Reviews by JxSxPx

With the exception of some sound effects work, musical cues, and a repeated song-and-dance number, The Triplets of Belleville is a deliriously strange, nearly silent animated film. It’s the kind of whimsy and charm that could only come from the French. While I enjoyed the grotesquery of the animation and character design, but the plot left me a little cold. Or well, it left me cold until the titular sisters showed up.

Despite being named for them, they’re really a supporting act to the main players. The Triplets of Belleville opens with a crudely drawn black-and-white prologue, introducing us to the triplets and throwing in animated cameos from the likes of Josephine Baker and Django Reinhardt. This opening is absolutely bewildering, yet enticing. I wanted to follow these strange looking sisters around, getting to know everything about them, and their lives in the music hall. But the film is not content with spending time with them.

After this prologue we flash forward, and we’re now in our main plot, a story about an elderly woman, her dog, and her grandson, who is training to participate in the Tour de France. He gets kidnapped by gangsters, and his grandmother and faithful (elderly) dog go searching for him, by chance happen to meet the triplets, and join forces to find and rescue the grandson. Of course they succeed, and the film ends in a particularly well-done car chase, but I wasn’t entirely satisfied with the entire thing by the time it ended.

The colors were beautiful, the animation fluid and smooth, the character designs were very angular and tip-toeing towards the fine line between highly stylized and slightly grotesque, but the story just didn’t interest me much when it moved focus away from the triplets. They are a merry band of strange old birds when we reunite with them. No longer the big stars of a music hall or vaudeville stage, but improvisational street musicians who live out in the swamps and dine on frogs. Theirs is a magical, whimsical world, and it’s a shame we didn’t spend more time getting to know the minute details of it.

Having said all of that, I still recommend The Triplets of Belleville very highly, even if I didn’t love it. Perhaps the introductory passage and title gave me higher hopes than I should have had for the contents of the story, I don’t know. There’s still so much good here, and that song! “Belleville Rendez-vous” was stuck in my head for days after watching this, it’s so quirky, with a fun sense of melody and inventive use of percussion. Pity that it lost Best Original Song to the mammoth victory lap of the Lord of the Rings: Return of the King.

Sweet natured and charming, but is that enough to make it memorable or watch viewing? I’m not entirely sold on The Man from Snowy River. It’s old-fashioned to the point where one can hear its joints creaking as it lumbers from plot point to plot point. It even brings along a classic studio era star, Kirk Douglas.

Or maybe it’s just that I needed more from this movie than soapy melodramatics and some fine horse-tricks and lovingly filmed horse photography. It’s just too slight to effectively hold my interest. I wanted Kirk Douglas to get into scenery chewing mode to liven things up more than once. He even has a dual role, but one of them is too repressed to let it loose, and the other is written so poorly that he comes across as a theme park attraction. If you’ve ever been to Knott’s Berry Farm and encountered the people dressed and acting out the Old West iconography, you’ll get exactly what I’m talking about.

The story involves a young cowboy who inherits his father’s land after an accident. The young man goes on to fall in love with the daughter of old rich man, this wealthy elder just so happens to be the twin brother of the grizzled prospector who helped raise the young man. It all plays out exactly as you think it would, secrets are revealed, young love triumphs over adversity, and we get to look at the gorgeous Australian wilderness. If for no other reason, watch The Man from Snowy River just to gaze upon the landscapes, for they are truly things of magnificent beauty.

Joe Johnston clearly loved the serial adventure stories of the 30s-50s. He also clearly loved the daredevil adventure films of Errol Flynn. While The Rocketeer is an open-hearted tribute to both of these things, it manages to goof up its hero, substituting the rascals of Flynn or the tough-but-square types that populated serials with a bland leading man. Still, The Rocketeer manages to leave a lasting impression of a sweet-natured, thrilling spectacle thanks in no small part to Johnston’s clear devotion to his inspirations.

Based on the comics of Dave Stevens, itself a hodgepodge of influences thrown together into a delightful concoction, the film version captures much of that tone, even if it does lose some of the character along the way. Mainly, Cliff Secord, our Rocketeer, is a bit on the stiff and bland side. Is it that Billy Campbell’s performance is too stiff, or is it that some of the more unique and dynamic aspects of the character got a little lost in the editing room? Stevens claims the latter, and I’m inclined to believe him. Campbell’s good looks and awe-shucks persona feel right for the era and character, so something must have been lost in post-production.

It was probably interference from Disney, they wanted toys and merchandise after seeing the mountains of money and critical prestige that Tim Burton’s Batman and Warren Beatty’s Dick Tracy amassed. Unfortunately for them, the film bombed. But sometimes works have curiously long lives after-the-fact. The Rocketeer is now embraced as a cult-film, and it deserves it. Despite the probable studio tinkering, the film glows with the warmth and humor of a retro-action/adventure film.

It was so nice coming into this film’s many and various action scenes and watching as they visibly displayed the spatial relations between characters and objects with clarity. I don’t know why modern blockbusters have fallen into such kinetic frenzy of blurred spatial relations and frantic editing, but being able to tell what was going on in The Rocketeer was admirable and endearing. It was also refreshingly lower-stakes in the big climax. Think of how many comic book films descend into a third-act which is nothing but mass destruction, rubble raining down from the sky, and the fate of the world resting on this battle.

All Cliff needs to do is stop the Nazi spy movie star from getting away. Aiding him along the way are Howard Hughes, a fatherly figure mechanic, his plucky girlfriend (who is blessedly not a damsel-in-distress), members of the Italian mafia, and the FBI. It’s a colorful group of supporting players, and it’s populated by an equally colorful group of character actors. Paul Sorvino is the head of the mafia, Terry O’Quinn is Howard Hughes, Alan Arkin as the fatherly mechanic, and Jennifer Connelly looks era perfect as the girlfriend.

Towering over all of them is Timothy Dalton’s work as the truly hissable villain Neville Sinclair. Patterned after Errol Flynn and a secret Nazi spy, Sinclair is the type of deliciously hammy villain that actors dream of playing. He runs circles around the hero in who’s a more memorable character, and Dalton plays him up with élan. Making the casting choice even better is knowing that Dalton was the James Bond of this particular time frame.

The Rocketeer is pure charm, and a quiet reminder of how homespun some of the earlier comic book movies could be before the template became hardened. Shame that they couldn’t get the formula right between story pacing, action scenes, and character development, often times leaning too hard on one or another. What emerges is a likable and endearing cult film, and one wonders what could have been if the intended franchise had taken off. Pity it didn’t. I’d love to visit this bunch of characters and their world once more.

An Evening with Lena Horne would prove to be the final live outing from Lena Horne, not that she retired after this 1994 Supper Club show (released as a live album the following year). Far from it, she would go on to do a GAP commercial, release another album in 1998, and retire from public life in 1999, before finally passing away in 2010. But here at age 77, and looking roughly twenty years younger than that, Horne is in exceptionally fine form.

Her voice is remarkably strong, and she’s still a lively performer. Her enunciation is still clear, and her phrasing impeccable. She may not be performing with the same energy and strength as in her 1982 Broadway show, but she was a smart enough performer to pick a group of songs that would be deeper and more introspective with her age and voice essaying them to life.

If she had retired, as originally planned, after The Lady and Her Music, Horne’s legacy would have been secured. An Evening with Lena Horne is a glorious extra, a fitting caper to a legendary and luminous career. It’s legacy work done right. It’s also a fitting way to say goodbye to one of the greatest performers of the twentieth century.

She doesn’t perform many of her biggest hits, and her signature song “Stormy Weather” appears to be missing from the set, but it doesn’t matter. Here we get to witness Horne performing a series of jazz standards and showtunes. “Mood Indigo,” “Old Friend,” “Do Nothin’ Till You Hear From Me,” “Yesterday, When I Was Young,” and “We’ll Be Together Again” all standout as immediate highlights. “The Lady Is a Tramp” is always a welcome addition. Between “Tramp” and “I’ve Got the World on a String” Horne proves that she still has a kittenish side behind the grand dame persona of the rest of the set.

Thankfully, An Evening with Lena Horne survives as both an album recording and a DVD. Much like with The Lady and Her Music, she ended up winning two Grammys for the album version, much deservedly I say. An Evening with can also be viewed in YouTube in [Link removed - login to see] [Link removed - login to see]. This time around, they’re high-quality uploads with perfect picture and audio.

On the Playbill for her one-woman show, Lena Horne looked like a lioness celebrating a major victory. Her mouth open in triumph, her arms raised high above her head, she looks like she’s letting out a roar, and alternately, as she’s dressed in a flowing blue gown, like a slightly crazy blue fairy. It’s a striking image, one that perfectly encapsulates the contents of her show, Lena Horne: The Lady and Her Music.

It’s a shame that the only way to easily view this is as a less than stellar upload to [Link removed - login to see]. The show was filmed for broadcast as a part of PBS’s Great Performances series. This version looks more than a little like a well-loved VHS transfer, and the lack of a better one is a pity as The Lady and Her Music is perhaps THE essential document of Horne’s career.

Here she gets to tell her story, unfiltered, with moments of mischievous humor, deep hurt, headstrong tenacity, and iron grit. The show is arranged so that the songs are grouped to describe her life’s journey from the Cotton Club, to Hollywood, to her triumph on Broadway in Jamaica (for which she was Tony nominated), and finally ending up in her various cabaret acts and putting together this show. She pauses occasionally between songs to banter with the audience. She talks about the racism she endured in Hollywood, poking fun at her lack of dancing talent in the Cotton Club years, cracking jokes about how there wasn’t enough of a budget for major costume changes in this show, even admitting that she defers the stage to other performers on occasion to catch her breath between transitions.

What becomes abundantly clear is that Horne had an inner core of absolute steel, forged in hardship and adversity. She transforms even most blasé moment into a transcendent experience in which her survival becomes its own reoccurring theme. “I Got a Name” and “If You Believe” are recontextualized into songs about personal growth, and become intensely moving and engaging experiences.

Frequently, Horne’s artistic ambitions exceed her vocal ability, but it doesn’t matter. While not all of the notes in “Yesterday, When I Was Young” are perfect, she sings with more heart, soul, and passion than most others do. No matter if some of her belting isn’t in perfect pitch, it still hits you straight in the soul. In a show filled with transformative experiences, none may smack you harder than the reprise of “Stormy Weather.” Her first performance is a straight run-through, her honeysuckle vibrato wrapping itself around the torch song in a manner similar to how she performed it in the film of the same name. The second takes the song from a slow burn into a full-on belting spree in which she has turned a song about heartache into a gospel number. If you’re unmoved by it, I don’t know what’s wrong with you.

This doesn’t mean that Horne doesn’t get flirtatious, spunky, or feisty. “Deed I Do” is a campy little number. It’s a slow seduction, building the number in a similar way that Peggy Lee delivers “Fever.” It’s a fun, cutesy moment in which Horne gets to let loose her jazz-tinged vocal tricks, and it’s completely charming. “The Lady Is a Tramp” is always a highlight with Horne’s tongue-in-cheek reading of the song.

In fact, all of her well-known numbers from her MGM days (“Love,” “Where or When,” “Can’t Help Lovin’ Dat Man”) are given a thorough rendering here. It’s great to watch Horne perform this material, and, more importantly, enjoy herself while doing so. She earns the special Tony award she won for this show with every long note, every belt, and every drop of sweat. Here is an artist purging their soul for the audience, and an appreciative audience lapping it up.

This is footage that needs to be readily available on DVD or on a streaming site instead of a questionable upload to YouTube. Shame that the only way to experience the show as it was intended is on the album, which provides more than half of the show but prevents us from watching Horne in action. No matter, any which way you can experience The Lady and Her Music, do so.

A musical seems like an absolutely odd choice for a director like Sidney Lumet, a director that was preoccupied with grit and realism. But that eye towards grit and realism made for a unique collaboration with The Wiz, which creates an imagined, fanciful New York, a New York in which graffiti comes alive and dances, and the yellow brick road extends from Harlem to Manhattan and beyond. And the film offers Lumet a chance to explore his favorite subject, New York City, in a new prism.

It’s a mystery to me why this film has such a terrible wide reputation, consider me part of the cult following. It’s not perfect, but it’s an excuse to watch Diana Ross, Michael Jackson, Lena Horne, Mabel King, and numerous other great talents sing, dance, and deliver comedic bits. If that’s not enough entertainment value for you, what more do you need? The Wiz also has numerous sequences that are full of clever bits and details, or imaginative images, or memorable songs, this is what a musical needs to succeed, and it does.

Admittedly, Diana Ross is still too old for the role of Dorothy has written here. No longer a young schoolgirl making the transition into adulthood, but a teacher in her early twenties struggling in an extended adolescence. Ross is clearly in her thirties, but she does possess vulnerability as an actress, a quacking need, and wide-eyed sweetness that works for the role. It’s easy to forget just how talented an actor she really is.

Much like the beloved classic, The Wiz finds Dorothy swept away to Oz, it is hinted that Glinda the Good Witch summoned her there, and on a journey of rediscovering her personhood and inner strength. Along the way, she meets up with the Scarecrow (Michael Jackson), the Tin Man (Nipsey Russell), and the Cowardly Lion (Ted Ross, repeating his role from the Broadway show). With the help of her friends, she must battle the evil witch, Evilene (Mabel King, also reprising her Broadway role), discover the secret of the Wiz (Richard Pryor), and get lessons from two good witches, Miss One (Thelma Carpenter) and the beatific Glinda (Lena Horne).

Perhaps The Wiz suffers from comparison to the classic 1939 film? No film should have to eternally live in the shadow of another, especially one with so radically different an approach and tone to the material. The Wizard of Oz created a world of pure fantasy and whimsy, a dreamscape for its heroine to ease into adulthood. The Wiz has a heroine who is afraid to leave home and strike out on her own, and her Oz is no less magical, but it’s a fantastical variation of her real world location. I think it works on its own terms, even if it does take a little too long to get where it’s going.

Once Dorothy lands in this topsy-turvy Munchkinland, here re-imagined as an inner-city playground with black-light graffiti people and a numbers running witch named Miss One, The Wiz is firing on all cylinders and propels forward towards its narrative conclusion. This is roughly thirty minutes into the film. It’s not that what has preceded it wasn’t engaging, but the tone was too sleepy.

After this awkward start, we’re treated to numerous memorable performances and moments. No moment hits with quite the same impact as “Everybody Rejoice/A Brand New Day.” Following immediately after the death of Evilene, again not a spoiler as this follows the basic story structure of The Wizard of Oz, this scene finds her various slaves removing the vestiges of her oppression and dancing with great abandon and joy, a joy that becomes infectious. The scene swirls around as chorus of bodies leap about the room, remaking themselves into clean slates and ready to return to their normal lives. It’s the kind of magical moment that only a musical could provide.

Other highlights include Jackson’s “You Can’t Win, You Can’t Break Even,” a song the Scarecrow is forced to sing for the crows over and over. Jackson’s pinned in one place, but his love of movement is clear. His ability as a dancer allows him to create a series of awkward, pained movements, as the Scarecrow doesn’t have complete control over his body. Jackson and Ross jubilantly skipping on the Yellow Brick Road and singing “Ease On Down the Road,” the musical’s most memorable song, is another highlight. And, of course, Lena Horne’s reprise of “Believe in Yourself” is a knockout moment. Horne’s Glinda is a glowing presence, and only an icon of her stature would have given the part and the song the gravitas it required. Ross’s elated crying is the only appropriate reaction to Lena Horne singing directly to you, telling you to believe in yourself, and offering encouragement and support.

The elaborate production and costume design refashions and recreates various landmarks and parts of New York City life into fantastical elements. The film also plays with color in various scenes to grand effect. The introduction of the Emerald City finds the denizens and large crystals decorating the area changing colors in the blink of an eye. This Emerald City owes more to Studio 54 than the metallic, massive one Judy Garland wandered into. It’s no surprise to me that these three elements were Oscar nominated, they’re pretty stellar.

It’s a little bloated, a little messy, but you’ve got a killer cast, a series of images that are always interesting, and a very pleasant score. It’s an endearing cult classic, and, dammit, I think it deserves to be better loved and embraced. Perhaps a reevaluation will be in order sometime soon.

I think there’s more good than bad here, and the good is very good, even if what’s bad is highly distracting. Death of a Gunfighter tells the story of the passing of the Old West into mythology, through the literal death of the last symbol of the era. This shouldn’t come as a surprise, the title is exactly what the film is about.

Beginning production under the guiding hand of Robert Totten, a television director of the era on shows like Gunsmoke and The Legend of Jesse James, before problems with star Richard Widmark got him canned and replaced by Don Siegel (Invasion of the Body Snatchers). Siegel finished the film within two weeks, and didn’t want to take credit for his work on the film, leading to the creation of the pseudonym Alan Smithee. This is perhaps the most enduring legacy of Death of a Gunfighter, an auspicious bit of trivia and importance, but Gunfighter deserves a little better.

Granted, the competing directing styles clash at times, and either of them would have been perfectly fine to shepherd the material to completion. Totten’s direction is prone to luxuriating on pastoral scenes and stretches without dialog, whereas Siegel’s aesthetic is more rapid, preferring to create tension through tightly edited action sequences. Both versions work separately, but occasionally make for an awkward blend.

But Gunfighter’s cast consistently makes it worth watching. Widmark is the clear and obvious star attraction. His work here is very good, creating a man who refuses to go quietly into the dying of the light. Surrounding him is a solid group of character actors, of whom Carroll O’Conner, Kent Smith, John Saxon, and Lena Horne make the largest impressions. Horne has second billing here, but her part is not big enough for that. It’s a large supporting role, but not large enough to be billed as a co-lead. We do get to hear her sing “Sweet Apple Wine,” and that is always a plus for any movie.

Death of a Gunfighter is a strange little film, at times tonally conflicting with itself. Yet there’s an entertaining western about the passing, through force and violence, from that older era to one that points toward modernity. It has a great central star turn and several solid supporting turns to keep your interest.

Less a coherent film than a series of famous cameos, location photography, and a pleasing star turn from Cyd Charisse, Meet Me in Las Vegas is an overlong but cute diversion. The story is a dumb little trifle that gives up on itself by the halfway mark; pity there’s nearly another hour to go before it’s over. A country boy in Las Vegas meets a ballerina who he believes is his good luck charm, romance follows, as do various specialty numbers.

The main reason to watch Meet Me in Las Vegas is to see Cyd Charisse’s various dance sequences. Charisse as an actress is someone that I have typically found lacking, but she’s very pleasing here. No great actress, but here she finds an appropriate star vehicle that makes a solid case for watching her in action. The film also keeps her dancing consistently, which is always a plus.

The various dance numbers show the full-range of her artistry. From the strong, athletic balletic dances to a flirty, drunken burlesque number, Charisse is magnetic to watch in movement. Surrounding her is a series of blink-and-miss-it cameos, many of whom I must have blinked and missed. Agnes Moorehead makes an impression, but when doesn’t she? Lena Horne, Sammy Davis Jr., a very young George Chakiris, Jim Backus, Frankie Laine, and Jerry Colonna all popped up in various moments making some kind of an impression. But in the end, Meet Me in Las Vegas doesn’t register as much, not even as a simple entertainment, once it’s over. Unless you’re a big fan of Charisse, I think it’s safe to skip it and look for her dance routines on YouTube.

Throughout the 40s MGM released several of these thinly veiled revue films disguised as (highly fictionalized) biographies of famous composers. This one tackles Lorenz Hart and Richard Rogers, and the dramatics connecting the musical numbers is positively inert, which is a shame since Mickey Rooney could be a highly effective performer if utilized correctly. The one reason to check out Words and Music are the musical performers doing great variations on the Rodgers and Hart songbook.

Words and Music is an odd bird in this brief sub-genre of musicals, opening with Tom Drake in character as Richard Rodgers addressing the audience, breaking the fourth wall, and proceeding to narrate the film’s series of events. Drake, while tall and handsome, is a bland performer, saddled with an even blander character. Words and Music will never be accused of sticking too closely to the facts, but it’s full-scale inventions aren’t improvements or even dramatically interesting. Rodgers was an enigma of a man, intensely private, but here he’s a blank space, an empty vacuum.

In contrast is Mickey Rooney as Lorenz Hart, a better character, but Rooney needed a steady guiding hand to form his manic energy into a coherent performance. Moments here and there demonstrate how effectively he could be, but the whole is formless and vague. Granted, no one should expect a film from this era to tackle Hart’s homosexuality, but replacing it with a serious case of short-man syndrome is just another strange choice in the series of strange dramatic choices that the film makes. Clothing and hair styles, period accuracy, or an accuracy to the chronology of the works – none of that matters, and little attention is paid towards it.

No matter, Words and Music is still worth a watch for the various performers tackling the Rodgers and Hart songbook. June Allyson is pleasant and adorable in a version of “Thou Swell” that sees her being fought over by two handsome knights. A lovely ballet from Cyd Charisse and Dee Turnell to “This Can’t Be Love” is a dreamy confectionary treat.

Mickey Rooney and Judy Garland team-up for their final on-screen duet in “I Wish I Were in Love Again.” Rooney and Garland bring out the best in each other, and their duet is a playful symphony between two old friends. It feels like two performers trying to please themselves and each other by pulling faces and making each other laugh, and it translates to an absolute highlight for the audience.

High marks also go to Lena Horne in a nightclub sequence where she performs two numbers back-to-back. “Where or When” is all slow burning intensity, she gives the song a dramatic reading that made the song a very popular addition to later live shows. “The Lady Is a Tramp” is even better, a playful gas in which Horne does some nimble dance moves, plays with her dress, and delivers the lyrics with a knowing wink and a tongue planted firmly in her cheek. She looks positively radiant in this section, wearing a white gown adorned with pink and purple accessories, and proves that she didn’t need a lot of bells and whistles to make a large impression in a film loaded with top-tier talent.

While the dramatic passages are grandly indifferent, Words and Music gives us a grand climatic moment in “Slaughter on Tenth Avenue.” One of the first grand, hyper-kinetic jazz ballets from Gene Kelly, “Slaughter” sees Kelly and Vera-Ellen dancing up a storm for seven straight minutes. It’s a grand bit of movie-making, reminding us of the power and punch of the movie musical. This is a little piece of cinematic heaven. No wonder Kelly highlighted this sequence in his career highlights.

But then the film goes one for another twenty minutes or so after this logical conclusion, without another musical sequence to match it. Words and Music is probably one of the better, maybe the best, of these weird, sanitized loosely biographical films about composers despite its numerous flaws. All of that lands squarely on the strength of the music and the various performers bringing them to vivid life. Shame something couldn’t be done about the wrap-around stuff.

As an excuse to watch a group of highly talented musicians do what they do best, Swing Fever has some merit, as a film it’s a bottom of the barrel offering from MGM’s musical department. In-between scenes of Kay Kyser leading his orchestra through a series of pleasing numbers, frequently with Marilyn Maxwell’s commendable lead vocals, there’s a plot with absolutely no stakes or sense of momentum. Mercifully, it’s only about 80 minutes and we get from one number to another as quickly as possible. Whoever told Kyser he had potential as a comedic leading man was lying though, but in his defense they did fail to give him a decent script or surround him with better distractions to hide his lack of acting ability.

About thirty minutes into Swing Fever, Lena Horne finally shows up to perform “You’re So Indiff’rent.” Normally, her musical numbers are bright, fun, high-energy affairs, her occasional ballads are typically point-and-shoot, but “You’re So Indiff’rent” marries the high-energy stylization to a ballad that she nurtures into a bluesy gut-punch. The song is a lovely, aching ballad, it’s filmed in an evocative manner like what a German Expressionist musical might look like, complete with a great use of angles, shadows, and Horne’s pained vocals to stop the show. Nothing else in Swing Fever comes remotely close to matching this powerhouse moment. Like many of her specialty numbers before and after this one, Horne steals the movie outright in her limited screen time, shutting everything else down.