Mental Hygiene Friday: “Booby Traps”

YouTube user shaggylocks has an enviable array of social engineering films posted on their channel. I imagine shaggylocks and I to be quite the kindred spirits in this regard. He/she and I probably have a lot in common, but selflessness and work effort are obviously not shared qualities, since I can’t even manage to embed code on a weekly basis. But a big thank you to shaggylocks and the hard work put into this staggering collection!

Today’s selection comes from the most unhygienic source of all… the United States GI!

From the description:
Private Snafu learns about the hazards of enemy booby traps the hard way.
This is one of 26 Private SNAFU (Situation Normal, All F***ed Up) cartoons made by the US Army Signal Corps to educate and boost the morale the troops. Originally created by Theodor Geisel (Dr. Seuss) and Phil Eastman, most of the cartoons were produced by Warner Brothers Animation Studios – employing their animators, voice actors (primarily Mel Blanc) and Carl Stalling’s music.

These old war films were the forerunners of the mid-century mind-blowers we mock today, like the ones directing suburban housewives how to navigate the perils of the produce section of the grocery store. Yet, it’s not a great leap to imagine how America went from warning our overseas airmen about the moist dangers of syphilis to questioning 50s teens on the topographically appropriate places for heavy petting (answer: none).

Noir of the Week: No Country for Old Men


“…I don’t want to push my chips forward and go out and meet something I don’t understand.  A man would have to put his soul at hazard.  He’d have to say, ‘Okay, I’ll be a part of this world.’” – Sheriff Ed Tom Bell.

1980.  A gas station somewhere in Texas.  The station’s proprietor rings up a transaction and, taking a gander at the vast expanse of dry nothingness out the window, asks the customer in front of him if there’s any rain up his way – seeing as how he’s got Dallas plates on his vehicle.  The customer’s expression is unreadable.  He sighs as if there’s a job at hand and he withdraws a quarter from his pocket:  “What’s the most you’ve ever lost on a coin toss?”  And slowly, through the course of a clumsy and dreadful conversation, the proprietor begins to realize every day in the gas station, with every customer walking through the door, in every attempt at small talk, he’s been gambling with his life.

In 2007, Joel and Ethan Coen presented No Country for Old Men, which would earn the brothers their first Academy Award for best picture.  (The Coens borrowed heavily and interfered little with their source material, Cormac McCarthy’s novel of the same name.)  Though generally admired by critics, No Country would alienate viewers with its graphic violence, anger more than a few people with its abrupt ending, and forever baffle movie store employees trying to shelve it under a genre header.  While Ethan Coen called it “the closest we’ll come to [making] an action movie,” action may be the last word that comes to mind when pondering the nature of No Country for Old Men.  The film is a wink and nod to Sam Peckinpah with its blunt and joyful violence; the photography basks in the Southwest landscapes in a way that recalls John Ford’s beloved Monument Valley; fists will clench through the suspense; laughter is often, and often uncomfortable.  Finally, a small, dark understanding from the viewer: this film is about me.

On the face of it, No Country for Old Men resembles the Coens’ earlier offerings of Fargo or Blood Simple.  The brothers are deft manufacturers of the noirish kind of crime procedurals that center on the simple man caught up in vicious circumstances beyond his control.  Here, our ordinary guy discovers two million dollars in a drug swap gone sideways.  His decision to keep it and flee will set two men on his trail: a psychopath bent on recovering the stolen cash and an aging sheriff trying to make sense of the new type of crime creeping into his county.  McCarthy’s novel offered the Coens a much more sobering and contemplative look at violence than previous films.  Dark humor is present but does nothing to temper the grisly nature of the story the way it did in, say, Fargo.  Violence is a silent partner in No Country, his capricious nature lending as much personality to the narrative as the three main actors.

Llewelyn Moss (Josh Brolin) is a welder in the West Texas town of Sanderson when he stumbles across the leavings of a Mexican drug exchange while on a weekend hunting trip.  Brolin plays Moss as a straight shooter; you get the feeling he’s the type of guy who does a job right the first time.  Moss is no bumbler, but by the time the viewer meets him we’ve already seen two killings.  Neither is he naïve: after all, he finds the money amongst shell casing and bloated bodies, so he’s seen firsthand the violence this business provokes.  But like a lot of protagonists in the “everyman” noir genre, he’ll try to hedge his bets because he believes the possible payoff is worth the possible cost.  He may reckon two tours in Vietnam and sturdy Texan genes will help him through the aftermath of poaching drug money, but we know he’s doomed the second he slaps eyes on the cash.  Deep down, he might have the same inkling: “Things happen.  I can’t take ‘em back,” he tells panicky wife, Carla Jean (Kelly MacDonald).   Moss’s coin has been flipped.  He’ll just have to decide how to call it.

Anton Chigurh (Javier Bardem, more chigger than sugar) is tracking Moss, sent by a nebulous crime organization to retrieve the money before the Mexican cartel.  We don’t learn Chigurh’s name until almost an hour into the film, but by then, we have all the information we need about him.  Namely, he sports a chilling Prince Valiant haircut, doesn’t like to get his feet bloody, and prefers to kill folks by way of cattle bolt.  One assumes he likes to keep things neat.  In McCarthy’s work, he’s described in barest detail: his one defining characteristic is a lack of sense of humour.  He’s a psychopath with warped ideas about fate, and the coin toss is a favourite trick of his.  It’s a callous way to decide whether or not to take a man’s life, but Chigurh’s got a twisted code of honor.  He believes the three separate paths of killer, victim, and coin have converged for a specific reason.  Later in the film, Chigurh confronts a fixer named Wells (Woody Harrelson) who’s been sent to dispose of him – Chigurh’s body count is climbing and making his shadowy bosses uneasy.  After he gets the drop on Wells, he mocks him, asking, “If the rule you followed led you to this, of what use was the rule?”  Chigurh’s honest with himself in a way that most of the world around him is not – even the smallest actions of yourself and those around you can have the highest consequences.  If you’re a part of society you must accept that.

Sheriff Ed Tom Bell (Tommy Lee Jones) is Terrell County’s venerable lawman, drawn into the chaos surrounding by the drug massacre that’s landed within his jurisdiction.  Tommy Lee Jones is one of those actors whose name and face should overshadow any role he plays, but there’s none of that here.  Jones is a deep-in-the-heart-of-Texas native and his craggy face and homespun way of speaking inserts him seamlessly into the story.  If the viewer identifies somewhat with Moss, and not-at-all with Chigurh, we are all in with Jones’ sheriff.  He is the only character whose internal voice the viewer is privy to, in a plainspoken voice over at the beginning of the film.  It’s Bell’s story really, more than it is Moss’s or Chigurh’s, and we sympathize with him by the end because it’s our story, too.  Bell may be a participant in a cynical story about death and violence, but his feelings are shared by anyone who has ever felt left behind or overmatched by changing times.  At the beginning of the film, Bell tells us that as a new deputy he knew police work was a job he had to be willing to die to do… but it is a sentiment he didn’t fully appreciate.  It’s a decision he made as a young man, feeling indestructible and not having seen the things men are capable of.  As an old man, he’s a parable: if you haven’t despaired of the world you live in, just wait.

By the end of the film, Moss is cornered by Chigurh.  Having made no decision other than to keep the money for himself and his wife and run as long as he can, Chigurh calls it for him.  He makes Moss a new proposition: give me the money and Carla Jean stays alive; keep it up and I’ll hold you both accountable for what you’ve done.  Still, Moss refuses the two outcomes.  His new plan to give Carla Jean the money and run is disastrous.  He’s gunned down by the Mexican cartel men, a factor he hadn’t given much credence to since encountering Chigurh.  Turns out another coin had been in the air all this time.  Everyone is given an exit in the film, even if some are ambiguous (and since when has life provided resolution to all our outstanding questions?)  Chigurh retrieves the drug money, and in a sweet irony (that reinforces his own beliefs about fate), is blindsided and grievously injured in a car accident, after killing Carla Jean.  He walks away, perhaps to enter another small town the way he entered Bell’s, perhaps not.  As for Bell, he has squared himself with his part in a violent world, and retired from the job to detach himself from at least part of it.

The Coens are fantastic world builders.  As writers and directors they are masters at adding minute quirks that orient their characters. (The fact that Moss picks up his empty shell casings while hunting speaks volumes about his nature.)  No Country for Old Men doesn’t feel like a period piece, probably because most of us are old enough to recognize the fashion and cars within the film, but the visual details in each scene are so suspiciously perfect, you wonder if the Coens used a time machine.  The cinematographer was the Coens’ ace-in-the-hole Roger Deakins, an old hand when it comes to filmmaking.  He makes the most of the location shooting (mostly dodgy motels and borderlands in Marfa, Texas and Las Vegas, New Mexico).  The music and dialogue are sparsely used – long stretches of absolutely nothing, sometimes punctuated by carefully chosen words or a few music notes.  The supporting cast is small, but strong, the standouts being Woody Harrelson and Garret Dillahunt, who plays Bell’s deputy, Wendell.  Harrelson can’t quite get beyond his identity as well as Tommy Lee Jones is able to.  He’s still Woody here, but that’s okay because his lines are few and the role calls for a certain cocksure quality Harrelson naturally provides.  Dillahunt’s role is small, but important.  Wendell is a reflection of Bell: he’s the young deputy Bell once was, more concerned with impressing “the old-timer” than with making sense of the violence around him.

When No Country for Old Men was released, critics were mostly positive, while audiences were mixed.  For some, the film contained too much gore and violence.  The contemplative tone was found boring and tedious.  Others felt cheated when the criminal element of the film took back burner and didn’t answer the questions raised: Who took the drugs?  Who does Chigurh work for?  Where did the money really go?   Perhaps, like the country its title alludes to, this film is not for everyone.  Perhaps you have to have learned how raw a raw deal can be to appreciate the anguish of it.  Most of those who had issues with the film were unsatisfied with the ending in which Sheriff Bell reveals a dream he’s had about his deceased father, also a lawman: “And in the dream I knew that he was goin’ on ahead and that he was fixin’ to make a fire somewhere out there in all that dark and all that cold, and I knew that whenever I got there he would be there. Out there up ahead.”  And if you can see yourself in Bell, I’m willing to guess you’ve lost a few wagers yourself.


(Author’s note:  As always, if you are interested in classic film or films noir, please stop by the Film Noir Foundation. If you are interested in learning more about noir, head over to Steve’s wonderful Noir of the Week or the Back Alley Noir forums.

Poster by Emily at Minimal Movie Posters.)

Mental Hygiene Friday

A Word to the Wives

1955.  What had more chrome and steel than the behemoths coming of the assembly lines in Detroit?  Kitchens.  These 1950s sales films about dream kitchens turn me green with envy.  Recently I became entranced by a film that featured a stove with a built in boiling pot (you lose a burner but gain a pasta pot!!) and a built-in periscope that allowed you to peer into the oven.  Never mind the logistics of bending over a piping hot electric range — or the fact that all you really needed was a transparent glass oven door — here’s a nuclear sub periscope in your own kitchen!

A Word to the Wives features Marsha Hunt as an alarmingly devious woman who helps her best friend trick her unsuspecting husband (Darren McGavin!) into not only buying the kitchen of her dreams, but an entire house along with it.

I once watched a film on a concept kitchen that featured irradiated food drawers to keep your groceries fresh.  Ponder this:

“The Army Quartermaster Corps concluded early on that wholesome, economical, shelf-stable field rations could be provided through irradiation. However, early sensory evaluation of sterilized (1) irradiated meats described it as having a “wet dog aroma.””

We still irradiate certain foods, albeit not with nuclear cancer rays, and alas, not in our own veggie crispers.

Last week I did my part to help UN-modernize a friend’s kitchen.  She collects Depression Glass so I bought her a lovely lime green glass juicer for her birthday.  Depression Glass can also be known as Vaseline Glass or… Uranium Glass.  Wonder if you’ve got some stored away in the attic?  Just bring out your trusty UV light.  It will glow in the dark.

Movies I Hate to Love-Part One

This is the least ridiculous poster I could find.  Think about that. 

In 1952 director Fred Zinneman took a magazine story called “The Tin Star,” teamed together with a mostly uncredited cinematographer, and shot a deceptively beautiful genre bending western about a quiet man who chooses to walk the lonely road of doing what is right, rather than what is easy.

High Noon did not win the Academy Award in 1952.

It’s something I struggle with now, but High Noon was far, far off my radar, as were the Academy Awards.  When I was 5 I thought I would grow up to be a trapeze artist and The Greastest Show on Earth is why.  If someone had told little me that important people had gotten together in Hollywood and decided this movie was better than all the others?  Hell yes, it was!  Human drama, people, human drama!

This film is so, so soapy.  In fact, it’s surprising that they had time for such hand-wringing, eye-rolling drama given that the entire film is basically one long product placement ad for Ringling Bros. Barnum and Bailey circus.  It’s surprising the main actors were given time for such drama considering the film is full of Hollywood cameos… everyone from Bob Hope to Lawrence Tierney is here.

You’ll thank me for the time you spend watching this SEVEN MINUTE trailer.

The plot, oh, the plot!  Main plots and subplots and threads of humor and suspense thrown in just because this is Cecile B. De Mille and bythewaythisisallinTechnicolor!  So let’s talk about what is going on here.

Brad (Charlton Heston) runs a circus with an iron fist and no time for trivial things like emotions, interpersonal relationships, or hobbies.  Brad’s loved by two women: trapeze artist Holly (Betty Hutton) and elephant rider trainer stuntwoman Angel (Gloria Grahame).  Dare I say the love triangle is turned into a three ring circus by the arrival of hypersexual trapeze master The Great Sebastian (Cornel Wilde)?  Oh there’s a few other trifling details: everyone’s job is on the line as the circus on the verge of bankruptcy, Angel is in a relationship with psychopath elephant trainer Klaus (Lyle Bettger), there’s a crooked carney running games, Sebastian is disfigured in a trapeze accident, Buttons the clown (Jimmy Stewart) can never take off his makeup because he’s actually a doctor hiding from police for mercy-killing his wife, and oh, the circus train derails and almost kills Brad.

This is why I grew up hating Cornel Wilde.  I couldn’t get this out of my head.

There are so many unintentionally hilarious things about this movie.  Take, for instance, the above screen cap.  Sebastian has just fallen from his trapeze and landed on the net he cut down in a fit of foreshadowing before his act.  Though his hand will be mangled into a pale claw and he’s probably suffering from fractured ribs and at least one collapsed lung, he staggers out of the ring with the bloody imprint of said net on his chest.  Try not to laugh.  Be awed and wonder who thought to include that tiny gem in a film so epic that it redefined scale.

“Well, shore, that’s my Iron Jaw mouthpiece.”

Should my upper-body strength fail to develop by the time I reached adulthood, I felt sure I could secure a circus job like Dorothy Lamour’s gum-chewing Phyllis.  Phyillis’s character is sadly neglected in the film, mostly relegated to singing, riding around on a circus float as the Moon Goddess and making allusions to her main act: holding up her own weight by a mouth apparatus and spinning around.  My sister and I argued for years on whether this leather strap she put in her mouth was called the “Air & Jaw” (me) or “Iron Jaw” (her) mouthpiece.  I finally gave in in adulthood, but I still think Air & Jaw is a viable name.

“Angel!  Angeeeel!”

Did I mention Klaus and the crooked carny plan a great train robbery, inadvertently causing the circus train to crash and the near exsanguination of Brad?  Well they do, and The Great Sebastian saves Brad’s life with a Johnny on the Spot blood transfusion performed by Buttons the clown, thereby putting him in danger of being caught by the FBI man hitching a ride on the circus train.  What.  It could happen.  Which brings me to my next point…

The dialogue in here is simultaneously the best and worst thing to ever happen.  Sebastian to Holly while he’s giving Brad blood: “If he should make love well after this, pay no attention.  It will be me.”  Ultimately, Brad does choose Holly and one must wonder if Holly thereby got the best of both worlds – Sebastian’s lovemaking stamina in a Charlton Heston vessel.  I’m surprised no one has thus far latched on to Sebastian’s practice of comparing women to different types of alcohol.  It’s pretty smooth…  Angel? “Like cognac… all fire in the glass!”  Holly? “You are like champagne; you make my head spin.”

Here’s a fun game.  Drink whenever someone accuses Brad Braden of having sawdust in his veins.

If, up until this point, I have failed to mention that this film could also be classified as a MUSICAL, it is only because I think we should all take a step back and think about what I have said until this point.  Mercy killing clowns.  Cornel Wilde in aqua trapeze tights.  A man choosing Betty Hutton over Gloria Grahame.  Now add what can only be referred to as “spectacles” of song.

Clearly we have moved beyond the pale, here.

I now love and appreciate High Noon just as much as my five-year-old self loved The Greatest Show on Earth but I would be hard pressed to say which film I quote more often.

Noir of the Week: His Kind of Woman

(Author’s note: I chose His Kind of Woman for as my next Noir of the Week review because of it’s quirkiness and its hardscrabble fight to be ranked as an actual noir film among noir purists. On a personal note, I wasn’t the biggest fan of it the first time I viewed it – it’s long and it reads long – but two or three views in I actually came to enjoy it. It’s a cult-y film, for sure, and it’s very hard to separate it from the mystique surrounding it… something that seems to surround everything that Howard Hughes touched. I tried hard not to crucify Hughes, even though in my personal opinion his tampering trapped a noir film within several other films. He made some good decisions here, and a lot of bad ones, but the result is a funny little film that maybe doesn’t deserve the harsh criticism it seems to receive. His Kind if Woman made for an interesting topic, surrounded by little side stories that went on behind the scenes – much like the stories in the film itself. I could have gone on for pages, but found myself carefully editing down to what I considered the bare bones… probably in light of the fact that Hughes didn’t do much self-editing!)

Loitering uncertainly near the hinterlands of film noir is the Howard Hughes produced, John Farrow/Richard Fleischer directed film His Kind of Woman. The pedigree of the film destined it for greatness: seasoned directors, smoldering stars, and a stable of gritty noir screenwriters, all financed by the large bankroll of a playboy genius. His Kind of Woman just may be the greatest noir film that never was. What RKO delivered to theaters was a bloated, schizophrenic film – a Frankenstein’s monster of beautifully crafted noir spliced together with a smattering of scenes from several genres. Is the film noir? Yes, undeniably. However, it is also an ensemble melodrama, a Hollywood satire, and a battle of the sexes comedy, mixed thoroughly with a dash of slapstick. So what went wrong? It may be ungracious to lay the blame entirely at the feet of Hughes (after all, what better match for a noir film than a producer controlled by a dark obsessive nature?), but his incessant tinkering and additions are what ultimately doomed the film.

His Kind of Woman was a perfect fit for production company RKO. Though the company had been in financial flux for years, it produced and distributed a heap of films that were successes both critically and commercially in a number of genres. Howard Hawks, Orson Welles, William Wyler, Laurel and Hardy, and Walt Disney all had ties with RKO before Howard Hughes gained control of it in 1948, but noir was a house special by that point. The pre-Hughes RKO had released some of the finest films noir we know today: Born to Kill, Murder My Sweet, The Woman in the Window, Stranger on the Third Floor, Out of the Past, Desperate, The Stranger, and Crossfire. His Kind of Woman wasn’t the first or last film noir that Hughes would meddle with, turning out less than stellar results (see also: The Racket and The Las Vegas Story) but the genre would survive in spite of him. Consider the following films, released under RKO during Hughes’ reign: The Narrow Margin, Clash by Night, Cry Danger, The Big Steal, The Set Up, The Hitch-Hiker, Sudden Fear, On Dangerous Ground, Armored Car Robbery, and Beware, My Lovely. This hindsight makes it all the more sad that His Kind of Woman doesn’t quite fit in with the other great films being made alongside it.

In His Kind of Woman, Mitchum plays Dan Milner, a down on his luck gambler lured to exotic Morro’s Lodge by a cadre of shady characters and the promise of $50,000. On the way to Mexico, he meets millionaire chanteuse Lenore Brent, played by Russell. In actuality, she’s a gold digger (with a heart to match) hoping to snag fellow Lodge guest, Hollywood actor Mark Cardigan (Vincent Price). The film stalls in its Mexican locale, with Milner and Russell rubbing elbows with supporting cast players while Milner, and the audience, try to unravel the reason we’ve all traveled so far. When Milner overhears suspicious plans between two resorts guests, Krafft and Thompson (John Mylong and Charles McGraw), his curiosity is deferred by another stack of cash. Milner is eventually reinvigorated by the arrival of undercover immigration agent Bill Lusk (Tim Holt), who lets Milner know deported gangster Nick Ferraro (Raymond Burr) is behind the scheme and that Krafft is actually a plastic surgeon! Ferraro’s plan is to kidnap Milner, kill him, rearrange his face, and waltz across the border using Milner’s identity. It’s an interesting plot, but gets shelved for too long while Milner is dragged into the useless side stories revolving around the supporting cast of Morro’s Lodge guests. By the time the film gets back on track with the shockingly brutal climax between Milner and Ferraro, the whos, whats, and whys of the plot are almost distant memories.

The plot may be farfetched, but it works in Hollywood, and even in the realistic world of film noir (we’ve seen plastic surgery before in Dark Passage and an even stranger premise in Decoy). Here, it gets lost in the morass of superfluous genres. The biggest detriment to the film was Hughes’ inability to edit himself. Director John Farrow finished the film, but unhappy with the result, Hughes brought in Richard Fleischer to reshoot much of it, recast villain Nick Ferraro, and neatly inserted himself into the screenwriting process. In the end result, you can pick out Hughes’ contributions with near certainty: useless subplots, not one but two dashing aviators, and the endless scenes involving Vincent Price’s character, whom Hughes fell in love with. Yet a patient film lover can pluck out the noir diamond in rough. There are many faultless elements in the film, from cast to cinematography, that tell us His Kind of Woman was carefully crafted and not carelessly churned out of the Hollywood mill.

The stable of actors in His Kind of Woman is somewhat of a noir dream. Robert Mitchum, Jane Russell, Charles McGraw, Raymond Burr, Vincent Price, and John Mylong carry with them the experience, grittiness, and sex appeal to pull the film off. Unfortunately, the cast became bloated with a number of supporting actors (Hughes pet Mamie Van Doren supposedly beautifies the background; can you spot her?) that advance the runtime of the film, but not the action. Time spent with bit players Jim Backus and Marjorie Reynolds would have been best served developing the underutilized McGraw and thoroughly creepy Mylong.

Mitchum is the typical noir anti-hero, albeit a little watered down. Milner is a professional gambler, yet he eschews bourbon for milk and ginger ale. He can take a beating and handle a Luger, yet he shows a softer side to help out a couple of struggling newlyweds at Morro’s Lodge. Despite this, Mitchum is the same tall, dark, and sardonic underdog that we like to see, sauntering lazily through the lodge, or gazing half-lidded at Jane Russell. He’s at his best throughout the film, especially sharing scenes with Burr. Recasting Burr as Ferraro is the best “bad” decision Hughes made during the filming. Had the comedy and melodrama been cut and the climax between Ferraro and Milner come a half hour earlier, His Kind of Woman would be a darling among noir lovers. The clash between shirtless, sweaty Mitchum and chillingly sadistic Burr is so disturbing and provocative one wonders how it escaped censors.

Vincent Price, though he is talented here, is ill-used. Hughes fixated on the Cardigan character and padded Price’s role with comedy, action, and romance, much to the detriment of the film, which is such a shame because he’s fantastic! Watch Price during the scene where Cardigan is shamelessly screening his own film to the entire resort: he writhes and simpers in his seat, demurring the accolades he thinks he is receiving from his audience. The problem is the insistent shoehorning of Cardigan into the film – going so far as to maddeningly portray him as hero alongside Mitchum. In one scene Price is the Errol Flynn-like Hollywood actor butting heads with his agent and wistfully longing to be a real swashbuckling hero. In another, he’s the male third of a love triangle trading quips about love and marriage with wife Marjorie Reynolds and mistress Jane Russell. One almost wishes that Hughes had contrived a Mark Cardigan series of light comedies to produce and left him out of His Kind of Woman. Indeed, you could chop out Price’s entire contribution to the film with no ill effects. He adds almost nothing to the working plot, and what little he does to advance the story could (and should) have been handled by Mitchum.

Russell was one of Hughes’ most famous muses – it’s telling and touching that when jumping ship at RKO in 1955, two of the things Hughes took with him was a sack of cash and Jane Russell’s contract. Perhaps at first Hughes was most attracted to Russell’s two most famous assets, but he unearthed a Hollywood talent. As Lenore in His Kind of Woman, she is the femme fatale with the heart of gold, able to stand up to Mitchum with both her stature and ability to deliver the necessary repartee. Louella Parsons called them “the hottest combination to ever hit the screen,” and it’s a pity we don’t see Lenore take a more pivotal role in the film. When Cardigan locks her in the closet near the end of the film it is almost as if Hughes found a way to get rid of Russell in order to make room for more Mark Cardigan screen time.

The noir scenes are as beautiful as noir gets, shot by cinematographer Harry J. Wild, who had already been behind the camera for several noir films including Murder My Sweet, The Big Steal, Pitfall, and Nocturne. Wild’s shadowy scenes are striking; the line of demarcation between the beautifully lit noir scenes and the run of the mill scenes is clear, making it more of a pleasure when Mitchum and McGraw amble into rooms slashed with moonlight. The set designer deserves some credit for heavy lifting here: the mid-century design of Morro’s Lodge seems to be built for a talented cinematographer. Low ceilings and gaping louvered blinds lend a sense of urgency to Milner’s plight the script doesn’t seem eager to impart.

It’s hard to justify a film that begins with a boxcar diner scene reminiscent of The Killers, and ends with Vincent Price sinking a boat filled with Mexican policemen, but His Kind of Woman isn’t terrible. It might not even be bad. Certainly we have an instance where the whole is not greater than the sum of its parts. His Kind of Woman is often looked down upon as not being real noir among genre fans (there’s ridiculous comedy, and a lot of it), yet the heart of the film – the best of it – is real noir. Like an insect trapped in amber, it’s surrounded by the trappings of Hollywood… an interesting artifact of the genre worth studying.

Blame it on Mamie

Doing research for my next Noir of the Week article, I came across Mamie Van Doren’s website. I hope I have the same lust for life she does when I’m her age, but it reminded me how drop dead gorgeous she was/is.

A greater being strike me down, but I think she ran circles around Jayne Mansfield.

And in one of the best juvenile delinquency films of all time, Girls Town, aka The Innocent and the Damned. Mel Torme? A bad girl named Silver Morgan? Oh, yes.

Mental Hygiene Friday

The Terrible Truth

Sid Davis Productions, 1951.

Another film by the great Sid Davis.  This one’s big budget, with bona fides and technicolour:  a real life judge from the juvenile court system in Los Angeles, and b roll footage of actual drug paraphernalia.  I just love these docudramas… it’s like The Phenix City Story of mental hygiene films.


Blood Simple.

(Here is my Noir of the Week review on Blood Simple for Steve-O’s wonderful NoTW site.)

“The world is full of complainers.  The fact is nothing comes with a guarantee.  I don’t care if you’re the Pope of Rome, President of the United States, or man of the year.  Something can all go wrong.  Go ahead, you know: complain, tell your problems to your neighbor, ask for help and watch him fly.  Now, in Russia they got it mapped out so everyone pulls for everyone else.  That’s the theory anyway.  But what I know about is Texas.  And down here, you’re on your own.” – Loren Visser, Blood Simple

So begins the voice-over introducing us to Joel and Ethan Coen’s somewhere-in-Texas world of Blood Simple.  On the face of it, Blood Simple is your basic homage to films noir in the grand tradition of Double Indemnity or The Postman Always Rings Twice.  What the Coens deliver is a darkly humorous neo-noir so full of suspense, it would be at home on a shelf next to Hitchcock’s best.  Everything you’d expect to see in a noir is here, as if the Coens were using a recipe to craft the film: an adulterous woman, seedy bars and motel rooms, frame-ups, and double-crossers.  The Coens took their film’s title from Dashiell Hammett’s story “Red Harvest”: a term that describes the frame of mind a person is in after being exposed to murder or intense violence.  The film itself explores the characters as circumstances turn them all blood simple, and is as neatly crafted as any Hammett or James M. Cain story.

Dan Hedaya plays Julian Marty, a dyspeptic Greek bar owner, who is having his faithless wife Abby (Frances McDormand) and his employee, Ray, (John Getz) tailed by sleazy private detective Loren Visser (M. Emmet Walsh).  Marty’s scheme is simple, but about as sturdily built as a house of cards.  Visser double-crosses Marty, frames Abby, and plans to take the money and run, but crime is never that neat.  What ensues is like watching Abbott and Costello play a round of Russian roulette while doing “Who’s On First?”  A series of miscommunications, suspicions, and fatal assumptions have Abby and Ray eyeing each other warily while a predatory Visser circles on the outskirts of the plot.  The viewer is left in a unique position for this type of film – most directors would leave out key bits of information for cheap thrills and plot twists, but the Coens show their hand: we know who murders who, and how the deed was done.  The characters flounder and struggle while we look on, smug and full of dread.

The film’s small cast all fit comfortably into their roles, with Hedaya and Walsh being the standouts.  Hedaya plays Marty as noir’s typical impotent, cuckolded husband, his rage over Abby’s infidelity steadily simmering just below the surface.  He’s got a big house, a shiny car, a beautiful wife and absolutely no control over anything in his life, especially the rogue private investigator he’s just hired.  Hedaya’s character is an obvious parallel to Nick Smith’s (Cecil Kellaway) Greek diner owner in Postman, but he’s not the poor, sad sap Smith could be.  Marty is at all times smarmy and unlikable, unable to evoke any sympathy from the viewer.

As Abby, Coen brothers’ muse Frances McDormand is a modern noir female.  She’s an appealing crossbreed of both ingénue and femme fatale.  With her sweet, open face and big, guileless eyes we can see Abby may have once been naïve and idealistic, but a few years of marriage to Marty has distilled her Texan pragmatism.  She carries a snub-nose in her pocketbook with a vague notion of using it on Marty, should the situation present itself.

John Getz is arguably the weakest actor here, but that’s not saying much.  He’s not supposed to be the hero; he’s just trying to keep his head above water.  Ray is a simple man with not much to like or dislike about him, and through the course of the film we see his nerves stretch taut and begin to fray as he desperately tries to make sense of the violence surrounding him.  If inexperience keeps Getz and McDormand from fully evoking their characters’ emotions, the exceptional plot excuses them.  Ray and Abby spend a lot of the film looking bewildered, but who wouldn’t, trying to untangle this mess of murder?

The knockout performance of the film hails from its villain, a role written specifically for the actor.  Had the Coens produced Blood Simple on the heels of Fargo, it’s likely M. Emmet Walsh would have been given an Oscar nod.  Watching Walsh settle in as the husky, dissipated Visser is a real treat for the viewer.  With his high-crowned woven cowboy hat, chunky turquoise ring, and pastel yellow leisure suit, Visser borders on the comical but his calculating reptilian eyes veer him into the grotesque.  At separate points in the film a beetle and a fly land on Visser’s face and explore the terrain.  Whether it’s a bit of movie-making luck or orchestrated by the Coens, the viewer understands: here is a bottom-feeder; insects can smell the death on him.  Walsh is so good at being bad that by the end of the film you may be rooting for him, or at least hoping he’ll go out in a blaze of glory.  You will not be disappointed.

Fifteen years later the Coens would go on to write and direct The Man Who Wasn’t There, a send-up to noir so self-aware and referential that, in comparison, Blood Simple almost reads truer as a film noir.  Instead of being constrained by color here, the Coens play with it in between scenes of drab Texas landscape: Visser is half-bathed in shadow, half-lit in buttery Texas sunlight, or harshly lit crimson billboards rising out of a dark desert.  The cinematographer for the film was a young Barry Sonnenfeld, but the Coens meticulously storyboarded the story themselves.  The result is a style that doesn’t speak particularly to Sonnenfeld, but one that is visible later Coen films like Fargo and No Country for Old Men.  Stretches of highway and vaguely familiar landscapes make the film feel like a docudrama… this could have happened!  After all, truth is stranger – and funnier – than fiction, and it’s the funny parts of the film that keep it relatable.  At one point, as Ray struggles to clean up a bloody crime scene behind a two-way mirror, potential witnesses enter the bar and fire up The Four Tops’ “It’s the Same Old Song.”  It’s a dark, absurdist humor commonplace in Coen films, making the audience chuckle in dismay while they wait for the other shoe to drop.  In a later interview Joel Coen would say Ray’s infamous burial scene would take just as much inspiration from Chuck Jones (creator of the coyote and roadrunner cartoons) as it did from Hitchcock suspense movies (one can almost see poor bungling Ray captioned in Jones’ pseudo-Latin: homicidius botchus.)

Like Tarantino’s Reservoir Dogs, Blood Simple is one of those films that movie-goers would revisit after the Coens’ commercial successes of later films like Fargo and O, Brother, Where Art Thou?  It’s sometimes judged harshly when standing alongside the Coen canon of work, but small filming mistakes due to lack of budget, time and experience do not detract from the film’s overall impact.  Once the credits roll, the viewer will sit back and wonder at the richness of plot the Coens were able to build using only a handful of characters.  Here is a film revolving around murder and not once do we see a police officer!  Blood Simple opened in 1985, and though it took home the Grand Jury Prize at Sundance that year, it enjoyed most of its success much later amongst viewers willing to devote the time.  Make no mistake: this film is dense and plods along fairly leisurely, but it packs a wallop of a sucker punch at the end.  Put your feet up, nurse a drink and pay attention to the dialogue and small details… this film is worth the investment.

Blood Simple will be released on Blu-ray August 30, 2011.

“It should be seen by every schoolchild in America!” – Thoughts on mental hygiene films

I few years ago, I requested – and got – Ken Smith’s book Mental Hygiene: Better Living Through Classroom Films 1945-1970 as a Christmas present. Needless to say, I spent a few hours on Christmas morning nose deep in a book, grinning widely in anticipation of searching out some of the harder to find films I hadn’t yet seen. Yes, that is my idea of a good time.

By the time I went through my formative school years, social guidance films were almost a thing of the past. I was sixteen before I first encountered one – Red Asphalt, still reigning as the king of the dangers of driving films, was already dated, but its reputation preceded it. Not every driver’s ed class still showed the film at that time. Like the victims of auto accidents it showed, you could already hear the cautionary film’s death rattle. And so, it became a sort of rite of passage to find a driver’s ed teacher who still showed it. Classes, by that time, weren’t even given at my school. I learned the rules of the road in a tiny office downtown and took actual road lessons in a Dodge Neon (shudder) after school.

Like a lot of things that happen in high school, Red Asphalt was ultimately a let down. The “gore” mental hygiene films had started decades before in the late 60s and early 70s. It may have been shocking then, but after the 80s slasher genre and movies like Faces of Death, the intended audience was probably a little harder to make an impression on. Honestly, at that point, the looming written DMV test scared me a lot more than the graphic representations of what would happen if I didn’t wear my seat belt.

The idea behind mental hygiene (social guidance, classroom films, social engineering films, etc.) is nothing new. But like a lot of things that happened mid-century, a few things had to happen for things to perfectly distill into the films we like to poke fun at today. First, the intended audience of most of the films was a new species of animal called the American Teenager, which was just starting to become closely studied during and after the Second World War. Ken Smith makes a good point in the introduction of his book – one I happen to agree with. In 1946 teenagers were coming off of years of upheaval: depression, the institution and revocation of Prohibition, and a world changing war. How to set things on the straight and narrow again and get the needle back in the groove of status quo? Manipulation through film. This was nothing new. Our soldiers, seamen and Marines had already been sent off abroad after film screenings to teach them the art of the bayonet and the horrors of syphilis. And who better to manipulate than the young, the bright future of America?

Of course that makes it seem so subversive and seamy, but it was done with the best intentions. And looking back at these films from afar, although they seem naive and silly, don’t they really make us yearn for a time when life was so uncomplicated that the worst we had to fear was bad posture and whether to kiss your date goodnight? Yes, these films are hilarious. Also, the acting is atrocious and the topics can be mundane. However they set the stage for years to come. By the time I was a teenager, we had the After-school Specials and the Lifetime movies still dealing with the same topics of unwed mothers and drinking and driving. They’ve gone out of vogue, which is sad, but could they come back? I’d like to think of future generations rolling their eyes and making fun of films about the dangers of drunk texting and naked iPhone pics.