The Sky's The Limit (1943)

I haven't posted in over a year.  I'm so damn bored that I've decided to resume this thing, at least for now.  So once again I'm twisting in the wind and have rejoined the innumerable ranks of opinionated assholes with a blog.

There are so many wartime movies that treat the frontline as if it were one big party, full of flag-waving and characters espousing dated American values, so The Sky's The Limit is an oddity:  a wartime musical that is cynical about the war and actually critical about homefront patriotism.

Fred Astaire plays a Flying Tiger on leave who wants to get off the war bond tour he's stuck on and just get laid.  The train he's on stops in the middle of nowhere and he sneaks off.  Astaire did a lonely, middle-of-the-night solo on a train trestle high above a ravine.  This was shot over the course of days, with great expense to the RKO special effects department, but for some reason the scene was cut from the film and is apparently lost.  Too bad, for the insight this gives to the character he plays...dancing high in the air, flanked on either side by a deadly fall, is an effective metaphor and is recalled for his final solo of the film.  The object of his lust is played by Joan Leslie, a young magazine photographer who views the war almost strictly as a career opportunity, begging her editor to put her "where the action is."  Over the course of their brief romance, he hides his true profession, worried that he'd spend the remainder of his leave "telling her all about China."  His character doesn't care, about anything really, for he knows probable death awaits him once his leave is up.  But (of course) he starts to feel true love towards Leslie, and this fills him with what could only be described as anger and bitterness over his precarious situation.  In the end, Leslie finds out who he really is.  The war, which before she had viewed as a chance to further her ambitions, now takes on a whole new meaning.  No flag-waving here.  Near the conclusion, Astaire, in a drunken rage, smashes up a bar (because sugar was rationed, real glass was used, which cut up Astaire's hands and ankles).  One of the only instances where a tap dance was choreographed to express anger;  Astaire's body is like a coiled spring and he lays into the floor like a jackhammer.  This tremendous number is the Johnny Mercer/Harold Arlen classic "One For My Baby", and after Astaire demolishes the place, he toasts the two things that are causing his grief: Leslie and the war..."Make it one for my baby / and one more for the road / that long, long, road."


The film is filled with draft-dodgers, corrupt politicians, incompetent war profiteers.  There is even a scene (which really sours Astaire's mood) where the film's producer hired an actual war widow to tearfully christen a fighter jet...the same kind of jet that malfunctioned and killed her husband.  The film was a modest success, but people didn't get it.  Some critics noticed something "vaguely disturbing" (James Agee in The New Yorker) but ultimately dismissed it as another frothy Astaire musical.  This is clearly an anti-war film, a musical drama.  An intelligent, well acted, very moving film.  This deserves rediscovery.

Tabloid (2010)

Errol Morris documentary about an ex-beauty queen who kidnaps and "rapes" this mormon guy. It was okay, this woman was really annoying. I'm getting a little sick of Morris and his cutesy-poo approach to gussying up the talking head documentary. I'm actually getting a little sick of writing this blog. I've written nearly two hundred of these things and cast them into the ether, I feel like I'm talking to myself. I have no aspirations to be a writer, and maybe five people ever bother to read this. I'm just another one of those assholes spouting his opinion on the internet. No one gives a shit. Henceforth I shall limit sharing my opinion of movies and various other things to the few people I share a drink and a smoke with. The End.

Withnail & I (1987)

I managed to avoid this at age sixteen when it played the art houses here in Chicago. I've since delayed seeing it due to my intense dislike of actor Richard E. Grant, to call him "hammy" would be an understatement. Since its release, it has become sort of a British Big Lebowski, with a rabid cult following (another reason not to see it). Imagine my shock and pleasure when I finally sat down to watch it and really enjoyed the damn thing.

It stars Grant (Withnail) and Paul McGann (I) as English out of work actors, years after graduating drama school, living in extreme poverty and battling bitterness. They are more likely to spend their last pounds on whiskey and a pack of smokes than food. When hunger, disillusionment, and booze start to take a serious toll on their sanity, they opt to get out of London for a weekend in the countryside, courtesy of Withnail's swishy, well-to-do Uncle Monty (Richard Griffiths, who with this movie and The History Boys, is British film's definitive elderly pervert).

The comedy is broad, but spot-on (either Grant was perfect casting as a puffed-up, prancing actor, or he became Withnail and has been ever since). This is also about the dreaded realization that you may not have talent, and the film is permeated with dashed dreams and lost ambition. Writer/director Bruce Robinson manages what the Coen brothers often attempt but rarely achieve: A film that is at once wildly funny and terribly serious, with an absurd tone that isn't at the expense of humanity or character. Unlike Lebowski, this deserves its cult.

Rare Exports: A Christmas Tale (2010)

Downright bizarre Finnish film written and directed by Jalmari Helander about a top secret archeological dig that frees the real, monstrous, horned Santa Claus after he/it had been buried in ice for hundreds of years. Santa's evil little helpers soon are kidnapping and torturing "naughty" children, and the only thing that can stop them is a small boy who happens to be one of the only "nice" ones in the world. Not quite sure what to make of this. It's vaguely disturbing and vaguely funny, and by the time you're wrapping your mind around the proceedings, it's abruptly over (72 minutes!). Interesting, but not neccessarily exciting...with lots and lots of full frontal elf nudity.

Le Quattro Volte (2010)

A film about, and told from the perspective of, a goat herder, a goat, and a tree. Without any dialog, and without any thundery bullshit, it effectively conveys how every living thing is connected. Beautiful to look at and surprisingly deep, writer/director Michelangelo Frammartino stages elaborate long takes, each one serene yet packed with visual details. And at 90 minutes, it left me wanting more, a rare occurrence (I've noticed that running times have been getting mercifully shorter lately). This will either bore you or mesmerize you, depending on your nature. I thought it was lovely.

Crazy Stupid Love (2011)

Romantic comedy starring Steve Carell, Julianne Moore, Ryan Gosling, and Emma Stone. There were some scenes I loved, then it got crazy and stupid. Considering what passes for a romantic comedy these days, this is for sure a cut above. With the annual Garry Marshall cavalcade of crap and Katherine Heigl releasing turds into the water supply, it has been rough times for people like me who happen to like romantic comedies AND like movies. I was relieved it wasn't moronic and insincere. However, if rom-coms aren't your thing, this is skippable.

Margin Call (2011)

Ensemble drama written and directed by J.C. Chandor, based on the financial collapse of 2008. I don't know a goddamed thing about finance (and apparently neither do most of the characters in this movie) so I won't go into plot specifics. The whole cast (well, except for maybe Demi Moore, who just seems to be standing around a lot) is pretty phenomenal. Particularly Kevin Spacey (a relief to see him in a quality movie, although he does revert to his half-assed Jack Lemmon impersonation at times) Paul Bettany, and Jeremy Irons (who comes off over-the-top at first, but by the end of the film has racked up some of the best scenes). Chandor stuffs his script with crackling, Dalton Trumbo-esque dialog, everyone's making speeches in this. The actors utter these lines with such glee you can forget you're watching a film about derivatives, and occasionally even tune out the lame music score. This is a good one. Also starring that guy from The Mentalist (don't know his name and don't feel like opening another tab to find out), Stanley Tucci, Penn Badgley, and Zachary Quinto's eyebrows.