The Boy with Green Hair(Joseph Losey, 1948) So, I would expect you to take a look at the headline, then look at the poster, and then look at the director and go..."waitaminnit—Joseph Losey? That British director who made all those films with Harold Pinter?" Yeah, "that" Joseph Losey. This was his first film. And he was American, being born in La Crosse, Wisconsin. As for his reputation for being British, it's much the same story as for "French director" Jules Dassin (born in Middleton, Connecticut). The confusion comes because these American directors started their careers right before the 1950's. Blame the confusion—all of it—on Joseph McCarthy (and put his minion, Roy Cohn, as an asterisk). Losey (and Dassin) were caught up in the Communist hunt in the 1950's and left America to work—and wait for things to calm down and the industry "black-list" to be officially/unofficially ignored. As for The Boy With Green Hair, it's not a bad start for a first film; I've been working on a post for one of Fred Zinnemann's early films, My Brother Talks to Horses, which is just plain weird, but one has to start somewhere.
There was a boy
A very strange, enchanted boy
They say he wandered very far
Very far, over land and sea
A little shy and sad of eye
But very wise was he
"Nature Boy" words and music by eden ahbez
Police find a silent and bald child (Dean Stockwell—he was 12) wandering the streets and bring him, calling on Dr. Evans (Robert Ryan) to find out what the situation is. Through coaxing—and some food—Evans learns that the boy's name is Peter Frye, that his parents are missing and have been since travelling to London during the second World War. The small Frye has been traded from relative to relative until being taken in by Gramps (Pat O'Brien), a retired vaudevillian who, it turns out, is not really his grandfather. Despite the lack of blood-ties, Peter found a stable life with the old man, who is genial and caring and has a boy's sense of play and wonder.
Peter has settled enough to be regularly attending a school, with its clique-mindedness and "new-kid" insecurities, and though he makes friends, there's also others who make school-life testing beyond what might be on a page. Much is made that Frye doesn't have any parents—any "real" parents, like a "normal" kid would have—and it becomes apparent (once others bring it up) that he might be considered a war orphan (as his class is setting up a collection at school for the European kid-survivors. This gets to young Peter and more and more, his thoughts turn to the war and its consequences on people...people like him. It doesn't help that there is much in the news about civil defense and the escalating tensions of nuclear proliferation. "Duck and Cover" sounds like a good idea until the shock-wave comes along. It puts a lot on Peter's mind about the consequences of the last war and the likely next one.
So, imagine the kid's surprise when he wakes up from one troubled night's sleep with GREEN hair! At first, he thinks it's funny—what a goofy thing to have green hair. Gramps is alarmed, but goes along with it. But, the kids at school—they consider Peter a freak and begin to regularly haze him and try to cut his hair off—him with his pacifist ideas and all. The fascists! And if they weren't bad enough, the parents are equally aghast. A BOY with green hair! What WILL happen to the neighborhood? And despite being a good-natured soul, Gramps feels the public pressure about this kid that stands out, and Gramps takes him to the barber to get his head completely shaved. A crew-cut wouldn't be good enough, not even in the 1950's.
A vision of European war-orphans explain it all to Peter.
It's a bit precious and more heavy-handed than it needs to be, especially with the intended audience of kids (hopefully accompanied by their intolerant parents, but—I dunno, I'll bet the folks just dropped the kids off and with any luck, picked them up later) and all the folks blarney provided by O'Brien. Ryan makes a tolerant father-figure, and Stockwell is everything you'd want in a child's performance—nothing mawkish or mugging (he seems more adults than a lot of the movie's adults). But whether the plot actually convinces that tolerance—in the midst of possible nuclear annihilation—is anything more than a good idea, especially considering the actions of the adults in the movie, I'm not sure. It feels like just a verification of kid-victimhood, without any recourse for rescue. And I don't think kid's "get" allegory.
One other interesting aspect of the film is its score—by Leigh Harline—making extensive use of one of the Summer of '48's music hits, "Nature Boy," a strange and haunting song that almost literally fell into Nat King Cole's lap. It lends the movie a touch of the exotic that makes it a bit more credible...and heartfelt.
When Orson Welles was asked what movies he studied before embarking on directing Citizen Kane he replied, "I studied the Old Masters, by which I mean John Ford, John Ford, and John Ford." Running parallel with our series about Akira Kurosawa ("Walking Kurosawa's Road"), we're running a series of pieces about the closest thing America has to Kurosawa in artistry—director John Ford. Ford rarely made films set in the present day, but (usually) made them about the past...and about America's past, specifically (when he wasn't fulfilling a passion for his Irish roots). In "The History of John Ford" we'll be gazing fondly at the work of this American Master, who started in the Silent Era, learning his craft, refining his director's eye, and continuing to work deep into the 1960's (and his 70's) to produce the greatest body of work of any American "picture-maker," America's storied film-maker, the irascible, painterly, domineering, sentimental puzzle that was John Ford, John Ford, and John Ford.
How the West was Won(George Marshall, Henry Hathaway, John Ford, 1962) How the West was Won was the top-grossing film at the box-office of 1962; based on a series of Life Magazine articles it was a multi-generational story of the expansion West covering the years between 1839 and 1889. It was the last Cinerama film shot in its original, costly three-camera process. The film had three directors: George Marshall (who directed "The Railroad"), Henry Hathaway who directed "The River," "The Plains," and "The Outlaws") and John Ford, who, at the age of 68, directed one section, "The Civil War," which encompassed the story of young Zeb Rawlings (George Peppard), who, after years of tending to the Rawlings farm, follows his father Linus (James Stewart) who has joined the Union Army to fight in the Civil War. The section reaches its dramatic high-point at the bloody battle of Shiloh, a battle that kills Linus, a fact unbeknownst to his son, who in the same area, manages to prevent the assassination of General Ulysses S. Grant (Harry Morgan) by a Confederate soldier (Russ Tamblyn).
Despite his age, Ford's section is the one that manages to utilize the wide format the best, hiding the "joins" of the three camera shots in posts, trees, and general architecture of the compositions, where the three projected images would meet—and frequently reveal the flaws in the process. Also, his images have the most interesting look when projected on the intended curved screen for the format, creating a deep three-dimensional sense of field while "tilting" the intended image to give it its most panoramic flatness. Subsequent "straightening" of the image (as in the contained screen-shots) give the image a bowed quality with the images closest to the edge of the frame a faraway sense that is not there in the image projected on a curved screen.
Pretty impressive for an old guy. But just as Howard Hawks had managed to make an impressive use of Cinemascope in Land of the Pharoahs, the veteran director's research into the format provided the best example of how to utilize the unique photographic aspect ratio (2.65:1) to the best extent...and width...of the directors (including sections by the uncredited Richard Thorpe) creating the film.
Despite the results, Ford hated the process. For one, he couldn't watch the filming as he was used to—sitting beside the camera (no doubt chewing on his handkerchief) while it was rolling. "Takes" were sometimes ruined by Ford inadvertently entering the frame, so it was arranged for Ford to sit above the camera and behind it, so that he could see exactly what was going on.
The other thing he hated about it was that the image included so much space that the crew had to be limited to where they could stand and (most annoyingly) that a set had to be completely "dressed" and prepped, lest some discrepancy be caught by one of the three cameras taking in the scene. There was more of a chance for a mistake to happen with so much image being recorded at the same time.
But, the images are impressive. Ford always had a painter's eye for composition and despite having to shift to a mural-canvas (let alone a curved mural canvas), he still manages to keep the focus on the mid-range of the shot and using the rest of the frame to express the isolation of the farm by including its far horizon in the frame, as well.
At this point, in looking at these images, displayed flat in 2 dimensions, it's a good idea to imagine them with the edges curving towards you to create the seemingly three-dimensional image that Ford is trying to communicate using the Cinerama format. In that presentation, the figure on the left of Carroll Baker (center-screen) would actually be closer than what the flat image indicates, while Peppard's figure to her right is farther away—just as he's contemplating leaving the farm and going to war.
When Baker's mother character learns of his plans, she retreats to the house, in shadow, leaving the young Zeb standing in the stark sunlight in the center of the frame torn between his responsibilities at home—represented on the right—and his plans to go to war—represented by the image of wilderness on the left, the same stand of trees through which Corporal Peterson (Andy Devine)—"There ain't much glory trompin' behind a plow"—drove his wagon to arrive at the Rawlings farm.
The Rawlings graveyard, to which Baker's character retreats to mourn her son's leaving—when he returns, her grave will be there, as well. But, for now, she can only weep outside its crude timber fence.
The shot below is one that haunted me when I saw it at the age of seven. the field hospital at the Shiloh battlefield, where the wounded are treated—the doctor systematically cleans the operating table in the most efficient way he can given the circumstances—he takes a bucket of water to splash the blood off the table, as the wounded are brought in so regularly, there's no time to do anything more. That image haunted me and haunts me still. It's Ford's refutation of the glory of war. It is underpinned by the next soldier brought in—it is Linus Rawlings, Zeb's father, already dead and not even worth a cursory glance by the sawbones on duty. The character we've already seen in the first part of the movie is unceremoniously pulled off the table, not worth the time or the trouble.
Below is the wide shot of Peppard and Tamblyn, by a stream that runs red with the blood of the fallen from the battle that has tainted it, not offering comfort but horror. Ford's perspective slightly straightens out the gulley on the curved screen. The two are about to have a rendezvous with destiny.
Moving closer to the camp, they see William Tecumseh Sherman (John Wayne) and Ulysses S. Grant (Morgan), exhausted from the bloody battle they have overseen for the Union side. Grant is having his doubts and Sherman will not hold with it, upbraiding Grant for a weakness of will and for listening to his naysayers.
It's a studio shot, something Ford has used before in his films, especially for night-scenes, but much expanded in scope from previous examples. Wayne's role is basically a cameo, but the larger physical presence of Wayne dwarfs Morgan's Grant in comparison, as he is physically (and emotionally) diminished by the perspective.
A staple of Ford westerns is a literal fording of a body of water by man and animals. Ford's short "Civil War" segment includes one.
Ford bookends the battle of Shiloh with a wide-wide shot of cannon extending across the screen, firing in a line from left to right. It's impressive enough to repeat.
Ford's segment is a small part of the almost three hour roadshow attraction, but it still manages to stand out from the rest for its hard-edged view of war, and its concentration on family—the entire film does, after all, center on one family's story with the challenge of the West as a back-drop. But, Ford's film is intimate, concentrated, less centered on spectacle or "the money shot" and merely using the bizarre Cinerama format in its most effective story-telling capacity.
Did I mention he was 68 at the time?
He had started his career in the age of silent pictures.
The Last Hunt(Richard Brooks, 1956) Writer-director Brooks followed up his urban drama Blackboard Jungle with this film far afield of JD's and ghetto schools, out into the wide open spaces. But people are still being buffaloed. Stewart Granger plays Sandy McKenzie, a hunter sick of killing and looking to get out and do something else. He's approached by Charlie Gilson (Robert Taylor) with a business proposition—going into the buffalo pelt business. It's too tempting for the expert marksman (he has a sight on his rifle) to pass up. The beasts are a renewable resource, after all, and their hides bring in a sizable profit from the trading companies, guaranteeing that Sandy can retire. And they're so plentiful on the plains, the volume of them will make a quick killing in greenbacks, and they'll make a fine trading material for the natives to provide food, horses and supplies. There's no down-side. The two set out with the company of leathery skinner Woodfoot (Lloyd Nolan, given a chance to play something beyond his dependable world-weary professional) and half-native apprentice Jimmy O'Brien (Russ Tamblyn, whiter than white) to the wilds of what-will-soon-be South Dakota to make a considerable killing.
Things go well for awhile. It becomes a competition between the two hunters over who can drop the most beasts. And Gilson isn't content until he has wiped out entire herds. The movie encapsulates the wholesale slaughter of what used to constitute rivers of beef across the plains—an example of the profilgate short-sightedness of the western expansion, of the desire to make a fast buck, even while littering the landscape with corpses.
But the competitiveness turns to needling, more than knives get under skins, and the two hunters begin bickering, Gilson riding McKenzie and the other keeping his own simmering counsel. It's clear their motivations are incompatible. Things come to a head when Gilson's personal ambitions run afoul of anybody but himself to an increasing degree, first irritating Gilson by killing a local hunting party—he doesn't like the competition—and taking possession of the surviving woman (Debra Paget, whiter than white) and her son, and then horrifying the local natives by taking down and skinning a white buffalo, sacred to the tribe.
Granger is properly (and typically, for his roles) stalwart, but Taylor gets the rare opportunity to play a genuine asshole, a portrayal he seems to relish as it's done with more energy than he exhibited in his more heroic roles in such films as Quo Vadis?, Ivanhoe, and Knights of the Round Table. He certainly doesn't try to hedge his character's avarice by trying to make him in any way sympathetic. It's also good to see Lloyd Nolan in a character part of some distance from his crusty, trusty Irishman (at least he's not cast as Native). It's Brooks at his best (despite the casting compromises), bringing a subtle message underneath the black and white morality on the surface.
Debra Paget's "Native Girl" doesn't even have a name.
This was part of a series of reviews of the ASUW Film series back in the '70's. Except for some punctuation, I haven't changed anything from the way it was presented, giving the kid I was back in the '70's a break. Any stray thoughts and updates I've included with the inevitable asterisked post-scripts.
The Haunting*(Robert Wise, 1963)Robert Wise, who directed The Haunting is a supreme craftsman of film. he was formerly a film editor, one of the men who pasted Citizen Kane together, in fact, and thus knows how to compose his shots to make interesting stretches of film. He knows how to manipulate an audience, how to shock, how to fool. He can direct your attention to what he wants you to see. He is also quite adept at using special effects, thus he can pull off such projects as The Day the Earth Stood Still, West Side Story, The Andromeda Strain, andThe Haunting. However, when it came to characterization, Wise usually falls flat on his face,** as was evident in West Side Story, The Sound of Music, and Two People. So, what you have in Robert Wise is the perfect disaster-movie director, and he fulfilled that label when he directed The Hindenburglast year. I can guarantee that your spine will be pleasantly chilled by The Haunting.
Unlike Rosemary's Baby, The Haunting does take place in odd, creepy surroundings--The Olde Hill House--and you have such things as a creaky metal circular stairway, convenient for a suicide, whispering corridors. Take a brooding mansion, some brutal situations, and some brutish ghosts and one quakingly susceptible person and you have the formula for this type of gothic. Whether its successful or not depends on whether the director can stir them up to make them a) original, which is unlikely, or b) scary, which you can do in a myriad number of ways, cinematically. Although The Haunting is not really the former, it is certainly the latter, so you might want to take a spare hand along Saturday night to clutch.
Maybe not. You see, there's a situation where....well, I'm not going to give it away. Find out for yourself, and...sleep well Saturday night.
Broadcast on KCMU-FM on October 22 and 23rd, 1976. My criticism of Wise's ability with actors is unfair and untrue. He tended to cast talented actors when he could, and The Haunting is full of them--Richard Johnson, Claire Bloom, and Julie Harris, along with Russ Tamblyn (from West Side Story) and Lois Maxwell. The Haunting still holds up as a chilling film, and it's because of the way Wise (and scenarist Nelson Gidding) set the movie up with a prologue outlining the sad history of the elegant but dreerily off-kilter chiaroscuro of "Hill House," lovingly photographed with an eye towards the odd angle and moving attention to the side of the frame. The one section I still recall vividly is the long camera lift going up the circular stairs preceding a suicide victim's climb, then their feet dropping into frame, and Wise then double-timing back down those stairs. It just creeps you out and prepares you for further shocks in other rooms.
Wise shoots in widescreen black-and-white, all the better to photograph shadows in, and cranks up the sound design of the creaks, moans, whispers and poundings reverberating down the corridors. Wise wracks nerves expertly, and manipulates the audience, pushing the cliched tropes of The Old Dark House as far as they can go, while also suggesting horrors, rather than throwing them in your face (as is the current para-norm). The planning and execution make one ill at ease, as if the way the film is shot suggests that the very milieu of the movie is haunted and not normal. Plus, Wise (originally an editor) is the master of the shock-cut, both the set-up and the splice. Wise could do anything, in any genre, and was one of the great craftsmen of the American cinema.
* Not to be confused with the inadequate 1999 remake produced by Steven Spielberg and directed by Jan de Bont. Those two thought you could create the same creepiness in vivid color and with digital effects....pffft...Kids!
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