All posts by Lars Walker

Old movie review: “Algiers”

Watched a few more of my renter’s crime movies this weekend, and I want to comment briefly on a couple of them.

I watched “They Made Me a Criminal,” with John Garfield. I had the idea this was considered some kind of classic, and maybe it is. But it did not impress me.

The acting was consistently over the top. The character arcs (Busby Berkeley directed it, and it bears all the psychological insight of his average musical) follow plot points, but don’t seem to proceed from any actual change in the characters. In other words, the characters change their behavior because “it’s time for them to change,” but it’s hard to say why they do that from their own perspective. Also present are The Dead End Kids, who fill the sort of place in the film that a rap artist would fill in a movie today (and about as effectively), and even Claude Raines, as the Inspector Jauvert-like detective, nearly mugs his teeth out.

I hated it.

Raines gave a much more subdued, and effective, performance in his most famous role, that of Capt. Renault in “Casablanca.” We all know “Casablanca.” A perfect, small, jewel of a film that tells a tight, heartfelt story that somehow seems inevitable, inescapable, unforgettable. It sits in your memory and colors all your experience forever after.

But are you familiar with the film that inspired the makers of “Casablanca?” A film that also inspired a thousand bad French dialect imitations, chief among which was “Pepe le Pew” in the Warner Brothers cartoons?

That movie was “Algiers,” with Charles Boyer and Hedy Lamar. I’d seen it in bits and pieces on TV years ago, but this was the first time I watched it from beginning to end, and I was completely enthralled.

Charles Boyer plays Pepe le Moko, a Parisian gangster who has fled to Algiers and is hiding in the native quarter called the Casbah, where the police dare not follow. He has made himself, for all practical purposes, king of the Casbah. He controls crime there, deals out justice, and enjoys the favors of a beautiful mistress (who seems to be a gypsy or something, though she was played by Sigrid Gurie, a Norwegian).

The French authorities are frustrated by their inability to lay hands on Pepe. Only Inspector Slimane (wonderfully played by Joseph Calleia), apparently a despised “half-caste,” understands Pepe’s essential weakness. Slimane is a patient man, and knows that he will catch Pepe, and even how he will do it.

Because he understands that Pepe cannot stay forever in the Casbah. That tortuous tangle of streets and stairways, where even the roads have walls, is in itself a kind of prison. Pepe’s confinement there is slowly, insidiously, driving him out of his mind. Driving him to forget his own safety. He looks out over the sea and dreams of Paris.

And it all comes to a head when he meets Gaby (Hedy Lamar), a gorgeous young woman from home who has come on holiday with her fiancé, a fat, unpleasant, but rich man whom she is marrying purely for his money. Pepe and Gaby see in each other the fulfillment of their mutual forbidden dreams.

There’s a scene at the end, when Pepe looks through a barred gate in the harbor and gets just a glimpse of Gaby on the ship’s deck, sailing away to her loveless marriage, and you see her through his eyes and it goes through your heart like a knife.

Old movies and old movie techniques can be ridiculous and dated, or sublime and timeless, depending on the skill and vision of the moviemakers. “Algiers” is a classic by any definition.

And no, he never says, “Come with me to the Casbah!”



Addendum:
Here’s a bit of trivia. Sigrid Gurie (refenced above), who played Pepe’s mistress, was the twin sister of Knut Haukelid, one of the leaders of the Norwegian resistance group that blew up the German heavy water operation at Vermork, Norway, thus denying important nuclear technology to the Nazis. Richard Harris’ character in the movie “Heroes of Telemark,” seems to have been based in part on Knut Haukelid.

Six: The meme of the beastie

I’m back. Somewhat. To an extent.

I actually went back in to work Friday, for about six hours. But when I dragged myself home, I was too beat to post. Today I managed to stick it out for the whole eight hours, and I’m going to try to do a couple posts here, tired or not, because I’ve been piling up stuff I want to post about for the past week, and I’m going to explode if I don’t get some of it off my chest. And exploding will do my health no good.

To start with, Will at View From the Foothills has tagged Phil and me with a meme. Although telling you unimportant things about myself is hardly a departure in this space, I’ll go ahead and do it. The rules are as follows:

1. Link to the person that tagged you.

2. Post the rules on your blog.

3. Share six non-important things/habits/quirks about yourself.

4. Tag six random people at the end of your post by linking to their blogs.

5. Let each random person know they have been tagged by leaving a comment on their website.

In honor of St. Patrick’s Day, I’ll start out my list on an Irish note, and let it blow where it lists from there.

1. Green is my least favorite color. Oh, I love the green of springtime, which can’t come soon enough for me, but when I contemplate the visual spectrum objectively, I pass over green. I don’t think I own any green clothing (lucky for me I’m not Irish). I think the reason comes from candy. In the Rules of Candy, at least from when I was a kid, green meant lime. And I hate lime. Red, on the other hand, could mean either strawberry or cherry, either of which pleases me. Nowadays you sometimes get green candy that’s apple flavored, but that’s a postmodern aberration. Apple candy ought to be colored yellow, like it says in the Bible.

2. I always resented the Irish as a boy. Partly because I hated green (see above). Partly because I couldn’t understand why the Irish deserved all this attention and Norwegians didn’t (you can say that there are a lot more Irish than Norwegians in this country, but you didn’t grow up in Kenyon, Minnesota). But when I grew to maturity, I discovered Irish music and was completely won over, to the extent of developing an Irish alter ego to narrate The Year of the Warrior. Since I got into Father Ailill’s skin, I’ve found myself occasionally thinking I am Irish, and having to remind myself I’m not.

3. In my opinion, the most beautiful woman to show up on the scene in my lifetime was the tragic Swedish-American actress Inger Stevens. She had all the standard attributes of the ice princess, the untouchable blonde Hitchcock heroine, but she also had big blue eyes and dimples. I never watch “Hang ‘Em High” (because the gallows scenes are too harrowing for me) but when I watch “Five Card Stud,” it ain’t for Dean Martin.

4. I used to be able to recite Francis Thompson’s “The Hound of Heaven” from memory. I still remember most of it, but there are gaps.

5. I’ve never met anyone famous, that I’m aware of. I’ve had contact with a few people of some note by e-mail.

6. I was co-winner of the New York C. S. Lewis Society’s Screwtape competition back around 1975. The challenge was to write a new Screwtape letter. I shared the prize (which consisted of publication in the newsletter, nothing more) with Jennifer Swift, who is, I believe, like me a minor Fantasy writer now. My letter was better than hers.

As is my wont, I shall not tag anyone else with this meme. If you want to carry it on on your own blog, be my guest.

Liveblogging my flu, Day 2

I felt considerably better last evening, and thought maybe it would all be done by this morning. But I woke up to find myself weak and coughing. Haven’t even had the energy to read much today.

On the upside, I’ve completely lost my appetite.

Posting sick

Sorry, this is all you get from me today. I have the flu. It appears to be the famous “24 hour bug,” because I started feeling lousy last night about this time, and I’m coming back now. But not enough to produce a decent post. I’ll be back tomorrow, I trust.

If I’m too tired to spring forward, can I just crawl?

Not a bad weekend, in spite of the fact that it was the debut of a new, absurdly early date for the start of Daylight Saving Time, which, according to the link in this earlier post of mine, doesn’t necessarily save any energy at all. Back when I was a lad, (in the time of Henry VI, Part 1), you had some consolation for losing an hour of sleep in the knowledge that spring was coming soon, and it was getting warmer). Now we’re making the change in the dead of winter (though today got up to about freezing, and the rest of the week looks good. But spring it ain’t).

I got together will my old buddy Chip on Saturday, and we went out to lunch at a marvelous place called The Fifties Grill. I’d heard about it but had never tried it. As you’d expect, the ambience is Ron Howard/Henry Winkler, and the waitresses wear poodle skirts. But the hamburger I enjoyed was better than anything I remember getting in a grill during the Eisenhower administration. If you live in the Twin Cities, you can find the place in Brooklyn Park, hard by Brookdale Mall. (Of course if you live in the Twin Cities, you probably knew it long before I got the hint.)

Then we went to a bargain theater to see “National Treasure: Book of Secrets.”

My evaluation: Fun, but dumb. But you knew that.

It’s nice to see a movie where they actually manage to talk about America without irony. But I’m too obsessive to just take the thing at face value. I had a couple problems with it.

One is, I just don’t like Nicholas Cage. From the first time I saw clips from “Raising Arizona” (which I’ve never watched), I haven’t liked his flat, dull eyes. I would not buy a used car from this man. He’s probably a great guy for all I know, but when you’re an actor, your eyes are a big deal.

Secondly, I’m too much of a writer to entirely enjoy a movie that plays that fast and loose with logic. I’ve talked about “movie logic” before. Movie logic is when somebody leaps a car over a river in a film. It all happens so fast—vroom, they’re gone—that you don’t have time to stop and think, “Would a vehicle with a heavy front end and a light back end actually stay horizontal through a jump like that, or would the front end dip?” Movie logic is when something explodes in a building, and the hero runs out and beats the fireball to the exit. It doesn’t make sense in the real world, but you just saw it happen right there on the screen, so you buy it.

In the National Treasure movies, they come up with these obscure clues (traveling all over the U.S. and Europe to follow them up), and once they’ve read them, Nicholas Cage says, “This has to mean X.” So they run off to check out X, and of course he’s right.

In real life, a clue that esoteric could probably mean a hundred things. But the process of actual and trial and error would slow down the movie, and the task of producing clues that actually make sense would tax the creativity of the writers. So they fall back on movie logic.

And it works, in terms of entertainment.

But it’s lazy, and I don’t like it.

I also finished reading The Face by Dean Koontz. I’ve done enough Koontz reviews in this space, but I just want to say that, although it doesn’t bear close examination theologically, this is an intensely, though subtly, Christian book. The payoff was very elegantly done, and I wish I’d written it.

Parabola

James Lileks at www.buzz.mn says they’re having a try-out for the game show, Jeopardy at the Mall of America tonight.

Ah well. If God had intended me to go to the try-out, He wouldn’t have scheduled a Viking Age Society meeting for tonight.

My subject, in lieu of phrasing my answer in the form of a question, is the parables of Jesus.

Most Christians think they know all about the parables. It’s my opinion that most of what we think we know is… not exactly mistaken. But inadequate.

I grew up (and I don’t think I’m alone) with the idea that the parables were essentially allegory. You go to them with the idea of figuring out what this or that symbolizes, and then you have the meaning.

But have you noticed that that approach doesn’t actually work very well when you go to the text?

It works fine for some of the parables. The Parable of the Sower (Matthew 13:3-9) is a classic of this form. In fact, the disciples ask Jesus what it means, and He gives an allegorical interpretation. The seed stands for something, and the various kinds of ground on which it falls stand for various kinds of people.

And yet… what does that interpretation tell us? That some people accept the gospel, and some people don’t. Hardly news to anybody who’s ever tried to share his faith.

So it seems to me that Jesus’ interpretation wasn’t meant to be exhaustive. I think He meant us to meditate on the story and read the deeper implications—the fact that people who want to spread the gospel have to be prepared to see most of their work appear to be wasted, holding onto faith that the portion that falls on the “good soil” will bring a return that makes up for the disappointment of the others. In other words, courage and persistence and optimism are the point, as any good salesman could tell you.

Some parables seem to be plain narrative, with no symbolism involved. Take the parable of the Rich Man with the storehouses (Luke 12:16-21). I look in vain here for any symbolism or allegory. The rich man represents a rich man. He’s accumulated so much grain (which symbolizes grain) that he’s making plans to tear down his old storehouses (which I interpret for you to mean storehouses) and build new ones to hold it all. He doesn’t know that he’s about to die, and then all his wealth will do him no good. This isn’t allegory. It’s a cautionary tale. Jesus says, “This is how it will be with anyone who stores up things for himself but is not rich toward God” (verse 21). We miss the point of this story, I think, when we look for symbolism when we ought to be taking it literally.

And then there are the “difficult parables.” There’s the parable of the Unjust Judge (Luke 18:1-8). How are we to take a story where Jesus asks us to think of God as being like an unjust judge? (No wonder the Sanhedrin considered Him a blasphemer!). Or the parable of the Unjust Steward (Luke 16:1-13). Here Jesus seems to be holding up an embezzler as an example for His disciples. What’s with that?

This is again a problem of looking for allegory where something else is intended. These two stories aren’t allegories. They’re… I don’t know what to call them. There’s probably a literary term. They’re stories intended to shock, to twist paradigms, to deliver a narrative kick to our pants. Jesus is simply telling fantastic, shocking (and somewhat comic) stories to get our attention. He doesn’t want us to take the Unjust Judge or the Unjust Steward as reliable symbols or role models. He just wants us to look at the things we do from a different perspective. These stories are like the two-by-four with which the farmer in the old joke smacks his mule, just “to get its attention.”

My point in all this is to say that the parables, considered merely as a group of stories, are highly remarkable, and far more textured and complex than we usually think.

It seems to me that even someone who didn’t believe the Christian religion would have to stop a moment in puzzlement if he encountered these stories for the first time, and was informed that they came from an obscure, First Century Jewish peasant. I think he’d say, “This must have been some peasant.”

Pointless movie bleg

Tonight, for no useful purpose whatever, I’m going to tell you about a movie I saw almost half a century ago—once. It’s lingered in my mind ever since, and I have no idea what it was called or who acted in it. Maybe you can help.

I must have seen it before 1960, when I was ten years old, because I’m sure I saw it at my grandparents’ old (big) house, rather than their later (smaller) house. I had the idea at the time that it was quite an old film, perhaps an early “talky,” but I could be mistaken. It was a long time ago, and I’m keenly aware how faulty my memories can be. The summary of the plot I’m about to give you is probably wrong in several places. But this is how I remember it.

The movie opens a few years before the Civil War, somewhere in the American Midwest. Very likely Illinois, for reasons that come up later. The hero of the story is first seen as a boy, living on a farm with his loving mother and his legalistic, sadistic preacher father (a character Hollywood would find it convenient to clone and recycle countless times in the years to come). The boy dreams of becoming a doctor, and gets his hands on a collection of medical journals. He keeps them hidden from his father, though, because his father considers them things of the devil. (I’m not sure why. I don’t know of any Christian church that considered medicine evil in those days. Perhaps the old man just disapproved of all printed matter that wasn’t the Bible.)

The father discovers the journals (in the barn, I think), and gives the boy a vicious whipping (in the barn, I’m certain). The violence of the whipping so panics the family’s horse (a white one to which the boy is deeply attached) that it injures itself in its stall. Because of this it gets a noticeable scar on its flank.

Eventually the boy runs away from home (with or without the horse, I’m not sure, though boy and horse part company at some point) and goes to medical school. When the Civil War begins, he becomes a surgeon in the Union Army.

After a particular battle, a general is brought in to the hospital with a horribly injured arm. Informed that the arm will have to be amputated, he begs them to try to save it. He promises a great reward to any doctor who can save his arm.

Our hero notices the general’s white horse, and sees the old familiar scar. It’s his old family horse. So he goes to the general and asks if he can have the horse if he saves the arm. The general agrees, so he goes to work with all his skill, and somehow works a miracle. The arm is saved and he gets the horse.

Later he (along with the horse, I have no doubt) performs an act of conspicuous gallantry, and he wins the Congressional Medal of Honor. He’s sent to Washington, DC to be decorated by President Lincoln, and the president makes time (because the young man is from Illinois, if I remember correctly) to talk with him a while. When Lincoln learns that the young man has not been home since he ran away, he chastises him for neglecting his mother. In his capacity as Commander in Chief, he gives the young man leave and orders him to go home.

After that I can’t remember anything.

Anybody know this movie?

Update: OK, a little more Yahooing turned the film up. It’s called “Of Human Hearts,” and was made in 1938. It starred Walter Huston as the preacher father, and James Stewart as the son, once he’d grown up. Beulah Bondi played Stewart’s mother, the first of several times she did that.

From the synopsis, the film appears to have been a little more sympathetic to the father’s situation than my memory recalls, but all in all my reminiscences don’t seem to be too far off track.

You can stop hunting now.

Update to Update: Thanks to reader Paul Stieg, who e-mailed me with the correct answer at about precisely the time I found it myself. He says that, alas, it’s not yet available on DVD.

The Phantom of the Time Capsule

I like this column by Steven M. Barr, over at First Things. First of all, it explodes one of those beloved bits of modern folklore, the one about Einstein being a bad student as a kid. Exploding error is always a good thing, however much comfort I may have derived from this particular legend as a boy. Then Barr goes on to discuss the deathless question of how much we can trust experts:

My own guiding principle is to trust the experts (generally speaking) on anything purely technical, but to rely more on my own judgment as far as human realities go. I trust the architect on what will keep the building up but not on what is beautiful. I trust the pediatrician, but not the child psychologist.

That’s about how I’d put it, only I’d be talking with less… whatchacallit. Expertise.

Turning to matters related to Phil’s post below on proofreading and fact-checking, I was reading this month’s Smithsonian Magazine today, and was surprised to see how long their list of corrections from last month was. Fact after fact had been wrong. I found a mistake in this month’s issue myself (only I can’t find it again now).

Nevertheless, I was much intrigued by this article by Michael Walsh. He was working on a couple of writing projects about Andrew Lloyd Webber, he tells us, back in 1987. Webber, of course, wrote the music for the big musical version of The Phantom of the Opera. In the course of that project, Walsh read the original novel by Gaston Leroux. This novel contains the line, “It will be remembered that, later, when digging in the substructure of the Opéra, before burying the phonographic records of the artist’s voice, the workmen laid bare a corpse.”

Readers for generations had read that sentence without bothering to ask, “Who buried phonograph records in the opera house, and why?”

Well, Walsh discovered the answer when he searched the theater (for other purposes) and accidentally came across a small door with a plaque that read, “The room in which are contained the gramophone records.”

Turns out that a number of very early recordings of the world’s greatest opera singers of the day had been placed in sealed containers and entombed in that room as a time capsule. They were buried in 1907, and were supposed to be opened in 2007.

The theater management had forgotten all about the time capsule by the time Walsh rediscovered it, but they decided to honor the original intention, and leave them alone for another two decades. However, the room was rediscovered by air conditioning workers a couple years later, and then it was opened. Since one container was visibly damaged, they were all removed, but not opened. Walsh says one of them is going to be opened this month (the delay, apparently, springs from difficulties in handling the old discs without damaging them). The recordings will eventually be digitally copied and sold to the public.

Anyway, it all goes to show what every novelist knows—readers don’t pay attention!

Update: I remember the Smithsonian mistake now. In their article on composer/arranger Quincy Jones, they said he’s a descendent of George Washington. There are no descendents of George Washington.

A primary offense

I worry about national morning talk show host Laura Ingraham.

I listen to her show every day, and I have a lot of fondness for her. I think I was half in love with her a couple years back, when her show was more fun. Also she recently hired Bryan Preston, the founder of Junk Yard Blog, who was probably the highest profile advocate for my writing career, back when I had a writing career.

But Laura’s gotten shrill, it seems to me, since her major health crisis a couple years back.

This morning, she was taking calls from Republicans in Texas who’d crossed party lines to vote for Hillary, just as spoilers for Obama. She was cheering them on, reveling in their stories.

I don’t like this. It seems to me that if you love this country you’ve got to hold the electoral process in a kind of reverence. The fact that there are cynical people out there who game the system doesn’t justify us, the people who say we believe in moral absolutes, in pretending to belong to a different party so we can sabotage its nomination process. If they did it to us, I’d be angry about it.

Maybe I’m just judgmental.



Think Daylight Saving Time conserves energy?
Maybe not.

Old film review: “Impact”

I’m still working my way through my renter’s collection of old mystery movies, and this weekend I was pleasantly impressed by a fairly obscure 1949 production called “Impact,” starring Brian Donlevy.

“Impact” is technically classed as Film Noir, but in honesty it must be about the least noirish Noir film ever made. Instead of the angular shadows and cramped urban settings we expect in Noir, this film is largely set in the sunny outdoors and bright interiors. More importantly, instead of the fatalism and cynicism so characteristic of the form, this movie is about redemption and mercy. As a matter of fact, this one is so saturated with Christian values that you almost expect to see World Wide Pictures in the credits.

Donlevy plays Walter Williams, the head of engineering for a major corporation. At work he’s an alpha male, aggressive, savvy and a risk-taker.

But at home, in the company of his young, beautiful wife, Irene (played by Helen Walker [no relation]) he’s a pussycat. He defers to her, spoils her, and actually simpers in her presence. (By the way, this movie made me revise upward my estimation of Donlevy as an actor. I always had a hard time buying him as a tough guy. He struck me as a shrimp with an attitude, all swagger and no punch, especially when cast as a heavy against tall guys like Joel McCrae and Gary Cooper. But here he’s given other things to do than strut around trying to be intimidating, and he does a very creditable job in the vulnerable scenes). Irene bestows on him the nickname “Softy,” and he thinks it’s an endearment (I know what that suggests, I wouldn’t be surprised if the writers intended it, but this was 1949, when Hollywood still understood subtlety).

So poor Walter hasn’t the least suspicion when Irene suddenly begs off accompanying him on a road trip to Denver on business. Instead she asks him to give a lift to her “cousin.” The cousin is actually her lover, a man named Jim Torrance, and he and Irene have worked out a plan for him to murder Walter on the way and make it look like an accident.

But fate intervenes. Jim fails to finish Walter off, and then is himself killed in a fiery crash. The charred remains in Walter’s car are assumed to be his.

Hitching a ride in a passing moving van after regaining consciousness, Walter soon figures out, through newspaper stories and a couple strategic phone calls, that he’s been betrayed in the worst possible way. When he reads in the papers that his wife has been arrested for his murder, he figures it would be both just and satisfying to let the law take its course. So he hits the road.

Soon he fetches up in the pretty town of Larkspur, Idaho, where he gets a job as a mechanic at a gas station owned by the fetching Marsha Peters (Ella Raines). And it’s here that simple, small town (Christian) virtues begin to wear away at his anger and bitterness. Two significant scenes involve Walter’s first evening as a boarder with Marsha and her mother (where he reaches for the food, only to discover that they’ve bowed their heads to say grace. Imagine that happening in a movie today), and a Sunday church service (after which Walter breaks down and tells Marsha his true story).

Walter’s difficult (also well-scripted and acted) decision to do the right thing plunges him into the final conflict of the film, in which he finds himself on trial for his own life. His only hope is Marsha’s (and a cop’s, played by the old, reliable character actor Charles Coburn, who keeps forgetting to keep up his Irish accent) faith in him and determination to prove his innocence.

A preachy, spoken introduction and epilogue are a weakness in the story, but they used to do that sort of thing a lot in those days.

Rent “Impact” if you get the chance. I think you’ll like it.