Climbing Mount Criterion XXIV
Packaged as a box set (#86) called Sergei Eisenstein: The Sound Years, Alexander Nevsky (#87) and Ivan the Terrible parts I and II (#88) are late Eisenstein--products of a man so committed to his theory that it tended to swallow his art. (The second Ivan was released posthumously; a third Ivan film was planned but never made.) Not that there aren't surprises and pleasures in both films--the battle scenes in Nevsky are broad, brash, and exciting, and the sudden shift to color midway through Ivan II is striking even if it's not clear where he's going with it. But Eisenstein's fascination with geometric patterns in both films feels fussy and almost oppressive. I'm thinking of the very end of the first Ivan, where people are reduced to an small, stringy line in the background, overwhelmed by Nikolai Cherkasov's pointy beard. I've read complaints about how heavily formal Potemkin is--that the montage of the concrete lion rising from sleep and roaring thanks to three edits is terribly heavy-handed. Of course it was--the film was unabashed propaganda. But if Eisenstein was gunning for subtlety and layers with Ivan--and why plot out a trilogy if you're not?--such mathematical strictures are just tiring. Worse, for all their engaging ornamentation, the Ivan films are muddled and confused--Eisenstein never seems quite sure whether to use Cherkasov as an allegory, a character unto himself, or as an empty vessel for generalized grumpiness about Russian rule under the czars. Cherkasov splits the difference--he hams it up.
Let's go to #89:
Film:
Sisters (1973)
Director:
Brian De Palma
Despite the Bernard Herrmann score and the tracking shots through binoculars, Sisters isn't all Hitchcockian. Hitchcock wouldn't go for the gross-out the way De Palma does, for one thing; no chance he'd spend lots of time lingering on a fellow (Lisle Wilson) who's had his face slashed with a knife, bits of lip flapping free. He also wouldn't be so thoroughgoinging dim about journalists, cops, and the way they interact. What reporter lines the walls of her apartment with framed copies of her columns? Jennifer Salt's Grace Collier, that's who. What detective would threaten a reporter with "attempted libel?" Dolph Sweet's Detective Kelly, that's who. And why send homicide detectives to the apartment when the whole problem here is that the cops don't believe there's a murder?
It's best not to get too caught up in plot details here, but De Palma is also off his game as a mood-maker: if we're willing to hang with the notion of siamese twins being lashed together emotionally as well as physically, he doesn't succeed in making the story feel terribly creepy. The blame for that goes in a number of directions: Margot Kidder's crummy French-Canadian accent; Emil Breton (William Finley), the husband-svengali-brainwasher being so one-note; a drama featuring a private dick played by Charles Durning being essentially drama-free. But the problem is mostly De Palma, who wasn't yet skilled at working with those Hitchcockian conventions. When Phillip Woode, the Kidder character's would-be lover, finally eats it, De Palma uses Herrmann to create some comic plinking while his body gets shoved into the couch-bed. Defenders would argue he's lightening the mood and that Hitch had a sense of humor too; I'd say De Palma was never sure how much we were supposed to be invested in the plot.
Let's go to #89:
Film:
Sisters (1973)
Director:
Brian De Palma
Despite the Bernard Herrmann score and the tracking shots through binoculars, Sisters isn't all Hitchcockian. Hitchcock wouldn't go for the gross-out the way De Palma does, for one thing; no chance he'd spend lots of time lingering on a fellow (Lisle Wilson) who's had his face slashed with a knife, bits of lip flapping free. He also wouldn't be so thoroughgoinging dim about journalists, cops, and the way they interact. What reporter lines the walls of her apartment with framed copies of her columns? Jennifer Salt's Grace Collier, that's who. What detective would threaten a reporter with "attempted libel?" Dolph Sweet's Detective Kelly, that's who. And why send homicide detectives to the apartment when the whole problem here is that the cops don't believe there's a murder?
It's best not to get too caught up in plot details here, but De Palma is also off his game as a mood-maker: if we're willing to hang with the notion of siamese twins being lashed together emotionally as well as physically, he doesn't succeed in making the story feel terribly creepy. The blame for that goes in a number of directions: Margot Kidder's crummy French-Canadian accent; Emil Breton (William Finley), the husband-svengali-brainwasher being so one-note; a drama featuring a private dick played by Charles Durning being essentially drama-free. But the problem is mostly De Palma, who wasn't yet skilled at working with those Hitchcockian conventions. When Phillip Woode, the Kidder character's would-be lover, finally eats it, De Palma uses Herrmann to create some comic plinking while his body gets shoved into the couch-bed. Defenders would argue he's lightening the mood and that Hitch had a sense of humor too; I'd say De Palma was never sure how much we were supposed to be invested in the plot.
0 Comments:
Post a Comment
<< Home