In a Lonely Place | Nicholas Ray, 1950

Before watching Humprey DeForest Bogart in Nicholas Ray’s A Lonely Place, a few years ago now, I had never been wholly blown away by any of his performances. I could see the charm and the way he suited such Noir-ish roles as Sam Spade and Philip Marlowe, but it took until Ray’s film for me to truly appreciate his talent. With  In a Lonely Place Bogart is actually handed meat to go with his skeleton role, meat he goes after with twenty years’ worth of appetite to create one of the more intriguing characters in memory. Dixon Steele is a tired and laconic screenwriter whose disdain with the movie industry is matched only by his sharpened wit. Cash dwindling, Steele is roped back into the arduous task of adapting the latest trashy bestseller. Instead of taking the proposition seriously, he proceeds to invite a young hat-check girl home to sum up the story, a girl who is later found murdered with our hero as the prime suspect. Steele, however, is quickly cleared by mysterious blonde neighbour Laurel Gray (played by Gloria Grahame) and a whirlwind romance between the pair commences. As mentioned previously, I’ve always admired Bogart’s carving out of a niche for the strong silent type, indeed most of the characters he has portrayed have certain similarities. As an actor he is a man’s man, and this personality is strongly upheld in the roles with which he dealt. The character of Steele seems to deviate from this mean, and Bogart seems glad to be able to play with such layered personage.

Of course, there is still the wise cracking character trait for which Bogart became known, and who could do it better? His one-liners here are particularly keen, ensuring that the audience is immediately won over by Dixon Steele despite his contemptuous antics. As the film wears on, however, and the writer becomes embroiled in scribbling away at his plot, aggressive cracks appear in his previously calm nature, allowing both his companion Laurel and ourselves as the audience to question the earlier certainty of our man’s innocence. Steele is a fervidly imaginative storyteller and Bogie channels this nature quite expertly, in the end even we ourselves are unsure whether or not he is indeed capable of such a crime. In a Lonely Place shrugs off some pacing issues thanks to a remarkably incisive script, one that also aids in building our lead man’s staggering performance. This is less a film about the process of writing movies and more about the lonely place within one’s own psyche. We come to realise that Dixon Steele knows this place rather well, and this is exhibited vigorously through his increasingly destructive personality. This, in itself, leads In a Lonely Place to a well-placed twist to the man-alone ideal, riding an explosive Bogart performance to create one of the most layered and unconventional examples of the noir genre to which I have ever bared witness.

Our Rating:

MITOS ESTÃO EM FALTA NO MERCADO. COISAS DE ANTIGAMENTE. QUANDO MUITO, RESTAM-NOS ALGUNS ÍCONES COMO A MADONNA, E AS GERAÇÕES SEGUINTES NEM ISSO CONHECERÃO.

MARYLIN MONROE, RITA HAYWORTH OU GRETA GARBO NÃO ERAM APENAS GRANDES ATRIZES, ERAM MITOS. ASSIM COMO TAMBÉM FORAM MITOS CLARK GABLE, BURT LANCASTER E HUMPHREY BOGART. ESSA TURMA NUNCA TEVE CORRESPONDÊNCIA IMEDIATA COM A REALIDADE, ERAM QUASE ABSTRAÇÕES. BASTAVA QUE MANTIVESSEM UM TOCO DE CIGARRO ACESO NO CANTO DA BOCA OU QUE AJEITASSEM O DECOTE COM UMA CERTA MALÍCIA PARA INCENDIAR O IMAGINÁRIO COLETIVO.

OS NOVOS ÍDOLOS JÁ VÊM COM RAIO X, SUAS VIDAS SÃO UM ININTERRUPTO MAKING OFF, QUE ACABA SENDO MAIS DIVERTIDO QUE O ESPETÁCULO PROPRIAMENTE DITO.

O QUE DIZER DE VÁRIOS ÍDOLOS PRÉ-FABRICADOS QUE NADA ACRESCENTAM ARTISTICAMENTE, QUE NÃO EMOCIONAM NEM INSTIGAM, APENAS VENDEM SANDALINHAS?

* texto tirado de duas crônicas da Martha Medeiros

* imagens reprodução/just jared

I don’t know if I’ve ever watched a black and white movie before because a movie without color kind of seems unnatural to me. That is, until I got to watch Casablanca in class.

It was as good as everyone says it is. Most of the accents were pretty horrible, but otherwise it was a classic love story about a guy that I wish existed in real life.

I even ended up loving that it was in black and white. It made it classic and romantic–and that soft Rembrandt lighting made Ilsa (Ingrid Bergman) look so beautiful that I almost wished my boyfriend was colorblind so that I’d look like that to him (and yes, I realize that being colorblind doesn’t actually mean you see black and white).

Now that's love.

And Rick (Humphrey Bogart). Oh Rick, how I wish you were a real person. I love his sort of gruff exterior and how he loved Ilsa so much that losing her completely changed his personality. I love how he says thinks like “Of all the gin joints, in all the towns, in all the world, she walks into mine” and “I think this is the beginning of a beautiful friendship.”

Men like that just don’t exist anymore. Well, I don’t know that they ever existed, but I really wish they did.

~Kelsey Bennett

Of all the gin joints, in all the towns, in all the world, she walks into mine.

Rick (Humphrey Bogart) Casablanca

Finalmente un Oscar per una delle poche rappresentanti della Hollywood dei tempi d’oro ancora vivente (oggi ha 85 anni).

La Academy of Motion Picture Arts and Sciences quest’anno ha deciso di fare uno strappo alla regola, e ha consegnato la prestigiosa statuetta alla carriera prima della sfarzosa cerimonia televisiva, in programma il 7 marzo, a uno dei volti più belli che il grande schermo ci abbia offerto, dalla presenza carismatica e dal fascino inconfondibile, regina dei film noir anni quaranta.

Betty Joan Weinstein Perske (così si chiamava in realtà, madre rumena e padre polacco) inizialmente è ballerina, fotomodella di Harper’s Bazar e indossatrice, studia all’American Academy of Dramatic Arts di New York, per venire poi scoperta da Howard Hawks che la fece esordire nel cinema, in Acque del Sud. Sul set conobbe il grande amore della sua vita, Humphrey Bogart (più grande di lei di vent’anni) a cui rimarrà fedele fino alla morte (1957) e dal quale ebbe due figli.

Soprannominata giustamente The Look (lo sguardo), seducente e sensuale, Lauren Bacall è stata protagonista di celebri film, meno numerosi però di quanto avrebbe potuto: del resto ebbe a dichiarare “Un giorno incontrai Mister Bogart. Senza di lui avrei potuto fare più carriera, ma io ho preferito Mr. Bogart”.

Nel 1979 ha pubblicato la sua autobiografia, tradotta anche in lingua italiana, Io, Lauren Bacall.

filmografia

p.s.

Dopo Acque del sud, Bogart & Bacall girano insieme anche La fuga (Delmer Daves, 1947) e L’isola di corallo (John Huston, 1948), ma il loro capolavoro è senz’altro il celebre Il Grande sonno (Howard Hawks, 1945).

That’s right. Don’t believe me? Check this out. Then, by all means, do more research to see if it’s accurate. I was alerted to this by a documentary I just watched called I.O.U.S.A. It features Warren Buffet, Alan Greenspan, Robert Bixby, Ron Paul, David Walker and several presidents and other politicians. I would really love to see an updated version, now that our national debt has taken off even more than I believe they anticipated. You can watch the video on Netflix or in parts on youtube. Also there is a micro-version on youtube, which is probably good.

In short the film talks about how big our national debt is, how it got that way, how it’s going to get worse if we do nothing and finally how to do something about it. I got a pro Ron Paul vibe from the documentary, but it gave me such a pro Ron Paul vibe that I didn’t mind it at all.

So seriously. Check it out.

Meine all-time Lieblingsschauspielerin Lauren Bacall wurde gestern mit dem Ehrenoscar für ihr Lebenswerk gewürdigt. Eine Anerkennung, die meiner Meinung nach längst überfällig war. Unvergessen ihr Debüt als 19-jährige in der Ernest Hemmingway Verfilmung  To Have and Have Not aus dem Jahr 1944, mit der sie ihren späteren Ehemann Humphrey Bogart an den Wand spielte. Diese wurde dann nur noch getoppt von ihrer Darstellung des mysteriösen Millionärstochters Vivian Sternwood Rutledge im Film-Noir Klassiker The Big Sleep (1946); bis heute mein Lieblingsfilm.

Meine Begeisterung für Lauren Bacall entsprang bereits sehr früh meinem Faible für Hollywood Film Noir der 40er bis 50er Jahre.  Anders als die meisten Hollywood-Mimerinnen ihrer Zeit, punktete sie nicht allein durch ihr Aussehen, sondern vor allem auch durch ihre schauspielerische Begabung, mit minimalistischem Einsatz das Maxium an Aussagekraft aus der Rolle zu holen. Ich freue mich sehr für Lauren Bacall, dass sie nun endlich für ihre filmerische Leistung geehrt wurde.  Sie hatte maßgeblichen Anteil daran, den selbstbewußten, starken Frauentyp in den amerkanischen Film  zu etablieren und nachhaltig zu beeinflussen.

…from Woody Allen’s Play It Again, Sam.

Es cierto, quien escribe no tiene más remedio que confesarlo: uno, que, como en todo lo demás, cuando ama, ama en exceso (lo que vulgarmente se llama “hasta las trancas”), no es en cambio de puertas para fuera un tipo especialmente romántico. Al menos no hasta que se pone (o se ponía) a ello con algo de esfuerzo. Quizá, a lo Bogart (ya quisiera uno ser como Bogart… en eso), tras su espíritu cenizo, su sarcasmo sin descanso y su cinismo abierto las veinticuatro horas, se oculta un sentimental (como le decía Claude Rains en Casablanca). Pero romántico, en términos almibarados, lo que comúnmente conocemos como “moñas”, lo que se dice romántico, uno no es. Así que volvemos a ir contracorriente en esta sección al recoger la apología de la moñez que supone El diario de Noa, azucaradas dos horas de mermelada de grosella dirigidas por Nick Cassavetes (ilustre apellido mancillado en esta ocasión) en 2004 y que para un amplio espectro de público se ha colocado junto a Ghost o Dirty Dancing (puaj, me crujen los dedos al escribir este título) como una de las referencias habituales a la hora de rescatar algún producto digno dentro de ese endemoniado género de pastiches sentimentaloides que ha dado en llamarse “comedia romántica” y que tantos pestiños incluye, entre los cuales, para este enfant terrible de la cosa del cuore, figura ésta en un puesto de honor.

Vaya por delante que se trata de una película no especialmente mal filmada sino que, al contrario, como toda cinta a caballo entre épocas distintas, supone un notable esfuerzo de producción y ambientación, sobre todo a la hora de componer los distintos escenarios que contiene la historia, desde un pueblecito de los años treinta y cuarenta hasta las breves escenas que tienen la guerra como marco, en la que Cassavetes no se mueve mal, consiguiendo una factura visual y técnica sin alardes pero eficaz. El problema, como tantas veces, no es la forma, sino el fondo, empezando por la previsibilidad del guión. Construida como una acumulación de flashbacks o una retrospectiva fragmentada, la película usurpa en buena parte la estética y la atmósfera del cine mal llamado independiente para contarnos una historia a partir del relato que Duke (James Garner), un anciano que vive en una residencia, lee continuamente y siempre que hay ocasión a Allie (Gena Rowlands), otra residente que arrastra acuciantes problemas de memoria. La historia, claro, trata de dos jóvenes que se conocen durante los años treinta y que viven un amor que es la pera: Noah (Ryan Gosling, otro actor de una sola cara) y, atención, Allie Hamilton (Rachel McAdams). Los mocetes se encuentran en un verano en Carolina del Norte y se encandilan a pesar de que son de extracciones sociales muy opuestas, ella de familia bien y él hijo de un peón (Sam Sephard). Y, cómo no, la cosa empieza con azúcar: el chico se queda tan prendado de la chica que, habiendo subido ésta a la noria de una feria con otro mozo, el joven Noah trepa hasta arriba y amenaza con arrojarse desde lo alto si ella no acepta salir con él. La chica lo toma por un lunático pero, en el fondo halagada y empezando a segregar sustancias corporales varias, por supuesto, acepta.

Desde ese momento, salpicada por continuas vueltas a la residencia en la que la pareja de ancianos comenta la historia, la narración se construye sobre todos los tópicos habidos y por haber sobre lo cursi, tanto en los diálogos como en las situaciones, para mostrarnos el gran amor que viven estos muchachotes: comparten algodón de azúcar, pasean de la mano, contemplan puestas de sol en el campo y, tras haberse mojado con un repentino chaparrón veraniego en mitad del campo se dedican a fornicar, de modo muy romántico, eso sí, en una habitación iluminada con velas de la que el día de mañana ha de ser la casa de sus sueños… Pero claro, los papás de la nena, como el chaval no tiene dónde caerse muerto, lo toman como algo pasajero y no aceptan que, cuando la cosa se pone chunga y la niñata pijotera consentida se empeña en continuar con su novio, su hija se comprometa con semejante mangurrián. Así que, de manera igualmente tópica, la cosa deriva en el drama de un amor imposible por oposición paterna, correo postal inteceptado y Segunda Guerra Mundial incluidos, y en cómo los chicos se separan para reencontrarse años después, cuando él es un tipo de éxito y ella está comprometida con otro (otro tópico), un hijo de papá forrado y de futuro económico asegurado. El drama oscila pues entre ese amor renacido y las comodidades materiales de un matrimonio económicamente próspero entre gente guapa (más tópicos, es la guerra…), y claro, el triunfo del amor es inevitable: no hace falta ser un hacha para que, a través de la coincidencia de nombres mal disimulada averigüemos quién es la pareja de ancianos de la residencia y por qué él le cuenta a ella una vez tras otra la historia.

Además de esta sorpresa que de tan telegrafiada resulta de lo más previsible, es precisamente la tremenda cursilería la que arruina el ingenio que todo esto pudiera tener, sobre todo el juego entre los ancianos desmemoriados y su interés en una historia que presuntamente trata de dos jóvenes desconocidos (y, con perdón, un poco gilipollas). Bien contada pero sin mordiente, sin garra, fuerza ni pasión, la película no deja de ser un drama ajeno en el que el espectador entrará o no según su propio grado de azucaramiento, en el que cuesta encontrar humor, ironía, inteligencia, brillantez en los diálogos u originalidad en las situaciones y en la que sobran clichés y pasteleo. Tanta glucosa se atraganta tanto que uno casi llega a desear que tanto amor se vaya por el sumidero, y el único condimento que podría salvar este monumento al tedio gelatinado, la mala baba, brilla por su ausencia. Será que uno no es un romántico o que la vida no le ha dejado serlo…

Acusados: todos
Atenuantes: la dirección artística
Agravantes: azúcar, mermelada, miel, gelatina, merengue y todos los dulces que el lector sea capaz de imaginar
Sentencia: culpables
Condena: supositorios de sal a tutiplén

Nick Ray’s In A Lonely Place fits into the very small category of films I enjoyed so much the first viewing that I immediately watched it a second time once the film ended. It’s interesting how the film is often referred to as fitting into film noir since it’s really a hybrid of that genre and Hollywood melodrama, where the crime committed in the film is given as equal narrative weight as the doomed relationship of the two leads.

Humphrey Bogart plays Dixon Steele, a successful screenwriter with a case of writer’s block. He invites an eager young woman over to his apartment to summarize a trash novel he has to write a screenplay on, she excitedly recaps the novel while Steele roams around his place exhausted, and then he ushers her out the door. The girl is then murdered, found in a ditch strangled, and Steele is pulled in for questioning by the police, along with his buxom neighbor Laurel played by Gloria Grahame – Ray’s wife at the time, although Bogie tried to get his then wife, Lauren Bacall, cast to play the role.  Naturally Steele and Laurel fall for each other, but as the film progresses she discovers Steele to be a borderline sociopath and begins to suspect that Steele may have killed the girl. Steele is cast in such ambiguity throughout most of the film that the viewer is as uncertain about Dix as Laurel is, and the film even strongly suggests that Steele is the murderer. However, when Steele is revealed as innocent at the end of the film his relationship is utterly destroyed with Laurel due to both Laurel’s suspicions of Steele and Steele’s abusive treatment of Laurel and the film ends with Dix walking out in a fit of rage as Laurel stands weeping at the doorway.

Bogart is simply magnificent in this film, and gives what some call the best performance of his career. I definitely wouldn’t argue; he crafts Steele into a neurotic and self-destructive sociopath – yes, yes, screenwriter Andrew Solt is to be credited as well, but come on, this role is all Bogie’s. Just watch toward the end of the film with Steele and Laurel in Steele’s favorite bar as Dix is tried to calm down by friends and Bogie wrings his hands in nervousness, there are a lot of nervous tics that Bogart adds that really add to the Steele character.

This film is very much Bogart’s film, and his performance is miles away from the others – especially Grahame who at times acts awkwardly and struggles with the most dramatic scenes. But credit should also be given to Ray’s superb direction and Solt’s brilliant script that is a unique anti-genre piece, never falling into the cliches of film noir or melodrama but instead pushing both genres into new directions. Steele is the ultimate Hollywood antihero, his intentions are never clear and the viewer is both sympathetic and critical of him – the scene in which Steele violently beats a man for cutting him off on the road is one of the most disturbing scenes of pre-New Wave Hollywood.

I had long since forgotten about the afore mentioned war of attrition between impassioned Zombie Fans and Vampire Fans – and then read Richard Corliss of TIME MAGAZINE’s great review of “ZOMBIELAND.”