Porgy and Bess

A few days ago, I watched Porgy and Bess, the 1959 film directed by Otto Preminger. Just the fact that I was able to see this film is something worth mentioning, as it was pulled out of the marketplace in 1967 by the Gerhswin family and has (to the best of my knowledge) received only one public showing since (this took place in New York City in 1998; after the film, author Foster Hirsch who wrote a biography of Preminger, commented on this work before an appreciative audience).

The history of this film is quite remarkable, as several producers in the 1940s and '50s wanted to acquire the rights to the famed opera, written in 1935 by George and Ira Gershwin, with a libretto by DuBose Heyward; the opera itself was based on Heyward's 1925 novel Porgy as well as a subsequent 1927 play written by Heyward and his wife Dorothy. In 1957, Ira Gershwin sold the rights to famed producer Samuel Goldwyn, who had produced such celebrated films as The Best Years of Our Lives and Wuthering Heights.

Goldwyn hired Rouben Mamoulian as director, after previous individuals turned down the assignment. Mamoulian had directed the original stage production as well as the opera, so this seemed like an inspired choice. But after personal differences between the producer and director, Goldwyn fired him and hired Otto Preminger, who early on had expressed interest in making this film. Having Preminger replace Mamoulian was highly ironic, as the same thing happened on the film Laura (1944), which turned out to be one of Preminger's most critically acclaimed works.

I cannot tell you where or how I saw the movie, but I was enthralled with the opportunity, not only because of its "lost" status, but because I am also a big fan of Preminger's work. Throughout most of his career, he displayed a solid hand in his direction, elegantly blocking out scenes and using graceful camera movements. He favored medium shots that would show several characters; thus the viewer could watch the part of the screen he or she wanted to - Preminger in my mind, greatly respected the audience. Overly dramatic closeups were not his thing; this led some critics to complain that Preminger's visual style was objective and without emotion. I disagree and am on the side of many critics who saw in the director's work a subtle quality attained only by the very best craftsmen of the cinema.

I like this film very much, as Preminger once again treated the audience with respect, as we look in on the residents of Catfish Row and see their world with soft brush strokes. If you thought this might be a high energy musical with lots of noise and extravagant production numbers, you would be disappointed (save for "It Ain't Necessarily So", enthusiastically performed by Sammy Davis, Jr. as Sportin' Life). But if you know Preminger's restraint, you would have a better understanding of this film and admire its pace and subtleties.

This is not to say it is a great film; while some performances are very good (such as Brock Peters as Crown) Dorothy Dandridge gives an uneven portrayal of Bess. She is fine in her scenes with Peters, especially displaying the fear of being under his spell. But in other scenes, she seems uncertain and even lacking a bit of focus. The fact that Preminger and she had a tumultuous affair a few years earlier may have had something to do with this, but the fact is she looks uncomfortable at times.

Then there are the sets, which have the look of a talented production designer (in this case, Oliver Smith, who had performed similar duties on Guys and Dolls and Oklahoma among other films). But no matter how handsome the sets are, they lend an artificiality to the film and take away from its intimacy. Preminger reportedly complained, as he wished to film most of the movie on location, but producer Goldwyn overruled him. The only exception was the picnic scene which Preminger did shoot on location - it's clearly one of the highlights of this production.

So Preminger did not have the creative freedom he was used to enjoying - he was at this point in his career a tremendously successful independent producer and was about to embark on what would be two of his biggest successes: Anatomy of a Murder (1959) and Exodus (1960). But he does have his moments in Porgy and Bess, especially in the scene in which Porgy (a very earnest Sidney Poitier) takes in Bess; this is simply handled, as Porgy pours her a cup of coffee, which is about all this crippled beggar can give her. Bess smiles - that's it. No big emotions in this scene; we'll see this later when they sing to each other, Porgy with "Bess, You Is My Woman Now" and Bess singing "I Loves You Porgy."

Another memorable scene occurs right after the quiet scene between the two title characters. This is the wake the citizens of Catfish Row have for one of their own workers who has been killed by Crown. They sing, "Gone, Gone, Gone", a marvelously moving dirge that lets us experience the deep emotions of these characters. Finally, there is a quiet scene late in the film where Bess changes the diaper of her daughter under the loving eyes of Porgy; all the while she sings "Summertime" as a lullaby to her offspring. She embraces her baby, Porgy administers a gentle rub and Preminger fades away- it's an elegant, moving scene made more so by the director's light touch.

So I hope some of you will get the chance to see this film, if only for the uniqueness of this production, as well as its mysterious identity. You'll also get to hear the great Gershwin score and be moved by this story that is at times heartbreaking and quite sad, but one that ultimately celebrates the triumph of living, loving and maintaining hope.


Note: The original film as shown in theaters in 1959 was 138 minutes, but the version I saw was 118 minutes. I spent several hours researching this, but was not able to find out what happened to those twenty minutes and what exactly is missing (as well as why it is missing).

Also, Poitier and Dandridge did not sing in this film, their voices were dubbed, respectively by Robert McFerrin (father of Bobby McFerrin) and Adele Addison, who are wonderful. As for Sammy Davis Jr., who sang so brilliantly in the film, his vocals were not on the original soundtrack album; those songs were recorded by Cab Calloway, who ironically had originally been offered the role of Sportin' Life.

André Previn and Ken Darby won the Oscar for Best Adapted Score and the original soundtrack album won the Grammy for Best Film Soundtrack of the Year.

Huston's Unique Western

You have to admire John Huston throughout his long career, not only for the obvious talent he displayed in his movies, but also for the choices he made. Best known for films such as The Maltese Falcon (1941), Treasure of the Sierra Madre (1948) and Prizzi's Honor (1985) among others, Huston generally challenged himself, working in several genres, from crime pieces (The Asphalt Jungle, 1950) to psychological dramas (Reflections in a Golden Eye, 1967) to intelligent romantic dramas (Heaven Knows, Mr. Allison, 1957 - for my money, a more subtle and rewarding film than his popular The African Queen, 1951). Not every choice Huston made was enlightened - The Kremlin Letter (1970) is a poorly constructed spy thriller, while Annie (1982) proved that musicals weren't the director's thing - but over the course of 46 years as a director, Huston made a lot of inspired films.

One of the few Westerns made by Huston was the 1972 film, The Life and Times of Judge Roy Bean. These days, it seems that this work is largely remembered for Paul Newman's robust title petformance; many don't even realize that Huston was the director. It has received its share of negative criticism, with many reviewers opining that the film lacks structure. But after watching this film for the first time the other night, I was impressed not only by Huston's direction, but also the wild ride he provides in this film, going from charming moments of humor to explosive action to achingly beautiful scenes of tenderness. It's a very underrated film.

The film opens in a small town in Texas in the 1880s - we are told that at this time, areas west of the the Pecos River were wild and lawless - where Bean is robbed of his money and then beaten near death by the town hooligans. He recovers and kills virtually all of them in a stark, violent shootout and then lets anyone who comes there know that he will be running the town, not only as sheriff, but also as judge. We all know that Roy Bean was the famous "hanging judge" and Huston and his screenwriter John Milius (who also wrote 1975's The Wind and the Lion, in which Huston acted), make sure there are several hangings in this film. Petty theft or murder - it doesn't matter to Judge Bean - he is going to hang them, and his team of deputies are all too happy to carry out the punishment.

Huston and Milius have constructed this film as though we are moving from one chapter to the next in a book; perhaps this is the reason why various critics have complained about the film's structure, but I enjoyed the various tales told in this film. One of my favorite scenes occurs shortly after the initial shootout; a Bible-quoting minister, wonderfully portrayed by Anthony Perkins, rides into town and upon viewing the carnage caused by Judge Bean, convinces him to bury the victims. It's a brief scene that tells us that there is humanity in the judge's makeup. It's also beautifully shot and written.

Then there are the wonderfully comic scenes of Bean and his young wife Maria Elena (Victoria Principal, looking as beautiful as I can ever remember) with a grizzly bear that is happy when he's with the company of humans, especially if he can down a few bottles of beer. The picnic scene where the judge and his wife and the bear eat lunch together and play on a see-saw, all the while accompanied by the wildly funny and purposely campy song, "Marmalade, Molasses and Honey" (with lyrics by Marilyn and Alan Begman, no less!) is simply hilarious.

There are two memorably moving scenes between Bean and Maria Elena; the first taking place after she believes he is attracted to another woman (this occurs before they are married). Bean walks with her to a open field with an endless horizon. Shot during the last moments of sun one afternoon, the visuals add a haunting quality, as he tells her of the beauty of this pastoral scene ("Do you smell how sweet that air is? It's almost tropical.") and the dreams he has in store for himself ("I'm going to have a courthouse four stories high,") He tells her that she can have anything she wants - her wish is simply for a music box. Hearing that, he sings "The Yellow Rose of Texas" in a raspy voice and then tells her that she should spend the night with him in the courthouse, to protect her from the elements. It's a lovely scene, classically filmed.

The other scene comes after she has given birth to a girl and has become ill. Bean returns to her side with the music box she so dearly wanted and we hear "Yellow Rose of Texas" playing as he opens the box. This is another elegantly simple scene -the two scenes together are as moving and as tender as just about any in Huston's career.

Not all of the film is as moving or as clever as these moments. Toward the film's end, there is a scene where the town is almost destroyed amidst the shooting and the resulting fires. It's clearly a conventional scene in this unconventional film, so it seems a bit out of place. In fact, the last twenty minutes of this film, shortly after Bean and Maria Elena have their final scene together, lack the originality and cleverness of the first-two thirds of this work.

Judge Roy Bean shows us a Huston who was not afraid to take chances, especially late in his career. Think of the originality, humanity and humor of his films such as Fat City (1972) or Wise Blood (1979) and you realize the story telling talents of this great director. Bean is not quite the equal of those marvelous movies, but it shares a common DNA and for that fact alone, it's well worth your time.

Great Movie Quotes - Part Five

It's part five of my list of great movie quotes. You know the drill by now- none of the "Here's looking at you, kid" stuff, but some wonderful movie lines that should be better known. Here are ten more in chronological order.



"Quit worrying about the truth all the time. Worry about yourself."
Terry Malloy (Marlon Brando) to Edie (Eva-Marie Saint), On The Waterfront (1954)



"We're really something, aren't we? The only animals that shove stuff up our ass for survival."
Papillon (Steve McQueen), Papillon (1973)

"We are smart enough not to buy into the oldest myth running- love.   A fashion created to keep people from jumping from windows." 
Gordon Gekko (Michael Douglas), Wall Street (1987)

"If we were here to keep the women happy, sure we'd still be in paradise."

Bull (Richard Harris), The Field (1990)

"No woman's worth a bullet between the eyes, am I right or wrong?" - George (Joe Mategna)

"Depends on whose eyes and which woman." 

Bugsy (Warren Beatty), Bugsy (1991)

"You know why the Yankees always win, Frank?" - Frank Abagnale, Sr. (Christopher Walken)

"They have Mickey Mantle?" - Franks Abagnale, Jr. (Leonardo Di Caprio)

"It's because the other teams can't stop looking at those damn pinstripes."

Catch Me If You Can (2002)

"Little boys should never be sent to bed. They always wake up a day older."

James Barrie (Johnny Depp), Finding Neverland (2004)

"Do you have any idea what breakfast cereal is made of? It's those little curly wooden shavings you find in pencil sharpeners."

Willie Wonka (Johnny Depp), Charlie and the Chocolate Factory (2005)

"If you're good at something, never do it for free."

The Joker (Heath Ledger), The Dark Knight (2008)

"Why did they hang him so high?" - Mattie Ross (Hailee Steinfeld)

"I do not know. Possibly in the belief that it would make him more dead."

Rooster Cogburn (Jeff Bridges), True Grit (2010)

P.S. All great lines, but how do you top that line from Charlie and the Chocolate Factory?

A Study of a small timer

Movies about criminals have come at us in all sizes and shapes. One of my favorite is a film that is a quiet, reflective film about a life-long thief that tries to turn his life around, but can't, opting for what he knows best, planning and carrying out small heists. That film is Straight Time (1978) directed by Ulu Grosbard.

If this summary sounds like a cliché, well, it certainly could have been a tired, predictable film. But Straight Time shows you what you can accomplish with a smart screenplay, excellent performances by the entire ensemble and honest direction. This film's subtleties may be the reason why this isn't better known. Certainly the tone of this work is unlike most contemporary films, as it doesn't have a climax or action scene every ten minutes. But how nice is that? - a slice of life film that takes its time and gives us a world we don't often see.

The film opens as Max Dembo (Dustin Hoffman) is released from prison and takes a public bus to town. Upon arrival, he orders a hot dog at a street stand and tries to take off without paying. This guy is small-time in every way.

He then meets with his parole officer, Earl, an overweight, rather awkward man played with great gusto by the wonderful character actor M. Emmet Walsh. Earl lays down the rules for Max and acts as though he wants to help, but in reality, he's a bit of a power broker and enjoys lording his authority over Max. The numerous times he tells ugly jokes gives us great insight into this oversized clown of a man. (In one of the film's best scenes, Max gets his revenge on Earl in a very unusual way.)

Max then starts to reconnect with his friends from his criminal past, most notably Willy (Gary Busey) and Jerry (Harry Dean Stanton). The initial dinner at Willy's house, set in the small, drab kitchen is a marvelous scene that shows us the despair of this man and his wife and young son. Willy tries hard, but he's a screwup - next to him, Max is a genius.

A much smarter friend is Jerry, who has great plans organized for Max and himself. He is a successful criminal and it's an interesting contrast to see the suburban home - complete with swimming pool - where he lives. Max senses right away that Jerry is his ticket to money and survival.

But before he can pull of any more heists, he has to get a job and find a room. He does that with the help of Jenny, an attractive woman in her mid-late 20s (effectively played by the beautiful Theresa Russell), who works at an employment agency. She helps Max find a simple job with a can company at scale wages and Max, thrilled with his good fortune, asks her out to dinner and she accepts.

The fact that she says yes upon first asking seems a bit much and it's about the only criticism I have of the film. I'd like to know a bit more about her; for example, it's hard to believe she doesn't have a boyfriend, given her looks. Sure Max is catching her at a fortunate time, but you have to wonder why she would say yes to an ex-con at first asking. We do see the sincerity of Max at the office when he admits right away that he spent time at the state penitentary - her response is "How long did you hold that position?", - so we see that she is won over by Max's honesty. Perhaps that's enough, as we're asked to take a small leap of faith here, but then again, there have been an awful lot of female characters in the cinema that have fallen for the wrong guy, so it's not a major stumbling block in this film.

The remainder of the film are set pieces of the heists Max and Jerry pull off, from small stuff to more serious bank and jewelry store robberies. As Max becomes more successful, his relationship with Jenny deepens, but this is no syrupy romance. It's a complex mixture of real affection for her combined with his using her for his benefit, as he can borrow her car or stay at her place.

The glue that really holds all this together is Dustin Hoffman. The man's had a lengthy career with numerous ups and downs, and this performance is definitely one of his finest. His Max Dembo has a few dreams like all men, but he hides those thoughts, as he is always turning back toward the present - what can he do to make money and stay one step ahead of the law at the same time? There is time for personal relationships, but only if they fit his schedule. Hoffman is wonderful at conveying the quiet, contemplative mood of this small time crook. He can fly into a violent rage when things go wrong, but more often that not, he's glancing at everything around him, as though he knows his time is limited. Hoffman certainly has created one of his most memorable characters in this film, one without emoting and one that fits him like a glove.

Grosbard's direction is restrained and attentive to details. This is not about tricky camera shots, but putting the camera on the faces of the characters and letting the actors play out their roles. The love scene between Max and Jenny comes at a somewhat surprising moment in the film and it's handled with wonderful subtlety and efficieny - it's one of the quietest love scenes I've witnessed in any film and yet it's very moving at the same time (this scene is aided greatly by an understated, lovely piano passage composed by David Shire, who also added a wonderfully jaunty title theme.)

We are creatures of habit, seems to be one of the overriding messages of Straight Time. No matter whether we choose to help others or act against society, we all return to our comfort level.

Arthur Penn's Bold Leap

A few weeks ago, Sidney Lumet passed away; last year Arthur Penn left us. Two first-rate American directors that gave us memorable works throughout the past four decades.

When I wrote about Penn shortly after his death last September, I mentioned a few of his films, including the brilliant Bonnie and Clyde (1967) as well as his moody, film noirish Night Moves (1975). Other noted works by Penn include The Miracle Worker (1962), Mickey One (1965) and Little Big Man (1970).

Penn took a break from feaure films for five years from 1970-1975, but did make one short film that is as visually dazzling as anything he ever did. The film is called The Highest and it was part of a 1973 documentary about the 1972 Summer Olympics held in Munich entitled Visions of Eight. The film was co-produced by David Wolper, who was one of the most influential documentary producers in Hollywood at that time.

When Wolper was awarded the rights to be the official documentarian of those games, he opted not to make a traditional record of the competition - who won, who lost - but instead came up with the brilliant idea of assigning eight directors from around the world - sort of an Olympic lineup of great filmmakers - who would each make a short film on the subject of their choice. Several famous directors tackled this project; Milos Forman authored a film on the decathlon, Claude Lelouch turned in a wonderfully sensitive piece on "The Losers" and John Schlesinger submitted an emotional look at the men's marathon.

Arthur Penn selected the men's pole vault competition (the women's pole vault event was not part of the Olympics back in 1972) and decided to make a film that showed the viewer the highly distinctive regimen of this sport. Penn trains his camera on the athletes, making their way down the runway and then vaulting high in the air, almost defying gravity; however, we are never told who these athletes are, as the director is much more interested in the unique visual aspect of this sport.

But this is no ordinary view of the pole vault competition as you might have watched on a major network. This is Penn's uniquely individual observation of this particular world and he presents a highly original summary. The first three minutes, which are particularly dazzling, set the tone. Soundless and shot mostly out of focus, the images are difficult to make out at first. We see a blurry image set among the bright blue sky and we're not certain of what we're seeing. One out of focus image looks like a bat or large bird in flight, while another looks more like an ink blotch from a Rorschach test. The viewer is confused at first, but we are instantly drawn into this film.

There is finally some sound after three minutes, this being the cheers of the spectators, but even that is only for a few seconds. Much of this film is silent, with only brief crowd noises or the sound of a pole hitting the ground. The film is all about the visual aspect of the sport; one fascinating sequence follows a vaulter lifting off from the ground and then heading over the bar; as it is filmed slightly out of focus with a telephoto lens, arms and legs seem as one and we see this competitor snake his way up and over the bar. By filming this in this fashion, Penn seems to be saying that this is not a normal athletic event, not this competition where vaulters are upside down for a few agonizing seconds.

There is another amazing image that is truly stunning. It is a low-angle shot of a vaulter about half way through his descent; it is shot from behind one of the judges who is standing near the mat where the competitors will land. We see this judge hold his hands out as though he were trying to catch the vaulter in mid-flight. It's an amazing visual and one of the most striking in this film.

Much credit has to go to the cinematographer, Walter Lassaly, who had previously been the director of photography on such films as Tom Jones (1963) and Zorba the Greek (1964). He turned in stellar work here, having to make do with a number of lenses (mostly telephoto) as well as grainy filmstock, while trying to follow the athletes soar though space and the plummet back to earth (there's one marvelous shot of a closeup of a competitor landing on the mat followed a few seconds later by the bar he knocked down on his leap. What a wonderful summary of the heartbreak of this sport in a single moment!)

Then there was the demanding job of combining all the footage shot by Penn and Lassaly; the editing was done by the great Dede Allen, who had also performed similar chores for Penn on Bonnie and Clyde. It's a masterful job of editing, one that will immediately impress you, but even more so upon repeated viewings. (Note: Like Penn, Dede Allen also passed away in 2010. There had been talk of an honorary Oscar for her lifetime's work - she also edited Dog Day Afternoon for Sidney Lumet and Reds for Warren Beatty. I would imagine that given her death, the Academy missed their opportunity to honor her.)

There have been several other documentaries and short films about athletic competition. Arthur Penn's The Highest is one of the best ever made. It certainly is one of the most original and challenging.


Here is the film, as displayed on YouTube. (I recommend going to Youtube and watching it in full screen mode - http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=s6pRZCvAPlc)

Sidney Lumet 1924-2011

When I think of Sidney Lumet's films, words such as realism, honesty and raw emotions come to mind. Lumet was a craftsman, a technically proficient director, who was adapt at telling a story without having to resort to trickery or self-conscious camera movements. Because of this, the power of the storyline was foremost in his films and his lead actors were able to shine.

I first noticed Lumet's work in Twelve Angry Men (1957), a story of how a jury dissects the case of a young man accused of murder. There was only one set with twelve actors  - the memorable cast included  Henry Fonda, Ed Begley, Jack Warden and Lee J. Cobb - a setting that could have been a nightmare for Lumet or any director. I recall commentary from John Frankenheimer for the DVD soundtrack for one of his (Frankenheimer's) lesser-known films, The Gypsy Moths (1969), where he discusses the difficulty of providing enough coverage when filming a scene with more than three characters having a dialogue with each other.

The scene Frankenheimer referred to had five actors, so imagine the technical work Lumet faced with twelve actors in a small room. Watch the film again and note how Lumet stations his cameras and how the scenes are edited. In the story, a few of the jurors are bigoted and want the accused to get what's coming to him, while a few others are much more passionate in their reasoning concerning the testimony. Lumet respects the story and his actors by refusing to shoot at low or high angles, which would communicate a like or dislike toward that character. Rather, he treats them equally, letting the audience decide which jurors are sincere and which are not.

Clearly, Lumet's television experience before this film was of invaluable experience for this as well as future work. Like Frankenheimer, Lumet cut his directorial teeth in the early to mid 1950s on live television dramas, such as Playhouse 90 and Studio One. That training certainly helped him think on his feet and devise plans on how best to bring out the proper atmosphere in his work.

Those qualities are seen in his films that were set in New York City, his hometown. On the commentary tracks for Serpico (1973) and Dog Day Afternoon (1975), Lumet describes how he had scouted out certain locations in the city that had a special look - not the look of midtown Manhattan with its sprawling skyscrapers, but the ethnic neighborhoods with their small storefronts, be they restaurants, dry cleaners or banks. Take a look at these two films and you note the reality of the settings - again, no trickery here, just honesty.

Lumet's filming of the action within the bank lobby in Afternoon is first-rate in its constantly shifting point of view from Sonny (Al Pacino) to the employees of the bank. All of the characters are given their due - we don't have the stereotypical presentations of the overweight or loud employees as in some films where we are invited by the filmmakers to laugh at these characters. Lumet was too sophisticated and sincere in his work to allow that.

Combined with Dede Allen's brilliant editing, Dog Day Afternoon is a marvelous piece of work, at once exciting, exhausting and deeply touching, especially in the portrayal of Pacino's character, who is robbing the bank to pay for a sex-change operation for his male lover (this was a shocking concept for a mainstream Hollywood film in the mid-1970s and Lumet handles it with grace and dignity). Once Sonny enters that bank and holds the employees hostage, we enter that world with him and we see the confusion and weariness of his situation. The marvelous screenplay by Frank Pierson sets the table and Lumet made certain that we, the audience, would embrace the unusual aspects of this story without questioning or making fun of the characters or their circumstances.

Often when a director passes away, words are written about the remarkable performances in that individual's films; to some degree, it's almost become a cliché. But in the case of Lumet, it's proper to list some of these performances, especially as I mentioned above, Lumet first and foremost directed a film to tell the story and in the process, let his actors do their work. Just a few of the performances include Pacino and John Cazale in Dog Day Afternoon; Pacino again in Serpico; Paul Newman in The Verdict (1982), Peter Finch, Faye Dunaway and Beatrice Straight in Network (1976); Marlon Brando and Anna Magnani in The Fugitive Kind (1960- an intriguing film too often neglected in any discussion of Lumet's work); Rod Steiger in The Pawnbroker (1965) and of course, the entire ensemble in Twelve Angry Men.

Every one of these marvelous performances were a tribute to the dignity and poise of Sidney Lumet, a great storyteller. He will be missed.

An Unsettling Existence

There have been many words used to describe the world inhabited by the characters in a Roman Polanski film. Disturbing, disconcerting, alarming and distressing are among the descriptors that are among the most common. To me, the word unsettling is an appropriate adjective for the often bizarre circumstances that identify these scenarios. Of all his works, Death and the Maiden (1994) is about as unsettling and troubling a world as Polanski has presented on screen.

The story, set in an unnamed South American country of recent times, involves only three characters: Paulina Escobar, her husband Gerardo, a distinguished attorney and Roberto Miranda, a prominent doctor. Paulina is at her seaside home, dining by herself, as she waits for her husband to make his way through a particularly violent storm late at night. He has had a flat tire and has been rescued by Dr. Miranda, who drives him to the security of his home.

As Paulina and Gerardo talk, we learn that he will be heading a commission that will investigate ghastly crimes and human rights violations perpetrated by the previous regime. Paulina has a special interest in this, as she was one of the victims, brutally tortured and raped; she befell this fate, as she was a political activist who spoke out against the government. The commission however will only be looking into cases of victims who were killed. She argues with her husband to use his influence to change this so that every case is examined.

Dr. Miranda has left the Escobar house to make his way home, but soon returns with the flat tire belonging to Gerardo. Grateful, Escobar invites the doctor into his home on this gloomy evening for a drink. It is then that Paulina, upon hearing his voice and peculiar laugh, realizes that this is the man who raped her on several occasions.

Revenge is now the primary concern for her and soon after her husband falls asleep, she hatches her plans to exact that payback. She bounds and gags Miranda - even going so far as stuffing the panties she is wearing in his mouth and then taping it shut - and ties him securely to a chair. She pistol whips him, drawing blood and then proceeds to remind the doctor of what he did to her. To make the memory more vivid, she plays a tape of Schubert's "Death and the Maiden" concerto; this is the same music that the doctor played for her during his beastly behavior. (The title of this music is, of course, disarmingly ironic, as is the sweeping beauty of Schubert's melodies being played to accompany such brutality.)

Gerardo awakens to this madness and tells his wife that he must untie the doctor, who is professing his innocence. She refuses and then tells Gerardo in private many of the details of her suffering. This is a critical detail, as she had not previously informed her husband of all the specifics. Though a bit unsure at first, Gerardo slowly begins to believe his wife and takes her side in her actions to force an admission of guilt from him.

During this film, based on a play by Ariel Dorfman, Polanski rarely lets up on the intensity of this macabre chain of events. Paulina (brilliantly portrayed by Sigourney Weaver) is liked a trapped animal who has been briefly let out of her cage and is ready to pounce. Her actions of course are somewhat comparable to that Miranda, though not as deviant. Yet, she crosses the line, acting as judge and jury and  does not care how much she abuses or embarrasses him (going so far as holding his penis while he urinates, as his hands are tied).

This is arguably Weaver's finest film performance, as she finds tremendous emotional range, while always maintaining total control. It is especially impressive to listen to the tone of her voice as she recalls the brutalities of the past. She has portrayed a number of strong women throughout her career, but none as dominating or as disturbed as this and it is her performance that is the centerpiece of this work.

Another brilliant performance comes from Ben Kingsley as Dr. Miranda. You can almost feel his heart beat accelerate through this ordeal, as he steadfastly denies his role in prior crimes. The glazed look in his eyes combined with the slightly off-key delivery of his lines is a memorable presentation of a man who is angry, confused and worried for his life.

Both characters have taken the law into their own hands: Miranda in the past and Paulina in the present. Power and "right" define their actions; Paulina, believing that the commission that will be headed by her husband will do little, thinks that she must decide the fate of Miranda. The doctor, a respected member of the local community (he wears a casual but elegant sports coat), acted as he did for numerous reasons, including the morbid fact that he liked raping Paulina.

I couldn't help but think of the character of Noah Cross in Chinatown (1974), who raped his daughter and then figuratively raped the farmers in the valley, by circumventing their water supply, so as to depreciate the value of their land. He lives on, going about his business in his own charming (in his view) way. Similarly, Dr. Miranda has been living the life of a first-rate individual, his crimes unpunished until this fateful evening.

At the film's end, there is a sense of victory (if you can call it that) for Paulina, but under questionable circumstances. The doctor has been proven guilty, but he is allowed to live. How many other women are out there who were similarly brutalized that will never know their attackers?

In this way, the evil lives on, as it does in Chinatown and several other Polanski films. The world is an unsettling place where uncovering the truth can often lead to the realization that no one is innocent.