Posted by Kimberly Lindbergs on April 3, 2014
She can sing, she can dance, she can act and she can make us laugh. She’s been directed by a number of recognizable talents such as Alfred Hitchcock, Charles Vidor, Michael Curtiz, Gene Kelly, Stanley Donen, George Abbott, Roy Del Ruth, Delbert Mann, David Butler, Norman Jewison, George Seaton, Gordon Douglas, Richard Quine and Frank Tashlin. And some of her most notable costars include Rock Hudson, Gordon MacRae, Kirk Douglas, James Cagney, Ronald Reagan, Jimmy Stewart, Louis Jordan, Clark Gable, Jack Carson, Howard Keel, Frank Sinatra, Jack Lemmon, David Niven, Rex Harrison, Cary Grant, James Garner, Rod Taylor and Richard Harris. Her career and personal life have been marked by incredible highs and crushing lows but through it all Doris Day has maintained a loyal base of appreciative fans that continue to grow in number every year. Today marks her 90th birthday and TCM is celebrating the event by airing a collection of her films including some of my personal favorites such as LOVE ME OR LEAVE ME (1955) and LOVER COME BACK (1961). I thought I’d join in the fun by sharing some interesting anecdotes and fascinating facts about one of America’s most beloved movie sweethearts.
Posted by gregferrara on April 2, 2014
Today on TCM, all day, the movies of Alec Guinness are playing, as we celebrate the actor’s 100th birthday. I’ll cut the recommendations short: you can’t go wrong. Really, you can’t when it involves Alec Guinness, at least, not in my opinion. But this day is important to me for more than just the celebration of a great actor, it’s important to me because, somehow, Alec Guinness informed most of my early study of cinema and he remains a figure the drums up instant nostalgia for my youthful enthusiasm for learning all I could about the movies.
Posted by R. Emmet Sweeney on April 1, 2014
James Cagney was a destabilizing force, able to enliven stock scenarios with his grab bag of gestural curlicues, which could snap from playful to menacing in the curl of his lip. A professional boxer on the set of Winner Take All (1932) was impressed with Cagney’s fighting footwork, and asked if he’d ever been trained. Cagney responded, “Tommy, I’m a dancer. Moving around is no problem.” Whether it was the sneering violence of his grapefruit-to-the-face in Public Enemy or the grace in which he spins into a dance hall in Other Men’s Women, the pre-code Warner Brothers films of James Cagney are repositories of the infinite variety of his “moving around.” The enforcement of the production code of 1934 limited the range of Cagney’s expressive possibilities, as evidenced in his first post-code film, the subdued armed forces comedy, Here Comes the Navy (1934), which was duly nominated for a Best Picture Academy Award. The Warner Archive has released both Winner Take All and Here Comes the Navy on DVD, lending an opportunity to see how Cagney handled the transition into post-code Hollywood.
Posted by Susan Doll on March 31, 2014
After writing about the Elvis Presley musical Kissin’ Cousins for last Monday’s post, the King was on my mind—and in the ether. I couldn’t help notice how many times Elvis’s name or music popped up in conversation, on television, or on the radio. Maybe it was just one of those weeks, but I was impressed that someone who has been dead for 37 years still has that much cultural cache. I was also pleased that readers responded to the Kissin’ Cousins post with their own favorite Elvis flicks and observations about his often-maligned movies. With that in mind, I thought I would offer some tantalizing tidbits, astute asides, and fascinating facts on Elvis’s film career.
He Wasn’t Always a Singing Race-Car Driver, Plane Pilot, or Boat Captain. Critics are quick to poke fun at the musical comedies, which Elvis dubbed “Presley travelogues,” but there is more variety in his 33 films than detractors realize. Elvis made three westerns (including the Civil War drama Love Me Tender), one straight drama, five musical dramas, two satires, and two documentaries. Even the musical comedies vary in tone and approach—from the sublime Viva Las Vegas to the ridiculous Harum Scarum.
What’s in a Name? Films often go through title changes during production, but Elvis’s movies were downright notorious for this. In 1958, 20th Century Fox purchased the novel Brothers of Broken Lance by Clair Huffaker before it was published. The studio wanted a title change, so the publisher agreed to release it as Brothers of Flaming Arrow. The studio changed its mind again, and the book was finally published as Flaming Lance. Publicity for the upcoming western claimed that Marlon Brando and Frank Sinatra had signed for the key roles, but that was premature. Neither actor agreed to the film, so the property was shelved for two years. In 1960, Fox signed Elvis for the main role, and shooting began in August for Flaming Heart, which was changed almost immediately to Black Star, thent Black Heart. In September 1960, everyone finally agreed to Flaming Star.
Posted by gregferrara on March 30, 2014
If there’s one subset of movies that not only doesn’t require a big budget and big stars but actually benefits from lower budgets and lesser known stars, it’s film noir. It doesn’t mean you can’t have great noirs of the big budget variety, and we have, from The Maltese Falcon to Out of the Past and dozens in between, before, and after. It just means that sometimes noir can function exceedingly well when done on the cheap. One of the best noirs of the forties is Anthony Mann’s Raw Deal. In the best decade ever for noir, it stands out even among the greats. That it didn’t get the recognition it deserved at the time now feels like Anthony Mann’s other raw deal.
One of the things about being known as “the guy that wrote that book about Godzilla,” is that when something like this new Godzilla movie comes along, everyone assumes that’s what you want to talk about. The fact is, I’ve written more words and spoken on more total audio commentary tracks regarding silent and early talkie comedy, but Godzilla made my name. And with TCM’s screening of the 1954 original today, and the Bryan Cranston version on its way, I guess I have to live up to that name.
Well, the new film certainly looks well-made and serious, and I expect it will be as dramatic and intense as the trailer suggests. It certainly strains no one’s credulity to claim that the original 1954 Godzilla movie is also serious and intense, an allegory about Japan’s experience with nuclear horror. It is not subtext, it is plainly text, with nothing sub- about it. Thinly disguised images of and openly direct references to the firebombings of Tokyo, the atomic bombings of Hiroshima and Nagasaki, and the Lucky Dragon incident are spread liberally throughout the film.
But… that isn’t Godzilla, not my Godzilla. Godzilla may have originated in austere political metaphor, but he was popularized as a rubber-suited superhero. He dances happy jigs, imitates rock stars, acts like a wrestler, talks with his pals, sometimes even flies—all while saving the Earth from such menaces as a monster made of living pollution, a ginormous bionic cockroach, or even a giant killer rose.
To pretend that Godzilla movies did not veer into absurdity and rampant silliness is futile. The filmmakers admitted it themselves—with screenwriter Shinichi Sekizawa a chief architect of this change in direction.
Posted by Richard Harland Smith on March 28, 2014
I was watching THE CORPSE VANISHES (1942) again recently and I forgot to laugh. I understand that laughter is the proper response because just about every critic — even the ones predisposed to horror, to Bela Lugosi, and to the inconsistent charms of Poverty Row cinema — tell us that the movie is no good, that Lugosi is no good in it, that the celluloid used to make it would have been better used for guitar picks, and that the only proper response is yuks. Ask most people in their 30s and 40s if they’ve ever seen THE CORPSE VANISHES and they’re likely to tell you “Yeah, that was one of the best MYSTERY SCIENCE THEATRE 3000s ever!” [...MORE]
Posted by Kimberly Lindbergs on March 27, 2014
Those of us who appreciate the eclectic programming on TCM Underground are in for a real cinematic treat on Saturday, March 29th. At 12am (PST)/2am (EST) TCM will be airing Pip Chodorov’s 90 min. documentary FREE RADICALS: A HISTORY OF EXPERIMENTAL FILM (2010) followed by two hours of groundbreaking, experimental and avant-garde short films made by some of the mediums most accomplished directors including Maya Deren’s seminal classic, MESHES OF THE AFTERNOON (1943).
Posted by gregferrara on March 26, 2014
I like period movies. In fact, if a movie takes place in a favorite period, I can pretty much watch it just for that, the period. The costumes, the hairstyles, the cars, the houses, and everything else that makes that period so unique. Of course, if the movie really has little else to offer in the way of story or acting, I probably won’t return to it. But if a movie isn’t a period piece, it shouldn’t call too much to its period, right? It shouldn’t mire itself down in up to the second fashions, it shouldn’t rely too heavily on up to the minute cultural references, or make social commentary that might be embarrassing in a few years. But in the 1960′s, the movies were changing. Attitudes were changing, what was allowed on the screen was changing, and the generation gap was growing. As a result, movies from the sixties tend to look and feel more like their decade than other movies from other decades look like theirs (if that makes sense to anyone but me, let me know) and it doesn’t bother me at all. I can watch any movie from the sixties if it’s good, but if it also screams “the sixties” in every cliche, costume and cultural reference, I can watch it even if it’s bad. If it happens to be good, well, that’s just icing on the cake.
Posted by R. Emmet Sweeney on March 25, 2014
The story of Bring Me the Head of Alfredo Garcia is told through the fabric of Warren Oates’ white polyester suit. It’s a flamboyant object covering up a quivering, self-loathing mass of flesh. And soon it gets covered in enough blood to match his insides. Director Sam Peckinpah dove right into production on Alfredo Garcia after the scorched earth war that was the Pat Garrett and Billy the Kid shoot, on which he battled MGM head James “The Smiling Cobra” Aubrey over final cut and lost. Thanks to producer Martin Baum, he had complete freedom on Bring Me the Head of Alfredo Garcia, and what he produced is a bloody burlesque of his own delusions of masculine grandeur. Now out in a limited edition Blu-Ray from Twilight Time (available exclusively through Screen Archives), which faithfully reproduces the rotting browns of Peckinpah’s Mexico City, the movie remains one of the grimmest self-portraits in movie history. Or, as Howard Hampton memorably put it, “the picture glows with the dying light by which failure sees its true reflection.”
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