late night with the devil & immaculate

There is a lot of creativity and ingenuity on display in Cameron Cairnes and Colin Cairnes's Late Night with the Devil, found footage film of a 1977 midnight talk show turned into a rollicking, unexpectedly horrific live broadcast across America's living rooms. Even the fictional talk show's name and logo, Night Owls, is clever and lovingly designed (it would make for a good coffee mug or T-shirt). The show's elevator pop jazz music (the fitting original score is by Glenn Richards and Roscoe James Irwin) is a quirky, but believable, touch. Even though one, especially those with an inkling of classic horror knowledge, can telegraph some of the plot elements of show host Jack Delroy's (a very credible, solid David Dastmalchian) desperate attempts to beat Carson in the ratings (a lot is inferred from the jump in the film's backstory-packed prelude of well-wrought, vintage-dressed magazines, photos, and media clips). For those looking for creepy Exorcist-inspired horror or a hot, Network-inspired scathing media satire, it's not super satisfying in either regard. Instead, it's more about the charming, cornball production on display, and the intricacies of craft (the sound design is particularly inventive).  As the show's guest flat-out skeptic, Ian Bliss, with his daggered, crisp, Richard Dreyfuss-esque voice and beady eyes, is the film's scene stealer. It plays somewhat flat on a screener, but it's quite good with a game audience, especially in stadium-style seats, as if you are one with the TV audience within--if this was intentional, it feels like a nice, appropriately hokey nod to the grand William Castle. ***

Where Late Night with Devil is imbued with some slippery humor, Michael Mohan's Immaculate is gorily bleak. Young Cecilia (current "it" star Sydney Sweeney) plays a Michigander who joins a convent in rural Italy. The joint is spooky and Cuckoo's Nest-strict (with Novitiate / Doubt-level nunnery monsters at the helm). Catacombs loom underneath (the setting for one of the film's best sequences) as does an icky, mysterious history. Besides a chain-smoking, brazen cohort, fish-out-of-water Cecilia is on her own and mostly at sea. The "immaculate conception" in the film is no surprise, but what Cecilia endures in the remainder is the film's hook and main source of suspense and social commentary. If the film is an allegory, scripted by Andew Lobel, it is a surprisingly grimy, wrenching and virulently anti-Catholic one unlike the run of most religious horror flicks of late that oft come with a gossamer, holy conclusion (studio Neon has cannily used pious complaints against the movie as advertising). It's an attractively made pic, but there is a bit of triteness here and there--the wavering candle flame sound effects are turned up (too high?) as are an unnecessarily piled-on slew of jump scares. There's a lot of howling grief and rage in the light-at-the-end-of-the-tunnel coda, with visual references to Rosemary's Baby, House of a 1000 Corpses via Texas Chainsaw Massacre 2. Sometimes it all feels a bit too much, yearning for it to get dished on a slightly more subtle level, but still occasionally effective throughout. One of its highlights--a really gorgeous, melodic score by Will Bates. **1/2

-Jeffery Berg

daddy

My review in the Los Angeles Review of Michael Montlack's enjoyable poetry collection, Daddy, here! 

national poetry month 2020

This April, I read a poetry collection a day and wrote some thoughts on each one. It was an invigorating experience in an unsettled time. So many great collections out there.

Chad Bennett, Your New Feeling is the Artifact of a Bygone Era
Reginald Dwayne Betts, Felon
Richard Blanco, How to Love a Country
Jericho Brown, The Tradition
Nickole Brown, Fanny Says
Jennifer Chang, Some Say the Lark
Tina Chang, Hybrida
Alison Colbert, Let the Circle Be Unbroken
Stephen Dunn, Pagan Virtues
Julie R. Enszer, Avowed
Elaine Equi, The Intangibles
Eve L. Ewing, Electric Arches
Tess Gallagher, Is, Is Not
Kimiko Hahn, Foreign Bodies
Garrett Hongo, Coral Road
Kim Hyesoon, Autobiography of Death
Major Jackson, The Absurd Man
Janine Joseph, Driving Without a License
Paige Lewis, Space Struck
Ada Limón, The Carrying
Luljeta Lleshanaku, Negative Space
John McCullough, Spacecraft
Karyna McGlynn, Hothouse
Hieu Minh Nguyen, Not Here
Anne Sexton, Live or Die
Clint Smith, Counting Descent
Gary Snyder, The Back Country
Karl Tierney, Have You Seen This Man?
John Updike, Telephone Poles
Kevin Young, Brown

-Jeffery Berg


The above piece is by Titus Kaphar, who did the art for the striking jacket of Reginald Dwayne Betts' Felon.

the witch

Perhaps because of the legacy of Arthur Miller's The Crucible, it's difficult to watch Puritan dramas without thinking of them as allegories to modern times. Robert Eggers' impressively focused, chilly horror yarn The Witch lands in a week of Republican presidential candidates looking into the glass, asking "mirror, mirror, who's the most Christian of them all?"  Following the travails of a banished Puritan family in a gray-skied remote setting, The Witch builds slowly and cautiously, with a layering of menacing symbols (a bloody egg, wood-chopping, a staring bunny with crazed orange eyes) and quick cuts to silence. As the film progresses, the titular character nestled in the woods becomes sort of a ruse as the film is more about people viciously turning on one another out of fear. Peppered with some homages here and there (I spied The Shining and Carrie in particular), the movie plays out in grim, dramatic fashion by a uniformly excellent cast with nary any humor except the wickedly ironic death sequences.

Picked up by indie studio A24, The Witch was brought to cinemas to cash in on mainstream American's reliable ticket buying habits for horror. More Haneke than Saw, it might be a disappointment for those looking for a noisy thrill-ride and thy Pilgrim-lingo will be lost on those who want their dialogue spoon-fed and crisp (one patron at my theater exclaimed after it ended, "What a piece of crap!"). But what isn't the usual in mainstream movies are the strengths in The Witch: the gauzy speechifying, the sawing strings, choral stabs of Mark Korven's eerie score, and the hypnotic, claustrophobic woodsy landscape (filmed in rural Canada) all add to the film's unshakable mood. Even though I walked out of the cinema in an environment in stark contrast to Pilgrims in the woods, it took a while for me shake off my sense of dread and a creeped-out suspicion of my city surroundings..  ***

-Jeffery Berg

'the triumphant return of madonna—and it’s about time' by justin lockwood

Let me get this out of the way: I realize Rebel Heart came out a while ago; in fact, the first 6 songs were released with pre-orders back in January.  But it takes me several listens to truly assess my feelings about an album.  This was especially true given my high hopes for Rebel Heart: in my opinion, Madonna hasn't had a truly great album since 2005’s Confessions on a Dance Floor.  Those first tracks left me cautiously optimistic: “Living for Love” is a choir-filled, floor stomping stunner, and “Ghosttown” is probably her best ballad this side of “Live to Tell.”  But “Devil May Pray” was pretty filler-y, and “Bitch I’m Madonna,” while fun, is the sort of indulgent cheese MDNA had far too much of.

But now, I’m happy to say, I've learned that Rebel Heart is everything I hoped for.  It’s Madonna’s best in years, and I can’t get enough of it.  Critics have already pointed out that former trendsetter Madonna worked too hard to follow other people’s trends on her last few efforts.  Breaking out of that pattern is a huge part of why Rebel Heart works as well as it does.  She’s confident and even a little experimental, producing dizzying songs like the tribal sounding “Best Night” and the raunchy “Holy Water,” the latter featuring both orgasmic “oh’s” and the types of deliciously sacrilegious references that are Queen M’s stock in trade.  Even the songs I wasn’t initially impressed by have grown on me: “Iconic” is arrogant but earns its swagger with a driving beat, and “Body Shop” manages to make potentially groan inducing innuendos about “headlights” and “curves” playful and sweet.  The large number of tracks—19, not including bonuses on the “Super Deluxe” edition—gives Madonna the opportunity to cover expansive sonic ground.  There’s quiet and contemplative (“Heartbreak City,” “Wash All Over Me,” “Rebel Heart”), brash and in-your-face (“Unapologetic Bitch” is awesome), and blends of both (“Veni Vidi Vici” finds the Material Girl looking back with references to her back catalogue that feel more earned here than they did on the frivolous MDNA, while guest Nas brings in his own life story—and attitude).  Her vocals are strong and show off her range, and the instrumentation harkens back to the grounded electronic backdrop of Ray of Light and Music.

Refreshingly, Rebel Heart really seems like it’s about something.  Beyond the usual suspects like come hither sexuality (does anyone doubt that, even at 56, this woman has a robust sex life?) and broken relationships, Madonna seems to be tackling her feelings about life in general—the one she’s lived, and the one she stills hopes to continue.  Fittingly, the artist who inspired multiple generations of pop is back to making music that doesn't sound like anyone else’s.  It’s thrillingly and enjoyably her own.

-Justin Lockwood

a look back at 'coven' by justin lockwood

Following the finale of "Coven," the latest season of Ryan Murphy’s anthology American Horror Story, I went back and watched parts of the earlier episodes.  There were some terrific scenes, notably those between Jessica Lange’s devious, self-absorbed Supreme witch Fiona and the other female leads, Angela Bassett’s fact-based voodoo queen Marie Laveau and Kathy Bates’ cruel Madame Delphine LaLaurie, also a historical figure.  Their scenes together crackle with intensity and pathos, fueled by terrific performances from the women involved and sharp writing.  They imply the season’s primary themes: the complicated, fraught relationships between women as their roles have evolved over time, and an unsubtle, powerful dramatization of race relations writ large.  These themes were further developed by stunning set pieces like a torch wielding black mob, led by Marie, lynching LaLaurie’s family and entombing her below the ground and, later, a 1960s youth hung by white men, his death avenged by resurrected Confederate soldiers.

Unfortunately, "Coven" cast its net too widely beyond these potent conflicts, encompassing so many characters and mini-arcs that the central dramas got a bit lost in the shuffle.  Even the season long McGuffin—who would be the next Supreme?—took a back seat at times to diversions like “FrankenKyle,” a good-hearted frat boy turned monster involved in a love triangle with young witches Zoe (Taissa Farmiga) and Madison (a perfectly bitchy Emma Roberts).  Perhaps the best illustration of "Coven's" misguided attempt to do too damn much is its failure to produce an iconic monster in the style of the first two seasons.  While season 1 had Rubber Man and season 2 gave us Bloodyface, "Coven" stumbled by offering us three candidates: the Minotaur LaLaurie created out of Marie’s lover, the reality-based Ax Man of New Orleans (Danny Huston), and the demonic Papa Legba.  The Minotaur was dispatched early on—perhaps a twist meant to keep us guessing, but one which just felt anticlimactic.  Huston’s seductive, powerful work as the Ax Man made him memorable, but the series didn’t seem to know quite what to do with him.  Was he the love of Fiona’s life?  A mere pawn in the war between witches and their hunters, and Fiona and the witches themselves?  His ending with Fiona—apparently for her, Hell is domesticity with one dude—didn’t really make sense.  Both Fiona, who wreaked endless havoc in her life, and the Ax Man, who was all too happy to be stuck with Fiona for all time, seemingly deserved far worse than their fates.  Meanwhile, Legba was certainly striking, smoothly portrayed by Lance Reddick in creepy makeup and costume, but he should have been more prominent in the final episodes.  Instead, he, too, was shouldered aside by the wrapping up of countless loose threads like that FrankenKyle triangle.  (Spoiler alert: the doomed end of Farmiga and Peters’ relationship in season one was infinitely more satisfying than this season’s ho-hum happy ending.)

By the end, "Coven" was apparently intended as the story of two women: Fiona and her daughter Cordelia (Sarah Paulson).  LaLaurie and Marie met their fates in the second to last episode, fittingly trapped in an eternity of vengeance against each other in a Legba designed Hell.  The last episode focuses on the reality-TV like “Seven Wonders” challenge for the Supremacy.  Queenie (Gabourey Sidibe), after navigating a minefield of racial and sexual (dig that Minotaur seduction scene!) politics, ends up second in command to a white lady.  Zoe meets the same fate, after escaping an Emo sounding Hell of endless breakups with her undead boy toy. (Really, guys?  That’s her Hell?  Snooze.)  Then there’s Misty, the awesome Stevie Nicks loving Swamp Witch who seemed like an early favorite for Supreme.  She gets… condemned to a Hell in which she’s a tormented freak endlessly killing and resurrecting a frog in science class.  This one was a real head scratcher.  Misty was the least deserving of such an awful fate, having killed no one and resurrected half the cast with her benevolent magic. Apparently it was meant to be tragic irony, but to quote every college Fiction Writing class ever, It Didn’t Feel Earned.  By the end, Fiona re-emerges, ravaged by cancer and confronting the daughter she never knew how to love, who’s been named Supreme and encourages her mom to at long last accept her own mortality.  It’s a fitting end for both women—and a nice counterpoint to the Asylum finale, in which Paulson was the mom putting her insane son out of his personal misery—but it should have been supported by a season’s worth of narrower focus on both story arcs.  Paulson had her bad ass moments— mainly both times she was blind—and Lange had her share of juicy scenes, but this was more testament to the talent of the actresses than to the material itself.  As Lana and Sister Jude, respectively, Paulson and Lange emerged as the dark, transformed hearts of the sensational Asylum, evolving in ways that felt organic and well thought out.  To trace their character arcs in "Coven," one has to gleam on to bits and pieces scattered amidst mountains of speed plotting, crazy characters, and shock value. (Regarding Patti Lupone’s fundamentalist mom, Mare Winningham’s incestuous one, and about a dozen other odds and ends—um, what the heck was that all about?) For next season, which has a 1950s setting that sounds quite promising, I encourage Murphy to focus less on an endless supply of nuttiness and more on just a few killer characters and themes.  Your repertory company of kick ass women (and men) will make it more than worth our while without so many bells and whistles.


-Justin Lockwood

the giant claw

When one is feeling down, one must watch The Giant Claw.  The Fred F. Sears B-movie follows the destructive path of a gigantic, cawing buzzard.  No one, not even the might of all the military, knows how to stop it.  Like most 1950s monsters movies, the setup is doused with a healthy amount of doubt among official, scientist and government types.  But then the action finally gets going as Jeff Morrow (sturdy and unflappable) and Mara Corday (smart and strong-willed) try to trap and destroy the big ol' bird.  Best sequences involve a series of snapshots of the beast with a closeup of its gap toothy grin, a carload of obnoxious teens who get what they deserve, and the big buzzard taking bites out of the UN and Empire State Building (eat your heart out, Kong).  All of these scenes made me laugh; the effects and editing are deliriously shoddy and there are some great bad lines too ("Now, I don't don't care if that bird came from outer space or Upper Saddle River, New Jersey; it's still made of flesh and blood - of some sort - and vulnerable to bullets and bombs.").  Ray Harryhausen originally planned to do the effects but budget limitations forced the crew to use trick shots and a marionette.  Reportedly no one, including the actors, knew what the bird would look like until the film's release.  Had Columbia Pics had the dough, perhaps it could have ended up being a horror classic, but the schlock effects on display here are enduring and charming.  **1/2

another dysfunctional family

Jonathan Demme is still primarily known for his harrowing The Silence of the Lambs. An unlikely but deserving winner of five Academy Awards, the film remains one of our best and unique thrillers. Demme's direction often studies behavior. He came into his own two years ago with the poignant and ambiguous character study of Rachel Getting Married. It was critically praised but the Dogme 95 style and tragic story (its original advertisements and title seem to promise a romantic comedy) left audiences chilled. The film is one of Demme's best in a rich career of many different flavors and risks including documentaries, the offbeat Something Wild, the breakthrough mainstream AIDS drama Philadelphia, and the adaptation of Toni Morrison's Beloved.

Demme returns to much of the same material of Rachel Getting Married with his new off Broadway production of Beth Henley's (Crimes of the Heart) Family Week. The story centers on a suicidal woman Claire (Rosemarie DeWitt, also of Rachel in which she played the title character so brilliantly) who after the death of her son, admits herself to a recovery center in the desert. The title refers to the visiting of her kin, her mother (Kathleen Chalfant), her young daughter (Sami Gayle) and sister Rickey (Quincy Tyler Bernstine). Through the tumultuous therapeutic sessions, some of which seem bogus, others which seem to have some validity, the clan reveal many painful secrets to one another.

I wonder if Henley's writing, at times acidic and funny, despite the tragedy in the material, often gives too much away. Even though they are in different mediums, I can't help but compare Rachel Getting Married to Family Week and their similar pilings on of domestic traumas. The experience of Rachel Getting Married and its unraveling of family drama worked so well in the cinematic format: the closeups, the claustrophobic and dizzying feel of a busy house in preparations. On a sprawling stage, with some interludes of song (mostly appropriately dusty western tunes from the likes of Emmylou Harris) under moody lighting and complete with a vivid desert background, Family Week sometimes feels a bit repetitious. It was particularly difficult to connect with Claire's character, perhaps because she was so forgone (she holds a teddy throughout most of the production). Because of this, the play lacks a center to hold on to. In Rachel, damaged Kym (Anne Hathaway) bitterly drew us into her world. Whereas the family in Rachel (and too in Ordinary People, another extraordinary portrait of a family coping with tragedy) have been dealing with their wounds for a long time, the tragedy in Family Week is very fresh. Because of this the play works best when in its quirks: we learn that Claire eerily sent Rickey flowers from her dead son; in a closing monologue, Claire stunningly opens up in an odd and brilliant meditation of the body.

Even though the material is sometimes difficult to connect with, it's definitely not the fault of the four actors. The best, and most refreshing of all is Quincy Tyler Bernstine, who injects most of the play's humor and pathos. Her Rickey is very real, spontaneous, and layered (a child prodigy grown up and now broke). One hopes to see more roles for such a talented actress, her speaking voice is just incredible. I felt sympathy for DeWitt who is saddled with many heavy and emotional monologues. She carries it all so deftly without going overboard. Her tearful glares are unforgettable. Her daughter (Sami Gayle) is appropriately whiny, insecure, and precocious. And her WASPish mother is well played by Chalfant who is desperate for "hydrating soap" throughout the play, as if wanting to wash away the past.

Ticket information for Family Week.

from paris with love

Martin Witt has delivered many low-key, social dramas. My favorites are Sounder and Norma Rae which deliver the emotional goods in a quiet, understated way. 1961's Paris Blues is a fascinating glimpse of a bygone era, brilliantly scored by Duke Ellington, where American expatriates in Paris survive by playing jazz. Supposedly the heyday for jazz was over by then but it's a lovely imagining nonetheless--a glamorous romance with extremely appealing stars.

Paul Newman plays Ram Bowen, a talented trombonist who seems dissatisfied with his career. His cohort, Eddie Cook (Sidney Poitier), is another musician who moved to Paris to escape the violent racism of America. Their relationship is at times tense but otherwise knowing. They fall in love with two vacationing Americans, Lillian and Connie (Joanne Woodward and Diahann Carroll), who both challenge their life decisions.

The story is a bit flat and the pace is slow. But it's still an interesting watch for the great jazz, its frank discussions of racial identity and as a time capsule of the stylish, cool cat early '60s. The musical performances kick the film to life--including a brilliant cameo from Louis Armstrong. ***

-Jeffery Berg

another film without hope?

Federico Fellini's semi-autobiographical 8 1/2 is one of the great (if not one of the best) films about filmmaking, memory and fantasy. The title refers to his unfinished project. It also illuminates the difficulty in translating one's own nostalgia into artistic expression ("You've got to make yourself understood. Otherwise, what's the point of it?"). It opens with a dream sequence of a man trapped in an automobile who eventually floats out high above the sea. This is symbolic of the new birth of our main character, Guido (an appropriately understated Marcello Mastroianni), a well-known, 43-year old filmmaker who is struggling to make his next picture. In hopes to be inspired, Guido undergoes treatment by staying at a spa. There, he continues an affair with his flamboyant, ravenous mistress Carla (Sandra Milo). Their relationship is obviously unsatisfying, as Guido attempts to direct her ("make a slutty face") from bed and his distracted, weak attempts to nurse her when she is ill.













Fellini's use of character shows Guido's constant interaction with others but Guido's inherent isolation (he is described as "Mr. Alienated"). Like "cruel bees sucking life out of a flower," advisers, producers, scriptwriters, and reporters constantly prod and probe him about art, political affiliations, religion, love. His actors have demands too and as do his filmgoers who note his inability to make a hopeful film or a love story. Guido fittingly falls asleep in a bed full of headshots. All of this is the natural predicament of a filmmaker struggling to make a film "useful to everybody ... that could help bury forever all those dead things we carry within ourselves." The set of the film itself, is ironically an elaborate rocket launchpad, built on the unsteady foundation of sand.













The Catholic church is a heavy presence over the film; there is a shot of an imposing raised-arm statue of a religious figure over Guido as a schoolboy. The church guides Guido to the Cardinal for the ultimate treatment ("there is no salvation outside the church") and for him to use cultured subjects and logic if he wishes to make a statement on the Catholicism. What's so rich about Fellini's work here is his depictions of religious figures: they are capable of both cruelty and understanding (and wisdom) and are just as human as anyone else.












The difficulty of loving someone, the battle between truth and artificiality and the quest for truth in art are major themes in 8 1/2. When Guido's wife Luisa (Anouk Aimee) enters the picture, she emerges as an unassuming but challenging figure, fed-up with Guido's infidelity and self-absorption. She scolds him at one point, unable to decipher the truths and falsity in his statements. And yet there is a tender neediness to their relationship. When Guido's mistress Carla asks for truth, Guido reverts to another state of dream. He is told he has "changed" and is unable to love. The film asks many questions on the state of the artist: should he, essentially a liar, strip away everything around him in order to pursue the purity of truth? How does one become a better man while remaining an artist critical and passionate about the world around him? All of this culminates in a dreamy, Utopian carnival-like sequence where all of his characters hold hands and dance. Is this scene of unity merely another forced fantasy, a hopeful dream? It ends similarly to the final bows of actors in a play.

8 1/2 is a movie where "everything happens," but not in a frivolous way. It's buoyant, liberating (both in content and cinematic possibilities) yet also made of many careful choices ("you're free, but you must learn to choose"): almost every frame is a thrilling visual surprise (the film breezes by in its near two and half hours). Like the women described in the picture, the movie is "sensual but wicked." Surfaces, headlights and lamp lights gleam around Guido (including his own chic pair of eyeglasses). Nino Rota's jaunty score, and the use of classical music, adds to its the texture. The costumes (which won the Academy Award) reflect the distinct personalities of each of his unusual muses--especially the indelible, heavily-mascaraed women of his life. ****

-Jeffery Berg

heart of gold

Debut director Scott Cooper helms a beautiful directorial debut with Crazy Heart. The plot is familiar as blues--an alcoholic, washed-up aging singer falls in love and ultimately finds redemption. It's similar to 1983's Tender Mercies and echoes both the bleak grit of Darren Aronofsky's The Wrestler and the tuneful slickness of the Johnny Cash biopic Walk the Line. Yet Crazy Heart's screenplay (adapted by Scott from a 1987 Thomas Cobb novel) is fairly funny and buoyant throughout, a charming throwback to old country and naturalistic classics of the early 70s such as Five Easy Pieces.

The crowning glory of the film is Jeff Bridges. Sometimes too overbearing, Bridges has finally been given a big ol' role that suits his robustness, his charms and gifts. He physically transforms into the greasy, bloated Bad Blake: recklessly driving a '78 Suburban, chain smoking, swigging whiskey, limping on a crutch, fiddling with his guitar. His voice, so haggard and worn, is perfect too, and he gives the film's outstanding country numbers an emotional pull. It's one of the great performances and a joy to watch. Maggie Gyllenhaal, as a small paper reporter and Blake's romantic interest, is so expressive and likable that I forgot that she seemed miscast, too metropolitan and too young for the role (she's in her 40s in the novel). A surprising revelation is Colin Farrell (always good at playing a slime ball) who nails his part as Bad Blake's Nashville-glitzed one-time protégé. Tender Mercies's Robert Duvall shows up as Blake's salty bartender friend and offers up a little song (stay for its reprise in the closing credits).

Besides the stirring performances, the technical elements are strong as well. Cinematographer Barry Markowitz (All the Pretty Horses, The Apostle, Sling Blade) provides many stunning shots and really should do more movies! The music enhances the film immeasurably. T-Bone Burnett who co-wrote the score and song production has modernized old folk and country on soundtracks such as Walk the Line, Cold Mountain, and O Brother, Where Art Thou? which won the 2001 Grammy for Album of the Year. On Crazy Heart's gorgeous soundtrack there are remnants of these rootsy, infectious sounds. The film's ultimate anthem is "The Weary Kind," written by Burnett, Ryan Bingham and the late Stephen Bruton (whom the film is dedicated to). It's a tender ode for the downtrodden. Another tune, "Fallin' & Flyin'," is gorgeously melodic and soars at one point when our story's two clashing stars sing it as a harmonious duet. It certainly sounds like a song that Blake could have recorded--a comforting, long-forgotten hit in the dustbin of American country music. ***1/2

-Jeffery Berg

spellbound

Alfred Hitchcock's Spellbound is dated but still a fascinating picture. Made in 1945, in the midst of WWII, the film is one of the first to explicitly deal with the psychological effects of trauma. Gregory Peck, not yet a big star at the time, enters an institute under the guise of a famous therapist, Dr. Anthony Edwardes. Dr. Constance Petersen (another remarkable performance from Ingrid Bergman) takes Edwardes under her wing and unlocks the mysteries of his past and the seed of his psychological torment. What ensues is a theme classic to Hitchcock: the chase.

Unlike the electric pairing of Grant and Bergman in Notorious, the sexual and romantic chemistry between Bergman and Peck intentionally lacks fire. This is a rare instance in a film from the 40s, where our two romantic leads don't quite seem in love with one another at all. Peck is weak and withered, passing out on numerous occasions, while Bergman dominates. I kept wondering, does Bergman's character really love Peck's? Or is Peck's character just another case, another project. It's this ambiguity that adds to Spellbound's strangeness.

This is the second of three pictures Hitchcock and revolutionary producer David O. Selznick would collaborate on. Their two most memorable works together, Rebecca and Spellbound, remain curious oddities to me in Hitchcock's cannon. Unlike other Hitch films from the 40s, such as the stark and understated Lifeboat and Rope, they are lush, noticeably overproduced, and as experimental as Hollywood (under the code) could allow them to be.

Adding to the Selznick atmosphere is the spooky, romantic score (with its moody use of theremin) by Hungarian composer Mikolos Rozsa, which provided the film its sole Academy Award. Hitchcock complained Rozsa's score was too intrusive on his direction. Nevertheless, the music remains a beauty.

Having had successful experience in therapy, Selznick was attracted to the material in Spellbound. The script by the brilliant Ben Hecht has unfortunately lost a lot of luster through the years. The psychoanalysis mumbo jumbo--similar the coda in Psycho--is sprinkled throughout. I couldn't help but notice the similarity in storyline to another but very different psyche drama: Robert Redford's Ordinary People. Both are about freeing the mind from guilt and psychological torment and the irrational malaise society once held (here in the 40s and in Redford's picture, early 80s suburbia) against therapy.

What lures me back to the film, despite the heavy, outmoded dialogue, are the many arresting visuals and rich compositions. There is a fascinating (and fun!) dream sequence, specifically designed by Salvador Dali. A quick, unforgettable image of memory and accidental death (see image above). And a memorable conclusion that involves a gun being pointed directly at the audience--one of my favorite moments in all of Hitchcock's work. ***

-Jeffery Berg

This billboard in Times Square and these promotional materials seems to speak of Selznick's gifts as a producer and a revolutionary producer at the time.