Manufacturing the West: Some Interesting Revisionist Westerns

Monument Valley, where many John Ford westerns were filmed

The western was once a popular genre, and reached its apotheosis at a time when the United States could claim to be the most powerful country in the world. For Americans, the western personified what they themselves claimed to be, a country of heroic and rugged individuals who  had successfully conquered the wilderness by using the virtues of European civilisation they believed their ancestors had left long behind. This is supposedly what made the settlers of the frontier so unique.  The importance of the frontier in the American mind is attributable to the work of Frederick Jackson Turner, a nineteenth century historian. Enlightenment thinking was fused with a restless psychological reading of American character that emphasised the  Victorian virtues of hard work, economic prosperity and the rigid outlinings of class and gender.  In the guise of entertainment, Hollywood presented to the  world a genre which purported to celebrate the rise of America  and her economic domination of the world stage, especially in the decades leading up to 1939. 

Historian Frederick Jackson Turner

 By August 1945 however, the war seemed to be a hollow victory, and the prospect of another breaking out a distinct possibility.  American confidence took a turn for the worse, and the western became more of an elegy to past glories, rather than an acclamation of what was current, or possible.

Political correctness assisted in the decline of the western as an instrument of, if not propaganda, then at least a respectable way for Hollywood to make a profit. The sparse scenery of the west was populated only by white males; Indians were the enemy and women kept house whilst they waited for their cowboy husbands to return home from the range. In post-Vietnam America for example, audiences were disturbed by images of heroism that seemed to be no longer heroic. Instead, they seemed bullying, misogynistic and a blatant attack on the rights of other people. 

There is that moment for every viewer in “The Searchers”, when it dawns that what John Wayne wants to do when he finds his lost niece, is not to rescue her from her Indian captives, but instead to kill her as  punishment for betraying her race. Our hearts sink. We become concerned, but finally resigned and then relieved, as  Wayne relents, and decides to spare her. It’s a moment that transmogrifies the entire genre and sends it off into another direction. Manifest destiny is only achieved at the expense of others not defined as ‘us.’ The frontier is no longer boundless when there are others who were there first, and define themselves as part of that land, and how that land belongs to ‘them’ and not to ‘us’. The  notion of purity of race, most prevalent in nineteenth century European thought, begins to smack of repressed Freudian sexuality as  the white man attempts to tame nature by pre-supposing that other races and peoples are too weak to  stand in his way.

The most famous western star of them all, John  Wayne

Ironically, the ethos of the western frontier embraces certain beliefs that  political correctness professes to denounce: a deeply embedded embrace of conformity, alongside the hope that a certain belief system will hopefully make people treat each other with something vaguely labelled as ‘respect’. This is actually a brand of fatalistic populism which shuns difference, and encourages outsiderism toward those not included in a narrow-minded definition of who exactly is meant to be part of the status quo. A deep distrust and intolerance of others who do not appear to share the beliefs of the majority. A so-called tolerance of rogue opinion and unconventional behaviour so long as it is demonised, and labelled as anything from merely anti-social and unhelpful,  to bordering on pathological or psychotic. The purpose is to encourage hostility  towards enlightenment, or deliberate attempts at intellectual life or thought within the confines of an untutored empathy with order. (1)

The “wild” west, as it was known was filled with iconic characters and outlaws who thumbed their noses at authority, like Billy the Kid, Wild Bill Hickock and Buffalo Bill. Alongside this championing of the underdog there is also a parallel sub-text of the urge for revenge,  and the forcible retention of civil order by the acceptance of violence as a mandatory form of justice. How close this may be  to historical reality is open to question, and in the words of director John Ford, “when there’s a choice between reality and legend,  always print the legend”.  Despite its decline in popularity in recent times, the western in popular imagination still retains its power to nostalgically (and mistakenly) bring to mind a time when there was no indecisiveness.  That is, how the period of the rise of the American frontier was a simpler era, when moral imperatives and calls to action were easier to implement than they seem to be in the every-day  present of modern ideas of civilised negotiation and compromise.

Alan Ladd was the idol of kids in the fifties as Shane

Another irony seems to be how the western in its decline as a cultural imperative, actually increased in power when it turned in on itself and questioned the nature and purpose of the American frontier. How in the complex character studies within the work of Sam Peckinpah for instance, the idealism of the west as a unifying idea becomes corrupted by its dependence upon opportunism and an unrelenting oppression, leading to irrational outbreaks of violence. But Peckinpah comes after the four films I would like to discuss, which act unifyingly as a transitional instance of the western beginning to lost confidence in itself as either a narrative of relevance or device of truth-telling.

Gary Cooper man of the west

In Man of the West, Gary Cooper stars as an ex-gun-slinger forced to confront his past.  He is travelling on a train that is robbed. He gets left behind in the wilderness with two other passengers, but is actually in familiar territory, and falls back in with the leader of his former gang, killer Doc Tobin, played by Lee J Cobb. Tobin is a Lear-like patriarch who has seen better days. He attempts to reinstate Cooper back into the gang, but Cooper will not abide by his rules any longer and after five years of living an upright life, secretly despises Tobin, but has to consider the situation of the other two people who have accompanied him.  Cooper’s innate goodness is used to perfection as he is  cast as almost an innocent man who refuses to succumb to the evil of his previous existence. His reticence to commit any kind of violence is contrasted to the cut-throat Tobin and his gang who systematically kill anything and anyone who stand in their way, which they rationalise as purely a matter of survival. In this film, the use of violence as a means of justice in the old west is scrutinised and found wanting. As in High Noon, Cooper is the hero precisely because he hardly appears to be the gun-slinging type. The film appears to be brutal, but it’s not so much what the viewer sees, as to what he is put through by director Anthony Mann. The violence is not shattering but only feels that way because of the tension that the director creates between the characters. Mann seems to be critical of the notion that violence should be seen an acceptable fact of the wild west, especially when it is primarily directed at the weak who are unable to stand up for themselves.

In The Unforgiven Burt Lancaster, Audrey Hepburn and Lillian Gish star as a family living in the west, eking out a living as farmers. Gish, as their mother knows the secret of her daughter’s race, since she adopted her as a baby. When Lancaster leaves the homestead on business, Hepburn comes across an itinerant crazy man on a horse who seems to know who she is and where she came from.  Indian raids are common and the family’s neighbours fear the Indians and show them no mercy.  When it’s revealed that Hepburn is not in fact Gish’s natural-born daughter, the family is reviled by their neighbours and left to defend themselves against a deadly Kiowa raid.  As directed by John Huston, The Unforgiven attempts to make a statement against racial prejudice as it must have been practised by the ‘folks’ of the new frontier. The family’s fellow homesteaders are transformed from loveable yokels into dangerous, hate-spewing racists when Hepburn’s true identity is revealed.  The fact that it’s been kept a secret for so long further exacerbates problems between family members as Hepburn and Lancaster heave a sigh of relief they are no longer related. This is not one of Huston’s better known films,  and apparently it was not one he was at all satisfied with, citing interference from the producers. But like Man of the West it attempts to redress certain issues like rogue justice and racial intolerance that the idealisation of the frontier left open to question.

Burt Lancaster again stars in Vera Cruz, a western directed by Robert Aldrich, which also stars Gary Cooper in another of his reluctant hero roles.  Both ride to Mexico as the Mexicans are attempting to rid themselves of the Habsburg emperor Maximilian, who hires both men to take a cache of gold to the port of Vera Cruz. This is a gun-toting action adventure that could collapse if put under too much scrutiny. However, it is interesting in that it takes on the issue, if obliquely, of European imperialism in the Americas. The American heroes, whilst not exactly idealistic freedom-fighters come to sympathise with the plight of the Mexicans and by the conclusion of the film, are somewhat less myopic about American exceptionalism and the myth of the new frontier.

Whilst The Magnificent Seven may not immediately come to mind when discussing revisionist westerns, I think that it is a good example. It presents itself as a straightforward action adventure, which I guess it is. But in its portrayal of the hopelessness of the Mexican villagers who desperately need the Seven to defend them, director John Sturges is definitely wearing his heart on his sleeve, whatever the colour of his heart may be. The heroism and idealism The Magnificent Seven portrays does not come from some rote recitation of the virtues of the new frontier. Rather it seems very heartfelt, that Americans can come riding to assistance over the border when it is most needed. In that respect whilst not overly critical of anything in particular, the film seems to have an honest regard for its Mexican characters and is not patronising toward them. Whilst the notion of America coming to the rescue seems almost child-like today, this does not detract from the entertainment value of the film, nor its efforts to maybe put to rest the more morally unsettling notions about American imperialism, and settler mentality. The Seven can leave with a clear conscience: their mission is accomplished and their honour is untarnished by anything resembling compromise. Whilst hardly intellectually challenging, the film is an honest and heartfelt testament to the pure idea of the virtues of the American frontier, frozen in time before it turned ugly, and had to be revised in the first place.  

(1) See David Thomson's essay on  cracker barrel philosopher Will Rogers, who helped define what the West meant to Americans in the Great Depression, Biographical Dictionary of Film, London, 2002, p. 751.

Body Count of "Prometheus" Not High Enough? Try "Alien" Instead

I was  pleased yesterday to get the chance to see Prometheus, the Ridley Scott film that has been much anticipated as the prequel to Alien. There was a lot of hype involved on the net concerning its development and eventual production, and with good reason. If "Alien" is not Scott's best known film, then at least it's the one that is thought of as some kind of a benchmark of his collected work to date. "Alien" was a monster hit when it was released in 1978-79, and I'm not trying to be funny; its's just a fact. (Also, I confess to becoming vague about release dates. So I will include both years, to bow to such things as confusion over when it was exactly released in Australia, when I actually saw it myself, and any possible time lag between when it was released in other parts of the world. That is if there was one. Which I don't remember).

In space no one can hear you scream. But not so the audience.

 Audiences were enthralled by the story of a alien life-form running rampant and killing off members of the crew of a space ship.  It possessed a primordial desire to survive, alongside an evolutionary resistance to all  man-made efforts to have it destroyed. Audiences and critics alike praised what seemed to be Scott's originality, and his unique approach to the material which was less interested in the metaphysics of space travel as was the case of 2001: A Space Odyssey, and more interested in scaring the viewer out of his comfort zone, as well as his seat. Not that I knew much about Hitchcock back then, but this kind of approach may very well  have been used by Hitchcock if he had ever gotten around to making a science fiction film, which we all know sadly that he never did.

Veronica Cartwright, John Hurt, and Tom Skerritt in "Alien".

Scott's collaborators on the project included artists and designers such as H.R. Geiger, Moebius as well as many others who contributed to the interpretation of a straight-forward story of  a horror in deep space too dreadful to contemplate. Horror was piled upon horror as every member of the crew was harrassed by the alien, hunted down, and then slaughtered in all manner of horrific and terrifying ways. Three crew members are eventually left, but only one survives, the heroine Ellen Ripley.  Sigourney Weaver made this part her own, and it's her best known role. The story goes she initially turned the part down when it was offered to her, because she thought that being in a science fiction movie was a tad beneath her abilties as a serious performer.

Detail of interior of spaceship with Veronica Cartwright and John  Hurt

Thanks to these talents involved, "Alien" had a distinctive look, a unique kind of production design (if you like), that nobody had really seen before. The compelling interior of the space-ship Nostromo, an oil refinery ship in which the travellers were trapped and seemed to have no way of escaping; a mysterious and uninhabitable planet enshrouded in perpetual fog, that wakes the travelers out of their sleep in order to investigate a possible SOS; an alien spaceship that somehow exists for the precise reason of sealing the traveller's doom, and a dripping-acid monster that once seen, is never forgotten and was the stuff that nightmares are made of. "Alien" was an instant triumph for director Ridley Scott, who had previously worked in advertising and had only made one other movie, The Duellists which had only received a limited release in the United States.  Despite some rumblings about the lack of a plot, a controversy concerning the soundtrack, and a group of actors taking part in an ensemble cast who were not widely known, "Alien" became immediately iconic and I think it's fair to say will always have its pride of place in the pantheon of great science fiction movies.

Publicity shot of the cast of "Alien". The gang's all here

Now we cut to the chase, 34 years down the track. (My God, has it been that long?)  When the original was released, there was no such thing as the internet; video tapes began to be marketed domestically; there were no such things as CDs. As I said, it was a long time ago -- the world has changed, and, I must admit, so have I.

 There have been a number of sequels to "Alien", but I have only seen one of them, Alien Resurrection. Frankly, the other two were of no interest to me, which doesn't mean they didn't make money. By 1982, I had discovered The Thing, John Carpenter's own interpretation of an unfriendly alien. "The Thing"'s box office was indifferent when first released, but I loved it almost as much, if not more, than "Alien".  Fans howled about more sequels, and Hollywood provided the necessary finance and a number of directors to keep a profitable franchise going. About twelve months ago it was announced that there was a 'prequel' underway -- that is a 'backstory' which would be an illumination of the original, as well as a narrative that would stand on its own. I had no idea how it would turn out, but knew that I would go see it which I did.

I was taken to see this when I was 12 years old.

I have to say, that I liked "Prometheus", and quite a bit at that. It is entertaining in a totally undemanding way, and that's not a bad thing. Nor I am attempting to be patronising. This is not to report I didn't notice its shortcomings, only that I was prepared to forgive them. With the fullness of time between my loyalty to the original and the release of its prequel, I was not prepared to have my expectations rise to such an extent that I would suffer disappointment. I had too many fond memories of the original to expect that "Prometheus" would exceed them, and in hindsight I am glad to have attained such sage wisdom at least in my movie-going habits. For example,  I wouldn't say that "Prometheus" is dreary -- it is instead "workmanlike"; I wouldn't call it visionary -- it is "conventional"; nor would I call it thrilling because it is "philosophical",  or at least tries to be. It doesn't hit the mark of something like Soderbergh's "Solaris", but it isn't for lack of trying and this should be acknowledged out of respect for the original which was about as unphilosophical as you can get. And since we were all grateful enough not to have noticed, we didn't care.

 What is saddest about "Prometheus" and what makes it pale in my estimation in comparison to the original, is what I would call the "bad faith" inherent in its conception. Everything about it seems to point to Scott's insecurities about the original, how he may have made it differently, and the things he would have changed if he'd been given the chance.  I find this a puzzling undertaking for an esteemed director (in his middle years), who has piled success upon success with most if not all of his ventures, an  artist who has the respect of the public and his peers for his flair, and the tackling of material that may be off-beat, but is always entertaining. I am refering to my (other) favourite Ridley Scott movies, namely Thelma and Louise, Blade Runner, Someone To Watch Over Me and "The Duellists".

Scene from "Prometheus" with Charlize Theron

The most glaring shortcomings of "Prometheus", at least to me, are the following:

*We are introduced to another crew. Fair enough, but they seem to bicker with each other for no particular reason and do the silliest things. Like not co-operate when they're supposed to be running a space-ship. Nobody much stands out, unlike the crew in the original "Alien", who seemed to be authentic human beings, where the ensemble cast works superbly.  Nobody emerges as a leader, and they all run backwards and forwards from the mother ship to the alien's site and back again in an effort to keep audience interest because there is no alien per se, and therefore the danger has to be coming from some other source.

*Any kind of suspense appears to be disposed of, and is replaced instead with a large amount of philosophical rumination about the nature of mans' origins. Unfortunately it compares unfavourably with something like Steven Soderbergh's Solaris, which is a re-make of Andrei Tarkovsky's  Russian film of the same name. If you've read  Dostoyevsky, you would know that the Russians are big on religious philosophy and probably do it better than anyone else.  This is juxtaposed with  lots of pointless action, presumably in order to satisfy the audience demographic of 18-25 years old males who go to the movies on Friday and Saturday nights and who Scott and the producers hope will turn their movie into blockbuster fodder.  (Something, that in any director's early hunger days would send him into fits of fury concerning his artistic integrity and purity of vision. Not to say disbelief)
.
*Some have praised the production design. I found it haphazard and unimaginative.

*The opening sequence seemed tacked on, and does nothing much to explain the subsequent events in the movie, but I admit the ending instead, does a lot to explain what has been going on, and is designed I am sure for further sequels, which depending on your opinion of "Prometheus" may be either a good, or not so good thing.

*There are a couple of thrill set-pieces, in so-called homage to the original, but these come off as a bit tepid and unconvincing. What could ever live up to the 'chest burster scene'? Or the death of Ash the android? Or the other memorable scenes from the original? To me the chest burster scene is better than the shower scene in Psycho.  Sadly nothing comes close to this, but if it did, this would be an entirely different movie, in other words, something  that Scott would be making in good faith and not in an attempt to re-think the first movie for a new audience who hadn't been born yet when it was originally released.

*The character of the  'Old Man' seems to have been stolen directly from the last section of 2001: A Space Odyssey. But here, he's being taken along for the ride, rather than being tacked onto the end of the movie. And his make-up reminded me of Andy Garcia's shrivelled facial features as a dying man who refuses to give up smoking in Dead Again (1990), a homage to Hollywood film noir directed by Kenneth Branagh,   but other than this has no obvious connection to either "Prometheus" or "Alien".

*And finally, there isn't any ship's cat, especially one as adorable as Jonesy who has a lot to do in "Alien" as an extra character in the original film. Jonesy is a fellow traveller, who helplessly watches as his friends are picked off one by one. But he is wise and doesn't say anything, going about his own business instead. But  I suppose this point is nitpicking, and goes too far in exhibiting my one-sided and perhaps unfair preference for "Alien".

Despite these reservations, and after all is said and done, I still found "Prometheus" to be a perfectly acceptable entertainment. What raises it above a certain pedestrian quality is the ending, which no doubt is meant to spawn a sequel or two. There's nothing wrong with that -- George Lucas had great success with his prequels to "Star Wars:" -- which I usually refer to 'star bores'. But enough of my humour at the expense of the great unwashed. He's entitled to his glory, and the movie business is just that, a business. Comparing one thing, to something else that you have always loved is probably a silly activity in any case. It's like asking a man whether he loves his girlfriend, or the woman he's been married to for the past fifty years. What could he possibly say, without at least having a good word for them both? This is exactly how I feel. I have no right to feel disappointed, as I can always go back to the original.

I have my memories.

Let Me Introduce You to My Favourite Woody Allen Movie: It's Zelig (1983)

'Zelig's ad campaign didn't give much away  about the film

I've always been a big Woody Allen fan. I mean, who isn't? When I was nineteen years old, I attended a Woody Allen festival that started at 11pm on a Saturday night and ended at 6am the next morning, when his back catalogue consisted of Take the Money and Run, What's Up Tiger Lily, Sleeper and Love and Death which were made when he was a struggling actor, writer and comedian.  At the time, Annie Hall and Manhattan were merely a twinkle in Woody's horn-rimmed glasses, as he may have only been dreaming about the great things ahead. His so-called early 'comedy' phase, which even I am too young to remember -- consisted of writing gags for other people, and doing stand-up comedy in person in his beloved New York for very little money, and even less recognition.  But even geniuses have to start somewhere. I consider Zelig to be an almost perfect movie. It's a showcase for everything that I've always loved about movies directed by Woody Allen.  From the success of 'Annie Hall' in 1976 to the scandale that broke in 1992 over the break-up with wife (or was it girlfriend?) Mia Farrow, it's not an exaggeration to state that Woody had his hard-core fans (like me) eating out of the the palm of his hand. Those days are sadly a thing of the past, and I sometimes ask myself: 'why don't you wait with the same anticipation for a new Woody Allen film when the director's name on the marquee used to mean something -- at least before 'Reservoir Dogs' and Quentin Tarantino?'  And sadly, for me, the answer is, 'because, dearheart, in the words of Proust, 'you're not as young as you used to be.' And for once, Proust is right. Check out the opening scene:

I think that the best description of 'Zelig' is that it's a mockumentary. Yes, you did read that correctly. It's a documentary about an individual who never actually existed. It's a mockumentary made at  a time when they still had their 'mock'. So to speak. I would further venture to suggest that "Zelig" was made before the advent of political correctness, when you could make fun of politicians and other public figures, without the fear of being arrested, and other such inconsequential activities which are frowned upon today, but were considered freedom of speech by those of us who indulged in such things. But I don't want to turn this into a bully pulpit against political correctness, as it would draw attention to myself and away from the film, and frankly, I don't think I could deal with that kind of competition. What was I saying again? Ah, yes: 'Zelig' is a mockumentary, which may not in itself be a harbinger of hilarity, but believe me, it's a pretty good start.

Spoilers coming so watch out!

Sight gags abound in this allegory of the chameleon man Zelig.

'Zelig' is the story of a seemingly inconsequential 'little' man, who, if he doesn't change the course of history, makes a darn good attempt at it. The problem is Leonard Zelig has a medical condition, in which he physically changes to accommodate the people to whom he is in communication with. Therefore, if he is within reasonable distance of a Dixieland jazz band, he turns black and starts to play the trumpet. If he is with a group of overweight men, he becomes overweight himself. If he's eating in a Chinese restaurant, he becomes Chinese along with the rest of the Chinese. He is eventually hospitalised and falls under the supervision of Dr Eudora Fletcher (Mia Farrow), a bright, young doctor who is appalled at the thought that Zelig may be turned into a circus freak and/or exploited by any number of shady Jewish relatives.

Happier times for Woody and Mia. As well as the audience. 

Dr Fletcher is unable to keep Zelig at the hospital two times, once when he is kidnapped by a sister and her husband and made to perform for money, and twice, when he absconds from an impossible maelstrom of scandal and fraud in which everyone from the Catholic Legion of Decency to the Ku Klux Klan are asking for his head on a plate. Zelig and Dr Fletcher fall in love, and escape from Nazi Germany in an aeroplane. Dr. Fletcher is an aviatrix but passes out from fright, and Zelig, who's never flown a plane before, takes over the controls to get them to safety. He is promptly given the keys to the city of New York, with the immortal line, 'it just goes to show you what you can do when you're a complete psychotic'. All of this is interspersed with priceless commentary, set in the present day of real-life intellectuals like Irving Howe and Susan Sontag  attempting to define the phenomenon that was 'Leonard Zelig' that took place in the twenties and Depression-era thirties in America.

This ability to change at will, causes Zelig a great deal of conflict, because he wants to be an individual who is not at the whim of others, and what arises is an amazingly deft satire about how many of us are willing to bend over backwards in order to conform, to either keep the peace, or  to please others. I've read some recent reviews online that  paint 'Zelig' the movie as a vivid recreation of the Jewish experience in America where, as Irving Howe puts it, 'the Jews were assimilating all over the place'.  I think what he means is that in general, European immigrants were just grateful to have a second chance in America, and they would do anything in order to be accepted into the mainstream, even at the cost of their traditions and formerly, firmly-held religious beliefs. All of this sounds terribly pompous considering 'Zelig's' modest aspirations as a comedy. It is that, but so much more, with its allegorical considerations and its hilarious presentation of human nature as an irrational construct at the behest of social and political forces.

Zelig transmogrifies into a Frenchman in the company of other Frenchmen

With brilliant footage shot by Gordon Willis showing Zelig bonding with Charlie Chaplin and Marion Davies at San Simeon, chatting with Presidents Herbert Hoover and Calvin Coolidge and being serenaded by legendary twenties performer Fanny Brice, 'Zelig' is also a major technical achievement of the days before digital technology. The entire concept is executed brilliantly, from the emergence of Zelig from the obscurity of the New York ghetto, to his fame as a celebrity, simply for not doing much in particular, and if anything, not actually being 'anybody' at all, which I could point out, is something that was the particular bugaboo of the intellectual elite of thirty years ago,  which has now sadly come true. We are living in the era of 'Fabulous Nobodies', and nobody seems to care, and if you do, you're accused of being an elitist and a snob who doesn't understand the 'real' people, whoever, and wherever they may be, or where they come from.

Meeting the two dullest Presidents of all time, Coolidge and Hoover

The performances in 'Zelig' are all marvellous, from the smallest bits to the leading roles and I think the most brilliant performers are the interviewees in the present day, who have to make the audience believe that they existed before and still exist, despite the fact that they -- well, never did exist. The performers who play respectively, the elder Paul Duguay, and Dr Eudora Fletcher are outstanding and only add more to the wonderful pleasures of this intriguing and hilarious film. I advise everybody I know not to just walk, but run, to watch 'Zelig'.

Anyone who hasn't seen it yet, affords my deepest sympathy, and I hope will get well soon.

NOTE; For my review of 'Hannah and her Sisters' kindly click here. Thank you.

Great Depression body horror

As the world struggles with the consequences of economic downturn, the book has not been written yet,  that would make the connection between social forces beyond our control, and our continual evolution as a species. Conservatives conveniently ignore the psychological scars left behind by economic uncertainty and a sense of impending apocalypse. They seem to consider themselves  the cultural overlords of the general populace, whilst mollifying them that things are not really as bad as they seem. Conservatives consider it their duty in life to explain to us that we are still better off than most others in the world. That our way of life is superior to everyone else’s, as we resign ourselves to a loss of rights, a downturn in our standard of living, and a general sense of malaise as to how it all started in the first place.

People silently observe as the march of scientific progress  carries on.  They struggle with the spectre of unemployment and the loss of their homes and I would argue that any situation portrayed in a horror film that was meant to be ‘horrifying’ couldn’t possibly scare them. The prospect of economic ruin is horrifying enough, and has struck so close to home, it would seem that the horror movie has become redundant, a joke, and scarcely the kind of ‘art’ thought to be worthwhile. To counter this, I would argue that in fact, the horror genre is the repository for most things our culture refuses to discuss, that is, in a normal, or rational way and is therefore worthy of close attention -- as well as enjoyment.

A rare still of March and Hopkins rehearsing with director Rouben Mamoulian

 The discourse of horror contains those things which are brushed aside as being unworthy, simply because they become impossible to think about  within the limitations of a more public, or political, mindset. The public and private spheres of our culture very rarely overlap --  our private desires, our fascination with evil, the obsessions we hide from the prying eyes of others , are  exactly why horror films exist as a reflection of our more basic instincts. The horror genre was once the  doppelganger or uneasy traveller with the sunnier side of acceptable, financially driven,  Hollywood-marketed entertainment, and I wish this was still the case. But now, torture is big business, and Hollywood goes where the money is. 

Once upon a time, an aesthetic case could be made for the artistic relevance of a good horror movie, and even make a point of its social relevance. Since this is likely to become more problematic, (at least for me, because I refuse to watch the torture porn being made at the moment), I would like to draw the reader’s attention to a number of films released in the 1930’s. They record  a humane and understandable reaction to the disaster of the Great Depression as it tossed the world into a cataclysm of uncertainty and economic disaster from 1929 onwards as another world war loomed and the destruction of civilisation seemed more than just  a remote possibility.  [1]

[1] David J Skal, ‘The Monster Show: A Cultural History of Horror’, London, Plexus, 1994. See Chapters 5 & 6.

Dr Jekyll and Mr Hyde, Paramount, (1931), starring Fredric March, Miriam Hopkins, Rose Hobart, screenplay by Samuel Hoffenstein and Percy Heath,  directed by Rouben Mamoulian

 The re-creation of Stevenson’s epistolary narrative, in order to arrive at the point in time when this film was made, (1931) would make a story in itself. With Miriam Hopkins as Hyde’s unfortunate  lady friend, (a character not actually in the book -- as the bad girl) -- and a buttoned –up ( but also quite sexy) Rose Hobart as Jekyll’s fiancée, or the ‘good girl’, a progressive young doctor is fascinated by the notions of good and evil. He concocts an elixir that he imbibes at regular intervals, which turns him into a monster.

Stevenson’s original narrative was inspired by the true-life story of criminal William Deacon Brodie, the son of a prosperous Edinburgh cabinet-maker. Brodie was a notorious criminal, leading a double life until his capture and execution in 1788. [1]   Stevenson was inexorably drawn to the darker side of life, a reflection of his Scottish religious tuition. ‘Jekyll and Hyde’ is a moral tale about the risk of expressing the pure evil that exists under the surface of even the best of men. [2] Published to great success in 1885, the late Victorians seemed to twist Stevenson’s narrative around in such a way as  to exemplify their facile interpretation of  family values. Whilst demonising sex outside of marriage, the hypocrisy was such that the promiscuity of the married Victorian ‘gentleman’ became an open secret.  Where he was getting his ‘bit’ on the side –- was at any one of literally thousands of brothels scattered around London.  By damning extra-maritial sex  as  the perpetrator of all that was evil, the Victorians unintentionally brought the  social problems  they had with prostitution and venereal disease out into the open, which was surely not intentional.[3] 

  

Fredric March becomes progressively more hideous to look at, and his transformations are more alarming to the viewer, coming upon him no longer with any warning, or the need to imbibe an elixir. As an example of early, and perhaps undeveloped ideas about body horror, Rouben Mamoulian’s version of ‘Dr Jekyll and Mr Hyde’ is pertinent. Evil is what tortures Jekyll’s body in the impressive  transformation scenes  which serve to reveal to the viewer  the dual animus of Hyde. He turns into a simian creature with baggy eyes, protruding teeth and unkempt hair, unrecognisable to his friends and associates as the benign and  helpful Dr Jekyll. As Hyde, Jekyll leads a secret life in which he emotionally abuses a vulnerable young barmaid (Miriam Hopkins), and commits all kinds of mayhem, to get back at the respectable pillars of London society who have condemned Jekyll’s ideas about the benefits of having the dual nature of humans exposed so they are able to exist side-by-side. Jekyll’s physical torture seems just as chronic as his mental torture, as his evil side is brought out into the open.  Not in a religious sense, but in the sense that Mr Hyde is a sociopath with no conscience, nor any moral connection to his fellow man and thus retains his status as an object of physical ugliness.

 As with many other 30s horror films, the crazy onward march of science is to blame, with Jekyll debasing his Christian upbringing and believing himself to be some kind of God.  Jekyll  is punished by being turned into a shambling, ugly, and venal monstrosity, unfit for society and incapable of having a relationship with a ‘decent’ woman. By the end of the film, the status quo of outward good, and internal evil has been restored. Jekyll is redeemed by death, his experiment exposed as a vile offence against God, but his face returning to a calm and self-contained death mask in the last of the sequence of transformations and thus the end of the film. A possible interpretation of Mamoulian’s visualisation of the story could be this, taking into account its year of release  in the darkest days of the Great Depression.  A form of painful physical transformation is  a plausible response to  the observances of a corrupt society that permits war and economic inequality to run rampant at the expense of the wider body politic.  The sickness of evil should be impossible to externalise as it is a religious problem rather than a scientific one, but once this has occurred the bacteria runs rampant and infects, -- metaphorically at least, -- the entire society.

 As a brief footnote, the 1941 remake starring Spencer Tracy is not  as highly thought of as this version, primarily because Spencer Tracy in the title role was considered to not look grotesque enough to have the audience believe that he was a  monster.

[1] Raymond T. McNally & Radu Florescu, ‘In Search of Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde’ Los Angeles, Renaissance Books. 2000, p. 43; [2] ibid. p. 21; [3] Peter Gay, ‘The Cultivation of Hatred; the bourgeois Experience Victoria to Freud’ London, Fontana Press, 1993.

 The Raven, Universal, (1935), starring Boris Karloff, Bela Lugosi, Samuel S. Hinds, Irene Ware, screenplay by David Boehm, (suggested by the poem by Edgar Allan Poe), directed by Louis Friedlander

‘The Raven’ has the dubious honour of being the last genre film to be seen in England when the censor indefinitely banned horror films from being exhibited in that country. ‘The Raven’ was described by one English critic as ‘quite the most unpleasant picture I have ever seen, exploiting cruelty for cruelty’s sake.’[1]  ‘The Raven’ is in fact, a watered-down version of ‘The Black Cat’, directed by Edgar G. Ulmer, released by Universal a few years previously. Lacking the artistic panache of Ulmer’s original, ‘The Raven’ is a passable melodrama involving the doings of a mad plastic surgeon with an obsession for a young girl he can never have.

Convict Bateman (Karloff) approaches Dr Vollin (Lugosi) to have his face changed, but does not bargain on his visage actually looking  worse than it was before the surgery.  Dr Vollin is obsessed with the work of Edgar Allan Poe and plots revenge against Judge Thatcher (Samuel Hinds) for blocking Vollin’s access to his daughter Jean (Irene Ware). Vollin possesses a torture chamber underneath his house where he imprisons Judge Thatcher in homage to the story ‘The Pit and the Pendulum’, which has a protagonist strapped to a table with an enormous swinging pendulum edging closer and closer to his body.

The most effective section of ‘The Raven’ involves the relationship between Bateman and Dr Vollin, as Karloff and Lugosi spar with one another for audience sympathy. As played by Karloff, in a cleverly written role, Bateman is a criminal with a violent history who is no match for the more sophisticated corruption inherent in Dr Vollin’s mindset. Physically unattractive for all of his life, Bateman comes to the conclusion that ‘because I’m ugly, people expect me to do ugly things.’ Vollin finds this philosophically pleasing and performs surgery on Bateman that makes him look even more unattractive for the purposes of blackmail. Lugosi loses out in audience sympathy as more of a cardboard cut-out villain. Vollin’s  motivations are obscure, considering the damage he causes, whilst Karloff,because of the mutilation he has been subjected to, is  a misunderstood unfortunate, who is no match for the conniving doctor.

Snoozies on the set

Aside from the somewhat prosaic plot mechanics, ‘The Raven’ has some good moments, especially when Lugosi is reciting ‘The Raven’ to a group of onlookers when they are invited to stay at Vollin’s residence for a weekend sleepover that they probably won’t forget in a hurry. In this concluding section of the film, we are reminded of ‘The Old Dark House’ and ‘The Cat and the Canary’, drawing-room melodramas filled with billowing curtains and moving bookcases which hide behind them all manner of grotesqueries and bizarre instruments of torture which exist only in the mind of the viewer, but nonetheless seem very real.

[1] Skal, op. cit., p. 195

Freaks, Metro Goldwyn Mayer, (1932), starring Leila Hyams, Wallace Ford, Henry Victor, Olga Baclanova, Harry and Daisy Earles, Johnny Eck, screenplay by Willis Goldbeck, Leon Gordon, Edgar Allan Woolf, Al Boasberg (based upon the short story ‘Spurs’ by Tod Robbins), directed by Tod Browning

  The debate still rages: Is ‘Freaks’ sympathetic to its characters, or is it an exploitation piece only trying to cash-in on their disabilities? ‘Freaks’ portrays the social life of a collection of circus freaks as they tour Europe with a travelling circus. Nothing much happens really, but the viewer becomes a pupil of director Tod Browning, with the film  acting as  a living testament to their unique world. Hans and his wife (played by Harry and Daisy Earles) are small people performing in the circus. Hans falls in love with acrobat Cleopatra (Olga Baclanova), a large woman who attempts to poison him and steal his fortune, along with her boyfriend circus strongman Hercules (Henry Victor). When the other freaks find out what’s going on, they decide to wreak revenge on behalf of their friends. Notorious for its use of real life circus oddities like Johnny Eck, the Bearded Lady and the Pinheads, ‘Freaks’ tries to wear its heart on its sleeve, but never quite succeeds. Browning wants it both ways for the sake of a good silent melodrama, and the moral tone of the film is left strangely ambivalent.

 The most famous sequence in ‘Freaks’ is the banquet scene, in which Hans and Cleopatra are married. When a communal cup is passed around the table for everyone to drink from, Cleopatra refuses to drink; her disgust with the freaks is obvious, and they know they have an enemy in their midst The audience is meant to feel pity for these handicapped characters, but  the film takes a nasty tack. Intent on making us believe that the ‘freaks’ are perhaps  too  vindictive for their own good,  an operation is performed  on Cleopatra, which  turns her into a bird-like creature and she ends up as an exhibit herself.

‘Freaks’ also suffers from a strange case of aesthetic schizophrenia -- it doesn’t know whether it should be a sound, or a silent film. Browning was an acclaimed but controversial director of the silent era, best known for his work with Lon Chaney, who was a master of make-up and physical transformation. [1] He never adapted to the new medium of sound and  may have been forcibly retired by his employers at MGM, as a result of his recalcitrance with the new technology. [2] Browning had a problem with sound directorily, as if making people talk in front of the camera  made them less mysterious and interesting.  Without the silent cards to indicate to the audience what the characters were saying to each other, the mystery dissipates, indicating Hitchcock’s thesis that most sound films are nothing but photographs of people talking to each other.

 Because of Browning’s preference for action over dialogue in the tradional language of silent film, the best sequences in ‘Freaks’ (such as the banquet sequence)  whilst having dialogue, seem to be shot as if they should be silent.  The sequences more dependent on dialogue, for example where Phroso (Wallace Ford) shows Venus (Leila Hyams) his newly thought-out circus trick,  are not as graceful and seem to have been heavily edited.

Phroso the clown and Venus are the couple of  decent regular-sized people with a  sub-plot of their own, but what happens to them seems straight out of the silent film that Browning actually wishes he was making. Sadly it seems to be the shock value of ‘Freaks’ that most people come away with, as opposed to  a warm and fuzzy feeling that they are empathising with a group of misunderstood outsiders.

[1] David Thomson, ‘The New Biographical Dictionary of Film, Great Britain, Little Brown, 2000, p. 148; [2] Skal, op.cit. p. 145-59.

 Island of Lost Souls, Paramount, (1933), starring Charles Laughton, Bela Lugosi, Richard Arlen, Leila Hyams, screenplay by Philip Wylie and Waldemar Young, (based on the novel The Island of Dr Moreau by H.G. Wells), directed by Erle C. Kenton

‘Island of Lost Souls’ was banned in England for 25 years when it was first release in 1933. I mention this in order to emphasise the degree to which horror movies were marginalised, in this case the story of ‘Island of Lost Souls’  being interpreted as a challenge to the concept of natural law. [1] ‘Island of Lost Souls’ works brilliantly as  a classic mad scientist story, a genre involving a subtext which subverts Enlightenment reason with the populist fear of technology run rampant and out of  control of the general population.

The story  concerns  a couple who are shipwrecked (Leila Hyams and Richard Arlen) and arrive on an island where they discover a doctor who  is using animals for  bizarre reproductive experiments. Doctor Moreau (Charles Laughton) is an autocrat, an English overlord who runs his island as if it was his personal  outpost of the British Empire. Moreau  keeps his live animal experiments disciplined with a whip, and will not tolerate any transgressions. The animals have been given the promise of social elevation, but this is an illusion. The Sayer of the Law (Bela Lugosi) leads a revolt of the malcontents as they realise that Moreau has been exploiting them all along. [2]. These unfortunate malcontents could be interpreted as the working class of the Great Depression, who had been promised a better life by the American Dream, but were instead thrown out of work by a capitalist system that was collapsing into the abyss, by a combination of corporate greed and a lack of concern for its fellow man.

As his penultimate blasphemy, the doctor attempts to change a female animal into a human woman for breeding purposes and he will perpetuate a new race.

 In the late 19^th and earlier 20^th century, eugenics was considered a plausible and respectable science in which the domineering race could choose who would live and who would die within the context of a superior civilisation. But where does this ‘brave new world’ lead to, when no other social contexts were available as a guide, except the fascist regimes of Hitler and Mussolini?  Doctor Moreau attempts to play God, like other mad scientists of ‘30s horror films, who overstep their mark and come to believe science is no longer the lapdog of religion, but its superior. Laughton gives the impression that not only is he one of his half animals/half humans, but that his very body, clothed in its white suit, can barely contain his overwhelming impulses and desires. [3] Laughton suggests that the Doctor possesses a perverted life-force in which the act of birth becomes an abomination in the hands of science.

[1] Skal, op.cit., p. 171; [2] ibid. p 169; [3] Simon Callow, Charles Laughton A Difficult Actor, London, Vintage 1987 pp. 54-55.

Where Were You In '62? A Look-Back at 'American Graffiti'

Where the gang meets: Mel's drive-in

Directed by George Lucas, and produced by Francis Ford Coppola, ‘American Graffiti’ has stood the test of time as  an extremely entertaining and enjoyable film. It’s a film that stays with you for life; especially if you first saw it when you were the same age as the characters that are portrayed in the film. You will either remember -- for example --  where you were living, or -- what theatre it was where you first saw it. Or who you saw it with. Or what year of school  you were in when you first saw it – trust me: ‘American Graffiti’ has that kind of effect on a receptive audience. Made on a miniscule budget when George Lucas was a struggling film school geek, driven by Francis Coppola’s belief in the project, and featuring a cast, that, with the exception of Ron Howard, no one had ever heard of, I would argue that ‘American Graffiti’ is an ideal example of  American independent film at its most vital and creative.

Back in the days before the Ewoks, Princess Leia, or Luke Skywalker existed, George Lucas first  wrote a screenplay about a night in the life of a group of teenagers in a small California town. Unfortunately, no studio was remotely interested in his project, and financial backing was difficult to obtain. Finally, with the assistance of Coppola, Universal studios expressed a  tentative interest.  Thanks to the subsequent collaboration with  screenwriters Willard Huyck and Gloria Katz, as well as casting director Fred Roos, Lucas got the green light from a studio that had no confidence in the project, much less any interest in how it would be made, or received by a mass audience. Lucas ploughed ahead anyway, and the result was a totally enchanting portrait of the lives of a group of young Californians against a tantalising backdrop of America’s loss of innocence: the end of the first chapter of American rock and roll, and the beginning of the nightmare of the war in Vietnam. But the greatest enjoyment of ‘American Graffiti’ is that it captures the tentativeness, joy and despair of growing up in a way that doesn’t patronise adolescents. This makes it a virtual fountain of nostalgia  for those of us who are older, but remember  what it was like to be on the verge of adulthood, believing we had the capacity to achieve anything we chose to do in life.

Built upon a number of storylines which are ‘free-standing’, the film’s narrative structure would today be considered ahead of its time.[1] By free-standing, I mean that there are several self-contained stories within the narrative; a group of two or more characters share the same story, but are not included in others. This prevents audience interest from flagging, with so many things going on, unlike a more enclosed narrative which contains only one story that caters to all of its characters. Hence we have Steve’s story (played by Ron Howard) as he tries to convince Curt to leave ‘this turkey town’ with him, to pursue their lives  further on the east coast. Curt (Richard Dreyfuss) has his own story, as he aimlessly wanders the town at night, hitching a ride in the backs of other people’s cars as they cruise around to celebrate the end of the school year. Terry the Toad (Charlie Martin Smith) also has his own story. He is looking after Steve’s car, and picks up a pretty girl named Debbie (Candy Clark) for a night of somewhat downbeat, but funny adventures. John Milner (Paul Le Mat) is the elder of the group, an expert cruiser who complains about the  ‘slim pickins’ of the current drag and is finagled into picking up an eleven year old girl who gets him into all kinds of trouble.

  Legendary casting director Fred Roos auditioned hundreds  of young performers for the main as well as minor parts in ‘American Graffiti’, and apart from Ron Howard, known for his television work, most  of the performers were unknown to the audience. This was a stroke of casting genius (or maybe just a matter of not having the budget to pay big salaries to the performers). To have picked better known faces would have compromised the film’s freshness and turned it into a gawking parade with the audience. The film was shot on location in Petaluma, California over 27 nights. There are no daytime scenes at all. A cast member recalls how, after 27 straight nights of shooting it wasn’t hard to act being tired, when everybody actually was – tired. [2] 

Terry and Debbie on the prowl for good times

The film was completed properly in post-production. Walter Murch was responsible for the brilliant soundtrack of at least twenty songs from the era that began with the birth of rock and roll to the death of Buddy Holly, the emergence of the Beach Boys, and the pre-dating of the British invasion in the United States. Instead of a regulation score, the music is used  in a subjective fashion, in order to gain audience empathy for the emotions of the young characters. [3] The soundtrack becomes an indispensable part of ‘American Graffiti’, in a way that is unthinkable to most other movies, especially those that use mickey-mouse scoring as a way of filling up dead time on-screen.

Universal Studios continued to be un-cooperative with Lucas until it dawned on them that maybe they had a hit on their hands[3] The film-maker arranged private showings and persuaded the lower echelons of Universal to attend. They all loved what they saw and word-of-mouth escalated about the film. ‘American Graffiti’  grew to be one of the biggest moneymakers in the history of the studio. [4] The film’s arrival in Australia for example,  was heralded with a lot of publicity, so the studio must have started taking an interest in it.  It had done better than  expected when it was first released in the United States to mainly positive reviews. [5]

Wolfman Jack without his melted popsicles

 Whilst  ‘American Graffiti’ was a big hit in its day, I would argue it has become less well known as the years have flown by. George Lucas went onto bigger things; Coppola became embroiled in the making of ‘Apocalypse Now.’  Perhaps its greatest claim to fame has subsequently been the fact that Harrison Ford, who became a famous star, has a very small role, and he became better known than the other cast members who had the larger (or main), roles. Also, because it was so popular on first release, it was not a well-known fact at the time, that ‘American Graffiti’ was made on such a small budget, and everyone concerned with the project had only modest ambitions for it to succeed. [6]

I think that when you live with a film for so long, it becomes hard to remember, or understand, what your first reactions to it originally were. I only started out as a humble member of the audience, and wasn’t meant to be writing essays, unless they were about the Decline and Fall of the Roman Empire.  You know what I’m saying? There are some things you are made to love, and there are others you aren’t.  I don’t recall exactly what it was I liked the most about about ‘American Graffiti’. But since then it’s just been an accumulation of positive thoughts and feelings, ever since I first bought my own copy on video.  So, if you haven’t seen it at all, or just haven’t seen it in ages, take a look (or another look.)  And for me, taking the time out of  my Christmas break to write this post will have been worth it. Enjoy!!

The above citations are taken from the Making of documentary contained on the freely available Universal DVD.