The year of 1939 was a showstopper for cinema. Clair Boothe Luce first saw her play become the classic biting social commentary The Women, Gone With the Wind conquered the world, and, perhaps quietly at first, The Wizard of Oz took its first steps on the yellow brick road to immortal classic.

Having been declared the most watched film of all time by the Library of Congress, The Wizard of Oz has been the subject of much fascination and more rumours than you can throw a pair of stripy stockings at. Indeed, the shoot was an arduous one, with most of the cast and crew working six days a week, often starting at 5am and finishing at 7pm.

But aside from the story of a munchkin apparently commiting suicide in the background of one scene (it’s false), perhaps the most persistent rumour is that of the man originally cast as the Tin Man having died from a reaction to his silver make-up. In-fact, that actor was Buddy Ebsen, well known as the star of classic TV series The Beverly Hillbillies and co-star of Breakfast at Tiffany’s – both decades after Oz.

While Ebsen survived his time on the shoot (passing away in 2003), his reaction to the aluminium powder in the silver make-up was a severe one, eventually putting him in hospital, gasping for breath on an iron lung. Ebsen can still be seen briefly from a distance, however, as the Tin Man, Lion and Scarecrow scurry inside the Witch’s castle in search of poor kidnapped Dorothy.

Margaret Hamilton, the lady who brought us the witch of all witches, had an equally close encounter with fate. During the Wicked Witch of the West’s gatecrashing of the Munchkinland celebrations, as she disappears in a cloud of red smoke and fire, Hamilton was to be lowered beneath the set via a concealed lift. The first take went quite well, and would be the one used in the film. In the second take, the lift operated slightly late, exposing Hamilton’s face to a burst of flames. Thankfully, a stagehand waiting below was quick-thinking enough to pat the flames away quickly, minimising the potentially deadly impact of her green copper-based face-paint (though her face and hands were significantly burned).

Somehow, despite what must have been one of cinema’s most troubled shoots, and after an initial release that failed to return a profit, The Wizard of Oz now exists as perhaps the most iconic movie of all time. Upon every viewing, no matter your age, the film still manages to resonate with its timeless message. It forces us to look inside, beyond face-value; to believe that we already have the qualities that we all strive for, they just need unlocking; and that venturing away from those we love won’t bring us any closer to home.

Naturally, though, no one puts in any more eloquently than Dorothy herself;

“Well, I – I think that it – it wasn’t enough to just want to see Uncle Henry and Auntie Em – and it’s that – if I ever go looking for my heart’s desire again, I won’t look any further than my own back yard. Because if it isn’t there, I never really lost it to begin with. Is that right?”

Last night, I caught a screening of the 1998 restoration of Welles’ vision for Touch of Evil, which he starred in, wrote the screenplay for, and directed in 1958. Rarely does a film affect me the way this one did – in all honesty, I think my perception of film noir has changed forever.

I can recall the moment I fell for the genre of film noir; I was browsing the cheapo DVDs in a Target store in the middle of nowhere when I came across an $8 box set of 20 films said to be film noir. Most of them are, some of them aren’t, and a few of them are rubbish. But one of the films featured was Too Late for Tears, starring Lizabeth Scott. Never was there another femme fatale like her.

As I began to seek more examples of the genre, I started to understand the many aspects that collide to create genuine film noir; why Double Indemnity is almost always considered the archetypal example, but also how failing to see beyond that film can result in missing many, many other angles to noir.

I love gritty noir like Detour, lush and faithful examples like Double Indemnity, melodramatic noir such as The Strange Love of Martha Ivers, and of-course amazing and nasty little gems like Too Late for Tears and Scarlet Street. Yet, as I discovered last night, I am very far away from understanding every facet to this amazing cinematic movement.

Orson Welles’ Touch of Evil came at the tail-end of film noir’s classic era; 1958. Other noirs from this period, such as 1956′s A Kiss Before Dying, have left me wanting slightly more. My suspicion is that, by the 1950s, people began to understand film noir a little too much, and the genre thus became a little self-conscious.

Any assumptions about Touch of Evil will do no justice. That’s because the film is entirely unpredictable, and 100 percent original. From the opening scene – a continuous 3 minute, 30 second tracking shot – you’re drawn into not a ‘web of intrigue’, as many a noir would be marketed, but more of a deserted and dusty hell on the border of the USA and Mexico.

Charlton Heston is Vargas, a drug enforcement official for the Mexican government. His wife, Susie (Janet Leigh), is American – a pairing that raises a couple of eyebrows (not least for the casting of Heston as Mexican). The drama begins with a bang when a car explodes as it travels across the border into the USA, just metres from Vargas and Susie. As the American police arrive to investigate, Vargas begins to notice various inconsistencies in the evidence uncovered, namely by police Captain Hank Quinlan, played with groaning grotesque precision by Orson Welles. The implications of a Mexican threatening to derail the career of an accomplished American policeman provide for some fiery confrontations.

Yet, while the plot commands your attention, it’s the visuals and setting that really set the film alight. In the way that Wolf Creek and Friday the 13th exploited remoteness to make you feel afraid, Touch of Evil creates a completely new world where there is really no escape from the dusty monstrosity that is the border-town. From scene one, there is a slow-burning feeling of tension and dread. It becomes especially apparent when Janet Leigh is taken to a motel out of town to escape the harassment of the locals, only to find herself in an even more horrifying predicament (a scene said to have inspired Hitchocock’s treatment of Psycho).

Welles was a has-been in the eyes of Hollywood studios by 1958, but the talented legends of the time still held great respect for him. It was Charlton Heston who suggested Welles as director, and both Marlene Dietrich and Zsa Zsa Gabor took tiny roles simply to work with the renowned filmmaker. Janet Leigh was especially appreciative of her experiences working with Welles;

“It started with rehearsals. We rehearsed two weeks prior to shooting, which was unusual. We rewrote most of the dialogue, all of us, which was also unusual, and Mr. Welles always wanted our input. It was a collective effort, and there was such a surge of participation, of creativity, of energy. You could feel the pulse growing as we rehearsed. You felt you were inventing something as you went along. Mr. Welles wanted to seize every moment. He didn’t want one bland moment. He made you feel you were involved in a wonderful event that was happening before your eyes.”
Source: New York Times, 18/09/98.

Touch of Evil fell victim to talentless studio executives in its day. After Welles submitted his finished product, assured that his career in America was back from the brink of nothing, Universal proceeded to cut the print to pieces. The studio re-shot scenes, chopped away running time, and crudely ran the credits and title over the top of the now famous prolonged opening shot. Released as a B-picture, the film came and went, and was forgotten. Thankfully, film lovers years later knew what a masterpiece it was and it has since been restored as close as possible to the description given by Welles in a 58 page memo originally sent to (and largely ignored by) Universal’s head of production, Edward Muhl.

Regardless of how close the film is to the original intention, the Touch of Evil we now have is by far one of the most superb and disturbing film experiences I’ve ever encountered. While it’s certainly film noir, it’s unlike any other noir, or even film in general, that I’ve ever watched.

Mia Farrow as Lane

In a frame flooded with darkness, two people are barely visible in the low light. If they could vanish together into the shadows, escaping their obligations, they likely would. Meanwhile, an older couple cling to each other in an upstairs bedroom. She’s a former pin-up model, but the lavish looks that once gave her what she thought was confidence have long faded. In her man, she finds dependable love and acceptance. Things she can’t give herself.

And then there is Lane (Mia Farrow), owner of the house in which all these people have congregated over a stormy night in Vermont. Her infatuation with Peter (Sam Waterston), a struggling writer, shines a spotlight on her painful insecurities. She craves the challenge of his creative nature. If only he could be intrigued enough to cut through her difficult veneer as he is with Stephanie (Diane Wiest).

Woody Allen’s 1987 film September is a chamber piece. Never stepping outside the walls of the Vermont country house, it’s precisely as Allen intended – a play on film. Giving the story what a stage setting could not, however, is the camera direction that Allen does so well. If dialogue is his strong point, its power would be nullified without the superb framing of his actors and their expressions at just the right moment.

Though his serious films in particular pander to the art-house-going crowd, Allen does not necessarily subscribe to a lot of their criticisms. One regular theme is that he gives too much away – the characters cannot appear to be feeling or thinking anything without actually saying it. Regardless of your viewpoint on that, it cannot be debated that Woody Allen has his own brand of film.

In September, Allen has created a simmering drama of infatuation, longing, regret, and misunderstanding. Short of one particular screen moment that Elaine Stritch (as Mia Farrow’s mother) truly owns, there are no thumping moments of dramatic glory here. The drama is in-keeping with the lighting; low key.

But there is something about September. Despite the claustrophobic setting, a strange sort of coldness distances the characters. Paul is clearly smitten by Stephanie, yet they are never given enough time to truly explore their feelings, leaving only a chilly mood of unrequited… something. And at the centre of it all, Lane appears to be just barely keeping her head above the blackness she has apparently just crawled out of. It almost seems that the people surrounding her, gathered at her house, are merely in her life out of sympathy for her tragically introverted and lost persona.

Indeed, the film does have a mood of loneliness. Not physically of-course. But emotionally, everyone is distanced.

Fascinatingly enough, Allen actually shot the film in its entirety with Maureen O’Sullivan, Charles Durning and Sam Shepard, only to find he didn’t like it. With films like Melinda and Melinda and Anything Else under his wing, I’ve never really thought of Woody Allen as Stanley Kubrick-esque perfectionist. I have to wonder why he reshot an entire film, yet thought Radha Mitchell was doing a perfectly acceptable job (?!?!?!).

September has been described as “difficult”. Maybe. It certainly is a film for Allen fans; taking away any interest you might have specifically in the work of Woody Allen, there’s probably little interest. That’s not to take anything away from the film, it’s just that September is very much an expression of its director.

I watched this film in the middle of the night with a glass of red wine, lots of chocolate, and the object of my affection asleep on my lap. I suggest you do the same. For the willing, Woody Allen’s September will invite you inside its chilly Vermont walls. It’ll tempt you with thoughts of what might happen if you acted on your desires, instead of compressing and storing them in a high cupboard.

It’s always the most emotionally fragile that find those stormy Vermont nights the hardest.

With a career that started in rather basic, slapstick-style comedy routines, Allen soon graduated into sophisticated, almost experimental films in the 1970s. Annie Hall lives today as one of the most well-known pieces of cinema history, yet watching it you can’t help but feel that a film like Annie Hall simply wouldn’t be understood by today’s moviegoers. Amongst all its charm, wit and charisma, it’s really an odd film.

That, however, is something that could be said about almost all of Allen’s features. He is odd, and his oddity reflects in his work. Oozing from his idiosyncrasy, though, is pure originality. Just try and find another film with a script and photography like Manhattan, an unnerving twist of the knife like Match Point, or indeed the intensity and disquieting echo of Interiors.

Interiors is Allen’s 1978 foray into serious drama, having hit the high notes at the box office a year earlier with Annie Hall. With Diane Keaton again in-front of the camera, though in a smaller role, Allen’s film tells the story of three sisters, two of which are at the centre of the story as they feel their way through the difficult separation of their parents.

From the very first scene, it becomes clear that something is wrong with this family. While Joey (Mary Beth Hurt) and her boyfriend Mike (Sam Waterston) are in separate rooms of their apartment, Joey’s mother Eve arrives unexpectedly. She’s an interior decorator, and she’s brought a rather expensive vase that she thinks will work perfectly in their apartment. Mike and Joey are not excited to see her, and even less excited about the vase’s price tag. Joey, however, sees storm clouds gathering.

Geraldine Page gives an astonishingly disturbing performance as Eve, the lonely mother of the family.

Soon enough, we find ourselves at the family’s house in the Hamptons. Joey and Renata (Diane Keaton) are at the table when their father (E. G. Marshall) lets it be known that he intends to move out. He wants a trial separation. To their mother Eve, this simply means she’s now alone.

Interiors is one of those rare films where all aspects of the production seem to weave perfectly into something utterly amazing. Each scene seems to be photographed in a way that creates darkness around the edges, with only just enough light to tell what’s going on. The weather is always bleak, the colour palette bland, the expressions on the actors’ faces seems to say “is this it? Is this what I’ve been waiting for?”.

Diane Keaton as the sour Renata

While receiving mostly praise, Interiors has been accused of being pretentious and not really knowing its characters. I don’t agree with either of those sentiments. Regardless of what films you may compare this one to, Allen has certainly created characters that I felt were genuine and unique. Many aspects ring true to experience. Sometimes I think people confuse dislike for a character and the way they handle their dilemma with an apparent artificiality.

These people aren’t necessarily nice. If you met them, especially Keaton’s Renata, you’d likely accuse of her being a fake snob. But amongst all of that, as presented by Allen they are genuine.

As for being pretentious; well, we’re dealing with a family of artists. Of-course there’s going to be some pretentiousness. At one moment, as Dianne Keaton’s Renata has an apparent “out of body experience”, she comes across as a complete arty-wank nut bag. But Renata is academically narcissistic and self-obsessed – she is pretentious. The film itself, however, is merely providing insight into the characters.

Later, as we are introduced to Pearl (Maureen Stapleton), the father’s new lady friend, the colour palette is broken by her bright red dress and talk of sunny Greek beaches. This is living, we are told. But as Pearl soon reveals (with superb subtle precision by Stapleton), she’s not entirely convinced that her penchant for red dresses and tendency to behave like an animal after a few drinks necessarily equates to “living”.

Then there’s the climax, which takes place amongst the wind and fierce tides of the Hamptons beach house. Intensely moody and quite disturbing, you probably won’t want to come back for more from these characters. You will, however, spend quite some time pondering Interiors.

In a career that began when she was just 9 years old (in Universal’s 1942 comedy There’s One Born Every Minute), Taylor was a staple of Hollywood glamour throughout her entire life. She oozed talent with every performance, and certainly had enough somersaults in her private life the keep the press interested (who could forget the Eddie Fisher episode?!).

What is there to say about a legend like Elizabeth Taylor? The lady possessed qualities that almost seem unfair; talent, confidence, beauty, kindness. She can even be credited with saving the life of Montgomery Clift; after the actor crashed his car into a telephone pole after leaving her house, Taylor raced to his aid and removed one of Clift’s teeth that had become stuck in his throat, causing him to choke.

Of all the wonderful contributions to film by Ms. Taylor, one sticks out more than any other for me – 1966′s Who’s Afraid of Virginia Woolf?

Starring alongside her then husband Richard Burton, Taylor puts on a show that still now leaves me feeling like I’ve never actually seen real acting until this film. As Martha, she’s a tumultuous, nasty, broiling tiger snake itching to spew venom on her “flop” Associate Professor of a husband, George. The film was adapted from the play by Edward Albee and marked the debut of director Mike Nichols (a brilliant director – his next film would be The Graduate, and he’s still going with such individualistic pieces such as the 2002 HBO miniseries Angels in America, and 2004′s Closer).

While the play takes place entirely within the confines of Martha and George’s house, the film does take a couple of steps outside; to a roadhouse (staffed by the film’s Gaffer and his wife), the inside of a car, and Martha and George’s yard. It’s always an interesting question when adapting theatre; do you deviate for the film medium? I’m not entirely sure that the excursion to the roadhouse necessarily adds anything in particular, it’s still a very claustrophobic film. It’s really the script and acting that keep this picture moving swiftly.

Alfred Hitchcock’s 1954 film Dial M for Murder is another example of a film that works perfectly in its native stage setting.

There is a plethora of scenes that could be called “the scene” of this film, it’s impossible to pick just one as the best. But I’m going to try anyway. This moment has Taylor’s Martha seemingly inching towards the edge (one of many occasions) as she expresses her disgust and disappointment in her “flop” of a husband. Watch the film. If you already have, watch it again. You will surely find another scene that you love even more than this one.

Getting angry baby? Huh?

Long live Liz.

Gough touched the hearts of many with his beautifully sensitive portrayal of Alfred, trusted butler to Batman in the four films stretching from 1989 to 1997. He provided an essential dose of sentimentality to Bruce Wayne’s cold mansion walls, meticulously mixing old fashioned English manners with warmth and dependability.

In Tim Burton’s landmark ’89 film, Gough’s performance in a dinner scene opposite Michael Keaton and Kim Basinger provided one of the film’s most loveable moments. After inviting Vicki Vale over for a supposedly romantic dinner, Bruce Wayne quickly becomes awkward when he struggles to make Vale feel at home in the big, dark expanse of Wayne manor. With the length of a dining table symbolising Wayne’s emotional distance, a lifeline is thrown by Alfred when they join him in a far more homely part of the house. As he reminisces with stories of a young Bruce Wayne, the film is injected with an essential dose of humility.

A voice role as the dodo bird in Tim Burton’s Alice in Wonderland topped off Gough’s career in film that also included a number of horror movies, such as 1958′s Dracula and The Phantom of the Opera in 1962. The 60′s also saw Gough play in a classic episode of the immortal television series The Avengers, The Cybernauts.

In 1985 he appeared alongside Meryl Streep and Robert Redford in Out of Africa. More recently he made an appearance as Dame Edna Everage’s butler, Mr Pennyworth (a nod to his Batman days) in a BBC television special.

Michael Gough passed away in his home with his family in England. Michael Keaton wrote in a statement to The Hollywood Reporter:

To Mick – my butler, my confidant, my friend, my Alfred. I love you. God bless.
- Michael (Mr Wayne) Keaton

In Dark Passage (1947), Humphrey Bogart is an escaped convict. After being accused of murdering his wife and spending time locked up in San Quentin, he’s back in San Francisco – the land of Noir – to clear his name. And who better to play alongside him than Lauren Bacall?

Needless to say, Bogart and Bacall were big stars by the time this film was released. The funny thing is, big names can sometimes hold film noir back from really hitting the high notes. Bogart is a leading hero, we know we’re rooting for him before we hit the play button, and Lauren Bacall always has a domineering sweetness no matter what shades there may be.

The fact that both leading characters are such good people perhaps prevented me from getting too involved with the happenings. Compared to Bogart’s morally confused role in Key Largo, this one is certainly less complex.

However, Dark Passage is by no means dismissible. In-fact, it would certainly still rate as one of the best in film noir. Despite the pleasant leads and slightly plodding script, there are still some scenes that shine a light on gripping drama. Indeed, any featuring the unbelievable, amazing, stupendous Agnes Moorehead leave you reeling.

And the photography! Some films use black and white out of necessity, while others look like they were meant to be that way. Dark Passage is the latter. The glowing elevator at Bacall’s apartment building, the views over San Francisco’s rolling streetscape, and Bogart’s punch-up on a cliff-edge of the harbour – all images that fit perfectly into what brilliant film noir visuals are all about.

The most talked about aspect of the film is likely the use of the first-person angle at the beginning. Until Bogart’s Vincent Parry undergoes plastic surgery to alter his face, we see everything from his point of view, with only the familiar voice of Bogart to remind us of who we’re on this journey with. I thought it worked quite well, though unfortunately audiences of the time didn’t think so. Apparently Jack Warner shared their view.

More interesting though is the slightly strange view the film presents of loneliness. The taxi driver is a self-confessed loner, yet, despite Bogart’s best efforts at being abrasive, ultimately proves to be a kind soul. Bacall also seems quite desperate, literally jumping at the chance to befriend Bogart with little care for the fact that she can’t know all that much about him. Agnes Moorehead, meanwhile, presents us with a sad alternative of how loneliness can turn corrosive. The theme is gift-wrapped when, towards the finale, a single lady with two children is befriended by a man after a rather spontaneous discussion about how difficult life is when folks don’t give each other a helping hand.

My list of favourite film noir would have quite a few titles above this one, but Dark Passage would still be on it. It’s a very enjoyable film and something I’ve watched a number of times simply for the stunning visuals and excellent cast. Plus, you really don’t need much of an excuse to watch Lauren Bacall.

Golden Gaytime; summer in its tasty ice-cream form.

According to an article in the New York Times, it could be this tendency to allow the mind to wander that causes much of our unhappiness. It’s not just those unpleasant and self-deprecating thoughts that are the problem, but the inability the focus.

Walking through Footscray today, I had no option but to allow my mind to wander. The suburb has undergone a minor facelift recently; a new public square, a refurbished mall… that’s about it. Despite the subtle attempts at reworking the decaying area, its odd charm remains unchanged. The backdrop of prestigious architecture tattered with outlets offering cut-price cleaning utensils and Asian fashion accessories makes for an interesting correlation with my state of mind; perhaps grand visions are best viewed in retrospect.

It truly would be fantastic to be able to spend an entire day working at something without questioning the validity of the task at hand, the ratio of probability that it will amount to anything, or the credibility of the ambition. Presumably creativity isn’t supposed to be subject to such interrogation anyway.

But like the buildings in Footscray, any attempt at repairing the broken bits is inevitably going to prompt questioning. Getting on the right track the first time was easy. Finding it again is slightly harder.

For this is a journey we all must take, and each must go alone.
It’s all a part of the master’s plan, a step on the road to home.
When you are lonely and sick of heart, go to the friends we know.
Bear your sorrow in good deeds. Miss me, but let me go.

Via