The Men (1950)

The Men (Fred Zinnemann, 1950) 

 

In all Wars, since the beginning of History, there have been men who fought twice. The first time they battled with club, sword or machine gun. The second time they had none of these weapons. Yet this by far, was the greatest battle. It was fought with abiding faith and raw courage and in the end, Victory was achieved. This is the story of such a group of men. To them this film is dedicated.

 

Soon after director Fred Zinnemann's contract with M-G-M was up—he was stuck directing things like My Brother Talks to Horses but ended his time there with a prestigious low-budget film, The Search—he began working independently for producer Stanley Kramer, a collaboration that culminated in the classic film High Noon. Two years before that western, Kramer, Zinnemann, and High Noon scenarist Carl Foreman made another socially-conscious film about the problems dealt with by injured war veterans who'd lost the use of their legs due to combat wounds.

That film, The Men, is largely set in the Birmingham Veterans Administration Hospital, where Foreman and and the film's star did their research for it, and employed many of the patients there as extras and for speaking parts.

 

That the star is Marlon Brando—in his film debut—makes the film notable, and a touchstone of sorts in terms of film and screen acting. Although Montgomery Clift—also, like Brando, a student of the "Actor's Studio"—had already brought that less theatrical approach to the screen in The Search and the yet-to-be released Red River, it was Brando who had lit the fire on stage in "A Streetcar Named Desire", making his brutish Stanley Kowalski something of a force of disreputable nature and creating a sensation in theatrical circles.

But, "theatrical circles" ain't "Mom and Pop Ticket-Buyer of Everytown U.S.A." And The Men was a fortuitous way for the unconventional actor to make his debut. Brando's portrayal of the embittered paraplegic soldier Ken Wilocek came with its own explanation for why the character would be not-traditionally sympathetic and Brando could avoid any exaggerated sentimentality playing the role.

But, Brando is a stark contrast to the more theatrical performances of Teresa Wright, Everett Sloane, Jack Webb (that's just "the facts") and Richard Erdman. (look real carefully and you'll even see "Star Trek"'s DeForest Kelley playing, naturally, a doctor*). It's unconventional, at least in Hollywood terms of 1950. Check out the review of his performance from Variety of that era: "Brando fails to deliver with the necessary sensitivity and inner warmth which would transform an adequate portrayal into an expert one. Slight speech impediment which sharply enhanced his Streetcar role jars here. His supposed college graduate depiction is consequently not completely convincing."

 

Ouch. But, then, Variety is a company-town rag which serves as "rah-rah" material for the status quo; it's never been one for spotting innovation.

Maybe it's because I'm used to the Brando eccentricities and (for the most part) appreciate them, but I found his portrayal—"speech impediment" or not—the least affected of the major performances—and I'm a big fan of Wright (Shadow of a Doubt), Sloane (Citizen Kane), and, yes, even Webb (Dun-da-dun-dun). But, Brando feels real. Everybody else comes out and tells you how they feel and why; when Brando's Wilocek finally gets around to saying what he means (which happens rarely) you've already seen it in his face. And when he reacts to something, it's a bit like an explosion—it's fast and unexpected. His Wilocek takes knock after knock, tries and then wallows in self-pity. The cures that Sloane's doctor recommends—exercise, recreation—don't work for him. And the other patients' means of coping, be it drinking or gambling, or intellectualism or exercise are merely distractions from the obvious—they have lost their mobility, and to a large extent, their freedom. Wasn't freedom what they were told they were fighting for?

A piece of narration at the beginning is too blunt about it: "I was afraid I was going to die. Now I'm afraid I'm going to live." When he went to war, he was engaged to Wright's Ellen. But he comes back and he has no future—he can't walk her down the aisle and there's a question of whether he (or rather "they") can have kids (the film circles around that question during a hospital Q and A, no doubt due to Hays Code regulations). But, his injury has not only blown through his spinal chord but also his expectations of a "normal" life. He withdraws and, in a case of self-fulfilling prophesy, he rejects her, insisting that she stay away from the hospital, as he no longer is the man she fell in love with.

Sloane's doctor is a big believer in physical therapy as well as a tough-love version of psychotherapy. Initially hesitant to allow Ellen to visit, he relents and Wilocek, while at first reluctant to allow himself to hope, begins to soften. 

It sounds very "pat", like the path of a "very special" and "truly inspirational" story-line, but Kramer, Foreman and Brando don't allow it to go smoothly, with added complications and frailties among even the most optimistic and noble of the characters. It's tough on audiences, and Brando's insistence towards playing the part without inviting audience pity makes it a bit more sophisticated...and even a little rebellious from the "socially-conscious" norm. But, it's worth watching...if only to see a moment when Hollywood standards began to shift...and change forever.

Brando clowning on-set.

*  

The Formula

Written at the time of the film's release.

The Formula (John G. Avildsen, 1980) Fairly lousy movie, done in the clunky Avildsen style, of a police detective (George C. Scott) following a series of murders that involves the MacGuffin of a synthetic substitute for petroleum. Avildsen is the perfect director for thudding cartoons like the "Rocky" series and The Karate Kid. But when having to provide any subtlety or style, as he attempted to do with Slow Dancing in the Big City, it's a miserable failure. And one has to say that he didn't add anything to the thriller or detective genres (or even the "paranoid thrillers" established in the 70's) with The Formula.

There is one joy, however, and that is to see the meeting of two of the better actors of the American stage square off, and really, it's probably the only reason the film got made (except for a tenuous tie-in to the then-dissolving energy crisis). They have one scene together of any consequence. Both men are a bit over-weight—Marlon Brando playing the fattest of oil-cats—and the two meet for a semi-perfunctory sizing up of each other.* One anticipates sparks flying between two acting titans.

And they don't. It's a genial little walk in the sun and the two banter back and forth—Scott's Lt. Barney Caine probing gently and Brando's Adam Steiffel waxing folksy and feigning detachment. But it's fun to watch. Brando's off in his "method" world—if he seems distracted it's because an assistant is feeding his lines through a hearing aid, and Scott observes the performance with an odd amusement, completely out of character.** What you're seeing is a fellow thespian (and fellow Oscar refuser) do his thing and barely suppressing his amusement...and bemusement.

It happens sometimes in movies, when very talented people with nothing to prove collide in a scene. As when Meryl Streep and Vanessa Redgrave play old friends in Evening, or Al Pacino just sits back and revels in Jack Lemmon's shop-talking in Glengarry Glen Ross. It doesn't help a bad movie. It can't help Evening or The Formula. But it's one of those magical moments when artifice is usurped by genuineness and the joy of creation is reflected off the screen to the audience.

* Come to think of it, Brando's character would have been more effective if he were an insular baron.

** Apparently, the rueful shakes of Scott's head during the scene are his reaction to Brando doing a completely different "read" of his lines than previous takes.

The Score (2001)

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

The Score (Frank Oz, 2001) This one is most notable for being the last movie Marlon Brando appeared in, and his presence is probably why DeNiro and Norton and Bassett signed on, because, really, this is no great shakes as a film. It's a rather simple "heist movie," with some interesting switch-backs along the way, which works as an effective metaphor for a bunch of people merely generating a paycheck for themselves. 

 

The first movie directed by Frank Oz that wasn't either a comedy or fantasy, the plot revolves around master-thief Nick Wells (DeNiro), who has decided to retire after a near-disaster during a routine burglary. He knows it's time to get out—he's not getting any younger or any more agile—plus, he's got a rather swanky jazz club to run and right about now would be a good time to settle down with his stewardess girlfriend (Bassett). He's smart, and lasted long enough to know enough to get out while the getting is good.

Then, his fence, Max (Brando) calls with a proposition. The proverbial "one last job" of heist movie clichés. The one to retire on. Seems there's this French scepter thingamabob that was being smuggled into the U.S. through Canada and didn't exactly pass customs. It's being held in an impenetrable safe in a security basement with extra CCTV cameras and infrared sensors at the Montréal Customs House. Everything about the job sets alarms off in Nick's head that it's too risky, from the elaborate job to the extra help he has to take on in the form of Jack Teller (Norton), who has all the details of the job from working as a mentally challenged janitor. Jack has all the details, but he's a bit headstrong, and more than a little reckless.

Of course, there are complications of extra security measures and some inconvenient timing and one twist that should be seen coming a mile away—and luckily the characters in the movie are just as prescient as the audience. It's all quite credible—Mythbusters even gave a thumbs up to the safe-cracking method—and Oz stages it elaborately, but in the end, it's just another heist movie with complications.

One can say that The Score is also notable as having three generations of the top "Method" actors—Brando, DeNiro and Norton—all in the same movie together and doing scenes with each other. But if you expect to see sparks fly between DeNiro and Brando (The Two Don Vito Corleones) the way they did between Pacino and DeNiro in Heat, you're going to very disappointed.  

Bassett is completely wasted in the movie as "The Girlfriend," and Norton pulls off one of his "so-good-it's-scary" impersonations, this time as a retarded kid, which borders on the cruel. No, the only sparks are the ones that happened between Brando and director Oz. Brando didn't like the way he was being directed, so he decided he'd play games calling Oz "Miss Piggy" (of course, Oz played her in "The Muppets") It's just another indication of how far Brando was slipping—a perpetual jokester and lover of comedy, he couldn't even be charitable acknowledging Oz's gifts as a performer. The Score is not a great indicator of anyone's work (except the cinematographer's—Rob Hahn), but it's a shame that Brando went out on this one.

Guys and Dolls

Guys and Dolls (Joseph L. Mankiewicz, 1955) I'm not a big fan of musicals, although there are musicals I'm quite fond of. It's the form that bothers me—the interruption of narrative flow for a serviceable song that may or may not have anything to do with what came before or after it. If it's an operetta, sure, I can go with that if everything is mostly sung, anyway. If the musical involves the musical field, breaking into song is a natural extension. I admit it's a small-minded prejudice and, despite my grumpy attitude, it isn't absolute—I admire things that are exceptions to the caveats. Hey, nobody's perfect. And when I lean away from my prejudices, it's usually because a song is so musically magical or the lyrics so damned clever that they would be sorely missed if they were taken away. Plus, there are musicals that elevate the inherent emotion with song in ways that merely dialog, however well-written, could not achieve. So, my collection of cherished musicals is sparse, with subject matter all over the map and in different formats, animated and live-action. They thrill me, rather than having me carp through a song: "Get on with it..."

"Guys and Dolls" is one of those exceptions. Based on two Damon Runyon stories—"The Idyll of Miss Sarah Brown" and "Blood Pressure", it was a Broadway "smash" when it debuted in 1950 (directed by George S. Kauffman!), with a book by screenwriter Jo Swerling, which was rewritten by Abe Burrows, with songs (composed between the two drafts) by Frank Loesser. The later script had to merge into the songs from the earlier draft, which causes a little bit of a fracas here and there, but it makes for an entertaining and charming evening. 

So, you'd think when the movie adaptation came along, after 1,200 Broadway performances and 555 in London, everything would be on the square and level. But, the movie adaptation, produced by the Samuel Goldwyn Company, compounded issues by dropping songs—some of them ("A Bushel and a Peck,""Marry the Man Today,""More I Cannot Wish You," and "My Time of Day") already made very famous by the Broadway run—and then added three new songs...to accommodate the casting, which was done with an eye toward box office returns, rather than production logic. More on that later, but first give us to introduce personae dramatis:

The story revolves illegal betting in New York City. One of the high rollers is one Nathan Detroit (played in the film by Frank Sinatra), who, through his connections, runs a necessarily "floating" crap game from many locations throughout the city. But, due to the efforts of the local police constabulary, Nathan Detroit, one particular night, cannot get one of his usual locales to provide the hosting duties for the evening's festivities. The Biltmore Garage might do it...but with the first presenting of a security deposit of one thousand clams. This, Nathan Detroit does not have.

But, he happens upon another high roller in the well-tailored form of Mr. Sky Masterson (Marlon Brando), who is a good bet to never turn down any bet. Nathan Detroit then wagers with Mr. Sky Masterson that he cannot convince any woman of his choosing to go to a romantic dinner in Havana, Cuba. To Masterson, this is a cinch of the lead-pipe variety. Until, of course, Detroit chooses Sergeant Miss Sarah Brown (Jean Simmons) of the "Save a Soul" Mission. For Masterson, this is akin to drawing a Nothing card hand, or rolling Snake Eyes.

The film then follows Masterson's efforts to win the bet, thus saving himself a thousand G's, and Detroit's efforts to secure a hospitable roost for the Big Game in the happenstance that he should be the loser of the bet. Oh...and to further put-off his fiancee of fourteen years, Adelaide (Vivian Blaine—the only hold-over lead star from Broadway*), a nightclub dancer at the Hot Box Club.

Goldwyn was thinking Gene Kelly for the role of the smooth Masterson, who is the romantic lead role and has quite a few songs to sing, but Kelly's studio—M-G-M—would not loan him out (which is ironic as they ended up distributing the movie for Goldwyn, anyway). The next choice, naturally, would be Frank Sinatra, who desperately wanted to play Masterson. But this circumstance was not to be. Goldwyn chose, in his stead, to give the role to the biggest box office bonanza at the time, which happened to be Marlon Brando. Marlon Brando, who could not sing...maybe could dance a little. It was fine with the director, Joseph Mankiewicz, who had directed Brando in Julius Caesar, a role of some considerable acclaim and status...and moolah made at the box-office. Brando got the role. 

This did not impress Mr. Sinatra, who could sing and could dance and had displayed these abilities in many a previous musical production. The Masterson role was played on Broadway by Robert Alda (father of Alan Alda), who had a rich voice and who could acquit himself well with a song. But Sinatra was stuck in the Nathan Detroit role, which was more of a character type, played by Sam Levene on the stage (and one must say that Levene was not too accomplished a crooner) and so, received simpler "talky" songs. This was a situation for which Sinatra could not be feeling gratified about. He was much aggrieved and could only wish that a stage light would fall on his co-star, so as he might be able to step into the role.

But, he was given a conciliatory song—"Adelaide" (which he sang out of character)—and sat back while the actor he called "Mr. Mumbles" was given voice lessons that he might warble the songs that Sinatra could do at the drop of a down-beat.

 

The results, however, for all the effort, were none too shabby.   

Sure, they had to splice together a usable version of the ditties from many Brando attempts, but Brando brought Method to the madness and "acted" his way through it, which was compelling enough for Mankiewicz and the paying rubes who hadn't taken in the stage version.

And, by the by, it's not a bad production. Mankiewicz doesn't try to make it realistic in any way, creating a stagey New Yawk gangster bubble-world where everything is immaculate—even the sewers!—and there is merely the suggestion of rough-house among these sharps, but nobody really gets hurt...or "offed". No "rods" are produced, and no legs get broken. Not even a nose gets bent out of shape.

And the only "singing" that is done is...well, it's a musical, no matter how many "takes"...it takes.

But, it's not the Tony Award-winning stage version. Oh, folks did get to see a version of Vivian Blaine's performance (with a couple of her songs axed). And they got to see the performance Mankiewicz was most grateful for--Jean Simmons' turn as Sarah Brown. She was a third-choice compromise after the director had been turned down by, first, Grace Kelly, and, second, Deborah Kerr. Simmons was accomplished and well-known (and already Oscar-nominated...for playing Shakespeare, fer crying out loud) and she had the added advantage of already having worked with Brando before (in Désirée the year before). He called her "the dream...a fantastically talented and enormously underestimated girl. In terms of talent, Jean Simmons is so many heads and shoulders above most of her contemporaries, one wonders why she didn't become the great star she could have been."

And, of course, they got to see "the show-stopper" in the play's last act--"Sit Down, You're Rockin' the Boat" performed by the stage-show's Stubby Kaye (who played the role of Nicely-Nicely Johnson in both versions).

It was one of the "sure things" in a production that spent a lot of its time rolling the dice, hoping for the best.

* Marilyn Monroe lobbied for the part.

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.

Olde Review: One-Eyed Jacks

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 bit of a break. Any stray thoughts and updates I've included with the inevitable asterisked post-scripts.

This Saturday's films in 130 Kane Are Marlon Brando's One-Eyed Jacks and Robert Altman's McCabe and Mrs. Miller.

One-Eyed Jacks (Marlon Brando, 1961) This one's something of an oddity--it's the only film directed by the greatest "method" actor, Marlon Brando. But what you will see on the screen is really not the film that Brando made. You see, it's one of those stories where nothing really works right. Brando and a number of script-writers worked on the screenplay for a couple of years. Stanley Kubrick was signed to direct and pulled out.* Then, Brando decided to direct it himself and shot a quarter of a million feet of film over a six month period at a cost of five million dollars. Supposedly, there was about 35 hours of film to edit down to a watchable size. Brando's cut was five hours long, but with some noticeable studio shooting, plot summaries were accomplished and got it down to its current two hours and twenty minutes. So it isn't totally Brando's concept.

What is there in those two hours and twenty minutes? A superbly acted film, based on a script that at times is intriguing and at times is dull cliche. It's a very weird movie. It's weird, but it does show that Brando certainly had an artistic eye for shots, camera angles, sequences that sometimes take the breath away. You'll also see excellent performances from a cast of Brando, Karl Malden (before TV neutered him),** Katy Jurado, Slim Pickens, Pina Pellicer, Elisha Cook, and Ben Johnson..especially Ben Johnson.

Johnson first worked for John Ford in his westerns and evolved into more than a great actor, but one of those genuine screen presences working in film today. When Johnson and another screen presence, Brando, play off each other in a scene, sparks fly across the screen. Those sparks were expected to fly between Brando and Jack Nicholson in The Missouri Breaks, and never appeared. To see these two greats square off is one of the joys I had watching this film, and also, this film contains my favorite epithet in all of cinema....

"Get up, you scum-suckin' pig!"

They just don't write 'em like they used to.


Broadcast on KCMU-FM on November 19th and 20th, 1975

Or over-write them. The parts that you can glean from the current cut of One Eyed Jacks (and no one is rushing to restore the full length version, certainly not Paramount Studios, although Criterion did do a restoration for Blu-Ray that was supervised by Martin Scorsese and Steven Spielberg) suggest an idiosyncratic western with a gritty, grimy feel, which would have made it unique in the western-glut that was happening across theater and television screens across America. Brando's fights were inelegant, and people looked like they got hurt. But the film is a cliche about Authority Figures and Oedipal Conflicts--Karl Malden plays a once-friend-turned-lawman named..."Dad." At one point, Brando's character is whipped in the street before a crowd of on-lookers, and if that doesn't convince you he's a Christ-figure, his tied, outstretched arms just might.

Ulp! It starts to get so thick with things like that, you need hip-waders out in that desert.

* Kubrick says he quit because Brando was wasting a lot of time, and really wanted to direct it himself, so he moved on to a more worthwhile project.

** Malden was (at the time of writing this) appearing in an American cop series called "The Streets of San Francisco," with a young actor of good parentage named Michael Douglas. 

"Get up, you scum-sucking pig!" occurs at 3:55 in this video—he says it to Ben Johnson