leif-38's reviews

'The mindreader' is an allegory of Christ's persecution by the Pharisees. Hamish Briggs plays a stage performer with a mindreading act which is 'too good'. He comes to the attention of a powerful association of stage magicians, who for the life of them are unable to fathom how Briggs works his act. Utterly baffled, they decide to take him out.

This concept holds promise, and is enough to hold your interest. Even so, the realization is a disappointment. Writer and director Rich Christiano is like a hamfisted pianist who insists music is entirely about playing the right notes. The result is entirely mundane.

Production values are reminiscent of 1930s Poverty Row films. Actors go to their marks, deliver their lines, go their marks, deliver their lines, and so on. Briggs is the best part, but he's no more than pretty good. Supporting actors overact, doing him no favors. The 'get out the violin' scenes get out the violins. Literally.

This lasts about an hour, after which follows part two. It turns out the part one is in fact a movie, and a group of students discuss the allegory in tedious, agonizing, mind numbing, wooden detail. Perhaps Christiano didn't have enough footage for a full length movie and needed to pad it out.

Commenters on YouTube loved 'The mindreader', showing it appeals to a certain Christian film audience. But there is not enough depth to convert unbelievers.

PS> Ingmar Bergman's 'Ansiktet' (English title: 'The magician') uses a very similar theme, and is an incomparably better film. Watch it.

Maria Rasputin (who may or may not have been Rasputin's daughter) said watching Veidt's performance was like seeing her father resurrected, his portrayal was so eerily accurate. Veidt's gestures- whether in his eyes, with his hands, or how he obsessively smokes a cigarette- take the viewer far beyond the script's rather obvious limitations.

When Veidt heals the Tsarevitch (Kenneth Rive), the interaction between the two is genuinely poignant. During the assassination, Veidt conveys the sense that the character he plays might have been seriously misunderstood not just by the audience, but by the filmmakers themselves.

Veidt's Rasputin is alternately dissolute, menacing, or touching. As an actor he has the ability to turn on a dime, a talent he put to use in a comparable pantomime eight year's earlier as Ivan the Terrible in Paul Leni's 'Waxworks'.

With women, Veidt conveys capriciousness bordering on cruelty- one asks the return of her garter, Veidt carelessly gives her the wrong one. And while otherwise the film excels at few things, it gives an excellent sense of eroticism- these days a lost art.

Scriptwriter Osip Dymov (Yosif Isidorovich Perelman) apparently knew the titular character- which true did him no favors. The result is little more than prosaic.

As a director, Adolf Trotz is no match for Paul Leni, as the film suffers from a number of foundational flaws. First, there is no character development- Rasputin does not evolve in anyway throughout the film. The real man, in contrast, changed quite a bit during his ten years in St. Petersburg- unfortunately not for the better.

Also missing is point of view. With each scene, the director knows exactly which character the audience identifies with- providing a sense of interpretation (something along the lines of a narrator in a novel). Not so here. Scenes follow each other haphazardly- and while a few are quite memorable, overall the film lacks cohesion. The result is oddly distancing and not at all compelling in spite of Veidt.

'Rasputin: Dämon der Frauen' should be considered in its historical context- early 1930s Berlin. Rasputin was a mystic with genuine religious beliefs, and his healings appear miraculous even by today's standards. All are glossed over in the film, with Rasputin's pacifism and debauchery emphasized instead.

'Rasputin' adds up to a portrait of demimonde Petrograd at a time when catastrophe appeared on the horizon. One cannot help but wonder how well this fits early 1930s Berlin, when even the most jaded eyes could foresee disaster- ushered in by a charismatic figure of an entirely different sort.

As you can tell from some of the other, obviously tongue in cheek reviews, people watch 'Ryan's Babe' as a kind of so-bad-it's-good, unintentional comedy. The film holds your interest, and on that level it is entirely enjoyable.

There's only one problem: we can't tell whether director Ray Ramayya is an idiot or a genius.

'Ryan's Babe' is a portrait of Ryan (Bill LeVasseur), who is handsome and attractive to women but otherwise a zero. 'Ryan's Babe' is a road film- but Ryan isn't going anywhere, and Ryan never does anything. Instead, things happen to him. His character and motives are nonexistent. When Ryan isn't kidnapped (which happens three times), he is captive to his utter lack of judgment. Ryan is neither to be liked nor disliked- he is totally null and void.

'Ryan's Babe' is the cinematic equivalent of a picaresque novel, a genre that follows the life of a low level criminal. These novels follow the character through a series of loosely connected episodes, but lack a conventional plot. In the world of film, 'Ryan's Babe' is in the same territory as Stanley Kubricks 'Barry Lyndon' and Rainer Werner Fassbinder's 'Querelle'.

So far so good. But intentionally or not, Ramayya filmed a movie about a man whose life is totally out of control in a style which is totally out of control. It's difficult to make a film about a bore which isn't boring, yet this film is enjoyable and the style genuinely innovative.

Ramayya juxtaposes action, dialog, sound, and expression in a way we have never seen before. Dialog is a series of non sequiturs, and the automated dialogue replacement is strangely dissonant. Foreshadowing leads nowhere, and there is a near total disconnect between events. Flashbacks within flashbacks recall 'Pulp fiction's' non-sequential editing.

Ryan's adventures are violent and entirely ludicrous, which only adds to the film. More than making any statement, Ramayya seems intent on creating his own reality (something John Waters did successfully in 'Dangerous living').

'Ryan's Babe' is a paradox. We can't tell if it's more in keeping with 'An Andalusian dog' or 'The room'- surrealism often verges on the ridiculous. Either way, David Lynch should take note.

Before there was Hollywood, the world's film capitals were Rome and Copenhagen. 'Mormonens offer' ('A Victim of the Mormons', 1911) is one of the few surviving Danish films of this era. It tells the tale of a beautiful young woman who is kidnapped into an evil cult- namely the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter Day Saints (LDS).

1911 was the year of the 'Mormon Scare'. The LDS were proselytizing in the UK, Germany, and Scandinavia with considerable success, when Hans Peter Fleece, an LDS apostate, took to the lecture circuit- telling anyone who would listen that the Mormons kidnapped innocent young girls and forced them into polygamous marriage in Utah. It did not help when it became known that polygamous marriages were taking place in Utah (though none were LDS sanctioned). None less than Winston Churchill lead a Parliamentary investigation and found the kidnapping charges groundless.

Nordisk Film Kompagni had previous success making 'white slavery' films, so a movie about the Mormon Scare was a logical next step. 'A Victim of the Mormons' turned out to be an international success, playing in Utah despite the objections of the governor and the LDS church.

In this movie, a Mormon Svengali- Andrew Larson (played with presence by Valdemar Psilander)- seduces the naive Nina Gram (Clara Pontoppidan). The girl agrees to run away with him, but when she has second thoughts, Larson drugs her and ties her up. He absconds with her to Utah, where she receives sympathy only from Larson's wife. Nina's brother and fiancé follow Larson to Utah, where they try to rescue Nina. Deeds of derring-do follow in due course.

The one memorable scene is the baptism, in which Larson immerses a bevy of young girls into a huge font in an art noveau set. It is implied that after this rite, the girls will become sex slaves and that return is impossible. So we have pretty girls, seduction, drugs, kidnapping, pagan rites, and sex slavery. What's not to like? Nearly everything is implied, but audiences of 1911 would have been quite titillated.

Titillation is a drink served stronger today, and at any rate 'daring' invariably loses its luster with time. So what's left? In this case not much. The story is a rather dull melodrama, without mystery or ambiguity.

And 'A Victim of the Mormons' fails to transcend the limitations of the early medium. There is no subjective camera, no sense of personality, and we don't particularly sympathize with anyone. The actors came from world of the theater and with the exception of Psilander fail to carry a theatrical presence in a silent medium. The sets and compositions are professionally done, but except for the baptismal set less than artistic. Early movies are essentially moving tableux, which in this case proves stultifying.

Worst of all, 'A Victim of the Mormons' doesn't really have the histronic, out-of-control feel that makes flicks like 'Reefer Madness' of 'Narcotic' a lot of fun.

If you're a student of early film or LDS history, this film might be worth sitting through. Otherwise, don't bother.

'Padre Pio: between heaven and earth (English title)' draws an adulatory portrait of the saint. The first part follows Pio (Michele Placido) as a young man- entering the Capuchin monastery at San Giovanni Rotondo, developing stigmata, and describing his grandiose vision of a 'home for the relief of suffering'. The second part portrays him in later years, building the hospital and enduring Church investigation (which included bugging his cell).

Uniting both parts is his friendship with Guglielmo Sanguinetti (Fabio Camilli), an idealistic doctor who becomes the director of the Home for the Relief of Suffering. Sanguinetti begins as an atheist- when his wife Emilia (Barbora Bobulova) insists on meeting Pio he declares: 'I'll come with you, but only as your driver.' His gradual conversion is one of the film's major themes.

'Pio' is made in the years leading up Pio's canonization, and appears an argument for sainthood. Director Giulio Base gives us a Pio who fits our expectations of a typical saint (as if such a thing can exist!) Pio suffers through endless investigation, but the very real reasons for doubt are glossed over or ignored.

'Pio' sometimes works as a narrative, but sometimes looks more like a series of vignettes- as if the director could not decide what kind of movie he wanted to make. It lacks cohesion and is painfully slow at times.

Pio's miracles are of course an important part of the movie. Stigmata and supernatural knowledge are emphasized, but bilocation is only shown once- and then only by implication.

While Michele Placido gives a strong performance I somehow doubt we are seeing the real St. Pio- a contradictory and sometimes difficult man who surrounded himself with an entourage that blurred the line between mysticism and fanaticism. The DVD contains an afterward showing Pope Jean-Paul at Pio's canonization.

The movie is Catholic propaganda- depicting canonization as in inevitability. It paints a picture of the Catholic vision of suffering and spirituality, and its best moments are completely moving.

Pio lead a life which gives both Christians and atheists reason for doubt. This piece of hagiography has its place, but I'm waiting for a film which gives a fuller portrait of this complex man.

A man who neglects his family gets a second chance when his soul enters the body of a petty criminal. While this theme offers interesting possibilities, none of them are realized here. Between death and reincarnation, Nick (Sam Roberts) stands around wearing a cheap suit, hiking boots, a bad haircut, and an expression which says, 'I can't understand why Canadian films are so boring.'

'Fish story' takes no chances. It gets nothing really wrong, but nothing is really right, either. It's almost as if the director were aiming at mediocrity. The contrived plot, two dimensional characters, awkward sentimentality, and utter lack of ambiguity are reminiscent of a 1940s radio play.

Fritz Lang's 1934 'Liliom' deals with a related theme and was filmed on a similarly low budget. It's thoroughly wonderful. 'Fish story' is closer to 'The Talking Cat', but without Eric Roberts' warmth and charm.

In 'Fish story's' surprise ending, Eddie (Eddie McClintock) returns to a life of crime. He breaks into the Possum Lodge, where Red's nerdy nephew Harold has constructed a burglar trap made entirely of duck tape. (OK. I made this up, but it would have improved the movie immensely.) Otherwise, the only reason to recommend this film is its soporific value.

Loosely based on the autobiography of Gjest Baardsen, a 19th century outlaw, this eponymous 1939 film was the most popular Norwegian movie of the era.

After the 1814 war with Sweden, Norway is bankrupt and the government decides to confiscate all silver in the land. Anna Reinche (Vibeke Falk) owns a chest of silver. On this account, she is pursued by the nefarious prosecutor Mons Peder Michelsen (Joachim Holst-Jensen). Enter Gjest Baardson (Alfred Maurstad), a thief who prefers craft to violence.

The film looks like a B movie remake of Robin Hood, and compares favorably to the Douglas Fairbanks and Errol Flynn melodramas. Maurstad has a good comedic sense, even if he's no Fairbanks. Vibeke Falk is astonishingly beautiful, and Holst-Jensen– usually a comedic actor– is suitably sinister.

'Gjest Baardson' alternates between studio scenes with extensive dialog and mostly silent location scenes. The studio scenes are well lit, but really nothing special. Unfortunately, these predominate. The location shots are interesting, contrasting the narrow, claustrophobic streets of Bergen with the ragged, outsize mountains of the Fjordland. (The film also contains two musical numbers, which were very popular at the time.)

'Gjest Baardson' was a Norwegian attempt at a Hollywood melodrama. It was released during the dark days immediately preceding the May 1940 German invasion, As escapism, the movie succeeded admirably– providing audiences with something the probably needed at this time.

This rockumentary documents the making of John Cale's "The Falklands suite", which sets Dylan Thomas poetry to music, backed by a symphony orchestra and a boys' choir. The result is either ethereal or insufferable, depending on the listener. Cale and producer Brian Eno are the two of the most highly talented musicians in the rock genre, so this film promises to be highly interesting.

Unfortunately, Cale invites filmmaker Rob Nilsson without informing Eno, who as a matter of policy forbids cameras during recording sessions. So we're treated to surveillance camera film and shots of Eno telling Nilsson to leave. Brian Eno observes he doesn't see a way the film could be interesting in the end. Unfortunately, he's on target. The result is a collage that really doesn't shed light on Cale and Eno's collaboration in a satisfying way.

The most revealing scenes are incidental: A Russian rock musician explains that the Soviets held up the Velvet Underground and especially Andy Warhol as symbols of western decadence, and that Cale's very presence in a state studio is proof of Glasnost. John Cale and his family return to Wales and visit his mother in order to dispose of the family home. Cale listens to video of two highly critical fans and reflects "those observations are very cogent".

In the final scene, Cale remarks "You know that whole thing about the separate things that when you put them together give you a third thing that's not there. Well, I don't have it." He could have been talking about this film.

Prästänkan (literal translation of title: The Parson's Widow).

The Parson's Widow is significant for two reasons– It is one of the very few national romantic films, and it's one of the very first films to make extensive use of locations.

National romanticism was a 19th century movement that glorified pure hearted, independent farmers (as opposed to the aristocrats) and looked to the hinterlands as a source of pure culture and moral inspiration. It was particularly influential in Norway, the film's location.

As The Parson's Widow begins, Søfren, a divinity student, is offered a position in a rural parish¬– provided he marries the parson's elderly widow. He accepts, despite his betrothal to Mari, whom he passes off as his sister. This theme could exist only in a land where poverty and hunger were facts of life.

Modern audiences may find The Parson's Widow overly moralistic and sentimental. It has a 19th century feel– owing more to romantics like Bjørnstjerne Bjørnson than to more modern novelists like Knut Hamsun, who won the Nobel prize for literature in 1920, the year the film was made. At that point, national romanticism was on its way out.

The story has a few supernatural overtones, but this is no horror film. In The Parson's Widow, the fantastic elements originate from folk beliefs and function primarily as cultural references.

Set in an indefinite past, The Parson's Widow makes extensive use of locations at a time when few filmmakers ventured beyond studio doors. It idealizes rural life in a way that anticipates Robert Flaherty's Man of Aran. And, like Flaherty's film, The Parson's Widow meticulously recreates practices that were rapidly disappearing.

The opening scenes were shot at Garmo stavkirke (stave church) in Maihaugen– the open air museum in Lillehammer, Norway. The farmstead scenes are probably shot at the same place, and the older extras would have been the last generation to learn the crafts they demonstrate as part of daily life.

People today will view The Parson's Widow primarily because it is an early film of director Carl Theodore Dreyer. But this is no beginner's work. Beautiful composition, expressive lighting, and obsessive attention to detail are signature marks of the director who gave us The Passion of Joan of Arc and Vampyr. The Parson's Widow stands as a minor masterpiece in its own right, but the romanticism is unlikely to resonate with today's audiences.