"that's not even a pound a midget!"
I like to think that if Robert Stephens had still been around today he'd have made the sort of eccentrically inspired career choices that have enlivened the "Twilight"/"Troy"-strewn careers of Gene Hackman and Peter O'Toole in the guise of the impetuous Royal S. Tanenbaum and "Venus"' pervy old soak Maurice.
Not that I'm, contrarily, a great fan of either picture. But as dramatic/comedic lunacy, it's hard to beat the sight of either mischievous malcontent engaged in full-bore indelicacy.
The rattling off of a wickedly barbed quip seems to be an art lost amid today's sit-com saturated goofery. Whether it's much loved Raymond's bulbous-eyed savant act or Chandler Bing's weary contempt, it's ultimately a fairly sober brand of safe chuckles, mannered ticks and Pavlovian catch phrases.
Allow me a brief trip in to a more cine-illiterate past, one where I convinced myself that crashing through "Casablanca" and "Cinema Paradiso" in one sitting made me a casually hip nemesis to Barry Norman's pompous, blockbuster-shy critical faculties (more on these disastrous times as this blog goes on I suspect):
I remember vividly my first encounter with a non-costumed Peter O'Toole in Richard Benjamin's terrific "My Favourite Year". I say 'non-costumed' because, up until that time, O'Toole was, like a number of thesping greats, a fixture in the kind of romp I associated with quiet Sunday afternoons and subduded bank holidays: Charlton Heston's biblical butchness; John Mills' bewhiskered old boy status; and O'Toole's steely mug in "Lawrence..." (although, shockingly, I didn't see that until much -- much -- later, either) and "The Last Emperor". Of course, in "My Favourite Year" he was taking off part that very era of persona, the aging, swash-buckling bounder with whom time and the rigours of the bottle have well and truly caught up. I wouldn't for one moment suspect that the part was the least bit ethically troubling for O'Toole. But being so young -- a modest 16 at the time, 1992 -- and as far through my cinematic education as a second or third Welles, a single Ford, maybe three Kubricks and a handful of Hitchcock would allow, I hadn't the context within which to place such arch characterisation.
I'd seen enough Neil Simon and Mel Brooks to know the broad stokes of the 1950s Benjamin's picture was lampooning. But I hadn't so much heard a single note of Erich Wolfgang Korngold, let alone seen Eroll Flynn sliding down any pirate's rope or exhibiting rapier wit alongside his rapier. O'Toole's Alan Swann was, to me, a symbol of a black and white desert I had yet to lose myself in.
To say I was unexpectedly elated when I heard the following exchange:
[Having wandered into the wrong restroom, actor Alan Swann is greeted with the indignant cry] Lil:"This is for ladies only!"
Swann [rumaging in his fly]: "So is this madam, but every now and then I have to run a little water through it."
is an under-statement.
In a year where "Encino Man", "HouseSitter", "Kuffs" and "Mo Money" were rocking the joint with strained slapstick, it fell to something as incongruous as Peter Jackson's "Brain Dead" to provide a smattering of sophisticated (albeit low brow) wit. And I had discovered a small slice of undiscovered country. These old guys were hilarious. So what if this was a pastiche of an era, rather than a relic of the era itself. Wit was more than simply 'Bohemian Rhapsody' head-banged in the back of a station wagon through Aurora, Il (and certainly more than 'Carry On Camping', though I'd kind of figured that bit out for myself, thankfully)
In a very roundabout way, this brings me to the vertically challeneged quote above, uttered in a fit of sarcastic indignation by Robert Stephens at the start of Billy Wilder's "The Private Life Of Sherlock Holmes", with which I had my first wonderful encounter this weekend.
I like to think that if Robert Stephens had still been around today he'd have made the sort of eccentrically inspired career choices that have enlivened the "Twilight"/"Troy"-strewn careers of Gene Hackman and Peter O'Toole in the guise of the impetuous Royal S. Tanenbaum and "Venus"' pervy old soak Maurice.
Not that I'm, contrarily, a great fan of either picture. But as dramatic/comedic lunacy, it's hard to beat the sight of either mischievous malcontent engaged in full-bore indelicacy.
The rattling off of a wickedly barbed quip seems to be an art lost amid today's sit-com saturated goofery. Whether it's much loved Raymond's bulbous-eyed savant act or Chandler Bing's weary contempt, it's ultimately a fairly sober brand of safe chuckles, mannered ticks and Pavlovian catch phrases.
Allow me a brief trip in to a more cine-illiterate past, one where I convinced myself that crashing through "Casablanca" and "Cinema Paradiso" in one sitting made me a casually hip nemesis to Barry Norman's pompous, blockbuster-shy critical faculties (more on these disastrous times as this blog goes on I suspect):
I remember vividly my first encounter with a non-costumed Peter O'Toole in Richard Benjamin's terrific "My Favourite Year". I say 'non-costumed' because, up until that time, O'Toole was, like a number of thesping greats, a fixture in the kind of romp I associated with quiet Sunday afternoons and subduded bank holidays: Charlton Heston's biblical butchness; John Mills' bewhiskered old boy status; and O'Toole's steely mug in "Lawrence..." (although, shockingly, I didn't see that until much -- much -- later, either) and "The Last Emperor". Of course, in "My Favourite Year" he was taking off part that very era of persona, the aging, swash-buckling bounder with whom time and the rigours of the bottle have well and truly caught up. I wouldn't for one moment suspect that the part was the least bit ethically troubling for O'Toole. But being so young -- a modest 16 at the time, 1992 -- and as far through my cinematic education as a second or third Welles, a single Ford, maybe three Kubricks and a handful of Hitchcock would allow, I hadn't the context within which to place such arch characterisation.
I'd seen enough Neil Simon and Mel Brooks to know the broad stokes of the 1950s Benjamin's picture was lampooning. But I hadn't so much heard a single note of Erich Wolfgang Korngold, let alone seen Eroll Flynn sliding down any pirate's rope or exhibiting rapier wit alongside his rapier. O'Toole's Alan Swann was, to me, a symbol of a black and white desert I had yet to lose myself in.
To say I was unexpectedly elated when I heard the following exchange:
[Having wandered into the wrong restroom, actor Alan Swann is greeted with the indignant cry] Lil:"This is for ladies only!"
Swann [rumaging in his fly]: "So is this madam, but every now and then I have to run a little water through it."
is an under-statement.
In a year where "Encino Man", "HouseSitter", "Kuffs" and "Mo Money" were rocking the joint with strained slapstick, it fell to something as incongruous as Peter Jackson's "Brain Dead" to provide a smattering of sophisticated (albeit low brow) wit. And I had discovered a small slice of undiscovered country. These old guys were hilarious. So what if this was a pastiche of an era, rather than a relic of the era itself. Wit was more than simply 'Bohemian Rhapsody' head-banged in the back of a station wagon through Aurora, Il (and certainly more than 'Carry On Camping', though I'd kind of figured that bit out for myself, thankfully)
In a very roundabout way, this brings me to the vertically challeneged quote above, uttered in a fit of sarcastic indignation by Robert Stephens at the start of Billy Wilder's "The Private Life Of Sherlock Holmes", with which I had my first wonderful encounter this weekend.
And here it is, at last: a point !
Watching its jaunty couple of hours reaffirmed the simple pleasure of what it is to be able disover something so precisely and accutely great for yourself for the first time, even after thousands of reels of film have passed before your eyes.
Simple pleasures, most often given to us by discoveries fr om(or long overdue acquiantences with) cinema's past.
By that I don't means it's perfect. Far from it. It's a winsome piece of, well, whimsy. Or at least in Wilder's insouciant, sardonic style, perhaps he'd like you to believe that. It's not a story of great importance, of epic scope. It's intimate, of course, which is given away by the exact nature of the title, for those eagle eyed viewers who take note of such things (you'd be surprised how many/few this would apply to nowadays -- it seems as though "xXx" is about as droll as it gets these days with as unassumingly adroit titles as "A History Of Violence" few and far between). It spans weeks and miles in search of a solution to a particularly tricky mystery. But ultimately, the story concerns itself with nothing so much as why that solution is so rabidly, incisivey sought to the exclusion of all else in his life by the world's greatest consultant detective.
It's a humane and often hysterically funny piece of business. Like some kind of Garrison Keilor shaggy dog tale, we get submarines, monks, parasoles, ripping-yarn-loving monarchs, horny prima donnas and the aforementioned (missing) midgets schlepping us over much of the British countryside to little grand reveal of mystery and much ripe divulging of true character.
Reading Thom Taylor's book on the late-90s spec script market, "The Big Deal", into work today, it drove it further home. Written at a time when the sweat and musk of the spec script boom was still discernable on Hollywood's dirty bed linen, the book's mesage is clear: it's still all about the money. And that was nearly ten years ago.
How could Wilder's picture, something so capricious, frustrating, sublime, unruly, indulgent, literate and self-deprecating as to make its own director question the type of picture he'd made, have a home in today's maddenly immediate film industry?
How could as wicked a talent Robert Stephens, so fucking perfectly erudite as Holmes here, be allowed to work such flagrant and flamboyant weirdness into a star part today?
There's a short and obvious answer.
Johnny Depp manages to plumb comparative depths, but it beocomes, necessarily, a self-conscious facade in "Pirates Of The Caribbean". When he does it straight and niche, we get "From Hell". Or "The Libertine". From hell.
It's in moments like this weekend where I realise why I love pictures -- an how frustarting it is to work within an industry that will never be like this again. It's why looking back is so vital. There's always something to learn, some piece of the medium's history to uncover for yourself (no matter how in plain sight it has been all these years) . And when you discover such an exchange as this:
HOLMES
My dear friend -- as well as my dear doctor -- I only resort to narcotics when I am suffering from acute boredom -- when there are no interesting cases to engage my mind.
Watching its jaunty couple of hours reaffirmed the simple pleasure of what it is to be able disover something so precisely and accutely great for yourself for the first time, even after thousands of reels of film have passed before your eyes.
Simple pleasures, most often given to us by discoveries fr om(or long overdue acquiantences with) cinema's past.
By that I don't means it's perfect. Far from it. It's a winsome piece of, well, whimsy. Or at least in Wilder's insouciant, sardonic style, perhaps he'd like you to believe that. It's not a story of great importance, of epic scope. It's intimate, of course, which is given away by the exact nature of the title, for those eagle eyed viewers who take note of such things (you'd be surprised how many/few this would apply to nowadays -- it seems as though "xXx" is about as droll as it gets these days with as unassumingly adroit titles as "A History Of Violence" few and far between). It spans weeks and miles in search of a solution to a particularly tricky mystery. But ultimately, the story concerns itself with nothing so much as why that solution is so rabidly, incisivey sought to the exclusion of all else in his life by the world's greatest consultant detective.
It's a humane and often hysterically funny piece of business. Like some kind of Garrison Keilor shaggy dog tale, we get submarines, monks, parasoles, ripping-yarn-loving monarchs, horny prima donnas and the aforementioned (missing) midgets schlepping us over much of the British countryside to little grand reveal of mystery and much ripe divulging of true character.
Reading Thom Taylor's book on the late-90s spec script market, "The Big Deal", into work today, it drove it further home. Written at a time when the sweat and musk of the spec script boom was still discernable on Hollywood's dirty bed linen, the book's mesage is clear: it's still all about the money. And that was nearly ten years ago.
How could Wilder's picture, something so capricious, frustrating, sublime, unruly, indulgent, literate and self-deprecating as to make its own director question the type of picture he'd made, have a home in today's maddenly immediate film industry?
How could as wicked a talent Robert Stephens, so fucking perfectly erudite as Holmes here, be allowed to work such flagrant and flamboyant weirdness into a star part today?
There's a short and obvious answer.
Johnny Depp manages to plumb comparative depths, but it beocomes, necessarily, a self-conscious facade in "Pirates Of The Caribbean". When he does it straight and niche, we get "From Hell". Or "The Libertine". From hell.
It's in moments like this weekend where I realise why I love pictures -- an how frustarting it is to work within an industry that will never be like this again. It's why looking back is so vital. There's always something to learn, some piece of the medium's history to uncover for yourself (no matter how in plain sight it has been all these years) . And when you discover such an exchange as this:
HOLMES
My dear friend -- as well as my dear doctor -- I only resort to narcotics when I am suffering from acute boredom -- when there are no interesting cases to engage my mind.
(holding out one of the open letters)
Look at this -- an urgent appeal to find six missing midgets.
He tosses the letter down is disgust.
WATSON
Did you say midgets?
He picks up the letter.
HOLMES
Six of them -- the Tumbling Piccolos -- an acrobatic act with some circus.
WATSON
Disappeared between London and Bristol... Don't you find that intriguing?
HOLMES
Extremely so. You see, they are not only midgets -- but also anarchists.
WATSON
Anarchists?
HOLMES
(nodding)
By now they have been smuggled to Vienna, dressed as little girls in burgundy pinafores. They are to greet the Czar of all the Russias when he arrives at the railway station. They will be carrying bouquets of flowers, concealed in each bouquet will be a bomb with a lit fuse.
WATSON
You really think so?
HOLMES
Not at all. The circus owner offers me five pounds for my services -- that's not even a pound a midget.
it's always something pretty special.
it's always something pretty special.
You wonder why anyone would want it any different. but of course it must be. We just don't have to like it all that much.
