American Masters

PBS is airing another of their great "American Masters" series—this one on director Blake Edwards.

 

And I gotta say, for merely an hour-long look at the guy and his career, it's pretty darned comprehensive—chock-full of generous clips from films, talking heads observations from family, friends, and admirers...with liberal commentary by Julie Andrews. A lot of stuff I knew from watching every movie the man did—and here's the "Now I've Seen Everything, Dept." article proving it—but quite a bit I didn't. I knew that many of his comedies utilized a lot of improvisation, but hadn't realized that the later movie, That's Life!, that was practically a home movie featuring family and friends filmed at his own house and was Edwards' idea of "an independent film," was also largely improvised. The guy took risks. And big swings.

 

It's a lovely package, which has a lot of the Edwards "style" to it, with some great animated sequences and much credit to his collaborators. I've put up the trailer—that gives a taste of what it's like—below.

 

And for awhile, you can probably find it on the PBS web-site.

Don't Make a Scene (Sing-Along Edition): Once

The Story: Harmony (noun): 1.  agreement; accord; harmonious relations. 2. the simultaneous combination of tones, esp. when blended into chords pleasing to the ear; chordal structure, as distinguished from melody and rhythm.

One of the things missing in most modern movies these days (possibly because audiences might find it "corny") is "the sing-along," where a group of characters participate in a collective musical performance that shows they can work together as a group to a common purpose.  Corny?  Maybe.  But it's a great audio-visual short-hand for communicating a dramatic idea—the resolving of differences.  Just as an orchestra can combine rhythm, brass, and strings to a unified whole, so, too, can disparate personalities and talents come together to create a sum greater than the parts.  We see this work in music groups  all the time, and there's no more obvious example in the movies than the Beatles documentary Let It Be, where the four writer-musicians bicker and back-bite, but manage to put it all together in their final concert on the Apple Studio roof-top, a meshing performance that shows just how good they could be.

This month, in our "Don't Make a Scene" section, we'll present four sing-alongs from movies that display dramatically, through music, the putting-aside of differences in the creation of a unified effort—harmony.
And as music is the important element here, and really doesn't work one note at a time, we will temporarily dispense with the usual frame-by-frame breakdowns, and present the scenes in their full 24 frames per second vitality.

This one is the simplest of all.  Two people, just met, one a busker (Glen Hansard), the other, a street flower-seller (Markéta Irglová), both musicians, each interested in the other's music.  She's heard him play on the street and likes his songs.  He follows her, intrigued, when she says she plays piano, but only has the opportunity to at a local music shop.

So, hearing her play, and impressed, he wants to see what she can add to a song of his he likes.  It, "Falling Slowly," eventually won the 2007 Academy Award for Best Song.  But the scene, before you hear the song that would eventually become familiar, evolves.  She gets the music, he explains the chords (to which she replies, matter-of-factly, looking at his fingers on the guitar neck, "I can see"—my favorite line of the film), and they begin.  Simply quietly, following the chords first, but, eventually, together, exploring the song's possibilities on their own.

It is vulnerable, tentative, then courageous and beautiful.  They get swept up in it, both a little surprised at what they can accomplish together, on something and an arrangement so new.  It's the start of an unspoken love affair—not completely unspoken, the only declaration is in Czech, which he doesn't understand (and as it isn't sub-titled, neither do we—nice touch, that)—that will have an ending, but will not resolve.  It will be a brief moment in time, when things are special, and everything is good, like a good song performed, in memory an echo.

It is part and parcel of a nearly perfect little movie, with a single-word title that reflects the melancholy, transitory nature of the encounter, its uniqueness in time, and the special pleasure—and pain—of its pastness: Once.

Brilliant.

Don't Make a Scene (Sing Along Edition); Rio Bravo

The Story: Harmony (noun): 1. agreement; accord; harmonious relations. 2. the simultaneous combination of tones, esp. when blended into chords pleasing to the ear; chordal structure, as distinguished from melody and rhythm.

One of the things missing in most modern movies these days (possibly because audiences might find it "corny") is "the sing-along," where a group of characters participate in a collective musical performance that shows they can work together as a group to a common purpose. Corny?  Maybe. But it's a great audio-visual short-hand for communicating a dramatic idea—the resolving of differences. Just as an orchestra can combine rhythm, brass, and strings to a unified whole, so, too, can disparate personalities and talents come together to create a sum greater than the parts.  We see this work in music groups all the time, and there's no more obvious example in the movies than the Beatles documentary Let It Be, where the four writer-musicians bicker and back-bite, but manage to put it all together in their final concert on the Apple Studio roof-top, a meshing performance that shows just how good they could be.

This month, in our regular "Don't Make a Scene" section, we'll present four sing-along's from movies that display dramatically, through music, the putting-aside of differences in the creation of a unified effort—harmony.

And as music is the important element here, and really doesn't work one note at a time, we will temporarily dispense with the usual frame-by-frame breakdowns, and present the scenes in their full 24 frames per second vitality.

Howard Hawks was the master of this musical sub-text (he was a master of sub-text, period). He used music, not only for its intrinsic entertainment value, but also to infer dramatic points that moved the story along.

This is one of my favorites because of the back-story contained in the movie.  It's Rio Bravo, Hawks' return to the Western after a decade.  It's a "back lot" western (as opposed to the scenic location kind, à la his Red River), low on sweeping vistas and more on character development and interaction. In this story, Sheriff Chance (John Wayne) is holding a member of the murderous Burdette family (Claude Akins) in his jail. Rio Bravo is something like an "anti-High Noon:" The Sheriff knows his job, and knows he's working the long odds, would like some help, but will be damned if he'll ask for it, and doesn't want any volunteers who'll just get in the way, neither.

He has a drunken deputy, "Dude" (Dean Martin, cranking up his acting career after the Martin and Lewis break-up), fighting the dry-heaves and the trembles, and a crippled....something or other...in "Stumpy" (Walter Brennan). Relations are strained, what with Dude being a bit less than dependable however much he may want to help, Chance's nervousness and high-handedness, and Stumpy's endless jabbering. 

Then, this kid shows up with a wagon train—"Colorado" (Ricky Nelson, out of "Ozzie & Harriet," which was used to good effect launching his career as an "Elvis-lite").  Colorado's good with a gun, but smart enough to stay out of the way, though he keeps telling Chance information he's heard in town (irritating the hell out of Dude). Dude sees the kid and recognizes himself in his better days and resents it ("Is he as good as I used to be?" Dude asks, self-pityingly.  "It'd be pretty close," says Chance, charitably. "I'd hate to have to live on the difference."

They're at odds, in dire circumstances—holed up in the jail, with Burdette and his "30 or 40 men, all professionals," surrounding them, and just to underscore the point, Burdette has a town saloon band play "Degüello" ("the cutthroat song") that Santa Anna played before the final assault on the Alamo mission.  This causes Dude to give up the drink, and clean up for what may be his last actions. And Colorado joins the group of defenders, having a crisis of conscience.

You fight fire with fire. You fight music with music. And as Hawks has two singers in his cast, it would be a waste not to use them so. It's a slow collaboration process. Dude sings, Colorado plays guitar, Dude hands the vocals over to Colorado, while he whistles counterpoint, then the two back-and-forth before ending in simultaneous harmony. The two have put aside their differences, and combined their strengths...with some harmonica help from Stumpy. It's no wonder Chance looks pleased in the scene. Instead of fighting each other as they have, everybody is focused on their common goals...and common enemies. "That all ya got?" asks a wagon-master when he hears of Chance's deputies. "That's WHAT I got." replies Chance. And focused, the odds just got better.

"That's real purtty."

Next week: Another Hawks singalong

Films by Chuck Workman: Words

One for the Writers...

(and the Editors)

Films by Chuck Workman: Precious Images

One for the Directors and Cinematographers....

(and the Editors)

Post-Election

I'm going to take a few days off—re-read my Nostradamus and build a fallout shelter.