Film Criticism – Ash Clifton, Writer

What I’m Reading: “Bogie and Bacall”

So many good books have already been written about Hollywood legend Humphrey Bogart that even a biographer as talented as William J. Mann must have felt the need to find a new twist. A new gimmick. And with Bogie and Bacall: The Surprising True Story of Hollywood’s Greatest Love Affair, Mann found one—a combined biography of Bogart and his famous wife, Lauren Bacall. It makes sense. After all, in the last years of his life, Bogie found himself as half of the first great celebrity couple. Long before Bennifer or The Beckhams or even Taylor/Burton, Bogie-and-Bacall entranced the public with both their movies and their marriage, never mind the fact that the public image of their relationship was largely fabricated by studio hacks.

It wasn’t all fabricated, though. Yes, Bogart and Bacall spent much of their marriage living somewhat separate lives, as one might expect in a pairing where one partner is so much older (and hard-bitten). They often travelled separately, for extended periods. Bogart continued a intermittent affair with his long-time mistress, and Bacall had an intense (and possibly physical) relationship with Frank Sinatra, to whom she was briefly engaged after Bogart’s death. Yet, by all accounts, the love and respect between the world’s most famous couple was genuine and deep. So deep, in fact, that Bogart actually cut down on the booze, at least for a time, after Bacall got sick of him coming home plastered (when he came home at all).

Indeed, in Mann’s telling, the story feels very much like a redemption tale for Bogart. This is especially true since most of the book is devoted to his life story. I would estimate a 70/30 split between words devoted to Bogie and Bacall, respectively—an imbalance that makes sense for a number of reasons. For one, Bogart’s biography began twenty-five years before Bacall’s. And by the time their romance first kindled in 1944 (and the Bogie-and-Bacall legend thus began), Bogart had been a movie star for over a decade and had already made his two greatest films, The Maltese Falcon and Casablanca, establishing him as the most important film actor of his (or perhaps any) generation.

So, it’s perhaps inevitable that most of Mann’s book would be devoted to his life story. And, as Mann reveals, most of that story was taken up by his Bogart’s two obsessions—acting and booze. The two pursuits were related, of course; Bogart’s damaged psychological state (he had a sterile, lonely childhood) informed his acting even as it fueled his drinking. A deeply intelligent man, Bogart honed his artistry to a level unseen previously in cinema—he could play heroes and villains with equal prolixity—yet his intellect caused him to hate most of the Hollywood people he met, including himself.

Beginning in his youth, Bogart was known for getting drunk and punching other guys in the face. He took the habit with him to Hollywood, where he struggled for years under the thumb of studio system, grinding out B- and C-grade melodramas for the ruthless Jack Warner. And even as his star began to rise (his breakout role was that of a mesmerizingly evil villain in 1936’s The Petrified Forest, much like Javier Bardem’s in No Country for Old Men), his drinking only intensified.

As often happens with alcoholics, Bogart soon married someone who could match him drink-for-drink. Mayo Methot was a highly regarded actress who starred in many films throughout the 1930s. She was beautiful, intelligent, and deeply troubled. After marrying Bogart, she essentially gave up her already waning film career, and the disappointment and frustration of married life drove her to drink even more. And fight. Humphrey and Mayo soon became known as “The Battling Bogarts” in the tabloid press for their frequent, public rows. One of the most notable of these came while they were on a U.S.O. tour in Italy, entertaining troops fresh off the battlefields of World War II.

[The] Battling Bogarts made at least one appearance. After practically “distilling themselves” drinking with a group of paratroopers, the couple squabbled and Mayo locked her husband out of their room. As Bogie attempted to break in, he was apprehended by a colonel, whom he told to go to hell. As a guest of the army, he was called to account. “I didn’t mean to insult the uniform,” he said during a hearing. Looking at the colonel, he said, “I only meant to insult you.”

Despite their conflicts, Bogart doggedly remained married to Methot. Until, of course, he met a nineteen-year-old beauty named Betty Joan Perske, who went by the stage name Lauren Bacall.

One the most compelling aspects of Mann’s book is the almost unbelievable contrast between Bogart’s long, grueling rise to fame over almost two decades and Bacall’s overnight success. Bacall was doing a bit of acting and modelling work in New York when her photograph was spotted by Nancy Keith, wife of legendary actor Howard Hawks. Keith convinced her husband to give her a call. As if that development weren’t serendipitous enough for the young actress, Hawks’s secretary misunderstood his instructions and sent Bacall a plane ticket to Hollywood for a screen test. After meeting Bacall in person, Hawks was so taken by her beauty, intelligence, and poise that he immediately signed her to a seven-year contract. For her first picture, To Have and Have Not, she had a small part, intended to only give her one or two short scenes with the lead, Humphrey Bogart.

There is a scene in Homer’s Odyssey washes ashore on the island of Phaeacia. Naked and starving, he is discovered the virginal princess Nausicaa, who takes pity on him and saves him. I have heard the moment of their meeting described by one professor as “absolute innocence (Nausicaa) meeting absolute experience (Odysseus).” After all, by this point in the story, Odysseus has been at war for ten years, lost at sea for another seven, survived numerous monsters, witnessed the death of all his men, been held as a captive sex-slave by two powerful women (Circe and Calypso), and even made a short trip to hell (well, Hades).

I thought of all this as I read Mann’s account of the romance that quickly blossomed between the teenaged ingenue Bacall and the forty-five-year-old, world-weary, thrice-married, hard-drinking Bogart. But while Bacall might have been something of a princess (in Hollywood terms, at least), she was not a total innocent. As Mann recounts, she had been single-minded and ruthless in her pursuit of acting career, attending the American Academy of Dramatic Arts in New York (where she had a crush on one of her classmates, a young Kirk Douglas). After graduating, she endeared herself to various directors, producers, and writers until she finally got a few breaks, appearing in at least two high-profile productions. And though, according to Mann, she never succumbed to the casting couch, she had no qualms about flirting with older, powerful men to get ahead.

This series of flirtations culminated with Hawks himself, who took Bacall under his wing, sculpting her image and even teaching her how to lower her naturally high-pitched voice. (Yes, Bacall’s famously low, sexy, husky voice, immortalized in an erotic moment in To Have and Have Not, was as fake as Bogart’s toupees.)

Yes, Hawks was clearly grooming her for an eventual affair (perhaps even a marriage), and when he realized that she had become infatuated with Bogart, he was livid. However, to his credit, Hawks cared more about making a good movie than about bedding Bacall. Watching the dailies, he took note of the obvious, crackling chemistry between Bogie and Bacall, and he had the script revised to expand her part, giving them more screen time together. Hawks also featured Bacall heavily in all of the film’s publicity.

In less than a year, Bogart had divorced Methot and married Bacall. Taking over from Hawks, Bogart became Bacall’s mentor as well as her husband, instilling in her his passion for acting at a deep, psychological level years before The Method was even a thing.

Bogie remained her acting teacher. Once, after watching Betty rehearse a scene in which she opened a door, he told her, “You walked out there like a model.” She took his advice and changed her stride. “You must always realize you have come from someplace,” Bogie went on. “What were you doing before? Were you filing your nails? Were you writing a letter?” Every scene must convey an attitude. “That is a very important part of acting, and I never forgot it,” Betty later said.

As I said above, their marriage was initially rocky but soon settled into a mellow, happy rhythm. They lived somewhat separate lives, but were united in their love of acting and also their political causes. (Bogart was what we would now call a liberal, so much so that he was—like so many liberals today—accused of being a communist; Bacall, for her part, was so involved in Democratic politics that she nearly had an affair with Adlai Stevenson.) They also had two children.

Then, after over a decade, the marriage ended when Bogart died of throat cancer. Bacall was, of course, still a young woman (in her thirties), and the last third of Mann’s book covers the rest of her long and surprisingly illustrious life. For while it is clear that Bacall was neither as good an actor as her late husband nor as powerful a cultural influence, she was still pretty damned cool. Having moved back to New York after her leading roles in Hollywood began to dry up, she went on to a long and distinguished career as a stage actress, eventually winning two Tony Awards. She also did the occasional character bit in films, most notably her Oscar-nominated performance in 1996’s The Mirror Has Two Faces.

That’s another reason I really liked this book. Bacall’s life serves as a kind of bridge between the old Hollywood of Bogart’s day and the New Hollywood of the 1970s, when I got into films as a kid, and then into the modern era. She spanned three worlds, at least, and did so with enormous charm.

What I’m Watching: “The Ninth Gate”

** SPOILERS BELOW**

(Disclaimer: This essay is about a film by the director Roman Polanski, who, as of this writing, is a fugitive from justice in the United States on rape charges involving a minor. I have no opinion regarding Mr. Polanski as a person. This essay merely concerns the film as a work of art.)

Well, it’s October, and I’m officially starting to my annual marathon of horror movies that I watch in my spare time. This week, I re-watched Roman Polanski’s 1999 flick, The Ninth Gate, starring Johnny Depp in his pre-Jack Sparrow era. I first saw the film on DVD about a year after it came out, and I liked it. Now, after my second viewing, my feelings are slightly different: I really like it. In fact, I think it’s one of my favorite horror movies of all time.

One of the Devil’s Engravings in “The Ninth Gate”

This might seem surprising to some film buffs. After all, the movie has gotten a lot of hate in the quarter-century since it came out. As of this writing, it has a 44% “Fresh” rating (i.e. “Rotten”) on Rotten Tomatoes, and it hasn’t fared much better on IMDB. I am always surprised and depressed when something I really like gets such a bad rap. Such a disconnect makes a person question their taste, if not their sanity. Am I crazy, or is everyone else?

I should be used to this. Many, many of my favorite films—starting with Blade Runner in 1982—were commercial and critical flops when they came out, only to achieve cult status later on. Judging by the number of YouTube videos that are now devoted to “explaining” The Ninth Gate, I would guess that it, too, has now become a cult film.

Which is a good thing, because more people should see it. The story follows a chain-smoking, world-weary book dealer, Dean Corso (Johnny Depp), who is hired by a billionaire collector, Balkan (Frank Langella), to verify the authenticity of a 17th-century book of the occult, The Nine Gates of the Kingdom of Shadows. The book has nine engravings in it (which look a lot like the images on ancient Tarot cards), which some believe to be encoded with secret information that can conjure up Satan. Apparently, two other versions of the book exist, each held in a separate private collection, and Balkan wants Corso to compare those versions to his.

Corso flies to Europe to begin his investigation, prowling down shadowy, medieval streets in various ancient cities. The movie thus becomes a kind of noir detective movie, with Depp doing an impressive job as the hard-boiled detective, inching his way deeper and deeper into a dark secret. As with any hard-boiled detective yarn, he soon encounters two beautiful women—Liana Telfer (the radiant Lena Olin), a rich femme fatale who once owned a copy of the book, and a mysterious, dangerous-looking blond girl who looks dresses like a European backpacker, without the backpack. This girl, played by the stunning Emmanuelle Seigner (star of Polanski’s earlier film, Frantic), becomes an even bigger enigma than the one Corso is pursuing. Corso dubs her “Green Eyes,” and she seems to be following him, appearing out of nowhere at various times on his quest, often protecting him (she knows kung fu) from various henchmen that intent on stealing his copy of the book—and probably killing him in the process.

As one would expect, Corso’s search turns nasty, with everyone he questions ending up dead in some grisly and perhaps supernatural fashion ala The Omen. He learns that the engravings in each of the books are slightly different from each other, with some being signed LCF for Lucifer. He deduces that these altered versions hold the key to a Satanic ritual, and, indeed, the trail eventually leads him to a coven of rich devil worshipers who seek to use the book to conjure up old Scratch himself.

If it all sounds like horror-movie hokum, it is. In fact, The Ninth Gate reminded me of many great B-movies from the 1960s and 70s like The Witches, Eye of the Devil, The Dunwich Horror, and, yes, The Omen. These are all creepy, supernatural horror movies that are best viewed late at night on TV with the lights off, the viewer munching popcorn and wondering what Satanic will be revealed next. I love how Polanski was able to replicate the B-movie appeal of those old movies in what is, obviously, an A-movie like The Ninth Gate, with movie stars (Depp, Olin, Langella), high production values, gorgeous cinematography, exotic locations, and one of the most ethereal, haunting scores ever written, composed by Wojciech Kilar. At heart, it’s still a schlocky old horror thriller, with ancient tomes, black-robed witches, castles, and bloody murders. Somehow, Polanski celebrates all those familiar tropes even as he ever so lightly mocks them.

Yet, at the same time, the movie is a damned good psychological thriller. For one thing, the acting is uniformly great. 1999 found Depp at the height of his appeal both physically and artistically. Polanski was reluctant to cast him, apparently, because Corso is supposed to be 40-something, whereas Depp was 34 at the time. But even with his hair sprayed conspicuously gray at the temples (to suggest encroaching middle age, obviously), Depp is completely convincing as the corrupt but strangely honorable Corso. This is a man for whom the adjective “cynical” doesn’t suffice. He’s selfish, hedonistic, and completely jaded—a man who thinks he can no longer be shocked by anything. And so, his accelerating sense of horror at the mysteries he soon uncovers is, somehow, all the more believable. He is soon forced to take account for his actions, even as his quest leads him into dangers that any sensible person would shun. In every scene of violence, horror, or sex (sometimes all three at once), Depp sells it wholeheartedly. It’s one of his best performances.

As for the supporting cast, Langella is at his absolute best as the elegant yet creepily sinister Balkan, whose character represents what some now call “the Epstein class.” That is, a fabulously rich guy who is evil AF. With his velvety voice and understated delivery, Langella steals every scene he’s in—including one where he’s not even on-screen. Late in the film’s second act, Corso discovers that Balkan’s copy of the book has been stolen from his (Corso’s) hotel room, and when he calls Balkan to deliver the bad news, the scene is truly terrifying. I could almost do an entire essay on how Langella—completely unseen, mind you—delivers one of the most chilling monologues in film history. It’s great stuff.

Lena Olin is also great. She made a career of playing sophisticated, seductive women (see Paul Mazurski’s great movie, Enemies: A Love Story) and she really shines in this one. In the role of Liana, a supposedly grieving widow who turns out to be a devil-worshipper herself, she is by turns demure, wanton, and vicious. And always bewitching (forgive the pun).

Yet, in some ways, the real casting triumph of the film is that of Emmanuelle Seigner. To cast his “Green Eyes,” Polanski didn’t have to look very far—like, across the bed. Yes, Seigner was (and remains) his real-life wife. And while casting a family member in a film is often a recipe for disaster for directors, Seigner is perfect in the role. She has perhaps a hundred words of dialogue, so her performance is, in effect, almost like that of a silent movie. Which is perfect, because she doesn’t need words. With her almost brutal, Gallic features and (yes) her mesmerizing green eyes, Seigner hypnotizes Corso every time she looks at him, not to mention the viewer. And with her bemused smile and unflappable demeanor, she exudes power and confidence, anticipating the great female superheroes like Black Widow and the Scarlet Witch that would begin to populate the Marvel MCU a decade later. When Green Eyes kicks a bad guy’s ass, we believe she could really do it.

Her smile also hints at hidden knowledge. Throughout the film, she clearly knows a lot more about what’s going on than Corso does. Which leads to one of the great topics of discussion about the film, to which dozens of blog posts and YouTube videos have been devoted: Who is she? An avenging angel? The Whore of Babylon? The devil himself (er…herself)?

And that question leads, inevitably, to the even greater one about the movie’s ending, which has been controversial since the film’s release. Why does Corso go back to the castle, and why does it erupt in blazing white light? Is it a fulfillment of the Latin phrase that Corso himself quotes earlier in the film, “nunc scio tenebris lux,” translated as “now I know light from darkness”? Does it suggest that, at last, Corso had released Lucifer (whose name literally means, “bringer of light”)?

For whatever reason, the ending works for me. I like the fact that Polanski doesn’t try to spell it out (whatever “it” is), or, even worse, CGI-bomb the final scenes with some computer-generated images of Satan emerging from hell. It’s just a fade-to-white. Cool.

If you haven’t seen The Ninth Gate (and if I haven’t completely spoiled it by now), you should check it out. It’s one of the most underrated movies of the past fifty years. It’s also a great pick for Halloween.

Ten Great Movies About New York

Author’s Note: I should have had this post ready for the 25^th Commemoration of the 9/11 attacks on Friday, but I didn’t. Better late than never, I hope.

Like a lot of Southern boys with a literary bent, I absolutely love New York City. Ever since I went there in the early 1990s to visit a girlfriend (herself a native New Yorker), I have been entranced by the place, a feeling which only deepened after I got a remote job with a Manhattan consulting firm and got to make frequent trips there for business. (That’s the best way to see The City—when someone else is paying for it.)

Ever since then, it’s often occurred to me that NYC is still Hollywood’s most beloved city, too, with L.A. coming in a distant (and often more loathed than loved) second. This is probably due to the fact that NYC is still the cultural and artistic center of the nation, as well as the place where many young actors and directors get their start, still.

Of course, many great films show the dark side of New York. Too many to mention, in fact, but the list includes Rosemary’s Baby, Seven, Taxi Driver, The Warriors, Bad Lieutenant, and on and on. However, I want to focus on films that show it in a favorable light. That is, movies where The City is almost a main character, and a great one at that.

Here is a list of my top ten favorites. Note that I am including all five boroughs in my criteria, although Manhattan is, as usual, the stand-out.

Moonstruck

Moonstruck is the greatest romantic comedy film ever made. And so, it makes perfect sense that it takes place in New York City, which is our most romantic city. That is, it has the most character, the most mystery, and the most beauty. Like a lot of the films on this list, it takes place in one of the boroughs—Brooklyn, in this case, with its great Italian-American culture. Never has that city-within-a-city, with its family-owned shops, brownstones, and restaurants, seemed so magical. Like “moonlight in a martini,” as one character says. (He’s speaking of a woman, but close enough.)

Throughout the film, the towers of Manhattan loom in the distance like a fairy-tale kingdom, to which the heroine, Loretta Castorini (Cher), finally ventures with her new unlikely “prince,” Ronny (Nicholas Cage in one of his definitive roles) when he takes her to the opera.

Do the Right Thing

Spike Lee’s masterpiece from 1989 is not only one of the best movies ever made, it is also one of the very few to depict life in a predominantly black urban community (except crime thrillers full of drug dealers and prostitutes). Set in the legendary Bed-Stuy neighborhood of Brooklyn, it follows the lives of several people who live and work there, including Mookie (Spike Lee), a pizza-delivery man, his sister Jade (Joie Lee), and his boss, Sal (Danny Aiello). The story takes place on a single, hot summer day when tensions—racial, economic, familial, and sexual—all reach a boiling point. It’s a great film with a great soundtrack, to which artists as diverse as Public Enemy and Teddy Riley contributed. With its combination of propulsive music, kinetic cinematography, and excellent, all-in performances by the stars, Do the Right Thing captures the energy and spirit of working-class New York better than any other film. More importantly, it’s one of the first hit movies to focus on the African-American community of New York, which gets a lot more attention than the Italian-American or Irish-American or Any-Other-American community.

Basically, it’s just a great movie.

Manhattan

What list of great New York movies could be complete without at least one entry from The City’s most iconic director, Woody Allen? (Okay, he’s probably tied with Martin Scorsese; see below). Manhattan is Allen’s lyrical cinematic ode to the borough, shot in sumptuous black-and-white and featuring the music of George Gershwin (whose work, apparently, inspired the film). It tells the story of Isaac (Allen), a middle-aged TV comedy writer who is dating a beautiful, brilliant seventeen-year-old, Stacy (Mariel Hemingway). Their relationship might seem ridiculous (even he finds it so), but he’s happy. At least, he thinks he is, until his life is upended by a woman his own age, Mary (Diane Keaton). Mary is Isaac’s equal in intellect, spirit, and sheer neurotic energy, and he finds himself smitten with her. Unfortunately, she is currently the mistress of his best friend, Yale (Michael Murphy), who seems to take her affections for granted.

Like most of Allen’s early classics, Manhattan is an almost Dickensian satire of highly-paid, arty New Yorkers, with their hilarious pretensions and absurdly tortured relationships. Isaac laughs at them almost as much as he laughs at himself. But it’s clear that he (like Allen) loves them, too. Especially Mary. She essentially functions as a stand-in for Manhattan (the city) itself—complex, gorgeous, and endlessly changeable.

Arthur

Steven Gordon’s 1981 rom-com Arthur is not a great film, but it is a very, very good one. Not only did it make Dudley Moore a Hollywood movie star (he had already been famous in the U.K. for decades), it revitalized the careers of Shakespearean actor John Gielgud and music-legend Liza Minelli. More importantly, the film brilliantly evokes the magic of Manhattan, as seen through the eyes of rich, alcoholic, and extremely lovable playboy, Arthur Bach.

Arthur (Moore) is a brilliantly witty, talented, and rich man. He is also a congenial drunk. He spends his days enjoying bubble baths in a huge, gilded tub set in the center of his penthouse apartment, sipping martinis made for him by his long-suffering butler, Hobson (Gielgud). Then, he spends his nights wining-and-dining streetwalkers whom he picks up on 8^th Avenue.

In the hands of a lesser actor, Arthur might well have come off as a pathetic—even repulsive—character. But Moore was able to infuse him with so much charm and humor that it’s impossible not to like him. Crucially, Moore also imbues him with his (Moore’s) own wounded and vulnerable qualities. While Arthur has been psychologically crippled by his domineering and sadistic father, Moore was a chronically shy person who grew up with a myriad of physical disabilities (including a clubfoot). And Arthur, like Moore himself, was enchanting in his apparent childishness combined with a rapier wit.

In short, Arthur is a glittering, New York City archetype: the charming drunk who makes good in the end. And the movie’s title song, “Arthur’s Theme (Best That You Can Do),” is also a classic.

After Hours

Martin Scorsese is known for a lot of things, but comedy isn’t one of them. Yet his 1985 film, After Hours is one of the funniest movies about NYC ever made. It follows the nightmarish adventure of a likeable, unassuming nebbish, Paul (Griffin Dunne), who works in a Manhattan office as a “word processor.” One day, he ventures to SoHo in pursuit of a beautiful young woman, Marcy (Roseanna Arquette), whom he has met at a café earlier. Things go pear-shaped when Paul loses all his money en route to Marcy’s apartment. When he finally gets there, he meets her equally beautiful—but also dangerous and possibly insane—roommate, Kiki (Linda Fiorentino), a sculptress who dabbles in S&M. Thus begins a Dantesque—and very funny—descent into the bowels of lower Manhattan, with its odd cast of avant garde artists, deranged cabbies, bar hoppers, burglars, and general freaks. Anyone who’s ever lost their wallet on the wrong side of NYC will instantly relate to this film, which celebrates The City’s weirdness as much as it mocks it.

Dinner Rush

What list of great NYC movies would be complete without at least one film about the restaurant scene? My favorite is a little indie production from 2000, Dinner Rush. Directed by Bob Giraldi, the plot focuses on a single night in the lives of the people who run a posh TriBeCa restaurant. The joint is owned by Louis (Danny Aiello), an avuncular bookie and former mafioso, whose son, Udo, is the brilliant but pretentious head chef. Udo refuses to cook the traditional Italian meals that Louis loves, so the sous-chef, Duncan (Kirk Acevedo), secretly prepares them for him. Duncan is a working-class kid with a bad gambling habit, and Louis obviously thinks of him as a kind of second, “better” son. Duncan and Udo seem to hate each other, but they help each other when the going gets rough.

Intrigues abound among the restaurant staff as well as the diverse array of patrons who show up, including an art gallery owner (and his starving artists), a food critic, two young hoods, a pretty office girl, and a charming, mysterious Wall Street broker whose significance isn’t revealed until the end of the movie. (I won’t spoil it; you’ll have to watch the movie.)

Working Girl

In many ways, Working Girl is the best movie on this list, with its tale of a hive-haired, Staten Island girl, Tess (Melanie Griffith), with the intelligence and audacity to take a shot at success in the cutthroat business world of New York.

Specifically, Tess dreams of becoming an executive in the big Manhattan M&A firm where she works as a secretary. That is, she dreams of becoming her boss, Katharine (Sigourney Weaver in one of her best roles), a tough-as-nails business operative. Katharine, whose blue-blood background is as upscale as Tess’s is trashy, seems nice at first, and even promises to mentor Tess on her way up the corporate ladder. But when Tess discovers that Katharine has secretly stolen one of Tess’s business ideas and fobbed it off as her own, she decides to beat Katherine and the whole, male-dominated business world at their own game.

I love this movie because not only is it one of the best romantic comedies ever made, it also asks many questions about the nature of the American dream: is it real? Is it corrupt? What does a girl have to do (really) to achieve it?

Fame

Alan Parker’s 1980 film Fame is an underrated film about the experiences of “gifted kids” who attend New York’s High School for the Performing Arts. As with any coming-of-age tale, the main characters—who each focus on dance, acting, or music—discover a lot about themselves as people, and also about what it takes to succeed in the arts. That is, how to achieve real fame.

The young actors are all first-rate, including Gene Anthony Ray, who had never acted before. A young Irene Cara is a stand-out. All-in-all, Fame is a great study of that most celebrated aspect of New York City: its music, theater, and dance culture. Basically, it’s about the bush-league for Broadway.

Men in Black

At one point in Barry Sonnenfeld’s classic summer movie, Men in Black, one of the main characters, veteran MIB agent K (Tommy Lee Jones) tells his young trainee that the MIB headquarters are “Just like Casablanca. Only no Nazis.” But this is not quite right. A much more apt description would be Ellis Island, where immigrants from all over the world (galaxy, in this case) come to gain entry to our civilization.

You don’t have to be an English lit major to glean that Men in Black is all about immigration and the diversity that immigration brings. The film opens with the MIB men disrupting an NIS raid of a truck near the Mexican border. (K mocks the way the NIS men treat the “dangerous aliens”—i.e., Mexican immigrants.) Later, the new MIB recruit, J (Will Smith), routinely mistakes weird-looking (but human) people on the streets of New York for extraterrestrials.

The point of the movie is that, well, we’re all people. (Except for those evil bugs, of course.) And diversity is a good thing—a miraculous thing—which is another reason NYC is the coolest city in the universe.

Ghostbusters

One of my favorite scenes in Ivan Reitman’s Ghostbusters is the one in which the demon-possessed accountant Louis Tully (Rick Moranis) wanders the streets of Central Park West. He encounters a horse-drawn carriage driver and warns the man (and his horse) about the imminent coming of Gozer, the God of Destruction. After Louis staggers off, the driver thinks for a moment and says to himself, “What an asshole.”

To me, this moment reveals the message of the entire movie—that New Yorkers are the toughest, most unflappable people on earth. They can handle anything, so long as they stick together.

While purportedly a horror-comedy, Ghostbusters is mainly one long celebration of that New York attitude, especially as demonstrated by Peter Venkman, the quick-thinking, bullshit-spewing, totally selfish guy who leads the Ghostbuster team. Venkman is one of the great anti-heroes of American cinema. He thinks he’s just looking out for himself—until the shit hits the fan and he has to step up to protect his friends and his city.

Another great example is the old rich guy in the lobby of the building where the heroes catch Slimer. When Venkman, clad in full nuclear-powered GB gear, tries to hold the elevator for the man, the old guy merely puffs on his cigar and deadpans, “I’ll wait.”

What I’m Reading: “Scream with Me”

The idea that horror films might in any way be construed as “pro-feminist” seems counterintuitive to most people. It certainly did to me. After all, women are the preferred victims of horror films, especially the slasher genre in which entire sororities and girls-only sleep-overs are massacred wholesale, often in grisly—and blatantly sexual—methods.

But, as I recently learned, pro-feminist readings of classic horror films are a genuine thing, having a genuine moment. And I was completely convinced of their validity by Eleanor Johnson’s excellent book, Scream With Me: Horror Films and the Rise of American Feminism, 1968-1980. Early in the book, Johnson’s addresses the apparent absurdity of looking for feminist ideas in horror films, going so far as to quote Alfred Hitchcock’s famous formula for an effective thriller: “Torture the women.” Johnson does not minimize the misogyny of classic horror films. Indeed, she goes to great pains to explain that horror films—like any work of art—can often be self-contradictory, sexist on one visceral level but feminist on a deeper, almost subconscious one.

She writes:

[H]orror also has a deep and enduring relationship with American feminism. In fact, American feminism and American horror have been—for more than half a century—allies on issues of domestic abuse, reproductive control, and women’s restricted rights relative to men.

Horror films that focus on violence and persecution of women often do double-duty, serving as a means of getting otherwise conservative or traditionalist viewers to see the plight of women in the first place. More importantly, as Johnson’s title suggests, horror films subconsciously force the viewer to participate in the suffering of women, and thus empathize with their condition.

She writes,

What’s so important about the domestic horror films in this book is that they make viewers—whether or not the viewers are female—carry the fear and vulnerability embodied by the women in the films home with them. They center on a woman’s perspective, making audiences feel wracking physiological and psychological compassion for the women characters who are abused and terrorized. The films, although they showcase women’s suffering, do not simply fetishize that suffering, but rather humanize it, make it palpable, exportable to the viewers’ own minds and bodies. They invite viewers into the lived, embodied experiences of abused women; women barred from power, barred from speaking for themselves, barred from defending themselves; women who weren’t taken seriously by the people from whom they sought aid—doctors, police, lawyers, psychiatrists, husbands, coworkers. These movies took what was going on in American cultural, political, and legal history in the late 1960s and 1970s, and they made those things feelable. They made women’s suffering come alive to viewers who might not otherwise ever have stopped to think about what or how women suffered in the United States, behind closed doors, in the twentieth century. They made that suffering seem like an emergency. And then they made that suffering follow viewers all the way home and nest there.

Johnson goes on to explain her main thesis—namely, that horror films were instrumental in raising public awareness of women’s civil rights issues, and even in changing laws—by focusing on six classic horror films: Rosemary’s Baby, The Exorcist, The Stepford Wives, The Omen, Alien, and The Shining. She examines these films in chronological order, and so it is probably no accident that the oldest, 1968’s Rosemary’s Baby, is also the basis for her most compelling argument.

For those who haven’t seen it (i.e., anyone under 40), Rosemary’s Baby is the story of a young couple, Guy and Rosemary Woodhouse, who move into an old, spooky apartment building in Manhattan. They befriend their elderly neighbors, the Castevets, who (it later turns out) run a coven of witches. With the secret cooperation of Guy, the witches drug Rosemary, conjure up Satan, and watch as he rapes the poor woman. Throughout the act, Rosemary is doped up but conscious, hallucinating that she is on a boat, rocking on a rough sea. At moments, though, she becomes lucid, and realizes that she is actually being raped by a huge, hairy creature. “This is no dream,” she yells, in the film’s most horrifying line. “This is really happening.”

The next morning, Guy tells her that he had sex with her while she was asleep. (The scratches on her body, he explains, are due to his “getting a little carried away”). Rosemary is unconvinced but, in true trad-wife fashion, doesn’t make a fuss. When she later becomes pregnant, the Castevets refer her to an old OB-GYN, Dr. Sapirstein, who puts her on a regimen of foul-tasting protein shakes and other noxious concoctions. As the pregnancy progresses, Rosemary finds herself in agonizing pain. Her women friends (whom Guy discourages her from seeing) beg her to find a new doctor, but, again, Rosemary doesn’t make a fuss.

After she finally gives birth at home, the witches take the baby away. Guy tells her it died. But she can hear an infant crying from next door, and the neighbors insist on collecting Rosemary’s milk, which they convinced her to express into glass jars.

At some point, she finds a secret door into the Castevets apartments, only to find them, Dr. Sapirstein, and a bunch of other nattily-dressed devil-worshipers having a party. They are gathered around a cradle in which, of course, Rosemary’s baby lies. The baby himself is never shown. Rather, we only see her horrified reaction when she pulls back the veil and views the hell-spawn. “What’s wrong with his eyes?” she asks. “He has his father’s eyes,” Mr. Castevet replies.

I’ve probably seen Rosemary’s Baby half a dozen times, yet I never put it together that the film is almost a parable about the cruelty of anti-abortion laws. Not until I read Ms. Johnson’s book, that is. As she points out, Rosemary is probably cinema’s most extreme example of a woman forced to complete an unwanted (and very dangerous) pregnancy. One that is, in fact, the result of a rape (by the Devil, no less). As Johnson writes,

By New York State’s own abortion laws in 1968, Rosemary would not have been able to get an abortion on grounds of rape alone. Rape was not justification enough for abortion in 1968 in New York, nor was physical danger, nor psychological harm. Nor, indeed, was the prospect of having a baby born with deformities—which would seem likely when the child’s father is a claw-handed, leather-skinned, goat-eyed demon. The Satanic fetus, whose true range of deformities could only be known after the birth of the child, allegorizes the thousands of thalidomide pregnancies across the United States that women were forced to carry to term, anxiously waiting to see how compromised their babies would be by the drug the women had taken. Like them, Rosemary is going to be forced to carry to term a pregnancy of unknown viability. [Link added]

Of course, it isn’t just a lack of reproductive health rights that causes Rosemary’s ordeal. It’s her lack of freedom in general—financial, educational, and (above all) psychological—that traps her in a private hell. In some ways, her husband, Guy, comes off as even more evil than the Castavets in the way he gaslights and manipulates his wife. And it is this kind of domestic abuse—sometimes physical, always mental—on which Johnson primarily focuses for the rest of the book.

In The Omen, for instance, a wealthy man lies to his (much younger) wife, Kathy, when their baby dies at birth. At the urging of a local priest, he takes another baby whose mother has just died and passes him off to Kathy as her own. Naturally, the baby turns out to be the anti-Christ (once again), and the wife suffers mightily (once again), finally being killed by the little bastard and his evil minions. Unlike Guy Woodhouse, the husband in this story is not evil, nor self-serving. He genuinely thinks he’s being kind to his wife in doing the ole baby switch-a-roo, trying to spare her the heartbreak of losing a child. Of course, she has lost a child, and she deserves to know the truth. Moreover, she certainly does not deserve to be tricked into raising the spawn of hell. But her husband, in true patriarchal fashion, does what he sees fit. The result is the same.

I especially enjoyed Johnson’s examination of Stanley Kubrick’s The Shining, which she presents as an apotheosis of the domestic-abuse horror genre. I have always felt that Shelley Duvall’s fine, selfless performance as the tormented wife, Wendy, was the most underappreciated (and even mocked) aspect of the film. Indeed, she is the center of the movie, without which it would have no meaning.

Also, of all the films’ hapless heroines, Wendy’s plight is the most isolating and claustrophobic. As Johnson writes,

Rosemary can’t easily get away from the coven, but she can go see her doctors and, on occasion, her friends. Chris [in The Exorcist] is in thrall to the demon every bit as much as Regan is, but she still manages to go out to see doctors and priests. Joanna has quite a bit of freedom of movement, until the end of Stepford Wives; same with Kathy from The Omen. Ellen Ripley [in Alien] is every bit as imprisoned as Wendy Torrance, but her imprisonment feels incidental because she’s trapped on a floating domestic space, and everyone else is trapped right along with her. Wendy’s entrapment feels obvious, manifest, total, unbreachable. She’s trapped by the hotel; by [her husband] Jack; by the weather; by the distance to any other person or place, to any kind of shelter. The horror of The Shining isn’t ultimately the ghosts in the hotel. It’s Jack and his total imprisonment of Wendy. And, as viewers, we are trapped with her.

Indeed.

Scream with Me is a hell of a book. Check it out…!