Category Archives: Virgin Vintage Viewings

Virgin Vintage Viewings is a series in which we view older well-known/classic films for the first time.

In my four years of studying film at Emerson College, I can’t believe I never saw Carol Reed’s The Third Man (1949). This is a film that is studied, dissected, and appreciated by film enthusiasts and scholars. Everything about The Third Man begs discussion.

For starters, the gorgeous look of the film can be credited to director Reed (who, from what I gathered in my research, is an under appreciated filmmaker of the 40′s and 50′s) and his cinematographer, Robert Krasker. They used oblique angles, sharp lighting, and deep shadows to great effect here, beautifully illuminating Vienna’s darkest corners. They even had the daunting task of making the underground sewer system a gorgeous sight to behold. I’m also always impressed when a film looks like it was made far ahead of its time.

I knew absolutely nothing about The Third Man going in, except that Orson Welles played a fellow by the name of Harry Lime. So when Joseph Cotten was investigating the death of Lime, I knew he wasn’t dead. After all, Welles got top billing. I was surprised, however, to see Welles pop up no earlier than the 65-minute mark. Harry Lime is one of the most iconic movie characters of all time, and he’s barely in the film! Needless to say, I was captivated by his charming appearance. His famous entrance, with the cat nuzzling beside his feet under the door frame in the alleyway, is gorgeously cinematic. This brief scene is movie magic; the way Welles’ face lights up, Cotten’s delayed reaction, and then that smile… that smile that only a movie star can deliver.

To better understand where I’m coming from, I haven’t seen any of Orson Welles’ films except for Citizen Kane (which, ironically enough, was covered ad nauseum during my film studies). I wasn’t a big fan of Kane, though I did admire Welles’ unique vision and passion. The camera loves him. He’s not beautiful like Cary Grant, but he has a face that’s impossible to ignore.

As for Joseph Cotten, he performs adequately enough, but I wasn’t overly impressed by his range. I heard Jimmy Stewart was an early candidate for the part. Now him I would liked to have seen! Maybe I would have appreciated Cotten more if I had known where Holly Martins was coming from. I was suspicious of him for a while, perhaps from my experience of watching movies where nothing is what it seems. I’m sure people were left wondering, “Who is Harry Lime?”, but I wanted to know a little more about that amateur noir writer with a most unusual first name for a man.

I should also point out how much I greatly admired that final shot. Man, how marvelous would it have been to see that on the big screen. The best thing about The Third Man, in my virgin eyes, is how everything is framed. Watching Anna Schmidt walk past Holly Martins and beyond the camera was just pitch perfect. Visually, tonally and emotionally.

I was left with a few questions as the film ended. Like, why did Lime lure Martins to Vienna in the first place? Did Lime want him snooping around? And how exactly are Dr. “Vinkel” and Popescu involved in this? Clearly, they are working with Lime but to what extent? I’m sure after repeated viewings and further research, I’ll have my answers.

I’m not familiar enough with the film noir genre to determine where The Third Man fits in that giant canon of greats (this film is usually uttered in the same breath as The Killing, Touch of Evil, even Casablanca, but I’ll leave that dissertation to my buddy Pete, the noir aficionado that he is). But on its own merits, The Third Man is a movie lover’s delight.

Virgin Vintage Viewings is a series in which we view older well-known/classic films for the first time.

Pairing these two titles was accidental. I chose randomly from my vast queue of unseen gems, and I was struck by how oddly similar they were. At first glance, there is no apparent connection between Ulu Grosbard’s Straight Time (1978) and Jerry Shatzberg’s The Panic in Needle Park (1971). When I did a little research before writing this up, I did discover a common thread: these are the last films that Dustin Hoffman and Al Pacino starred in, respectfully, before hitting major milestones in their impressive careers. For Hoffman, it was his final film before becoming an Oscar winner (for the heartbreaking Kramer Vs Kramer). For Pacino, he went from Bobby in The Panic in Needle Park to Michael Corleone in The Godfather.

But more to the point, these are two films about the power of addiction. The Panic in Needle Park focuses on a common one: drugs. Pacino broke into Hollywood with this film, a dark, quiet drama about a drug addict who falls for a comely drifter. The two lost souls connect, but when Bobby goes under his drug-induced spell, Helen (Kitty Winn) is alone and miserable. So she begins using – and whoring – in order to be with Bobby through all kinds of altered states. Ain’t love grand?

This is a difficult film to watch. Lots of extended scenes and close ups of addicts shooting up, distributing, tricking, robbing, stealing, you name it. The title of the film comes from a period in the 70′s where cops were cracking down on drug dealing in NYC, sending addicts to a “panic” in which they’ll do anything – and I mean anything – for a fix. Watching the film’s two lovebirds careen wildly from happy and energetic to desperate and angry – and back again – grew tiresome and repetitive towards the final act. You can pretty much guess how the film will unfold; it’s just inevitable that these people have nothing else to live for. I think Schatzberg knew the fate of Bobby and Helen would be pretty clear, so he did the smart thing: he closed the film two scenes before the end of the story. This actually works because there’s nothing more boring than knowing exactly what happens next. Schatzberg didn’t need to spell out the obvious.

As tough as this film is to watch, it’s remarkable to see what an expressive actor Al Pacino is. This is Pacino making his leading role debut, and what an entrance it is. The man is a legend; Hollywood without Al Pacino is like movie theaters without popcorn. He has made some indelible marks in this industry. Needless to say, he’s terrific here, a fresh face and a bundle of nerves.

Kitty Winn also won raves for her performance here. It’s a brave, auspicious debut. She only appeared in a few more movies before dropping out of the business altogether. It’s a shame. The camera loves her and I think she could have pulled off a wide-ranging career.

If you’re going to talk about great actors, though, you can never not mention Dustin Hoffman, an all-time favorite of mine. He’s always disappearing into his roles, and he’s always on. He is such a transformative actor, a man who consistently creates memorable characters film after film (see: Michael Dorsey/Dorothy Michaels, Ratso Rizzo, Raymond Babbitt, or more recently – and just as brilliantly – Guisseppe Baldini from Perfume: The Story of a Murderer). He’s Captain Hook! Mumbles! No wait, he’s Lenny Bruce! The man is a chameleon.

Straight Time uncovers a gem of a character: ex-con Max Dembo. He’s a small time crook, addicted to the life of crime. But he wants to go straight. He makes an effort: gets a new job, finds his own place, meets a new girl. He’s convinced he can turn himself around.

But the influences around him pull him back in. First, his parole officer (the fabulous M. Emmett Walsh, character actor extraordinaire) is a greasy prick who would love nothing more than to see Dembo back behind bars. Walsh resembles authority, and as an outcast who has resisted authority all of his life, it’s not easy for Dembo to play by Walsh’s rules.

Hanging out with old friends, including the wonderfully cast Gary Busey and Harry Dean Stanton, makes it tough for Dembo to resist the urges of robbing jewelry stores and stealing cars. His new girlfriend, Theresa Russell, resembles the lifestyle he only dreams of, but is she enough to change Dembo for good?

Straight Time is a methodical, slow moving character drama that doesn’t focus too much on plot. It asks a simple question: can an ex-convict forever change his ways? Jeffrey Boam’s thoughtful script zeroes in on the addictive nature of crime and how easy it can be to revert back to your old ways.

Did these two guys really have a chance at making it straight? Like Bobby over at Needle Park, maybe Dembo’s fate was sealed from the start. Straight Time‘s finale wasn’t as cryptic as Needle Park‘s, as the closing credits showed us that Max Dembo belongs exactly where we left him. Not everyone gets the hopeful reprieve of a cut-to-black.

Virgin Vintage Viewings is a new series in which we view older well-known/classic films for the first time.

I’m pleased to kick off our new Virgin Vintage Viewings series with a Brian DePalma double-header: Blow Out and The Fury. Despite having a shaky resume of films, I’ve been a long time fan of DePalma’s. I still consider Mission: Impossible to be his best film, with Carlito’s Way and Casualties of War running close behind. I’d place The Untouchables, Carrie and the highly underrated camp masterpiece, Raising Cain, in the very good category, while Dressed To Kill is simply good fun. His weaker entries – The Bonfire of the Vanities, Femme Fatale, The Black Dahlia, Body Double (his most overrated film) – aren’t necessarily bad but are simply not memorable. The less said about Snake Eyes and Wise Guys, the better.

I’m not interested in Mission to Mars or Redacted, but Scarface, Obsession and Sisters are resting comfortably in my Netflix queue and I shall get to them eventually. However, I’m happy to report I’ve finally gotten my hands on the Criterion DVD of Blow Out (1981) and I would like to know what the hell took me so long to see it. Easily, I’d rank it as one of his very best.

In Blow Out, John Travolta delivers his best early-career performance as Jack Terry, a movie soundman who witnesses a car crash that resulted in the death of a presidential candidate. Was the crash accidental, or was it intentional? He pieces together what little evidence he has, including an audio track of the crash, and uncovers an unsettling truth that gets him in hot water. Sally (Nancy Allen), a call girl who was in the car at the time of the crash, denies any involvement of a set up, though she is clearly hiding something.

On top of the fact that Blow Out is a crackling murder mystery with a handful of shady characters (including a terrific Dennis Franz as a sleazy photographer), it is filmed with great precision and care. The suspense builds up tremendously, especially when John Lithgow arrives as a hired gun set out to eliminate the evidence and put a lid on the conspiracy. I love how DePalma employs his favorite actors over the years. Lithgow, baby-faced and chilling here, is ruthless and determined.

DePalma’s trademarks are present here, all of which elevate the film in so many ways. In the film’s best scene, Travolta rushes back to his sound lab only to discover that all of his reels have been erased. The camera slowly spins around the room as we see and hear Travolta frantically searching for a reel that has not been destroyed. Sure, it’s a showy sequence, but it works tremendously. The emotions are heightened and we are on edge just as much as our hero is. It’s effective, vintage DePalma.

I also loved the sequence in the train station in which Lithgow follows a prostitute from the phone booths to the ladies room where he finally murders her. DePalma’s camera is all over the action, easily giving us a great sense of place as the two characters inch closer together. We see through the mirror that Lithgow is behind the stall door, just waiting for the right moment to strike, and the suspense is almost unbearable. One of DePalma’s greatest gifts as a director is making us feel like we are there.

I’m glad I saw this on a Criterion edition; it’s a great looking film loaded with indelible images and hypnotizing sound effects and music. Of all of his films, I’d rank Blow Out right next to Mission: Impossible as a full-blown aesthetically satisfying motion picture.

So where does that leave The Fury (1978)? Probably alongside Dressed to Kill in the good, campy fun category. It rests squarely in the middle of DePalma’s flashy, trashy canon of Hitchcockian thrillers.

About a half hour into The Fury, I had a stunning realization. This is the first movie I had ever seen Kirk Douglas in a leading role where he didn’t play an old guy (Tough Guys, Greedy, etc). Wow, does he look like his son or what? (I seriously need to see Paths of Glory and Spartacus. Future Virgin Vintage Viewing posts, perhaps?)

Anyway, The Fury is a highly engaging thriller clearly inspired by Carrie, his previous film. Douglas plays an ex-CIA agent who searches for his missing son. The boy was kidnapped by Douglas’s former partner (John Cassavetes) who wanted to utilize the kid’s special gift (he has parapsychological abilities) and train him to become a killer. A therapist (Carrie Snodgress), who happens to be Douglas’s girlfriend, tracks him down thanks to her patient Gillian (Amy Irving).

DePalma merges suspense, science fiction and horror with mixed results here. The reason it doesn’t quite gel together is because of too many plot strands. You’ve got the kids with the special gifts, one of which is a trained killer sleeping with his therapist, while the other is being poked and prodded by a team of doctors (after being ridiculed by a gaggle of school girls, no less); a CIA agent on the run, not only searching for his boy killer but also snuggling up with one of the girl’s doctors. There’s good material here but everything comes together in a very dense, convoluted way. It’s too bad because with some editing of the screenplay, this could have been a great thriller.

Amy Irving, for example, is completely wasted here. The first half of the movie follows her ordeal as a young woman unable to control her psychic powers. Once she finally gets a handle on it, her character gets shoved aside as Douglas and Snodgress investigate the whereabouts of the boy killer. Even Douglas disappears during a bulk of the film’s midsection which thereby loses momentum for his character’s plight.

I’m probably too hard on the film, but I guess when you realize its potential, it is disappointing because it could have been so much better if more time was spent on the screenplay. All that said, it’s still an engaging drama with terrific set pieces and strong camerawork. There are a few flashes of DePalma’s brilliance sprinkled throughout the film. The shootout towards the end, resulting in a surprising and shocking death, was wonderfully executed utilizing the director’s favorite cinematic elements: long tracking shots, heavily dramatic music (courtesy of John Williams) and slow motion. I also loved the scene when Irving participates in a psychic exercise in her classroom and the camera follows the toy train around the room (not unlike the 360 degree camera in Blow Out). The climax was pretty weak and run-of-the-mill, I’m sorry to say, though I did get a good smile out the final, explosive scene.

Overall, I had a great time looking back at DePalma’s earlier work. I know he has a polarizing fan base — he’s equally revered as he is reviled – but I think he’s a fascinating director, a man who always makes the camera an invisible character of his films. Whether if he’s got a bird’s eye shot, or a spinning camera, or long tracking view… he’s clearly having fun with it. I love that he uses Hitchcock as a guide in almost all of his movies. People claim that he rips him off, but that’s not true. When you’re ripping off someone else’s work, you don’t admit to it. DePalma proudly displays his affection for Hitch; he honors him with his work. DePalma’s whole career is essentially a tribute to one of the most influential filmmakers of all time.