The Third Man (1949)

I've praised old movies for having larger-than-life casts, and perhaps the largest of them all was Orson Welles - a genius underappreciated in his day and eventually immortalized as "The Brain" on Animaniacs.

I'm being glib. Welles was big - still is, as a matter of fact. Perhaps, then, Harry Lime is one of his best-known roles (after, naturally, Charles Foster Kane) because the character is like the man - seldom seen, always in the shadows, always in control, and of course larger than life. But I had a less than rapturous experience with The Third Man, which is not to say that the film was fantastically disappointing but rather that the experience of watching the film was.

Director Carol Reed handles a Graham Greene screenplay about American western writer Holly Martins (Joseph Cotten) in bombed-out Vienna. Martins has come to find his friend Harry Lime (Orson Welles), who's offered him a job, but when Martins arrives he learns that Lime has been killed in a car accident. After meeting Lime's lover Anna Schmidt (Alida Valli) as well as a few of Lime's deeply suspicious friends, Martins learns that there was an unidentified "third man" present when Lime was killed. Martins follows the trail of evidence to a startling discovery and a knockout chase through the sewers of Vienna.

It's almost impossible to talk about the movie without spoiling the big reveal that initiates the final act of the film, though it's a spoiler that's as common knowledge as the identity of the killer in Psycho - Harry Lime's not dead. The two leads - Cotten and Welles (an inversion of the billing on Citizen Kane) - are dynamite here, with Cotten proving that he's fine as a leading man. Welles does a good job of stepping out of the limelight (no pun intended) and relegating himself to a small but highly memorable supporting role. Of the two, it's easier to favor Welles, who lives up to the film's hyping of his impending appearance; the crucial scene in a ferris wheel is riveting, in which Welles gets to deliver the most famous line of the film - the cuckoo clock speech.

I can also appreciate what Reed did in the making of the film - shoot on location in what was left of Vienna and shoot a compelling chase scene through the sewers. But for every point I can give Reed for his accomplishments, I have to dock him one for the film's shortcomings. The film is riddled with confusing close-ups angled sharply in a disorienting effect; if this had a practical purpose, it'd be one thing, but it seems Reed is tilting the camera just for giggles. More problematic is the film's pacing; while it's enjoyable to see how nearly everyone in the supporting cast looks guiltier than sin, the film drags for a bit while Martins investigates his friend's death. Between the discovery of the existence of a "third man" and the revelation of who that third man is, almost nothing happens; there's some wriggling about Anna's forged passport, but nothing of substance. The film, the audience, and Martins all meander through Vienna trying to figure out where the narrative thread has gone.

But I think my principal problem with the film is the fact that Welles is reduced to a near cameo. The cover of the DVD jacket, and the predominant image in cultural memory, is that of Welles half-turned in a shadowy doorway, poised to enter the film. But the real tragedy is that Welles is criminally underused here, appearing in only two scenes of significance (three if you count his wordless introductory shot). I suppose it'd be like watching an episode of 24 because you heard there was a president on the show; naturally, this character appears, but the star of the visual drama is someone else entirely. For that reason, I feel a little guilty saying I wasn't a big fan of The Third Man, because I watched it with a very heavy anticipation of what the film would be. Consequently, my disappointment is more with my expectations than with the film itself. I'm certain this merits a second viewing, but just give me a little time first.

More my problem than the film's, The Third Man was finely made but just not "to my liking" - at least, not in the moment that I watched it.
The MPAA only "Approved" The Third Man, but today it'd probably land a PG "for thematic elements and smoking."

I'd really like to see this movie remade, certainly without the zither score; put Hans Zimmer or somebody on it to really bring out the suspense of the shadowed Viennese streets. As for cast: Robert Downey, Jr. as Holly Martins, Casino Royale's Eva Green as Anna, and George Clooney as Harry Lime - with the caveat that we not advertise Clooney's presence in the film, to heighten the intrigue in the film as Martins pursues him through Vienna (a la Kevin Spacey's uncredited appearance in Se7en). Christopher Nolan could do a fine job directing.

Mutiny on the Bounty (1935)

I'm a sucker for old movies; I think they were just made better back in the day. I'm a sucker for Clark Gable; I think he's a leading man in a way that today's top stars could never be. And I'm a sucker for a compelling villain; done rightly, an antagonist can steal a movie, as Charles Laughton does here.

I always feel a little silly writing positive reviews for movies long considered classics but which I'm only just now getting around to reviewing, and I always feel a lot silly writing up a recap. But a formula is a formula, and far be it from me to break tradition. Mutiny on the Bounty stars Charles Laughton as the sadistic Captain Bligh and Clark Gable as Fletcher Christian, the high-ranking crewman who opposes him. The Bounty is on a trading mission to Tahiti, whose sensual pleasures contrast starkly with the disciplinarian life aboard ship. It's not spoiling anything to say that mutiny ensues.

What always strikes me about old movies is how peppered with personality they are. The actors seem larger than life, and consequently so do their characters. Gable and Laughton loom like monuments over the picture, but in such a way that their presence is not distracting. It's the difference between George Clooney in Burn After Reading and George Clooney in Ocean's 11; in the latter, there's no question that George Clooney is playing himself and resting on his star power, but in the former it becomes apparent just why George Clooney is George Clooney, since he stands out while turning in a solid performance. Though Gable is a far cry from being British - indeed, I should probably be lauding him for not even trying - his Fletcher Christian is compelling nonetheless and makes for an upstanding pillar of morality. Laughton, then, is his perfect opposite number, the Joker to Gable's Batman, the Kantian force of cruelty and order dynamically opposed to the liberty-centric philosophy espoused by both Christian and J.S. Mill. Laughton is slightly hammy in that way that almost all villains of the 1930s were, but it's a plausible kind of hammy in a way that sets a precedent for both the character and the nature of antagonism in general.

At times the contrast between the two is a little overdrawn, again in a way that was common to the 1930s. As such, I can't hold a lack of subtlety against the film, particularly when the film is so good at the moments when it's not being entirely transparent. The acting dynamic between Gable and Laughton is slightly more subtle in a way that the visual language of the film is not; in a way, then, the relationship between the two of them is more palatable (particularly for modern viewers, who love a good bit of nuance) than the visual contrast between the worlds of the Bounty and Tahiti. Though I've not read the book on which the film is based, I imagine this is a matter for which credit belongs to the writers and the actors.

But director Frank Lloyd deserves a fair bit of credit for the film's success. One feature in particular that drew my attention was the film's astounding navigation (no pun intended) of chronology. A two-year voyage occurs overe the span of about an hour, but at no point is the narration confusing or in any way unclear. Deft use of fade-outs and montages make clear the prevailing attitudes aboard the ship in an easy-to-follow manner. The scenes aboard the boat, most filmed from just off-deck, are artful and elegant, making me wonder if Gore Verbinski had a peek at Mutiny on the Bounty before crafting his Pirates of the Caribbean trilogy.

In short, Mutiny on the Bounty just isn't a movie to rebel against.
Mutiny on the Bounty wasn't rated back in its day, but today it'd probably score a PG "for thematic elements and depictions of flogging."

In a Lonely Place (1950)

I love Humphrey Bogart, and I "get" deconstructionism, but In a Lonely Place proves that the two just don't belong together.

Director Nicholas Ray helms this self-conscious, self-reflective look at Hollywood during a changing of the guard - the younger generation is starting to take over, much to the chagrin of aging screenwriter Dixon Steele (Bogart). Looking for a hit to revitalize his careeer, Dixon finds himself adapting a dud of a novel while romancing the girl next door (Gloria Grahame) and dodging a rep as the prime suspect in the murder of a hatcheck girl who went home with him. That's the film in a nutshell, but factor in the defining character trait for Dixon - a temper a short as the mayor of Munchkin City.

In many ways, In a Lonely Place could be described as a cross between The Big Sleep and Barton Fink. There's the same MacGuffin of a mystery with the character-driven focus on a Hollywood screenwriter. The difference is that both films in comparison were intentionally purposeless, with the ambiguity and off-kilter nature as a functioning element of the work, not as a distraction. In a Lonely Place begins as a murder mystery, becomes a romantic dramedy in the middle, and concludes as a dystopic dissection of the relationship between Bogart and Grahame, but it does so unevenly, with the audience just settling into the idea of the film as A before the film becomes B. As such, it's difficult to get a bead on the movie.

Bogart's performance is grade-A, as always. Though the plot meanders, there's something compelling about Bogart's performance; the switch from hard-boiled noir to simmering violent passion is a little more palatable in the deft hands of an actor of Bogart's impeccable credentials. Grahame isn't bad, but it's fairly obvious (and subsequently disappointing) she's subbing for Lauren Bacall, who I think is fabulous - especially when paired with Bogart. The rest of the supporting cast float in and out without any real significance; indeed, the roles could have been played by anyone.

What's most problematic about the film is its script. Chekhov has that wonderful line about guns in plays - if it's on the wall in the first act, it has to fire by the time the final act is concluded. In a Lonely Place never actually fires a lot of guns that it hangs on the wall. For example, the murdered girl cries "Help! Help!" several times in Dixon's apartment before she leaves for the evening; though Dixon expresses worry that she'll be heard by the neighbors - particularly because we know at least one is spying on him - no mention is made of this vital clue that might convict Dixon in the eyes of the police. Later, an unseen character is described as a UCLA student; when newspaper headlines carry a story about a young man from UCLA being beaten by one of the principal characters, one would expect these two story threads to intermingle, but no soap. Consequently, larger plot threads get dropped prematurely; the murder mystery all but disappears until a confession that comes in the final minutes of the film, problematizing the viewer's relationship to this A-to-B-to-C flick.

I'd hardly give In a Lonely Place an A. Bogart's performance is top-grade as always, particularly if you like to see him playing against type. Me, I prefer him as his type; there's a reason that "the Bogart character" has become archetypal, and deconstructing that archetype seems like a blatant exercise in intellectualism. The social critique of the changing tenor in Hollywood is intriguing and merits further study, but I'm not sure that Bogart needed to be anatomized the way that he is in this film. He does a good job, but ultimately it's not his strongest work.

The MPAA weren't handing out letter grades in 1950, but by today's standards In a Lonely Place would probably rank a PG for mild violence and moderate thematic content.

Sorry, Wrong Number (1948)

I think that Sorry, Wrong Number and I had a bad connection - not that I was ever tempted to hang up.

Director Anatole Litvak adapts Lucille Fletcher's classic radio drama into a 90-minute thriller starring Barbara Stanwyck as the bedridden Leona Stevenson-Cotterell, who overhears a telephone conversation in which two mysterious men plot the murder of an innocent woman. The premise seems simple, but in true film noir tradition there is more than meets the eye when it comes to the secrets that Leona and her mysteriously absent husband (Burt Lancaster) are keeping. Through a series of phone calls (and flashbacks), the awful truth comes out.

I'll freely admit that I hadn't heard the radio play before watching this movie. (Prep work isn't exactly my forte when it comes to this site, loyal reader.) So I was coming into this one fresh, ready for a film noir twist but also prepared to play along until the ending happened. This isn't the best noir out there - I'm a devout fan of The Big Sleep, mystifying though much of it is - but Litvak does an adequate job of keeping the movie going while not losing sight of the urgency of the murder to be committed at 11:15. It's not much of a mystery, true, but the why is more important (and more surprising) than the who and what.

Stanwyck and Lancaster are serviceable in their roles as the not-so-happily married couple, though at times Stanwyck borders on overacting (though she does a fine job of creating a simultaneously sympathetic and loathsome heiress) while Lancaster underplays what should be a more devastated part. As items submitted from the 1940s, though, and from a genre that highly prizes stylization, this is to be expected and so does not detract from the overall enjoyment of the picture.

What does, sadly, hurt Sorry, Wrong Number is that it is a touch too long. Some of the flashback scenes overstay their welcome, unnecessarily belaboring a few points (such as the courtship or the chemist's dream of owning horses). Perhaps this is the fault of the script, adapted from a nonvisual medium, or perhaps this is the fault of Litvak, who fails to yell "Cut!" when scenes run overlong. In the hands of, say, Hitchcock, this one might have been a ballpark favorite (I'll have to have a look at Dial M for Murder now to see what Hitch does with a similar premise), but as it stands, a few lines get crossed with Sorry, Wrong Number.

That said, if you can make it through a moderately drawn-out initial 70 minutes, the last 20 minutes - in which the reality behind the overheard phone call is revealed and its staggering consequences play out in brutal real time - are solid gold. In top film noir tradition, the film's final reel makes brilliant use of shadows, shouting, and snappy cuts to build a white-knuckle tension and a staggering climax we all saw coming but hoped wasn't so. That's the genius, I suppose, of the film - like The Taking of Pelham 123, Sorry, Wrong Number did a bang-up job of convincing me how it wouldn't end... and then ended just like it was supposed to. I wouldn't have had it any other way.

It's like a great dessert after an okay main course.

Sorry, Wrong Number made it to theaters before the MPAA carved out their ratings stamps, but this is definitely PG fare. As a 40s flick, this one is fairly innocuous, without any on-screen violence - the tension and the action is all in your head.

After the Thin Man (1936)

I can only think of a few sequels that were better than the original - The Empire Strikes Back, Indiana Jones and the Last Crusade, Goldfinger, High School Musical 2 (joking, of course - the first was better). Now we ought to add W.S. Van Dyke's sequel to The Thin Man - the appropriately titled After the Thin Man - to that list.

Is this the first sequel in film history? Mmm, probably not - Bride of Frankenstein predates this one by a year. But the degree to which this movie improves on the original is something for which modern-day sequels could learn a thing or two; pay attention, Joel Schumacher, because your Batman movies were the lousiest sequels this side of Caddyshack II.

Capitalizing on the popularity of Nick & Nora Charles (William Powell and Myrna Loy), After the Thin Man takes the focus off the mystery and shines a spotlight squarely on the never-inebriated Charles detectives. Upon being invited to a dinner party, the Charleses learn that Nora's cousin's husband has gone missing. Though he's found easily enough, a murder mystery quickly develops with a shady cast of suspects through which Nick has to wade at his wife's insistence - despite their promise to leave sleuthing behind.

While I said I laughed the whole way through Planet Terror, it's a different kind of laughter that permeated my experience with this movie. The dialogue is smart and witty, effortlessly funny, and fueled by engrossing performances. Based on a story by Dashiell Hammett, After the Thin Man realizes that the magic of the first movie wasn't in the nail-biting mystery surrounding Clyde Wynant, but it was the interplay between Powell and Loy, which is successfully amped up here. This is a formula that Blake Edwards would repeat with A Shot in the Dark, realizing that the key to The Pink Panther's success rested not with David Niven's suave jewel thief but with Peter Sellers's hysterically bumbling turn as Jacques Clouseau.

The supporting cast is great, too. James Stewart is the stand-out name of the back-up cast, since he went on to a much larger career than most anyone in the movie, but the movie is populated with character actors and incredibly slippery suspects. Asta the terrier gets a pretty solid role, too; I don't want to spoil his subplot, but let's just say I'm surprised the filmmakers got away with this joke in 1936. *wink wink*

But the stars are unquestionably Powell and Loy, whose chemistry is something that today's supercouples can only envy - sorry, Brangelina. You can tell these two really love each other - even though Nick has Nora put into lock-up after he doesn't acknowledge her as his wife. The banter between the two of these is delightful, snappier than most of the dialogue in Juno, and the film's last line - "And you call yourself a detective!" - is the cleverest set-up for a sequel since "Luke, I am your father!"

Boom Town (1940)

There Will Be Blood - Lite is perhaps the best way I can think to describe Jack Conway's oil tycoon epic Boom Town. Certainly less taxing on the senses, Boom Town is something that P.T. Anderson's oil epic isn't - intentionally funny.

Boom Town is the story of two Johns - "Big John" McMasters (Clark Gable) and "Square John" {"Shorty" for short} Sand (Spencer Tracy) - with Claudette Colbert as Betsy, the woman they both love. Big John and Shorty are wildcatters, oilmen prospecting in sketchy territory. When Shorty's girl comes out west to see her beau, she ends up marrying McMasters. The grudge Shorty bears eventually kills the partnership, but the ill will doesn't stop there. It all builds up to an anti-trust federal case... and a surprise exercise in making things right.

Now, any movie with these three stars - and Hedy Lamarr thrown in for good measure as one of the oil men's lovers (I won't reveal whose) - can't be all bad. And it's true: Boom Town isn't all bad. The Gable/Tracy chemistry (for lack of a better word) is stellar, with Tracy as the perfect straight man to Gable's jovial amigo-to-all. Ditto for the Gable/Colbert chemistry, which panned out so well in Capra's 1934 It Happened One Night, the screwball comedy/road picture to end all others.

The special effects are, for the time, enthralling, but there's never a moment where we really believe Gable and Tracy are approaching a burning oil derrick - something I suspected Daniel Day-Lewis really did in TWBB. But you don't come to this movie for stellar special effects; it's the acting firestorms you'd be looking for, and the movie delivers. Unfortunately, though, the film builds to a climax that comes too early, in a fistfight that precedes the court battle. Maybe it's the jaded filmgoer in me, but I was expecting a tragic Wuthering Heights-esque ending to the Big John/Shorty partnership, but the movie outdoes Ian McEwan in terms of atonement here and ultimately disappointed me, the guy looking for an unhappy ending.

Ah, the simpler times, when buddies were buddies no matter what. Kind of makes me nostalgic. Kind of makes me want to go build an oil derrick. Who's with me?

The Thin Man (1934)

They just don't make them like The Thin Man nowadays...

In adapting Dashiell Hammett's last novel, director W.S. Van Dyke found the perfect screen pair in William Powell and Myrna Loy - heck, toss in Asta the terrier while you're at it. As Nick and Nora Charles, Powell and Loy are delightful, bearing on-screen chemistry of which most other pairs only dream. Though I haven't yet seen any of the five sequels to this movie, I'm sure I'll check them out, if only for the positively adorable pairing of Nick & Nora.

There's a mystery here somewhere about the disappearance of Clyde Wynant, the eponymous "Thin Man," but the real star is the joke-for-joke and drink-for-drink marriage of Nick and Nora Charles, wealthy socialites who can hold their liquor and banter like no other in town. Though everyone assumes Nick is on the Wynant case, Nick would much rather drink martinis and walk Asta than solve murders. Of course, once he gets on the case, it's open-and-shut.

As a mystery movie, The Thin Man isn't anything special, but at least it's easier to understand than The Big Sleep, the notoriously puzzling Bogart mystery noir by Raymond Chandler. As I said, though, the mystery isn't the star attraction, and once the killer is revealed there's no further discussion of the crime. It seems that there are two films going on at once - the plotline of Wynant's disappearance and the screwball comedy between the Charleses. The second is infinitely more interesting, without a scene elapsing without at least one belly laugh.

Of course, it says something that, no matter the irrelevance of the mystery to the overall enjoyability of the movie (similar to the Charlie Chan movie series, of which the Sidney Toler films come more highly recommended from yours truly), I'm watching this movie almost 75 years after its debut - and enjoying it.

Now I sure don't think alcoholism is funny, but Nick & Nora aren't alcoholics. They must have a wooden leg or something, especially Nick, whose ability to outdrink his wife predates the drinking contest episode of Arrested Development by about 70 years. I can't remember how much of the snappy dialogue is preserved from the original novel, but screenwriters Albert Hackett and Frances Goodrich have done a great job of crafting witty repartee.

Powell is delightfully suave as Nick Charles, the detective-by-insistence, and Loy is positively adorable as his wife Nora, whose love for her husband is as distinct as the two twin beds they sleep in. Please, God, don't let anyone try to remake this movie. Even as I write this, some Hollywood bonehead is working on a remake of The Day the Earth Stood Still with (ugh) Keanu Reeves replacing Michael Rennie.

So, George Clooney, keep your hands off The Thin Man. Because I know people will mention your name. Just don't do it. Leave perfection well enough alone.

High School Musical (2006)

When director Kenny Ortega and crew decided to open High School Musical with a song entitled "Start of Something New," I don't think they knew how prophetic their words would be.

High School Musical is at the center of a Disney hypestorm the likes of which only Jack Sparrow has rivaled. And with the third installment in the widely popular series due out in October (and this being one of the films that I remember well enough to not have to re-view it before reviewing it), it seems an opportune moment to take a critical look at the Wildcat phenomenon. [For reasons of space, fluidity, and focus, I'll only examine the first film for now and take up the second one later. When I see the third film, Senior Year, I'll let you know what I think.]

I've argued that High School Musical (HSM for short) is basically a Disney-fied retread of Shakespeare's great tragedy Romeo and Juliet, so let me briefly explicate that one for anybody who hasn't heard my argument already. [The following is an excerpt from a critical writing of mine which examined the ways in which teen comedies modernize Shakespeare. The other two films under consideration, 10 Things I Hate About You and She's the Man, will probably be reviewed here later.]

Of the three, then, High School Musical is the most difficult to establish a line to Shakespeare. High School Musical is “loosely based on William Shakespeare's Romeo and Juliet and featuring a high school jock and a science nerd as star-cross'd lovers” (from the Sunday Territorian's 2/18/07 article “Tweens love School”). Specifically, High School Musical turns the basketball (and its star player Troy) and scholastic decathlon (and its star, Gabriella) teams into Montagues and Capulets, “[t]wo households, both alike in dignity,” attempting to prevent the “star-crossed lovers” from joining in the winter musicale (from Romeo and Juliet, 1.1.1, 6). Unlike the other two films under consideration, High School Musical dramatically alters the ending of its source material, by replacing Shakespeare’s double-suicide ending with a peppy song-and-dance number, “We’re All in This Together” (HSM). Where Shakespeare cautions about the problems inherent in bad blood, High School Musical offers a view of all the positives to be gleaned from working together to accomplish one goal. That Disney’s High School Musical soft-soaps Shakespeare’s original ending is no surprise; after all, this same studio, as Tony Howard notes, commercialized “Hamlet into The Lion King and politically corrected The Tempest in Pocahontas” (Howard 318, from Howard's “Shakespeare’s cinematic offshoots,” published in The Cambridge Companion to Shakespeare on Film, with editor Russell Jackson. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2007).

Longest paragraph on this blog? Probably. Most scholarly/erudite? Definitely. Most well thought-out? Certainly.

By way of further plot summary, hunky basketball star Troy (Zac Efron, for whom we have this movie to thank) and geeky but still attractive brain child Gabriella (Vanessa Hudgens, a lass I have to commend for her scandal-rebound) meet by chance on Christmas vacation and sing a duet together. When it turns out that Gabriella and Troy go to the same high school, they decide to audition for the "winter musicale," Twinkle Towne. They land a callback - much to the chagrin of resident diva Sharpay (the laudable Ashley Tisdale) and her twin brother Ryan (Lucas Grabeel, who gets his chance to shine in the sequel). Singing, dancing, and - believe it or not - sabotage ensue as the school conspires to keep Troy and Gabriella from being together.

It's pretty much no secret that I'm a fan of this movie, but I didn't start this way. It took about three viewings before it grew on me. The first time I saw it, I watched it to find out what all the hubbub was about but gave up before the third song - a pity, since that's now one of my favorites - saying, "This is stupid. A bunch of kids running around singing. Lame, Disney, lame." The second time, I watched it with my grandmother as a sort of joke, mock singing a few of the songs afterwards.

Something happened in between the second and third viewing - perhaps the trip to Disney World, where I'm convinced there's something in the water - that the movie began to grow on me. It's infectiously fun, with catchy tunes and endearing characters. It's no secret why the under-20 crowd are getting hooked on HSM, but I think it's just as much fun for the over-20s as well. Heck, I'm over 20, and I still enjoy putting this movie in or catching it on cable. And I'd be lying if I said that these actors aren't any good in other roles (see Hairspray to watch Efron really blossom, or... well, that's about it for anyone else.)

The film hits a few sour notes which impede my viewing, but perhaps these are just my hang-ups. 1) I've studied this film in perhaps too much depth, so it's a challenge to enjoy it without overanalyzing it. 2) Efron doesn't do his own singing (Drew Seeley, a more trained vocalist, fills in), and it's a noticeable difference that I'm glad the sequel rectified. 3) The "villains" of the piece, the Evans twins, are in my mind more likeable than our protagonists. Their songs are catchier, their scenes are funnier, and for my money they're just prettier people. Shallow? Perhaps.

That being said, I don't want to be too positive at the risk of sounding like a starstruck tweeny-bopper. Oh, what the heck. The Mouse knows how to make a good movie. I credit the one-two punch of Jack Sparrow/Zac Efron (with a lot of Hannah Montana thrown in for good measure and great money) with saving Disney from a lackluster stock report, but there's something to be said for the good clean family fun that all three provide.

Before this review gets too much longer, I should point out that this is by no stretch of the imagination a perfect movie or even a great movie on the par of The Departed (also from 2006) or Casablanca. It is, however, a lot of fun and a great way to just let go for 90 minutes.

Just don't be surprised if you continue to "Bop to the Top" (by far the catchiest tune in the whole show) long after you've seen the movie.

North by Northwest (1959)

I've always said that my favorite film from Master of Suspense Alfred Hitchcock was his voyeurism drama Rear Window (1954). Then I graduated to loving Shadow of a Doubt (1943), doubtless because I was a budding Joseph Cotten fan at the time. This spring I had the opportunity to re-view Hitch's 1960 masterpiece Psycho and declared it my favorite.

Now that I've had the pleasure of finally seeing the master chase film North by Northwest, I'm reconsidering my list. I'm contemplating throwing it out altogether due to the sheer impossibility of choosing a favorite from among these. And I haven't seen enough Hitch, I know, to fairly assess the entire canon. More gems, I'm sure, await me.

As Madison Avenue exec Roger Thornhill, Cary Grant finds himself enmeshed in a world of espionage, all thanks to a case of mistaken identity. Superspy Vandamm (James Mason, whose voice I now realize Eddie Izzard has perfected in his imitative routines) confuses Thornhill for CIA operative George Kaplan, and the chase is on: Thornhill is off to find the real Kaplan with the help of femme fatale Eve Kendall (the radiant Eva Marie Saint), while Vandamm wants to stop Thornhill/Kaplan from thwarting the dastardly smuggling of secrets.

In some ways, this is, as screenwriter Ernest Lehman remarked, "the Hitchcock picture to end all Hitchcock pictures." It's a sweeping epic across America, unlike anything Hitch had done before. The suspense is non pareil, the score by Bernard Herrmann thoroughly rousing, and the direction extraordinarily gifted. This was Cary Grant's last film with Hitchcock, and the two - as if knowing this was their final collaboration - have thrown everything into the movie.

The brilliance of the film lies in the film's ability to thrust us directly into Thornhill's shoes. Like the hapless ad exec, we have no idea who George Kaplan is, and we have even less idea what he has to do with the whole story. As Thornhill pieces together the stray tidbits of information he gets, so do we. However, very early on, we learn something that Thornhill doesn't: George Kaplan isn't real. This is the ultimate MacGuffin, Hitchcock's favorite film device - the plot element that drives the story and characters forward but is ultimately inconsequential (think the $40,000 in Psycho or the eponymous Maltese Falcon from 1941). The characters are ultimately chasing a ghost, yet it's not the ghost that holds the weight of the story. It's how firmly characters believe in the ghost that truly matters.

I tend to be a more passive filmgoer than most; that is to say, it's very seldom that a movie gets me physically riled up. Of course, emotions run high when I'm watching a movie, and I'm not embarassed to say that film has made me cry as many times as it's made me laugh. Yet by the end of North by Northwest and its (in)famous grapple atop Mount Rushmore, my heart was racing. Take that, Jack Bauer - this is the ultimate spy story.

So much literature has been exhausted in lauding Hitchcock for his masterful direction, yet I must beg permission for a few more words of praise. The direction here is perfect, never allowing the viewer to forget important plot elements such as the pistol loaded with blanks. And of course, for sheer potent sexual suggestion, nothing beats the film's closing shot of a train driving into a tunnel. It says a lot that no one's beaten this imagery, the strongest in subtle erotic imagery since the dual cigarettes in 1942's Now, Voyager.

If it's a no-holds-barred thrill ride you're after, I can't think of a better one than North by Northwest. Coming before James Bond, Jason Bourne, and all those other similarly-initialed superspies, I can't help but feel that this was a pioneer film from which a lot of espionage dramas have taken their cues. You'll be surprised at how familiar the film seems, yet you'll be dazzled by how immersive the experience is.

Just keep an eye on the MacGuffin.

Duck Soup (1933)

(NOTE: I wrote this three years ago for another project I was working on... it didn't pan out, but it seems appropriate that this review finally see the light of day. The style is a lot different from the stuff I'll be doing here, and maybe I'll re-review Duck Soup down the road, but for now let this suffice.)

“What is it got big black-a moustache, smokes a big black cigar, and is a big pain in the neck?” Chicolini asks of Rufus T. Firefly in what is widely regarded to be the best of the Brothers: 1933’s Duck Soup. The answer, of course, is the grease-paint-mustachioed Firefly. But that doesn’t stop Firefly from giving Chicolini the cushy job of Secretary of War. It’s just one of the many hilarious scenes in this timeless classic.

The film opens with Margaret Dumont’s Mrs. Gloria Teasdale offering to loan the impoverished Freedonia $20 million on one condition—that revolutionary Rufus T. Firefly (Groucho Marx) become the new head of state. Instantly, the audience knows that the country’s in trouble, based upon the reaction of all present. Mrs. Teasdale insists on Firefly (I’ve yet to discover just why Dumont is always enraptured with Groucho’s character—perhaps that’s what helps their on-screen “chemistry” along its way), and the coronation begins.

Bob Roland (Zeppo Marx) sings about Firefly’s timeliness—and of course Firefly’s late to his own reception. When he finally does arrive, Firefly reveals himself as a fast-talking, insulting person who constantly bounces gags and one-liners off of Mrs. Teasdale. Meanwhile, Sylvanian spies Chicolini (Chico Marx) and Pinky (Harpo Marx) are hired by Ambassador Trentino (Louis Calhern) to undermine Firefly.

However, after a few hilariously memorable bits (the mirror gag and the lemonade stand—“Peanuts… to you!”), Firefly declares war on Sylvania; after all, Trentino called him an “upstart.” If there’s one thing a Firefly isn’t, it’s an upstart. After a few cancellations of the war, the battle’s finally on, and the whole nation erupts in a chorus of “To war, to war, to war we’re going to go!” In the end, Trentino is captured, and Freedonia is preserved—at least, until Firefly gets into another spot of trouble—which, if I know the Fireflys, won’t be too far away.

The movie is widely regarded to be the best Marx Brothers movie, and it’s for good reason that it earns this meritorious title. As with any Marx movie, Groucho speaks a mile a minute, and you’ve really got to pay attention, especially when he’s bouncing jokes off of Margaret Dumont. Chico’s also in top form, with his description of what happened on “Shadowday” while following Firefly. Harpo, too, is excellent; listen carefully as he carries on a telephone conversation using only his facial expression and the horns on his belt (“Waa? Woh woh. Eh? Wa wa wa wa wa. Waw waw!”). Zeppo, who never had a large part in any Marx movie, goes out with a bang in this picture; Duck Soup was his last movie, and he decided to act behind the scenes from 1933 on.

The mirror bit, repeated on an episode of I Love Lucy, is absolutely unforgettable. Pinky, while spying on Firefly in Mrs. Teasdale’s manor, accidentally breaks a ceiling-to-floor mirror. (Oh, I forgot to mention; both he and Chicolini are disguised as Firefly in an attempt to get Freedonia’s battle plans for Sylvania.) When Firefly comes down to investigate the ruckus, Pinky’s only option is to follow Firefly’s every move, making the leader of Freedonia believe he’s really looking at his reflection and not a spy. What follows is comic genius; at one point, the two circle each other and even pick up the other’s hat. When Chicolini breaks up the party by walking in, he’s put on trial for treason. The trial scene is heavier on scripted comedy (“Chicolini here may talk like an idiot and look like an idiot, but don’t let that fool you; he really is an idiot.”), but it’s no less humorous.

In my opinion, this one ranks with Animal Crackers and A Night at the Opera as Marx gold. All the brothers (and Mrs. Dumont, who’s often called the fifth Brother) are first-rate, and it’s a laugh riot that no one should miss. As for the film’s title, Groucho offered the following: "Take two turkeys, one goose, four cabbages, but no duck, and mix them together. After one taste, you'll duck soup for the rest of your life.”