Man Hunt/Rogue Male

If, when talking about movies, someone at this year's New Year party (or at a film blog) pontificates the blanket statement "there's never been a remake of a film better than the original," here's a rebuttal (besides, say, True Grit) you can have at the ready:


Man Hunt (Fritz Lang, 1941) Dudley Nichols' adaptation of the 1939 Geoffrey Household novel that begins with a sure-fire set-up: a big game hunter, Captain Alan Thorndike (Walter Pidgeon), travels to Berchtesgaden to shoot Adolf Hitler right in the Berghof with a long-range rifle.  He "takes the shot," but then, on second thought loads a bullet into the chamber...too late.  He's discovered, taken prisoner and tortured for information by Major Quive-Smith (George Sanders, at his most impenetrably cold).  The Major wants the Captain to admit that his intent was to kill Der Fuhrer (something he understands being an avid sportsman himself) and sign a confession to that effect, saying that he was doing it for the British government.  Thorndike refuses, is beaten, then dumped over a cliff to make his death appear an accident.

But Thorndike survives, and makes his way back to England, barely ahead of his Nazi pursuers.  With the aid of a cockney lass, Jerry Stokes (Joan Bennett), he manages to elude his pursuers, going, literally, underground by living in a makeshift cave and living off the land.  But a cave has one drawback—it only has one exit, and this proves to be a weakness in Thorndike's cat-and-mouse with the Nazis.

It's a corker of a story, told with the visual paranoia that Lang excelled at.  It's one long chase that finally goes elementally one-on-one.  Where Nichols diverges from Household (aside from actually naming the dictator the author's anonymous hunter aims for, no doubt with the approval of the director, a German exile*) is in a neat insertion of a "woman's part," through the extended English city section, which becomes a deus ex machina for the final confrontations.  "Jerry Stokes" was a Nichols creation, it being thought that giving Thorndike a visible love interest for the audience to identify with, would more humanize Thorndike and his quest.  "Jerry" has her origins in the book, but was only suggested.  Nichols, Lang, and Bennett made flesh what Household only used as a back-story.   



Rogue Male (Clive Donner, 1976) BBC film of the Household novel that keeps the original more in its sights.  Where Man Hunt is urban, has a love interest, and is quite light-hearted at times, Rogue Male is more to the point, quite brutal (the shots of Peter O'Toole's Thordyke after being beaten to a bloody pulp are tough to watch) and extends the cave scenes, making them much more a part of the story (Pidgeon spends barely 20 minutes in the cave in Man Hunt) as they are in the book.

But it is the character of Thorndyke where the two most diverge—Pidgeon's captain does what he does to survive.  That's certainly true of O'Toole's characterization (it has to be!), but one also gets the sense that this hunter prefers life in a cave to one in the aristocracy.  Any hint of romance is purely prologue, giving an ethereal quality to the unnamed woman, that O'Toole merely suggests with a melancholy cast of his eyes.  Written with 20/20 hindsight by Frederic Raphael, the film is far more political than either the book or first film could ever hope to be at the time they were written, given the historical perspective nearly forty years can bring.  Smart, intelligent, unwavering, the BBC version of Household's novel is an adaptation worthy of the anonymous Hunter.

The Lang version is more stylish and romantic, but Donner's TV-version has the novel down cold.  O'Toole has stated that it is the favorite of all films.

* This supposedly worried 20th Century Fox exec Darryl F. Zanuck, as well as The Breen Office, as America, at the time, was neutral in the European War, not entering the fray until the attack on Pearl Harbor.

Idiocracy

Idiocracy (Mike Judge, 2006) The concept is so ingenious in this variation of Planet of the Apes, that one wishes it were a better film; an absolutely average Army recruit (Luke Wilson) is selected to participate in a cryogenics experiment (along with an average intelligence prostitute—played by Maya Rudolph—as apparently there are no average women in the military), which due to hierarchical mis-management is abandoned and forgotten, until the year 2505.  During the course of 500 years, the process of natural selection reaches the conclusion of its "survival of the fittest" mode and sails right on past.  Higher IQ couples are slow to reproduce (if they do at all), and are soon outrun in population by the lower IQ populace, who are ready to procreate (whatever the hell THAT means) at the drop of a beer can.

When circumstances are such that Wilson's recruit is awakened, he finds himself in a planet of morons, self-obsessed and ADD, the world is a corpochracy (clothing is made up of logo patches), dysfunctional, and appallingly apathetic.  He struggles through the legal and penal system (one dimly Kafkaesque, and the other startlingly easy to circumvent) to emerge as President of the United States...because he's the smartest guy in the country.

I'd be happy if I thought that would really happen.  But I've been through enough election cycles to know that people (whatever their intelligence) are not most likely to vote for the best and the brightest—even actively resenting the more intelligent candidate, voting against them.  The inherent cynicism of the concept, thus, has no follow-through, and is merely circumvented to reach and end-point.  That, and the inherent cheesiness of the production-design (which I could actually buy given a corporate mentality and an apathetic consumer-society) work against the film, which starts out so promisingly, and has flashes of ingenuity throughout.  I just wish it might have gone farther, and opted for a less easy way out. 

The Detective

The Detective (Gordon Douglas, 1968) You spend a lot of time looking into the wearily dead blue eyes of Frank Sinatra in this one, as he tries to come to grips with a world he no longer understands, driving in the rain, looking for the clue to
where it all went wrong.

This film hasn't aged well.  What was daring and "adult" at the time of the film's release (the forced underground homosexual culture, along with nymphomania) now seems dated and "quaint," even.  More compelling, and ground-breaking is the police procedural in the foreground—a murder investigation that has a ritual aspect to it.  The victim's house-mate (Tony Musante) is noticeably absent, and Leland leads the investigation to track the man down, leading to his arrest, trial and execution.  Textbook, it's thought. 

But, later, he's approached by Norma McIver (Jacqueline Bisset) the wife of a prominent suicide (William Windom), who committed the act very publicly, and Leland's investigation leads him to question his earlier actions and those of his authorities.  All this, while reconciling his difficulties with his wife (Lee Remick).  The fallibility of the cops to follow their prejudices, and pressure from corrupt superiors was something new to the genre.  These cops had flatfeet of clay.

The director, Gordon Douglas, was a favorite of star Sinatra, shooting quickly and efficiently, letting Sinatra do his set-up's in the minimal number of takes that he preferred.  The cast also has prominent roles for Ralph Meeker, Jack Klugman, Al Freeman Jr. and Robert Duvall as other detectives in Leland's squad.

There were other novels in the "Leland" series by Roderick Thorp, including one, "Nothing Lasts Forever,"in which The Detective tries to save his family from terrorists in a high-rise professional building.  That's right, it's the book on which Die Hard was based. Now, just imagine if John McLaine had said "Dooby-dooby-doo" instead of "Yippie-Kye-yay..."

The Duchess

The Duchess (Saul Dibb, 2008) "We are jungle creatures" says Eleanor of Aquitane in The Lion in Winter, an obvious statement of the theme that no matter what station one achieves in life, at the core we are beasts, however advanced the thought, however disciplined the politics.  You can cosset and corset (and even consecrate), but basically all those palaces are just a better class of zoo.

The pre-title sequence of The Duchess makes that abundantly clear on two fronts, as the Lady Georgiana (Keira Knightley*) is brokered for marriage to the Duke of Devonshire (Ralph Fiennes) by her mother (Charlotte Rampling, whose voice, even in polite hushed tones, can carry a room), while outside a clutch of waiting-ladies are betting on a foot-race of young men as if they were horses.  Breeding is all.

Of course, it's thrilling to be a Duchess.  Except the part about being a duchess...especially married to this Duke.  Entitled up to his powdered wig and determined to not let any of it slip, his sole focus is a male heir (something at which he's been practicing quite a bit, a daughter suddenly and unexpectedly turning up in the household), and when the Duchess fails to produce (or reproduce) any but female progeny, the Duke begins to take extra liberties.

It was different times, with men talking about emancipation and freedom and revolution, while the women waited in separate rooms, smiling tightly and—if thought not seen—rolling their eyes.  There's a reason the Bill of Rights (written slightly earlier than when this film takes place) says "All men are created equal."  Women are property, adornments only.  A means to an heir.  And if one is not produced in the bargain, the contract can be nullified...but only to a certain extent.  Scandals, royal or not, are to be avoided.  Apperances must be kept.  And more so for the ladies than the men.

What feels like a lecture on e-woman-cipation is couched in the true-life misery of the Duchess of Devonshire—her story is somewhat reminiscent of another, more modern-day Duchess who shares her last-name Spencer—who befriends a woman who rebuffs the Duke's advances only to have her be a "third wheel" in a complicated arrangement, then, seeks the company of another man.  Word gets out, and a scandal in the papers is barely avoided.

It's all very posh, with real locations used, and candles aplenty.  Knightley is far more expressive than she seems in the embedded photos, and Fiennes manages to make the wretchedness of the Duke seem somewhat bearable—he's not so much hissable as pitiable, once you get over the desire to thrash him. 

Duchess Georgianna observes (curiously) as her world falls apart.

* I have to admit to rolling my eyes a bit when first seeing the trailer for this film.  I happen to like Knightley, finding her performances spunky, and nicely unafraid to look unattractive in them, but even I had reached my saturation point, seeing her elevated in this period piece.  I didn't see this for a long time, and have a satisfied opinion of it, and her performance in it.  She acquits herself well.

Don't Make a Scene: A Christmas Story

The Story: "You'll shoot your eye out, kid!"

When thinking about what to do for today's Christmas Edition, I tossed around a lot of Christmas Classics: It's a Wonderful Life...of course!; Any of the "Christmas Carols" (my fave's being "Mr. Magoo's..." and the one starring George C. Scott; "A Charlie Brown Christmas"...not strictly a movie, but sure, or "The Grinch" (Chuck Jones's animated version--you can stuff the Ron Howard-Jim Carrey thing right up a chimney!); and of course, The Miracle on 34th Street, Home Alone, Die Hard and the dozens of Christmas scenes in un-Christmas-y movies.

But it had to be A Christmas Story. There was no other choice.
Bob Clark wasn't necessarily a great film-maker--you look at his resume and you see the original Holiday slasher film Black Christmas and the first couple of Porky's (they were his big hits, and gave him the creative cache to make this, his dream project). He worked for ten years on the script based on radio monologist Jean Shepherd's story collection "In God We Trust...All Others Pay Cash," and he worked on it with Shep and his wife, Leigh Brown, until it was just so. He cast it meticulously, giving Darren McGavin and Melinda Dillon Immortal Roles, roles they'll be remembered for long after they're dead...and casting little known Peter Billingsley, sharply dead-pan kid-actor—who looks like a bonsai'd Phillip Seymour Hoffman—now Executive Producer.*

In Hollywood, they have the phrase, "You're only as good as your last movie." Then there's the Billy Wilder corollary-the more-accurate "You're only as good as your best movie."

A Christmas Story is Bob Clark's best movie, and that's how good he was. It cemented its reputation as a "classic" fairly quickly so that now, twenty five years after its debut, you'll find it all over the television during the Holidays (along with perennial It's a Wonderful Life). Through a combination of Shepherd's exquisite writing (he also narrates) and Clark's crack timing, this unimprovable little gem manages to be clear-eyed about the world and endearing at the same time. And it's never as spot-on as when Ralphie goes to visit Santa Claus at The Department Store to plead his case for a particular Christmas Wish.

We've all been through the ritual: the Manic Anticipation, the Performance Anxiety, the Shock of seeing your dreams made flesh...and Marlboro-scented flesh, at that. The elaborate ritualization of adults trying to hawk to parents pictures of their children's dreams amid false-front stage-craft swamps the moment in propped-up manic Holiday Magic and the children end up confused and terrified. In "A Christmas Story," Santa is perched at the top of an Everest-like flight of stairs, like a religious icon in a pilgrimage, and the Exit from the goal is a nightmarish red slide that, following the Santa-shock, must feel like being dashed to the Earth. Or sent to Hell.

And, of course, Santa is a "Bad Santa": he's a Holiday employee, underpayed and jaded and tired of having his thighs crushed by a perpetual onslaught of rug-rats in all sizes and stages of...wetness...for a numbing Holiday store schedule of 16 hours a day. And he can spread on the charm with a trowel, but it doesn't register when his little cherubic hostages are shocked to find that they actually have to form two words in a sentence to this red behemoth after they've been drilled to Never Talk to Strangers, even if that Stranger is a Mythical Being Who is Judge, Jury and Executioner of their Dancing Sugar-Plum Dreams. Jiminy Christmas, this guy sees you when you're sleeping, fer pity's sake.

That's scary. So's his get-up.

We won't even mention the Elves.

And that Ralphie should choke on his prepared spiel, yet somehow snatch victory from defeat only to then have his hopes dashed--Billingsley's North-Bi-Polar reactions are hilarious--makes that long slide back to Earth leaving him dazed and more than a bit confused among the false cotton clouds a textbook example of the power of stillness.

He's almost like Charlie Brown, beaned by a line-drive, layed out on his pitching mound shield, pondering if he should ever get up again. That the whole sequence is an elaborate build-up to the Ultimate Pay-off of the film's running gag, just makes the effect of that punch-line that much sweeter.

The Set-up: Ralphie (Peter Billingsley) wants one thing for Christmas: a Red Rider BB gun. But every time he brings it up...to anyone...they say the same thing—that he'll shoot his eye out with the thing. Undeterred, Ralphie has campaigned openly to his folks, his teacher—anybody who might have some influence on the Jolly Old Elf to help him get that BB gun.

Then, on a Family Christmas Outing to the Big Department Store, Ralphie, with kid-brother in tow, awaits in the infinite line to see Santa (Jeff Gillen). Now, it's nearing closing time, and the elves are getting restless. Ralphie has just one shot to go right to the Source!

Action!

Store Santa: If Higbee thinks I'm working one minute past 9, he can kiss my foot!

Santa: Ho-ho-ho-ho-HO-HO! Come on up on Santa's lap! (disgusted but keeping up the act) Ha-ha-ha, there's a wet one! And what's your name, little boy?
Billy: Billy!

Ralphie (tugging on his kid brother): C'mon, Randy!

Santa: And what do you want for Christmas, Billy? (voice goes high) A toy truck? Get him off my lap! Quick! Get me a towel!

(Billy's hoisted, screaming, into the air, and shoved, forcefully, down Santa's slide by an elf who waatches the kid's terror with glee.)

Santa: Bye, Billy! Oh-ho-ho.


Billy: Ahhhhhhhhhhhh!

Santa: Ah, I hate the smell of tapioca! (back in character)Ho! Ho! Ho! Merry Christmas!

Store Announcer: Attention, shoppers! It is now 9 pm and the store is closing.

Narrator: 9:00! Great Scott! The store is gonna close!!

Elf #2: Santa can't wait all night, let's go!


Santa: C'mon up on Santa's...lap! Augh! Ho! Ho! Ho!

Nerdy-kid: AAAAAAAAAAH!!!

Nerdy-kid screams and is shoved down the slide. Randy is grabbed by the female elf and hauled up the stairs to Santa's chair.

Elf # 2: Get moving, kid!

Elf #2: Quit dragging your feet!

Santa: Ho! Ho! Ho!

Santa: Ho! Ho! Ho! Oof! heh-heh! Ho-ho-ho!

Randy screams piercingly.

Ralphie goes into a mild panic that Randy's outburst will affect his chances of seeing Santa.
Santa: Uh-oh! Get him out of here!

Randy is sent sliding. Ralphie watches as Randy is sent down the slide screaming, and lands in the cotton clouds below to simper.

Elf #2: Come on, kid!

Santa: Ho! HO! HO!

Elf #2: C'MAHN!

Santa: Come on up!

Santa: Come on up!

Suddenly, it's all a blur to Ralphie. Santa's appears to be too close, and his laughter is pitched lower and distorted like in a fever-dream.

Santa: Ho! Ho! Ho! Ho! Ho!

Santa: Ho! Ho! HOOOOO!

Ralphie swallows hard.

Santa: And what's YOUR name, little boy?
Elf #1: Hey, kid!

Elf #1: Hurry up, the store's closin'!!

Elf #2: C'MON...!

Elf #2: Listen, little boy, we gotta lotta people waiting here, so GET..GOIN'!

Santa: What do you want for Christmas, little boy?

NARRATOR: My mind had gone blank. Frantically, I tried to remember what it was I wanted. I was blowing it, blowing it!

Elf #1: C'mon, kid!

Santa: How about a nice football?

NARRATOR: Foot-ball? Foot-ball? What's a football? Without conscious thought my voice squeaked out: "Football."

Santa: Okay, get him out of here.

NARRATOR: A football! Oh no, what was I doing? Wake up, stupid! Wake up!

Ralphie is hauled off Santa's lap, and shoved down the slide, but in a super-human effort, he jams his foot out and braces himself mid-slide.

Ralphie: NO!!

As Santa and the elfs stare uncomprehendingly. Ralphie struggles mightily to climb back up the slippery slide and confront Santa.

Ralphie (fast): No, I want an official Red Ryder carbine-action 200-shot-range model air rifle!!

He got it out! He grins gleefully at Santa.

Santa: You'll shoot your eye out, kid!

Ralphie's face falls.

Santa: Merry Christmas.

Santa: Ho...Ho...Ho!

Santa puts out a black boot and casually kicks Ralphie back down the slide.

Ralphie: NOOOOOOOOOOOO!

Ralphie yells all the way down the slide like he was being sent to Hell, then flops onto the cotton clouds, lying stunned on his back, staring up at the ceiling, like he'll lay there the rest of his life.

"A Christmas Story"

Words by Jean Shepherd, Leigh Brown and Bob Clark

Pictures by Reginald H. Morris and Bob Clark.

A Christmas Story is available on Warner Home Video.

Merry Christmas from the Staff at LNTAM

* He's boyhood pals with Vince Vaughn and Jon Favreau, so he's produced "The Break-Up," "Iron Man" and "Four Christmases." In other words, he won't be robbing a 7-11 any time soon.