what i've been watching: july 2010

the Stendhal Syndrome: (1996. dir: Dario Argento) Is there a father in the world who's put his daughter through anything like what Dario does to Asia? It's almost beyond abuse. In this one, Asia plays an unconvincing policewoman trying to catch a rapist at the Uffizi and who, it turns out, suffers from the Stendhal Syndrome: a sort of aesthetic hysteria which causes her to be overwhelmed by the power of great art. The rapist (the redoubtable Thomas Kretschmann in an early but assured turn) uses her weakness to toy with her; on the plus side, it keeps him from killing her as he does his other victims. Argento films are never soft and cuddly, their roots firmly in the giallos from whence they sprang, but this one is very brutal indeed, featuring several cruel rapes and killings, including some moments of extreme ferocity by Asia herself. Although the story is weak and creaky at the hinges, Dario shows his masterful hand in structure and realization (he has another, less masterful hand, which turns up onscreen occasionally but thankfully not this time). The dreamlike quality of the first half gives the nightmare extra teeth by lulling the viewer into a trancelike state. Certainly it's not to be taken on if you're feeling at all sensitive. As I was switching off the TV, a sordid and inexplicable thought crossed my mind: that this was just the sort of movie a demon might use as a gateway if it had a notion to take up lodging in your soul.



the Burrowers: (2008. dir: JT Petty) There's an attack on a farmhouse; women go missing. A posse rides out, expecting to find them kidnapped by Indians, but life is not nearly so simple in this impressive horror/western amalgam, possibly inspired by Ravenous. It's not got the downright brilliance of that one, and its central metaphor is not as satisfying, but it's still a very fine horror film with wonderful production values: first-rate acting, dialogue and photography make up for its lapses in story and pacing. And then, at the end, Tom Waits sings an awesomely creepy "All the Pretty Horses" over the roll of credits.



Joan of Arc: (1948. dir: Victor Fleming) Hagiography can be so damned ponderous, don't you find? Although it's written partly by Maxwell Anderson, one of those playwrights (along with Eliot, Fry, Anouilh, et al) who masterminded the mid-20th century rage for historical drama written in poetry (if you can even imagine that such a thing ever happened), this has no poetry in it, nor does it have any moment of beauty or of truth, either in the historical or in the broader, all-encompassingly human sense. It was Fleming's last film and maybe he was exhausted. It plods lifelessly from one Disneyland-colored set-piece to another. Jose Ferrer is rather good as the spineless and amoral Dauphin; Fleming cuts out the character of Gilles de Rais entirely, probably not wanting to deal with the repercussions of having Bluebeard running around; Ingrid Bergman seems as uninspired as she is uninspiring. I watched it, naturally, because Ward Bond is in it, wildly miscast as a Frenchman. (If I wanted to show you a picture to illustrate the words "absolute opposite of Frenchman", I would show you a picture of Ward Bond.) Still, he has one thing going for him here: due to his years of strenuous training under Ford, he can carry off the most mouth-coatingly, gag-reflex-inducingly sentimental lines with aplomb.

Let me amend a previous statement: there is one moment of beauty in it, a late shot of Bergman's face while her voices are speaking. Therein may lie the key to the movie's dismal failure: focusing on the external events instead of showing us the gorgeous internal world of a girl who talks with gods.



Big Hand for the Little Lady: (1966. dir: Fielder Cook) I haven't looked it up, and I'm not going to waste time doing it, but I'd put good money on it that this was a play before it was a movie. You can tell because the dialogue is false and mostly filler, the exposition is stiff and delivered woodenly, and because the production style feels like musical theatre. Henry Fonda, Joanne Woodward, Kevin McCarthy, Burgess Meredith and Jason Robards all comport themselves well, but this is a fluff-piece, without weight and without any true enjoyment. It exists solely as a vehicle for its trick ending, a trick which also leaves me with a vaguely sour musical-theatre taste in my mouth: tastes like treacle, this, treacle and fluff.