R.I.P., Angela Lansbury

Only now does it occur to me... THE MANCHURIAN CANDIDATE (1962)

Only now does it occur to me... that THE MANCHURIAN CANDIDATE (1962) has much to offer viewers in 2017, whether it is the perfect metaphorical image of an American flag composed of three types of caviar:

or the "Manchurian Candidate" himself, Senator John Iselin (James Gregory), a blunt, vulgar, and simple-minded instrument of Machiavellian operators (including Angela Lansbury)




who, despite being the most transparent of bullies and liars, is widely regarded as a harmless buffoon with a particular flair for riling up the intelligentsia.

Perhaps, ultimately, it is worth remembering that the Manchurian Candidate––a man who craves the spotlight and the illusion of power, no matter the cost and consequence, no matter the motives of his brutish handlers and willful enablers, a man who reduces every argument to 'us versus them' and appears incapable of deep and critical thought––this is a man who disgusts even those who regard him as a useful fool or a muscle to be flexed. In some ways, he is a tragic figure, tragic like the termite who chews through the support beam that destroys his nest, tragic like the energy magnate who befouls a world his grandchildren must inherit, tragic like the oversized child who douses his steak in ketchup while playing at sophisticate.

Only now does it occur to me... THE LONG HOT SUMMER (1958)

Only now does it occur to me... that when weather this stifling comes around, the only solution is to watch some Southern Fried Sleaze-O-Rama! (As previously documented in my reviews of THE BIG EASY, TIGHTROPE, and THE PAPERBOY.) Today, that meant watching THE LONG, HOT SUMMER, a lurid, golden age melodrama based on three works by William Faulker ("Spotted Horses," "Barn Burning," and THE HAMLET) and featuring sweaty Paul Newman:

well-oiled n' corpulent Orson Welles:

steamy Angela Lansbury (chuggin' all the beers):

moist Joanne Woodward:

clammy Tony Franciosa (best known to me from Argento's TENEBRE!):

and damp Lee Remick:

(among other perspiring members of the Actors Studio).

Directed by Martin Ritt (HUD, HOMBRE, THE SPY WHO CAME IN FROM THE COLD) and set to a sensationalized score by Alex North (SPARTACUS, CLEOPATRA, THE MISFITS), this is a film about handsome strange-uhs and busyin' youh-self with the vapours and the juleps and the pink lemonade, and it contains more Faulknerian sexual entrendres than you can shake a swampy, Bayou-drippin' stick at. In short, I enjoyed it quite a bit. 

Also worth mentioning is the DVD cover, which features a pull-quote from a VARIETY review:

"...Strikingly Directed...Steamy With Sex." 

Apparently confused by the review's lack of attribution (it's from an uncredited "staff" review) the DVD producers decided to go with the first name they saw: Martin Ritt. And thusly, THE LONG, HOT SUMMER's DVD cover came to feature a rave recommendation seemingly uttered from the lips of its own director!

(And if you dig Faulknerian wordplay, might I direct you toward a piece I wrote for McSweeney's last year called "Winners of the Yoknapatawpha County Spelling Bee, 1929-1940.")

Film Review: THE COMPANY OF WOLVES (1984, Neil Jordan)

Stars: 3.6 of 5.
Running Time: 95 minutes.
Notable Cast or Crew: Sarah Patterson (Cannon's SNOW WHITE), Angela Lansbury, David Warner (TWIN PEAKS Season 2, TIME AFTER TIME, TRON), Stephen Rea (STUCK, INTERVIEW WITH A VAMPIRE), Terence Stamp (THE LIMEY, THE HIT). Co-written by Angela Carter. Production design by Anton Furst.
Tag-line: "Where fairy stories meet horror stories!"
Best one-liner: "Never stray from the path, never eat a windfall apple and never trust a man whose eyebrows meet in the middle."

Neil Jordan's THE COMPANY OF WOLVES was designed as a 'Chinese Box' of a film, with flashbacks, fables, and folklore interwoven within a larger, dream/fantasy framework. The end result is kind of a meandering, avant-garde pseudo-narrative that never quite congeals, but I still liked it quite a bit. Cannon Films (who did not produce, but distributed stateside) marketed it as a horror/thriller, a label that is bound to disappoint. In fact, it's more like "Mario Bava's classy English brother does fairy tales on 'ludes"- which is a good thing. The film possesses a sumptuous, Gothic atmosphere, sort of Lewis Carroll by-way-of Edgar Allen Poe, and it owes much of its success to Anton Furst's (BATMAN, FULL METAL JACKET) production design. A grandfather clock sits in the midst of a fog-enshrouded forest, spinning its hands ceaselessly. Giant, hideous teddy bears and sinister dolls come to life, bounding about the underbrush with uncanny mobility:

Satan (Terence Stamp!), dressed to the nines, clutches a real-life pygmy skull and beckons to you from the comfort of his Rolls-Royce:

A long-lost husband (Stephen Rea) rips the fleshy mask from his face, revealing the sinewy, lupine monstrosity beneath. A pack of wolves- hypnotically photographed in slow motion- burst forth from a shorn oil painting, dashing down the furnished hallway to your bedroom...

Yes, this film certainly makes an impression. It's also injected with a dose of mythological protofeminism, channeled by Angela Carter, co-screenwriter and author of the texts on which the film is based. The cast is a talented ensemble: as our substitute Riding Hood, the actual pre-teen Sarah Patterson exhibits a maturity far beyond her years;

Angela Lansbury is exactly as ideal a fit as you'd imagine for 'Grandmother'; and the always-serviceable David Warner gives a stoic, weighty turn as 'Father.'

David Warner unloads the groceries.

In all, it's a solid phantasmagorical mood piece, but it will rankle those looking for a traditional narrative. Nearly four stars.

-Sean Gill