Preminger's "Angels"

There seem to be two major schools of thought regarding the directorial skills of Otto Preminger. Some believe that he made a terrific film in his first effort with Laura (1945), but could never come up with much success after that; these critics feel that Preminger’s style was simple and that he wasted many filmgoers’ time with his adaptations of blockbuster novels during the early part of the 1960s.

Then these are those like myself, who think that Preminger was a great director, offering films of great subtleties as well as especially fluid camera work. There was the scintillating Anatomy of a Murder (1959), a superb courtoom drama that grabbed us from the initial frames. Think about the world of Washington, D.C. that he put on the screen in Advise and Consent (1961), with the lies, secret meetings and backstabbing power plays – no other political film is as clever or as devastating.

There are many other examples I can give of Preminger’s directorial talent, from the inner workings of the Vatican in The Cardinal (1963) to the subtle psychological manners of Bunny Lake is Missing (1965). Preminger was a superb, highly structured filmmaker who succeeded in many different types of genre.

In this post, I will deal with two of his earlier films, Fallen Angel (1945), made at 20th Century Fox when he was under contract to that studio and Angel Face (1952), made for Howard Hughes at RKO. Preminger served as producer as well as director on both of these works; today his critics often praise his skill as a producer (rarely, if ever, going over budget) far more than his directorial skills.

Fallen Angel was Preminger’s followup at Fox to Laura and for this work, he surrounded himself with several of the same crew he used on that film; this included cinematographer Joseph LaShelle, art directors Lyle Wheeler and Leland Fuller, costume designer Bonnie Cashin and composer David Raksin. Perhaps the most famous member of Laura that returned for Fallen Angel was Dana Andrews, cast as the male lead. The director used Andrews, one of his favorite actors, in several more films in the 1940s and ‘50s; this set a tone throughout much of Preminger’s career as he would work with actors and technicians who contributed the type of work that pleased Preminger. The director’s temper tantrums became legendary and unfortunately, have overshadowed his creative efforts in the eyes of his critics; this is regrettable and I believe that studying his works in detail should prove what a talented director he really was.

Fallen Angel is one of the most stylish film noirs ever made. Just look at the introduction in which we view the title credits - written on road signs – from the front windshield of a bus as we hear Raksin’s bustling and tense title theme. This is a supercharged opening to a film that has several other wonderfully creative scenes.

The main character Eric Stanton (Andrews) is a loner who gets off the bus (he is forced off, as he didn’t have enough money for a full ride) in the California town of Walton, some 125 miles from San Francisco. He walks into a run of the mill diner, where we are introduced to Stella (Linda Darnell), a waitress who was missing for a few days. Everyone at the diner, from the kindly old owner, Pop (Percy Kilbride) to the gruff detective, Mark Judd (Charles Bickford) is relieved to see her. Stanton is intrigued by her shapely body and sultry looks; we know immediately that these two will tangle during a good portion of the film.

Darnell, who was Fox’s sexpot at the time, is just great in this role. Her husky voice and no nonsense ways give her a powerful image; she is able to attract men – and toss them aside – with ease. Stanton is obviously attracted, but he doesn’t back down from her ways, while in Stella’s eyes, Eric has a rough edge that appeals to her. He quickly romances her and then tells her he will marry her once he comes up with enough money. She is doubtful, but if he can deliver the cash, she will marry him, as she craves a normal life spent with one man who truly loves her.

His plan is to marry June Mills, a young woman living in town with her slightly older, domineering sister Clara (Anne Revere). June has a $25,000 inheritance owed her; Stanton plans to marry her, get his share of the cash and then dump June, in order to win back Stella.

The contrast between these two women is especially intrigiung:

Stella – brunette, sultry, rough, dominating, experienced in romance
June – blonde, pretty girl-next-door looks, charming, agreeable, few romantic affairs

But both seek the same thing – the comfort of married life.


Preminger takes this juicy tale and injects great style into it. He uses crane shots remarkably well in this film; the camera is constantly swooping down on the actors or gliding in between them. My favorite shot is when Eric and Stella are dancing cheek to cheek in one of those smoke-filled nightclubs you find in most film noirs. Preminger uses an extreme closeup and LaShelle lights this shot so that their faces alternately go in and out of the light. After a few seconds, Preminger’s camera follows them across the dance floor as they maneuver their way around other couples, finally extiting through the rear door, as their bodies disappear in the thick smoke. It’s a sexy shot and a memorable one.

Another beautifully directed and photographed scene is when we see June and Eric in bed at a hotel in San Francisco shortly after they have married. He falls asleep and she nervously gets up to go to the window. Preminger films this so that only the letters H-O-T of the hotel sign across the way are visible to the audience. As this is their first time in bed (Eric in his plot to please Stella left June’s home the night of the wedding), this is such a delicious moment! The shot is at night and Preminger stays with it through a dissolve to morning. H-O-T, indeed!


In Angel Face, the stylish camera work was not as evident, due to the budget restraints at RKO at the time. But Preminger managed to inject a lot of sexual tension in this film and there are many unforgettable sequences.

Working with a superb script by Frank Nugent and Oscar Millard from a Chester Erskine story, the film deals with ambulance driver Frank Jessup (Robert Mitchum) who becomes obesessed with Diane Tremayne (Jean Simmons), a young woman who lives with the father she adores and the stepmother she detests. The two meet in the first sequence as Frank responds to an emergency at Diane’s house as her mother has been the victim of a not-so-accidental gas leak. After reassuring everyone that things are fine, Frank walks downstairs where he sees Diane playing a lovely romantic theme on the piano (a haunting piece of music by composer Dimitri Tiomkin); the quick cuts between the two of them tell us that their lives will soon intertwine.

They do meet soon afterwards, as Frank cancels dinner with his girlfriend to be with Diane, who has followed him in her car. Diane has the upper hand here and will continue to have it throughout the film, as Frank makes some poor decisions; this is certainly a classic film noir theme. One of my favorite lines from this or any other film noir is when Diane asks Frank if he really loves her; his remark, a beauty: “With a girl like you, how can a man be sure?”

Diane soon does away with her stepmother when she rigs the transmission in her car so that it will only go in reverse once she steps on the accelerator. Unfortunately for Diane, her beloved father gets in the car with her stepmother; she did not plan on this and now must deal with two murders after the car with both of them in it plunges down the hillside of their suburban Los Angeles mansion.

As Frank was recently hired as a chaffeur to the Tremaynes – this was plotted by Diane – he is a prime susupect in the murders, although he had nothing to do with it. For sake of sympathy, a trial lawyer suggests that Frank and Diane marry, reasoning that the jury will be less eager to convict a loving couple.

While the flashy camerawork is more evident with Fallen Angel, the psychological manners of Angel Face are much more complex. Frank knows that Diane is evil yet is constantly drawn back to her, as much for her beauty as for her control. Toward the end of the film, there is a scene when Diane is deep in thought on a future without Frank who has told her he is leaving her. Forseeing her own death, she thinks about how she will take down Frank as well. For this moment, Preminger has her sit slumped in a chair in her now-empty home wearing Frank’s sportcoat. It’s a disturbing image and one that so exquisitely sums up the connection between the two protaganists.

For these two films, Preminger studied the obsessions men and women share when it comes to romance and power; of course, there were no easy answers presented. He injected both films with intelligence and flair combined with a beautiful visual style, a formula he would repeat for another three decades as a director.

"Martha Ivers" - Wicked Fun

When I pick up movies at the local branch of the Chicago Public Library, I try and get a nice mix of films, be they new or old, mystery, comedy or musical, Hollywood or foreign. I’ll admit to often searching out old black and white films of the 1940s and ‘50s, as I love the craftmanship as well as entertaining stories of so many of those works.

Last week I picked up The Strange Love of Martha Ivers, a 1946 film directed by Lewis Milestone. I was intrigued by the title, but what drew me in was the fact that Barbara Stanwyck was one of the stars. I’ve always loved her work and just can’t resist watching her work; to me she was one of those actors like James Cagney who took control when they were on the screen; in my mind, she was as sultry and as mesmerizing an actress as has ever emerged from Hollyood.

Anyway, I am so glad I made this selection, as Martha Ivers is one of the most entertaining, wickedly ironic and just sheer delightful movies I’ve seen in some time. It’s a complex story, with two sets of main characters, whose lives intertwine in strange, sometimes convoluted ways and it winds up as a insightful look into the deception of love and the question of absolute power. While over films have dealt with this subject, few have done it as stylishly as this one.

The films opens up in the fictional city of Iverstown in 1928 with a sequence of two teenagers, Martha and her friend Sam who are running away from home. Martha has a special reason for doing so, as she is living with a cruel rich aunt whom she despises for her dominating presence. Sam is a poor kid and wants to run off to join the circus, a situation Martha finds entrancing.

They hop aboard a freight car in the station, but are immediately discovered by the police. They take Martha back home, but Sam mangages to escape. Martha is brought back to her house and after being scolded by her aunt, goes to her room where Walter, a boy her age who happens to be the son of Martha’s tutor, listens to her plans to escape.

Meanwhile, Sam arrives in Martha's room, planning on taking her away. A violent thunderstorm hits, the power in the house goes out and we soon see the aunt climbing the stairway to check on everyone in the house. When she sees Martha’s kitten that she despises, she starts to hit the feline with a fireplace poker. Martha sees this and in the darkness, grabs the poker from her aunt and starts to beat her, eventually causing her death when her aunt falls down the staircase and fractures her skull. Seconds later, the power in the house comes back on and Martha’s tutor sees that her aunt is dead. Martha, standing next to Walter, makes up a story about an intruder who supposedly caused the woman’s death. Walter, who saw Martha beat her aunt, confirms her version. All of this only a few minutes into the movie!

We then flash forward eighteen years where we see Sam (Van Heflin) driving by Iverstown with a sailor he picked up as a hitchhiker. He has an accident and has to take his car into town for repairs. Little does he realize at that moment how long it would be for those repairs to take place!

Killing time, he walks through town where he meets Antonia “Toni” (Lizabeth Scott), a beautiful, mysterious woman who is on her way back to her hometown, assuming she can get to the bus station on time. Both take a taxi and when she is late for the bus, he reserves rooms for himself and her in a local hotel. Soon the truth comes out that she is avoiding her return trip home, due to her passionate dislike of her father.

We then meet Martha (Stanwyck) who married Walter (Kirk Douglas, excellent in his screen debut), who is now the local district attorney. This is a marriage of convenience for her, as she stayed with Sam, thank to his keeping his mouth shut about the murder. Sam is now guilt-ridden and spends much of his time at night with a bottle, as he can’t honestly face the public and talk about the law, given his previous behavior. Neither can really leave the other, as their secret might emerge.

This is the setting then for all sorts of intrigue and double crosses, as Walter soons discovers that Sam is in town; thinking he must have returned for a blackmail scheme, as he was a witness to the murder years ago, he does his best to send Sam away. Martha meanwhile, sees that Sam is with Toni; her feelings for Sam return and she is now determined to get him back and away from this new woman in his life.

I won’t give any more of the plot away, except to say that it is constantly full of twists that you don’t expect. You’re never really sure if Sam cares much for Toni or is only spending time with her, given his forced time in town. Once Sam sees Martha, will he fall in love with her or resist her charms?

The original story by John Patrick was nominated for an Academy Award (the category of original story no longer exists), which was well-deserved. At the beginning of the film, we see Sam running away. We find out bits and pieces of his later life and discover that he is a gambler who is constantly running out of and then winning money. He’s a restless drifter, so we don’t think that he’ll fall for either woman, but this time might be a little different, given the allures of Toni and Martha.

For me, it is Robert Rossen’s screenplay that is among the greatest achievements of this film. Rossen was an immensely talented craftsman who could write and direct with great passion; after his work in the early and mid-1940s as one of Hollywood’s top screenwriters (I wrote about his adapted screenplay for The Sea Wolf in a previous post), he directed several of his screenplays, including All The King’s Men (1949) and The Hustler (1961).

I recently wrote a post about some of my favorite movie quotes; there are enough in this screenplay for a separate post. Rossen had a great ear for dialogue and for this film, his words were as sharp and acerbic as ever. Here are a few examples:

- Early on Martha talks to her husband Walter about the murder she committed and how they conspired to convict someone else:
“The man they executed was a criminal. If he hadn’t hanged for that, he would have been hanged for something else.”

- Later, Walter discusses Sam with Martha:
Walter: “You know what’s on my mind, Martha? About Sam?
Martha: “ I think I do and that’s where it will stay, in your mind. Unless I tell you differently.”

- In a scene when Sam goes to see Martha in her office:
Martha: “What do you want?”
Sam: “I think I’ve got what I want. I think I’ve got a gimmick. A gimmick is an angle that works for you to keep you from working too hard for yourself.”

- And perhaps the film’s most famous exchange, when Toni admits to Sam that she deceived him:
Toni: “Go ahead and hit me Sam. I’ve got it coming.”
Sam: “The only thing you’ve got coming kid, is a break.”

Lizabeth Scott and Van Heflin in a publicity shot for the film

Lewis Milestone (All Quiet on the Western Front) directed this film with a nice energy and composer Miklos Rosza cranks up the strings when things get a bit melodramatic. The acting is uniformly good, with Heflin cooly playing all the angles, Scott offering a nice combination of innocent and sexy, Kirk Douglas sneering as only he could sneer and Barbara Stanwyck giving us another of her icy, domineering females who just won’t take no for an answer. Whether you’re a lover of film noir or just someone who likes an old-fashioned, steamy potboiler, The Strange Love of Martha Ivers is for you.

Jerry Goldsmith - 3 Scores from 1966

“Music is supposed to enhance the emotional reaction of the audience. These are things you can’t mechanically place in a film – the emotional elements, no matter how wonderful the actors are. Music brings emotions to a higher level. I think that’s what music basically should be used for.” – Jerry Goldsmith speaking about the role of music in film.


In the summer of 1970, at the tender age of 14, I went to see the movie Patton with my grandmother in a large theater in Chicago’s Loop. I recall the opening scene quite vividly with the huge American flag and George C. Scott’s inspiring speech. I can’t honestly say that at that age, I understood much of the ironic humor of that monologue (my grandmother said that movie had a lot of “salty language,”), but I loved the visuals.

I also recall the rousing musical theme that followed as well as much of the rest of the score, which was at times reflective and very quiet (especially for a war film) and at times, quite lively and dramatic in its nature. It was the first time that I realized the power an original score could bring to a movie (I had been also thrilled by Stanley Kubrick’s marvelous use of classical and modern music for 2001: A Space Odyssey, just two years earlier).

The score for Patton was written by Jerry Goldsmith, who had a decade of feature film scoring experience at the time, but he was just getting his composing talents in second gear. Dozens of other great scores would emerge from the pen (piano?) of Goldsmith over the next 30 plus years, from Chinatown, The Wind and The Lion, MacArthur, Islands in the Stream and The Boys from Brazil in the 1970s (what a remarkable decade for Goldsmith!) to Poltergeist, Under Fire and Hoosiers in the 1980s to Basic Instinct, Rudy and L.A. Confidential in the 1990s to The Last Castle, The Sum of All Fears and the brilliant unused score for Timeline this decade, evidence that Goldsmith was clearly one of the finest film composers who ever lived. He passed away in 2004 after a long battle with cancer; all film and music lovers can be grateful that Goldsmith’s applied his brilliant talent over such a long period of time and that we can continue to listen to these remarkable, moving compositions.

In this post, I will deal with a few of Goldsmith’s early scores. Born in Pasadena, California in 1929, he studied film composition with the great Miklos Rózsa (composer of such classic scores as Ben Hur, Julius Caesar and Quo Vadis) at the University of Southern California. Goldsmith was soon writing for television; his early resumé includes work for such series as The Lineup, Gunsmoke and Thriller. He also composed the music for seven different episodes of The Twilight Zone in 1960 and 1961; among those are his sensitive scores for "Back There" and "The Big Tall Wish."

More television work followed and Goldsmith composed several famous themes including Dr. Kildare and The Man From U.N.C.L.E. (He would go on to write music for many more well known television series in the 1970s, including The Waltons, Police Story and Barnaby Jones.) Film work began in the early 1960s with Goldsmith receiving his first Academy Award nomination for John Huston’s biopic Freud in 1962.

Goldsmith soon became an in-demand composer and was becoming known as someone who could deliver almost any type of score; listen to his bittersweet, touching score for A Patch of Blue and then contrast it with his bravura work of In Harm’s Way, both from 1965. The former earned the composer his second Oscar nod, while the latter is best remembered for the stirring end theme which beautifully complemented Otto Preminger’s vision of the apocalypse in the closing titles. Also worth recalling in this score are the passages of brass that accompany the scenes of military planning; these cues call to mind several moments of his future score for Patton. A note of trivia about In Harm’s Way: Goldsmith made his only screen appearance here (uncredited), he is seen in the opening sequence at the evening dance, leading the band, seated at a piano.

Jerry Goldsmith in the mid-1960s

It was in 1966 that Goldsmith truly reached new heights with scores for six feature films; the three I will discuss are The Sand Pebbles, The Blue Max and Seconds. For The Sand Pebbles, he composed a lengthy score, as this was one of those old-fashioned road show films that made a big splash back in the 1960s. The score features an overture (one of the few in the composer’s career) as well as an entr’acte and even a love theme that became a hit song, known as “When We Were Lovers,” with lyrics by Leslie Bricusse, no less (while the theme is heard in the film, the song is not).

The Sand Pebbles, though a bit overly serious and too long at three hours’ running time, remains a solid treatment of a little known moment in American history in 1926 when U.S. Navy gunboats were assigned to China to keep the peace. The composer at times went for the Oriental effect in his music, though in a subdued fashion. (According to Jon Burlingame in his article on the Film Music Society’s website, Goldsmith used a variety of instruments, including Chinese temple bells, wood drums and even a mandolin to achieve the eastern-sounding effects.) The opening theme is dissonant and quiet, featuring strings, woodwinds and percussion. Midway through the theme, the mood becomes more strained with brass taking over; this is a fine introduction to the struggles the characters will face in the film.



One of the most memorable cues in the score is a simple four note passage that Goldsmith wrote for the chilling scene in which Po-Han (Mako), the head coolie hand-picked by Jake Holman (Steve McQueen) is being cut by Chinese rebels just a few hundred yards from the ship. Holman, seeing his newfound friend being brutally tortured, grabs a rifle and shoots him, putting him out of his agony. This is a beautifully directed scene by Robert Wise, who builds up the suspense brilliantly; at the very moment Holman kills Po-Han, we are relieved of the tension, as though the air has gone out of a balloon.

Goldsmith wisely decided not to score much of the scene, as there is plenty of sound between the roars of the angry mob, the horrific screams of Pan-Ho and the barking orders of the ship’s captain (Richard Crenna). Holman pulls the trigger – the sound of the gunshot is like a punch to the stomach – and there is silence for a few seconds as Holman lowers his head in sorrow and disbelief. The composer then introduces his sad, somber theme and continues it as we follow Holman down to the engine room where he breaks down for a brief moment. We will hear this same theme again much later in the film when Holman is forced to brutally murder in self-defense; the music here is both ironic and a brutal reminder of Po-Han’s death. Goldsmith’s use of this theme revealed a complexity in his scoring ability that had elevated him to the top of his profession’s ranks at that time and these moments are still among the most effective of his distinguished career. (Goldsmith would work with Wise again for one of his most memorable scores for Star Trek: The Motion Picture in 1979.)

Goldmsith also composed the score for another military film in 1966: The Blue Max. The story of ace aviators in the German army of World War 1, the main plot focused on one pilot Bruno Stachel (George Peppard), who sought to win the coveted medal of the film’s title by shooting down enough enemy planes. Beautifully photographed, the film is often quite riveting, despite some of the less than enthralling subplots. Goldsmith’s main theme is majestic with a strong brass line and a sweeping melody played by strings. It is remarkable how unknown this theme is, as it is one of the most powerful of all themes for war films.

His passage for the aerial attacks is a driving piece with strings, percussion and brass all combining in slightly dissonant fashion to convey the whirlwind, confusing, pulsating nature of this specialized combat. A superb piece, with a definite Germanic influence, this is a marvelous part of the score that stands magnificently on its own; it is no wonder that many symphony orchestras have performed it over the years. Goldsmith’s score is definitely one of the strongest components of this uneven film; all the way through to the lush orchestrations of the closing sequence, the composer is at his best.

The other first-rate score of 1966 by the composer was for Seconds, the fantasy film directed by John Frankenheimer, about people who would pay to be transformed into a new personality through radical plastic surgery (they are given a second life, hence the film’s title). Feauturing stunning black-and-white photography by James Wong Howe, the film has become a cult classic and is one of the most intense science fiction films of all time. Goldsmith’s title theme is appropriatley eerie, with strings and organ (a particularly wonderful touch) combining to create some of the composer’s creepiest music, perhaps only rivaled by The Mephisto Waltz (1971) and his Oscar-winning score for The Omen (1976).



He also wrote one of his simplest, most nostalgic themes for a later scene in the film, when the main character Wilson (Rock Hudson) goes to visit the widow of one of his recently departed friends. It is a very touching moment, made all the more so by the quietness of this music in contrast to the frightening sounds of the remainder of the score. This same peaceful theme is repeated in the film’s final ironic scene, as we see a vision of a dream of a man on a beach carrying his young son and walking with his dog; this image quicky goes out of focus, as the haunting music perfomed by solo piano is a 180-degree reversal of the film’s opening music.

Given the quality of these scores in 1966, the Academy certainly could have rewarded Goldsmith with three Oscar nominations; while this was unlikely, he might have been given two nods (as Seconds was a box-office disaster, that score had little chance). As The Sand Pebbles was a bigger success at the box office than The Blue Max, it is no surprise that the former film was the one for which Goldsmith was nominated.

In what would be an all too recurring theme, he did not win the Oscar that year; the admired, but less than excellent score of Born Free by John Barry won the trophy (that film’s title song which was a pop hit was certainly a factor in the voting decision). Looking back, it would have made more sense if Alex North for his touching, achingly beautiful score for Who’s Afraid of Virginia Woolf? would have been the one to edge out Goldsmith, but popular music has always tended to win awards. (Note: while Goldsmith was robbed on at least three occasions of an Academy Award, he did at least win for The Omen; North – one of the seminal film composers of all time - amazingly never won for one of his scores. The Academy, no doubt embarassed by this, did give North a lifetime achievement award late in his career.)

Two years later, Goldsmith would write his wildly famous score for Planet of the Apes; Patton, also for director Frankin Schaffner, would follow in 1970. His career soared after that, but perhaps it was in 1966 that Jerry Goldsmith laid the groundwork for what would become one of the great catalogues of fim music Hollywood has ever heard.

Great Movie Quotes - A Different Take

Claire Trevor and Edward G. Robinson in Key Largo (1948)


Back in 2005, the American Film Institute presented a television special based on the greatest movie quotes of all time; the 100 best selected for that program were chosen from a list of 400 finalists. It is a fun list with the usual famous movie lines we’ve all heard at one time or another; lines such as, “Frankly my dear, I don’t give a damn” (Gone with the Wind); “Rosebud” (Citizen Kane); “Go ahead, make my day” (Sudden Impact) and “Here’s looking at you, kid” (Casablanca) among those that headlined this selection.

They’re all great quotes (as are the other 300 that didn’t make the final cut), but we all know how many terrific lines have been spoken by so many of our favorite characters through the years. So in this post I’ll present 10 of my favorite movie quotes (in chronological order) that didn’t make the AFI’s roster. It’s by no means a Top Ten list, as I’m constantly discovering some great new zingers from older films as well as new releases. So from time to time, I’ll add to the list until evenutally I have my top 100.

Roll ‘em!




“What’s wrong with you?” – Philip Marlowe (Humphrey Bogart)
“Nothing you can’t fix.” – Vivian Sternwood Rutledge (Lauren Bacall) – The Big Sleep (1946)


“If I’d have known you was going to act this way, I wouldn’t have come here.” – Gaye Dawn (Claire Trevor)
“If I’d have known what you were like, you wouldn’t have been asked.” – Johhny Rocco (Edward G. Robinson) – Key Largo (1948)





“Now listen, this is a cross-examination in a murder case, it’s not a high school debate. What are you and Dancer trying to do? Railroad this soldier into the clink?” –Paul Biegler (Jimmy Stewart) to District Attorney Mitch Lodwick (Brooks West) – Anatomy of a Murder (1959)



“People say I’m just nervous.” – Roslyn Taber (Marilyn Monroe)
“If it weren’t for the nervous people in the world, we’d all still be eating each other.” – Guido (Eli Wallach) – The Misfits (1961)




“Son, this is a Washington, D.C., kind of lie. It’s when the other person knows you’re lying and also knows you know he knows.” – Robert Lefingwell (Henry Fonda) – Advise and Consent (1962)


“You know Ben, it’s a terrible thing to hate your mother.” – Raymond Shaw (Laurence Harvey to Major Bennett Marco (Frank Sinatra) – The Manchurian Candidate (1962)


“Don’t be too proud, Henry. Never be too proud to go on your knees before God.” – Richard Nixon (Anthony Hopkins) to Henry Kissinger (Paul Sorvino) – Nixon (1985)


“Well sir, you are a cowardly son of a bitch. You just shot an unarmed man” – Little Bill (Gene Hackman)
“Well he should have armed himself, if he’s gonna decorate his saloon with my friend.”- William Munny (Clint Eastwood) – Unforgiven (1992)


“I’m an attorney, you’re a barber. You don’t know anything.” – Freddy Riedenschneider (Tony Shalhoub) to Ed Crane (Billy Bob Thornton) – The Man Who Wasn’t There (2001)




“I have never thought of myself as a correspondent, just a reporter. I offer no point of view, I take no action. I don’t get involved. I just report what I see.” – Thomas Fowler (Michael Caine) – The Quiet American (2002)



Do you have some favorite quotes? I'd love to "hear" them!

Dissecting Film

I’ve just discovered a marvelous new book on film written by David Thomson, one of the most insightful of all film critics. It’s entitled Have You Seen… A Personal Introduction to 1000 Films (published in 2008) and it’s one of the most perceptive, intelligent and astute commentaries on many of the most famous movies ever made.

Wisely, Thomson did not make this a Top 1000 book, merely listing his favorites; instead he made this project into an analysis of films both great as well as disastrous (disastrous in their execution, not necessarily in their performance at the box office) Along the way, he reminds us how often movies carry a particular impact due to the moment they are made. This is both a positive and a negative for the author, as evidenced by his thoughts on how some films have aged beautifully, while others seem today to be only a reminder of the past, while others still reveal new layers not seen at first glance.

For example, when writing about such films as Rocky and Rain Man, he discusses the momentary impact these films had, despite their obvious shortcomings (his comments on the fight from the first film are “it’s not just implausible, it’s not far from slapstick ballet,” while his slings against the latter are more devastating; “it’s little more than a commerical for itself.”)

As for films that look and feel great today, Thomson points to such works as The Godfather, “still as beautiful as it is mysterious”; Bringing Up Baby, “it still feels as if it were made last night,” and Taxi Driver, “I watch the film again and again, unsure where it will take me this time.” He has special praise for such works as The Treasure of the Sierra Madre, “the strength of the film is the unsentimental approach to the three treasure seekers,” as well as Blue Velvet, “(David) Lynch wrote it and directed it with an implaccable assurance that he has never quite matched since.” He includes dozens of foreign films, not only such classics as The Rules of the Game and Open City, but also such lesser-known works as La Ronde (1950) directed by Max Ophuls and Rocco and His Brothers (1960), a Luchino Visconti film that Thomson labels as “a shattering experience” when he saw the film’s premiere.

As for directors, he has his favorites, yet he rarely gives them a free pass. He praises Alfred Hitchcock for Vertigo, “ a masterpiece and an endless mystery,” and for Rear Window, “ a great film and a great entertainment,” but takes Hitchock to task for such works as Marnie and Spellbound (the former “feels contrived” to Thomson, while he labels the latter as “one of the most expensive vanity pictures ever made in America.”) He commends John Ford for his work on such films as The Searchers and The Grapes of Wrath, but has a mixed review for Stagecoach, which he praises for its visuals and message about an outlaw who seeks redemption, but writes that it is “a marinade of cliché.”

Thomson saves some of his greatest praise for the works of Otto Preminger. He finds his best films to be quite intelligent, noting for example, the complexities of the world of Washington, D. C, in Advise and Consent, especially as compared with the similar trappings of Frank Capra’s Mr. Smith Goes to Washington. He considers Preminger’s Laura a “masterpiece” and offers wonderful observations about Anatomy of a Murder, which he labels “perfect”. One quote in particular displays Thomson’s admiration for Preminger’s direction in Anatomy;  “As always in such things, Preminger’s camera style prefers deep space and groups of people, so that we have to decide where to look while clinging on to every word.”

Along the way, Thomson is quick to point out the remarkable work done by cameramen, costume designers, composers, editors, screenwriters et al as well as the efforts of the actors. This isn’t just about famous performances such as Henry Fonda in The Grapes of Wrath or Charles Laughton in Mutiny on the Bounty; Thomson also singles out actors such as Sterling Hayden (The Killing, Dr. Strangelove), Ida Lupino (They Drive by Night) and Joel McCrea (Sullivan’s Travels) for their work. If you didn’t know it before, you know after reading only a few detailed entries (usually about 500 words for each film) that Thomson doesn’t just watch a film, he dissects it.

I do have to fault Thomson regarding a few entries, however. Why does he include The Sopranos in this book? I can understand a distinctive made-for-TV- movie, but why a television series? Another strange topic is the film Sweeney Todd, which he pans. But why include merely a negative review of this film? Thomson takes Oscar-winning Best Pictures such as West Side Story and The Sound of Music to task, but those films were monumental successes at the box office and at awards time. Todd did poorly with the public and while it did win one Oscar (set design), it was not a film bestowed with many honors.

I also fault the editor of this book for not including a table of contents or an index at the end. The films are arranged in alphabetical order, but I’m certain there are many film buffs who would want to check and see how many films in this book were directed by John Ford, Orson Welles or any number of famous directors; still others might want to read about the films from Italy or France. There’s just no way to do that without looking at every entry and it’s a bit frustrating. (Thankfully, there is a chronology at the end of the book so the reader can at least reference films by the year they were created; the oldest film Thomson writes about is from 1895.)

Still, this is a marvelous book thanks to engaging writing and keen observations. Much of Thomson’s best prose is about films that he sees as works that not only entertained, but also held up a mirror to the times, such as 1998s The Truman Show. “No other American film was clearer that the greatest threat to our existence was ourselves, and above all our decision to be cheerful, amiable and pleasant,” he writes.

Growing up in World War ll in England, Thomson equated America with the characters and situations he saw in its films. Now living in San Francisco, he still sees the charms and excesses of America represented in its best (and sometimes worst) films. He writes about the neo-realism of Italian films, the French New Wave and silent films just as creatively. His talent as a chronicler of movies is unquestionable; film enthusiasts can be thankful for the author’s decision to undertake this labor of love.


Have You Seen…?
By David Thomson
Alfred A. Knopf, New York, NY
2008, 1007 pages, $39.95



- On a slightly different note.

Air One has become my favorite new airline. Why? Well, on a recent flight from Chicago to Rome, the airline showed two of the greatest cartoons ever made: What's Opera Doc? (1957) and Duck Dodgers in the 24 1/2th Century (1953). Both were directed by the genius Chuck Jones during his heyday at Warner Brothers. There's no need for me to talk about these amazing cartoons, expect to say they are as enjoyable today as when I first saw them many years ago. Thanks, Air One!

Eastwood's Westerns: 'Wales' and 'Unforgiven'

The other night I watched The Outlaw Josey Wales and Unforgiven, two of Clint Eastwood’s finest Westerns. Starring in and directing both, Eastwood made these films sixteen years apart, and while they share some similiarites, they are quite different in their tone and visual style – the former, a more classic linear story, the latter, more of a fable on the anguish of violence.

Wales (1976) has Eastwood as the title character become a guerilla fighter for the Rebels after his house is burned and his wife and son are killed in a raid by Union troops. At the conclusion of the war, most of Wales’ comrades pledge allegiance to the North, but are murdered as part of a Union trick. Wales then shoots down several of the troops and must flee from them and the bounty hunters that are soon on his trail.


At the beginning of Unforgiven (1992), Eastwood portraying William Munny, is a widower who is raising hogs with his young son and daughter on a small farm. He learns that a few cowboys cut up a woman and that there is a reward out for the capture of these men. Although he has sworn off the murderous ways of his past (“I ain’t like that no more,” he remarks more than once in this film), he sets out on this challenge, as he claims he needs the money.

Thus both films are modeled on the classic Western theme of finding evil and challenging its force. But for Eastwood, there is the equally important matter of fighting inner demons as well as encountering loneliness. “I ain’t no different than anyone else,” Munny tells his partner Ned Logan (Morgan Freeman), trying to convince himself of this statement, yet knowing full well that he is different.

The inner demons have less to do with Wales, who along the way picks up an aging Indian (Chief Dan George in a wonderful dry comic performance), a young Indian woman (Geraldine Kearns) as well as an older white woman and her granddaughter (Paula Trueman and Sondra Locke, respectively) as his traveling companions. At once, these people represent a family that Wales now needs; later they will become invaluable in his efforts to stay alive. It’s a nice transformation of his lonely character, who if only for a brief time, understands the value of his fellow man along the way. He leaves his new family unit at the end after a rousing shootout as he continues to pursue the Union soldier who left a deep scar on his face (compare this with the prostitute who is cut in the opening scene of Unforgiven). He departs without saying a word- clearly his actions to make things right are more important than his new friends.

The final scene has Wales encountering a former associate Fletcher (John Vernon) who has been leading the effort to murder him. They come to an understanding, as Wales and Fletcher pretend that Wales is dead. The war is over and so are his reasons for murder. “I guess we all died a little in that damn war,” he remarks. He rides off into the sunset, having accomplished his goals and along the way, learning a little about humanity. But are we to believe that Wales won’t continue his killing spree if it becomes necessary? That was the world of Eastwood’s characters in these Westerns and it is a theme that will be explored in greater detail in Unforgiven.

If Wales is a classic Western of good triumphing over bad, then Unforgiven turns that concept inside out as we question the very concept of goodness and evil. Sheriff Little Bill (Gene Hackman in an Oscar-winning role) represents good in name only, as his way must be obeyed in the town of Big Whiskey. He beats and kicks those who refuse to yield their firearms and cruelly whips those who will not truthfully answer his questions.

Munny becomes evil once again as events lead him down a slippery slope. We see it in subtle ways, as he tries to kill one of the bunch that terrorized the prostitutes earlier. After Logan gets off a few shots, he suddenly stops, as he can’t finish the job. Munny seizes the rifle and does what he can with his less than accurate shooting. After hearing the man cry out for water after he is shot, Munny yells at the outlaw’s partners, “Give him a drink of water, for christ’s sake. We’re not going to shoot.” He doesn’t shoot, as promised, as he lets the outlaw bleed to death. He has killed again, but his facial expressions and body language let us know his agony.

This scene on a rocky ledge, as we cut between Munny, Logan and their new partner The Schofield Kid (Jaimz Woolvet) and the outlaw crawling on the cliffs below is superby edited by Joel Cox. His work throughout the film is first-rate, as there is a natural flow of the major events in the story, from the encounters of Munny, Logan and the Kid to the intruiging chapter of the arrival of English Bob (wittily portrayed by Richard Harris) in Big Whiskey to the final massacre in the bar. The film has a beautiful pace, which is due in part to Cox’s work – as well as Eastwood’s direction (a trademark of the filmmaker). Cox who has been the editor on Eastwood’s films for over the past two decades won an Oscar for his work on this film.


Eastwood had been directing since the early 1970s and by now had reached a new level of technical excellence; Unforgiven remains one of his best films on several levels. For instance, the contribution of cinematographer Jack N. Green must be singled out. This is a dark Western with several scenes, such as the final sequence, taking place at night in pouring rain. Green’s photography – at times somber and at times alluring - is perfect for the tone of this film and has a subtlety and grace to it that add to the emotional mood of the story. He offers a rich pallete of colors in the outdoor scenes, but in a slightly muted way. Contrast this look (especially in the scene with Munny, Logan and the Kid riding across the open plains just before sunset) with the deeply saturated, high contrast look that cinematographer Bruce Surtees provided for Wales. That look is pretty at times and it could be argued that it is more in keeping with the tone of that film, which is much less brooding than Unforgiven, but ultimately the photography of Wales lacks the complexity of the visuals crafted by Green in Unforgiven. It would have been nice if the Academy would have awarded Green for his efforts, but as usual, they took the safe route and handed out the Oscar for Best Cinematography that year to the “prettier” visuals of A River Runs Through It. (Green incidentally was the winner of the Lifetime Achievement Award from the American Society of Cinematographers in 2009.)

Unforgiven also has one of the finest scripts ever written for a Western. Crafted by David Webb Peoples, the screenplay is beautifully structured, offering some tender sequences you might not expect, given the raw intensity of much of the story. One of the most poignant scenes is that between the young prostitute whose face was cut (Anna Levine) and Munny during his physical recovery after a beating at the hands of Little Bill. “You ain’t ugly like me, “ Munny tells the woman. “It’s just that we both got scars. But you’re a beautiful woman.” Clearly Munny is taking about both physical and mental scars at this moment.

Then in a hearbreaking exchange, Munny tells her that he doesn’t want to hop into bed with her on account of his wife. Clearly touched by this expression of emotion, she asks him, “Is she back in Kansas?” “Yes,” Munny responds, “she’s looking over my young ones.” This is a very touching response as the woman clearly does not know that Munny’s wife passed on several years earlier.

Peoples’s script examines how ugly murder really is; though it may be necessary for some, it is never an easy choice. Look at the transformation of The Schofield Kid. During much of the film, he falsely boasts to Munny and Logan that he had killed five men; his hyped bravura a supposed mark of manhood. But after he does commit his first murder in this story, he wonders about his actions. “It don’t seem right, how he can never breathe again, ever… all on account of pulling a trigger.” Then comes the film’s most famous line. “It’s a hell of a thing killing a man,” says Munny. “You take away all he’s got and all he’s ever gonna have.” This is clearly not a message of shoot ‘em up and get rid of the bad guys; this is about the finality of death and how it changes everyone. (Today it seems incomprehensible that this screenplay did not win the Oscar; rather the Academy opted for the more sensational aspects of The Crying Game, a fine screenplay but without the richness of this script. It is a reminder of the timing and popularity of certain films as to why they win awards.)

Eastwood films the conversation between Munny and The Kid simply and effectively with the Kid slumped next to a tree taking swigs from a bottle of whiskey while Munny stands nearby in a world weary pose. As Munny utters the line about “ killing a man”, Eastwood cuts to a closeup of Munny from below, his face outlined against a dark, cloud filled sky. Clearly, Eastwood by this time had created a mythic personality on screen; this moment is one of his most clearly defined.

Eastwood’s direction was his finest to date and ranks with his efforts in Million Dollar Baby (2004) and Letters from Iwo Jima (2006) as his best. He had shown effective talent as a director even in his first film behind the camera (Play Misty for Me, 1971); by now he had become a fine technician with an excellent sense of pace. But in Unforgiven he displayed more assurance in his direction, as there is much more cutting within scenes, as he gives us a variety of points of view, matching the complexities of the story. His eye for striking visuals is not only reserved for outdoor scenes here; look at the beautiful composition of the Kid and Logan looking over Munny as he is recovering from his injuries midway through the film. The wide open spaces of Wales have largely been replaced with a more claustrophobic, tumultous perspective. (As everyone knows, the Academy did honor Eastwood as Best Director and the film as Best Picture.)

Wales remains a beautiful classic Western about the search for justice. Unforgiven on the other hand examines the very notion of justice and is a menacing look at the evils of violence and its effects on our souls. We may escape violence briefly, but it will return in some form at some point in our lives; this is one of the strongest messages of the film. As carried out by Eastwood, Peoples, Green, Cox and other gifted technicians who worked on this project, Unforgiven remains a stunning achievement.


-Tom Hyland

The Visual Power of "Bound For Glory"

Hal Ashby’s Bound for Glory (1976) could have been alternatively titled Bound for Greatness, given the excellence of its storytelling and the power of its images in its first hour and a half. Despite losing strength in the latter stages of the film when it focuses more on standard biopic situations, the film has a raw beauty that sets it apart from most other historical biographies of that decade or since.

Clearly inspired by John Ford’s stellar adaptation of The Grapes of Wrath (1940), Ashby borrows certain images (the flimsy trucks overloaded with chairs and blankets, the unsightly labor camps) to tell the story of famed folk singer Woody Guthrie as he migrates from Texas to California in Depression era 1936. Certainly the subject matter almost demands these comparisons, yet Ashby and his brilliant cinematographer Haskell Wexler combine to present a singular, powerful, stunning visual approach.

As might be expected, earth tones dominate the color pallete of this film; browns, dull yellows and muddled reds are a constant reminder of the harshness of Texas and the California landscapes. Most of the colors are desaturated and the haze of unbearably hot afternoons is highlighted. The sky in the early scenes in Texas is never blue, but rather a washed out whitish yellow. At one point, Woody makes his way home through a massive dust storm in his home town of Pampa and the screen is dominated by flashes of yellow, pale blue and grays, giving the town an eerie, desolate look (the dust storm is one of the film's most powerful images and is the work of special visual effects genius Albert Whitlock). When Woody next enters the barber shop and has to wipe dust off one of the chairs, it’s a nice touch that tells us that the barber (and many of the townspeople) have given up.

It is in the following scenes as Woody leaves his family to head to California that Ashby's and Wexler’s visuals truly take over, elevating this film to another level. Soon after he catches a ride out of town, we see him trying to hitchhike on the open highway. One beautiful image occurs after a chair falls off a passing truck. We then immediately see Woody in an extreme long shot sitting in that chair on the side of the road, playing his harmonica. There are no cars, no other humans, not even any birds in the shot. It’s a nice visual that emphasizes the loneliness of his journey.



Woody then meets up with a few vagrants who are waiting in the weeds, trying to catch a freight train. During his journey, he meets up with one particular vagrant named Slim and we follow their journey riding the rails. There is one spectacular shot in which the camera is mounted on top of the train as we see Woody and Slim sitting on top of a boxcar as the scenery passes by in the background. It’s a single shot that last for just over two and a half minutes and it’s dazzling not only for its unusual view of these two atop the train, but also for its simplicity. The shot lasts long enough for the train to pass through a tunnel, so that little by little the screen becomes black. Our eyes follows the light in the frame as it becomes smaller and smaller until it disappears and there is only black. But then immediately, the screen is light again as the train reemerges from the tunnel. I don’t know if Wexler planned for this visual trick of watching the light shape become smaller and smaller (as the train is gently rounding a curve, the light moves from the front left of the screen to the rear right), but I’m taken in by this image every time I watch this particular scene.

Bound for Glory is also the film credited with the first use of Steadicam, invented by Garrett Brown. This particular shot has the cameraman tracking Woody as he walks throught the migrant camp one morning as the laborers wait to hear if they will be chosen for work that day. Lasting just over two minutes, the shot has a dreamy, mysterious quality to it and while many directors have used Stedicam in the thirty-plus years since this film, it’s difficult to imagine a more beautifully filmed scene.

Throughout the film, there are images worthy of a great landscape painter. There’s one of Woody sleeping by the side of a road as a car winds by and later there’s a shot of Woody and his musician/labor organizer friend Ozark Bule performing a song amidst fields where laborers are harvesting and their children play. We see the children in the foreground of the shot and their parents hard at work in the distant foreground, as the formal geometry of the rows of crops isolates the workers.

The last 40 minutes of the film deals with the turmoil Woody faces once he agrees to appear in various radio programs. As he is becoming more outspoken in his feelings of sympathy for the migrants and urges them to form unions, his reputation as an activist spreads, worrying the sponsors of his program. He must give the station manager a list of approved songs and this situation drives much of the last part of the film. It’s definitely an important conflict in Woody’s life, but it pales in importance to the struggles of Woody and others getting to California and then finding work once they arrive.

The scenes set at the radio station clearly do not have the visual power of the ones set on the road to California. But there is still one powerful sequence left, as Woody, fed up with his predicament in the studio, decides to get back on the rails so he can touch the people. As he boards a freight train, he stands up in an empty boxcar, silhouetted against the setting sun behind him. It’s clearly a mythic image, but one that is appropriate at this moment.

The scene that follows is quite haunting, as he sings his protest song, “Pastures of Plenty” to a group of migrants who are standing in the rain, if only to be close to this man, whom many now consider something of a savior. As Ashby pans the camera off of Woody we see the quiet, solemn faces of the workers, whose hats and bonnets are misshapen by the rain. One woman holds a washbasin upside down over her head to fend off the precipitation. It’s a brief, but memorable visual.

What we are left with then is a film that captures greatness for much of its running time. If Bound for Glory is not quite the masterpiece it might have been, it is stirring evidence of the compelling nature of the power of images. Certainly Haskell Wexler had much to do with that; he not only won an Oscar for his cinematography here, but was also given the first screen credit of the film. Ashby and he realized what the visuals could bring to this story and succeeded magnificently in making this film a remarkable experience.