Ferdy on Films, etc.

Film reviews and commentary, random thoughts on the world around us, blatant promotion of favorite charities, and other ponderables.

2008 Big Island Film Festival

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Bricktown (2008)
Director: Michael Kelber

By Marilyn Ferdinand

It is fitting Michael Kelber’s first outing as a feature director was the opening feature of the Big Island Film Festival. As this festival goes through the growing pains of most young festivals—less-than-ideal venues, DVDs in unreadable formats, small audiences—so, too, has Kelber stretched his creative muscles, but with fewer false moves. Fitting, too, is his choice of narratives—two boyhood friends whose youthful mischief grows up to become deadly serious without either of them really intending for it to happen.

Paul (Howard Gibson) and Jim (Jason Hamer) are natives of Brick, New Jersey. The opening credits shot in the sepia haze of memory show the young boys pulling pranks—pulling a girl’s pigtails, tee-peeing a house, throwing eggs at a door. A final sequence shows the boys, now college age, with Samantha (Alice Rietveld), the girl with the pigtails who has grown up to be Jim’s girlfriend.

The film starts in earnest by showing us Paul and Jim stealing a car. They ride around for a while, and then Jim drops Paul at home. Paul tells Jim to ditch the car. Before he does, Jim pulls into a convenience store parking lot to pick up something to eat. The car is identified as stolen, and he is confronted by two cops. When they try to handcuff him, he hits one of them. That reckless impulse costs him four years in jail. Samantha promises Jim she’ll stand by him, and Paul promises to look out for her.

The film flash forwards three years to show Jim being overpowered by three larger convicts with little question that they intend to rape him. Sam starts receiving depressed, angry letters from Jim. The newest and most alarming one arrives five days before his release. Paul is concerned and feels guilty that Jim did the time for the pair’s crime. Paul goes to the prison to see what’s up with Jim and assure him that he has a full-time job waiting for him in Paul’s landscaping business. Jim puts on a strong, devil-may-care face. Feeling helpless, Paul leaves.

After Jim is released from prison, he seems a changed man. Filled with anger, he drinks too much, skips meetings with his parole officer, and argues constantly with Sam. He clowns around on the job and seems headed for more trouble ahead.

On the fateful day that forms the dramatic crisis of the film, Paul attends his niece’s sixth birthday and commiserates with his divorced sister about her financial troubles. She’s preparing to leave their house for a more affordable apartment. Paul, however, has just received word that his loan application to expand his business has been approved. He goes home to a night of popcorn and videos.

That evening, Sam and Jim get into a huge argument. Jim storms out of the house and ends up at Paul’s home. He convinces the reluctant Paul to play a prank on a neighbor—string a wire across the street near the neighbor’s driveway and wait for him to run into it and break his headlights.

Hours pass, and the neighbor never shows up. Paul decides to leave. Jim, angered, starts hurling insults. Paul hurls them back. The young men get into a physical fight and are on the ground when they hear the screech of brakes and a crash. The friends take off running and hide in a tool shed in back of a house. The man of the house takes up a baseball bat and reluctantly hunts down the noise his wife heard. Panicking when he reaches the tool shed, Jim slugs the man in the eye. The police are called in, and a cat-and-mouse hunt ensues. I’ll just say it doesn’t end well for one of the cops. And of course, we saw it coming all along.

The story Kelber is interested in telling is how two friends in a classic ringleader-follower relationship react to a tragedy in which they both are culpable. Paul, a basically decent guy with little interest in causing trouble, seems to bear a larger burden of guilt for what was basically an out-of-control prank that started out relatively harmlessly. Jim seems to be a hard case after his stint in prison. But is he really a bad guy or a rape victim who never received counseling? When I talked with Kelber, he felt that both were basically decent people who made a very bad choice. I lost a lot of sympathy for Jim following his release from prison; he seemed quick with his fists in a way that wasn’t just prison survival. I gave up on him sooner than Kelber did. Regardless of this difference of opinion, we agreed that both actors turned in great performances and had the believable chemistry of long-time friends.

The low budget of the film—shot in the director’s hometown to save on costs and smooth permitting and casting—shows, but doesn’t really distract. Brick is a working class town and should look rough around the edges. The acting is uniformly fine, particularly from Michelle Wells as Paul’s sister and Rietveld. The film is well plotting and consistent, though a rather expansive first act could have been tightened without losing anything of importance. The middle act—the crisis—is very exciting, nerve wracking, and believable. I was in awe of the way Gibson and Hamer jumped fences through the backyards of Brick to evade the police patrolling with the searchlight. I also must mention the superb use of music in this film. I’m not very sensitive to scoring, so the fact that Carlos Rodriguez and Mr. e’s score for Bricktown seems so inevitable, suiting the pace and mood of each scene in a way that even I could admire, makes it one of the best I’ve heard.

Michael Kelber is a talented screenwriter and director whose debut feature promises good things to come. Bricktown may be a long shot for distribution, but I fully expect it to turn up at other film festivals. You should make time to see this touching, surprising, impressive debut of a new directorial talent. l

Thank You, Blogosphere

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We at Ferdy on Films, etc., are awed by the volcanic explosion of creative dance movie posts over this past week. Rod and I never dreamed this would be as successful as it has been. We want to thank all the wonderful film and dance bloggers who joined in the fun:

Jonathan Lapper, Cinema Styles
Joe Valdez, This Distracted Globe
Glenn Kenny, Premiere.com
Rick Olson, Coosa Creek Mambo
J.D., Radiator Heaven
Bob Turnbull, Eternal Sunshine of the Logical Mind
Bob Westal, Foward to Yesterday
Peter Nellhaus, Coffee Coffe and More Coffee
Pat, Doodad Kind of Town
Danielle Gordon, Lady Wakasa's Journal
Arbogast, Arbogast on Film
Pat Piper, Lazy Eye Theatre
Jim, The Moviezzz Blog
SciFi Drive
David Cairnes, Shadowplay
Richard Harland Smith, MovieMorlocks.com
Wayne Howard, Reel Whore
Henrik Eriksson, Swing, Jazz, and Blues - Dance to the Music
Kirby Holt, Movie Dearest
Anna Brady Nurse, Move the Frame
Kimberly Lindbergs, Cinebeats
Editor A, Cahiers2Cinema
Bob Glickstein, Gee Bobg
Whitney Borup, Dear Jesus
Jason Bellamy, The Cooler
bbrown, Screenshottery
Noel Vera, Critic After Dark
Gautam Valluri, Broken Projector
Carl Nelson, Carl's Jazz Dance Blog

Rod is cooling his jets at home, while I'm heating mine on the edge of the Kilauea Crater on the Big Island of Hawaii. Ferdy on Films, etc. is going to take a break for vacation. We'll be back soon with all new reviews and reports from the world of offroad cinema. Mahalo! l

It's Here!

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Grab a partner because it's time to hit the dance floor as bloggers everywhere get ready to dazzle you with their style, grace, and amazing feats of blogging about dance movies. Whether dance is used as a pure study in form, an element that is integral to the plot, or pure wow-’em entertainment, participants of Invitation to the Dance Movie Blogathon will give you unique ways to understand and enjoy these wonderful moments in film.

And here we go!

Sunday, May 4

Jonathan Lapper at Cinema Styles goes Beyond Routine: Choreography and Dance and ponders the greatest dance number on film (or do you disagree?). Check out his great moving banner.

Joe Valdez at This Distracted Globe discusses a great teen dance film Save the Last Dance.

Marilyn Ferdinand
at Ferdy on Films, etc. talks about Dancing in Tight Spaces using Royal Wedding, Tap, and Dance With Me as examples.

Glenn Kenny from Premiere.com offers some great screen caps from four films by Jean-Luc Godard.

Rick Olson at Coosa Creek Mambo contemplates in an older post the dance of the solar system in Bela Tarr's Werckmeister Harmonies.

J.D. does a kick-ass job on Rock n' Roll High School over at Radiator Heaven.

Bob Turnbull gives us so many transcendent dance moments over at Eternal Sunshine of the Logical Mind, all I can say is "Go! See!"

Bob Westal at Forward to Yesterday offers a whole slew of posts he did for his own Fossethon late in 2007. I'm linking to Part I of a three-part post. I suggest you start here and then wend your way through the entire collection.

Danielle Gordon
grapples with the definition of a dance movie at Lady Wakasa's Journal and promises a week of posts that try to answer that question in the broadest way possible. Must reading, if you ask me!

Monday, May 5

Peter Nellhaus from Coffee Coffee and More Coffee offers some sexy screen caps and commentary on the Coyote Ugly of Mexico, Mesa que Mas Aplauda.

Pat at Doodad Kind of Town offers a thoughtful review of Robert Altman's The Company.

Mark Osborn at Tractor Facts gives us rundown of David Bowie's dance with the Muppets (!) in Labyrinth.

Arbogast at Arbogast on Film tells a chilling tale of a dance on command in Curse of the Werewolf. Yikes!

Installment 2 from Danielle Gordon at Lady Wakasa's Journal is a tour de force on dance in silent movies. Thanks for mentioning our mutual love of silents, Lady!

Pat Piper has discovered a new film genre: The Angry Young Dancer. He's got the lowdown on the archetypal film of this genre, Footloose, over at Lazy Eye Theater.

Jim over at The Moviezzz Blog takes the hazardous step of choosing the best dance scenes of all time. Wanna argue about it? Visit his site.

Tuesday, May 6

SciFi Drive has chosen some of the best dance routines in scifi movies. Time Warp, anyone?

David Cairns at Shadowplay took the weirdest Busby Berkeley film I've ever seen (and that's saying a lot!), The Gang's All Here (review on this blog somewhere), and gave a brilliant exposition on the disembodied heads in polka dots that end the film. You haven't lived until you've seen this "dancing heads" number.

Ah, Astaire! Adele, that is. Jonathan Lapper at Cinema Styles produces a photo of the more famous Astaire and his earliest dance partner--his sister--and tells us a little about where she got off to while Fred was becoming a star.

Richard Harland Smith over at TCM's MovieMorlocks.com has contributed one of the best ballroom scenes in filmdom from my favorite vampire movie of all time The Fearless Vampire Killers (or Pardon Me, But Your Teeth Are in My Neck). Thank you, thank you, Richard! We're not worthy.

Wednesday, May 7

Wayne Howard at Reel Whore shows us more Angry Young Dancer and a whole lot of amazing moves in what he declares a masterpiece of impromptu dance as a source of comedy, Hot Rod. I'm not about to argue.

Peter Nellhaus of Coffee Coffee and More Coffee gives us a second post in his area of great interest--Asian films. The Japanese film Carmen comes Home explores cultural shifts in part by asking whether stripping is an art form. Great reading!

Rick Olson at Coosa Creek Mambo is back with a new post on the wonderfully archetypal dances in the films of Fellini. Sometimes you do have to be Fellini to figure it out!

Henrik Eriksson of Swing, Jazz, and Blues - Dance to the Music provides a treasure trove of films and performances that link music and dance. Have fun rifling through his wonderful closet of posts.

Kirby Holt at Movie Dearest shows the history of men dancing with men in the movies is extremely long, varied, and well worth your attention.

Anna Brady Nurse of Move the Frame, our first dance blogger(!), schools us on the Madison through the works of Jean-Luc Godard, Hal Hartley, and John Waters. This you gotta see!

Bob Turnbull of Eternal Sunshine of the Logical Mind checks in again with an older post, Blood Wedding, by my favorite filmmaker currently working in dance films, Carlos Saura. Bravo!

In case you had any doubt, Kimberly Lindbergs at Cinebeats reminds you that zombies don't like bad dancing in her post about Umberto Lenzi's Nightmare City.

Back with Installments 3 and 4 of her series, Danielle Gordon of Lady Wakasa's Journal discusses independent film and her other passion after silent films--Asian films--with a few thoughts on dance in Hong Kong cinema.

Editor A, Cahiers2Cinéma, "Ha ha ha ha ha ha ha, Ha ha ha ha ha." It's all here.

Thursday, May 8

This is a reminder that I am going to be spending most of the day on an airplane. I will check in as soon as I can in Honolulu and post all the new entries. Please be patient and please tell me about your new entries in the comments section of this post. Comcast is acting very weird lately.

Roderick Heath from right here on Ferdy on Films, etc. gives us the dance that keeps on giving with his take on John Travolta's famous disco dance in Saturday Night Fever and its numerous offshoots.

Haven't had your daily fix of psychokiller dancing. Hop over to Gee Bobg where Bob Glickstein has a bunch of "killer" video clips to share.

Whitney Borup at Dear Jesus brings us the good news about Newsies.

Friday, May 9

Sorry to be gone so long, but the famous wifi hotel wasn't after all. I'm working from the business center right now and hope to find an internet cafe somewhere today. Waikiki is kind of shock right now--so built up and my favorite hotel to stay here demolished to make way for some kind of gated village for vacationers. Ah me, nothing stays the same... But back to the blogathon.

Thought there was nothing to like about Heaven's Gate? Jason Bellamy of The Cooler begs to differ.

After her great post on The Company Pat from Doodad Kind of Town returns with another on East Side Story. Yes, East Side.

Installment 5 of Danielle Gordon's fascinating series on Lady Wakasa's Journal is Hurray for Bollywood! I know there are a lot of Bollywood fans out there, so go read what Danielle's got to say.

Let's help bbrown launch his new site, Screenshottery by viewing his sexy series of screenshots from Mean Streets.

I'm absolutely thrilled Peter Nellhaus of Coffee Coffee and More Coffee is back with his third and final entry into the blogathon--an appreciation of Nancy Kwan in Flower Drum Song. I may be in the minority in loving this film, but Peter tells you why it's worth your time.

May 10, 2007

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Happy 109th Birthday, Fred Astaire

Here we are at the last day of the blogathon. We've got a last few posts from the diehard participants, but I want to thank all my participants (more listed below) and readers for making this such a fun party.

Does Your Heart Beat Faster?. It will after your read Critic After Dark Noel Vera's excellent review of a "the subtlest, wittiest, and arguably most demented" film from his home country, The Philippines. Thanks, Noel!

A fever dream double feature from David Cairns at Shadowplay: The Great Gabbo and The Great Flamarian. Erich von Stroheim dances!

My good buddy Gautam Valluri at Broken Projector breaks from his usual fare to join the blogathon with a tribute to the birthday boy, Fred Astaire, in Three Little Words. Your timing is impeccable, Gautam.

Danielle Gordon from Lady Wakasa's Journal finishes up her outstanding series with a very informative post on Fred Astaire. Thanks, Danielle, for your wonderful insights all week.

Kimberly Lindbergs
at Cinebeats checks in with one more wonderful entry, Ted V. Mikels' B-movie bonanza Girl in Gold Boots.

Carl Nelson at Carl's Jazz Dance Blog, our lindy hop specialist, checks in with great words and clips from Stormy Weather.

Invitation to the Dance Movie Blogathon 2008

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The Dance That's Stayin' Alive!

By Roderick Heath

I realised, after devoting not too much time thinking about it, that three of my dance scenes are all variations on the same moment, springing from Saturday Night Fever. It’s a film remembered as the flashpoint of Disco culture, a polyester-swathed celebration of those days of gritty glamour, chest hair, nose powder, and mirror balls. The soundtrack sold by the billion, and John Travolta was catapulted to the kind of stardom that consumes itself. But SNF is far more than just the ’70s equivalent of one of those lame ’50s rock films like Rock, Rock, Rock or Let’s Twist Again, where the latest big thing is trotted out in a dimly plotted vehicle. Saturday Night Fever was a ballsy, intelligent movie with telling things to say about (then) modern urban youth culture, a bridging point between the American New Wave cinema and the oncoming world of blockbusters.

Saturday Night Fever (1977)
Director: John Badham
Choreographer: Lester Wilson

Cunning producer Robert Stigwood found an even more cunning director in John Badham. What Badham did with the ailing dance movie formula was to take it back to its roots—a close ancestor is Lloyd Bacon’s 42nd Street (1933)—and contrast the high of cutting loose on the dance floor with the downer of surviving everyday life. Our hero is Tony Manero (John Travolta), a 19-year-old working-class Italian kid living at home with his nagging, neurotic parents in Brooklyn, working in a paint store and going nowhere fast,. Like so many people of his age and class, he only becomes what he truly is at night, when he transforms into an Achilles of the dance floor, desired, admired, and revered by all. He embodies a contemporary male fantasy, delighted in his own body and prowess as a dancer. He’s a love totem for females. So much pussy comes his way he’s become contemptuous of it.

His first journey to the 2001: Odyssey club begins momentously as he enters with his friends to the grandiose strains of “A Fifth of Beethoven." He cuts through this crowd like a messiah of cool. But Badham delays our true appreciation of Tony’s prowess. Tony dances here with two women who worship him, but he hardly burns up the floor. The DJ compounds his irritation by putting on a salsa-flavoured piece, the music of the despised Puerto Ricans; “You can’t dance to this shit!" But this is where he first glimpses Stephanie Mangano (Karen Lynn Gorney), the girl who temporarily dominates the floor in the same way he’s used to. Right from the start, Stephanie challenges Tony’s prejudices and self-love. And he digs it. But still he does not cut loose. Instead he is absorbed into the crowd line-dancing to “Night Fever." The link between the song, the film’s title, and Tony becoming absorbed, reinforces his place in a community, a lifestyle. His tale as just another in this semi-naked city.

Badham, having cultivated a Scorsese-esque verisimilitude in the rest of the film, presents the inside of the club as a candy-coloured dreamland filled with hot ladies, slick movers, strippers and hip tunes. The camera drinks up the flashy, sexy show on the floor; one shot of a woman’s swiveling dress and legs lasts about 20 seconds. Tony’s great dance number arrives halfway through the film. Tony is on a high, expecting Stephanie to come and in the company of his brother Frank (Martin Shakar), whose own decision to leave the priesthood mirrors Tony’s increasing discomfort. His frustrations, his inability to get in the groove, have then been mirrored by the audience’s own desire to see him let rip. With irritation and hope in his soul, and weighed down by a sluggish partner Connie (Fran Drescher, who would later gain horrible revenge for her slight in this scene), Tony hears the opening chords of “You Should Be Dancing" and declares, ‘Forget this!’ He sets about brushing away all the other dancers, and cuts loose.

Badham shoots the sequence with élan, but also visual economy. As Tony begins, he struts up the centre of the stage, pretending to roll up his sleeves and tighten his belt like a pugilist or gunfighter awaiting action. Badham cuts in for a low shot of Travolta’s beaming, aquiline face as he swings his arm about in a lordly survey that both embraces the audience in his coolness and makes them bow down to it. Travolta sleekly stakes out each of the four corners of the stage, his flared pants and platform shoes acting like knifes that slice the floor into rippling, patterned pieces. Each move gains in a technical and athletic virtuosity, building to herky-jerky robotic flourishes.

The centrepiece of the act sees him stake out the front of the stage, rapidly stabbing the air with alternating index fingers, slapping the soles of his shoes, before cocking his left leg out, leaning away to the right, thrusting his pelvis as his arm jabs the air like a musketeer’s sword before tossing in another play-act vignette of wiping off his own seat. Badham cuts in to a low-angle, front-on shot that emphasises the architecture of the move. It’s the most iconic image of the film, a perfect fusion of muscle, music and fashion. Tony retreats down stage, spins, throws himself into a splay-legged crouch, slides across the four quarters of the stage, and regains his feet in a kung-fu forward flip. He has established his indifference to gravity. He folds his arms, and begins dropping to his knees and leaping up in the Cossack style, crowned in the moment when he throws himself into the sky, legs wide out to his hands.

This is the dancer as action hero, as urban cultural warrior. The sequence is a celebration of his masculinity, a new brand of masculinity that likes to display itself in a fashion previously reserved for women. Tony caresses his ass and humps both air and stage. There is a recognisable progress from the prancing precision of Fred Astaire to the rough-and-tumble of Gene Kelly to this martial dance-artist, but the celebration of male sexual prowess is new. It’s fitting for the pansexual philosophy of the era, Disco having been friendly both to multiculturalism and to gay life—one of the many reasons it was as loathed as loved. The film has bent over backwards to reassure us of Tony’s heterosexuality, however, and his postures have placed him in context with a long tradition of screen heroes. He’s a riposte to Taxi Driver’s thesis that Travis Bickle was the NYC heir to Western heroes; no, Tony is, at least for these minutes on the dance floor.

Airplane! (1980)
Directors: David Zucker, Jerry Zucker, and Jim Abrahams
Choreographer: Tom Mahoney

Burlesques on Saturday Night Fever were endless. None matched that found in Airplane! (David and Jerry Zucker, Jim Abrahams [“ZAZ"], 1980), a send-up of cheesy disaster movies that is actually a scurrilous satire on the cultural mores of the ’70s. The scene in the Mogumbo Bar presents the film’s approach in miniature, beginning as a caricature of the seedy movie dens that screen heroes like Humphrey Bogart would hang about in. A fist fight breaks out between a pair in uniform—not sailors or soldiers, but rather, two girl scouts—who beat the crap out of each other. One is sent sliding down the bar and collides with the jukebox, which immediately starts emitting a speeded-up version of “Stayin’ Alive." The grizzled bar whores head for the floor. When one is stabbed in the back, his partner Elaine (Julie Hagerty) can’t tell the difference between his dying contortions and the epileptic chic of Disco moves. Ted (Robert Hays), entranced by the sight of Elaine, heads onto the floor and confronts her. Both are dazzled. Ted strips off his Navy tunic to reveal a white vest and black shirt, and tosses his jacket with élan into the crowd before striking the finger-in-the-air pose—only to have the jacket thrown back in his face.

Unfazed, Ted and Elaine begin to dance, Ted throwing Elaine into the air and waiting many seconds for her to land again in his arms. He allows her to swing him by the ankles, until she accidentally sends him flying. Horror! Ted cartwheels through the air and falls to ground behind a crowd with a huge crash. But our hero is unharmed; he bursts out from the crowd and again strikes the air-stabbing pose, this time with such undeniable cool that his finger stabs in the air sound like bullets. Abrahams and the Zuckers prove how hip they are to the stylisation of SNF, as Ted’s heroic strut plays on Tony’s posing is an extension of the classic American movie hero. As well as being one of the funniest scenes ever committed to celluloid, it’s a true bookend to its model. In their late concerts, The Bee Gees took to showing both scenes on a big screen whenever they played “Stayin’ Alive."

Pulp Fiction (1994)
Director: Quentin Tarantino

For Travolta, the film eventually proved to be a millstone. A decade and a half later, he was a living joke (and it wouldn’t be the last time), having made enough money from the Look Who’s Talking series to retire, but having flushed the last of his cred down the toilet. Then, Quentin Tarantino cast him in his hipster-noir epic Pulp Fiction and had him dance.

The sequence alludes to Travolta’s early role, but it also, in its deliberately stilted sinuosity, refers to the dance of Jean-Luc Godard’s Bande à Part (1964). The moves of Travolta and partner Uma Thurman are drawn from oddball models—Thurman’s from the Duchess of The Aristocats (1970) and Travolta tossing in Adam West’s Batusi, all set to Chuck Berry’s unique Cajun-rockabilly tune “You Never Can Tell." All this on top of the pair that we are supposed to be watching—a beatnik hitman and a coke-snorting ex-actress gangster’s moll falling in lust—builds into a scene that’s giddily hilarious, pointedly sexy, and subtly weird. It, in itself, became a vastly more ironic but equally pertinent pop culture icon to match the SNF scene, and remade Travolta’s career by both subverting and paying tribute to his time as the king of the dance floor. l

Invitation to the Dance Movie Blogathon

Dancing in Tight Spaces

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By Marilyn Ferdinand

To most people, dancing mainly involves dancers making pleasing or dramatic shapes oftentimes while telling a story. Big moves, the flowy-showy costumes, and tricks are amply rewarded by audiences with appreciation and applause.

But crucially, dance is an expression of movement through space. In the case of clapping or tap dancing, sound may come into the picture, but the critical action is movement. How a dancer relates to the space through which he or she moves can communicate as much as a dramatic, emotional speech. In film, this space can be as large as all outdoors, depending on camera range and angle, or as small as a shoebox. I’m going to examine three films in which dancing happens in tight or crowded spaces and discuss why I think these scenes were choreographed the way they were, how they help move the themes of the film forward, and communicate more than the emotional experience of watching pleasing shapes.

Royal Wedding (1951)
Director: Stanley Donen
Choreographers: Nick Castle/Fred Astaire

Set in 1947, Royal Wedding has a brother and sister team (Astaire and Jane Powell) crossing the Atlantic to open their recently closed Broadway show in London the year of the wedding of Queen Elizabeth II to Philip. Naturally, both siblings find their true loves in the process. In one of the most famous scenes in all the movies, Fred finds himself thinking about Anne (Sarah Churchill), a dancer he met during auditions for the London show. He goes into the tavern of her father, seemingly casually looking for her, but finding only her dad to talk to. He goes back to his hotel, finds Anne’s picture in an advertising sandwich board, slips the picture out of its holder, and takes it up to his room. Regarding the picture, he sings “You’re Everything to Me" and then literally dances around the room to the orchestral arrangement of the song. Below is a clip of the scene before the dance in which Fred’s prospects for winning Anne are discussed (there’s the tail end of Powell singing a song at the very beginning), and then the complete “dancing on the ceiling" number:

Now, people have been wondering for ages, “How did he do that?" Just to clear the mystery up so we can go on to other things, the room rotated and the various parts of the film were cut to make a seamless dance. But why did Castle and Astaire choose to create a dance in a rotating box? I can’t say for sure, but certainly these two former vaudevillians most likely wanted to wow audiences with their ingenuity, and the use of such props as the ceiling light—an Astaire trademark—would be easy to incorporate. But I think there’s more to it than that. Astaire’s character is in love but is stuck unless and until Anne throws over her boyfriend. He’s literally boxed in with his feelings. At the same time, the song lets us know that Anne is Astaire’s whole world. At that moment, the room is his whole world, and he shows through his movements that he will do his best to defy its boundaries, defy gravity itself (lovers are often said to be “walking on air") to give free rein to his feelings. The giddy, exuberant dance comes pretty close to accomplishing those goals and serves the story as well as Astaire’s showmanship.

Tap (1989)
Director: Nick Castle
Choreographers: Henry de Tang/Gregory Hines

Here we have another Nick Castle film choreographed by another great vaudevillian, Henry de Tang, for a boatful of vaudeville stars, including Harold Nicholas, Sandman Sims, and Sammy Davis, Jr. This film is also noted for introducing one of the major dance lights of today, Savion Glover, then just a boy. In between is the great Gregory Hines, and the tap number I’m going to discuss is his credited “improvography." Hines plays a dancer who, tired of the financial hardships of his profession, turns to crime. The film opens in the prison block where Hines’ character is incarcerated. We move to his cell. The lighting is dark and the cell narrow. He pulls a thick board out and places it at the bars of his cell on the side opposite his bed. He starts to tap; his cellblock mates start to yell at the noise he’s making:

Watch him smash his cell wall loudly and repeatedly with his foot. “Let me out of here. Let me out of here!" If you saw Robert De Niro smash his fists into a wall in Raging Bull, you’ll recognize the frustration. But then, Hines starts to warm to his dancing itself. He seems to get into a frenzy of creativity, with small, precise, rapid taps showing his excitement. He has freed himself for a short while with his art, oblivious to the shouts around him. When we see his passion, we know that he will be drawn back into dancing—something he fights against when he is released—by the picture’s end. This scene shorthands the themes of this movie perfectly.

Dance With Me (1998)
Director: Randa Haines
Choreographer: Liz Curtis

A film that mixes the director of Children of a Lesser God, a dance instructor with no previous film credits as choreographer, a semi-dancer in Vanessa Williams, and a singing idol in Chayanne sounds like a risky proposition. Can the singer act? Can the semi-dancer really pull off championship ballroom sequences? Can a dramatic director shoot dance? Somehow it all comes together in this story of a jaded competitive ballroom dancer who finds new inspiration and love with a Cuban immigrant.

In the scene I’m going to discuss, Williams has accepted Chayanne’s invitation to go out dancing. She meets him in front of a salsa club and they go in. Lights and dancers are swirling in front of them in a hot red glow. When they first hit the dance floor, the couple is jostled by the closely packed crowd. However, as all the dancers warm up, a communal dance takes place.

In several shots, we can see that the dance floor is actually quite spacious. But it holds a lot of couples who would rather dance together than separately, making a virtue of close quarters. As a competitive dancer, Williams has always looked at other dancers as “the enemy." We see her face in medium-close shots as we watch the reserve we’ve seen in previous scenes dissolve in joy. The dancers pass partners off to each other, cooperate in forming lines and circles, gain energy from each other’s efforts, and work together with the salsa band to create an atmosphere that reflects Cuban life and culture. Williams is welcomed in as though she were a native, as though she belongs in a place where the celebration of life comes first. The camera seems to swirl with the dancers, though Haines really uses judicious angles and edits with precise pacing to make us feel as though we’re dancing with this wonderful crowd as well. I don’t think I’ve seen any other film that so completely conveys the pleasure, accessibility, and beauty of picking up one’s feet and dancing. This film, to my mind, is the best of the ballroom genre, and is all the more special for placing minority dancers in what has traditionally been a white dance style in movies.

I hope I’ve shown how the creative use of space is a formidable aid in the dancer/choreographer’s toolbox. Large spaces can be closed, and close spaces can be expanded. Every dancer is taught to be aware of their surroundings. In movies, that awareness can also tell a story. l

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Time to Warm Up Your Blogging Muscles

Invitation to the Dance Movie Blogathon

Opens Soon!

Starting this Sunday, the first Invitation to the Dance Movie Blogathon grand battements its way into the blogosphere. We’re very excited to be hosting this waltz through dance films, and we’ve already heard from some participants that their entries are waiting in the wings. I can’t wait to see what they’ve come up with, and I hope you feel the same. It's not too late to participate. All the information you need can be found here.

I’m going to find this blogathon particularly exciting and challenging because from Thursday through Saturday—Fred Astaire’s birthday—I’ll be blogging near the sands of Waikiki. Yes, I couldn’t arrange airline tickets for May 11, as I planned, so I’ll be coming to you from the lobby of the Ohana East Hotel in Honolulu. In consideration of the great time difference between certain regions of the mainland and Hawaii (not to mention my desire to spend time with the hubby on our first real vacation in three years), I’ll be getting up as early as I can to make the rounds of the participating blogs and link their entries here. So mahalo in advance for your patience.

BIFFlogobrownsmall.jpgOne benefit of my trip to Hawaii is that I will be blogging from the Third Annual Big Island Film Festival (assuming I can find wifi somewhere on the Kohala Coast). The hubby and I have our film choices made and will be attending special events where I hope to interview some film luminaries who will be attending. So stay tuned for that the weekend after the blogathon. l

Douce.jpgDouce (1943)
Director: Claude Autant-Lara
Screenwriters: Jean Aurenche and Pierre Bost

By Marilyn Ferdinand

One of my favorite directors is Bertrand Tavernier. I haven’t come anywhere near to seeing all his films, but I’ve tried to take advantage of every opportunity that comes along. I was fortunate enough to see the terrific cop drama L.627 at the 2002 Ebertfest and watch Roger interview Tavernier. Little did I know that when his then-newest film, Laissez-passer (Safe Conduct), played at the Gene Siskel Film Center a few days later, I would see Tavernier again and get a chance to participate briefly in an informal chat he was having with some other film fans in the lobby of the theatre. It was easy for me to see why he can make such wonderful films—he’s a genuinely nice man.

The reason I bring Tavernier up here is that Laissez-passer chronicles the world of French filmmaking during the World War II German occupation of France. The film is based on a memoir of one of the screenwriters of that time, Jean-Devaivre, and features as one of its main characters Jean Aurenche, depicted as a bon vivant who manages to stay just the right side of the stern Germans who man Continental Films, the German production company that controlled the French film industry, in general, and its French employees, in particular. I was utterly captivated by Tavernier’s film, his comments about the period he was depicting, and a whole era of films I knew nothing about. I set about learning, seizing whatever opportunities I could to view the mainly escapist entertainment of the time that nonetheless bred some of the great French filmmakers to come—Jacques Becker, Robert Bresson, Jean-Pierre Melville, and others. Fortunately, the Siskel Center ran a series of these films in 2005, and now, DOC Films at the University of Chicago is doing the same on Tuesday nights this spring. The hubby and I took the long drive to the South Side to view Douce last night, and it was certainly worth the trip.

Douce, an historical drama typical of this era, tells a story of love and ambition in class-conscious 19th century Paris. The film takes place near Christmas. The story opens on snowfall created by trick photography—rather distracting—but settles down as the camera ventures into a church and into a confessional, where a heavily veiled woman is being grilled by a priest about a love affair she is having. Listing the various impediments to a happy union, the priest finally hits on the right one—low born. The priest is appalled and tells her a horrible fate awaits her and her lover if they should go through with their plan. “I want to be happy," she answers defiantly. “Do you want me to grant you absolution?" he asks accusingly. “Well, I won’t." She storms out of the confessional and the church, leaving her umbrella behind.

In a nifty segue, a feeble-minded young man is sent to return the umbrella to its owner. He is cautiously admitted through the gates of a stately home. When the front door opens for him, we are admitted into the opulent, pampered world of the wealthy de Bonafé family. Loyal servant Estelle (Gabrielle Fontan) fusses and musses about, then calls Mademoiselle Irène (Madeleine Robinson). A beautiful and elegant woman emerges onto the long, balustraded hallway of the upper floor. Estelle says a boy has come with the umbrella she left at church. “What did you give him?" a somewhat startled Irène asks. “My umbrella," replies Estelle. “He needs something to get home."

Irène returns to her needlepoint and hands Douce (Odette Joyeux), a young lady in her charge, a wooden egg used for darning socks. The egg has “Trouville," a seaside resort, burned into its side. Douce gets very excited: “You know Trouville?" “No," says Irène. “It was a gift from some people who had been there." Douce listens to a thumping above her head. She is annoyed. “Doesn’t he know how it sounds?!" she says in exasperation. Irène warns her to be more respectful of her father and sympathetic with the fact that he has to walk on a wooden leg, and then questions her about the umbrella. At this point, it becomes clear that Irène is Douce’s governess, and Douce is the well-born young lady in love with an inferior.

This surprising reversal sets up a subtle dynamic that infuses the rest of the film with commentary on social climbing and stifling social roles. With great dexterity, Bost and Aurenche manipulate a simple love story with a hundred small, telling moments. The first, of course, is our assumption that Irène is the mistress of the house. Indeed, she is aiming exactly for that position, having noticed and cultivated widower Engelbert de Bonafé’s (Jean Debucourt) attraction to her. The fact that he is a cripple and considers himself a failure—his leg wasn’t even lost in war but in a riding accident that was his own fault—and Douce his only success marks him as a relic of the past being overtaken by the schemers of the present. We know that Irène, though very tightly self-controlled throughout the film, is one of those schemers because he finds her in his library reshelving a book she has finished, Les Liaisons Dangereuses.

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Her partner and lover is Fabien Marani (Roger Pigaut), manager of the family’s estate. Of course, Douce is in love with him, but he wants Irène to emigrate with him to Quebec and be out from under the humiliating, controlling thumb of the de Bonafés. With a financially advantageous marriage within her grasp, Irène rejects him. Marani pursues her, planning to tell all to Engelbert and his mother, the wickedly imperious Madame de Bonafé (Marguerite Moreno), but Douce intervenes. Les Liaisons Dangereuses does indeed seem to be the driving narrative of this film as it unwinds to a sad, inevitable conclusion. The classes should not, must not mix. The worst curse Madame de Bonafé can cast on Fabien and Irène is that they remain together, trapped in their low-born status.

Douce was the first film scripted by the so-called “Tradition of Quality" team of Jean Aurenche and Pierre Bost. Tradition of Quality films were dubbed as such by the leading critics of the 1940s and 1950s for their academic production values, basis in traditional literary classics, and theatrical scripting. I might add that the work of Aurenche and Bost, frequent collaborators of Autant-Lara, is where I would place the quality. Their writing is extremely witty and subtle when they are going for social commentary. Marguerite Moreno certainly had a plum role as the Grand Dame of the house. Her lines and actions would have been buffoonish if they hadn’t been closely observed and written. When she goes through her closet to choose items to give to the poor tenants on her land for Christmas, she holds back one jacket. “That’s too good," she instructs Irène, saying (I paraphrase), “It will only depress the people because they will see the heights to which they never can aspire." When she Douce_05.jpgcalls on her tenants, she brings Irène and Fabien with her to carry the clothes and soup. One tenant gets up to heat a bowl of soup for herself and her husband. “No, no," says Madame, “It’s my turn to serve you. Irène, put the soup on the stove."

Some quibbles. Joyeux looked too old to still be dressing like a child, and Joyeux, Robinson, and Pigaut have a severe, mannered acting style. The love talk between Pigaut and the two women is the ultimate in purple prose, as well. The film takes a somewhat predictable turn to tragedy, but it was startling to me because up until then I had been watching a very funny comedy of manners. The overly melodramatic elements made me all too aware that there was a moral to this story. I wonder, in fact, whether the German honchos might have insisted that the story reflect a superior/inferior class ethos to suggest the depravity of “mixing." But this is mere conjecture.

Interestingly, Tradition of Quality films were condemned by André Bazin and his protégé, François Truffaut. This condemnation reflected the desire for a purely cinematic art form not beholden to literary tradition, ushering in the naturalism of the French New Wave and other film movements of the 1960s that took their inspiration from the French movement. However, according to John Hess:

Truffaut denounces these men (as well as the cinema they represent) for their irreverence toward the literary works they adapt (most of the scripts and films in question were literary adaptations), their anti-clerical and anti-militarist stances, their pessimism and negativity, their 'profanity' and 'blasphemy.' His concerns here show the utter conventionality and the extreme cultural and political conservatism of his views on art. These scriptwriters’ irreverence toward their sources, the great French literary masterpieces (in some cases at least), reveals to Truffaut their lack of concern for tradition and conventional values, Truffaut sees the cinema d'auteurs as a return to the eternal verities and the classical French values of the enlightenment and romanticism. His opposition to their insertion of anti-militarist and anti-clerical stances into the works they adapted is a defense of art’s autonomy. No social or political views, those dreaded 'messages,' are to mar the purity of art. Art must be free of all outside influences, Truffaut thought.

Truffaut also objects to pessimism and negativity because he holds the opposite view of the potentiality of (at least some) human beings. And these special human beings, not the common person, are to be the fit subject of art, Here Truffaut is also opposing the deterministic view of life which often prevailed in the French cinema of the 1940’s and 1950’s, a view of life which had its origin in Zola’s Naturalism. Finally by objecting to the 'profanity' and 'blasphemy' in many French films, Truffaut declares his allegiance to Catholicism, the continual target of the French Left. For, as stated in Part One of this article, la politique des auteurs was a recapitulation on the level of culture of the bourgeoisie’s forceful reassertion of power in the decade after the war. Aurenche and Bost were the products and representatives of the era of the Popular Front and the Resistance, the ethos of which Truffaut opposes.

It is interesting to read that the intellectuals and filmmakers who ushered in the breath of fresh air we think of as the French New Wave were, perhaps, the reactionaries, and that the German-controlled masters of the Tradition of Quality films were, perhaps, the revolutionaries. Douce is a highly entertaining, well-written, if somewhat mannered example of a very high quality of filmmaking indeed.l

Critic.jpg“Our Backstreets" #17
A Critical Question

By Marilyn Ferdinand

This past week at Cinema Styles, Jonathan Lapper linked to a column by controversial New York Press critic Armond White that was, frankly, a mess. I can’t really tell you what he was driving at exactly because he appeared to be tripping while resting his hands on his computer’s keyboard. But others boiled it down to this: “My opinions are right, and if you don’t agree with me, you’re an asshole." The column appeared to be triggered by the adulatory articles about ailing film critic Roger Ebert, most notably one appearing in White’s hometown—and rival—newspaper, The New York Times. Perhaps he wasn’t tripping—he might have just been brain-addled from banging his head against the wall in frustration that the proverbial thumbs-up weren’t for him.

A lively discussion ensued during which we commenters wondered about our own styles of blogging and criticism, what we liked in films, DVD extras, and other things film buffs like to talk about. But are we really film buffs—amateurs—or have we crossed the line to become real critics? Here’s what Andrew O’Hehir said in a Salon article:

Former New York Times critic Vincent Canby observed years ago that the film critic's pose of being an ordinary moviegoer is just that. You can't watch 100 or 150 or 200 films a year and be an ordinary moviegoer; you become a specialist with a defined aesthetic and rarefied tastes in some direction or other. Whether that direction lies in Thai kickboxing films or Tarkovsky-esque meditations on the soul is purely a question of temperament.

I think it’s interesting that Canby and O’Hehir don’t specify formal training as being the hallmark of a film critic—they emphasize the act of watching movies as the crucial factor in developing an aesthetic. Nonetheless, can any avid film enthusiast really go beyond the expressing of an opinion and into what used to be the formal discipline of criticism without multidisciplinary training in the arts, in general, and film, specifically? Here’s another quote from one of my favorite movies, Metropolitan:

Audrey Rouget: What Jane Austen novels have you read?

Tom Townsend: None. I don't read novels. I prefer good literary criticism. That way you get both the novelists' ideas as well as the critics' thinking. With fiction I can never forget that none of it really happened, that it's all just made up by the author.

Tom Townsend’s preference for nonfiction as a more real experience than actually reading a novel is an interesting one to ponder. Some of us read criticism either because we can’t get our hands on the films under consideration or because we’re more interested in the ideas found in cinema, be it of a genre, an artist, or a style/school of filmmaking. Most of us wouldn’t go as far as Tom by only reading about, not watching movies. Nonetheless, when one does see, as Canby says, 200 (or more) films a year, a certain malaise can settle in, a feeling that we’ve seen it all before, a sense like Tom’s that the tried-and-true formulas that have powered so many films in the past 100 years remind us that it’s not real, that we’ve been seduced by our addiction to storytelling and somehow are spending too much time escaping real life and not really engaging with it. Perhaps an intrinsic and valuable knowledge or philosophy worthy of formal criticism may actually have little or nothing to do with the business of moviemaking.

Are we making a mountain out of a molehill, elevating a low form through pretentious points of view and false meaning-making? I find a lot of instruction and comfort for what I am doing in the introduction to James Boswell’s The Life of Samuel Johnson:

There are many invisible circumstances, which whether we read as enquirers after natural or moral knowledge, whether we intend to inlarge our science or increase our virtue, are more important than publick occurrences. Thus Sallust, the great master of nature, has not forgot in his account of Catiline to remark, that his walk was now quick, and again slow, as an indication of a mind revolving with violent commotion. Thus the story of Melancthon affords a striking lecture on the value of time, by informing us, that when he had made an appointment, he expected not on the hour, but the minute to be fixed, that the day might not run out in the idleness of suspense; and all the plans and enterprises of De Witt are now of less importance to the world than that part of his personal character, which represent him as careful of his health, and negligent of his life. … If a life [biography] be delayed till interest and envy are at an end, we may hope for impartiality, but must expect little intelligence; for the incidents which give excellence to biography are of a volatile and evanescent kind, such as soon escape the memory, and are rarely transmitted by tradition.

This quote reminds me that the actions of any person, whether real or fictional, can create meaning. Anyone can give an opinion, and the value of that opinion is based on the views of the person receiving it—not on the person giving it. Training to be a professional critic—as in one whose opinions are thought valuable enough to pay for—may include formal study at a university, but it also involves the expansion of one’s critical thoughts through experience. It is through the act of the inquiring mind that the miracle of insight can occur. So I feel that I am both a film buff and a real critic, and perhaps the two never can or should be divorced. In my opinion, a critic who dismisses the populist nature of film viewing and the unpaid ranks of volunteer film critics on the Internet and elsewhere who exemplify the love that is the Latin/French root of the word “amateur," it is this type of critic who has degraded the discourse on film and who keeps it trapped in the business part of show business. l

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Fright Night (1985)
Director: Tom Holland

By Marilyn Ferdinand

You might have noticed that I haven’t posted in a few days. There’s a reason for that—it’s been a bad week. I had a minor car accident on Monday that has the potential to get a bit sticky, though I’m still hoping for the best. I spent much of Tuesday evening helping a doctoral student prepare for her oral defense; her reward to me was a Korean-style massage, which involved getting twisted, flung about, and pounded on (actually, it was great, but a lot more active than I’m used to). On Wednesday, I had meetings up the yin yang and then found a ticket for an expired license plate on the hubby’s car, which I had borrowed for the day so the insurance investigator could photograph my car. Oh, and in case you're wondering why I have no report from Champaign, I missed Ebertfest on the weekend because of work I had to do for the aforementioned doctoral candidate. All in all, not the best atmosphere for creative writing, BUT a very good opportunity to watch something extremely silly to get my mind off my admittedly minor, but still nagging, problems. What better way to do that than to dip into an ’80s horror spoof? Fright Night was just what the doctor ordered.

I have to admit that the 1980s represent one of my favorite movie eras. I’m not necessarily talking about the great films of that decade, such as My Dinner with Andre, Ragtime, Blade Runner, The Unbearable Lightness of Being, and others. I’m talking about a certain look, sound, and sensibility of many of the decade’s films that are so much fun to revisit—the big hair, the fashion disasters that we thought were so hip and funky, and the technopop music with a driving backbeat that turns you into a bobblehead whether you like it or not. All of these wonderfully awful ’80s artifacts are on splendid display in Fright Night.

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The story is pretty simple. Charley Brewster (William Ragsdale) is a typical horny teenage boy. The film opens with him making out with his perky girlfriend Amy Peterson (Amanda Bearse) on his bedroom floor while his favorite TV show, “Peter Vincent: Vampire Killer," plays in the background. When she refuses to go all the way, Charley gets mad. They’ve been going together for a year, after all. Charley looks out his window to avoid Amy’s hurt gaze. He doesn’t notice that she has moved to his bed and is willing to give him what he wants. He’s too busy watching an elaborate coffin being moved into the house next door. Naturally, Amy is insulted and leaves.

frightnight%206.jpgThe next day, Charley passes a very attractive woman on the street who is looking for the address of his new next-door neighbor. I had to be told by the hubby that she was a hooker, because a lot of women dressed like her back then—tight, short skirt in an impossibly bright blue; big, blonde hair; shocking nail polish. Naturally, Charley sees her again, stripping in his neighbor’s window. Leering lasciviously at her through binoculars—also a very ’80s accoutrement in movies—he gets a big shock when he sees the man of the house bite her. A very cool shot of three rivulets of blood trickling down her bare back caps the scene.

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Charley is sure his new neighbor, Jerry Dandridge (Chris Sarandon) is a vampire. When he tries to confront Dandridge, he is stopped by smarmy Renfield-like houseboy Billy (Jonathan Stark). To stop Charley from snooping, Dandridge trashes Charley's already trashy-looking car; don't ask me how that's an effective deterrent.

Now Charley is in full vampire hunter mode. He insults Amy yet again by his obsession with the vampire instead of her, brings a cop over to the home of the vampire to see the coffin and realize that the murders being reported in town—in a very blasé way, I might add—is Dandridge’s doing. The cop laughs and leaves. Like any self-respecting teen-centered movie, after introducing Charley’s clueless single mother (Dorothy Fielding), she is brought in one more time to perform a plot twist—inviting the vampire into her home—and then is never seen again.

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Charley, now in grave danger because the vampire can enter his home at will, tracks Peter Vincent down at the TV studio. Vincent’s show has just been cancelled, and he waves Charley off with the whole “it was just an act" routine. However, Amy and Charley’s nerdy friend Evil (Stephen Geoffreys) somehow finally decide to take up Charley’s cause. Amy appeals to Vincent to help, offering a $500 savings bond as payment. He takes the job, of course, and eventually must help rescue Amy, a lookalike of Dandridge’s lost love, from being turned into a vampire herself.

frightnight%2013.jpgLike just about every woman alive, I’ve got a thing for vampires. Not like every woman (or man, for that matter) I find Chris Sarandon’s face disturbingly out of proportion—kind of a massive head with a tiny, straight-down nose. Oddly, however, Sarandon as a vampire was kind of attractive. A Keanu Reeves lookalike, William Ragsdale showed about the same acting chops as Reeves—earnest, but not very convincing. At least he couldn’t convince anyone that Sarandon’s character was a vampire. Roddy McDowall had to notice Sarandon didn’t appear in McDowall’s hand mirror to be convinced.

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The film has its obligatory smoky disco scene, with Dandridge in ’80s dressed-to-kill garb hypnotizing Amy and bringing her onto the dance floor. Suddenly, Amy is transformed into an ’80s-style vamp, her perky, barrette-clad hair poofed into serious big hair and her unadorned face painted and seductive. We get a lot of disco-beat close-ups of Dandridge manhandling Amy, putting his hand up her skirt (that even shocked me and the hubby a bit), and then whisking her off to his lair, with Charley in hot pursuit. The corny vampire-hunting scenes in Dandridge’s home reveal some of the silliest-looking vampires I’ve ever seen. Roddy, with his clown-whited hair, is perfection in a seriocomic role, performing with conviction to give the kids in the audience a thrill while maintaining a certain ironic distance.

This isn’t great art, and it’s not even a major comic addition to the vampire canon. But, all the “don’t worry, be happy vibes" of the 1980s found in the abundant tongue-in-cheek horror movies of the era—in its own way, much smarter than the humor of today—still makes for a great evening of popcorn movie-watching. l

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An Interview with Errol Morris on the Occasion of His New Movie, Standard Operating Procedure

By Marilyn Ferdinand

There are few film fans and no documentary buffs who don't know the name Errol Morris. During a long and distinguished career, Morris helped free an innocent man from prison with his investigative documentary The Thin Blue Line, had Gates of Heaven made one of Roger Ebert's Great Movies, and finally won an Oscar for his 2003 documentary The Fog of War: Eleven Lessons from the Life of Robert S. McNamara. Morris' skillful blend of interviews, reenactments, and archival and new footage moved the documentary form away from the monotonous talking-head format and toward a more engaging, contemplative form. His new film, Standard Operating Procedure, mixes his time-tested techniques with the infamous photographs of the torture and humiliation of Iraqi detainees at Iraq's Abu Ghraib prison to help viewers get beyond the borders of the images and consider the bigger picture. How could an American president and his staff approve of torture and how could the American Congress and public sit quietly by and let the low-level MPs take all the blame?

My interview with Morris took place on April 15, 10 days before the film's official opening. After a rocky start, we settled into a more contemplative conversation about what seems to be the (hopefully) temporary insanity of the American populace and America's need to come to terms with a radical change in its self-image dating back perhaps as far as Vietnam. I hope to post an audio link to the entire interview very soon, but this article represents a nearly complete transcript of the entire interview. My comments are in italics.

After watching this film, I felt that the people in it were guilty as hell and being self-justifying.

Let me ask you a question. What is Sabrina Harman guilty of?

I would say that she participated in some of these abuses, and she didn’t speak up.

What would you have done if you had been at Abu Ghraib the night of Al-Jamadi’s murder, you saw that all of your commanding officers were participating in a cover-up, you realized that much of what was going on around you was a matter of policy, what would you have done?

It’s a difficult question. If it were me, I probably would have excused myself and gone somewhere else.

You’re in the middle of a war zone. Where do you go?

To my quarters, anywhere away from the abuse. But it’s a tight situation. The Army is chain of command. I suppose if you’re told to shut up, that’s exactly what you do. That’s what they felt they needed to do. But I will also say…

And yet Sabrina took these pictures.

And that’s a good question. Why? She said it was in order to document what was going on. There were a number of people who took videos, a number of people who took photographs, several hundred.

Thousands. And it was an amnesty period where the guy who essentially ran the prison ordered the destruction of all the evidence. These were not destroyed, I think, for one simple reason: they provided evidence to deflect blame from people who were really responsible.

And yet if they were destroyed, nobody would have ever known.

Why do you say that?

No physical evidence.

How do you think the media have become aware of these photographs?

I imagine somebody turned them over to a newspaper, a journalist.

Which is what happened. We live in a digital age in which it’s very easy to take photographs and easier to distribute photographs around the world. Hard to destroy everything. The photographs taken of Al-Jamadi, the corpse, we wouldn’t have any knowledge of this murder if they had not been taken by Ivan Frederick, Chuck Graner, and Sabrina Harman. They had nothing whatsoever to do with the murder or the cover-up. The people responsible have never been charged with the crime. In this instance, what makes them the center of evil?

I don’t think they’re the center of evil and I’m not trying to suggest that they are. I’m merely suggesting that was my reaction when I watched this film, and that I would have liked to get interviews with higher-ups.

I was not interested in interviews with higher-ups. If people want the same cookie-cutter movie about Iraq, there are plenty you can go see.

But you talk about putting the photographs in a context, otherwise we don’t really understand what we’re seeing.

And to that end, am I required to interview every single person in the U.S. government? You have so much god-damned context. America puzzles me at the moment. There is an immense amount written about the higher-ups. What the fuck does America need to be convinced that the material is staring them in the face? Do they have to be hit over the head with a smoking gun? What would you like? What is your dream interview that you would have liked to have heard in this particular movie to clarify things for you?

Not to clarify…

Then to do what?

If you’re only going to present, just as in a trial, only the evidence that the lawyers want you to hear. I’ve been on a jury, and I had lots of questions that I was not allowed to ask. I only got what they wanted me to see, and from my point of view, if I just look at what these people are saying and what they’re doing…

If it seems like I’m saying they’re lily white, I’m not saying that, and my apologies, because I’m not making that argument. But I’m making a somewhat different argument that…hard to know where to even start. You look at a photograph, you think you know what the photograph is about. You don’t. You look at the photograph of Sabrina Harman smiling next to Al-Jamadi’s corpse, you think she’s responsible for the murder. She isn’t.

To me, which is the worse crime—the thumb up or murder? People don’t see the murder. People are obsessed with the thumb and the smile. It’s an essay on the Cheshire Cat. You see the smile, you don’t see the cat.

You see what you want to see. I think that does stick out more than the gruesomeness. You can only handle so much gruesomeness, and there is a level of disbelief in the American public. These are not who Americans are.

It’s denial. Much easier for all of us to blame the seven bad apples. That’s the easy way out. I think it’s really interesting and I don’t think any accident here that both the left and the right accept them as monsters. It doesn’t matter. The left says, oh, they’re monsters because of the three-headed monster in the wings—Bush, Cheney, and Rumsfeld. That three-headed monster made them into monsters in its own image. The right says no, no, no, no. They’re monsters to be sure, but they’re monsters because they’re monstrous, self-directed monsters, rogue monsters. Seven bad apple monsters. But monsters, both left and right.

It allows us to blame somebody, to actually push this away from ourselves and not deal with it. It allows us actually not to look any further than the photographs because then we can say, “Oh this is it. Done. Finito."

It seems a theme through a number of your films to take the monster and put a human face on.

This is correct. Thank you.

I think this film carries on in that grand tradition. I also think it will be misunderstood.

I think all of them have been. Look, you’re talking about a film that’s coming out about a story that has fingerprints all over it. This is not The Thin Blue Line, this is not a story that people don’t care about, that they don’t know about. Everybody knows about it. They’ve seen the pictures. Along I come claiming there’s a story hidden here that hasn’t been seen that is also a story about scapegoating, that Abu Ghraib really needs to be investigated. It never has been. The photographs I think effectively prevented an investigation. Easier just to look at Lynndie England or Chuck Graner or Sabrina Harman and say this is the problem.

I even think the bad apples got George Bush reelected in 2004 because they gave him someone to blame. It’s them, not me. You want to know why the war is going south, why the insurgency is growing, why there are all these beheading videos. Actually, with the beheading videos it's even more cause and effect. These guys embarrassed America. The crime here is so perverse and so odd, is not the stuff depicted in any one picture, it’s the existence of the pictures embarrassing the administration, embarrassing the Army, embarrassing America.

Why did they do it? Why did they photograph these things? Why did they video them?

Go back to Sabrina. In a way it’s an essential question and I don’t pretend that I have some definitive answer. I think, in general, we photograph things because reality is peculiar. Maybe we need to stop it and look at it and memorialize it so we can scrutinize it at some later time, refresh our memory of our own experiences.

Sabrina says she took the pictures, she says this again and again in the letters, to expose the military as “nothing but lies." She was lied to. She also knew that a lot of the things around her—this is just the opposite of the faceless automaton picture we’re given of these people—she was aware that what she was doing was wrong. She was aware that there was some horrendous moral compromise here. She was uneasy with it. She imagined…that was a way of creating moral distance, but it was also a way of analyzing and also perhaps imagining yourself as the whistle-blower, imagining yourself as standing up against this. I somehow think that some of those pictures were acts of disobedience. They were saying, “We know what you’re doing. We can show people what you’ve been up to, the real cards you have in your hand." The real irony of it is the pictures were turned around and used against them. They thought that in many instances they were protecting themselves.

It’s unfortunate that you were not allowed to talk to Graner. Graner certainly did seem to be the ringleader. Did you get that impression?

My impression is that this all comes down to one night, the night of the pyramid. There was horrible, horrible abuse in that place that goes far beyond some photographs. We’re fighting a war of humiliation—sexual humiliation. We have been from the very beginning, a war, I guess, to show Saddam who’s boss, who’s got the biggest stick. We’re a country of 300 million people who had a foreign policy of "Kill Saddam." I don’t mean a foreign policy for the Iraq region or the Middle East. That was our complete foreign policy, the sum of it. What I’ve watched is a story of humiliation and rehumilitation, the administration’s attempt to humiliate Saddam, the use of women in American military prisons—American women to humiliate prisoners.

Do you think that was a specific directive to them?

Absolutely. It’s one of the sickest things about this war—how women have been used. To think the fact that there are women in the military, suddenly the military is egalitarian. I think there’s a sick—I don’t know how to describe it any other way—undercurrent to all of this. Using American women to humiliate Iraqi men.

Which is simultaneously humiliating to the women, who didn’t want to be in the picture in the first place.

There you go. I often think that Graner in his crazy-type way when he put Lynndie at the other end of that tiedown strap and took the picture and later cropped Megan Ambuhl out of the picture, that he was creating a little vignette about the war, you know, American male dominating his American girlfriend, who in turn is dominating an Iraqi man. It’s a crazy, crazy story. These bad apples humiliate America. The administration tries to humiliate them, and so it goes.

Somehow, we remain blissfully unaware of the real nature of this war, the real content.

I was looking at some polls, and only two weeks after the photos came out, the public were already not wanting to see them anymore. They said, the press has covered this too much, they were wrong to show those photographs. Just two weeks after, when earlier they said, this is an outrage. The American psyche switched that fast.

I really want to know where you read that stuff. That’s really fabulous.

I’m not saying anything remotely original or even interesting—we live in a world of spin. There’s a glut of information. It’s spun, the photographs come out, they essentially become a political football. Nobody stops to say maybe we should find out what really transpired there. There’s tons of investigations, a laundry list of investigations, none of which really produce a conception of what went on, almost as if the goal was obfuscation, and it becomes this crazy, polarized world where we’re all concerned with blame.

There’s information out there. If we wanted to, we could impeach this president. How many torture memos do you need to see before you realize the administration is into torture? The odd thing about the world we live in now is do people care about the information that’s right in front of them? I thought, and this is a crazy idea, to come at the story in a different way. It may irritate people because they have their own ideas of what the story should be, but if you approach it in a completely different way, you’re liable to find out something that people don’t know about. If you’re following that same herd path, the chances of finding something are much, much, much less.

It goes back to that Cheshire Cat concept. We see the smile, and we don’t see the murder. It’s almost a metaphor for the entire war. You can’t force people to see what they don’t want to see, what they’re not predisposed to see. I don’t really know how things have gotten to this point, it’s one of the great mysteries of America at the moment. The values that make this country a great one seem to be forgotten. And one value that I keep going back to is It’s a Wonderful Life and Potterville. It’s a movie in part about little guys sticking together against the big, bad guy. It’s almost like a version of It’s a Wonderful Life where we’ve jumped to blaming the little guys, that Potter and his cronies can walk away scot-free. I’m a populist. It’s not a level playing field, no society will ever be, but you can pay lip service to it, you can try to move in the direction of greater rather than lesser equality.

You don’t watch the big guys pin medals on each other’s chests and the little guys go to jail. I think restoring them as people is important, I really do. It’s a first step. I bristle at the idea of seeing them as evil incarnate because it’s a way of abdicating our own role.

If we don’t face our shadows, we’ll never conquer them.

I think you have to and I think one of our great shadows is this war. I feel it much more so than I did of the war during which I came of age—Vietnam. This one seems crazier to me. Maybe it’s ideology that I didn’t grow up with, but it’s hard to see rhyme or reason in any of this, and it’s hard to know why there is so little opposition in Congress and America to it.

Can we have an update on “Nub City"?

I still want to make it, I have the script. There’s two kind of quasi horror movies that I wanted to make. One of them is “Nub City" and the other the movie about Ed Gein. I think of all the movies I’ve wanted to make that I haven’t made. I’m too slow. Doing this kind of movie is just plain exhausting. But I hope it sparks questions. l

My review of Standard Operating Procedure is here. Be sure to read Errol Morris' blog on the New York Times.