Why Westerns Still Matter

He is immediately recognizable, this American ronin.

It’s the way he stands, the posture he assumes in silence or repose.  The easy, laconic grace that passes for a casual slouch. Clearly, a man comfortable inside his own skin. A byproduct of all of those long days in the saddle, the freedom and independence that implies, but also the unimaginable isolation of the life he has chosen. A single rider framed against monumental backdrops, surmounted by tall, wide, Panavision skies. A lone figure, dwarfed by the elements, a speck on a vast landscape.

But don’t be fooled. This is an individual of resourcefulness and determination, his will indomitable. He has passed, unscathed, through the Great American Desert, survived the Civil War and its lawless aftermath and that wasn’t due to mere chance.

Look at his eyes. They miss nothing. There is a preternatural alertness about him. It marks him and sets him apart, as distinctive as a brand. He enters the saloon and conversation ceases. The others shift, giving him plenty of elbow room at the bar. He positions himself so he can take in the entire room in a single, swift glance. No blind spots. Off to the side, a gin mill Mozart is banging out a traditional melody, badly, on an out of tune piano. Everyone watching the newcomer, even the jaded bar moll giving him a wide berth.

“Whiskey.” The voice low but commanding. The bartender hurries to comply.

Then, all at once, another lull and this time it’s because the town sheriff has just pushed through the swinging doors, his manner all business. He and the stranger lock gazes. This is preordained. Patrons are scampering out of the way, the atmosphere charged, the suspense reaching unbearable proportions…

These two know each other, that much is apparent. Perhaps they rode together, back before the line between good and bad, right and wrong, became so cut and dried. They spent many a companionable evening together and although they are, by nature, taciturn men, during their time together they formed something more than common cause. Comrades, perhaps even friends.

But that was a long time ago and although there has never been any malice between them, they each have prescribed roles to play in what happens next. They take little pleasure in the knowledge that they are, by force of circumstances, destined for confrontation. They are polar opposites in a Manichean universe. There is no chance of reconciliation or arbitration.

In the next two or three seconds, one of them is going to die.

* * * * *

The preceding is a mashup of any number of different westerns I’ve watched over the years. The actors are interchangeable. It could be Randolph Scott facing down Neville Brand or Jimmy Stewart confronting various supporting players with craggy features and menacing miens. Over the past hundred plus years (measuring from Edwin S. Porter’s “The Great Train Robbery” in 1903), we’ve come to know these men, recognize what each of them represents. We’re familiar with the codes they live by and recognize why they must do what they do.

Jack Palance goading the poor, over-matched sodbuster before gunning him down (“Shane”; 1953).  The young bounty hunter callously dispatching Keith Carradine in one of the most memorable sequences from Robert Altman’s “McCabe & Mrs. Miller” (1971).  These are hard men, sociopaths who kill without remorse, indifferent to the blood they’ve spilled and the lives they’ve pre-empted. They are allied with the forces of chaos, anarchy and lawlessness. The frontier and its rough and tumble ways suits them fine. The new territories opening west of the Missouri are unprotected, each settlement remote from its neighbors, vulnerable to rapine. In such an environment evil, in all its corrupt guises, can thrive.

Who can defend us against the likes of them?

* * * * *

“Hell is coming to breakfast.”

-Chief Dan George, in “The Outlaw Josey Wales”

Let’s be candid right from the outset: we need him more than he needs us.

In his view, his fellow human beings are more trouble than they’re worth. Selfish, foolish, spoiled and hypocritical. His patience with us is limited, his capacity for stupidity nonexistent. He’s not shy about offering correction and unafraid of using his fists if he feels he’s not getting his point across.

We can trust him…to a certain extent. His word is his bond and he will be a loyal, stalwart ally (as long as we don’t take him for granted).

He is, when all is said and done, a “good guy”, a “white hat” (although that doesn’t prevent him from displaying breath-taking ruthlessness). He has no truck with organized religion and the last time he was in a church, it was to rob the poor box.

“Don’t you believe in miracles, Mr. Hogan?” Sister Sara asks in Don Siegel’s woefully under-rated “Two Mules For Sister Sara” (1970).

Hogan, perfectly played by Clint Eastwood, is dubious. A pragmatic man who has endured thanks to his proficiency with weapons and split second reflexes. He sees little indication of anything sacred or divine in his risky, dangerous existence, the low men he is forced to do business with, their mean, degraded lives.

But by the end of the movie, Hogan has experienced a “road to Damascus” like conversion.  Miracle of miracles, Hogan is a man transformed, a friend of the campesinos, a committed revolutionary and (spoiler alert) “Sister” Sara’s new swain (and who can blame him, Shirley MacLaine never looked more beautiful).

Hogan, like most western heroes, is a man of few words but when he says something he means it and woe unto him who ignores his terse warnings. This is an individual who is prepared to back his convictions to the nth degree. And we like that quality, we like it in Hogan, Pike Bishop (“The Wild Bunch”; 1969), Jeremiah Johnson, Joe Kidd, Steve Judd (“Ride the High Country”; 1962), etc. etc.

“When you side with a man, you stay with him! And if you can’t do that, you’re like some animal, you’re finished! We’re finished! All of us!” William Holden delivers his speech at a crucial juncture of “The Wild Bunch” and it is a dictum the rest of the gang, as angry and demoralized as they are, accept at face value. Despite their differences, they will remain together and united to the bitter end (and what an end it turns out to be!).

But sometimes talking doesn’t settle things. The disagreement is too entrenched, the opposing sides bitterly divided. At some point you must take a stand. Say your piece and shut up. Leave it for the other man to make the first move but once he does, don’t hesitate. Aim for the center of the body, point it like a finger. Squeeze the trigger gently, keeping your hand steady, eyes zeroed in on your target…

The Hogans and Pike Bishops of the world don’t stoically endure betrayal.  They aren’t the type to stand idly by while back-shooting compatriots abscond with the gold or patrons refuse to pay what’s owed for serviced rendered. Go back on your word and it can quickly turn ugly.

Reprisals are terrible. Think of the unnamed gunfighter (again played by Eastwood) in “High Plains Drifter” (1973). He might be the avenging shade of a sheriff brutally murdered while the good townspeople stood by and did nothing to save him. He dispenses justice to the local baddies but refuses to spare the citizens of Lago their share of the blame. By the time he’s done, all of the guilty parties have paid dearly and he can return from whence he came in the knowledge that a decent, honest man can at last rest in peace.

Eastwood again plays a kind of dark angel in his 1992 film “The Unforgiven” . Who can forget the ferocious look in Will Munny’s eyes, the blood lust, when he confronts the brutish sheriff (Gene Hackman) at the conclusion of the movie? And his barked warning as he prepares to leave the gore-splattered saloon and walk out into the street. Chilling.

And recall the trail of bodies Steve McQueen leaves behind him in “Nevada Smith” (1966). The knife fight with Martin Landau isn’t for the squeamish.

Vengeance, it seems, was as prevalent in the Old West as it was in the days of the ancient Greeks. As a theme, it is enduring, a sure fire crowd-pleaser. How often have we, every single one of us, felt cheated, wronged, and yearned to do harm to our perceived enemies?

Instead, we appoint murderous proxies, rely on them to do our killing for us while we keep our hands clean and unsullied, kneeling piously in church each Sunday, the Reverend Lovejoy railing from the pulpit on the temptations of evil, the enticing promises the Devil makes to prize away our souls. That image I have of Steve McQueen in “Tom Horn” (1980), facing execution and clearly seeing it as the lesser of two evils. Better dead than a stooge of local business interests, an early prototype of a corporate “hired gun”. The era of the “wild” west officially over when the trap door snaps open beneath him, consigning him to legend.

Poor Tom. Ditto Steve McQueen. “Tom Horn” was his last film.

Vaya con dios, partner.

* * * * *

Humphrey Bogart looked silly on a horse, John Wayne ridiculous without one.

Strother Martin didn’t trust them.

Robert Ryan despised westerns.

Alan Ladd was only five and a half feet tall.

The gunfight at the O.K. Corral reportedly lasted less than a minute.

* * * * *

First there was Gene Autry. Gene Autry, not (firmly) Roy Rogers. You were a Gene Autry guy or a Roy Rogers guy but never both. It would be like simultaneously rooting for the Yankees and Red Sox. To me, Roy and Trigger just couldn’t compete with Gene and Champion Jr.

Gene was my first hero. Neil Armstrong, Tom Seaver, Captain Kirk, they came later. When I was five, Gene was the man.

But Gene was a product of television and at a mere twenty inches high couldn’t compete with his big screen counterparts playing at the local theater and drive-in. When you went to the movies, your heroes were ten times larger than life, looming over the audience, iconic and beautiful, myth made flesh.

Before long, Gene Autry gave way to Clint Eastwood. Eastwood was instantly likeable, possessing irresistible charm and moxie. I liked “Duke” Wayne too but by that time he was old enough to be my grandfather. It was a generational thing, I couldn’t really relate to him.

I liked how Clint pretended not to care.

How much punishment he could absorb and still come back for more.

How relentless he was when crossed. Taking on his opponents two and three at a time and never flinching.  I was small for my age, frequently bullied or, even worse, ignored, considered too inconsequential to torment. Can you get any lower than that?

I had a plastic gunbelt and replica Colt .45. The gun was mostly metal and had some heft. It felt real to me. The belt was too loose and my mother had to punch an extra hole with a paring knife. I liked to wear it slung low on my hip. I affected a swagger that occasionally devolved into something more closely resembling a stagger (I thought cowboys walked lightly, on their toes, had trouble keeping my balance).

I didn’t have a horse but I did have a hockey stick. Reverse it, climb astride the handle, voilá. A custom made steed for those lacking access to the real thing. Texas was too far away but we lived on the edge of town so there was an open field on the other side of the fence. Toppled trees made a functional fort that was the setting of countless sieges and valiant, hopeless last stands.

Riddled with bullets, the hammer snapping down on empty chambers, facing the advancing hordes, defiant to the end. A hero for a few precious hours.

If only I’d been as fearless in real life.

* * * * *

John Ford. Sam Peckinpah. Anthony Mann. Budd Boetticher. Sergio Leone. Howard Hawks. All gone. Irreplaceable, it seems.

Because we don’t see many first rate westerns these days, do we? Instead we get ponderous duds like “The Appaloosa” (2008) or the risible remake of “3:10 To Yuma” (2007). The last truly great western was “The Long Riders” (1980), Walter Hill at the very top of his game, revenge and betrayal front and center once again. “The Unforgiven” is a well-intentioned movie but too earnest and at least twenty minutes overlong.

“The Proposition” (2005) is one recent offering that definitely makes the grade. It is a gory effort from downunder, a tale set in the harsh environs of the outback, scripted by Nick Cave and expertly directed by John Hillcoat. The Coen Brothers’ take on “True Grit” (2010) also impressed, Jeff Bridges’ masterful portrayal of Reuben “Rooster” Cogburn confirming his status as one of our finest living actors. Bridges is fantastic but the entire production delights; entertaining and authentic, a rare combination.

These two films are wonderful…but exceptions nonetheless. The quantity and quality of westerns have declined steadily since their heyday in the 1960′s…now we’re lucky to see an Old West-themed title in general release. The audience isn’t there for them any more, the kids prefer the fantasy related stuff, explosions and heaping dollops of CGI. The demographic for westerns has gotten old and that monosyllabic, stubborn, honorable western hero devoted fans used to love has been transplanted into outer space (Han Solo), stuck behind the wheel of a fast, furious muscle car (Vin Diesel) or crammed into a form-fitting costume of a superhero with a taste for vigilante justice.

But it’s not the same thing.

* * * * *

The man on a horse.

Pale rider.

Protector and avenger.

Sinner and saint.

Apostle of the pistol.

American ronin.

* * * * *

Kurosawa revered John Ford, even wore dark-rimmed glasses, emulating his idol.

Orson Welles and Gregg Toland screened numerous films as they prepared to shoot “Citizen Kane”. “Stagecoach” was a particular favorite. They spent hours dissecting it almost frame by frame, Toland pointing out the peerless cutting, Ford’s ability to dictate pace and utterly absorb the viewer in the story he’s telling. Teaching his young protege by seating him at the feet of a Master.

* * * * *

He’s remote but not detached. The endless, empty miles have stolen most of his vocabulary, the trail dust parching his throat, reducing his voice to a rasp:

“Well, are you gonna draw your pistols or stand there whistlin’ ‘Dixie’?”

He has survived stampedes, floods and cyclones; hostile Indians and irate, knife-wielding whores. Croup, chronic piles and the clap. He belongs to a special fellowship and his name is as well known in certain quarters as that of the sitting President’s. He’s got a whale of a story to tell but when you sidle up to ask him about his life, his stare freezes you to the bone. You quickly offer apologies for your impertinence and scuttle away while you still can. Thanking your lucky stars he hadn’t been drinking and praying he’s not the sort to hold a grudge.

* * * * *

He’s apolitical and cursed with common sense. Is polite in the right company and known to tip his hat to a lady. He doesn’t ask for special favors or handouts. Mostly, he wants to be left alone.

If needed, he can be called upon, but his participation will be reluctant and once his part is over don’t expect him to hang around.

“Shane!  Come back, Shane!”

The sun is setting and the trail is beckoning.

Ride on, stranger.

Into the forever past.

All Time Favorite Western Movies:

1) The Wild Bunch (1969)

2) The Long Riders (1980)

3) Two Mules for Sister Sara (1973)

4) Ride the High Country (1962)

5) The Outlaw Josey Wales (1976)

6) Hombre (1967)

7) She Wore A Yellow Ribbon (1949)

8) Jeremiah Johnson (1972)

9) The Good, the Bad and the Ugly (1966)

10) The Stalking Moon (1968)

Honorable mentions:  “Tombstone” (1993), “McCabe & Mrs. Miller” (1971), “Man of the West” (1958), “High Noon” (1952)

Short verse on film

Dreaming in Technicolor

Ask the night to recall for you
the lives you (should have) led—

our truest selves revealed
in secret screening rooms
soundproofed, plastic-lined…

Wandering narrative threads
certain faces recurring
for the sake of continuity

Soft-focused, abstract
“a goddamn art film!”
too inscrutable to decipher

the punters clamoring
for a refund

C. Burns
March 6, 2012

Cranky with Criterion…and Other Ruminations

Recently I received an email from Criterion, notifying me about one of their periodic sales.  This time around I could save 50% on every title in their impressive catalog; my heart hammered with joy at the thought of adding Fassbinder’s “World on a Wire” and Bergman’s “Wild Strawberries” and “Fanny & Alexander” to my collection at discount rates.

I selected my films, started the checkout process, but when I got to the shipping info, I received a rude surprise.  Because I was ordering from Canada, I would have to pay the astronomical price of $19.95 for the first DVD and $3.95 for each movie thereafter.

I immediately cancelled my order and wrote a letter to Criterion, stating my grievance with their shipping fees.  A chap from Criterion was good enough to get back to me, explaining that the company had issues with Canada Post because of lost packages and therefore went with a different, more expensive carrier.

I didn’t buy it and told him so.  I’m an independent publisher and book fanatic and I regularly ship books back and forth across the border.  Particularly valuable parcels/cartons can be insured for a relatively nominal fee.

I won’t remove Criterion from my blogroll—they perform an invaluable service to cineastes—but I won’t ever buy direct from them until they lower their onerous shipping rates to my home and native land.  There are plenty of venues out there where I can pick up Criterion films–including good, used copies–on the cheap, for nominal shipping.  And I’m sure that goes for a lot of their foreign patrons…

* * * * *

Want to give a shout out to a new film blog I can across:

Chandler Swain Reviews is cheery, knowledgeable and self-effacing. I like the candor I see in evidence, exemplified by the following quote:

“The usefulness of Internet film sites cannot be underestimated, but it is a fatal mistake to think they are a substitution for published critical thought found in either book form or in the still numerous serious film journals available from around the globe.

Film sites are merely another resource not an end to themselves. Similar to the incontrovertible concept of actually seeing film in an intended large screen format (regardless of the film’s vintage), it is imperative that the serious cinephiles avail themselves with as much legitimately valuable information and viewpoints on the cinematic as possible. Much of what exists on the Net, in regard to film is fan-based in origin (as is much of the existing newsstand magazine output), and while some are endearingly enthusiastic in nature,it is important for the serious cinephile to not be led by the short leash of sentimental favoritism as opposed to solid philosophic views on the Art of Cinema, based on legitimate avenues of Critical Thought and not merely the winds of nostalgic romanticism.”

Wise words.  I’m going to be keeping an eye on this “Chandler Swain”.  Our views certainly gibe on a number of crucial points.

With the rise of the internet/blogosphere, we’ve also seen the emergence of the “cult of the amateur”.  Now everyone with a computer can have a platform (bully pulpit?) for their favorite enthusiasm or hobby horse—unfortunately that also gives many folks an inflated sense of their importance and a highly distorted view of their level of “expertise”.

I love films, consider myself something of a connoisseur, but I’m hardly an expert on the theories and nuances of film-making, nor do I have more than a basic, fundamental grasp of the technical aspects of optics, lighting, composition, editing, etc.  I’ve seen a lot of great movies but Andre Bazin or Sergei Eisenstein I am not.

You want an in-depth and scholarly look at cinema from someone with academic credentials, sporting a Ph.d in General Brilliance, better try your luck elsewhere. I never had the good luck to attend a posh film school or tramp around the boulevards of Paris, arguing the fine points of the latest John Ford or Rossellini flick with fellow flaneurs like Truffaut and Godard and then scribbling an article about it for Cahiers Du Cinema..

I learned everything I know from the late, late show.

Right from the beginning it was my intention to use Cinema Arete to identify and highlight well-made, interesting or innovative films that might have slipped past viewers’ radar. Back when I first started this blog, there were still video outlets around–much has changed in a few years. But when I did visit these now defunct stores, I was depressed and annoyed to see multiple titles of the newest releases, whole walls taken up by the latest comic book adaptation, but very little in the way of older, classic cinema.

Fast-forwarding to today, I hear people complaining about the limited selection on NetFlix and read an article on how expensive it is to transfer movies to DVD and, now, Blu-Ray. A process that costs tens of thousands of dollars. And so some films (older, foreign, more obscure) aren’t going to make the cut or, at the very least, won’t be available for some time. While last month’s big-budget CGI orgy elbows its way to the head of the queue…

* * * * * *

Three cheers for “The Artist” coming up big at the Oscars.  Looking forward to seeing it on the big screen in Saskatoon. Would love to see the new adaptation of “Coriolanus”— thrusting Shakespeare into the present day and handing him an M-16.  “Git some!” Ralph Fiennes looks appropriately menacing and the production first rate. Let’s hope it’s as good as it appears…

 * * * * *

My son Sam and his creative partner Sean have shot another short movie and you’ll excuse this proud parent for posting a link to their site.  Their films get better and better and they’re always trying new approaches, experimenting with composition and focus. If you like what you see, drop them a few words of encouragement.  Sixteen years old and already displaying so much promise. It’s spooky.

* * * * *

Not much in terms of film-watching these days.  I’ve been wrapping up work on my novel (slide over to my main blog for further info) and too tired and burnt out after ten or twelve hours of line editing to spend more time in front of a %&#ing screen.

Watched “Inception” (dull, overlong, terrible soundtrack) and “The Wolfman” (promising opening half, then a full-scale blood-letting, with silly sub-plots)…but most nights we’ve been unwinding to HBO’s “Rome” series, a couple of lovely boxed sets gifted to us by our pal Dan. Gore and sex in the ancient capital of the world, what more could you ask for? Great TV and pretty accurate in terms of history, as far as I can tell.  It never leaves one feeling stupid and these days that’s saying something.  Perhaps that’s why “Rome” only lasted two seasons.

That, of course, says something too. And it’s not very complimentary or fit to repeat in polite company.

Until next time…

Photo by Petr Kratochvil

“Silence is Golden”–Roxy Theater, Saskatoon

“The Thief of Bagdad” (1924)

Directed by: Raoul Walsh
Written by: Lotta Edwards & Douglas Fairbanks
Cast:  Douglas Fairbanks, Julanne Johnson, Sojin, Charles Belcher, Anna May Wong, Snitz Edwards

Last night, for the third consecutive year, I attended the Roxy Theater’s “Silence is Golden” event.  Originally envisioned as a celebration of the revitalization of Saskatoon’s historic Riversdale district, the occasion has grown in popularity and is fast becoming a hot ticket on the city’s cultural scene.  The combination of a classic film with live accompaniment by professional musicians is proving irresistible to cinema buffs—this year, sales were brisker than ever, attendance close to capacity.

“The Thief of Bagdad” was an inspired choice for presentation.  It is a crowd-pleaser, an exciting and phantasmagorical romp that had the same effect on film-goers nearly nine decades ago that “Star Wars” had on impressionable viewers several generations later.  The difference is, “Thief of Bagdad” was given the “A” treatment all the way, a huge budget, star power, etc. (George Lucas had to make do with tight purse strings, surly English crews and youthful, unknown cast).

The high quality production values (the film was designed by William Cameron Menzies) are present in literally every scene of “Thief of Bagdad”. Rooms are lavishly decorated, the costumes are exotic and the sets, without benefit of matte paintings, are monstrous, the scale of the walls and main gate giving a vivid and unforgettable impression of the wonders of ancient Bagdad, a city of myth and legend, enshrined in lore by The Arabian Nights.

The second hour of the movie, when Ahmed (Fairbanks) is forced to depart the city he knows so well and embark on a great quest to earn the right to marry the princess, showcases state of the art special effects and fantastic encounters that still dazzle.  The flying carpet sequences are jaw-droppingly effective and the thief’s grim battle with a huge dragon features a multiple exposure and is perfectly cut together by director Walsh (who went on to even greater fame with movies like “High Sierra”, “White Heat” & many others over a career spanning five decades).

I feel fortunate to be able to see a movie of the status of “The Thief of Badgad” on the big screen, enhanced by the powerful score provided by some of the finest musicians in this province. The Saskatoon Symphony Orchestra players who took part in the 2o12 edition of “Silence is Golden” are to be commended for their endeavors. They were in top form. Special mention should be made of violinist Michael Swan, who provided some key scenes with sad and gorgeous textures. Brian Unverricht conducted and, with one eye on the screen, superbly choreographed his players; the atmosphere was relaxed, convivial, the musicians clearly enjoying themselves (and, again, praise must go to Mr. Unverricht).

As in past years, Rick Friend added his expertise—the man is a longtime and celebrated devotee of classic/silent cinema and his keyboard playing remains the heart and soul of “Silence is Golden”, lending it an unmistakeable authenticity, instantly evoking bygone days.

It is impossible to attend an event like “Silence is Golden” and not come away with an appreciation of the transformative power of film, the ability it has, like no other art form, to draw us out of ourselves and project us into make believe worlds that defy our suspension of disbelief, expanding our imaginations past the point of no return.

Eighty-eight years after its debut, “The Thief of Bagdad” remains a template of epic fantasy, a movie that has influenced and inspired countless film-makers and writers with its visionary power, the creative energy and passion devoted to building the world of Ahmed, the prince of thieves, a Bagdad that never was but should have been.

“Silence is Golden” is presented by the Roxy Theater, in partnership with the Riversdale Improvement District, The Saskatoon Symphony Orchestra, Magic 98.3 (Radio) and New Community Credit Union.

“Tinker, Tailor, Soldier, Spy” (Starring Gary Oldman)

Tinker, Tailor, Soldier, Spy (2011)

Directed by:  Tomas Alfredson
Written by:  Bridget O’Connor & Peter Straughan
Cast:  Gary Oldman, Colin Firth, John Hurt, Benedict Cumberbatch, Ciaran Hinds, Toby Jones, Kathy Burke, David Dencik

A film of admirable intelligence and complexity, “Tinker, Tailor, Soldier, Spy” arrived during a movie season that already featured unconventional successes like “The Artist”, as well as controversial and demanding efforts like Lars von Trier’s “Melancholia” and Terrence Malick’s “Tree of Life”.

It almost makes one believe that cinema, after spending decades in the thrall of big opening weekends, franchise films and overblown fantasies, was finally maturing and diversifying, offering movie-goers a wider range of flicks to choose from, including offerings that could, conceivably, be called works of true genius…and art.

…and then it’s announced that Michael Bay has signed on for a new “Transformers” film.

Dear God.

But with this review I seek to praise cinema, not bury it.  Tomas Alfredson’s adaptation of John Le Carré’s Cold War spy novel Tinker, Tailor, Soldier, Spy is faithful, without being overtly slavish to the original, atmospheric, fully realized and thoroughly entertaining.  Much has been made, especially by American critics, of the “cerebral” nature of the movie—it’s “slow-moving”, viewers have to really pay attention to the plot, etc. When audiences have to be warned that a mainstream movie might be too smart for them, you know civilization is teetering on the precipice.  Have we reached such a nadir in our culture that films which are the least bit challenging carry the equivalent of warning labels?

Full marks to all involved in the conception and production of “Tinker, Tailor…”.  They refused to dummy down the material and while some of the subplots and various episodes from the book have been pared back (or removed), Le Carré fans will rejoice at everything that has been retained and, in some instances, enhanced.

When I read that there was to be a new version of Tinker, Tailor, Soldier, Spy, I reacted, as many people did, with skepticism and bemusement.  Why bother? The 1979 BBC mini-series, directed by John Irvin and starring the adroitly cast Alec Guinness, was absolutely definitive—what was the point of a remake?  And Gary Oldman as Smiley? Gary Oldman? Surely he was too young, his acting style too intense to portray the repressed, brilliant spy, betrayed by his colleagues and cuckolded by his wife.  It was hard to imagine anyone surpassing Guinness’ pitch perfect depiction of the sad, rumpled, little man, his gaze, by turns, inscrutable and wise behind thick-lensed glasses.

Oldman’s performance shows us a tougher, more formidable Smiley, possessing a ruthlessness that wasn’t nearly as evident in the TV series.  I think Oldman also brilliantly exposes the nuances and contradictions of Smiley’s character; he allows himself to manipulated and exploited by both Control (John Hurt) and his wayward wife, but when cold-blooded behavior is required, as in the scene where he confronts and browbeats Toby Esterhase (David Dencik), Smiley is absolutely relentless.  I was frequently astonished by what Oldman was able to accomplish with a character tightly constrained by his introspective, passive nature. Smiley is not a man prone to emotional outbursts or scene-stealing histrionics and yet by employing body language (witness the marvelous vignette at the conclusion of the movie where Smiley sags, almost deflates when he sees his wife, a charged moment so subtle and yet so evocative, I actually gasped) and nearly imperceptible facial cues, we realize there are vast depths inside the man, powerful emotions carefully held in check.  Oldman has never been better.  Smiley will be one of the defining roles of his career.

But the supporting cast, made up of some of the finest character actors in Britain, gives him all the help he requires.  John Hurt is Control: prickly, intolerant, paranoid. Times are changing, the world is changing and Control, to his political masters, is yesterday’s man.  New blood is required, Control is on the way out…and he knows it.  And rages at the dying of the light. Colin Firth is excellent (as the seductive Bill Hayden), as are Kathy Burke (Connie Sachs) and Benedict Cumberbatch (Peter Guillam).  Ciaran Hinds (Roy Bland), Toby Jones (Percy Alleline) and Dencik round out the roster of players, ambitious bureaucrats allied against Smiley, determined to thwart or, at least, manage his efforts at uncovering the “mole” that Control and Smiley believe resides at the very heart of the Circus.

Tomas Alfredson, who had previously helmed the original (Swedish) version of the oddball vampire film “Let the Right One In”, was an unconventional choice as director but, in the final analysis, could anyone have done better?  Alfredson, clearly, had a magnificent grasp of the material and the dark, almost sepulchral ambiance he imparts to the film is ideally suited to the byzantine Cold War machinations of intelligence agencies on both sides of the Iron Curtain.  Screenwriters Bridget O’Connor and Peter Straughan presented him with a first rate script that neither condescends, nor confuses; it is a highly polished and literate undertaking and the duo richly deserve the plaudits they’ve received.  Tragically, Ms. O’Connor (married to Mr. Straughan) died while the film was in production.  “Tinker, Tailor, Soldier, Spy” is dedicated to her memory.

A worthy tribute indeed.

ΩΩΩΩ1/2  (Out of 5)

“The Immortals”

Mark Kermode, in his latest collection of essays on cinema The Good, the Bad & the MultiPlex, talks about the “diminished expectations” of the general film-going public.

Thanks to the never-ending parade of empty-headed blockbusters Hollywood dumps on us, we’ve come to expect very little from the latest “big” picture and arrive at the movie theater merely hoping for a couple of hours of diversion.

How lazy.  How stupid.

It is the average punter who is ruining the movie industry and not, as some of us like to think, the greed and  superficiality of studio honchos.  Sure, the guys in suits love a nice, fat, profit-sharing check, but guess who endorses it?  Joe and Josephine Average.

“The Immortals” is but the latest example of the dearth of talent and originality in Tinseltown.  One quick glance at the trailer is all one needs to realize that, once again, the fifteen year old gamer/mall rat moron is still the demographic of choice.  Dolts with the aesthetic of tapeworms and the I.Q. of gerbils.

“First, there was 300…then there was Avatar…now, when you thought movies couldn’t possibly get more idiotic and demeaning, we bring you The Immortals!“

Not a tag line you’re liable to see in an ad campaign any time soon but, well, there it is.

As long as people continue to cater to these awful exercises in excess we can expect to see more of them.  And the genuinely good films will continue to struggle to find an audience, no matter how much critical acclaim they receive.

Mr. Kermode points out, quite rightly, that film critics these days have absolutely no influence on movie-goers and there are enough shills and flacks out there to give even the worst, most deplorable waste of celluloid rave reviews and handy sound bites:  “The best movie of the year!” “An amazing film!”  “I saw it when I was in a coma and thought it rocked!” etc.

No, not shame on Hollywood.

We’re the barbarians at the gates.

Where’s the boiling oil and flaming naphtha when you really need it?

“The Anderson Tapes” (1971)

Directed by:  Sidney Lumet
Written by:  Frank R. Pierson
Cast:  Sean Connery, Dyan Cannon, Christopher Walken, Martin Balsam, Alan King, Val Avery

Though the technology in the film is dated and some of the characters stereotypical, “The Anderson Tapes” (based on a novel by Lawrence Sanders) remains a rewarding and prescient caper movie, a tough, no-nonsense picture that brings to mind the original “Thomas Crown Affair” (Dir.  Norman Jewison; 1968) and, particularly, John Boorman’s “Point Blank” (one of the bleakest films I’ve ever seen).  Anderson, as portrayed by Sean Connery, is angry and unrepentant, seeking his chunk of flesh as payback for the ten years he’s spent rotting in prison, and never mind that he is an habitual criminal and deserved what he got.

But the world Anderson finds outside the penitentiary gates is far different than the one he remembers.  There are cameras everywhere and all the people he knows are older, slower, softer.  He needs financial backing for his scheme and is stunned when a former colleague (Alan King) gives him the run-around.

Lumet’s direction is subtle and effective.  He specializes at interior work, places where men and women (particularly men) come together and interact at close quarters; it’s only a matter of time before someone erupts and Lumet is a master at catching that moment.  “The Anderson Tapes” may not have the verbal and narrative pyrotechnics of a “Serpico” or “Twelve Angry Men”, but it is a credible and uncompromising thriller, deserving of a second look.

ΩΩΩ 1/2 (Out of 5)