The Epochs of American Film

This is the first post in what I hope to be a series of pieces on the various stages of the American cinema.

It is hard to think of any other art form, in any medium, that can be as generalized and categorized as film is, while still being a largely accurate representation. This is probably because there is a very rigid standard for the marketing of films, and no film, regardless of how good its makers might consider it to be, will get produced if it has no perceived audience at all-at least not in Hollywood.

Quickly, a brief overview of the periods I am going to refer to:

The silent era is recognized today for its freedom and independence in production. After about 10 years of development, narrative cinema really took off with the Nickelodeon era, achieved iconic artistic status with THE BIRTH OF A NATION, and really continued to grow until the end of the 1920s.

The studio era, which began with the creation of MGM as a sort of corporate film factory in 1924 (also signficant for the butchering of von Stroheim's GREED, the first film they inherited), and which really took off in 1929-1930 with the rigid production processes necessary for sound production. Characterized by the "seven major studios", contract stars, and staff directors, this is the period that is most often associated with the glamorous, "classic" period of Hollywood filmmaking. The studio era ended for many reasons-some cite the rise of small, independent companies (especially in New York) on the rise following WWII. Some cite the increased interest in imported foreign film also following WWII. The Paramount Decision of 1948 to break up the studio-owned theatre chains played a huge part. The rise of popularity of television and TV-originated films (MARTY, 12 ANGRY MEN) in the 1950s contributed as well. On top of this, there were more and more directors (Hitchcock, Huston, Preminger, Wilder, Welles) who demanded a higher level of creative control than was really possible under the strict studio hierarchy. On top of that, the great contract stars of the 30s (Clark Gable, Robert Taylor, Gary Cooper) were all getting older, and the new generation of actors (mainly from New York) were a stark contrasted to the more old-school theatrical traditions of the earlier generation. The "old" and "new" Hollywood continued to co-exist throughout the 1950s (films like MARTY, 12 ANGRY MEN alongside THE TEN COMMANDMENTS and SINGIN' IN THE RAIN). For a period that has no clearly defined end, I like to cite the release of BEN-HUR in 1959, an MGM release that came at the end of Hollywood's last great decade and in many ways trumpeted the final call of Hollywood's studio filmmaking.

The next period, as I see it, is the great age of American Independent filmmaking, which co-exists with the New American Cinema but isn't quite the same thing. The American independent era is characterized largely by directors who began in TV or theatre. Kazan, Lumet, Kubrick, Delbert Mann, Robert Altman, among others. The triumph of Mann's MARTY at the 1956 Academy Awards represented the beginning of this glorious period. This was really the first time that the Academy recognized a smaller, more personal independent film. It would continue strong into the 1960s-giving us a very diverse selection of films. This period really culminated with the 1975-1976-1977 Best Picture wins for United Artists, and ended with the coming of the Blockbuster effects epics of the late 1970s.

The New American Cinema is specifically the American film influenced by the French New Wave. I pinpoint it to the release of BONNIE AND CLYDE in 1967, a film that practically "screams" its New Wave influence. As I mentioned, this coexists and in many cases coincides with the American Independent cinema, except whereas the Independent Cinema tended to focus more on story, the New Wave tended to focus on style and homage. The problem with the New American cinema is that it was borrowing on a tradition instead of truly forging new territory, and it too came to an end with the late 1970s blockbuster era.

The following eras are really still too "new" to discuss with any sense of balance:

The "Blockbuster" era begins as early as 1972 with THE POSEIDON ADVENTURE, but really solidified itself with Spielberg's JAWS in 1975, and Lucas' STAR WARS in 1977. The 1980s was completely characterized by this type of cinema-BACK TO THE FUTURE, INDIANA JONES, and other escapist, effects-oriented fare. I feel that while this style is still alive and well in the CGI epics of today, it really lost something of its magic with the prolification of CGI techniques introduced around 1992-1993.

The next "Independent" era, or really the streamlining of "independent film" came in 1994 with the success of Tarantino's PULP FICTION, which has led us into the era of quirky, hip, dark films that have been done to death.

What I hope to do is to examine the characteristics of each of these periods, the major filmmakers, stars, and cultural conditions that contributed to the films.

Right now, it's back to watching the 79th Academy Awards telecast which I will report on tomorrow.

AFI 100 Years...100 Movies Again

Looking at the AFI website, it looks like they're planning on doing a "10thAnniversary" edition of that 100 Years...100 Movies program.

The interesting thing is that the this year's theme will once again be the "100 Best Films of all Time". After looking at the ballot, they're hoping to be able to add at least a couple films that were made in the last ten years since the last list. They have the list of 400 nominated films on their site now. I wonder how much it will differ from 1998's list? Probably fewer silents (if that's even possible), fewer films pre-1960, and more George Stevens.

I'm assuming all the titles they select will, like their 1998 list, have to be films that are easily available for rent at Blockbuster on DVD (which should limit their selection even more, because Blockbuster hardly even has a "classic" section anymore). At least having the theme as the "100 Greatest Films" may attract a bigger audience to raise some awareness of the films, for what it's worth. Stations in my market haven't even bothered to carry their last couple specials, like the "100 Cheers" and "100 Thrills" nonsense.

The biggest improvement has to be the inclusion of "Sweet Smell of Success" on their 400 ballot. Unless I'm mistaken, that film didn't even make the top *400* in '98, which had to have been some sort of oversight. I doubt there will even be three Chaplin films as there were in '98. No way will we see any "dramatic" silents on the list. And probably most of the great films of the 30s that were represented last time may be, at best, represented by a couple of standard entries.The timing of this list is quite interesting. I've always suspected that the 1998 list was partially designed to get one last "kick" out of VHS sales/rentals (especially at Blockbuster) before that format transitioned to DVD in 1999-2000. I wonder if because they perceive another format change (downloadable movies, Hi-Def "OnDemand", etc.) on the horizon, they figure it's time to trot out the old list of standard classics to get one last boost on DVD?

Los Olvidados

Now here is an interesting film.

It's not often I get so hooked on a film after one viewing, but this was certainly the case with Luis Bunuel's excellent study of poverty and crime among the youth in post-war Mexico City.

I can't think of another film that is so overwhelmed by genuine poverty and terrible conditions, with the possible exception of some of the Italian neorealist films on which this film was patterned. But whereas, say, DeSica's BICYCLE THIEVES contains a ray of optimism and even redemption (backed by a beautiful score), Bunuel's films is relentlessly bleak, terrifying and depressing.

There are scenes of shocking violence which back the themes of the story well. It is essentially about a poor Mexican boy, Pedro, who becomes an accomplice to a murder when a teenage gangmember he used to know, called Jaibo, breaks out of juvenile hall and returns to his town to wreak havoc. The boy is blackmailed by Jaibo, who abuses him and weilds frightening power over the poor boy until he finally cracks.

The cinematography is strangely beautiful, yet never loses sight of its gritty purpose. The cast is uniformly excellent.

This film stands out in Bunuel's body of work as an example of heightened realism, although surrealistic stylings turn up in the dream sequences.

Having seen the majority of Bunuel's work, certainly all of his critically acclaimed works, I feel that LOS OLVIDADOS stands out as his finest achievements.

Why do we Love Movies?

We all have our favorite movies-movies we saw once and never forgot, or movies we can watch again and again and never tire of. What's interesting is that, unlike music and literature, we tend to be much more cautious about exposing ourselves to a certain film too many times. We've all experienced that feeling of having seen a certain movie one too many times. (I think I first experienced this about ten years ago, when the TNT network ran Bob Clark's 1983 Christmas comedy "A Christmas Story" for 24 hours straight on Christmas Eve. A film that I enjoyed for what it was-a homespun, humorous look at Christmas through the eyes of a child-had now become overly familiar to me. )

But what about those films that we can watch over and over and never tire of? For instance, I have seen Chaplin's "Modern Times" probably close to 200 times since I first discovered the videotape at the local library in 1991. It's still one of my favorite films, and each time I see it, I discover something new. Why this film? I'm still not sure, and I probably will never know. But I realize how profoundly this film has affected me-my career, my education major, my life's goals-all can be traced back to that summer afternoon in 1991 that I watched the slightly strange, faster-than-life comedy with the Little Tramp getting sucked through the cogs of the machine.

"Citizen Kane" is another old favorite. I also found this one at the library (the convenience of growing up in the video era). I knew vaguely it was supposed to be a "good" film, but that was about it. Watching it that warm Spring night in 1994 after a game of flashlight tag, it changed my perception of what cinema could be. While "Modern Times" had gotten me hooked on films in general, especially the classic comedies, it was "Citizen Kane" that showed me that a great film could move me in ways I never thought possible.

That spring was also the month that television changed forever the way we could see great films-Turner Classic Movies launched in March of that year, and I still remember watching "Ninotchka" and being charmed by the Lubitsch touch, the perfect romantic pairing of Greta Garbo and Melvyn Douglas as they sipped champage in Paris, Hollywood (I even remember the "One Reel Wonder" I saw after the film-"John Nesbitt's Passing Parade-Goodbye Mrs. Hurlock"), not realizing at the time I was only on the verge of discovering the wide world of great cinema that Turner Classic Movies would expose me to during my teen years.

My real film education took place every Saturday night during my teen years, at the former Orpheum Cinema in Baltimore. Located in Fells Point, I spent nearly every weekend there, seeing every double- and triple-feature I could, usually consisting of film noir classics, plus the work of great foreign filmmakers, whose films opened up whole new worlds to me. Godard's "Breathless" (still one of my favorites), seen on a double bill with "Kiss Me Deadly"; the superb double feature of "Detour" (what great work could be done on such a small budget) and Fritz Lang's "Clash by Night"; a Capra double bill on New Year's Eve (I was the only one in the theatre); the works of Fellini, Antonioni, Bergman, Truffaut, Dreyer, Welles, Hawks, Aldrich, Keaton, even Tashlin-I discovered them all here. Even the lobby offered endless discovery-an excellent selection of books on film, posters, photos and other miscellany decorating the walls, and of course, the invaluable discussion with the owner of the theatre (who was kind enough to sit for an hour-long interview with this then-13 year old film fan and aspiring filmmaker). The Orpheum is gone now, a victim of the video age, but I cannot imagine my appreciation and enjoyment of the wide variety of cinema would be the same today if not for those many endless Saturday night spent in the dark of the revival house.

It's as much about watching the movies, the experiences and conditions and the joy of discovery, that can add so much. I now have read that the last remaining "historic" theatre in Maryland-the Senator, built in 1939-is up for auction. The land itself will probably net more at auction than the theatre did in an entire year's worth of business. Even though I was pretty vocal in my criticism of some of the theatre's policies in recent years, I will never forget the truly magical evening I watched "National Velvet" there, sitting in the row behind Mickey Rooney as the beautiful Technicolor film unveiled itself on the silver screen. It just wasn't Christmas without the double bill of "It's a Wonderful Life" and "A Christmas Carol". It was also at the Senator that, just five years ago, I was awestruck and changed profoundly after viewing David Lean's epic "Lawrence of Arabia", a film that moved me like no other. Watching the film (I went back to see it four more times) unfold in all its 70mm glory, with Maurice Jarre's luscious, haunting theme on the soundtrack, the simply awe-inspiring, sweeping cinemtagraphy of Freddie Young, the masterful direction of David Lean, and the performance of a lifetime by Peter O'Toole, I sat back in the seat and for the next four hours I was in Arabia, right alongside Lawrence, completely lost in the fantasy world of the film.

This is why I love movies.

"False Classics"

In his book celebrating the centennial of the cinema, Gilbert Adair includes as a representative film for 1920 THE CABINET OF DR. CALIGARI.

Re-reading his book the other night, I was struck by his comments on this film, and wanted to hear everyone else's opinions on what Adair refers to as "false classics."

He includes a still from the film as a representative image and comments on it: "Yet when I look at the still, what I cannot help conjuring up in my inner eye is not, as is generally the case, an imploded impression, a compacted flash, of the film itself in its entirety but, curiously, a typical page out of a pre-war film history by Paul Rotha or Roger Manwell or Georges Sadoul in which this or else a comparable image from CALIGARI would invariably be found. Until the sixties, the fuzzy grey uniformity of most published photographic stills from the history of the cinema made it hard to distinguish decade from decade, let alone movie from movie. Bunched together on coarse, sandpapery, mustard-hued pages, frame enlargements from certified classics (ALEXANDER NEVSKY, LA BETE HUMAINE-ah, those railroad tracks!) seemed to be coated with precisely the same ectoplasmic rust as other "classics"-so-called, which surely no one any longer wanted to see."

Adair goes on to state that CALIGARI is the type of "certified classic" that fewer moviegoers see in each new generation: "Everyone has heard of THE CABINET OF DR. CALIGARI; but as the years elapse, as generation of cinephile succeeds generation of cinephile, there remain fewer and fewer people who have actually seen it. I intend that to be read absolutely literally: fewer people now have seen the film than in 1925 or 1935 or 1945."

Finally, he goes on to categorize CALIGARI as a "false classic". He also lists other films that he would include in this category, noting that they are "generally of a vague humanist ideology", including Lewis Milestone's ALL QUIET ON THE WESTERN FRONT, G.W. Pabst's WESTRFRONT 1918 and KAMERADSCHAFT, Feyder's A KERMESSE HEROIQUE, Duvivier's UN CARNET DE BAL, Rene Clair's A NOUS LA LIBERTE, David Lean's BRIEF ENCOUNTER, and William Wellman's THE OX-BOW INCIDENT.

This section left me wondering what specifically the "false classic" label was all about. I would, for instance, consider all these mentioned films to be genuine classics. I get the impression it has to do with a sort of pre-auteur view of film being that the only important films were the ones that "said something", such as the "humanist" films mentioned above by Adair.
It may also relate somewhat to the idea that certain films that were previously hailed consistently as "masterpieces" by mainstream critics have been sort of "edged out" over the years because there is now more to digest and they have to make more room to include later, post-1960s "classics". For instance, in Bosley Crowther's book "The Great Films", in which he attempts to list the 50 most important films (up through 1967), he includes titles such as "Camille", "Ninotchka", "A Night at the Opera", "A Nous la liberte", "The Blue Angel", and "Cabinet of Dr. Caligari"-great films, but ones that might get edged out of such a list today. (The list itself is irrevelent in terms of the actual quality of the films, but as always, such lists say alot about the critical climate in which the list was made.)

Is a false classic a film that has gained classic status for non- or extra-cinematic reasons? Possibly. But it does not explain the critical reverence for such films as "A Night at the Opera", a delightful, frothy and madcap comedian comedy from 1935 that had both audiences and critics in stitches but not necessarily marvelling over its cinematic brilliance per se.

The critical climate right now, interestingly enough, still favors films with a strong and serious "message" as instant classics, suggesting that there is still a divide between what is considered a "classic" and what is considered true "entertainment". Without looking, how many of the films nominated for Best Picture at the Academy Awards over the last five years can you name, or let alone say you've seen?

Shane and The Psychological Western

As the Western progressed out of its pulp roots, which had been firmly established in the movies' earliest days, a new view point, a mythical, legendary perspective of the genre developed. The first film to really portray the Western on an epic scale was James Cruze's 1923 film "The Covered Wagon", followed the following year by John Ford's epic of the building of the transatlantic railroad, "The Iron Horse". Over the decade, there were numerous other epic Westerns, including William S. Hart's "Tumbleweeds" (1925) and Raoul Walsh's "The Big Trail" (1930). Because of the cost and logistics of the location work involved, the Western took a dramatic downturn in the early '3os, and spent most of that decade as the lowest form of Saturday morning kiddie fare, much as the science fiction film would in the 1950s. Cecil B. DeMille's "The Plainsman", which appeared in 1937, represented a triumph for the Western, but it was John Ford who, with his "Stagecoach" in 1939, revolutionized and re-energized the genre to the level of art. Ford's Westerns, along with those of other notable directors such as Anthony Mann, Budd Boetticher, Howard Hawks, and others took a genre that had become completely set in conventions to the point of tedium, and took it to new heights combining the use of psychological elements, character development and strong story to elevate the genre to a new glory.

The films of these directors took root during the 1960s and 70s due to the interest of auteurist critics, who admired the consistency of themes and style from film to film. Ford's best Westerns stand out among the genre. As fine entertainment, Hawks' "Red River" and "Rio Bravo" stand out, but for me, lack the psychological depth that marks my three favorite Westerns.

The three that I admire the most are "The Ox-Bow Incident" (William A. Wellman, 1943), "High Noon" (Fred Zinnemann, 1952), and "Shane" (George Stevens, 1953). Of these, "Shane" stands out for me as the ultimate achievement within the genre.

"Shane" tells the tale of Shane, a flawed White Knight of a gunfighter (Alan Ladd) who comes in off the plains and offers support to a small ranching community under constant threat from a gang of ranchers who want to re-claim the land for themselves. Mr. Starrett (Van Heflin) and his wife (Jean Arthur) don't know what to make of this stranger, but their son (Brandon de Wilde) takes an instant sense of friendship to him, and sees him as a sort of guardian figure in some ways. Shane touches their lives, and stands off against the villainous rancher (Emile Meyer) and his chief henchman, Wilson (Jack Palance).

For me, "Shane" represents a Western with heart and a psychological element that works on several levels. It explores the relationship between Shane and Mrs. Starrett, saying so little yet conveying so much; it examines the relationship between Shane and the Starrett's son, who comes to see him as a tragic hero; and finally, between right and wrong, in interestingly gray terms for an American Western: in one scene, we hear an explanation as to why the rancher (Emile Meyer) wants to drive off the new settlers, and it makes the audience understand his point of view.

Visually, the film is beautiful, and takes place in a slightly different "West" than is often portrayed in Hollywood films. The Westerns usually take place in the dry, desert climates of such locations as Monument Valley and other far Western locales. But "Shane" is beautifully photographed by Loyal Griggs in the mountains and plains of Wyoming, in gorgeous Technicolor. It is a pity that the film was not made just a year or two later, as it would have probably been photographed in widescreen, which would have contributed greatly to the scenery. "Shane" has been criticized as being too neat and tidy for a Western, but I would disagree. The costuming is well-researched and accurate, despite the criticisms of some. And the performances have a certain beauty to them that add great depth to the characterizations.

The "Psychological" western fascinates me endlessly, and I will offer up more on it after re-watching both "High Noon" and "The Ox-Bow Incident".

A Clarification: Documentaries and Animation

In my previous post, I referred to the documentary film as a "distant cousin" of the animated film. I realize this may at first appear contradictory. After all, the two styles are really polar opposites. Documentaries are really the height of cinematic naturalism, at least ideally. And the animated film is by far the most fantastical and thoroughly fictional form. Why, then, did I make this comparison?

The answer lies not in so much what they are, but rather, what they are not. Neither the documentary or the animated film receives the same type of recognition in relation to the narrative live action feature film. Animated films have existed in a sort of "parallel universe" to cinema since the beginning. Documentaries at one time were really the only form of cinema (at that time referred to as "actualities"), but with the increased popularity of the fantasy and narrative films, the documentary became a slightly more specialized form of cinema.

By the time classical Hollywood filmmaking was firmly established, both of these forms began to exist in a little universe of their own, often on the fringes of Hollywood filmmaking (though much commercial animation was done by the major studios).

To clarify, the documentary and animated film are rather diametrically opposed in a formal sense, but in their perceived place in the Hollywood pantheon, they remain kindred spirits.