82. Dogs is Dogs (Our Gang, 1931)

“Wheezer” Hutchins, the scene-stealing star of Our Gang’s “Dogs is Dogs”

by Sam Juliano

If a film professor in a college class entitled “Introduction to the Cinema” posed a question to his or her charges along the lines of “Give a comprehensive definition of screen comedy” one of a number of those in the know might play the game of sub-genre, coming up with a multitude of such illustrious phrases as “satire,” “screwball,” “slapstick,” “spoof or parody,” “comedy of manners,” “romantic comedy,” “black comedy.” or “gross out comedy.”  More than any other single genre, the comedy is most often prone to overlap, and few films throughout the hundred-year run of the cinema are completely devoid of comic relief.  The Our Gang comedy shorts that ran from 1922 to the mid 40′s fall into none of the aforementioned categories, yet by practically all baromters of measurement they have been enjoyed and appreciated as films that brought extensive laughter and a respite from Depression and war era hardships.  The term ‘humanist comedy’ may not be automatically recognizable to either the student or the layman, in fact it’s esentially the domain of the character-driven series that ingeniously, but with seemingly little effort, combined laughter and tears to enhance each element with a life-affirming focus on the laudable concept of humor curing all ills.  The Our Gang comedies were noted for their pathos, broken families, economic deprivation and gloomy prospects for advancement.  The humor, often of a precocious, mischievious variety was invariably imbued with an aching quality that managed to envision the  conviction that “I laughed so hard that I cried.”  To be sure there is a fair dose of sentiment in this equation which is more prevalent in some of the shorts than others, but it’s applied in a manner that generates endearment instead of saccharine overload.  The Our Gang kids are naturals who through their resilience and street-wise ingenuity are often able to eclipse their elders in overcoming some of the social ills and impovishment that maligned the population in the years the shorts were made. 

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98. The Kid From Borneo (Our Gang; 1933)

by Sam Juliano

From the early 20′s to the mid 40′s  a total of 221 Our Gang comedies were made.  This represents the largest number of films in an American series ever produced, and over decades they have continued to resonate with the television and home video patrons, who have connected with Our Gang’s universality, ragmuffin characters, and economic hardships all negotiated with a deep sense of humanity, aching pathos and uproarious humor.  The Our Gang comedies, launched during the silent era,  showcased kids on both sides of the class divide who brought wit, tenacity and world wise perceptions to all sorts of domestic situations from friendship, school crushes, and business enterprises to the grim realities of Depression era squalor that necessitated going into survival mode.  It was a time when kids outwitted adults, and served as a kind of Greek Chorus for all the ills and faults that characterized people during times of desperation and deprivation.  But it was also a carefree time of childhood comeraderie  engineered during a time when people needed each other and relied on teamwork to get by at a time during rough times.  Our Gang treated boys and girls, black and white and rich and poor as equals at a time when discrimination against African-Americans and females was commonplace, combining all into a trenchant study of class interaction, tempered with an ironic commentary on the kind of behavior that will emanate from domestic upbringings.  Series creator Hal Roach and his main director Robert McGowan opted to show children in a natural way, sending out talent scouts to find candidates for roles, encouraging improvisational approaches to the material.  A revolving door approach at M-G-M studios necessitated the replacement of kids of kids who had grown too old with others generally found in the Los Angeles area.  

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Wyler’s ‘Ben-Hur’ a triumph of the human spirit

by Sam Juliano

Note:  This essay on the 1959 ‘Ben-Hur’ is Wonders in the Dark’s contribution to Richard R.D. Finch’s William Wyler blogothon, a venture that launched on Sunday, June 24th at ‘The Movie Projector.’

William Wyler’s Ben-Hur is one of those artistic properties that resists and defies criticism, even those among its detractors will argue till the end of time that is encompasses all that is wrong with epic movie making. The second film based on a potboiler novel released at the turn of the twentieth century by a Civil War commander named General Lew Wallace that sold a then-record 400,000 copies and inspired a stage play that ran for twenty years, Ben-Hur never tried to hide its philosophy that ‘big is better’ and it has more dramatic climaxes than any film in history. Yet what often gets lost in the translation is that it is the most intimate big-budget epic spectacular in movie history, and one that impressed critics as much as audiences upon it’s 1959 release. Naming the film the year’s best the prestigious New York Film Critics Circle, normally committed to smaller and independent films, displayed rare agreement with the Oscars, who honored the film with a record-breaking total of eleven Academy Awards, a feat that has since been equaled twice. With critics and award givers on board, it is little wonder that the film has retained audience popularity for nearly six decades, and in a career of cinematic milestones of every capacity it makes a strong case as the crowning achievement in William Wyler’s storied career.

Such prohibitive success will of course doom any film with the elitist movie intelligentsia, who often equate wide popularity with pedestrian artistry, and are naturally predisposed against the movie epic as a form lacking artistic discipline, and one prone to excesses of every kind.  These observers might also make claim that Wyler forfeited his particular style and personal trademark by holding the reigns on a film by it’s very substance plays to audience emotion and religious fervor in a big way.  The great Italian opera composer Giacomo Puccini was savaged by the critics of his day for wearing his emotions on his sleeves and for pandering to his audience’s insatiable appetite for unadulterated melody and uncomplicated story lines. There are a number of critics today who have steadfastly stood by that unflattering estimation. Yet audiences then and now have shouted down the criticism and have unfailingly filled opera houses year in and year out with the composer’s beloved works, much in the same way that Ben-Hur has ravished audiences for 53 years, by way of theatre revivals, holiday broadcasts on television and the endless releases on video formats since Beta and VHS made their mark in the early 80′s.  The one element or factor that can be found in both the operas of Puccini and William Wyler’s epic is naked emotion. When audiences are moved to this kind of  life-affirming depth, attempts at summary criticism can rightfully be seen as “beside-the-point” in view of the work’s astonishing power to move and enthrall.  Worldwide fans of the film have attested to seeing the film hundreds of times through the years, despite it’s exorbitant length, and have identified it’s famed set pieces as among the most spectacular ever filmed.

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CD Score Review: Krzysztof Komeda’s ‘Rosemary’s Baby’ on La La Land Records

by Sam Juliano

When a freak accident claimed the life of Polish composer and jazz pianist Krzysztof Komeda at the age of 38 in 1969, the film community lost an invaluable talent at the peak of his artistic powers and a young man was cut short well before his time.  Indeed, director Roman Polanski, in the liner notes to a 1997 Komeda tribute album wrote: “Krzysztof Komeda was not only a valued professional collaborator but a close and dear friend, and it is my abiding regret that his untimely death robbed me of him in both those capacities.”  Komeda developed a personal style that brought the jazz form a new prominence in a communist country that frowned on what was seen as an American creation.  Komeda expanded the jazz parameters by injected a generous dose of ‘slavic lyricism’ and poetic atmosphere that eventually gained the young composer a following in his native country and abroad.  One of Komeda’s most enthusiastic fans was none other than Polanski himself, who courted the fellow Pole to score his first film, Knife in the Water, after engaging the composer on his student film, after many months of attending him on the nightclub circuit.  By that time the composer had received a few other offers (which he accepted) and he came through for Polanski with a low-key jazz score to serve as a counterpoint to the mounting tensions in Knife, employing saxophone and a string-bass driven sound.  The mournful romanticism of the main theme is what most remember most compellingly from the score, but the music throughout is exceptionally applied.  Polanski again called on Komeda for his 1963 Cul-de-Sac, allowing the composer to again write a nifty  jazzy composition, with a dominant use of the moog, bongo and warbling horns.  At around that time Komeda was also composing for the Danish director Henning Carlsen, contributing scores to Kattorna, People Meet and Sweet Music Fills the Heart and the director’s masterpiece, Salt (Hunger), for which a provocative chamber music design was written.  Komeda’s most famous album to this day remains his landmark jazz work “Astigmatic” (1965) which is noted for it’s extraordinarily sublime coordination of piano harmonies and rhythms.  Komeda also worked with Polish titan Andrzej Wajda, penning the score to Innocent Sorcerers, which exhibited the experimentation of form and dark tonalities typical of some of his earlier film music.

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Brigham Young University Film Music Archives: A Beacon for preservation

by Sam Juliano

This post is a contribution to the third annual For the Love of Film blogathon and fundraiser, which will be running from May 13-18. This year, hosts Marilyn Ferdinand, Farran Smith Nehme and Roderick Heath have dedicated the week to Alfred Hitchcock, whose early (non-directorial) work “The White Shadow” will be the beneficiary of any money earned during the event.  The film preservation theme of course is at the center of this cinematic lament.  We can certainly hope for  a miracle. Be sure to donate!]

Printed prominently on the CD artwork and in the elaborate booklets included in the “Brigham University Film Music Archive Collection” launched in 1995 and still running series of film music releases is this specification: All proceeds from this limited edition compact disc go towards the acquisition and preservation of film music elements.  The series now includes a relatively-scant 14 releases, each a miracle of production, in almost all instances produced from master tapes and manuscripts that were donated to the university, and are presently managed by the curator, James D’Arc, who has sereved as producer for each of the releases.  The published “mission statement” of the project reads:

The Film Music Archives (BYU/FMA) exists to acquire, preserve, catalog, and make 
available to scholars and other interested parties original motion picture music manuscripts and recordings that document the history of music composed and recorded for motion pictures.

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Top Ten Films of 2012 Tribeca Film Festival led by Canadian ‘War Witch’

Screen cap from 'War Witch', best film at Tribeca

by Sam Juliano

Tribeca 2012 is over, but for some the memories will be deep.  The nine day festival, originally founded by the actor Robert DeNiro and Jane Rosenthal, was created as a panacea for the tragedy brought upon downtown Manhattan after the twin towers fell.  At a time of emotional scars, the idea was to widen the cultural options for New Yorkers who desperately needed to re-focus.  Originally the Tribeca Film Festival was expected to absorb the overflow from the prestigious New York Film Festival, and serve more as a second-tier forum for new filmmakers to gain some much-needed public exposure for work that would be hard-pressed to gain theatrical release.  With the ultimate goal the revival of downtown Manhattan’s economy after the devastation wrought by the terror attacks, Tribeca has evolved into one of the world’s most respected annual film events, one that generates millions and serves as a springboard for up and coming talents in the film community.

The 2012 event, highlighted by screenings of Jaws on an outdoor screen after music and dancing, and the premiere of The Avengers, offered 89 narrative and documentary features and nine extensive collections of short films, most screened three or four times during the nine-day run of the event.  Some of these are screened on the festival’s final Sunday if they win awards from the Tribeca jury or the audiences.  Several sessions of ‘Tribeca Talks’  with distinguished artists and directors are worked into the schedule as well, and cover a wide range of subjects connected to the film industry.

Native New Yorkers, and visitors in for the festival quickly needed to negotiate the festival’s main venues, anchored by six screens in the Chelsea Cinemas on 23rd Street, a convenient, centrally-located multiplex in the heart of Chelsea.  The two screen SVA Theatre, also on 23rd Street, is barely a three minute walk from the Chelsea Cinemas.  The AMC Village East 7 on 3rd Avenue and the BMCC Tribeca PAC near the World Trade Center featured some of the festival’s more prestigious screenings, a good number of which were sold out.  One could successfully negotiate the daily screenings by understanding the subway system or by knowing where to park your car.  Otherwise, walking in the nice Spring weather was an attractive option for many.  As expected we took full advantage of our Saturday night kitchen, The Dish, which is just three blocks from the Chelsea Cinemas on 8th Avenue.  ’Lucky Burgers’ next door to the multiplex offered 10% off to Tribeca badge holders.

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‘The Great Santini’ a shattering family drama based on Pat Conroy novel

Robert Duvall and Michael O'Keefe deliver Oscar-nominated performances in Lewis John Carlino's moving drama from Pat Conroy's novel.

by Sam Juliano

This is a continuation of a long dormant  series that will examine films from the 1970′s and 1980′s that were either forgotten, undervalued or misunderstood at the time of their release, but now seen in a far better light by critics and/or audiences.

Originally shown on HBO under the title The Ace in early 1979, what was originally seen as a conventional television drama, eventually morphed into a big-screen release re-titled to conform with the novel that spawned it.  Indeed, Pat Conroy’s autobiographical The Great Santini was an acclaimed work that expanded on an eulogy given for his own father, one that bluntly asserted that “the children of fighter pilots tell different stories than other kids do.”  But unexpectedly, and with little initial fanfare, it gave celebrated actor Robert Duvall one of the best roles of his career, one that brought him an Academy Award nomination in the year that Robert DeNiro prevailed for Raging Bull.  Duvall’s electrifying macho turn as “Bull Meechum”, a  marine-training pilot, who works out of Beauford, South Carolina in 1962 is a wholly charismatic portrayal that play’s to the actor’s strengths.  Meechum’s war-time sensibility is hardly attuned to peace time domesticity, and with a ferocious rage he treats the members of his family as if they were recruits for an exacting even oppressive commando training.  Yet, he’s an inveterate drinker and practical joker, one who’s as adverse to protocol as he is for strict enforcement of rules in the dictatorial management of his household.  But Bull Meachum is no kin to  the inhuman characters portrayed by Lee Emery in Full Metal Jacket nor Mark Metcalf as cadet commander Doug Niedermeyer in Animal House.    He’s painted by Conroy and director Lewis John Carlino as a larger-than-life mountain of hubris and twisted priority, a flawed character whose inner sensitivity is hidden behind a facade of misguided self-assurance and inflated bravado, one who calls everyone “sports fan,” issues “direct orders” and fully expects to be addressed as “Sir” at all times.  He’s a slightly altered variation of Duvall’s own Lieutenant Colonel Bill Kilgore from Apocalypse Now.

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Briton Stephen Russell-Gebbett, creative writer par excellence

Header at Stephen Russell-Gebbett's 'Checking on my Sausages' blogsite

Note:  This is the twelfth entry in an ongoing series that honors creative bloggers who have really made a difference, raising the bar for quality and productivity on the cultural front.

by Sam Juliano

He’s no fan of Pixar animation. He has questioned the long-held adoration for Dreyer’s The Passion of Joan of Arc, and once wrote a scathing dismissal of Citizen Kane, saying the cinema landmark was actually a “bad” film. His placement of Sucker Punch as the best film of it’s year raised eyebrows, and his personal taste remains as autonomous and scrutinizing as any writer committed to culture ad the arts. Yet, one who approaches the often-infuriating prose of Briton Stephen Russell-Gebbett is in for a veritable lesson in how to approach art from a perspective long held as alienating. Russell-Gebbett’s spirited, opinionated and descriptive prose asks readers to think through long-protected views tainted by nostalgia and volumes of scholarly study by critics and historians that have served to maintain an acknowledged position by consensus building. Whether one ultimately agrees with Russell-Gebbett, one can never deny his compelling arguments and the confidence that enables him to demonstrate by the evidence that he’s far more than a contrarian looking for attention. His taste is rarely tempered by sentiment and the ‘emotional underpinning’ and he frankly admits “I have always thought that art appreciation can only really be subjective because nothing is not filtered through an individual person’s senses. A by-product of this is a feeling of freedom in not being squashed by the stamp of popular approval. Art is personal in the making and in the watching. Also, isn’t it so much better to share something with someone by saying “I love it” rather than just the abstract “it’s a great film”? “It’s a great film because I love it”.

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Epic and Operatic ‘War Horse’ one of Steven Spielberg’s Finest Hours

by Sam Juliano

The lush countryside settings recall the poetical works of William Wordsworth and the novels of Thomas Hardy, but the harrowing war scenes appear overseen by the spectre of Erich Maria Remarque.  Steven Spielberg, seemingly mindful of the epic grandeur of David Lean’s epics, -with Stanley Kubrick’s Barry Lyndon a possible visual inspiration for cinematographer Janusz Kaminski- has expanded the scope of Michael Morpego’s novel and the acclaimed Tony award-winning Broadway stage play imported from London with a ‘bigger is better’ philosophy that miraculously retains the emotional intimacy that made the work’s previous incaranations so unbearably poignant.  War Horse is a singular triumph even for a director who’s crossed the finish line ahead of his competitors more times than most.

In a plot design that recalls the central deceit in Anthony Mann’s Winchester ’73, the film follows the exploits of a horse named Joey, who is won in auction by an impoverished farmer, Ted Narracott for  an outlandish thirty guineas, even though the part-thoroughbred colt is useless as a plough horse.  Narracott, who in large measure was out to spite his landlord, who was eying the horse, immediately lands the scorn of his wife Rose, who sees only the folly in his gamut, but his son Albert has been smitten with the creature ever since it was born on a neighboring property. After Joey is eventually trained to plough and saves the farm from closure, Albert enjoys some moments of fleeting idylic bliss, (a honking goose provides some nice comic relief) until the reality of the First World War strips him of the animal he adores, and sets his mind on a quest of re-discovery.  Joey is sold to a noble, but ill-fated calvery officer named Captain Nichols, who tells the tearful Albert he will guard the horse with his life and return it at war’s end.  Albert ties his father’s ‘Boer War’ flag to Joey’s bridle, after he is told he’s too young to enlist.  Physically endowed with perfect bone structure and unique body marks (a star-splashed head and white-socked hooves) the horse deeply affects the lives of all he encounters.  When Nichols is killed in a counter-attack ambush, the horse falls into the hands of a French farmer and his physically compromised but feisty granddaughter, who nearly replicates young Albert’s devotion for the animal before the war again rears its ugly head, winding up briefly in the hands of German soldiers, one of who risks his life to save Joey and a handsome black horse named Tophorn, who dies from exhaustion.  Now possessing a thundering gallop and blistering speed, Joey escapes a tank and winds up on the front lines, where he is eventually felled in a heap of barbed wire, setting the stage for one of the film’s great set pieces.

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CD Opera Mini-Review: Philador’s ‘Sancho Panca’

by Sam Juliano

The appearance of eighteenth-century opera on CD is a blessing for both fans of opera comique and those looking to broaden the horizons of  a form that takes risks far too infrequently.   The French composer Francois-Andre Danican Philador is thought to be the first to achieve real distinction in a style that eventually merged with Italian opera in the early nineteenth century, in the form of comedy buffa.  Rossini’s The Barber of Seville and Mozart’s Don Giovanni are seminal works in the later category.  Philador’s major contribution to the emergence of the opera comique as a respectable musical genre, is the application of realistic characters and situations.  It can be concluded that he handled his limited orchestral resources cleverly, and the vocal lines are rich, melodious and descriptive.

History does relate that there were charges of plaguerism against Philador, published years after his death from the likes of Berlioz and other music critics that he had plundered the work of Gluck, Galuppi, Pergolesi and Jommelli.  The fact that Philador had actually seen Gluck’s Orfeo opened him up for accusations for music that he wrote for Ernelinde and Le Sorcier, two operas that bear more than remarkable similarities.  But both the dubious degree of intent and the non-consumation of such charges should stop the skeptics in their tracks, and allow Philador’s standing to hold sway for this style and time period.  The composer’s most famous (and best) opera is Tom Jones, composed in 1765, and presented in three acts.  Sancho Panza, which was recently recorded and released by Opera Lafayette with Ryan Brown conducting, is considered a more obscure Philador work, but it has gained in reputation over the past decades.  Antoine-Alexandre Poinsinet (1735-1769) created the libretto of Sancho Panca from a particularly mean-spirited passage in Cervantes’ Don Quixote.  The knight of the mournful countenance has promised his simple-minded squire, Sancho Panza, the governership of an island for his faithful service – a dream that the duke and dutchess features in Part 2 fullfill as part of an elaborate series of tricks played on Don Quixote and Sancho.  When faced with the real demands of governing the imaginary land -the island of Barataria – Sancho quickly renounces all interest in being a governor.

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