Reviews

Another pseudo-documentary from the same file cabinet as the program that "explored" the question about mermaids (and mermen) being real. At the end of the program people are running around a forest at night, using flares to cast shadows, hearing "mysterious" sounds. Very atmospheric, but it tells us bupkis about whether such a thing as a yeti actually exists.

Note the IMDB info - this is all staged, "with actors, not real people."

Why does Animal Planet exploit the credulousness of an audience by presenting these pseudo-documentaries without disclaimers? Even Orson Welles told the radio audience that his broadcast of The War of the Worlds was a dramatization, although many people missed the intro and thought they were hearing a news broadcast.

So, approach anything done by Animal Planet with caution...

"No matter where people go, the law follows, and no matter where people go, they find God has been there first." Thus utters The Duke in the title role of this typical product of John Wayne's waning years. He utters this after a considerable body count has accumulated in the course of recounting some of the events of the Lincoln County War in New Mexico in the 1870s. God was passive as all that corruption and killing, including some who were unarmed, was going on. Mysterious ways...

The Chisum depicted here is the Wayne character that developed in the decade after Rio Bravo put him back in the saddle after excursions into non-Westerns: tough but fair; ready to do what it takes to make things right, i.e. be extremely violent; amiable but something of a loner (too many personal connections might compromise one at some point). Wayne wears the same togs he wore in all his Westerns from this period: vest, red or blue shirt, bandanna, high-crowned Stetson. He was already enshrined as the personification of the Old West, or the Old West by way of Hollywood. Next stop, Madame Tussaud's.

The screenplay actually has some details here and there that are supported by the history of the events, but this is mostly a warped and inflated version of the story. For instance, in this telling, Billy the Kid rides into town, big as you please, shoots Sheriff Brady in front of Chisum and co., then rides out without anyone so much as reaching for their six-shooter. In the actual incident, Billy the Kid (aka Henry McCarty) and his accomplices ambushed Sheriff Brady, a much wiser tactic. McCarty was wounded in the thigh when he broke cover to retrieve something (a warrant or a rifle) from Brady's body. The height of the ludicrous is reached, fittingly, at the film's climax, the shootout at McSween's store. A slew of bad guys are slain, even though they are barely visible (there were perhaps a half dozen casualties on both sides in the actual confrontation) and the whole shebang is wrapped up when The Duke and his boys come with guns blazing amid a herd of stampeding cattle. The Duke then dukes it out with the Murphy character (Forrest Tucker); they both fall from a balcony and Murphy is...impaled on steer horns. Wow! The real Chisum was a couple of days ride away on his ranch when that action was taking place in Lincoln. In fact, Chisum himself never fired a shot in the Lincoln County War. Murphy was ill with cancer by time the conflict in Lincoln County reached a fever pitch; he died a few months after the Battle of Lincoln.

This is simply an excuse to make another Wayne Western, and dress it up as Something That Really Happened. The efficient director, Andrew McLaglen, assembled a passel of familiar faces — Forrest Tucker, Bruce Cabot, Ben Johnson, Christopher George (he had been a bad guy in El Dorado), Richard Jaeckel, all of whom could be depended on to give unsurprising performances. Wayne's house cinematographer (he did 21 films for Wayne's Batjac production company), William Clothier, keeps things in focus and the contrasts in the bright sunlight of the Durango, Mexico and other Southwestern locations well-balanced. The whole thing is a product of pros in the process of "keeping on", as the lyrics of the film's song say, without any urge to do much more.

Filming was done in the late fall, which must have made for a nice working vacation for all involved.

This film was obviously cobbled together to continue the success of Ivanhoe the previous year. The script has that factitious quality indicative of several hands having worked on it; it is largely a series of loosely linked scenes between the action sequences, with some unintentionally funny effects. Robert Taylor attempting some medieval dancing is one of the awkward moments here. The leads look as if they have been summoned to a costume party, and not entirely comfortable being surrounded by all those capable English actors — Ava Gardner in particular seems unusually bemused.

M-G-M had a production unit in England, so the scenery is authentically lovely in Cinemascope (the first Cinemascope feature not made by Twentieth Century-Fox), with the master Freddie Young as DOP.

The brief cycle of "when knighthood was in flower" films was parodied in The Court Jester with Danny Kaye a couple of years after this film was released, and it is even funnier, albeit deliberately.

This film should have been titled Torpor. Hitchcock, who in his best films was interested in plot merely as a means to guide the audience from sequence to sequence, here presented a film that is entirely plot — there isn't any memorable sequence and little in the way of engaging performances. The two films that Hitchcock directed prior to this — Marnie and Torn Curtain — at least had striking sequences that generated suspense and excitement. In the former, the riding sequence ending in the injury and killing of the horse and the sequence of Marnie stealing money from the Rutland firm; in the latter, the murder of the agent in the farmhouse and the panic in the theater, to name a few examples.

The relatively weak box office performances of those films put Hitchcock in the position of needing a hit. Hitchcock thought that a story about recent international spycraft would do the trick, even though Torn Curtain, which had a similar basis, had been tepid at the box office. Adapting the Leon Uris novel for the screen proved problematic, even though Uris was a veteran screenwriter. Hitchcock usually had a film all planned out before any production was done; filming was simply the work to put the director's vision on film. Topaz went into production without a finished script. The result is a film that moves from routine dialogue scene to routine dialogue scene without any distinctive touch. Even the death of the Karin Dor character is oddly flat in its impact.

Only the supporting players, and Karin Dor, gave some hint of character. John Forsythe and Frederick Stafford seem to be caught in an ad for men's suits (Botany 500 probably). John Vernon works on the sort of accent used in the Mission Impossible series: "Jyoo weeel tell ahss the theengs jyoo haff dohn."

Hitchcock seems to have been adrift here. Two of his key collaborators on the great films of the Fifties — Robert Burks on camera and George Tomasini in the editing room — were no longer available (Marnie was the last film they would work on); he couldn't get a satisfactory script. The result was a film made to fulfill a contract.

Any director could have done this film. Even Don Siegel would have made it better-paced.

This film would seem to have almost everything going for it: lavish production, a fine cast, and an excellent director. Why, then, are there considerable stretches while watching the beautifully rendered goings-on here when one's mind drifts to thoughts of other epics and one's eye wanders to what the extras are doing in some of the scenes? The answer is that "almost everything" did not include an involving script. There are many intelligently written scenes, and some scenes where there is even a dramatic spark or two. But on the whole there is a certain desultory aspect to the film. The love interest at what passes for the dramatic center of the film is hazy and unengaging, the machinations of the Roman court don't really grip the interest, barbarians are given their due in what amounts to a film-within-a-film, and then there's James Mason, who serves as something of a Greek chorus and delivers long speeches about CIVILIZATION as a way of underlining the film's seriousness. Can anybody who has written a review of this for IMDb claim that they really cared about what was going on among the characters?

That having been said, this film is one of those guilty pleasures to be indulged in from time to time, where one can watch the profusion of sets and the parade of costumes, and be thrilled by the action sequences. To say nothing of watching Christopher Plummer be slyly twisted as Commodus--he's much more amusing than Joaquin Phoenix playing the same emperor in "Gladiator."

All-in-all, a ramble in ancient Rome that cries out for more cohesion.

Those viewers who are familiar with director Miklos Jansco's better-known films ("The Round-Up," "The Red and the White," "Winter Wind") may find this adaptation of Euripides' Electra takes a bit of getting used to at first. Jansco's earlier films were noted for very long takes and fluid staging in a realistic mise en scene. Here the long takes and fluid staging are used, but the production is more "theatrical," i.e., the costuming is simple, and instead of a bare stage there is a vast steppe in Eastern Europe, with only a few spare structures as sets. It is as if a stage production using contemporary techniques were opened up and presented on an estate, complete with throngs of extras (many of them sans clothing), horsemen riding about, and a roving minstrel. However odd the initial effect may be in terms of conventional expectations, it makes for a mostly intriguing treatment of a classic text.

In fact, this production probably conveys more of a sense of the impact of the ancient Greek plays than stripped-down stage presentations: the Greeks used music, dance and mass movement of the chorus in their staging, after all.

Jansco adds to this with the camera's ability to move in and out of the action, so that within a single long take there are sequences of grandeur and swirling action and then moments of intimate exchanges. The whole experience is one of a theatrical presentation aiming for universality in its approach being complemented and enriched by the versatility of cinematic techniques.

The cinematography is a marvel of technique; the color is pleasantly muted

That being said, the screenwriter appends some contemporary political musings that may strike viewers as either appropriately idyllic (and idealistic) or jarringly naive.

For those who are familiar with the play and/or the director's other work, this film ought to be a pleasure to behold, whatever one may make of the artistic kneadings the material has been subjected to.

Viewers who accept the premise of this film will probably be tickled by the working out of the comedic complications. Unfortunately, the premise is a non-starter: living in a bomb shelter, no matter how well-appointed, for 35 years is simply not remotely believable. Thus for some of us there isn't anything to latch on to and keep interest engaged. Unless the intention is to parody some genre or some other work, comedy should be based on some reality, however wispy it may be. A premise based only on the merest of wishful thinking is hard-pressed to generate true humor, no matter how clever the writing(this is mildly clever) or charming the performances(pretty charming here).

Comparing this musical adaptation of "The Philadelphia Story" to the Geoge Cukor-directed original is a pointless exercise. Better simply to accept the basic story as a frame for the talents of two major singing stars, Bing Crosby and Frank Sinatra (one of only two times they appeared in a film together), and the radiant Grace Kelly. Bing and Ol' Blue Eyes are having a relaxed time (Crosby at times a bit too relaxed), and shine in the number "Well, Did You Evah?" While Kelly can't quite make the character of Tracy Lord a convincing hub around which the men revolve, her bright appeal goes a long way towards keeping things interesting.

A bonus is the appearance of Louis Armstrong and his combo of the time. When Armstrong performs, by himself or with Crosby, the film takes on the aspect of a priceless document of an inimitable talent.

Oh, did I mention that the score is by Cole Porter? In addition to the witty number mentioned above, Porter also contributed a nice sentimental ballad, "True Love," carefully tailored for Mr. Crosby.

All in all, this is a smoothly presented showcase for several iconic twentieth-century talents.