Short Cuts Week of 4/7-4/13

Bend of the River (1952, dir. Anthony Mann)

The conquering of the West as the repression of desire; James Stewart plays Glyn McLyntock, an outlaw-turned-settler aiming for a “straight” life as an Oregon farmhand, in one of the eight films he made with director Anthony Mann. On the surface, it’s standard Western fare. Has McLyntock truly abandoned his rough and rowdy ways, or is he still an outlaw deep down? But Mann’s uniquely psychological approach to the material elevates it above generic constraints. Early on in the film, McLyntock rescues Emerson Cole (Arthur Kennedy) from being hanged for (allegedly) stealing a horse. Cole is also an outlaw- he and McLyntock are aware of each other’s reputations, and he constantly teases McLyntock for hiding his true self from the settlers. Their relationship is an affectionate one at first, and the outlaw life is quickly understood to be a metaphor for the latent homosexuality of these men. When their relationship sours, McLyntock’s turn to the quiet life takes on added significance- he’s actively suppressing his own sexual identity. In this regard, the film’s ending- in which McLyntock triumphs over Cole and rejoins the rest of the settlers- is tragedy masquerading as victory. Mann’s precise direction (especially in his action sequences) and innate understanding of psychology cements Bend of the River as a genre classic, yet it’s undoubtably a product of its time; in addition to the Western’s typical cruelty towards Native Americans, the film depicts its African American characters as walking, talking racial caricatures. With Julie Adams and Rock Hudson; adapted by Borden Chase from William Gulick’s novel Bend of the Snake; 91 minutes; in English. Still sourced from MUBI (https://assets.mubicdn.net/images/film/27127/image-w856.jpg?1555430470).

Bergman Island (2021, dir. Mia Hansen-Løve)

Mia Hansen-Løve explores the complex interplay between life and art with the lightest, most graceful of touches in this tastefully constructed romantic drama. Bergman Island follows two married filmmakers- Chris (Vicky Krieps) and Tony Sanders (Tim Roth)- who travel to the Swedish island of Fårö to attend a screening of Tony’s new horror film and to find creative inspiration for their upcoming projects. The island was made famous by Ingmar Bergman, who lived and shot many of his movies there, and the couple hopes to tap into that esteemed cinematic heritage. While Tony loves Bergman, Chris is more reserved in her praise- she likes his movies but takes issue with his tempestuous personality. Bergman’s life and art become the field on which a battle of the sexes plays out. Chris and Tony’s marriage is strained, and one gets the sense that their retreat to Fårö is less professional and more personal in nature. Tensions run high between the easygoing, passionate Chris and the brusque, motivated Tony before being laid bare in a masterful movie-within-a-movie sequence depicting Chris’s screenplay. Krieps and Roth are exceptional in their roles, and the film’s leisurely tone and vividly realized glimpse into the working lives of artists place it a rung above other contemporary films about filmmaking. Where Bergman filmed the island with the narrow intimacy of a dramatist, Hansen-Løve does so with a landscape painter’s eye for the small details amidst grandiosity. Unfussy and subtle, Bergman Island is a true delight. With Mia Wasikowska and Anders Danielsen Lie as the leads of the film-within-a-film; 113 minutes; in English. Still sourced from [FILMGRAB] (https://film-grab.com/2022/03/23/bergman-island/#bwg3004/182309).

The Taking of Pelham One Two Three (1974, dir. Joseph Sargent)

For the first fifty or so odd years of cinema, thrillers were typically heightened, shocking, and perverse, as was the Hitchcock way. Then the early seventies came along and films like The French Connection proved that a more grounded sense of reality could be just as thrilling. But some thrillers from that era try to have the best of both worlds and end up with a rather shallow, cartoonish realism lacking in both perverse fun and grounded social commentary; The Taking of Pelham One Two Three is guilty in this regard, though it’s not without its fair share of sporadic bursts of pleasurability. A group of mustachioed criminals, lead by the thinly conceived Mr. Blue (Robert Shaw), hijack the titular subway train and hold its passengers hostage. Their ransom? One million dollars cash, to be paid in full by the Mayor of New York himself (Lee Wallace). It’s as ludicrous a scheme as it sounds. Walter Matthau plays Lieutenant Garber, the Transit Authority detective tasked with bringing the group down, and he injects the film with some much needed deadpan charisma. But while Matthau can rescue the hostages he can’t save the film from its limp scenario and dull thrills. Every character is a walking, talking cliche, from the mustache-twirling villains to the gruff cops to the typically unbothered New Yorkers being held hostage, who are more concerned with missing their doctor’s appointments than they are losing their lives. The dialogue can be flashy and even funny at times (“Ain’t you never seen a sunset before?”), but it seems ill at ease with the gritty New York depicted in the film. It’s like the film has one foot in the door, unable to commit to doing any one single thing exceptionally. The whole thing plays like a less funny, less gritty, less empathetic Dog Day Afternoon, which came out the following year. Where Dog Day Afternoon uses absurd humor to heighten the ultimately tragic narrative, Pelham uses it like a crutch, leaning against it when it doesn’t know what else to do. There’s no real sense of stakes, and the film simply has nothing to say about its scenario that the audience wouldn’t have known beforehand. Still, it can be fun when the performers want it to be; the final shot of Matthau’s droopy Huckleberry Hound face staring at the hijacker he is about to arrest is a brilliant punchline. With Martin Balsam, Hector Elizondo, Earl Hindman, and Jerry Stiller; screenplay by Peter Stone, adapted from John Godey’s novel of the same name; 104 minutes; in English.