Lone Star

Directed by John Sayles
1996
The United States of America

Forty years ago, Rio County Sheriff Charlie Wade vanished. A cruel, sadistic man, he took a perverse pleasure in extorting and terrifying the townsfolk. He was last seen in a dark bar having an argument with his new deputy Buddy Deeds. Wade had attempted to use him as a pawn in a drug pick-up. But he didn’t count on Buddy’s integrity. He stormed out of the bar and was never seen again. Nobody seemed to care much when he (and $10,000 from Rio County’s public coffer) disappeared. Buddy would follow Wade as sheriff for the next thirty years, becoming a beacon of justice and integrity until his death. If anyone might have had any suspicions about Wade’s fate and Buddy’s sudden rise to power...well, small towns may have long memories, but they also know when to leave well enough alone.

The last confrontation between Wade (left) and Buddy (right).

But Rio County’s convenient case of selective amnesia is soon challenged when two off-duty soldiers accidentally discover a skeleton in the desert with Wade’s old sheriff’s badge rusting away in the nearby dirt. With the specter of a 40 year old murder hovering over the countryside, none other than Buddy’s son, Sheriff Sam Deeds, is called upon to investigate. So begins John Sayles’ Lone Star, a magnificent film that isn’t so much a murder mystery as an exploration into the very soul of a community plagued with centuries of racial tension, violence, and unpleasant memories that refuse to fade away.

It seems that everyone in Rio County has a story. There’s Otis Payne, the owner of the bar that serves as a backdrop to Wade’s last appearance. Though he seems kindly enough, he harbors a lingering sadness over abandoning his son, Delmore, when he was just a child. That child, now grown up, is the new commander of the local Army base. He has to deal with local recruits who see the Army not as a patriotic calling, but a chance to escape Rio County’s economic miasma. Bitter over his father’s absence, Delmore has reigned such a terrible influence over his own son that he has become a stuttering, nervous wreck. Just like the rest of Rio County, one generation of pain fosters the next.

Delmore's son.

Then there’s Pilar Cruz, Sam’s high school crush. After being forcibly separated by their families, Pilar would go on to get married, have two children, and become a teacher. Now the husband is dead, the children rebellious teenagers, and the teaching position mired in local politics over what should and should not be included in their textbooks. The necessity of the case forces Sam to come knocking on her door, seeing as Wade had chillingly murdered her mother’s husband during a routine traffic stop over 40 years ago. Are they glad to see each other after all of this time? As Pilar points out, “Nobody stays in love for twenty-three years.”

 
And then there are the local Seminole Indians, the young Chicanos, and the disenfranchised outsiders wasting away at bars and in immaculate living rooms complete with big screen TVs. Sayles glides from one group to the next, dissecting the monsters lurking behind the different ghettos and neighborhoods. In one scene Delmore interrogates a young, black soldier who tested positive during an unannounced drug test. The ensuing exchange comes as close as anything in the film to uncovering the true nature of Rio’s racial scars.

“I’m just trying to understand how someone like you thinks.”
“You really wanna know?”
“Please.”
“It’s their country. This is one of the best deals they offer.”

Make no mistake, Rio County is not a melting pot. The different races tolerate each other because they have to live there. After all, where else do they have to go? 

John Sayles, one of the true titans of American independent cinema, is at his very best here in Lone Star. Ever since his early days with films like Return of the Secaucus 7 (1980) and The Brother from Another Planet (1984), Sayles has demonstrated masterful skill in creating authentic, believable characters that capture the essence of their environments. These are not characters that are trotted out to recite a few lines in order to move the plot along. Delmore’s relationship with his son, for example, adds almost nothing to the central narrative concerning Wade’s murder. And yet, I couldn’t imagine the film without it. And yes, the mystery is finally resolved. But Sayles doesn’t linger on it. Instead, he is much more interested with how this revelation effects Sam’s relationship with Pilar. This is a film about people. As Pilar wisely suggests, “All that other stuff, all that history? To hell with it, right? Forget the Alamo.”

裸の島 (The Naked Island)

Kaneto Shindō
1960
Japan

On a tiny island in the Seto Inland Sea, a long path winds from the shore to a large field of sweet potatoes. Every day, two tired figures can be seen lugging massive buckets of water up and down the path over and over and over again. Once at the top, they carefully water each individual sweet potato sprout. But their buckets only provide enough water for a few plants. So, once again, they must climb down the path, board a boat, travel to another island, refill their buckets with fresh water, and return. It is harsh, back-breaking work. But for this husband and wife, nothing less than the livelihood of their family depends on it. They have two young sons, both of which are not strong enough yet to help with the crops. So every day they are ferried to school while their parents continue their monotonous, thankless work. Such is life for the family in Kaneto Shindō’s The Naked Island, one of the great treasures of 60s Japanese cinema.

After the explosion of Japanese cinema into the international marketplace in the 50s, Shindō was largely overshadowed by such luminaries as Akira Kurosawa and Kenji Mizoguchi. But he still managed to score a number of critical hits overseas with such films as Children of Hiroshima (1952) and Lucky Dragon No. 5 (1959). The former was the first Japanese film to confront the horrors of the atom bomb attacks during World War Two while the latter was based on the true story of a fishing boat that accidentally got hit by further atomic testing near Bikini Atoll in 1954. But the end of the 50s saw Shindō with almost no money left. So he scraped together what little money he could into one last project: The Naked Island. The film was a daring gamble. It didn’t focus on politics or hot-button issues. It focused on only a handful of characters. And, most importantly, it contained no spoken dialogue.

Don’t misunderstand what I mean when I say that The Naked Island doesn’t have any dialogue. The film has a soundtrack. But Shindō fills the film with “in-between” moments. We assume that the family talks to each other. But Shindō focuses on scenes of extreme toil and tedium. After decades of living on the same island and raising the same family, what is there to say while monotonously watering the same field of sweet potatoes? Take one scene where the husband and wife lug massive buckets of water up to their fields. The wife stumbles and spills her water. The husband is furious. They will have to make an extra trip to the mainland to make up for the loss. He knows it. She knows it. In anger, he smacks her in the face. But then, without a word, he helps her up and the two continue up the hill. Their silent communication is more powerful than anything they could have said.

But the absence of dialogue does more than force Shindō to present the film in purely visual terms. The silence and monotony forces the audience to re-evaluate the family’s relationship with their surroundings. Allow me to explain: early in the film Shindō cuts between the mother and father watering their crops and the waves washing things ashore their island. As we move back and forth between the two, we start to see them as equal and essential parts of the environment. Just as the waves must crash, the family must toil and suffer.

But that isn’t to suggest that The Naked Island is completely bleak. There are small moments of merciful joy. One of the sons catches a fish and eagerly presents it to his weary parents. Despite the day’s hardships, the father smiles and playfully throws him into the sea. The mother beams and breaks into laughter. The family takes the fish to the mainland where they sell it to a merchant. With the money, they treat themselves to a big meal at nice restaurant. Life may be hard, but it is not without its pleasures.

It’s tempting to describe The Naked Island as a quasi-documentary. But to do so would be to miss Shindō’s purpose. After all, there are inaccuracies in how the family lives. For instance, sweet potatoes do not need to be constantly watered every day. What’s important to Shindō isn’t the crop itself, but the demands that it places on the family. Without the crop, they die. They work so they can live. But can you call what they do living? I believe that the answer can be found in the tragic last quarter of the film where one of the sons gets sick. They rush to get a doctor. But the trip to the mainland is long, much too long. When they finally return the son is dead. After the funeral, we see the husband and wife continue their thankless task of watering their sweet potatoes. But suddenly, the wife freezes. She reaches down and begins to rip the precious plants out of the ground in a frenzy. Finally, she collapses and lets forth a piercing, haunting shriek of anguish. Watch the husband’s reaction. It may surprise you. It may infuriate you. It may make you laugh. But it is the key to understanding Shindō’s intentions. Living is a burden. But we survive because...well...we must.

Susuz Yaz (Dry Summer)

Directed by Metin Erksan
1964
Turkey

Film, despite its wide proliferation throughout the world, is a tragically delicate medium. Unless it is gently cared for and preserved, film negatives will deteriorate in a matter of decades. Film enthusiasts and scholars mourn the cold statistics which pronounce that only 10 to 15 percent of silent cinema has survived until today. Therefore, the rediscovery and restoration of lost films is a cause for celebration. But silent films from the cinema’s infancy are not the only ones at risk. Many more recent films have fallen victim to political repression and destruction. One such cinematic treasure was Metin Erksan’s Dry Summer. Despite its enthusiastic reception in the West (even winning the 14th Berlin International Film Festival’s Golden Bear for Best Film), it was swiftly suppressed by the Turkish government for giving the “wrong” image of Turkey. Never mind the fact that in Erksan’s film evil is punished and justice prevails. The hammer fell and Dry Summer was locked away and forgotten about for 45 years. And yet, like Lazarus, Dry Summer has emerged from its tomb thanks to a rigorous restoration by the Cineteca del Comune di Bologna. Now, once again, the world can witness this masterpiece of Turkish cinema.

It all begins with two brothers. The eldest, Osman, decides quite suddenly one day that he will dam up the spring that forms on their property, thereby choking all of the other villagers downstream. The decision comes as quite a shock to the younger brother, Hassan. After all, Hassan explains, water is the earth’s lifeblood. You can’t own water. But Osman doesn’t care. The water may belong to everyone, but the spring is on their property, ergo anything it produces belongs to them. Unable to dissuade his older brother, Hassan and his beautiful wife Bahar are forced to help build the dam.

Naturally, this invites the wrath of their neighbors. Without the water, their tobacco crops will die. The villagers appeal to the court system who quickly agree that Osman’s actions are illegal. The dams are destroyed and the water flows freely once more. But literally within days Osman appeals to an even higher court who supports his claim of ownership over the spring.

Meanwhile, Osman lusts for Bahar, spying on her via a peephole while she undresses and makes love. Erksan and his cinematographer Kriton İlyadis frequently highlight Osman’s desire by cleverly framing him so that he is never far away from Bahar. If she is in the bottom foreground, Osman is in the high background. Part of the pleasure in watching Dry Summer is reveling in the geometric variations that such shots provide within the frame’s diegetic space.

An example of Erksan's compositions with Bahar left foreground, Hassan middle background, Osman right mid-ground.

It isn’t long before Osman seizes on a chance to get Hassan out of the way so he can have Bahar all to himself. When a small group of villagers attack Osman’s dam one night, he manages to shoot and kill one of their number. When the police arrive, Osman manages to convince Hassan to take the blame because “they’ll give a younger man a lesser sentence.” So Hassan is sentenced to eight years in prison. Unbeknownst to Bahar, Osman destroys all of Hassan’s letters. Osman swoops down on Bahar in her grief, trying even more explicitly to seduce her. His passions reach their highest point during an astonishingly erotic scene where Bahar is bitten by a snake and Osman sucks the poison from her wound with extreme gusto.

When word gets out that someone with Hassan’s surname was murdered in prison, Osman tells Bahar that her husband is dead. After torturing Bahar emotionally and psychologically for so long she gives to Osman’s advances. I won’t reveal the ending for two reasons. First, most of you have probably already figured out the twist. Second, I don’t want to rob anyone of the pleasure of the final few scenes. It’s rare to see a film with such a violent climax that doesn’t seem forced or unnecessary. The final denouement and confrontation are arise organically.

This may be cloying sentimentalism bordering on hyperbole, but I truly believe Osman to be one of the best antagonists of European cinema. He isn’t a villain that audiences love to hate like Hannibal Lector or Darth Vader. He doesn’t have a grand scheme or plan. He has no reason for hoarding his water. The summer may be dry, but at no point is it indicated that there will not be enough water for everyone. Osman builds the dam for one reason: because he can. Whenever he is confronted, he gives the same excuse that it is his water and he can do whatever he wants with it. There are several moments when Hassan and Bahar rebel and tear down the dam. But Osman has an almost preternatural ability to suddenly appear whenever they do so he can put the dam back up. During one sequence Osman is attacked by several armed villagers. It appears that the unarmed Osman is doomed. But then the scene shifts and we see a battered but otherwise confident Osman re-appear at his house. How did he survive the attack? It’s never explained. Don’t misunderstand me: there is no mystical or supernatural element to Dry Summer. The film instead invokes the techniques and tones of Neo-realism. Osman just has an uncanny (and unfortunate) knack for being in the right place at the right time.

But Osman is not the only reason why Dry Summer stands as one of Turkey’s greatest cinematic triumphs. Take, for instance, the spell-binding black-and-white cinematography. I’ve always believed that black-and-white photography can be more inherently colorful then even the brightest Technicolor when put in the hands of a master. The Turkish countryside in Dry Summer is brought to vivid life in Erksan and İlyadis’ hands. Rarely has water seemed so beautiful and refreshing. Let us not be like Osman and hoard Dry Summer to ourselves. This is a film that needs to be seen, to be respected, to be cherished.

The entire restored film is available to view for free on youtube. Below is the link to the first part of the film. For some reason I can't embed it to this page.

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=K9BLKliy8SQ&feature=relmfu

Der amerikanische Freund (The American Friend)

Wim Wenders
1977
West Germany, France

In a ratty apartment in Germany, an elderly painter mutters to himself as he stares at his latest creation. Surrounded by disheveled newspapers and dirty brushes, he inspects the painting, first covering his right eye, then his left. A knock is heard. “Who is it?” “It’s Ripley.” He pauses. “The door’s open.” A man in a dark suit walks in and tips a cowboy hat resting on his brow. The man hands the painter a wad of bills. “I sold one painting and ready to sell another one.” “How much?” “That’s 2,000 dollars for you.” The man in the cowboy hat walks around the painter’s apartment. “Now this...I think I can get even more for this one. I could use two of these in six months.” “In six months I can paint five. Try to sell five.” “Two. Don’t be too busy for a dead painter.” The painter looks at the other man, points, and chuckles. “Do you wear that hat in Hamburg?” The other man takes off the hat, briefly looks at it, and smiles. “What’s wrong with a cowboy in Hamburg?”

What, indeed, is wrong with a cowboy in Hamburg? Particularly when the cowboy in question is Tom Ripley, a wealthy American criminal who helps run an art forgery ring. A suave spectre of the European art world, Ripley has refined his criminal activities to a fine science. He attends art auctions where he bids on forged paintings done by the German, driving the price sky-high. He pockets the extra money and repeats the process all over again. It is a perfect system. Even Jesse James would be impressed.

In fact, the impetus of Wim Wenders’ The American Friend isn’t a failing of Ripley’s system, but a personal slight. During one auction, Ripley is introduced to Jonathan Zimmermann, a picture framer suffering from a rare blood disease. Ripley extends his hand, but Jonathan rejects it with a curt “I’ve heard of you” and walks away.

Ripley’s hand shrivels at Jonathan’s insult. “You mustn’t take that seriously,” an auctioneer quickly chimes, “Zimmermann’s under a lot of pressure...he’s ill. A blood disease. Little hope of recovery.” But Zimmermann’s fate is sealed. In a matter of days he will be embroiled in a terrible murder plot, pursued by gangsters. And it started, not with a crime, but with an empty handshake.

 

Perhaps it seems odd that such a small moment would ignite an entire film. It happens so fast that it is easy to miss. But The American Friend is a film of manners and style, knowing glances and seemingly empty faces. It is a love letter and subliminal condemnation of American culture. For Wenders, the style becomes the substance.

For those familiar with Tom Ripley, the main character of Patricia Highsmith’s “Ripliad,” a pentalogy of crime novels about a refined yet amoral criminal, what happens next to Zimmermann is shocking, but not unexpected. A French criminal named Raoul Minot asks Ripley if he could assassinate a rival gangster. Ripley refuses, but suggests an alternative. He orchestrates a plot wherein Zimmermann is convinced that his blood condition has worsened and that he only has a short amount of time left. Once Zimmermann is completely horrified of his “impending” death, Minot swoops in and offers him a massive sum of money in exchange for carrying out the assassination. Desperate to provide his wife and son with some money to survive on, Zimmermann agrees and murders the gangster in a subway station.

However, things are complicated when Minot reveals to Ripley that he was so pleased with Zimmermann’s work that he plans on using him again. Only this time, the murder will take place on a train with a garrote. Ripley is horrified at this development. See, Ripley had visited Zimmermann’s shop before and after the first murder in order to get a picture framed. An unlikely friendship grew between the two, all the while with Zimmermann completely unaware of Ripley’s machinations. So Ripley interrupts the second murder and dispatches the target himself. Afterwards Ripley reveals the truth to Zimmermann, leading to one of the film’s best scenes. Zimmermann offers Ripley the money for the hit. Ripley refuses and states, “I would like to be your friend, but friendship isn’t possible.” But their reconciliation is cut short when more gangsters arrive to kill them both for Ripley’s intervention. 

On the surface it might seem like The American Friend is merely a hollow adaption of Highsmith’s novel, especially when compared to the critical darling Ripley’s Game (2002), also based on the same novel. The 2002 film by Liliana Cavani focused more on the character of Ripley, portrayed by John Malkovich in a career-defining performance, than on his relationship with Zimmermann. Malkovich played Ripley as a sterile sociopath akin to Hannibal Lector without the sense of humor and cannibalistic craving for human flesh. But I find Dennis Hopper’s performance in The American Friend more intriguing. I still don’t quite understand Malkovich Ripley’s motivation for saving Zimmermann. But I can easily accept and sympathize with Hopper Ripley’s change of heart. He is a man so used to respect that Zimmermann’s insult seemed emasculating. I think it was no coincidence that Wenders framed Ripley’s rejected handshake as a deflating phallus.

This emasculation is further driven home when one examines Wenders’ thematic inspirations. Heavily inspired by American cinema, Wenders’ Ripley-Zimmermann relationship evokes hard-boiled film noir and 50s melodrama where masculinity was closely guarded and defended in the face of social and familial pressures. Malkovich Ripley saved Zimmermann because that’s what the story needed to continue. Hopper Ripley saved Zimmermann because he realized it was the right thing to do. So what, indeed, is wrong with a cowboy in Hamburg? One thing’s for sure: there’s more to it than Ripley’s hat.

Almost Back!

Hello everyone!

As you might have noticed, I haven't done any new reviews lately. The reason is that I am currently in the process of moving back to New York City in order to resume my studies at NYU - Tisch's film studies program. This has been a lot more difficult than I originally thought it would be...

But don't worry! New forgotten classics will be added as soon as September comes around!

Editor-in-Chief
Nathanael Hood

Blogathon Awards

Alright folks! It's time to hand out awards!

Let me just thank everyone for participating!

The third place winner is...!

...our old friend W. B. Kelso over at Microbrew Reviews! Great job, my friend!

The second place winner is...!

...Stacia! Great job!!

And finally...

The grand prize winner is...!

...whistlinggypsy!!

Once again, you have astounded us all!

Great job, everyone! Thank you all for participating!

Blogathon Schedule

Alright everyone! There's just a few days left until the My First Movie Blogathon! I just want to say really quickly that regular reviews at this site will continue immediately after the blogathon ends and the awards are handed out.

Here is the schedule.

August 1st
Stacia
http://shebloggedbynight.com/?p=323

Pat McDonnell
www.100yearsofmovies.net

August 2nd
Chris Michael
http://recentlyviewedmovies.blogspot.com/2012/08/my-first-movie-blogathon-pinocchio-and.html

Emma
http://letsmisbehaveprecodefilmtribute.blogspot.com.au/2012/08/my-first-movie-blogathon.html

August 3rd
Ivan Lerner
http://lernerinternational.blogspot.com/2012/08/lie-37-my-first-movie-caused-great.html

WB Kelso
http://microbrewreviews.blogspot.com/2012/08/my-first-movie-blogathon-ghostly.html

whistlingypsy
http://distant-voicesandflickering-shadows.blogspot.com/2012/08/a-silent-horror-on-summer-afternoon.html

August 4th
Alanhttp://www.greatmovieproject.blogspot.com/2012/08/my-first-movie-blog-thon-mary-poppins.html

Matt
http://matt-comicaltales.blogspot.com/2012/08/the-wizard-of-oz-buy-5-and-up.html

Alright everyone! August 5th will be the day we hand out awards!  We're going to be handing out 3 awards.  They will be voted upon by the participants. On August 4th everyone will email me their favorite 3 entries and I will tally them up for first, second, and third place.

See y'all then!

Marty

Directed by Delbert Mann
1955
The United States of America

Whenever I have conversations with friends about my favorite movies of all time, I find myself fumbling over my selections. It used to be so much easier back before I became a serious film buff. Now, the list seems to change every week. But despite all of my revisions, there is one film that always ranks among my favorites. That film is Delbert Mann’s Marty. The film starred Ernest Borgnine as Marty Piletti, a depressed and lonely thirtysomething butcher from the Bronx.  It always seems to catch people off-guard when I mention Marty alongside more famous classics like Stanley Kubrick’s Barry Lyndon (1975) and Akira Kurosawa’s Ran (1985). When pressed for an explanation, I usually chuckle and say, “Well, that film saved my life.” At that point, I usually manage to divert people’s curiosity by changing the subject. Most people assume that I’m joking. But the truth of the matter is that I am dead serious. Marty saved my life. In light of Borgnine’s death, I feel like sharing my story for the first time. This won’t be like my traditional Forgotten Classics of Yesteryear reviews. This article is about my personal relationship with a film that too many people have forgotten.

I have struggled with depression my entire life. The earliest I can remember feeling clinically depressed was around twelve years old. For four years I fought against a mental illness without the help of psychiatry or medication. The entire time I suspected that I was depressed, but nobody really believed me. It wasn’t that they didn’t care. The truth was as a child I had a tendency to be a drama queen. I overreacted to simple situations, threw tantrums over trivial problems, and generally made a nuisance of myself. So you can understand how people would be suspicious of claims that I might be depressed.

It wasn’t until I had my first panic attack that my parents took me to a doctor to get tested for clinical depression. For the next three years I bounced from one medical prescription and therapist to another with various degrees of success.  The lowest point of this era was when I was hospitalized in a clinic for mentally disturbed teenagers after a suicide attempt.  But then I graduated from high school and moved on to college. Things began to get better as I made new friends, but I was barely there for a few months before I had to be hospitalized a second time for trying to hurt myself. During this incident I had a mental breakdown so severe that I disturbed my dorm-mates. This resulted in my expulsion from the dorm. For the rest of the year I lived at home. Because I didn’t have a driver’s license, I had to be driven by my parents to and from my classes every day, a roundtrip that took two hours.

It was around this time that I started getting into movies in a serious way. A college film club’s screening of Kubrick’s The Shining (1980) sand-blasted my mind so severely that afterwards I knew that I had to make films. I started to watch as many films as I could. Sometimes I would watch 5-7 films a day. Of particular interest to me were the films that had won the Academy Award for Best Picture. I made a goal to watch as many Best Picture winners as I could. Eventually, I came to Marty, the 1955 recipient.

I immediately identified with Marty. He was working a dead end job, was over-weight, desperately wanted someone to love, but could never catch a break. There was a scene where Marty calls a friend that absolutely broke my heart. In one long, unbroken take, the camera slowly zoomed in on Borgnine’s face as he realized that the person on the other end of the phone wanted nothing to do with him. I’ve always found one-sided telephone conversations corny. But watch Borgnine’s face. Watch the disappointment. Watch his sad acceptance of a fate that, to him, seems inevitable. I’m not so sure if he was acting.

By the time Borgnine starred in Marty, he had already been in Hollywood for four years. During that time he had made a reputation as a mean tough-guy in such films as From Here to Eternity (1953), Johnny Guitar (1954), and Bad Day at Black Rock (1955). But Borgnine’s onscreen persona couldn’t be further than reality. A warm, likable fellow, he was the gap-toothed son of Italian immigrants and grew up during the Great Depression. He served 10 years in the United States Navy where he served in the Pacific Theater on-board the USS Lamberton. He only took up acting because his mother suggested it, reportedly saying, “You always like getting in front of people and making a fool of yourself, why don't you give it a try?”

And yet, this cheerful man was type-casted as a brute, as a thug, as a murderer. He was 38 years old when he starred in Marty. At that point, I wonder if Borgnine considered his career set in stone. That sad resignation permeates the film. And yet, Marty is always cheerful. He meets a lonely school-teacher who manages to see beyond his exterior. They quickly fall in love. However, everyone in Marty’s life, from his friends to his family, tries to talk him out of the relationship. Eventually, the bullying was too much and he stood her up.

In the film’s final moments, Marty sits at a bar in silence while his male “friends” lounge around, complaining about how there’s nothing to do. And then, something amazing happens. He yells a line that changed my life:

"You don't like her. My mother don't like her. She's a dog and I'm a fat, ugly man. Well, all I know is I had a good time last night. I'm gonna have a good time tonight. If we have enough good times together, I'm gonna get down on my knees and I'm gonna beg that girl to marry me. If we make a party on New Year's, I got a date for that party. You don't like her? That's too bad!”

And the film ends with Marty calling the schoolteacher.

I won’t claim that my life has been perfect since I first watched Marty. I’ve had many, many ups and downs. But I honestly believe that without Marty I wouldn’t be here today. That film did more to help me fight depression than any medication, therapy, or doctor ever has. It reinvigorated my life. Suddenly, suicide seemed insane. There was a schoolteacher out there for me, too. All I had to do was find her.

And I will find her.

And it’s all thanks to Marty and the eternal Ernest Borgnine.

Rest in Peace.

Christmas in July

Directed by Preston Sturges
1940
The United States of America

It begins, like so many other great stories, with a misunderstanding. Well, perhaps more of a deception in this particular case. Jimmy MacDonald is a run-of-the-mill office worker who can’t keep his mind on his work. All day long he doodles “$25,000” on office stationary and fumbles his receipts. For although MacDonald is just another office lackey, he dreams of much, much more. He has recently entered the Maxford House Coffee slogan contest which boasts a grand prize of $25,000. MacDonald considers himself a shoe-in to win. The problem is that nobody else understands the pure genius of his slogan. Even his girlfriend Betty Casey doesn’t get it. But how could she not understand such a brilliant piece of marketing genius: “If you can’t sleep at night, it’s not the coffee, it’s the bunk.” See? It’s a play on words!

 Jimmy MacDonald and Betty Casey

Well, MacDonald ends up getting the last laugh, let me tell you! One day he finds a telegram on his desk. What’s on this telegram, you ask? Why, nothing less than an announcement that he has won the grand prize along with a check for $25,000! See, what did I tell you?

MacDonald just heard the happy news.

But MacDonald’s good fortune doesn’t end there! He gets promoted to advertising executive with his own office! He goes on a lavish shopping spree at Shindel’s department store, buying gifts and toys for all of his neighbors and their children. He even picks out a futuristic sofa for his mother! You should see this thing. It turns into a bed with the press of a button!

 It's the bed of the future!!

There’s only one small problem. See, it turns out that a winner hasn’t been chosen in the Maxford House Coffee slogan contest. The jury is deadlocked. They never sent a telegram to a Mr. Jimmy MacDonald. They don’t even know who Mr. Jimmy MacDonald is. And they certainly didn’t send him a check for $25,000. That telegram and check on his desk? Well, that was put there by a couple of MacDonald’s co-workers as a practical joke. Things got out-of-hand too quickly for the pranksters to come clean. So when Dr. Maxford, the owner of Maxford House Coffee, finds out that somebody has “won” the contest, it becomes all too clear that things are going to go sour very, very quickly. But...not quite yet.

This has all been the set-up for Preston Sturges’ second directorial effort, Christmas in July. Fresh off his Oscar-winning success with his first film, The Great McGinty (1940), Sturges continued to establish himself with Christmas in July as one of the most brilliant writer/directors of the 1940s. Though it barely clocks in at over an hour, Christmas in July is one of Sturges’ most memorable, and perhaps one his most criminally under-appreciated, films.

Christmas in July was early enough in Sturges’ career that it still retained a kind of wide-eyed enthusiasm and belief in the inherent goodness of mankind. Prolonged studio battles and box office failures would eventually drain Sturges to the point of cynicism, a trait that becomes increasingly apparent later in his career with such films as Unfaithfully Yours (1948). But Christmas in July’s optimism was characteristic of the times. The later years of the Great Depression may have been an unparalleled time of suffering in American history, but it produced some of the most upbeat and hopeful films ever made. It was a time when 60-80 million Americans went to the movies every week.  This was the era of the Marx Brothers, W.C. Fields, idealistic Capra-esque heroes, and Busby Berkeley excess.

But while Groucho indulged in comedic anarchy and Berkeley in costumed extravagance, the most excessive part of Sturges’ films was the dialogue. Sturges had a talent for lightning fast and witty dialogue and the ability to cram three hours worth of it into a single feature. Much of his writing is so good that it goes over your head until you really sit down and think about it. Take MacDonald’s slogan: “If you can’t sleep at night, it’s not the coffee, it’s the bunk.” That turn of phrase sounds like the last half of a badly translated zen kōan. MacDonald came up with it after he read a medical journal by a Vienna scientist who claimed that coffee puts people asleep instead of keeping them awake. So, MacDonald figures, if you can’t fall asleep after drinking Maxford House Coffee, it must be the bunk that you’re sleeping on that’s keeping you awake!

Like I said, MacDonald’s slogan makes no sense whatsoever. But he believes in it so passionately that the audience begins to believe it, too.  And that’s what keeps the plot going: a willingness to go along with sheer enthusiasm. Dr. Maxford should have realized something was up when MacDonald’s check for $25,000 bounced. But instead he just insisted that he would cover it when the bank called. The Shindel department store should have been more suspicious when a random man walked in and went on a spending spree with a strange check. And MacDonald? Well, he shouldn’t have been so self-deluded as to think that his slogan had any chance of winning.

But much like Sturges’ own ambitions, Christmas in July is a film about impossible dreams coming true. It is a pure distillation of what made Sturges’ films so great: hysterical writing, sincere acting, and genuine heart. It affirms that American belief that if you work hard enough (and have a little luck) you can achieve anything. All we need, as Betty said, is a chance. Just...a chance.

2012 BLOGATHON ANNOUNCEMENT

Ladies and Gentlemen!
Forgotten Classics of Yesteryear is proud to announce that it will be hosting another blogathon this August!

That's right! This year's blogathon topic is My First Movie. Everyone has a "first movie." It can be the first time your parents took you to a movie theater as a child. Or maybe the first time you were watching a film on television and you realized that this was something much, much more than the regular everyday programming. This blogathon is devoted to our first memories of watching movies. You can talk about the movie itself if you want, but the focus should be the actual experience of watching a movie for the first time. This topic is open to interpretation. Maybe you could write about the film that first made you realize that you loved the cinema. Who knows?!

If you would like to participate, email me at nch257@nyu.edu and provide me with your:
-Name
-Topic
-Preferred Date
-Website

If you don't have a website but would still like to participate, then send me an email anyway. We'll figure something out.

I look forward to reading all of your memories. Don't forget to advertise the blogathon by posting the banner overhead on your site. And please, tell your friends!

See you August!

Editor-in-Chief
Nathanael Hood