Suzy (Kara Hayward) and Sam (Jared Gilman) struggle to understand orders
Fugitives from justice. Snippets and slices of life. Fights, brawls, arguments, misunderstandings. Reconciliation and reaffirmation.
And ear piercing, too – ouch! That hurts. But Suzy Bishop (Kara Hayward) wants Sam Shakusky (Jared Gilman) to do the other ear. An interesting analogy.
Discovering sex, but innocently. Sam gets a hard-on and Suzy tells him to feel her breasts. Man, it’s so difficult to be a kid, isn’t it? To face that first crush, their “puppy love,” with stupid parents who don’t understand (or want to understand) their own kids. Sigh…
Motives get twisted out of shape, overblown into something adults are incapable of comprehending. The awkwardness, the stumbling for answers, the insecurity of one’s movements. A whole lot of living in a barely lived life.
As in all of Wes Anderson’s films, Moonrise Kingdom overflows with many such vignettes. Short scenes, brief spurts of all-out slapstick comedy; tender moments and mildly amusing bits of business; fleeting glimpses of life’s simple pleasures (such as dating, jumping into an ice-cold lake, fishing for little turtles, cooking outdoors, getting one’s ears pierced, or sleeping together under the stars).
At times, youthful earnestness turns individuals into budding homebodies. Partying by a campfire, picking flowers at random. Who does these things nowadays? Anyone? Here, they’re executed with a knowing, primal innocence. When Suzy’s dad, Mr. Bishop (a potbellied Bill Murray) lifts the tent to reveal her and Sam holding on to each other for dear life, he flies into a rage — or pretends he does. The kids think they’re about to face the music, their father’s wrath, for alleged “sins of the flesh.”
They cringe, they cower. They feel the wrath. Oh, no! Here comes the blows! But wait: Mr. Bishop throws the tent to the side. His rage subsides as he walks off to cool his anger down. Realizing that what he’s really lost is his passion for his wife, Mrs. Bishop (Frances McDormand), he slips out unseen. She, on the other hand, drags her daughter away to give her the beating of her life – or so she imagines. Not that Mrs. Bishop will actually do it, mind you. Just a passing thought.
The Khaki Scouts also feel bad about how they’ve mistreated Sam. To compensate, they plan a “breakout” whereby they’ll rescue both Sam and Suzy from their fate, as if Sam were serving a life sentence, a minor fugitive from justice, who needs some form of rehabilitation. Meanwhile, Mrs. Bishop tries to give hubby the brush off (wink, wink), but she gets second thoughts.
As planned, the scouts sneak Sam out of Police Captain Sharp’s barge. On cue, storm clouds thunder into action. We get another weather report from that intrusive narrator (Bob Balaban), our makeshift garden gnome. Still, like the lawyers they both are, the battling Bishops argue their individual cases along with their personal issues – specifically, her affair with the sad, dumb policeman (Bruce Willis). In comparison, Suzy entertains the scouts with her storybook readings. What better way to put everyone to sleep?
Back at Camp Ivanhoe, Scoutmaster Ward (Edward Norton), the poorest “ward” on record, puzzles over the absence of his troop. There’s a big jamboree to attend, but no one’s around! At the other extreme, Suzy’s adult cousin (Jason Schwartzman) prepares a non-legally binding marriage ceremony. Suzy and Sam decide to join hands as… what? Boy and girl? With the Khaki Scouts as witnesses, both Sam and Suzy sail away on their “honeymoon barge.” But to where?
Wait! They’re back! Suzy forgot her binoculars. Okay, so where are they? Ah, that snot-nosed Redford has them! He’s recovering from the scissor wound that Suzy inflicted him with earlier on. Why, that mean, little kid! Sam attacks Redford as the storm approaches – violent acts beget violent acts, one suspects.
A mad chase ensues, an episode straight out of a Buster Keaton movie. The entire camp follows Sam around the field. Up and down, over hill and over dale. At the height of hilarity, Sam is hit by a bolt of lightning. Gasp! His face turns charcoal black from the lightning strike. Undeterred, Sam leads the troop to higher ground. Wouldn’t you know it, but the storm waters have breached the dam as the other scout troops trot off to perform some rescue work of their own.
For his failed efforts at keeping the kids at bay, Scoutmaster Ward gets stripped of his command. But the storm gets worse and worse, as flood waters rush in, engulfing the aged Commander Pierce (Harvey Keitel as a Lord Baden-Powell lookalike).
We cut to a sign outside the chapel: “Noye’s Fludde” CANCELLED. Damn, how ironic! The scouts meet up in the chapel, in time for Police Captain Sharp’s confrontation with the one-track-minded Social Services lady (seriously snippy Tilda Swinton). She berates both Sharp and Ward (who’s finally figured out where everyone is). After more bickering, all eyes refocus on the chapel’s balcony. Aha! There they are! Sam and Suzy are disguised as foxes (how clever, those sly little devils!).
Meanwhile, the storm thunders forth, unchecked. Sam and Suzy walk gingerly out on a ledge to the roof. Sharp follows with rope in hand. At this point, the music picks up Noye’s Fludde where it left off. The performance may have been cancelled, but the storm rages on!
One final farewell hug and… GOTCHA! Sharp is able to hold on to both Suzy and Sam in a comical silhouette that mimics a 1960s comic strip – a fitting climax to our tale. As in all good bedtime stories, all’s well that (um, seemingly) ends well: Police Captain Sharp assumes responsibility for parenthood, even though he’s unmarried. Sam agrees to the union. No more suicide attempts, either. That’s a relief!
There’s one final narration by our garden gnome. The town has been reconstructed. A recapitulation by a young boy, on a long-playing record player, revisits the fugue-like finale to Britten’s A Young Person’s Guide to the Orchestra.
The story ends in a fast-paced flourish. But the lives of Sam and Suzy remain open-ended. Sam still sneaks into her bedroom for a fleeting moment of togetherness. Suzy still gazes down at him through her binoculars. She blows him a kiss. Sam smiles shyly back at her.
Heaving a wistful sigh, she leaves her bedroom. But not before she stops to gander at a painting that Sam has been working on. It’s a landscape of the place where they spent their happiest moments, along the sandy shoreline of the Island of Penzance. Underneath the painting, Sam scribbled the name of their peaceful abode: “Moonrise Kingdom.”
Fade out. The last of the children’s chorus intones a comforting “cuckoo, cuckoo,” which derives from a section of Noye’s Fludde. The residents have been washed clean of sin and temptation. All is well, as it should be.
Chris Rock (left) on the receiving end of Will Smith’s sucker-punch slap at the 2022 Oscars
Will, You’ll Still Love Me in the Morning, Right?
I don’t watch the Oscars. Haven’t for a very long time. Oh, I’ve tuned in to the telecast from time to time, mostly out of curiosity or plain old boredom with whatever else I was watching.
Over the years, I’ve learned to equate the annual congratulatory Academy of Motion Picture Arts and Sciences celebration with WrestleMania. What number are we up to there? WrestleMania fifty-three, fifty-seven? Anyway, just like that endless sports program (I’m also thinking of that OTHER annual sporting event, the Super Bowl), we have three or more hours of pre-game or pre-fight gab fests, replays and repeats of past wins and losses, and self-promoting portraits of athletes and opponents, until the requisite kickoff time.
In other words, sit there in front of your high-definition 75-inch widescreen TV until the producers of this elaborate show are good and ready to bring you the main event.
WestleMania 2022 has gone wild!!!!
Which brings me to last week’s Academy Awards presentation. Why, I haven’t even written about the annual Oscar-cast with any frequency on my blog since, well, the last and ONLY time I wrote about them. That was way back in February 2013 (dang, nine years ago!). If you’d like to read that piece, here’s the link: https://josmarlopes.wordpress.com/2013/02/26/seth-and-oscar-the-new-academy-award-winning-odd-couple/). Somehow, after that long ago brain freeze, I’ve never had the slightest inclination to revisit the annual Oscar-casts. That is, until today.
What viewers here, in the U.S., and abroad were privy to earlier this week was, in our opinion, a pitiful display of boorish schoolyard antics. Looking at the replays and tape loops on YouTube and other news feeds, I thought for a moment that I was rewatching the Hollywood version of WrestleMania!
Will Smith, the former Fresh Prince of Bel-Air — with emphasis on the word fresh — before he was about to receive his first Academy Award statuette as Best Actor for his role as tennis stars Venus and Serena Williams’ father in the movie King Richard, walked up to the stage platform and promptly, “with malice aforethought,” slapped Black actor-comedian Chris Rock across the face. By doing so, Will sucked all the “bel-air” out of the room.
Now why would Will do such a heinous thing? What demonic element came into his slim form to force him into perpetrating such an act? Didn’t Smith know that it would just about ruin the family brand? After all those years that he, his wife, Jada Pinkett Smith, and their son Jaden Smith have worked so hard to build it up?
What fresh insult could have provoked the multi-talented actor, comedian, television personality, rapper, producer and host into striking a fellow performer in that manner?
Well, then, here’s how I see this.
Just three months ago, we celebrated the life and film career of another Black male performer, the late, great Sidney Poitier, who was the first of his line to have won a Best Actor award.
In my online testimonial (see the following link: https://josmarlopes.wordpress.com/2022/01/09/an-amen-for-sidney-poitier/), I discussed Poitier’s famed “slap felt round the world” from the movie In the Heat of the Night. The specific circumstance involved Poitier’s character, a police detective named Virgil Tibbs, investigating a homicide in the deep South. During his interrogation of a Southern white bigot, Mr. Tibbs gets slapped in the face by this same bigot. Without hesitation, Tibbs slapped the bigot right back, a first for performers of color during an historically racially charged period in the U.S.
End of round one in the race wars? Well, not exactly.
But what viewers saw later in flashback (the initial Smith-Rock smackdown was blipped from live television) was a Black man striking another Black man across the face. Live, in front of a live audience, in living color, so to speak, and in so-called real time. Wait, what? From a 1967 message-movie about racial intolerance to a Black guy getting into a tussle with another Black guy. Does that make sense? How ironic is that?
The slap felt round the world: Virgil Tibbs and the bigot of ‘In the Heat of the Night’ (1967)
So, is this how one of Hollywood’s own rewards himself and his audience, with smacking a fellow actor-comedian across the kisser? Was it something someone said? Was it prior “bad blood” between the combatants? What’s wrong with this picture?
Well, then, it seems that Mr. Smith was provoked ahead of time by a rather lame, unfunny joke that Mr. Rock told the gathering about wife Jada Pinkett Smith’s shaved head, the result of a hair-loss condition known as alopecia. Whether Mr. Rock had any prior knowledge of her condition was not immediately apparent.
To be honest, motor-mouthed Chris Rock’s schtick is to insult. It’s an old, established line of work, not one every person takes to with ease or comfort, but there it is. There have been many such attempts in the past to “entertain” by insulting, from the likes of Groucho Marx, Don Rickles, Phyllis Diller and Joan Rivers to Eddie Murphy, Dave Chappelle, Kathy Griffin, Bill Maher and Lewis Black (in name only, mind you).
Fellow Black comedians Redd Foxx and Richard Pryor were well known for jousting with and heaping abuse and other colorful epithets on their audiences. “It’s all part of the show,” right? To insult, to verbally shock and awe and, well, outright offend your audience members are these fellows’ stock-in-trade. You either take it and like it, as Sam Spade once said in The Maltese Falcon, or you move on.
That old line about “If you can’t stand the heat, get out of the kitchen” seems to fit neatly into this latest uproar. But is that all there is to it? Your basic brouhaha among the brothers? Have we all become so thin-skinned of late that the slightest hint of an offense sets people off on a wild crusade, a fusillade of fisticuffs, or a verbal vendetta of sorts? Could all this be the result of a seemingly endless pandemic? Or too much exposure to video-game violence? Too many repeat showings of Fight Club? And I thought you weren’t supposed to talk about Fight Club. Shows you what I know!
Let me take a different tack, if I may, by speaking directly to our miscreants.
Hey Will! How ya doing? In the first place, sir, it’s such a rare occasion to have a Black actor — ANY Black actor — win the Academy Award for anything. You got that, right? And when you, Will Smith, walked up there on that stage, for all the world to see, all eyes and all ears were on you. Yes! You, Will Smith, you, you, you. Oh, yes, indeed! They were! Don’t deny it! They were happy and thrilled to see you get that award, or even to be nominated.
So, what did you do, Will Smith? You fell apart! Instead of waiting patiently to acknowledge the audience’s applause, you got out of your seat and stepped right up to good ole Chris Rock’s face and smacked him on the side of his head. Is that how you show your appreciation for being nominated, by shooting the messenger?
And you, Chris Rock? You’re not entirely innocent in this kerfuffle, are you? What possessed you to make such a stupid remark about a woman’s hair loss condition, especially with her husband sitting right alongside her? Are you a glutton for punishment? In fact, you don’t look like Hulk Hogan, do you? Remember the Hulkster? He was a bad guy before he became a good guy. Is that what you were after? A realignment of your priorities? I bet you didn’t expect that Mr. Smith was ready to realign your facial features!
To paraphrase a line from The Graduate, we can’t have any more of this agitation, now, can we? Huh? Do you hear me? Guys??? What we have here, as Strother Martin once said in Cool Hand Luke, is failure to communicate! We can’t have two grown men, two very talented and very funny gentlemen (I’d like to think that you BOTH are gentlemen under the skin) playing tag with one or the other’s cheekbones. This isn’t WrestleMania, this isn’t Fight Club, this isn’t even Boyz n the Hood! This is real life! Don’t let me get Laurence Fishburne involved, either. You won’t like his brand of “tough love,” so get over it.
Laurence Fishburne (right) as Jason ‘Furious’ Styles in ‘Boyz n in the Hood’ (1991)
Now, let me make a proposition, a nice little offer you can’t refuse: Why don’t you guys just “kiss” and make up? No, not literally, but figuratively. Let bygones be bygones. How about it? Why not start by acting like two grownups? You hear me, Chris? You hear me, Will? “You talking to me?” Yeah, I’m talking to you! To BOTH of you!!! Go over and apologize to The Rock, I mean Chris Rock (sorry, Dwayne Johnson. My bad!).
Come on! Do the right thing! Spike Lee will be pleased! Go over to each other’s homes, wherever that is, and give yourselves a great big “I’m sorry” hug. Shake hands and DO NOT come out fighting. Then, turn the other cheek. You hear me?
Uh, on second thought… forget the cheek bit. Let’s just shake hands and leave it at that.
The comedy-drama‘Moonrise Kingdom’by writer-director Wes Anderson (2012)
“Kids! What’s the matter with kids today?” complained comedian Paul Lynde in the 1963 musical-comedy Bye, Bye Birdie. “Who can understand anything they say? They are disobedient, disrespectful oafs! Noisy, crazy, sloppy, lazy, loafers! While we’re on the subject: Kids! You can talk and talk till your face is blue! But they still just do what they want to do! Why can’t they be like we were?” (Lyrics courtesy of Lee Adams).
Why, indeed. Could it be that they know better? Yeah, those crazy mixed-up kids! What a nuisance, what a pain! And “Kids” is the perfect theme song for a musical about crazy mixed-up teenagers from the late 1950s, obsessed with a fictional rock-‘n’-roll idol — a hip-swaying, about-to-be-drafted rockabilly patterned after Elvis Presley.
In Wes Anderson’s Moonrise Kingdom (2012), set in late summer 1965, we have a similar set of participants: namely, a slap-happy group of crazy mixed-up preteens and their adult counterparts. The premise, in this case, involves a troubled pubescent pair, Sam Shakusky (Jared Gilman) and Suzy Bishop (Kara Hayward), who finds itself in the throes of puppy love. Having carried on a year-long correspondence — in one of Anderson’s patented rapid-fire flashbacks — the two decide to run away together. On the opposite track, the girl’s middle-aged parents, Walt and Laura Bishop (Bill Murray and Frances McDormand), both lawyers by profession, face their own midlife crisis.
Next, sad-eyed but none-too-bright Police Captain Sharp (Bruce Willis) goes on the trail of the fugitive “miscreants,” between furtive visits to Mrs. Bishop whom Suzy has continuously spied on because, the daughter suspects, mom has been carrying on an affair with the policeman for some time. Meanwhile, an insensitive Social Services worker, who remains a nameless bureaucrat throughout (but we know her as Tilda Swinton), tries to put a semblance of order to a disorderly situation.
Suzy Bishop (Kara Hayward) spies on her mom from atop their home in ‘Moonrise Kingdom’
We also have the garrulous narrator (Bob Balaban) doubling as a garden gnome and modeled on the Stage Manager from Thornton Wilder’s Our Town, who pops up at regular intervals to offer details about our quaint New England abode. Those details become markers for what is to come. This is followed by self-important Scout Master Ward (Edward Norton) and his Keystone Kops-like band of Khaki Scouts who parade about Camp Ivanhoe as if they were underaged army troopers (uh, more like makeshift “Lords of the Flies,” in one instance). As with Police Captain Sharp and Laura Bishop, Ward appears to be courting Becky (Marianna Bassham), the island’s sole Telephone Operator, on the sly.
In addition, a frustrated foster parent, Mr. Billingsley (Larry Pine), succeeds in relieving himself of the burden for caring for his troubled charge. That troubled charge, twelve-year-old Sam Shakusky, just happens to be the object of Social Services’ clashes with Police Captain Sharp. He’s also the same boy in love with dark-haired, doe-eyed Suzy. Oh, and one more thing: Sam has a tendency to set stuff on fire when he sleepwalks — quite accidentally, of course (but of course!). Because of this quirk, Sam is banished from the Billingsley household.
All this, and the symphonic and vocal harmonies of English composer Benjamin Britten to top things off — preferably, with red ribbons and a violin bow (there’s also a dandy original score by Alexandre Desplat). Is this any way to start a movie? It is, if the movie happens to be one by Wes Anderson.
Anderson wastes no time in introducing audiences to his world and to the dysfunctional Bishop Bunch. We get a bird’s eye sense of the filmmaker’s basic approach, and how it all ties together into a much larger canvas (or needlepoint) of human behavior, as the situation demands. Murray, for instance, has a permanent look of resignation: bulging midriff, slumped shoulders, and an air of melancholia. Similarly, McDormand commands the household with her hand-held bullhorn, as she blasts orders and threats to family members in or out of earshot. What, is shouting in her natural voice too good for her?
Just as in the Britten piece, the film opens with all the players at the ready — well, most of them, anyway. Each is in his or her respective sphere of influence (the summer home, the porch, the dining area, the bedroom, outdoors, indoors, wherever). This is supposed to be your typical middle-class family, but there’s nothing typical about this crowd. And, as it was with Britten’s work, each section is spotlighted in snippets of background filler, just enough to tap into the audience’s interest.
The instruments employed show off their capabilities in short spurts. Likewise, our human equivalents also figure into the pattern, providing hints of their quirky behavior. Everything comes together in the end, however, with a rousing fugue that unites the disparate elements into a flurry of activity, while closing on a major key.
Why, it’s a veritable all-music fest, an echo of those long-ago, Leonard Bernstein-led Young People’s Concerts in miniature. Anderson even used Bernstein’s recording of the Britten work with the New York Philharmonic, a prime example of the director’s coincidental-slash-quite-on-purpose musical montages much favored by fans and admirers. Tidbits of crucial information are thrown at viewers in quick succession, an Anderson trademark.
Music and Comedy for Everyone
A comedic banquet for the eyes and ears, Moonrise Kingdom is another of the Houston-born writer-director’s chaotic showcases of life among skewed adults who act… well, like children; and the damaged children they leave behind (see The Royal Tenenbaums) who try desperately to act like adults. A contradiction in terms? Your guess is as good as mine, but that’s what makes Anderson’s features such a challenge to normal sensibilities.
Toss in a wire-haired fox terrier called Snoopy (no, not THAT Snoopy), who unlike his namesake meets an untimely end, and you have a farcical yet affectionate tribute to mid-1960s pop culture, replete with knowing pokes at nostalgic symbols from days gone by. Indeed, nostalgia and the loss of innocence are persistent themes in many of Mr. Anderson’s films. And this one is no exception.
Really, what’s there to say about a seemingly peaceful New England coastal paradise, i.e., the make-believe island of New Penzance (no pirates, please), where a monster hurricane is about to bear down upon its inhabitants at a most inopportune moment? A metaphor for the turbulent lives of Anderson’s characters? Portents of radical and/or cultural changes to come? You betcha! And Anderson leaves no stone unturned, to coin a typical phrase.
The know-it-all narrator (Bob Balaban) explains it all for youin “Moonrise Kingdom’
Beneath it all, we are privy to Britten’s 1945 A Young Person’s Guide to the Orchestra, subtitled Variations and Fugue on a Theme of Purcell, comprised of woodwinds, brass, percussion, and strings. Like Britten, Sir Henry Purcell was an English-born musician but of the Baroque period, renowned for a series of stage works, principally the operas Dido and Aeneas, King Arthur, and The Fairy Queen. Britten himself was no slouch in that department (Peter Grimes, Billy Budd, The Turn of the Screw, A Midsummer Night’s Dream, Death in Venice), having made up for lost time between the interval of Purcell’s early demise (in 1695) and his own birth two centuries later, in securing England’s place in the operatic firmament.
Interestingly, Anderson presents viewers with Noye’s Fludde, a one-act children’s recreation of the Old Testament story of Noah and the Ark, where God commands Noah to build a vessel and populate it with two of every known animal. Because mankind has sinned, God was going to start fresh with Noah and his brood. The text, derived from an old English mystery play, directs that it be performed by amateur performers, with the exceptions of Noah, his wife, and the voice of God. At the start, the piece serves as the meeting place where Sam first spots Suzy. She plays a sexy raven with heavy eyeliner (no wonder he’s attracted to her). You can feel the electricity in their stares and glances.
Suzy Bishop (middle) as the raven in Benjamin Britten’s children’s opera, ‘Noye’s Fludde’
Not satisfied with that, Anderson bathes his audiences in sixties-style pop sounds from France (via Parisian chanteuse Françoise Hardy) and a sampling of Country-Western ballads (sung by Hank Williams). The British group the Kinks, one of Anderson’s favorites, and their tunes are nowhere to be heard. But the director makes up for their absence with several other Britten pieces. There are passing references as well to filmmaker François Truffaut and the French New Wave, which was coming into its own in this same time period. Too, the New Hollywood and its own version of outré film forays were right around the corner.
But then, we have the paradoxical presence of a lookalike Lord Baden-Powell, founder of the Boy Scouts, played by Harvey Keitel in short pants and walrus mustache. What’s that? Don’t tell me you didn’t notice the resemblance? Either you weren’t paying attention or, more likely, you may not have been attuned to Anderson’s mania for cultural references, of which this film (and others like it) abound in.
Possessing a healthy curiosity about the world as it once was, a subject he delved into at length with 2014’s The Grand Budapest Hotel and, more recently, The French Dispatch, Anderson fills the screen and soundtrack with trivial matters such as these — sort of like sprinkling sugar on an already sweetened parfait.
But isn’t he asking too much of his viewers? That is, for them to be overly indulgent in kowtowing to his directorial whims? His penchant for the obscure? His love of over-the-top storytelling? We don’t think so. These so-called “devices” add substance to Anderson’s enticing entrees. He’ll leave many viewers in the dark, that’s for certain. But it behooves audiences to put in the extra effort in dissecting these truffles at our leisure. Specifically, for what they reveal about individual motives.
As the film that came before The Grand Budapest Hotel (see my earlier review of this masterpiece of comic hilarity: https://josmarlopes.wordpress.com/2020/07/12/the-grand-budapest-hotel-2014-last-bastion-of-civility/) and just after The Darjeeling Limited and Fantastic Mr. Fox, Moonrise Kingdom shares similarities in style as well as content. The difference, however, may be that in this feature, Anderson and co-writer Roman Coppola’s cinematic trip down a fast-fading memory lane boasts an unrequited air of innocence and naiveté. It’s as if they want viewers to discover the joys and sorrows of growing up for themselves. While periodically permeating the gauzy color scheme and 16mm camera work with silent movie-era antics, we soon discover that our young protagonists may not be as virtuous as they first appear.
Although the “love couple” in question is no doubt comprised of two audacious twelve-year-olds, the range of maturity they exhibit (and their inherent eccentricities), combined with variable degrees of childish smirks and wise-beyond-the-years awareness into adult behavior, tap them as young people with a future: Sam, a talented watercolor artist and budding outdoorsman; and Suzy, a voracious reader and (hopefully) aspiring author of science fiction-fantasy books who hides her true feelings behind stolen goods (those unreturned library books).
Sam Shakusky (Jared Gilman), our little Roger Ebert wannabe, in coonskin cap
There’s a hazy outlook to the picture as a whole, with a saturated film palette not of the Technicolor variety but of softer shades and tones. The whole thing plays as a foggy remembrance of incidents past, where memory can be vague and recollections fleeting at best.
At their worst, Anderson’s films are the equivalent of a seven-course meal — there’s almost too much there to savor over and take in at one time. They’re at their juiciest when digested in slow, satisfying morsels, as long-term sustenance for the hungry movie fan. But they’re never easy to chew. Anderson certainly knows his craft, but you can’t help getting the feeling he’s not above showing off his accomplishments: “Look! See how clever I am? Isn’t that bit hilarious?” That sort of thing.
Call his pictures a manna for simpler times, for a lost innocence whose shelf life has long since expired. For resourcefulness and cunning in the face of overwhelming odds, all of them tied to winnowing plot lines, one of which focuses primarily on a star-crossed pair of adolescents who, through chance, fate or sheer dumb luck, happen to stumble onto one another when their needs were at their greatest.
Adventures Into the Absurd
Each of Anderson’s cinematic delights comes back to us in like manner: some in new wrappings, others basically unchanged. The point being that, at Moonrise Kingdom’s end, each of the participant’s concerns becomes unified within a commonly held purpose.
For instance, when the Khaki Scouts make a collective decision to rescue Sam and Suzy (hopefully, from themselves), the couple asks to be joined in, er, unholy matrimony by Cousin Ben (Jason Schwartzman), an older scout who takes his strictly ceremonial duties far too seriously. Still, the scene of the young people pledging their vows places added emphasis on the seriousness of Sam and Suzy’s purpose. They want to be “married,” and so they are (in a manner of speaking). The Khaki Scouts have joined forces with their fellow twelve-year-old troopers in a show of solidarity not previously expressed. With the exception of the lone holdout, a snotty little brat named Redford (a lookalike for, well, you know who), the bonds that tie these little brigands together are stronger than we might imagine.
Mr. and Mrs. Bishop (Bill Murray, Frances McDormand), Scout Master Ward (Edward Norton) and Police Captain Sharp (Bruce Willis) in ‘Moonrise Kingdom’(2012)
The climax of Britten’s piece, then, solidifies this aspect of the characters’ relationships: at first, togetherness, followed by separation and estrangement, and finally a coming back together. Hopefully, to a more functioning whole. The final fugue and full orchestral repeat of Purcell’s main theme (in the trombones and brass section) returns the musical portion of our program to its beginning.
Similarly, the same occurs within the story and among its protagonists. After the hurricane has done its damage, a semblance of normality, if not normality itself, comes to windswept New Penzance. For the most part, attitudes have been changed or at best modified. We can take comfort in the outcome. For now, Sam, our pint-sized “Roger Ebert” wannabe in coonskin cap, is appeased. And a rapidly maturing Suzy, the “kidnapped girl,” has emerged from her cocoon a stronger and more resolute individual, determined to steer her own course in life, unburdened by excess baggage or uninspired, unfeeling parenting.
Taken individually, however, Sam is not so good at being a Khaki Scout, but he’s terrific at pitching a pup tent. His efforts, for example, at determining which way the wind blows come to naught. So, forget about scouting, kid, just go with your feelings. He’s less a junior ranger and more an artist at heart (we’re shown samples of his artwork, including a rather “revealing” nude!). Suzy’s a bookworm but also a kleptomaniac. And, boy, does she have anger management issues! With her family and others of her age group, she’s belligerent and argumentative. With Sam, she’s tolerant but to a point. She can stand up for herself, but so can Sam, in his deliberately lowkey way.
Despite evidence to the contrary, we mustn’t forget that they’re still kids. In two separate incidents, Sam and Suzy hurt each other. Not physically, mind you, nor intentionally either, but with words. Words hurt. The wounds they leave behind cannot physically be seen, yet they stay with you longer. At those times, the young couple may have inadvertently mimicked their parents’ brusque behavior. Eventually, all is forgiven. They (and we) can move on. But the seeds of friction have been planted. Who knows how long this “truce” may last?
Police Captain Sharp rescues the falling Suzy and Sam atop the church steeplein ‘Moonrise Kingdom’
What’s so admirable about Suzy and Sam is that they’re both fearless risk-takers, the opposite of their burned-out, risk-averse parents. So much so that Police Captain Sharp does not want Sam to be placed with another foster parent or sent to an orphanage. Taking a firm stand at last, Sharp refuses to give him up to Social Services, a nonentity with nary a sentimental bone in her body. It’s business as usual for this meddler, another case to be stamped “complete” and filed away for reference. Her only concern is with getting the matter resolved and be done with it.
However, Police Captain Sharp has other ideas. His absurdly ludicrous rescue attempt atop the church steeple — metaphorically speaking, the scene of the couple’s first meeting — a cartoonish act of physical impossibility if you must know, remains plausible within the range and context of Anderson’s overblown possibilities.
Believe it or not, this brings the story back to where it all began: with the hurricane standing in for Noah’s Ark and the Flood, wiping the kids’ and the adults’ past transgressions clean, in order to start fresh in an ever-evolving adult world. The former “losers” Sam Shakusky and Suzy Bishop, on their own “hard road” to discovery, have figured things out for themselves. Life has pulled them apart and placed them back together again (in the manner of pint-sized Humpty Dumpties). They may have had their great falls, but it’s all in the name of progress: of growing up, of learning and of moving on; of picking yourself up, shaking the dust off your feet, and, yes, starting over.
It’s about analyzing one’s thoughts and actions, while trying to cope with newfound feelings. That’s the spirit! Yes, those new sensations, new emotions, new bodily urges, some of them quite (ahem) carnal in nature. At “Moonrise Kingdom,” their paradisiacal, coastline strip of refuge from encroaching civilization, Suzy and Sam dance cheek to cheek, close enough to engage in intimate behavior. You can’t blame them for trying to make sense of a senseless world: the pains, the sorrows, the missed opportunities, and the consequences of one’s actions are there to be explored. These are what growing up is about. Little rebels with little causes, analogous to Nicholas Ray’s mid-1950s paean to rebellious youth. And it ain’t gonna get any easier, our young people learn. Life never does.
Suzy blows a kiss to Sam in the conclusion to Wes Anderson’s ‘Moonrise Kingdom’
Will Suzy and Sam remain together after summer’s end? Hmm… I think it’s better we don’t know. (Note: Spoilers ahead!) Sam does find a role model and true parent in the “sad, dumb” policeman, Captain Sharp. Suzy does go back home with her family. If their lives turn out to be no better than the ones their parents led, it would be a tragedy indeed, one too hurtful to bear.
Instead, we’ve participated in a comedy of sorts. A human comedy, of course — at least we hope it is. Hope is a good thing to have when you’re on your own, with nothing but your wits to guide you. You live by your wits. It sure helps to have someone by your side, though. Together, you can make a little life for yourself. On your own. No cares. No interference. And no adults around to cramp your style. Mini hippies, left to their devices.
“Kids! What’s the matter with kids today?” Ah, yes! Those crazy mixed-up kids! What a nuisance, what a pain! Don’t you love ‘em anyway?
Olive tries to drag poor Popeye onto the dance floor, while Bluto looks on in delight
Everyone Does the “Broadway Samba”
Near the conclusion of “Samba Lelê,” Senhorita Olive Oyl blows a good-neighborly kiss to the overly timid Popeye the Sailor, whose heart, perched at the end of a collapsible wood-and-metal extension, beats so loud and so fast that it literally pops out of his chest (better that than his remaining eyeball).
Olive ends her dance (rather stiffly animated) by extending her right leg high above her head in a straight line from the ceiling to the floor. Ouch! Popeye and Bluto, like the female-starved seafarers that they are, carry on like there’s no mañana. They outdo themselves in exaggerated adoration, with Bluto pounding away on Popeye’s bottom(!) and both lads taking their dinner table for a ride around the salon— thus giving new meaning to the term “hobby horse.”
Next, the Bahian-clad Olive resumes her “Samba Lelê” routine for the boys’ personal enjoyment, this time warbling the number in an awkward English-language version known as “Broadway Samba.” She starts the song off with the following lines, but the words become more and more impenetrable in direct proportion to her Spanish accent (note the rolling “r” sounds):
Everyone does the samba, samba, Broadway Samba today
It’s proper to do the samba, in the group on the Gay White Way, oh
If you can do the Broadway Samba, then you really buffet
To get some to be solid, you must shake it the samba way
Samba Lelê, do you dig, dig, dig?
Don’t be an icky, be hip, hip, hip!
Samba Lelê, do you dig, dig, dig?
Get on the beat, be a pip!
Oh it’s Broadway, like the Bijou
All about it, like the Beacon
You’ll feel just like a king
Just when you start to take a spin
Everyone does the samba, samba, Broadway Samba today
It’s proper to do the samba, in the group on the Gay White Way, oh
If you can do the Broadway Samba, then you really buffet
To get some to be solid, you must shake it the samba way
Popeye gets so wrapped up in her performance that he wrings the tablecloth he’s holding into a knot, taking the table along with it. The resultant splinters end up on the dance floor. And so does Popeye’s elbow when he attempts to lean it against the missing piece of furniture.
At the conclusion of “Broadway Samba,” Popeye explodes in a thunderous verbal ovation. It’s a little too thunderous for the disapproving Bluto who, despite his efforts at grooming, grumbles under his breath the line, “I gotta get rid of that uncouth runt” — as if “uncouth” had no bearing on his own less-than-exemplary behavior.
To get even, Bluto comes up with the idea of pawning Popeye off as the “champeen samba dancer of the USA,” which immediately impresses the lovely senhorita (in a reversal of a similar gag in the previous Kickin’ the Conga Round). As usual, Popeye’s unwillingness to make a fool of himself holds no water with his biggest fan. And true to form, Olive skillfully coaxes the bashful salt onto the spotlight. “The samba!” she exultantly proclaims, which leaves Popeye to his own devices.
The orchestra atop the Cafe in Paramount’s “W’ere On Our Way to Rio”
The orchestra launches into a choro variation of the “W’ere on Our Way to Rio” theme, while Popeye’s two left-feet whirl about him in an animated facsimile of a soft shoe. In the next instant, Popeye vanishes from the scene. As the spotlight searches the nightclub for the missing sailor, it alights on the upper balcony. There, it finds Popeye with his head buried in the woodwork. “What a spot I’m in,” the would-be ostrich mutters to himself. Popeye momentarily resumes the soft shoe, but just as swiftly disappears, exit stage left.
He’s found in the arms of a mermaid. Not a real mermaid, but a statue decorating the water fountain. “Ya got me,” Popeye giggles to himself, in self-deprecating acknowledgment that “the jig is up.” He good-naturedly accepts his predicament, an all-too-common situation for our hearty sailor man. The focus shifts to the orchestra’s trumpet player and bandleader, both dead-ringers for Paramount star Bob Hope (as we revealed earlier).
Popeye seems to be enjoying himself, finally. He picks up his spontaneous dance routine where he left off: at center stage. Once more unto the breach, he goes. And exits, stage right — running smack, dab into the jutting platform where Olive has just performed. The whole place erupts into gales of laughter.
“Oh, senhor, you’re so funny,” she adds. Popeye lifts his weary head to gaze sheepishly at the girl. As for Bluto, he’s gone into virtual hysterics, guffawing in baritone-like belly-laughs that all-but drown out the audience.
On cue, Popeye whips out a freshly-opened can of spinach (with 17 points of muscle-building iron, according to the label). He empties the contents in one gulp, which turn his hands into enormous chocalhos. Popeye’s prepped for action. As a lesson to bullies everywhere (that you can’t shove us Yankees around), he’s ready to teach movie audiences that laughing hyenas such as Bluto need their comeuppance. This sequence highlights an expertly rotoscoped display of superior dance moves, to the flashy orchestral accompaniment of “Samba Lelê.”
Popeye takes the obliging Olive into his arms and, together, they take over the salon. In retaliation, Bluto tosses out one of the pandeiros in an effort to disrupt his pal’s performance. But Popeye recovers nicely by hurling the pandeiro into the air with his feet, head and buttocks. He then flings the pandeiro at Bluto’s noggin, which utterly fails to beat some sense into it.
The couple approaches the dance platform, where behind the curtain Bluto plots his next move: he operates the lever that, once again, juts the platform out at Popeye. Bluto’s hopes for tripping his buddy up flop as Popeye, reminiscent of a similar move he made in Kickin’ the Conga Round, deftly up-ends himself by dancing with his hands while his legs and feet continue the arm movements. Nothing can stop this samba-swaying fiend, that’s for certain.
Our hero drags the reluctant Bluto out of his hiding place. Yanking him by his bristly beard, Popeye coaxes the blubbering Bluto onto the dance floor. Despite his entreaties, big bad Bluto gets pulverized with a punishing right and a kick to the chin. He lands in Popeye’s arms, which spin him around as if he were a human maraca. Bluto finally gets launched head-first into the giant pandeiro.
Popeye spins the spoilsport Bluto around like a human maraca
When the stage platform shoves Popeye into the waiting arms of Senhorita Olive, the two wind up spinning about the nightclub like oversized tops. In the whirlwind-like haze, Popeye manages to swap clothes with Olive. He’s now dressed in her Bahian outfit; she’s wearing his sailor outfit, complete with kerchief and hat. But the last “word” belongs to Olive as she lets out a couple of toots on her newly acquired pipe.
We return to the opening Paramount Pictures logo for the final band flourish. OOM-pah-pah, OOM-pah-pah, OOM-pah-pah, OOM-pah-pah. Ta-DAH!
A Song By Any Other Name
Whew! There’s so much frenzied action and outcome in this second portion of W’ere on Our Way to Rio that one hardly knows where to begin. We can start by recapping some of the highlights from Kickin’ the Conga Round, which basically (ahem) “kickstarted” the whole Good Neighbor series.
We mentioned before that the unnamed Rio café where Popeye and Bluto visit, and where Senhorita Olive performed her samba routine, is a stand-in for Cassino da Urca. In a comparable manner, the Café La Conga, pictured in Kickin’ the Conga Round, could have been a cartoon replica of the real-life La Conga Club, once situated on Broadway and 51st Street in Manhattan, where such legendary Cuban-jazz musicians as Mario Bauzá and his brother-in-law, Machito (aka Frank Grillo), played and prospered. By 1937, the club became “wildly popular,” to put it mildly.
Such coincidences abound in the 1940s. But in this case, there’s reason to believe that some of those transplanted New York writers and cartoonists, “serving time” in the Fleischer brothers’ Miami headquarters, may have based the animated Café La Conga on their nighttime excursions to the fabled La Conga Club. It’s certainly within the realm of possibility, given that their old New York City hangout had once occupied space — first at 129 East 45 Street, and later in the Studebaker Building located at 1600 Broadway — near the Times Square theater district. Take it from this former New Yorker: that’s a stone’s throw away from 51st Street, comparable to a short one-station subway ride.
Returning to that catchy number that Olive sings and dances to — and the central theme of this last of the Fleischer’s Miami-based cartoon features — we’ll be providing an English-language equivalent which must be prefaced by some explanatory material.
Olive and Popeye swap clothing in true Carnival fashion
First of all, the word Lelê (either upper- or lowercase) is an expression that describes a person who is nuts, crazy, or obsessed about something or with someone (usually, oneself); an individual who thinks he or she is the best at what he or she does, the king of all they survey. There’s an equivalent expression in Portuguese, o rei da cocada preta (“king of the black coconut”), which, if you’re familiar with healthy-looking coconuts, tend to be a solid-brown color on the outside and a milky-white one on the inside. Note that the color “black” is nowhere to be found. In other words, you’re the king of something that doesn’t exist, as in the American expression, “He’s a genius in his own mind.”
So, a person who’s “Samba Lelê” is, in their mind, the best at what they do, and that is singing and dancing the samba. Yet the song itself is a commentary on how one-sided that view tends to be. This is exemplified by the chorus: “Samba Lelê tá (short for está) doente-te, tá de cabeça quebrada-da,” loosely translated as “Crazy for Samba is sick-sick-sick, his head is a little screwed up-up-up,” which is as close to the original meaning as one can get.
Putting it all together, here’s how this slang-filled ditty sounds in English:
I entered into the samba, samba, crazy for samba, that’s me
I’m really good at the samba, let me show you what’s right for me, oh
I entered into the samba, samba, crazy for samba, that’s me
I’m really good at the samba, let me show you what’s right for me
Chorus
Crazy for Samba is sick-sick-sick, his head is a little screwed up-up-up
Crazy for Samba is sick-sick-sick, his head is a little screwed up
I’m the best at samba dancing
I’m not here just for the asking
I’m the king of all that’s crazy
Sound the drumbeat, I’m not lazy
I entered into the samba, samba, crazy for samba, that’s me
I’m really good at the samba, let me show you what’s right for me, oh
I entered into the samba, samba, crazy for samba, that’s me
I’m really good at the samba, let me show you what’s right for me
All right, I’ll admit that I’m no Stephen Sondheim. And I know the above lyrics cannot possibly compare to what Messrs. Cole Porter, Irving Berlin or George and Ira Gershwin put out in the halcyon days of Tin Pan Alley. But I’m sure you’ll agree they provide a much better context for non-Portuguese speakers than the spurious “Broadway Samba” lyrics do.
Speaking of which, the “Broadway Samba” version of “Samba Lelê” originally appeared in a 1941 Paramount Pictures musical short, entitled Copacabana Revue, directed by Leslie M. Roush (BW, 10 min., released Nov 21, 1941) and which pre-dated both W’ere On Our Way to Rio and the earlier Kickin’ the Conga Round. Apparently, Paramount had the number in mind since they owned the rights to the English version, safely locked away in its vaults.
Here’s another bit of trivia. There’s a plethora of African-based words, phrases, and nonsense syllables in Brazilian Portuguese, many of which pop up in songs of the 1920s, ‘30s and ‘40s, and throughout the 1960s and well beyond. Idiomatic expressions from those periods are also prevalent, some associated with the genres of choro, samba, samba-canção, bossa nova, Música Popular Brasileira (MPB), and especially Tropicália.
Take, for instance, the word Pelé, which happens to be the nickname for one of Brazil’s most celebrated soccer players, Edson Arantes do Nascimento. In essence, there’s no real meaning attached to this word. It’s basically a nondescript substitute used to differentiate it from pele (without the accent on the final “e”), the Portuguese word for “skin.” So in essence, Lelê is no different than Pelé, except Lelê has more substantive significance.
Incidentally, the Carnival-based “Samba Lelê” was written in 1939 by composer and pianist Paulo Roberto. According to author Ruy Castro, Paulo Roberto “was a famous radio man and songwriter (he was also a respected medical doctor!),” and the “brother of Luiz Barbosa, who introduced the hard straw hat as a rhythmic samba instrument, and of the great comedian Barbosa Junior, who recorded several duets with Carmen Miranda.”
Equally incredible is that “Sambalelê,” formerly an unrelated nursery rhyme, was also a traditional children’s song. The existence of this second “Sambalelê” (as one word) was an extraordinary discovery, in that this simple tune happens to be the predecessor to the one used in the Popeye cartoon. It’s also the one that Paulo Roberto appropriated for his more rhythmic variation.
A combination lullaby and bedtime number, it starts off slowly with the same melody as the section, “Samba Lelê tá doente-te, tá de cabeça quebrada-da.” Only here, the main verse in Olive’s version differs at the second syllable of “le-LÉ” and the third syllable of “do-en-TE-TE” which, instead of rising to an A flat at the phrase “Samba Le-LÉ ta doenTE-TE” (with “LÉ” and “TE-TE”), falls on the lower F sharp in the children’s song. This results in a softer, subtler, less edgy declamation, as it would be, naturally, for a kid’s tune. You can hear this slower version on YouTube, performed by (among others) the Canadian-Armenian singer-lyricist Raffi, who gives it an unnatural Caribbean-calypso beat.
And while we’re at it, let me mention that Castro referred me to the original Victor (Brazil) 78-rpm, 10-inch, double-faced, October 26, 1939 recording, made in Rio (matrix 033245), of “Samba Lelê,” sung to perfection in an exceptionally clear and rhythmically precise interpretation by the Argentine-born, Italian-descended Brazilian singer Carlos Galhardo (real name Catello Carlos Guagliardi).
The handsome, dark-haired Galhardo, who resembled a cross between John Barrymore and Herbert Marshall, was part of a group of talented radio and nightclub performers from the so-called “Golden Age” of Brazilian popular music. Some of Galhardo’s contemporaries included the likes of Chico Alves, Orlando Silva, Silvio Caldas, and Mario Reis, all of them gifted beyond their years.
Popular radio and nightclub singer Carlos Galhardo
You can savor the tone of Galhardo’s superbly placed tenor voice, as it rises and falls in all the right places. His expert delivery of the text, crisply enunciated and beautifully captured by the elementary technique, is a wonderful testament to his artistry. Make note, too, of his deliciously rounded r’s, so marvelously natural, as well as his infectiously buoyant personality.
On a personal note, Galhardo’s 1941 recording of the Carnival march hit, “Alá-lá-o” (by Haroldo Lobo and Antonio Nássara), was one of my family’s favorites.
And it’s thus that we end this study of the Fleischer brothers’ South of the Border cartoon outings. It’s fitting, then, that in the finale to W’ere On Our Way to Rio, both Olive Oyl and Popeye exchange their clothes. Why fitting? Because Carnival demanded it!
When, during the prior year, could the average Brazilian, especially in Rio, play the role of a pauper or a king, to become, in make believe, a woman in a US Navy sailor outfit, or a man in a Bahian headdress and skirt? Why, during Carnival, of course! That’s the power of the celebration, of the Carnival spirit taking over your person, the very essence of what it is, of what it once used to be — and how it has been preserved in animated form.
Credits: Released April 21, 1944, Duration: 7:43 (or 7:51), #125 in the Popeye series. Produced by Famous Studios / Paramount Pictures (by arrangement with King Features Syndicate). This was the last cartoon produced in Miami, Florida. Direction: Isadore “Izzy” Sparber; animators: James “Jim” Tyer, Ben Solomon, William “Bill” Henning; additional animators and in-between artists: Tom Inada, Abner Kneitel, James Tanaka (all uncredited); producers: Dan Gordon, Seymour Kneitel, I. Sparber (all uncredited); associate producer: Sam Buchwald (uncredited); story: Jack Mercer, Jack Ward; voices: Jack Mercer (Popeye), Dave Barry (Bluto), “Olive” (unknown); musical arrangement: Winston Sharples; songs: “W’ere On Our Way to Rio”; “Samba Lelê” – recorded in 1939 by Carlos Galhardo, and “Broadway Samba” in 1941.
Many thanks to author Ruy Castro, to Carla Guagliardi (the daughter of Carlos Galhardo), and to my brother Anibal Lopes for their invaluable assistance in providing additional material for this piece.
Popeye (right) escorts Miss Olivia Oyla to the Cafe La Conga in “Kickin’ the Conga Round” (1942)
I’m Popeye the sailor man / I’m Popeye the sailor man
I’m strong to the fin-ich / Cause I eats me spin-ach
I’m Popeye the Sailor Man
Written in 1933 by Samuel “Sammy” Lerner for a seven-minute and thirty-seven second cartoon, one that included a guest appearance by the Fleischer studios’ favorite kewpie doll, Miss Betty Boop, this catchy little ditty introduced audiences to the crusty but goodhearted Popeye. His seeming gruffness and slender build masked an underlying urge to defend the weak and the helpless — the kind of jolt that Depression-era audiences were longing for.
And, boy, oh boy, was he ever strong. Those ham-fisted forearms of his packed quite a punch, even without his green-colored power snack. He certainly got around a lot, too. But most fans would expect that from a seafaring adventure seeker, what with the country’s shifting priorities during wartime superseding most other activities. Join the Navy, see the world! That’s the ticket! Oh, and while you’re at it, have fun with the locals.
As sure as Lady Liberty’s torch would light up New York harbor, our hearty sailor lads, Popeye and the boorish Bluto, along with other cartoon characters, were recruited by the major studios to star in period-flavored shorts in support of the war effort. This took place in the early to mid-1940s.
Even more strategic for the Roosevelt Administration was its implementation of the so-called Good Neighbor Policy, or, as it was known in Brazil, A Política de Boa Vizinhança. This policy, administered by the Office of Inter-American Affairs and placed in the willing hands of a young magnate named Nelson Rockefeller, was established as a means of bringing Latin countries closer to the American fold — and away from Nazi and/or Fascist influence.
Brazil, a nation almost the size of the Continental U.S., and the largest one south of the border, represented a huge, untapped market and business challenge. Yet despite its growing coffee and steel mill production, the Great Depression, and now the war, continued to hamper Brazil’s efforts in other key areas — infrastructure and primary goods among them — to include her ability to address those lingering concerns.
Distraction from both the reality of rationing and the lack of basic services had become almost as viable an alternative for the locals as it had been for North Americans. While one of these diversions, i.e., the burgeoning movie industry in Brazil, was still in its infancy, many Brazilians had gotten hooked on film-watching (especially those from America) as far back as the silent era.
My father, as frequent and knowledgeable a moviegoer as they come, spent a good portion of his youth at the Saturday afternoon matinee. Similar to what transpired up north, the matinee ritual would start (in wartime) with civil defense announcements, followed by a newsreel or two, some Movietone shorts, and the inevitable cartoons — all of this coming before the main attractions, typically defined by the letters “A” and “B” (as in the “A” and “B” features).
As an unique form of recreation, cartoons began to reach their peak in the U.S. both during and after the 1930s. However, not every bold endeavor was rewarded with commercial lucre. In 1939 the Max and Dave Fleischer studios, which had earlier profited from the iconic Koko the Clown and Betty Boop series, alongside their well-received Popeye output, decided to move the animation unit from their cramped New York headquarters to sprawling Miami, Florida. Cheaper labor, better working conditions, avoidance of growing union unrest, and a fresher outlook overall were what the Fleischer brothers had in mind.
The Fleischer Animation Studio in Miami, Florida ca. 1940s
Unfortunately, the dearth of available talent, and the brothers’ inability to compete with Disney and his innovative team of artisans, remained a hindrance to the Fleischers’ success. With the failure of their full-length features Gulliver’s Travels (1939) and Mr. Bug Goes to Town (1941), the studios’ distributor, Paramount Pictures, decided to cut their losses and pull up stakes. Paramount also severed ties to the Fleischers themselves, who lost control of their workshop after a two-decade run.
Under the re-branded Famous Studios moniker (a reference to its forbearer Famous Players) , Paramount brought the animation business back to the Big Apple. Whatever staff members were left standing (or sitting, as the case may be) and willing to take the relocation plunge to Midtown, would continue to plow their trade in an area relatively close to their original locale. Among the survivors were Sam Buchwald, the fellow in charge; lead animator Seymour Kneitel, who happened to be married to Max Fleischer’s daughter; and story man Isadore “Izzy” Sparber. Both Kneitel and Sparber alternately took over the reins of Popeye’s continuing adventures, in addition to those of that other Man of Steel, the mighty Superman.
“Kickin’ the Conga Round” (1942)
A month and ten days after Pearl Harbor, the Fleischers’ most popular creation, Popeye, was summoned for active duty. Released on January 17, 1942 — and as one of the studio’s first Good Neighbor-themed shorts — the lively Kickin’ the Conga Round (in inky black-and-white) has our mumbling, squinty-eyed seaman (Jack Mercer) accompany that rotund heavy, Bluto (Dave Barry), to an unidentified Caribbean port. It seems the boys took the “have fun with the locals” advice to heart.
(Note: Due to the origin and nature of the conga, however, this Caribbean port and the idyllic story-setting could only have been situated in Cuba. Also, with the studios’ relocation to the Sunshine State, the subsequent close proximity to and growing influence of the Latino community could not have been overlooked).
Popeye is pining away at a reflection of his chest tattoo: It’s a portrait of a dark-skinned beauty, La Señorita “Olivia Oyla” (voiced by Margie Hines, in her best ZaSu Pitts impression, with an ersatz Spanish accent). But his best bud Bluto beats him to the punch with plans of his own: He steals the lovely lady’s phone number (CONGA 1-2-3) in order to book her for a date, but pronto. Armed with this tidbit, Bluto makes a beeline for the exit, forcing his pal to miss the boat for shore leave. Round one goes to Bluto.
Bluto (left) muscles in on Popeye’s action in “Kickin’ the Conga Round”
At an outdoor dining area, Bluto entertains Ms. Oyla with silly parlor tricks. Just then, Popeye shows up and gains the upper hand by outdoing Bluto with some tricks of his own. Popeye leaves his “buddy” with a huge head bump and dark shiner, thus winning the second round. Our hero is now free to escort his date to the Café La Conga.
At the club, Olivia insists he dance the conga with her, but Popeye balks at the request. Taking full advantage of his friend’s reluctance, Bluto reappears and politely invites Olivia to do the conga with him. In seconds, Olivia jumps into the waiting Bluto’s arms; they’re sweeping each other off their feet in a laughably-exaggerated dance display (more in the nature of a Parisian Apache Dance). Popeye can only sit and brood, his little pipe boiling over at the sight of his girl being tossed around like a rag doll.
In that moment, a waiter walks by with a fresh can of spinach for the sorry-eyed salt to sample. Popeye gulps the contents down in no time. With that, the re-energized sailor man turns into a conga-strutting dynamo. Shoving that show-off Bluto to the side, Popeye makes quite an impression on Ms. Oyla — to the point that as they whip up a storm on the dance floor, an enraged Bluto decides to cut in, only to be pummeled by Popeye.
A light-on-his-feet Popeye dances the conga with Olivia Olya
A veritable free-for-all ensues, as both sailors forget their manners and go at each other’s throats, shot for shot, punch for punch. Also forgotten in the melee is an irate Ms. Olivia Oyla, who runs off to seek assistance. While the rivals are knocking one another about, two shore patrol guards (or SP’s) arrive on the scene. They grab the two offenders (who they refer to as “Jeebs,” a period slang term) and march them off to the brig — each guard kicking the rear ends of their prisoners to the beat of the conga. The winner and still champion: the shore patrol. Certainly, the Café La Conga won’t have these two sailor boys to “kick around” anymore.
Needless to say, friendly Inter-American relations took a few noticeable steps backward with this entry into the Good Neighbor sweepstakes. Still, there are some pleasant (if sometimes violent) moments to savor. Bluto is surprisingly light on his feet, with the flatfooted Popeye equally dexterous (allowing for the timely aid of his spinach, of course). In one sequence, the sailor physically up-ends himself — that is, his arms and hands replace his legs and feet, which continue the conga moves in tandem. The pacing throughout the feature is swift, the gags witty and light.
Musically, arranger Sammy Timberg has the session players strike the main conga motif in a repetitive TA-ta-ta-ta-ta-TUM, TA-ta-ta-ta-ta-TUM rhythm. There’s no real melody as such, only a rapidly-pulsed theme similar to the cha-cha (also of Cuban origin) but to a quicker conga step. Which is just as well, since the music fits the occasion and the cartoon’s purpose of furnishing an atmospheric backdrop.
Credits — Direction: Dave Fleischer, a common practice at the time, although there is no indication he actually directed the piece; animators: Thomas Johnson, George Germanetti, and Frank Endres; story: Bill Turner, Tedd Pierce (credited under Ted Pierce); music: Sammy Timberg.
‘The Grand Budapest Hotel’ — A Film by Wes Anderson
A Tragicomedy of Errors
The screwball comedies of the 1930s and ’40s were benchmarks for generations of Hollywood filmmakers. Such laudable efforts as those of Preston Sturges (The Lady Eve, The Miracle of Morgan’s Creek), Ernst Lubitsch (The Shop Around the Corner, To Be or Not To Be), Howard Hawks (Bringing Up Baby, His Girl Friday), and Frank Capra (It Happened One Night, Arsenic and Old Lace) exerted a strong influence on many of the era’s directors — and on those yet to come.
As a rule, comedy films are governed by a given set of parameters, many of them holdovers from the silent movie era. The standard formula for these pictures, then, combined aspects of a wacky plot, zany antics, an ensemble cast, the requisite chase scene, oh, and the occasional pratfall or two. With the injection of cynicism into the picture, epitomized by the classic films of Billy Wilder (Some Like It Hot, The Apartment), and the incongruous romances and knuckle-headed folly found in Woody Allen’s work (Bananas, Sleeper, Annie Hall, Manhattan), the world of madcap comedy took on a decidedly modern turn.
Be that as it may, the above properties began to rub off on a young and up-and-coming Texan named Wes Anderson. An independent writer-director, who followed in the footsteps of another well-known advocate for autonomy, the equally gifted Jim Jarmusch (whose Only Lovers Left Alive was reviewed by yours truly: https://josmarlopes.wordpress.com/2020/06/15/only-lovers-left-alive-2013-a-parable-of-class-consciousness/), Anderson adopted many of the attributes normally associated with screwball comedies and turned them into quirky character studies.
Among his contributions are Bottle Rocket (1996), Rushmore (1998), The Royal Tenenbaums (2001), The Life Aquatic with Steve Zissou (2004), The Darjeeling Limited (2007), Fantastic Mr. Fox (2009), and Moonrise Kingdom (2012). As for myself, I am embarrassed to admit that, for a variety of reasons, I remained ignorant of Anderson’s previous output — that is, until I was introduced to the absurdly audacious but adorable The Grand Budapest Hotel (2014). I am happy to note that it was this feature that led me to explore all of Anderson’s work in reverse order, from the newest to the oldest.
But let’s call The Grand Budapest Hotel what it is: i.e., the cinematic equivalent of a Russian nesting doll in which layer after layer of stories within stories are peeled back to reveal, well, more layers of stories. The “truth,” if indeed such a concept exists, is eventually exposed, and the contents of what lies therein are spilled out for all to see and admire (or not).
Indeed, Mr. Anderson, along with veteran cinematographer Robert Yeoman, set designer Adam Stockhausen, costume designer Milena Canonero, editor Barney Pilling, and composer Alexandre Desplat, have concocted an utterly enticing comedic showcase in the form of an “Encyclopedia Europa.” The experience of sifting through this filmic compilation, while scanning its horizons for deeper meaning (whether or not it relates to the basic premise), is left up to the viewer.
“An impossible assignment,” you say. Not really. How Anderson and his dedicated crew of technicians succeeded in dissecting this amalgamation of material is part of the fun of watching The Grand Budapest Hotel. Even after multiple viewings, we can still find something new and fresh to sink our teeth into. For instance, the whizz-bang, fast-paced aspect of the story; the constant back-and-forth of characters entering and exiting; those head-on camera angles and revelatory tracking shots. Why, there’s no end to the innovations that Anderson employs in telling his faux-Continental fairy tale.
The way that he achieves his objectives is by an extension and reduction of the film frame in conformance to the story’s intent. It begins in the present time, with a little girl walking through a cemetery on a bleak winter’s day. She stops at the gravesite of a famous writer, modeled after the Viennese author Stefan Zweig. The girl carries a storybook in her hand, bearing the inscription The Grand Budapest Hotel.
Suddenly, viewers are transported back in time, to the year 1985, with the old Author (Tom Wilkinson) sitting front and center, reading from a prepared text. He is interrupted by his little grandson (Marcel Mazur), who shoots a pellet at him from a toy pistol — a juvenile act that, in the course of the story, will come to symbolize the loss of innocence cloaked in deadly seriousness.
The old Author (Tom Wilkinson) and his grandson (Marcel Mazur)
Next, the old Author whisks the viewer off to 1968 and the ramshackle rudiments of the Grand Budapest Hotel, tucked away in the fictional Zubrowka hills. The film frame, which began with the Standard aspect ratio of 1.85:1, expands to the full 2.40:1 ratio of CinemaScope, the apogee of widescreen movie-making. Here, we are introduced to the Author as a young man (shades of Ernest Hemingway), played by an actor (Jude Law) of suitable age and vigor, in yet another manifestation of Herr Zweig. Young Author now takes over the narration.
In this section, though, the young Author is drawn to an elderly gentleman who sits motionless in the hotel’s lobby in contemplation of who knows what. Both men have a variant of the “meet cute” in the vast and empty bathhouse. Despite their unfamiliarity with each other, the elderly gentleman (F. Murray Abraham) invites the young Author to dine with him that evening. After the older gentleman has ordered his meal, he begins to open up about his life to the intensely receptive Author.
As it turns out, the older gentleman is Zero Moustafa, the former lobby boy and current owner of the Grand Budapest Hotel. His lined face and heavily-lidded features betray an individual who has spent a lifetime harboring sadness and loss. When Zero begins his sorrowful saga, we are once more treated to a further reduction of the frame, this time to the Academy ratio of 1.37:1. This steady narrowing of the movie’s viewing space is a deliberate choice by the director, in that we begin our journey down old Author’s memory lane with a wide-angle shot — indicative of a broader grasp of the world at large.
The elder Zero (F. Murray Abraham) with the young Author (Jude Law)
As the frame tightens around a cluster of separate settings and images, the focus has correspondingly shifted along with it. With the frame having reached the aforementioned Academy ratio, the viewer can finally sit back and savor the nest of colorful characters and their individual dilemmas — a cinematic narrowing of the eyes, as it were, on exactly where Anderson wants his audiences to focus: mainly, on the year 1932.
This technique parallels Zweig’s own writing style. In other words: the more open the presentation, the less focused the story; the less open the presentation, the more focused the story. To be precise, Anderson has settled on a visual form of storytelling — the equivalent of picking up a favorite book and leafing through its pages, while stopping at key moments in the narrative so as to place one’s concentration on what’s written on the printed page. That it works as well as it does in this motion-picture format is a tribute to the director’s ingenuity and persistence in bringing his story to light.
When we are long past the movie’s three-quarter mark, the aspect ratios reverse course and return to their original proportions. We end up, surely enough, exactly where we began: with the little girl furtively closing the pages of her storybook.
Smash and Grab World
‘Boy with Apple’ by Johannes van Hoytl the Younger
The basic plot of The Grand Budapest Hotel, a slapstick, knockabout comedy of the most absurd, revolves around a murder mystery tied to the theft of a dubious masterwork of Northern Renaissance art by fictitious painter Johannes van Hoytl the Younger. (Note to readers: Spoilers ahead!) To complicate matters further, audiences should be alert to the existence of a half-dozen or so side plots. Bear in mind, too, that one can hardly scratch the surface of these myriad plots in this review.
The painting, Boy with Apple, is an abominably crude, amateurish recreation modeled after Hans Holbein the Younger’s portraits of European nobility. It also bears a striking similarity to a High Renaissance portrait of The Magdalene by one Bernardino Luini (1525) that hangs in Washington D.C.’s National Gallery of Art. Any relation to religiosity or the church, however, is purely incidental.
‘The Magdalene’ by Bernardino Luini (Photo: National Gallery of Art, Washington D.C.)
In actuality, the Boy’s features have an uncanny resemblance to that of Monsieur Gustave H. (Ralph Fiennes), the head concierge of the illustrious Grand Budapest Hotel and (as described below) one of many principal protagonists. For those art history buffs out there, the apple the Boy holds in his hand is synonymous with the forbidden fruit which Gustave has not only tasted but indulged in to the fullest.
This garish artwork also happens to be Wes Anderson’s version of Hitchcock’s infamous MacGuffin, or that thing which the characters, both the good and the bad, are desperately searching for. The good guys, in this case, are M. Gustave and the young Zero Moustafa (Tony Revolori, in a literal pencil-thin mustache), his lobby boy in training. For the most part, the bad guys are comprised of the malevolent Dmitri (a more naturally-mustachioed Adrien Brody) and his sharp-toothed henchman Jopling (brass-knuckle-wielding Willem Dafoe).
Zero (Tony Revolori) is rescued by his lover Agatha (Saoirse Ronan)
Stuck in the middle somewhere (among other places) are the wealthy widow Madame D. (Tilda Swinton), apprentice baker and Zero’s intrepid lover Agatha (Saoirse Ronan), executor of Madame D.’s estate Deputy Kovacs (Jeff Goldblum), Serge the nervous butler (Mathieu Amalric), the intimidating prisoner Ludwig (bald-pated Harvey Keitel), and the inquisitive Inspector Henckels (Edward Norton), the officer in charge of finding the murderer. There are also a number of cohorts and accessories after the fact, to include members of the secret Society of the Crossed Keys(!).
Almost laughably, the stolen Boy with Apple is replaced with the all-too revealing Two Ladies Masturbating, their wide-open “charms” leaving nothing to the imagination. The irony lies in the fact that this prurient painting happens to be a true work of art, whereas the simplistic Boywith Apple is a travesty of portraiture. That its monetary value happens to drive the lunatic plot along is, in itself, farcical and hard to fathom. Seemingly, everyone runs around town after an object of questionable worth, which is as it should be in a screwball comedy. Lessons are learned, some for better and some for worse.
Upon seeing Two Ladies Masturbating instead of Boy with Apple, the easily angered Dmitri reacts in horror: “Holy fuck! What’s the meaning of this shit?” And immediately smashes the Two Ladies against a piece of sculpture. “Thus, always, to filthy artists!” he seems to be saying with this gesture. There will be more such moments to come.
Jopling (Willem Dafoe), Dmitri (Adrien Brody), Serge (Mathieu Amalric) & Gustave H. (Ralph Fiennes) have a “difference” of opinion
Proof of Boy with Apple’s worthlessness can be seen in the episode that takes place in 1968 involving the nearly dilapidated Grand Budapest Hotel, where the painting hangs ignominiously above the bored desk clerk’s post. Similarly, it is pictured on the back of the hotel’s dinner menu (but you’ll have to look closely to find it). In this risible aside, Anderson mocks what the art world of the time considered “treasurable.” This revives the age-old argument over what one society reveres as “art” as opposed to what another deems as “obscene.” The film’s theme, in retrospect, becomes the story of an openly permissive society about to face artistic and socio-political repression.
Introducing Monsieur Gustave: From Hero to Zero
There are several star attractions in this convoluted comedy of errors, chief among them the ubiquitous Monsieur Gustave H., the Old World ambassador of a now-forgotten past. Handsome, debonair, charming, smooth-talking, sophisticated, and resolute — there are not enough adjectives to describe this fellow’s magnificence. A bon vivant par excellence, M. Gustave is discretion personified. His movements are planned to split-second perfection. His speech and rapid-fire delivery are executed with Swiss-watch precision. Indeed, timing is everything to this professional busybody. He’s not only a master of all he surveys, but is immaculate in his appearance and dress (as to be expected).
Monsieur Gustave H. (Ralph Fiennes) admires Madame D.’s makeup
Additionally, Gustave H. is blessed with a sharp wit, whose mind races constantly at breakneck speed, a thoroughbred among also-rans. For a concierge, he is quite the man-about-town. Ah, but Gustave does have his faults. For one, he never thinks of himself as simply a concierge. He’s the prime cut to everyone else’s roast beef, the filet mignon to their rib steak. And, as a matter of course, his supreme belief in himself and his abilities confirm what he sees in his mind’s eye: that he’s up to the challenge of any given situation, give or take a few exceptions.
As the film progresses, the viewer experiences a subtle pulling back of the bedsheets — more like a peeling away of the layers of a pungent-smelling onion (whew…). We learn, among other things, that Gustave is prone to exaggeration (that’s putting it mildly). He also possesses a terribly short fuse, especially when matters get out of hand. There are points in this tragicomedy where, down for the count and seemingly out, M. Gustave manages to wrangle his way back from a tricky situation. Where most people would give in to despair (for example, the brief time he spends in prison), Gustave seeks out opportunities to be of service. Each time, he rises above the tumult, only to find that by movie’s end his luck has run out.
He is especially favored by the doddering dowager, Madame D. Sporting a Marie Antoinette hairdo by way of Antoine of Paris, Madame D. is enamored of the man. Early on, she confesses to him that she fears for her life. “She was shaking like a shitting dog,” Gustave mutters in an aside. Incredibly, the concierge is not repulsed by the woman’s advance age, nor by the dozens of elderly widows he surrounds himself with. On the contrary, he finds them much to his liking. “She was dynamite in the sack, by the way,” he observes. “She was 84,” queries Zero. “Mmm, I’ve had older,” Gustave adds. He cultivates the illusion of subservience and refinement, but they’re all for show and (obviously) for later telling.
Madame D. (Tilda Swinton) dines with M. Gustave (Ralph Fiennes)
Our lobby boy in training, the young Zero, is a cipher by comparison, a real “nothing” as his name implies. Conveniently, he becomes Gustave’s protégé, someone the seasoned concierge can take under his wing. No doubt, M. Gustave sees much of his younger self in Zero. A youth barely out of his teens yet burdened with a lifetime of heartache over the loss of his family, at best Zero is a survivor. He tells us so at key moments in the story, as when Gustave, desperate to get his cooperation on learning the police want to question him about Madame D.’s passing, lets it slip that his family had been tortured and killed.
Still, Zero knows how to keep silent. “Zip it,” M. Gustave curtly orders. To his credit, Zero is a fast learner and always willing to pitch in. But as quick a study as he is, Zero cannot possibly touch Gustave H. in the (how shall we put it) gratification department. Gustave aims to please, which takes on many forms. With a wealth of rich old spinsters at his feet, Gustave is much in demand for his, uh, services. No wonder he’s so beloved by Zubrowka society! Who could resist such a treasure? The ladies find him eminently desirable, a reminder of their own youthful dalliances. Likewise, Gustave plays on the ladies’ vanity, until he is no longer able to.
Note the quick flashback to Gustave’s servicing of the old biddies. These “quickies” fulfill the dual purpose of solidifying Gustave’s patronage of and acquiescence to the “old ways” of doing things. Whether those old ways actually worked in his favor, no one can tell for certain. If anything, Gustave H. is the hotel’s last bastion of civility, the final redoubt of a way of life that will shortly cease to exist; an Old World society on the brink of all-out conflict and, as author Zweig termed it, “the end of all we know.”
Regardless of the consequences, both Gustave and Zero’s positions are a calculated means toward a desired end, designed to give themselves enough leeway — call it a “pause for effect” — where personal service, of a kind no longer in existence, takes absolute precedence.
As the top dog of (at one time) a luxury establishment, Gustave’s responsibility is to see to the comfort of his guests. As he’s putting young Zero through his paces (a terribly funny sequence punctuated by nonstop banter), Gustave explains that a lobby boy must anticipate his guests’ needs without their knowing what those needs are — a veritable feat of mind over matters of fact. This motto has served Gustave well, to a point. It will also serve our survivor, Zero, well into his old age.
Lobby boy Zero (Tony Revolori) shares a drink with M. Gustave (Fiennes)
For chaotic chase scenes and preposterous situations that defy the laws of gravity, nothing in recent years has topped the remarkable skiing sequence where Zero and Gustave are hot on the trail (on a cold, snow-covered slope) of the nasty little assassin Jopling, who experiences a nasty little comeuppance. There are mad dashes across the frozen tundra and others too implausible to give credence to. I don’t want to give away too much of the plot, but the climax and dénouement of The Grand Budapest Hotel are nothing if not bittersweet. You’ll be forced to wipe away a tear or two, as you smile broadly at the outcome.
Stefan Zweig wrote, in his autobiographical The World of Yesterday, that “our world of security was a castle in the air.” In Wes Anderson’s film, that bygone period is embodied by the once-elegant Grand Budapest Hotel (Zweig’s “castle in the air”), whose lobby boy and head concierge are past emissaries of that last gasp of civility in an increasingly uncivil world. M. Gustave had both feet planted in each of these worlds, although anachronistically speaking he was out of step with the times. His genteel manners and general air of bonhomie were woefully inadequate to thwart the coming menace, especially when confronted by brutish military guards. And with most of the deaths occurring offscreen, it’s left it to our imagination to fill in the gruesome details.
Writer-director Wes Anderson, along with his collaborator Hugo Guinness, have given audiences not just a tale as tall as Zubrowka’s hills but one involving a world that once prided itself on knowledge and culture, on nourishing the intellect and satiating the senses. However, towards the end that self-same world, corrupted by forces from within, rebelled against common decency. It turned away from knowledge and understanding to perpetuate false notions of superiority; to raising borders against those who were different, and allowing their basest, most bellicose instincts to take over.
In that, and in most other respects, The Grand Budapest Hotel has much in common with Ernst Lubitsch’s To Be or Not To Be, a dark, portentous serio-comedy premiering in March of 1942 (and set ten years after Anderson’s film) that poked fun, if we can call it that, at Hitler, the Nazis, Shakespeare’s Hamlet, the German occupation of Warsaw, and the Second World War. The alarm was already sounding when United Artists released this classic picture.
A month earlier, in February 1942, in the resort city of Petropolis near Rio de Janeiro, Brazil, Stefan Zweig and his second wife committed suicide together. Despondent over the state of their beloved Vienna and the chaos unleashed upon the world, Zweig and his spouse resolved to put an end to their suffering.
Civilizations, take note: The warning signs are as viable today as they were so many decades ago. We must not let the world of yesterday become the world of tomorrow. Zweig’s message was clear and overt. And Anderson’s film has underscored it.
Today is Sunday, March 15. In poetic terms, it’s the ides of March.
According to historians (and to playwright William Shakespeare), Julius Caesar, the “noblest Roman of them all,” was assassinated on that date. He was warned by a soothsayer to “Beware the ides of March” and avoid setting foot in the Roman Senate.
But Caesar ignored the warning. Instead, he was killed at the Theatre of Pompey, where the Roman Senate met.
Look where we are today.
This used to be a time when fans of college basketball could root for their favorite teams. The NCAA championships take place in March, which gave rise to the description “March Madness.” Not this year, I’m afraid. It’s morphed into something else; that is, something approaching “March Sadness.” It’s a sad epitaph indeed, and not just for college basketball.
The NBA, or National Basketball Association, has suspended its season. So have Major League Baseball, Major League Soccer, the PGA Tour, and the Masters Golf Tournament. The National Hockey League has also postponed its season, as have the XFL, the Association of Tennis Professionals, and the Women’s Tennis Association. The opening run of the Formula 1 racing season has been cancelled, too. And NASCAR has moved back its opening-day events by two weeks or more.
In addition to which, production of many cable television shows has been halted. The nation’s museums are closed, while movie theaters’ doors have been shuttered as well. Lamentably, Broadway’s Great White Way has dimmed its lights. And the Metropolitan Opera House has lowered its golden curtain on upcoming performances. “La commedia é finita!” the house has announced. Translation: “The play is over!”
All this because of the coronavirus outbreak. But that’s not the worst of what’s happened. There are real lives at stake, with so many families and friends being affected. Workers and employers sent home, multiple school closings, businesses and stores shuttered, elderly loved ones and relatives in peril — all at the mercy of this unseen menace. Unable to participate in life’s simple pleasures, we’re about to closet ourselves away, for our own safety and for the safety of others.
Oh, and financial markets around the world have taken a nosedive. While Wall Street is all wound up, we’ve wound our way down. Big time! We ignored the warnings, and now the ides of March are upon us.
Despite the dire news, the final straw occurred the other day when word got out that Tom Hanks and his actress wife, Rita Wilson, had tested positive for the coronavirus while working on separate projects in Australia.
Oh, no, not him! Not Tom Hanks!!! Please, Lord, say it ain’t so! My God, if Tom Hanks and his spouse can be hit by the coronavirus, is there any hope for humanity?
Who Ya Gonna Call?
The nation is reeling. In times of stress, who do we turn to? Who can we rely on to save us from ourselves, and from our worst impulses?
Why, the self-same Tom Hanks. That’s who! Who better than filmdom’s most reliable and most beloved screen actor?
So let this Sunday homily be my open invitation to Mr. Hanks:
Dear Tom,
Please excuse the directness of my approach. We need your help. Let me rephrase that: America needs your help. At this terrible moment in our country’s history, when things are looking grim for all Americans — and indeed, for the world at large — only you can save us.
Now, now. Don’t give me that look. You know the one I’m talking about, Tom. That clueless, wide-eyed Forrest Gump stare. I know you can do this. You’ve helped us out before — and you can do it again.
Try taking a look at your own past, Tom. See what you’ve been able to accomplish with your movies. Come on, Woody. Don’t let your get-up-and-go get the best of you. Let’s go over those exploits together, shall we?
In Saving Mr. Banks, you played Walt Disney (and you don’t even LOOK like Walt). As good ole Mr. Disneyland himself, you managed to convince the curmudgeonly P.L. Travers into granting your studio the movie rights to her book, Mary Poppins. Now, if you can charm P.L. Travers, then you can charm anybody.
As Forrest Gump, you FINALLY won the heart of the woman you loved, Jenny Curran. (Just between us, I thought she was undeserving of your affection, but that’s me.) If you can win young Jenny’s heart, you can win anybody’s heart.
Jenny (Robin Wright) sits with Forrest Gump (Hanks)
As terminally ill AIDS victim Andy Beckett in Philadelphia, you won a wrongful termination suit against your former law firm — with Denzel Washington’s help, of course. If you can beat your former law firm, you can beat any law firm.
In Spielberg’s Bridge of Spies, as attorney James B. Donovan, you successfully negotiated a prisoner exchange between the U.S. and the Soviet Union. And you did it by staying true to your profession as a defender of your client’s rights (even if that client happened to be a Soviet spy). Heck, if you can negotiate a successful prisoner exchange with the Soviet Union, you can negotiate anything. Am I right so far?
And, in Saving Private Ryan, as Captain John Miller, you practically lost your entire squad in trying to locate and bring Private James Ryan back to his mother’s side. I can’t help recalling, Tom, that earlier in the picture, you informed your skeptical squad members that, “This Ryan better be worth it. He better go home and cure some disease or invent a longer-lasting light bulb, or something.”
Do you remember that line?
Towards the end, after Captain Miller is mortally wounded by enemy fire, he gathers what strength he has left and grabs hold of Ryan so he can hear what Miller has to say. Miller’s final words to him are, “Earn this… earn it.”
Captain Miller (Hanks) whispers into Private Ryan’s ear
His meaning was clear: “Earn the sacrifice that my men have made in helping to save you.”
Now, I know you can’t cure this disease, Tom, or invent a longer-lasting light bulk, but surely you can do something, even if you’re holed up in the outback. Let me make it plain, then: You can continue to encourage us by your honesty, your devotion to your craft, and the truthfulness you convey in all your movie roles. No, really, I mean it!
We need your kind of courage, Tom, more than we’ve ever had at any point in our recent history. We need your strength, we need your fortitude, and especially your ability to inspire — as you’ve done throughout your career. That calm, resolute manner you showed as Astronaut Jim Lovell in Apollo 13. That’s what I’m talking about. I know you have it in you, sir.
Pandora’s box has been pried opened. The ills of this world have spilled out and spread a contagion called COVID-19. Help us to close the lid, Tom. Keep giving us hope that better days are ahead. Take away the sadness, help restore the madness. In a pinch, you can deploy Buzz Lightyear! Consider this a really big pinch…
Come on, Tom! Let’s get the ball rolling. You and Rita can overcome this affliction, of that I am certain. In doing so, you would have fulfilled your mission — just as Captain Miller did, just as Jim Lovell did.
Tom Hanks as Astronaut Jim Lovell in ‘Apollo 13’
You are humanity’s last, best hope. Don’t let us down in our time of need. Get back on your feet, mister. Do it for me, and do it for America. And for the world.
‘Finding Neverland’ (2004) – Airbrushed movie poster of Johnny Depp & Kate Winslet
The Value of Family
Whether it be a crime family or a makeshift coterie of privateers; whether it involves one spouse married to another, or encompasses a string of failed marriages and divorces; whether it be a foreign-born family or the all-American variety, film fans know that Johnny Depp will be at its center.
Does all the above mean the prolific and versatile actor, producer, and musician has had relatively few anxieties where his own family is concerned? Um … not likely. The famously tightlipped Mr. Depp had been in a live-in relationship with singer-actress Vanessa Paradis since 1999. This resulted in the birth of a daughter, Lily-Rose Melody (now an actress), and a son, Jack Jr., two offspring who happen to be born three years apart.
They say that parenthood brings out the crinkly-eyed mellowness in people. And being a father certainly has its positive “up” side, as well as those negative “down” aspects nobody likes to talk about. Like everything else, you never know how married life can turn out until you try it. Likewise, you never know how you will turn out as a parent (a mother, a father, a surrogate, whatever) when it comes to raising your own brood.
During Johnny’s filming of the Pirates of the Caribbean series, he would often stay in character — so much so that little son Jack once thought “Dad” was a real buccaneer (how quaint!). Too, Depp would throw on the three-cornered hat, fancy boots, and frock coat, along with gold-trimmed teeth and unwashed “dreads,” in his visits to children’s hospitals, orphanages, and cancer wards where, like seagulls, the kiddie inhabitants would flock to see him. Charity work, to paraphrase an old expression, begins in one’s home.
On one occasion, Johnny paid a call on a British grade school that resulted in leading his young charges in a fake mutiny against the faculty — and the students loved every minute of it. This was all staged in response to a cute little girl’s letter to “Mr. Jack Sparrow” about her plans for a “rebellion.” To further embellish the proposal, Depp brought along a few cast members (they were shooting a scene nearby) as backup. The girl’s teacher was “in” on the scheme and conspired with “Jackie” to make it all happen. As for the little girl? She was absolutely thrilled!
Depp in costume as Jack Sparrow at Meridian Primary School in Greenwich
Aw, shucks! Why couldn’t Mr. Depp turn this humorous, true-to-life incident into a lovable onscreen endeavor? Sounds like a fun concept, don’t you think? Something to tell the grandkids about. Well, now, we’re waaaaaay ahead of you! If fantasy can mimic real life, then real life can be turned into fantasy — a childhood fantasy, at that.
Finding Neverland (2004)
On a related theme — one that was miles removed from either Once Upon a Time in Mexico, The Secret Window, or the Pirates of the Caribbean chronicles (well, not SO far away from “pirates”) — director Marc Forster and screenwriter David Magee’s fanciful Finding Neverland takes a wide-eyed innocent’s view of the world as a place where childhood never ends; where adults in the room are the ones with the hang-ups, while the kids, like birds, are free to let their imaginations soar.
One adult in particular, a Mr. James Matthew Barrie (the Johnny Depp character) is, in reality, a big kid at heart. Based on a true-life episode in Scottish-born novelist and playwright J.M. Barrie’s own life and career, the plot of Finding Neverland focuses on his attempts to write a successful stage play.
Although, in actuality, Barrie was already a celebrated author, the film emphasizes his inability, at first, to attract an audience for his convoluted theater productions — much to his producer’s consternation. That producer, a Mr. Charles Frohman (played by Dustin Hoffman with a not-too-convincing, fading in-and-out British accent), is at wit’s end, trying to eke out a profit from his protégé’s repeated duds.
But Barrie has other concerns. His stiff-upper-lip society spouse Mary (Rahda Mitchell) is all about keeping up appearances. They sleep in separate bedrooms and lead separate lives. You know, your typical upper-crust, British society couple, all Victorian reserve and highfaluting airs. “Mustn’t do this, James. Mustn’t do that. What will the neighbors think?” Yadda, yadda, yadda…
Barrie doesn’t even bother to attend the premiere of his most recent fiasco. He’s too busy inside his own head to worry about what others think. Into his life comes Mrs. Sylvia Llewelyn Davies (a subdued Kate Winslet), an attractive widow with four young sons and another of those harpy-like British matriarchs, the over-protective Mrs. Emma du Maurier (the marvelously cutting and still-captivating Julie Christie). A platonic relationship soon develops between Mrs. Llewelyn Davies and Mr. Barrie, with the boys the primary focus of their concern.
Mr. Barrie (Depp) meets Mrs. Llewelyn Davies (Kate Winslet)
One of the lads, the super-serious Peter (Freddie Highmore, in a masterful performance), misses his late father to distraction. Peter’s the realist, and the most pragmatic of the bunch. As Barrie tries his best to establish himself as someone the boys can depend on (and have fun with), Peter fights his efforts tooth and nail. The older boys take to the whimsical Mr. Barrie from the start — his earnestness can be quite disarming. But Peter’s growing tendency to throw cold water on their budding acquaintanceship betrays long-buried issues involving repression of hurt feelings and his unresolved loss over a loved one.
In our day, such a man-boy association would be treated with “kid gloves,” in view of the countless scandals (among others) reported about pedophile priests that has rocked the Catholic Church in this country and abroad. In the movie, rumor and innuendo regarding Barrie’s closeness to the Llewelyn Davies children are surreptitiously whispered about town. Those rumors not only trouble Barrie’s snooty spouse, but the widowed Sylvia and her mother as well.
Leave it to surrogate daddy Depp to step in and play this one straight. His acting assumption and lightly-accented Scottish “burr” are spot-on ideal and highly infectious to boot (uh, no pun intended). Staying in character throughout and never grandstanding to prove a point, Johnny’s built-in naïveté charms the screen family, to a degree, with his sincerity and childlike wonderment.
As the plot machinations move along, we too are enchanted by Barrie’s visions. Soon, he gets the brilliant idea of creating a character out of his harmless dalliance: Peter Pan, a boy (very much like himself) who never grew up but leads a life of adventure, to encompass fairies, pirates, Indians, mermaids, and pixie dust in a magical place he calls Neverland. This is where the picture ultimately “takes off” on its own coattails — and where the boys, including the skeptical Peter, begin to notice that they’ve become part of Barrie’s latest theatrical experiment.
One of the orphans watches ‘Peter Pan’ in the theater
Trying to convince his producer into financing another flop is only one of Barrie’s hurdles. Another is making sure that society audiences are more receptive to this venture than to his previous doomed efforts. As such, Barrie takes out a little insurance: instead of pixie dust, he sprinkles the first-night audience with ragamuffins from the local orphanage. His instincts prove correct: Enjoying the production to the hilt, the audience is charmed by the orphans’ spontaneity and mirth at the premiere of Peter Pan. This results in a triumph from beginning to end. (Art imitating life? You betcha!)
When several audience members at the post-premiere celebration rightly take young Peter as the inspiration for the title character, the boy immediately insists that Barrie, not he, is the real Peter Pan. He’s right, of course. One problem solved, one more to tackle.
But the big payoff is yet to come. The ending (and there are two of them, quite frankly) involves the stricken Sylvia, who is deathly ill and unable to attend the premiere. In a fantasy-inspired sequence, but one that will take your breath away, Barrie has the first-night cast recreate Peter Pan in Sylvia’s home. Suspension of disbelief is called for here, but viewers attuned to the director’s internal logic will succumb to this fabulous sequence. Neverland materializes as a living, breathing place, not only in Barrie’s imagination but in Sylvia’s living quarters. She strolls off in the end with her boys to find peace and solace in this wonderful spot.
Mrs. Du Maurier (Julie Christie) voices her concerns to J.M. Barrie (Johnny Depp)
The final minutes take us to Sylvia’s funeral. Mrs. Du Maurier, as stern and businesslike as any bereaved matron would behave in her situation, informs Barrie that her daughter’s last will and testament appoints both her and J.M. as the boys’ guardian. She hasn’t softened her approach (nor changed her opinion about him, either), but is at least willing to give this newly created association a shot.
Returning to the park bench where he first encountered the Llewelyn Davies clan, Barrie sits next to the downcast Peter. Their heartfelt exchange — an honest and open one, for once — will have you blubbering in your seat. It’s one of Johnny and Freddie’s finest cinematic encounters.
Working organically from the script, a straight-faced Depp feeds his lines to little Freddie, who reacts perfectly in time to his character’s story arc. Freddie’s tears flow naturally, as the boy comes to the realization that acceptance of loss is a part of life. We will always remember our loved ones in our mind’s eye. Yet, we must move on from there to make use of what time is given to us.
Barrie (Depp) takes Peter (Highmore) in his arms
With the exception of Edward Scissorhands, where Johnny’s earlier film triumphs may have failed to move viewers emotionally, this one easily passed the acid test. Appearing with like-minded colleagues, Johnny D and company delivered the goods. There was lovely work overall from every cast member, especially from Ms. Winslet and the very talented Mr. Highmore. We’ll give this flick the Good Parenting Seal of Approval.
Filmed in England, Finding Neverland was another milestone in Depp’s British period pictures, earning nearly five times the cost of its production. He was even tapped for a Best Actor Oscar, only his second nomination after Pirates of the Caribbean (a surprise move, savvy?). The film also boasted a wonderfully enchanting, Academy Award-winning music score by Polish composer Jan Kaczmarek. The story was later turned into a 2015 Broadway musical, adapted from the same source material as the film.
Charlie and the Chocolate Factory (2005)
The cast of ‘Charlie and the Chocolate Factory’ (2005)
No sooner was Finding Neverland in the can when Depp and Highmore were reunited a year later for the filming of Tim Burton’s Charlie and the Chocolate Factory, a re-imagination of the 1971 feature Willy Wonka and the Chocolate Factory. The earlier flick was billed as a musical fantasy, with words and music by the British songwriting team of Leslie Bricusse and Anthony Newley (Stop the World – I Want to Get Off). This updated version would adhere closely to the author’s original theme: that of a whimsical garden of chocolatey delights run by an eccentric entrepreneur.
Both film versions were tied to Roald Dahl’s eponymously titled children’s book. However, Burton’s newest iteration, unlike its predecessor, would take a much darker view of the story. The emphasis, as the title suggests, would be placed on the boy Charlie Bucket (then-twelve-year-old Freddie Highmore) and his impoverished family of Buckets, who occupy a ramshackle, off-kilter Expressionist home flat in the middle of London town.
The Bucket’s rickety house near London
Shot at Pinewood Studios on the far outskirts of the city, with a tuneful score and witty song structures by frequent Burton collaborator Danny Elfman (the lyrics were taken directly from Dahl’s writings), Charlie and the Chocolate Factory presented a primarily UK cast headed by Highmore and Irish-born actor David Kelly as Grandpa Joe. Johnny, of course, embodied the top-hatted, pasty-faced Willy and played him as allergic to children and fearful of parenting.
Helena Bonham Carter co-starred as Mrs. Bucket (a test drive for her casting as Mrs. Lovett in 2007’s Sweeney Todd), and Noah Taylor (the teenage David Helfgott in Shine) played Mr. Bucket, with AnnaSophia Robb (Bridge to Terabithia) as the ambitious Violet Beauregarde, Missi Pyle (Big Fish) as Mrs. Beauregarde, Julia Winter as the snooty rich kid Veruca Salt, James Fox as her accommodating “Daddy,” Jordan Fry as video-gamer Mike Teavee, Adam Godley as Mr. Teavee, Philip Wiegratz as the chocolate-loving Augustus Gloop, Franziska Troegner as Mrs. Gloop, Brian Dunlop as young Willy Wonka, hard-working Deep Roy as the Oompa-Loompas (ALL of them!), Christopher Lee as Dr. Wilbur Wonka, and dancer, actor, choreographer, and costume designer Geoffrey Holder providing the lilting Trinidadian-accented narration.
Similarities abound between this production and Finding Neverland, to say nothing of overt hints of Edward Scissorhands in the overall concept and design. Whereas the focus of Neverland involved a boy’s difficulty in accepting a substitute parent, in Charlie and the Chocolate Factory the roles are reversed. Here, Depp, as renowned chocolatier Willy Wonka (a mild reference to the Juliette Binoche character in Chocolat, an earlier Depp vehicle), the self-made businessman and purportedly “mature” adult is the one who experiences post-traumatic issues concerning his dentist father Wilbur; while Charlie, the pre-pubescent schoolboy, is a well-adjusted adolescent much wiser than his years.
He’s the genuine article, all right. Indeed, Charlie’s strength is in his goodness and honesty. He loves his down-to-earth working class parents to death; and wholeheartedly worships his elderly grandparents (a feisty and comical foursome who share the same bed!). His generosity and selfless devotion to his family and to what’s right holds him in good stead. One telling aspect to Charlie’s persona is his upstanding moral authority, something that thoroughly puzzles the self-centered Willy to no end.
After he lucks into purchasing the winning Golden Ticket that will enable him to spend a day at Mr. Wonka’s fabled factory, Charlie insists on selling it so he can help his family out. Grandpa George (David Morris), the orneriest and wisest of the group, manages to talk some sense into the boy: “Only a dummy would give this up for something as common as money.” With plucky Grandpa Joe along for the ride, Charlie sets off on his factory adventure.
Grandpa Joe (David Kelly) rides with Charlie Bucket (Freddie Highmore) as Willy Wonka (Depp) looks on
With the exception of honest to goodness Charlie, all of the so-called winners are little monsters in disguise. Augustus is a glutton, Violet is an over achiever, Veruca a spoiled brat, and Mike a snotty know-it-all. Their parents, however, are no better. They are either easily manipulated automatons (the condescending Mr. Salt) or type A-personality go-getters (the obsessed-with-her-image Mrs. Beauregarde).
Later on, after the other ticket holders are eliminated one-by-selfish-one, a delighted Willy Wonka congratulates Charlie, the last kid standing. His prize will be to come live and work in the chocolate factory — with the proviso that he leave his family behind. Will Charlie take Willy up on his offer? Not if director Burton has anything to say about it.
Audiences are taken on a trip down memory lane (er, Wonka’s memories, to be precise), where we learn the cause of the chocolatier’s childhood trauma. Afterwards, while shining the magnate’s shoes, Charlie convinces Willy to let bygones be bygones. The scene of Dr. Wonka (“Lollipops. Ought to be called cavities on a stick!”) and his estranged son Willy’s belated reconciliation — where six-foot-five-inch Lee places his long-limbed arms around five-foot-nine-inch Johnny — is almost a carbon copy of Depp (as J.M. Barrie) embracing the bawling Freddie Highmore (as Peter) at the end of Finding Neverland.
Dr. Wonka, DDS, embraces his son, Willy, in ‘Charlie and the Chocolate Factory’
And talk about controversy, the scuttlebutt that circulated at the time of the picture’s release involved Depp’s mimicking the looks and mannerisms of Michael Jackson (down to the gloved hand), which Depp denied. Instead, Johnny claimed he was channeling the reclusive billionaire Howard Hughes (he also stated it was an old high school teacher of his, but never mind). Whoever Johnny based his performance on, the resultant box-office payoff assured the film’s success; certainly, no one complained about the profits that poured into Warner Bros.’ coffers (least of all, Burton and Depp).
Director Tim Burton summed up his interest in filming the book with this quote from Mark Salisbury’s Burton on Burton: “I responded to Charlie and the Chocolate Factory because it respected the fact that children can be adults.”
Jack Moony (Bob Hoskins) chews over Napoleon Stone’s advice (Denzel Washington) in ‘Heart Condition’ (1990)
‘Reel’ Life and Real Life
Whether it be on the big or small screen, or in the intimacy of the legitimate theater, to bring their characters to life actors must be able to draw from personal experience. One of Denzel Washington’s chief assets as a film star and stage performer is his ability to capture, so vividly and earnestly, the essence of what makes his protagonists tick.
As a for instance, in Mo’ Better Blues (1990), where the youngster Bleek would rather go outside and play with his friends than practice his scales, the mother (represented by legendary African American artist Abbey Lincoln), is, at her core, a figure taken from real life. Denzel’s own mother, “Lynne” (a nickname for Lennis), was cited by him as a probable inspiration for that portrayal, as well as the actor’s driving force behind his success.
Near the end of the film, when Bleek finds himself teaching his young son Miles the finer points of trumpet playing, the boy gets distracted by friends calling out to him to come and play. Bleek’s wife, Indigo, takes Miles to task by insisting he practice his scales. Instead of a reprimand, Bleek, recalling his earlier encounter with mom and how she and his father ended up arguing about what to do, relents and allows Miles to go and join his pals.
Denzel revealed similar facets of his Mount Vernon upbringing in a 1992 television interview with Barbara Walters. “I thought [my mother’s] purpose in life was just to embarrass me,” he let on. “She’d come get me on the street, at any time, in front of anybody.”
He recalled an incident where his mother once smacked him across the cheek when young Denzel started to make faces at friends about his predicament. “I know that she never gave up on me. She had a lot of reason to. You know, I got kicked out of college and she did the same thing.”
Walters asked Denzel how he managed to overcome that setback. His response was that he took a semester off to read acting books, which then led to his finding work in summer stock. That’s how he got interested in the profession. Walters mentioned his private life, which remained private as far as the actor was concerned. She also brought up his family and the fact that he had four children, two of whom were twins.
Denzel Washington with his wife Pauletta
“One named Malcolm. After Malcolm X?” she queried. And who could blame Barbara for trying to make the obvious connection.
“No,” was Denzel’s immediate response.
“No?” she asked back, puzzled.
“No,” he added coolly. “After my wife’s cousin Malcolm.” Apparently, Ms. Walters, the seasoned reporter and interviewer, and possibly her staff had failed to do their homework. Maybe they were out in the street playing ball.
Denzel switched the topic to his spouse Pauletta. “My wife, you know, is the backbone of our family. And I’m wise enough to admit that … We’ve known each other too long, we’ve been through too much … And being a star and all of that, temptations all around, and I haven’t been perfect. I’ll be quite candid about that. We’ve gone through ups and downs and we’re still together. And we’re best friends.”
This self-revelation about his past — and his acceptance of the conjugal life as a serious contract between two consenting adults — smacks of the understanding Denzel has had not only about his own life’s purpose and his reliance on strong women, but of what he could bring to his onscreen portrayals.
Getting to the “Heart” of the Matter
Two minor efforts and one reasonably competent release comprised the next phase of Denzel Washington’s cinematic output.
Advertising poster for ‘Heart Condition’ (1990)
The first film, titled Heart Condition, a drama-fantasy-comedy-police thriller, was released in February 1990 to mixed (code word for “middling”) reviews and less-than-decent box office returns. Starring the versatile English actor Bob Hoskins (Who Framed Roger Rabbit?, Brazil, Hook) as police officer Jack Moony, the dashing Denzel as ambulance-chasing lawyer Napoleon Stone, Chloe Webb as the hooker with a heart of gold Crystal Gerrity, Roger E. Mosley as Captain Wendt, and Ja’net Dubois as Stone’s mother, the film has a reputation for having been a “career killer.” Surprisingly, neither Hoskins nor Denzel suffered any lasting repercussions because of it.
In Roger Ebert’s review, the late movie critic blasted the picture for being “all over the map,” one that “tries to be all things to all people” with multiple points of view, subplots galore, major and minor mishaps (including but not limited to endless car chases, shootouts, mistaken identities, etc.), and an over-abundance of double entendres and dumb sight gags, some in excruciatingly poor taste. And we thought Carbon Copy was bad! This flick tops even that early entry in the “comedy without substance” category.
The premise concerns a racist cop, Jack Moony, whose clashes with lawyer Stone come about through the shifty advocate’s spirited defense of his clients — namely, a pimp named Graham (Jeffrey Meek) and his stable of whores. One of the prostitutes, the aforementioned Crystal, is Moony’s ex-girlfriend. Things get “complicated” when (a) Stone starts to date the lovely Crystal; (b) Moony suffers a near fatal heart attack from over-indulgence; and (c) Stone gets shot and killed at around the same time. What, too many hitches for you? You ain’t seen nuthin’ yet!
While Moony is in the hospital, he undergoes an emergency heart transplant. Guess whose heart he gets? No, really! One of the flick’s (um) “funnier” moments comes when somebody plants an over-sized black rubber penis between the recovering officer’s legs as he lies in bed. His reaction? The aptly named Moony dashes out to the nurses’ station and plants the fake penis on the counter.
“You put it in, now you take it out,” he demands. The nurse looks over at the doctor and asks, “You wanna tell me where he had it?” Hardy, harr, harr. Of course, what Moony meant was to take the heart out. You see, he’s a bigot, a regular Archie Bunker-type. And being a bigot, he can’t stand the thought of a black man’s heart beating inside his white man’s chest — specifically, that of his worst adversary Stone. Imagine Archie Bunker getting, say, George Jefferson’s heart! Or worse, Fred Sanford’s from Sanford and Son! That’s the basic setup.
The ghost of Napoleon Stone (Denzel Washington) stares down at Jack Moony (Bob Hoskins) in ‘Heart Condition’
And there’s another gimmick to contend with: the lawyer reappears to Moony as a ghost (in expensive suit and tie, no less), not just to haunt him but to make his life a living Hell. How miserable does he make it? Well, Stone keeps after him about eating healthier (“Keep away from them cheeseburgers! They clog your arteries and make your breath stink!”); and he snatches his cigarettes to prevent Moony from getting cancer. But what Stone really wants from Moony is to solve the mystery of who killed him.
Oh, and one more point: the ghost tries to hook Moony up with the hooker, who’s really a nice girl underneath the glamorous lipstick and wardrobe. As I said, it gets complicated. I promise not to reveal any more of the plot. So you’ll have to take my word for it: this is one convoluted crime caper. Still, Hoskins and Washington make a rambunctious pair — each with his own acting style. These two “bosom buddies” go at it tooth and nail, and then some. They’re about as compatible as Arnold Schwarzenegger and Danny DeVito. Just don’t expect anything in the way of intelligent conversations about race. It’s all for laughs, until it isn’t.
On a side note, neither actor would work together on any subsequent film projects.
Along similar but more violent lines, Denzel’s next picture, Ricochet (1991) — released in October 1991 and co-starring John Lithgow, Ice-T, Lindsay Wagner, Kevin Pollak, Josh Evans, and John Amos — was a police crime caper helmed by Australian action director Russell Mulcahy (Highlander, The Shadow).
Poster art for Russell Mulcahy’s ‘Ricochet’ (1991)
In this one (unseen by your truly), Denzel plays both a cop and a lawyer, occupations he will assume in many an upcoming feature. Lithgow is a vicious killer (talk about casting to type) who swears vengeance on Denzel, especially after the ex-cop becomes an assistant district attorney. And, like the ghost in Heart Condition, the Lithgow character succeeds in making Washington’s life miserable — a purer Hell, to put it plainly, but without the cornball antics.
This picture boasts so many twists and turns and hard-to-believe story angles that the characters gets lost in a maze of double- and triple-crosses.
Man Without a Country
On a slightly more believable note, the underrated Mississippi Masala (1991) held promise as a “date flick” with serious overtones. First released in France in September 1991, later in the U.K. in January 1992 and in the States a month later, Mississippi Masala blends a clash of ethnicities (one Indian American, the other African American) with a story about two everyday people who fall in love. Call it a romantic brew laced with social awareness.
Denzel plays Demetrius Williams, a self-employed carpet cleaner in Greenwood, Mississippi, about as far from the Mason-Dixon line of demarcation as you can get. Sarita Choudhury is Mina, a young Ugandan-born Indian woman who falls for the smooth-talking Demetrius. True to his gladiatorial namesake, the carpet cleaner engages in verbal combat with Mina’s father, Jay, played by Indian-born British actor Roshan Seth (Gandhi, Indiana Jones and the Temple of Doom).
Mina (Sarita Choudhury) walks beside her main crush, Demetrius (Denzel Washington) in Mira Nair’s ‘Mississippi Masala’ (1991)
Indian-American director, writer, and producer Mira Nair (Salaam Bombay!, Monsoon Wedding), along with Indian-born screenwriter Sooni Taraporevala (Salaam Bombay!, The Namesake), fashioned an intelligently conceived account of racial conflict and reverse discrimination among working-class folk. Although there were problems at the outset with casting (for example, Ben Kingsley, a British subject with Indian ancestry, was originally slated to take on the part of the father) and the film barely broke even at the box office, Mississippi Masala can be seen as a precursor to Denzel’s next outing, the controversial Spike Lee-directed biopic Malcolm X.
Director Nair and her screenwriter completed the story in Brooklyn, after considerable research into the various cultures and locales involved. Filmed on location in and around Mississippi and Kampala, Uganda, the film has the ring of authenticity about it, as do the main characters and their hot-headed temperaments.
One of the movie’s prime attractions is the rapport shared by a charismatic Denzel with his attractive co-star, the engaging Sarita Choudhury. Their on-again, off-again, then on-again relationship is more than credible and firmly rooted in their respective character’s familial dilemmas. As critic Ebert observed, it’s “more than a transplanted Romeo and Juliet,” or an updated version of West Side Story. If anything, the lead characters’ issues are comparable to those of Tony and Maria.
Actress Sarita Choudhury as Mina, the love interest in ‘Mississippi Masala’
In Mina’s case, her father Jay, as head of the family, has suffered humiliation and expulsion from his home in Uganda due to ex-dictator Idi Amin’s edict that all “Asians” must leave the country forthwith. (This narrative corresponds, to some extent, to several of Denzel’s earlier forays Cry Freedom and For Queen and Country). Jay’s distrust of people of color and the motives behind their actions are the guiding forces of his and his wife’s objections to their only daughter dating an African American, albeit a successful sole proprietor. The situation is a difficult one for actors as well, in that they must convey bias towards one another in ways that audiences can relate to and sympathize without seeming obvious or cloying.
Much of the success of this production comes from Roshan Seth’s truthful yet poignant depiction of Jay as a victim of circumstances beyond his control. Both cultures, Indian and African American, are given equal time to make their case, both pro and con. Even the sharp-witted and keenly discerning Demetrius must contend with mindless preconceptions of so-called “family values” where his own relatives are concerned.
Jay (Roshan Seth) has a heart-to-heart with Demetrius (Denzel Washington) in ‘Mississippi Masala’ (1991)
We, the viewers, can make up our own minds based on our background and experiences. Whether you agree with Jay and his wife’s viewpoints (who appear to discriminate among others of their own kind), or whether you take Demetrius and Mina’s side of the argument (one that shines a light on the struggles of all people of color in the segregated South), there will be lots to discuss after the houselights come on. The closing footage, wherein a young Ugandan child stretches forth his hand to touch Jay’s cheek, will touch your heart as well.
Indeed, this highly recommended flick has topical resonance for today’s displaced migrants and for all individuals who identify with country and culture — the essence of what makes us tick.
Actor-musician Johnny Depp at the turn of the half century
Nice Work (If You Can Get It)
That old proverb about “All work and no play make Jack a dull boy” could never be attributed to our eponymously titled, middle-aged thespian, i.e., the remarkably adept Mr. John Christopher Depp II, aka Johnny Depp.
With a rich bevy of diverse acting assignments before him, many as varied and sundry as stars half his age would absolutely die for, Depp remained at the forefront of the most-sought-after-screen-personalities category from the New Millennium onward.
Not all of Johnny’s cinematic endeavors were paved with gold, mind you. In spite of ever increasing budgets, exhaustive work schedules, stratospheric salary demands and critical brickbats, the still-popular film actor continued to impress reviewers and fans alike with his versatility and wide-ranging choice of projects.
Indeed, the time he spent in Western Europe, directly (and indirectly) correlated to his live-in relationship with the French-born Vanessa Paradis, certainly had a pervasive effect on how, where and when Depp would put in his next big-screen appearance.
Many of his choices were, for lack of a better word, “odd” or bordering on cameo and/or “supporting player” status. Still, nothing could stop the ever-striving JD from seeking out more satisfying challenges — something that would continue to occupy his hyperactive imagination for years to come and ensure a prominent spot on his expanding curriculum vitae.
‘Lasse, Come Home!’ — Chocolat (2000)
Johnny Depp (l.) helping himself to a treat from Juliette Binoche’s hands in Lasse Hallstrom’s ‘Chocolat’ (2000)
One of Depp’s better-than-average characterizations occurred in his next international film foray. Swedish movie director Lars Sven Hallström, more commonly known as Lasse Hallström, tapped Johnny Depp to appear in the whimsically themed Chocolat (2000), based on the novel by English author Joanne Harris. Lasse and Johnny had formerly worked together on What’s Eating Gilbert Grape?, which had also placed an ensemble cast in quirky yet tantalizing situations.
Filmed on location in both France and England, Chocolat stars the amiable French actress Juliette Binoche as chocolatier Vianne Rocher, a sort of modern-day fairy godmother but without the magic wand and pixie dust. Instead of those standard accoutrements, Vianne uses sweets to charm her customers. In Binoche’s words, “Vianne sells small dreams and little comforts through chocolates.”
Featured as well are some familiar names as repressed village types, among them a dour-faced Alfred Molina as the killjoy mayor Comte de Reynaud, fabulous Judi Dench as the resentful landlady Armande, and Matrix alumnus Carrie-Anne Moss as her straight-arrow daughter Catherine. Rachel Portman (The Cider House Rules), one of the few female film composers under-utilized by Hollywood at the time, wrote the starry-eyed music score.
Others in the cast include Lena Olin (reuniting with Ms. Binoche since their joint appearance in Philip Kaufman’s The Unbearable Lightness of Being) as the abused wife Josephine, hulking Peter Stormare as her menacing husband Serge, veteran actress Leslie Caron as a lonely widow, John Wood as the old geezer secretly infatuated with her, and America’s own charmer, Johnny Depp, as an accommodating barge owner named Roux with a faux Irish brogue.
Despite a misleading ad campaign showing Binoche feeding Johnny a bite-sized morsel (which implied a much larger part in the picture than he actually had), Depp’s short-lived contribution as Juliette’s gypsy lover is fleeting but significant enough to merit our consideration.
Blues Brother: Juliette Binoche listens to Johnny Depp as he tunes his resonator guitar in ‘Chocolat’ (2000)
By the way, Johnny’s guitar playing is for real and, according to director Hallström, it was the first time he played the instrument on screen. In addition, his little dance with Dame Judi is an absolute delight and rekindles fond memories of the Brando-Dunaway partnership in Depp’s Don Juan DeMarco.
In a 2015 interview for TheHollywood Reporter, Binoche admitted that neither Johnny Depp nor Alfred Molina liked the dark, tasty treat very much. In fact, Depp spat out his portion of chocolates after each of their takes, which goes against the spirit of the script’s premise. Ah, but that’s real life for you.
Indeed, this fanciful tale, billed as a “sinfully delicious comedy” (wink, wink) of a stagnant French village frozen in time, abounds in intimate side-stories. But over the “main course” of the feature, Binoche manages to change even the humorless mayor’s mind through her delectable confections. Which goes to show that sweetness and light make everything right.
Since the story takes place at Easter (as close to Christmas time as you’re liable to get), Vianne can be seen as the angel third-class Clarence from It’s a Wonderful Life, or at best one of Charles Dickens’ three ghosts. Which ghost would that be? Take your pick! Then ask yourself this question: Who can know the mysterious ways of whimsy?
From Hell (2001)
A deadly serious Depp as Inspector Abberline in ‘From Hell’ (2001)
From the unbearable lightness of dark chocolate, we plunge into the darkest recesses of the human mind. From Hell, a thriller loosely based on Alan Moore and Eddie Campbell’s graphic-novel take on the infamous serial killer Jack the Ripper, was Johnny’s next venture.
Directed by Albert and Allen Hughes, collectively known as the Hughes Brothers (Menace II Society, Dead Presidents), From Hell stands as the official start of what we like to refer to as Johnny’s “British period,” wherein the actor displayed an ersatz (yet perfectly respectable) English affectation in several big-budget pictures.
Another Anglo-French flick, The Man Who Cried is an operatically-themed work that re-teamed Johnny (fourth-billed from the top) with Christina Ricci, his co-star in Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas and Sleepy Hollow. For yours truly (opera lover that I am), to hear actor John Turturro emoting as Italian tenor Dante and singing Nadir’s aria from The Pearl Fishers (voiced by true-life tenor Salvatore Licitra) is a bit hard to swallow.
In the biopic Before Night Falls, Johnny forgoes his heartthrob status to take on dual character parts: that of the transvestite Bon Bon (an unintended reference to Chocolat, no doubt) with that of Lt. Victor; opposite the Spanish Javier Bardem, who portrays gay Cuban writer Reinaldo Arenas. Viewers may be reminded of Depp’s wacky assumption of famed Golden Turkey Award winner Ed Wood (if you see the movie, you’ll know what we mean).
Javier Bardem (l.) has a falling out with “Bon Bon” (Johnny Depp) in Julian Schnabel’s ‘Before Night Falls’ (2000)
Depp’s skill at vocal mimicry came in handy in the above features, in that he successfully undertook a Romanian accent in The Man Who Cried, as well as a Cuban one in Before Night Falls. Beyond that, both films slipped off the radar as far as box-office was concerned. But the one that got them all talking again came direct From Hell (quite literally in fact).
You might call this a “slasher fest” or body horror-cum-murder mystery. However you see it, From Hell will curdle your hair. Depp takes the part of Police Inspector Frederick Abberline, an opium addict who spends his off hours in a den of haze and smoke, with horrid “visions” of killings dancing in his head. He takes a personal interest (a little too personal, it turns out) in investigating what became known as “the Ripper murders,” due mostly to the brutal way the homicides of Whitechapel prostitutes were committed.
True to form, the inspector falls in love with, and tries to protect, one of the targeted streetwalkers, Mary Kelly (played by a much-too-wholesome Heather Graham). And why were the Whitechapel hookers being targeted for execution? Well, if you believe the cockamamie theories put forth, they were all unwitting participants in a coverup perpetrated by Freemasons (what, those guys again?) to protect the libidinous Prince Albert, heir to the English throne and Queen Victoria’s randy grandson, from being caught with his breeches down. Shame, shame, shame, Uncle Bertie!
Robbie Coltrane (the giant groundskeeper Hagrid from the Harry Potter series) plays Abberline’s assistant, Sergeant Peter Godley, in good-natured, friendly-banter fashion. Mr. Coltrane uses his large frame to buttress Johnny’s slenderer figure. They come across as squabbling combatants à la Laurel and Hardy. Ian Holm (The Fifth Element, The Lord of the Rings Trilogy) invests the role of Dr. William Gull, a former surgeon and physician to Her Royal Highness, with just the right amount of highborn reserve; while Ian Richardson (Dark City) as Abberline’s superior officer is impatience personified, and perfectly capable of cutting anyone down to size with a mere look.
Much of the thunder was taken out of this newest screen version of old Jack’s tawdry tale — mostly, in our view, due to a previous trip down this same rabbit hole via the much better Murder by Decree from 1979. In that earlier incarnation, Sherlock Holmes (a perfectly cast Christopher Plummer) and Dr. Watson (a fumbling yet pensive James Mason) are assigned to investigate the Ripper murders and wind up implicating the usual suspects (Freemasons, Royal Family hijinks, etc.). We can take the comparison further with the recent Sherlock Holmes (2009), directed by Guy Ritchie and starring Robert Downey Jr. and Jude Law as master detective and loyal cohort, respectively, where the recycled Freemasons plot gets skewered with an absurd sleight-of-hand angle.
Ad poster for the Hughes Brothers’ ‘From Hell’
In the Hughes Brothers’ grislier adaptation, which author Moore vehemently distanced himself from (with claims of their having turned the inspector into an “absinthe-swilling dandy”), the blood and gore quotient was turned up to 11. Somehow and despite the distasteful aspects to the story, both Depp and Ms. Graham managed to avoid the temptation of a tagged-on “happy ending” by a parting of the ways (oh, what sweet sorrow). Sadly, a disillusioned Inspector Abberline closes out his police career with one last shot of dope in a public bath house.
Any resemblance to Johnny’s deadly serious Inspector Abberline with his deft comic portrayal of the bumbling Constable Ichabod Crane is sheer coincidence. The two detectives are worlds apart in temperament and tone, as are Depp’s love interests in each. Incidentally, Depp uses a mild Cockney accent to underscore Abberline’s humbler background to that of the supercilious blue-blooded twits populating the upper-echelons of British society.
Blow (2001)
Johnny Depp as drug dealer George Jung in ‘Blow’ (2001)
What came out From Hell, and what many critics and reviewers drew from Johnny Depp’s performance, was his affinity for and attraction to ensemble work. Similar to fellow actor Denzel Washington (an older star whom we’ve also written about), but unlike his contemporary Tom Cruise, Depp much preferred to share the limelight with his fellow practitioners.
You can interpret that decision as either claiming the glory or spreading the blame, but Johnny was serious about taking a backseat to fame and fortune. He already had it, to put it plainly; let others have their turn.
This led to his next assignment, one most leading men would either give their right arm for or refuse to touch with a ten-foot pole. Directed by Ted Demme (filmmaker Jonathan Demme’s nephew), the movie Blow (also from 2001) sported an unusually unlikeable and unglamorized central figure for Johnny (in blond tresses, no less); that is, of 1970s cocaine dealer and drug smuggler George Jung.
One thing about this production that stood front-and-center from the rest was that Johnny would no longer need to hide his American speech patterns underneath a foreign accent. That would be left to the Latin participants, namely Penélope Cruz, Jordi Molla, Miguel Sandoval, Jennifer Gimenez, and others. Cruz, however, proved especially egregious in the part of Jung’s Colombian wife Mirtha, a shrill-toned shrew that, as the story progressed, became impossible to tame.
Penelope Cruz, Johnny Depp & Jordi Molla party hearty in ‘Blow’ (2001)
On the other hand, reliable and complimentary support would come from the likes of the excellent Paul Reubens (the former Peewee Herman) as Derek Foreal (no, really, for real!), Jung’s middleman in La-La-Land; Cliff Curtis as Colombian drug lord Pablo Escobar, the head of the Medellin cartel; a sullen Ray Liotta (GoodFellas) as Jung’s old man; and young Emma Roberts (Julia Roberts’ niece) as Jung’s daughter Kristina Sunshine. This was a “reel” family affair (no pun intended).
Another, more important discovery was Johnny’s apparent concern for the downtrodden, i.e., the lowlifes, the miscreants, the so-called “scum of the earth” — people best left to wallow in their own misdeeds. This “empathy” for the down and out, for lack of a better word, would manifest itself on-and-off the screen in future portrayals that would bring the restless actor low box-office receipts but much professional satisfaction.
Curtain Going Up! 
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