Welcome back for the second monthly Spotlight Series from ItsJustAwesome.com! This week, to honor his birthday on May 31st, we’ll be reviewing 7 essential films starring everybody’s favorite outlaw: the inimitable Clint Eastwood.
Kicking things off in style, today we’ll be discussing one of Eastwood’s most iconic roles in the Sergio Leone classic, The Good, the Bad & the Ugly (1966).
The Good, the Bad & the Ugly is the third, and arguably the most famous, installment in Leone’s “Man with No Name” trilogy. Throughout the trilogy, Eastwood’s character is never named– he is identified only by nicknames others have given him. In this film, he’s referred to simply as “Blondie” by his reluctant frenemy, Tuco Ramirez (Eli Wallach). Don’t let that fool you; what he lacks in personal identification and elaborate backstory, Blondie via Eastwood embodies a new kind of American cowboy. He is the clear protagonist of the story, but he is somewhat morally ambiguous himself. Unlike many of the more common cowboy archetypes we’re accustomed to, Blondie is not necessarily goodness incarnate. It’s more like he’s good…ish. He shows himself to be compassionate towards his fellow man on more than one occasion, BUT he is also a bit of a mercenary, and has no problem with shooting first and asking questions later. It’s a fascinating combination of traits that makes Blondie much more an anti-hero than a traditional hero, and this type of role would become the trademark of Eastwood’s career.
Sergio Leone loved his sprawling, Western epics, and GBU is no exception. Clocking in at a whopping 2 hours and 58 minutes, this is not a brief film. It manages, however, to captivate the viewer’s interest right from the opening credits, aided spectacularly by an amazing original score from Ennio Morricone. Truly, this movie has one of the best, most iconic scores of all time–right up there with The Godfather, Gone with the Wind, The Third Man, and basically everything penned by John Williams. The music is almost a character in and of itself, and it supports the rest of the film with unforgettable panache. Listen to the clip below, and I guarantee you’ll immediately recognize the main theme, even if you haven’t seen the actual movie:
The Good, the Bad & the Ugly is set against a backdrop of the American Civil War, and focuses on the tenuous partnership between Tuco (the “Ugly”) and Blondie (the “Good”), who each possess one half of a secret. Before dying, a fugitive named Bill Carson bequeaths an enormous cache of stolen Confederate gold to Tuco (a tidy sum of $2,000), which he has buried somewhere in the desert. Unfortunately for Tuco, Carson only tells him one piece of the puzzle to the gold’s location– he tells Blondie the other. Realizing that neither of the two outlaws will be able to find the gold without the other, they warily strike up an alliance. Along the way, they encounter a brutal, sociopathic Union officer known as Angel Eyes (the “Bad”, played by Lee Van Cleef), who is also attempting to track down Carson’s illicit fortune. Tensions mount as the bizarre trio essentially race each other to the remote cemetery where the gold is buried, culminating in a three-way duel and one of the best movie endings I can recall seeing in quite some time.
This is a great movie, despite some minor stylistic quirks inherent to Spaghetti Westerns. For instance, because it was filmed in Spain and Italy with mostly non-English-speaking actors, much of the dialogue is actually dubbed over in English. It’s a bit jarring at first, but surprisingly it doesn’t really bother you for long. The story, the cinematography, the Ennio Morricone score, and even the gunfighting scenes are all so well-done that it’s easy to let yourself get sucked into Leone’s world, forgetting all about the weird dubbing.
It goes without saying that Eastwood’s performance here is a classic…but I’ll say it anyway, because it is. His trademarks are all there: the squint (apparently a sexy, sexy byproduct of his horse allergy mixed with the ever-present cigarillo), the laconic wit, the gravelly voice, the quiet confidence. Eli Wallach does chew his share of scenery as Tuco Ramirez, but it’s Eastwood’s picture from the get-go. If you haven’t already, check this movie out– it’s a much snappier take on the Western, and it’s easy to see why the “Man with No Name” trilogy is credited with reinvigorating the entire genre.
Tomorrow, I’ll be back again with Eastwood’s first foray into the world of directing: Play Misty For Me (1971). Be sure to join me for that one, because who would want to miss Eastwood dodging the knife-waving antics of a deranged Jessica Walter?!
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Welcome back for Day 4 of our Marlon Brando spotlight series! Today we’ll be talking about one of my favorite movies, the film that earned Brando his first Oscar win: Elia Kazan’s On the Waterfront (1954).
I waxed on about the merits of A Streetcar Named Desire in Day 1 (another Kazan/Brando pairing–clearly they knew how to complement each other’s strengths) and Waterfront is just as good, albeit for different reasons.
In a role completely different from the hot-headed Stanley Kowalski, Brando’s Terry Malloy is quiet, introspective, and only fights when he’s pushed to his limits. Malloy is a former boxer, and was largely “sponsored” in his short career by the shady dealings of his older brother, Charlie The Gent, and the corrupt boss of the dock-worker’s union (laughably nicknamed Johnny Friendly). Charlie is Friendly’s right-hand man, and together the duo controls the cash flow of imports/exports along the waterfront. As the story unfolds, we learn that Malloy’s boxing career was incredibly promising until Charlie and Friendly started paying him to take dives in his fights. Friendly’s greed is limitless, and unfortunately, what Friendly wants, Friendly gets. You’ve all probably heard some portion of Brando’s “I coulda had class, I coulda been a contender!” speech (*chills*), chastising Charlie for choosing Friendly over family. As a result of the mob’s betting, Malloy’s rising talent is wasted and he resigns himself to working on the waterfront as a longshoreman: bitter and alone.
Despite his own personal misgivings, Malloy can’t seem to shake the influence of Friendly and the mob. They essentially run the town, and particularly with his brother’s lofty position in the ranks, Malloy remains a reluctant participant in their schemes. To that effect, the film opens with Malloy unwittingly leading a young longshoreman, Joey, to his death at the hands of Friendly’s flunkies. He thinks they merely plan to rough Joey up a bit (to keep him from testifying to the group’s unsavory activities in court), but much to his horror, Joey is pushed from the rooftop in cold blood.
While he’s still processing his own role in the murder, Malloy meets Joey’s sister, Edie (played touchingly by Eva Marie-Saint). This is a turning point for him, and while the “I coulda been a contender!” speech is indeed fantastic, I think the best part of the movie for me is the burgeoning on-screen relationship between Brando and Saint. One of my favorite classic movie bloggers, Anne Helen Petersen, perfectly describes the change that comes over Edie during the course of the movie: “A woman made of Catholicism, shrillness, pointy edges, and buttoned up jackets becomes sexy before our eyes. Part of the transformation can be credited to good directing, lighting, costuming, etc., but as Brando falls in love with her, the way he looks at her — all lusty with those eyelids that fold over on themselves — somehow becomes the way we look at her.” It’s SO true, and you can see a glimpse of the transformation in the clip below:
Brando’s friendship and tender attentions soften her, and while they don’t diminish her thirst for justice on her brother’s behalf, they do open her eyes to the fact that situations in life are rarely black and white.
With the help of Edie and a local priest named Father Barry (Karl Malden, who also co-starred with Brando in Streetcar), Malloy finally gathers the grit and the courage he’s needed to take on Friendly’s organization. He knows the cost of such an action, but he’s come too far to turn back now–redemption awaits by doing the right thing.
The final scene of this movie is one of the most powerful in all of cinema, and makes On the Waterfront a must-see classic (along with, you know, all the other amazing things about it). If you haven’t come across it before, seek it out. Now. Today. Right this minute. It’s one of Brando’s absolute best, and exemplifies the subtle, emotive acting that made him such a one-in-a-million star.
Tomorrow, Charles will be reviewing another stone-cold classic: Francis Ford Coppola’s The Godfather (1972). I can already hear the mandolins. Don’t miss it!
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On this day in history, screen legend Marlon Brando was born. The world didn’t know it then, but here was a man (/baby) who would shake up Hollywood to such an extent that the “rules” for what constituted a performance would never be the same. Brando didn’t care two figs about what was expected socially or professionally– he wore dirty jeans instead of then-fashionable high-waisted trousers, had three children with his housekeeper, bought a South Pacific island (?!)…the list goes on. In other words, he charted his own path, and steamrolled through the studio system like the bull-in-a-china-shop that he was. In later years, his hubris and laissez-faire attitude about his health and professional relationships would cause his star to dim a bit, but none of that can take away from the genius of his work.
To celebrate the life and impact of such an American movie icon, we at ItsJustAwesome decided to dedicate an entire week to reviewing (what we consider to be) his 7 most essential films. Today, on Day 1, we’ll be talking about one of Brando’s earliest triumphs: Elia Kazan’s take on the Tennessee Williams play, A Streetcar Named Desire (1951).
Aptly named, Streetcar is a sultry, sticky, bourbon-soaked doozy of a film. You can practically feel the stifling heat rising off the pavement of The Quarter, as bawdy New Orleans jazz floats through the open window of the apartment where Blanche and Stanley circle one another like cage fighters. Gone are the moonlight and magnolias of earlier Southern films like Gone With the Wind and Jezebel—Streetcar is an onion of emotional and psychological traumas, and it’s not until the final scene that we realize just how many layers must be peeled away and tearfully dissected to reach the core. Nobody can pen a seedy, disturbing family drama quite like Tennessee Williams, and, if nothing else, his story makes you thankful that you have the family you do.
This is an incredible movie, there’s no question about it. It won 4 Oscars, and was nominated for another 8. Vivien Leigh is pitch-perfect in her role as the emotionally fragile, high-minded Blanche DuBois, and she absolutely deserved her Best Actress win. If you ask me, Brando should have won for his explosive performance as Stanley Kowalski as well (sorry, Humphrey, I still love you–and The African Queen), but alas, it was not his time yet.
The film opens with Blanche arriving in New Orleans, by way of the titular streetcar named Desire. She has taken a leave of absence from her job as a high school English teacher in Auriol, Mississippi, and plans to stay in The Big Easy with her sister Stella…indefinitely. Unfortunately for Blanche, she knows nothing of Stella’s living situation before she arrives in town– or of Stella’s husband, Stanley, for that matter. As we’re caressed by a decadent horn soundtrack, we see the city of New Orleans through Blanche’s eyes: torrid, dirty, baked in sin. The aristocratic Blanche is horrified even further when she sees Stella’s graceless, ground-floor apartment in the the French Quarter. She can’t fathom why her sister would live in such a place, until she meets the equally graceless, animalistic Stanley.
Enter a sweat-soaked, T-shirt-clad Marlon Brando. Brando’s Stanley Kowalski is brutish, bull-headed, volatile…but DAMN, is he sexy. I say this because, not only is it difficult to deny as a person with eyes and the ability to see, but it is also integral to understanding the hypnotic hold he has on Stella. He shoves people around, rips his clothes under the agony of his own emotions, hurls dishes against the wall (“Oh, Stanley has always smashed things”); he’ll be tender and caressing one minute, then savagely dangerous the next. Yet, Stella has no interest in leaving him. She is utterly mesmerized by the magnitude of his sex appeal, and powerless to resist her own desire for him. This photo pretty much says it all:
In one of many examples of Streetcar‘s excellent dialogue, Blanche gets up the gumption to comment on Stella’s abusive relationship:
Blanche: You’re married to a madman.
Stella: I wish you’d stop taking it for granted that I’m in something I want to get out of.
Blanche: What you are talking about is desire– just brutal Desire. The name of that rattle-trap streetcar that bangs through the Quarter, up one old narrow street and down another.
Stella: Haven’t you ever ridden on that streetcar?
Blanche: It brought me here. Where I’m not wanted and where I’m ashamed to be.
Stella: Don’t you think your superior attitude is a little out of place?
Blanche: May I speak plainly? If you’ll forgive me, he’s common. He’s like an animal. He has an animal’s habits. There’s even something subhuman about him. Thousands of years have passed him right by, and there he is. Stanley Kowalski, survivor of the Stone Age, bearing the raw meat home from the kill in the jungle. And you– you here waiting for him. Maybe he’ll strike you or maybe grunt and kiss you, that’s if kisses have been discovered yet. His “poker night”, you call it. This party of apes.
Therein lies the central conflict of the movie. Blanche is immune to Stanley’s charms (if they can be called that), and sees him for the brute that he is. On the other hand, Stanley also sees through the carefully-crafted backstory that Blanche has invented for herself. She’s clearly hiding the true reasons she has for being in New Orleans, and he won’t rest until he has brought them into the light. At first, the cracks in her story seem innocent enough, but as time wears on and the threat of discovery looms, Blanche’s neuroses become more and more apparent. Stella, in dismay, finds herself torn between defending her husband’s actions and protecting her sister’s fragile grip on reality.
Again, this is a fantastic movie. The one con for me personally is that it feels very much like a play at times (which I guess it should, because it is), and I’m not always in the mood to watch that type of film. With that said, however, I do revisit this gem every 1-2 years, and it gets me every time. The performances from everyone involved give me chills, but I think my eyeballs would need to be surgically removed from the screen during any scene with Brando. It’s no wonder at all that this became one of the most iconic roles of his career–it’s a truly unforgettable performance.
Tomorrow, Brando trades a T-shirt for a toga in his performance as Mark Antony in Julius Caesar (1953). Be sure to come back for Charles’ review on that one, as well as the rest of our Brando reviews this week at ItsJustAwesome.com!!
The post Day 1: A Streetcar Named Desire (1951) first appeared on It's Just Awesome DOT com.]]>So, Katharine, in honor of your birthday and your inarguable fabulousness, here are 8 moments when I was truly your biggest fan:
1. The time Barbara Walters condescendingly asked you in an interview if you even owned a skirt, and you told her you would wear one to her funeral.
2. The way you completely embodied the role of Jo March in Little Women, so much so that all other subsequent Joes would pale in comparison (except in my heart you ended up with Laurie, not stupid-face Professor Bhaer).
3. When you helped Humphrey Bogart pull the steamboat through reeds and leech-infested waters in The African Queen.
4. …The African Queen, in its entirety. So good.
5. The way you looked at Jimmy Stewart in The Philadelphia Story when he told you “you’re made out of flesh and blood…you’re the golden girl, Tracy.”
6. When you, as Tracy Lord, reminisced about your marriage to Cary Grant/CK Dexter Haven via some heavy boat symbolism, and whispered to yourself “My, she was yar.” It made me want to find what the two of you had for myself: a relationship both romantic and silly, adventurous and based in friendship, with the knowledge that you were partners in life and in laughter. And, you know, someone with whom to bandy about nautical terminology that was laden with deeper meanings.
7. When you said “We are taught you must blame your father, your sisters, your brothers, the school, the teachers – but never blame yourself. It’s never your fault. But it’s always your fault, because if you wanted to change you’re the one who has got to change.” I love that. I believe the world would be a better place if more people shared your view on this particular point.
8. When your wit and joie de vivre won Cary Grant’s heart again in Holiday, despite your bizarre pairing of mink coat and flat beret, a la Madeline from the children’s story. I love when women of intelligence and playful charm win out over the boring do-nothings and the slinky seductresses, and this role was a perfect example of you achieving just that.
Did I leave out any great Katharine Hepburn moments? Let me know your favorites in the comments below! 