In addition to the gorgeous photographs taken by Milton Greene, I find this half-formed book fascinating for three reasons: for the way the ghost of M In addition to the gorgeous photographs taken by Milton Greene, I find this half-formed book fascinating for three reasons: for the way the ghost of Marilyn Monroe haunts our image of sensuality, for the way the ghost of Norma Jean Mortenson haunts the image of Marilyn Monroe, and for the way the ghost of ghost-writer Ben Hecht haunts the first person voice of this artful, unfinished narrative.
Three nights ago, for the umpteenth time, I watched Gentlemen Prefer Blondes, and for the first time in many viewings I took my eyes off Jane Russell (my favorite, the sex symbol a man could have a beer with) and gazed steadily at the perfectly-crafted image of Marilyn Monroe. It was weird for me, for, in spite of how fascinating she is, I felt compelled to avert my gaze, as if I were peeping at the nakedness of a divinity, as if I were staring presumptuously into a sacred fire. How could the image of one woman, dead for fifty years, still channel so powerfully the archetype of The Goddess? My Story provides a few hints, but no real answers.
Perhaps it is easier for The Goddess to possess a girl who is unsure of her own identity. Young Norma Jean Mortenson was unsure of everything: who her parents were, what it might feel like to be loved, even the legitimacy of the name by which she was called. (She did not know her father, but she knew his name was not “Mortenson.”) Later, when she began to “develop,” she felt alienated from her own body, and thought of it as something other than herself, her “magic friend.” She states that she never realized her “magic friend” was causing sexual feelings in the boys in her math class, because she, at this stage in her life, had no sexual feelings at all. Sure, she consciously dressed in a revealing sweater, and practiced a new “languorous” walk, but still she continued to be bemused and surprised at her effect on the men around her. Perhaps that way it was easier for The Goddess to begin to do her work.
I think, though, that one of the most intriguing thing about My Story is the presence (and absence) of the voice of its ghost writer, the legendary screen-writer Ben Hecht (Scarface, Twentieth Century, Nothing Sacred, and more than a score of uncredited contributions to classics such as A Star is Born, Gone With the Wind, and The Shop Around the Corner). A couple of years after he scripted one of her best early comic performances (Monkey Business), he was hired to get her story down on paper, based on personal interviews and taped conversations. I surmise that the cynical ex-newspaper reporter only gradually warmed to the collaboration, that he often wearied of her tearful delivery and her doeful revelations: his nicknames for her were “the Ex-Orphan” and "La Belle Bumps and Tears." Eventually, though, Hecht seemed to see her emotional reaction as an advantage for him, for as he remarked, “the moment a true thing comes out of her mouth, her eyes shed tears. She's like her own Lie Detector." The completed memoir was also supposed to include her ascension to stardom, Gentleman Prefer Blondes, the death of her Aunt Grace, and her wish to give birth to a child. But—alas!--the marriage with DiMaggio became too combative, and the whole project was scrapped.
Hecht does an excellent job of re-creating the voice of the wide-eyed Norma Jean, but there are moments—references to pushcart peddlers, a sexual “vampire,” a woman with a rose in her teeth—that sound more like the voice of the 60-year-old screenwriter than the superstar still in her late 20's. And there's one anecdote--about a nice young war veteran hawking miniature silver stars in Union Station who asks Norma Jean to marry him--which sounds just like one of Hecht's "cold city with a warm heart" vignettes, straight out of something like his own Miracle in the Rain.
But that's okay. Looking for the ghost of the cynical old screenwriter in this book's simple, well-crafted prose is one of the fascinating pleasures of reading My Story....more
I find I can learn a lot from a professional who writes about his field, and I like it best when he is also a person for whom “love and need are one,” I find I can learn a lot from a professional who writes about his field, and I like it best when he is also a person for whom “love and need are one,” who has united his avocation with his vocation and can speak generously in his books about his own enthusiasms and pleasures.
Film critic Richard Schickel is such a man, and Keepers is such a book. He is in his eighties now, having written movie reviews for Time for more than half his life (1965–2010), not to mention other projects and publications, but his love for movies is as full of wonder and inspired notions as it was when he watched his first film (Disney's Snow White and the Seven Dwarfs) when he was seven years old.
Those who wish to find a developed theory of film, or even a definitive list of Schickel's all-time favorites, will not find it here. Instead, he will discover a series of short, disconnected (but chronologically organized) chapters, in which Schickel write of films he admires, why he admires them, and why he likes them better than other more esteemed films. If he has a fault, it is that he has little bad to say about anyone's work (except for Orson Welles and Pauline Kael). This is particularly noticeable in his treatment of the great living directors who have become his friends, but then again, this is a book about his enthusiasms, so such generosity should be expected.
There is something here to delight each of you film fans, particularly if you love Hollywood's golden years. I, of course, liked the book best when Schickel agreed with me (Sunrise is a transcendent work of filmic poetry, Pinocchio is Disney's greatest film, The Magnificent Ambersons, damaged as it is, is better than Citizen Kane) and I liked it less when we were at odds (High Sierra is better than The Maltese Falcon, The Best Years of Our Lives is “close to travesty,” All About Eve has “not worn well”). Then again, he shares many of my minor enthusiasms: Mary Astor, Eve Arden, Jack Carson, Betty Hutton, director Andre de Toth, Henry: Portrait of a Serial Killer, and others.
I am sure you too will find here your own shared enthusiasms and disagreements, and I suspect you will enjoy the journey, for you will be traveling in the company of a veteran professional who loves movies just as much as the day he saw his first one, three-quarters of a century ago....more
The first Hitchcock is “The Master of Suspense” Hitchcock. This is the man as he wished to be seen: the Alfred Hitchcock Presents Hitchcock, the baby- The first Hitchcock is “The Master of Suspense” Hitchcock. This is the man as he wished to be seen: the Alfred Hitchcock Presents Hitchcock, the baby-faced cameo in a score of movies. A thoroughly professional maker of popular films, a family man, and a convivial host, he is by nature a practical joker, an impish lover of dark humor, the gadfly of anyone who cannot take a joke.
The second Hitchcock is “The Dark Genius” Hitchcock. This is the man as lauded by Truffaut and later pictured in Donald Spoto's biography. A neurotic frightened by the police, an impotent voyeur scarred by a Catholic childhood, he is first of all a great artist who wrestled with his conflicts in superb films about obsession, guilt and desire, but he is also a man whose obsessions never left him, whose sexual predations and sadisms darkened the end of his career.
McGilligan's witty subtitle, “A Life in Darkness and Light,” shows clearly what his approach will be. First of all, it is a life best revealed to us as we sit in the darkness and view his creations, composed of darkness and light: it is in the art that the man will best be found. Secondly, Hitchcock's life—like all of our lives—is composed of both good and evil, and it is a mistake to see it primarily as one or the other. It is clear McGilligan thinks Spoto made this mistake, and unfairly blackened Hitchcock's reputation as a result. It is one that he himself is determined not to make.
One of the ways he avoids this mistake is by spending a good deal of time on the sunnier, earlier period: Hitchcock's childhood, his early career in art and advertising, his work as an art director in film, and eventually as a director of British films. Seven of the book's eighteen chapters—230 pages of the 750 of text—occupy Hitchcock's life before he relocated to Hollywood. Much of this is interesting, but some of it is more detailed that it should be (for example, McGilligan prints the entire text of each of the mediocre five short stories young Hitchcock published in a trade paper.) The overall picture, though, is of a young man eagerly learning his craft, and discovering a life-long partner—both for work and for love--in Alma Reville. The fact that we like this young man and wish him well shows McGilligan's wisdom in spending so much time on the early years.
The book is too filled with facts and film analysis for me to summarize it here, but I was particularly pleased with the detailed presentation of the genesis and realization of each film, from The 39 Steps to Family Plot, including the films that might have been but never were. (If you don't have time to read the whole book, you should really get hold of a copy--From the library perhaps? Like I did?--and check out the sections on your favorite films for yourself.)
I will, however, make a comment about the “dark” of “The Dark Genius” (I believe the “genius" to be self-evident). It seems that Hitchcock, impotent but salaciously fond of sexual voyeurism and gossip, became desperate in his final years, as he lost first his beloved stars, then his influence, his mental sharpness, his energy, his friends, and finally his wife Alma, the love of his life and the greatest of his collaborators. During his long slow decline he may have been--probably was--guilty of a few shabby acts, but this cannot obscure the light of his humor, his generosity, his capacity for friendship, or the luminous achievements of his legendary career.
And I am sure author Patrick McGilligan would agree....more
God, I miss Roger Ebert. But I am happy that I still have the next best thing: Kenneth Turan, movie critic for the LA Times and NPR's Morning Edition. God, I miss Roger Ebert. But I am happy that I still have the next best thing: Kenneth Turan, movie critic for the LA Times and NPR's Morning Edition.
When I was a young movie snob, I preferred Siskel. Ebert liked everything, which proved he couldn't be a serious critic. No, not like Siskel--and me. As I grew older, however, I began to appreciate the virtues of enthusiasm. It would be unfair to say Ebert liked everything, yet he seemed to find waiting in everything something he could honestly like: one unsettling performance in a too-cutesy indie, the poetic cinematography of a ponderous epic, the breath-taking opening of a promising thriller before it skidded to a disappointing end. He never lost his joy in the dance of life or his reverence for its spiritual rhythms, and that joy and reverence is palpable in every review he wrote.
I feel the same way about Kenneth Turan. He is a reverent, joyful man who is comfortable with his own enthusiasms, and in Not to Be Missed, a book of fifty-four favorite films, he candidly shares his greatest enthusiasms with us.
Of course I liked this book because he includes many Hollywood films I greatly love which don't often make the list of first-rank official classics: Bombshell, Love Affair, The Shop Around the Corner, Strawberry Blonde, Random Harvest, Kiss Me Deadly, Seven Men from Now. But he chooses fine films from many places, including the animated masterpiece Spirited Away and a few relatively recent films that I am not familiar with, such as Beauvois' Of Gods and Men and Cedar's Footnote. Each of Turan's review-length essay conveys the essence of a film in such a way that you wish to see it for yourself. Or see it again....more
If you are interested in the grammar and authorship of film, you should definitely check this book out. Ralph Rosenblum was in charge of editing many If you are interested in the grammar and authorship of film, you should definitely check this book out. Ralph Rosenblum was in charge of editing many of the memorable movies which emerged from New York City in the late'60's and early '70's--"A Thousand Clowns," "Long Day's Journey into Night," "The Pawnbroker," "The Producers," and all of Woody Allen's features from "Take the Money and Run" to "Annie Hall."
As you might have guessed, he quarrels with the "auteur theory" (which asserts that the director is inevitably the sole author of the finished film), not only because of its cavalier disregard for the contribution of the editor, but because this disregard results not only in a distorted view of the process itself, but also in an inflated conception by the director of his own role, intensifying both his insecurities and his ego.
The book begins with a fascinating account of the editing of "The Night They Raided Minsky's," which Rosenblum says he rescued from disaster by creating a nostalgic atmosphere through an innovative uses of stock footage and music. I believe him, and "Minsky's" helps make the persuasive case for the crucial and creative role of the editor.
After the "Minsky's" introduction, "When the Shooting Stops" shifts back and forth between autobiographical chapters and chapters on the history of film editing. The alternation breaks up the complementary narratives effectively, and I learned many things from this first third.
The last two-thirds, however, is the core of the book. Here Rosenblum describes in detail--sometimes shot by shot--how the final version of most of the films listed above were put together, and what he learned about the art of editing by working on them.
I would recommend reading the whole book, but if you don't wish to, please read at least read the "Minsky's" chapter--a classic account of how to rescue a bad film--and the absolutely essential chapter on Woody Allen's "Annie Hall." Apparently the film as shot was nothing like the final product; instead, it was a mishmash of existential jokes, boyhood memories, day dreams and nightmares (including an actual visit to the circles of Hell), with a few charming scenes of Diane Keaton thrown in. Rosenblum shows us how both he and Allen examined the raw footage, and how the story of shy Midwestern Annie soon began to emerge. I'm a big Woody Allen fan-- and I have to admit that this look at one of the greatest works of a genuine "auteur" has caused me to watch films a little differently than I watched them before.
Oh, and as far as the directors he worked with are concerned (because I know this is what you really want to know): Rosenblum hated Mel Brooks and Friedkin (he really hated Friedkin) and loved Lumet and Allen, who he considers true professionals who also respected their editors as fellow professionals, and never let their egos get in the way of the collaborative process which is necessary if a film is to emerge as a fully realized work of art....more
This is the most personal work on cinema yet written by David Thomson, a movie historian and critic whose originality of insight is matched only by Ma This is the most personal work on cinema yet written by David Thomson, a movie historian and critic whose originality of insight is matched only by Manny Farber, whose elegant style is unrivaled by all but James Agee and Dwight MacDonald, and whose comprehensive and detailed knowledge of the field is unsurpassed by anyone. His The New Biographical Dictionary of Film (Fourth Edition) is the only 1000 page reference work I have ever read with complete delight from cover-to-cover, and I hope to do the same with the fifth edition soon.
Anybody who has read Thomson knows that he is a man of strong opinion who refuses to pull any punches or follow anyone's agenda. He's not one of those self-conscious mavericks either: he likes what he likes, for good reasons, and tells you what he thinks.
This book is even more personal and eccentric than the usual Thomson, for two reasons: 1) it is not precisely about movies, but about "screens," planes of various sizes on which we view images, and how their size and the conditions for viewing (a massive screen for a multiplex, a flat screen TV for your family room, an iPhone with ear buds just for you in a crowded airport alone) affect the viewing experience, and 2) Thomson wrote this book to explore primarily how these screens have shaped his own viewing experiences, and only secondarily how they may have affected others.
Because of this dual concentration, Thomson's otherwise comprehensive and historical treatment of visual images that move contains some surprising additions and emphases. He includes treatments of the early motion photography of Muybridge, the significance of I Love Lucy, the impact of Marilyn Monroe, the narrative structure of pornography and video games, as well as a marvelous anecdote and analysis of how he once screened Minnelli's The Clock for a college class by showing the first half forward while simultaneously projecting the second half backward. He has almost nothing to say about women in film (except for actresses of course), very little about the Western, and the amount of space he accords a particular classic director is always a personal--and sometimes a seemingly arbitrary--decision.
It is an enjoyable and informative trip, however, with many entertaining detours, and--in spite his divigations--Thomson never strays far from his central theme that "the most profound subject in all movie is time and the way it passes, and resembles itself."...more
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