The Entertainer

Archie Rice (Laurence Olivier), a struggling performer, the thrill of the stage, pressing forward ever onwards, hypothetical airtight integration, elastic dynamism salacious foothold.

Perpetual indulgence subjective omniscience fragile attachments paternal reprimands, constant motion deconstructing the breeze, leaving behind scattered remnants of ripe potential (he always knows what to say, or at least always says something).

Pressures paramount tactile gravity hands-on harkened hexed hashed haberdashery, innate insouciance magnetic pulse wayward rhythm irresistibility (people love him).

The hand that's dealt enriching bluff prevarication, smooth operation bewildering necessity (he's creative).

Extolled acquiescence resigned caricature agile concise persevering flexibility, dismissive of resonant embanked calculus, he'd be lost if he wasn't adrift (he's broke).

His inspired reactions lack sympathy for his loved ones, who've grown weary but haven't withdrawn.

Not one to dwell on the past or much besides the immediate moment, he tries to find revenue to launch his new show.

The moment dictates how he'll act and he can no longer write his own cheques.

But he'll do anything to secure independence, no matter what it might dutifully cost him.

Not that he isn't in fact independent, I'd argue he's never known fetter or chain, not that there aren't obligations he negotiates, he just always does so with purest freewill (not me).

In every conversation there's an anecdote or comparison, a reminiscence, a synthesis, a parallel, some truths requiring absurd empathy, as he pulls everyone into his sphere.

He's the kind of person who makes for great conservation and if things aren't too serious a reliable friend, especially if you happen to be in a pub, or heaping praise on his struggling show.

He's aware of responsibility and wants to be responsible but his fluctuating lifestyle makes it quite difficult, he has to create both audience and opportunity and build on whatever momentum's available.

If it's lavish, well then, he's responsible, and if not, fugaciously so.

Things haven't been lavish for some time and people have become rather critical.

But he's far too carefree for critiques, and does his best to verbosely withstand.

The Entertainer presents a showperson who's also a husband, father, and son, who isn't so far gone he's insufferable, but is still by no means sure and steady.

The attention to detail's incredible and it aptly entwines cerebral senses, less luscious conceptions of performance critiquing rowdier, gaudier ways.

Plenty of character, comedy, tragedy, inherent intrigue residual calm, a fascinating script by one John Osborne, that doesn't spare romance or conflict.

Laurence Olivier is once again outstanding (there's so much Olivier in this film) and presents another character who must be seen.

He was quite active for someone so talented (from a contemporary perspective) and played wonderfully unorthodox roles.

No wonder his fans never forgot him.

*This review is about Archie Rice in The Entertainer, who's struggling to keep performing on stage. His character's somewhat sympathetic if not conceited and there's no doubt he's a feisty cynosure. I don't know how the world moves forward from the President of the United States suggesting people inject disinfectants. It's beyond irresponsibility. It's a whole new level of recklessness all its own. Please don't inject disinfectants. Injecting disinfectants will probably kill you.

Bunny Lake is Missing

The routine act of registering a child in school is scandalously uprooted when it's discovered she's disappeared.

Her mother (Carol Lynley as Ann Lake) is confused when she finds out she's vanished, her brother (Keir Dullea as Steven Lake) offering support as they search the school.

The police are swiftly notified and an eccentric detective (Laurence Olivier as Superintendent Newhouse) takes the case, whose critical observations extend well beyond strict diagnoses.

Details are routinely compiled as the case becomes more and more disconcerting, an enigmatic school mistress offering her take (Martita Hunt as Ada Ford), a creepy landlord (Noël Coward as Horacio Wilson) a shoulder to cry on.

Bunny's things are missing too even after having been dropped off that morning, and the school never received their payment, and there's no record of her having entered England.

Her mother searches for tactile evidence as her brother castigates the police, who go about their sleuthing while ignoring vain caprice.

Deep ends derailed demonstrative vital ascertained stitched clues, alas the story preordains constituents bemused.

How anyone could have fabricated such a story leads to reasonable thought?

Which proves that logic's sometimes absent when discerning carnal plot.

The cogent disbelieving wildly plead and then persist.

But proof cannot be found that one dear Bunny Lake exists.

In terms of character, writing, cinematography, and otherworldliness, Bunny Lake is Missing mesmerizingly impresses.

If you like odd expressive moderately successful characters it's an essential tour de force.

The superintendent has dismissive or laudatory or bored or incisive comments for everything, and he'd be as easy going as a studio musician if he weren't investigating crime.

And you could put up with him.

The school mistress shares unorthodox yet keen views which upset those unfamiliar with her style, but don't mistake her candour for tomfoolery as she clarifies.

The scenes where she interacts with Olivier are priceless uncut gems, striding forth with striking brilliance that resplendently descends.

Then there's creepy Horacio Wilson, the pervy landlord who I thought was the inspiration for Repulsion, after concluding that Bunny Lake inspired Rosemary's Baby, but Lake and Repulsion were both released in the same year (1965).

I didn't check the months.

It's like you have bored yet vigorous intellectuals occupying non-traditional roles devoutly concerned with solving a crime that's preposterously conventional.

The mystery certainly drives the plot but it still abounds with striking detail (bus drivers, junket [yeah yeah], Welsh poetry, the Zombies, tips, book writing), what would working life be like without conversation that doesn't necessarily relate to the topic at hand?

It's like consequent absurdity that's as flamboyant as it is concrete, that demands you take it seriously while taunting you for doing so.

Outstanding writing (John & Penelope Mortimer and Ira Levin [adapted screenplay]) and sincere cinematography (Denys N. Coop) complement Otto Preminger's direction.

It's a bit creepy yet still a must see.

Olivier's range is mind-boggling.

Black Moon

If you're wondering how old school independent filmmakers used to envision alternative realities without computerized special effects, Louis Malle's Black Moon is a stunning working example.

Unless you want something lighter.

Cherished freedoms have been ravaged by fanatical elements violently spreading wanton destruction, as a terrified individual drives through the countryside intent on discovering sanctuary.

(I do not mean that the quarantine is something negative that is taking away freedoms. People are fighting a war in Black Moon. The quarantine is necessary to stop the spread of a virus that is killing thousands around the world. It's hard to spend so much time at home, but by staying at home you're saving lives).

To avoid the rage of trigger happy goons, she quickly swerves off the road, emerging in cloistered environs, fully-equipped with a grouchy unicorn.

Things seem real enough, or as if reality is traditionally composed, but as she spends more time freely exploring, things become more and more wild and creepy.

It's as if her perceptual awareness is attuned to the wrong potent frequency, unaccustomed to bizarro differences, which the residents clearly perceive.

She reacts with energetic confusion as she attempts to reasonably comprehend, acclimatizing to non-verbal communications, learning to speak with animals.

Perhaps Louis Malle rather disliked Disney's Alice in Wonderland, for Black Moon lacks its childish wonder, or at least depicts it somewhat obtusely, like it's been left outside in the cold.

Then again, perhaps Disney's Alice was frightening to many of the children who saw it, it does abound with inherent conflict, and phantasmagoric foundations.

From my middle-aged 21st century perspective, I don't find Black Moon that frightening, or at least not as haunting as Audition or Midsommar, it's not as intent on terrifying.

But if I had been raised in the fifties it may have indeed promoted despair, as Lily (Cathryn Harrison) encounters baleful beasties, and embraces disorientation.

I'm not sure if it should be classified as horror although the designation could snuggly fit, but it's perhaps beyond classification, as it transforms every time you view it.

It certainly lacks romance, or isn't enchantingly disposed, intertextual bedtime bedlam, like a fable without moral or lesson.

It tells its tale without ornate orchestration, without much statistical entitlements, creating unique innovations thereby, that leave a lasting impact.

With no concern for uplifting spirits, apart from an ethereal classical soirée, it by no means seeks happy endings, and seems to absurdly inter them.

Perfect for Halloween.

For considerations of low budget sci-fi.

Unorthodox strange elementals.

Acts of inspired independence.

The Lady from Shanghai

Trouble awaits a foolish hands-on dreamer after taking note of aesthetic charm while strollin' about one fateful evening.

From the way he speaks it's as if he's well-versed in hardboiled tactile role play, and his actions enliven romanticism recreation wit democracy.

But he's easily lured by the appeal of elegant things and dismissive of signs of betrayal, far too trusting for someone so seasoned, too caught up with enchanting ceremony.

The sharks rely on his innate good nature to proceed with nefarious intent, without even much of an effort, much persuasion, insistence, goading.

It's often fun to play games I suppose even if you're unsure of the rules, it's much less boring if they're harmless anyways, a bit of innocent light indiscretion.

Much more meaningful if they aren't too serious.

Non-threatening off hand amusement.

Like gambling, gambling's not so bad if you bet small sums and aren't upset if you eventually lose them, but if you're betting your entire pay cheque and your rent's due the instinctual thrill may be incapacitating.

Michael O'Hara's (Orson Welles) shark anecdote indicates he's a worldly man, but trips to the aquarium and the amusement park suggest he's not a serious gambler.

The destinations weren't self-generated but their applicability's by no means remote, yachting too suddenly comes to mind, sharp diversions from his not-so-steady routine.

Full-on agency he's certainly feisty and more than ready to share his opinion, but that doesn't change the fact that he's broke or single or trusting or hopeful.

I'm supposed to question whether or not it's a genre, but I think there's no doubt there's a film noir style, that filmmakers are aware of its loose narrative conventions, way more so far back in the day.

If Welles possessed such an awareness perhaps The Lady from Shanghai was a cheeky lampoon, much too subtle to emerge strictly comic, much too blunt to assume grand tragedy.

The aquarium and the fun-house suggest it's not taking itself seriously, unorthodox courtroom theatrics, an extended altercation, too many pills and it's off to Chinatown, just before the verdict descends.

If hapless film noir chumps notoriously can't piece things together, O'Hara is particularly obtuse considering his personal history.

The final shoot out's a bit far-fetched.

George Grisby's (Glenn Anders) character's ridiculous.

A wake up call perhaps that also laments such traditional dispositions, too good to be true and what have you, but who would have blamed him for trying?

Well worth it regardless of intrigue if not simply to dismiss what I'm saying, there are many great lines and scenarios, and I'd argue a love for the absurd.

The drifting labourer takes on men of means and falls for one of their wives.

Who's bashful enough to encourage him.

Distill blueprints ad infinitum.

Pépé le Moko

I was hoping for another 21 Days or Casablanca when I started to watch Pépé le Moko, my expectations leading to disappointment as it began to alternatively unreel.

But as I prepared to watch it a second time in the upcoming days I found myself eagerly anticipating Jean Gabin's (Pépé le Moko) performance, so determined yet carefree, so abounding with robust life.

The police are at their wits' end as to how to catch the infamous Pépé, who pulled off a serious heist two years ago, and found refuge in the labyrinthine Casbah.

They've tried to catch him deep within but have lost 5 officers for their troubles, the resolute Slimane (Lucas Gridoux) still unyielding, even if he's Pépé's friend.

Pépé's an admired celebrity in the Casbah (I am not Pépé le Moko) who's simultaneously loved and feared, his cohorts as loyal as honest zealots, his love interests awestruck and jealous.

The Casbah's a sanctuary for inter/national ne'er-do-wells who abide by the strictest code, 40,000 living in space built for 10, according to no tight design whatsoever.

Pépé's alright but only as long as he never leaves, and one day an ornate beauty comes a quaint and crisply calling.

His partners wonder why he isn't after the diamonds but something else has caught his eye, and he soon finds himself enamoured as they discuss days long gone by.

The film's a multilayered tapestry rich with jocose fused role play, close attention deftly required as it boldly tears and frays.

Far too blunt misgivings are critiqued while the aged lament less sophisticated pastimes, and youth proceeds unaware of danger, having grown tired of callous reprimands.

One character drifts through the eras to find solace in historical reprieve, the moment erupting with resurgent life on l'amour's rapturous melodious breeze.

Travellers seeking intrigue find notorious grand accommodation, even if within their innocent curiosity lies the portent of windswept doom.

Pépé and Slimane craft mature effervescence, as if one can't exist without the other, the absurdity of their friendship reasonably profound, both attuned to forgive not forget.

Pépé knows who's who, the score, and responds as smoothly as the situation contends, his love of gentle free-flowing elegance as sincere as his desire to follow through.

It's a shame he couldn't have invested in stratagems leading to less scandalous arrangements, where his innate charm could have effortlessly flourished upon wave after wave after wave.

But he forgets there are things people won't put up with, heartfelt dissonance animate envy, sacrifice recoiling sans reimbursement, overlooked passionate scars.

The degree of tragedy depends on your viewpoint, Pépé's certainly lost and adrift (I am not Pépé le Moko!), but what outcome would have been preferable to his spirited boundless synchronicities?

Immersed in tell-tale liberality.

Driven to sincerely love.

Intrepidly endearing.

The French Casablanca?

Tôkyô nagaremono (Tokyo Drifter)

The road to iron clad legitimacy is fraught with treacherous peril, for Tetsuya Hondo (Tetsuya Watari) in Tôkyô nagaremono (Tokyo Drifter), whose loyalty is beyond question.

His formerly criminal organization has invested in property to freely reform, but bitter rivals get word of the deal, and comport themselves bold retroactively.

Tetsuya is meek beforehand, out of respect for the honourable transaction, he takes his punishment glib disenchanted, as goons revel in unrestrained cheetah.

But as data fiercely transmits, and he must accept the rotten audacity, previous instincts hark and reckon, although he must refrain from combat.

His prowess is legendary however (not me - I'm a dork), and the wicked fear his volatile sanctions, and rest uneasy as he ably persists, notably after he sees them commit murder.

Soon he must sorrowfully withdraw, to wander distraught and alone, but his whereabouts are swiftly detected, wherever he woefully roams.

Loyalties offer safe passage, but allegiances ruefully construct both sides, the network remarkably well-integrated, cohesive, tight, interconnected.

He contemptuously dismisses another for living without a code, beyond hard-fought lovelocked fidelity, without teamwork, history, reliability.

Dependability. 

He soon encounters a reimagined schematic which challenges his strict resolve.

He's tragic but not inflexible.

With agile incredulous misgivings.

Tôkyô nagaremono emits angelic light as it chaotically discerns discrepancy, pop culture celestially bemusing as random outbursts shock and dismay.

The cultivation of foundations taunts and testifies, through the deconstruction of alliance, in touch with haunting self-sufficiencies, and acrimonious disbelief. 

Creativity pervades its reckonings as it constructs versatile truth and meaning, inspired low budget authenticity, the film itself somewhat like honest Tetsuya.

A lot of stuff just kind of happens.

It's fun to go with the flow.

Get caught up in the free-form productivity, the improvised so don't cha know? 

Perhaps seminal in terms of its influence, I imagine Tôkyô nagaremono motivated sundry filmmakers, to create not for prestige or money, but simply because there's a story to tell.

Find the crew, make it up on the fly, working with what's been established beforehand (scripts in process).

There's nothing quite like the spur of the moment.

Such raw magnetic intensity. 

Cactus Flower

Spoiler alert.

I wonder what the Me Too Movement would make of Gene Saks's Cactus Flower?

It examines a relationship forged between a middle-aged man and a younger woman. It's mutually consensual and he isn't married although he does fool around. However she thinks he is married and that whenever he heads out with another woman he's actually spending time with his wife. After she attempts suicide he decides it's time to marry her, but he needs to find someone to pretend to be his wife before she'll take him seriously. His older administrative assistant agrees to play the part but as the ruse unreels it becomes clear that she's in love with him. She's eventually had enough and tells her rival the truth, which relieves her of her burden, even if she's still in love. In the end, the doctor (Walter Matthau) realizes he's loved her all along and it's clear they're about to fall for each other. Meanwhile his old partner (Goldie Hawn as Toni Simmons) has found someone her own age with whom she seems compatible.

You could take that scenario and make whatever kind of movie but this version of Cactus Flower's a comedy, complete with loveable wayward cad.

He's living the carefree life of a freespirited duplicitous individualist but he adjusts his behaviour when the situation becomes grim, which doesn't justify the actions he took beforehand, but shows that he isn't devoid of thought or feeling.

Even though he generally proceeds as if nothing could go wrong, when something does he reacts quickly, a tarnished blemished conscience emerging from the depths of unbridled excess.

He gets together with the more mature Ms. Dickinson (Ingrid Bergman) in the final moments which suggests he's left youthful shenanigans behind, and Toni is happy with her newfound beau (Rick Lenz as Igor Sullivan [who reminded me of James Stewart]), and doesn't seem to harbour any resentment.

He's off the hook.

He wasn't a Weinstein, he wasn't forcing people to do things they'd rather not, but he was still behaving controversially without much respect for the opposite sex.

And even after his actions have dire consequences he still behaves deceitfully, yet he's still the champion of the narrative, even if it's a bit of a farce.

I imagine this is the type of narrative Me Too generally frowns upon, the good old boy proceeding sans repercussion, without hindrance, shock, or disgrace, everything still working out in the end.

As the women are written they love him, and it takes grotesque degrees of ridiculousness to engender change, he still shines forth as it happily concludes, nestled within comfortable paradigms.

I'd say it's an old style of narrative if I weren't convinced that just isn't so, As Good As it Gets a striking alternative, worth checking out if you haven't seen it.

I try not to prescribe what kind of narrative to write but Me Too's concerns are genuine.

It would be cool if they were creatively leveraged.

Could lead to compelling new ideas.

21 Days

Sometimes the clearest answer's too elemental to swiftly chime, 21 Days presenting guilt and innocence as one man reacts consumed, quixotic.

For a murder has been committed, and the wrong man could indeed be hung, guilt punishing the bona fide culprit, who decides to wait for the binding verdict.

He may be found innocent you see, and then everything's right as rain, Larry Durrant (Laurence Olivier) can marry his cherished belle (Vivien Leigh as Wanda), and perhaps raise a happy family.

He didn't mean to murder her husband, who was in fact a disreputable man, they just started fighting and he wound up dead, the intent to kill never crossed his mind.

He hides the body in an alley and it's discovered by a fallen priest (Hay Petrie as John Evan), who robs it and is caught red-handed, and presumed to be the murderer.

Durrant considers giving himself up but his brother (Leslie Banks) is a prominent lawyer, who's about to be promoted to judge, the slightest scandal would ruin his career, he begs young Larry to reconsider.

While the fallen priest stands trail for murder, Larry and Wanda have 21 days, which they spend in search of bliss, sparing no expense or liberty.

But gloom haunts their freespirited endeavours as the trial nears its catastrophic end, no family, no fantasy, no future, should erroneous guilt descend.

The fallen priest doesn't even mind.

He thinks he should be punished for his desperate action.

Thus you have a devilish comedy masquerading as sincerest drama, its amoral resonance discreetly echoing, its spirited candour dissembled code.

Not me, not this blog, 21 Days.

How could audiences have figured it out when they were having so much fun?, Laurence Olivier instinctually astounding, I see why older generations loved him so.

Its fast pace and irreverent script (Basil Dean, Graham Greene & John Galsworthy [The First and the Last]) (note the legal peeps discussing their light crimes over dinner) overflow with amorous and ethical wonder, a diabolical treat for the cheeky intellect, that leaves you feeling guilty for having appreciated it.

Don't think older generations were uniformly upright with stiff upper-lips, the cheek is always trying to break through, it's just a matter of style and timing.

Great lines nuance realistic situations with audacious unorthodox levity.

The joy of filmmaking. 😜

Also known as 21 Days Together.