Julius Caesar (1953)

Julius Caesar (Joseph L. Mankiewicz, 1953)

Lend me your eyes.

Joe Mankiewicz's first film at his new home at M-G-M was for producer John Houseman, who had produced Orson Welles' acclaimed 1937 stage version of Shakespeare's "The Tragedy of Julius Caesar", staged as if it was a tribal war in Haiti. Welles and Houseman had a venomous falling-out once they both established their film careers, and when Welles started making films of Shakespeare plays (starting with 1948's MacBeth), something might have gotten under Houseman's skin. Perhaps to show him up, Houseman made plans for his own production of "Julius Caesar", with a cast that comprised some of the best film-actors in the world. Mankiewicz adapted the screenplay and then casting began, combining stars from the M-G-M stable and some of the most notable Shakespearean actors of the time.

As well as Marlon Brando.

Now, Brando had made his impression on-stage and on film with "A Streetcar Named Desire," and was the much-ballyhooed klieg-light of "The Method" form of acting, which stood in sharp contrast with the more formal acting of the rest of the troupe, so his casting raised some eyebrows and more than a little skepticism, given his more natural—the term used was "mumbling"—style of acting, especially given his co-stars. After all, co-star John Gielgud was considered a preeminent interpreter of Shakespeare. Brando, knowing what an opportunity he had, prevailed on Gielgud to give him some pointers on negotiating Shakespeare. The rest is pure Brando cunning.

You know the story: "the lean and hungry look;" "It's all greek to me;" Caesar, beware the ides of March;" "Et tu, Brute." Roman emperor Julius Caesar (Louis Calhern) enjoys a popular reign among everyone except some members of the Roman Senate who see the monarch as having too much power and holding onto it for too long, negating any advancement for them, and approaching one of two of Caesar's confidantes—not his military leader Marc Antony (Brando), but the conscientious Senator Marcus Brutus (James Mason)—that the only way they can depose Caesar is to assassinate him.

Several senators confront Caesar and when they can't persuade him to see their way on a specific petition, stab him to death, the previously loyal Brutus being the last to attack and delivering the final, fatal blow.

With Caesar dead, the "liberators" consider the matter of the power vacuum his murder has created (as well as the fear of the populace's reaction to it). To ensure that there is a united front, the conspirators get the stated agreement of Antony to not condemn them when he requests to speak on Caesar's death, assuring that they can make the case for their actions first. It allows a they said/he said with the balance of power at the tipping point.

It's the pivot point on which Shakespeare's play (which is more concerned with the character of Brutus than Caesar) hangs and it is a story of contrasts. Fortunately, Mankiewicz has the right actors to make it play. Mason is all practicality and ideology, making the case for the senators and against Caesar. He lays out his arguments and swings the people to his reasons. But, once Brutus and the conspirators take their leave, Antony brings out Caesar's bloody body and speaks the "Friends, Romans and countrymen" speech, casting himself as the disadvantaged speaker and playing on the crowd's emotions, rather than their reason.

It's a masterful piece of writing and under Brando's fiery delivery (in his formal British-accented "Jor-el" voice), a fine example of mass-manipulation. Capitulating to the assassins' demands that he not speak against them, Antony slyly and repeatedly reminds the gathered throng that the murderers are all honorable men, but makes it clear to the crowd that he does so under duress, and then picks apart their arguments against Caesar. He then hammers his purpose home while appealing to the crowd's self-interest, by providing Caesar's will and reading off (or making up) that Caesar made the people of Rome his beneficiaries.

Brando starts out stern and placating, then seemingly breaks down with emotion, building to a feverish pitch and finally screaming the last line, as the crowd starts to rebel against the conspirators (and many of the set's furnishings) and he stands above all and watches the fruits of his handiwork.

With a wedge formed between the conspirators and the people, Antony is free to wage war against them, and, at that point, director Mankiewicz opens up the play out of the studio—Rome is portrayed as bound blocks of marble that have before dominated the film—its own version of a stage's proscenium arch that traditionally frame the Bard's works, to ever so briefly expand the scope by moving out into the real world way from columns and polished surfaces and to Nature's disarray, as the conspirators squabble with each other and their union begins to fray.

It's the best version that I've seen of the play, with strong performances from the entire cast (which also includes Edmond O' Brien, Greer Garson, and Deborah Kerr) and particularly strong performances from Mason and Gielgud, which is where other versions I've seen have fallen a little flat. The roles of Cassius and Brutus are particularly central to the play as it centers on the turning of Brutus to perform an act of betrayal in what he is convinced is a good cause, only to find that it is all for naught and must come to terms with his conscience over it—a sort of "Hamlet" in reverse.

It's an odd combination of star power and acting prowess, and is one of the best presentations of Shakespeare put on the screen.

White Heat (1949)

White Heat (Raoul Walsh, 1949) Did a podcast for the Large Association of Movie Blogs the other night with MovieRob—he's in charge of the "Acting School 101" segment, where they focus on a particular actor for the month (there's also a "Directing School 101") and the contributors post links to relevant posts they've made. This month's Acting 101 subject if James Francis Cagney (which is why you've seen seemingly irrelevant Cagney posts lately—I'm cleaning out the attic of the old blog I wrote and bringing them over here) and we had a rollicking discussion—I could've gone another couple hours on the subject, it was so much fun. But, my No. 1 pick of Cagney performances (Rob's was Yankee Doodle Dandy, a great choice) was White Heat, which Rob had never seen. "Ro-o-o-b," I bleated in my best Mary Tyler Moore imitation. "You've GOT to see White Heat!"

Everybody should. It's a late-forties return to form with Cagney in gangster mode...but with a big difference. Cagney's early gangsters were opportunists, falling through the cracks of bad economics and bad situations to eke out a living by the easiest way possible—crime.

But not White Heat's Cody Jarrett. When Cagney returned to Warner Brothers Studio to do it, he read the script, recognized the form but found it a little formulaic and, thus, dull. Cagney had a suggestion: "Let's make him nuts," and the script was altered and Cagney's criminal thus had no justifying excuses—Jarrett is psychologically damaged ("like his old man" says a gang-member)—all id, with no ego or conscience to curtail it. He's mother-fixated, greedy, jealous, and subject to debilitating headaches ("like a buzz-saw in my skull," he describes it). Whether it's caused by blood pressure, stress, PTSD, or just bad humours, he's due for a stroke if he doesn't curtail it. But, before he does, he's going to take out as much as he can, monetarily or in collateral damage. "Top of the world, ma" he toasts his mother in a perverse version of The American Dream. "Top of the world."

Jarrett's gang goes in for The Big Scores, robbing trains, pilfering payrolls, stuff that involves high risk with high rewards (except for those who succumb to the high risks). When the job's done, the gang splits up, finds a hide-out to lay low, with Mom Jarrett (Margaret Wycherly) in tow to monitor police efforts and plan the next heist. But, not for too long, as Jarrett gets antsy and the headaches start. Plus, there's Cody's wife Verna (Virginia Mayo) who loves the spoils, but not having Ma breathing down her neck and nagging. Jarrett keeps her under a watchful eye and a short leash, because he's just as suspicious of her as he is of weasels in his gang like "Big Ed" (Steve Cochran), who Jarrett knows would love to take over the Jarrett game and serve divorce papers to him from the barrel of a gun.

All that time keeping his enemies close also makes him a little myopic. After a train-heist that scalds one of the gang-members, Jarrett orders the mug shot rather than have to carry around a guy wrapped like a mummy everywhere.  But, the chosen executioner has a soft heart, he leaves the stricken thief alive, but only for so long. Police find the man, finally dead of his injuries, and do some forensics. It leads to a stake-out that traps Jarrett, Ma, and Verna, but Jarrett shoots chief investigator Philip Evans (John Archer) and starts a reckless police chase that ends, when Cody pulls into a drive-in.

But, Jarrett has an idea; at the same time he was pulling the train job out West, he knows a hotel job that was going down in Illinois by an acquaintance in crime, who has gone to ground. Jarrett is going to go to Chicago and turn himself in for the hotel robbery. He'll go to prison for two years, but not to the gas chamber for the deadly train robbery, and, when he gets out, he's got a lot of loot stashed. He leaves Ma in charge, and Verna stewing.

But, the Treasury Agents have a plan. They agree to Jarrett's light sentence—they don't kick at all—and they bring in "undercover specialist" Hank Fallon (Edmond O'Brien), who's just finished another long stretch in prison...posing as a con to get information, you understand. His job is to get close to Jarrett, find out what he can, what he did with the train job loot, and find the name of the mysterious planner who's been giving Jarrett his big ideas. Oh, and stay alive in a federal pen with a bunch of cut-throats.

That's the movie's set-up, and things, as they should, get complicated, but except for big issues like Life and Death, the details don't amount to much. What matters is Jarrett's reaction to them and Cagney's performance is the entire key to it. One hesitates to call it a "one-man" show (O'Brien is properly stalwart and Mayo and Wycherly do wonderful, vaguely comic work), but Cagney so dominates an audience's attention and challenges it, that the details seem to disappear.

Cagney's advice to actors was to "plant your feet and tell the truth," even though he was the most theatrical of performers. You believe him and what the character is going through. White Heat proved one thing—there's no over-the-top with Cagney; even the scenes where his crazy behavior scares the crap out of you, what he does feel genuine and, for all the hyper-emoting, and occasional jibbering, authentic. One also cannot argue with the visceral way he throws a punch.

The extremes of behavior of the Jarrett character would make any death scene a little disappointing, and so, director Walsh stages the most hysterically dramatic death for a character in the movies (short of Godzilla, anyway). It's almost supernatural in its implications, and as much as supporting characters are given lines to tone it down and bring it down to Earth a bit, it doesn't douse the ecstasy that comes out of Cagney as he shrieks his send-off line. It is spectacular, but more than that, it feels apt and right, because of the bigness of the portrayal. Cagney makes you realize that you just can't kill a creature like Cody Jarrett. You have to atomize him. And in a post-Hiroshima era, that takes a lot of will to not have qualms about it. 

And the scary thing is; Jarrett wants it, relishes it, and even helps it along. He feels he's earned it.

But, it's Cagney's performance that justifies so grand and volcanic an exit. And it's too intense and good to leave you wanting more.

The Other Side of the Wind

Our Revels Now Have Ended
or
Tonight is for the Freako's and the Snoops, Lady

There is a story, but it might be apocryphal. What is definitely true is that Steven Spielberg bought the "Rosebud" sled from Citizen Kane for $60,5000. What is also true is that Orson Welles was a master film-maker always looking for money. It is said that Spielberg's purchase galled Welles that someone would buy memorabilia from one of his films, but not invest in a new one, but not enough that he couldn't strike back: "But" I said "Steven, we burned the sled!"*

Enough re-hashing of the process that brought about the release of The Other Side of the Wind—the film Orson Welles was working on since his return to Hollywood in 1970. The story's been told enough and we now have the product streaming on Netflix (with a limited release in theaters), so it's now possible to see what all the fuss—and the wait—was about.

The Other Side of the Wind is the story of the last day—July 2nd to be exact—in the life of a well-regarded film director, J.J. "Jake" Hannaford (John Huston), which takes place at a 70th birthday party for him, while he is filming—and trying to save—his current production, entitled "The Other Side of the Wind", an attempt to make a "with-it" youth film as his comeback.

Oh, very. It's the sickest story I've ever thought up in my life.

If Welles had completed his film as intended, it would have been celebrated for the radical way it was filmed and edited. Almost defying continuity issues, it was filmed in a variety of formats—35 mm color for Jake's film-in-progress, and a combination of color and black-and-white in different formats and grains for the party sequences—the conceit being that it's all "found footage" from different sources documenting the party for Jake—and for promoting the film.

For the most part, it works, although there are some intimate conversations that seem devoid of cameras in the vicinity that throws some cold water on the concept, and the film (as is) doesn't take much advantage of reactions to the cameras as an invasion—perhaps it can be explained away as ego by the participants, but you'd think some of them would be careful of what they're saying...or doing when they know they're being watched...and recorded.

The "found footage" is just one aspect of the film, its spine, as it were. The fact of the movie is that it is full-to-bursting with plot, sub-plot, and sub-text, so that it must have seemed a daunting task to corral so much...everything. It is chaos in the making and is at its best when it flies by in Welles' quick (even by today's standards) editing of the sequences. There are other segments where the cutting is respectful, even gingerly, to make sure that points are made. Whether this is part of Welles' blue-print or of the subsequent editors, one shouldn't speculate. One can't really know.

According to a young American critic, one of the great discoveries of our age is the value of boredom as an artistic subject. If that is so, Antonioni deserves to be counted as a pioneer and founding father. His movies are perfect backgrounds for fashion models. Maybe there aren’t backgrounds that good in Vogue, but there ought to be. They ought to get Antonioni to design them.

It's even difficult to decide what to focus on in one's appraisal of it: should one make more of its film-within-a-film, which Welles was using to parody the formless art-house flicks of the late 1960's-early 1970's? Dialogue-less (except for overheard direction by Hannaford via bullhorn) and nearly plot-less, and completely voyeuristic, it follows a woman of supposedly Native American descent (Oja Kodar playing "The Actress") as she leaves a steam-room, is seen by a guy on a motorcycle (Bob Random, playing actor "John Dale") and is followed into a discotheque, then into a car that turns into an erotic episode and finally follows the two onto an abandoned film-set. 

"The movie" is noticeable for its gratuitous nudity, mostly of "The Actress," but also of the "Dale" character—Welles did much the same thing with Kodar on F for Fake, his camera ogling his longtime companion, who was lover, co-conspirator, and muse (Welles gives her a co-screenwriting credit on The Other Side of the Wind)—and as much as Kodar's nudity is a reflection of Welles' fixation—and love—one must also consider the "Dale" character's nudity as also a fixation of sorts, but of Welles' subject, the director Hannaford, who "rescued" his star from the ocean and decided to make him a star of his film...as he has (we learn) with many other male actors...all of whom have decided to not show up for Hannaford's tribute.

He is all the big, macho, hairy-chested fellas...basically Ford, Huston, maybe with some Hemingway thrown in...it's all this big macho thing, you know, which I'm so fed up with, you know. Although I love it, I'm very ambivalent about it, you know, I love Ford and all, but I also think it's a lot of shit that he hit (Fonda)and I love Hemingway and I think it's a lot of shit. It's all that (laughs)You know. And I love this man.And I hate him. And that's what I think is so great about this story—I want to love him and hate him and show him in all that thing.

Hannaford's character is commented on a lot in reviews as auto-biographical (and Hannaford's professional circumstances can be compared to Welles), but he's really a combination, a polyglot of different people—as Charles Foster Kane was, really—of different artists with a macho bent: Hemingway, certainly (his death by suicide was also on July 2nd in the year 1961), but also John Ford, Howard Hawks, and others of the "old" directors whose behavior was overtly macho, while leaning more to the female side of things by nature. Ford's treatment of women was extremely sentimentalized and his favorite actress, Maureen O'Hara, had her suspicions about him, while many of Hawks' works has interesting threads of homosexuality through them, with his many women who were "one of the boys," his frequent emasculation of his male stars (particularly Cary Grant), and...well...ever seen Gentlemen Prefer Blondes? 

Hannaford is a man's man, but he doth protest too much. The story is that he sleeps with his actor's girl-friends to gain some control over them, but is that the reason...is that really the story...? The reason the picture is in some trouble is because it's in a shambles that might be unrecoverable. The reason? Hannaford's treatment of Dale has caused him to walk off the set and not return to work—they either have to re-shoot, with the film already in financial trouble—or carry on with work-arounds (one of the jokes of the film is all the many "Dale" mannequins being carted around as stand-ins for the film—Hannaford ends up shooting them...with a rifle...not a camera).

The hope is that Hannaford's reputation as a great director can secure finishing funds for his experimental film, even though it appears to be in trouble and not on a par with his previous work that is studied, written about, and lectured on by academics, film-buffs and students and by contemporary film-makers who emulate him, and, ironically, overshadow him in the film-marketplace. One of those is Brooks Otterlake (Peter Bogdanovich), a former critic-now-turned-successful director, who enjoys a revered reputation in the new Hollywood, surpassing his idol and mentor. But, who turns him down when he is outright asked for money. Hannaford eventually sees all of his partners and apologists leave him for other opportunities and abandon any sense of loyalty to him, like a mass-reflection of the turning of Prince Hal against Falstaff when he is made King, and refuting what he says earlier in the party: "We imitation Hannaford's have got to stick together."

I was thinking last night about what you told me about these old directors who can't get jobs. And I was thinking of those great conductors...who were at the height of their power after 75.It's why Lear is my favorite play. I think it's just terrible what happens to old people...and the public isn't interested in it. That's always been why Lear is a play that people hate. The only thing that keeps people alive in their old age...is power.

Hannaford puts up a good act, playing the part of the sage. But, his fear is that he's playing the Fool. As a director, he has absolute control—over those who choose to give it to him. But, the money-men are beyond his grasp, and once the money is unattainable, his control is, as well. He has contempt for the scholars and syncophants who fawn over him and use their cameras on him, as much as he uses his camera on others—Welles has sometimes talked about the effect that filming a location brings, that he considers it dead, empty, and no longer of use. These hangers-on are nostalgists, endlessly cataloging the past, with no regard for the future...or the present.

And that's intolerable for Hannaford. He has no truck with being held as a symbol, a relic, a legacy, a thing of the past, with far more yesterdays than tomorrows. Over the night, he puts on the show of the Great Director, but as the scotches are drained, and his choices become fewer as hope is lost, he cracks, becoming "Lear in Hollywood," trapped by his own character and the actions that stem from it.

The one member of the cast and crew who sticks it out for the showings of Hannaford's work in progress (the final site of which is a dilapidated drive-in theater) to the end is The Actress, who's still there when the dawn washes away the image on the screen. Is she there out of loyalty, out of vanity, or what? What is it? The movie engages the mind and leaves things ambiguously, other than Hannaford's fate (and even that leaves questions), but also the remanants or evidence left behind that is the film in its entirety.

One aspect of Welles' work has always been the startling way he makes you look at the world anew, (for me, anyway) as if seeing it with new eyes. That doesn't happen with The Other Side of the Wind. It's world is one of decay and destruction. But, it does stick in the memory and doesn't fade away, in a threadbare skein of ambiguity. It's been on my mind constantly, as I've been trying to unravel its complexities and aspects. In total, it does not seem to be a great work, a failed attempt—how much of this is due to Welles' conception or the ultimate piecing together of it is impossible to say. But, the details are vast in number and mysterious in implication. It cannot be ignored, dismissed or forgotten.

And its message is, as so many of the stories that Welles has told over the years,  a melancholy one: that art, career, life may be a temporary thing, as bright, brief and transitory as fireworks. 

Beautiful in its moment, yes, but fleeting.

* Quotes in the review are from Peter Bogdanovich's recordings of Welles that he made from 1968 to 1973 for his book "This is Orson Welles." What's neat about it is the audio-book presentation of it is the actual recordings.

Seven Days in May (1964)

Seven Days in May (John Frankenheimer, 1964)  May 18th.

Mark it in your calendars (or in notes for future trivia contests). That is the day the government of the United States was scheduled to be overthrown by a military coup organized by the Joint Chiefs of Staff, over a nuclear treaty signed by the United States and Russia and ratified by the Senate.

 
But it never happened. Not even in the movies.

Still, May 18th was the day. The year was never mentioned...almost as a caution.

The early 60's were a great time for filmed political thrillers in the States. Kennedy was president, the world was at war (coldly) and the fictional machinations were filmed in a very appropriate black-and-white, just like the television sets that brought the news into our homes. It was a time distant from the years of World War II when the words of politicians and leaders were taken at face value, even if the individuals were two-faced. Cynicism about the government and political overreach began to settle over the populace with the threat of nuclear weapons, the McCarthy hearings, Ike lying about the U-2 incident, each in their own way chiseling at the foundations of the monuments we had in place in DC. 

Books and movies started to reflect that cynicism like The Best Man, The Manchurian Candidate, Advise and Consent, maybe Fail-Safe. And this one, Seven Days in May, from the the team that wrote "Fail-Safe," for this movie adapted by Rod Serling and directed by Manchurian director Frankenheimer, with an eye towards reflecting the world as it is...or as we would see them playing out on TV. Serling was overseeing "The Twilight Zone" series at the time, but this one was not too off his comfort "zone" by being equal parts suspense, intrigue, and character study, in words, terse, circumspect, and dripping with irony. Serling's writing could be a little ripe and on the nose, even spoken through gritted teeth and tight lips, as when Ava Gardner tells Kirk Douglas: "I'll make you two promises: a very good steak, medium rare. And the truth, which is very rare."

Douglas plays Colonel Martin "Jiggs" Casey, adjutant to the fifth most powerful man in the world, but maybe the most charismatic, General James Mattoon Scott (Burt Lancaster), head of the Joint Chiefs of Staff under President Jordan Lyman (Fredric March). The nuclear arms treaty is extremely controversial, causing violent protests outside the White House.

Briggs is a good soldier, snap-to and does his job, he's loyal to his boss and doesn't make waves (important for a Marine). But, odd things are starting to add up. There's the office pool on the Preakness that's passing between official channels between the Joint Chiefs, which is odd. But, what's odder is the reaction of Scott's "body-man" Colonel Murdock (Richard Anderson) who gets hot under the collar-buttons when Briggs mentions that betting pool. It isn't casual water cooler talk, it's treated like an international incident with the grunt who mentioned getting stationed out of the way to Hawaii. Odd.

Then, Briggs gets a visit from an old pal, Colonel "Mutt" Henderson (Andrew Duggan) who tells him about his current assignment at a secret base in Texas designed for interrupting television signals and designed for "seizure," "like the Commies already had the stuff, and we had to get it back.." That and Scott's accelerating role on the political stage, aiming for a run for the White House.  A somewhat heated conversation with a saber-rattling Senator (Whit Bissell) at a Washington function is the final worry. Briggs follows the Senator back from the party to a clandestine meeting at General Scott's house...when the Senator has already mentioned he'd be out of town.

It's just enough incongruous parts and shady behavior for Briggs to go to the White House to vent his suspicions to the President—there's going to be a coup by the military to take over the government. The President is concerned but cautious. Briggs is sent out to get details on the wisps of evidence that he has, while the President's Aide (Martin Balsam) is sent to make a call on the one military chief, Vice-admiral Farley Barnswell (John Houseman-his first screen debut, although uncredited) who has not opted into the "pool" to provide written evidence of the conspiracy. One of Lyman's closest associates in the Senate, Senator (Edmond O'Brien) heads to Texas to see what he can find out about the hidden base, while Briggs starts to gather evidence, including from Scott's discarded mistress (Ava Gardner).

It soon becomes clear that there is, indeed, a coordinated effort from a particularly dedicated cabal to take over the government, either during a nuclear training exercise or the President's upcoming trip to his weekend retreat—the President maneuvers his schedule, making Scott adjust his plans, which are then monitored by government agencies. But, how will it play out? It's an elaborate chess game with many moving parts with the final component being the medium of television, the direct link to the populace on whom the ultimate decisions of governing rests.

There's a lot of talk, as Serling goes overtime with terse conversations behind locked doors. It's drama, but Serling disliked raised voices, just like Washington does (or used to). There was never a time when the theatrics of the circus didn't invade governance, but before entertainers and the pulpit entered the fray, the popular conception of government conversation was discourse and debate, not some hard-balling cross-fire competition to be the loudest voice that doesn't pause for breath as is the impression made by the info-tainment of today's television. Why, General Scott's braying passion sounds downright reasonable in today's age of clowns. "You got something against the English language, Colonel?" barks the President when Briggs tippy-toes around his suspicions. Now, everyone does. Today's government speaks the language or lawyers and liars. Snake-oil salesmen.

Frankenheimer films in high-contrast black-and-white, with the high light-levels of television lights and offices and the deep shadows of parking lots and other holes of skullduggery. It's like he wants to show pictorially that the best governance is the one in the light and not the ones that scurries away from it. And for all the surveillance gear on display, conspiracy can still hide in plain sight. Especially if no one is really looking.

Seven Days in May is a classic movie and a repudiation to the old saw that looks to a savior or "a man on a white horse." Those who engage in hero-worship or ignore the media of manipulation are just bound to be disappointed, if only they were smart enough to admit it. It is also a great movie that should play in the Church of the Eternally Naïve as they endlessly chant "It can't happen here."

March 18th.

Remember, the year isn't given.