Drew Goddard's The Cabin in the Woods opened on Friday, and people are already saying it changes the face of horror films as we know them. It has been called a “deconstruction of the genre”, reminiscent of Wes Craven's Scream (1996), which I saw on opening day all those years ago. Even back then, as a teenaged horror fan, I was in on the joke. Scream was about stereotypical horror movie characters and clichés; it picked fun at the way sex was a prelude to death in the genre, and how the killers always come back after we think they're dead. Scream didn't reinvent the wheel, but it delivered a seismic jolt within the industry and made horror movies relevant at the box office following a long hiatus.
It's important to understand that when people claim The Cabin in the Woods is a new chapter in horror, they aren't saying it reinvents the wheel either. They are saying it picks fun at every little predictable flaw in conventional horror, thus making it harder for studios to continue churning out the same old formula to make a quick buck. One can only hope Goddard's film will promote evolution in a genre that has once again grown stale.
Since much of the film is based on the element of surprise, rewarding its audience with fun twists and turns, The Cabin in the Woods is very difficult to write about. How much should be revealed? That's a subjective question, if ever there was one. I had seen the trailer prior to viewing the film, which I admit makes it look pretty average, but it also reveals a few things I believed were “spoilers”. Until I saw the movie, that is. The trailer actually gives away very little of what makes the film so wild, crazy, and unpredictable. No one will accurately guess what happens in the last twenty minutes of this movie. No one.
Going into it, viewers who have seen the trailer will think the big surprise is that there are people in an underground lab controlling the various horrors at the cabin. I thought it would end up being like a slasher version of The Truman Show (1998). Maybe a sort of reality show put on for wealthy sickos around the world, similar to Hostel (2005). Wrong and wrong. Besides, that's not “the big reveal” because guess where the picture opens? In an underground lab. The very first thing we see are these two tech guys, humorously played by the great Richard Jenkins and Bradley Whitford, chatting over coffee. Just another day at the office.
We are then introduced to some terribly stereotypical young characters (relax, it's part of the joke). There's the jock (Chris Hemsworth), the smart guy (Jesse Williams), the slutty airhead (Anna Hutchison), the stoner (Fran Kranz), and the virgin (Kristen Connolly). They take off for the weekend in a big camper; their final destination being an isolated cabin that supposedly belongs to the airhead's cousin. They stop at a gas station, which will instantly remind viewers of The Texas Chainsaw Massacre (1974). They pass through a long mountain tunnel and arrive at a cabin that looks exactly like the one in The Evil Dead (1981). They swim in a lake that looks just like the one in Friday the 13th (1980). Even Japanese horror gets hilariously lampooned here, so those who have seen Ring (1998), Ju-on (2000), Dark Water (2002), The Curse (2005), etc. will be in good shape. The more you know your horror movies, the more you're going to enjoy The Cabin in the Woods.
Eventually, the teens drink and play Truth or Dare just before the cellar door flies open for no apparent reason (as it did in The Evil Dead) and the jock reveals the limits of his intelligence by saying, “Must have been the wind.” They explore the dark cellar and discover all kinds of strange objects that act as triggers for which scenario will play out. Will they be massacred by zombies? Vampires? Werewolves? Witches? An Angry Molesting Tree (another Evil Dead reference)? Deadites (yet another Evil Dead reference)? All of these options, and many more, are seen on a dry erase board in the underground lab where various employees are competitively betting on how these poor teens will die.
The virgin finds an old diary and reads an incantation in Latin, despite the stoner's warning: “I'm drawing a f***ing line in the sand, here. Don't read the mysterious Latin!” The incantation seals the deal (as it did in, you guessed it, The Evil Dead). These teens will die at the hands of the “Zombie Redneck Torture Family”, which Jenkins comically explains is an entirely different kind of threat than regular zombies.
Aside from the stoner, the teens seem oblivious to all the weird stuff going on, they act no differently than characters in any number of silly horror films. Well, it turns out the technicians behind the scenes have laced their hair styling products with drugs and happen to be piping in certain chemicals to alter their behavior. The slut gets extra slutty, and the jock becomes an even dumber alpha male. At one point, mist machines in the forest send pheromones into the atmosphere so we get the obligatory teen horror sex scene. Luckily for the stoner, his love of marijuana reduces the effect of the other drugs, allowing him to discover that things are not quite what they seem.
Anyway, the dead things rise up from the earth and wreak all kinds of havoc. The teens fight back and try to escape, but much like Truman Burbank, they come upon barriers they can't even see. They are rats in a maze, and this maze features redneck zombies.
Tempting as it may be, I can not discuss the film in detail any further without spoiling it. Know this: there are many more laughs to be had, as well as numerous shocks, scares, and surprises. The last twenty minutes are so over-the-top insane that they nearly succumb to overkill. Drew Goddard and co-writer/producer, Joss Whedon (director of the upcoming superhero film, The Avengers), toe a very thin line, but ultimately I was so flabbergasted by what had just occurred, I could only smile and shake my head as I walked out of the theater. These guys showed some real balls, for lack of a better word, in making this movie. They exhibit a real affection for horror tropes, while spitting in the face of every last one of them at the same time.
Now, if I were rating this picture on a numerical scale, I would probably go with an 8 out of 10. It simply does not hold up under close scrutiny, and frankly it makes no logical sense. Still, it's so well made, so incredibly amusing, such a blast to watch, and features such a “throw all caution to the wind” last reel that I still believe it worthy of praise. It's an absolute must-see for horror fans, and should be fun for just about anyone who gets the joke and doesn't take it too seriously. When the ending comes, think of it as another way of saying, "Let's get rid of the old formula and give new, original work a chance!"
SPOILER ALERT!!! DO NOT READ BELOW THIS LINE IF YOU HAVE NOT SEEN THE FILM: I would like to briefly explain why I said the film makes no logical sense. I could cite many examples, and here are several. How the heck does this massive cult, with so many members and paid employees, keep their actions a secret from the world at large? How did they successfully capture all these monsters and keep them imprisoned when one little press of a button by the virgin unleashed all hell? If the history of these sacrifices goes back thousands of years, what system was in place for these rituals during less technologically advanced times? If the technicians could see all the teenagers and were monitoring their hearts, how did they fail to notice that the stoner never flatlined? Etc. Keep in mind, I really enjoyed the movie and these issues did not hinder my enjoyment.
The Raid: Redemption, directed by Welshman Gareth Evans, is a shamelessly pure, unadulterated action film from Indonesia. The reviews have been spectacular, some have even claimed it to be the finest all-out action movie in over a decade. At Rotten Tomatoes the film sports an 86% on the Tomatometer (out of ninety-two reviews, seventy-nine are positive) and a 7.6 out of 10 average review score. These are pretty hot numbers folks, numbers that scream, “Get out there and see this movie!”
I was looking forward to The Raid as I enjoy action set pieces in films that get it right. Unfortunately, not many do, and some of the worst action scenes are found in those bloated, massively budgeted Hollywood productions that make millions of dollars. As a teenager, I remember being enraptured when I first came across the films John Woo made in Hong Kong (A Better Tomorrow II, The Killer, Bullet in the Head, Hard-Boiled, etc.). His action sequences were like nothing I had seen in a Hollywood film since Sam Peckinpah's The Wild Bunch (1969). People referred to his pictures as “bullet ballets” due to that certain beauty and elegance found in his masterfully choreographed carnage. Unfortunately, even some of Woo's best movies are difficult to watch now since they tend to slip into extreme melodrama and cheese, for lack of a better word. In short, Woo's action scenes were better than his films ever were.
This is often the case in similar pictures, like those of Jackie Chan, Jet Li, Tony Jaa, etc. All are graceful physical specimens; it's a joy to watch the poetry of their bodies in motion. Still, great films must give us more than exceptional athleticism. Buster Keaton, Harold Lloyd, Burt Lancaster, and others have proven that thrilling stunts need not be exclusive to average movies. Keaton is actually Jackie Chan's hero, and from the 1980's to the present day, Chan is probably the closest thing we've had to Keaton in the cinema. He's funny and he performs insane stunts; the problem is that his movies just aren't as good.
I can enjoy all four Police Story films as much as the next guy, there's a certain goofy charm to the Project A and Armor of God movies, and Drunken Master II (1994) has its moments. These aren't exceptional pieces of filmmaking though, not by a long shot. My favorite Jet Li pictures are Fist of Legend (1994) and Hero (2002), and while the latter is quite wonderful, it's an 8 for me, rather than a 9 or a 10. As for Jaa, does his Ong-Bak trilogy even begin to enter the “great movie” conversation? How about 2005's The Protector (despite that amazingtracking shotthat lasts three minutes, forty-five seconds)?Hell no.
Now we have Iko Uwais, born in Jakarta and trained since the age of ten in Pencak Silat, Indonesia's homegrown martial art. In the process of making a documentary about this fighting style, Evans met Uwais, and the rest is history. They made a film called Merantau in 2009, but it's this one, their latest, that has all the fans of martial arts movies drooling on themselves. The Raid: Redemption delivers the goods in terms of action and mayhem, the hype is accurate on that front, but like the films of Woo, Chan, Li, and Jaa, it's a guilty pleasure, not a top tier piece of work.
The plot, so wafer-thin as to seem nonexistent, concerns Rama (Uwais), a rookie cop with a pregnant wife, who finds himself in a hell of day on the job. Basically, he and a group of cops under the command of Sergeant Jaka (Joe Taslim) must launch an attack on a run down apartment building filled with killers and drug addicts. The king of this domain is Tama (Ray Sahetapy), a crime lord who keeps an eye on things via monitors in his fifteenth floor control center. He has two trusted lieutenants, the wild fighting god, Mad Dog (Yayan Ruhian), and the brainy Andi (Doni Alamsyah). Our group of heroes tries to pull off a covert operation, subduing the tenants floor-by-floor, but their half-assed plan is thwarted around the sixth.
Why didn't they come up with a better idea? Like, say, landing on the roof and knocking on the door of Tama's office? Well, for the same reason that there will be no reinforcements apparently; the raid was not approved by the police department. This was a private job, planned by Lieutenant Wahyu (Pierre Gruno). So the cops find themselves trapped in the building as Tama speaks over the intercom. He offers rent free living to all his tenants if they wipe out the intruders. A bloodbath ensues.
The rest of The Raid is chock full of gunfire, explosions, shattered glass, axe murders, broken bones, writhing bodies, stab wounds, hand-to-hand fighting, machete attacks, and enough sweating and grunting for a dozen porn films. When the ammunition runs low, the fists and blades come out. When a throat needs slicing but knives aren't available, a broken light bulb is used. One unlucky fellow is nearly decapitated by the shredded wood at the base of a door. Let me be even more clear; there are violent movies, and then there is The Raid. After this, The Passion of the Christ (2004) can be re-released under the Walt Disney banner.
I also recommend a bare minimum of thought while viewing this film, lest the fun be entirely spoiled. Don't ask me why all these low life druggies are exceptional athletes and fighters, able to scale walls to the next floor with ease. Don't ask me why the inexhaustible Mad Dog is three feet tall but able to annihilate any mortal human in his path. Don't ask me why Rama hides from four thugs, when he just got through killing twenty. Just try to enjoy the splendid action scenes, that's what you're here for after all.
In fact, it seems like defibrillators hit the projector every time a fight breaks out; the movie comes to life. The choreography by Uwais and Ruhian is energetic and imaginative, while Matt Flannery's camerawork does a fine job of framing each battle in dynamic, effective fashion. The current trend for action scenes in Hollywood is still the “shaky cam” with rapid fire editing combo, which has lasted far too long. It works for war movies like Saving Private Ryan (1998) because it portrays chaos and confusion, two things we can all do without when the goal is to understand and perhaps admire what is going on. The Raid, like many Asian features, really allows its audience to appreciate the athleticism and ability of the actors. Despite being in perpetual motion, the camera holds everything in medium shot as it dollies around the action with minimal cutting. It's this combination of fine cinematography and choreography that makes the action sequences work, one without the other would be a disaster.
However, the film slips up by giving us very little to root for. Oh sure, we are supposed to get behind Rama so that he'll make it home to his wife and unborn child. It's about survival, I suppose, but Rama just isn't a very compelling character. We don't get any particularly interesting villains either. Mad Dog is a tough, formidable presence in his fighting scenes, but other than that he's somewhat boring. Sahetapy, as Tama, seems to have responded to a casting call that said, “Look mean and act heartless.” Ninety-five percent of the cast is expendable, their corpses end up littering the hallways of the complex. More than once I was reminded of the Spanish film, REC 2 (2009), which also featured a team of heavily armed men assaulting a similar apartment complex.
The other obvious comparison is Die Hard (1988), a more effective version of the “one man army in a building” concept. John McClane (Bruce Willis) was fun and somewhat human, while Alan Rickman did a bang up job as Hans Gruber, a villain everyone loved to hate. It was still an action movie, no question, but with a touch more drama to hold our interest. I think it might be more fun to watch the fight scenes in The Raid as stand alone set pieces, rather than part of the film.
Having said all that, The Raid makes good on its promises if all you desire is crazy action, booming sound effects, and gore by the bucket load. It's more enjoyable than most silly kung fu/wuxia movies, though there are several made in the last twenty years that I would take over this, including Tsui Hark's Once Upon a Time in China II (1992), Gordon Chan's Fist of Legend (1994), Ang Lee's Crouching Tiger, Hidden Dragon (2000), and Zhang Yimou's Hero (2002) and House of Flying Daggers (2004). I realize these films differ from The Raid in period, setting, and fighting style, but Evans has never made a secret of being inspired by “the Golden Age” of Hong Kong/Chinese cinema.
At any rate, those interested in a superior action movie made in the last year should look no further than Brad Bird's inventive and fun-filled Mission: Impossible – Ghost Protocol (2011). Too bad it can no longer be seen on IMAX screens, the scaling of the Burj Khalifa won't be as effective in home theaters. Please understand, I'm not talking anyone out of seeing The Raid: Redemption, I'm simply recommending alternatives. The Raid is bloodier and more visceral than Ghost Protocol, so if that's how you like your entrées seasoned, then by all means get to the theater immediately.
I returned to Dallas from Oakland six days ago, and have had time now to process what can only be defined as an absolutely extraordinary experience. I was so impressed that I am currently listening to Carl Davis' magnificent score for the film as I write this. Previously I explained that I'm no expert on music, but I have admired Carl Davis for years, nonetheless. I think he's the best composer we have for silent films, and his work for Napoleon was just perfect for the movie. Seeing it performed live was an honor, and one I wish I could have experienced more than once.
For those who need a little background on what I'm talking about, please see my former post titled “The Eagle Lands on April 1”. In short, Abel Gance's five-and-a-half hour 1927 masterpiece, Napoleon, was given four special screenings at the Paramount Theater in Oakland with a 48-piece orchestra, conducted by Carl Davis himself. The last time anyone saw this movie in the U.S. with an orchestra and a theater fully equipped for its spectacular Polyvision finale was in 1981 at Radio City Music Hall. Unfortunately, that version was cut down to four hours by Francis Ford Coppola to avoid paying the orchestra overtime, it also played at the wrong frame rate (24 fps instead of the proper 20 fps), and was scored by Coppola's father, Carmine. Due to legal issues, only that inferior version exists on VHS, and no version is available on DVD or Blu-ray.
This once-in-a-lifetime experience was made possible by the San Francisco Silent Film Festival's $720,000 investment, but the person most deserving of our thanks is Mr. Kevin Brownlow. He was in attendance on this day, and more than ready to engage anyone in conversation. The man is one of my heroes; he has been the world's supreme champion of rescuing silent films from the realm of the forgotten. As a little kid in England he came across two reels of Napoleon, back when no one even remembered what it was, and came away so impressed that he made it his life's goal to restore the film to its proper form and place in cinema history. He calls Napoleon, “The most innovative film ever made, even moreso than Citizen Kane.” I have to admit, I agree with him.
When I walked into the Paramount Theater for the first time I realized the venue was going to be an integral part of the experience. Built in 1931, this art deco “movie palace” transported me to another time. A time when movies were genuine events, lines would snake around the block, and the world of the film itself greeted you as you entered the lobby. According to New York Times critic Mordaunt Hall who attended the premiere of Douglas Fairbanks' The Thief of Bagdad in 1924, the theater had, “...a thoroughly Oriental atmosphere, with drums, ululating vocal offerings, odiferous incense, perfume from Bagdad, magic carpets, and ushers in Arabian attire, who during intermission made a brave effort to bear cups of Turkish coffee to the women in the audience.” Those were the days! So, in this old fashioned movie palace environment, it was easy to imagine I was walking into the world premiere of Napoleon with three thousand like-minded individuals. The pictures I took with my iPhone do the place no justice, but believe me, it was a more than worthy compliment to the film.
The picture began promptly at 1:30 PM, and in those two hours before the first intermission I was thoroughly astounded. We first see Napoleon as a child (Vladimir Roudenko) in 1779 at the military school in Brienne-le-Chateau, orchestrating a great victory against a larger group of kids in the most epic snowball fight in cinema history. Throughout this early sequence, Gance is already taking his audience on a ride. The dynamic camera movement is but one treat, we also get rapid cutting, expressive superimpositions, and hand-held shots which all contribute to the intensity and effectiveness of the scene. It was powerful cinema, laced with some humorous bits that come as a surprise following the relatively humorless J'Accuse (1919) and La Roue (1923).
In class, Napoleon's temper reaches a boil in another funny bit as the teacher reads a rather disparaging description of Corsica and its people. The boy takes great pride in his Corsican roots, but gets picked on by other kids due to his thick accent. Napoleon's only friend at the school is his pet eagle, a gift from his uncle back home, kept in the attic of the dormitory. One evening, two kids decide to open the bird's cage, allowing its escape into the night. When Napoleon discovers his pet is missing, he flips out and rushes down to the bedroom. When none of the boys confess, Napoleon screams, “If none of you are guilty, then you're all guilty!” He starts running from bed to bed, pummeling the other boys until a full-fledged pillow fight has begun. In this sequence, Gance splits the screen into nine frames, giving us a look at the chaos from all directions. Until the instructors break it up, that is, and toss Napoleon out in the snow.
Then a tremendous thing happens. The boy has been reduced to weeping in the cold dark, resting against an old cannon, alone, when suddenly the music changes. It seems to foresee a rise to greatness from these humble beginnings, and then the eagle lands in a tree above Napoleon. The boy smiles through his tears, inspired and overjoyed. The eagle responds to his voice, flying down and landing on the cannon as the music hits another crescendo. It's a magical moment, and with that we are sent off to the year 1792.
Here we join a bunch of revolutionists at a club, including historical figures like Danton, Robespierre, and Marat. It's another memorable scene as we witness the first singing of "La Marseillaise" (the French national anthem), with its composer, Lisle, leading the charge. Our first view of the twenty-three year old Napoleon (Albert Dieudonné) comes from behind, before he turns and thanks Lisle for his effort. Napoleon was of a low rank in the army on that day, but he would soon discover his purpose.
It was the night of August 10 in the same year, when a mob ran the royal family right out of Paris in violent fashion. The film, bathed in a rich red tint during this scene, depicts Danton and his gang of revolutionists hanging a man in front of a large crowd. Napoleon witnesses the event from the window of his room, and we see in his eyes that something has transformed within him. He seems to believe he can unite these disparate groups.
When Napoleon visits his family in Corsica, Gance films in the actual locations where Napoleon grew up, including his childhood home which still stands. Upon discovering that the island is about to be handed over to the British by the Corsican president, Napoleon defiantly objects, putting he and his family in great danger. On the run for his life, Napoleon eludes capture in a thrilling chase (Gance straps a camera to the back of a horse at one point!), but stops to steal the French flag from the town hall, believing these Corsican political sellouts no longer deserve to display it. When Napoleon finds himself on a boat with no sail and the president's men on his heels, he brilliantly defies them by using the enormous French flag as his sail! “I'll bring it back to you!” he sarcastically yells.
In the rightfully celebrated climax to Act One, Gance cuts dramatically between Napoleon being tossed about in the violent seas, and the chaotic atmosphere of the National Convention in Paris, where the Girondists and Montagnards (two revolutionist groups, one more radical than the other) are at each other's throats. In one shot, waves roar toward the lens, while in the next the camera seems to be on a pendulum, swinging over the heated Convention crowd.
The next day, after Napoleon is discovered alive in his boat, he saves the rest of his family, still in hiding on Corsica. In a bit that had the entire audience rolling, a British ship appears and a young Horatio Nelson asks his captain for, “permission to sink this suspicious looking vessel.” The captain declines, reasoning that the boat is far too insignificant to waste valuable powder to blow up. Those who know their history are aware that Napoleon would later make all his relatives into the kings and queens of Europe. Nelson, at least in Gance's version of the tale, had an opportunity to avoid much future stress by destroying not only Napoleon, but several soon to be kings and queens. Whoops!
Act Two deals primarily with Napoleon's actions during the Siege of Toulon. Now a captain, he leads a midnight attack through a vicious storm. Drenched soldiers do battle, bodies sink in the mud, arms reach out in desperation. Akira Kurosawa must have been inspired by this sequence when he conceived the rainy final battle in Seven Samurai (1954). After all, we know he was a fan of Gance, having said of La Roue, it was “the first film that really impressed me.”
After Act Two we had a one hour and forty-five minute dinner break. Several restaurants in the area had special menus for people attending Napoleon, and I ended up going to Picán a few blocks away. They had a fixed price, three course “La Fête de Napoleon” menu from which I selected spring garlic & new potato soup, chicken paillard “Marengo style” (with crawfish étouffée), and brandied black cherries with vanilla ice cream for dessert. It was all rather delicious and fitting for the occasion. Plus, I was in good company. At the same group table sat a fellow silent film aficionado from Florida and a history buff from San Francisco with a special affection for Napoleon. I was pleased to discover that the history buff was blown away by the movie up to that point, despite having no particular love for cinema. Anyway, after dinner I made a mad dash for the Paramount.
Despite much political intrigue, Act Three is concerned, for the most part, with Napoleon's love life as he falls for the beautiful Josephine (Gina Manès). We are treated to several funny scenes illustrating his romantic skills, or lack thereof, since clearly they are not the equal of his efforts on the battlefield. There is also a quite memorable Victim's Ball, where the editing shines and the lack of censorship is apparent. Women lose their tops and their skirts come up to reveal their backsides, but things never feel gratuitous. Heck, it feels like a French party, and these balls, intended for the relatives of those who were guillotined during the Reign of Terror, really occurred at that time in Paris.
Ultimately, Napoleon is promoted based on the leadership he displayed at Toulon. He is wed to Josephine and on the very day of his union, he's lying in the floor of his room planning the invasion of Italy.
In the final act Napoleon heads to Italy, making a stop at the National Convention one last time before leaving Paris. It's a terrific scene; the old building lies empty, but the ghosts of the Revolution remain. Danton and Saint-Just (played by Gance himself, who received a massive applause when he first showed up in Act Three) appear before Napoleon and demand that he remain true to their ideals. The Revolution was intended to bring down the oppressive monarchy, replacing it with the personal freedoms of a democracy. Saint-Just tells Napoleon that should he waver from those principles, the ghosts of the Revolution will oppose him. Obviously, there is some powerful foreshadowing at work here. We all know Napoleon eventually got too big for his britches.
Once he arrives in Italy, an appalling sight awaits him. The French troops stationed there are starving and poorly equipped. Suddenly, the curtains at the side of the screen pull back to reveal two more full-size screens. The finale of the picture, seen on this 82-foot wide panorama, lasts a good twenty minutes. The audience, again, broke into applause for it is here we witness the cinema's first use of widescreen. When Gance created this sequence by connecting three cameras to capture a single shot, Hollywood's “Cinerama” (first seen in 1953's The Robe) was still twenty-six years away. Innovation, folks. It's a beautiful thing.
In this massive triptych that Gance called “Polyvision”, we see Napoleon up on a hill overlooking his troops. He shouts an inspirational speech, convincing this weakened rabble to find glory on the battlefield. He promises rewards beyond their wildest dreams. The troops, fired up by these words, begin to march with newfound purpose. An eagle spreads its wings eighty-two feet wide. Moved by this, a man to my right began cheering. The music soars, as we see more wide panoramas and intercutting between all three screens. For example, in a quick cut, one might see Napoleon's face at center with flames to the left and right. Eventually, the left screen is tinted blue, the right is tinted red, and the center remains “black and white”. This gives the impression of a massive French flag with images pouring out of it. When the cutting gets fast and furious, with different images on all three screens, it resembles something by Stan Brakhage or even a modern music video (only more rewarding). It's a momentous climax, indeed.
Then, alas, it was over. The audience stood up and cheered for several minutes. After five-and-a-half hours (nearly eight if including the intermissions), I still found myself wanting more. I remember wishing that I had seen the March 31 production so that I might stay and view it again on April 1. The word is that Napoleon won't be seen again until late 2013 in London. We have no reason to hope for a Blu-ray release, so there is literally no way to experience this movie again any time soon.
What made it so unforgettable? Well, the movie itself was a staggering feat, despite being eighty-five years old. It featured a plethora of gorgeous images, wonderful performances, surprising humor, and unexpected subtlety from Gance, along with stupendous camerawork and technical innovations. The Polyvision sequence can never be reproduced to full effect on the home screen, just as IMAX footage will never be the same outside of an IMAX theater. It is a rare thing to see Polyvision done properly, as it requires three specially installed screens and three film projectors.
The aforementioned score by Carl Davis, performed live by the Oakland East Bay Symphony, was nearly worth the price of admission by itself. No offense to the late Carmine Coppola, whose music worked so well in Apocalypse Now (1979), but Davis has fashioned the superior score for Napoleon. In researching the music of Napoleon's life, Davis worked in "La Marseillaise", Beethoven's Eroica Symphony (which was originally inspired by Napoleon's exploits), pieces by other Napoleon contemporaries like Mozart and Haydn, a tune from Paisiello's “Nina” (Napoleon's favorite opera), three Corsican folk tunes of the period to accompany Napoleon's return home, and some powerful original compositions. It was a dazzling accompaniment, to say the least.
As I stated, the venue was a part of the experience that will likely never be matched, and for the tinted sequences in the film, the original 1920's dye process was applied to each frame; no computer effects or colorization were added. There was just so much attention to detail, so much love and care that obviously went into this. It was truly the greatest experience I have ever had in a movie theater.
While it's a shame that Gance was only able to complete the first of a planned six films about Napoleon before he ran out of money, that one film stands far above his others as a testament to his genius. He was a man ahead of his time, and perhaps that is why his film can blow me away today more than a dozen modern Hollywood blockbusters ever could.
The standard of Napoleon Bonaparte's Grande Armée was a staff, atop which sat a bronze eagle. In Abel Gance's 1927 silent film, Napoleon, we see the emperor as a youth with his very own pet eagle. The eagle represented courage, its wings spread wide symbolized a protector. These were traits many associated with Napoleon in his early career, before he became something of a tyrant. Beethoven, for example, was a big fan of Napoleon as a general, but despised him later (even crossing out a dedication to Napoleon on a sheet of music that still exists). Nonetheless, the eagle was a symbol of Napoleonic virtues in his younger days, and Gance's five-and-a-half hour epic tackles the early days of an extraordinary life. Technically, this eagle landed in the U.S. on March 24, but I will be flying from Dallas to see it on April 1, at the last of only four showings at the Paramount Theater in Oakland. Words can not express my excitement; this has been a dream of mine since the late 90's when I read about the last time Napoleon played in America. The year was 1981, six thousand people crammed into New York's Radio City Music Hall, and by all accounts it was “the cinema event of a lifetime”. Those unfamiliar with the film may wonder, “What's so special about it?” If you happen to be in that camp, you may think I'm crazy to fly to another city just to see a movie. Hey, Dallas is nothing. People have flown in from London, Paris, Prague, Amsterdam, New York City, Chicago, Miami, etc. Apparently one of my favorite filmmakers in the last two decades, Alexander Payne (Sideways, The Descendants, etc.) saw it last Saturday and Sunday! So if I'm crazy, at least I'm in good company. Why, exactly, are these four screenings so incredibly rare and special? I'll save the details for my upcoming review, but lets just say Napoleon is an enormous feat to put on. In fact, the San Francisco Silent Film Festival is paying $720,000 to present these four screenings alone. Plus, I last saw the movie about a decade ago on VHS; it was a shorter version with a different score and played at the wrong framerate. So why not get the thing on Blu-ray or DVD instead? Well, because that VHS version is still the only version available in America. It's a legal issue. Francis Ford Coppola owns the American rights to Napoleon, and his father, Carmine, composed a score for the film. In the thirty years since then, film historian Kevin Brownlow has discovered more footage, better versions of existing footage, and so forth. He has created two improved restorations since that time, and he wants the world to see them. Unfortunately, Coppola has been a menace at every turn. He wants his cut of the film with his father's score (particularly now that his father has passed on) to be the definitive version.
In my full review I will delve into all the other reasons I'm so thrilled about seeing this epic film on Sunday. To prepare, I have watched two of Abel Gance's earlier films: J'Accuse (1919) and La Roue (1923). I had seen the latter previously, but had never caught the former until now. Both films are visually impressive; seldom have I seen so much camera movement and rapid cutting in a picture from 1919, and La Roue improves upon that. There are two sequences in particular, one involving a train crash and the other a speeding train, in La Roue that make me wonder why Sergei Eisenstein gets all the credit for coming up with the montage. His Odessa Steps sequence in The Battleship Potemkin (1925) is legendary, but Gance was doing similar work at an earlier date. J'Accuse, with it's extreme melodrama and not an ounce of subtlety, doesn't hold up as well today as La Roue, unfortunately. There is a clear pacifist message, the first in cinema according to Brownlow, hurtling toward the viewer at every turn. It's worth seeing, but Gance was clearly still developing his talents. When it's good, it's very good, and memorable sequences include Gance's actual World War I footage of the Battle of Saint-Mihiel and especially the climax, where the dead soldiers of France rise up to accuse their wives, friends, family, etc. of not valuing their sacrifice. Gance used real soldiers on leave for this scene, and when they returned to the front lines, eighty percent of them perished.
La Roue, the story of an engineer/inventor (Séverin-Mars, also one of the leads in J'Accuse) who rescues an orphaned girl from a train crash, raises her as his own daughter, and tragically falls in love with her somewhere along the way, is a better picture than J'Accuse. It's not entirely free of over-the-top melodrama, to be sure, but compared to J'Accuse it seems there was a sedative added to the wine on set. If memory serves, Napoleon is yet another improvement in that area.
There are some interesting characters and genuinely striking images in La Roue. One image I can't get out of my head is the engineer's little house with a picket fence sitting right by the railroad tracks. When trains pass in exterior shots they seem to be about six feet from the house, and in interior shots they appear always lumbering by through the windows. It's a long film at four-and-a-half hours, but well worth the effort and great preparation for the five-and-a-half hours (with three intermissions including a dinner break) that await me on Sunday.
My last article spoke about The Four Kinds of People, and as a continuation of that idea, I will now discuss The Three Kinds of Movies. First, a little background is in order. At around fourteen or fifteen years of age I existed among the ranks of the third and worst of the four kinds of people. In other words, I absolutely loved movies, but possessed a very limited perspective of them. As I stated in my article, Tree Hugger: Part One, the movie that helped me evolve was Alfred Hitchcock's Psycho (1960). I rented it begrudgingly, and only when convinced I had seen every new release available at my local Blockbuster. Psycho not only impressed me, it changed me. From that day forward I started watching older American movies. A few months later I was at my friend’s house flipping channels on the tube when, suddenly, we found ourselves staring at two bad ass looking Japanese guys with enormous spears. The movie was subtitled, black-and-white, and shot in glorious widescreen. Before we could change the channel on this “foreign garbage”, we both realized how visually striking it was. This was exceptional filmmaking! My friend, as intrigued as I (all the more shocking since he had a “person two” interest in films), pressed the info button on his remote. It was called The Hidden Fortress, released in 1958, and directed by Akira Kurosawa, an influential Japanese filmmaker I had surprisingly heard of in passing.
My friend and I watched the entire spear battle between Toshiro Mifune and Susumu Fujita, astonished as all hell. That very evening I looked up as much information on Akira Kurosawa as I possibly could, and the next day I rented The Hidden Fortress, Seven Samurai (1954), and Ran (1985). Surprisingly, when viewed in full, none of these films were all that great to me at the time. They were above average, I suppose, but nothing tremendous. I decided Kurosawa wasn’t all I had come to think he might be.
However, I came across a copy of Yojimbo (1961) a few weeks later and pulled the trigger on a rental. I absolutely loved it. To this day I consider it a top notch satire, brimming with action, entertainment, and stunning cinematography. Yojimbo was, for me, second only to Psycho in terms of its immediate impact on my life where motion pictures are concerned. It opened the door to everything Psycho had left out. Foreign films were fair game, even silents seemed legitimate. After Yojimbo I threw out all the fears and prejudices I had unintentionally built up against certain aspects of film history. All films, and I do mean all (with the single exception of porn), were now potential masterpieces. I realized that by restricting myself from viewing these “intimidating” films, I could miss out on seeing some of the greatest films ever made. As a film lover I wasn’t willing to do that, which is why I have issues with “film lovers” who are.
I began watching everything I could get my hands on. Before I knew it, Blockbuster wasn’t cutting it anymore. To get my hands on some of Kurosawa’s lesser known works (The Lower Depths, Red Beard, Sanshiro Sugata, etc.) I found myself driving to rental stores with a better selection or buying the movies outright. In addition to these, and more, I viewed Seven Samurai, Ran, and The Hidden Fortress again a few months into my cinephile revelation period. It was as if a blindfold of ignorance had been removed from my eyes. What had I been watching the first time? Was my mind preoccupied? Perhaps my bias had been more stifling than I realized? What possessed me to believe these films were anything but extraordinary?! That’s when I formed the belief that three kinds of movies exist.
There are terrible films, of course, and they make up the vast majority. There are also movies one may enjoy on the first viewing that fail to hold up on subsequent viewings. In other words, their impact is immediate, and from there they only get worse. After seeing a film like this, one may leave the theater with a smile on their face. They are often very accessible and well made. Still, they lack that singular ability to grow, change, and improve with each viewing. Their value is entirely on the surface. One does not watch these films multiple times and discover new things each time. It’s like a quart of milk; good for a while, then it spoils. The life span of these pictures is quite short indeed.
Then there are those rare, special films that can range anywhere from average to excellent when first viewed. What separates them from the second type of movie is that each viewing reaps new rewards. If the film was excellent the first time, it only grows more incredible. If it was average at first, one’s eyes open to its brilliance a few viewings later. Like a fine wine, this kind of film gets even better with age. This was the case with Seven Samurai, Ran, and The Hidden Fortress. Though I was blown away by Seven Samurai on my second viewing, it wasn’t until the third that I began to really understand just how masterful it is. Having seen Seven Samurai more than a dozen times over the years, I now believe it's Kurosawa's finest film, and one of the best pictures ever made. Yojimbo, though I loved it immediately, has also grown richer over time. These kinds of films are the true treasures of the medium, and seeking them out may feel like looking for a needle in a haystack.
Another fact that bears mentioning; certain filmmakers may have a style that is more difficult to penetrate. For me, one of the most challenging directors to develop a proper appreciation for is Robert Bresson. He is an acquired taste, to be sure, but the man was obviously a cinematic genius. I don’t care if one has seen many Kurosawa films, Bergman films, Tarkovsky films, Fellini films, or Bunuel films, Bresson’s style can still alienate viewers. He is completely unique and operates as far from the Hollywood formula as possible. Any and everything conventional that can occur in a film does not occur in Bresson.
Directors such as this require a “viewing order” as I call it. One should begin with the filmmaker's most mainstream, though still great, film. Gradually, one can work their way up to the others. For Bresson, I believe the ideal place to start is A Man Escaped (1956), which also happens to be the favorite Bresson film of the respected critic, Jonathan Rosenbaum. The Bresson style is apparent, but the film isn’t difficult to enjoy for an experienced viewer, and it’s undeniably intense. I also believe that, following that film, one can enjoy Pickpocket (1959), Mouchette (1967), and L’Argent (1983). Then and only then should one attempt to tackle Diary of a Country Priest (1951) and Au Hasard Balthazar (1966).
The point here is, don’t give up on a director after seeing just one or two films he has made. The first Bresson film I saw was Au Hasard Balthazar and that was an enormous mistake. Now, having watched his other movies, I better understand Balthazar, and having seen it half a dozen times now, I find it to be a masterpiece.
I continue to search for great films, and will for the rest of my life. I strongly believe those who possess the notion that movies are nothing more than entertainment are misjudging reality. Motion pictures, the great ones anyway, are so much more. Films can instill moral lessons, and provide emotional outlets. I read one man’s take on Alain Resnais’ Hiroshima mon amour (1959), which said he despised the film for years until he saw it again after experiencing a tragic, heartbreaking event in his own life. Suddenly, he understood.
Great films can provide insight into other cultures and humanize the people of countries we may never have thought of or cared about prior. I know that Grave of the Fireflies (1988), despite being in Japanese, animated, and having nothing to do with atomic bombs, has the power to leave some modern American viewers regretting events that occurred in Japan on the sixth and ninth of August in 1945. And I know that any family, universally, can see their reflection in the films of Yasujiro Ozu. Humans identify with humans the world over, which means that ignoring those separated from us by a border or an ocean is the easy way out. Cultures that are difficult for us to penetrate, ways of life that we don’t really understand, we choose to define in simple terms. I've heard statements like, “They’re a mixed up race,” or, “Those people have no regard for human life.” Let’s not forget those who immediately chime in with vocal parodies of the languages of other cultures (all the worse considering the pitiful job they do). The only languages one can not parody in such a way are cinema, literature, and music: the universal languages. Like India’s great director, Satyajit Ray, once said of his Apu Trilogy:
“The most distinctive feature of my films is that they are deeply rooted in Bengal, in Bengali culture, mannerisms, and mores. What makes them universal in appeal is that they are about human beings.”
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