Monthly Archives: February 2017

  • After Hours

    Old YorkerFilm review

    Martin Scorsese (1985)

    An unusual and relatively little-known Martin Scorsese film, After Hours follows The King of Comedy and precedes The Color of Money in the canon.  It was made in the light of Paramount’s dropping out of production of The Last Temptation of Christ and may somewhat reflect Scorsese’s feelings of frustration about that – but not in an obvious or angry way.  This story of the serial misadventures of Paul Hackett, a young IT worker, during one night in New York’s SoHo district, has alarming elements but the prevailing tone is comic verging on antic.  Scorsese seems determined to have some light relief:  although both The King of Comedy and After Hours can be termed black comedies, the earlier film is heavy-spirited beside this later one.  No Scorsese movie before or since has had a male lead like skinny, humorous Griffin Dunne, who plays the hapless Paul.  Perhaps the nearest thing to him is Zeph Michaelis, the protagonist of the nine-minute short What’s a Nice Girl Like You Doing in a Place Like This?, which Scorsese made as a student, in 1963, and which BFI showed as a curtain raiser to the screening of After Hours.

    Paul’s extraordinary experiences begin in a diner where he goes after work.  He’s reading a Henry Miller book and a girl called Marcy strikes up a conversation with him.  They share a liking for Miller and Paul is immediately attracted to Marcy, who lives with a sculptor who makes plaster of Paris paperweights in the form of cream-cheese bagels.  Marcy asks Paul if he’d be interested in buying one; since he wants to see her again, he says yes and gets her number.  An hour or two later, Paul is in a cab en route to the SoHo apartment building where Marcy lives when the $20 note he has to pay the fare flies out of the open car window and he’s left with less than two dollars in change.  It’s an omen – the first of many things to go wrong.   There are few people around in the city that never sleeps and the ones Paul encounters are oddballs or intimidating or both.  The New York locations, shot by Michael Ballhaus, are naturally impregnated with darker, violent traces of earlier Scorsese films.  It may be a coincidence that Paul’s long night begins with a taxi driver whom he manages to enrage; it can’t be another coincidence when, later on, he escapes from a club where the price of admission turns out to be a Mohican haircut.  In spite of the abundant humour, you get anxious for Paul’s safety.

    There seems to be no way out either for the hero or out of the screenplay.  After Hours, written by Joseph Minion and rewritten by Scorsese, is less than a hundred minutes long but develops a Scheherazade-like quality:  you get the increasing impression that Paul keeps meeting new people and getting into further difficulties as a means of Scorsese’s postponing the moment when the story has to be brought to a close that makes sense.  Paul spends hours trying to get home but you feel he must end up at his workplace, where the film opened.  And so he does:  he’s literally dropped off (the back of a van) outside work and returns, just about in one piece, to the soulless safety of an office of computer screens and cubicles.  Although this final destination feels right, you can’t help thinking Martin Scorsese has reached it because he’s run out of other places to go.  Still, there are plenty of engaging moments on Paul’s journey and Griffin Dunne is very good company:  he has a look of Dudley Moore crossed with Barry Manilow but soon turns into himself – becomes, in other words, a distinct screen personality.  By playing straight, he’s both funny and makes you care about Paul’s plight.  The supporting cast includes, among others, Rosanna Arquette (Marcy), Linda Fiorentino (the sculptor), Teri Garr (excellent, as usual), John Heard and Verna Bloom.  Several characters disappear then turn up again, amusingly.  The stereotyped presentations of gay men (there are several) seem crude and condescending at this distance in time.  Fatal gunshots get fired at one point but they have no particular weight:  they’re just one incident among many in this minor but likeable film.

    3 February 2017

  • The Hotel in Amsterdam (TV)

    Old YorkerTV review

    Anthony Page (1971)

    John Osborne’s The Hotel in Amsterdam was first staged at the Royal Court in 1968 before transferring to the West End, where it enjoyed a commercially successful run into 1969.  It was well received by plenty of critics too and named Best Play of the year in the Evening Standard awards.   The play’s success was no doubt helped by the presence in the cast of Paul Scofield, then at the height of his public popularity after the film of A Man for All Seasons (1966).  Although The Hotel in Amsterdam wasn’t revived on the London stage until 2003 (at the Donmar Warehouse), the play was adapted by Osborne for television and broadcast in 1971 in ITV’s Sunday Night Theatre slot.  BFI screened the ATV production this month as part of the AHRC-funded ‘Forgotten Television Drama’ project based at Royal Holloway.

    The piece concerns six friends – three married couples – on a midwinter weekend in Amsterdam, a refuge from life in London and the tyrannical film producer, referred to throughout as ‘KL’, with whom they’re all directly or indirectly connected.  Paul Scofield, who was keen for there to be a filmed record of his performance, recreates the role of the writer Laurie, whose line of work and vitriolic volubility immediately suggest a self-portrait of John Osborne.  In his excellent biography of Osborne, A Patriot for Us (2006), John Heilpern confirms this – and that KL is inspired by Tony Richardson, Osborne’s long-time collaborator who, by the late 1960s, had turned into of his greatest bêtes noires.  The other visitors to Amsterdam are Laurie’s second wife Margaret (Isabel Dean); his best friend Gus (Michael Craig), who also works in the film industry, and Gus’s wife Annie (Jill Bennett); KL’s secretary Amy (Susan Engel) and her artist husband Dan (David Burke).  John Heilpern rates The Hotel in Amsterdam highly, describing it as:

    ‘… a chamber piece about love and friendship, betrayal and loss.  Beneath the gauze of its cauterized, escapist surface is the undertow of melancholy and need that seeps through all of Osborne’s plays.  It’s about growing older and the sting of the Bitch Goddess of success.’

    This is right enough though John Osborne is selective in his distribution of the melancholy and need, and of the good lines:  the lion’s share of all three commodities goes to his alter ego Laurie and what remains to Annie, a role written for Osborne’s then wife Jill Bennett, although she hadn’t been available to play it on stage.  (Bennett was appearing at the time in another of her husband’s plays, Time Present.)   For most of the seventy-five minutes of the TV adaptation, The Hotel in Amsterdam comprises alcohol-fuelled bitchy gossiping and little in the way of plot – although there’s a potent sense of desperation in the characters’ making the most of their brief escape, of rising gloom at the prospect of what they must return to on Monday morning.  Osborne’s getting things to happen is forced.  The weekend is meant to be a secret then Margaret admits that she let her sister Gillian, who’s going through a bad time and might need to get in touch, in on it.  As the others are preparing to go out for dinner on the Sunday evening, Gillian (Gillian Martell) arrives – in order to break up the established order of the play.  The unexpected interruption and change of mood in effect provide the opportunity for Laurie and Annie to admit their unspoken love for each other.  We learn that Gillian told KL about the weekend away in Amsterdam (though it’s not clear what her connection with KL is or why they would be communicating).  The proceedings are brought to a startling ending by a telephone call, in which Amy is informed, by KL’s chauffeur, that the boss has committed suicide.

    Osborne’s fluent nastiness is formidably witty but tends to wipe the smile off your face and rule out the possibility of laughter.  Fortunately, much of the acting in The Hotel in Amsterdam does the reverse.  The mask that Paul Scofield creates is extraordinarily rich:  Laurie’s words and eyes are often saying different things but Scofield also shows a mind constantly at work, working for and assessing reactions to his comic flow, which is both self-assertive and self-protective.  Scofield restores your good humour even though you’re aware it’s the actor’s phenomenal skill that’s the source of your pleasure.  There are moments too when you sense in the laughter on the screen that you’re hearing the other members of the cast loving what Scofield is doing rather than their characters enjoying what Laurie is saying.  This is especially true of a bit when Laurie recites from memory the contents of a letter received from one of his despised relatives – a virtuoso sarcastic turn.  According to John Heilpern, Laurie’s text is taken almost verbatim from letters written to Osborne by his abhorred mother and other relatives.  Paul Scofield is so brilliantly inventive and individual, however, that he turns Laurie into something more than John Osborne’s principal mouthpiece, into someone nearly tragic.

    Scofield gets excellent support, especially from Jill Bennett.  Annie’s eventual expression of her feelings for Laurie makes perfect sense of Bennett’s earlier playing of her:  we come to understand Annie’s almost exaggerated determination to enjoy herself while in Laurie’s company and the combative edge to her exchanges with him, reflecting Annie’s need to show, in a kind of code, that her communication with Laurie is special.   Isabel Dean is less effective:  she plays cool, sensible Margaret according to how she’s described by others but this isn’t enough to suggest how Margaret ever got married, let alone has stayed married, to the volatile, regularly adulterous Laurie.  As Gus, Michael Craig convinces in just the way Dean doesn’t. Craig’s line readings are nothing special but his warm, easy presence makes it believable that Annie is prepared, even if she’s not content, to spend her life with the perhaps bisexual, affably acquiescent Gus.  It’s important to the already nostalgic John Osborne (who wasn’t yet forty when he wrote the play) that Amy and Dan are a generation younger than the others: they’re mutually satisfied in their physical relationship, as well as less cynical.  They’re also outliers in that Amy tends to like people and Dan seems untroubled by his working-class background.  Susan Engel exudes a practised amiability; David Burke speaks relatively slowly and when Dan makes jokes he’s less aggressively witty than the others.  Neither Amy nor Dan feels the need to compete with their elders.  Both, in their different ways, frustrate and seem to frighten Laurie-Osborne.

    Early on, a few of the camera movements are too blatant, swooping in irrelevantly for a close-up, but things soon settle down.  Anthony Page’s direction is, for the most part, admirably unobtrusive; he achieves an admirable variation of pace in the delivery of Osborne’s abundant words.  The opening shots show the tourists and their luggage heading down a corridor towards their adjacent rooms in the hotel; once they’re inside, they stay there the whole time.   This adaptation is a good example of how a single-set stage play can seem at home on television in a way it rarely does as cinema.  More remarkably, you realise this even watching the piece in a film theatre (NFT3) – rather than on a TV screen of the size for which the production was designed.

    2 February 2017

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