The Quiet Man (1952, John Ford)

The Quiet Man starts as a loving postcard tour of the Irish countryside. It’s pastoral, romantic, funny, human. Son of Ireland-gone American John Wayne returns home and immediately falls in love with neighbor Maureen O’Hara. Unfortunately, despite O’Hara having similar inklings, her big brother is Wayne’s new nemesis, Victor McLaglen. It’s this exceptionally lush, tender, sexy comedy-drama for a while—it’s almost like director Ford got Wayne to agree to do the touchy-feely stuff by promising he’ll get to hulk out in the second half.

And hulk out Wayne does. It’s Ireland, after all, and McLaglen owns little sister O’Hara, and he’ll be damned if he’s letting Wayne have her. Except by this time, the whole town has cooked up a scheme to marry the kids (asterisk) off. They are not kids; when it comes time for town mascot Barry Fitzgerald to play matchmaker (officially) to Wayne and O’Hara, O’Hara’s official designation is spinster. Now, Quiet Man does not have many roles for women. There’s O’Hara, there’s Mildred Natwick as the town rich lady, and Eileen Crowe as the vicar’s wife. So we never see any of the other similar-aged wives–Quiet Man takes place at the pub a lot, so they’re not invited—but Man’s first big ask is pretending O’Hara’s not Maureen O’Hara.

In addition to McLaglen, she cooks and cleans for his farm crew, who all think she’s swell. They’re in a scene before McLaglen takes over. McLaglen’s a delight in the movie’s first half, and strangely absent in the second half. Quiet Man does this inestimable summary sequence with Wayne and O’Hara on the outs because she doesn’t want to get married without her dowry, and he doesn’t want to hear about money. There’s a scene where John Wayne talks to Protestant vicar Arthur Shields about how it triggers him. There’s also sports talk involved—pointless, inappropriate sports talk—so you know it’s still manly.

As for how O’Hara processes it… well, there aren’t any women for her to talk to, so she talks to Catholic priest Ward Bond about it when he’s fishing. It’s kind of funny because Bond does eventually pay attention to his parishioner and her problems, but they’re talking in Gaelic, so the audience can’t understand. Taking that moment away from O’Hara is what Quiet Man will do over and over in the second half. The moral of Quiet Man is to objectify your wife in the right way, John Wayne, not the wrong way. And don’t forget to hit her with a stick if she’s asking for it. You’re in Ireland, boyo.

I mean, yikes. However, O’Hara’s plot about the dowry is not without its issues either. She wants it because it’s all she’ll ever get; it’s about what the culture allows a woman to inherit from her foremothers. It should be devastating and give Wayne and O’Hara a killer resolution to that romantic comedy-drama. Quiet Man will eventually turn up the melodrama just a tad, and it’s when Wayne almost breaks the fourth wall to say he ain’t no softie.

Anyway, O’Hara’s asking him to treat her like dirt; that’s just how they are in Ireland.

Again.

Yikes.

It’s a gorgeous film. Ford, cinematographer Winton C. Hoch, and Technicolor consultant Francis Cugat film the heck out of the Irish countryside. Even when he’s stuck using soundstages for exteriors; there’s a great horse race on a beach, but all the setup is on set, which Ford uses to focus the audience’s attention on the dramatic undercurrents. Quiet Man will use technical constraints to its advantage almost every time. Hoch, editor Jack Murray, composer Victor Young; Quiet Man always plays great-looking and sounding.

Speaking of sound… there’s a lot of singing in The Quiet Man. The fellows of the town like to get together in the pub and sing some songs, usually led by the local IRA lads, Sean McClory and Charles B. Fitzsimons. There are plenty of John Ford Stock Company players about (look fast for Hank Worden; I knew that guy looked familiar), including Ken Curtis, who leads one of the songs. When the supporting cast is limited, the film has got a real likability quality. Not quite hanging out, but enjoying the shenanigans, singing and bullshitting. The film loses that quality in the late second act.

Luckily, it gets it back for the third. Eventually. Quiet Man’s got a few last-minute reprieves, a few because it intentionally calls back to previous highs.

Much of the film has Ford directing Wayne and O’Hara in fantastic performances. But it eventually hits a “what would anyone be able to do with this” period. The supporting cast helps in those spots, especially Bond. Bond’s just great. So’s pretty much everyone. Fitzgerald, McLaglen, Natwick (though her arc is bananas). O’Hara’s great; one kind of asterisk. Wayne’s good; another kind of asterisk.

It’s an astoundingly beautiful film, too. Ford, Hoch, Cugat—nothing quite looks like Quiet Man. That ethereal quality ought to help it through the troubles, but turning the movie into a fable about humiliating the woman you love in front of as many people as you can because you’re an Irish man, not a weak sister American… oddly, does not.

Quiet Man’s a bit of a bummer, but nowhere near the bummer it could’ve been.

This post is part of the Celluloid Road Trip Blogathon: International Edition hosted by Annette of Hometowns to Hollywood.

Liza with a Z (1972, Bob Fosse)

“Liza with a Z” closes with a Cabaret medley, including Liza Minnelli playing the Emcee for a couple songs. She starts in the audience, a la the “Cabaret” Broadway revival (only twenty-six years before), and quickly works her way onto the stage, joined by dancers, and does a whirlwind ten-minute set. The opening titles tell us “Z” is a “concert for television,” and it’s fascinating to watch how Fosse presents that concert.

“Z” is a spotlight for Minnelli as a singer, dancer, actor, and personality. The special’s title comes from Say Liza (Liza with a “Z”), a half colloquial memoir song where Minnelli describes her frustration at people calling her “Lisa.” It’s a hilarious, personable number and showcases Minnelli’s ability to toggle between tones. She can go from soulful to goofy to sweet to sexy (pretty sure she, Fosse, and her costume designer created go go sultry in “Z”) in less than a breath.

The medley is the first time the special directly references Cabaret, though “Z” is very much an offshoot from the film and its success. Some costumes occasionally feel a little Cabaret, but the special doesn’t open with it. Minnelli never addresses the audience as an audience, never telling them eight cameras are filming this evening’s production. At the beginning of “Z,” Fosse and cinematographer Owen Roizman shoot Minnelli as subject. It’s not about the audience; they just happen to be there for Minnelli’s performance.

For a couple numbers, Minnelli looks up towards the balcony (but also the cameras), not out at the audience below her. Fosse looks back down at her. But then, very deftly, the camera starts watching Minnelli looking up to the overhead cameras; we watch Minnelli sing from the wrong camera, only to quickly discover there’s no wrong camera. Every different shot’s going to reveal something else about Minnelli’s performance.

Once the stage fills with dancers, Minnelli starts directly addressing the audience, sometimes to set up the next song, sometimes to take a bow; there’s a spectacular Son of a Preacher Man number, ending with Fosse doing some incredible sleight of hand with the dancers. “Z” might be a filmed live performance, but Fosse and Minnelli are packaging it for the television audience. Or, frankly, theatrical. Fosse and Roizman shoot Minnelli as the only visible figure surrounded by darkness a few times, and it’d be devastating on the big screen.

There are some bumps, of course. Preacher Man is the last great number until the medley; after its commercial break, there’s a cute song about New Yawkers in love, including Minnelli and the dancers acting out a bunch of it. But it’s not a showstopper; it’s just more examples of Minnelli’s remarkable abilities.

The real problems are the last two songs before the medley sprint.

First is You’ve Let Yourself Go, which could be the anthem for the “Are the Straights Okay?” meme about a wife sick of her husband getting bald and chubby. Then comes My Mammy, a song Minnelli would regularly perform as a standard, all about how your slave mammy always loves you. I guess it’d be worse if it were a white dude singing it (as they often did), but yikes. Thank goodness Fosse and Minnelli weren’t pitching a musical Gone With the Wind… someone might’ve said yes.

Fosse tries with Let Yourself Go, using some of the spotlighting techniques he’d already iterated, but Mammy’s just a simple “it’s a variety special” number. Thank goodness. Hopefully, the blandness will make it forgettable.

The medley saves the day; the commercial, cross-promotional medley to remind people they really liked the super-depressing pre-Holocaust movie (or to encourage people with peppy dance numbers to see said film) is one hell of a way to save the day. But it works because it’s Fosse and Minnelli.

Like its star, director, cast, and crew, “Liza with a Z” is phenomenal.

This post is part of the Fifth Broadway Bound Blogathon hosted by Rebecca of Taking Up Room.

Lenny (1974, Bob Fosse)

If Lenny has a single highlight scene, it’s at the end of the second act, when comedian Lenny Bruce (played by Dustin Hoffman) does a set on dope. The film’s got a fractured narrative, simultaneously showing posthumous interview clips with the people in his life—ex-wife Valerie Perrine, mom Jan Miner, and agent Stanley Beck—recounting Bruce’s life story, but then also footage from nearer his death, after he’d made it. With Hoffman in nothing but a bathrobe and a single sock, losing track of his routine as he roams the stage, that scene is the first time we’ve gotten to see what everyone’s been talking about. It’s a seven-minute, uninterrupted take, and it’s absolutely devastating. Stellar work from Hoffman, director Fosse, screenwriter Julian Barry, and the sound department (led by Dennis Maitland). In a singular film, it’s a singular scene.

Despite the fracturing, the film’s got a straightforward narrative. Someone’s recording interviews about Bruce, starting with Perrine, then Beck and Miner join in. It’s mostly Perrine, whose story is juxtaposed against Hoffman’s. Flashbacks reveal and inform what the interviewees are talking about, then there are flashforwards to some of Bruce’s final sets. The film intersperses bits from those final sets, showing the matured comic throughout the film. Lenny’s never easy, but Fosse and Barry don’t make the narrative plotting difficult.

The film’s first act is hacky young comedian Hoffman meeting stripper Perrine. He immediately falls in love, and she thinks he’s cute. They’re married pretty soon after. Fosse introduces Perrine in the present-day interview, then through her dance routines, with he, Perrine, cinematographer Bruce Surtees, and editor Alan Heim creating a transfixing sequence. It’s an entirely objectifying one, but then the rest of the film is just realizing that object as a person; Perrine’s the protagonist of the film, while Hoffman’s the literal subject. And also, for reasons, when Lenny gets to the biopic summary montages, they work differently for Hoffman and Perrine. Hoffman wouldn’t be able to stay protagonist with them, while the devices don’t affect Perrine.

The film and Hoffman are wholly entranced with Perrine, and their salad days are fun, sympathetic, and exuberant. And then tragedy strikes, and their whole lives change. They end up in L.A. and get hooked on heroin. They clean up long enough to have a kid to save the marriage, only it doesn’t work, with Hoffman staying off but Perrine getting back on and worse.

Hoffman doesn’t have to account for any of that period outside flashback moments and intercut references in his routine, but Perrine goes through it in the interview. It’s harrowing, with Perrine getting two distinct arcs, one in flashback and one in the interviews. It’s an exceptional performance; maybe not better than Hoffman’s, but far more complex. Perrine builds her performance one way, winding through the narrative and its fractures, while Hoffman gets to build from scratch. And to a goal. In the later comedy routine, the film shows where Hoffman’s going to end. It’s just a matter of getting him there.

The thing about Hoffman (and Bruce) is there’s no early moment in his failures to foretell future greatness. At the film’s start, he’s usually bad and rarely middling. He’s affable and cute, but it’s Perrine who gets him out of the proverbial Catskills comedy circuit (whether she wants to or not). His social commentary routines start as filler between introducing dancers at one strip club or another. He initially gets those gigs because Perrine’s dancing there.

Hoffman grows his performance along the same trajectory; it’s all a coincidence of person and time. The film’s got a lengthy Bruce routine about racial slurs (which dates poorly as social commentary but provides exceptional historical insight); it’s post-integration, and people are figuring things out. It’s the time and place, not the person. There are numerous bits about men and women, husbands and wives, and even some (albeit slurry) anti-homophobia commentary. For a brief, shining moment (in the second act), Hoffman sees the world better than anyone else with a microphone. Then the third act is revealing he’s still profoundly naive about the whole thing. Initially, the film bakes that revelation and resulting tragedy into a pseudo-comedic courtroom scene. Lenny’s got great courtroom scenes. The last one kills and in the wrong way.

The finale ought to be a lot more abrupt than it plays; in the present, night has fallen after the days of interviews; there are a handful of flashbacks, shorter, with the interviewees directing attention to specific details instead of setting up. But, thanks to some pointed questions and answers, the film can stay firmly on its path, Fosse bringing it to the unavoidable but not inevitable finish. The film pulls in all the threads of the previous almost two hours, jumbles them up, then elegantly lays them out, lucidly but not obviously. Fosse’s got one last incredible move in a film of spectacular moves.

All the acting is excellent. Obviously, Hoffman and Perrine are the stars, with Miner and Beck both getting some fine moments. None of the other supporting players get more than a few short scenes, with Rashel Novikoff and Gary Morton standouts. But also pretty much the only other two actors with significant scenes. Novikoff is Hoffman’s unintentionally hilarious aunt, and Morton’s a Catskills comic gone Hollywood, so basically Hoffman’s best-case future.

Technically, it’s superlative. Fosse’s direction, composition and of performances, is great. Heim’s editing, Surtees’s black and white photography, Joel Schiller’s production design, the occasional but actually perfect Ralph Burns music.

Lenny’s remarkable.

The Decoy Bride (2011, Sheree Folkson)

According to the IMDb trivia page, The Decoy Bride only had thirty-five percent the budget it needed for the original version of the screenplay, which—percentage-wise—is a default fail. Of course, it doesn't have to be; there are many examples of constrained budgets leading to ingenious filmmaking. Unfortunately, The Decoy Bride is not one of those examples.

The film's budgetary constraints are clear from the start when the opening titles repeat the scene just before them. Famous Hollywood movie star Alice Eve wants to get married, but since she's the most famous person in the world, the paparazzi are after her, and she can't get married if they take a picture. So she sends out decoy brides on her way to the chapel.

Later in the film, when they actually say "decoy bride," there's no acknowledgment of this opening gambit, which is either a gaffe or bad writing. It's one of the few times one can ask that question; usually, it's just bad writing.

The "Decoy Bride" is Kelly Macdonald. She's just returned home to her remote Scottish island of Hegg with her tail between her legs, yet another relationship failed. Her mom (Maureen Beattie) runs the only bed and breakfast on the island, so at least Macdonald's got somewhere to stay. The Hegg connection to Eve's character is fiancé David Tennant's plodding, way too long debut novel, which takes place on the island. Eve loves Tennant for the book (which no one else has ever liked, including Tennant). There are discarded subplots about Tennant not knowing what he's talking about with the island and even implying he may not have written all of it. There's no budget for a supporting cast, so it's not like he's got a Gordon Lish behind the curtain.

Macdonald immediately goes back to work for slightly creepy James Fleet, who keeps suggesting to her they need to marry (no one else on Hegg is unmarried), and Macdonald never picks up on the hints. Because bad writing. But he's important because he convinces Macdonald to write a travel guide for the island. A "marketing" conference is coming to town, and he's sure they'll buy the guide. So she writes and publishes it in less than a week or something. The travel guide gets discarded. The movie didn't have the budget for photocopies.

The guide's only necessary because after Macdonald and Tennant meet, she tells him she's an author too, and they trade barbs because it's a rom-com, and they can't like each other at the start. Especially since he's about to marry Eve, the most desirable woman in the world.

Most of the movie is set over a day when Macdonald's got to play decoy. It should be a comedy of errors, but they don't have the budget. Eve disappears for most of the second and third acts, only popping in to comedically threaten to murder someone in a wheelchair. To be fair, that part's the worst gag and worst acting in the movie. Well, wait, there are a lot of sexist jokes for a while, but for unnamed supporting players, the attempted murder is the worst for the main cast.

Speaking of unnamed… the film's got numerous characters who don't get proper names, including Sally Phillips, who plays Michael Urie's assistant. Urie is Eve's assistant, though I don't think they have any scenes together. Urie's actually an American playing an American, which is too bad; a Brit doing a bad American performance makes up for a lot of his performance. Being American, he's got a lot fewer excuses.

Except, of course, that bad writing. And director Folkson doesn't do her cast any favors.

The movie somehow manages to waste Tennant's charm (for large stretches, anyway), and then Macdonald is one of those female protagonists who are also the butt of the jokes (can't get a husband, can she). Eve's woefully miscast. The most damaging performance is probably Beattie.

In addition to the severely wanting script, Folkson's direction is barely middling. The quaint, remote island has no personality. The recurring gag is there's a relatively ancient public toilet. So if it's not funny the third time, what about the fourth. Wokka wokka.

The third act seems like it might rally and surprise, then hits all the predicted beats instead, which is the film's final disappointment.

There's also the soundtrack, which frequently features cloying, overbearing bland folk-rock, set to unrelated scenes for the entire song. Then the score's main theme references "Just Like Heaven" so much you'd think someone told them the Cure would definitely let them use the song for free. And then when they did not, the movie just left the theme because it's not like anyone associated with the Cure would watch the film?

It could be worse, obviously. But almost anything would've made it better. Just trusting Tennant and Macdonald to act instead of blaring crappy music over their scenes would've done a lot. The film doesn't trust its leads, which is the entire point of a rom-com, so why bother.

Wayward Pines (2015) s01e05 – The Truth

There’s so much going on this episode I didn’t even realize Carla Gugino isn’t in it.

It’s a brand new day in “Wayward Pines,” with Shannyn Sossamon starting as a realtor—working with caricature male chauvinist pig Michael McShane, which is actually fine; the show couldn’t even manage caricatures before. Son Charlie Tahan is still in school, but he’s about to find out the capital T truth (hence the title) from intense, manipulative schoolmarm Hope Davis. Matt Dillon’s busy trying to escape to Boise to get help. His plot ties into Tahan’s, whereas Sossamon is separate. She’s living the ominous but mundane while Dillon’s in danger. Davis is explaining that danger to both Tahan and the audience.

This episode is where “Wayward Pines” pulls back the curtain to reveal what’s actually going on in the town. The kids get to know about it because they’re the future. Unfortunately, they need to keep it from their parents, who aren’t well-adjusted enough to cope.

It’s also where “Wayward Pines,” the show, explains why Wayward Pines, the town, is such a cracker-ville, and it’s not because they’re trying to mimic the racial demographics of real-life Idaho. Whether the show’s intentionally lily-white or if it’s just, you know, Hollywood, it ends up being a flex. I suppose the show could address the lack of diversity—there are no Black or brown students at the high school, so the future’s very white with maybe four Asian girls–but I don’t expect them to address it.

Maybe it’ll surprise me. If it’s not just another MacGuffin, the big reveal is a surprise. And has some interesting connotations for how all the pieces fit in the previous episodes with the timeline. They didn’t do it well; they could’ve leaned into the time disconnect much better, but… still. It was a surprise.

Dillon running through the woods with a gaggle of Gollums chasing him was not a surprise. It’s on par for the show.

The episode’s got an interesting creative team—James Foley directs, with the script credit going to novel writer and property creator Blake Crouch and then Matt Duffer and Ross Duffer (credited as The Duffer Brothers, which is obnoxious but whatever).

Foley’s direction’s okay. I was expecting more from him, but both he and the script focus the episode around Tahan, who gets a literal slide show exposition dump. If Davis had looked into the camera and asked, “Any questions,” it wouldn’t have been a surprise for how much they info dump. Also, the teen actors aren’t bad. Sarah Jeffery’s still good as Tahan’s new girlfriend, but he’s in class with Sarah Desjardins and Samuel Patrick Chu, who get a lot of reaction shots and sell them.

The guest star this episode is Scott Michael Campbell, who’s new to town and needs a house, so Sossamon shows him one. Their arc compliments Dillon and Tahan’s, but it’s got nothing to do on its own. Except give Melissa Leo a scene. She’s still not good, but she’s getting less dreadful as the series goes on. It’s still a weird miss for her.

Oh, and then Sossamon’s other scene has Tahan being really shitty to her because she wants him to listen to her and treat her with respect, and he doesn’t have to do it anymore since he’s in “Wayward Pines.” It’s interesting because Tahan’s “better” as a little shit than when he was a thoughtful kid, and also, he seriously doesn’t remember running someone over with a car two episodes ago. He really does think they’re in an ordinary little town, at least until Davis truth bombs him.

I’m not interested to see if they’ll make this material, post-reveal, good, but it’s a compelling hook. Four episodes is too long to wait for it, though. Especially those four episodes.

Outlander (2014) s01e08 – Both Sides Now

At the end of this episode, I momentarily marveled at “Outlander”’s ability to bore and offend me for almost an hour, then make me care about the obnoxious characters on the screen. Then I realized it was just they’d finally threatened to rape Caitriona Balfe enough; I was moved when they didn’t. Especially since the second interrupted rape involved gleeful mutilation on the part of Tobias Menzies, playing an ancestor of time traveler Balfe’s husband.

The episode’s all about Menzies mooning over disappeared Balfe in the 1940s while she’s busy enjoying marital bliss with hunky highlander Sam Heughan in the past. Well, until it turns out public sex in 1700s Scotland is less safe than Balfe and Menzies’s public sex in 1940s Scotland, and a couple redcoats ambush them and decide to rape Balfe. It gets interrupted with a godawful slow-motion action sequence, and then Balfe wanders around recovering for a bit with emphasized side boob going on. Once again, it’s Anne Foerster directing, so it’s a woman doing her damndest to appeal to male gaze. And doing godawful action sequences.

In the present, Menzies is dealing with cops who don’t care—they’re trying to do them all folksy and charming, but they’re really just terrible men who hate women and don’t care what happens to them—and finally deciding he’s going back to Oxford. Turns out the figure he saw in the pilot episode was Heughan somehow in the future. Big yawn.

In the past, Menzies will catch up with Balfe—not caring she’s married to a Scot now—and she’ll blather in the narration about how she’s going to outsmart him using her future knowledge. It’s knowledge we got in the pilot, too, but it didn’t seem significant. Though none of “Outlander” is significant.

There’d be some potentially okay character development for Balfe, but it goes to pot for sensationalism and exploitation. Heughan’s gotten blander the more he moons over Balfe—I asked regular viewers if the stars ever got chemistry together, and they said yes, but I should’ve clarified good chemistry. Balfe and Heughan are so tedious together, the supporting cast is downright endearing when they show up. Including Graham McTavish, who’s not rapey this episode, so next one, beware….

It’s an exceptionally manipulative show, like the whole gimmick is how manipulative it can get, which I guess gives Ronald D. Moore (who gets the writing credit) something to do, but it’s atrocious storytelling. And Menzies is so laughably miscast they have to promise gore to make him threatening. But he’s still worse in the present as a potential cuckold.

At one point, it seems like Balfe might leap back home, and I know she can’t because there are a million more hours of this show, but for the sequence, I desperately wished she would, and it would be over. Alas, magical thinking is just that.

Anyway, Bill Paterson’s cute; shame he’s only it for three minutes.

Outlander (2014) s01e07 – The Wedding

I’m not sure how to take “Outlander” seriously. It’s somewhat offensive the show ever implies I should try; this episode makes me want to see if it somehow breaks my eighth amendment rights or something. It’s shockingly bad at what it’s trying to do, starting with what it’s doing in the first place.

The last episode ended with British time traveler from the future Caitriona Balfe agreeing to marry hot highlander Sam Heughan to foil evil British red coat Tobias Menzies’s plans for Balfe. Making matters worse, Menzies is an ancestor of Balfe’s husband in the future—also played by Menzies. Menzies doesn’t appear in this episode, which is fine. It’s got enough problems with the actors it does have.

This episode is all about their wedding night, including their sexy times. At this point, Balfe’s been living in the past for four months minimum, so you could think of her widowed four months. Except her plan is to go back to the future, where Menzies (the future one, not the rapist one) is still alive. Maybe. You wouldn’t know it from this episode’s narration, which might be the worst ever? And “Outlander”’s narration for Balfe is some of the worst narration I’ve ever heard, so… it’s an achievement to dig to a new bottom. Kudos Anne Kenney or whoever. Kenney gets the credit, but maybe it’s from the room; perhaps it’s from the source novels. Who cares.

Outside they’re decidedly dull nooky—it’s hilarious because Balfe and future Menzies were legit exhibitionists—they talk and flashback to Heughan’s day. While Balfe’s just marrying the sexy Scot barbarian because she doesn’t want to go to eighteenth-century prison, Heughan’s actually sincere in his wedding desires. Balfe’s a good match for him. Only the supporting cast has just recently become likable, and then they roll it way back with Graham McTavish, so spending an episode with them is tedious. But at least they’re not having boring conversations and bad sex. Though I think we get some man bum. There is lots of female nudity (the director’s a woman, Anna Foerster), but it’s still male gaze-y. All of it is unnecessary.

The episode never answers important questions—like how Balfe marrying wanted man Heughan makes any sense—and then probably some other ones. I don’t care. It’s so lousy commercial breaks would’ve been an improvement. Seriously, how did they decide to make this show but not decide the rules for Balfe’s narration—or, you know, figure out the character relationship with her and Heughan. In every episode, it seems like they’re strangers meeting for the first time even though they’ve known each other since the first episode.

I’m not sure if it’s unintentionally bewildering or just terrible, but given even usually sturdy McTavish can’t sell his latest mood swing, it’s probably the latter.

What We Do in the Shadows (2019) s03e09 – A Farewell

“What We Do in the Shadows” might be done with the last episode’s A-plot, but it’s not done with the B-plot, which was Kayvan Novak being sick of being a vampire. This episode continues that subplot, which doesn’t resolve here either, making it one of the show’s longest-running subplots.

Novak has decided he will go into a super-slumber—if vampires get too mopey, they go to sleep for a hundred years. Except there’s immediately a problem involving the Vampiric Council, so Harvey Guillén keeps having to wake Novak up. An international delegation is visiting, and Natasia Demetriou doesn’t want to tell them Novak’s quit the vampire life, so there are all sorts of hijinks to not appear suspicious.

Khandi Alexander, David Cross, and Donal Logue all guest star as the delegation. Cross is in a bunch of makeup, while the gag with Logue is he’s actor Donal Logue who decided to become a vampire after starring in Blade. Presumably, Wesley Snipes could’ve turned him, based on his cameo last season, but it’s not addressed. They’re all just there for the hijinks’ laughs. They all do a fine job of it.

In the meantime, Matt Berry’s trying to get some interest going for Mark Proksch’s one-hundredth birthday. They’d already planned it, but the delegates’ visit means Berry is trying to do a joint celebration, but Demetriou isn’t interested. So the Proksch stuff ends up being the B-plot, leading into next episode with a big reveal in the last few minutes then a cliffhanger.

Lots of good acting from the main cast—Guillén, Berry, Demetriou—with Proksch getting oddly very little to do. Being an energy vampire, he really doesn’t get in on the visitor hijinks and all his birthday stuff is more material for Berry. We’ll see if Proksch gets to do anything with all the material they push to next time. Similarly, Novak’s also got a reduced presence. He’s hilarious when he’s got a punchline, and he’s very little but punchlines.

It’s often very funny, but there’s too much plot (because it’s the penultimate episode of the season).

7 Women (1966, John Ford)

First, it’s actually 8 Women; Jane Chang doesn’t count because she’s not white. Though I suppose it could just be counting good Christian women, then Anne Bancroft doesn’t count. Women is a Western, just one set nearer to modernity and not in the American West. Instead, it’s about a mission in China on the border with Mongolia. By 1966, apparently Hollywood had decided it was no longer okay to do yellowface of Chinese people, but you could still go whole hog on Mongolians. Including eye makeup. It’s a lot. It takes a while for the Mongolian raiders to show up, and the film definitely saves its big swings for them.

Bancroft is the new doctor at the mission. She had to take the job because she wanted to get out of the States, where being a female doctor in the thirties meant a mostly unhappy life helping out in the slums. The mission’s boss is Margaret Leighton, who’s definitely the most tragic figure of the film. Women has many hurdles with Leighton’s character; she’s a repressed, self-loathing lesbian, which the film sensationalizes for a moment then sort of drops. The film also swings hard against Leighton’s religiosity, especially after a harder working missionary from elsewhere in the province stops in. Flora Robson plays that other missionary; she’s actually British, while Leighton’s character (Leighton herself being British) is a stuck-up American from the Northeast. Nevertheless, Leighton’s definitely the most interesting character in the film, even if the last third has her descending into religious blather as Bancroft has to maneuver a way to save everyone’s life.

Well, everyone who’s left. Women’s a Western with the Mongolians standing in for the Native Americans, but the Mongolians have automatic weapons and can kill lots of people at once. It’ll eventually be a combination siege and hostage picture, with Leighton, Robson, Sue Lyon, Mildred Dunnock, Betty Field, Anna Lee, and Chang hostages; Bancroft’s a hostage with privileges.

Bancroft gives an excellent performance. She lifts up every other performance in the film, which usually has religious constraints. The film calls bunk on Christian missionary philosophy, but it can’t actually call bunk on it, so it instead shows it playing out as bunk. Specifically American Christian missionary philosophy. Robson, Lee, and Chang, representing the British, come off a lot better. They’re at least aware of themselves. Leighton’s not happy unless everyone works themselves into severe depression thanks to cognitive dissonance, including protege and object of her affection Lyon. It breaks Leighton’s heart when Lyon takes to brass, worldly Bancroft; if it weren’t for Bancroft, no one but her would be getting Lyon’s attention. Dunnock is meek, Field is exceptionally annoying. Of course, Field’s also there with her husband, Eddie Albert. Albert always wanted to be a preacher, but the closest he could get was teaching badly at a mission school in China.

So there’s no one to impress Lyon except Leighton, who hates herself for wanting to do so, but at least it’s kind of sympathetic for a while. At least until she shows how much she’s willing to jeopardize others to maintain her control.

While Bancroft is top-billed, she’s more the catalyst than the protagonist. Especially in the last third, when Bancroft’s machinations off-camera with white guy in yellowface Mike Mazurki and Black guy in yellowface Woody Strode drive the plot. The film still can’t be too explicit about what’s going on–well, unless you’re a Bible freak like Leighton, who can’t stop spouting made-up scripture to damn everyone but her–so knowing looks and fade-outs do a lot of work.

The film’s got its technical high points—while director Ford goes for Western siege picture most of the time, he and composer Elmer Bernstein treat Bancroft’s arc like it’s more of a film noir. Okay photography from Joseph LaShelle. LaShelle should’ve gotten Ford to double-check the headroom, though. The framing’s always just a little off, with Ford sometimes struggling to fill the wide Panavision frame. There’s also some crappy “Oriental” music in Bernstein’s score. Not as much as there could be, but the rest of the music is good especially Bancroft’s themes.

Otho Lovering’s editing is fantastic.

7 Women (8) does pretty well with all its constraints, including Lyons, who’s likable but not very good, and is an outstanding showcase for Bancroft. It’s also classist, racist, misogynist, and homophobic.

But it does pass Bechdel with flying colors. And it’s got no time for hateful religious malarky.

This post is part of the Anne Bancroft: A 90th Birthday Celebration Blogathon hosted by Crystal of In the Good Old Days of Classic Hollywood.

Cabaret (1972, Bob Fosse)

The first act of Cabaret is about introducing British guy Michael York to Weimar-era Berlin and to the life and times of his neighbor Liza Minnelli. Minnelli’s an American ex-pat; she’s landed in a cabaret and is trying to sing, dance, and sleep her way into movies. York’s there to teach English and get some experience before he becomes a boring Cambridge professor.

The second act is about the rise of Nazism in the early thirties and how much effect it can have on ex-pats. Or it would be if York and Minnelli were paying attention; instead, they’re letting rich German guy Helmut Griem play with them. Griem is in need of affordable diversions, and York and Minnelli are broke.

The third act is about the tragedy of York and Minnelli and how the problems of little people don’t amount to a hill of beans in the crazy world. Director Fosse’s got an inspired narrative distance to York and Minnelli—he has it throughout the film, but in the third act, it’s even better because first, it pays off. Everyone shows their hand, both the characters and then Fosse revealing how the film’s actually been working, and the third act works through the repercussions. It’s sort of like the third act is an extended epilogue to the epical arc the film only barely spotlights.

Because while York and Minnelli are drinking champagne and playing with Griem, their friends Fritz Wepper and Marisa Berenson are experiencing the realities of Nazism. Wepper’s a wannabe gigolo; Berenson is the perfect mark. She’s rich and beautiful but Jewish. It’s not a problem for Wepper; it’s a problem for Berenson. Over the course of their courtship, in addition to Wepper falling hard for her, the local brownshirts start targeting her family.

Cabaret’s most salient arc is for Wepper and Berenson, who occasionally visit York and Minnelli to fill them in on the main plot. But the film’s not really about its arcs; it’s about the disquieting nightmare world everyone finds themselves in, the world of the cabaret.

Joel Grey plays the emcee at the club where Minnelli dances, but Fosse uses him throughout, an almost devil overseeing tragedies big and small. There are only a couple scenes where Grey and Minnelli interact—they have a remarkable musical number together, but Cabaret’s musical numbers are integrated into the narrative and compartmentalized from it—the scenes where Grey and Minnelli engage each other, however, are profoundly disturbing. Just like Fosse uses Grey to imply the macro changes to Germany, Grey’s also there to make some implications about Minnelli’s personal changes. Cabaret is about dreams never coming true while the nightmares instead do. Grey’s the master of ceremonies and nightmares.

Fosse shoots much of the film in close-ups, especially when York and Minnelli are becoming friends. The focus is on the characters, not their setting. Fosse zooms out for some other sequences, the ones contextualizing the characters in the changing Germany. The changing Germans then get the close-ups, Fosse emphasizing the humanity of their inhumanity. There’s a devastating beer garden Nazi youth singing sequence (the master race has such bad teeth and skin) where Fosse malevolently reveals the extent of Nazism among the populace. York’s ostensibly the one watching the revelation unfold, but it’s the viewer. York’s going to get to put his head in the sand while the audience presumably knows what’s coming.

It’s unclear how much the growing Nazi movement impacts York and Minnelli’s arc. It definitely has some effect, but a lot is going on; the film never reveals anywhere near all of it. Actually, the film doesn’t even show most of it. The audience is not privy to York and Minnelli’s thoughts or secrets, just what they’re going to share with the world or one another. And if they’re keeping secrets from each other, it passes over to the audience.

Minnelli and York are tragic characters without being tragic figures. Fosse always finds a way to show the character through the caricature, which is quite the trick given the importance of caricature in the cabaret performances—the most terrifying implication, of course, is Grey’s emcee isn’t a horrifying sight gag but is an active participant. It’s never more impressive than with Minnelli, however. It’s a sensational part, with Fosse and Minnelli able to do all sorts of minor character developments and reveals along the way. York’s got the epical arc—young English man abroad—and Minnelli gets the character study. Even with the film presenting Minnelli almost entirely through York’s observation in the second act. When Minnelli does a musical number, and York’s not there, it takes a second to remember it’s her movie. Well, it’s the cabaret’s movie, and she’s in the cabaret.

Fosse leans heavily into making the Life is a Cabaret song metaphor work for the whole picture. Fosse and cinematographer Geoffrey Unsworth don’t exactly soft-focus the non-cabaret scenes, but there’s always more reality to the musical numbers. The camera captures the performers waiting and watching from backstage, for example. Or whatever magic Unsworth does to make the stage’s lights visually sear without changing the lighting mood. Cabaret is one hell of a gorgeous film. As impressive as Unsworth’s photography gets, David Bretherton’s editing is even better. He and Fosse cut the musical numbers precisely, seemingly on the actors’ rhythm, but the rest is just as well-edited. Every cut in Cabaret is divine.

Great costumes from Charlotte Fleming, production design from Rolf Zehetbauer, and sound from David Hildyard. The music—Ralph Burns arranging—is excellent. Ditto Jay Presson Allen’s script. Obviously, Fosse is the superstar, but he’s got a great crew and cast.

Minnelli and Grey give the best performances, then York. York never gets to be flashy—he is British, after all—and does an excellent job radiating nervous energy. Wepper and Berenson are outstanding. Griem’s fine. He’s just a shallow blue blood, de facto glamorous, and Cabaret’s about what’s behind the glamour. Both real and imagined.

It’s a devastating and devastatingly good motion picture.