Wise: Howdy, Werth.
Werth: Hello, Wise. You look exhausted. And what's with all the bags?
Wise: It was Fashion Week here in New York last week, and I've been inspired to live with a greater sense of style. So, I've been out shopping, trying to discover my very own je ne se quoi.
Werth: And what have you found?
Wise: That fashion is probably best left to the professionals and the teenage gazelles that inspire them. Still, it's nice to look good, and when I can't afford the latest from Lanvin, I like to return to one of the style icons of the Silver Screen: William Powell in The Thin Man.
Werth: You've sung the stylish praises of Nick and Nora Charles once before.
Wise: Which is part of the pleasure of MGM's greatest detective duo: there's always another sequel to enjoy. After the Thin Man (1936) begins a few days after the events of the first film as Nick (Powell) and Nora (the ever delightful Myrna Loy) alight from the train in their hometown of San Francisco, anxious to begin celebrating New Year's Eve.
But first they have to overcome two obstacles: the crowd of unruly uninvited guests already jammed into their home and a last-minute invitation to dinner from Nora's strident Aunt Katherine (Jessie Ralph). Once there, they discover that Nora's cousin Selma (Elissa Landi) is miserable because her two-timing husband has been missing for days. Even her childhood sweetheart David Graham (Jimmy Stewart) can't seem to cheer her up.
Werth: Maybe she should try jumping off a bridge and being saved by an angel.
Wise: Escaping Selma's tears (and Aunt Katherine's stultifying guests) Nick and Nora head to a nightclub where they find Selma's ne'er do well husband Robert (Alan Marshall) making time with a two-bit nightclub singer (Dorothy McNulty who later took the name Penny Singleton and provided the voice for Jane Jetson). Robert recently convinced David to pay him off for leaving Selma, and when he turns up with a bullet in his back, Selma is the number one suspect, and Nick and Nora begin to investigate.
Their search turns up an assortment of petty thieves, gangster lowlifes, stereotyped evil Asians, and a load of slapstick provided by Powell's tippling and their loyal dog Asta's not-so-loyal doggie wife.
Werth: That bitch.
Wise: As in the first film, the clues don't exactly lead up to the final revelation, but who really cares when the detectives are as charming as these?
Not exactly a matinee idol, Powell and his tailor managed to transform him into one of the most debonair figures in Hollywood history: handsome, elegant, and charming no matter how much hooch he's poured down his gullet. His trademark pencil mustache and swank double breasted suits with sharp lapels make him the epitome of style no matter the era. And Myrna Loy, who began her career as little more than a pretty face, livens her beauty with crack comic timing, making her the fantasy wife of millions of moviegoers. (She also gets to wear a jaw-dropping sequined gown that reveals plenty of décolletage and almost all of her back.) Their pairing makes the perfect fashion statement, whatever the season.
Werth: The fashion statement of Todd Haynes' Velvet Goldmine (1998) would be a tad more overstated than Mr. Powell's. Set in the wild era of 70's glam-rock and after, Goldmine follows reporter Arthur Stuart (Christian Bale) as he tries to find out whatever happened to his rock idol, Brian Slade (Jonathan Rhys Meyers) ten years after his 1974 feathery, faked assassination. The film becomes a glittery trip down memory lane as Stuart interviews an old manager (Michael Feast) and Slade's sycophantic ex-wife Mandy (Toni Collette) about the time they spent with the ego-maniacal performer.
Wise: So, sort of a disco-era Citizen Kane, only this time Rosebud's a Moog synthesizer.
Werth: The timeline gets all jumbled as flashbacks collide and Stuart's own personal memories become intertwined with the saga of Brian Slade. The film's exploration of "otherness" and adoration is a mass of intense visual design, erotica, and fashion.
Sandy Powell's Oscar-nominated costumes bring the age back to vivid life with platform shoes and boots, boas, neckscarves, tight jeans, velvet jackets, and glitter adorning nearly every character, with the exception of when Ewan McGregor bares it all (and I mean all) on stage as the savage Curt Wild.
Wise: That's one rock show I'd pay to see.
Werth: Slade's show costumes are inspired constructions reminiscent of the creations from David Bowie's Ziggy Stardust period. Bowie himself pulled his support of the film when he realized Haynes was basing it on unauthorized bios of Bowie, but the resemblances to infamous performers like Iggy Pop, Lou Reed and even Kurt Cobain are unmistakeable.
Goldmine feels like an extended music video at times, but then, looking back, perhaps that's the best way to depict that era. Haynes' focus on fashion goes beyond simple replication and celebrates the sense of identity, sexuality, and freedom that clothing can bring. So even if I wouldn't be caught dead in sequin-studded tights with thigh-high purple platform boots and a Louis XIV velvet jacket—
Wise: You wouldn't?
Werth: Maybe for next week's Film Gab.
Werth: Happy post-Valentine's Day, Wise!
Wise: Happy post-Valentine's Day, Werth. Did you do anything romantic yesterday?
Werth: I was too busy being overwhelmed by all the romantic movies that are out right now: Josh Duhamel and some blond girl in Nicholas Sparks' latest romantic schlock Safe Haven; a teen witch falls in love with a human in Beautiful Creatures; even a zombie gets impaled by Cupid in the zom-rom-com Warm Bodies.
Wise: Better Russell Stovers than trying to eat your date's brains.
Werth: Romance and the silver screen have had a long affair—almost from the very beginning with the scandalous short The Kiss (1896). One of my favorite romantic comedies gave the genre a re-boot in 1959. Pillow Talk stars Doris Day as Jan Morrow, an interior decorator (they weren't desginers yet) who lives the single-girl life in New York City.
Wise: Sex and the studio-back-lot-version-of-the-city.
Werth: Complicating her nights out with handsy Phi Beta Kappa boys and marriage-proposing clients is the fact that she can't use her phone because the man she shares it with (they were called party lines, kids... and the phones had rotary dials) is too busy wooing chippies with mediocre love tunes.
Wise: Now there's an app for that.
Werth: But what Jan doesn't know is that her unwanted phone pal, Brad Allen (handsome as all get-out Rock Hudson) has, through a set of coinicidences that could only happen in a Fifties Romatic Comedy, found out who she is and decides to woo her by pretending to be a visiting Texas cowpoke.
With an accent that would make Hudson's character from Giant see red, Brad proceeds to sweep Jan off her feet to get back at her for putting a crimp in his bachelor lifestyle. What makes this film more intriguing than some of its corny predecessors is how it explores a freer sexuality while at the same time maintaining a sense of Fifties sexless decorum.
Split-screen scenes with Jan and Brad on the phone take place in bed and even the bathtub, the two seemingly touching sudsy feet across the telephone line.
Wise: FaceTime on the iPhone just isn't nearly as alluring.
Werth: Brad's swinging lifestyle—complete with living room switches that activate record players, mood lighting, extendable beds and a rape-tastic door lock—is smoothed out by the boyish charm that Hudson exudes.
His scene where he tries to make Jan think he is gay is so meta in its depiciton of a gay man playing a straight man playing a gay man who's not really gay, that you can't help but sing "You Lied" along with Perry Blackwell. Day is pluckily prim as Jan, the sexuality she is smothering always ready to come flaming back to life for the right guy.
Expert character work from Tony Randall as a millionaire mama's boy and Thelma Ritter as Jan's drunk maid add to the fun in this flick that is tentatively turning the corner of the Eisenhower Fifties to the Swingin' Sixties.
Wise: Since then lots of films have aspired to the heights of the iconic Day/Hudson pairing, but one film aspired harder than most: Down With Love (2003) attempts to recreate the winking sexuality of its predecessors while also layering on its own winks to telegraph an even wink-ier level of camp
Werth: That's a lot of winking
Wise: Renée Zellweger stars as Barbara Novak, a single gal and successful author of the titular tome advising women to forget love and enjoy a single life unfettered by the prim mores of the past. Of course, this seditious talk brings the social and commercial life of New York to a grinding halt as women flee both their sweethearts and their Selectrics.
The only hope for the city is caddish magazine writer Catcher Block (Ewan McGregor) who has a talent for the ladies and timely exposés. Disguising himself as a chaste astronaut, Catcher attempts to turn the tables on Barbara by driving her so wild with unfulfilled desire that she'll admit to wanting a husband more than a career.
Werth: I'd admit that to Ewan McGregor before the opening credits were through.
Wise: The film's designers beautifully recreate the color saturated look of idealized 60's New York, particularly in Barbara's costumes and Catcher's swank bachelor pad.
David Hyde Pierce turns up in the Tony Randall role as Catcher's fey and fumbling boss, and would have stolen the show had not the real Tony Randall appeared in cameo as Barbara's stentorian publisher.
The plot is jam-packed with the kind of plot twists, missed connections and mistaken identities that once made audiences cheer for the inevitable coupling of Doris and Rock, but something about the pairing of Zellweger and McGregor falls flat.
Zellweger's pout and determined squint seem a poor match to Day's pixie sharpness, and while McGregor fares better with his boyish charm, he lacks Hudson's broad-shouldered masculinity. Still, the film ends on a high note with the pair singing a swinging love duet that hints at the chemistry the two might have displayed in a film better suited to their charms.
Werth: I hope all this talk about romantic movies doesn't give you a love hangover.
Wise: Just a handful of leftover Sweethearts candy and a cup of joe and I'll be more than ready for next week's Film Gab.
Werth: Cheerio, Wise.
Wise: Pip, pip, Werth.
Werth: It's good to see you already in your tweeds and mackintosh, ready to celebrate the birthday of one of Great Britain's greatest sons: Sir Winston Churchill.
Wise: Oh, actually I was inspired to get my Saville kit on because of my new Dame Judy Dench eau de cologne. It's smells of violets and withering sarcasm.
Werth: Whatever your reason, a celebration of British film is always in order. The Revolutionary War may have separated our two nations politically, but nothing could sever us cinematically.
Wise: Except possibly a second Brüno movie.
Werth: Nothing is more British than "Boy Wonder" director, Alfred Hitchcock and his film, The Lady Vanishes (1938). His second-to-last film shot in England before he came to our jolly shores is not as spine-tingling as some of his later knife-wielding fare, but what Lady lacks in scares, it makes up for in pure, English charm. Young playgirl Iris (Margaret Lockwood) is headed back to England to wed her dull as dishwater fiancé, when she befriends sweet little old lady Miss Froy (Dame May Whitty) on the train.
Wise: Because air travel just isn't suitable for afgans, kittens and knitting.
Werth: After a cup of tea in the dining car with her chatty new travel companion, Iris passes out—and when she awakens she discovers Miss Froy is missing. And when I say "missing" I mean nobody on the train remembers her ever being there.
The only person who semi-believes that Iris' Miss Froy ever existed is folkdance enthusiast and romantic lead, Gilbert (Vanessa and Lynn's papa, Michael Redgrave.)
Wise: I guess he boned up his investigative skills while dancing the mazurka.
Werth: As Iris and Gilbert endeavor to find out what became of Miss Froy they find themselves entangled in a web of lies and intrigue that only the great Hitchcock himself could untangle. Film theorists have suggested the film is actually Hitchcock's wake-up call to England to stop appeasing Hitler and get ready for war.
But Hitch was never asked that question, so we are left to wonder if the camaraderie of all the English train passengers against the Italian and vaguely Teutonic villains (including a magician, a surgeon, a nun in heels and a highly-coiffed wife of the Minister of Propaganda) was political rhetoric or just good clean fun. But however you watch The Lady Vanishes, you are sure to walk away pleased by its generous helpings of Anglo appeal and who-dunnit-ry.
Wise: Sometimes a film that seems veddy, veddy British on the surface, is actually an American film in disguise. Emma (1996), despite the Jane Austen source material and the cast jam-packed with Shakeaspearian thespians, stars Los Angeles-born Gwyneth Paltrow as the titular misguided matchmaker and was written and directed by Douglas McGrath who cuts his teeth behind the scenes at Saturday Night Live.
Werth: What? Roseanne Roseannadanna wasn't the cinematographer?
Wise: Originally conceived as a contemporary version of the Austen classic, McGrath decided to make a period film after learning that Amy Heckerling's Clueless was already in production. Still, the finished film feels very modern. Paltrow's Emma, displaying a creditable English accent, spars both verbally and physically (they are both, somewhat surprisingly, ardent archers) with Mr. Knightly (Jeremy Northam).
She also has a giddy flirtation with Ewan McGregor's Frank Churchill and is pursued by a very persistent Alan Cumming as Mr. Elton.
Werth: I can tell you right now who would I would rather take to the Cock & Bull.
Wise: Although there are moments that feel more like a Laura Ashley catalog than like a faithful adaptation of Jane Austen, the film is generally a pleasure, particularly Paltrow's chemistry with Northam who displays a sly wit along with Knightly's requisite bluster.
Toni Collette, who's great is just about everything she does, has a lot of fun as Harriet Smith, Emma's moony and readily manipulated friend.
Werth: Nothing's better than being moony and readily manipulated.
Wise: Much of credit for the film's freshness goes to McGrath's energetic direction. Obviously not bogged down by reverence for lugubrious period detail, McGrath manages the action with alacrity and wit, emphasizing the humor of the characters rather than replicating 19th Century manners.
Werth: I think we should watch our proper manners, and thank all our Film Gab readers terribly, terribly much for reading and whatnot.
Wise: And bid them to return next week for crumpets and gab.
Werth: Indubitably.
Werth: It's here, Wise!
Wise: My Wizard of Oz press-on nails?
Werth: No, the much anticipated Ridley Scott-directed Alien prequel Prometheus!
Wise: Oh, then perhaps you'll be interested in this crocheted Alien wall-decor.
Werth: I'm excited to see the new movie—but I'm trying to keep my expectations low. I fear Scott's budgets and storytelling have evolved into monster-sized messes.
Wise: With recent disappointments like Robin Hood (2010)and Body of Lies (2008) to his credit, why would you think that?
Werth: I guess it can all be chalked up to Hollywood success, but Scott's career didn't start off so extravagantly. Scott's second film, Alien (1979) spawned a dynasty of six movies and counting, comic books, videogames and a rabid fanbase of fan fiction writers, expanding the film's story into epic, Star Wars-like proportions. But despite all of that, the first Alien is amazingly simple.
The crew of the deep-space mining vessel Nostromo is awakened from their cryogenic sleep midway through their journey home by the ship's computer, Mother, because she has intercepted a distress call.
Wise: Making it the worst bit of Mother's advice since Janet Leigh stepped into that shower.
Werth: What the crew finds on the planet surface below is far from in trouble, however, and soon they are fighting for their lives against a seemingly unstoppable alien with two sets of choppers.
Wise: Martha Raye?
Werth: What made Alien so unique was that it was more than just a horror movie in space. Scott wove themes of feminism into the film by making the hero a heroine. Ripley as portrayed by Sigourney Weaver is not a terrified girl who screams and bites her hand when she is confronted by danger (that role is left to Veronica Cartwright who plays Lambert). Ripley is smart and inventive and it is her caution and chutzpah that allow her to survive.
Wise: That and the prospect of starring in three sequels.
Werth: While many horror/sci-fi movies from that period look like they were made on a shoestring budget and practically beg the audience to laugh at them, Alien takes itself seriously—in a good way. H.R. Geiger's set and alien designs are works of art. Scott's shooting style is elegant and purposeful with a slow-building tension that pays-off brilliantly with one of the best "gotcha" moments in film history.
Its gore is startling, but not excessive, making the audience grip their seats more from what Scott doesn't show, than from what he exposes. Watching James Cameron's steroid-injected sequel Aliens (1986), really highlights how Scott's use of less in the first film was more.
I have a feeling that when I sit in my stadium seat with my IMAX 3D glasses and watch Scott attempt to recapture Alien's magic through CGI sunsets and Charlize Theron's skintight jumpsuit, I'll be nostalgic for a simpler time.
Wise: Things are never simple in Black Hawk Down (2001), Scott's adaptation of the non-fiction book of the same name by Mark Bowden about the United Nations' 1993 peacekeeping mission to Somalia where a devastating famine erupted into civil war. The film depicts an attempt by U.S. forces to capture two top lieutenants of Somali warlord Mohamed Farrah Aidid after the withdrawal of the majority of the peacekeepers. During the raid, a series of mistakes, compounded by extraordinary bad luck, tumbles the mission into chaos, and eventually results in a re-evaluation of then-President Clinton's foreign policy strategy.
Werth: Try taking that to a pitch meeting.
Wise: It's a complicated film addressing complex issues and a tangled chain of actions and reactions. And even though a raft of screenwriters whittled the 100 key characters from the book into a more manageable 39 role, the film still feels overstuffed.
Josh Hartnett plays Staff Sergeant Matthew Eversman who takes command of his first mission after his lieutenant is felled by a seizure; Ewan McGregor plays nebbishy desk clerk John Grimes, nervously taking on his first battle;
Orlando Bloom plays teenage recruit Todd Blackburn who quickly realizes he is in over his head; and Eric Bana plays swaggering Delta Force Sergeant Norm Gibson.
Werth: Without all the war stuff, it could have been another Magic Mike.
Wise: While the cast may be a look book of handsome young Hollywood, Scott refuses to allow the picture to devolve into war film clichés by documenting the terror and stupidity of war as well as the heroics.
There are gorgeous shots of helicopters zooming across dusty plains, a city haunted by civil unrest, and close-ups of men facing down terrors worse than they've ever imagined. In some ways, Black Hawk Down resembles Alien without all the sci-fi trappings: the characters battle a faceless enemy that lurks around every corner, as well as the enemy that lurks inside.
And like John Hurt's famously gut-busting encounter with the alien, these soldiers must confront the possibility that they have already succumbed to the horror that surrounds them.
Werth: So, Wise, are you ready to succumb to the Prometheus juggernaut?
Wise: I'll keep pretending it's just Michigan J. Frog.
Werth: Just bring your straw hat and cane to next week's Film Gab.
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