Tag Archives: movie mezzanine

Looking Back on “Looking Back”

For six months back in 2013, I wrote a column with the blunt title “Looking Back” for the now-defunct website Movie Mezzanine. The idea was that I’d write about a different old movie each week—and wow, I picked some good ones. I was not long out of college at the time. I parted ways with the site and its editor once I moved to Michigan. Since the outlet itself has folded, and the originals were bylined with my deadname, I’ve decided to collect all eleven entries (unchanged) in one place.

A Canterbury Tale (1944)
Published January 6, 2013

Throughout the 1940s, Michael Powell and Emeric Pressburger collaborated (as “The Archers”) on a handful of the greatest, most British films ever made. Films like The Life and Death of Colonel Blimp, so raucous in its epic sweep through history, or The Red Shoes with its Technicolor ballet—these enormous, impassioned films that have emblazoned themselves on my memory. A Canterbury Tale (1944) is narrower in scope and looser in structure than those two; tucked away among such giants, it’s easy to miss. But, as I was reminded while watching it this past New Year’s Day, Powell and Pressburger are always ready with surprises. This is a hell of a movie, bucolic and beautiful, as well as a key text when it comes to understanding their filmography.
Continue reading


Filed under Cinema

Looking Away

I’ve wrapped up my tenure writing “Looking Back” for Movie Mezzanine with pieces on three very different movies—a silent Swedish romance, a ’60s drama, and a ’30s comedy—that nonetheless have one big thing in common: all three are about patriarchs who try to escape from the real world into artificial worlds of their own creation.

  • In The Outlaw and His Wife, for example, reformed thief Ejvind is hunted to the ends of the earth by the Icelandic authorities. As a result, he retreats the mountains and starts a new life with his wife and daughter. When the law catches up with him, he retreats even farther, carving whatever measure of privacy he can out of the wilderness.
  • The Swimmer’s Ned Merrill builds up an elaborate fantasy of middle-class stasis in his head, imagining himself loved by his wife, daughters, and neighbors. Ejvind may die, but he’s lucky compared to Ned—at least he still has his wife’s very real love to sustain him! Ned, meanwhile, stumbles deeper and deeper into a morass of personal tragedy, eternally alone.
  • Finally, there’s W.C. Fields in It’s a Gift, who girds himself through all manner of domestic torment with dreams of owning an orange grove. Unlike the other two men in question, Fields’ Harold Bissonette actually gets his happy ending, albeit through a hilariously unlikely turn of events.

Though made across half a century, all three of these movies deal with men in positions of responsibility who are besieged by social, financial, and emotional pressures. And for all three men, the only real solution is to break away, whether mentally or physically (or both). Sometimes, these movies admit, our problems can’t be worked out; sometimes, we just have to look away.

Leave a comment

Filed under Cinema

Punch Drunk

John Larch in The Phenix City Story | Brian Keith in 5 Against the House

Modern Gothic vehemence… a chilling documentary exactness and an exciting shot-scattering belligerence.

That’s Manny Farber in his essay “Underground Movies,” describing some tendencies found within Phil Karlson’s filmography. I think I’ll add abrasiveness and angularity to his pool of nouns as well. Each one of them is immediately apparent in The Phenix City Story (1955), which may be Karlson’s magnum opus and which is also the subject of my most recent column over at Movie Mezzanine. I’m especially fond of that “modern Gothic vehemence”: Karlson’s movies are forceful, like a boxer’s glove coming toward your face in 3D, the full power of a heavyweight artist behind them. (They’re kin to the films of Samuel Fuller, whose own novel The Dark Page was actually filmed by Karlson as the 1952 newspaper noir Scandal Sheet.)

Alleyways in Phenix City and 5 Against the House’s Reno

In addition to The Phenix City Story, I recently watched Karlson’s 5 Against the House (also 1955) which is thankfully much milder. No child murders or bloody mass beatings here; just four college buddies goofing around, two of whom served together in the Korean War, and one of whom was psychologically damaged by the experience. As a prank, the friends plot a brilliant heist on a Reno casino, intending to return the money later—but Brick (Brian Keith) is slipping into psychosis due to his post-traumatic stress, and he has other plans. 5 Against the House starts out as a lightweight comedy of Eisenhower-era male bonding, which makes its descent into mental illness and very real noir danger that much more gripping. Brick’s a reluctant villain, and his friends are reluctant heroes; no one thinks they’re in a crime thriller. The normal turns into the abnormal so quickly that you hardly notice at first.

Richard Kiley in The Phenix City Story | 5 Against the House’s parking garage climax

This, I think, speaks to one of Karlson’s greatest directorial strengths: he seems to coax brutality out of the everyday. His are blue-collar movies; sloppy, smudged, fashioning a world you can imagine living in before he blows it all to hell. John Payne’s ex-prizefighter in 99 River Street (1953), for example, has real relationships that he needs to balance with the bitterness seething inside him. The residents of Phenix City have homes and families they don’t want to endanger. Maybe this is the “chilling documentary exactness” Farber spoke of. His movies reek of tabloid sensationalism, but that never keeps them from being uncomfortably plausible. They’re like a full-page spread of crime scene photos snapped right in your own backyard.

Leave a comment

Filed under Cinema

Candid Camera

Wanda, the first and only film by Barbara Loden, is—as Bérénice Reynaud put it in her essential essay “For Wanda”—a “small, forgotten masterpiece.” I wrote about it over at Movie Mezzanine. (You can also read more about it by critics like Richard Brody and Tony Paley.) In Wanda, Loden pins down a certain type of woman, as well as the desolate real-world spaces she lives in, and the very real kinds of sadness she experiences. The film’s so obviously drawn straight from life that you could nearly mistake it for someone’s especially depressing home movies, with the fuzziness of its 16mm images and soundtrack (the latter totally devoid of non-diegetic music) doing nothing to dispel this impression. As too with life, so much of Wanda is connective tissue. Our “heroine” walks, bedhops, idles around Scranton, and eventually has her heart broken for the umpteenth time. I’d hesitate to call any of it beautiful, but it is powerful: a movie you can’t shake, and whose like may never really come again.

Leave a comment

Filed under Cinema

Go West

The Extraordinary Adventures of Mr. West in the Land of the Bolsheviks (1924) is a mouthful of a title, but it sets just the right expectations for Lev Kuleshov’s satirical adventure, which I wrote about over at Movie Mezzanine. It’s exactly the kind of zany fantasy travelogue that the title suggests, dropping an idiot westerner (Mr. West) and his faithful cowboy pal Jeddy into the silly, slapstick-heavy city of Moscow. There, West is terrorized and subjected to a series of elaborate con games by the sinister Zhban (played by Kuleshov’s peer Vsevolod Pudovkin) and his team of back alley grotesques. It’s all very, very funny and right on target when it comes to skewering American myopia. If only all Soviet propaganda were this much fun!

Leave a comment

Filed under Cinema