I wanted to end my backyard film series with a bang, so I picked Performance – a film that was released in 1970, but written in 1967 and shot in 1968. The film marked directorial debuts for both Nicolas Roeg and Donald Cammell, but Roeg is the one who most people remember. Even at my screening the one person who had not only seen Performance before but said she’d seen it five times seemed to have forgotten about Cammell. Now for the surreal bit: when I went to my bookshelf to consult Ephraim Katz’s The Film Encyclopedia (“The Most Comprehensive Encyclopedia of World Cinema in a Single Volume”) and David Thomson’s A Biographical Dictionary of Film (“indispensable,” “revised,” “up to date” etc.) both featured generous overviews of Roeg, but not a single thing on Cammell. How is this possible? READ MORE

Now that Ponyo (aka Gake no ue no Ponyo), Hayao Miyazaki’s new animated feature, is currently playing in theatres across the U.S., I’m reminded of another anime feature produced by Studio Ghibli and distributed by Walt Disney that is less well known but highly recommended for those hungering for something a little more offbeat. It is also not directed by Hayao Miyazaki (though he did serve as executive producer on it). The film is POM POKO (1994), directed by Isao Takahata, and it combines satire, tragedy, fantasy and philosophical ponderings in equal measures, resulting in an entertaining, thought-provoking experience for children and adults alike while avoiding a formulaic happy ending that characterizes the typical Disney product.            READ MORE

Who might have believed that one of the more unusual bits of movie star ephemera is making a vibrant comeback?  Movie star paper dolls, once a popular marketing tool (only they called it publicity back then) designed to satisfy the audience’s desire to get close to their favorite performers, were big sellers to little and not-so-little girls back in the day.  The popularity in the late 1950s of fashion dolls like Barbie was tied to the demise of the celebrity paper dolls as a big moneymaker, and so they fell out of style.  Collectors always sought out the vintage movie star collections, but it was the incredible skill and excellent timing of artist Tom Tierney which precipitated the revival of this charming art form.  Remembering the paper dolls his mother had collected and kept, in the mid-1970s Tom created his first movie star paper doll which led to a long-standing relationship with Dover Publications.  The rise of interest in classic movies which occurred at that time (That’s Entertainment, et al) provided the perfect opportunity for these unique paper dolls to catch on and he’s been going strong ever since, joined by other artists who have all helped revive this lovely tradition.

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While reviewing the new Dark Sky Films DVD of Dan Curtis’ DEAD OF NIGHT (1977), a failed pilot for a proposed weekly anthology series, I caught up with an old memory.  Included with this release is a bonus feature, another pilot for a horror anthology series that failed to sell back in 1969 and also called DEAD OF NIGHT.  Called for the purposes of this release DEAD OF NIGHT: A DARKNESS AT BLAISEDON, the pilot concerns a team of psychic researchers (THE 7TH VOYAGE OF SINBAD’s Kerwin Matthews and Cal Bellini, who went from this to a role in LITTLE BIG MAN, as Dustin Hoffman’s bass-ackwards antagonist) brought in at the behest of a San Francisco secretary (Marj Dusay) who has come into possession of a haunted old house on the Hudson River.  It’s a pretty standard affair from the folks who brought you DARK SHADOWS – presented on video tape and a bit ragged and old hat but still fun if you don’t expect too much.  (DARK SHADOWS fans will also enjoy seeing series regulars Thayer David and Louis Edmonds in pivotal roles.)  For years, I had a memory of a horror show on TV that I’d seen as a kid where a car drives up to the iron gate of a creepy old house and someone gets out of the car and pushes the gate open, allowing the car to pass through.  That’s all I remembered.  I also had a vague memory that the show was called DEAD OF NIGHT but when I checked the IMDb many years ago I was brought to the 1977 telefilm.  I had no way of knowing this wasn’t the movie I remembered but it was only while working my way through the DVD release that I came face to face with those familiar frames. READ MORE

If, like the rest of us peasants, you can’t get enough of ambitious movies set in Mesoamerican times, you might want to check out Mel Gibson’s Apocalypto (2006). I’ve tried to watch that recent movie about three times now, but somewhere around the time that the words “I am Jaguar Paw. This is my forest. And I am not afraid” are spoken, I tend to nod off, even when these lines are spoken in the Yucatec Mayan language. My excessive snoring is the only thing that kept waking me up as Mr. Gibson‘s earnest attempt to dramatize the decline of Mayan civilization unfolded into the expected gore-filled spectacle. But enough of those stabs at historical accuracy in the movies–give me an engrossing, epic-sized if ill-conceived distortion to get me through the dog days of summer.

Happily, I’m here to report that no attacks of narcolepsy occurred while discovering the utterly delightful, nearly unknown Yul Brynner movie, Kings of the Sun (1963) recently. That 108 minute movie, shot in richly textured hues of De Luxe Color, is one of those being aired today, August 26th at 1:30PM EDT on TCM as part of Yul‘s moment in the Summer Under the Stars annual August event. An audacious movie–befitting an American financed re-imagining of the rise of a hypothetical ancient Mayan culture—was crafted with enormous professionalism in every frame, from the gorgeous cinematography of Joseph MacDonald to the rousing score from Elmer Bernstein and a cast of Oscar honorees and an industrious troupe of artists and craftsmen. The only problem is the script, darn it!
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In 1944, Preston Sturges had his first flop for Paramount. After numerous battles with production executive (and storied songwriter) Buddy DeSylva, The Great Moment was released in a studio-mandated cut, which Sturges said

was a bitter story about the discovery of anesthesia which I intended to sweeten a little with some funny moments. The studio decided that the picture should be cut for comedy. As a result, the unpleasant part was cut to a minimum, the story was not told, and the balance of the picture was upset….  I was certain the picture would have a mediocre and shameful career in that form and with that title [he wanted it to be called Triumph Over Pain], a guaranteed gilt-edged disaster that would do neither me nor the studio any good.

He was right, of course, and Moment was the only film in his Paramount run to lose money. Negotiations over a new contract collapsed over Sturges’ request that he have a two-week period after each production to annul the deal. He wanted leverage in case of future studio meddling, but he was rejected outright. Thus ended one of the greatest Studio-Director runs in Hollywood history.

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The following article is a guest post by Yacov Freedman. He works in TV production and online marketing, writes the MoviesOnTCM Twitter feed, and is pursuing a Masters in film studies from Emory University. His Twitter comments upon John Hughes’ passing led me to ask him to contribute an article to Movie Morlocks. I will contribute a post later today, on Sturges’ The Sin of Harold Diddlebock.

John Hughes passed away, suddenly, unexpectedly, on August 6th. As it turns out, he was the second famous filmmaker to fade out on that date. Fifty years earlier, on August 6th, 1959, Preston Sturges made his exit, just as suddenly and unexpectedly. Both men were in Manhattan when it happened, and both succumbed to heart attacks. Hughes was 59 years old; Sturges was 60.

Coincidences aside, linking their deaths raises some fascinating comparisons about their lives. Most notably, Sturges and Hughes had oddly similar careers: they both started out as highly-sought screenwriters who then parlayed their success into directing. As directors, they possessed rare talents for combining sophisticated dialogue with broad comedy, such as slapstick, chase scenes, and musical interludes. They were also fiercely loyal to their actors – Sturges with his Stock Company, and Hughes with his Brat Pack.

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I love most two-dimensional animation with all its graphic qualities – vivid, saturated colors, a linear aesthetic, and characters created from simple, pleasing shapes. From the simplicity of Gertie the Dinosaur to the deep blacks of Koko the Clown to the richly colored animated features of classic Disney to the wacky wonders of Warners’ short cartoons, I appreciate that at one time during the animation process real artists actually designed and drew the figures while artisans painted the colors. Though I am slowly warming up to the computer-generated, modern-day 3-D classics of Pixar, Disney, Dreamworks, and others, the “art” of this 3-D approach sometimes skirts the basics of graphic design that makes classic 2-D animation so visually appealing. The characters of Toy Story, Shrek, Ratatouille, and Up look like the toys that the marketers at Disney want you to buy even if you don’t see the movies, and some of the color schemes in these films look dull or seem random. To me, nothing matches the design brilliance of Mickey Mouse, who was configured from ten circles of three basic sizes; no computer-generated color seems as bright as the primaries of Snow White’s dress; no blacks are as deep or frightening as the ink well that Koko falls into.

I have been thinking a lot about animation history because I have been researching the life of Alexandre Alexeieff, an experimental filmmaker who pushed animation in the direction of fine art, for a DVD project we may distribute at Facets Multi-Media, where I work. A former engraver of illustrations for books, Alexeieff wanted to animate his engravings, maintaining the chiaroscuro effects, the textures, and the shaded tones of this graphic medium. He had little interest in commercial animation, which was defined by its use of caricatures, simplified shapes, linear qualities, and flat blacks. Together with his second wife, Claire Parker, the pair invented and constructed the pinscreen, a specialized tool that allowed them to create the visual effect Alexeieff wanted.

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I really should be talking about Summer Storm, a rare Douglas Sirk film from 1944 that only has one small capsule review to represent it on IMDB. Instead, I feel like weighing in on District 9 which, as of this writing, already has 121 film critic posts, close to 400 customer reviews, and God knows how much else out there amassing itself to the IMDB ballyhoo. Adding to the craziness is the fact that you can’t have a party this size without breaking some chairs and tipping some bikes. Not that brawling film geeks can quite summon forth the fury of Altamont, but I still have to admit to being a tad bit mesmerized by it all. READ MORE