Old Yorker

  • The Long Memory

    Robert Hamer (1953)

    Robert Hamer’s black-and-white crime drama is an unusual, visually powerful concoction.  Phillip [sic] Davidson (John Mills), after serving time for a murder he didn’t commit, comes out of prison to track down those who framed him.  He hangs out on a disused barge on the North Kent marshes; his pursuit of justice also takes him to London’s docklands.  The location filming in Kent is especially impressive.  The small, solitary figures in the large, almost deserted landscape, in conjunction with the quality of light that the cinematographer Harry Waxman achieves in these compositions, give them, as well as a bleak beauty, an existential flavour that’s surprising in a British film of the early 1950s.  Also effective is the contrasting physical scale of the key locations in the plot – the mud flats, a warren of grimy office buildings by the London docks, the suburban home of Bob Lowther (John McCallum), the police detective keeping Davidson under surveillance.  It’s interesting to see a television in the Lowthers’ living-room:  The Long Memory was released a few months before the Coronation.

    Although the combination of these settings with more conventional features of contemporary British cinema is distinctive, the result is in some respects awkward.  The visual atmosphere may be noir but some of the character types are innocuous through their familiarity and William Alwyn’s music still sounds hearty.  Elements of Hamer’s and Frank Harvey’s screenplay, adapted from a 1951 novel by Howard Clewes, are blatant contrivances.  Davidson has a love affair on the barge with Ilse (Eva Bergh), a war refugee, which gives topicality to the coming together of two traumatised people.  One of the witnesses whose perjury sent Davidson down is Lowther’s wife Fay (Elizabeth Sellars); that tightens the plot conveniently but sticks out as a device to do so, not least because Elizabeth Sellars fails to animate her respectable-housewife-with-a-shady-past role.  There’d have been no story if Davidson had been hanged but I missed why, since he’s convicted of murder, his sentence was as lenient as only twelve years inside.

    A stronger element of the scenario is that not only is Davidson the victim of a miscarriage of justice but Boyd (John Chandos), the man he supposedly killed, didn’t even die.  The charred corpse recovered from the scene of the crime was that of a man called Delaney (Julian Somers), whom Boyd had agreed, for a price, to smuggle out of the country.  Boyd has survived to continue his nefarious business activities (under an assumed name); the moment when he and Davidson first see each other again, outside Boyd’s dockside office, is a highlight of The Long Memory.  For the most part, though, John Mills is unconvincing as the embittered, emotionally unreachable protagonist:  he seems to be suppressing his usual screen persona without supplying much to replace it.  In the flashbacks to the fateful altercation between Boyd and Delaney, which Davidson witnesses, Mills is wearing what appears to be a cricket sweater – in a bizarre attempt to make his character look younger?  John Mills seems slightly less middle-class after doing time but he’s essentially the wrong type for the role.

    John McCallum’s athleticism serves him well – not only haring down steps in a dockside chase but even when Bob Lowther dashes to the phone at home.   Eva Bergh’s Ilse is less nuanced than Elizabeth Sellars’s Fay, and John Chandos’s suave villainy is wooden.  In smaller parts, Geoffrey Keen is miscast as a journalist after a scoop but there are a couple of good eccentric turns – from Michael Martin Harvey, as an elderly hermit on the Kent marshes, and Harold Lang, as Boyd’s seedy, vaguely camp factotum.  An eleven-year-old Christopher Beeny, soon to be well known to television audiences in The Grove Family, the BBC’s first soap, is excellent as the Lowthers’ son.

    7 December 2017

     

  • The Disaster Artist

    James Franco (2017)

    I’d never heard of Tommy Wiseau or The Room, which he wrote, produced, directed and starred in.  The film first appeared in 2003, since when it’s acquired cult status as one of the worst of all time (it’s been dubbed ‘the Citizen Kane  of bad movies’).  The Room cost around six million dollars to make and took $1,800 at the box office but its afterlife on the ‘midnight circuit’, on home media and as a video game is something else.  Now James Franco has produced and directed and stars as Tommy Wiseau in The Disaster Artist, the story of the making of The Room.  Franco falls one short of Wiseau’s credits:  the screenplay is by Scott Neustadter and Michael H Weber (adapted from the 2013 book The Disaster Artist:  My Life Inside The Room, the Greatest Bad Movie Ever Made, by Greg Sestero and Tom Bessell.)  I always look forward to watching James Franco but I was dubious about this film, assuming its effectiveness would depend heavily on prior acquaintance with The Room and fearing it was liable to be something in which the people on the screen had more fun than those in the audience.  The fear persisted even after seeing the trailer for The Disaster Artist and aficionados of The Room may well get more from it than the uninitiated but I needn’t have worried – James Franco has made one of this year’s most enjoyable films.

    A good part of why The Disaster Artist works so well is, I think, because it doesn’t do just what the New Yorker‘s Richard Brody disparages it for not doing:

    ‘… the comedy, for all its scenes of giddy wonder, never gets past Tommy’s mask of mystery; avoiding speculation and investigation, it stays on the surface of his public and private shtick, leaving little more than a trail of amusing anecdotes.’

    Franco is recounting real-life events that beggar belief:  ‘explaining’ how they came about would have risked cutting this very tall story down to size.  As you watch, you continue to be puzzled as to how old Tommy Wiseau is and how he had the financial means to bankroll The Room.  (One of The Disaster Artist’s many nice moments comes when Sandy (Seth Rogen), Wiseau’s production supervisor on the film, takes a cheque for several thousand dollars into a bank and slides it over to the cashier with a wryly sarcastic sense of the inevitable.  To Sandy’s astonishment, the cashier asks what denomination notes he prefers, confiding that the Wiseau account is ‘like a bottomless pit’.)  According to legends at the end of The Disaster Artist, Wiseau’s age and background, and the source of his wealth, are unexplained to this day.  By retaining his ‘mask of mystery’, Franco and the screenwriters keep Tommy bizarrely entertaining.  If they’d chosen to explore who-he-really-was, they’d likely have turned – and reduced – him into a delusional case study.  The Disaster Artist can be construed as a parable of the lack of talents, an illustration of various negative characteristics of the film world:  vanity, egoism, the power of money, how many people in the industry are desperate for work – any work.  Franco doesn’t push these meanings, though.  You come out of his film feeling pleasure – both at having been entertained and that this unaccountable piece of movie history has been put on record as a piece of mainstream cinema.

    The film covers a five-year period, from the first meeting of Tommy Wiseau and Greg Sestero, at a San Francisco acting class, to the premiere of The Room.  Tommy’s fearlessness – or shamelessness – on stage impresses the young, timid Greg (played by James Franco’s younger brother Dave) and sets the pattern of their future relationship.  They move to Los Angeles to pursue acting careers.  Dave Franco is likeable:  Greg knows he’s not especially gifted; we root for him as an underdog and stick with him as an outpost of sanity (LA in The Disaster Artist really is La La Land).  At first, James Franco’s black-wigged, pale-faced Tommy seems no more than an amusing turn.  He looks vaguely vampiric.  He speaks in a weirdly involved, put-on voice.  It’s amazing how the performance develops.  Tommy may be a pathological egotist but he has his generous and humanly needy sides too.  Franco, without ever going solemn on us, interprets him with complete sympathy: he makes this man from nowhere, of indeterminate age and accent, not only ridiculous but also touching.

    Seth Rogen plays the increasingly exasperated Sandy with fine deadpan wit.  The cast also includes Allison Brie (Dave Franco’s wife), Josh Hutcherson and Ari Graynor, as well as some big names in smaller roles – Zac Efron, Melanie Griffith, Sharon Stone, Jacki Weaver.   Others – including J J Abrams, Judd Apatow, Bryan Cranston and Adam Scott – make cameo appearances as themselves.  The sequences of the filming of The Room are consistently funny and often gross.  The premiere supplies a proper and distinctive climax:  the audience reaction to what they’re witnessing evolves from stunned, embarrassed silence into helpless laughter and concludes in standing ovation.  The closing legends include some remarkable information.  Wiseau’s folie de grandeur and bank balance kept The Room running for two more weeks after the premiere, in order to qualify it for Academy Awards consideration.  Tommy and Greg still speak daily.  As a final treat, while the credits roll, James Franco uses a split screen to juxtapose snippets from his version of The Room with the corresponding bits in Tommy Wiseau’s deathless original.

    5 December 2017

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