violet Bird, Ernest Clauson, Marie Stapleton, Edna Gregory, and Margaret Oliver (Extras in Coffee Dan’s sequence). Award: Special Oscar to Warner Bros. for producing The Jazz Singer ‘‘which revolutionized the industry,’’ 1927–28. Publications Script: Cohn, Alfred A., The Jazz Singer, edited by Robert Carringer, Madison, Wisconsin, 1979. Books: Thrasher, Frederick, Okay for Sound: How the Screen Found Its Voice, New York, 1946. Jolson, Al, Mistah Jolson, as told to Alban Emley, Los Angeles, 1951. Burton, Jack, The Blue Book of Hollywood Musicals, Watkin’s Glen, New York, 1953. Sieben, Pearl, The Immortal Al Jolson: His Life and Times, New York, 1962. Springer, John, All Singing, All Talking, All Dancing, New York, 1966. Kiner, Larry F., The Al Jolson Discography, Westport, 1983. Freedland, Michael, Al Jolson, New York, 1972; London, 1984. Griffith, Richard, editor, The Talkies: Articles and Illustrations from Photoplay Magazine, New York, 1972. Stern, Lee Edward, The Movie Musical, New York, 1974. Geduld, Harry M., Birth of the Talkies: From Edison to Jolson, Bloomington, Indiana, 1975. Kreuger, Miles, editor, The Movie Musical from Vitaphone to 42nd Street, New York, 1975. Anderton, Barrie, Sonny Boy! The World of Al Jolson, London, 1975. Everson, William K., American Silent Film, New York, 1978. Ellis, Jack C., A History of Film, Englewood Cliffs, New Jer- sey, 1979. Oberfirst, Robert, Al Jolson: You Ain’t Heard Nothin’ Yet, San Diego, 1980. McCelland, Doug, Blackface to Blacklist: Al Jolson, Larry Parks, & ‘‘The Jolson Story,’’ Lanham, 1987. Goldman, Herbert G., Jolson: The Legend Comes to Life, New York, 1990. Fisher, James, Al Jolson: A Bio-Bibliography, Westport, 1994. Freedland, Michael, Jolson: The Al Jolson Story, Clearwater, 1995. Usai, Paolo C., Burning Passions: An Introduction the Study of Silent Cinema, Collingdale, 1999. Articles: ‘‘Warner Brothers Studios,’’ in Moving Picture World, 26 March 1927. Schallert, Edwin, ‘‘Vitaphone Activities in Hollywood,’’ in Moving Picture World, 8 July 1927. ‘‘How the Vitaphone Enters In,’’ in New York Times, 28 August 1927. New York Times, 7 October 1927. Variety (New York), 12 October 1927. Calhoun, D., ‘‘Sketch on Alan Crosland,’’ in Motion Picture Classic (New York), June 1928. Close Up (London), February 1929. THE JAZZ SINGERFILMS, 4 th EDITION 587 The Jazz Singer ‘‘Flicker Veteran,’’ in Cue (New York), 20 July 1935. Amengual, Barthélemy, in Positif (Paris), September 1972. Sarris, Andrew, ‘‘The Cultural Guilt of Musical Movies: The Jazz Singer, 50 Years After,’’ in Film Comment (New York), Septem- ber-October 1977. Swindell, L., ‘‘The Day the Silents Stopped,’’ in American Film (Washington, D.C.), October 1977. Beylie, Claude, in Ecran (Paris), January 1978. Kupferberg, A., in Take One (Montreal), January 1978. Farassino A., in Ekran (Ljubljana), no. 2, 1978. Bosseno, C., in Revue du Cinéma (Paris), 1979. Slide, Anthony, in Magill’s Survey of Cinema 2, Englewood Cliffs, New Jersey, 1980. Gomery, Douglas, ‘‘Case Study: The Coming of Sound,’’ in Film History: Theory and Practice, by Gomery and Robert C. Allen, New York, 1985. Reid’s Film Index (Wyong), no. 3, 1989. Wolfe, C., ‘‘Vitaphone Shorts and The Jazz Singer,’’ in Wide Angle (Baltimore), no. 3, 1990. Rogin, M., ‘‘Blackface, White Noise: The Jewish Jazz Singer Finds His Voice,’’ in Critical Inquiry (Chicago), no. 3, 1992. Rogin, M., ‘‘Two Declarations of American Independence,’’ in Representations, no. 55, Summer 1996. Mulvey, Laura, ‘‘Now You Has Jazz,’’ in Sight & Sound (London), vol. 9, no. 5, May 1999. *** As it is generally stated, The Jazz Singer’s place in film history as the first talkie is an erroneous one. It was not the first sound picture— sound films are as old as the cinema itself—and it was not the first Vitaphone feature—that was Don Juan—nor was it the first all- talking Vitaphone feature—that was The Lights of New York. The Jazz Singer is important because it was the first film with sound to catch the imagination of an audience. As one contemporary critic, Welford Beaton, wrote, ‘‘The Jazz Singer definitely establishes the fact that talking pictures are imminent.’’ Unlike the sound films that had preceded it, The Jazz Singer boasted all the right components in the right mixture. It had a sen- timental—silly, even by the standards of the day—story involving mother love, honor and a young man’s striving for success. The film featured such songs as ‘‘Toot, Toot, Tootsie,’’ ‘‘Mother o’ Mine,’’ JEANNE DIELMAN FILMS, 4 th EDITION 588 ‘‘Mammy,’’ and ‘‘Blue Skies,’’ which were to become lasting successes. (Irving Berlin had written ‘‘Blue Skies’’ a year earlier, but it became a standard after it was featured in The Jazz Singer.) Above all, The Jazz Singer starred Al Jolson, a legendary performer, on stage from the early years of the century, whose presence somehow lent validity to the production and gave it something special. Robert Benchley, writing in the old humor magazine Life, jokingly summed up the power of Jolson’s performance: ‘‘When Jolson enters, it is as if an electric current had been run along the wires under the seats where the hats are stuck. The house came to tumultuous attention. He speaks, rolls his eyes, compresses his lips, and it is all over. He trembles his lip, and your hearts break with a loud snap. He sings, and you totter out to send a night letter to your mother.’’ And as if Jolson’s presence was not enough, Warner Bros. wisely cast a major silent screen actress, Mae McAvoy, to play opposite him. Supposedly based on Al Jolson’s own life, The Jazz Singer first saw life as a magazine story, ‘‘The Day of Atonement,’’ by Samson Raphaelson. Raphaelson—who was to become a prominent screen writer in the 1930s—adapted his story into a stageplay, which became a major success for its star George Jessel (who was initially cast in the film version, but backed out at the last minute apparently in a dispute over money). The story of The Jazz Singer concerns Jakie Rabinowitz who yearns to sing popular songs, but whose father, a cantor, wishes him to follow in his footsteps. Jakie leaves home, changes his name to Jack Robin (selecting a Gentile name in rejection not only of his father but also of his Jewish faith), and goes on the stage. As he is about to get his big break, opening as the star of a Broadway musical, Jakie learns that his father has been taken seriously ill. Realizing his true feelings and his place in his Jewish family, serious Jakie sings the ‘‘Kol Nidre’’ that night, delaying the opening of his show. The musical eventually opens, starring Jakie and his Gentile girlfriend, Mary Dale, and that night Jakie’s mother realizes, ‘‘He is not my boy any more. He belongs to the world.’’ The plot is ludicrous, and was treated as such even by contempo- rary critics, many of whom complained that the story was ‘‘too Jewish.’’ (Of course, it is worth noting that despite the awfulness of the story, The Jazz Singer has been twice remade.) What is exciting about the film is its use of sound—not only the interpolated dialogue and songs, but also the musical score and sound effects arranged by Louis Silvers (who skillfully blends elements of popular music with elements of serious music by Tchaikovsky, Debussy and others). Jolson’s first spoken words—‘‘Wait a minute, wait a minute, you ain’t heard nothing yet. Wait a minute, I tell you. You ain’t heard nothing yet. Do you want to hear ‘Toot, Toot, Tootsie?’’’—are electrifying in their intensity even today, some 60 or more years since they were first uttered. It is as if the viewer were participating in a very personal way, in a moment of historic significance. Similarly, there is something embarrassingly private about Jolson’s remarks to his mother as he sits at the piano and sings ‘‘Blue Skies’’ to her. Jolson’s apparently improvised ramblings are perhaps a little too real and, therefore, almost a little too artificial and stilted. The impact of this last dialogue sequence is further emphasized by its abrupt ending as Warner Oland (in the role of Cantor Rabinowitz) enters the scene. He looks at his wife and son, and through a title, shouts ‘‘Stop.’’ The dialogue, the human voice, is stilled, and The Jazz Singer once again becomes a silent film with musical accompaniment. Alan Crosland brings almost a documentary quality to many of the scenes, particularly the opening sequences in which Jakie, as a child, sings at a local saloon. (It is the voice of Jakie as a child, played by Bobby Gordon, that is the voice first heard in the film.) The director is obviously a highly competent technician, and gets the best from his players, even such notorious purveyors of melodrama as Warner Oland and Eugenie Besserer. The critics admired the film, but loved Al Jolson. One commented that ‘‘He is as solitary upon the heights of an art he has made peculiarly his own as Chaplin is upon his.’’ Indeed, with The Jazz Singer Jolson heralded a new era which was to bring about the ultimate decline of Chaplin and his contemporaries, destroying one art form and creating another. Perhaps the one irony is that despite its place in the history of the sound film, the sound system utilized for The Jazz Singer—Vitaphone—was not the system that ultimately became standard in the industry. Vitaphone utilized sound on disc, and the future of the industry lay with sound on film. —Anthony Slide JEANNE DIELMAN, 23 QUAI DU COMMERCE, 1080 BRUXELLES Belgium-France, 1975 Director: Chantal Akerman Production: Paradise Films (Brussels) and Unité Trois (Paris), in association with Le Ministère de la Culture fran?aise du Belgique; color; running time: 201 minutes; length: 7,232 feet. Released 1976. Producers: Evelyne Paul, Corinne Jenart; screenplay: Chantal Akerman; assistant directors: Marilyn Watelet, Serge Brodsky, Marianne de Muylder; photography: Babette Mangolte; editor: Patricia Canino; assistant editors: Catherine Huhardeaux, Martine Chicot; sound editor: Alain Marchall; sound recordists: Benie Deswarte, Fran?oise Van Thienen; sound re-recordist: Jean-Paul Loublier; art director: Philippe Graff; assistant art editor: Jean-Pol Ferbus; music extract: ‘‘Bagatelle for Piano,’’ No. 27, op. 126 by Ludwig van Beethoven. Cast: Delphine Seyrig (Jeanne Dielman); Jan Decorte (Sylvain Dielman); Henri Storck (1st Caller); Jacques Doniol-Valcroze (2nd Caller); Yves Bical (3rd Caller); Chantal Akerman (Voice of Neighbor). Publications Books: Margulies, Ivone, Nothing Happens: Chantal Akerman’s Hyperrealist Everyday, Durham, 1996. Articles: Rosenbaum, Jonathan, in Sight and Sound (London), Winter 1975–76. Maupin, Fran?oise, in Image et Son (Paris), February 1976. Alemann, C., and H. Hurst, interview with Akerman, in Frauen und Film (Berlin), March 1976. Bertolina, G., ‘‘Chantal Akerman: Il cinema puro,’’ in Filmcritica (Rome), March 1976. Dubroux, Daniele, in Cahiers du Cinéma (Paris), March-April 1976. JEDER FüR SICH UND GOTT GEGEN ALLEFILMS, 4 th EDITION 589 Creveling, C., ‘‘Women Working,’’ in Camera Obscura (Berkeley), Fall 1976. Villien, Bruno, and P. Carcassone, ‘‘Chantal Akerman,’’ in Cinématographe (Paris), June 1977. Kinder, Marsha, in Film Quarterly (Berkeley), Summer 1977. Mairesse, E., ‘‘Apropos des films de Chantal Akerman: Un Temps atmosphere,’’ in Cahiers du Cinéma (Paris), October 1977. Loader, Jayne, in Jump Cut (Berkeley), November 1977. Patterson, Patricia, and Manny Farber, ‘‘Kitchen without Kitsch,’’ in Film Comment (New York), November-December 1977. Bergstrom, Janet, in Camera Obscura (Berkeley), Autumn 1978. Martin, Angela, ‘‘Chantal Akerman’s Films,’’ in Feminist Review, no. 3, 1979. Pym, John, in Monthly Film Bulletin (London), April 1979. Perlmutter, Ruth, ‘‘Feminine Absence: A Political Aesthetic in Chantal Akerman’s Jeanne Dielman,’’ in Quarterly Review of Film Studies (New York), Spring 1979. Lakeland, M. J., ‘‘The Color of Jeanne Dielman,’’ in Camera Obscura (Berkeley), Summer 1979. Seni, N., in Frauen und Film (Berlin), September 1979. Jayamanne, L., ‘‘Modes of Performance in Chantal Akerman’s Jeanne Dielman,’’ in Australian Journal of Screen Theory (Kensington, New South Wales), no. 8, 1980. Orellana, M., ‘‘Notas sobre un nuevo cine: El de Chantal Akerman,’’ in Cine (Mexico City), January-February 1980. Perlmutter, Ruth, ‘‘Visible Narrative, Visible Woman,’’ in Millenium (New York), Spring 1980. Aranda, I., and A. Pagaolatos, interview with Akerman, in Contra campo (Madrid), March 1981. Singer, B., in Millennium Film Journal (New York), Winter-Spring 1989–90. von Bagh, P., ‘‘Keskusteluvuorossa: Chantal Akerman,’’ in Filmihullu (Helsinki), no. 4, 1991. Rabinowitz, Paula, ‘‘Screen Memories,’’ in Wide Angle (Baltimore), vol. 18, no. 4, October 1996. Eslami, M., ‘‘The Portrait of a Lady,’’ in Film International (Tehran), vol. 5, no. 2 1997. *** Chantal Akerman, a 25-year-old French-speaking Belgian from a Jewish family, made in Jeanne Dielman, which is perhaps the most prestigious Belgian film and an emblematic masterpiece of the feminist cinema of the 1970s. With no camera movement whatsoever, and very rarely departing from a single medium-long shot per scene, the 201-minute film scrutinizes for three days the rigorously methodi- cal life of a woman approximately 50 years old and her teenage son. The fastidious rituals of her daily existence include prostitution with what appears to be a regulated sequence of men who come to her apartment, presumably without the son’s knowledge, on weekly appointments. Inspired by Michael Snow’s cinematic investigations of space and time and the ritualized gestures of Resnais’s and Duras’s films, Akerman radically understated the dramatic dimension of her film even though it culminates in the unexpected murder of a client after a day in which Dielman’s defensive and psychically anesthesizing rituals go awry. The filmmaker’s careful compositions, abetted by Babette Mangolte’s brilliantly cool cinematography, so frequently recall the features of paintings of 17th-century interiors (Vermeer, De Hooch, Metsu, Ter Borch) that she seems to be commenting on the Netherlandish art of representing women cleaning house, preparing food, reading letters, grooming children, sewing, listening to music, and entertaining men. Jeanne Dielman recasts that treasury of lucid images in rigorously geometrical settings from the perspective of a participating woman, interpreting them as compulsive displacements of anxiety. Akerman so protracted and extenuated the pace of her film that the subtle shifts in Dielman’s behaviour as the film progresses seem to occur at the threshold of attention. The long-held distant shots, with vivid natural sounds but no movie music, and the rhythmical editing that follows the heroine around her house and at times onto the streets, remaining for a few seconds on a location she has left, or anticipating her arrival, inure the viewer to her underplayed emotions. Further- more, the shot changes so often mark ellipses, and the dialogue is so sparse, that the viewer may become deeply enmeshed in the film before realizing the significance of a scene that occurred much earlier. For instance, the film opens with the departure of one of Dielman’s afternoon clients. But it is possible to think that he is her husband, departing for a week and giving her spending money, until the next day’s client appears more than an hour later. Two intertitles, ‘‘End of the first day’’ and ‘‘End of the second day,’’ divide the film into three parts. On the second day Dielman’s polished routine begins to show some roughness: she mistimes dinner and overcooks potatoes, but it is not until the third day that minute misfunctions begin to indicate an imminent breakdown: she skips a button on her housecoat, drops a shoebrush and some silverware, washes the same dishes twice, goes too early to the post office and too late to her customary cafe, fails to untie a package. These minor lapses prepare us to see the orgasm she experiences while coolly having intercourse with her afternoon client as a massive deviation from her routine of self-control. In the next shot, she drives the scissors she had to use to get her package open into his throat. Through most of the film we watch Dielman alone. Even when she is with her son or a neighbor, she says very little. The very sparseness of speech gives weight to the rare instances of it. In this way, the recitation of Baudelaire’s poem of the ravages of time, ‘‘L’Ennemi,’’ which Jeanne helps her son to memorize, takes on importance. But most of all, it is his brief bedtime discussions of love, sex, and Oedipal rage against his dead father which suggest that the sexual maturing of her son might be the catalyst for the fatal disruption of her defensive compulsions. —P. Adams Sitney JEDER FüR SICH UND GOTT GEGEN ALLE (Every Man for Himself and God Against All; The Enigma of Kaspar Hauser) West Germany, 1974 Director: Werner Herzog Production: Werner Herzog Film-Product and ZDF (German televi- sion); Eastmancolor, 35mm; running time: 110 minutes. Released 1974. JEDER FüR SICH UND GOTT GEGEN ALLE FILMS, 4 th EDITION 590 Jeder für sich und Gott gegen alle Producer: Werner Herzog; screenplay: Werner Herzog; photogra- phy: Jorg Schmidt-Reitwein; editor: Beate Mainka-Jellinghaus; sound: Haymo Henry Heyder; production designer: Henning V. Gierke; music: Pachelbel, Orlandi di Lasso, Albinoni, and Mozart; costume designers: Gisela Storch and Ann Poppel. Cast: Bruno S. (Kaspar Hauser); Walter Ladengast (Daumer); Brigitte Mira (Kate, the Governess); Hans Musaus (The Stranger); Willy Semmelrogge (Circus Master); Michael Kroecher (Lord Stanhope); Henry Van Lyck (Captain of the Cavalry); Enno Patalas (Pastor Führmann); Elis Pilgrim (Pastor); Volker Prechtel (Hiltel, Prison guard); Kidlat Tahmik (Hombrecito, the Indian); Gloria Doer (Madame Hiltel); Helmut Doring (Little King); Andi Gottwald (Young Mozart); Herbert Achternbusch (Farmboy); Wolfgang Bauer (Farmboy); Walter Steiner (Farmboy); Florian Fricke (Monsieur Florian); Clemens Scheitz (Registrar); Johannes Buzalski (Police officer); Dr. Willy Meyer-Furst (Doctor); Wilhelm Bayer (Captain of the Cavalry, domestic); Franz Brumbach (Bear trainer); Alfred Edel (Professor of Logic); Heribert Fritsch (Mayor); Peter Gebhart (Shoe- maker who discovers Kaspar); Reinhard Hauff (Farmer); Dorothea Kraft (Little Girl); Markus Weller (Julius, son of Hiltel); Dr. Heinz H. Niemoller (Pathologist); Dr. Walter Pflaum (Pathologist); Otto Heinzle (Old Priest); Peter-Udo Schonborn (Swordsman). Awards: Cannes Film Festival, Special Jury Prize, the International Critics’ Award, and the Ecumenical Prize, 1975. Publications Script: Herzog, Werner, L’Enigme de Kaspar Hauser, in Avant-Scène du Cinéma (Paris), June 1976. Books: Schütte, Wolfram, and others, Herzog/Kluge/Straub, Vienna, 1976. Ebert, Roger, Werner Herzog: Images at the Horizon, New York, 1980. JEDER FüR SICH UND GOTT GEGEN ALLEFILMS, 4 th EDITION 591 Sandford, John, The New German Cinema, Totowa, New Jersey, 1980. Franklin, James, New German Cinema: From Oberhausen to Ham- burg, Boston, 1983. Phillips, Klaus, editor, New German Filmmakers: From Oberhausen through the 1970s, New York, 1984. Corrigan, Timothy, The Films of Werner Herzog: Between Mirage and History, New York, 1986. Gabrea, Radu, Werner Herzog et la mystique rhénane, Lausanne, 1986. Elsaesser, Thomas, New German Cinema: A History, London, 1989. Nagib, Lúcia, Werner Herzog: o cinema como realidade, S?o Paulo, 1991. Articles: Eisner, Lotte, ‘‘Herzog in Dinkelsbühl,’’ in Sight and Sound (Lon- don), Autumn 1974. Haakman, A., in Skoop (Amsterdam), February 1975. Overbey, D. L., ‘‘Every Man for Himself,’’ in Sight and Sound (London), Spring 1975. Ciment, Michel, ‘‘Entretien avec Werner Herzog,’’ in Positif (Paris), May 1975. Legrand, Gérard, in Positif (Paris), May 1975. Moskowitz, G., in Variety (New York), 14 May 1975. Ghali, Noureddine, in Cinéma (Paris), September 1975. Farocki, H., and Noureddine Ghali, in Filmkritik (Munich), Novem- ber 1975. Clouzot, C., ‘‘L’Enigme de Kaspar Hauser: Entretien avec Werner Herzog,’’ in Ecran (Paris), November 1975. Milne, Tom, in Monthly Film Bulletin (London), December 1975. Schaub, M., ‘‘Bilderarbeit,’’ in Cinema (Zurich), no. 3, 1976. Leirens, J., ‘‘Ce jour la à Nuremberg,’’ in Amis du Film et de la Télévision (Brussels), March 1976. Garel, A., in Revue du Cinéma (Paris), October 1976. Bronchain, C., in Apec-Revue Belge du Cinéma (Brussels), Octo- ber 1976. Benelli, D., ‘‘Mysteries of the Organism: Character Consciousness and Film Form in Kaspar Hauser and Spirit of the Beehive,’’ in Movietone News (Seattle), June 1977. Dorr, John, ‘‘The Enigma of Werner Herzog,’’ in Millimeter (New York), October 1977. Finger, W., ‘‘Kaspar Hauser Doubly Portrayed,’’ in Literature/Film Quarterly (Salisbury, Maryland), no. 3, 1979. Horak, J. C., ‘‘Werner Herzog’s Ecran Absurde,’’ in Literature/Film Quarterly (Salisbury, Maryland), no. 3, 1979. Perlmutter, R., ‘‘The Cinema of the Grotesque,’’ in Georgia Review (Athens), no. 1, 1979. Bloom, M., ‘‘Woyzeck and Kaspar: The Incongruities in Drama and Film,’’ in Literature/Film Quarterly (Salisbury, Maryland), no. 4, 1980. Korsic, I., in Chaplin (Stockholm), no. 3, 1981. Stefanoni, L., ‘‘Fata Morgana: L’enigma di Kaspar Hauser,’’ in Cineforum (Bergamo), May 1981. Cinema Nuovo (Bari), June 1981. Scarrone, C., ‘‘La ‘domanda scomoda,’’’ in Filmcritica (Florence), September-October 1981. Gerulaitis, R., ‘‘Recurring Cultural Patterns: Werner Herzog’s Film Every Man for Himself and God against All, the Enigma of Caspar Hauser,’’ in Journal of Popular Culture (Bowling Green, Ohio), no. 4, 1989. Hainisch, B., and T. Pilz, ‘‘Werner Herzog’s Jeder für sich und Gott gegen alle - ein Film,’’ in Blimp (Graz), no. 30, Winter 1994. Brown, G., ‘‘Lessons of Darkness,’’ in Village Voice (New York), vol. 41, 2 April 1996. *** In many countries Jeder für sich und Gott gegen alle (Every Man for Himself and God Against All) is distributed under the title Kaspar Hauser—the name of the hero of this film based on the history of a man who in 1828 was found by chance living in a dark cave where he had apparently grown up without any contact with other human beings. Brought to civilization, he experiences many of the events of ordinary life, all of which make him feel equally uneasy. Werner Herzog, the director, unlike Fran?ois Truffaut in The Wild Child, is not interested in showing the painful process of adaptation to civilized surroundings; Kaspar has a special consciousness in which the laws of nature have a central place and in which the conventions and norms of civilized behavior are as artificial and inconvenient to him as the black dinner jacket he is forced to wear. His difficulties in communication are not the result of any linguistic inadequacies; simply, he is ‘‘different’’ from other men. That is why Herzog seems to wish to persuade us that, despite being gratuitous, both the early isolation and the surprising death of his hero are somehow logical. An examination of Herzog’s earlier films suggests that he always moves within the same closed circle of his imagination. All of his heroes are in some way related. The deaf-mutes in Land of Silence and Darkness, the dwarfs in Even Dwarfs Started Small or the half- crazy conquistador in Aguirre, the Wrath of God—like Kaspar Hauser—are outsiders, unable to adapt, creatures who have no place in human society. His later films, if anything, stress this similarity of characters and continuity of motifs. In Stroszek the main characters from Kaspar Hauser reappear but in another historical context—that of our own time. Stroszek—played by Bruno S., the same Berlin hobo who played Kaspar—and his two companions, the old man (Clemens Scheitz) and the girl (Eva Mattes), can no longer find a ‘‘place’’ in their native Germany, so they emigrate to America, where they also fail. This would be the fate of Kaspar Hauser today. Aguirre, the greedy colonist, appears again in Fitzcarraldo—a corrective to the pessimistic conclusion of Aguirre. The wisdom and integrity of the Indians have profound effect on the conqueror, and he comes to see his confrontation with the jungle and the natives as a blessing that saves him from the abyss. This summary of plot sounds like a fairy tale—and it is. Most of Herzog’s films recall fables, and that is surely one of the reasons for their success. There is a kind of magical charm in the way that Herzog composes his shots: these films contain much natural beauty and slow rhythm that evokes splendor and transcience. When one speaks of Herzog, one speaks of ‘‘mystical cinema, transcendent, an idealistic vision of reality.’’ The film Kaspar Hauser is an example of a kind of narration in which realistically-realized shots are perceived as a perfect, even though unrealistic, fiction. —Maria Racheva LES JEUX INTERDITS FILMS, 4 th EDITION 592 LES JEUX INTERDITS (Forbidden Games) France, 1952 Director: René Clément Production: Silver-Film; black and white, 35mm; running time: 102 minutes, some sources list 90 minutes, others 84 minutes. Released 9 May 1952. Filmed Fall 1951. Producer: Robert Dorfmann; screenplay: Fran?ois Boyer; adapta- tion and dialogue: Jean Aurenche, Pierre Bost, and René Clément, from the novel by Fran?ois Boyer; photography: Robert Juillard; editor: Roger Dwyre; sound engineer: Jacques Lebreton; art direc- tor: Paul Bertrand; music adaptation and interpretation: Narciso Yepes; costume designer: Major Brandley. Cast: Brigitte Fossey (Paulette, age 5); Georges Poujouly (Michel Dolle, age 11); Lucien Herbert (Père Dolle); Suzanne Courtal (Mère Dolle); Jacques Marin (Georges Dolle); Laurence Badie (Berthe Dolle); Andre Wasley (Père Gouard); Amedee (Francis Gouard); Denise Peronne (Jeanne Gouard); Louis Sainteve (Le curé); Made- leine Barbulee; Pierre Merovee; Violette Monnier; and Fernande Roy. Awards: Cannes Film Festival, Grand Prix Indépendant, 1952; Venice Film Festival, Best Film—Gold Lion of St. Mark, 1952; New York Film Critics’ Award, Best Foreign Film, 1952; Honorary Oscar for Best Foreign-Language Film, 1952. Publications Script: Aurenche, Jean, Pierre Bost, and René Clément, Les Jeux interdits (excerpts), in Avant-Scene du Cinéma (Paris), 15 May 1962. Books: Siclier, Jacques, René Clément, Brussels, 1956. Farwagi, Andre, René Clément, Paris, 1967. Armes, Roy, French Film, New York, 1970. Armes, Roy, French Cinema since 1946: The Great Tradition, New York, 1970. Barsacq, Léon, Caligari’s Cabinet and Other Grand Illusions: A His- tory of Film Design, New York, 1976. Articles: Eisner, Lotte, ‘‘Style of René Clément,’’ in Film Culture (New York), no. 12 and no. 13, 1957. Clément, René, ‘‘Pourquoi j’ai tourné Jeux interdits,’’ in Avant- Scène du Cinéma (Paris), 15 May 1962. McVay, Douglas, ‘‘The Darker Side of Life,’’ in Films and Filming (London), December 1966. Rejjnhoudt, B., ‘‘Bekeken,’’ in Skoop (Amsterdam), July-August 1982. Comuzio, E., ‘‘Giochi proibiti di René Clément,’’ in Cineforum (Bergamo, Italy), November 1992. Ghiyati, Karim, ‘‘Le petit Parisien à la campagne,’’ in Avant-Scène du Cinéma (Paris), no. 469, February 1998. *** For English-speaking audiences, Les jeux interdits remains one of the two or three most important French films of the pre-New Wave era. Under Clément’s direction, the two children are inestimably fresher and more engaging than almost any other child actors of the time. But beyond its immediate appeal, Forbidden Games remains important as an early conjunction of the realist style of director René Clément on the one side and the ‘‘cinema of quality’’ of the Aurenche/ Bost script on the other. A tension is created by the film’s hesitation between social allegory and anthropology and between a natural and a prettified style. The film’s allegory is transparent from the outset when German Stukas strafe a line of fleeing Parisians. In the gorgeous French countryside at the waning of spring, man’s urge to destroy strews bodies around the landscape. Having set a brutal tone, Clément turns to his tender drama and to Brigitte Fossey, already irresistible at five years old. Wandering away from the bodies of her parents and into a pasture of lowing cows, she narrows the film’s focus from public to private morals and mores, for her subsequent adoption by a peasant family displaces the social context from international war to domes- tic strife. Now little Brigitte and her soulmate, played by Georges Poujouly, observe the stupid bickerings, rituals, and greed both within their household and between the households of the village. Particularly memorable is the death of the older brother who had been kicked by a horse. The children are amused by his ugly demise and the religious trappings of his funeral. Soon they develop rituals of their own, ‘‘les jeux interdits.’’ In an abandoned barn they construct an elaborate burial ground for every sort of creature. So fascinated are they by death that they eagerly await (even bring about) the final end of insects, dogs, etc. The religious compensation of their candles and crosses is at once a grotesque and authentic displacement of the petty comforts of adult religion. This ridicule of peasant life, particularly of religion, distinguishes the film as a serious production, as does the obvious irony at work in comparing a Parisian girl and her rural foster parents. Much of Clément’s compositional strategy reinforces supercilious sentiments as when he cuts among rural families at the cemetery from a number of low angles. Such pretty shots progressively make a mockery of the JFKFILMS, 4 th EDITION 593 Les jeux interdits mourners; finally, one shot is taken literally from the bottom of the grave. Clément also riducules romance: the children discover the older sister in the hay with the boy next door, who had been recently demilitarized. Altogether the dialogue is terribly pointed, even pithy, despite coming from the mouths of peasants. This whole ‘‘quality’’ flavor is summed up in the credits which are rendered over the pages of a book, as if insisting on the literary stature of the film. But Clément’s roots in realism and his command of location shooting also pull the film in other directions, some of which might be thought to presage the New Wave. Close-ups of the children are excessively lengthy and attain a documentary interest beyond their narrative motivation. They give the viewer a rather direct emotional access to these children apart from the story we find them in. The full power of this technique is reserved for the film’s final sequence in which we observe, without any artifice of editing, the little girl dissolve in tears amidst hundreds like her at the Paris orphanage to which she has been taken. In short, we trust the tears of this child. A New Wave attitude is associated with the music as well. Not only in the employment of a simple, lyrical guitar, but also in its haunting melody, which often triggers meditation on a recent dra- matic action. Frequent promenades to the accompaniment of guitar are dramatic resting places wherein the film addresses the spectator in a new and more direct way. Altogether then the film highlights in its style(s) and subject the conflicts of purity and the grotesque, of children and adults, of nature and man, of realism and parody. —Dudley Andrew JFK USA, 1991 Director: Oliver Stone Production: Warner Bros./Le Studio Canal/Regency Enterprises/ Alcor; color, 35mm, Panavision; running time: 189 minutes; direc- tor’s cut runs 205 minutes. Released 20 December 1991 (U.S.A.). JFK FILMS, 4 th EDITION 594 JFK Much footage filmed on location in New Orleans, Dallas, Texas, and Washington D.C. Budget: $40 Million (approx.). Producers: A. Kitman Ho, Oliver Stone; screenplay: Oliver Stone, Zachary Sklar, from the books On the Trail of the Assassins by Jim Garrison and Crossfire: The Plot That Killed Kennedy by Jim Marrs; photography: Robert Richardson; editors: Joe Hutshing, Pietro Scalia; sound: Bill Daly (sound mixer: Dealey Plaza), Gregg Landaker, Tod A. Maitland, Michael Minkler, Wylie Stateman, Michael D. Wilhoit; art directors: Derek R. Hill, Alan R. Tomkins; original music score: John Williams; casting: Risa Bramon Garcia, Billy Hopkins, Heidi Levitt. Cast: Kevin Costner (Jim Garrison); Sissy Spacek (Liz Garrison); Joe Pesci (David Ferrie); Tommy Lee Jones (Clay Shaw); Gary Oldman (Lee Harvey Oswald); Jay O. Sanders (Lou Ivon); Michael Rooker (Bill Broussard); Laurie Metcalf (Susie Cox); Gary Grubbs (Al Osner); John Candy (Dean Andrews); Jack Lemmon (Jack Martin); Walter Matthau (Senator Long); Ed Asner (Guy Bannister); Donald Sutherland (X); Kevin Bacon (Willie O’Keefe); Brian Doyle- Murray (Jack Ruby); Sally Kirkland (Rose Cheramie); Jim Garrison (Earl Warren). Awards: Oscars for Best Cinematography and Best Film Editing (Joe Hutshing, Pietro Scalia), 1992; American Cinema Editors Award (Eddie) (Joe Hutshing, Pietro Scalia), 1992; Golden Globe Award for Best Director—Motion Picture, 1992; British Academy Award (BAFTA) for Best Editing (Joe Hutshing, Pietro Scalia) and Best Sound (Gregg Landaker, Tod A. Maitland, Michael Minkler, Wylie Stateman, Michael D. Wilhoit), 1993. Publications Script: Stone, Oliver, and Zachary Sklar, JFK: The Book of the Film, New York, 1994. Books: Garrison, Jim, On the Trail of the Assassins: My Investigation and Prosecution of the Murder of President Kennedy, New York, 1988. Marrs, Jim, Crossfire: The Plot that Killed Kennedy, New York, 1990. Beaver, Frank, Oliver Stone: Wakeup Cinema, New York, 1994. JIGOKUMONFILMS, 4 th EDITION 595 Riordan, James, Stone: The Controversies, Excesses, and Exploits of a Radical Filmmaker, New York, 1994. Kunz, Don, editor, The Films of Oliver Stone (Filmmakers Series, No. 55), Metuchen, New Jersey, 1997. Articles: Anson, Robert Sam, ‘‘The Shooting of JFK,’’ in Esquire (New York), 1 November 1991. Stone, Oliver, interview in Time (New York), 23 December 1991. Crowdus, Gary, ‘‘Getting the Facts Straight: An Interview with Zachary Sklar,’’ in Cineaste (New York), vol. 19, no. 1, 1992. Crowdus, Gary, ‘‘Clarifying the Conspiracy: An Interview with Oliver Stone,’’ in Cineaste (New York), vol. 19, no. 1, 1992. Medhurst, Martin J., ‘‘The Rhetorical Structure of Oliver Stone’s JFK,’’ in Critical Studies in Mass Communication, June 1993. Romanowski, William D., ‘‘Oliver Stone’s JFK: Commercial Filmmaking, Cultural History, and Conflict,’’ in Journal of Popu- lar Film and Television (Washington, D.C.), Summer 1993. Crowdus, Gary, ‘‘History, Dramatic License, and Larger Historical Truths: An Interview with Oliver Stone,’’ in Cineaste (New York), vol. 22, no. 4, 1997. Sharrett, Christopher, ‘‘Conspiracy Theory and Political Murder in America: Oliver Stone’s JFK and the Facts of the Matter,’’ in Jon Lewis, editor, The New American Cinema, Durham, North Caro- lina, 1998. Rosenstone, Robert A., ‘‘JFK: Historical Fact/Historical Film,’’ in Alan Rosenthal, editor, Why Docudrama?: Fact-Fiction on Film and TV, Carbondale, Illinois, 1999. *** Winner of two Oscars, for cinematography and editing, and nominated for five others, JFK has been praised as a film but heavily criticized as an historical account of the assassination of John F. Kennedy in November 1963. By 1991, when JFK was released, Stone was already well known as a maker of challenging and controversial films, notably about America’s involvement in Vietnam. His attacks on the American government and justice system, for their pandering to big business over the needs of the people, are all the more remarkable given that they appeared in the 1980s and early 1990s, a period of conservatism in Hollywood and elsewhere. JFK, arguably his most impressive work as a director, consolidated his reputation as an argumentative and politically awkward filmmaker. The film revives New Orleans District Attorney Jim Garrison’s 1967 theory that Kennedy was killed in an attempted coups d’état orchestrated by military and industrial influences within the Ameri- can government. Their motivation, Garrison believed, was opposition to Kennedy’s aim of withdrawing American troops from Vietnam. Even before Stone began making the film, Garrison’s theory had been shown to have little real evidence to support it, and JFK itself has since been picked over by critics eager to show the inconsistencies in Stone’s account. In attempting to provide as much detail as possible about Garri- son’s theory, most of it explained in Costner’s deadpan drawl, Stone ran the risk of alienating much of his audience. The extreme length of the movie, which runs for well over three hours in its ‘‘director’s cut,’’ might also have discouraged filmgoers. Yet JFK was a commer- cial success, at least in part because of its subject matter, which also attracted many well-known actors and others to play minor roles. The most interesting of these cameos is the real Jim Garrison playing Earl Warren. Stone also extracts fine performances from his leading actors, particularly from Tommy Lee Jones, who projects a menacing sense of suppressed violence as Clay Shaw, the businessman with whose trial and acquittal the film ends. Kevin Costner’s portrayal of Jim Garrison’s single-minded determination to find the truth is compelling, and Kevin Bacon, Joe Pesci, and Sissy Spacek are also impressive. The film is also very well made; JFK is a masterpiece of well- judged tension, dramatic revelation, and changes of mood. By switch- ing between film stocks, blending documentary and ‘‘made’’ footage, and introducing a series of bizarre and sinister characters, Stone manages to drive the narrative along with vigor, despite its sometimes rather detached, obsessive feel. The repeated showing of the famous Zapruder home movie of the killing helps to lend authenticity to the action, while dramatic set-pieces, such as Garrison’s timing a marks- man as he attempts to fire three shots from a manual rifle, give a sense of documentary objectivity. While the film is convincingly detailed and impressive as a detec- tive thriller, its actual value as a documentary is negligible. Stone has rightly been criticized for presenting as true events for which there is no conclusive evidence. What is perhaps more worrying, however, is Stone’s manipulation of evidence to prove his point. The blurring of the distinction between documentary and ‘‘made’’ footage is a show- case for the skills of the Oscar-winning editors, but it also obscures the point at which the real evidence begins and Stone’s invention ends. Even the short Zapruder film was altered in an effort to suggest the existence of bullets entering Kennedy’s body from different directions. Given the authority with which such ‘‘evidence’’ is presented, it is difficult to see any real difference between Stone’s manipulation of the known facts and the deception his film identifies at the heart of the Warren Commission’s investigation. As a convincing alternative to the official account of the assassina- tion, JFK has many shortcomings, and one of its more unfortunate effects has been to further mythologize the circumstances of Ken- nedy’s death. But if Stone’s intention was to challenge the American government’s handling of the case, and renew public interest in finding out the truth about the assassination, JFK was a resounding success. Indeed, the film aroused so much debate and speculation that in an attempt to satisfy public curiosity the U.S. Congress passed the JFK Assassination Records Collection Act of 1992, demanding the early release of almost all of the government’s files on the case. Taking account of the controversy the film aroused, hardcore conspir- acy theorists should note that Stone himself received no Oscars for JFK. —Chris Routledge JIGOKUMON (Gate of Hell) Japan, 1953 Director: Teinosuke Kinugasa Production: Daiei (Tokyo); Eastmancolor, 35mm; running time: 89 minutes. Released 1953, Japan. Filmed in Japan. JIGOKUMON FILMS, 4 th EDITION 596 Jigokumon Producer: Masaichi Nagata; screenplay: Teinosuke Kinugasa, from a 20th century play by Kan Kikuchi; photography: Kohei Sugiyama; art director: Kisaku Itoh; music director: Yasuchi Akutagawa; costume designer: Sanzo Wada; color consultant: Sanzo Wada. Cast: Machiko Kyo (Wife); Kazuo Hasegawa (Husband); Koreya Senda; Isao Yamagata; Yataro Kurokawa; Kataro Bando. Awards: Oscar for Best Costume Design-Color and Special Oscar for Best Foreign Film, 1954; New York Film Critics’ Award, Best Foreign Film, 1954; Cannes Film Festival, Best Film, 1954. Publications Books: Shinobu Giuglaris, Marcel de, Le Cinéma Japonais, Paris, 1956. Anderson, Joseph, and Donald Richie, The Japanese Film: Art and Industry, New York, 1960; revised edition, New Jersey, 1982. Articles: Life (New York), 15 November 1954. Knight, Arthur, ‘‘Japan’s Film Revolution,’’ in Saturday Review (New York), 11 December 1954. Ozaki, Koji, in Atlantic (Boston), January 1955. Iwabutchi, Masayoshi, ‘‘1954 in Japan,’’ in Sight and Sound (Lon- don), Spring 1955. Young, Vernon, ‘‘Reflections on Japanese Film,’’ in Art Digest (New York), August 1955. Anderson, Joseph, ‘‘Seven from the Past,’’ in Sight and Sound (London), Autumn 1957. Cohen, R., ‘‘A Japanese Romantic: Teinosuke Kinugasa,’’ in Sight & Sound (London), vol. 45, no. 3, Summer 1976. Checklist and critical notes on Teinosuke Kinugasa, in Film Dope (Nottingham), no. 31, January 1985. *** Although today Teinosuke Kinugasa’s Jigokumon is seldom treated as an important film, its historical position is secure. It was one of the JOHNNY GUITARFILMS, 4 th EDITION 597 first post-World War II Japanese films to be accepted and honored by the international film community. Not only did it win the Grand Prize at the 1954 Cannes International Film Festival but also it received two Academy Awards in the United States. The great commercial and critical success of Akira Kurosawa’s Rashomon (1950), Kenji Mizoguchi’s Ugetsu (1953), and Jigokumon made the Western world begin to take notice of Japanese films. Jigokumon was especially noteworthy to Western audiences be- cause it was the first Japanese color film released in the West. Although the Eastmancolor film stock came from the United States, Kinugasa and his cinematographer, art director, and color consultant used it with an artistry and subtlety that was seldom seen in the American films of that time. Many critics praised the filmmakers for giving the color a distinctly Japanese look that was a welcome contrast to the flamboyance of Hollywood. Although Jigokumon is set in the 12th century, it is based on the 20th-century Japanese play by Kan Kikuchi. The film begins with a war between rival clans, and then, when the war is over, concen- trates on only three characters in a story of love, sacrifice, and grief. The direction of Kinugasa gives intimacy to both parts of the film, even the battle scenes. Kinugasa often highlights the large-scale sequences with small details in the foreground or at the end of a scene. In one scene, for example, the march of warriors in the background is accentuated by a number of chickens fighting in the foreground, and many scenes that involve large numbers of fighting men end with a quiet close-up of an inanimate object. The second part of the film contrasts the emotion and brutality of the warrior Moritah with the restraint of a man and his wife who value self-sacrifice above violence and revenge. When Moritah tries to take the wife away from her husband, she sacrifices her life rather than accept the warrior; after her death, the husband refuses to take vengeance. The warrior finally realizes that he must atone for his sin by continuing to live with the knowledge of what he has done. This is not a familiar theme for Western audiences, but under Kinugasa’s direction the performers who play the couple convey the depth of their feeling without much overt show of emotion. (The wife, incidentally, is played by Machiko Kyo, who also was featured in Rashomon.) Jigokumon is only one of the many fine films directed by Teinosuke Kinugasa in a career that spanned five decades, but to Western audiences it was a revelation in the artistry of its color and the strength of its story. The audiences that had appreciated the black-and-white masterpieces of Kurosawa and Mizoguchi were astonished by Kinugasa’s use of color film. The American Motion Picture Academy gave Sanzo Wada its award for costume design, and because at that time the Academy had no foreign film category, it gave Jigokumon a special award as Best Foreign Film. —Timothy Johnson JOHNNY GUITAR USA, 1954 Director: Nicholas Ray Production: Republic Pictures; Trucolor, 35mm, Cinemascope; run- ning time: 110 minutes. Released November 1954. Filmed 1953. Johnny Guitar Producer: Herbert J. Yates; screenplay: Philip Yordan, from the novel by Roy Chanslor; photography: Harry Stradling, Jr.; editor: Richard L. Van Enger; sound: T. A. Carmen and Howard Wilson; production designer: John McCarthy, Jr. and Edward G. Boyle; art director: James Sullivan; music: Victor Young, with title song by Victor Young and Peggy Lee, sung by Peggy Lee; special effects: Howard and Theodore Lydecker; costume designer: Sheila O’Brien. Cast: Joan Crawford (Vienna); Sterling Hayden (Johnny Guitar); Mercedes McCambridge (Emma Small); Scott Brady (Dancin’ Kid); Ben Cooper (Turkey); Ward Bond (John McIvers); Ernest Borgnine (Bart Lonergan); John Carradine (Tom); Royal Dano (Corey); Frank Ferguson (Sheriff); Paul Fix (Eddie); Rhys Williams (Mr. Andrews); Ian McDonald (Zeke); Will Wright (Ned); John Maxwell (Jake); Robert Osterloh (Sam); Frank Marlowe (Frank); Trevor Bardette (Jenks); Sumner Williams, Sheb Wooley, Denver Pyle, and Clem Harvey (Possemen). Publications Script: Yordan, Philip, Johnny Guitar, in Avant-Scène du Cinéma (Paris), March 1974. JOHNNY GUITAR FILMS, 4 th EDITION 598 Books: Crawford, Joan, with Jane Kesner, A Portrait of Joan: The Autobiog- raphy, New York, 1962. Fenin, George N., and William K. Everson, The Western: From Silents to Cinerama, New York, 1962; revised edition, 1973. Warshow, Robert, The Immediate Experience, New York, 1962. Hayden, Sterling, Wanderer, New York, 1965. Quirk, Lawrence J., The Films of Joan Crawford, New York, 1968. Bazin, André, What Is Cinema, Berkeley, 1971. Harvey, Stephen, Joan Crawford, New York, 1974. French, Philip, Westerns, New York, 1974. Nachbar, Jack, editor, Focus on the Western, Englewood Cliffs, New Jersey, 1974. Wright, Will, Sixguns and Society: A Structural Study of the Western, Berkeley, 1975. Parish, James Robert, and Michael Pitts, editors, The Great Western Pictures, Metuchen, New Jersey, 1976. Kreidl, John, Nicholas Ray, Boston, 1977. Walker, Alexander, Joan Crawford: The Ultimate Star, London, 1983. Masi, Stefano, Nicholas Ray, Florence, 1983. Blaine, Allan, Nicholas Ray: A Guide to References and Resources, Boston, 1984. Erice, Victor, and Jos Oliver, Nicholas Ray y su tiempo, Madrid, 1986. Guiliani, Pierre, Nicholas Ray, Paris, 1987. Wagner, Jean, Nicholas Ray, Paris, 1987. Buscombe, Ed, The BFI Companion to the Western, London, 1988. Eisenschitz, Bernard, Nicholas Ray: An American Journey, New York, 1993, 1996. Ray, Nicholas, I Was Interrupted: Nicholas Ray on Making Movies, Berkeley, 1993. Articles: Hollywood Reporter, 5 May 1954. Crowther, Bosley, in New York Times, 28 May 1954. Truffaut, Fran?ois, in Arts (Paris), February 1955. Godard, Jean-Luc, in Image et Son (Paris), July 1956. Quirk, Lawrence J., ‘‘Joan Crawford,’’ in Films in Review (New York), December 1956. Bitsch, Charles, ‘‘Entretien avec Nick Ray,’’ in Cahiers du Cinéma (Paris), November 1958. Agel, Henri, ‘‘Nicholas Ray,’’ in New York Film Bulletin, no. 11, 1961. Hagen, Ray, ‘‘Mercedes McCambridge,’’ in Films in Review (New York), May 1965. Perkins, Victor, ‘‘The Cinema of Nicholas Ray,’’ in Movie Reader, edited by Ian Cameron, New York, 1972. Rosenbaum, Jonathan, ‘‘Circle of Pain: The Cinema of Nicholas Ray,’’ in Sight and Sound (London), Autumn 1973. Barr, Charles, ‘‘Cinemascope Before and After,’’ in Film Theory and Criticism, edited by Gerald Mast and Mark Cohen, New York, 1974. ‘‘Johnny Guitar Issue’’ of Avant-Scène du Cinéma (Paris), March 1974. Biskind, Peter, ‘‘Rebel without a Cause: Nicholas Ray in the Fifties,’’ in Film Quarterly (Berkeley), Fall 1974. Place, Janey, in Magill’s Survey of Cinema 2, Englewood Cliffs, New Jersey, 1980. Fernandez Santos, A., and J. G. Requena, ‘‘Dos miradas sobre Johnny Guitar,’’ in Contracampo (Madrid), December 1980. Boyero, C., in Casablanca (Madrid), May 1981. Combs, Richard, in Listener (London), 7 July 1988. Charney, Leo, ‘‘Historical Excess: Johnny Guitar’s Containment,’’ in Cinema Journal (Austin), vol. 29, no. 4, Summer 1990. Brown, G., ‘‘B Happy,’’ in Village Voice (New York), vol. 38, 14 September 1993. Wollen, Peter, ‘‘Never at Home,’’ in Sight & Sound (London), vol. 4, no. 5, May 1994. Robertson, Pamela, ‘‘Camping Under Western Stars: Joan Crawford in Johnny Guitar,’’ in Journal of Film and Video (Atlanta), vol. 47, no. 1–3, Spring-Fall 1995. Peterson, Jennifer, ‘‘The Competing Tunes of Johnny Guitar: Liber- alism, Sexuality, Masquerade,’’ in Cinema Journal (Austin), vol. 35, no. 3, Spring 1996. Voisin, N., in Positif (Paris), no. 435, May 1997. *** Johnny Guitar certainly represents one of the most important Hollywood westerns, recognized at the time by critics throughout Europe. Critic-turned-auteur Bernardo Bertolucci called it ‘‘the first of the baroque westerns,’’ while Fran?ois Truffaut suggested the admiration members of the French New Wave had for the film when in his own Mississippi Mermaid he had Jean Paul Belmondo say to Catherine Deneuve as they emerged from a screening of Johnny Guitar: ‘‘It’s not about horses and guns. It’s about people and emotions.’’ Jean-Luc Godard in his Pierrot le fou had his alienated ‘‘hero’’ (again Belmondo) recommend Johnny Guitar to his maid, and in Weekend had hippie guerrillas broadcast from their hideout: ‘‘Johnny Guitar calling Gosta Berling.’’ But the origins of Johnny Guitar came amidst tumultuous changes in the American film business of the 1950s, and were far more humble than any art film. Johnny Guitar was produced by a former maker of ‘‘B’’ westerns, Republic Pictures. The studio was long famous for its regular production of westerns starring Gene Autry and Roy Rogers. In the decade following the Second World War, the studio boss, Herbert Yates, sought to move into the big time and indeed challenge the major studios. To do this it turned out a couple of big-budget films per year. Johnny Guitar was one of these. Others included John Ford’s The Quiet Man (1952) and Ford’s Rio Grande (1950). But none helped enough, and by 1958 the forces of change (television, suburbanization, government decrees) saw Republic shut down pro- duction altogether. In Hollywood lore Johnny Guitar is usually remembered for bringing together a talented group of creators. The movie was director Nicholas Ray’s first after leaving RKO, the studio that brought him to Hollywood. At Republic Ray was granted absolute creative freedom, even functioning as the film’s producer. Ray was in the midst of his most creative and productive period. His Rebel without a Cause, released the following year, allowed him to function as a mainline director for the next five or so years. But after a number of box-office failures, including King of Kings (1961) and 55 Days at Peking (1963), Ray never worked in Hollywood again. Like another enfant terrible of a decade before, Orson Welles, Nicholas Ray did not fit into the Hollywood system. But Ray was not the lone talent involved in the creation of this most adult of westerns. Philip Yordan, one of Hollywood’s most LE JOLI MAIFILMS, 4 th EDITION 599 prolific screenwriters, was at the apex of his career. Indeed the following year he penned a western nearly as complex as Johnny Guitar: Anthony Mann’s The Man from Laramie. Veteran camera- man Harry Stradling’s almost surreal Trucolor (Republic’s own) added just the right look to this garish ‘‘oater.’’ But to movie fans of the era Johnny Guitar is probably most remembered as the western starring two women. Joan Crawford, one of Hollywood’s longest running stars, experienced a downturn in her career after her Oscar for Mildred Pierce (1945) and thereafter struggled to fashion a career as ‘‘the evil older woman’’ in an industry that did not know what to do with actresses over the age of 30. In Johnny Guitar Crawford represented depravity incarnate, always dressed in black, willing to do anything to hold on to her small saloon. The woman who wanted to take away that bar, played by Mercedes McCambridge, initiated with Johnny Guitar a career in which she was at her best when playing desperate characters. Although many have labelled the film as offbeat and baroque, Johnny Guitar is not excessively violent. Its settings were traditional, and the cast included such familiar figures from westerns of the 1950s as Ward Bond and Scott Brady (as ‘‘Johnny’’). The plot seemed untraditional because there was no powerful central, active male figure. Johnny Logan is a notorious ‘‘fast draw’’ with a reputation that precedes him. But throughout the film Johnny does little except save Vienna (Crawford) at one point. He spends most of his time standing around, watching and commenting on the action. It is impossible to capture the beauty in this complex genre film in a short essay, but as Chicago Tribune film critic Michael Wilmington wrote at the time of the film’s release: ‘‘Never trust appearances. Beauty and profundity are not always found in the ‘obvious’ tradi- tional places; a Trucolor Western from humble Republic can throb with the passion of l’amour fou or whisper with an evening delicacy.’’ —Douglas Gomery LE JOLI MAI France, 1963 Director: Chris Marker Production: Sofracima; black and white, 35mm; running time: 110 and 140 minutes, American version 124 minutes. Released May 1963, Paris. Filmed spring 1962 in Paris. Producer: Catherine Winter; screenplay: Catherine Varlin and Chris Marker; photography: Pierre Lhomme; editor: Eva Zora; music: Michel Legrand, title song: B. Mokkoussov and Michel Legrand, sung by Yves Montand. Cast: Commentators: Yves Montand (the French commentary); Simone Signoret (the English commentary). Awards: Venice Film Festival, Best First Film, 1963; Cannes Film Festival, International Critics’ Prize, 1963. Publications Script: Varlin, Catherine, and Chris Marker, Le joli Mai, in Le Cinéma et la vérité, edited by Raymond Bellour, Lyons, 1963. Books: Issari, Ali, Cinema Vérité, East Lansing, Michigan, 1971. Barnouw, Erik, Documentary: A History of the Non-Fiction Film, New York, 1974. Armes, Roy, French Cinema Since 1946: The Personal Style, New York, 1976. Horrigan, William, Chris Marker: Silent Movie, Columbus, 1995. Articles: Graham, Peter, ‘‘The Face of ‘63—France,’’ in Films and Filming (London), May 1963. Kustow, Michael, in Sight and Sound (London), Spring 1964. Gow, Gordon, in Films and Filming (London), May 1964. Graham, Peter, ‘‘Cinema Vérité in France,’’ in Film Quarterly (Berkeley), Summer 1964. Jacob, Gilles, ‘‘Chris Marker and the Mutants,’’ in Sight and Sound (London), Autumn 1966. Thomas, John, in Film Society Review (New York), January 1967. Gauthier, G., in Image et Son (Paris), no. 274, 1973. Roud, Richard, ‘‘The Left Bank Revisited,’’ in Sight and Sound (London), Summer 1977. Gaggi, S., ‘‘Marker and Resnais: Myth and Reality,’’ in Literature/ Film Quarterly (Salisbury, Maryland), no. 1, 1979. Leeuwen, T. van, ‘‘Conjunctive Structure in Documentary Film and Television,’’ in Continuum, vol. 5, no. 1, 1991. Kohn, O., and H. Niogret, ‘‘Temoignages,’’ in Positif (Paris), no. 433, March 1997. ‘‘Special Section,’’ in Revue Pour le Cinema Francais, no. 45–47, September 1997. *** Released in 1963, Chris Marker’s Le joli Mai was one of the first and finest examples of cinema vérité to come out of France. Poetic, witty, complex, the film uses as its initial focus the spring of 1962, the first spring of peace for France since 1939. With rooftop shots of Paris on the screen, the narrator in the opening commentary tells us: ‘‘For two centuries happiness has been a new idea in Europe, and people are not used to it.’’ In the very political film which follows, Marker examines that idea of happiness on the small, private scale and on a larger, societal scale. Divided into two parts, Le joli Mai first concerns itself with individual happiness in a series of interviews with people from a range of social backgrounds. We meet a nervous clothing salesman concerned about money in the till, a pompous inventor intoning his philosophy of hard work and success, a young couple speaking of eternal happiness. Marker’s interviewers are adept, able to elicit revealing statements about individual hopes and beliefs without overpowering the subjects. Some segments need no such devices to LE JOLI MAI FILMS, 4 th EDITION 600 Le joli Mai make a statement: the glum bride at the jolly wedding party, the joyous mother of eight showing her family their government flat, well-dressed literary types releasing a flock of doves to celebrate a poetry prize. Part II places the small slices of life from the first half of the film onto a larger canvas for clearer definition. We see the shared political and social turmoil of France in 1962 in newsreel-like segments of police charges, demonstrations, and strikes. Cut against the newsreel footage are scenes from a Parisian nightclub where the dancing takes on an almost tribal quality. One of the dancers tell us: ‘‘While scientists concentrate on microbes, I concentrate on the twist.’’ The interviews in this section also contribute to the larger canvas. A black student from Dahomey reveals his first thought on seeing white people, ‘‘So these are the people who conquered us,’’ and his second, ‘‘Some day we will conquer them.’’ A communist worker-priest says he no longer has time to consider whether God exists. Le joli Mai is distinguished by the witty artistry of its director. A poet and essayist as well as filmmaker, Marker has a wonderful flair for visual asides. When a grumbler disrupts the interview going on with two stock exchange apprentices, Marker turns the camera on the man and, complete with clapper, starts shooting as the interviewer asks the man the same question—what does money mean? When two consulting engineers in their discussion of work refer to nonworkers, Marker shows us shots of marvelously luxuriant, sleek cats. When the inventor propounds his philosophy of life, the camera watches the progress of a daddy longlegs across the man’s lapel. A salesman’s description of new luxury apartments is counterpointed by older people in the background washing in the street. Throughout, the film is permeated by a bittersweet quality as it evokes the troubles of the past and present and hopes for a better future. That bittersweet tone underscores the inability of the individu- als in the first part to cope with the larger reality around them. How can statements on the value of hard work, the meaning of money, the eternal quality of happiness deal with a police charge that kills eight people on the Metro? As one of the consulting engineers at the end of the film comments, ‘‘Our dreams are too small for what already exists.’’ One of the distinctions of Le joli Mai is that it is able to present disparate episodes from real life involving many different people and yet pull them together into a cohesive statement about the milieu in which those individuals exist. —Sharon Lee JONAH QUI AURA 25 ANS EN L’AN 2000FILMS, 4 th EDITION 601 JONAH QUI AURA 25 ANS EN L’AN 2000 (Jonah Who Will Be 25 in the Year 2000) France-Switzerland, 1976 Director: Alain Tanner Production: Citel Films and SSR Télévision Suisse (Geneva), Action Films and Société Fran?ais de Production (Paris); Eastmancolor, 35mm; running time: 110 minutes, some sources list 116 minutes; length: 10,401 feet. Released 25 August 1976. Producers: Yves Gasser and Yves Peyrot; executive producer: Roland Jouby; screenplay: John Berger and Alain Tanner; photog- raphy: Renato Berta; editors: Brigitte Sousselier and Marc Blavet; sound recordist: Pierre Gamet; sound re-recordist: Christian Londe; music: Jean-Marie Senia. Cast: Jean-Luc Bideau (Max Sitigny); Myriam Boyer (Mathilde Vernier); Myriam Mzière (Madeleine); Rufus (Mathieu Vernier); Roger Jendly (Marcel Certoux); Jacques Denis (Marco Perly); Miou- Miou (Marie); Raymond Bussieres (Charles); Dominique Labourier (Marguerite); Jonah (Himself). Publications Script: Berger, John, and Alain Tanner, Jonah qui aura 25 ans en l’an 2000, Lausanne, 1978; as Jonah Who Will Be 25 in the Year 2000, Berkeley, 1983. Books: Leach, Jim, A Possible Cinema: The Films of Alain Tanner, Metuchen, New Jersey, 1984. Dimitriu, Christian, Alain Tanner, Paris, 1985. Detassis, Piera, Alain Tanner, Firenze, 1987. Articles: Jaeggi, B., in Cinema (Zurich), no. 3, 1976. Variety (New York), 25 August 1976. Kael, Pauline, in New Yorker, 18 October 1976. Colpart, C., in Revue du Cinéma (Paris), November 1976. Image et Son (Paris), November 1976. Haskell, Molly, in Village Voice (New York), 1 November 1976. Le Pavec, J. P., in Cinéma (Paris), December 1976. Rubenstein, L., ‘‘Keeping Hope for Radical Change Alive,’’ in Cineaste (New York), Winter 1976–77. Stam, Robert, ‘‘Jonah Who Will Be 25 in the Year 2000: The Subversive Charm of Alain Tanner,’’ in Jump Cut (Chicago), no. 15, 1977. Greene, L., ‘‘Jonah: Subversive Charm Indeed!,’’ in Jump Cut (Chicago), no. 15, 1977. Positif (Paris), January 1977. Daney, Serge, ‘‘Les Huit ‘Inside Ma,’’’ in Cahiers du Cinéma (Paris), January-February 1977. Heinic, N., in Cahiers du Cinéma (Paris), January-February 1977. Tarantino, M., in Take One (Montreal), March 1977. Gitlin, T., in Film Quarterly (Berkeley), Spring 1977. Séquences (Montreal), July 1977. Brossard, J. P., ‘‘Dialektisches Spiel mit den Ausdrucksformen,’’ in Film und Fernsehen (Berlin), December 1977. Dawson, Jan, in Monthly Film Bulletin (London), January 1978. Listener (London), 23 February 1978. Pulleine, Tim, in Sight and Sound (London), Spring 1978. Tanner, Alain, in Ecran (Paris), 15 January 1979. Monthly Film Bulletin (London), July 1979. Harrild, A. E., in Film Directions (Belfast), no. 11, 1980. Cineforum (Bergamo), January-February 1980. Prono, F., in Cinema Nuovo (Bari), February 1980. Horton, A., ‘‘Alain Tanner’s Jonah: Echoes of Renoir’s M. Lange,’’ in Film Criticism (Edinboro, Pennsylvania), Spring 1980. Toubiana, Serge, ‘‘20 ans, Jonasp,” in Cahiers du Cinéma (Paris), no. 320, February 1981. Tarantino, M., ‘‘Going inside with Tanner,’’ in Movietone News (Seattle), March 1981. Cinema Journal (Evanston, Illinois), Spring 1985. Short review, in Listener, vol. 118, no. 3025, 20 August 1987. Andrew, D., ‘‘Revolution and the Ordinary: Renoir’s La Marseillaise,’’ in Yale Journal of Criticism, vol. 4, no. 1, 1990. Andrew, D., ‘‘L’identite a jamais perdue du cinema francais,’’ in CinémAction (Conde-sur-Noireau, France), no. 66, February 1993. *** Jonah Who Will Be 25 in the Year 2000 is both a succinct commentary on the disillusionment experienced by the ‘‘generation of 1968’’ and a utopian series of vignettes that looks forward to a more egalitarian future. Jonah is Tanner’s most successful collabo- ration with his frequent scenarist, the Marxist art critic John Berger, and this film follows the great promise shown by the two earlier Berger-Tanner collaborations, La salamandre and The Middle of the World. All of Tanner’s films can be viewed as critiques of the intellectual aridity of Swiss society, and Jonah is his buoyant rejoinder to the complacency of the Swiss bourgeoisie. Jonah celebrates the communitarian idealism of eight disparate individuals at a moment of alleged historical ‘‘stasis.’’ Yet the vitality of Tanner’s protagonists helps to vitiate standard Time magazine clichés concerning the essentially ‘‘ephemeral’’ radical politics of the 1960s. For example, Max (all of the protagonists’ names begin with prefix ‘‘Ma’’), the disillusioned ex-Trotskyist, and his mystically inclined girlfriend, Madeleine, would seem to represent antithetical extremes of the counter-cultural spectrum. Yet Tanner’s qualified optimism enables the politicized (if temporarily sidetracked) Max and the occultish Madeleine to share the same universe of discourse. As Robert Stam has pointed out, Jonah’s emphasis on the need for a radical pedagogy to replace the outmoded strictures of bourgeois discourse has deep affinities with the anarchic spirit of negation embedded in Jean Vigo’s classic Zéro de conduite. The spirit of Rousseau’s Emile (despite its inherent contradictions, perhaps the first primer of libertarian approaches to education) permeates Jonah, LE JOUR SE LèVE FILMS, 4 th EDITION 602 Jonah qui aura 25 ans en l’an 2000 and critical potential that is always latent (but rarely appropriated) in the educational process is highlighted in one of the film’s most brilliant sequences. Marco, a charmingly gauche high school teacher, demonstrates how the hallowed ‘‘truths’’ of history tend to dissolve when compared to the indisputably tangible, material folds of a sau- sage link. Subsequently, Marco teaches his class the harsh realities of economic hardship by having his girlfriend lecture on the daily annoyances of her job as a supermarket cashier. This synthesis of the personal and political is (surprisingly) never cloying, and always reiterates with pointed humor Tanner’s desire for social transformation. Jonah is ultimately one of the most astonishing examples of ‘‘Brechtian cinema’’ to have been engendered by the ongoing reex- amination of the late playwright’s theoretical corpus. Unlike many other contemporary directors, Tanner realizes that ‘‘Brechtian’’ does not necessarily connote humorless diatribes in the manner of ‘‘the master’s’’ most sterile, didactic works. (The dreadful The Measures Taken comes to mind in this context.) Miou-Miou’s spontaneous cabaret song, on the other hand, suggests the exuberance of Brecht and Weill, and Tanner’s playful, and always unobtrusive, use of quotations from such contemporary savants as Pablo Neruda, Jean Piaget, and Walter Benjamin helps to make Jonah a particularly exhilarating example of 1970s Lehrstücke. —Richard Porton LE JOUR SE LèVE (Daybreak) France, 1939 Director: Marcel Carné Production: VOG Sigma (Paris); black and white, 35mm; running time: 85 minutes; length 7995 feet. Released 1939. Filmed in Paris Studios Cinema, Billancourt. LE JOUR SE LèVEFILMS, 4 th EDITION 603 Producer: Brachet; screenplay: Jacques Viot; adaptation and dialogue: Jacques Prévert; photography: Curt Courant, Philippe Agostini, and André Bac; editor: René le Henaff; sound recordist: Arman Petitjean; production designer: Alexandre Trauner; music: Maurice Jaubert; costume designer: Boris Bilinsky. Cast: Jean Gabin (Fran?ois); Jacqueline Laurent (Fran?oise); Arletty (Clara); René Génin (Concierge); Mady Berry (Concierge’s wife); Jules Berry (M. Valentin); Marcel Pérè (Paulo); Jacques Baumer (Inspector); René Bergeron (Cafe proprietor); Gabrielle Fonton (Woman on the stairs); Arthur Devère (M. Gerbois); Georges Douking (Blind Man); Bernard Blier (Gaston). Publications Script: Viot, Jacques, and Jacques Prévert, Le Jour se lève in Avant-Scène du Cinéma (Paris), October 1965; translated as Le jour se lève: A Film, New York, 1970. Books: Bernager, Jean-Louis, Marcel Carné, Paris, 1945. Queval, Jean, Marcel Carné, Paris, 1952. Perrin, Michel, Arletty, Paris, 1952. Landry, Bernard, Marcel Carné: Sa vie, ses films, Paris, 1952. Chazal, Robert, Marcel Carné, Paris, 1965. Amengual, Barthélemy, Prévert, du cinéma, Alger, 1952. Queval, Jean, Jacques Prévert, Paris, 1955. Jacob, Guy, Jacques Prévert, Lyons, 1960. Bergens, Andrée, Jacques Prévert, Paris, 1969. Armes, Roy, French Film, New York, 1970. Sadoul, Georges, French Film, New York, 1972. Gauteur, Claude, and André Bernard, Gabin; ou, Les Avatars d’un mythe, Paris, 1976. Missiaen, Jean-Claude, and Jacques Siclier, Jean Gabin, Paris, 1977. Betti, Jean-Michel, Salut, Gabin!, Paris, 1977. Ariotti, Philippe, and Philippe de Comes, Arletty, Paris, 1978. Ellis, Jack C., A History of Film, Englewood Cliffs, New Jer- sey, 1979. Thiher, Allen, The Cinematic Muse: Critical Studies in the History of French Cinema, Columbia, Missouri, 1979. Milhaud, Sylvie, Jean Gabin, Paris, 1981. Rachline, Michel, Jacques Prévert, Paris, 1981. Perez, Michel, Les Films de Carné, Paris, 1986. Brunelin, André, Gabin, Paris, 1987. Turk, Edward Baron, Child of Paradise: Marcel Carné and the Golden Age of French Cinema, Cambridge, Massachusetts, 1989. Carné, Marcel, Ma vie à belles dents: mémoires, Paris, 1996. Articles: Variety (New York), 26 July 1940. New York Times, 30 July 1940. Lodge, J. F., ‘‘The Cinema of Marcel Carné,’’ in Sequence (Lon- don), 1946. Sadoul, Georges, and J. Boul, in Ecrans Fran?ais (Paris), 12 June 1946. Manvell, Roger, in Sight and Sound (London), Autumn 1947. Le jour se lève Lambert, Gavin, ‘‘Marcel Carné,’’ in Sequence (London), Spring 1948. Duvillars, Pierre, ‘‘Jean Gabin’s Instinctive Man,’’ in Films in Review (New York), March 1951. Sadoul, Georges, ‘‘Les Films de Marcel Carné: Expression de notre époch,’’ in Lettres Fran?aises (Paris), 1 March 1956. Stanbrook, Alan, ‘‘The Carné Bubble,’’ in Film (London), Novem- ber-December 1959. Guillot, Gerard, ‘‘Les Visiteurs du soir,’’ in Avant-Scène du Cinéma (Paris), February 1962. Nolan, Jack E., ‘‘Jean Gabin,’’ in Films in Review (New York), April 1963. Cowie, Peter, ‘‘Jean Gabin,’’ in Films and Filming (London), Febru- ary 1964. ‘‘Prévert Issue’’ of Image et Son (Paris), December 1965. Helman, A., in Kino (Warsaw), August 1973. Quenin, F., in Téléciné (Paris), December 1976. Fieschi, J., in Cinématographe (Paris), January 1977. *** Coming at the very end of a decade in which the French cinema reigned intellectually supreme, Le jour se lève was the culminating achievement of the school known as ‘‘poetic realism.’’ Fifty years on, the realism looks uncommonly like romanticism, but there can be little doubt about the poetry. The film is suffused with a bittersweet fatalism, a soft, drifting melancholy that invests the drab settings of factory and tenement with its own sad romance. The characters, hero and villain alike, seem to move in a dream, progressing with stoic JOURNAL D’UN CURé DE CAMPAGNE FILMS, 4 th EDITION 604 resignation towards their inescapable destiny. The parallel with prewar France, awaiting defeat with mesmerized passivity, has often been drawn, and is indeed hard to avoid. The circularity of the film’s structure mirrors its fatalistic mood— what will happen, must happen, for we have already seen it happen. In the opening seconds, a man is shot, reeling mortally wounded down the tenement stairs. As police arrive and a crowd gathers, the killer barricades himself in his attic room; and through the long night, smoking his last cigarettes, he recalls events that led him to kill. By way of a carefully structured series of flashbacks, we return full circle to the shooting, seeing it this time from inside the room. As dawn breaks, the police prepare an assault. A final shot is heard; a cloud of tear-gas creeps over a lifeless body in the early rays of the sun; and abruptly, the noise of the dead man’s alarm-clock breaks the silence. Gabin’s performance, as the besieged killer, stands as the epitome of his prewar persona as doomed proletarian anti-hero, developed through Duvivier’s Pépé le Moko, Renoir’s Labête humaine, and his previous Carné film, Quai des brumes. Equally outstanding is Jules Berry’s portrayal of his victim, the sadistic animal trainer so compul- sively dedicated to destruction that he even brings about his own death in order to destroy others. Le jour se lève—like Quai des brumes and all Carné’s other early films—was made in close collabo- ration with his scriptwriter, the poet Jacques Prévert, whose wit, love of language, and fatalistic poetry permeate the film to such a degree that his name should stand with the director’s as co-creator. Le jour se lève was banned under the Vichy regime, accused of having contributed to the debacle of 1940. (Carné responded that the barometer should hardly be blamed for the storm it foretells.) Widely shown and acclaimed after the war, it was then suppressed again in 1947, this time by RKO, to make way for Anatole Litvak’s crass re- make, The Long Night (with Henry Fonda in the Gabin role). Rumours that all prints had been destroyed proved mercifully un- founded. Carné’s film resurfaced during the 1950s, and is now generally acknowledged, together with Les enfants du paradis, as the finest product of his partnership with Prévert. The film’s pre-war despair has transmuted into nostalgic melancholy, closer now to Ophüls than to Renoir; its romantic appeal seems likely to survive undimmed. —Philip Kemp JOURNAL D’UN CURé DE CAMPAGNE (Diary of a Country Priest) France, 1950 Director: Robert Bresson Production: Union Générale Cinématographique; black and white, 35mm; running time: 120 minutes. Released 1950. Producer: Léon Carré; screenplay: Robert Bresson, from the novel by Georges Bernanos; photography: Léonce-Henry Burel; editor: Paulette Robert; production designer: Pierre Charbonnier; music: Jean Jacques Grüenwald. Cast: Claude Laydu (Priest of Ambricourt); Nicole Ladmiral (Chantal); Nicole Maurey (Mademoiselle Louise); Marie-Monique Arkell (Count- ess); Armand Guibert (Priest of Torcy); Jean Riveyre (Count); Jean Danet (Olivier); Antoine Balpêtré (Doctor Delbende); Martine Lemaire (Séraphita); Yvette Etiévant (Young girl). Awards: Prix Louis-Delluc, France, 1950; Venice Film Festival, Best Photography and International Prize, 1951. Publications Books: The Films of Robert Bresson, New York, 1969. Armes, Roy, French Cinema Since 1946: The Great Tradition, New York, 1970. Cameron, Ian, The Films of Robert Bresson, London, 1970. Schrader, Paul, Transcendental Style on Film: Ozu, Bresson, Dreyer, Los Angeles, 1972. De Pontes Leca, C., Robert Bresson o cinematografo e o sinal, Lisbon, 1978. Horton, Andrew, and Joan Magretta, editors, Modern European Filmmakers and the Art of Adaptation, New York, 1981. Andrew, Dudley, Film in the Aura of Art, Princeton, 1984. Arnaud, Philippe, Robert Bresson, Paris, 1986. Hanlon, Lindley, Fragments: Bresson’s Film Style, Rutherford, 1986. Quandt, James, editor, Robert Bresson, Toronto, 1998. Articles: Douchet, Jean, ‘‘Bresson on Location: Interview,’’ in Sequence (London), no. 13, 1951. Lambert, Gavin, ‘‘Notes on Robert Bresson,’’ in Sight and Sound (London), Summer 1953. Gow, Gordon, ‘‘The Quest for Realism,’’ in Films and Filming (London), December 1957. Baxter, Brian, ‘‘Robert Bresson,’’ in Film (London), September- October 1958. Ford, Charles, ‘‘Robert Bresson,’’ in Films in Review (New York), February 1959. Green, Marjorie, ‘‘Robert Bresson,’’ in Film Quarterly (Berkeley), Spring 1960. Young, Colin, ‘‘Conventional/Unconventional,’’ in Film Quarterly (Berkeley), Spring 1960. Roud, Richard, ‘‘French Outsider with the Inside Look,’’ in Films and Filming (London), April 1960. Johnson, Ian, and Raymond Durgnat, ‘‘Puritans Anonymous,’’ in Motion (London), Autumn 1963. Sontag, Susan, ‘‘Spiritual Style in the Films of Robert Bresson,’’ in Seventh Art (New York), Summer 1964. Milne, Tom, ‘‘The Two Chambermaids,’’ in Sight and Sound (Lon- don), Autumn 1964. Godard, Jean-Luc, and Michel Delahaye, ‘‘The Question: Interview with Robert Bresson,’’ in Cahiers du Cinéma in English (New York), May 1966. Durgnat, Raymond, in Films and Filming (London), December 1966. Sarris, Andrew, ‘‘Robert Bresson,’’ in Interviews with Film Direc- tors, New York, 1967. JOURNAL D’UN CURé DE CAMPAGNEFILMS, 4 th EDITION 605 Journal d’un curé de campagne Skoller, Ronald S., ‘‘Praxis as a Cinematic Principle in the Films of Robert Bresson,’’ in Cinema Journal (Evanston, Illinois), Fall 1969. Armes, Roy, ‘‘The Art of Robert Bresson,’’ in London Magazine, October 1970. Zeman, Marvin, ‘‘The Suicide of Robert Bresson,’’ in Cinema (London), Spring 1971. Prokosch, M., ‘‘Bresson’s Stylistics Revisited,’’ in Film Quarterly (Berkeley), Winter 1971–72. Samuels, Charles Thomas, ‘‘Robert Bresson,’’ in Encountering Direc- tors, New York, 1972. Polhemusin, H. M., ‘‘Matter and Spirit in the Films of Robert Bresson,’’ in Film Heritage (Dayton, Ohio), Spring 1974. Prédal, René, interview with Léonce-H. Burel, in Cinéma (Paris), July-August 1974. Nogueira, Rui, ‘‘Burel and Bresson,’’ in Sight and Sound (London), Winter 1976–77. Bazin, André, in Filmkritik (Munich), May 1979. Estève, M., ‘‘Bresson et Bernanos,’’ in Cinéma (Paris), June 1983. Brisset, S., in Cinema89, no. 459, September 1989. Lopate, Phillip, ‘‘Films as Spiritual Life,’’ in Film Comment (New York), November-December 1991. Predal, R., in Avant Scène du Cinéma (Paris), January-February 1992. Helman, Alicja, ‘‘Dziennik wiejskiego proboszcza Bressona,’’ in Kino (Warsaw), vol. 47, no. 2–3, February-March 1993. Lyons, Donald, ‘‘Priests,’’ in Film Comment (New York), vol. 31, no. 3, May-June 1995. Short review, in Film en Televisie + Video (Brussels), no. 465, October 1996. Amengual, Barthélemy, ‘‘Les pouvoirs de l’abstraction,’’ in Positif (Paris), no. 430, December 1996. Muriac, F., ‘‘Egy falusi plebanos naploja,’’ in Filmvilag (Budapest), vol. 40, no. 10, 1997. Mazierska, Ewa, ‘‘Dziennik wiejskiego proboszcza,’’ in Kino (War- saw), vol. 32, no. 373, June 1998. *** In the politics of adaptation, Robert Bresson’s Diary of a Country Priest must stand out as a revolutionary event. Taking over the project of this novel after its author, Georges Bernanos, had repudiated the version offered by Aurenche and Bost, Bresson promised to get beyond the cinema in order to embody, or act out, the spiritual drama JOURNEY OF HOPE FILMS, 4 th EDITION 606 that was at its core. Initially supported by producer Pierre Gerin, Bresson found himself abandoned after Bernanos’s death in 1948. Nevertheless, he obtained the rights, finished his austere and uncon- ventional script, and appealed to Bernanos’s literary executor, Albert Beguin. Not only did Beguin accept Bresson’s project, but this influential editor of the journal Esprit also helped him secure financ- ing through the recently established national production agency, Union Générale Cinématographique. Bresson chose for his hero a young Swiss actor from among a great many candidates, all of them practicing Catholics. For over a year Bresson and Claude Laydu met each Sunday to discuss the role. Laydu went so far as to live for a time in a monastery to accustom himself to priestly garb and gestures. Bresson insisted that he cease acting and become a ‘‘model,’’ an instinctive presence to be sculpted by light and camera. The French press covered the production and premiere of the film with pride. They helped guide it to a new audience, of intellectuals and of the pious, two groups that had never frequented the cinema. Cinephiles were encouraged to see the film twice. In this way Diary of a Country Priest opened up new options in the conception, realiza- tion, and exploitation of a film. Using fidelity of adaptation as an issue, Bresson actually chal- lenged the entire aesthetics of French cinema of quality. His film overturns received notions of ‘‘the primacy of the image’’ and of the ‘‘cinematic story,’’ abandoning the theatrical, public and architec- tural ostentation of quality for a fluid, musical, interior, and ascetic expression. Bresson spoke of his work as an ‘‘ecriture’’ (Sartre) demanding new notions of the actor, the shot, and the soundtrack. Most critics could barely digest the film, for as Bazin said, it is a film not so much to read as to directly feel. While one can analyse the subject ‘‘christologically’’ according to the Stations of the Cross (the curé’s falls, the wiping of his face by Seraphita, his glorious motorcy- cle ride to the big city where he will die, that death occurring between two outcasts in a high attic room), Bresson’s is the opposite of an allegorical film. He cut 45 minutes without hesitation because the true drama was internal and was present in the quality of each of its moments. The spirituality every critic feels emanating from the film is really an effect produced by the accumulation of details rather than by dramatic plotting. A spiritual rhythm invades the images through the repetition of scenes, gestures, sounds, lighting and decor. Dialogue, monologue, landscape shots, scenes of writing, intensely composed music and natural sounds orchestrate a meditation rather than a story. The diary form itself becomes the true site of meditation. It is variously represented as written pages on the screen, as a voice which situates the actions we see, and as those actions themselves, when through fades, ellipses and the like we realize that what is represented is reflection upon an event, not the event itself. In the penultimate sequence at the cafe, all three diary forms are present simultaneously: we see him writing, hear him say ‘‘I must have dozed off for a while,’’ and sense that doze through a slight reframing after a dissolve. In this key moment we realize that he is recording the very episode we are watching, layering reflection on reflection as he sums up his life just before it ends. But the diary is also treated as one physical object among others. Bresson capitalizes on the cinema’s indifferent attachment to the objects of the world by filming lamps, winebottles, furniture, and prayerbooks in closeup. Bazin always claimed that style is a pattern of selection. If this is so, then Bresson gets to the interior via these objects as they interact with the hands, feet, and eyes of characters in a landscape of barren trees, narrow roads and the interiors of cold houses the doors and windows of which are at once invitations and warnings. The gray and spongy atmosphere that lights this world is tran- scended by the priest in his diary. Certain scenes let us sense this transcendence in their lighting. The dialogue with Chantal in the confessional is the greatest such scene, for Bresson allows us to witness the luminosity of two faces and two hands in a dark space where only voice and intention matter. Light is the metaphor of the curé’s discourse as he passes dark nights and is drawn to the warmth of lamps in windows and to the promise of dawn. At times light is not even a clarifying medium but a substance surrounded by darkness. The curé’s homelessness is seldom pictured in a single image, but exists as a rhythm of entrances and exits in which the world seems distant from him. The diary shapes a life in transit, at home only with itself and its meditation. Diary of a Country Priest is a landmark in subjective cinema. No establishing shots put the priest in context. Characters accelerate away from him. Bresson refuses to situate him dramatically, sociologically, or theologically. We are locked within his point of reflection. The soundtrack alone reminds him and us of the wider world. The natural sounds of feet on cobblestones, of a motorcycle, of people whispering, or of a breeze blowing constitute the true atmosphere of a search for grace. Together with the voice of the diary and the finality of the musical score (the last time Bresson would lean on a score), these natural sounds present the whole of the curé’s world in each moment of the film: its pastness, its responsive- ness, its fidelity, its limitation of vision, its productive loneliness and suffering. The stakes of this film are high. Like the curé, Bresson is banking on the power of humility and discipline. Instead of achieving a life, Bresson would achieve a film. He would do so by thwarting the cinema. Many believers, especially the young Cahiers critics Truffaut and Godard, have had to defend their faith against those outraged by a film emanating in fragments from an obscure and obsessive mind. Diary of a Country Priest remains a watershed film in the history of adaptations and in the politics of style. —Dudley Andrew JOURNEY OF HOPE (Reise der Hoffnung; Umud’a yolculuk) Switzerland/Turkey, 1990 Director: Xavier Koller Production: Catpics AG/Condor features (Switzerland), Antea, Dewe, Cinerent, SRG, RTSI, Film Four International, and Eurimages; color; running time: 111 minutes. Released in Switzerland, August 1990, and in the United States, May 1991; distributed in the United States by Miramax Films. Languages: Turkish, Kurdish, and German. Producer: Peter-Christian Fueter and Alfi Sinniger; screenplay: Xavier Koller, Feride ?i?ekoglu; photography: Elemér Ragályi; JOURNEY OF HOPEFILMS, 4 th EDITION 607 Journey of Hope editors: Daniel Gibal, Galip Iyitanir; art director: Kathrin Brunner; costumes: Grazia Colombini; original music: Manfred Eicher, with Jan Garbarek, Terje Rypdal, Arild Andersen, Egberto Gismonti. Cast: Necmettin ?obanoglu (Haydar Sener); Nur Sürer (Meryem); Emin Sivas (Mehmet Ali); Yaman Okay (Turkmen); Erdinc Akbas (Adama); Mathias Gn?dinger (Truckdriver Ramser); Dietmar Sch?nherr (Massimo); and others. Awards: Bronze Leopard, Locarno International Film Festival, 1990; Academy Award for Best Foreign Language Film, 1991. Publications Articles: Cado, Valerie, review in Studio (Paris), November 1991. Neubourg, Monique, review in Première (Paris), November 1991. Gentele, Jeannette, ‘‘Prisbel?nat flyktingdrama,’’ in Svenska Dagbladet (Sweden), 6 March 1992. Rosenthal, A., ‘‘Journey of Hope: Reflections of a Documentary Screenwriter,’’ in International Documentary (Los Angeles), vol. 16, March 1997. *** Journey of Hope is the European answer to Nelson Pereira dos Santos’s Vidas Secas (1963) and Gregory Nava’s El Norte (1983), a story of weak and helpless people hopefully struggling to secure what they believe may be a better life. Based on a real story, it was one of the first widely seen feature films to tackle the problem of migrations from the peripheries of Europe to the rich Western societies, which have not by chance been described as ‘‘Fortress Europe.’’ The hostile and unwelcoming treatment of underprivileged newcomers has since become one of the major topics in European art and politics. Numerous cinematic works that treat these problems came into being. A Kurdish family, pressed by economic needs, leave their native village and travel to Europe, aiming to penetrate into Switzerland and JU DOU FILMS, 4 th EDITION 608 begin a new life. Leaving is particularly painful for Meryem, the wife, who has to leave behind six of her seven children. Haydar, the father, agrees that they may take along one of their boys, Mehmet Ali. The presence of the boy, however, complicates their original transfer plan, and they have to struggle to get themselves to Italy and then Switzerland as clandestines under particularly difficult conditions. They are smuggled on board a ship in a cargo container, and later on end up stranded in the hostile Alps amidst a snowstorm. The family gets separated and loses their way; Myriam is injured but eventually makes her way to safety. Heydar, however, is lost and spends the freezing night desperately wandering in the snow and looking for help. By the time he is found in the morning, his little boy is gone. Scripted by director Koller and with impressive performances from the lead actors, the film builds on the contrasts between the self- content affluence of the West and the grim poverty of Asia Minor. It exposes exploitative individuals like the profiteers involved in human trafficking on the Swiss border, but it does not find them at fault. It rather blames the social rules designed to safeguard the rich from the poor. Most of the individual Westerners whom the clandestines encounter—an Italian sailor, a Swiss truck driver, and a Turkish émigré-interpreter—are sympathetic to them, and try to help in their limited ways. Nonetheless, the system is hostile and merciless, and there is no chance for miracles. A picture postcard from Switzerland describing the country as ‘‘paradise’’ figures as a recurring motif in the film; when the protagonists finally reach the deceptive ‘‘para- dise’’ it becomes clear that for the boy it has been a journey into heaven in the literal sense. A number of remarkable cinematic works of the past have recorded the troublesome experiences of the economic migrations of the Turks. Before Journey of Hope, the denigrating struggles of penetrating into ‘‘Fortress Europe’’ have been treated in films by Turkish émigré directors such as Swedish-based Tun? Okan whose film The Bus (1977) featured illegal Turkish immigrants left on their own in Stockholm, who do not dare to leave the vehicle and venture into the unknown territory of the Western metropolis. The unsettling experiences of life in a foreign land have been further problematized by German-based Tevfik Baser in his films Forty Square Meters Germany (1986) and Farewell to False Paradise (1989), both explor- ing the adaptation difficulties of Turkish protagonists in Germany. —Dina Iordanova JOURNEY TO ITALY See VIAGGIO IN ITALIA JU DOU China/Japan, 1990 Directors: Zhang Yimou, Yang Fengliang (some sources list Yang as Zhang’s collaborator) Production: China Film Co-Production Corporation, China Film Export and Import Corporation, Tokuma Shoten Publishing Com- pany Ltd., Tokuma Communications Company Ltd, Xi An Film Ju Dou Studio; color, 35mm.; Panavision; running time: 95 minutes. Released April 1991 in United States. Producers: Zhang Wenze, Yasuyoshi Tokuma, Hu Jian; screenplay: Liu Heng, based on his novella; photography: Gu Changwei, Yang Lun; editor: Du Yuan; art directors: Cao Juiping Cao, Xia Rujin; original music: Zhao Jipin; sound: Li Lanhua. Cast: Gong Li (Ju Dou); Li Baotian (Yang Tianqing); Li Wei (Yang Jinshan); Zhang Yi (Yang Tianbai [infant]); Zheng Jian (Yang Tianbai [Youth]). Award: Chicago Film Festival Golden Hugo Award, 1990. Publications Articles: Lochen, K., in Film & Kino (Oslo), no. 4, 1990. Stratton, David, in Variety (New York), 30 May 1990. Grosoli, F., in Cineforum (Bergamo, Italy), June 1990. Rabinovici, J., in Cinema 90 (Paris), June 1990. Jousse, T., in Cahiers du Cinéma (Paris), June 1990. Tessier, M., in Revue du Cinéma (Cretail Cedex, France), July/ August 1990. Paranagua, P.A., in Positif (Paris), July/August 1990. JU DOUFILMS, 4 th EDITION 609 James, Caryn, ‘‘On Oppression of Women in China,’’ in New York Times, 22 September 1990. Lochen, K., in Film & Kino (Oslo), no. 3, 1991. Vos, J. M. de, in Film en Televisie + Video (Brussels), January 1991. Kreps, K., in Box Office (Hollywood), January 1991. Derobert, E. and Y. Tobin, in Positif (Paris), February 1991. Bassan, R., in Revue du Cinéma (Cretail Cedex, France), 17 Febru- ary 1991. Koetsenruijter, B., in Skrien (Amsterdam), February/March 1991. James, Caryn, ‘‘Adultery and Aftermath in a Chinese Village,’’ in New York Times, 17 March 1991. Corliss, R., and J.A. Florcrus, ‘‘Tainted Love by the Dye Vat,’’ in Time (New York), 18 March 1991. Hoberman, J., ‘‘Fine China,’’ in Village Voice (New York), 19 March 1991. Orr, D., ‘‘Undertones,’’ in New Statesman (London), 22 March 1991. Kempley, Rita, in Washington Post, 22 March 1991. Denby, David, ‘‘The Pursuit of Unhappiness,’’ in New York, 25 March 1991. Rayns, Tony, in Monthly Film Bulletin (London), April 1991. Chua, R., ‘‘Homeland Movies,’’ in Village Voice (New York), 2 April 1991. Ebert, Roger, in Chicago Sun-Times, 12 April 1991. Noh, D., in Film Journal (New York), April/May 1991. Worm, V., in Levende Billeder (Copenhagen), July 1991. Kissin, E.H., in Films in Review (New York), July/August 1991. Gansera, R., in EPD Film (Frankfurt), September 1991. Skram-Jensen, U., in Kosmorama (Copenhagen), Fall 1991. *** Ju Dou may be viewed on two levels: as a folktale of innocence and evil, a simple and powerful work of cinematic art; and as a biting and controversial political allegory. Its success helped thrust its director, Zhang Yimou, into the international spotlight. Zhang, work- ing in collaboration with Yang Fengliang, has made a haunting film about the manner in which peoples’ lives are stifled when they are ruled by rigid custom, rather than human desire. The setting is a small village somewhere in China during the 1920s. The three primary characters, each broadly drawn, are a hero- ine, hero, and villain. The latter is the most conventional: Yang Jinshan, a miserly, sadistic old man who owns a dye mill. Desperate to father a male heir, Jinshan already has purchased two wives, whom he has tortured to death when they failed to bear him a child. Ju Dou is his newest spouse, his latest possession. Because she has not immediately become pregnant, he is battering her. ‘‘I bought you, now obey me,’’ he tells her. ‘‘When I buy an animal, I treat it as I wish. And you’re no better than an animal.’’ Yang Tianqing is Jinshan’s shy, repressed nephew. He was adopted by the old man after his parents died, and he is treated more like a slave than a relation. Each night, Tianqing silently listens to Ju Dou’s screams and pleadings. He is not even introduced to her, and first sees Ju Dou while peeping at her through a hole in the wall as she removes her blouse. Inevitably, Ju Dou and Tianqing are drawn to each other—and Ju Dou becomes pregnant during their first sexual encounter. So Jinshan’s own impotence is the explanation for Ju Dou’s and her predecessors’ inability to bear him children—and his tirades and beatings only add to his hypocrisy. Even more to the point, in feudal China, the only weapon that the poor and powerless Ju Dou and Tianqing can employ in rebellion against Jinshan is their sexual attraction. By far the film’s most intriguing character is Ju Dou, who is victimized because of her gender. While it would be unrealistic for her to openly oppose Jinshan, she defies him in a subtler—and more believable—manner. Within the boundaries of her situation, she proves to be remarkably bold and decisive. That she is able to gain a modicum of control over her life is extraordinary, given her plight. It is Ju Dou who initiates the relationship with Tianqing, and not the other way around; she is the aggressor, while he is passive. Essen- tially, Tianqing is weak-willed: an observer rather than participant, a peeping tom who never would defy his uncle on his own. He only resists at Ju Dou’s prodding, and when overcome by his lusty urges. After Jinshan is paralyzed from the waist down in an accident, Tianqing has the opportunity to kill him. But he does not. He and Ju Dou may now feel empowered—Ju Dou brazenly reveals to Jinshan the true identity of the father of her newborn son—but the old man has his revenge when the toddler mistakenly recognizes him as his parent. Finally, Ju Dou’s and Tianqing’s son grows into an angry, tyrannical devil, a pint-sized duplicate of Jinshan, with the boy manipulated by the old man into despising his real father. And so the point is clear: in order to destroy evil, you must not allow it to fester. You must completely snuff it out. If you let it exist because you have the upper hand, it surely will regain its foothold and destroy you. Later on, after Jinshan accidentally drowns, Tianqing does not rejoice. Rather, he automatically assumes that Ju Dou murdered the old man. Tianqing insists on adhering to the customs that have made his life wretched, and have kept him from openly being with Ju Dou. ‘‘Killing one’s husband cries out for punish- ment,’’ he pronounces. ‘‘Didn’t he deserve to die?’’ Ju Dou asks. In response, Tianqing slaps her. After the town’s elders deem that Ju Dou can never remarry, and that Tianqing must move out of the mill, Ju Dou wants to leave the village. But Tianqing insists on staying— and prolonging his and Ju Dou’s misery. On one level, Ju Dou clearly is a condemnation of the oppressive- ness of feudal China and the ancient customs and ancestral heritage that resulted in a patriarchal society. Yet the film also may be interpreted as a critique of modern, communist China. The villain of the piece is a belligerent, sexually impotent old man—and the film is the product of a nation that is ruled by old men who often are perceived as contentious. Ju Dou might be viewed as an allegory for the manner in which a small group of elderly Maoists oversee Chinese society; meanwhile, Ju Dou and Tianqing, as they fearfully cling to one another, are representative of the beaten-down masses; and their cold, uncomprehending son symbolizes the Red Guard. The dye factory setting is not at all arbitrary. The bright pigments—and especially the reds—that dominate the coloring process are reflective of Ju Dou’s and Tianqing’s passion. However, unlike the colored sheets, which shine brightly in the sun, their emotions must be repressed, must remain clandestine. Unsurprisingly, Ju Dou—which was partially produced with Japanese financial backing—was banned in China. Its controversy was sparked by the allegorical nature of the story, and the depiction of characters whose needs, desires, and individuality take precedence over their relation to a group. Additionally, the sexuality portrayed, while tame by Western standards, is brazen for a Chinese film. JUD SüSS FILMS, 4 th EDITION 610 Ju Dou could not be completely repressed. First, it was a hit on the international film festival circuit. Then it became the initial Chinese feature ever to win a Best Foreign Film Academy Award nomination. —Rob Edelman JUD SüSS Germany, 1940 Director: Harlan Veit Production: Terra Film; black and white; running time: 85 minutes. Filmed in Berlin and Prague, March-August 1940. Screenplay: Veit Harlan, Eberhard Wolfgang M?ller, Veit Harlan, and Ludwig Metzer, from the novel by Lion Feuchtwanger; photog- raphy: Bruno Mondi; music: Wolfgang Zeller. Cast: Ferdinand Marian (Süss); Werner Krauss (Rabbi Loew, secre- tary Levy, and other unidentified characters); Heinrich George (Duke of Württemberg); Kristina S?derbaum (Raped girl); Eugene Kl?pfer (Raped girl’s father); Hilde von Stolz; Malte J?ger; Albert Florath; Theodor Loos; and Wolfgang Staudte. Publications Script: Knihl, Friedrich, and others, Jud Süss: Filmprotokoli, Programmheft und Einzelanalysen, Berlin 1983. Books: Feuchtwanger, Lion, Jud Süss, Munich, 1928. Wulf, Joseph, Theater und Film im Dritten Reich, Gütersloh, 1964. Harlan, Veit, Im Schatten Meiner Filme, Gütersloh, 1966. Eisner, Lotte H., The Haunted Screen, Berkeley, 1973. Hull, David Stewart, Film in the Third Reich, New York, 1973. Zielinski, Siegfried, Veit Harlan: Analysen und Materialien zur Auseinandersetzung mit einem Film-Regisseur des deutschen Faschismus, Frankfurt/Main, 1981. Fr?hlich, Gustav, Waren das Zeiten: Mein Film-Heldenleben, Munich, 1983. Friedman, Régine Mihal, L’Image et son juif: le juif dans le cinéma nazi, Paris, 1983. Welch, David, Propaganda and the German Cinema, Oxford 1987. Gethmann, Daniel, Das Narvik-Projekt: Film und Krieg, Bonn, 1998. Articles: Tegel, S., ‘‘Viet Harlan and the Origins of Jud Suess 1938–1939: Opportunism in the Creation of Nazi Anti-Semitic Film Propoganda,’’ in Historical Journal of Film, Radio and Television (Basingstoke), vol. 16, no. 4, 1996. *** Jud Süss is very loosely based on the historical personage of Josef Süss Oppenheimer who, in the early-18th century became a financial adviser to Duke Karl Alexander of Württemberg, with the authority to collect taxes; this, naturally, did not endear him to the Duke’s subjects. When Karl Alexander suddenly died, Süss was put on trial and was hanged. The eventual transmogrification of the historical Süss, and of the several previous fictions based on his fate (Wilhelm Hauff, Lion Feuchtwanger) into the Jud Süss of the movie was mainly the work of the Nazi minister of propaganda himself, Dr. Josef Goebbels. The idea for a film about Süss had been peddled in German studios by scriptwriter Ludwig Metzger since 1921, but it wasn’t until Goebbels saw the British film-adaptation of Lion Feuchtwanger’s novel Jud Süss (1934) that he realized the anti-semitic potential the material had, if interpreted not as a human tragedy (as in the British film), but as a tale of Jewish arrogance and infiltration. The story of how the director and the actors were selected for the film is a tragic farce of coercion, extortion, and eventual capitulation to the fear endemic to cruel dictatorships. Pieced together from sources at my disposal, it seems obvious that almost all chief actors, and the director himself, tried—by various tricks—to escape the assignment. Goebbels either outwitted them, or knew about compromising circumstances in their lives and used this knowledge for bludgeoning them into acceptance. The reluctance to participate in this politically-most-correct film shows how aware most German artists were of the fact that anti-semitism under Hitler changed from prejudice to murder. They could have, of course, refused but saying ‘‘no’’ required extraordinary courage: the dire consequences of such an act of defiance were only too easy to imagine. One of the paradoxes of this sinister film is how many participants in the violently racist project had either Jewish spouses or relatives, were disciples of Jewish artists and known friends or Jews, or had been—before the Nazi takeover—left-leaning intellectuals, even communists (such as Heinrich George, who eventually died in a Soviet concentration camp). Thus the director Veit Harlan’s first wife was Jewish, he himself had been an admirer of Max Reinhardt and Stanislavski, and, earlier in life, flirted with socialism. Werner Krauss’s daughter-in-law was Jewish, and Ferdinand Marian, who played the title role, had a half-Jewish daughter from his first marriage. His second wife had been married to a Jew, whom Marian hid in his house. Another actor, Hans Meyer-Hanno, reportedly a communist, acted in Nazi films apparently to protect his Jewish wife, the pianist Irene Saager. Harlan, who obviously did not mind making films with heavy infusions of Nazi ideology (Der Herrscher, 1937, and many films made after Jud Süss), tried very hard to avoid this particular assign- ment. At first he raised objections to the artistic quality of the script; when this didn’t work he even volunteered for frontline military service. Goebbels proclaimed the making of Jud Süss a wartime duty and thus turned possible refusals into acts of desertion. Harlan’s Swedish wife, Kristina S?derbaum, the leading lady of the film, who JUD SüSSFILMS, 4 th EDITION 611 Jud Süss had just had a baby, attempted to use breast-feeding as an excuse; but a wet nurse was hired. Moreover, Harlan was permitted to stop all work in the studio whenever the baby became hungry. Werner Krauss tried another ruse: he knew that Goebbels disliked casting the same actor in two roles, and so he demanded that he play all the main Jewish characters arguing that the role of the rabbi was too small for an actor of his stature. Goebbels consented. Marian, on purpose, bungled his screen test but Goebbels saw through it, and all the actor could do was to get drunk, which he promptly did. After the war, Marian died in a car accident which most sources interpret as suicide. In any case, his widow committed suicide shortly after she had appeared as witness at Harlan’s denazification hearings. Some, however (for instance, Emil Jannings), succeeded in tricking their way out of the role: Jannings maintained that he was too old for the part of the Jewish Casanova, and also too fat; and since there were already two corpulent leading men in the cast (George and Kl?pfer) it would be like ‘‘an opera with three basses.’’ Coerced into taking the job, Harlan tried to direct his actors in such a way that they would not sink to the level of Stürmer-like anti-semitic caricatures. He also attempted to soften the impact of the repulsive rape scene by giving Süss as motivation, revenge for having been refused the girl’s hand by her father rather than ‘‘Jewish lewdness.’’ In the final scene of Süss’s brutal execution Harlan wrote a defiant speech for Marian, who had biblical overtones, and condemned the German authorities. When Goebbels was shown a rough-cut copy, he flew into a rage and had the outspoken speech replaced with one in which the cowardly Jew begged for his life. Thus, no matter how Harlan and his actors tried to dilute the vile message of the movie (Krauss, for instance, successfully argued against having to perform with an artificial crooked ‘‘Jewish’’ nose because it limited the movement of facial muscles), the outcome, in the historical context of anti-Jewish hysteria, was a film which substantially exacerbated anti-semitic feeling. For the purpose of ideology it introduced into Süss’s story fictional characters (the raped ‘‘Aryan’’ girl; her husband exposed to torture on Süss’s orders), and distorted the historical personage of Süss Oppenheimer to conform to the racist image of the Jew as poisoner of society. The resulting film is a mediocre melodrama at best. Harlan’s direction is, mildly speaking, uninspired. Most of the acting is bombastic, except for, on occasion, that of Krauss and Marian, whose portrayal of Jewish characters can, perhaps, be traced to Vachtangov’s documentary about the Moscow Jewish theatre which, for study JUDEX FILMS, 4 th EDITION 612 purposes, was screened for the cast. The camera work is a far cry from the lively photography of the best German films of the silent era. All in all, the film is not only repugnant but uninteresting as cinema. After the Nazis came to power some of Germany’s best artists, unable to compromise their artistic integrity, left the country (Fritz Lang, Marlene Dietrich, Conrad Veidt, Peter Lorre, among others). Harlan opted to compromise. The result was a number of films which are memorable only as examples of how deep art can sink if it— voluntarily or not—serves ideological lies. —Josef ?kvorecky JUDAS WAS A WOMAN See LA BETE HUMAINE JUDEX France, 1916 Director: Louis Feuillade Production: Film Gaumont, Paris; serial in 12 episodes: 1. L’ombre mysterieuse; 2. L’erpiation; 3. La meute fantastique; 4. La secret de la tombe; 5. Le moulin tragique; 6. Le m?me reglisse; 7. La femme en noir; 8. Les souterrains du chateau rouge; 9. Lorsque l’enfant parut; 10. Le coeur de Jacqueline; 11. Ondine; 12. Le pardon d’amour. Length: between 427 and 1262 meters per episode. Released together, 16 December 1916. Screenplay: Arthur Bernède and Louis Feuillade; photography: Klausse and A. Glattli. Cast: René Cresté (Judex); Musidora (Diana Monti, Mlle. Verdier); Yvette Andreyor (Jacqueline); Marcel Levesque (Cocantin); Bout- de-Zan (Le M?me reglisse); Louis Leubas (Favraux); Edouard Mathé (Roger de Trémeuse); Georges Flateau (Vicomte de la Rochefontaine); Gaston Michel (Le vieux Kerjan); Jean Devadle (Morales); Yvonne Dario (Comtesse de la Trémeuse); Olinda Mano (Le Petit Jean); Juliette Clarens (Gisèle). Publications Books: Delluc, Louis, Cinéma et compagnie, Paris, 1919. Védrès, Nicole, Images du cinéma fran?ais, Paris, 1945. Lacassin, Francis, Louis Feuillade, Paris, 1964. Anthologie du cinéma 2, Paris, 1967. Armes, Roy, French Film, New York, 1970. Barsacq, Léon, Caligari’s Cabinet and Other Grand Illusions: A His- tory of Film Design, New York, 1976. Articles: Bioscope (London), 26 July, 2 August and 23 August 1917. Beylie, Claude, ‘‘Louis Feuillade,’’ in Ecran de France (Paris), 15 May 1959. Cinéma (Paris), no. 84, 1964. Lacassin, Francis, ‘‘Louis Feuillade,’’ in Sight and Sound (London), Winter 1964–65. Roud, Richard, Maker of Melodrama,’’ in Film Comment (New York), November-December 1976. ‘‘Louis Feuillade,’’ in Film Dope (London), September 1978. Champreux, J., ‘‘Louis Feuillade, poète de la réalité,’’ in Avant-Scène du Cinéma (Paris), 1 July 1981. ‘‘Judex Issue’’ of Avant-Scène du Cinéma (Paris), April 1984. Redi, Riccardo, in Bianco e Nero (Rome), January-March 1987. Beylie, C., ‘‘Judex et Les vampires,’’ in Cinema 91, no. 482, November 1991. Masson, A., ‘‘Voila le passage secret!’’ in Positif (Paris), Janu- ary 1993. ‘‘Feuillade and the French Serial,’’ in Velvet Light Trap (Austin), no. 37, Spring 1996. Callahan, Vicki, ‘‘Detailing the Impossible,’’ in Sight & Sound (London), vol. 9, no. 4, April 1999. *** Unlike Feuillade’s earlier Fant?mas and Les vampires, Judex celebrates the exploits of a defender of the law and upholder of right and wrong rather than glorifying crime and ridiculing the police. Indeed, Feullade himself described it as ‘‘a spectacle for all the family, exalting the most noble sentiments.’’ Such a change of tack can no doubt be explained partly by the censorship problems faced by Les vampires, which the Ministry of the Interior found too ‘‘demoralising’’ for wartime, and in which certain spectators found rather disturbing echoes of the activities of the anarchist Bonnot gang, which had terrorised Paris in 1912. The twelve episodes of Judex are among the peaks of the French serial, which has become somewhat eclipsed by its American coun- terpart. In France, the serial was a development of the prewar series film which had its roots in the popular literature of the time— indigenous and imported cheap paperbacks, and the serialised stories to be found in weekly magazines and parts of the daily press. Fant?mas was one such series (running to five separate films), and others featured heroes such as Nick Winter, Zigomar, Onésime, Rocambole, and Boute-de-Zan (The Liquorice Kid, who also crops up in Judex). At their height, the French serials proved a valuable counterweight to the flood of American imports and, to quote Feuillade again, showed that ‘‘French production is not definitively outclassed by the Americans and that we are not henceforward going to be reduced always to be following in others’ footsteps.’’ Judex, the film’s avenging hero, is in fact the Comte de Trémeuse, the son of a Corsican banker who killed himself after being ruined by JUDEXFILMS, 4 th EDITION 613 Judex a former friend, Favraux. Spurred on by his mother, he swears to wreak revenge for his father’s death and, disguised in black cape and broad-brimmed hat, he sets out in pursuit of Favraux. Believing that he has killed him, he falls in love with Favraux’s beautiful daughter, the young widow Jacqueline, only to discover that Favraux is still alive after all. Judex imprisons him in the dungeons of a ruined castle in which he has built a laboratory, but Favraux’s evil schemes are by no means at an end. No synopsis could adequately communicate the flavour and atmosphere of Judex, whose basic story is simply a pretext for a seemingly endless and remarkably inventive series of incidents and striking moments. Feuillade may have reversed the moral order of Les vampires, but both films inhabit the same mysterious universe, underlined by the reappearance of the great comic actor Marcel Levesque as the detective Cocantin and Musidora as the vamp-ish Diana Monti. Both, along with Bout-de-Zan, were very much part of Feuillade’s stock company, and Musidora herself went on to direct a number of films. Even the titles of the episodes are evocative—for example, The Mysterious Shadow, The Fantastic Hounds, The Secret of the Tomb, The Tragic Mill—and although Feuillade was dismissed by critics of the time as beneath serious consideration it should come as no surprise to discover that he was feted by the Surrealists and also now tends to be regarded as one of the precursors of ‘‘poetic realism.’’ What particularly attracted the Surrealists to his work was his sense of landscape and place, and in particular his entirely unforced co-mingling of the fantastic and the everyday. Like so many of the Surrealists’ heroes, Feuillade had discovered the secret of revealing the surreal behind the real: by setting fantastic happenings in familiar, modern environments he succeeded in revealing the mysterious poetry of the urban and every day. Or as Breton and Aragon put it, in Feullade’s films ‘‘one discovers a real sense of our century.’’ With his distinctive hat, and black cape tossed over one shoulder, Judex rapidly became something of an iconic figure. Just as the early series and serials had drawn on the printed word for inspiration, so the story of Judex was serialised in Le petit Parisien. Judex was followed in 1918 by La nouvelle mission de Judex, and was later re-made twice—the first time by Feuillade’s son-in-law Maurice Champreux in 1933, and the second by Georges Franju in 1963, from a script co-written by Feuillade’s grandson Jacques Champreux. —Sylvia Paskin JUJIRO FILMS, 4 th EDITION 614 JUJIRO (Crossroads) Japan, 1928 Director: Teinosuke Kinugasa Production: Kinugasa Motion Pictures Association and Shochiku; black and white, 35mm, silent; running time: about 80 minutes; length: 7 reels. Released 11 May 1928. Re-released 1976. Producer: Teinosuke Kinugasa; screenplay: Teinosuke Kinugasa; photography: Kohei Sugiyama; art directors: Yozo Tomonari, some sources list Bonji Taira; lighting: Masao Uchida and Kinshi Tsuruta. Cast: Junosuke Bando (Rikiya, the brother); Akiko Chihaya (Older sister); Yukiko Ogawa (O-une, woman of Yoshiwara); Ippei Soma (Man with the Constable’s stick); Yoshie Nakagawa (Woman who sells women); Misao Seki (Old landlord); Myoichiro Ozawa (Man who quarrels); Teruko Sanjo (Mistaken woman). Publications Books: Shinobu Giuglaris, Marcel de, Le Cinéma Japonais, Paris, 1956. Anderson, Joseph, and Donald Richie, editors, The Japanese Film: Art and Industry, New York, 1960; revised edition, Princeton, New Jersey, 1982. Cinémathèque Fran?ais, Invitation au Cinéma Japonais, Paris, 1963. Klinowski, Jacek, and Adam Garbicz, Cinema, The Magic Vehicle: A Guide to Its Achievement: Journey One: The Cinema Through 1949, Metuchen, New Jersey, 1975. Articles: Anderson, Joseph, ‘‘Seven from the Past,’’ in Sight and Sound (London), Autumn 1957. McVay, Douglas, in Films and Filming (London), June 1960. *** After the commercial disaster of the experimental Page of Mad- ness (1926), Kinugasa’s independent production company made its last film, Jujiro, in 1928. Thus freed somewhat from the pressure of maintaining the company’s image (and solvency), everybody in the staff decided to explore whatever he wanted in the company’s swan song. The result was this unique avant-garde jidaigeke (period film): Kinugasa completely eliminated from this film swordplay, which was then the norm, and concentrated on the depiction of the characters’ psychology, thus creating a new style in this genre. Visually, the film is one of astonishing effects and powerful images. Because of financial limitations, old boxes and wood used in the previous films were collected, painted and deliberately reused to create a bizarre atmosphere of poverty. The whole set design is based on unbalanced and distorted images, which happen to be similar to those of German Expressionism. Parallel lines are carefully avoided in the shapes of roofs, at the window lines and in the interior architecture. The strong contrast of light and shadow is also expressionistic. Particularly skillful is the highlighting of characters’ dramatic emo- tion by exploiting a heightened effect of counterlight. Raindrops are captured dripping from the hair of the doomed sister and brother, shining in the strong counterlight. The grotesque and nasty face of the man with the constable who is trying to make advances to the helpless sister is illuminated from behind in the dark as he ascends the stairs to the attic. The chiaroscuro photography, by then the young and ambitious Kohei Sugiyama, is exquisite. The upstairs room is symbolically presented as the only sanctuary from the lower world of evil and malice. The tragedies of the sister and the brother both originate in credulous mistakes (she believes the false identity of the man with the constable; he believes that he committed a murder which in fact never took place). This theme is conveyed by the numerous scenes of fantasy and dream, as well as by the use of the flashback and flash-forward techniques. The boundary between reality and imagination is left ambiguous in mesmerising effects created by camera movements, such as quick tracking shots, quick panning shots and numerous superimpositions. An especially sophisticated sequence is the scene in which ashes are thrown in the brother’s face dazzling him. Interrupting the fight sequence is a sequence of black- and white- designs, used to create a flickering effect: there then follows a close-up shot of the brother’s agonized face within the image of a storm of falling ashes. This is followed by a shot of him staggering, frames with black- and white- lightning-like shapes, and then the shot of an object accelerating toward the camera. Finally, the camera tilts almost 90 degrees and captures the tottering brother crashing into objects. This complicated process of mixing the establishing shots and close-up shots of him staggering with images from his subjective point-of-view succeeds in conveying his despair and disorientation. The recurrent spinning image is prevalent throughout the film. It is suggested by the image of targets at an archery shop that employs the hero’s love interest. This shop is surrounded by other round and spinning images such as umbrellas and lanterns. The pattern of the woman’s kimono suggests playfully those targets and arrows (rele- vant to the theme of stalking of a love partner). At the house of the brother and his sister, there is a big spinning wheel in the upstairs room; the downstairs is filled with round objects such as mats and straw hats. The image of the crossroads is strikingly simple: only a few naked trees along the white roads in the dark. This set conveys artificiality, yet it also successfully suggests the helplessness and desperation of the sister finally waiting alone in vain for her brother. Kinugasa’s ambitious film was received far more appreciatively in Europe than in his home country. The re-release of Jujiro in Japan in 1976, however, created an excitement appropriate to the rediscovery of an avant-garde classic. —Kyoko Hirano JULES ET JIMFILMS, 4 th EDITION 615 Jujiro JULES ET JIM (Jules and Jim) France, 1962 Director: Fran?ois Truffaut Production: Films du Carosse and SEDIF; 1962; black and white, 35mm, Franscope; running time: 105 minutes. Released 23 January 1962, Paris. Filmed 1963 Alsace, Paris, and Venice. Producer: Marcel Berbert; screenplay: Fran?ois Truffaut and Jean Gruault, from the novel by Henri-Pierre Roché; photography: Raoul Coutard; editor: Claudine Bouche; sound: Témoin; music: Georges Delerue, song ‘‘Le Tourbillon’’ by Bassiak; costume designer: Fred Capel. Cast: Jeanne Moreau (Katherine); Oscar Werner (Jules); Henri Serre (Jim); Vanna Urbino (Gilberte); Boris Bassiak (Albert); Sabine Haudepin (Sabine); Marie Dubois (Thérèse); Jean-Louis Richard (1st Customer in café); Michel Varesano (2nd Customer in café); Pierre Fabre (Drunkard in the café); Danielle Bassiak (Albert’s friend); Bernard Largemains (Merlin); Elen Bober (Mathilde); Michel Subor (Narrator). Publications Script: Truffaut, Fran?ois, and Jean Gruault, Jules et Jim, in Avant-Scène du Cinéma (Paris), 1962; as Jules and Jim, New York, 1968. Books: Graham, Peter, The New Wave, New York, 1968. Petrie, Graham, The Cinema of Fran?ois Truffaut, New York, 1970. Crisp, C. G., and Michael Walker, Fran?ois Truffaut, New York, 1971. Boyum, Joy, and Adrienne Scott, Film as Film: Critical Responses to Film Art, Boston, 1971. Crisp, C. G., Fran?ois Truffaut, London, 1972. JULES ET JIM FILMS, 4 th EDITION 616 Jules et Jim Fanne, Dominique, L’Univers de Fran?ois Truffaut, Paris, 1972. Allen, Don, Finally Truffaut, London, 1973; revised edition, 1985. Monaco, James, The New Wave, New York, 1976. Collet, Jean, Le Cinéma de Fran?ois Truffaut, Paris, 1977. Insdorf, Annette, Fran?ois Truffaut, Boston, 1978, 1989. Horton, Andrew, and Joan Magretta, Modern European Filmmakers and the Art of Adaptation, New York, 1981. Walz, Eugene P., Fran?ois Truffaut: A Guide to References and Resources, Boston, 1982. Winkler, Willi, Die Filme von Fran?ois Truffaut, Munich, 1984. Bergala, Alain, and others, Le Roman de Fran?ois Truffaut, Paris, 1985. Collet, Jean, Fran?ois Truffaut, Paris, 1985. Truffaut, Fran?ois, Truffaut par Truffaut, edited by Dominique Rabourdin, Paris, 1985. De Fornari, Oreste, I filme di Fran?ois Truffaut, Rome, 1986. Dalmais, Hervé, Truffaut, Paris, 1987. Cahoreau, Gilles, Fran?ois Truffaut: 1932–1984, Paris, 1989. Brunette, Peter, editor, Shoot the Piano Player: Fran?ois Truffaut, Director, New Brunswick, 1993. Le Berre, Carole, Fran?ois Truffaut, Paris, 1993. Truffaut, Fran?ois, The Films in My Life, Cutchogue, 1994. Holmes, Diana, and Robert Ingram, Fran?ois Truffaut, Manches- ter, 1998. Labarthe, André S., La nouvelle vague: Claude Chabrol, Jean-Luc Godard, Jacques Rivette, Eric Rohmer, Fran?ois Truffaut/textes et entretiens parus dans les Cahiers du cinéma, réunis par Antoine de Baecque et Charles Tesson, Paris, 1999. Jacob, Gilles, Fran?ois Truffaut: Correspondence, 1945–1984, Lanham, 2000. Articles: Marcorelles, L., ‘‘Interview with Fran?ois Truffaut,’’ in Sight and Sound (London), Winter 1961–62. Truffaut, Fran?ois, in Films and Filming (London), no. 10, 1962. ‘‘Conversation with Fran?ois Truffaut,’’ in New York Film Bulletin, no. 3, 1962. Delahaye, Michel, ‘‘Les Tourbillons élémentaires,’’ in Cahiers du Cinéma (Paris), March 1962. Sarris, Andrew, in Village Voice (New York), 3 May 1962. Baker, Peter, in Films and Filming (London), June 1962. Roud, Richard, in Sight and Sound (London), Summer 1962. JULES ET JIMFILMS, 4 th EDITION 617 Tyler, Parker, in Film Culture (New York), Summer 1962. Stanbrook, Alan, ‘‘The Stars They Couldn’t Photograph,’’ in Films and Filming (London), February 1963. Graham, Peter, ‘‘The Face of ‘62—France,’’ in Films and Filming (London), May 1963. Greenspan, Roger, in Sight and Sound (London), Spring 1963. Shatnoff, Judith, ‘‘Fran?ois Truffaut: The Anarchist Imagination,’’ in Film Quarterly (Berkeley), Spring 1963. Klein, Michael, ‘‘The Literary Sophistication of Fran?ois Truffaut,’’ in Film Comment (New York), Summer 1965. Solomon, Stanley, in Film Heritage (Dayton, Ohio), Winter 1965–66. Rosenblatt, Daniel, in Film Society Review (New York), Novem- ber 1968. Houston, Beverley, and Marsha Kinder, ‘‘Truffaut’s Gorgeous Kill- ers,’’ in Film Quarterly (Berkeley), Winter 1973–74. Coffee, Barbara, ‘‘Art and Film in Fran?ois Truffaut’s Jules and Jim and Two English Girls,’’ in Film Heritage (Dayton, Ohio), Spring 1974. Mast, Gerald, ‘‘From 400 Blows to Small Change,’’ in New Republic (New York), 2 April 1977. Thiher, A., ‘‘The Existential Play in Truffaut’s Early Films,’’ in Literature/Film Quarterly (Salisbury, Maryland), Summer 1977. Davidson, D., ‘‘From Virgin to Dynamo: The ‘Amoral Woman’ in European Cinema,’’ in Cinema Journal (Evanston, Illinois), Fall 1981. Marinero, F., in Casablanca (Madrid), May 1982. Carreno, J. M., in Casablanca (Madrid), February 1984. Norman, Barry, ‘‘Barry Norman on’’ in Radio Times (London), vol. 273, no. 3572, 13 June 1992. Murphy, K., ‘‘La belle dame sans merci,’’ in Film Comment (New York), November-December 1992. Stonehill, B., ‘‘Les auteurs terribles,’’ in Film Comment (New York), November-December 1992. Flitterman-Lewis, S., ‘‘Fascination, Friendship, and the ‘Eternal Feminine’ or the Discursive Production of (Cinematic) Desire,’’ in French Review, vol. 66, no. 6, 1993. Garcin, J., ‘‘Jules et Jim: Fran?ois Truffaut,’’ in Cahiers du Cinéma (Paris), Hors-série, 1993. Lucas, Tim, ‘‘The 400 Blows/Jules et Jim,’’ in Video Watchdog (Cincinnati), no. 19, September-October 1993. Crowdus, Gary, ‘‘Truffaut on Laserdisc,’’ in Cineaste (New York), vol. 20, no. 3, 1994. Dalle Ore, F., ‘‘A Voice in the Dark: Feminine Figuration in Truffaut’s Jules et Jim,’’ in Literature/Film Quarterly (Salisbury), vol. 22, no. 4, October 1994. Landrot, Marine, ‘‘La chambre ouverte,’’ in Télérama (Paris), no. 2340, 16 November 1994. Andrew, Geoff, ‘‘Rum Truffaut,’’ in Time Out (London), no. 1350, 3 July 1996. *** Jules and Jim is among the masterpieces of the French New Wave and may be considered the high achievement of that movement. The first films of Truffaut, Godard, Chabrol & Co. had astonished the world with a vitality that seemed evanescent, while too many of the films after 1962 are generally thought to be decadent and cloying in their search for novel effects. But with Jules and Jim we have a film that is at once vital, astonishing, and mature. Its solidity as well as its richness have kept it from fading even under the intense light of scholarship and criticism to which it has been continually subject. In some respects it is not a characteristic New Wave film, for it chronicles 30 years in the lives of its characters, opening brightly in La Belle Epoche and closing in the grim era of the Depression and the rise of Hitler. Whereas most New Wave films sought to express the rhythms of their own epoch with complete freshness, Truffaut in this film retreated to the past. But in its own way Jules and Jim is faithful to the existentialist ethic and aesthetic of the New Wave period, for no film strives more obviously for authenticity in its quest to tap the feelings of a liberated generation whose morality must be achieved on the run. Oddly, it was through the intermediary of a 75-year-old sensibil- ity, that of novelist Henri-Pierre Roché, that Truffaut was able to shape this past into a pure picture of his own generation. When he read the novel upon its publication in 1955, he immediately contacted Roché, initiating a correspondence that continued until the latter’s death which occurred just before the film went into production. Of course in 1955 Truffaut was but a minor critic who could only dream of the film this novel might become. Nevertheless, even at that time he mentioned it as an example of the kind of living, breathing story he claimed was missing from the moribund ‘‘Cinema of Quality’’ which dominated the 1950s in France. What was it that gave this novel its vigor, and how did Truffaut succeed in letting its spirit animate his film when at length he was able to make it? One must begin with the plethora of incidents spilling out of the novel’s first pages. While Truffaut has drastically reduced their number and, more certainly, the number of characters he introduces, both works dizzy their audience. La Belle Epoche is carefree and exciting as lived through Jules and Jim. It becomes more dangerous and even more exciting once they attach themselves to Katherine. The bubbling first third of the film is a textbook in photographic and editing effects (stop frame, swish pans, stock footage, jump cuts). Only the narrator who ties together these fragments hints wistfully at the trouble to come. The film makes its inevitable descent just as Katherine accepts Jules’ marriage proposal. For his dream has been attained on the eve of the outbreak of the Great War, a war so graphically documented that it brutalizes the earlier sentiments of the film, tossing its characters off their merry-go-round where they land, still and stunned. This second movement shows the reality of living with Katherine, the dream they had so hectically pursued. Her fickleness makes them prisoners of their own desires, and their imaginations, still rich with inventiveness, are tethered to one who is neither beautiful nor intelligent but for whom they would surrender their lives because she is pure woman (spontaneous, tender, cruel). The conclusion is more sombre still, as each character achieves a compensating wisdom, a sense of self. Katherine is both fire and water, the vitriol she pours down the sink. She chooses water for death, cremation for burial. Jim is romantic, a dashing Parisian novelist who travels after the war in search of the 20th century. Comfortable with his shifting feelings, he runs from Gilberte to Katherine whenever she calls him. Finally there is Jules who treasures their lives to the full. A Buddhist in sensibility, he possesses Kathe- rine through patience. An entomologist, he would write of the loves that insects aspire to. Nothing is too small for his attention. His resignation and nostalgia place him nearest the narrator, as he looks back at a time when life was full of freedom and promise. If the film’s plot is a progressive decline, its images set off these oppositions at every turn. The film’s first enthusiasts pointed to the interplay of circles and triangles. The lovers directly illustrate the JULES ET JIM FILMS, 4 th EDITION 618 triangle they are living as they welcome the morning from three separate windows at the seashore. The sharp angular pans of the camera keep us wondering in which direction love must flow. But it is the spinning circularity of the cinemascope most viewers recall, a circularity repeated in the cafe tables, the tadpoles swimming round their bowl, in Katherine’s cosmology which holds the world to be an inverted bowl. Bicycles are in circles; Sabine rolls over and over to the music which culminates in Katherine’s prophetic song, her ‘‘Rondo of love.’’ These two master graphic forms come together, Roger Greenspun observed, in the hourglass measuring out the final days of La Belle Epoche and the preciousness of the briefest instants of life. Art is another such measure, and Jules and Jim is a catalogue of the arts. Scattered through its texture are references to old films, to photogra- phy and slideshows, to statues, paintings, novels, the theater, and music. This is a story about the drive to raise life to art and art to eternity. In the abundance of its episodes, symbols, citations, and tales, and in its mixture of excitement and resignation, Jules and Jim never lets up in its own drive to give meaning to and express the vitality of life. This was the ambition of the New Wave, and this film is its apotheosis. —Dudley Andrew