8/22/06

As I mentioned earlier this month, in celebration of what would have been Billy Wilder's centenary, Turner Classics is showing several of his best films and premiering a documentary on the famed director. Following and preceding the doc, which airs twice this evening, is my favorite Wilder film, Double Indemnity. Yes, yes, I know, his other movies, including The Apartment, Some Like It Hot and particularly Sunset Blvd., have their partisans, and I certainly take no issue with those three titles. But to my mind, for many reasons I can't fully explore (or even enumerate) here under current time constraints, Indemnity is hands down Wilder's best all-around movie. (It's a difficult choice, but my second favorite is Ace in the Hole aka The Big Carnival, but that's a subject for a later discussion.)

I've seen Indemnity several times in the past year or so and may have to miss it tonight. Nonetheless, I'm delighted that TCM will be broadcasting this seminal film noir that has for too long been unavailable on DVD. (It was released some time ago on a bare-bones disc that is now "out of print.") Heartened by developments like the release a few years ago of the "Special Collector's Edition" of Sunset Blvd., I would occasionally check sites like Amazon for updates on the status of Double Indemnity's reemergence on DVD, ideally in a deluxe edition befitting its magnificence. In preparation for this post, I looked up Indemnity on IMDb, which happened to feature new artwork on the site's "main details" page for the film. Holding back a wave of euphoria, I feverishly linked to Amazon and confirmed that the "Universal Legacy Series" version of Double Indemnity will indeed be released two months from today, on August 22, 2006. (The fact that my own birthday is less than a mere six weeks from that date, generous readers, did not factor into my ecstasy in the least.)

Among other extras, the new DVD features audio commentary from critic, biographer and film historian Richard Schickel, whose slim BFI volume on the film is a little dry and prosaic. Nonetheless, along with the other included commentary, he should provide ample context for the movie. (Schickel's most important insight has been to single out Fred MacMurray as Walter Neff, the insurance agent who realizes too late that he is out of his depth when dealing with Barbara Stanwyck's femme fatale and Edward G. Robinson's claims adjuster. Although most of the critical praise has been heaped upon Stanwyck and Robinson, the performance delivered by MacMurray, who is similarly stunning as Jeff Sheldrake, the entitled cad of The Apartment, is, as pretentious types say, one for the ages.)

As great as news of Double Indemnity's DVD release is, nothing compares to seeing the film on the big screen, or even one of the small big screens at Manhattan's incredible Film Forum, where the film will be screened June 30 and July 1 as part of the repertory theatre's "Essential Wilder" program. (It was with no shortage of cruelty that a friend of mine informed me that, with my own trip to New York scheduled for the 2nd through the 9th, I shall miss this opportunity by a single day.) New York readers, of whom I have none, please take note.

Blood- and noir-stained

On Sunday evening, my viewing companion and I saw, as part of the American Cinematheque's continuing tribute to classic British horror, Jacques Tourneur's Curse of the Demon aka Night of the Demon (1957). We actually saw the British version (Night), which includes approximately 10 minutes of footage originally excised from the stateside version. (The currently available DVD includes both cuts of the film.)

Demon follows the trip of an American psychologist, John Holden (Dana Andrews), to a conference in England, where, along with a comely, more open-minded schoolteacher, Joanna Harrington (Peggy Cummins), he is drawn into an investigation of the mysterious circumstances surrounding the death of Dr. Harrington, a professor who had been Holden's colleague and Joanna's uncle. Dr. Harrington had sought to debunk the theories of the local occultist, Julian Karswell (Niall MacGinnis), and ultimately expose him as a fraud and criminal. As a man of unimpeachable science and rationality, Dr. Holden shares the objectives of his dead friend, and in his quest to apply a logical explanation to the strange occurrences in and around London, he confronts Karswell, who in turn confronts the man of science with a dark, unsettling truth.

One of Demon's treasures is its characterization of this suspected dabbler in the dark arts. Karswell simultaneously plays the part of good citizen and Devil's minion. This soft-spoken, portly, balding man demonstrates his largesse by inviting the local children to his sprawling estate for a Halloween party featuring ice cream and a magic show performed by Karswell himself in full hobo clown regalia. And yet, in addition to making casual threats, this curious fellow exhibits other traits of unambiguous, old-movie evil. He has a satanic little beard (not quite a Vandyke), dyed jet black. Moreover, although his live-in mother is not at all domineering, the bachelor Karswell is nonetheless a "fussy" (her word) mama's boy, if you catch my drift. In any event, Karswell is much more engaging than Holden, the skeptical, ostensible hero of our fable. I, for one, kept waiting for the genial demonologist to bring a rain of hellfire down on Mr. Scientist's smug, unbelieving ass.

Demon entails far too much to fully catalogue here, including a séance, catatonia, hypnosis, electrocution, a children's-party windstorm, creepy rural-Gothic townsfolk, intensive library research, a vicious stuffed-animal jaguar attack and, yes, the titular demon. The demon's mercifully limited appearances are the only moments marring the film's real triumph: its rich visual presentation. (Most commentators speculate that the shots of the demon were included against Tourneur's wishes, an interpretation substantiated by the director in later interviews. I don't particularly mind the distant, full-length views, showing the marauding beast's approach. In close-ups of its visage, however, it appears more temperamental real-world animal than terrifying emissary of Hell. But it's easy to grasp the commercial rationale for this less subtle approach when at least one of the film's posters screams "Demons! Monsters from Hell!" and hyperbolically promises "You will actually SEE them on the screen!" No coonskin cap-wearing patron wanted to feel "gypped" after all. My own friend, too, has a soft spot for this creature, but her soul was consigned to Hell long ago.) Considering he's working in black and white, Tourneur has an amazingly extensive palette at his disposal. He soaks the proceedings in dread, alternating subtle and stark shadings to depict less an interplay of light and shadow than an age-old battle between the two, one in which the insidious darkness has gained a distinct advantage. Tourneur cut his teeth on projects like the Val Lewton-produced Cat People (1942), another moody horror entry that opts for suggestion over shock and obviousness.

Throughout Demon, I was struck by how much it looked like a canonical film noir, as dark, pristine and elegant as Tourneur's own Out of the Past (1947). Demon's noir credentials, as it were, extend to its leads, Andrews, who starred in Laura, another classic (and classical) noir, and Cummins, the femme fatale of the B-movie thrill ride, Gun Crazy (aka Deadly is the Female). I was again reminded that, by their existence, certain films toy with that loose conceptual thread, threatening to pull the entire noir classification asunder. Is it noir? Is it horror? Does it matter? In addition to its explicit supernatural elements, Demon diverges from noir in its comparatively unshaded depiction of good and evil as embodied, respectively, by Holden and Karswell. But in the film's still noirish (and Biblical) universe, knowledge comes at the price of innocence. Victory feels like loss. The horror genre, including Expressionist nightmares and Hollywood monster movies, had informed noir, providing stylistic and thematic cues. With Curse of the Demon, noir returned the favor.

OverHEXed

I'm very generous with new TV series I think I might like. When something about a given show's premise, its featured players or its creative pedigree appeals to me and yet the pilot is underwhelming, I generally give the show three episodes, including that series premiere, to improve before abandoning it altogether. (Similarly, I have a tendency to stick with the truly good series long after they've lost their luster. I'm nothing if not loyal, often to the detriment or complete exclusion of other virtues. Like critical discernment.) This approach has worked quite well with HBO's Big Love, for instance.

There are shows, however, for which such indulgence is untenable. Which brings me to last night's two-hour premiere of Hex on BBC America. Hex takes place at a tony, bucolic boarding school where the best of Britain are presumably being groomed for Oxford and Cambridge. Oh, and where 250 years ago, before the former landed-gentry estate had been converted into an institute of higher learning, an overheated Hollywood version of voodoo was practiced by the servants and the wayward lady of the manor. Today, the students seem to have that air of blasé (read: zombified) entitlement and the corresponding disregard for their instructors that together are instantly endearing.

Our heroine, Cassie (Christina Cole), an easy-on-the-eyes but unremarkable-looking student unconvincingly packaged as the introspective wallflower of her crowd, steals away to a hiding place for a smoke and discovers, along with a ritualistic cross made of chicken bones, a cheap-looking objet d' art. In examining this urn thing, she pricks her finger, losing a single, elegant drop of blood to the urn's gaping maw. As a result, Cassie soon experiences, in addition to general distress and maybe constipation, creepy visions edited in the standard rapid-fire style. (Trust me, the actual episode doesn't do my description justice.)

My viewing companion and I gave Hex roughly 40 minutes, including what seemed like numerous commercial breaks, before checking out. While we certainly didn't expect anything rising to the level of the heyday of Buffy the Vampire Slayer, we hoped this apparent blending of supernatural hokum and abilities with young-adult concerns and crises would be a worthwhile summer diversion. The show was painfully slow and soporific, notwithstanding a juvenile obsession with sex that seems to plague Hex's entire campus, young and old alike. The premiere featured classroom innuendo and brief nudity that would be verboten on American network TV. (In a blow for equality, a few of the female students enjoy a Porky's reversal, taking casual advantage of peephole access to the boys' locker-room shower.)

Hex's characters, including Cassie, were indistinct and elicited as much sympathy as the overprivileged and petulant generally do. The only character who stands out (only because she must) is Cassie's roommate. I don't remember her name, but that is no matter. The creators of Hex seem concerned only with the fact that she is a Lesbian. They forego no opportunity to remind the audience as much, as though it would have forgotten during any of those regular commercial breaks. I don't know which was insulted more, my sensibilities or my intelligence. I kept thinking -- hoping -- there was more to this sidekick than thinly veiled proclamations of her sexual orientation. The powers behind Hex crafted situations and dialogue that reduced her to a single recurrent note. The ham-handed treatment of this lesbian character reeked of shallow self-congratulation, and the failed attempt to generate an authentically sexually-charged atmosphere smacked of desperation.

I suppose it is somewhat reassuring to know that the United States doesn't have a monopoly on small-screen schlock. And in all fairness to Hex, its actors and its creators, the premiere may have really picked up in its final two-thirds, and the characters may have eventually demonstrated greater nuance. If viewers who endured the full two hours claim that is indeed the case, I'll take their word for it.

Wistful for June gloom

So, as planned (and mentioned), we headed out this past weekend to Palm Springs' Film Noir Festival. We had decided to attend, and purchased tickets for, two screenings but were only able to take in one before succumbing to heat (high: 187 degrees) and lack of inspiration in the middle of a punishing, 7-hour-plus stretch between showtimes in which we were left to our own devices. My traveling companion and I were equally relieved the other was just as eager to get the hell out of Palm Springs (or get out of the hell that is Palm Springs) -- What prevents its legions of elderly residents from dropping like flies from dehydration? -- and back to the relative comfort of greater Los Angeles. (After that joint resolution, we did manage to salvage a good time from our road trip, stopping at a wonderful interstate diner for dessert and, well, more. But such unalloyed delights are not in the true spirit of noir, so I won't dwell on them here.)

Anyway, the film we did catch at 10 a.m. Saturday, an ungodly scheduling considering we awoke that morning in Pasadena, was The Madonna's Secret, the screening of which, we were repeatedly told, is incredibly rare. We saw one of the very few prints, maybe the only one, in existence. The movie was fun, and you'll probably never see it. Nonetheless, I won't bore you with a detailed plot description or offend you with any spoilers in the off, off chance you encounter it at some point in your life. Notwithstanding that title, it really has nothing to do with Christianity or, thank God, the erstwhile Material Girl. Neither its dialogue, which features a few amusing lines, nor its plot sets the world on fire, but it does showcase several interesting characterizations and excellent cinematography by John Alton, who eventually won an Oscar for his work on An American in Paris(!). After Secret, Alton photographed T-Men, a substantially better film but one also classified (perhaps inaccurately) as noir and similarly graced with Alton's stark, striking imagery.
Speaking of T-Men, I would be remiss if I failed to mention its reairing on Turner Classic Movies tomorrow evening as part of month-long celebration of the work of director Anthony Mann, an auteur known foremost as a director of westerns. This retrospective comprises 22 of the director's films, which TCM has spread out over Tuesdays in June. The first batch of his work, airing tomorrow, has been designated "Mann Noir - Night One" and features, in addition to T-Men, Raw Deal, Border Incident, Railroaded! and Two O'Clock Courage. I've only seen T-Men but would see any and all of the others on the basis of their titles alone. (Who, for instance, can resist a title with an exclamation point? Who?!?) The remainder of the Mann noirs, including The Great Flamarion, Desperate, He Walked by Night and, finally, Side Street will be shown next Tuesday evening.

June is a banner month for televised noir; there are an abundance of titles in addition to the Mann offerings. The next several days feature The Postman Always Rings Twice (tonight at 5:00 p.m. PST -- I hope I post this blog entry in time to make the notice worthwhile), Double Indemnity (the touchstone noir adapted, like Postman, from a James M. Cain novel), Tension and Sunset Blvd. Sunset airs three times this month, twice this weekend alone; on Sunday afternoon it is paired with The Maltese Falcon, the film that, in retrospect, arguably ushered in the era of classic noir. (Sunset and Double Indemnity, both directed and co-written by Billy Wilder, are being shown in conjunction with the TCM premiere of a documentary on the famed director, an additional factor contributing to a current programming slate flush with noir.) And Monday offers a trio of sensational, evocative, unambiguous titles: Born to Kill, Cornered and Kiss Me Deadly. What an embarrassment of riches! What a glorious time in which we live! We're not worthy, Turner Classics! Please don't ever leave, thereby placing us at the mercy of American Movie "Classics"!

I understand that, as cold and dark as these films noir are, they only stave off the oppressive Southland heat as long as you stay indoors at all times, turn off all appliances other than the television (and any air-conditioning units, which should be going full blast), regularly hydrate, shut down all bodily systems other than the eyes and brain (the heart has no place here) and bask in the faint yet powerful glow cast by these movies. Doctor's orders.

Oh, and sorry about the late Postman notice.

Fata morgana

What better way is there to enjoy a nice early June weekend and experience Palm Springs and its environs than to take in one or more offerings of the desert town's annual Film Noir Festival? I've never attended but plan to take refuge from the heat and the light in an air-conditioned theater this Saturday, relishing the darkness of the venue and of the films' outrageous characters, shadowy photography, fatalistic themes and nasty goings-on.

It does seem strange to escape Los Angeles, perhaps the ultimate noir backdrop, for this purpose, but maybe that's the point. The fans of noir will track its films down wherever they surface, just as inevitable fate will find true noir protagonists wherever they may hide; it's the tail they can't shake. Idyllic settings, including Palm Springs, are transitory and deceptive, only lulling their denizens into fat complacency. The patient Devil claims the known world, or at least all of southern California, as His playground.