A Lost Art

It seems almost impossible to believe. But once films were made with such skill. With such love and artistry. It's all but disappeared from screens now. A minor Fox classic like Daddy Long Legs, watched now, is so beautifully lit, framed, dressed and acted that it makes most modern movies look like the badly edited mess they are. Filming something with six cameras, then using Avid to seemingly piece together footage at random does not make a film one can admire. What happened to composition?
But of course musicals are deeply unfashionable. Looked down on by movie lovers who should really know better. For aren't musicals an expression of almost pure cinema? I mean, people suddenly bursting into song and dancing around the place is deeply weird if you stop to think about it. Take a few minutes out of your life and watch eight minutes of beautiful Leslie Caron and suave Fred Astaire. And then tell me the world isn't a better place for having them around. Look below.

Why I Like Movies. In One Minute Thirty Seconds

Orson Welles made a movie called The Lady From Shanghai. It is not considered one of his greatest. It certainly isn't as good as Kane or Ambersons. Made as a favor to the studio, and then butchered.
Truffuat said Welles made some films with his left hand, some with his right hand. The right hand films always had snow. The left hand films gunfire. This is a left hand film.
But there is a scene in this film, about a minute and a half long, which is as good as anything ever committed to celluloid. When people write about or discuss this film, the climatic scene in the house of mirrors is always mentioned. And it is a technical tour de force.
But the scene on the boat, when Rita Hayworth sings Please Don't Kiss Me is hardly ever mentioned. And it should be.

We see Hayworth, in a halter top bikini, at night smoking a cigarette, lying down on the deck. We then see below decks, with the crew including Welles himself. Shot from below in a typically meticulous Wellsian composition. Hayworth starts to sing, quietly, sadly, and her face is framed at an angle, and you can't help but tilt your head slightly to the right. The camera slowly moves in and just watches her sing for a few seconds. Then the camera cuts away to Welles coming up the ladder, then back to Hayworth for just a few more precious seconds. Then all too quickly the scene is over. The magic is gone. But the sadness of the scene, Hayworths melancholy voice and the perfect framing of the scene is something that will stay with you forever.

You can check out the scene on the right, I have no idea who the other guy is on the second video, but they seemed to come as a deal so there you go.

Stop The Irony. Because Bad Can Never Be Good.

Okay, things have gone too far. Irony was fun for a while. I enjoyed it as much as the next person. But championing shit TV shows like The A Team is going too far. Otherwise intelligent people feel the hipsterish need to constantly do this. Like buying a seventies brand of powdered dessert like Angel fucking Delight, which tasted like chemical crap when it first came out. Or playing dreadful boy bands at a party as an "ironic counterpoint".

I'm trying to stop too. But it's hard. I was in the supermarket when I noticed Vesta Curry. Now, when I had this as a kid back in the 70s it was garbage. But when I saw it again, I had an almost unstoppable need to buy it. Not because it tasted good. I wanted it so I could tell my friends I had bought it, and bask in the ironic post modern retro cool vibe. Like hipsters who wear t-shirts of cheeseball movies so their friends can look at in in arch disdain, and share the in joke.Where are the Citizen Kane or City Lights t-shirts?

  The all too popular refrain of "so bad it's good" is used to mask bad taste. Because bad shouldn't be fun. Because if you can talk for twenty minutes about the worlds worst movies and have never seen the worlds best movies, something is wrong.
 
And the danger is, if you live your live in a constant state of ironic detatchment, a hipsterish need to take nothing at face value, then how can you actually enjoy something? Without reservation?
So, I think a no irony day should be mooted. When people can actually enjoy things. When people can communicate with each other honestly and openly. Sincerely. Fuck Irony.

The A Team. It is crap.

Françoise Hardy. The epitome of Gallic cool.

This is Françoise Hardy. In the sixties she hung out with Jean Luc Godard, and had a bit part in Masculin, Féminin. Name checked by Bob Dylan. Friends with Serge Gainsbourg. She sold millions of records in her native France. I suppose it says a lot about the xenophobic, macho state of the British music scene, then as now, that she never gained the fame she deserved in the UK. But no matter. The albums are still available. It's not too late. As I'm typing this her album Comment Te Dire Adieu? is playing, and I have a smile on my face.

I don't speak French, and she sings in French. So is that a problem? Depending on what mood I'm in, her lyrics can mean anything I want them to mean. Happy or sad. It constantly changes whenever I put on the record. Her voice is comforting, laconic and haunting. My soul is healing. All is well. Thank you Françoise.

I wouldn't trust meself in that jungle if it was me, sir.

Tarzan And His Mate was the second Weissmuller - O'Sullivan Tarzan film and the best. Tarzan The Ape Man was a huge commercial and critical hit. Audiences flocked to see it. It might look dated and quaint now, but it was bigger than The Lord Of The Rings. so a sequel was inevitable.
Everyone knows the story of Tarzan and Jane, so need need to go over it again.
The second film starts with white hunters on the trail of the Elephants graveyard. Accompanied by black servants. The appalling racial stereotypes in this flick can't be ignored. But it is a product of it's time. It would be unfair to expect 21st Century attitudes in 1934. But it can make you wince. Anyhoo they are attacked by a particularly annoyed group of tribesman. Scampering up a cliff face to escape, they are then ambushed by gorillas, who hurl boulders down on them. This film moves at a cracking pace.
The familiar Ah he aw he aw he aw is heard, Tarzan arrives, the gorillas call of the attack.
Then Jane arrives. And she's half naked. We had gotten used to Johnny Weissmuller swinging through the canopy in next to nothing. But seeing Maureen O'Sullivan is quite a jolt. One of the white hunters has suffered a snake bite on his arm. Seeing it, Maureen O'Sullivan lift up his sleeve, and starts sucking out the poison. The camera dollys in, registering the look of delighted surprise on his face.
The hunters camp for the night, and Jane is given fancy dresses and perfume. To tempt her back to "civilization". Another famous shot of Jane undressing, seen in silhouette through the tent.
It doesn't work of course. Tarzan is the only man for her. He swings down takes a delighted Jane off in his arms and into their nest in the treetops. The next morning Tarzan wakes up clutching his dagger, and goes out with Cheetah while Jane has a lie in, coming back with breakfast in bed. Tarzan awakens Jane by blowing gently into her ear. When she wakes up, she gazes up at him, and says, lazily, "Tarzan. You are a bad boy". It leaves you in no doubt what they got up to the night before.

Jane gets up and dresses in the evening gown.They go to the river for their morning swim, and Tarzan playfully throws Jane into the water. The dress catches on a branch, and Jane falls, naked, into the river. There follows one of the most beautiful scenes in movies. A naked Jane, and Tarzan in his loincloth, swimming under the water. This being a pre-code film, nudity wasn't taboo. For minutes they frolic and play, gently cartwheeling and pirouetting. The sun dapples across them. The photography here is beautiful. No soundtrack apart from the sound of the water...This is pure cinema.

They climb out of the water, Cheetah has nicked Janes clothes, Lions attack and Tarzan fights them off. They decide to take the hunters to the elephants graveyard. Jane now wearing her "civilised" clothes, aware of the looks from the men. Innocence has been corrupted. On the way they are attacked by Rhinos, Lions, Crocodiles, and rescued by Elephants. Tarzan changes his mind about taking them to the graveyard. So one of the hunters shoots an Elephant and they follow it. I won't tell anymore of the plot, in case  you want to see it. But it involves more titillattion, a double cross, and a finale of Elephants Vs Lions Vs Tribesman, with men being torn in two by being tied to bent trees and released, and Cheetah saving the day.

This is epic, adult entertainment. If your only exposure to Tarzan films has been the later ones shown on TV, watch the first two Weissmuller - O'Sullivan flicks.You really will enjoy them. Sexier and more exciting than dreck like Transformers 2 or GI Joe, which were directed by hacks and watched by morons as someone once said.

 After all, who amongst us wouldn't want to leave that job in the call centre or the factory, and swim naked with Johnny and Maureen in a magical black and white and silver jungle.

I've been wearing your shirt for days.Your socks too. Each day they smell a little less like you.

Blankets is a comic. Or a graphic novel if you want to pretend you don't read comics. It's the largest comic ever published in a single volume. It won three Harvey awards and a couple of Eisners. But so what eh? That's just facts.

This comic is so warm, so tender and heartbreaking I wanted to crawl inside it. From Craigs upbringing in a strictly Christian household with his kid brother, to his eventual escape into adulthood, this book is flawless. It decribes adolescence, the need to belong and  love in painfully honest terms.

Art about first love and growing up is often mawkish and sentimental. It can so easily read like a Hallmark channel movie of the week. Trite. Unreal.

Blankets is so unflinching about the alienation and pain of growing up it avoids those pitfalls. And the flip side, the overpowering feelings you can have for someone when you are young and in love for the first time. How being away from them is torment. And the eventual, inevitable time you drift apart, and move on.

The art here is incredible. Simple lines, rendering the real world of bedrooms, cars and school, then spinning out into almost baroque panels of imagination. Raina is drawn by someone who loved her.And the panels of  snow bound Marquette where Craig goes to stay with Raina and her family are beautiful, as good as anything I have seen.

I hope I haven't made this sound like a downer, because it's not. It's life affirming and very beautiful. If you aren't moved by this comic, you are either an android or dead.

What a joy! It's M-G-M's Technicolor musical!

Good. No, great news. The Star And Shadow Cinema in Newcastle is showing An American In Paris on Sunday night.
One of the best musicals MGM ever made. So by extension, one of the best musicals ever made by anyone. I have only seen this on TV, so seeing it on the big screen is going to be a treat.

Leslie Caron (below) and Gene Kelly dancing down a studio bound River Siene. Perfect.

Not since the beginning of time has the world beheld terror like this!

After reading with abject dismay the news that The Creature From The Black Lagoon is going to be remade, I dug out my well worn copy of the original and gave it a spin.

And you know, it still works. Jack Arnold is an auteur.Really.
It has become almost de rigeur to state that The Incredible Shrinking Man is his masterpiece. Clearly, this is not the case. This movie is without a doubt not just Arnolds best flick, but is one of the best movies this genre has to offer.
After scientists Dr Reed (Richard Carlson) Kay Lawrence (Julie Adams) and Dr Mark Williams (Richard Denning) set off on the good ship Rita to find the rest of the fossilised Gill Man, they moor in the Black Lagoon.They already have a previously recovered webbed claw. Reed wants to capture and study the creature. Williams wants to shoot it, and presumably mount it on his wall next to a tigers head and a moose. Kay is quite content to parade around in a skimpy white one piece bathing suit, enjoying the sexual tension it provokes between the two men, and eventually the creature as well.

There is a justly famous shot, of Kay swimming on the surface of the water, while the Creature swims underneath her, sometimes mirroring her (some obvious symbolism there of the creature in all of us hiding just below the surface) sometimes reaching out to gently touch her foot. I first saw this movie maybe thirty years ago as a kid, and that scene has been with me ever since. From now on, we are all firmly on the Creatures side. Especially when the scientists, smoking 50s style, throw there cigarette buts into the water. And the Creature just startes at them. Enviromental subplots people.

As tradition demands, the Creature is captured, escapes and lives to return in two excellent sequels, Revenge Of The Creature (which has a brilliant scene of the Creature smashing up a Tiki bar, throwing cocktails around), and the desperately sad The Creature Walks Among Us. In this final film, he has his beautiful scaly skin burned off, is forced to wear deeply unfashionable clothes, and the film closes with him staring out at the water he can never return to. God, I'm filling up here.