Only now does it occur to me... A WOMAN'S FACE (1941)

Only now does it occur to me... oh, just watch this––it's a little ditty I call "Joan Crawford is Having None of Your Unflattering Light Sources."

The Runners-Up to Junta Juleil's Top 100, Part 1

Ah, so many films and so few spaces on the Top 100. Naturally, there had to be some spill-over.

IN THE MOUTH OF MADNESS (1994, John Carpenter)

"Reality isn't what it used to be." A Lovecraftian ode sung, naturally, toward the abyss, it's Carpy's last (thus far!) unadulterated, undeniably "Great" film with a capital G. IN THE MOUTH OF MADNESS prints the fall of man upon celluloid, shows it to our protagonist- shows it to us- and together we cackle in the darkness, senselessly, because there's nothing else we can do. Previously reviewed HERE.

BABY DOLL (1956, Elia Kazan)

Kazan can wring more forbidden sexuality from the subtle rocking of a porch swing than all the R-Rated movies ever made, put together. A Southern Gothic chamber piece like no other, it develops into a tête-à-tête-à-tête between long suffering perv Karl Malden, the creepily childish Carrol Baker, and the inimitable Eli Wallach, and it's no exaggeration to call it a blazing tour de force and perhaps the most vigorous, deranged examination of American repression ever made. It's a bottle of cheap champagne on a hundred-degree day, only someone's been shakin' it up for twenty years, and you have to open it without spilling a drop– good luck!

FOR A FEW DOLLARS MORE (1965, Sergio Leone)

FOR A FEW DOLLARS MORE is not, in fact, Leone's greatest achievement, but it's probably his most fun. In fact, perhaps one could go out on a limb and say that it's one of the first "buddy movies;" or at least the first "spaghetti western buddy movie," but even if that's true, it's a more-than-occasionally dark one. From a raging, hunchbacked Klaus Kinski to Lee Van Cleef's flinty, hawk-nosed countenance to Gian Maria Volante's wildly hallucinating madman to Clint's cigarillo-chomping roughneck with no name, one might call this film a meditation upon faces. Faces and guns. And it's all tied together by Morricone's sweeping score, which pendulates between primal grunts from the pit and overpowering Bach organ fugues!

BLACK BOOK (2006, Paul Verhoeven)

After a few explorations of hollow men, CGI bugs, robot cops, showgirls, ice-pick murderers, and the like, Verhoeven returns to where he began– visceral, dark, Dutch art film. Verhoeven usually takes the dim view of mankind, and here he quite effortlessly develops his hypothesis that we exist in a state of neverending war; it's just that big men with small ideas are always submitting these arbitrary labels, like "1914-1918," or "1939-1945," and to tell you the truth, Verhoeven doesn't know quite what those are supposed to mean...

DIRTY HARRY (1971, Don Siegel)

I said before that DIRTY HARRY is "a complex dissection of the 'man of values' in a world that has none, with our hero gradually realizing that his supposed values systems are in fact shadowy and undefined, and aww, who the hell cares anymore, let's shoot some people." Sure, it's sorta fascist. Sure, it stacks the deck, unimaginably. Sure, it has laughable depictions of hippies. But dig that groovy Lalo Schifrin score! Check out that classic a-hole authority figure, John Vernon! Behold the simpering, insane majesty of psycho-killer Andy Robinson! See Clint Eastwood's noon-day hot-dog interrupted by the magnum-blasting of goons! You know, just another Don Siegel masterpiece.

CREEPSHOW (1982, George A. Romero)

As I have written before in these hallowed pages, I would like to invest in a bumper sticker which says "I'd rather be...watching CREEPSHOW." Now I could say that this film flirts with the Top 100 entirely by virtue of "Ed Harris disco dance mania," but it's really because Romero lovingly recreates the morbid fantasias of childhood, the sensation of reading a book beneath the covers with a flashlight; the impressionability of youth, whereupon a dark and stormy night can inspire a sense of unrestrained, gleeful dread... Also: Tom Atkins.

EATING RAOUL (1982, Paul Bartel)

"I'm the host here, goddammit, now get out of your clothes and get into the hot tub, or get out! We don't want any wet blankets or spoilsports at this party...we're here to SWING!" "-Yeah, well, swing on THIS!" EATING RAOUL is probably Paul Bartel's (DEATH RACE 2000, SCENES FROM THE CLASS STRUGGLE IN BEVERLY HILLS) greatest, loopiest trashterpiece, and it's one that pushes the envelope considerably. Comedy this quirky can be a slippery slope, but Bartel and Mary Woronov, who were quite obviously born to work together (as our 80's cult Hepburn and Tracy), soon brush aside our fears with an impossibly perfect combination of slapstick, refinement, and obscenity.

MILDRED PIERCE (1945, Michael Curtiz)

"That Ted Forrester's nice-looking, isn't he? Veda likes him." –"Who wouldn't? He has a million dollars." Film noir, melodrama, woman's weepie, whatever the fuck you want to call it, MILDRED PIERCE (based on the novel by James M. Cain) is goddamned fantastic. Joan Crawford, as a hard-workin' small businesswoman who can't seem to catch a break exudes genuine frustration, pathos, and the weight of life's disappointments...she's at the height of her shoulder-padded powers. I don't wish to reveal much of the plot, but Ann Blyth's spectacular, spiteful portrayal of Mildred's money-hungry daughter, Veda, has got to be one of the most hate-able screen villains of all-time.

STAR WARS (1977, George Lucas)

One of the most enjoyable adventure movies ever made. Continuous revisions, CGI shitstorms, and seemingly endless, doltish pop culture quotings cannot dampen the effect of the Star Destroyer thundering overhead, the menagerie of rubbery buddies at the intergalactic dive bar, Harrison Ford's lopsided grin, Alec Guinness' soothing self-assurance, Carrie Fisher's privileged but gutsy revolutionary, the cathartic roar of the angry Wookiee, the sad bleeps and bloops of a forlorn R2-D2. The attention to detail in the starship models; the sprawling, ramshackle sets and rundown futuristic equipment; the imaginative aliens and innovative special effects; the nods to Kurosawa, Curtiz, and Hawks; the childish wonder and excitement... ah, the heart swells! (But goddamn, what a pity the way things have turned out...)

JFK (1991, Oliver Stone)

Whether or not you agree with Stone's politics, or all, or none, or 10% of the conspiracy theories contained within the hefty treatise that is JFK, you must admit that it is something of a piece de resistance in terms of the fusion of editing, music, narration, and camerawork. At times it feels as if you are situated upon the tail leader of the Zapruder film; it's already been projected, and you're whirling around in the darkness afterward, confused, spooked, disoriented... A monument should be built to Joe Pesci's eyebrows in this film. And Tommy Lee Jones' mysterious, frightening portrayal of Clay Shaw just might be his finest work. Also: Gary Oldman, gay Kevin Bacon, Jack Lemmon, and Donald Sutherland... as "X!"

HOUSE (1977, Nobuhiko Obayashi)

Though it pains me to say that HOUSE does not quite pack the same punch the second time around, nothing can compare to the feelings of sheer shock, confusion, elation, and general bogglement that HOUSE instills in the first-time viewer. As I've written, "To avoid comparing it to other films, I would simply describe the HOUSE experience as akin to being trapped inside a kaleidoscope as a cackling madman rams and twirls and flips and submerges it with reckless abandon as upbeat music and ludicrous sound effects ricochet here and there and everywhere, dueling one another for dominance." Theoretically, I feel as if I've often thought that there were "no rules" in cinema, but only after seeing HOUSE did I realize that such a seemingly meaningless conceit could actually, successfully be put into practice!

TRUST (1990, Hal Hartley)

Hal Hartley's a personal American indie film hero of mine, and it was difficult to decide whether TRUST, SIMPLE MEN, AMATEUR, or HENRY FOOL belonged on this list. I settled on TRUST, a film I've described as "REBEL WITHOUT AN APARTMENT." It's a stirring, contemplative, and frequently deadpan hilarious tract; suburban malaise in a world on the verge of... something.

Film Review: THIS WOMAN IS DANGEROUS (1952, Felix E. Feist)

Stars: 3 of 5.
Running Time: 100 minutes.
Tag-line: See review.
Notable Cast or Crew: Joan Crawford, Dennis Morgan (THE GREAT ZIEGFIELD, IN THIS OUR LIFE), David Brian (HOW THE WEST WAS WON, FLAMINGO ROAD), Richard Webb (OUT OF THE PAST, SULLIVAN'S TRAVELS), Philip Carey (DEAD RINGER, CALAMITY JANE), Mari Aldon (SUMMERTIME, THE BAREFOOT CONTESSA).
Best one-liner: "She's such a hot rod!"

Let's see here- what do I want to watch tonight? "THIS STORY IS A SCREEN-SCORCHER! Beth Austin... stylish name, stylish dame...known for what she was to mug and millionaire...EVERY INCH A LADY...till you look at the record! Part of her was Ritz - part of her was "racket" - all of her was exciting! Beth Austin---stylish dame with a stylish name---who lived by jungle law in a big city and clawed her way to where the money was...!" Holy shit, THIS WOMAN IS DANGEROUS! Let's fire it up!


THIS WOMAN IS DANGEROUS


THIS WOMAN KNOWS WHERE YOU LIVE


THIS WOMAN IS GONNA FUCK WITH YOUR SHIT

But wait just one second– it pains me to report that THIS WOMAN IS DANGEROUS is simply not that great a movie. It was Joan's final film at Warner Brothers (the studio at which she engineered her MILDRED PIERCE-ian comeback), and apparently her relations with the top brass had eroded to the point where she- and presumably everyone around her, by proximity– was miserable. Later, even post-TROG, she referred to it as the worst bit of her filmography. While I wouldn't personally go that far, I will say that it's frustratingly lackluster. THIS WOMAN IS DANGEROUS is really not an appropriate title. Maybe THIS WOMAN IS MOPEY or THIS WOMAN IS PISSED AT WARNER BROTHERS would have been more suitable. The most dangerous things she does in the movie involve the slapping depicted above, the swatting of a gun with her purse, and a scene where she makes salad dressing (more on that in a bit).

The plot is pretty simple. Joan is dating this gangster-type, Matt (David Brian), who along with his brother Will (Philip Carey), sister-in-law Ann (Mari Aldon), and a whole host of criminals rob and thieve and burgle and kill. Joan sometimes helps out in their cons, but as far as I can tell, she never has brandished a gun or lived by jungle law in the big city just to claw herself to where the money was or whatever. Anyway, she's losing her eyesight (a prequel to the Crawford episode of NIGHT GALLERY?), and requires drastic measures.

She travels to Indiana where she's operated on by Dr. Ben (Dennis Morgan) who's not only a doctor of eyes, but a doctor of love, as well. Matt gets wind of this nascent romance and speeds across the country to put a stop to the Hippocratic hanky-panky and reclaim his shoulder-padded babe before she goes 'straight'– for good! Now I'm sure that this doesn't sound too bad, and it isn't- it's just that the characters and the writing are about as stock as can be. Joan does a pretty great job, all things considered, but the criminals are grumbling one-dimensional stereotypes. Probably the best thing any of them does is punch the keys on a piano for dramatic emphasis. Mostly it's exchanges like, "Lay off the grain, will ya?" –"Shaddup!"

These guys are extremely underdeveloped. "You crazy ape!" The drinking game-inclined could surely try something involving each utterance of "Shaddup."

"SHADDUP!"

And on the side of the 'good guys,' it's even worse. The pursuing FBI men have all the personality of a pack of Little Debbie lemon wafers, and our doctor/paramour has a propensity for announcing positively groan-inducing dialogue to our cured Ms. Crawford–

"I'm sure your life is gonna be much BRIGHTER from now on," or "In many ways, you've opened MY eyes," to name a few.

The cinematography by Ted D. McCord (THE TREASURE OF THE SIERRA MADRE, EAST OF EDEN) is sharp and atmospheric. Stark underlighting in the clinic scenes lends the film a disorienting, nearly expressionistic quality, but you can't help but wonder if they were simply emulating DARK PASSAGE. A few slow, overlapping fades produce some abstract, bizarre imagery (I mean, more than usual).

A subliminal skull? (Click the pic for a larger view.)

Crawford's beauty is referenced just about every five minutes. I have to wonder if it was in her contract. But she spends most of the film sort of looking off into the distance with a troubled expression.

Is she perhaps deriving some secret satisfaction by visualizing herself dismembering her studio adversaries?

Hard to say. There's a fantastic moment when she leaps into action in a kitchen, insisting that she'll make the salad dressing. (?!)

I think it's safe to say that even Bob Mitchum would look more at home in the kitchen, tossing on an apron and cooking up a storm. Look at the utterly macabre, alien glare with which Crawford regards her child co-star. Is she visualizing another dismemberment? Is she just looking for an excuse? Perhaps a wire-hanger left carelessly on the countertop? A wire-hanger left by a little girl who's clearly asking for a cudgeling? Later on, the girl remarks "Your salad dressing was wonderful!" Seriously? Isn't it just olive oil, maybe some lemon, a touch of pepper if we're lucky? But nevermind. I'd rather not go on the record as criticizing Ms. Crawford's kitchen prowess. After all, THIS WOMAN IS DANGEROUS. Three stars.

Side note: and there's a pretty schweet stunt near the end, where a man is shot from a ladder, crashes through a plate glass window, and lands with a bone-crunching *WHOMP* on the floor. Fine stuntwork, fellas!


-Sean Gill

Film Review: STRAIT-JACKET (1964, William Castle)

Stars: 4 of 5.
Running Time: 93 minutes.
Notable Cast or Crew: Joan Crawford, George Kennedy.
Tag-line: "HER HUSBAND... HER ROOM... AND ANOTHER WOMAN."
Best one-liner(s): "I hate you! I hate you! I hate you! No I didn't mean that, I love you. I hate you!"


For camp lovers, 'hag horror' pictures from the early 60's are a treasure trove of pissed-off aging starlets delivering magnificent performances in B-pictures that teeter on the edge of mockery of said starlets. Joan Crawford and Bette Davis are obviously the giants of the genre, and while BABY JANE might have showcased Bette's lunacy moreso than Joan's, STRAIT-JACKET shows that Joan can pretty well hold her own. See 59-year-old Joan play a 29-year-old in flashbacks. See prominently displayed product placement for Pepsi, since Joan was married to the president (and see one of the Pepsi VPs as the Doctor in a particularly painfully-acted role). See Joan get wasted and come on to her daughter's boyfriend by interminably fingering his mouth. See Joan wear a wig, scary makeup, and Gypsy-esque jewelry in an attempt to recapture her glory days. This is about as good as it gets, ladies and gentlemen.

Combine this with a script by Robert Bloch (PSYCHO) and direction by gimmick-monger William Castle (THE TINGLER), and you've got the unholy fusion of A and B pictures, a wagonload of decapitations, plenty of screaming, and lots and lots of creepy Crawford eyebrow action. "YOU'RE RIGHT! It WASN'T a sanitarium! It was an ASYLUM!! But I'm all better now!!!"

Also of note: check out the whacky Columbia end credit.

And if you see it on DVD, you must watch the Joan Crawford costume and makeup tests, as they're more intense and frightening than the film itself.


-Sean Gill