And still more Ernst Lubitsch completism. He directed a screenplay from the very strong team of Charles Brackett (The Lost Weekend (1945), Sunset Boulevard (1950)), Billy Wilder and Walter Reisch, based on an original story by Melchior Lengyel (To Be or Not to Be (1942)). It seems this was the first thing I'd seen Greta Garbo in and it's coincidentally her highest-rated feature at IMDB. Over several nights.
Three Soviet comrade-stooges are sent to Paris to flog some jewels expropriated from an Russian aristocrat (Ina Claire, reminding me a bit of no-fuss Piper Laurie in Twin Peaks) who just happens to reside there. She finds out about this in the usual screwy/small world way and her not-as-rusted-on-as-she-thought paramour Melvyn Douglas offers to help her lay claim to them. Garbo is sent to close the transaction (so the people don't starve) and of course she and Douglas meet cute and so forth. The romance is heavy-handed and the entirety is all very predictable but is made bearable by some very funny dialogue.
Garbo started out as robotic as Arnie as a Soviet fake human apparatchik but softened into dreaminess on return to privation in dreary Moscow. I was so envious of her ability to ignore irrelevant bullshit all the way along. Her performance got her an Oscar nom. Bela Lugosi appeared late-on as a commissar.
Frank S. Nugent: "gay and impertinent and malicious." This was in the time when Stalin wasn't yet beyond the pale. IMDB trivia: are we really to believe that Arnie studied Garbo's performances?
At the 14.30 session Reading Cinemas West Lakes (Adelaide), cinema 6, for 13 AUD on their cheap-ish Tuesday. I was aiming to be the last person in Australia to see Christoper Nolan's latest on a big screen, as I may have been with Tenet (2020), but I had to share that honour with at least one other bloke. The house lights did not come up at the end.
Nolan maladapted Homer and directed. Ludwig Göransson's score is bombastic, obtrusive and often unnecessary. The cinematography by Hoyte van Hoytema is sometimes effective but often jittery and uncertain of what it wants us to see; I can't imagine David Lean going for this. The length was excessive. Sepia, murky, grim. The third movement was witless after Uberto Pasolini's The Return (2024) and similarly suffered from a poorly cast Telemachus (here Tom Holland). Anne Hathaway does what she can as Penelope but never gets to stick it to her man like Juliette Binoche did. (Throughout she sounded much like Catwoman to me, without that prosthetic motorcycle.) And similarly for Odyssean Matt Damon against Ralph Fiennes, all John Brolin wannabe. (His performance was a long way from Cillian Murphy's triumphant effort in Oppenheimer (2023) and so the blame lay with him.) Robert Pattinson did what he could, camping it up. Benny Safdie as an Agamemnon we hardly got to see. John Leguizamo, effective, so long since Romeo + Juliet (1996). Himesh Patel!
So much for the sausagefest, another generation of Hollywood blokes going to war just like their elders did in The Thin Red Line (1998). Amongst the women was Charlize Theron in nothing more than a perfume ad, making me wonder why there wasn't room for Sharlto Copley too. Lupita Nyong'o, strong and underused. Zendaya as Athena, not persuasive, not great. Samantha Morton got an inspired scene as Circe which actually laid bare the problem with the whole thing: too much important material was dealt with only in cursory exposition. It made me wish that she was the focus of the whole show, that it was less All Our Tragic (2014).
The multitrack mashup was not hard to follow for the most part, or perhaps it just didn't matter. It's sexless; the Sirens were in longshot, the two matrimonial scenes all angst. I felt the trip to Hades was a bust. A wooden horse dragged up the sand, unheroically. The same horse, burning. An outro like the distended ending of Lord of the Rings: loads of not-very-convincing exposition, exit west, as if nobody saw how a master did that in 25th Hour (2002). "Zeus's Law", of hospitality for the stranger, totally bogus; the Greek gods themselves were capricious and not lawful. As everyone knows.
Before watching this I only read Emily Wilson's fine essay and listened to Jason Di Rosso's take which I interpreted as a pan. He did not interview anyone. Of course reviews are legion. Peter Sobczynski was emotionally unmoved; O Brother, Where Art Thou? (2000) makes for the better rewatch. Dana Stevens: matinee swords-and-sandals at all scales. Too much too shallowly drawn. Christos Tsiolkas: debts to Terrence Malick. Humourless. Too many strands. Damon showed "range and quiet strength as an actor" in the scene where he is tied to the mast so he can listen to the Sirens. (I wasn't as entranced.) Many ineptly-staged scenes such as the sacking of Troy. Daniel Mendelsohn had expectations that Nolan could finesse the material but of course there's more Nolan than Homer in the result. Pedestrian dialogue throughout. And so on and on.
Ernst Lubitsch completism. He directed a screenplay by Samson Raphaelson who had help from Grover Jones in adapting Aladár László's play.
Very funny screwball. The setup is similar to Read My Lips (2001): Miriam Hopkins thinks she has found her next mark in the form of Herbert Marshall (sporting hair like Robert S. McNamara's) as does he. Fortunately both realise that they have found something far more valuable in each other and things are halcyonic until they come across the very glamorous widow Kay Francis in Paris. She's disinterested in running her husband's family's perfume company or in her Thomson-and-Thompson suitors, making her easy prey for Marshall's suave shtick. They meet in a scene where purses stand in for Cinderella's clogs. Things proceed as true love must.
The Art Deco modernism is spectacular. Hopkins got the best lines but is unfortunately onscreen for the least time. IMDB trivia suggests it was a long way from complying with the Hays code. Clock faces indicating hours spent in passion!
Roger Ebert: four stars as a "great movie" in 1998. Mordaunt Hall for the New York Times at the time.
Jean Renoir directed and co-wrote with Charles Spaak. Set during World War I but almost entirely disregards the violent aspects to instead focus on the decay in class solidarity amongst the European gentry. Erich von Stroheim (Sunset Boulevard (1950)) played the German side of that, Pierre Fresnay the French. Lead Jean Gabin represented the working class who demonstrated their own enduring comradery across racial (and some national) lines in the full knowledge that they were getting stiffed; revolution was in the air but the upper classes did not seem to know that things had to change.
Most of the action occurs in several officers' camps where English and French are detained by Germans. There's a staged performance, something like what's in Lubitsch's To Be or Not to Be (1942). The French have sex on the brain, as in Costa-Gavras's Shock Troops (1967). The English cross-dress. There's a great scene where the Russians receive a crate of books from their caring Empress and a touching romance at the end.
In two sittings. Jean Gabin struck me as a French Robert Mitchum (in affable mode).
Roger Ebert: four stars as a "great movie" in 1999. The Great Escape (1963). Casablanca (1942). Frank S. Nugent at the time.
