Becket (1964)

Becket (Peter Glenville, 1964) 

 

"In the year 1066, William the Conqueror crossed from France with his Norman army and conquered the Saxons of Britain at the Battle of Hastings. Henry II, his great grandson, continued to rule over the oppressed Saxon peasants, backed by the swords of his Barons and by the power of his imported Norman clergy."

Why bother about religion when there's so much wenching to be done? Wenching and bellowing at the TOP of your lungs while you're at it! King Henry II (Peter O'Toole, who would play the role again a few years later in The Lion In Winter) is having a bit of trouble with his Archbishop of Canterbury—who objects to his lands being taxed. So when the elderly Archbishop dies ("He'll be much more use to God than he ever was to me"), Henry appoints as his replacement his old friend, fellow debaucher, and new chancellor Thomas Becket (Richard Burton)—"He's read books, you know, it's amazing. He's drunk and wenched his way through London but he's thinking all the time." A cozy and advantageous arrangement for both parties. What could possibly go wrong with that?

Well, Becket, actually. And it's a matter of going right. Thomas, being a Saxon—actually, he was Norman, the original playwright Jean Anoulih got it wrong—causes some grief to Henry's Court, when he should be winning his people over to the King's side. And then Becket finds religion as archbishop and gets all self-righteous on Henry, taking the Church's stance on conflicts with the King.

This turn of events—and character—does not sit well with the "perennially adolescent" first Plantagenet King, and in a drunken rage shouts, "Can no one rid me of this meddlesome priest?" and he has barons who are perfectly willing to take on the job. Becket, in death, becomes a folk-hero to the Saxons, and Henry, in his remorse, and for political expediency, has himself flogged and petitions for Becket's sainthood. 

Am I giving anything away? The story's only 800 years old! O'Toole and Burton have a fine time playing "Can you top this?" with each other in scene after scene, Burton controlled and stentorian and O'Toole indulgent and capering. Add John Gielgud as the King of France and you have some of the best British actors doing top-notch work rolling around some very rich dialogue abetted by some glorious cinematography by Geoffrey Unsworth. Yes, it's talky (in the best way), but with this cast, it sure is entertaining conversation.

These days, one can't help but be reminded of the stark contrast between the story of Becket and the far-in-the-future States in that Kings have the prerogative of "offing" their opponents and it is only Henry's largese and his own self-loathing that makes him accept a punishment for his actions, narcissist though he may be. Oh, those were the good old days.

Invictus

Written at the time of the film's release...

"No One Plays 100%"

Rugby for the sake of rugby does not a movie make. John Huston's Victory, a soccer film about soccer, is a listless affair even with a cast that features Michael Caine, Sylvester Stallone and Pelé. But Clint Eastwood's Invictus,* about Nelson Mandela's uniting of an apartheid-torn South Africa though a burst of sports-fever, manages to tell a deeper story through the guise of a sports-film. It's a ruse that's perpetuated throughout the film as incident after incident of potential assassination or terrorism is exposed as something else; the fragile coalitions uniting the divided country are constantly in danger of exploding into violence, and the reminders are all around.

Reminders is exactly what Mandela is fighting against. His personal mandate is to keep the past in the past and move towards a united future. A former terrorist and prisoner, as president of a deposed Dutch government, he re-casts himself fresh to serve his country's interests, and finds the most difficult part of the job convincing others to do the same. By uniting former enemies under a common interest, the hope is the citizenry can at least start to look at each other without suspicion. 

Eastwood lays out the territory in his first elegant shot, panning from a neatly manicured grass-field filled with well-appointed white rugby players, up over a rigid fence to a city street and beyond it, to a ram-shackle wire fence holding back a vacant lot of towns-folk playing rugby as best they can. They have the one thing in common, but that's it. And that's the start.

A major criticism of the Eastwood style is a tendency to over-state the case, and that is in abundance in this film: through ham-fisted characters like a full-of-himself sports-announcer who provides story exposition in the most patronizing way; in the performance of Morgan Freeman, who, though stooped and halting, does not in any way project Mandela's fragility, making him more of a wax-work representation than a characterization; the occasional too-blunt dialogue.

The dialogue is where the movie fails; the direction is where the movie succeeds and surprises. One becomes more interested in the film's back-story of how Mandela's security detail—once on opposite sides of a political conflict—now must forge a bond to protect the president and each other (there is a situation in which they are clearly over their heads, and the empathy for them knows no boundary). The coming-together of the group stutters and evolves organically, far smoother than the soccer story.

But once, the soccer story kicks in—that's when things get very interesting. Field sports are tough to simulate and make authentic-looking (even The Damned United avoided it, for the most part, with archival footage), but Eastwood doesn't shy away from it, going in close, slowing the action down, amping up the stakes. The final game of the 1995 World Cup between South Africa's Springboks and the Māori-themed New Zealand All Blacks (there's some historical irony for you), where one should expect the film to start to drag, instead becomes a brutally intense struggle that more than serves as a metaphor for government struggling against itself and its own inertia to gain some ground in accomplishing some good. You can gripe all you want about stodginess and speechifying, but in subtle and surprising ways, Eastwood and crew bring you back to a thoughtful, invigorating re-appraisal of the themes through the action of the film, delivering a moving sub-text that elevates the film far beyond words. One goes into the film expecting one kind of film, and walks out amazed at how fulfilling, and skillfully presented, the film is.

* Out of the night that covers me,
Black as the Pit from pole to pole,
I thank whatever gods may be
For my unconquerable soul.

In the fell clutch of circumstance
I have not winced nor cried aloud.
Under the bludgeonings of chance
My head is bloody, but unbowed.

Beyond this place of wrath and tears
Looms but the Horror of the shade,
And yet the menace of the years
Finds, and shall find, me unafraid.

It matters not how strait the gate,
How charged with punishments the scroll.
I am the master of my fate:
I am the captain of my soul.

William Ernest Henley (1849 - 1902)

The Boys in the Boat

Pulling Together in Swing-time

or

Depression and (Water) Displacement and Ripples in Time

 

As a University of Washington alumni, I know all about "The Boys in the Boat" (the legend, not the book or movie, although I know them, too). The UW Shell house still sits on the Montlake Cut* like a shrine of dessicating timbers and peeling, faded paint. But despite the appearance, no one would have it any other way. Because that is where it happened and where it started. Like the ancient armories that still haunt our nation's cities, it is there as a reminder, and is one of the more precious buildings on the campus, despite its humble beginnings and its lack of marble and columns. Those other buildings are more impressive in their architecture, but they don't have the memories varnished into them like the shell house has. It's a Historical Monument in Washington State, nestled as it is among the weeds and well-pooped-on concrete of the cut itself, which separates Lake Washington from Puget Sound and the ocean beyond. A former airplane hangar built in 1918 to house seaplanes and teach WWI pilots, it was repurposed for the UW rowing team to house the rowing shells. They nearly tore it down in the 1970's—when I was going to school there—but cooler heads prevailed, and they're even thinking about restoring the thing. For me, I think that'd just upset the quiet. And the history.

George Clooney has been working on The Boys in the Boat for ten years off and on after M-G-M acquired the film rights for the best-selling non-fiction novel (by Daniel James Brown) from the selling of the assets of the Weinstein Company. One can see why he wanted to do it. Tim Egan in his review for the New York Times said it best: "'The Boys in the Boat' is about who we used to be. And who we could still be. Like the best history, its then and now wow factor is both embarrassing (to the present) and inspiring (to the future)." 

The true story of nine Depression era young men, who were underdogs in every aspect, they applied to the University of Washington Husky rowing crew just hoping for extra cash in their pockets—for the central figure, Joe Rantz (played in the film by Callum Turner, evoking a younger, less contemporary Ben Affleck), it meant he could continue paying the University's tuition pursuing an engineering degree—and a rent-free residence on campus. Rantz had been living in an abandoned car in a Seattle Hooverville, and had been on his own since the age of 15. He was about to be kicked out of the U-Dub if he couldn't make up the other half of his tuition. A notice on a bulletin board suggested opportunity and he took it. He needed the job.

The school's rowing coach, Al Ulbrickson (played in the film by Joel Edgerton), was under pressure to re-energize the program after some disappointing seasons, and took a chance on finding new blood with his bulletin board notices. He already had a varsity team, but he was looking for a back-up crew in a junior varsity team, and he needed options if he wanted to compete. He wanted to keep his job.

But, there's something about synergy. These guys with everything to lose have to build up their endurance, brave the blisters and calluses and the brutal Northwest mornings and form a team and a rhythm where they're perfectly in sync in order to cut like a knife through the water without any hesitations, off-timing, or mistakes that might undercut the boat's momentum. Add in a slightly non-conformist coxswain in Bobby Moch (Luke Slattery) and you have an interesting mix...if nobody screws up.

Well, SPOILER ALERT** they go on to win gold in the 1936 Berlin Olympics against the best in the world—after qualifying against well-funded Ivy League crews ("That's something money can't buy" the coach says at one point.)—as well as threats from UW Husky boosters that Ulbrickson is championing his junior varsity squad over the legacy varsity team (the jv's are faster, give me a break), and Ivy League snobbery about whether the rightful winners, although poor, should be going over to Berlin when the losers could afford the trip. There are so many potential compromises and double-crosses in the theme of legacy and office politics that there seems to be a constant struggle just to achieve one's goals despite working harder. There is also the internal pressure on the athletes who suffer from imposter syndrome, performance jitters, and an ill-timed flu.

It's all so earnest and old-fashioned and Clooney leans into it like he's actually on the oars himself, hearkening back to an era where money was tight, people were desperate, but still managed to have the dignity to pull together rather than fly off, self-centered and self-absorbed, in the interest of "looking out for No. 1." Sure, I can get all cranky and say that the film lacks suspense (See **), and that Clooney, with his limitations on "where to put a camera on a racing shell", can't quite generate the adrenaline surge an audience expects in these things. But, I think I'd be missing the point of the picture—that people should be working for something better than themselves. And the more fat and sassy you get, the more it weighs everybody else down. It's a message that should resonate with all Americans these days, but, instead, I think that, cynically, it will be met with suspicion...and from circles that the film SHOULD appeal to.

But, the world is topsy-turvy now, so much so that Orwell would be shocked and appalled (and be forced to say "you can't make this crap UP!"). But, the bottom line is these guys were winners. They won the gold. They beat the odds and outlasted the hurdles placed before them by lesser mortals. 

 And nobody can argue with that.

* The indigenous Duwamish tribe had a word for the area that would be dug out to become the Montlake Cut—sxWátSadweehL , which is Salish for "Carry a Canoe."

 

** C'mon, this happened in 1936. The book's been out since 2013. At some point, there's a statute of limitations for spoilers on historical fact. Blame me? Blame yourself!  

The Young Victoria

Written at the time of the film's release...

 "Her Serene Highness"

 

William Jefferson Clinton famously called The White House the crown jewel of the U.S. prison system. Young Queen Victoria (Emily Blunt) says early on in The Young Victoria, "Even a palace can be a prison." As the only heir to England's throne in the Royal House of Hanover, the young princess is managed and controlled, ostensibly for her safety, but also for the power that an unprepared and naive queen can offer her advisers. The last image we see before the title of the film is a gate swinging towards us and slamming shut with a bang.

Go to black. Title up.

There are a lot of shuddering doors in The Young Victoria, as the upstart princess, well aware of the red carpet ahead, defies her manipulaters and her mother (Miranda Richardson), who is cowed by their presence, especially that of Lord John Conroy (Mark Strong—his second villain role this year after Sherlock Holmes—risking typecasting, he'll be playing Sir Godfrey in the upcoming Robin Hood) who viciously seeks to be made regent in case of the death of King William (Jim Broadbent). Ambition is on everyone's mind, except the one who will be getting the power. And ambition is what the young queen must learn, if only to be used as a weapon.

Director Jean-Marc Vallée (and his script-author Julian Fellowes, who wrote Gosford Park and a little something called "Downton Abbey") spend a lot of time concentrating on Victoria's noggin. It is focussed on, framed and discussed. "Look at that demure little head," says Lord Melbourne (Paul Bettany) at her coronation. "And all of us wondering what's inside it." He, like the rest of the court, really couldn't care less. If her mind can be changed, then it doesn't matter. But there is enough rebellion, and enough fighting the gold shackles binding her, that can be used to sway her.

It should be noted at this point that one of the producers of The Young Victoria is none other than Sarah Ferguson, the Duchess of York, who endured her own time of constraints while married to Prince Andrew. "Fergie" was known to be quite feisty, herself, and one looks at the movie and wonders how much of its editorial stance originated with her, as it is pretty sly in its view of the monarchy as being both a blessing and a curse. Whatever animosities Ferguson has incurred with the current Royal family, there seems to be an understanding of just what is asked of a monarch, and with The Queen, it shares a similar visual touch—the Royal de-focussing of the eyes that appear to see nothing, but are merely providing a non-commital mask for the public to see, the eyes looking, instead, inward.*

Given that, enter Prince Albert (Rupert Friend) of the Belgians. Groomed as a suitor by his father King Leopold (Thomas Kretschmann), the young Prince also resents being kept in a can, and upon meeting Victoria goes off-script, showing himself to be of equal mind. During a supervised chess game, they compare notes on their similar circumstances. "I know what it means to live inside your own head," he offers. "You must learn the rules of the game, so you can play it better than they can," and as if we don't get the point, he takes her Queen and sweeps it off the board, captured.

Vallée keeps things properly ornate and unfussy in his direction, save for some odd little rack-focuses interrupting the continual focus on Emily Blunt's head of restrained expression. At one point, though, he does indulge. At the Queen's entrance to a Royal Ball, upon seeing Albert, he keeps Blunt locked in position and then yanks her away from her party, as if pulled, floating to her paramour. A neat little trick that, and very dependent on Blunt keeping her muted expression while having her transport taken completely away. It's indicative of Vallée knowing that his best weapon in the movie is Blunt's subtle whisps of expression; one is drawn to her face to see how she'll react, even if, until the last frame, it is reluctant to reveal.

* At the end, there is a title stating that Victoria was the longest reigning British monarch (that would be be 63 years and 216 days). And as if to tweak the ex-mother-in-law a bit, with a wink, a new title emerges below it—"To date." 

Elizabeth II surpassed her great-great-grandmother's reign on September 09, 2015.  She went on to serve 70 years and 250 days. Only the reign of Louis XIV of France was longer.

To Be or Not To Be (1942)

To Be or Not To Be (Ernst Lubitsch, 1942) "The Lubitsch Touch" (that undefinable "something" that made the films of Ernst Lubitsch work) had so many elements connected to the man himself--the instincts, the East European sensibility for craft, the worldly wisdom and the timeless humor. What was it that made Lubitsch such a master of what ever material he chose to over-see?*

But this one's a tricky one, and it didn't do well at the box-office during war-time, but not for want of trying. To Be or Not To Be** focusses on a Polish theater troupe during the days just before the Nazi occupation. It stars Jack Benny (he rarely did films, but his crack slow burn double takes are on brilliant display here), Carole Lombard (at her best, too--this was her last film before being killed in a plane crash coming back from a War Bonds rally), and it just roasts the Nazi's over the coals, mocking their blustering bureaucratic-ness, while hinting at their dark, dark designs. it's just one of the films that was poking Hitler in the eyes during the '40's. Today, one looks at it with eyes popping and jaw dropping every few minutes for the forwardness of the material. It did not tread lightly, and never less than entertainingly.

But even so, the populace was getting a daily dose of Hitler-slamming (Chaplin had made The Great Dictator in 1940, you could see comic book super-heroes kicking the tushes of caricatures of Adolf and Tojo, and Spike Jones had a nice novelty hit with "In the Feuhrer's Face"), and the majority of Americans had loved ones in the service while being rationed gasoline, sugar, rubber, nylons and all sorts of American luxuries to provide for the more pressing needs of the military, up to and including buying war bonds. It might have been too much to expect them to take this one in too...even for a nickel.

Still, looking at it today without the constant barrage of war-news from Europe, it's still a credible comedy, although there are some timing problems in the second act. It begins with one of the most used comedy bits in war documentaries, when an actor portraying Hitler walks into the room to be greeted by snappy salutes and a unison "Heil Hitler." To which, "Hitler" raises his hand and says "Heil myself." Benny doesn't stray too far from his radio persona, as a cluelessly vain actor and leader of a theater troupe (One of the Nazi's says of him: "Oh, yes I saw him in 'Hamlet' once. What he did to Shakespeare we are now doing to Poland." uh...your jaw—you might want to pick that up), oblivious to the fact that his wife is the big draw, and that she plays host to any number of dashing pilots who dash into her dressing room the moment he begins one of his drawn-out soliloquys, where he can have the spotlight all to himself. Lombard does not play cute in this one, but turns on the glamour, while never losing her comic timing--a nice trick, that. Her Mrs. Tura is just as vain as her husband, but a good deal smarter and the wit emanating from her and about her are some of the best lines in the movie. Her dashing pilot is played by a very young and very one-note Robert Stack, long before he would find better roles that would benefit his limitations.

Quibbles aside, it's still a great example of miraculous "The Lubitsch Touch."*** When the final laugh-filled shot went to black, K. said, "Now I know why you like old movies." Smart, funny, poignant, the grand masters of the cinema, like Lubitsch, transcend the passage of time and circumstance.

* Want to see "The Lubitsch Touch" in action? Rent Shop Around the Corner with James Stewart and Claudette Colbert, and watch its modern redress You've Got Mail with Tom Hanks and Meg Ryan. Same story, basically. Worlds apart as far as quality and craft, and even timeliness, of all things.

** Not to be confused with the crass remake starring Mel Brooks and Anne Bancroft--again, same story, but who's behind the wheel makes all the difference.

*** I think I've mentioned the story before of Billy Wilder and William Wyler leaving Lubitsch's funeral and Wilder sighing, "Well, no more Lubitsch." To which, Wyler replied, "Worse than that. No more Lubitsch pictures."

Captain Horatio Hornblower (R.N.)

Captain Horatio Hornblower (R.N.)* (Raoul Walsh, 1951) Supposedly C.S. Forester himself adapted his first three Hornblower novels to make the screen-story for this swashbuckling distillation of the Royal Navy's fictional hero. It is 1805, and his majesty has sent the HMS Lydia on a secret mission. England is at war with Spain and France, and Hornblower must enlist the aid of a mad South American dictator in the war efforts a world away. But, upon arriving, Hornblower's distaste for the assignment and the "El Supremo" (Alec Mango) has him violating the Admiralty's standard orders, and when he captures the massive El Natividad (commanded by a very young Christopher Lee), he is forced to turn over the ship to the mad-man. Heading for home, he finds out that Spain is now England's ally (oops!) and he must re-take the massive ship on open seas, risking his crew and an unwanted passenger, Her Ladyship Barbara Wellesley (Virginia Mayo), sister to tthe Duke of Wellington and betrothed to Admiral Leighton (Denis O'Dea).

The crew is very British (including a young Stanley Baker), but its Captain is played by the very American Gregory Peck,** ramrod-stiff and stoic, so even though the accent is wrong, the attitude is just so—Forrester's Hornblower is a stoic, constantly questioning himself and his failings, reflected in his constant lecturing and drilling of his crew. And Raoul Walsh is the perfect man to direct, as the action director has a keen eye toward the psychological and characters with complicated motivations. Peck has the attitude, but is a bit uneasy when called upon to display the comical aspects of the still-upper-lip Hornblower—his uneasy "harumphs" are constantly dubbed in to make more of them than Peck could convey on-set. But for the brooding and irritation (and the authoritarian air), Peck is fine.

The battles are well-choreographed for the times—one can practically see the wires yanking pieces of ship-railing past the players—and sometimes the falling masts and ropes get a little out of control, but the model-work and staging are excitingly done. A fine way to spend a rainy afternoon.

* The added "R.N." because the British version of the title included them, the American did not. As with the recent Master and Commander, nothing is made of Hornblower maybe having to fight the American Navy, as he might have seven years in the future.

 

** The screen-rights were acquired for a vehicle for Errol Flynn, but after Flynn's previous movies had poor ticket sales (and the actor was proving difficult to manage), other actors (including Burt Lancaster) were considered. Peck got the part. Lancaster would star in The Crimson Pirate the next year.

The Woman King

Amazon-Prime

or

Sisters Are Doing It For Themselves

 

Warriors of the Oyo Empire are having their evening meal. Prisoners from the Dahomey and other territories to be sold to the slave trade are kept in huts and don't dare go up against these fearsome soldiers or they'll be killed and they can't run because they use horses. But, it's a quiet night and not even the animals are stirring in the tall grass. A burst of bird-flight spooks one of the younger soldiers and the others enjoy a good laugh at his expense.

 

It will be their last laugh.

 

Out of the grass, silently, rises many women, suited for battle and with battleaxes resting on their shoulders. On point is Nanisca (Viola Davis), with a look so fierce and baleful that if the warriors knew ice-water it would be running in their veins. She raises her axe and with a ululating cry storms forward with the rest of her warriors, all women. They are the Agojie, the specialist unit of women-warriors from Dahomey, who expect and demand the respect of their citizens, and who run out of the brush like a wave, axes flashing. They won't flash for very long as Oyo blood will dull them.

One may gripe about the super-hero glut of movies, even though they have abated somewhat as studios find their footing with them. But they have paved a way for people to accept the "adventure" movie as a good evening's entertainment even if not populated with people in spandex. The Woman King, directed by Gina Prince-Blythewood, owes quite a bit to that trend, seeing as it shepherded a precedent for studios to consider financing a film about woman-warriors (Wonder Woman) and African locales and story-lines (Black Panther). Those were fantasies, however. The Woman King purports to tell history.

It is 1823 and the kingdom of Dahomey, under King Ghezo (John Boyega) is approaching the time when they must pay tribute to the Oyo and its leader, General Oba Ade (Jimmy Odukoya), despite that the leader is known for raids and for interfering in Dahomey's own trade with Europeans for slaves and other resources. It is the Oyo plan to absorb Dahomey and eliminate its influence; why accept tribute when they can have it all? The raids are merely prelude for an inevitable attack, and Ghezo seeks to forestall the inevitable by accepting the Oyo demands.

But, Nanisca, leader of the Agojie warriors, knows that the Dahomey are merely being bled slowly before an inevitable take-over bid, and suggests the training of new recruits to fend off any new raids. The rescued women are brought into the Agojie training facility, as well as other women who volunteer or who are too rebellious to become slaves or wives. In that latter category is Nawi (Thuso Mbedu), who has some rough edges that need to be disciplined and "smoothed over" before she earn her place among the warriors, or risk being sold for failing.

She comes under the tutelage of the trainer Izogie (Lashana Lynch), who recognizes the girl's defiance but also potential. The film follows Nawi's training, but also her relationship with a half-Portugese/half-Dahomey trader (Jordan Bolger) who is not unsympathetic to his kingsmen, but also has to live in another world, too.

This is great adventure movie material, but the distinction is that it is told from the native's point of view, not from the colonialists'. And, despite the inclusion of that trader, there is no "outsider savior" to intermingle and "help" or even explain the situation. Which is as refreshing as it is long overdue. The basic storyline is as old as Kurosawa, but how they play it is as old as Spartacus.

There has been some yelping about history and inaccuracies (and I'm usually the first "yelper"), about how the kingdom of Dahomey was just as culpable in the slave trade (and it very much was), but The Woman King does not shy away from that fact, instead concentrating on the Agojie and their efforts to stop the influence of the Oyo Empire over their affairs. And there is the acknowledgment that the rulers of Africa were just as complicit in trading human beings as the Europeans—just less efficient and far-reaching. There have always been slaves, just the definition of civilization has changed.

That's an important statement to make. And it features in the story by actor Maria Bello and Dana Stevens' script. The slave trade has always been a sensitive subject and a more complicated one than the safe narrative (if it is allowed to be spoken about at all!) that has been agreed upon, and is part of the larger story of power and oppression than the narrative of any one race. The story of agency and a people's ability to achieve it is the ultimate story of the ascent of human-kind.

And that is a story vigorously told in The Woman King. That the story is fascinating without white-washing in the broader points is an example of just how bold the artisans making the film are. And that goes to the actors as well. Viola Davis has long been a national treasure and her performance as Nanisca is traditional in its depiction of scowling generals who fight the periphery of what is lost to achieve what is to be gained. And watching her walk in this film is one of the subtle joys I had in this movie. Lashana Lynch wins the Toshiro Mifune Award for making the most of a role that could be cliched but instead seems fresh and more than just what appears on the page—she has a habit of doing that.

 

It's a great cast in a great movie. Highly recommended.

The King's Speech

The Oscars are this weekend (Lord, help us!) and there are a couple of Best Picture winners I haven't re-published from "The Olde Site." So, rather than doing anything "newish" I'll opt, instead, for "timely."

 

I'm not a fan of The Oscars (like everybody), but I watch it (like everybody) and I complain about it the next day (like everybody). You can't seem to have one without the others. People enjoy complaining about them but wouldn't dare miss watching them. Everybody has some Oscar-decision that's an obscenity in their eyes...and there are some that are questionable (my Saturday "Trash" post will be one of them)*.  But, most of the time, I just don't care. The Oscars, being voted on within a year of each film's release, are always going to be short-sighted, with absolutely no chance of being able to judge a film's lasting legacy. The decisions are always factored by politicking or prestige. Maybe trendy. But probably not. They'll always be there whether one watches them or agrees with them.

 

Written at the time of the film's release. And there's some post-Oscar bashing at the end.

"Crossing Your Threshold"
or
"Let's Take it from the Top: 'In Our Darkest Hour...'"

One of my favorite observations from Jerry Seinfeld was his remark that more people are scared of public-speaking than of death: "In other words, more people would rather be IN the coffin, than delivering the eulogy..."

In The King's Speech, this year's Oscar-bait from The Weinstein Company, King George VI (Colin Firth, spot on, really) would rather be dead than speak in public. It's too bad, then, that his father, George V (Michael Gambon) beats him to the choired invisibule, and the next in succession, Edward (Guy Pearce, in an extraordinarily adroit performance) is too much of a self-absorbed ponce to sacrifice "the woman he loves" for such a small thing as the welfare of all of Britannia.

George VI, or Albert, the Duke of York (as he is dubbed before coronation), has a persistent stutter, and a concurrent inferiority complex, given his heightened awareness of his condition and his responsibility—director Tom Hooper makes it clear in his direction and editing choices that we are constantly aware of his audiences' reactions to his stammers, faults and failings, even the portraits of his forebears stare in frozen, condescending judgement.* It is up to his wife, Elizabeth (Helena Bonham Carter, bi-polarly different than her roles for Hubby Burton and Harry Potter)—"Call me 'Liz'" she sweetly says at one point late in the movie—wants to fix the problem, not because her husband is the man who could be King, but because the underlying psychological whipping he imposes on himself is making him miserable. He doesn't even have the wherewithal to blurt out a bedtime story to his two adoring princesses, Elizabeth and Margaret.

With a capricious older brother and an ailing father-king, he is not the most confidence-inspiring potential potentate who can, as his father bellows "stand between us, the jack-boots and the proletarian abyss." And given that the position is more public than ever, what with the King needing to address his subjects via radio, the air of confidence is more important than ever, and Albert's failings as such are even more readily apparent in the Theater of the Mind. Not only is the Empire shrinking for the Royals, but the world is, too, and their enemy's reach is the range of a V-2 rocket.

Presentation is all now, sometimes even more than the message. During the viewing of a newsreel, the Royal Family gets a glimpse of the Player on the Other side, Adolf Hitler at the Nuremberg Rally. "What's he saying, papa?" asks a daughter. 

"I don't know," replies the envious Albert. "But he says it rather well."

What do the simple folk do, when they have to carry the burdens of the entire Nation on their backs without hesitancy, and with grace. The short answer is, they don't—the situation is somewhat unique.

Enter Lionel Logue (Geoffrey Rush), full-time vocal coach, hopeful actor...Australian. He is visited by one "Mrs. Johnson"—the future Queen-Mum—to enquire about services, all the royal outlets proving inefficient, taxing and embarrassing for Albert. Logue has no idea who he's really dealing with—in all senses—explaining that his methods are "unorthodox and unusual."

"Not my favorite words," she sighs.

This is a cracklingly well-done film, subtle and efficient and literate—the script (by David Seidler) leading down as many paths as Logue has techniques, but the most interesting aspect is how the two men, Lionel and Albert (who Logue insists on calling "Bertie" to allow mutual approachability) must rise and lower each other to the occasion, Logue relying on his actor's discipline to gain respect, while Albert uses Logue to gain insight to the common man, essential to his tutelage. And the actors are terrific, not only the ones mentioned, but a small delegation of familiar faces maximizing their small roles. Derek Jacobi makes an early appearance, Anthony Andrews appears as P.M. Stanley Baldwin, Claire Bloom as Queen Mary, and Timothy Spall, doing a fair turn as Winston Churchill  It culminates in a moving sequence as the new King must make a radio address to reassure the public after the declaration of war on Germany. Incongruously set to the second movement of Beethoven's Seventh Symphony, George VI, alone, with his coach conducting, must pick his way through his speech, every syllable a struggle to maintain control—the music behind him halting and building. I tell ya, I dropped tears, it's an extraordinary last act to an extraordinary movie.

Now...the rating. The King's Speech is rated "R" (in the United States) for the silliest of reasons—a short sequence where Logue badgers Albert into cursing like a sailor, including a string of "F"-bombs that kept it from achieving the lighter "PG-13," although the film really credits an ever lighter "PG." Don't be put off by the prigs of the Ratings Board. This is a fine, fine film.

* ...but in a style not as annoying as his work on the HBO series "John Adams," and less conventional than his work on The Damned United.

Post-Oscar Bashing: Best Picture? Nah. Not in that gang of 10. But a safe, respectable choice. You can't complain about the script or the performances (I could about director Hooper's win, but as was clear in his acceptance speech, without Hooper—and his Mum—there would have been no film, and the script was certainly worthy). But, ultimately, it's the Best Picture Harvey Weinstein could buy...as has been the case before. Still. Great film. But not Best Picture...not with 127 Hours, True Grit, Toy Story 3 in the running.