Film Atlas (Mexico): Godfather Mendoza

Mendoza on the right.

Country: Mexico

Title: Godfather Mendoza / El Compadre Mendoza (1933)

Set in the Mexican Revolution of the 1910s, Godfather Mendoza is a love triangle about a pudgy double-dealing landowner, his beautiful young wife and the dashing revolutionary soldier she falls in love with. Though it may sound schematic, one thing, among many, that makes this film intriguing is that the story is told from the perspective of Rosalio Mendoza, the landowner, who turns out to be infinitely more interesting than the attractive, morally-upright and politically-sympathetic couple whose romance he obstructs.

The silver-tongued Mendoza (Alfredo del Diestro) sells guns to the left, quarters soldiers for the right and hosts feasts for both sides when they pass through, always managing to squeak by with his life and a little profit. His neighbors fare less well, allowing him to negotiate a charming bride, Delores, by bailing out a desperate father. The wedding is interrupted by a particularly cutthroat band of revolutionaries intent on murder, rape and plunder, but an old friend, Felipe Nieto, intervenes on Rosalio’s behalf and saves his life. Felipe becomes a regular at Mendoza’s hacienda, a trusted family friend and godfather to Rosalio and Delores’s child. Over time Delores and Felipe fall in love. They remain chaste, but Rosalio senses the tension and is frustrated and hurt. As the fighting intensifies his position becomes harder and his decisions too, especially after the Federales offer him safety in exchange for betraying Felipe.

Made little over a decade after the end of the war, Godfather Mendoza demonstrated a level of moral and political subtlety unprecedented in Mexican cinema. Though still technically walking the pro-revolution party line of its era, the compassion for and insight into Mendoza anchors the story. His anguished conscience echoes Hans Beckert in ‘M’ (1931), but with his worst nature linked to class self-interest rather than perverse compulsion. Delores and Felipe, more traditional types, must also make tough choices between friendship and loyalty or love and desire. Rounding things out are a pair of memorable servants: Antenogenes, whose job it is to hang the correct portrait when guests are received (Zapata or Huerta and later Carranza), and Maria, a mute housekeeper who silently judges Rosalio (her ability to lip-read provides a scene Kubrick borrowed for ‘2001: A Space Odyssey’).

The film is directed by Fernando de Fuentes. Though neglected today, he’d be my pick for Mexico’s greatest native-born director. I couldn’t decide whether to review this or the badly damaged final installment of his Revolution Triology, ‘Let’s Go with Pancho Villa’, in which six friends join Villa’s army. Dubbed The Lions of San Pablo, they die one by one, at first as heroes (and for the first half of the film you could be forgiven for thinking this was jingoistic propaganda) but later as increasingly expendable pawns. The film is notable for its gradually introduced disillusionment, culminating in an absolutely devastating ending. 40 years after it was released, a final reel was discovered that revealed an even darker conclusion (presumably too dark for audiences to stomach in 1930s) that I’d argue ranks amongst cinema’s most definitive anti-war statement. I like Let's Go with Pancho Villa so much I may write a second separate review.

My Favorites:

El Topo

Pan's Labyrinth

The Holy Mountain

Let's Go with Pancho Villa
Enamorada
Godfather Mendoza
Aventurera

The Exterminating Angel

Amores Perros

The Criminal Life of Archibaldo de la Cruz
Silent Light

Macario

Biutiful
Midaq Alley

Hell Without Limits

Major Directors:
Alfonso Cuaron, Emilio Fernández, Fernando de Fuentes, Alejandro Gonzalez Inarritu, Alejandro Jodorowsky, Guillermo del Toro

Iceberg Arena: Dogfight

In the years between WWI and WWII, public interest in aviation was at its peak. Incorporating spectacular areal photography into an epic celebration of WWI pilots was a surefire recipe for box-office success. The idea gave birth to two classic aerial war films: the first Oscar-winning film and only silent winner, “Wings,” (1927) and the notorious Howard Hughes pet project “Hell’s Angels” (1930).

In the prologue of “Wings,” Jack builds a car, dubbed “The Shooting Star,” with his tomboyish neighbor Mary Preston (Clara Bow), completely oblivious to her affection. Instead, he pursues the much-in-demand Sylvia, unaware that his rich-kid rival David is her real hubby. Awkwardness persists when America joins the war and Jack accidently takes a memento that Sylvia intended for David. Boot camp soon makes best friends out of the former nemeses and they go on to be wingmen in a series of major battles. Jack eventually runs into Mary while he is on leave in Paris, but he’s too drunk to recognize her. The bizarre comedic sequence is a bit out of place, involving animated bubbles (a hallucination which Jack is fixated upon), brief nudity and Mary getting discharged. Called back to duty, Jack shoots down several key dirigibles, but is devastated when David crashes behind enemy lines.

“Hell’s Angels” concerns Roy and Monte Rutledge, two British brothers with opposite personalities. Roy is good-natured and honorable, but terribly naïve and hopelessly in love with Helen (Jean Harlow), who is every bit the “wrong type of woman.” Monte is a fast-living playboy whose cowardice is foreshadowed when he slips out of a duel, leaving his brother to fight in his stead. When WWI breaks out, they become pilots (Roy enthusiastically volunteers, Monte is conned with hilarious ease by a recruiter) and are forced to fight, and unknowingly kill, their former German pal Karl. A nerve-racking, but victorious, campaign culminates in a daring bomb run in a restored German aircraft. The brothers are captured and Roy must make a difficult decision when Monte’s fear finally gets the best of him.

Both films were lavish production, with astounding airborne dogfights, more than two hours of footage and bills running past $2 million (“Hell’s Angels” cost an exorbitant $4 million). “Wings,” though silent, included plenty of innovative camerawork and special effects that made planes appear to burn and smoke as they were shot down. “Hell’s Angels” was reshot halfway through production to include sound (some intertitles remain) and has several scenes in color (using a briefly-vogue dual-color method), including a dazzling blimp crash. Despite their costs, both films made substantial profits.

In addition to their technical ambitions, they share similar plot devices as well. Both films feature a love triangle of two pilots (friends in “Wings,” brothers in “Hell’s Angels”) interested in the same woman. Despite getting less screen-time than the men, an actress holds top-billing in each: first-timer Jean Harlow in “Hell’s Angels” and “It girl” Clara Bow in “Wings.” Both include a “not all Germans are evil” character that aids the Allies despite his nationality. In “Wings” it is a bumbling pilot-turned-mechanic with an American flag tattoo, while in “Hell’s Angels” it is a former classmate of the brothers who gets conscripted into the German Luftwaffe, but misdirects a London bombing to splash harmlessly into a rural lake.

[Partial SPOILER paragraph] There are also some odd coincidences between the two conclusions. Both finales involve flying enemy planes. A main character in each film gets dangerously drunk the night before a final bombing mission and after its success both central protagonists kill their comrade, although under widely different circumstances.

Of the two, “Wings” is probably the worse off for propaganda, presenting the popular all-encompassing image of the Allies pulling together for a common cause be they men or women, wealthy or working class, American or British, etc., etc. All the gung-ho uniform optimism feels awfully one-dimensional, and while it is present in much of “Hell’s Angels,” too, Monte’s less admirable portrayal of a soldier provides a more probing balance of human weaknesses and eroded morale.

“Hell’s Angels” reaches an ideological low (not without its emotional punch) during a scene depicting a German officer ordering his men to jump from a blimp to lighten its load, a command that they unquestioningly obey. Compared to the gentlemanly German ace in “Wings” who risk AA fire to convey a letter to his American counterparts, the villains in “Hell’s Angels” are downright textbook prototypes for the “ve ‘ave veys of making you talk” Nazis from the next generation of war films.

As “love and war” adventures, both of these films are fairly entertaining. The time-worn story unfolds in a manner that must have been as predictable in the Jazz Age as they are now, but the producers clearly relied on the aviation dressing to reinvigorate the routine. The acting is mediocre at best, doggedly fulfilling the necessary formulas while taking backstage to the sweeping action and general heroism.

Yet despite bearing the same flying love triangle mantle, I wouldn’t dismiss these as the silent-film era equivalents of “Pearl Harbor” (2001), nor would I say that their popular acclaim is purely due to patriotic fervor. These early films are highly effective at executing efficient thrills, sometimes ejecting emotional complexity in favor of blazing broad streaks across the sky, but generally landing safely in the bounds of good taste and rousing entertainment. They lack much historical detail, but it helps make historical accuracy a fairly moot point. (Why do filmmakers seem to care more about historical detail the further they get from the event?) As for sincerity, this is no “All Quiet on the Western Front,” but it has plenty of edge over the aforementioned Bruckheimer/Bay collaboration.

Of course, where “Wings” and “Hell’s Angels” really excel is in the production values and presentation. Both include riveting dogfight sequences with footage that balances stunning aerial photography with high-intensity close-ups in the cramped cockpits. The use of cumulous clouds for cover and context provides literal atmosphere and a sense of the majesty, scope and speed of the combat. The highlight of “Hell’s Angles,” a nighttime raid on an escorted bomber blimp almost entirely engulfed in clouds, is probably the best in either film. The imprecise color tinting only adds to the impression of a feverish celestial clash.

On the ground, “Wings” is far the superior filmmaking showcase. Director William Wellman performs a variety of unusual camera gimmicks, including a memorable sequence on a swing and a montage of a gunner bunker getting crushed, along with the camera, by a tank. Ample use of dolly and crane shots help keep the human interest portions from feeling like dry insulation packed between the airborne acrobatics, an occasional complaint with “Hell’s Angels.” Even the partially-animated “bubble” scene, a drunken slapstick sequence of the type I normally groan about, is strangely fascinating in its misconceived ingenuity.

Though neither of these movies is really my type of war movie – I prefer psychologically fraught, grim and gritty anti-war films – they are great examples of packaging mass entertainment and unabashed military propaganda in a single appealing package. I had enough fun simply taking them for what they are that I’ll refrain from conducting a Marxist analysis of their implicit value systems and manipulative societal self-reinforcement. Suffice it to say that I enjoyed them both (I may be biased by working in the aviation industry), but prefer “Wings” for its superior directing over the better character arcs in “Hell’s Angels.”

Winner: Wings

Review of Craig's Wife (1936)

“Craig’s Wife” (1936) is a little-known film by director Dorothy Arzner, an adaptation of a George Kelly play that had made its way to the screen before and would do so again. The film was a breakout role for Rosalind Russell, and featured two of the era’s greatest character actors: Thomas Mitchell and Jane Darwell. Sadly, without either a DVD release or television rotation it has drifted into obscurity. I pseudo-randomly rented it on a tattered VHS from a local library and almost returned it unwatched. Observing that it had only 75 imdb votes piqued my curiosity. The film walrus’s psychology towards film can be compared to the little child who wants to take home and nurse back to health every injured animal he comes across.

Craig’s Wife (played by Russell in the mold of Joan Crawford) is a cold tyrannical manipulator who has married for money and spends much of her time obsessively adjusting the twigs in her nest. Her sense of interior decoration is rather uninviting, and can broach neither flowers brought in friendship (the petals despoil the sterile tabletops) nor her husband’s cigarettes. Craig, who remains inexplicably madly in love with his wife, fails at first to notice that she chokes out every glimmer of happiness in his life and has gradually repelled all of his friends.

For someone who is so possessive and perfectionist about her property, Mrs. Craig’s home is surprisingly bustling. Two servants, a neighbor, a niece and a step-parent all tromp through the abode for the majority of the run-time (revealing its roots as a play), though gradually Mrs. Craig’s snarkiness poisons the party. Things go too far for even Mr. Craig when he learns that his wife tried to implicate him in a double homicide just to get him out of her hair. Arzner does a crafty job orchestrating a series of events through which Craig’s wife gets her secret wish and final retribution: utter abandonment. The film’s tearful conclusion is deliciously prepared, though vengeance gets served in several more courses than is strictly necessary.

Watching this so soon after “Swept Away” (1974) drew my attention to some odd similarities. Though this 1930’s film is far milder, there seemed to be a certain misogynistic streak that ran through it. Once again, the presence of a woman in the director’s chair compelled me to look deeper. Certainly a female director is under no obligation to spend her career resisting gender stereotypes and fighting for feminism, but Arzner was THE female director of the classical Hollywood era (there were virtually no rivals in terms of fame or financial success) and she has a reputation for lacing her films with feminist undertones. “Dance, Girl, Dance” (1940), for instance, is quite explicit in the way that it challenges the male gaze and directly indicts female objectification.

Craig’s wife is hardly a sympathetic character, but there are aspects of Russell’s performance that manage to evoke pity. We learn in her back-story that her faithful mother was left in the lurch by her father. She has been driven since then to achieve independence, even in the paradoxical act of marriage. The script notes that she pays her servants generously and, though she treats them abominably, this might show a tinge of conscience for those women who like her former self, lack financial means.

Mrs. Craig isolation really begins far before her literal abandonment, which itself is pushed to a dramatic extreme. She is psychologically withdrawn from the world, even her estranged family. Though Arzner could have portrayed her as a femme fatale who cheats on Mr. Craig, she plays out as a hard-bitten woman incapable of emotional or physical love. Much in her behavior looks like obsessive-compulsive disorder or Asperger’s Syndrome. Meanwhile, Craig may be hen-pecked, but life isn’t really so bad for him. He is away much of the time, talks cheerfully and appears to make friends easily. Seen today, he has his own share of flaws and occasionally comes off as entitled and petty.

Under the surface a slight tug-of-war wages between Mrs. Craig’s role as a witchy villain and as a nuanced protagonist. We are given enough latitude to understand her character, even as the script roundly condemns her. There are even implications that her failure to connect with others is not entirely her fault and that the marriage itself may have flaws, especially in the way that 1930’s conventions discouraged female ambition and kept couples in such separate spheres. Note that the film draws frequent attention to Mr. Craig’s love of travel and career compared to his wife’s fanatical nest building. In the throes of the Hays Code it is not surprising that Arzner would have to soft-peddle her explorations of such themes lest they “throw sympathy against marriage as an institution.”

As an overall film, “Craig’s Wife” is really quite classy and entertaining. The structural purity of Mrs. Craig’s downfall keeps it more pleasurable than preachy. Each character has a role to play; they perform it with grace and balance, finish it with an eloquent and appropriate speech and, one by one, exit the story. Thomas Mitchell’s cameo as a drunken friend is all too short, though his abrupt off-screen murder-suicide provides the films most sensational and implausible jolt. Jane Darwell is excellent as the only servant with the stamina to weather Hurricane Craig. Russell provides a powerful anchor, giving way to bouts of bitchiness in a convincing manner, but still implying other dimensions to her character.

Fans of well-written, subdued 1930’s dramas in the vein of “Dodsworth” or “Camille” (both also from 1936) will enjoy “Craig’s Wife.” It occasionally feels hampered by the inevitability of its trajectory and gagged in its revelations about married life, but the acting, staging and timing have the sharp honed edge of a well-practiced play.

Walrus Rating: 7.0

Vampire Week Part 2

Rank: 30
Title: The Addiction
Director: Abel Ferarra
Country: USA
Year: 1995
Review:
Abel Ferarra’s low-budget B/W vampire art-film is one of the more aberrant results of the 1990’s vampire explosion. Set in Ferarra’s usual New York City, the films re-imagines the city as a locus of soul-crushing physical addiction and mind-bursting intellectual nihilism. Lili Taylor takes on a rare lead role as a bright philosophy student who runs into a vampire one night (Annabella Sciorra looking memorably menacing) and soon spirals into a personal hellhole of pain and cynicism.

The film reaches for the stars with its heady blend of (often conflicting) philosophies. There is enough outright BS to keep everyone unbalanced, an effect immeasurably aided by Taylor’s unreliable mental narration. Perhaps most successful is the central metaphor of addiction, paralleling the insatiable craving for blood with the drug-dependent society of the New York fringe. Ferarra’s talent is often buried under layers of gore and monologue, but his thoughts on substance abuse and psychology are far more coherent (if you can believe it) than the similarly ambitious, but less satisfying vampire cult film “Ganja and Hess” (1973).

Taylor adequately communicates the inherit ups and downs of desperate need and unwholesome fulfillment. Her tortuous personal odyssey culminates in a graduation party of orgiastic hedonism and a prolonged collapse into moral bankruptcy. Christopher Walken has a cameo offering a possible way out, using a system of spiritual meditation and strict self-control to lead a life vampiric moderation. Taylor’s character insists on finding her own path and the ambiguous ending leads us unsure of her ultimate success.

The black and white cinematography is a definite notch above Ferarra’s usual graininess and rough imagery. The boldness of the gritty landscape with the austere crispness of the camerawork lends a contrast of in-your-face realism and inaccessible detachment. The film is undeniably talky and pretentious and yet quite sincere in its desire to communicate the tearing disparity between intellectual heights and physical depths. Throughout the feature references to global traumas, high art, scarred counterculture and personal suffering drive home the message hard… whatever that message is.

Rank: 29
Title: Vampyr: The Adventures of Allen Grey
Director: Carl Theodor Dreyer
Country: Denmark/France/Germany
Year: 1932
Review:
The well-regarded Danish director Dreyer, departed somewhat from his art-house dramas to make this early vampire film. Though outwardly embracing the horror explosion going on in America, within minutes its clear that Dreyer has an unconventional take on the vampire world.

Allen Grey is an unlucky wanderer without much background who finds himself in a strange region near Courtempierre. He is plagued by disturbing visions (possibly hallucinations) of the local peasants behaving in ghostly and unnatural ways. Unsettling shadow-plays take place in the fields, and sparse buildings suggesting the proximity of a dark mirror world. Allen takes up with a beleaguered lord in a cavernous castle and soon perceives the danger (both from illness and malicious outside forces) that are driving his daughter, Leone, to her deathbed. Overcoming his fear, our protagonist sets about to end the reign of the powerful vampire witch behind it all.

“Vampyr” is probably the most insufferably slow vampire films of all time and requires a fair bit of patience to endure. The creative visual effects and silent-era atmosphere reward viewers who can tolerate the olden style. Fans of Dreyer will appreciate of his minimalist perfection of texture and framing. The cinematography is cast in glowing, faded grays and saturated whites (an effect which coincidently causes lights to “bleed”), while shadows are reserved for silhouettes and arty compositions. Julian West (Allen Grey) is not compelling as an actor or character; the real interest lies in the demonic agents of evil and the nightmarish events of the cursed countryside.

Avoid this one if you are only a fan of the glossy vampire blockbusters of the past two decades. However, those with a taste for horror films in the vein of “The Phantom Carriage” (1921), “Haxan: Witchcraft throughout the Ages” (1922) or Dreyer’s “Day of Wrath” (1943) will find another favorite.


Rank: 28
Title: Dracula
Director: Tod Browning
Country: USA
Year: 1931
Review:
Bela Lugosi created one of the most enduring portrayals of the infamous Count in this 1931 monster-movie classic. It is probably the most famous and oft-seen Dracula movie though it is not without its disappointments. It is also the first official adaptation of Bram Stoker’s novel, though it still contains many deviations – notably the ending (which always seems to get changed). The celebrity-infested borefest which is “Bram Stoker’s Dracula” (1992) keeps the original finale wherein (spoiler alert), Dracula is chased back to Transylvania and killed by a minor character while being transported by gypsies.

So what is the default cinematic Dracula story? Quick summary. Renfield goes to Dracula’s Transylvania castle to sell him a plot of land (Carfax Abbey) in London. He becomes the vampire’s insane minion, and the two head to England, where he harasses seduces and bites Lucy, a sought-after beauty. John Seward (usually Lucy’s fiancé, but here the father of her friend Mina) dispatches her. Dracula turns his attention to Mina who is saved by Seward and his vampire-expert friend, Dr. Abraham Van Helsing who puts an end to the eon-old villain by driving a wooden stake through his heart.

The film is rather sparse and simple, conforming to Universal’s successful horror model which relies little on gore and effects and more on tension and mood. Unfortunately, Tod Browning channels too much of the Victorian novel’s aloof air and gradual pace. He also translates, to detrimental effect, the stage play’s static perspective and limited character movement. Possibly the only beneficial inheritance was Lugosi, who played the hematophagous hell-spawn on the stage. The sets lack the style of later adaptations, but come closer to realism and the early scenes in Dracula’s cyclopean castle and vaulted catacombs make up for the menace missing in the later indistinguishable studio standbys.

Lugosi is the reason to see this film. He looks and sounds the part, though his physical movements are a bit restrained. His glowing eyes come courtesy of an off-screen assistant who shined pen-lights into his pupils. The Hungarian accent is all his own, and elevated otherwise ordinary lines into some of the most memorable quotes in horror history. In the first scenes alone you get: “Listen to them, Children of the night. What music they make,” (referring to wolves howling), “I never drink… wine,” and the frequently sampled, “And now… I leave you.”

Tod Browning directed better all-around horror films like “The Unknown” (1927) and cult classic “Freaks” (1932), but “Dracula” would live on in the popular conscious. For my own taste, I prefer Universal’s other horror franchise, “Frankenstein.”

Rank: 27
Title: Nosferatu: Phantom of the Night (Nosferatu the Vampire)
Director: Werner Herzog

Country: Germany

Year: 1979
Review:
Werner Herzog’s “Nosferatu: Phantom of the Night” is one of the few explicit remakes of a former vampire movie, taking its inspiration from the unofficial 1922 film “Nosferatu” and not Bram Stoker’s novel. This has some advantages, like a pre-existing supply of creepy moments and expressive gestures to draw upon, but also limits the creativity and mad genius Herzog is so known for.

The plot is almost identical to “Nosferatu’s” pared-down retelling. Jonathon Harker heads abroad to sell Wismar (usually London, but changed to match the sets and locations of the earlier German feature) property to a reclusive count. Harker’s host hones in on an image of Jonathon’s fiancée, Lucy, and is smitten. He agrees to buy a neighboring estate. Dracula then wields his powers over Harker and even (through dreams or some other telepathic bond) influencing Lucy and Harker’s employer, Renfield. Harker is eventually freaked out enough by life in the musty den of supernatural dread to try escape, accidentally incapacitating himself in the process. Nosferatu, accompanied by the plague, supersedes him to Wismar. In the cataclysmic chaos of death and disease, the count tries unsuccessfully to woo Lucy. With the help of Van Helsing and Harker’s tattered guide to vampires, Lucy learns that Dracula is the [cause of] the plague and can be destroyed through a sacrificial gesture.

The story is inevitably dull for anyone who has been through the Nosferatu/Dracula motions more than once or twice. Herzog has made changes, but his script surgery is a subtle operation and I was honestly disappointed by his lack of revisionist vision. Some of the best tweaks include a virtual flood of rats, Dracula’s self-loathing and pitiable decay and a twist ending where the vampiric legacy lives on. Herzog keeps things heavy and stylish, but with a distinct German New Wave malaise and nihilistic torpor, rather than the expressionistic play of light and shadow so integral to F. W. Murnau’s interpretation. The inspired use of Krautrock trailblazers Popol Vuh for the soundtrack enhances the detached, otherworldly ambience.

Perhaps where this version succeeds most is in the casting and acting (the three leads are each amongst my favorite European performers), something which is quite rarely true for the subgenre. Klaus Kinski makes one of the best Draculas of all time, fully committing himself to the grotesque makeup design and eccentric behavioral quirks. He brings a great deal of nuance and emotion to the character, developing the doomed melancholy and bruised romanticism more often attributed to Frankenstein’s monster or King Kong. The role of Lucy belongs to Isabelle Adjani who manages to be both sensual and distant and comes off deeper and creepier than is usually called for. Veteran actor Bruno Ganz has the most thankless role as the nominal protagonist, Jonathon Harker, but still puts in a solid performance as a bewildered man totally out of his league in the face of paranormal powers.

Rank: 26
Title: The Hunger
Director: Tony Scott

Country: UK

Year: 1983
Review:
“The Hunger” opens with a cult music video sequence of Bauhaus’s “Bela Lugosi’s Dead,” which is reason enough to see the movie for some. If you’re like me, the chance to see Catherine Deneuve as a refined bisexual vampire queen with David Bowie as her dying lover is worth the rental price. However, the movie as a whole is never quite the indie masterpiece that these parts should sum up to.

Part of the problem is Tony Scott’s direction, which fails to explore anything below the surfaces he so admiringly presents. Some of the problem lies in the Whitley Strieber source novel and the unfocused adaptation. What little plot we’re given is spread thin across a vampire love-triangle where passions flare, but yearnings are never fulfilled.

Miriam (Deneuve) is an ancient vampire with culture, class and poise to spare. Every few centuries she takes a new lover (the latest is Bowie’s John) and grants them temporary immortality with the nourishment of her blood. Unfortunately, it never lasts. At the end of their prolonged, youthful life, her partners age rapidly. Unable to die, they are trapped in decrepit skeletons too weak to rise from the attic coffins where Miriam collects them.

In John’s last few hours, he visits an aging specialist (Susan Sarandon) who refuses to believe his claims and feels guilty when she sees him literally fall apart before her eyes. When she goes looking for him later, she meets Miriam and the two enter into a dance of distrust, disgust and seduction.

Tony Scott is a born stylist, and it often accounts for both his appeal and undoing. “The Hunger” has the look and feel of wealthy gothic chic, and the mood would, honestly, not be quite the same without the slow pacing, gracefully panning long takes and minimal dialogue. Though it probably could have benefited from more characters, sets and plot developments, it still excels at indulgent decadence, and remains required viewing for the hipster elite.

Iceberg Arena: Mutiny Madness!

Rollicking seafaring adventures never seem to go out of style, if the success of the “Pirates of the Caribbean” trilogy is any indication (or “Master and Commander” somewhat less recently; 2003). It’s hard not to get caught up in the chaotic panic of a thrashing oceanic storm or the bravado of a swashbuckling pirate raid or the claustrophobic tension of a submarine mission. However, one of my favorite elements found occasionally in the wave-scaling genre is one that is one less-often addressed (almost as rare as its real life counterpart): Mutiny.

Mutiny has a great deal of appeal both as plot element and theme. Who doesn’t like the vicarious bucking of authority and upsetting of petrified power structures. Today’s Iceberg Arena will pit two mutinous crews against each other, both heralding from acknowledged classics of the studio era. The contenders are “Mutiny on the Bounty” (1935) and “The Caine Mutiny” (1954).

Mutiny on the Bounty:

“Mutiny on the Bounty” is based on the novel by Charles Nordhoff and James Norman Hall (in turn based on the real-life 1789 incident), which has seen other adaptations both before and after this one. I can’t claim to have seen them all, but the 1935 Frank Lloyd version has remained a popular favorite if not a particularly accurate retelling of the tale.

The always-dashing Clark Gable plays Fletcher Christian, the first mate aboard the H.M.S. Bounty sailing from England to Tahiti. Gable and the crew suffer under the totalitarian regime of Captain William Bligh, an extremely capable if sadistic taskmaster. Bligh’s excessive punishments result in the death of at least one sailor and morale drops below sea-level. Arrival at the tropical island provides some relief from the seething tension, but also gives the men a taste of contentment, relaxation and even love. When the barked orders and snapping whips resume, it isn’t long before the last straw breaks and a ship-side civil war breaks out. Christian and his primarily low-ranking cohorts successfully overcome Bligh and his surprisingly numerous supporters. Christian returns to his island paradise and leaves Bligh and his buddies in a small sailboat with a bare minimum of supplies. Undaunted, but against all odds, the revenge-driven captain sets about the 3000+ mile trip back to England to secure a new vessel and a means to destroy Christian for good.

Director Lloyd gets in all the action and adventure you could want, with a snappy pacing that manages to draw attention to the arduous stretches of endless sea travel without lashing the audience to the drudgery and repetition actually involved. The story is thankfully divided into several phases: the outbound journey, the island, the mutiny, Bligh’s return and so on. The script smartly keeps a tight character focus, with a convincing friendship developed between Fletcher Christian and Roger Byam. Byam (played by Franchot Tone) is a midshipman who sides with Bligh as a matter of honor and patriotism despite his frank revulsion for the captain’s methods. For his trouble, he still ends up on trial, in a scene that neatly transfers the sense of gross injustice from the ship to the courtroom.

“Mutiny on the Bounty” plays fast and loose with historical facts and thus often finds itself dealing with caricatures where more interesting realities could have been useful. Charles Laughton’s performance as Bligh is vintage villainous hyperbole and swells with a transcendent megalomaniac evil that is sure to get every viewer outraged. However the character is a bit too Dickensian, with his one loudly declared trait emphasized at the expense of any other development. He is finally vindicated by his bravery, authority and shipsmanship (if I may make up a funny-sounding term) in his daring cross-ocean return to England, but where was the evidence of those positive attributes earlier? Ultimately we are also left with little clue into his personal life or private thoughts and he seems occasionally blind and obtuse beyond belief.

Other minor characters likewise suffer from the bold swath-stroke screenwriting. The painfully sexist island girls, for instance, are male-idealized into exotic fantasies of long hair, big smiles and chipper servility. Why don’t they ever mutiny from having to fetch coconut cocktails and dance in uncomfortable outfits for their male imperialists? Then again, Clark Gable’s gentlemanly crew of good-hearted, hard-working chaps are hardly the prison-drafted thugs and rapists of the real life case. A happy-go-lucky drunken doctor stereotype is the only evidence of alcohol (and that is only as eye-winking guilty pleasure confined to a small hip flask). No evidence of debauchery, crime, deprivation or tropical illness taints the Bounty. Perhaps that’s why the historically inaccurate euphoric ending sits so uneasily.

The Caine Mutiny:

“The Caine Mutiny” (1954) is slightly milder on the action-adventure, but sturdier on the characters and realism. It too is a literary adaptation, but comes from the entirely fictitious novel by Herman Wouk. The nominal protagonist is Ensign Willie Keith (a somewhat dull Robert Francis), a preppy, sheltered young man newly assigned to the titular disorderly minesweeper. The setup could almost belong to a wacky comedy, but the entrance of a new captain, Philip Queeg (Humphrey Bogart in an against-type authority role), sobers up the ship’s disparate slackers.

Queeg is a stickler for neatness and the chain of command, but gradually comes to exude the distorted perspective of a mentally unstable man. Lieutenant Thomas Keefer (Fred MacMurray) is the first to suggest that Queeg might be a paranoid schizophrenic. His diagnosis is based on a variety of observations from nitpicky (he fidgets with a pair of metal balls), to suspicious (his ruthless perfectionism and willingness to lie to protect himself) to convincing (his desperate late-night manhunt for imagined strawberry thieves). A series of cowardly and incompetent command decisions finally puts Lieutenant Stephen Maryk (Van Johnson) in the unenviable position of relieving his commanding officer of duty. After the ordeal, everyone who was on deck at the time is put on trial.

The courtroom drama is handled with much more interest than the scene in “Mutiny on the Bounty,” with director Edward Dmytryk treating it as a self-contained story in its own right. As for the earlier (and longer) scenes aboard the Caine, they are certainly more tame and at times more mundane than life on the Bounty. However the subtler angle works for “The Caine Mutiny,” especially the way we see Keefer grow and mature in a smoothly invisible continuum and the way Queeg’s mental illness is handled with dignity and care. Bogart’s performance isn’t nearly as spellbinding or iconic as Laughtons, but it is more nuanced and layered. The restraint in depicting mental illness is ahead of its time and I can imagine viewers in the 1950’s disagreeing with the protagonists that anything was seriously wrong with Queeg other than poor decision-making.

Bogart’s acting is great, but Fred MacMurray steals the show as the lieutenant who introduces the doubts that lead to mutiny. His character is a cynical, intellectual would-be writer who isn’t happy under any captain, but least of all one he feels totally superior to. Ultimately he is as much a coward as his target, and his lack of deeper honor or integrity goes from being charismatic to vile. Jose Ferrer gives another top-notch performance as the sharp, world-weary lawyer in defense of the mutineers. Ferrer and MacMurray team up in the unexpected coda to deliver a powerful scene that complicates the otherwise happy ending.

Robert Francis and Van Johnson are both less interesting characters, who play (perhaps necessarily) a pair of fairly typical navy everymen. Francis’s protagonist is a little too blandly handsome with his shirts always starched, his buttons perpetually polishes and his laces ever straight. His romantic subplot is somewhat tacked on as a scale by which to measure his maturity and doesn’t really get (or deserve) much attention. One could successfully argue that Keefer’s average-Joe role is needed as a perspective through which to view the more eccentric performances, but I think he could have been more interesting.

Conclusion:

Both films are shot in typical Hollywood style without much visual panache or virtuosity. The emphasis is on the plot and if we don’t notice what the man behind the camera is doing, all the better. The effects are about equivalent in both movies for their respective eras. They use detailed models for the storm scenes which seem a bit impressive for 1935 and a bit dated for 1954. The use of stock footage for some of the sea battles in “The Caine Mutiny” may have been a wise choice for realism, but the failure to color balance or clean up the older prints makes them distractingly jarring. The music, like the cinematography, is also of little note although I fancied Max Steiner’s score for “The Caine Mutiny” was slightly preferable.

Dmytryk and Lloyd are both directors who knew their trade, and kept the audience in mind when it came to maintaining momentum. The editing is smart on both films and despite some dragging in the center of both pictures, there is a sense of a three-hour movie packed tightly into the 130 minute range. These are two classic of the Hollywood mode (perhaps not of the highest tier) with wide-appeal and high entertainment value and free of guilt due to the literary tradition and solid acting.

With the competition so close, picking a victor is somewhat arbitrary. I’ve been waffling back and forth but I think I’m going to have to give my vote to “The Caine Mutiny.” The Bogart-MacMurray-Ferrer combination and the more mental, rather than physical, nature of the central conflict are the clinchers.

Iceberg Arena: Olympia, Olympiad, Olympics

The Film Walrus is hardly the first person to point out conspicuous similarities between films released around the same time: Armageddon/Deep Impact, Volcano/Dante’s Peak, Bug’s Life/Antz, The Descent/The Cave, Capote/Infamous, etc. Sometimes it’s coincidence and sometimes it’s lack of creativity. Either way, it’s always fun to compare the two and see which is better and that’s why I’m introducing The Iceberg Arena.

The Iceberg Arena borrows its name from the sacred walrus combat tradition, wherein two walruses fight over a mate or a dead seal on a drifting, ever-shrinking iceberg. The fighting becomes more intense as the arena contracts. Tragically, even if one walrus reigns supreme, it is a hollow victory because global warming dissolves the iceberg from underneath their innocent blubber. Luckily walruses can swim.

Thus in the grand tradition of walrus battles and comparing movies, The Iceberg Arena will be a reoccurring format where I allow two films to fight tusk and fin. Of course, this being The Film Walrus, the contestants will be more interesting and unusual than “Armageddon” or “Dante’s Peak.” To inaugurate the combat, this Iceberg Arena is dedicated to the king of competition itself: The Olympics.

“Olympia Parts I and II” (1938) vs “Tokyo Olympiad” (1965)

The 1936 Olympics were held in Berlin and filmed by Leni Riefenstahl. Riefenstahl, an early female documentary maker, had become a controversial but well-regarded director with her 1936 “Triumph of the Will.” The film remains one of the best propaganda films ever made, possessing a stirring visual power despite its disturbing Nazi iconography and the terrible historical events that comprise its darker unseen half.

“Olympia” at nearly four hours, was Riefenstahl’s next film and it boldly continues her earlier visual mastery. She set the tone for decades of sports reporting afterwards with effective techniques like capturing races in slow-motion, aiming telephotos lenses down the track to catch the details of athlete’s expression and exertion, and attaching cameras to blimps for impressive aerial views. Her surprisingly artistic approach, as in her alternatively low and high angle shots of rotating divers in midair, is often haled with good reason.

But Riefenstahl’s Nazi sympathies also carry over from her previous film. The same low angle shots that exalt the divers’ arcs across the heavens are shared with Hitler gazing out across the stadium.

The film opens with a bizarre ode to the Aryan body-type, the camera tediously exploring Roman ruins and fetishizing the idealized nude statues which come to life in a multiple-superimposed climax of German flesh and muscle. The lingering sense of body worship never quite dissolves, subtly underlying the sports and making the close-ups uncomfortable. It interferes most conspicuously with the framing; Riefenstahl had dozens of cameras on hand but chooses extended shots that cut off the tops of heads, faces or nearby competitors to focus on legs, torsos and arms.

African-American athlete-extraordinaire Jesse Owens took several gold medals including the 100m, 200m, long jump and relay. His victory and the lock-out success of three other Americans in the Decathlon hampered Hitler’s intention that the 1936 Olympics be a triumph of the Aryan genotype. Riefenstahl doesn’t hide their victories and defenders of the film often cite this fact as proof of its balance and lack of propaganda intent, but certainly it would have been impossibly conspicuous to excise such key events as the 100m sprint, relay and decathlon especially since the movie was meant to recuperate much of its extreme expense in international sales.

Tokyo was scheduled to host the Olympics after Berlin, but by 1940 the war made the event impossible and it was canceled. 27 years later the Olympics did make it to Tokyo and well-established fiction director Kon Ichikawa was commissioned to film it. Ichikawa probably seemed like a safe bet; completely the philosophical opposite of Riefenstahl (it was important to Tokyo that they prove their good intentions to the world), Ichikawa had brought a very personal humanist touch to such varied subjects as arson (“Enjo” [1958]), cannibalism (“Fire on the Plains” [1959]) and sexual deviancy (“Odd Obsession” [1959]).

However, upon returning with the finished 3-hour film, the Japanese Olympics committee was outraged. Ichikawa had failed to “document the event” and instead had indulged in making “a work of art” as it was derisively declared. The committee was angered that the full expense and scope of the construction was not foregrounded. The minister of education complained that it would not be understood by children in the schools where it was booked to play across the country.

Ichikawa’s film often neglects to quote the winning times, distances and scores and in an even bolder stroke, often shows less interest in the winner than the losers. At one point Ichikawa strays into an extended vignette following a participant from Chad (“he is older than his country”) as he wanders the streets barefoot and eats a quiet meal. Riefenstahl finishes Part I of her film with the marathon, focusing with extreme close-ups and stock footage on the steady stride and imperturbable force of the lead runner. Ichikawa’s camera hangs back to watch the stranglers, the sweating pained faces of the men stopping for drinks or grabbing sponges on the go. When it does return to the victor it is with the hope of reading his thoughts at the deeply personal moment, and the narrator seems saddened by the stoic lack of expression.

While “Olympia” is virtually unanimously heralded as the highpoint of artistry in sports documentation, Ichikawa’s craft seems superior to my eye. He benefits from having more than a hundred cameras, 70mm color Tohoscope (1:2.35 aspect ratio) footage, 1600mm lenses and years more experience than Riefenstahl. His slow-motion shots (the gymnastics against a black background, the hurdles race shown with no sound except when a hurdle is knocked over), variety of expertly framed shots (looking out through the woods at cyclists or peering across what seems like miles at a pole-vaulter) and touching eye for detail (a news typist slipping off her shoes under the table, a spray of mud as a shot-put hits the earth in the dour rain, etc) make “Tokyo Olympiad” a masterpiece of nuance and artistic humanism.

Ichikawa’s patriotic bias is reduced to two shots of the rising sun: the flag which opens the film and the telephoto sunset at the intermission. Both shots are done artistically and seem to fit well. Ichikawa smartly directs the symbolism away from pure nationalism or war connotations and towards a sense of Japan reborn as a peaceful icon of progress; a daring graphic match transitions the red ball at the center of the opening flag into a wrecking ball as it destroys the run-down buildings where the stadium is to be built.

While discussion was taking place in Japan as to how to re-edit Ichikawa’s failure, the film was sent to Cannes where it was a resounding success. The Olympic committee changed its tune and released the film unchanged. It became the most successful film in Japan ever made up until that time.

Winner: Tokyo Olympiad