Book Review: Danny Peary's Cult Midnight Movies on eBook

Cult Midnight Movies
Danny Peary
Workman Publishing, 2014

I'm delighted that Danny Peary's essays about cult movies are now available in eBook form. It's hard to explain just how important Danny Peary's books were to me as a movie-obsessed teenager. In a pre-Internet world, I relied heavily on the library for information about films and the stars I loved. It was there that I discovered Peary's now legendary Cult Movies, a book of informative and strongly opinionated reviews about unusual films with a devoted following.

Now an updated and edited selection of Peary's essays from his previous books are available in four new eBooks: Cult Crime Movies, Cult Horror Movies, Cult Sci-Fi Movies and Cult Midnight Movies. Priced at $5 and lower, they are a must-buy for any fan of bizarre movies and thoughtful film criticism. I've now bought all of them, but the Cult Midnight Movies compilation was my first look at the series.

I wondered, with all that I've learned about movies in the decades since I first picked up Peary's book, how I would respond to those essays. My original reaction was astonishment to even learn these movies existed. Now that I've seen most of the films covered here (the book appears to cover titles from all three Cult Movies books), the details are familiar, but the writing still blows me away.

Peary is remarkably suited to writing about movies. He possesses the knowledge of an academic, but reading him is more like hanging out with your cool, smart friend who doesn't take himself too seriously.

Having seen these films in the theater, before home video existed, Peary can add the audience experience to his views, which makes his essays as much a commentary on the times as the films inspired by them. He knows his film history and in making comparisons to other movies, he can make your "to watch" list grow to ridiculous proportions.

Peary is an independent thinker. He doesn't hesitate to go against critical or audience acclaim to take filmmakers to task for being pretentious (I loved his take on El Topo: "that this film is beyond our comprehension doesn't make it profound"). If he can't understand why a film has won a cult following, he'll explain exactly why. Even if you don't agree with him, you are bound to respect his opinion.

A lot has changed since Peary first started writing about films, but his criticism remains fresh, informative and entertaining. I'd recommend his books to anyone who loves movies, but particularly to newer fans, because it captures the wonder of those movies that attract a cult following, and that feeling has inspired me over many years of cinematic obsession.

Many thanks to Workman Publishing for providing a copy of the book for review.

Book Review/ Image Preview-- Cecil B. DeMille: The Art of the Hollywood Epic

Cecil B. DeMille: The Art of the Hollywood Epic

Cecilia de Mille Presley and Mark A. Vieira

Running Press, 2014

Put him opposite two actors in an intimate scene, and Cecil B. DeMille didn't know what to do. Give him a cast of thousands on a magnificent set, and he had mastery of every detail, from the tallest statue to an extra griping about lunch in the back of the room. DeMille was the Hollywood epic. That is evident in this book of rich images, well-researched text by Mark Vieira, and first-hand reminisces from the director's granddaughter Cecilia de Mille Presley and many of the people he worked with over the years.

DeMille amassed an enormous archive of materials throughout his career, from carefully composed stills, to costume sketches and concept art. These are the focus of the book, and ample proof that there truly was an art to launching a film epic. The concept art in particular is so detailed that it could hang in a museum. They are not just simple sketches and paintings, but fully-realized settings which were often transposed almost exactly to the screen. Still, while each of these artists had a unique style, in the end the vision would be pure DeMille.

The book also includes Vieira's photos of some of the props and costumes used in DeMille's films, including jewelry, crowns and swords that were all crafted in studio workshops. While all of the costumes are impressive in their way, I was especially stunned by a dress Hedy Lamarr wore in Samson and Delilah (1949), which was covered with hundreds of peacock feathers, each of which was collected from several molting birds who wandered about DeMille's country estate.

I always appreciate the care Vieira takes with his text. While no one can visually display the splendor of classic Hollywood as beautifully he does, he never skimps on the research, always telling a story that could stand on its own.

Image Credit:Cecil B. Demille: The Art of the Hollywood Epic (Running Press) 

Here he reveals a complex man. DeMille was famous for his onset tirades, often bringing actors to tears or angering technicians so they would storm off the set. It was his way of maintaining control of productions that cost thousands of dollars a minute. He needed absolute obedience.

Still, DeMille had a soft side, and while he devoted most of his time to work, he was appreciative of all life had to offer. Here this is most clearly seen in the memories his granddaughter shares about him, which show the depth of their relationship. There was also a touching story from screenwriter Lenore Coffee, who had just told the director of her pregnancy. In the midst of a grueling production schedule, the delighted director pulled her aside to share words of encouragement with her.  She was deeply touched, and remembered it as one of the kindest things anyone had ever said to her.

DeMille was known for his loyalty. When approached for work by former coworkers, he would always find a place for them. He would also do the same with favorite performers and crew. However, were this generosity not accepted, the director would become enraged and often cut off all contact, as actor Henry Wilcoxen  and director Mitchell Leisen learned firsthand. His anger would not endure though, DeMille would not hold a grudge for long and he was consistently kind to those who had wronged him.

Image Credit:Cecil B. Demille: The Art of the Hollywood Epic (Running Press)

The director was generally kind at heart, and possessed a lack of prejudice that was remarkable for the time. He had no qualms about the race, sex or sexual orientation of others. DeMille was generous to women, giving them positions in areas that were, and still are, the domain of men in Hollywood. He was especially loyal to writer Jeanie Macpherson, who would work with him until the end of her life, and editor Anne Bauchens, whom he insisted on hiring for all his films, even when he came upon resistance.

Perhaps the most remarkable thing about DeMille was that he never faded away. He filmed the first feature in Hollywood and, unlike his contemporaries, at the end of his life he was launching some of the most magnificent productions the town had ever known. His was a career of unmatched popular success, and if the critics didn't always appreciate his style, he would sometimes manage to win them over as well.

The Art of the Hollywood Epic captures this career, and the fascinating man behind it in deeply satisfying detail. The book is stunning to look at, but it also has soul.

Image Credit:Cecil B. Demille: The Art of the Hollywood Epic (Running Press)




Many thanks to Running Press for providing a copy of the book for review.

New From Warner Archive: Forbidden Hollywood, Volume 8

I'm always thrilled when a new edition of Forbidden Hollywood is released. The sets of pre-code treasures never disappoint. There's always at least a couple of titles that thrill me, and the films are all alive with that exciting honesty about life that died away when the production code was finally enforced. This latest set is especially diverse, mixing comedy and drama and settings from swanky hotels and European villas to raucous newsrooms and racetracks.

Blonde Crazy (1931)

I don't know if it is possible for me to approach this movie with a critical eye. It was the first title I saw in the Forbidden Hollywood series, back when it came in single films on VHS, and each had an introduction with Leonard Maltin, and I'll always associate it with the excitement of discovering the whole idea of pre-code films.

It's a lot of fun though. James Cagney and Joan Blondell were a great screen pair, both of them down-to-earth, but infinitely more witty and attractive than your average Joe. Here they are grifters who think themselves pretty good at the con, until they realize the real criminals are in the upper levels of society.

There's lots of mugging and goofy antics, sometimes amusing, occasionally irksome. Cagney is especially reliant on quirks. You want to cut the cast some slack though, because all the criminals, hotel bellhops and sleazy traveling salesmen are taking the talkies into new territory, something livelier than those first, creaky attempts at sound, and they're doing a fine job working out just how that should go.

Strangers May Kiss (1931)

I love a racy Norma Shearer pre-code, but I can rarely sit through the end of one more than once. They're a cinematic tease, getting you excited about Ms. Norma's feminist zeal and then giving her a quick slap on the wrist and thrusting her back into convention before the closing titles. For that reason they are all fabulous and awful at the same time; ahead of their time and too afraid to push very hard at the status quo. Still, not one is to be missed, because they all make a great early cry for female independence that still rings after their cop-out codas.

In this one Shearer tries her best to have a modern, no strings attached relationship, but she can't manage that when she falls in love. Neil Hamilton is her self-centered, world-traveling beaux, while longtime friend Robert Montgomery makes goony faces and waits for her to give him a try.

While it is difficult to stomach the star's final "Quick! Get me a husband! Take me away from all this freedom, horrible freedom!" plea, there's no forgetting the fun she's had, and the way she spoke, before she finally caves. She is at her glamorous, giggling best in astonishingly sheer, slinky evening gowns, trotting around Europe, getting herself into trouble.

When she is chastised for her behavior, she lets her lover boy know a thing or two about double standards, and that he is not free to toy with her as he pleases. Those words are strong, and you have to wonder if maybe in the end she goes the subversive route, still believing what she says. Whatever the case, no one could speak her mind about relationships like Shearer.

Hi, Nellie (1934)

I had my qualms about this newsroom comedy/drama as the first scenes unrolled. It has a slow build, relying at first on limp jokes and Paul Muni (in a rare comedy role) being heavy-handed in his attempted at a Lee Tracy-type part. While the latter would be at least amusingly obnoxious as a reporter who gets in hot water with his boss and torments a love advice columnist (Glenda Farrell), Muni is just annoying.

This all changes when the messing around develops into a good, twisty mystery plot. Muni is demoted to Farrell's position, which seems to be the punishment for all reporters that screw up at their newpaper, and he attempts to dig himself out by investigating the disappearance of a lawyer who has been accused of stealing from a bank.

Once Muni begins his detective work, he seems to forget about trying to be funny, which oddly enough makes him much funnier. He's at his best when he's so determined to get the details he needs for a blockbuster story that he forgets to be afraid. The always snappy Glenda Farrell and familiar Warner faces like Ned Sparks and Donald Meek are more at home in the comedy and also do much to improve the appeal of their star.

This is also a great flick for fashionistas, with some of the most immaculately buttoned and bowed designs I've seen in 1930s cinema.

Dark Hazard (1934)

It can be difficult to watch an Edward G. Robinson movie. So often he is a victim of fate, a beautiful woman, or both. This time he is his own worst enemy though, a gambler who, for good or ill, is living a life suited to his temperament. He is pressured to change when he marries a so-called decent woman (Genevieve Tobin). They're really both decent in their own way; she's just not eager to raise their child among her husband's wise cracking friends, never sure if he will gamble away the grocery money.

So often in these movies it is the housewife who is clearly best for the hero, who is tempted away by a shallow, but glamorous woman. Here that is not so obvious, most likely because as Robinson's old flame, Glenda Farrell is an understanding and loyal counterpoint to the sympathetic, but disapproving Tobin.

While movies about gambling generally paint a disapproving portrait of the pastime, Robinson is portrayed as being at home rolling dice and betting on horses and greyhounds. It isn't that he doesn't adore his wife, he shows himself to be very charmingly in love, but the excitement of the racetrack feeds him like nothing else. Dark Hazard handles that conflict in an unusual and deeply satisfying way.

Many thanks to Warner Archive for providing copies of the films for review. These are Manufacture on Demand (MOD) DVDs. To order, visit The Warner Archive Collection.

Quote of the Week

I work so hard before the camera and on the stage that I have neither the desire nor the energy to act in my private life. There I prefer to be myself and forget all about audiences and look after my family.

-Ingrid Bergman

Quote Source,Image Source

The Picture of Dorian Grey on Blu-ray

Actor Hurd Hatfield sealed his doom in Hollywood with his second film role, where much like Anthony Perkins in Psycho, he was almost too effective. As the star of The Picture of Dorian Gray, he not only horrified audiences, but people in the industry who could not separate the man from his performance. His elegantly cold portrayal of Gray can now be enjoyed on a new Blu-ray from Warner Archive.

Gray was Oscar Wilde's only novel. The dark tale created a scandal when it was first released in serial form in a magazine. When the chapters were collected into a book, the author wrote a preface in which he defended his art so eloquently that it became nearly as famous as the story it introduced.

Here Wilde's horror drama has been translated to the screen with all of its unease intact. The film was remarkably intense for its time, with very little to relieve the bleakness of its story.

Dorian Gray is a young, wealthy man in London. He poses for a portrait by his friend Basil Hallward (Lowell Gilmore), an experience that mysteriously unsettles the artist. He decides never to exhibit his work.

The devastatingly witty Lord Henry Wotton (played by George Sanders, because otherwise there would have been riots), also admires the portrait. Inspired by its beauty, he talks of enduring youth, and the pursuit of pleasure with such passion that the impressionable Grey decides he wishes to always appear as he does in the painting. The moment leads him to a life of soulless hedonism.

Hanging around an opium den, bringing shame to high class ladies and disturbing all of London with his never-changing visage, Grey inspires fascination as well as horror. He wins the heart of a humble singer (Angela Lansbury), but then subjects her to a cruel test of supposed decency that she is too in love to pass to his satisfaction. Watching his songbird crumble, with her soft trembling up do and perfectly placed heart locket, you feel the warmth go out of the movie.

As Grey, Hurd Hatfield defies time.

While his appearance remains unchanged, Dorian's dark deeds are recorded on his mysterious portrait, which he keeps under lock and key. In four brief shots, the ever-changing painting is shown in bright Technicolor. These moments are startling: the first glimpses are deeply sensual as you gaze upon Gray's beauty. Later views are sickeningly florid as the image becomes that of a bloodied monster.

While nothing in the production has quite the shock value of those portrait shots, it is an effectively eerie film. Hatfield's distance from the rest of the human race is captured in long shots, where he is out of focus in the distance, on the edges of normal life. Slightly off-kilter framing and other unexpected compositions help to communicate the feelings of unease and confusion Dorian causes in those around him.

Hatfield is the stand out here, perfectly cast as the handsome, but otherworldly Gray. Lansbury is the perfectly pure counterpoint to his emptiness, all warmth and acceptance. In between is the always wisecracking, but secretly decent Lord Henry, who seriously could not have been played by anyone by Sanders.

I was especially taken by Donna Reed's performance as the daughter of the portrait's artist. She is in love with Grey, or at least under his spell. Though she is known for playing characters with warm domesticity, Reed could have a bit of an edge, a hardness in her eyes. She plays that quality to good effect here, never screaming when a lady should and refusing to be oversentimental when her dreams of love disintegrate. The part could have easily been played by a bland ingénue, but the movie is much more powerful because of her interpretation.

In my research of Hurd Hatfield, I found it interesting that, much like Grey, he stayed remarkably young looking throughout his life. Though he didn't last long in the movies, he did have a long television career. Hatfield's relationship with Lansbury had a much better outcome offscreen; the two were life-long friends, and he even purchased an estate near hers in Ireland.

While the actor always regretted the impact his most famous performance had on his career, he did make a unique contribution to film as Gray. In a movie with a style and themes ahead of its time, his presence was timeless and unique.

Special features on the disc include a trailer, a Tom and Jerry cartoon and a fascinating short documentary about a pioneering mental health professional. Screenwriter and film historian Steve Haberman and Angela Lansbury provide the commentary track.

Many thanks to Warner Archive for providing a copy of the Blu-ray for review. To order, visit The Warner Archive Collection.

Retro Book Review--A Tree is a Tree, The Autobiography of King Vidor

A Tree is a Tree
King Vidor
Longmans, Green and Co., UK, 1954 (Originally published in the US, 1952)

I've never been able to understand why King Vidor remains an admired, but still strangely unsung director. His films are legendary: The Big Parade (1925), The Crowd (1928), Hallelujah (1929), The Champ (1931), Stella Dallas (1937) and Duel in the Sun (1946), and even the farm scenes in The Wizard of Oz (1939) among them. It's as if his rhythmic, socially attuned style is almost too sophisticated, too subtle to attract the attention it deserves.

Vidor was making films before anyone quite knew how they worked, documenting natural disasters and marching soldiers in his home state of Texas. By the time he made his last film in 1980, the documentary short The Metaphor, his career had lasted so long that it warranted an entry in the Guinness Book of World Records. He endured because he was determined, flexible, curious, socially-tolerant and always eager to adapt to the times.

For this reason I was thrilled to find an original UK edition of Vidor's classic autobiography in a London bookshop, when I took a trip across the pond several years ago. As often happens with the books in my own library though, it was ignored for a while. This year I decided I had to get to it.

Vidor's story is really just a personal take on the progress of moviemaking from the silent age, through the studio era to modern times. While he mentions his friendships with people in the industry, giving significant space to his personal connection to the stories of stars like John Gilbert and Mabel Normand, the director mostly writes about the process of his his work. Even his three marriages, though to women in the industry, are only given a few lines each.

Perhaps focusing on business was a wise choice though, because Vidor was not dramatic himself. He worked steadily, making projects for himself whenever the offers dried up; the director spent his money wisely and apparently never picked up any bad habits like drinking, gambling or womanizing.

This is not to say that Vidor's life was dull. He finds spice in his stories about life on set, where particularly in the early days of film getting a film made could be more exciting than the final product. No man who has been nearly shot by John Gilbert, been attacked by gypsies on a cross country drive and seen as many changes in the movies as he did could be said to have lacked for thrills.

Vidor was the most adaptable filmmaker of his generation, eagerly exploring each new innovation and trend of the industry. The director approached talkies, Technicolor, widescreen and increasingly complex modern productions with the enthusiasm of an early adopter, always changing before he was forced to go with the tide. It is this impulse, along with an ability to similarly go with the flow when studio bosses made demanding requests, that accounts for his remarkable longevity.

Maybe Vidor could have made a few more classics if he'd had a bit more fight in him, but it is clear that despite his laidback way with his employers, the director had a remarkable amount of control over the projects he made. It is likely because of the high quality of his material that he remained so absorbed in his work, relishing the challenge of creatively handling production problems. He seemed to especially have enjoyed the excitement of filming with a tight budget during the silent days, where sometimes the entire cast an crew could fit in a large car.

Vidor ends his book thirty years before his death. He has yet to film Man Without a Star (1955), War and Peace (1956) and Solomon and Sheba (1959). He will be nominated one more time for the Academy Award for best director, and he will receive an honorary award from the Academy in 1979. However, the scope of Vidor's story feels complete, because he essentially covers the birth, life and slow death of the studio era. It should be a fascinating read for anyone interested in Hollywood history.

On Blu-ray: Jazz and Gangsters in Pete Kelly's Blues (1955)

Jack Webb directs himself in the title role of this Jazz-age, gangster crime flick, now available in a gorgeous Blu-ray from Warner Archive.

As Kelly, Webb is a coronet player and leader of a speakeasy jazz combo. His life becomes more complicated when gangster boss Fran McCarg (Edmond O'Brien) starts pressuring him for a cut of his profits. He gives in, and ultimately causes tension that endangers his band, including the killing of his hot tempered drummer (Martin Milner), a tragedy which drives away his clarinetist (Lee Marvin).

In the midst of all this drama, rich flapper girl Ivy Conrad (Janet Leigh) decides that for some reason she must have Kelly. That was difficult for me to wrap my mind around, unless she was a huge music nerd. Webb does have an odd sort of charisma, but nothing about him screams romantic lead. I liked Leigh in this role though, she could have been a brat, but she comes off sympathetic, a party girl who knows she needs to find something more substantial than the shallow life she is leading.

Tension in the band increases when McCarg insists his moll Rose Hopkins (Peggy Lee) sing with Kelly's band, that is, until they hear what she can do. Abused and bullied by the gang boss, Rose survives by drowning her sorrows in booze, but her talent flows so naturally from her that it takes an enormous bender to bring her down. Whenever I see Lee act, I always think how nice it would have been if she'd done more movie roles, but then I hear her sing, and I know she spent her time the right way. She's effective as an actress, but absolutely transcendent as a vocalist and it was exciting to see her in action.

It is music interludes like Lee's, and a couple of even more astounding tunes sung by Ella Fitzgerald that make this film must see. It is such a treat to see these singing legends do their thing in a colorful, beautifully filmed production. Fitzgerald is an especially exciting presence, as she belts out Hard Hearted Hannah with beads of sweat glittering from her brow. She makes you feel the heat and excitement of the smoky club atmosphere simply by being herself.

On blu-ray the film has much more depth than I remembered from the VHS edition. It almost pops out like 3-D. The colors were vivid almost to the point of being distracting. I'd sometimes find myself ogling a red velvet chair or a being mesmerized by a green desk pad instead of following the action.

I thought the cast, while strong, was an odd mix. Andy Devine plays against type as a tough police detective, and he tones down his famous quavering voice to achieve a great menacing effect, but he always seems perched at the edge of the movie, never really a part of the action. While Lee Marvin is always an enjoyable presence, I couldn't buy him as a clarinet player. Would he have ever had the patience to sit an practice that thing? I know he had the meatier role, but he'd have been a better fit as the drum player. I never could get Leigh and Webb as a couple either. All these performers are good, but they don't seem to belong together. It all feels unfinished.

Webb did amuse me though. He's an odd actor. Usually he seems emotionless on the surface, but there's never any doubt as to what he's feeling. Somehow he is communicating with his audience. I think part of it is that there's always a bit of a wink behind that straight expression.

He's a funny screen presence, it doesn't seem to suit him as well as television did. His head is a bit too large for his body, he shuffles around like he's attached to a board, and I laughed every time he put the beat down on a man twice his size. It had the effect of wish fulfillment: a tiny, funny-looking guy being wooed by a gorgeous woman and playing hero. I loved him for bringing that dream to life, as implausible as it seemed.

Many thanks to Warner Archive for providing a copy of the Blu-ray for review. To order, visit The Warner Archive Collection.