Category Archives: remakes suck

“Bugle, bugle, who’s got the bugle?”

Posted on by under lit adaptations, private eyes are watching you, remakes suck

As part of our week-long celebration of the 70th anniversary of The Maltese Falcon (1941), today we are taking a look at the second film version of Dashiell Hammett’s pulp crime novel. For a brief introduction to the 1941 film, check out our post on Falcon from last year. For a more in-depth synopsis of the film’s plot, we recommend the AMC FilmSite entry about the movie.

In 1935, Warner Bros., unable to re-release the somewhat racy 1931 version of The Maltese Falcon due to stricter enforcement of the Production Code, decided to film a second version of the novel. The studio assigned an unenthusiastic William Dieterle to the director’s chair, an unwilling Bette Davis to the leading lady role, and pre-Code heartthrob Warren William to the pivotal role of Sam Spade … er, I mean, “Ted Shane.” The end result, released in 1936, was nothing short of underwhelming; to call the film a “misfire” is a severe understatement (the term that comes to my mind is “clusterfuck,” in case you were wondering).

The job of adapting the book into screenplay form was given to Brown Holmes, who had also worked on the screenplay for the earlier film. One would think that his previous experience with the material would result in something that was greatly similar to the original production. But the resulting script was merely a loose adaptation of Falcon. Now, when I say “loose,” I mean LOOSE. The screenplay ultimately had little in common with the source material. Holmes, in what appears to be an attempt to imbue the film with a farcical sense of irreverence, changed the characters’ names (and even one character’s gender), their personalities, and even the film’s “MacGuffin,” for the fabled gold-and-jewel-encrusted falcon was changed to an ivory ram’s horn stuffed with gems. Elements of the plot were altered to the point that any similarities to Falcon seem, in hindsight, almost coincidental. In short … this just ain’t Hammett’s story.

Satan’s “Spade” figure lacks the subtlety and the ambiguity of Hammett’s characterization. In fact, there’s nothing very subtle about Ted Shane–he’s painted as greedy, ambitious, and an unrepentant womanizer. Every woman he meets is greeted as “Kitten,” regardless of her actual name. William plays the role almost tongue-in-cheek; Shane is not meant to be taken seriously, despite the seriousness of the trouble he’s in. There is no sense of mystery to Shane’s motives. If Ricardo Cortez’s Sam Spade values women above all, and Humphrey Bogart’s values self-reliance, then William’s Shane is most concerned with gain–monetary gain, romantic gain, ego boosts, and whatever else he can get. In this sense, Shane is perhaps the most mercenary of the Spade incarnations … though this is undermined greatly by his sheer goofiness. After all, can you really refer to a man who imitates King Kong as a “mercenary?”

Davis absolutely loathed the experience of making the film. The actress, who demonstrated a keen eye for quality throughout much of her career, knew the script was bad and that the part of Valerie Purvis virtually reeked of “vapidity,” as she would later state in her memoirs. But while Davis may not have wanted to make the film, she simply did not have it in her to deliver a half-assed performance, regardless of the weaknesses of the concept. As a result, Davis is easily the best thing about Satan Met a Lady. Valerie is scripted as more antagonistic than other versions of Brigid O’Shaughnessy–she is combative from the start, and instead of manipulating Shane through her feminine wiles, Valerie (at least initially) relies on a pistol to get her way. Because of this, she is a much less effective female foil for the detective. Still, Davis manages to make an impact when she’s onscreen, bringing a steely determination to Valerie that belies the character’s sometimes insipid dialogue.

The “vapidity” Davis complained about is evident in all of the female characters in the movie. Miss Murgatroyd (Marie Wilson), the parallel to loyal secretary Effie, is a shrill, ditzy, whiny combination of worldliness and naivete. Astrid (Winifred Shaw), the wife of Shane’s doomed, shlubby partner Ames (Porter Hall), is a flirtatious man-eater whose role in the plot is reduced to irrelevance. And this film’s “Casper Gutman” figure, the stout Madame Barabbas (Alison Skipworth), lacks the menace and suavity befitting a purported criminal mastermind. None of these characters can hold a candle to their literary and (other) cinematic counterparts.

Equally ineffective are Satan’s versions of Dr. Cairo–now a dapper, tall Englishman named Travers (Arthur Treacher)–and the “gunsel”–now a baby-faced “nephew” of Barabbas, Kenneth (Maynard Holmes). Travers spends much of the film apologizing for trashing Shane’s apartment and office while complaining that Shane’s behavior is “not cricket.” Kenneth threatens to kill the teasing Shane, and has in fact murdered other characters in the film, but his comically young appearance and whining tone make you doubt his ability to kill a bug, let alone a person. The effort to paint these characters in a “funny” light ultimately weakens whatever impact they may have otherwise had.

That’s the problem with the entire film, truth be told. In the end, though Dieterle and company try to make the movie work as a comedy, the audience is not laughing. It’s almost impossible to take a story with the darkness and verve of The Maltese Falcon and turn it into slapstick–well, successful slapstick, anyway. Satan Met a Lady stands as a prime example of how literary adaptations can go horribly wrong when the source material is utterly bastardized on the way to the big screen.

Tomorrow: Hollywood finally gets The Maltese Falcon right.

We’re off to see the (new-fangled) Wizard?

Posted on by under lit adaptations, remakes suck, wtf hollywood?!?

UPDATE: Entertainment Weekly reports that Robert Zemeckis will NOT direct a remake of The Wizard of Oz as previously reported. Yay!! At least this is one classic story that won’t be CGI’ed beyond all recognition. (By the way, EW, I, for one, wasn’t howling like a “flying monkey.” I was screaming like that witch who got a damn house dropped on her head. Get it straight.)

************************************************************************

Talk about your unnecessary remakes …

There is talk that Warner Bros. plans to remake the 1939 Technicolor dreamfest The Wizard of Oz, using the original script by Noel Langley, Florence Ryerson, and Edgar Allan Woolf (which was, as you very likely know, adapted in turn from the children’s lit classic by Frank L. Baum). Robert Zemeckis, whose directorial pedigree demonstrates an enjoyment for mangling classic works of literature on the big screen (last year’s version of A Christmas Carol, the atrocious 2007 adaptation of Beowulf), is rumored to be taking the lead of the production.

How do the powers that be at Warner Bros. not see this as a terrible, horrible, no-good very bad idea???

Earlier today, as I ranted about this new development on Facebook, a friend mentioned the 1978 musical version of Baum’s story, The Wiz, questioning why I would take issue with this news and not feel as offended by other incarnations of the story. But there’s a stark difference between adapting different versions of the same tale and what Warner plans to do with it. I have no problem with The Wiz (though I dislike it personally), nor with other adaptations of the tale such as Gregory Maguire’s fantastic Wicked (both the book and the Broadway show), for these versions of the tale use Baum’s story as inspiration, transmuting it for different, modern audiences. Fair enough, in my mind.

But to take the original script and essentially remake it, word-for-word? That smacks of laziness … and is anyone else getting shades of Gus Van Sant’s abysmal shot-for-shot remake of Psycho (1998) here?

And who the hell are they going to cast in the iconic Wizard roles? Who can even come close to capturing the magic of Judy Garland or Margaret Hamilton or Frank Morgan or Bert Lahr or any of the other brilliant actors who brought the original to life? No one, that’s who. So why even try?

I’ve not an Oz super-fan by any means; I like the movie and have fond memories of it, but it’s not one of those I feel the need to watch on repeat. Still, it feels like sacrilege to take one of the most beloved movies in Hollywood history and re-shoot it. Not only does it indicate that an original idea in modern cinema is about as rare as a World Series pennant for the Cubs, but it indicates a decided lack of respect for the classics. What’s next–films such as Casablanca or Gone With the Wind or Citizen Kane are going to be modernized and homogenized within an inch of their lives, thoroughly obliterating the utter specialness of the originals? Yeah, that sounds like a fun time for all.

What’s your take on this? Is a remake a tribute to the original, or is it merely a giant middle finger to fans?

Alligators have the right idea. They eat their young.

Posted on by under 5-star films, best.films.ever., brandie's faves, feminist fridays, noir, remakes suck

I’ve heard the 1945 film noir Mildred Pierce called “anti-feminist” by some critics. This in itself is not surprising–the noir genre is notoriously woman-unfriendly, populated mainly by harridans, manipulative shrews, and sly seductresses, all depicted with broad, stereotypical strokes by a cadre of male directors. But the title character of Mildred Pierce is much more complex than her fellow noir-ish sisters in that she fulfills both masculine and feminine roles in the film, subsequently obliterating the boundaries inherent to her gender–and, as a result, serving as the implicit cause for all of the events that would follow. Because Mildred dares to construct a life separate from the home, separate from the values that define her gender, she must be brought back down to size through the most unceremonious–and tragic–of means.

The story of a hard-working, middle-class woman (played by Joan Crawford in the defining role of her long career) who sacrifices her own happiness for the well-being of her self-involved, conniving daughter, Veda (Ann Blyth), Mildred Pierce is an exercise in melodrama tempered by a genuine aura of suspense. The story is framed by Mildred’s narrative; she is interrogated by the police after her second husband, Monte Beragon (Zachary Scott), is found dead in their seaside home. The police suspect Mildred’s first husband, Bert (Bruce Bennett), of the crime, but as Mildred slowly reveals, the truth is much more complicated than it initially appears.

Mildred Pierce is a blame game of a film, laying much of the fault for the characters’ actions solely on the protagonist’s padded shoulders. Like other women who “forget their place,” Mildred must be schooled through tragedy and ill fortune. In other words, because she moves outside of the typical female role–leaving the home to provide for her family–she must be punished for blatantly disrespecting the rules of the patriarchy.

Mildred casts out first husband Bert because he can no longer provide for the family. Bert is not the only one lacking in his duty to his family, however; it is implied that Mildred has not been conducting her “wifely duties,” to the point that her perceived frigidness has driven her husband into the arms of another woman. When Bert leaves, therefore, Mildred not only loses a husband, but a part of her femininity; she becomes the de facto “man of the house,” taking on the role of mother and father to Veda and Kay and thoroughly stripping her husband of his masculinity–and his authority–in the process.

Initially, it seems as though Mildred has bucked the trend: instead of being punished for her shortcomings, she becomes wildly successful, starting a chain of restaurants that allow her to keep Veda in the high-class style to which the selfish girl aspires. But this unchecked success cannot be allowed to continue. The recently-divorced Mildred pushes the boundaries of gender conformity even more when she begins an out-of-wedlock affair with Monte. Having now gone too far, the wayward woman must be schooled punitively … and her subsequent punishment is the death of her younger daughter. And when Mildred later marries Monte–not out of any sense of love, but solely for Veda’s social benefit–further punishment comes in the form of financial ruin (as Monte’s playboy ways serve to significantly drain her wealth) and the affair that develops between Monte and stepdaughter Veda.

Mildred’s role as the sacrificing mother-figure is complicated by the film’s perception of her as a typically-noir femme fatale, particularly in her manipulation of Wally Fay (Jack Carson) as she attempts to the lay the blame for Monte’s murder on him. Knowing full well that her husband’s corpse lies in the parlor, Mildred entices Wally to the beach house through the implied promise of sexual gratification. This move can be construed as (perhaps somewhat justified) revenge for Wally’s takeover of Mildred’s restaurant chain–a takeover aided and abetted by Monte’s abuse of Mildred’s checkbook. But the history of film–and noir in particular–tells us that the woman seeking vengeance on the men who have wronged her will rarely be satisfied, for the construct of patriarchy doesn’t allow women to seek redress against men–well, successfully, anyway.

Therefore, the film tells us, Mildred is the cause behind every character’s actions. Because she abandons her marriage and neglects to prioritize her role as wife and mother, one daughter dies and the other commits murder. When Veda, after killing Monte, tells her mother, “It’s your fault as much as mine,” she may as well be speaking for the patriarchy that implicitly places the blame for Kay’s and Monte’s deaths–and Veda’s own selfish transgressions–solely at Mildred’s weary feet. The only resolution is for Mildred to accept that role–to fully shoulder the blame–and seek redemption through reuniting with Bert and re-donning the mantle of respectable womanhood. Then, and only then, can the natural order of things be restored.

The only female character in the film who does not adhere strictly to the inherent rules is Ida (Eve Arden), Mildred’s boss and eventual employee. The smart-mouthed, quick-witted Ida provides a great deal of the movie’s comic relief while serving as a direct counterpoint to Mildred. Here is a woman who shuns the binds of patriarchy, forging a career and foregoing the “hearth and home” path. Yet Ida is given a pass largely because she lacks Mildred’s abounding femininity. Ida is “one of the boys,” not even considered marriage material by the men in the film: as she quips at one point, “When men get around me, they get allergic to wedding rings.” Because she is not seen as a feminine threat, she is allowed a certain level of freedom that Mildred is not. This is emphasized in her styling throughout the film; her hair and clothing are less pronouncedly feminine than Mildred’s, and Ida even carries herself more self-assuredly.

I am hesitantly looking forward the upcoming HBO miniseries adaptation of Mildred Pierce, starring Kate Winslet as Mildred and Evan Rachel Wood as Veda. Winslet is one of my favorite actresses, and one of the few I can think of who could actually handle the material. She’s no Crawford, but I think she has the potential to make this role her own. Wood … well, not so much. But if this version, directed by Todd Haynes (best known for directing 2002′s phenomenal Far From Heaven), adheres more closely to the original novel, fans of the film may be in for a bit of a treat. At the very least, the five-hour running time of the miniseries will allow more development of both the characters and the plot, though it remains to be seen if this will actually be of some benefit to the story. Let’s just say that, even though I’m typically opposed to remakes (I’m looking at you, Baz Luhrmann–keep your grubby mitts off The Great Gatsby!), I’m cautiously optimistic that Haynes and company will do this material justice. And I have to admit, I’m curious to see if a more feminist-friendly spin is put on the film in an effort to “freshen up” the original.

Regardless, nothing and no one can ever replace the sheer brilliance of Crawford’s performance. This is what ultimately makes Mildred Pierce an indelible piece of film history: Crawford fully commits to a balls-to-the-wall, all-out performance the likes of which we rarely see in cinema anymore. After all, at this point in her career, when she had been labeled “box-office poison” and relegated to less-than-stellar roles, Crawford had nothing left to lose, and this freed her to deliver one of the best female characters to ever be put on the screen, period.

Even while you may be gnashing your teeth at the injustice of it all–even while you may be aching to reach through the screen and slap the crap out of Veda–there’s nothing quite like Mildred Pierce. It’s showing on TCM three times in the next three months (check their schedule for details), so if you’ve never seen it, take advantage of the opportunity to catch a damn good classic.

She might have fooled me, but she didn’t fool my mother.

Posted on by under 5-star films, best.films.ever., brandie's faves, remakes suck, the horror!

It felt appropriate to talk about this film today of all days. What’s Halloween without a little mother-love and murder, courtesy of the great Hitch?

Psycho marks Alfred Hitchcock’s first tentative steps into the horror genre. By today’s standards, in which the amount of gore and viscera is directly proportional to box-office performance, it’s virtually tame. Yet at the time of its production, Psycho was utterly revolutionary. Its success contributed to the decline of the Production Code, loosening the bonds of censorship in Hollywood and leading to more graphic depictions of adult themes on the silver screen.

Psycho stars Janet Leigh as Marion Crane, a young woman from Phoenix who longs to marry her lover, Sam Loomis (John Gavin). They cannot wed, however, until Sam pays his debts. In a weak moment, Marion steals $40,000 from her employer and hits the road to meet Sam at his home across the state, but gets lost during a storm and ends up at the Bates Motel. The proprietor, a nervous young man named Norman (Anthony Perkins), strikes up a conversation with Marion and later spies on her through a peephole in the bathroom as she prepares to take a shower. Marion, who has resolved to return to Phoenix and return the money, is then murdered by an unseen woman, whom we are led to believe is Norman’s mother. Norman covers up the crime, but as an investigator, Milton Arbogast (Martin Balsam), Marion’s sister, Lila Crane, (Vera Miles), and Sam all converge on the motel in search of Marion, “Mother” is far from happy …


The movie has become such legend by this point in time that it’s no shock to say that “Mother” has been dead for some time, and “she” is killing people through her seriously disturbed son. People who have never even seen the movie know the truth about Norman Bates, and the surprise element of the film that was so effective upon its release has been diluted over the years.

But what a shock for 1960 audiences! Not only the twist ending; I’ll get to that in a moment. But who sitting in the audience for one of the initial viewings of Psycho expected the star of the film, Janet Leigh, to perish with two-thirds of the movie left to go?!? It was unheard of–and it was an absolutely brilliant move on Hitchcock’s part (one that would be borrowed extensively in the horror genre in years to come, most blatantly by 1996′s Scream, in which Drew Barrymore’s character is killed within the first fifteen minutes of the movie). Psycho is truly the most suspenseful movie Hitchcock ever crafted–because if the star of the movie isn’t safe, who is? It removes any expectation the audience may have had about who will survive Norman’s rampage, making every death and every twist and turn of the plot an utter surprise to viewers. Not for nothing is Psycho a master class in how to construct an effective horror film.

The thing I appreciate the most about Psycho is that Hitchcock is able to convey the absolute horror of Marion’s murder without ever once resorting to outright gore. Obviously, the director couldn’t have done this even if he had wanted to, considering the limitations of the Code. But the unparalleled shower scene, constructed in a rapid-fire series of cuts and close-ups, only shows one instance in which the knife penetrates Marion’s flesh, and it flashes by so quickly that many viewers miss this moment. The horrific nature of the act is suggested more so than laid bare for our viewing; that in itself makes it ten times more effective, at least in my mind (this is, in essence, the issue I have with horror films–you can show me things that will make me want to vomit in my own shoes, but even the most disgusting things shown on screen are no match for what I can imagine in my own head. That’s where the true horror lies–in the things we cannot fully see, and thus cannot fully quantify).

As in most of his films, Hitchcock uses symbolism to build the mystique surrounding his characters. First and foremost, he plays with shadows and light to heighten the tension in the film. This extends from the more obvious instances (the darkened house on the hill; the shadows created by Norman’s beloved stuffed birds), to such seemingly mundane things as the characters’ wardrobes. Much as he did with Grace Kelly in Rear Window, Hitch uses dark and light clothing to depict the shifting attitudes of his female protagonist, dressing Marion in white in her initial appearances in the film, and then putting her black clothing after she steals the money. And speaking of Norman’s birds, they are representative of not only his talent as a taxidermist (important considering what he does to his mother’s corpse), but of his own stifled ability to “fly from the nest,” bound as he is to “Mother’s” whims.

Water, too, plays a large part in the film, symbolizing different things to different characters. A rainstorm causes Marion to stop at the Bates Motel, where she is “reborn,” in a sense, making the decision to stop running and return to Phoenix to face the consequences of her actions. She then “baptizes” herself in the shower after making the decision to return, cleansing her soul before her untimely demise. And Norman uses water as a cover-up, sinking Marion’s car into a swamp, using the water to hide the evidence of his … er, “Mother’s” crime.

Though the psychology behind Norman’s condition is suspect–it’s all Oedipal and Freudian to these people, isn’t it?–this film boasts one of the greater twist endings in all of moviedom. That shot of Norman, dressed in his mother’s clothes, knife raised to attack Lila just after she’s discovered the preserved (and disgusting) corpse of Mrs. Bates, is one of the most chilling scenes in the film. You realize, finally, that this unassuming young man, so devoted to his bat-shit crazy mother, is seriously bat-shit crazy himself. And at the end of the film, after the psychiatrist’s rather mundane explanation of Norman’s behavior, “Mother’s” closing speech about her son’s “badness” contains one of the best closing lines ever:

“It’s sad when a mother has to speak the words that condemn her own son. But I couldn’t allow them to believe that I would commit murder. They’ll put him away now, as I should have years ago. He was always bad, and in the end he intended to tell them I killed those girls and that man … as if I could do anything but just sit and stare, like one of his stuffed birds. They know I can’t move a finger, and I won’t. I’ll just sit here and be quiet, just in case they do … suspect me. They’re probably watching me. Well, let them. Let them see what kind of a person I am. I’m not even going to swat that fly. I hope they are watching … they’ll see. They’ll see and they’ll know, and they’ll say, ‘Why, she wouldn’t even harm a fly …’”

Everything comes together in this movie–a phenomenal story; great performances (particularly from Perkins, whose take on Norman evokes precisely the right mix of sympathy and horror); the black-and-white cinematography (done, by most accounts, as both a cost-cutting measure and to lessen the impact of the bloody scenes), which contributes to an edgy, noir-ish feel that serves to increase the tension; and a killer soundtrack (horrible pun intended). Bernard Herrmann’s score is a masterpiece, and the screeching violins accompanying the murderous acts in the film are an excellent counterpoint to the action on screen, ratcheting up the audience’s fear and making the film a thousand times more effective than it would have been otherwise.

The impact of the original was lessened, in later years, by a series of unnecessary sequels, all produced after Hitchcock’s death in 1977. Perkins, who had become inextricably associated with Norman in the eyes of the viewing public, returned to the role in all three sequels (and even directed Psycho III), and Miles returned as Lila Crane in the first of them. Trust me: if you don’t want to see the brilliance of Hitchcock’s film tarnished and trampled to death, don’t watch the sequels. While Psycho II has an interesting premise, following Norman after his release from the mental institution 22 years after the events of the first film, it quickly delves into shlock. And don’t get me started on the last two films in the series; quite simply, they suck. A lot.

Nor, in my opinion, is Gus Van Sant’s 1998 shot-for-shot remake of the film worth a look. While some critics have praised Van Sant for the artfulness with which he put his version together, the film is severely lacking, particularly in the performances of Anne Heche (as Marion) and Vince Vaughn (whose Norman never quite connects in the brilliant way Perkins’ did). Hitchcock’s magical touch is missing, too; the elements of black humor that make his Psycho a creepily fun mixture of suspense and uneasy laughter are missing in Van Sant’s take on the material.

No, nothing beats the pure, unadulterated original. One of Hitchcock’s finest films, Psycho paved the way for some of the great horror classics to come, all of which have tried to recapture the shocking, scintillating magic of this film, but few of which have even come close.

Then again, I’m rather biased in that respect.  :)

This post is part of an ongoing countdown of Hitchcock’s twenty greatest films. Psycho is number five on that list. For other entries in this series, check out our category devoted to “Hitch.”