Don't Make a Scene: Psycho

The Set-Up: Happy Mother's Day!

I must be a horrible person because when I think of doing a Mother's Day post, the first movie I think of is Psycho. Sure, I could do Terms of Endearment, but isn't it the same thing, but without cutlery?

So, I could do Mildred Pierce, or Stella Dallas, but those are pretty sad, so I don't "go" there. Now, I usually gravitate to Hitchcock, who had LOTS of mothers in his films—maybe next year, we'll have one of those hilarious Jesse Royce Landis scenes.

But, for now, Psycho, and the first appearance—close-up and without obfuscation —of Norma Bates, mother of Norman, who has been doing all sorts of invasive things to people at the Bates place. It is one of my favorite camera moves in a Hitchcock film, one of those directorial feints to keep the audience clueless, but still on the edge of their seats.

It's a fairly complex camera move (especially with heavy 1960's camera, and without the benefit of lightweight photography and CGI enhancement) up the stairs to hover over the conversation from an open door and, then, to look down on the two involved in argument, walk across the landing (a camera composition we've seen before, just a few moments ago) and down the stairs.

It's steady and fascinating to watch, if making one wonder why we're watching this rather ornate dolly shot. But, the fact that it's a dolly shot is less important (other to distract us), it's there so we can look down at Norman Bates carrying his crazy mother across the second story landing and down the stairs. Why, are we doing this? Well, that would be telling...except we had just learned (in the preceding scene) that Norma Bates is dead and buried, and has been for years.

 

So, what's going on here? Just a director doing more than directing actors, but directing the audience, as well.

 

The Story: It hasn't been "the busy season" at The Bates Motel, but business HAS picked up. Some people HAVE been checking in.

The problem is they don't seem to check out. It doesn't do anything for repeat business. There's amateur extortionist Marion Crane (Janet Leigh), and then there's the detective, Milt Arbogast, (Martin Balsam), who's been hired to find her. Things are starting to circle around The Bates, and loyal son Norman (Anthony Perkins) is taking some precautionary measures, moving his mother (Virginia Gregg and Jeanette Nolan)  before any more guests arrive.

 

Action.

 

EXT. MOTEL AND HOUSE - (NIGHT)

Norman comes off the porch, walks to the path 

and directly up to the house, opens the door and goes in. 

CUT TO: INT. DOWNSTAIRS HALLWAY AND STAIRWAY - (NIGHT) 

SHOOTING UP THE STAIRS 

Norman goes up, 

pauses one moment outside his mother's door, then opens it and goes in, leaving the door open. 

For a moment we hear only Norman's low, quiet voice, his words indistinguishable. Then we hear the cold shot of his mother's derisive laughter. 

MOTHER'S VOICE I am sorry, boy, but you do manage to look ludicrous when you give me orders! 

NORMAN'S VOICE Please, mother... 

MOTHER'S VOICE (Sharp, laughter all gone) No! I will not hide in the fruit cellar! (A shrill laugh) Think I'm fruity, huh? 

MOTHER'S VOICE (Hard, cold again) I'm staying right here! This is my room and no one will drag me out of it... 

MOTHER'S VOICE ...least of all my big bold son! 

NORMAN'S VOICE (Rising now, anxiously) They'll come now, Mother. He came after the girl and now someone will come after him! 

NORMAN'S VOICE How long do you think you can go on... Mother, please, just for a few days, just so they won't find you! 

MOTHER'S VOICE (Mimicking) Just for a few days... (Furious) In that dark, dank fruit cellar? 

MOTHER'S VOICE No! You hid me there once, boy, and you won't do it again! Not ever again! Now get out! (A pause, quiet) 

MOTHER'S VOICE I told you to get out, boy! (A longer pause) 

NORMAN'S Voice  I'll carry you, mother...

MOTHER'S VOICE Norman! What do you think you're going to do doing? Don't you touch me! Don't! 

MOTHER'S VOICE Norman! (A pause, then cajolingly) All right, son, put me down and I'll go. I'll go on my own two feet. I can go on my own two feet, can't I? 

During all this the CAMERA has been slowly creeping up the stairs. It does not stop at the top however, but continues on the same high angle that we had in Scene 57. 

She starts to laugh, a terrible sound like an obscene melody. 

NORMAN'S VOICE I'll carry you, mother. 

Norman comes out of the room, 

his mother held in his arms, her head leaning against his shoulder.

MOTHER'S VOICE Put me down!

MOTHER'S VOICE Put me down! I can walk on my own!

He carries her down the stairs, along the lower landing to the cellar stairs, and then down those stairs to the basement. 

DISSOLVE TO:

 

Psycho

 

Words by Joseph Stefano and Robert Bloch

 

Pictures by John L. Russell and Alfred Hitchcock

 

Psycho is available on DVD and Blu-Ray on Universal Home Video.

 

I couldn't find the actual scene from the 1960 version
But, here's Gus Van Sant's recreation—using the original script—from 1998.

MacGruber

Saturday is traditionally the night for "Saturday Night Live" and...."Take Out the Trash" Day

"Making Something of Spit and Bailing Wire, and Getting...Spit-Covered Bailing Wire"

The track record for any movie coming out of the sketch-comedy of "Saturday Night Live" is pretty abysmal. The Blues Brothers and Wayne's World did fine, but their sequels didn't. We won't bring up A Night at the Roxbury, The Coneheads, The Ladies Man, It's Pat!, Stuart Saves His Family, ad infinitude. The reason is as obvious as a Mike Myers first-draft (are there any others?)—a concept that can, at most, sustain itself for under 10 minutes has chances of "slim" and "none" of being any good stretched to 90 minutes, let alone two hours. Thank God we've never seen "Subliminal Man" made into a movie...or "The Continental."

As a 5-minute sketch idea, MacGruber fits the bill for an "SNL" skit, although it's concept is the same week after week, the minutest of details being the only things changing. Will Forte plays a dorky McGyver-type, who has mere moments to defuse a bomb by creating something...bomb-defusing...using icky stuff that no one wants to touch let alone re-configure. And, of course, there are complications while Kristen Wiig does a panicked clock-check. The sketch ends with a building blowing up. Cue the Band. Christine Aguilera comes up after the break.

Same joke, every week. If something works once on "Saturday Night Live," they'll keep doing the sketch until that comedian quits or is canned. Somewhere along the way, some exec thought it a good idea to turn that well-tread idea into a feature.

It's sporadically funny in a "I-know-you-are-but-what-am-I" kind of lameness. And it boasts Ryan Phillippe (in slow-burn mode), the usually drop-dead-funny Wiig, and such good actors slumming as Powers Boothe (good to see him) and Val Kilmer, trying to re-capture his youth with a goofy comedy role (I'm suddenly waxing nostalgic for Real Genius and Top Secret!--the name of Kilmer's character is Dieter von Cunth, which shows you the level of humor, but doesn't clue you in that they will use it over...and over...and over...and over...for a rapidly declining chance of a laugh).

In this, MacGruber is coerced out of retirement ("I thought you were dead, MacGruber.." "So did I") in a remote native village (where he can find peace), when it's learned that von Cunth may be up to something no good.* Stuck in the 80's with his mullet, his plaid shirt, tan utility vest, and his Blaupunkt removable in-dash tape-player (he takes it everywhere). One wishes there were more entertainment value in seeing the usual action cliche's—the ones that turn up routinely (and straight) in Michael Bay films—played for laughs: the slow motion team walk, the fiery mega-explosions that have no hearing loss attached to them, the smug banter that passes for dialog, but the laughs are few and far between. You'd think given the time and budget they'd have come up with a grander concept—maybe even come up with a clever gadget or two—but there's nothing like that here. The best idea MacGruber (and the movie) can come up with is creating a distraction by going commando and parading around with a celery stalk up his ass.

No. Really. And they do it twice.

They couldn't even think up a "gadget." For pity's sake.

Save yourself. The clock is ticking. Don't go anywhere near this bomb, and watch these "MacGruber" video's instead.

* ...Like the rest of the movie.

Guardians of the Galaxy Vol. 3

"The (10th) Greatest Marvel Film Since Avengers: Endgame!"

or

"The Ballad of Rocket Raccoon"

 

I notice an up-tick in the number of people who looked at my review of Guardians of the Galaxy Vol. 2. I've long since stopped trying to figure out the patterns of what people are looking at, but I suppose it had something to do withe the release of Guardians of the Galaxy Volume 3—the movie that James Gunn was working on when he got hired as the High Evolutionary of the DC Movie Universe.

But, there was no incentive to see it. I haven't watched the last couple of Marvel movies, as they've been sputtering as far as quality, depending on call-backs, cameos, or with no clear sense of where things are going—other than contracts need to be fulfilled, promises made must be delivered on, and a general running-in-place while Kevin Feige tries to come up with a follow-up to the colossal success that was the first batch of Marvel movies. It seemed like, at those times, they were taking chances, swinging for the fences, and hitting home-tuns. Now, it seems they're just counting the receipts, waiting for the Next Big Thing to happen.

 

Trouble is the fan-base is lying in wait. Disappointments among the "TrueFans" may collapse the enterprise like a stack of back-issues no one's bothered to box.

 

Still, folks DID look at the review. I made a point to see it. 

How is it? A pretty good send-off, actually, while being something different. It's an origin story of sorts—of how Rocket the Raccoon (voiced again by Bradley Cooper) came to be a wise-cracking, take-no-prisoners, but still fuzzy-funny animal came to be, mostly told in flash-back, after he is left near-death after an attack on Guardians of the Galaxy HQ (Planet Knowhere) by Adam Warlock (Will Poulter). The super-powered Warlock is on a mission to steal the mercurial mammal for his mother, Queen Ayesha (Elizabeth Debicki) of the Sovereigns at the behest of The High Evolutionary (Chukwudi Iwuji), a sort of gene-split Dr. Mengele/Dr. Moreau of Space, who's on a mission to create the perfect utopia based on his manipulating evolutionary traits.

Yeah, that trick NEVER works, but His Highness (Evolutionarily) wants Rocket—or as he designates him, Test Subject "89P13"—back, as the little varmint was the only test subject of his that displayed original thought, and may be the key to achieving his perfect utopia. Too bad that the way to get him back puts him in a coma.

The Guardians band together to try to save Rocket's life, but discover that he has an implanted kill-switch on his heart that will explode him if they trying any extraordinary efforts to save him. But, Peter "The Star-Lord" Quill (Chris Pratt), still nursing a broken heart after losing his lost love Gamora (Zoe Saldana) during the events of "The Blip"—then getting back an earlier version of her that can't stand him—determines that he's going to find the code to disable the kill-switch and save his little bandit-buddy, even if he has to travel the Galaxy, kill a bunch of multi-legged creatures and even *gulp* face his ex-girl-friend to do it.

And so, they do, over 2½ hours (which feels it, probably due to some rocky transitions that director Gunn has trouble with), meeting new friends and old friends of Gunn's in new roles (Nathan Fillion, anyone?), squeezing in Sylvester Stallone (the guy cannot handle tech-talk), Liz Debicki, and even an appearance by Howard the Duck (voiced by Seth Green, nice), and actually providing "I'm worth-being-here" arcs to Mantis (Pom Klementief) and Kraglin (Sean Gunn). Plus, we get another example of why Karen Gillan may be the most unsung-acting hero in the MCU and a "giving it 100%" performance by Pratt. Throw in a talking space-dog (voiced by Maria Bakalova—"He just called me 'a BAD DOG!'") and you have a vast cornucopia of cutesiness mixed in with Gunn's "ick" factor. Call it "Anthropro-Marvel"—the place where the studio can really get silly (even by comic-book standards).*

Take, for example, the look of the High Evolutionary's Orgosphere—an organic planet made out of meat—which is pure 20th Century Fox sci-fi tacky, ala Fantastic Voyage or Barbarella. It has the look of spareness, but the detail of something well-considered, rather than what the budget could spare. And one just knows, going along that one is missing a gazillion references stuffed into the thing with minor characters and such, but, frankly, there's enough for the non-Marvel Zombie to appreciate.

At the same time, there's a nice little message about universality and worth, where one's lab-rat could just be worth saving if only they were noticed. It's an extension of the original GotG movie, where everyone was, basically, a cast-off, but were worth more than the sum of their parts put together. Here, no one's a loser, except for the one's who never would have suspected they were in the first place. And, once again, it shows that although Gunn will always make films that feel tough-as-nails-cynical, they still have a core of sentimentality to them that puts them a notch above the usual super-hero fare.

 

It's a good movie for the series to go out on (if, indeed, it ends).

* Although judging by the Marvels trailer, they're not going to stop there.

A Night at the Opera

A Night at the Opera (Sam Wood, 1935) A career resuscitation for the zany Marx Brothers (or 3/4 of them—Zeppo does not make the studio transition with brothers Groucho, Harpo, and Chico), this was the first film made with the boys under their new contract with M-G-M, under the tutelage of Irving Thalberg. It was Thalberg's bright idea to take the Vaudeville vets back to Square One—back to the hit-days of The Cocoanuts, as they play glorified Rosencrantz's and Guildensterns to a couple of love-crazy kids for whom life is throwing a cold shower. It rather douses the film, as well, and softening the brothers' hellz-a-poppin' approach of the latter Paramount films. Unlike their previous film, Duck Soup, anarchy does not reign, but merely drizzles a little, getting the floor wet enough to allow the "bad guys" and authority figures to slip and fall.

 

I prefer the "earlier, funnier ones" sandwiched in the middle, where the focus is on the insanity of the brothers intruding on the niceties of the real world, with only rare interludes into unmolested cinema "reality." It was a nice satiric touch to make them the heads of a small bankrupt nation who aspire to greatness (and economic recovery) by going to war,* and the send-up's of blind patriotism ring true in any decade.

Sadly, at the time, that didn't translate into boffo box-office. Thalberg's view of Duck Soup's drop in attendance was "there was no one to root for" (translation: anyone normal) so, starting with this film, the percentages were reversed. There are lulls of song between the comedy bits, appropriate given the opera background of the story, giving breathing spaces to let audiences catch their collective breath—the kinds of interludes that prompted Groucho (in the film Horse Feathers**) to break the fourth wall to turn to the cinema audience and grouse: "I have to stay, but that's no reason the rest of you can't go to the lobby for a quick smoke or something!"

A Night at the Opera (written by George S. Kaufman, Morrie Ryskind, Al Boasberg, and, reportedly choreographing a devising some bits, the great Buster Keaton) sees Groucho as false-impressario Otis P. Driftwood, under contract and slightly under-thumb of society-craving Mrs. Claypool (Margaret Dumont). Chico is the manager of Riccardo (Allan Jones), who aspires to opera stardom and is in love with Rosa (Miss Kitty Carlisle—as she was known as a panelist on "To Tell the Truth"). Harpo is the dresser of Lassparri (Walter Woolf King), a gas-bag opera star, who also has designs on Rosa. Immediately it becomes a case of clashing egos, thwarted love and abuse of power and entitlement, perfect diva-size targets for the Marxes to lampoon. It's safe and sane, which is such a pity. But, there is enough rich material to satisfy Marx Brothers fans.

And, thanks to the wonders of technology, you can skip over the other parts if you so desire.***  Where's my remote? (Probably under Mrs. Claypool!).

Still, going in, one must be careful to lower expectations, not unlike a closing curtain. The music-breaks do tend to bring the house down, and the momentum to a screeching stop. Still, half a classic film is better than no classic at all.

 

* Mussolini took Duck Soup as a personal insult and had it banned in Italy.

** Did it ever occur to you that the titles for the first Marx Brothers films (except for The Cocoanuts)  could be euphemisms for "Bull-shit?" Well, it certainly occurred to me!

*** In his review of A Night at the Opera, Roger Ebert says that is exactly what he does.

I Was a Male War Bride

I Was a Male War Bride (Howard Hawks, 1948) Hawks doing what he does best in a comedy—taking the finely chiseled speci-man that is Cary Grant and reducing him to a frustrated, humiliated wreck, robbing him of everything—dignity, decorum, manhood and sleep...mostly sleep.

In this one, Grant plays a Belgian in the French Army (in the same way he plays an American...as Cary Grant) in post-war Germany (it's actually based on a memoir—"I Was an Alien Spouse of Female Military Personnel en route to the United States Under Public Law 271 of the Congress" by the fellow this happened to) trying to break a black market operation with the help (and frequent hindrance) of Ann Sheridan. They have history and start out loathing each other. Along the way, he suffers bumpy rides in a motorcycle sidecar—in a rainstorm, no less—is nearly vaulted and scrunched by a barricade, paddles on the brink of a waterfall, climbs a pole (only to find that the sign, in German, says "Wet Paint"), is knocked off an awning from the second floor of a hotel, tossed in jail, and, in general, is made to suffer every indignity known to Man.

War is Hell, with several levels of humiliation, and its an everyday occurrence in this man's (and this woman's) Army. If it's not a battle of the sexes. its a battle with bureaucracy, or the everyday battle with being a stranger in a strange land. It is constant frustration, and Grant, outwardly so unflappable, is the master of its comic opposite (as evidenced by such Hawks-Grant pairings as His Girl Friday, Bringing Up Baby, and the non-Marx Monkey Business. Grant was the perfect test-subject for emasculation and the break-down of the cool customer.

As is typical Hawks, the camerawork is nothing fancy; set the camera up at chest-level and let the actors go and just try to keep up with everyone jumping over roadblocks, whether made or wood or red tape. Typical situation—getting married. She's American. He's Belgian. They're in Germany. So, there are three wedding ceremonies and so many "I do's" that there's no time for a honeymoon—leaving him with one big "I don't" ("Get some sleep" says one of the hoteliers to him, to which he replies "That's ALL I'm getting," which is a pretty racy comment for the time, but Hawks always liked to push the envelope and tweak the censors)—plus, she's getting re-assigned to America, while he's fresh out of the Army, something that he'd been looking forward to but is now complicated by...all the complications. But the mark of a professional in the Hawks world is the ability to punt, to improvise, and heal quickly...and move on, or around. It was a constant with this director, in front of and behind the camera. To persevere, do the job, despite set-backs and soldier on was the measure of a man...or a male war bride.

District 9

Written at the time of the film's release (which, of course, explains the opening Ridley Scott quote—he hadn't yet made The Martian, or his "Alien" sequels, or produced his Blade Runner sequel.

"Dances With Prawns"

Ridley Scott recently said in an interview, "Science Fiction in movies is dead," proving once again that as a visionary, Ridley Scott is a superb art director.*

But, like Westerns, they can continue to cast a reflection on our life and times, just as surely as the Sun sets in the West—on Earth or Mars—wherever there are flawed humans who'll make the same mistakes in the future as they did in the past.

Take the new film by South African film-maker Neill Blomkamp—District 9—a re-telling of the issues of apartheid both in macro- and micro-cosm. It won't score many points for originality, but as a potent rejuvenation of how sci-fi can focus attention on an issue, it may be the best film of its type since The Road Warrior.

Twenty years ago, a large spaceship is left, stranded, hovering over Johannesburg. When official go to take a look, they find a race of aliens— emaciated, starving—and they begin transporting the survivors off the ship and into makeshift refugee camp, dubbed "District 9." And in a repeat of history, the camps "became fenced, then militarized, and then it became a slum." The Joburg citizens of all races are barely tolerant of "the prawns," as they are called, as long as they stay on their side of the fence. They become scavengers, demoralized, living on garbage taken advantage of by human predators. They're also extremely well-armed (with weapons that only respond to their DNA, so humans can't use them), and attempting to create the fuel they'll need to get back home.

This back-story is told from rough-edited documentary footage outlining "the situation." As the human/prawn tensions become high, the M.N.U. (Multi-National United) is recruited to move the million prawns to a new relocation camp far from Johannesburg. In charge of the operation is the son-in-law of an MNU muckety-muck, Wikus van der Merwe** (Sharlto Copley) and you just know from the documentary footage of him that 1) he's an idiot, senseless and blithely ignorant and 2) "something" happened to him, as he's always mentioned in the past tense.What's happened is that van der Merwe's evacuation plan, a disorganized xenophobic spree, has uncovered weapons cache's, nurseries (which are put to the torch—"Listen to them pop!" exults van der Merwe to the camera), and due to his pig-ignorance, he's exposed to an agent that begins to change him into one of the insectoid aliens, giving him a look at their world, walking a mile in their claws, as it were...and, oh, by the way, he can start using their weapons now.

Now, lest anyone get the impression this is a life-affirming lesson in just getting along, be advised that it's a parable soaked in blood and bile. It's one of the dankest, squishiest movies I've ever laid eyes on with much viscous vomiting, projectile blood-shed—the aliens' weapons are particularly nasty, exploding human bodies like blood-blisters with gout's of blood hitting the camera lens—and sequences of transformation somewhat akin to Cronenberg's "The Fly" (particularly when the hero tears out his fingernails). I saw more than enough folks who had to leave the theater when I saw it, so be warned (especially you parents being pressured to see the "space-ship" movie).

It is also one of those surface-message movies that belies its point with its story presentation, the message being mixed in a left brain/right brain conflict. Xenophobia is certainly shown as wrong, but in as visceral a way possible, the only difference depending on what side of the electro-blaster-micro-waver you're on. And there isn't any direct retribution for actions taken—the film has a mindless video game feel to it, rather emptily getting the blood up, and providing no catharsis to diffuse it.***

However, there is a lot that makes District-9 satisfying (if uncomfortable) from its performances, art direction, seamless motion capture effects, and design.

 

Oh. And in a final irony: Blomkamp's artist's representation in California is RSA...which is owned by Sir Ridley Scott.

* One wonders why he would even say such a thing as his company, Scott Free Productions, produced the egregious (but ratings-busting) A&E regurgitation of "The Andromeda Strain." One might agree if he was talking about the line of toy-ad's masquerading as entertainment (Can't wait for "Lincoln Logs: The Movie!"), but those can hardly be counted as "science fiction."

** Here's another layer to District-9—it's a cultural joke. In South Africa, there is a sub-species of joke called the "van der Merwe joke," like "blond" jokes in the U.S., or "Sven and Ole" jokes in Scandinavian communities, they're self-deprecating humor about just how dumb someone could possibly be. That D-9 starts as a van der Merwe joke and turns into a story of redemption is just one of the insidious joys of District-9.

*** District 9 came about as a substitute project for director Blomkamp and producer Peter Jackson after their planned collaboration of the film version of the popular "Halo" video game came to naught.