Saturday, April 22, 2017

Author, author!: Richard Corliss’s ‘Talking Pictures’

With old Hollywood coming into our peripheral view once again with the extremely corny Feud miniseries (Robert Aldrich fans, take arms!) and the recent Oscars (which contained a few blink-and-you’ll-miss-‘em old film clips), I’ve been thinking of classic Hollywood once again. The other occurrences that brought these thoughts out into the open were the recent deaths of Richard Schickel and TCM host Robert Osborne. Since I have nothing special to offer in the way of tribute to those gents, I will move back to a writer whose work I’ve wanted to return to for some months now, Richard Corliss. I intended this piece to appear on his birthday (March 6) but it will appear instead near the anniversary of his passing (April 23, 2015).

In the Deceased Artiste piece I wrote about “RC” (as I was acquainted with him — I felt awkward calling him “Richard” in our correspondence) I noted that he wrote with particular elan and touching fellowship about his fellow critics when they died. I thought about the fine tributes I’m sure he would’ve written to Osborne and his old colleague Schickel and realized it was high time to return to Corliss’s writing.

He published only four books, and all but the last are out of print. The longest and most significant is his first, Talking Pictures: Screenwriters in the American Cinema (1974), which now stands as the only “collection” of his reviews (unless his best Film Comment and TIME pieces are ever put together between covers). It was his first “grand statement,” a defense of the Hollywood scripter that reacted as a kind of corrective to his teacher and friend Sarris’s The American Cinema. As such, it’s an unusual book — to fully get what Corliss is doing you’re best served having at least read some of Sarris’s book, which was in itself a grand statement, in which Sarris ranked Hollywood directors from “Pantheon” masters to “Less than meets the eye.”

Sarris was the foremost American proponent of the Cahiers du Cinema’s “politique des auteurs,” but he was quick to admit that that approach to film history did have its problems. Foremost among them were the Hollywood productions that were perfect films, but not particularly because of the director (Casablanca being the best example). He also included a chapter called “Bring on the Clowns!” in which he admitted that the great American film comedians who never received directorial credit on their films were still the “auteurs” of said works — when you see a film starring Laurel and Hardy, W.C. Fields, Mae West, and the Marx Brothers in their prime, it doesn’t matter who directed it, the film’s “life force” (and co-scripter) is the starring comedian.

A film critic who had tastes that ranged far and wide culturally, Corliss decided to extrapolate on this particular theme by discussing the screenwriters whose work was so consistently excellent that they outshone those who directed their work. The book was written over a three and a half year span and includes rewrites of some of his pieces for magazines and other publications. He discusses 100 films written by 35 carefully selected scripters.

It’s a curious book to read in this era when media surrounds us everywhere, but then so are all the serious film books written in the latter half of the Twentieth Century. Talking Pictures also comes from the time when people other than academics would read serious film books. The filmgoing culture that took mainstream films, and more particularly old and foreign, seriously was at its height from the Fifties through the Seventies. Reading these books one gets the sense of shared enthusiasm — from the best-selling books of Pauline Kael to erudite fare like Peter Wollen’s Signs and Meanings in Cinema.

RC meets "rock-teur" Chuck Berry
We’re talking about a time when film criticism mattered, and books like Talking Pictures existed as a tool for arguments among buffs — these days that role is filled by “listicle” items on the Internet that spotlight the “funniest movies ever” or “10 action movies you must see before you die.”

Corliss’s notion of reworking the auteur theory to shine the light on writers rather than directors thus fit perfectly with the times. Sarris himself admitted that there were other “auteurs” who were responsible for many films, and Corliss got quite a boon by having the Old Man himself wrote the foreword to Talking Pictures, acknowledging and praising Corliss’s attempt to shift the attention of film buffs with this book.

Lubitsch directs Garbo and Melvyn
Douglas
The book seems to be an interim step to the discussion of multiple auteurs on certain films. Corliss states this outright in the introduction: “You could call Citizen Kane either the culmination of Herman Mankiewicz's dreams or the beginning of Orson Welles' nightmares, but it would be silly to ignore either man's contribution. Who is the auteur of Ninotchka: Ernst Lubitsch, or the Charles Brackett-Billy Wilder-Walter Reisch team, or Greta Garbo? Obviously, all of them. I've tried in this book to make a case for the screenwriter without libeling either the director or the actor.” [Penguin edition, 1975, p. xxviii] 

Talking Pictures is thus an argument against the director-as-auteur, but not the auteur theory per se. In the intro, the terms are definied this way:
“William Wyler was absolutely right to hold the director responsible for ‘a picture's quality’ — just as a conductor is responsible for the composer's symphony, or a contractor for the architect's plans. But he must also be responsible to something: the screenplay. With it, he can do one of three things: ruin it, shoot it, or improve it.” [p. 20]

Picking the scripter as the prime shaper of a movie seems like a sound decision until one actually factors in a few other items that aren’t usually the case with a director. The first, most important, is the profusion of scripters who worked on films during Hollywood’s Golden Age. Many of the movies from that era would have a person listed who concocted the storyline, then another set of writers who wrote the initial draft of the script, and then a final set, usually a duo, who “signed” the film as the main scripters.

In line with that, while it’s possible that an editor (or a heavy-handed producer of the Harvey Weinstein sort) could shift around a director’s work, it’s far more common that a scripter would toil on a film and then see his/her work completely scrapped by the next “set of hands.” Thus, in Talking Pictures, Corliss often has to play detective to attribute a given film to a given scripter. In some cases, he decides on discussing certain films as the work of certain lesser-remembered scripters (Charles Brackett, for instance), rather than their famous collaborators (Billy Wilder, in Brackett’s case).

The most striking thing about the book is that Corliss wrote it when he was a “young turk” in the film-crit biz, and thus he was not afraid to take swipes at certain revered figures. Thus, the man who in later years was considered quite a kind critic in his work for TIME (even when panning something, Richard could be uncommonly polite about slamming a talented person who had turned out a wretched movie) was quite ready in the early Seventies to dissect and tear down many movie classics.

I went on a spree a few years ago and wound up watching every film directed by Howard Hawks (not counting the missing silents, obviously, and the ones he was fired from or left). Thus I was surprised that one of the scripters responsible for some of Hawks' best works gets appraised/trashed by Corliss in Talking Pictures. The writer in question is Jules Furthman, whose screenplays during a four-and-a-half decade career, included The Docks of New York, Morocco, The Shanghai Express, and Blonde Venus (all Sternberg); Mutiny on the Bounty, Nightmare Alley; To Have and Have Not, The Big Sleep, Only Angels Have Wings, and Rio Bravo (the last quartet directed by Hawks; the final two being among the top tier of Golden Age films).

With that kind of pedigree you'd think Furthman might be in the first rank. He's actually in the third rank, and Corliss sums up his feelings about Furthman's writing this way:

“The problem is that there's not much difference between best and worst Furthman. He is always competent, often compromising, rarely compelling, and never incomparable. In general, Furthman exemplifies the kind of screenwriter whose filmographic whole is greater than the sum of his particular contributions to it, whose best work was done as the 'employee' of a directing or performing personality stronger than his own, and whose career deserves to be resurrected but not adored.” [p. 270]

So, in effect, the book is most interesting when Corliss takes on a contrarian position and trashes a writer whose films were pretty sublime (or was it Sternberg and Hawks who made those films sublime? Back to square one…). What RC makes clear at many points in the book is that he did read many of the screenplays in question, so perhaps he was aware of many of the weaknesses inherent in Furthman's writing.

Jules Furthman
The odd thing, given the titles in question, is that the films cited above are indeed quite, quite good — so to say that Furthman was nothing better than a craftsman ends up becoming praise for his co-scripters (including Faulkner on The Big Sleep), or an argument that either Sternberg and Hawks were alchemists, making gold out of dross, OR the studio system just turned out some heavy-duty classics amid the programmers and routine vehicle pictures.

One last point of contention (mine, not Richard's): While Sarris arranged his book in “descending order” from his “pantheon” of great directors to “Subjects for Further Research.” Corliss on the other hand outlines his various strata in the book's introduction, and then groups the scripters thematically in the book proper so we don't start off or end up with the cream of the crop. The four categories he chose, incidentally, were “Parthenon” (not Pantheon!), Erechtheion, Propylaea, and “Outside the Walls.”

Last notes about the book itself: It closes out on a small group of scripters who had had great successes in the Sixties and Seventies. The positive write-ups here include his section on Carnal Knowledge and his entry for Robert Benton and David Newman. In the process of writing up the latter team, he reviews a script that was never made into a movie, “Hubba-Hubba.”

Newman and Benton
This is quite a ballsy move, and even more striking than the fact that Sarris included projects in pre-production in the filmographies in his book (for years, I've wondered why he put “Napoloeon” in Kubrick's listing, given that the film hadn't even begun shooting). What I came to realize on second reading of Talking Pictures is that Corliss might have even suspected that “Hubba-Hubba” was dead in the water, and yet he “reviewed” it in order to have an example of an unfilmed script.

He does mention in his rather lengthy entry (five pages, the same amount of space devoted to The Searchers) that the script features “three or four sequences that audiences will long remember — if they ever get to see them.” I could, of course, be completely wrong on this, given the fact that he also takes care to mention three projects written by Benton and Newman that were about to be filmed (one of them, he notes, should start filming by the time the book is published). None of the three ever saw the light of day….

The reason I'm doing this re-appraisal and resurrection of the book, though, is that it belongs to that period of time when movies really did matter to a greater number of people — given the present-day argument that “[A current excellent TV show] is just like cinema… in fact, it's our era's version of literature!” means that too many reviewers don't really like cinema all that much. (Very good TV is nothing to be sneezed at, but it is indeed just that — excellent TV. Not cinema, not literature, but very good television.)

In his best writing, Corliss went about this task as a critic in a very serious fashion. He also, like the good logic-based liberal he was, was very much open to debate. Books like The American Cinema and Talking Pictures were indeed intended to start arguments, but healthy arguments based on a real knowledge of the subject — rather than today's online “listicles” that declare certain things “worthy” of inclusion, with all else in the category being not even worth contemplation.  (When you're making up a list of “films to see before you die,” you've already hit the rock-bottom Cliff Notes level of critical appraisal.)

Before I discuss the individuals whom Corliss clearly loved and hated, I should point to an instance in the book where he acknowledges that his opinions were open to debate:

“A truly dogmatic critic can talk himself into liking — or, at the very least, making a sophisticated case for — just about any film that appeals to his prejudices. So, although I continue to affirm my resistance to any formal theory that claims the screenwriter as an auteur, any reader deserves to be skeptical when I simply state that the pair of writer-director films, Darling Lili and The Private Life of Sherlock Holmes, can be recommended as more meaningful, more personal, and even, to the disinterested viewer, more satisfying than the offerings of our two Pantheon residents.” [p. 157]

I will discuss Corliss's dislikes before his likes, since he was always at his best when rhapsodizing about something he loved, and that is the best note to close on. I also do this because I tend to disagree with a few of his evaluations in this category, so I will be conducting a one-sided argument, which can only be answered by then giving Richard the final word, in the form of his praise for the writers whose work he truly did love.

Tammy and the Bachelor
His young turk attitude allows him at points to be brutally frank about some much-beloved Hollywood personalities. A personal favorite of mine is his tangential diss of two very exuberant blonde performers. While discussing Norman Krasna, he takes time out to single out “those paragons of pointless energy, Debbie Reynolds and Sandra Dee.”

He goes on, in a somewhat caddish but (let’s be honest) uncannily accurate mode: “Both actresses were too tough to make it as Audrey Hepburns and too angular to be Marilyn Monroes; wide-eyed aggression would have to do. If that was enough to keep their careers afloat longer than their talents deserved, it also helped sink their movies. Debbie rarely transmitted a feeling of joy in her work; it was all work, reworking, and overworking.” [pp. 71-72]

Had he lived to see Reynolds’ departure, I'm sure he would've written a beautiful obit for her, studio-contracted object that she was, but in the Seventies he let it all hang out. Thus, we come to the places where he tears apart some of mine own faves. First, Frank Tashlin, who, he says found in the severe limitations of his leads (Jerry Lewis, Bob Hope, Red Skelton, Jack Carson, Lucille Ball) “exactly that quality of lumpy, proletarian inflexibility that would express his own view of comedy as submission to pain, and not — as the greatest silent comedy artists demonstrated — its sublime, effortless transcendence.” [p. 77]

Jerry and Frank Tashlin
I know that Richard was not a fan of Jerry Lewis at all. He also had a major problem with Tashlin, a director whom I feel was the single best “rangler” of Jerry, to the extent that his movies actually make Jerry rather charming (something Jerry was unable to achieve the times he directed himself). Richard's take? “It may be too much to ask that Tashlin's films also provoke the joy, the delight, the spontaneous laughter of great screen comedy. So I will not ask. I will simply say: they are not funny.” [p. 89]

One of the biggest turnabouts in Andrew Sarris's writing was that he openly condemned Billy Wilder in The American Cinema, placing him in the “Less Than Meets the Eye” category, but later realized Wilder was one of the greats whom he had been completely wrong about. I'm not certain what Richard's later take on Wilder was, but here he shares Sarris's Sixties contempt for the master-scripter [my phrase, not Corliss's] by expressing his loathing of the darker-than-dark A Foreign Affair (1948) as a “vile” film.

Also in the “hated it!” category, interestingly enough is Abraham Polonsky's Force of Evil (1948), which is now commonly agreed upon as a masterpiece of both film noir and urban drama. Corliss finds it to be a triter creation by Polonsky, summing it up this way: “Like Odets and Fuchs, Polonsky was at his movie best when he thought he was selling out. When he was left on his own (as in Force of Evil and Willie Boy), the themes turned pedagogical, the images verged on the ponderous, the dialogue often surrendered epigrammatic cheekiness for muted soliloquies and voluptuous self-contempt.” [p. 136]

Corliss embraced some of the greatest visions of the Sixties maverick period. He wrote a review in 1968 praising the mostly-loathed Richard Lester downer Petulia (which is now thought of as a masterpiece, natch). His enthusiasm for the modernist filmmaking of that period did not, however, extend to Robert Altman's biggest hit, M*A*S*H (1970), which he truly loathed. 

His summation in his entry here on Ring Lardner Jr. was that its “characterizations lack the depth and consistency we demand when looking for a movie that's more than very funny. As with The Graduate, its tone is too distinct and erratic (The Hardy Boys one moment, Satan's Sadists the next) to fit it easily into a genre. And as with The Graduate, most critics tended to review a film they wanted to see instead of the film in front of them.”[p. 344]

The most intriguing thing about the final section of Talking Pictures is that Corliss chose to tackle the new Hollywood by singling out a group of screenwriters who sadly did not “rise” any further in the Seventies (unless you want to count Robert Benton, who became a successful director after splitting with his scripting partner Robert Newman). This chapter includes a thorough trashing of Funhouse hero Terry Southern, whom Corliss finds to be facile and none too witty (mine own feelings are in this piece).

The thing that hits one reading Talking Pictures from this later point in time is that there were scripters who became “superstars” in the years after the book came out. They usually became directors (like Paul Schrader), although some didn't (the enormously successful, and then utterly forgotten, Joe Eszterhas). In our correspondence he threw out a few names of people that he would've put into an updated version of the book, like Dustin Lance Black. While Woody Allen is another key name — since his films are mostly script and the visuals are really the creation of whoever is the cinematographer on that particular film — one of the most successful scripter-turned directors was of course Francis Ford Coppola.

Moving on from those who were trashed to those who were treasured, we reach a film that is celebrated in Talking Pictures, in two entries (the one for Ben Hecht and Charles Lederer). Corliss states flat out that “His Girl Friday is Hawks's best comedy, and quite possibly his best film.” [p. 318]

 This, the “most anarchic newspaper comedy of all time,” inspires Corliss to one of his best insights about the films of Golden Age Hollywood. He reflects on what movie viewers prize: “Though Walter bullies, lies to, and spills things on Bruce, the film convinces us that Walter and Hildy were made for each other, if only because angelic boredom is a greater movie sin than stylish corruption.” [ibid]

One of the most interesting comparisons occurs when he's talking about Singin' in the Rain in his entry on Comden and Green. He notes that that perfect musical “suggests, without a wasted shot or twist of the plot, the same end of a sublime, ridiculous movie era that Billy Wilder painted, with broader, more delirious strokes, in Sunset Boulevard. The difference in tone is due as much to the two films' fidelity to their own themes as to the fact that Hagen is Singin' in the Rain's comic villainess, and not its tragic heroine. [p. 199]

Trumbo
Perhaps the most unusual note in the book is struck when RC praises Dalton Trumbo’s correspondence (which was released in book form as Additional Dialogue: Letters of Dalton Trumbo in 1970) above his screenplays. He explains it this way: “A long look at the non-movie ephemera of Trumbo, Hecht, Harry Brown, Herman J. Mankiewicz, and others convinces me that half the screenwriters in Hollywood poured their talent into witty letters, fierce memos, and funny stories once they realized their scripts would not be filmed as they were written.

“Of the self-destructive Mankiewicz, Ben Hecht wrote: ‘I knew that no one as witty and spontaneous as Herman would ever put himself on paper. A man whose genius is on tap like free beer seldom makes literature out of it.’ The art of conversation is not only a dying art, it is one that dies anew as the embers of a witty evening's memory turn to the dust of gossip.
“Mankiewicz ‘put himself on paper’ for the movies just once — when he wrote Citizen Kane. Trumbo's own genius was clandestine, conspiratorial, circulated only to special friends and formidable enemies. His screenplays deserve the oblivion most of them have already received; but his letters will live, for the true record of the man is there — in those florid, cantankerous, incandescent salvos.” [p. 262]

Ben Hecht's first Oscar
winner, dir. by Sternberg
There are conflicted feelings in entries about certain screenwriters. The Big Daddy of ‘Em All, Ben Hecht is thus a target for Corliss’s bouquets, and slings and arrows. Hecht was indeed a sort of “industry” among scripters — his name was so famous that he frequently seems to have been only briefly involved with the films that wound up bearing his name as a scripter. Thus, while one has to be of two minds about such a ubiquitous figure (see, for example, Hecht’s credit on the Zsa Zsa sci-fi masterwork of high camp, Queen of Outer Space), it’s impossible to escape how Hecht got into that the enviable position of being a “franchise” rather than just a writer.

Or as RC puts it, “Hecht did offer a backhanded defense of the craft he loved and the restrictions he loathed. ‘It is as difficult to make a toilet seat as a castle window,’ he wrote in 1962, ‘even if the view is a bit different.’ During his long tenure in Hollywood, Ben Hecht made both. But at his best, he could make a porcelain privy glisten like stained glass on a sunny day.” [p. 24]

Corliss rhapsodizes about some less famous films as well, including scripter’s Hands Across the Table (1935). Sure it’s a film directed by Lubitsch, but raises the ante against Sarris by giving the screenwriters “authorship” of the film in this book. Of Hands, he notes (curiously praising Lubitsch more than Krasna) it “was Ernst Lubitsch's first film as Paramount's production chief. For once, the School of Lubitsch — which was attended, consciously or not, by most of Hollywood's best romantic-comedy writers and directors — produced a work eminently worthy of its master.” [p. 67]

Letter From an Unknown Woman
At times he contextualizes the book’s whole concept by attributing the films to both their director and their scripters. In a case like the sublime Letter From an Unknown Woman (1948), this makes perfect sense. “Letter…, both as an exquisite set of reverberations from [Howard] Koch's best early films and as a virtual master plan for the later, more famous Ophuls pictures, is a most convincing case for multiple authorship. Not only is Letter crucial to the careers of both writer and director, but it is also the perfect conjunction of these powerful proponents of film romance.

“Ophuls' woman-in-love theme achieves perhaps its most beautiful expression here; but the film reveals at least as many Kochian obsessions, most significantly the letter as a transmitter of intonations of love and intimations of death — a memento mori that can cleanse the receiver even as it kills the sender.” [p. 116]

And, while today’s cinephile reader might be surprised at the number of well-regarded scripters who come in for a beautifully worded drubbing in Talking Pictures, at other points the obvious talent of the masters is recognized and becomes the subject of lyrical prose.

Sullivan's Travels
Speaking of Preston Sturges and his superb use of character actors, Corliss notes (in this instance, apropos of Sullivan’s Travels: “No writer or director was more generous to these gifted spear carriers than was Sturges as writer-director, but then no writer or director was as dependent on them to propel his picture. He used them as a chorus to carry his hero, kicking and screaming, away to the burial ground.

"They were raffish, cynical small-timers in themselves, but when unified in opposition to the hero — which is what Sturges always did with them — they forgot their differences and banded into a powerful force for intimidation. Individually, they were bull throwers; collectively, they were a bulldozer. And it took the Sturgean hero a full ninety minutes to free himself, however tentatively, from their grasp.” [p. 45]

The modern (read: post-studio system) screenplay that comes in for the most praise in the book’s last chapter is Jules Feiffer’s script for Carnal Knowledge (1971). Corliss is unabashed in his praise of the script (and the film). One wishes there had been a Feiffer script that was in the same league after ’71 — I will steadfastly defend two-thirds of Altman’s Popeye (1980), but Resnais’ I Want to Go Home (1989) is a major disappointment, despite the references in the film to master cartoonists Will Eisner and Lee Falk.

When analyzing Carnal Knowledge Corliss does a fine job of contextualizing the many media that Feiffer was working in at the turn of the Seventies: “Those who say Feiffer's vision is simplistic because he is a cartoonist arc wrong; it is simple because he is a moralist. That vision is a creation unique in its comic pessimism. It is also remarkably consistent, which may explain why Little Murders, conceived as a novel, succeeded as a play — and why Carnal Knowledge, conceived as a play, stands as the most personal and perceptive film to emerge from the new breed of screenwriters.” [p. 366]

Like The American Cinema, Talking Pictures was sadly never updated and thus is frozen in amber at the beginning of the Seventies. It can be easily found in the usual places where secondhand books dwell and remains a remarkably well-written cause for arguments among movie buffs who care about and love old Hollywood. (It made perfect that the last institution to embrace Corliss was the stalwart destination for all of us smitten with old movies, Turner Classic Movies.)

Richard had other loves in the world of cinema — and many in the other arts, from theater and literature to music, erotica, and comic books — which I hope to chronicle in future blog entries. His writing was filled with enthusiasm for the things that he loved, and while Talking Pictures reveals an earlier, surprisingly acerbic Corliss, his best reviews and theme pieces (a lot of them done for the Internet in this century) deserve to be read in the decades to come. Any publishers (or academic presses) up for a collection of RC’s best and most eclectic writing?
*****

And since the man himself enjoyed diversions, tangents, and connecting the dots with trivia, I have to note that while I wrote this piece over the last several weeks I kept hearing this song in my head.

Monday, April 17, 2017

Sure to Go Down: a posting of Radley Metzger's 'The Image'

YouTube sure has changed. Its capricious enforcement of copyright claims continues apace, but its anti-nudity/anti-sex stance has morphed into a “don't ask, don't tell” mode, in which adult materials stay up until someone, anyone, complains about them.

Thus, the surprising discovery of Radley Metzger's The Image (aka The Punishment of Anne,” 1975) in its entirety, unedited and uncensored, on YT. Don't get me wrong — I'm not complaining about this. I think adult clips should be on YT, behind a firewall, as is the case with this film. The picture is a stylish slice of “Euro chic” from Metzger that he signed with his own name. The only other film with hardcore scenes he released under his real name was Score (1974), which circulated in various versions, some of which were decidedly “soft.”

The Image was made at an interesting time in Metzger's career. Softcore had lost its audience — late-night “Skinemax” was a decade away, and the VCR was a luxury item at best. Hardcore was the only way to go in terms of sex pictures, and so Metzger assumed the “Henry Paris” pseudonym. Starting with The Private Afternoons of Pamela Mann (1974), he made a quintet of hardcore features. All of them were visually well-crafted and several light years above the average porn “product.”

Although it starts out like Metzger's softcore features, The Image takes a full turn just before its midpoint and becomes a hardcore s&m movie that lacks only “money shots,” as Metzger's female characters were allowed to enjoy their orgasms and the lead male here comes inside them, rather than doing the usual “full display” ritual.

The film boasts picturesque location footage of Paris and has one aspect familiar from Euro-produced sexploitation — a bizarrely chosen older male voice for the lead (think Norman Rose or John Bartholomew Tucker on a not-so-wholesome day), meaning the narration sounds like a slightly skewed movie trailer.

The picture has an interesting pedigree: It was adapted from a kinky 1956 novel by “Jean de Berg,” an alias of Catherine Robbe-Grillet, the wife of novelist (and fellow bondage lover) Alain R-G. The plot is a variation on The Story of O, with a dominatrix character added into the proceedings. The protagonist (Carl Parker) is “offered” his slave (Mary Mendum) by the domme (Marilyn Roberts), who starts out as a stereotype but winds up becoming the true female lead in the story.
Catherine Robbe-Grillet
Given that Catherine R-G (still with us, as of this writing) is a rather buttoned-down type (see her supporting roles in her husband's films), it makes perfect sense that the more intense but less conventionally attractive domme figure ultimately becomes the most intriguing member of the lead trio.

Although the domme figure is the best-sketched female character, the submissive is the best rendered, thanks to an intense performance by Mendum. She is the single best “discovery” in the later work of Joe Sarno. She starred in five of Joe's films under the name “Rebecca Brooke,” most notably Abigail Leslie Is Back in Town (1975).


Coming across as a kinkier cousin to Lara Parker (“Angelique” from the original Dark Shadows), Mendum was terrific in the Sarno films, mostly because she always appeared on the verge of both an orgasm and a nervous breakdown. She delivered Joe's often over-ripe dialogue perfectly and was, along with Jamie Gillis, one of the few performers who really “got” what Sarno was doing (angst-ridden melodramas with a kinky undercurrent).

In The Image she is equally “on the edge” throughout. She perfectly conveys her character's desire for pain and her transformation when forced to sublimate her desires in a public setting. Online sources say that she was dating Metzger at the time the film was made, which indicates that theirs was, shall we say, an “understanding” connection.

Given the fact that Sarno kept making softcore for as long as he could (and he never used his real name on the hardcore he subsequently made), it's surprising to see Mendum engage in two graphic oral sex scenes, letting go in two urination humiliations, and being whipped and tormented in Metzger's picture.

As noted above, Metzger was no stranger to directing hardcore by '75, since he was already in his Henry Paris period. It is jarring, though, to see The Image make the turn from soft- to hardcore midway through — the beautiful Parisian location footage, for instance, is suddenly used only for establishing shots rather than providing picturesque locations for the action.

What is not surprising is how (that word again!) classy the film is, compared to other hardcore, and how the film has a distinctly male point of view but  also explores the conflicted sensations and emotions of its women characters.

Catch it while if you can on YT, but most certainly also check out the Metzger-authorized Synapse release of the film on disc!


Saturday, April 15, 2017

Pornography – with class? A tribute to Deceased Artiste Radley Metzger

Last year, the deaths of Ted V. Mikels and Herschell Gordon Lewis meant that the last great “showmen” of genre/exploitation pics were gone. Radley Metzger's death two weeks ago at the age of 88 meant that the last link to the classier side of adult filmmaking is now gone. Metzger formed a sort of “unholy trinity” with the other two auteurs of softcore, Russ Meyer, and Joe Sarno. Metzger was the one who worked with the highest budgets (Russ's pair of Fox productions aside), and he was accorded the most respect of the trio.

This respect came from the fact that he crafted “Euro chic” softcore, which looked beautiful and felt like the films that ruled the arthouse at the time (the Sixties and early Seventies). While the other two titans of tease were clearly influenced by foreign art films – Sarno's work was inspired by and looked like much of the Swedish cinema of the period, while Meyer's films were the truest expression of Eisenstein's editing principles ever committed to celluloid – Metzger clearly mimicked the style of the European masters in his work, to the extent that his films looked as if they were made by a European (and, thanks to the sometimes stilted dialogue, often sounded as if they had been written by a person who was indeed writing subtitled, translated English).

I wrote a tribute to Metzger for a magazine that is now defunct. You can find the full text on the Funhouse website, here. In reproducing a good deal of the text here, I wanted to supplement it with clips. I notice that YouTube's whimsical and sporadically (but adamantly) enforced rules against the display of the undraped human body have kind of gone by the wayside in the last decade. A lot of scenes from Metzger's softcore are up, as are entire features.

His “Henry Paris” (aka Harry Paris) hardcore films are present on YT in the guise of trailers, still photos, and dramatic scenes – yes, they were dramatic scenes in Metzger's porn, and that made it like nothing else that was being made then, or today.

Herewith, tribute to Metzger, written in the 2000s:

Like the other two softcore gods of the ’60s, Russ Meyer and Joe Sarno, Metzger cut his filmmaking teeth in the Army, serving in the Motion Picture unit during the Korean War. Unlike Meyer and Sarno, Metzger got his first commercial experience in the film biz as an editor removing censored scenes from (what else?) “risque” foreign films – ironic, given that the films he made and distributed later on were the subject of various legal battles with state censors. Shortly after leaving the service, Metzger made a no-budget independent feature called Dark Odyssey (1957) with William Kyriakis. This family-loyalty drama is notable only for its eye-catching NYC locations and its Greek-American milieu. In 1960, Metzger started the distribution company Audobon Films with a colleague and began a profitable career acquiring and “reworking” foreign movies.

Metzger made his first adult feature in 1965. The Dirty Girls started a seven-year run of imaginatively made softcore movies, all of which are being brought out on DVD from First Run. Dirty set the tone for them all, with its La Dolce Vita-inspired Euro decadence, and two elements that became Metzger staples: location shooting in picturesque European cities and an amplified amount of implied sex. “They saw the nudity even if I didn’t put it in,” he later joked to an interviewer.


Metzger’s longer erotic interludes, in which a character would frequently “service” another by slipping out of camera range (leaving an orgasmic young woman’s face onscreen to imply what was really going on), owed a debt to one of the more notorious French imports of the era, Louis Malle’s The Lovers (the ultimate “dirty foreign movie” made in 1958). In that film, the male lead disappeared out of camera range for a few seconds, making actress Jeanne Moreau quite happy – and enraging every state censorship board in the Bible belt.

Metzger’s next b&w tease, The Alley Cats (1966), boasts some terminally cool surf music and some of the aforementioned overripe dialogue. When asked if she’s afraid of making love, one young lady declares, “I plan to go moist to heaven…”


The transition to color in Carmen, Baby (1967) encouraged Metzger to make his tales of bored jet setters and their ladies of easy virtue even more bold and audacious. Two favorite moments: a girl entertains at a party by performing a suggestive dance with a phallic wine bottle to a pitch-perfect Herb Alpert-style instrumental, and the host of the same bash-cum-orgy encourages his female guests to get into the groove by offering “pills, ladies… pills!”


From ’67 to ’77, Metzger made four softcore classics and a small handful of hardcore features that rank among the best ever made. Therese and Isabelle (1968), his tale of a lesbian affair between French schoolgirls (supposed to be teens, but look severely twentysomething). The movie is still copied today – witness the Piper Perabo cumming-of-age cable staple Lost and Delirious (2002). [Can you tell this was written for an adult publication? --Ed.]

It’s most notable for Metzger fans because it introduced his wildest trademark: the “obscured frame,” in which either the “naughty” part of what we’re watching is covered up – yes, Radley was one of the innovators who first used the technique spoofed to no end in the Austin Powers movies – or we view a sex act from a distance, usually through a distorted glass surface (most often a mirror). Thus, when we finally “see” Therese and Isabelle consummate their teen-girl love, they are seen: disappearing behind some furniture in a church chapel, reflected on the surface of a vase (!), and exploring each other’s bods in a stylishly composed long shot that reveals…not much of anything.

Despite the obvious tease factor at work, the movie is still sexy as hell, since Metzger concentrates his energies on the build-up to sex, utilizing classical music and soft, graceful camerawork to complement a very obvious but effective voiceover. Our heroine Therese tells us what we’re missing visually, boasting in classically purple prose about the way Isabelle enters her: “Three fingers entering me, three guests to take the pleasure to…”


Corny dialogue, to be sure, but in the period before Deep Throat and the “couples porn” rage, Metzger’s movies were the only high-profile American erotic films a couple could check out without feeling unduly uncomfortable. In fact Metzger’s next picture, his most psychedelic, Camille 2000 (1969), was crafted to make them feel very comfortable indeed… particularly during a long, lush sex scene, viewed (natch) in a rippled mirror. Metzger had great confidence in his audience’s attention span, especially when it came to sexy interludes like Camille’s prison-themed party in which tuxedoed gents lead super-mod babes around on leashes and in handcuffs. 

The Lickerish Quartet (1970) is Metzger’s most “experimental” and arguably his best movie. Fantasy and reality collide as a trio of jaded sophisticates (mother, son, stepfather) watch an old stag reel for entertainment (oh, the idle rich) and then discover that the brunette star of the loop is performing at a local carnival as a motorcycle stunt rider (!). Upon bringing the girl back to their labyrinthine castle, they find that the film has changed and their newly-blonde house guest is clearly going to have her way with the lot of them.

As he moves this kinky variation on the arthouse classic Last Year at Marienbad, Metzger delivers his most extravagant sex scene ever: a bibliophile’s wet dream in which our blonde temptress, clad only in go-go boots, and the master of the house (a rather unsightly older man wearing nothing but black socks) screw in a home library, rolling over and over on a floor embossed with the dictionary definitions of words like “phallus,” “fornicate” and, naturellement, “fuck.”


The male lead’s paunchy nude bod is one of several bizarre details (including quick cuts to that favorite bar toy, a bird dipping his head in a drinking glass) that Metzger inserts into Lickerish – they can be interpreted as tongue-in-cheek that the director himself is caught up in the same delirium his characters are experiencing. The last line of dialogue probably supplies the best answer: “Don’t take it so seriously, it’s only a film!”

Metzger’s last theatrically released softcore film, Score (1972), is the perfect product of the porno chic era, a film that couldn’t possibly appear in multiplexes today – unless, perhaps, it was made by Pedro Almodovar. Here a Dangerous Liaisons-like couple bet each other they can seduce an innocent young couple they’ve invited over for a dinner party. When the swinging takes place, the wives wind up together… as do the husbands.

The fact that the evening’s events are fueled by pot and amyl nitrate makes Score a gorgeous relic from a far freer time; the film also was released in three separate cuts, each one containing a bit more of the male gay coupling.


In 1975, Metzger turned a corner and embarked upon a short career in hardcore under the pseudonym “Henry Paris.” The six triple-X features he made from ’75 to ’78 are still given high marks by porn aficionados today because their production values were uncommonly high, the explicit sex is cleverly worked into a (gasp) storyline and the acting is well above par. The best known of the Harry Paris productions, The Opening of Misty Beethoven (1976), is a “Pygmalion” tale of a sophisticate who trains a young woman in the finer points of social etiquette, and, er… cocksucking. Misty was shot in Paris, Rome and NYC, and is surprisingly witty for a porn film – all in all, a few light years beyond the crude and clunky Deep Throat.


Imagine the idea of fans for porn soundtracks – they exist, and they are especially fond of the music for Metzger's Henry Paris films.


So the last of the truly talented erotica/porn filmmakers of the pre-home video era has left us. Erotica is now reduced to Fifty Shades of Gray, and porn has gone back to its initial state of tiny little sequences that showcase “the act” and perhaps (if time permits) have a minute or two introduction with something approximating a “plot” (or, better stated, a motivation for the sex).

Metzger flourished in the time when there were indeed movies about sex being released to both arthouses and grindhouses. He lent a lot of style and (that word again) class to his soft- and hardcore features. Before the Sixties that wasn't called for, and sadly, that became the state of things again (with a scant few major exceptions, like Andrew Blake and Rinse Dream) after the Seventies. Thankfully Metzger's films remain available and do show those who make sex videos today many things about how erotic (and even, on occasion, sophisticated) sex cinema can be.

This one sequence is a distillation of what Metzger’s work was all about. It’s corny yet sexy, playful yet adult, old-fashioned yet Sixties “modern.”

Monday, March 6, 2017

Go to Hell, Bastards!: the feverish films of Deceased Artiste Seijun Suzuki

A master of subversion, Seijun Suzuki took the relatively low budgets he was given to make B-features by the Nikkatsu studio and created scores of the most memorably surreal, Freudian, and explosive films ever. Like many cult icons, Suzuki was underappreciated while he was working regularly, but he thankfully lived to see his work hailed around the world as groundbreaking and completely unique. (Although, being an infinitely frank soul, he did declare it “too late.”)

Many of his obits felt that contextualizing him was in order, so the magic name “Tarantino” was invoked. Tarantino’s work is closer to that of the more procedural, less dazzling, and far more violent Japanese genre filmmaker Kenji Fukasaku than Suzuki. The obits also cited Wong Kar-Wai and Jim Jarmusch. The latter is a diehard fan and paid tribute to Suzuki’s work rather brilliantly in Ghost Dog. The former might love Suzuki’s work, but John Woo is closer to the mark — particularly in The Killer, where he seemed to be fusing Suzuki’s Branded to Kill (1967) with Sirk’s Magnificent Obsession, which is quite a combination of influences.

It was also interesting to note that the official announcement of his death was made by a Nikkatsu representative, given that he had an acrimonious split with the studio, whose head at the time said his films “made no sense” and weren’t making any money. Whether or not they did well at the box office, it’s been noted that young Japanese college students loved them and were in fact the first cultists for his work.

The most-circulated interview with Suzuki is this one, conducted in 1997:


Suzuki's frenzied stylization of his storylines made him “a Japanese Sam Fuller” (although, of course, Fuller was as much a screenwriter as he was a director). By the time that he was able to do what he wanted with these assignments — mostly because the Nikkatsu chiefs initially ignored their B-feature production, so the directors could do what they wanted — he was using every method possible to make his films jump off the screen into the lap (and mind) of the viewer.

A recent festival held at the Walter Reade theater in Lincoln Center included a few of his earlier genre pics that have been unseeable in the U.S. (some of them signed by “Seitaro Suzuki,” his real name). The revelations were that they were *heavily* plotted for B-features, and that, even though Suzuki and his crew were breaking the fourth wall by drawing attention to the film’s style, he did stick rather closely to the formulaic plots he was given. If one sees his pictures in chronological order, it’s obvious that he was desperate to break free of the constraints of B-moviemaking.

Here is the trailer for one of the earlier efforts, Everything Goes Wrong (1960):


Thus, he began to “explode” his heavily-plotted genre pics with framing, editing, eye-jarring sets, and surreal touches like an overlay of animation. In interviews, he stressed that he was intent on making “entertainment,” not art, and that he wanted to please the audience. His array of techniques, though, suggested that he was well-aware of the European masterworks made in the Fifties and Sixties, as well as the modernist work of contemporaries like Oshima and, without question, the pop art that overwhelmed the era.

Kabuki has been cited as another influence, and while it no doubt was, one gets the sense watching his work that Suzuki was an incredibly “cinematic” artist, rather than one toying with theatrical techniques.

And he had some of the best titles in the business. The second half of this title is one of my all-time favorites for a crime film — or a film in any genre. Herewith the opening of Detective Bureau 23: Go to Hell, Bastards! (1963):


One of the names who is rarely linked to Suzuki is another kindred spirit, namely Robert Aldrich. In Kiss Me Deadly, Aldrich approximated the unapologetic violence of Mickey Spillane's Mike Hammer novels. Being a master-manipulator — and an artist who loved to play with and rework the genres he took on, much like his near-namesake Robert Altman — he left the graphically violent moments in the narrative *between* the shots. “Beat” Takeshi Kitano did this beautifully in his Hana-bi (aka Fireworks) (1997), and Beat has also cited Suzuki as a cinematic hero. This is another dominant characteristic of Suzuki's work: going “over the edge” in terms of subject matter and behavior, and yet not showing anything truly objectionable onscreen.

His trippiest yakuza drama was undoubtedly Tokyo Drifter (seen here in its entirety with no English subs), which was one of the two films that became cult items in the West during the Nineties.


I would also liken him to Nicholas Ray, in that both men were masters of widescreen and “color-coding” their characters. Akira Kurosawa was most certainly one of the greatest widescreen filmmakers ever, but Suzuki is closer to Nicholas Ray in terms of the feverish pace of his films and the fact that he unabashedly used color to tell his story, as he did in the unusually-kinky-for-its-time, brothel-set drama Gate of Flesh (1964) (seen below in its entirety, but with no English subs).


One of the other things that is truly mind-roasting and extremely important about Suzuki's work is the way in which, as he progressed through the Sixties, he began to toss off sequences that other directors would've made longer set-pieces out of. This is most blatant in Branded to Kill, where he quickly disposes of two impressive “trick-shot” murders (one of which is duplicated in Jarmusch's Ghost Dog, thus the thanks to SS at the film's end) and a brilliantly insane twist — our hero getting away from a tightly secure building by leaping out the window and riding a hot-air balloon to safety.

Other filmmakers would've spent 10-15 minutes easily on each of these moments, while Suzuki disposes of them in less time than it takes to listen to a Ramones song.


The most famous aspect of Branded is that it got Suzuki fired from Nikkatsu. He sued the studio and then became the subject of a blacklist that found him unable to work as a director for a decade. The ironic element here is that he had taken on the film as a favor to the studio. It was begun by another director, but then became one of the “most Suzuki” of all of Suzuki's genre pics. When he was unable to work as a director he took on work as an actor on TV and in the movies. Here is an ad he appeared in for a toilet cleaner of some kind:


When he finally returned to filmmaking, he wound up making seven more films, the last two of which were released internationally, as they were made after his worldwide cult-reputation had grown. I will confess that, while I enjoy his “Tasho trilogy” of very “high art” films, I prefer him subverting a weird script, as he does in his “comeback” film, A Tale of Sorrow and Sadness (1977).

The film, to which I devoted an entire episode of the Funhouse, is a bizarre tale of the “making” of a female athlete — at first turned into a sexy golf pro by corporate execs, the lead is later stalked by a scary neighbor who wants to steal her lifestyle. It's an amazing film that definitely is an extension of the weirdness that he was crafting in the Sixties (it is in fact that only film he made after his comeback that practices the same kind of subversion).


Watching it I was put in mind of two films about the manufacturing of a woman star by men. The first was Dennis Potter's too-little-seen Blackeyes (1989) and the second was The Legend of Lylah Clare (1968) by none other than Robert Aldrich. Suzuki's film is definitely in the same vein, as we see the execs figuring out how to have their golf pro dress, which ends up in her wearing a bikini on the links at one point.

The first half of the film is decidedly about male manipulation of women, but the second half is a more tangled statement about celebrity and its horrors, embodied in the person of the fangirl neighbor who wants to “be” our golf pro heroine (who has also become the host of a daytime talk show). Sorrow and Sadness is a great Suzuki film that has been shuffled under the carpet for the most part — it was released in the U.S. on DVD but with scenes that were missing the proper subtitling. The film is not available for free streaming online, but I found a music video created with images from it:


Suzuki's “Tasho trilogy” was the first time that he was making art films “on purpose.” The first film in the trio, Zigeunerweisen (1980), is a beautiful-looking picture that has some unforgettable imagery. Suzuki seems to have seen the films of Alain Resnais (whose work is as influential as Godard's to some leading Asian filmmakers) and works on a Marienbad-like level of ambiguity with these films, set in an era when Japan had a fixation on Western culture and dress. When Suzuki was unable to secure theatrical distribution for the film he had it shown in an inflatable dome in Tokyo.


The second of the two “Tasho” films, Kagero-Za (1981), also contains some gorgeous imagery but is, admittedly, rather slow-going.


The “Tasho” films are indeed beautiful-looking, but they lack the humor and sheer perversity of Suzuki's earlier work. Before the third film in the trilogy was made, Suzuki directed the very strange and pretty much unfindable Capone Cries a Lot (1985), a too-long-for-its-own-good but still imaginatively designed drama. The humor and perversity returned for good in Pistol Opera (2001), his remake of Branded to Kill with women in the lead roles.


His last film is certainly a wonderful genre-bending act of subversion. The musical Princess Raccoon (2005) is an intentionally kitschy musical that blends Western musical genres and a fabricated Japanese fairy tale. It is not as involving on a narrative level as his Sixties work, but it proved that, even at the age of 82, he could still deliver downright weird and brilliantly imaginative sequences.


Suzuki’s legacy is assured — the man whose movies “made no sense and no money” outlasted his detractors and former employers.