Every so often I’ve updated the list of films that I have already seen with brief reviews.  Call it the complete-ist in me, but when I’m done with reviewing each of the films in the book, I’d like to have reviewed every single film in the book.

Anyhow, here’s another batch for you to read.

Enjoy!

Shichinin No Samurai AKA Seven Samurai (1954)

The Seven Samurai is the first movie that I had the pleasure of seeing from the master director Akira Kurosawa, and it is also one of his most praised works. Without a wasted frame, the story takes place over the course of almost 3 hours. Kurosawa, as he does in each of his movies, explores more than just the action and injustice featured in the plot. He is a humanist first and foremost, training his lens on the interpersonal relationships of the characters, tracking growth across this epic. As good as this film is, I would have to say that Kurosawa has numerous films that are even better, check out Stray Dog, Rashomon, Yojimbo, Sanjuro, and my personal favorite High and Low.

The Ladykillers (1955)

Existing as a special combination of dark humor, and slapstick farce, The Ladykillers is exceptionally funny and unsettling. Alec Guinness stars as the leader of a group of criminals staying at the home of a hardy, vivacious older lady under the guise of being musicians. The plan is simple, rob a bank, and utilizing the trusting nature of the kindly old lady, and the remoteness of her home to their advantage, get away with it. Easily my favorite of Alec Guinness’ films (thanks in part to the Star Wars prequels that is), The Ladykillers features a solid cast of great actors, including a very young Peter Sellers.

Bob Le Flambeur AKA Bob the Gambler (1955)

My introduction to the fantastic Jean-Pierre Melville, I was captivated immediately by the cool as ice gangster come gambler Bob. This film is filled with signature Melville-isms. Glorious post war street scenes in Paris. Trench-coats. Honor among thieves. And who could forget the caper. To talk too much about this film is to give too much away, and to do that is to ruin it for those who haven’t seen it. Other classics by Melville: Le Cercle Rouge, Le Samourai, and the recently released in the U.S. Army of Shadows. All are fantastic, and deserve to be in this book! Incidentally, Bob le Flambeur was recently re-made into The Good Thief starring Nick Nolte and directed by Neil Jordan, and while I’m not generally a fan of re-makes, I really, really liked this film. Not quite as good as the original, but it was one of my favorite films of 2002.

Kiss Me Deadly (1955)

The ultimate in hardboiled private eye crime stories, Kiss Me Deadly is a full on assault on decency. Kiss Me Deadly proudly presents itself as a grimy PI story, littered with bodies and intrigue. If you even have a passing interest in film noir, this should be your first stop. Violent, misogynist, brutish, and glorious, Kiss Me Deadly begs to be watched and dares you to look away. I myself, loved it!

The Ten Commandments (1956)

Apparently based on a book, The Ten Commandments is an epic in every sense of the word. Colored in bright explosive candy hues, and featuring huge sets, as well as a cast that number in the thousands, The Ten Commandments is more spectacle than great movie. Certainly not a waste of time, but not my first choice when choosing something light to throw in.

Det Sjunde Inseglet AKA The Seventh Seal (1957)

A classic, and well-loved film by Swedish auteur Ingmar Bergman, The Seventh Seal stars an extremely young Max von Sydow as a knight who faces Death at a game of chess to decide his fate. This film is filled with themes that find their way into each of Bergman’s works, ranging from courage in the face of death, religion, and humanity. The Seventh Seal still holds up to this day, with luminous black and white photography that, thanks to Criterion’s Blu-ray edition, has never looked better.

Note: Don’t be fooled by the similarly themed, but much worse, “Bill and Ted’s Bogus Journey”

Kumonosu Jo AKA Throne of Blood (1957)

Kurosawa’s retelling of Macbeth set in feudal Japan. Shakespeare has never looked better as it does in the stark black and white, twisting shadows and swirling mists as seen through Kurosawa’s camera. Toshiro Mifune doesn’t disappoint in the lead role, but the real stand out is Isuzu Yamada in the as Mifune’s opportunistic, poisonous wife. The plotting and scheming starts right from the get go, all the way up till the frenzied end of the film.

Touch of Evil (1958)

One of the many trouble spots on Orson Welles’ resume due to studio interference, and financing issues, still Touch of Evil remains as possibly the best B-Movie ever made. Iconic (and sometimes hilarious) performances by Janet Leigh, Charlton Heston (as a Mexican) and Welles himself as the crooked cop willing to do almost anything to ensure justice prevails (just so long as it’s his justice). The movie is almost as famous for its long tracking shot opening as it is for any of the performances, featuring a nearly 4 minute shot done in one take which travels around cars, actors, and buildings. The film The Player, payed homage to it by mentioning it a few times during a similarly complex shot in that film.

Vertigo (1958)

Flopping on its initial release, Vertigo didn’t gain the acclaim it deserved until much later after it was released on video. Vertigo visits themes present in each of Hitchcock’s other works, including the obsession with blondes, innocence tainted with corruption, and the schlub who get in over his head. Jimmy Stewart plays the schlub, Kim Novak plays the blonde, and gloriously technicolored San Francisco plays the innocence and the corruption. Vertigo has a twisty convoluted story with elements of surrealism, an interesting watch.

Mon Oncle AKA My Uncle (1958)

My favorite of Jacques Tati’s Monsieur Hulot films, Mon Oncle was also the first of them that I had seen. Tati, playing Hulot, is a master of visual comedy, and not in the same way as the Three Stooges, or even Buster Keaton. Tati is an artist whose work is appreciated the longer you watch. The plot of the movie is not so much important to the film as it is simply a guide to get our characters into interesting situations so we can watch them get out. If you liked this film, check out other films featuring the bumbling Mr. Hulot, including Trafic, Playtime, and Les Vacances de Monsieur Hulot.

Les Quatre Cents Coups AKA The 400 Blows (1959)

My personal favorite of the French new wave movement was this small-scale film, personal piece from Francois Truffaut. Featuring the director’s alter ego, Antoine Doinel, The 400 Blows is the first in a series of movies, each about a different stage of life and the challenges that go along with them. The period from childhood to young adult is covered heart-breakingly here, following Antoine through the rough waters of his home life and his interaction with the outside world. Later chapters deal with finding love, getting married, having children, and growing old, but Les Quatres Cent Coups remains the directors most personal and his best.

North by Northwest (1959)

One of Hitchcock’s best, North by Northwest features Cary Grant, suave as ever, being mistaken for a government agent by a group of foreign spies. Just like in Hitchcock’s most famous works (of which this is one), the witty one-liners, suspense, and drama are heaped on generously. I can’t help but feel sad that a similarly themed, but better film featuring Cary Grant was left off this 1001 list. Charade, also featuring Audrey Hepburn, James Coburn, and Walter Matthau, is one of my favorite movies ever! Check out both Charade AND North by Northwest as a double feature! You won’t be sorry.

Some Like it Hot (1959)

Now this is an example of a classic, well-loved film, with actors that I really love (Jack Lemmon I’m looking at you), a premise that is more than suitable, yet the finished product never really caught me. It’s sort of like Hitchcock’s To Catch a Thief. I never really saw what all the hype was about. That being said, I didn’t hate it either. It never made fun of me when I had braces, or turned me down for a date, my affections and this film have just always been mutually exclusive. Perhaps it deserves another watch…then again maybe I should just watch The Last Boyscout again.

A Bout De Souffle AKA Breathless (1959)

Jean-Luc Godard is nothing if not a sacred cow of French cinema, and while I have loved some of his other films (Le Mepris, Bande A Part, and Masculin Femenine), Breathless or A Bout De Souffle never really did it for me. I can still rationalize why it was so revolutionary (use of jump cuts, editing, non-actors, and subscription to the aesthetic of the French new wave style), and see it’s importance, but I prefer other examples of New Wave cinema. If you are interested in seeing a Godard film, try Masculin Feminine, it is just as revolutionary and a bit more accessible.

Psycho (1960)

A prime example of Hitchcock in his prime. Psycho was so good, and so affecting that some of its actors were type cast just on the strength of this one film (Anthony Perkins, and Janet Leigh), so much so that without a little research it’s hard to think of what other films either of them has been in. Psycho may not be as visually shocking and gory as horror films of today, but it still manages to hold up over time and be just as unsettling as it was back in its day. Hitchcock has always excelled at making the comfortable un-comfortable (motels, birds, tea, dreams, the list goes on…), and the subtle touches in this film work perfectly. Consider for a moment that Perkin’s Bates is an amateur taxidermist of birds, and then that Janet Leigh’s name is Marion Crane a type of bird, or the fact before the crime Marion is wearing a white bra and a white purse, while after it she is wearing a black bra and purse. His attention to detail, and knack for foreshadowing is demonstrated in full force in Psycho and remains one of his best films. Despite all the uproar over the Gus Van Sant remake, I thought it actually did some justice to the original film and if nothing else brought it a little more deserved attention.

Note: This film also has the distinction of being the first American film to ever show a toilet flushing on-screen.

Peeping Tom (1960)

Released the same year as Psycho, and dealing with similar subject matter, Peeping Tom wasn’t received with the same acclaim and attention that the former was. On the contrary, Peeping Tom was seen as subversive, perverted, and generally too shocking. The story revolves more around the killer than the victim in this one, whereas Psycho is presented more from the victim’s point of view. Either way, Peeping Tom is a fine film, one worth watching, however it is so similar to Psycho that I’m not sure it needs to be on the list of 1001 films.

The Apartment (1960)

As far as light-hearted, touching movies about someone recovering from a bout of depression, this one is my favorite. Billy Wilder directs Shirley MacLaine and Jack Lemmon in a sweet touching comedy without losing any of his trademark cynicism or the pointedness of his dialogue. The Apartment is another chance for me to champion the somewhat maligned talents of Mr. Fred MacMurray as Lemmon’s boss. MacMurray plays a fantastic creep who really defines the term “heel”.

Spartacus (1960)

Containing almost none of the trademark elements that make up a Stanley Kubrick movie as we know it (Kubrick apparently dis-owned the film before it’s release), Spartacus remains an interesting movie that isn’t great. It is, however, another example of a film that enabled an up and coming filmmaker to gain his voice, and define himself later on in his career. If only for that reason, Spartacus is a great film, but luckily for the studio, it has some other things going for it. Kirk Douglas plays the title role of Spartacus, and despite all the lavish set production, and concentration on spectacle, brings some heart to the slave who defied Rome.

Jules Et Jim AKA Jules and Jim (1962)

One of director, Francois Truffaut’s most well thought of films, Jules and Jim may be the Lost In Translation, or Juno of its time. Viewed from a certain angle, the plot is a completely moving and emotional story that you believe, so much so, that you can see yourself and those around you in the roles that these characters embody. Viewed from another perspective, it can seem a little precious or purposefully manipulative. Depending on what is happening in your life (I’m mostly thinking about whether or not you are in a relationship, and if you are happy), this movie can preach the glory of love and the pain of rejection. On the flipside, if you have shaken free the angsty, teenager-esque feelings everyone has had in their youth, you may feel like you’re being talked down to.

Cleo De 5 A 7 AKA Cleo from 5 to 7

Taking place, as the title suggests, from 5 to 7, we get a slice of the life of Cleo played out before us. Sometimes we, along with Cleo herself, are a voyeurs into the lives of people around her, and other times we are focused on her as she roams around Paris. By and large Cleo lives a carefree, spoiled life, yet we still sympathize with her when times are hard, and cheer for her when they are good. This is a small film in a lot of ways, but that doesn’t mean that it isn’t impacting and beautiful.

Lawrence of Arabia (1962)

I have to admit.  I didn’t like Lawrence of Arabia that much.  Perhaps I was too young to appreciate the aesthetic beauty of Lean’s desert panorama camerawork, or just maybe it was the epic length that decided it for me.  One way or another, I didn’t appreciate it as much as everyone else seems to think I should. 

The Manchurian Candidate (1962)

Overly reliant on gimmicks and quick editing techniques, The Manchurian Candidate doesn’t flesh out the story nearly…wait, no that was the terrible re-make that came out in 2004.  The original 1962 version, is just as taught, and well executed today as it was at its release.  While the story between the two versions remained virtually the same, the consistent building of tension and anxiety, combined with the pitch perfect acting of Lawrence Harvey, Frank Sinatra (yes…Frank Sinatra), and the devilish turn of Angela Lansbury as the Queen of Hearts, makes for a fantastic film.

Lolita (1962)

It took me forever to finally see Lolita.  I have known the basic story (older man, younger girl) but had just never gotten around to seeing it.  And while I’ve been told that the book is much better, I thought the film was pretty good.  Not great, mind you, but definitely solid.  The shocking and controversial nature of the relationship was toned down a bit for the screen, and maybe as a result doesn’t seem all that shocking in today’s day and age.  Memorable turns by Peter Sellers, and Shelley Winters, not to mention it’s an early film of Stanley Kubrick.

The Birds (1963)

Despite being one of Hitchcock’s most popular, I actually think that The Birds is one of his most over-rated.  I think I owe it to myself to give this one another look someday, but right now I feel that it was too heavily based on the gimmick that had to rely on special effects.  Though it is not necessarily the fault of the movie, but the special effects seemed particularly dated and old fashioned.  Worth a watch, but not my favorite by a long shot.

8 1/2 (1963)

Federico Fellini is, by most accounts, a master of cinema.  One, that I have always had a little trouble getting fired up over.  It’s not that I don’t like his films once I’ve seen them, the problem comes in when it comes to motivating myself to see them.  I couldn’t tell you why, but his films consistently get pushed off when they come up on my Netflix Queue or when I see the one or two I have on my shelf.  I shouldn’t feel this way, considering I really loved the moving poetry, and soul baring passion in 8 1/2, yet it still happens.  One very definite reason to watch this film is the man-crushable Marcello Mastroianni, swaggering through as the alter-ego of Fellini himself.  Dealing with all the reservations with women, making movies, childhood, and the future that the director very famously dealt with himself, Mastroianni embodies a certain cool, yet believable character that begs to be watched.  Combined with imagery that leaves the audience wanting more, 8 1/2 is a fantastic film.

Well, that’s it for this time.  Thanks for reading!

e allora tutti zitti con i propri dolori
che un giorno dopo l’altro nascono gli amori
dai che sennò ti distrai
però ti bacerei
e dai dai dai sbrighiamoci che c’è la partita
a me non interessa ho tanti guai nella mia vita
ah sì? E come ti posso aiutare?
Io provo a batterti un Ciak.
Così facciamo finta di essere da un’altra parte
Viaggiare, conquistare, fare scopa con la morte,
sapere la verità…
fregare la realtà.
Puoi fare il papa, il pazzo, il furbo, l’assassino
cercare di far ridere alle 7 del mattino
cacciare i guai dalla testa
prima dell’ultimo ciak.
Spengono le luci adesso è ora di dormire
son stanco al punto sogno di non sognare
magari di non russare
dopo che battono il ciak 

Siamo figli di teste e corpi in un tram che ha avuto il compito di addottarci in una nuova realtà. Una realtà diversa per ogni testa che ci governa, per ogni emozione che ci tradisce. Una realtà trafitta dal nostro squallido modo di restare, sanguinante, e che cerchiamo con le ferite del nostro sentire di risanare. Nell’accento del nostro scivolo, nella pulsazione dei nervi, nella frenesia dell’alfabetizzazione sentimentale non si fa che prendere un taxi per una nuova sistemazione rurale acquerellata e ultrapiatta. Un paradiso preparato per noi e da noi, e non importa quanto sia mediocre, e stupido, e scadente, e sentimentale, e comico, e falso, e immorale. L’importante è partire, partire così a lungo… per lasciarci dietro delusione, risentimento, ipocrisia per inerzia, un oscuro vuoto dove magari capita di tenerci per mano o di nasconderci di volerlo fare.

Stonecrest Farm B&B

Vermont treasure, former dairy farm, located 3-1/2 miles from Dart-mouth College.  Elegantly appointed c.1810 country home once host to President Coolidge, near all sports and cultural facilities.  Six elegant guest rooms, all private baths; quilts, down comforters, antiques, books.  Scrumptious full breakfasts.  P.O. Box 504, Wilder, Vermont 05088. 1-800-730-2425 ● 802-296-2425 ● Fax 802-295-1135.

Visual source:  travel.yahoo

George Pelecanos considers him the leader of Noir’s new school, Bret Easton Ellis is already adapting his Follower into a HBO serie…
Meet Jason Starr, a novelist from Flatbush who sometimes gets like Psycho killa : Norman Bates !

I’ve been living in Flatbush -right in the middle of Brooklyn- until I was 18-19 y.o, then I left to go to college… I’m in Manahttan right now, Upper East Side.

I’ve heard you’ve had a lot of shitty jobs before you blew up.
A lot. I’ve been a dish-washer, a telemarketer, I’ve parked cars, I’ve written for a couple of financial magazines… I even had a job where I was operating pizza vending machines… you know, like they do for drinks, but with pizzas (laughs), that was stupid…

Whats does the expression « New York Minute » mean to you ?
The intensity of the life in Manhattan. Guys laying in the subway, yellow cabs… Wall Street.

Only Manhattan ?
Yeah… Like most people, I identify New york to Manhattan. Nobody don’t really think of all 5 boroughs when you speak about New York.

We do. People say anything can happen in a New York Minute, for better or worse… Do you have a Brooklyn example ?
(Long pause, he tries to remember one) Back In the 1980’s… I’m walking home from school one day, it’s a normal day and then, I see a guy attack this teenager and start slashing his face with a knife. It was brutal, bloody, horrific.

Do you know why he did it, or if the guy has been arrested ?
No, I never heard anything about it. This was in 1984, the height of the crack problem in New York, when violence was rampant. I have no doubt the attacker was high on crack.

Did the kid survive ?
Yes, it was just his face that was slashed and he was running, screaming for help.

You were 18 at the time, and you started writing later… Do you think seeing such a violent act “triggered” something about your imagination ?
I’m not sure, it might have… It was the first time I’d seen brutal violence. This happened right in front of my house, on Bedford Avenue, near the Long Island Railroad train tracks.

You never read crime fiction before going to college, what brought you to it ?
I’ve never been deep into books. When I started writing (in college), my style was already precise, the sentences were shorts, so I started looking for writers who worked like that. I began with Albert Camus, but then I found out he was influenced with James M. Cain, that The Stranger was inspired by The Postman always rings twice… I had started writing « literrature » novels and I realized my style was naturally feeling like Noir, so I got into reading Elmore Leonard’s books, then Jim Thompson’s, then others… and this whole thing became my world.
(end)

Now that you’ve get to know the guy, peep his Top 5 lists for eternity

1st things 1st : The Books.

Crime and Punishment (Fedor Dostoïevsky, 1866)

The Killer Inside Me (Jim Thompson, 1952)

Edith’s Diary (Patricia Highsmith, 1977)

The Rules of Attraction (Bret Easton Ellis, 1987)

Get Shorty (Elmore Leonard, 1990)

Then, the Movies :

The Killers (Robert Siodmak, 1946)

Taxi Driver (Martin Scorsese, 1976)

Inglorious Basterds (Quentin Tarantino, 2009)

The Comfort of Strangers (Paul Schrader, 1990)

Double Indemnity (Billy Wilder, 1944)

Si avui és dijous… toca tertúlia en el programa 437 d’El crepuscle encén estels · IB3 Ràdio, 21:00 · que estarà “Orbitant” sobre la caiguda del MUR DE BERLÍN ara fa vint anys. El Mur havia estat batiat per les autoritats de l’Alemanya Oriental (la RDA) com “el Mur Antifeixista” i s’estenia per 45 km que dividien Berlín en dos sectors i 115 km que separaven la part occidental de la ciutat del territori de la RDA que l’envoltava. La Fiscalia de Berlín considera que hi moriren 270 persones.  Es calcula que al 1989 hi existien 302 torres de vigilància i que l’amplària total de les barreres frontereres era molt variable: entre 30 i… 437 metres

…437, ja ho val, com Crepuscles comptam fins el dia d’avui

· IB3 ràdio en directe ·   http://streaming01.ib3radio.com:8000/ib3radio.mp3

The relationships between directors and their screenwriters are often complicated.  Ranging from the contempt of Alfred Hitchcock, who often refered to his writers as “stooges”, to the more respectful attitude of Arthur Hiller, who once said, “I get on my knees to a good writer.” 

Film, of course, is a collaborative art and debate over which creative artist is most responsible for a film’s quality has been on going since the dawn of cinema.  Out of dozens of people involved in the production of any film, the field of contenders was whittled down to the director and the screenwriter.  Those siding with the former argued that the director is the main contributor to pictorial design in a medium that is essentially visual.  The supporters of the latter maintained that the writer was most responsible for a film’s themes as developed through plot, character and dialogue.  The belief that the director was the principal creator of a film production was given greater impetus in the 50’s with the introduction of the “auteur theory” as presented by the critics of the French film magazine “Cahiers du Cinema.”  The theory’s tenets, first formulated by Francois Truffaut, himself destined for superstar director status, stated that certain directors had not only an overwhelming technique as displayed in their mise-en scène, but were most responsible for their film’s overall qualities such as consistency of theme.  The theory has its detractors, especially among screenwriters and other creative artists involved in film.  An industry wag once suggested that the “auteur theory” is the art of making the screenwriter, cinematographer, production designer, editor and countless others disappear. 

Among the most prominent of the above implied magicians was Alfred Hitchcock.  One of his most frequent collaborators was John Michael Hayes who in the 1950’s scripted some of Hitchcock’s most famous and successful films, including REAR WINDOW (1954) and TO CATCH A THIEF (1955).  A good example of Hitchcock’s dismissive attitude can be found in an incident where Hayes proudly showed the director a ceramic statuette he had won for writing REAR WINDOW.  “They make toilet bowls out of the same thing,” was Hitchcock’s crude response to the Edgar Allan Poe award. 

Despite such attitudes, several directors have forged relationships with writers that are very different.  Even though he became one of the most respected directors in Hollywood history, Billy Wilder always considered himself primarily a screenwriter.  Unusual in an industry and town that, to put it mildly, always looked down on writers.  Wilder began a writing partnership with Charles Brackett in the 1930’s and within a few years was directing such Wilder/Brackett screenplays as THE LOST WEEKEND (1945) and the terrifyingly cynical SUNSET BOULEVARD (1950, with D.M. Marshman).  The latter was a bitter story of a defeated Hollywood screenwriter.  He later began writing with I.A.L. Diamond, directing their works SOME LIKE IT HOT (1959) and THE APARTMENT(1960) among others.  The partnership lasted untill the 1980’s.  Perhaps because he continued as a writer, Wilder never took on airs as the great director.  After all, the films he directed were always distinguished by their smart dialogue and characterizations-hallmarks of good screenplays-and not by anything inherent in Wilder’s mise-en scène.  Wilder poked fun at the film world’s attitude toward writers with his gently mocking tombstone epitaph, “I’m a writer.  But then nobody’s perfect.” A joke, of course, but also a clever reminder of the final line from SOME LIKE IT HOT, one of Wilder and Diamonds greatest achievements. 

In 1976 Martin Scorsese and Paul Schrader made TAXI DRIVER , the most important of their frequent collaborations.  A close examination reveals Schrader as the primary creative force behind the film.  Scorsese’s camera pyrotechnics are impressive, but it is a piece driven by character and shocking acts of violence, and Schrader wrote the whole thing with a gun next to his typewriter.  Of course, much of the film is improvised by the cast, which adds yet another dimension to the idea of film as a meeting of minds. 

There are frequent examples of usually terrible directors clicking with a talented writer and providing audiences with an unusually good film.  Such a lucky fellow was Brian de Palma with THE UNTOUCHABLES (1987).  David Mamet was responsible for the script. 

Ironically, the French, who gave birth to the “auteur theory”, also placed a premium on dialogue writers like Henri Jeanson.  Also of note is the major role writers played in one of the most important movements in French film history.  Jacques Prévert working with director Marcel Carné created films like PORT OF SHADOWS (1938) and DAYBREAK (1939), both bolstered by Prévert’s poetic voice.  The latter about a murderer cornered in his attic by police, was a masterpiece of the school of “poetic realism.”   The movement was characterized by romanticism tempered by a profound pessimism about the human condition, but with a deeply felt optimism about the power of film art.

It was just one week ago (this very moment!) that I was driving home from the airport, fresh (or fatigued, depending on your outlook) from my first visit to the beautiful, exasperating, exciting, strange and wonderful county of Italia, a whirlwind week of food, art, history, and friendship.  As if the jet lag wasn’t enough, we made sure we wore ourselves out, drinking in (literally and figuratively…I still don’t know how I functioned each morning after the wonderful bottle or so of wine I polished off every dinner) everything we could in the short time we had.  Our motto: Do it now, process it later.

I live in Southern Ontario, not exactly Hollywood North (although a fair bit of filmmaking does take place in Toronto and isolated areas) so when I see my environs captured on celluloid, it’s usually Anyplace, U.S.A. over top of places familiar to me with all the requisite flag and sign changes.  I can still however, scream and point as I see these poorly disguised landmarks in movies like Short Circuit, To Die For and Dawn Of the Dead (shot in the mall I used to work at and okay, I simply screamed in pain at Short Circuit).  But here was a country so steeped in history, so utterly familiar to those who have never been there that the very names conjure up vivid images, Trevi Fountain, St. Peter’s Basilica, Pompeii, the Colosseum, mozzarella, pizza, Michelangelo.  And so I found in my travels that so much of what I was seeing in person revived memories of movies both recent and long forgotten.  It seemed as though each sight, taste or smell elicited a film flashback  and so I will give a day-by-day reminisce, mingled with the movies brought to mind.

Day One: Rome (the airport at least)-Flying into Leonardo Da Vinci International Airport in Fiumicino, a suburb of Rome, I was reminded of the opening scenes of Avanti!, the Billy Wilder-directed Jack Lemmon comedy about an American businessman wrested from his golf-and-martini life to fly to Italy to facilitate the shipping of his father’s body back Stateside, even as he is engulfed by ‘amore’.  The opening scenes are the pilot’s view of the approach to Da Vinci Airport and I looked out the small window over the wing (why does it seem I’m always over the wing?) at the vast sprawl of suburban Rome, feeling somewhat more excited about the prospect than Jack Lemmon did.  As I climbed into my tiny Fiat Grande Punto and raced down the Autostrade on the 3 1/2 hour journey to our hotel, I felt at times like Matt Damon racing through the countryside in The Italian Job or one of the Bourne movies, until my wife told me to slow down or the GPS bleated its insistence that I was in fact speeding.  We arrived at our hotel, jet-lagged and apprehensive about this strange new country.

Day Two: Paestum-A mere four kilometres from our hotel (although the guide book said one kilometre so we decided to ditch the car and get a taste of the countryside…boy, did we ever) is the ancient Greek town of Poseidonia, which the Romans later named Paestum, where lay what most historians consider the best-preserved Greek ruins in the world.  Beyond the quiet humility I felt as I thought about my relative insignificance in the long dance of history that played out on this plain, I also felt awed as I envisioned a 40-foot-high Laurence Olivier sitting in the enormous temple of Zeus in the Ray Harryhausen ‘classic’, Clash Of the Titans.  But what I was most reminded of, sadly, was the movie that played on the plane the day before, the latest Nia Vardalos fiasco, My Life In Ruins.  The (unfunny) story of a Greek tour guide finding romance with the hunk bus driver while showcasing the beauty of Greece, I was saddened for a fleeting second by the thought of the wasted potential of Vardalos, who wrote and starred in the wonderful My Big Fat Greek Wedding then squandered that with Connie and Carla and this latest dreck.  Fortunately, the glory of my surroundings woke me from this sad reverie.  After our sojourn at the ruins, we stopped for our first lunch in a small bar/gelateria (a bar in Italy is the North American equivalent to a coffee shop) and it was here that one of the real differences between Europe and North America becomes most evident, the food.  In North America, we have a philosophy that more and bigger is better.  Grocery stores have become supercentres with several dozen varieties of, well, everything.  Buffets are ubiquitous, obesity is on the rise and processed is the word of the day.  In Europe, however, they still seem to take pride in their food, both growing and making it.  Everywhere we went, from the wonderful hotel restaurant to the Autogrill, Italy’s expressway rest stop, the food was terrific and made with care from fresh ingredients.  Virtually every local pizzeria featured what I would term ‘artisan’ food.  Which leads me to…

Day Three: Rome-We rose at 4:30 for the 3 1/2 hour drive back to Rome.  I know, “Why are you driving all the way back to Rome?”, you ask.  Well, you see, we had tickets for a papal audience at the Vatican at 10:30 and I had never driven in Rome proper so I wanted to get there in plenty of time, for that as well as REAL reason for the trip back, a 12:45 appointment at the top of the Spanish Steps to have our wedding vows renewed (yes, I’m such a romantic)!  Well, we made great time (again, Italian Job) and it seemed, as we approached the outskirts of Rome and the GPS informed us that we had a half hour to drive just 13 kilometres to reach our exact destination, that we were on the cusp of possibly the greatest day of our lives and everything was falling into place.  Then we hit the famed Rome traffic jam, five packed lanes as far as the eye could see!

(In the spirit of my beloved serials)…What dastardly deed had the populace of Rome foisted on our hapless hero and his blushing bride-to-be (sort of)?  Would they make it to their appointment with destiny?  Are their upcoming nuptials in jeopardy?  Would the marriage be consummated (okay, ewww..)?  Find out in the next spellbinding chapter of From Italy With Love or My Week In Italy Through Film at this theatre next week (or whenever I get the rest done)!

4 of the Top 100 in one picture: Martin Scorsese receiving his Oscar from three close friends: Francis Ford Coppola, George Lucas and Steven Spielberg

With only one director left to go (and if you haven’t figured out who it is, you’re not paying attention), this is a good time to throw up the complete list.  I’ve gone ahead and provided links to all the directors, as well as listing what particular film I decided to focus on.  It was not always necessarily their best film, but rather the one I wanted to write about.

The first thing is, if there is a director here you were expecting to see and didn’t see them, you can go back to my Introduction, where I mention various directors who didn’t make the list and why.

Second, I will probably do a revision of this list sometime after the Oscars.  Because cumulative awards points are one of the categories I have used to make this list, I will re-calculate everyone after the awards season has concluded.  Also, in December, TSPDT re-does their list (they do it annually) and I will also be changing some point totals based on those re-calculations.

Third, almost certainly at some point, some younger directors will start to make the list.  Sofia Coppola finally has a fourth film in post-production, and unless it’s a complete disaster, she will be making a future version of the list.  Several other directors who were mentioned in the Intro still haven’t made a fourth film and at least three of them have just come out with their third films this year, but they will probably make a future version (those include Joe Wright, Stephen Daldry, Rob Marshall and Spike Jonze).  If I have someone who moves up the list, I will do an individual post for that director, with whatever rank they have acheived, and then will re-list all the ranks in the next February re-calculation.

But that’s it for now.  Here’s the complete initial list: The 100 Greatest Directors of All-Time.

100.  David Cronenberg (A History of Violence)

99.  George Stevens (The Diary of Anne Frank)

98.  Michael Mann (The Last of the Mohicans)

97.  Werner Herzog (Aguirre, the Wrath of God)

96.  Robert Redford (Quiz Show)

Uma Thurman, Robert Redford (#96), Meryl Streep (Actress #1), Mike Nichols (#45) and Amy Adams

95.  Jean Cocteau (La belle et la bette)

94.  Bernardo Bertolucci (The Last Emperor)

93.  Gus Van Sant (Milk)

92.  D.W. Griffith (The Birth of a Nation)

91.  James Whale (The Invisible Man)

90.  Wes Anderson (The Darjeeling Limited)

89.  Rob Reiner (The Princess Bride)

88.  Richard Brooks (The Professionals)

87.  Alejandro Amenabar (The Others)

86.  Mike Leigh (Topsy-Turvy)

85.  Krzysztof Kieslowski (Red)

84.  Paul Greengrass (United 93)

83.  John Schlesinger (Cold Comfort Farm)

82.  Andrei Tarkovsky (Solyaris)

81.  Joseph L. Mankiewicz (Cleopatra)

80.  Satyajit Ray (The Chess Players)

79.  Jean-Pierre Jeunet (Amelie)

78.  Michael Powell (A Matter of Life and Death)

77.  Tom Tykwer (Perfume)

76.  Sam Peckinpah (The Wild Bunch)

75.  Louis Malle (May Fools)

74.  Jonathan Demme (The Silence of the Lambs)

73.  Sergio Leone (Once Upon a Time in the West)

72.  James L. Brooks (Terms of Endearment)

71.  Michael Curtiz (Yankee Doodle Dandy)

70.  John Sayles (Lone Star)

69.  Pedro Almodóvar (Talk to Her)

Warren Beatty being directed by Robert Altman on the set of McCabe and Mrs. Miller (1971)

68.  Danny Boyle (Trainspotting)

67.  Warren Beatty (Bulworth)

66.  Alan J. Pakula (All the President’s Men)

65.  Alfonso Cuarón (Harry Potter and the Prisoner of Azakaban)

64.  Alan Parker (The Commitments)

63.  Tim Burton (Ed Wood)

62.  Anthony Minghella (Truly, Madly, Deeply)

61.  Jim Sheridan (In America)

Laurence Olivier being directed by William Wyler on the set of Carrie (1952)

60.  Laurence Olivier (Hamlet)

59.  George Cukor (The Philadelphia Story)

58.  Ridley Scott (Kingdom of Heaven)

57.  Baz Luhrmann (Moulin Rouge!)

56.  Jean Renoir (The Grand Illusion)

55.  Neil Jordan (The Crying Game)

54.  Erich von Stroheim (Greed)

53.  Bob Fosse (All That Jazz)

52.  Terry Gilliam (Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas)

51.  George Lucas (Star Wars)

50.  Zhang Yimou (House of Flying Daggers)

49.  Terrence Malick (Badlands)

48.  Milos Forman (Amadeus)

47.  Preston Sturges (The Miracle of Morgan’s Creek)

46.  Fred Zinnemann (From Here to Eternity)

45.  Mike Nichols (Angels in America)

44.  John Boorman (Excalibur)

43.  Stephen Frears (The Queen)

42.  Hayao Miyazaki (Spirited Away)

41.  F.W. Murnau (Nosferatu)

40.  Federico Fellini (Nights of Cabiria)

39.  Steven Soderbergh (Out of Sight)

38.  Frank Capra (It’s a Wonderful Life)

37.  Kenneth Branagh (In the Bleak Midwinter)

36.  Cameron Crowe (Almost Famous)

35. Oliver Stone (JFK)

34.  Robert Altman (M*A*S*H)

33.  Fritz Lang (M)

32.  Howard Hawks (The Big Sleep)

Alfred Hitchcock and Francois Truffaut while working on their book

31.  Francois Truffaut (Day for Night)

30.  William Wyler (The Best Years of our Lives)

29.  Luis Bunuel (The Discreet Charm of the Bourgeoisie)

28.  Paul Thomas Anderson (Magnolia)

27.  David Lynch (Mulholland Drive)

26.  Sergei Eisenstein (The Battleship Potemkin)

25.  Sam Mendes (American Beauty)

24.  Francis Ford Coppola (The Godfather)

23.  Charlie Chaplin (Modern Times)

22.  Christopher Nolan (The Prestige)

21.  Elia Kazan (A Streetcar Named Desire)

20.  Peter Weir (Dead Poets Society)

19.  Sidney Lumet (Running on Empty)

18.  Clint Eastwood (A Perfect World)

17.  Quentin Tarantino (Jackie Brown)

16.  Orson Welles (Touch of Evil)

15.  John Ford (The Grapes of Wrath)

14.  John Huston (The Maltese Falcon)

13.  Ang Lee (Brokeback Mountain)

12.  Roman Polanski (Chinatown)

Jack Nicholson and John Huston being directed by Roman Polanski on the set of Chinatown (1974)

11.  Peter Jackson (The Lord of the Rings)

10.  Woody Allen (Annie Hall)

9.  Billy Wilder (Sunset Blvd.)

8.  Joel and Ethan Coen (O Brother, Where Art Thou?)

7.  David Lean (The Bridge on the River Kwai)

6.  Alfred Hitchcock (North by Northwest)

5.  Ingmar Bergman (Smiles of a Summer Night)

4.  Stanley Kubrick (A Clockwork Orange)

3.  Steven Spielberg (Raiders of the Lost Ark)

Peter Jackson and Steven Spielberg on the "set" of the first Tintin film

2.  Martin Scorsese (GoodFellas)

1.  Akira Kurosawa (Ran)

Alfred was 23 when he first realized that he was special. In the extraordinary sense, rather than that retarded sense. Damn the P.C. I say, why be politically correct when you can get to the point. Anyway, Alfred was 23 when luck tipped its cap. Alfred found that he was able to talk to objects. He could have conversations, honest to the goodness two way exchanges of sentences, with lamps, mugs and even with more obscure objects, such as doorstops and ornamental bookends.

When Alfred learnt he could do this, he was (as one might expect) more than slightly worried that he was losing his mind. It was a chat with a teacup that settled the argument for him. He was told that ‘Life is tough for those with real gifts’. Sound advice, Alfred thought. Far beyond a teacup, Alfred mused. So far ahead, in fact, that Alfred quite forgot his fear in a moment of unfurling enlightenment. And this was the moment that Alfred learnt that this gift was merely another aspect of his life. Like the miracle of self-propelled locomotion, fast as stubby legs could carry him – or the sense of sight, nearsighted as he was. In any case, from these two impressions you have a clear understanding that Alfred felt entitled to have at least one special gift. For a boy born with so few talents, the ability to talk to objects was far and away enough by way of compensation.

At first it was just Teacup that he could hear properly. All the other objects that had spoken before were like whispers, or a sudden scream. Both sounds unintelligible and terrifying. No, it was Teacup that settled him into the life of talking to objects.

Teacup told Alfred many things, before introducing him to the myriad other objects in the kitchen. Some of his earliest friends were Kettle, Pan and Rolling Pin. Rollin’, as he liked to be known, was a wonderful character. Alfred would often roll him over the linoleum floor for shits and giggles, while Kettle whistled a merry tune and Pan sat by with an air of purpose.

One thing that all people should know about objects is that they are most eager to be used. In fact, antiques are the unhappiest of all creatures. They moan, constantly, and after some years of moaning they simply give up on words and scream and wail. Not long later they are silent as space.

Another thing that all people should know is that objects are deeply opposed to superfluousness. They will lord over any surplus, and therefore unused, crockery. They will hurl abuse at the cups that, through no fault of their own, are simply not picked out to have tea or coffee poured into their eager mouths. ‘Survival of the most useful.’ That’s how Teacup explained it.

The last thing that should be said, before we continue, is that objects are extremely prejudice to those from ‘another room’. To them a kettle has no place in a bathroom and a loo-brush, no place in a kitchen. Where objects do make an ‘unhealthy’ transition they are mocked, jeered at and made to feel ridiculous. The exception is for objects that make frequent trips, the so-called ‘Tourist Class’ of object. Such as plates, cups and bowls that might enter the living room. Books (a snobby race of object) and cordless telephones; which might end up in any room whatever. For the most part objects are resigned to staying in the room that best suits them. And that life goes on suiting them until the landfill.

Alfred’s education on the politics of being an object made him something of a champion of the house from day one. He would ensure that objects were replaced in their respective rooms. He would rotate the cups to ensure each had a fair turn. He even ensured that there was a spare bulb standing by when a lamp went out, lest they feel purposelessness for a second. In short, he was a hero and was treated with a great deal of respect. ‘There goes our Alfred.’ They’d say. ‘Isn’t he a fine fellow, well he could very be a lamp if ever I saw a shining example.’

Of course, it was also in our boy Alfred’s best interest to be helpful. Imagine a single person shouting for your attention. Now think of the effect of a room-full of people. Now picture a house-full. Each separate voice, seeking fulfillment of their own agenda. It was enough to send pains shooting out from his temples. Enough to make his eyes throb in their sockets. It was maddening. So, at least with the house in order, they would stick to the business of whispering gossip to one another and not hounding our Alfred for help.

Now, Alfred’s mother (Doris) wasn’t in receipt of Alfred’s gift and his Father was long since buried. As such, Alfred kept his talent to himself for fear of being experimented on, or worse – simply pointed out in the street by children. Of course, often he’d slip. He’d mistakenly address an object as Sir or Madam, if he bumped into them by accident. He’d even become suspiciously insistent that his mother replaced certain items in their respective rooms.

The dear old woman; in her cardigan – tiny, bird-like talons for fingers. That totem to days; resplendently adorned with faux-diamond jewelry – disrespected by her own son. The poor crone; in her pink slippers – throat crocking a protest at such maltreatment. In her own home! Her own son! Can you imagine it, the good-natured Alfred, his father’s son, working up to shouting at a weak, weathered, widow. And simply for bringing the washing-up bowl into the living room in order that she could soak her swollen feet. Well, it’s disrespectful isn’t it?

Alfred’s Mother was soon trained to leave things as they were ‘meant to be.’ Alfred went back to being the hero of the house. He spoke freely to the objects, not caring if his mother overheard.

It was about this time that Doris took to shaking and weeping. For days she would just sit there, Alfred tending to her with meals and assisting her to the bathroom. All the while Alfred kept the object’s taunts to himself, so as not to shock her with their insults.

‘No longer fit for purpose, that one.’ Pot said. Rollin’ was of the same opinion. ‘She’s as good as landfill-bound, far as I can see.’ Said Teacup. Alfred said nothing; he just went about keeping things in order.

Not long later there was an incident. It happened whilst Alfred and his mother took tea in the living room. They were talking happily on the wonderful outlook for the afternoon and if they shouldn’t sit in the garden. ‘You’d do as well to treat her to euthanasia.’ Said Bible abruptly.

It was at this point where Alfred could no longer hold back. ‘How dare you!’ He screamed before picking up Bible and hurling him across the room.

‘Sir, you forget yourself. Desist!’ The other books shouted together.
He didn’t hear the smash. He didn’t register anything until a plate said the word that marked the crime. ‘Murderer!’ One long word that screeched out into the silence and ended in a guttural sobbing.

Alfred’s mother had dropped a cup. In the fright that overtook her, in the moment of panic caused by her son’s outburst, she’d opened her fingers and the cup tumbled through the air. A young thing, it didn’t have time to cry out before it shattered into innumerable pieces.

Only last week Alfred had been talking to that little cup about starting a drinking vessel choir. The newest member of The Cupboard Crew now lay in fragments. All he can do was get a brush and try his best to keep as much together as can be. Lest he be buried at the landfill in that dreaded state; ‘incomplete’.

‘You can’t let her get away with it Alfred, she’ll do us all in!’ Teacup pleaded. ‘She must be stopped!’

‘Of course not! But—’

‘But nothing! You must, you’re the only one fit for the purpose!’

Much as Alfred did protest, in the end he made up his mind. As we all would, we’d brain our kin to silence an army of voices. He took his mother upstairs to the bathroom, forced her head into the wide open mouth of the bathtub and therein bashed her brains out with Rollin’. Shards of her skull splintering off. Great lumps of brain making a glutinously bloody bid for the floor.

All the mess artfully kept in the belly of the tub. She slumped down inside, lifeless. Alfred climbed in on top of her and, after drawing the shower curtain closed, he ensured that her body was entirely dead. Just as that cup had fallen to a place where repair was impossible. The solid thuds, slowly changed to a sucking, splattering sound. And then it was over.

Alfred took off his clothes and left them on top of his mother’s corpse. He then dismounted her and walked to the kitchen to replace Rollin’. Then he took himself to the bedroom to have a lie down.

Next morning Alfred awoke his first thought being that he’d had a messed up dream. Even before the alarm clock tried to engage him in a discussion about recent sports news, he knew he had no such luck. He didn’t even try to go into the bathroom. Just walked on by and on downstairs to get some breakfast and a cup of tea.

Things got back to normal pretty quickly for our Alfred, in the sense that he wasn’t too harassed by the objects. Teacup was happy not to be ‘next on the hit-list’ as he put it. Bathtub was happy to be full. Rollin’ insisted that he not be cleaned, as he liked his new colour immensely – it seemed to Rollin’ as if he was made of rosewood.

In the end however, it was pretty clear that things could not remain in this tranquil, ordered state. Doris was starting to smell. She smelt worse than anything Alfred had smelt. Each time he went to the toilet he had to endure her rank odor. Even the smell of his own excrement would have been more pleasing, but it was under a fat layer of decay.

At the end of that week the doorbell rings, twice. Alfred dresses in a gown and wanders downstairs, greeting objects as he walks past them.

‘Open up, its the police!’ Said the Constable (Stewie). He was outside with two other blue fellows, which could be made out through the warped glass of the front door. Alfred tightened the rope on his gown and walked over to open the door.

The Constable was shown into the kitchen by Alfred, who then set about making tea. They were there for routine follow up to a report of a large infestation of flies seen coating Alfred’s bathroom window.

So that is the story of Alfred. The poor boy’s in an asylum now. They were set to leave with the story that a bird had simply gotten into the bathroom through the window and died. They were actually in the hallway. The other two officers milling about outside. The Constable tipped his cup back and downed the last dregs of tea and then handed Alfred the cup. There was a moment of fumbling, as he tried to take the cup and it dropped.

In the end it took all three men to restrain him and they didn’t stop there. Two held him down whilst the Constable checked the bathroom and came back white as a sheet. They gave him a right good beating to boot.

Anyway, now his only friend is his first – Teacup.

We join Teacup in search for a new purpose.

‘Alfred, I could be a keepsake cup. Do you have any foreign coins, or a lone battery? Tell you what; pull out all your teeth and give them to me, I’ll look after them for you!’

(AKA The Big Carnival)
El gran carnaval

AÑO: 1951
DURACIÓN: 111 min.
PAÍS: Estados Unidos
DIRECTOR: Billy Wilder
GUIÓN: Billy Wilder, Lesser Samuels, Walter Newman
MÚSICA: Hugo Friedhofer
FOTOGRAFÍA: Charles Lang Jr. (B&W)
REPARTO: Kirk Douglas, Jan Sterling, Robert Arthur, Porter Hall, Frank Cady, Richard Benedict, Ray Teal, Lewis Martin, John Berkes, Frances Dominguez, Gene Evans, Harry Harvey, Frank Jaquet
PRODUCTORA: Paramount Pictures

Drama

SINOPSIS: Charles Tatum es un periodista sin escrúpulos que atraviesa una mala racha a causa de su adicción al alcohol, y que se ha visto obligado a trabajar en un pequeño diario de Nuevo México. Cuando un minero indio se queda atrapado en un túnel, Tatum ve la oportunidad de volver a ser alguien en el mundo del periodismo dando espectacularidad al caso y alargando el rescate en connivencia con el sheriff de la localidad. (FILMAFFINITY)

“Me parece la crítica más lúcida y feroz que el cine ha hecho nunca sobre la manipulación que ejerce cierto periodismo y sobre el morbo y el egoismo de las masas.” (Carlos Boyero: Diario El Mundo)

“Tan cruel como real” (Javier Ocaña: Cinemanía)

Cita:
Novena película de Billy Wilder. Escriben el guión Billy Wilder, Lesser Samuels y Walter Newman, a partir de un argumento inspirado en hechos reales. Se rueda en exteriores de Nuevo Méjico y LA y en los platós de Paramount Studios (LA), con un coste de 1,8 M dólares. Es nominada a un Oscar (guión) y gana un Premio Internacional de Venecia (director). Producida por Billy Wilder, se estrena en “première” el 15-VI-1951 (Londres).

La acción se divide en un prólogo situado en Albuquerque (1950) y un relato de 6 días de duración que se desarrolla en Albuquerque y Nuevo Méjico (1951). El periodista Charles “Chuck” Tatum (Douglas), tras ser despedido de su último empleo, recala en la redacción de un diario local “Albuquerque Sun-Bulletin”. Tatum es arrogante, embustero, cínico, manipulador y alcohólico.

El film mezcla los géneros de drama y crimen. Billy Wilder lo realiza en un momento dulce de su carrera, entre “El crepúsculo de los dioses” (1950) y “Traidor en el infierno” (1953). En él participa como director, productor y coguionista. Es la primera realización después de su ruptura con Charles Brackett y la única colaboración con Douglas. La obra está narrada desde el punto de vista de Tatum. Este hecho refuerza los efectos derivados de la ausencia de protagonistas simpáticos o amables con los que el espectador se pueda identificar. La obra teje un entrelazado de culpabilidades y complicidades, que afectan a casi todos. Los dardos críticos se dirigen a los medios de comunicación, a los profesionales de la información, a los políticos y al público, que con su demanda determina formas y contenidos informativos. Éste es mostrado como devorador voraz de noticias morbosas, aficionado al voyerismo de desgracias ajenas y dado a asociar la propia insensibilidad con aires de recreo y fiesta. Condena el amarillismo, la manipulación y tergiversación de la verdad, las ansias de protagonismo y poder, la codicia, la traición y la corrupción. El film se inspira en dos hechos reales, el de Floyd Collins y el de Kathy Fiscus. La mano de Wilder se advierte en muchos detalles: vendedor de seguros, compañía Pacific All-Risk Insurance (la de “Perdición”), extraño encendido de la cerilla (sobre máquina de escribir), rubia platino maléfica, chispas de comicidad visual (tropiezo con cabo tienda de campaña), tren, etc. El film fracasa en EEUU y obtiene cierto éxito en Europa. Es uno de los films preferidos de Woody Allen.

La música, de Hugo Friedhofer (“Tú y yo”, McCarey, 1957) juxtapone melodías estridentes descriptivas y melodías armónicas ambientales. Añade dos canciones: “The Hut-Sut Song” (Benedict y Douglas) y “We’re Coming, Leo” (vocalista y banda). La fotografía, de Charles Lang (“Berlin Occidente”, 1948), se recrea en planos elevados y profundos muy detallados, movimientos multitudinarios y ambientes concurridos. Se beneficia de más de mil extras y unos 400 vehículos. El plano final es magnífico. Buenas interpretaciones y excelente guión. Drama muy sólido.
Miquel. Filmaffinity.

VIDEO: Avi.
FORMATO IMAGEN: 4/3 (576×432).
AUDIO: V.O. Inglés.
SONIDO: MP3 128 kbps.
SUBTÍTULOS: Inglés y castellano.

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It should be put to the reader that Amis was at first known as Amis the Pointless. He was, as is evident, of little danger to anyone before this point and certainly not deserving of the title ‘brute’.

Amis the Pointless was a sullen creature prone to bouts of weeping inconsolably at the vision of a crushed flower or a chess set that had not been set out correctly. He was even once found sobbing at the state of the country, but that’s enough to make anyone sodden through, except that in Amis’ case he was lamenting the lack of affordable housing for nomads.

Amis smoked, that’s another thing you should know about him. As we all know now that does not make him a ‘rebel’ or look ‘kool’. Except that Amis was born during the eighties, when men wearing mascara was considered cool, so smoking was picked up as a small distraction from the state of the country.

Not that Amis did much at this stage to improve the state of the country. In fact he was more an example of hypocrisy than we can be allowed to ignore. Amis was as much a reason for the country being shit, for the fact he did nothing to improve it. He was apathetic and in this day and age there is simultaneously no more prevalent and virulent a state of existence.

This however is the story of Amis and how he came to gain his newer title. How he came to be renamed.

Amis was in one of his moods of torment on the road between Meols and Hull, when he sighted a huge man walking toward him along the road. At first he thought the man was very close, because of his size in relation to the things behind him. But allowing a moment to gain perspective he was advised by his brain that the man was indeed still some way off and was indeed huge, but yet to be of threat. Which is, of course, the first thought of a pointless and brainless creature such as Past Amis. To consider anything larger than himself is a very distressing thing indeed. In fact, so often do they find dangers so daunting, that they attempt by any means whatever to rid their path of it, be that by running away, hiding, making them sign some form a declaration, or by employing a very large army of half-wits to dispose of the hazard on their behalf. Such is the lesson of history. Such is the state of the country.

Now it is that the large figure walking toward Amis is in fact Kevin the Tiny. Not a title that is in any sense refelctive of his stature, but rather the only adjective that could accurately describe his brain. He had been studied, in his youth, and x‑rays and f‑rays confirmed that the size and shape of his brain is best likened to a teabag. The round traditional type that has been dunked a few times and then drained and placed on the side of the saucer. Puckered up and feeble looking.

The comparison goes further toward the truth. The f‑rays were more the decisive picture, showing his brain to have the same colour and even a very thin outer membrane, which the doctors hypothesised may be that through which Kevin’s ideas might squeeze. Anyone who knows anything about tea-bags, or anything with a similar purpose, knows that the thin fabric lets out only the flavoured water that has swilled through and not the tea leaves themselves which remain within. As such it is the same with Kevin, only the most miniscule of thoughts can bypass this blockade layer. All the real substance of his mind remaining locked in the bag of his brain.

Who knows what grand theories might have played against the insides of Kevin the Tiny’s eyes on seeing Amis the Pointless. The only thing we know is what a robin nearby heard slip from his lips. A single word. ‘Friend.’

Amis’ mind was agog with a reeling team of scenarios. Most of which ended with the idea that he might be cut up and eaten over a period of a days. Or however long it would take for such a monstrously huge man to eat him. Amis readied himself for a fight. The robin flew toward Amis and settled himself in a tree nearby to gauge his intentions. ‘Fiend.’ Amis muttered. The robin was not best pleased.

When they were only 200 yards apart Amis stopped in his tracks. Whether it was through fear, he would never admit. But we know that Kevin matched this action. Who knows why he did, other than that the outer wall of his teabag brain sanctioned the impulse to pass through and instruct the legs to cease their lumbered progress.

Amis was aghast. He was trapped in a stalemate by the giant whose name he did not know at the time. He thought about the state of the country and how such monsterous people are allowed to wander the footpaths of the land with impunity. Perhaps it was his subscription to the Everyday Moan that bred this ill‑reasoned leaning toward intollerance. It certainly can’t have helped that he partook in the practice of reading the badly written wordy-bilge of such a ridiculous paper. It was headline after headline of ‘Immigrants’ this and ‘Royalty’ that. Moreover there was a flippant use of polls. Readers submitting their opinions on a given unsubstantiated fact and the results would be published the following day. As much as one can trust in the results and consider them a true reflection of the state of the nation.

Kevin grinds the toe of his shoe into the gravel path. Amis balls his fists. Amis walks forward and stops. Kevin does the same. Amis starts walking again. Kevin follows the action with the precision of a reflection.

The robin travels back and forth but doesn’t hear another word uttered. All conversation now an internal process. Except for Kevin, who didn’t have any thoughts.

It crossed Amis’ mind that perhaps it might be best to walk across the field, rather than to carry on down the path and eventually meet whatever fate awaited him. There was a gap in the hedge to the right of him and he pushed his way through.

Coincidence permitted, in this strange case, that there were also a gap for Kevin into that very same field and he climbed on through, much to the horror of Amis. Kevin was mirroring him move for move. Repeating the action and even taking to running when Amis did, remaining parallel to him until he met the barrier of the next hedge. A hedge that was, for each, impassable.

The robin looked on in horror as Amis scanned the ground for some form of attrition. Seeing a tree branch he picked it up and, being the same thickness as a baseball bat and the same length as a golf club, he lifted it above his head and charged forward.

Kevin had no such luck in finding a suitable comparative prop to mimic Amis accurately and instead he simply took to running, charging down the length of the field.

What passes is the nearest approximation of the incident as described by a robin who, having been distracted momentarily by a worm, wasn’t in the correct frame of mind of commit every action to memory.

Kevin and Amis reached each other, but Kevin, of his own accord, stopped. He stood there, towering over Amis and smiling a dumb but sincere smile. Amis, struck by this intense strangeness, turned on his heels and ran in the other direction and, on reaching the lower right corner of the field, curled into a ball.

Kevin was at this moment distracted, similar to the robin, by a passing bee and took to following it, soon disappearing over the edge of the horizon. No doubt off to the home of that singular bee and a waiting mob of non‑too‑welcoming and highly‑protective soldier bees.

Amis missed all this, quite in a world of misery and tears. He was crunched so tightly in a ball that he would have done well just to breathe. Upon unfurling Amis found no monster above him, nor giant near him, nor even a figure on the horizon. He picked himself up, brushed off the dirt that hadn’t cemented itself (wetted by his tears) to his trowsers and stood tall.

Still clutching the stick he walked cautiously toward the path and continued on his way. The robin settled on an upcoming fencepost and watched Amis passed tentatively.

Recovering his confidence in light of the deduction that the huge man (Kevin) was headed in a contrary direction to begin with – and had probably resumed his journey toward where Amis had come from – he himself continued on his way. As a last act to anoint this sure conclusion, a last sacrifice to mark the dissolution of his remaining fears, he hurled the large stick behind him. Unbeknownst to Amis, striking the robin and it was this unfortunate soul who recounted the tale for the world. Insisting that Amis the Pointless should henceforth be referred to as Amis the brute, for a brute he was ‑ in thought, as much as action.

.

Affiche française

Dans leur appartement de Baker Street, Holmes et Watson voient arriver une jeune veuve sauvée des eaux de la Tamise. Le fin limier et son équipier vont être entrainés dans une enquête hors du commun, où ils croiseront Mycroft Holmes, le frère de Sherlock, la reine Victoria et le monstre du Loch Ness.

La vie privée de Sherlock Holmes est un film de Billy Wilder, grand réalisateur de comédies américaines, telles que Certains l’aiment chaud.

L’alliance du film de détective et de la comédie sonne plutôt bien. ce n’est pas une vulgaire parodie, mais bien un film policier aux allures de comédies. Le comique réside surtout dans le personnage de Watson, interprété par Colin Blakely.

Un bon film.

Ma note:

AÑO: 1954
DURACIÓN: 114 min.
PAÍS: USA
DIRECTOR: Billy Wilder
GUIÓN: Billy Wilder, Ernest Lehman, Samuel Taylor (Teatro: Samuel Taylor)
MÚSICA: Frederick Hollander
FOTOGRAFÍA: Charles Lang Jr. (B&W)
REPARTO: Audrey Hepburn, Humphrey Bogart, William Holden, John
Williams, Walter Hampden, Martha Hyer, Marcel Dalio, Joan Vohs
PRODUCTORA: Paramount Pictures

Comedia romántica

SINOPSIS: La joven Sabrina, hija del chofer británico de los poderosos
Larrabe, está enamorada del hijo menor de la familia que coquetea con
ella, sin hacerle demasiado caso. El padre la envía a Paris y ella
vuelve de la gran ciudad transformada, hecha una mujer elegante y
seductora que trastorna a los dos hermanos, al joven David y al
hermético hermano mayor, Linus, que lleva los negocios de la casa.
Aunque no lo sepan ni ellos mismos, un duelo sordo y sin sangre
estallará entre los dos por la bella.

SUBTÍTULOS: Inglés, castellano.

http://rapidshare.com/files/177807918/Sab.ri.na_Ing_Esp_SE_SIng.part01.rar
http://rapidshare.com/files/177807967/Sab.ri.na_Ing_Esp_SE_SIng.part02.rar
http://rapidshare.com/files/177808059/Sab.ri.na_Ing_Esp_SE_SIng.part03.rar
http://rapidshare.com/files/177808142/Sab.ri.na_Ing_Esp_SE_SIng.part04.rar
http://rapidshare.com/files/177808192/Sab.ri.na_Ing_Esp_SE_SIng.part05.rar
http://rapidshare.com/files/177808418/Sab.ri.na_Ing_Esp_SE_SIng.part06.rar
http://rapidshare.com/files/177808443/Sab.ri.na_Ing_Esp_SE_SIng.part07.rar
http://rapidshare.com/files/177808491/Sab.ri.na_Ing_Esp_SE_SIng.part08.rar
http://rapidshare.com/files/177808526/Sab.ri.na_Ing_Esp_SE_SIng.part09.rar
http://rapidshare.com/files/177808565/Sab.ri.na_Ing_Esp_SE_SIng.part10.rar
http://rapidshare.com/files/177808476/Sab.ri.na_Ing_Esp_SE_SIng.part11.rar

Shiloh Michael Wilder was not a bad person, nor was his condescending tone towards Nick intentional. He just never understood how Nick could hold back his talents for Kieran. Shiloh and Kieran didn’t get along, and Nick had been in the middle of their fights more than once. Shiloh had grown up alongside Nick and Kieran in Anastasia Palace, but his lack of ambition made him slightly jealous of Kieran in particular. Shiloh thought he could succeed without having a big ego or being mean to other people, but everyone took Kieran more seriously. It was nerve wracking. Plus, Kieran seriously believed he was the be-all to end-all, so Shiloh could barely tolerate him.

Like Kieran’s parents, Shiloh’s parents were still alive. Unlike Kieran’s parents, they came to see him every two weeks. Shiloh was born in Sespertine, the technology capital in the world, on the first day of the new decade. Being the first baby born on the first day of the new decade made Shiloh slightly famous and when every year rolled around, he was mentioned. He liked the attention for the first ten years but now, he found it was becoming slightly annoying. Plus, the upperclassmen were beginning to tease him about it. They also teased him about his parents’ constant visits, but he knew it was because he was one in the thirty to forty percent of students at the academy that actually had parents.

Though Shiloh got along with Nick slightly better than he got along with Kieran, his relationship with Nick was still pretty strained. Nick was very loyal to Kieran and hated whenever someone talked down to him because he was friends with Kieran. Shiloh was intrigued by Nick, though. Everyone wrote Nick off as a troublemaker and a lost cause, but Shiloh actually wondered why Nick acted like that. When they were in Bridget’s class and Nick had to sit in the front of the room, Shiloh would stare at the back of Nick’s head and try to figure him out. They didn’t have much in common, but that wasn’t the reason why Shiloh was intrigued with Nick in the first place.

When Shiloh was ten years old, he was approached to enter the Eagle Fighter program. He was reluctant about going into the program at first, but eventually he accepted the offer because his father had been in the Eagle Fighter program when he was a young man. He had put in his time, so Shiloh felt it was his duty to put in some time as well. However, he really didn’t enjoy being in the program and he found himself going through the motions more than most of the time. The problem was that he couldn’t think of any other field that he wanted to study. Being in the Eagle Fighter program had taken away all of his options, so he had no other choice but to stay. He always thought of the worst case scenarios, but Shiloh knew that in his heart of hearts; being placed in a team where Kieran as the commanding officer was a fate worse than death.

If you ever are lost in the wild and get a cut thats not too deep, place some cobwebs over it,sprinkle some hot water, and mold the mixture to form your affected area. Next, sprinkle some (NON POISONOUS) puff ball spores on the cobweb. There you have it, a natural band-aid!

“Puffballs that resemble hard boiled eggs are decaying, and not edible. Discolored puffballs should also be avoided.”

“Farmers in central Europe used to prevent infection by packing open wounds with fistfuls of cobwebs laced with fungus-grown penicillin.”

The healing cells (granulocytes and others) migrate into the middle of the wound, usually under a scab which forms over top to protect the site. In fact wounds heal much better if they are kept clean and moist and there is some sort of fabric for the cells to migrate along.

Jasmine, Athena & Shane.

Connor, Riley & Daniel.

Joseph, Daniel & Stanley.

Abigail & Jackson

Evangeline & Cana.

Katie & Mary.

Talulla, Aila, Devanie & Kate

Tommy & Emma

Piper & Phoebe

Holden, Gabriel & Imogen

Vincent & Micah

Grace, Gavin & Finnegan.

Luke & Jacinda

Alaina & Alex

Maddison & Camryn (twins)

Jordan, Jax & Kelli

Regan & Tamsyn

Kaylee & Tyler

Frances & Sailor

Rosalie & Penelope

Arion & Sofia

William & Violet

Breanna & Madelyn

Dominic, Xander & Felix

Layla, Paisley (g) & Thatcher

Harriet, Henri & Hazel

Kaelin, Karlee, Kevin & Kaleb

Bastian, Malakai, Magus & Jace

Jack, Megan & Kevin

Genevieve, Brooklyn & Callia

Boston & Ashton

Jordynnn, Preston, Kyson & Gavin.

Noella & Ezra

Jack & Silas

Gage, Escher & Bella

Jaden, Mara & Fenn

Canyon, Rory & Arden

Hayden & Wilder (g)

Veda,girl, girl, boy, Thea.

Levi, Reuben & Silas

Faelynn & Evan

Lili & Camiana

Scarlette & Ruby

Kitiara & Aerith

Audric & Nouvelle

Talan & Taryn

Grace, Lauren & Stella

Sarala & Kaelyn

Aldria & James

Isabella, Declan & Henry.

Delaney, Camden & Paxton

Keira & Piper

Skyler, Airyanna & Oceana

Aurora, Oliver,Simon, Savannah, Harrison, Genevieve & Sebastian

Jordan, Elizabeth &  Savanna

Makaley, Arden,  Anniston, Taegan, Balen, Kellen, Ellery, Innish & Finnian

Brooke & Bree

Boston, Harlem & Memphis

Kevin,Kennyth & Sofiya

Grace, Kate & Claire.

Anthony, Ephram & Avalea

Fallon & Piper

Alyssa, Lauren,Lily & Luke

Samuel& Ian

Faithlynn & Mairyn

Jacob & Paige

Blake & Marina

Ivy & Kael

Here is a brochure from the Quechee Library and the Wilder Club & Library.

“My advice to you is not to inquire why or whither, but just enjoy the ice cream while it’s on your plate”

- Thornton Wilder

Coincidiendo con la festividad de María Magdalena, el famoso soto californiano donde están las sequoyas más antiguas del mundo, es el escenario de un sacrificio ritual de la novia de Cristo: al día siguiente se “sacrifica” al propio profeta y al día siguiente, se realizan sacrificios de verdad.

Dice que aquellos que tienen sangre “aria” son reptilianos y que la cabeza de todos es la reina Isabel. Confirma que son capaces de cambiar de piel, tienen la sangre fría, tres corazones y realizan sacrificios de personas, necrofilia y todas las perrerías que os podáis imaginar. En suma, esta mujer confirma todo lo que expuso Cathy O’Brien, Arizona Wilder y el propio David Icke.

Estos hechos ocurren cada año, y han ocurrido hace días, coincidiendo con el ciclo de Sirio que, nosotros, celebramos en el Día Fuera del Tiempo.

  “On Friday noon, July the twentieth, 1714, the finest bridge in all Peru broke and precipitated five travelers into the gulf below.” Truly a bridge to nowhere, or at best,  to the abyss. A friar, Brother Juniper, witnesses the tragedy and sets out to prove that Divine intervention was at work  in determining who, exactly, would perish  in the accident. Thornton Wilder uses the bridge collapse to explore whether forces greater than ourselves are at work in our lives…  or our deaths.

And those ponderings, of course, are not resolved in the book, as they cannot be in life. Wilder does not presume to know the cosmic answer or to postulate one of his own. He merely seeks to stimulate discussion on the topic. Apparently Wilder’s particular interest in this line of discussion grew from a conversation with his father, who felt that God specifically and minutely controls every aspect of our lives. I suspect Wilder the younger did not feel as strongly that that was the case.

The Marquesa de Montemayor, a noblewoman; Pepita, her serving girl; Uncle Pio, a mentor and protector to a local actress; Don Jaime, the actress’ son and Esteban, a sailor and laborer, are the individuals who die in the collapse. The novel familiarizes us with the lives of each of the five in some detail, and then Brother Juniper sets out to create an objective system for evaluating their lives – a system  resembling one that God might use to make His life or death decisions. The Friar is put to death by fire for his efforts and Wilder does not weigh in further on his central argument.

Certainly, however, conclusions are reached on other philosophical issues, chiefly that life and love are fleeting and precious, and love, or the memory of it, may be a bridge that connects this life with the next.

In terms of the writing, many of Wilder’s phrases have a ring of truth as well as a ringing beauty, and much of what he writes is memorable. One such passage is the enumeration of the characteristics of an adventurer (Read the book… Huh? Read the book.) However, the characters frequently seem over-broad and buffoonish, with a characteristic or two standing in for a fully drawn character. The Marquesa, for example, is defined almost entirely by being an excellent and voluminous writer. Wilder may deserve the benefit of the doubt here, however,  since I, for one, am not intimately familiar with the ways of Peruvians of the 18th century.

The Bridge of San Luis Rey is a short book which can be consumed in an extended single sitting. And, while the book did not send me off on my own metaphysical quest (or send me falling off a bridge, for that matter), nor cause me to spend several weeks pondering the question of free will versus predestination, once read, it did leave me with a sense of satisfaction beyond its mere completion.

Did a force greater than myself compel me to read The Bridge of San Luis Rey, or did I choose it on my own? Was it placed in front of me at the bookstore or was it in stock as the result of random chance? If only we could ask Brother Juniper.

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