Criterion on the Brain

(Karel Reisz, 1981)

The French Lieutenant's Woman has to be one of the biggest surprises for me in the Collection in some time. When it first appeared in the coming soon section, my response was "uhh, ok." I've been putting it off because I assumed it was classy award-bait, a film that lacked real heft propped up by the presence of Meryl Streep and a strong pedigree from a popular novel. I had seen Karel Reisz's Saturday Night and Sunday Morning (which would be a great addition to the Collection) but I had never even heard of this movie.

I loved this movie. It's approach to the adaptation (written by Harold Pinter) is brilliant, one of the best techniques I've ever seen to take a novel's structural device and translate it into cinematic grammar without losing the thematic thrust of the original text. It reminded me a bit of Adaptation, but where that movie drifted completely away from the source material to examine the process of creation, Pinter's script is consistently true to the book (at least as far as I can gather from what I've read). The cuts back and forth between the Victorian setting and modern day are seamless and provocative, highlighting the struggle of Streep's characters to assert themselves in very different ways throughout.

What's funny about my unexpected response to the film is that the movie still kind of is that film I had expected to dismiss. As would be expected from this cast, the performances are great, and both Streep and Irons deliver surprises and deep emotion without stressing the flashiness of the roles they have been given. Similarly, the film's Victorian story is somewhat straightforward, and the movie generally does have a sort of staid Oscar feel to it, even when its structure eschews convention. But this would rank with the best of Victorian-set films for me even without the inclusion of the modern day components. Both Pinter and Streep lost to On Golden Pond, and while it's nice to have another Oscar for Kathrine Hepburn this film is significantly better than that one, and miles ahead of Chariots of Fire which won the Best Picture Oscar that year (this wasn't nominated for the big one). These losses likely contribute greatly to the film's lower profile, but I'm very happy to have seen it

A note on the cover - I love the concept behind the artwork, discussed in a post on Criterion's site, but the lack of color and subtle appearance of the type online has likely hurt this film's profile in the Collection. I'd love to see more talk about this one, as it might be the most underrated release of 2015 and one of the best.

(Stephen Frears, 1985)

My Beautiful Laundrette has been on my "to-watch" list since I was 14 or so and first fell in love with The Grifters, still my favorite Stephen Frears film. I'm not sure why I never got around to it, although it may have something to do with the fact that I'm not a huge Daniel Day Lewis fan (I know) and the idea of a movie about a laundrette in Thatcher's England doesn't exactly scream "Party!" Regardless, I was pleased to see it pop up on the Criterion release schedule, as I was once again compelled to finally get around to one of those movies you never seem to get around to.

Frears is a craftsman director, someone at his best when the underlying quality - script, performances, source material - is there. He does a great job of not screwing up what shouldn't be screwed up - The Grifters comes from a great book with perfect casting and a tight script, for example. The Queen gets by entirely on the backs of Helen Mirren and Michael Sheen, who are both impeccable in a largely forgettable film. Dangerous Liasons belongs to John Malkovich. But his worst films are bad because he is unable to transcend the mediocre qualities that are already present at conception: Mary Reilly puts Julia Roberts in a Dr. Jekyl and Mr. Hyde alternate telling. The Program takes a true story with Shakespearean potential and turns it into an HBO docudrama. Everything about Lay the Favorite.

My Beautiful Laundrette is one of the good ones because the script puts us in a world that is so fascinating and little seen. 80s London is a setting rich in potential for drama (or comedy for that matter), and the film weaves together a broad range of people to play in that world. The story touches on class, sexuality, crime, politics, family, immigration, and coming of age - there are probably five separate movies in here that have been mashed into one. It holds together, though, because it paints the world so vividly that none of the notes seem false or forced where they don't belong. Frears is the perfect kind of director for this material because he only brings as much style and interpretation to his films as the work demands, and here he mostly lets the two leads grab on and steer us through the storm.

Of course, Daniel Day Lewis is the most notable cast member here, and arguably the most notable thing about the movie. He does well, though the movie is really Omar's, and it's mostly an impressive performance because we know both how he is in real life and how he comes across in other roles. I wish there was less smugness to the way he plays Johnny here, but I appreciate his dedication to the accent.

This is a movie that belongs in the Collection, even if it's not a classic or near classic, because it's unique in both setting and subject and helped trigger a whole host of similar films in the next fifteen years (interestingly, this is the first Working Title film). As a quirky character study, it sits nicely next to the Mike Leigh and Aki Kaurismäki films in the Collection, though both are significantly more of an artist than Frears. But the added political and social context makes it stand alone.

(Jack Clayton, 1961)

Much like its characters, The Innocents seems to exist between worlds; England and Hollywood; code cinema and modern authenticity; reserved mystery and psychological horror; proper literature and exploitative pulp; art film and studio product. It straddles these worlds in such a way that makes the film feel even more off-kilter and terrifying, underscoring the strengths of the story rather than weighing it down. It's certainly one of the most significant horror films in the Collection.

The movie is immediately surprising for a Fox film from 1961. It opens without any picture as a young girl sings a folk song without accompaniment. This continues even over the 20th Century Fox logo (rare enough for it to be striking) and leads into a brief shot of a woman praying before moving to the opening scene of the plot in which Kerr is hired as the governess. The opening sets the creepy, old-fashioned tone for the film but is largely forgotten until the song pops up again, and finally is explained as the end doubles back on the moment, leaving one to wonder how much of what's happened was a flashback, a dream, or a psychotic fictionalization of what happened.

The original story of Henry James's Turn of the Screw, on which the play was based that was then adapted into the film, is able to create a larger mystery because when the governess sees ghosts they are simply from her perspective. A film cannot show a ghost to a character without the viewer seeing it, unless the ghost is always offscreen, which even then would prove as suspicious as seeing the ghost is assuring. This means the mystery of whether of not the governess is a reliable narrator is deeper and the book is consequently more psychological. Still, there is something about Kerr here that feels off, and I don't think it's impossible to argue that her own actions are a bit unhinged, even if it is easier to take everything literally. In a way, the movie is more appealing if there are no ghosts, because the story of the evil couple that possessed the children is so puritanical and superstitious.

My favorite thing about the film was unquestionably the cinematography, and it's this aspect of the movie that makes the mystery richer. There's an explanation of why the film was shot with a blurred border in the Criterion set, but the end effect is satisfying on its own. The movie seems to exist in a beautiful fever dream, with the characters isolated from each other and reality. I thought of two Kubrick films while watching The Innocents. The first, The Shining, came up for obvious reasons - a woman stuck in an isolated giant building haunted by ghosts. But the film I was most reminded of was Barry Lyndon, another candlelit masterpiece with stunningly beautiful (albeit color) photography. Both films use their natural lighting to heighten reality and set the mood for the time period. The Innocents delivers candles that seem to create the photography on their own, resulting in the soft edges and mysterious glow of the film's nighttime scenes.

Although there were a handful of "creepy children" films before The Innocents, this is the oldest film I've seen that uses most of the elements of this subgenre in the modern way (children singing simple songs, music boxes, possessions, creepy dialogue that has multiple meanings, etc). This doesn't necessarily make it a better film (though all of these elements are executed better than in most subsequent films) but it does help its case as an important step in the evolution of horror.

If I was going to hesitate to canonize The Innocents (and I am), it would be because of the somewhat creaky plot machinations of Kerr's character. It's not entirely clear why her character seems to know with great certainty every step needed to free the children of her curse - though of course this makes the case for her insanity - and the way she goes about explaining it all to Mrs. Grose is the kind of exposition that hurts the film rather than helping the viewer. Kerr's performance is difficult to pick apart considering it was done in 1961, but she can occasionally come across as inauthentic and dated in today's eyes, something I've always thought about her and was hoping to avoid with this performance. That said, these are minor quibbles that do not overshadow the remarkable accomplishments of The Innocents, and it's worth underscoring just how vital the film feels to modern horror and supernatural filmmaking. I'd put it on the shortlist for any director interested in learning more about horror technique, and I look forward to watching it again to see how it's all put together.

One other interesting note about The Innocents: I decided to watch this now basically at random - it was the next film by spine that I don't own and isn't on Hulu - unaware that it was written by Truman Capote. Of course, In Cold Blood was just released in the past few months and covered by David Blakeslee over at Criterion Reflections, where I expressed mixed feelings about that much more famous and based-on-a-true-story thriller. Interestingly, Capote wrote the script for The Innocents while researching In Cold Blood, further tying the two to each other. Putting The Innocents in this context might make my positive response to a movie that ends (spoiler alert) with a dead child seem a bit hypocritical (despite the obvious excuse that the film is purely fictional). But I think it's important to put the entertainment value of horror in the context of the themes its intending to explore and expose for the viewer.

(Roman Polanski, 1979)

Look, I'm not the audience for Tess. I knew that going in. I held out some hope mainly because I do generally like Roman Polanski movies and one of the few costume dramas I do like was another Henry James adaptation, Wings of the Dove (a movie that had no business working as well as it did considering it was bookended by Hackers and K-Pax in its director's catalog). Was I worried about the nearly three-hour running time? Of course, but I prepped myself.

I might as well get the good thing out of the way first and just say the cinematography in the film - particularly the outdoor shots - are spectacular, and while they aren't as flashy as those in Days of Heaven, they rival them in their technical proficiency and sheer pleasure. Sadly, these scenes were mostly shot by Geoffrey Unsworth, who died in the middle of shooting the film (he also shot 2001), leading to another cinematographer taking his place for the rest of the shoot (they shared an Oscar for the film). This really is the best part of the movie, and I probably could have gotten along watching it on mute for most of the time.

Of course, it wasn't on mute, and that's were things get pretty depressing. I'm not one to entirely reject out of hand a nice tragedy, but I am fairly wary of the ones that revolve around a young woman and her sexual experiences (particularly when set in the past). When you add on top of the subject matter the awkward fact that the film was directed by Roman Polanski and it was 1) his first film since fleeing the US after pleading guilty to rape and 2) a movie he dedicated to his dead wife, who, after giving him the Henry James novel to make into a movie starring her, was promptly murdered by the Manson Family, well, things get a little complicated. I don't think the way the Alec is portrayed is problematic - he's a pretty straightforwardly bad guy - but I did find it a little uncomfortable how picturesque the scene was set for the rape sequence, however consciously this was meant to contrast with her experience. Overall, though, it was mainly how dour Tess's story was that got me down. I never really cared that much about her, so in a way it was even more tiresome to see her beaten down over the course of nearly three hours.

I do also have to say that regardless of how the Criterion essay felt about it, I didn't think Natassja Kinski's accent made her stronger in the role. She seemed out of place from the beginning and I didn't feel like Polanski picked her for any other reason than that she's a pretty lady.

It's funny, I was always a huge Roman Polanski fan growing up. Knife in the Water, Rosemary's Baby, Repulsion, and especially Chinatown were huge films in my development as a cinephile. As I got older, I discovered Bitter Moon and Death and the Maiden, and I even really really like The Ninth Gate in a trashy kind of way. But both Cul-de-Sac and this I found underwhelming, and I haven't liked any of his movies since The Ninth Gate (The Pianist is beautiful, but slight in its genre and certainly undeserving of the weird statement Oscar he received). Maybe if I had a different disposition Tess wouldn't have rubbed me the wrong way, and I'll be the first to admit that once those frills come out, it's hard for me to turn off the 12-year-old in me that just wants to put on Die Hard or whatever. But at the moment Tess just seems like another "life is hard for women, even if they're beautiful" movie, and I've seen enough of those.

(Terence Davies, 1992)

Distant Voices, Still Lives is one of my favorite movies made during my lifetime, and a top request for Criterion treatment. So when The Long Day Closes was announced, I had somewhat mixed emotions: it's nice to see Davies in the collection, but I wish it was a different title above his name.

After watching The Long Day Closes, I don't feel that different. In fact, I hope people who have come to Davies because of Criterion's seal of approval would seek out Distant Voices first before seeing this movie - it's not just a better movie, but a better introduction to the artist's style and singular execution, which involves gentle camera movements, dimly lit but meticulously composed visuals, and a loose narrative held together with stark dialogue and nearly constant, mostly diagetic traditional music.

That said, this is still a beautiful movie and a worthy addition to Criterion's ranks. Rather than deal in memory and the passage of time, as much of his work does, The Long Day Closes relishes the moment, depicting a crucial point in childhood as a peaceful but stirring moment in life. It's certainly still from the point of view of the present, but Davies seems more engaged with his setting than in Distant Voices, which floats along through brutal fog and unshakable trauma. It makes the movie feel less experimental even as it expands upon the narrative theory put forth by his earlier features. This is a complex and skilled narrative that is intricately and masterfully composed.

Perhaps this is what makes it feel less alive than Distant Voices. Davies's style is at its best unhinged and dangerous, like a bloody revolution set to cleanse the country of its sins but succumbing to the ever ready truth that past is present. The Long Day Closes is at peace with itself, but it's impossible to shake the feeling that it's all a charade.

(Mike Leigh, 1990)

I'm not a Mike Leigh fan. Tangentially descended from the Cassavetes line of filmmakers, Leigh brings that unique brand of quirky humor and working-class angst to the classic style of amorphous plots, semi-improvised dialog, and an emphasis on human interaction over story action. Whether or not you like his films will most likely depend on how much you like his style, because the movies don't offer many other ways into the story.

Given, this can be said of many of the greatest directors ever, most notably Yasujiro Ozu. My recently discovered love of Ozu is a big reason why I'll keep giving Leigh a try. But another big reason is that there are moments in all of his films - and I've seen nearly all of them since this one, his breakthrough work - where sunlight breaks through and his characters are exposed in all their messy beauty. In Life Is Sweet, it happens near the end of the film, when the mother has finally had enough of her troubled daughter's empty life. Their exchange is so honest and heartbreaking that it's instantly recognizable to any parent or child, regardless of how different it is from your own situation.

That's where Leigh shines, finding the parallel humanity regardless of his subject matter. Still, his movies are so intentionally messy and small that I have a hard time sticking with them through their running times. Life Is Sweet is a really good movie, but it's not the kind of movie that gets me excited.

(Roman Polanski, 1966)

I've been thinking a lot about Cul-de-sac ever since I saw it, which was a few weeks ago (I'm a bit behind on posts). It's certainly a remarkable piece of filmmaking from a young director who would go on to make a handful of great movies and one masterpiece (Chinatown). The problem is I don't really like what the movie is saying. I hesitate to make the comparison, both because it is obvious and too damning-by-association by a longshot, but the film's closest relative is Straw Dogs both in story and general approach to the human condition. It's not as purely despicable as that film, but in some ways it's more misguided.

The most obvious difference between the two films is that the couple here has their intruders forced upon them, but the two crucial dynamics are the same. The two men here represent masculinity and intellectualism, while the woman is the jealous, manipulative bitch all directors apparently believe them to be. Thankfully, Polanski avoids the sexual violence of Straw Dogs - she ain't this criminal's type, after all - but he still manages to inject plenty of pseudo-psycho homophobia and sexism into the proceedings. The film lacks the complex and elemental appeal of Polanski's vaguely similar Knife on the Water in this regard, and this is what makes it lean more towards the brusque garishness of Straw Dogs. As a harmless bit of filmmaking, Cul-de-sac is rather energetic and lyrical, but if it's to have any greatness in it, this human-nature statement is demanded - and that's where the film falls short.

(John Schlesinger, 1971)

John Schlesinger is undoubtedly best-known for his Oscar-winning Midnight Cowboy, a moderately enjoyable, severely dated film. That's a shame because Billy Liar is one of the best coming of age movies I've watched in the Collection (and there are a lot of them), while this film, which caused a minor stir when it was released for featuring a kiss between two men, is a moving and extremely mature (i.e. grown-up, not porn) look at relationships and compromise.

There are three great performances at the center of the film, and that's what is most important about it. The best comes from Peter Finch, who is better here than even his much flashier Oscar-winning role in Network, which was his last movie. Finch chooses to approach his character, stuck in the closet with his Jewish family, reserved in his medical practice, finally unable to accept the notion that he could be fully happy in his romantic and personal life because of it, without piling on psychological hang ups that are unnecessary. His character has been forced into his position exclusively by society - he is desperate for happiness but aware of his limitations, resigned to them. Glenda Jackson's character, meanwhile, is desperate for happiness but certain she deserves it. She's worried life is passing her by - Finch knows the train left long ago. They are two memorable and realistic characters intended as two sides of a coin flipped by Murray Head's character, who flies through the film without the slightest awareness he's in it. All three roles are written and executed with such mature and thoughtful care that it's almost infuriating to think how impossible it would be for the film to be made today.

The kiss is worth discussing, because it's rather innocuous. Though shocking in its time, it is perhaps most surprising now because 1971 feels early, not because of anything on screen. I don't know if I should be asd that this simple gesture between a couple would ever have been controversial, or if I should be angry that quiet character-focused scenes like this just aren't made in mainstream film anymore, regardless of whether or not it's between two men. The sex in the film might have made it an anomaly in 1971. Today, its quality does.

(Nicholas Roeg, 1985)

Roeg's only(?) adaptation of a play is most interesting for the things he does to move away from the original text to create a true cinematic experience. This is most obvious in the final moments - as Einstein's imagination turns his hotel room into a nuclear holocaust with Marilyn Monroe at the center of it - but Roeg does a lot to tweak the film's source material in interesting ways. Unfortunately, the movie remains stubbornly static in the majority of its running time, making it the least essential Roeg film in the Collection.

The play's premise is very intriguing: take four iconic figures from mid-century America and shake them all together in a fictional bottle and see what bubbles up. The best scenes, unsurprisingly, are the ones with Monroe and Einstein (they aren't actually identified as these figures, but instead the actress and the professor). But Teresa Russell's Monroe impersonation can be distracting (the role was played on stage by Judy Davis, which must have been pretty special), and Gary Busey as Joe DiMaggio generally just sulks around, I assume because he was so miscast.

Then there's the 80s problem, which makes this 1950s-set think piece feel almost surreal in its aesthetic. Roeg's films always feel out of history, but here the impression feels unintentional, making it more awkward. Insignificance is far from a bad movie - and the final sequence in particular is downright masterful - but the combination of all of these flaws makes the movie less interesting than its script might have been, and probably was in its original incarnation.

(David Lean, 1942-1945)

This recent box set deserves to be heralded more than it has. Although I wasn't especially keen on In Which We Serve and This Happy Breed, the four films in this set represent a collaboration between two British icons that demonstrates many of the strengths of Anglo cinema in the middle of the 20th century. The collection ranges widely from screwball comedy to romance to war to epic drama - only the historical epic and the literary adaptation are missing (Lean would correct this later in his career).

Brief Encounter is unquestionably the crown jewel in the set. I've watched the film five or six times, and it's one of my favorite romance dramas. It's also one of a handful of films I would point to as emblematic of the potential for beauty in black and white cinema. I think it's kind of a travesty that Criterion didn't release the film as a standalone blu-ray, as I imagine there are a lot of people out there who would want to own this movie in high def who don't want to buy the whole set (e.g. me).

Still, for those amassing a more complete home video collection, this box set is a great addition. Blithe Spirit is a real pleasure that makes for light and easy viewing, while the other two films are strong examples of filmmaking worthy of multiple looks. It's also great to see a box that takes a collaboration as the framing device and delivers a broad range of compelling films within a narrow window of time.

Links to individual reviews:
Brief Encounter (no review)
In Which We Serve
This Happy Breed
Blithe Spirit

(Noël Coward and David Lean, 1942)

In Which We Serve is a respectable version of the propaganda churned out on both sides of the Atlantic during WWII. As such, it's a valuable historical artifact, particularly when combined with the Coward/Lean pedigree. But these kinds of films are a real difficult sell for me. All movies attempt to manipulate, but propaganda films are so obvious about it that it can be pretty hard to watch them with an open mind. The Soviet film program produced a couple of flat-out masterpieces about WWII in Ballad of a Solider and The Cranes Are Flying, but these were made years after the war and were intended as nationalistic unifiers rather than a call to arms. Movies made during the heat of battle are usually much less appealingly complex (I'm ignoring for a moment the elephant in the room that is Casablanca, since that film wasn't purely intended as propaganda, and isn't about war per se).

The American counterpart that immediately springs to mind here is The Sullivans, the film which told the true story of five brothers who were killed serving together and would go on to influence Spielberg's flawed but technically brilliant Saving Private Ryan. Like In Which We Serve, the people in The Sullivans are notably average, caught up in a fight bigger than them but dedicated to serving their country. I'm a pretty patriotic guy, but this sort of stuff makes me annoyed rather than inspired (note: I cried like a little baby at the end of The Sullivans - you will, too). There's something about war that brings out the simplicity in everyone - and that something is that the complex take on war is sure to lead any thinking person down the path of resistance. In Which We Serve has occasional moments that are enjoyable, but you aren't going to learn anything real about humanity, war, or cinema from the film. You'll just learn how the British chose to indoctrinate their civilians during their last great war. Spoiler alert: stiff upper lip, everyone.

(David Lean, 1944)

This Happy Breed is a class act (puns!), and that's probably going to mean you'll either love it or find it a colossal bore. I kind of see both sides. I did become engaged with the story by the end, but there isn't much here you haven't seen a thousand times in other stories of an average family over a period of many years.

What really saves the movie is Lean's direction, which at times shows flashes of brilliance that compare to his later classics. The best example of this is when the father is being told that Reg has died. Rather than follow Vi into the garden where she will tell him, the camera stays in the kitchen and slowly pans across the room, keeping the open door in the same position on the screen as it moves. It's a subtle but perfectly executed shot, a classic example of the power of the camera in isolation.

Still, This Happy Breed is melodramatic boiler-plate chicken soup for the masses. There isn't anything here you can't find in a thousand other movies - it just happens to be executed exceptionally (though not spectacularly) well. It might give in to all the stereotypes about British people, but they happen to be pretty good at this sort of thing, and it's hard to think of two more-British artists from the last century than Noel Coward and David Lean. So Anglophiles, have at it, while everyone else would have their time better spent with Brief Encounter.

(Andrew Haigh, 2011)

Weekend is one of the most unassuming revolutionary films you are likely to see. In a perfect world, this wouldn't be that far off from, say, Once or Before Sunrise. In our world, though, a small movie about two people in love who happen to be men means a lot more than that. Its characters know it, too - not in a meta, we're-in-a-love-story-about-gay-people way, but in a much more moving what-does-it-mean-to-be-gay-and-falling-in-love-way. This isn't what makes Weekend a great movie; politically "brave" or socially conscious movies rarely attain this timeless status. Think of the hopelessly simplistic Gentleman's Agreement or the guilt-wracked Philadelphia. But it does make it an important one, which is something different from an evaluation of its art, even if the two things are inextricably entwined.

The plot of Weekend is extremely simple: two men have a casual one-night stand but begin to feel a connection and turn something casual into an intimate few days spent getting to know each other. The movie is really about one of them, Russell, played spectacularly by Tom Cullen, as the film never strays from his perspective. This choice seems both political and necessary for the narrative: Russell is the more emotionally uncomfortable with his sexuality of the two, and seeing his growth as a confident lover and loved one over the course of the film is the beating heart at the center of the story. The film contrasts his arguably more conservative romantic views, a belief in love and marriage and sexual propriety, with those of his counterpart Glen, who sees strength only in being unashamed of his homosexuality, often defined by his own "queerness" (which is to say a rejection of the mainstream). This contrast is not only used to create interesting conversations about gay politics, though. Haigh has deftly balanced the two characters and their histories to create two sides of a whole, making their budding relationship seem extremely natural and believable; these characters really do seem to complete each other.

The challenge of gay cinema over the last twenty years in particular has been to create authentically gay stories without depending on the novelty or political relevance of featuring gay characters. Movies about gay people shouldn't be limited to message pictures like Boys Don't Cry or empty gestures like My Best Friend's Wedding - where's the murder mystery being solved by the gay police detective, or the action movie starring a gay James Bond? Perhaps the biggest success in this regard, ironically, was the supremely mediocre Will and Grace. (Though it was largely inauthentic, I'd argue it was no less realistic than the equally mediocre Friends - after all, don't gay people deserve their own shitty sitcom?) Creating these stories is an admirable task in many regards, but it shouldn't be the end goal. Just as striving for equality means thriving on diversity rather than ignoring it, the most important reason gay stories should be incorporated into the mainstream are the insights and collective experiences these new perspectives have to offer. When we learn more about the world and other people, we learn more about ourselves and our place in that world.

What's really impressive about Weekend is that it manages to succeed in both these regards. Not only is the film a rather conventionally moving love story, it's one that could only be told about two men. The two most significant and satisfying climactic moments - (spoiler alert) Russell finally shedding his self-consciousness about being gay and kissing Glen at the train station and the final moment in which it is revealed that Glen returned the tape to Russell - could really only have the emotional impact they do within their contexts. This is particularly true of the tape, since the power dynamic around sex would be so different with a man and a woman that this simple gesture would not nearly have been as powerful as it is here. After everything Russell and Glen have experienced and discussed, this returning of an intimate moment says more than it ever could have in a straight context.

Weekend is also a beautifully shot and wonderfully acted movie, and Haigh clearly has the potential for a very bright career ahead of him. But just as the film doesn't rely on the political statement it makes to carry it, neither does it allow its cinematic elements to overwhelm its narrative ones. Weekend is a great movie not because of the experience of watching it, but because its simple and profound portrait of a relationship has stayed with me for days after seeing it, and is unlikely to go away any time soon.

(David Lean, 1945)

Blithe Spirit is based on the play by Noël Coward and is only available in the recent boxset David Lean Directs Noël Coward, but it's also on Netflix streaming. It's also a complete joy from start to finish.

I'm a huge fan of both Lean and Coward, and Brief Encounter is one of my favorite movies in the Collection. But seeing Lean take on comedy is a bit of a surprise. What makes it work here is the fact that this film is so appealingly dry. The characters play their ridiculous scenario out with such unbelievingly straight-faced enthusiasm that the film is able to pull off such a ludicrous premise.

In this way, the film reminded me of one of my favorite cult classics from the 90s, Bob Balaban's My Boyfriend's Back. Though it's not close to touching Blithe Spirit's sly sophistication, that later film nevertheless walked the campy line with a smart take on the zombie/high school romance that treated a kid coming back from the dead as something perfectly normal. That's along the lines of what happens here, where a ghost appearing quickly turns into just another complication in a drawing room comedy. Blithe Spirit is also clearly reminiscent of the screwball comedies of the time, but I'm thankful Coward chose to keep this adaptation in England where its style of humor belongs, making it less like like the broad farce of Arsenic and Old Lace and closer in wit to another great Criterion title, Kind Hearts and Coronets. Blithe Spirit doesn't quite reach the highs of either of those classic comedies - the resolution is a bit of a letdown and while the final moment is clever, it lacks the true satisfaction that might have come from the play's more cynical ending. But this is still a total pleasure and highly recommended to anyone who loves screwball comedy.

(Zoltan Korda, 1935)

Hooboy, this movie is R-A-C-I-S-T. I'm trying to imagine how Paul Robeson felt when he sat down to watch the cut of this movie and that first card came on the screen talking about the courageous British men who tamed the Africans. I would imagine he didn't feel too good.

Criterion calls this an embarrassment right in their description of the movie on their website. Technically speaking, it's far from the worst movie to sport a spine number in the Collection. But in terms of pure dated nationalistic and racial attitudes, it's pretty hard to beat - at least until Birth of a Nation and Broken Blossoms enter the Collection. (Okay, it's probably not THAT racist, but still, this is a pretty awkward watch.)

As you might have guessed from my posts so far, I'm really not enjoying this Robeson boxset. It's not that I don't like Robeson, it's just that the movies aren't very good and the general collection seems more interesting as a historical document than as a collection of works of art. That's certainly OK - there's a real and meaningful place for this kind of collection in a line like Criterion. But as a film lover, historical curiosity does not trump what's actually on the screen. Anyway, one more to go.

(Pen Tennyson, 1940)

Like The Emperor Jones, The Proud Valley is hopelessly melodramatic, a relic of an earlier time both in terms of plotting and of acting technique. A great many movies from the 30s and 40s transcend their era and manage to remain both relevant and accessible to a modern audience, but The Proud Valley was never able to let me forget that this was a movie - and a clunky, old-fashioned one at that.

Robeson is still magnetic in the film, but what I'm starting to realize with this set is that despite his star power and natural gifts he remained locked into a certain level of quality in what were essentially B movies. Although no one would argue that women had it easy in that era, the fundamental difference in terms of how far you could rise in the film industry was that women were a necessity in almost all storytelling, while black people could quite easily continue to be relegated to the also-ran category. Although as of The Proud Valley - which was made in the second phase of Robeson's film career, when he moved to Great Britain - he still hadn't really shed his theatrical style (something someone like Humphrey Bogart had figured out by then), I don't doubt that, provided with the right material and the right directors and actors surrounding him, Robeson could have become a major star on the level of Grant, Stewart, or Fonda. That's just how commanding he is on screen and how easy it is to immediately sympathize with his characters.

Unfortunately, however, even though it appears that Robeson was able to choose his own work by this point (at least to a certain degree), he was never able to make that jump into the great pictures of the time. It makes what by all accounts was a legendary and impressive career seem like a great disappointment in comparison to what could have been. For black Americans, sadly, it's not a story that belongs to any one person, but Robeson is perhaps film's best example of these missed opportunities.

(Ronald Neame, 1960)

Tunes of Glory belongs to the long tradition of classy productions which has defined British cinema for many viewers in - depending on one's views - either a derogatory or exemplary fashion. I choose to place myself somewhere in the middle, recognizing these works for their superb technical achievements (which ironically mostly consist of hiding the technicality of filmmaking) but often bemoaning the starched thematic constructs and old-fashioned pacing.

Characteristically, then, Neame's Tunes of Glory is alternately quite moving and somewhat emotionally distant. The film contains some truly fine performances, including one from Alec Guinness at the center which may be his best I've ever seen. But the script can get bogged down in the development of the characters' motivations and interactions. This often leads to the film feeling oddly theatrical at times, despite its origins as a novel. Even the worst of these moments, however, are carried by Guinness and John Mills in particular and the cast in general, as films of this nature so often are. Neame's direction, in a similarly typical fashion, is invisible to the casual viewer, but manages to reinforce the separation Mills feels from his men and the arrogant camaraderie Guinness employs so naturally to his benefit.  It's a thankless task in a field too often judged only on auteurism - and it's why his work has largely fallen into the middle of the historical pack - but it makes Neame an admirable craftsman.

Judging a film like Tunes of Glory - or for that matter any film of a similar nature - by modern standards of drama can often be unfair. Today's audience is used to seeing protagonists of either common or particularly exceptional nature - the everyday middle-class professional or the famous musician/politician/artist. Very rarely are we exposed to emotionally distant men tasked to a higher calling who are struggling within their own humanity and social constraints, and when we are (as in work like Mad Men) it is often through the prism of modern rhythms and perspectives. So when a film like Tunes of Glory explores lower-c conservative life it is more difficult for the broader audience to see its message as a timeless one beyond the social construct it inhabits - one of those "forest for the trees" situations. In this case, it's a beautiful forest, it's just that some of the trees have lost their luster.

(David Lean, 1954)

I had one serious problem with Hobson's Choice. Maggie Hobson, in many ways the pivotal character in the film, is played by Brenda De Banzie, an actress who was clearly 45 at the time. Yet multiple times during the film they assure us that she is, in fact, 30. In many films this wouldn't be a serious problem - for example, the only slight difference in age between Dustin Hoffman and Anne Bancroft in The Graduate is easily overlooked. But here, Maggie is supposed to be wise and mature beyond her years, making the character more sympathetic and giving her plan to branch out on her own more of a sense of risk. Instead, she just seems expectedly wise and mature, and it often feels like she has more experience than her father, played by the great Charles Laughton, who was only ten years her senior in real life. It hurts the film because this is undoubtedly the most important relationship in the story and the casting decision makes it weaker.

Apart from this one misstep, however, Hobson's Choice is a breezy comedy in the classic British tradition. Lean was hardly known for his light fare, but this film - adapted from a play of the same name - shares many of the traditionally British elements around which his other black and white films are centered. It's also a beautiful and whimsical movie, particularly in moments when Laughton is left alone to wander the streets and roam through his imagination. It's not up to par with early Lean works like his adaptation of Great Expectations or Brief Encounter (my favorite Lean film), but it's not the kind of film made with these ambitions in mind. Then again, I'd rather watch the superb and sharp-witted Kind Hearts and Coronets when I'm in the mood for a quintessential Ealing comedy.

(Anthony Asquith, 1951)

Directed a year before his flawless adaptation of The Importance of Being Earnest, Anthony Asquith's The Browning Version is a very different kind of British theater adaptation. Yet both films (and plays) are almost stereotypically British, representing the respective essences of the culture's dry wit and high-class drama. (Asquith also directed Pygmalion years before, in my opinion his masterpiece and by far the best adaptation of that play - music or no.) The Browning Version is one of the more well-regarded members of that niche subgenre that encompasses everything from Goodbye Mr. Chips to Mr. Holland's Opus: the aging-teacher drama. Like the opposite (but much more frequent) coming-of-age drama, the aging-teacher drama can be deeply moving or soaked in sentimentality and manipulation. Often, the line seems razor thin between the two, but the best of each manages to hit the notes in a natural and seemingly effortless way.

The Browning Version is extremely satisfying in this regard. But it's also the opposite of stodgy - something British dramas can suffer from. The film has stylistic moments that flirt with noir techniques, and the story alternates between tragedy and quiet optimism in the classiest manner. Asquith is also one of the most talented directors ever at translating plays into film - a deceptively difficult task that often hamstrings lesser directors who are either too focused on hiding the material's stage-bound settings or too comfortable simply capturing the play on film. Asquith is confident enough to know when to let the script breathe and when to have his cinematic technique take over.

Then there is Michael Redgrave at the center of the film, giving a superb performance. Despite his preference for the theater, his work here is not theatrical - it's a justifiably understated performance where nothing else would do. I wouldn't go so far as to say The Browning Version is a classic or a must-see. But it's the kind of movie that is rarely made anymore - particularly within the studio system in the US, if at all. That's not depressing because a film like The Browning Version gives us an especially searing or unique look at the human condition, but because it is genuinely entertaining and moving - something of which people often seem to forget dramas are very much capable.

(Zoltán Korda, 1939)

When you think of modern-day Britain - content in its declining empire status, watching the sun set ever more frequently over its dominions - it can be easy to forget that they were at one point a ruthless colonial tyrant, as jingoistic as they come. (At one point, I've been informed, they even ruled over the colonies that would become the USA - imagine that!) The Four Feathers - made just as England was entering its last great war, the one which basically ended its global reach - is a solid reminder of this shady history, a glossed-over war epic of the rah rah variety.

I don't entirely disapprove of pro-war films, but I am often surprised to encounter them, particularly those like The Four Feathers which are so cavalierly unaware of their political message. I don't think for a moment it occurred to anyone involved in the film that the viewer might initially agree with the protagonist's decision to resign from the army. Plot-wise, it seems no different than if he had committed a crime or insulted the pope. Korda's film - made the same year that Gone with the Wind bravely depicted the plight of the wealthy Southern land owner in the Civil War - operates from the basic idea that abandoning your responsibilities in war makes you a coward and denying the British Empire her rightful place as ruler over the world is the worst kind of treason.

It's not that Korda's film advocates for these positions to any large degree. The film is primarily concerned with entertaining the viewer, so it isn't especially difficult to get past its worldview (unlike, say, Blackhawk Down, which masquerades as historical journalism but only manages to set the stage for Battle: Los Angeles). The story is all rip-roaring adventure, and I do appreciate the appeal of a protagonist attempting to save the friends he wronged, delivering to them the feathers they had given him when he betrayed them. It's the kind of story Nicolas Cage could get behind, no? Still, The Four Feathers feels like The Life and Death of Colonel Blimp - a big budget British spectacle that's too busy being classy to say or do anything especially interesting.