Even the credits promise a great movie--Cagney, Olivia de Havilland, Jack Carson, Alan Hale, Julius and Philip Epstein, Orry-Kelly, Robert Haas, Perc Westmore, and the sublime James Wong Howe, who is probably perched in the afterlife shooting heaven in glorious black and white.
And then there?s Walsh himself, one hell of a great director, his reputation built in large part on tough-minded movies like What Price Glory?, The Roaring Twenties, They Drive By Night, High Sierra and White Heat. His machismo was entirely authentic, and you could easily believe he?d earned his famous eyepatch in a duel or a revolution somewhere south of the border (although you?d be wrong; it was a freak auto accident).
Here?s something about Walsh, though, as well as other he-man directors of the Golden Age like Michael Curtiz, William Wellman, Howard Hawks and John Ford: Their fearlessness extended effortlessly to matters of the heart. Their strong men have strong needs and strong emotions. (And, as in Walsh?s The Man I Love, so does a strong woman.) That?s the secret to Walsh?s incredible control of tone; it?s seamless because it?s tied to one vision of what makes his protagonists worthwhile. There?s very little cool about a Walsh hero, in the sense of emotion withheld. You find that in the villain from time to time, but not the main guy.
So in 1941 the adventurous Walsh takes on this nostalgic tale of the life, loves and bad breaks of a dentist with a mail-order degree, and he?s a perfect fit. That?s obvious from the opening scene, where Biff (James Cagney) is pitching horseshoes with his old friend Nicolas Pappalas (George Tobias). There?s Cagney, throwing the horseshoes with a dancer?s grace, and there?s Walsh, lingering over a shot of Cagney from behind so you get the full effect of that high-pocketed bantam walk. And then the camera moves over the wall, to a group of well-off college boys and their sweethearts, laying in hammocks and singing to one another. And the movement is ravishing--not flashy at all, Walsh never telegraphs his effects. The shot is so fluid and natural it?s like water flowing out of a spring. From Cagney?s packed-dirt backyard, to the grass and trees and ease of the well-to-do just a few feet away. That one movement of Walsh?s camera gives the Siren a pleasure so intense that she can tell you it?s the precise moment she fell in love with The Strawberry Blonde.
Equally far from Cannes, Mr. Peel's Sardine Liqueur contemplates a far more disjointed film that can't quite figure out which genre it wishes to join: James Toback's Exposed, starring Nastassja Kinski and Rudolf Nureyev, almost too much brunette, full-lipped beauty for any one film to hold.
I?ve lost track of James Toback's career in recent years but I?ve long had an interest in his work partly because of the intensely personal nature of much of it and partly because of some of what I?ve learned about the man from his own published diaries, particularly the one that was featured in the filmmakers on filmmaking forum ?Projections 4? which documents his various activities during 1994 detailing his life, insecurities and projects that were in development during that time, several of which closely involved Warren Beatty. What he nakedly reveals here about who he is, even more than his films ever do, was something that on occasion through the years I would find myself re-reading certain sections of while looking for inspiration towards my own writing. Near the beginning of his 1983 film EXPOSED the writer/director himself appears as a college professor (he perfectly casts himself as a pretentious liberal arts snob) lecturing how the western world is breaking down and how there are only two routes of escape from that world?art and romantic love. About as blatant a case of stating a film?s themes flat out at the top (there?s also some notations on TOUCH OF EVIL on the blackboard behind him which, considering the plot of EXPOSED, intrigues me), being spoken by the writer/director directly to the gorgeous lead Nastassja Kinski sitting before him in that classroom who barely seems to be paying attention anyway but will soon be forging her own route of escape from her world. EXPOSED is undeniably compelling much of the time but it?s also kind of baffling partly because it seems like two or three films (or maybe more) combined into one within a fast 98 minute running time, its elements thrown together in a way which isn?t entirely satisfying. But nevertheless there is something I?ve found intriguing about it as if propelled by the intensely personal nature of what it's attempting to explore, with Toback telling the story from his own perspective as he observes the sort of woman in this world who fascinates him and how, from his perspective, those women probably feel they are viewed by the world. I felt mixed when seeing it a year or so ago but found myself looking at it again recently, maybe because a few elements are staying with me for better or for worse. The film may be slightly messy and lopsided but it definitely always has something going on even if it isn't quite always clear exactly what that is.
I was at an early screening of Exposed, and afterwards Toback screened some outtakes from the film, asking the audience if they thought they should be included in the final film or were better left on the cutting-room floor.
One of the scenes was Kinski dancing wildly, erotically away by herself in front of a full-length mirror.
Then Toback asked, "So should it go in or not?"
YOU'VE NEVER HEARD SUCH ACCLAMATION! We were ready to rush into the projection booth ourselves, seize the strip of film, and glue it into the final cut.
Let Nastassja dance!--that was our battle cry. (You can read the full account here in my Texas Monthly review of Exposed.)
Mr. Peel grapples manfully with this ungrapplable film, and could use some help in the tip-jar department, so why not hit that donate button while you're there and make a helpful contribution?
Source: http://www.vanityfair.com/online/wolcott/2011/05/from-the-madding-cannes.html
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