Moviedrome Mondays: The Last Picture Show (1971)

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Once again, I could not find a video link of Moviedrome presenter Alex Cox introducing director Peter Bogdanovich’s 1971 classic drama The Last Picture Show, so my readers will have to make due with a link to his transcript (read here). The original airdate of this episode was June 19th, 1988. I wholeheartedly agree with Cox’s intro here especially on what he said about it’s use of black-and-white (which Picture Show was shot in) and how it is still very rarely used. I also agree with Cox’s words of it being about the decline of a small Texas cow town, or, if you like, the decline of the American dream (whatever that is), symbolised by the closing of the last cinema in town. I could not have said it better myself. The acting – especially by Ben Johnson and Cloris Leachman – is superb as is Bogdanovich’s direction, he and Larry McMurtry’s screenplay (adapted from the 1966 novel of the same name by the latter) and last, but not least, Robert Surtess black-and-white cinematography that gives it’s 1950’s setting a proper nostalgic tone. If any of you readers are interested in reading my list of my favorite Peter Bogdanovich films, read here. Also, here is a link to the film’s original trailer below:

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Moviedrome Mondays: Fat City (1972)

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Yet again, I could not find a link of Moviedrome presenter Alex Cox introducing this 1972 classic boxing drama, so my readers will have to read his introduction here. The original airdate of this episode was June 12, 1988. The director of Fat City is John Huston, who has directed such classics as The Maltese Falcon and The Treasure of the Sierra Madre to name just two examples. In case you readers are interested, here is a link to my list of my favorite films by him. Cox is right on just about everything here including the intimacy of it’s drama.

Anyway, here is a link to the trailer below:

Moviedrome Mondays: Big Wednesday (1978)

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Once again, I could not find a video link of Moviedrome presenter Alex Cox introducing the film, so once again, I will have to link to Moviedromer’s entry of it alone (read here). The episode’s original airdate was June 5, 1988. Cox’s analysis of John Milius 1978 coming-of-age drama about California surfers is very interesting. Though Cox agrees with the critics that Big Wednesday is “grandiose” and “pretentious” (read here), he also feels that those same words can easily apply to a lot of other good/great films – Cox cites Citizen Kane (a reported favorite of his) as one example. As much as I admire Dillinger, The Wind and the Lion, Conan the Barbarian and Red Dawn, Big Wednesday is still my favorite of all the films John Milius has directed in his career. Milius himself even cited it as a very personal film himself. In closing, what else can be said about Milius that has not been said before. According to IMDB’s (Internet Movie Database) profile on him (read here), his films often reflect his conservative political beliefs (though he personally identifies as a “zen anarchist“) and likes to say outrageous things. On the side, John Goodman’s Walter Sobchak character in Joel and Ethan Coen’s 1998 cult classic The Big Lebowski is reportedly loosely based on him (read here).

Here is a link to the film’s American trailer

 

Moviedrome Mondays: Razorback (1984)

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I know I am a little late on this one, but I could not help it, I was busy celebrating Easter yesterday 🙂 I agree with a lot of the things that Moviedrome presenter Alex Cox says about this 1984 Australian monster flick (read here). Contrary to Cox though, I am a huge fan of the “rock video school of film-making” (in his own words) that he details in that link above. The plot of this horror film revolves around the hunt for a vicious boar in Australia. What makes it fascinating lies not so much in the premise as it does in how it is executed. In this case, it is told through it’s use of fast cuts, tracking shots and use of glowing lights, “neo-noir” lighting, windblown drapery, and fans. All of these are trademarks of Australian director Russell Mulcahy according to wikipedia’s entry on him (read here). Though more well-known for directing music videos for singers like Elton John or bands like Duran Duran to name just two examples of each, Mulcahy would go on to direct the 1986 cult classic Highlander (he would also direct Highlander II: The Quickening five years later in 1991). If I were to single out two highlights of Razorback, it would be Dean Semler’s dreamy cinematography and (as Cox mentions in the link above) a surrealistic dream sequence somewhere during the middle of the film.

Since I could not find a video link to Alex Cox’s introduction, here is a link to the transcript of the Moviedrome episode that originally premiered on May 29, 1988.

Here is a link to two trailers below. This one may be for the Australian market:

 

This one was for the American market:

Moviedrome Mondays: Diva (1981)

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Moviedrome presenter Alex Cox did not seem to be a fan of this dazzling 1981 French cult thriller entitled Diva. The film was directed by Jean-Jacques Beineix and while he has directed other movies after this one (Moon in the Gutter and Betty Blue to name just two examples), Diva still remains (at least for me) his best work. The film’s visual style is rooted in a 1980’s French film movement labeled Cinema du look. According to French-born, but British-based academic/critic Ginette Vincendeau (a Professor of Film Studies at King’s College London), Cinema du look films were driven by their “high investment in non-naturalistic, self-conscious aesthetics, notably intense colours and lighting effects. Their spectacular (studio based) and technically brilliant mise-en-scène is usually put to the service of romantic plots.” Aside from Beineix, fellow French filmmakers Luc Besson and Leos Carax also contributed greatly to this movement. According to French film critic and journalist Raphael Bassan, Beineix, Besson and Carax serve as the main directors of the movement (read here). With the exception of Carax, Beineix and Besson have found themselves frequently criticized for displaying this style in their films (read here). Either that, or maybe it is the way they display it? Even If I disagree with Cox here, I do love the way he talks about it in the link below.

First, here is a link to the Diva Moviedrome episode transcript. The episode’s original airdate was May 22, 1988.

Second, here is the video link below of Alex Cox’s introduction to Diva.

 

And finally, here is a link to the original theatrical trailer below (or at least the closest I can come to finding an original theatrical trailer for it).

 

Moviedrome Mondays: Electra Glide in Blue (1973)

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Sadly, I do not have a link to Alex Cox introducing 1973’s Electra Glide in Blue on Moviedrome because their is no video of him introducing that one as of today. He did introduce the film on there, but I can not find a link of him presenting it. The original airdate of this episode was May 15, 1988. What I can offer you dear readers though is a link to the transcript of Alex Cox’s introduction to it and here is the link to that entry.

As for my personal thoughts on Electra Glide in Blue, all I can do is nod in agreement with Time Magazine writer Wook Kim’s praise of it as a neglected cult-classic that could have only come from (or have been made in) the early ‘70s. (Read here). Alex Cox has even suggested that it is a cop’s corrective to Dennis Hopper’s Easy Rider from 4 years earlier. The director was American music producer James William Guerico, who has worked with 1960’s bands specializing in either rock (Chicago and Blood, Sweat & Tears) or Sunshine pop (The Buckinghams). As of 2019, Electra Glide in Blue serves as the only film directed by the 73-year-old Guerico. Prior to being charged in the 2001 unsolved murder of his second wife Bonnie Lee Bakley (read here and here), it’s star Robert Blake was best known for acting in films like 1967’s In Cold Blood (as real-life murderer Perry Edward Smith) and television shows like Baretta. Anyway, here is a link to the trailer below and check out those other links my dear readers 🙂

 

Moviedrome Mondays: The Wicker Man (1973)

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Alongside my other blog entry series (Ken Russell at the BBC), I would like to treat my readers to another one of mine, that I will entitle Moviedrome Mondays. Produced by the BBC, yet transmitted by BBC Two, Moviedrome was a British television series dedicated towards the showing of cult cinema. Some of them were well-known titles (i.e. The Terminator amongst others); others were more obscure (Razorback is just one example). Now, one question you readers might ask is why is an American doing something like this instead of a Brit? and why is an American so well versed in a British series that is not available on DVD in the States, let alone the UK? I can easily answer that question with one word: youtube. Not surprising I know, but that is how I came across it. This is where I first discovered Moviedrome, while typing the words “Alex Cox” in the search engine and “Moviedrome” was one of the words that popped up and I watched it. This was back in 2010. Each Monday, I will give a link to an episode of the series (1988-1994/1997-2000). The former years were introduced by cult filmmaker Alex Cox and the latter ones were presented by Mark Cousins – an Irish filmmaker/critic currently based in Edinburgh (read here). I may skip a few episodes on here due to youtube’s absence of the link to that episode. Nevertheless, I will link you to as many uploads as I can find. First things first though. I would love to dedicate this blog entry to my regular UK readers, which include Paul S. (Pfeiffer Pfilms and Meg Movies), Peter Johnson (beetleypete), Wolfie (Wolfmans Cult Film Club), Carlosnightman (The Spac Hole) and (in some ways) both dbmoviesblog and Madeleine (Maddy Loves Her Classic Films). Speaking of Wolfie, he wrote an even better synopsis on the history of Moviedrome back in 2017, that can be read here. If I forgot any other regular UK visitor to this site, Please let me know and I will add your name in this blog entry 🙂 Now without further ado, here is (reportedly) the premiere episode of the first season of Moviedrome. The film Alex Cox introduces here is Robin Hardy’s The Wicker Man from 1973. The original airdate for this Moviedrome episode was May 8, 1988 (read here). Now without further ado, here is the link of Alex Cox discussing it below. Watch it If you are interested 🙂

 

04/02/2019 Update: In case anyone is interested, here is a link to the website moviedromer.tumblr.com, which has more information about the program. Also, here is a link to the transcript of The Wicker Man episode.

Also, here is a link to The Wicker Man trailer below:

John Charet’s Take On: Always on Sunday (1965)

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Upon reaching new creative heights with his previous Monitor entry The Debussy Film, director Ken Russell decided to end his career there on a quieter note with Always on Sunday, which aired one month later in June of 1965. For those interested, The Debussy Film’s original airdate was 05/18/65, while Always on Sunday’s was 06/29/65. Even so, Always on Sunday remains significant for reportedly being Russell’s first television documentary/docudrama to come off as a pure dramatization of a famous artist’s life (read here). Following broadcaster Huw Wheldon’s departure from the aforementioned programme in 1964, Russell was now free (at least for the most part) to expand upon his creativity as a filmmaker – The Debussy Film’s film-within-a-film format stands out in particular. As with Elgar, Russell tells his story in a similarly straightforward fashion, but unlike that earlier effort, Always on Sunday finds him taking a more laid-back approach to it at the same time.

Whereas Elgar and (in some ways) The Debussy Film centered on the lives of famed composers, Always on Sunday centers on the life of late 19th-century to early 20th-century French post-impressionist painter Henri Rousseau (1844-1910). Oliver Reed serves as the film’s narrator (seriously, what a mesmerizing voice), while James Lloyd handles lead acting duties as Rousseau. Annette Robertson (Gaby from The Debussy Film) also lends welcome support as (yes) pint-sized French symbolist writer Alfred Jarry (1873-1907), whose voice is dubbed here by an uncredited male actor. The scenario was concocted by Melvyn Bragg, who previously collaborated with director Ken Russell on The Debussy Film.

If I can name one thing that director Ken Russell does really well in Always on Sunday, it would lie in the sincere simplicity of his storytelling. Prior to his flamboyant later films, Russell had continuously proven himself to be a master of subtlety with his early television work at the BBC (1959-1970). This one, Elgar and Song of Summer (my personal favorite) notably demonstrates this aspect. Always on Sunday’s slow but steady pacing debatably resembles Russell’s way of appreciating the finer things in life. One memorable running gag involves Rousseau hauling around one of his paintings around the countryside back and forth in a wagon of sorts. Another involves Rousseau placing one of his paintings in a museum it the hopes of rivaling the work of some of his contemporaries. The action then cuts to some examples via their individual artwork: Camille Pissarro, Paul Cezanne, Vincent van Gogh, Georges Seurat and Henri de Toulouse-Lautrec.

As is occasionally typical of his work, Always on Sunday sometimes feels like a semi-autobiographical account of it’s director Ken Russell. An early sequence depicting French elitists ridiculing Rousseau’s paintings foreshadowed the hostile relationship between Russell and his critics. At the same time, he sees a little bit of himself in Alfred Jarry (a reported supporter of Rousseau). One such scene comes in the form of Jarry’s irreverent play Ubu Roi – a scathing satire on the bourgeoisie. Another example occurs when one of Rousseau’s neighbors complains to Jarry that his pistol firing (he carries two of them) is endangering her children. Jarry’s response is delightfully insulting – If that should be the case madam, we’d hope you get some new ones, the bedroom’s over there. For some odd reason, I can’t help but feel that Russell would applaud his response.

Capturing all of Elgar’s simplicity and none of The Debussy Film’s originality, Always on Sunday is like a warmup to director Ken Russell’s subsequent television films. The following year in 1966, he directed an entry for Sunday Night (Don’t Shoot the Composer) and a stand alone (Isadora Duncan, the Biggest Dancer in the World). The others were episodes of OmnibusDante’s Inferno in 1967, Song of Summer in 1968 and Dance of the Seven Veils in 1970. Those last four titles (I have not seen Don’t Shoot the Composer) arguably rank as major works on Russell’s resume. Always on Sunday may seem minor compared to them, but as with all of Russell’s films, it is a great one regardless of ranking.

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Here is a link to Part 1 of the film


Here is a link to Part 2 of the film


Here is a link to Part 3 of the film

John Charet’s Take On: The Debussy Film (1965)

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According to Michael Brooke of BFI Screenonline (read here), The Debussy Film was originally intended to be director Ken Russell’s second feature film. Unfortunately, after the critical and commercial failure of his cinematic directorial debut French Dressing from a year earlier, Russell had to abandon this option. Left with no other alternative, he ended up selling it as a film for the BBC arts programme Monitor and the rest was history. Restricted to this period alone (1959-1965), The Debussy Film finishes up as the greatest of all his television films.

As with Elgar, The Debussy Film has director Ken Russell pushing the envelope on what could be allowed within the format of a television program. Unlike that earlier entry though, The Debussy Film is a completely different undertaking altogether. If Elgar played as something akin to a documentary on a beloved artist, then The Debussy Film plays out more like a film-within-a-film about one.

The Debussy Film opens with a filmmaker (Vladek Sheybal) giving directions to a child actor about his subject – He’s known hundreds of people in his life but because of quarrels and because a war was going on, there’s hardly anyone at the funeral. Furthermore, he states that France is about to collapse, and hardly anybody notices the death of a man who has now taken to signing himself “Musician of France”. His wife is there, of course, and Chouchou, his daughter, but hardly anyone else. Now, when the carriage gets there, to the end, I want you to run out into the road, look at the wreaths for the name, run back, and say to your mother, “it seems he was a musician”. Not too long afterwards, we cut to a background artwork painting of the Monitor episode’s subject with the title – The Debussy Film – and it’s subtitle – Impressions of the French Composer. Next, we get photographic stills in the background with voiceover/narration provided by it’s unseen British presenter. Here is what he says in his own words – Claude Debussy, born in poverty in 1862, died friendless in 1918. A film based on incidents in his life, his own words and his relationships – with Gabrielle Dupont, attempted suicide, Lilly Rosalie Texier, attempted suicide, Chouchou, died at the age of 13, Madame Bardac, wife of a wealthy banker, and the man who took most of these pictures, Pierre Louys, pornographer, novelist, photographer.

Beside casting himself in the role of Pierre Louys, the plot’s unnamed film director of this project casts four actors, who either go by the exact names of the characters that they are portraying – Claude Debussy (Oliver Reed) and Madame Bardac (Izabella Telezynska/Isa Taylor) – or at the very least, their nicknames – Gaby (Annette Robertson) and Lily/Lilly (Penny Service). Inevitably, throughout the production, reality (subtly or not so subtly) intertwines with fantasy, as Debussy – the actor – suddenly finds himself immersed in his subject of Debussy – the composer. This becomes clear in his relationships with Gaby, Lily/Lilly and Madame Bardac – the actresses – versus that of Gaby, Lily/Lilly and Madame Bardac – the lovers.

As to be expected from all (or at least some) of director Ken Russell’s shoestring works, The Debussy Film effortlessly overcomes every single limitation of it’s low-budget. A good portion of this arises from both Russell and his screenwriting partner Melvin Bragg’s decision to execute the scenario as a film-within-a-film. In addition, the two cleverly (If discreetly) reference Monitor’s use of voiceovers (think of Huw Wheldon’s narration in Russell’s Elgar) by using Vladek Sheybal’s filmmaker character as the occasional narrator of his very own subject.

To some extent, The Debussy Film comes off as an autobiographical/semi-autobiographical account of it’s filmmaker Ken Russell. If my argument is credible, then the plot’s nameless director could possibly serve as Russell’s fictionalized alter ego. Similar to him, Russell has always been fascinated by the lives of famous composers. Although the fictionalized character’s religious affiliation is never made clear, Russell (a converted Roman Catholic himself) is throughly fascinated with Catholicism like he is. Two notable sequences here include the filming of a woman being shot with arrows (a la Saint Sebastian) and another filmed one involving a mob of priests and nuns holding a life-size statue of both Mother Mary and Baby Jesus. Aside from statues, other examples come in the form of artwork throughout.

When it comes to individual set pieces, The Debussy Film features some of the most imaginative sequences that director Ken Russell ever conceived for television. Some of them are elegantly staged like the previously mentioned ones between Claude Debussy and his women (Gaby, Lily/Lilly and Madame Bardac); both within-and-out of the film-within-the-film. On the contrary, the climactic scene plays out like something from a German Expressionist horror film. Last, but not least, we get an inspired montage sequence set to Richard Wagner’s Ride of the Valkyries. In it, two people swing dance to Valkyries amid a mock duel between two actors. A push broom, a cane, toy dart guns and even hand-to-hand combat via (rather humorously) slapping are the weapons of choice. The action frequently cuts back-and-forth; from the aforementioned staged fight to two women playing with bumper cars at a carnival and then back again. The image of a cat quickly, albeit cartoonishly, jumping up and down – complete with sound effects – gives it an absurdist touch. With the exception of that last one, all of these scenes (as in Elgar) are accompanied by Debussy’s (the composer that is) musical compositions.

Elgar might have established Ken Russell as a fully fledged director, but The Debussy Film elevated him to that of a master filmmaker. The Debussy Film may not be my personal favorite of his television work (that honor goes to Song of Summer), but for his penultimate Monitor entry, Russell could not have delivered a better climax.

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P.S. since I could not find part 1 of this film on youtube, I had to go to dailymotion.com to find it. Here is a link below to part 1

 

Here is a youtube link to part 2

 

Here is a youtube link to part 3

 

Here is a youtube link to part 4

 

Here is a youtube link to part 5

 

Here is a youtube link to part 6