ITALIAN FILM FESTIVAL 2024

 

A  new Italian Film Festival is usually a highlight of the year's moviegoing. This year suggests we are coming to the end of one of the most interesting periods in the country's production - not De Sica, Rossellini & the Post-War Realists shading into festival favorites like Fellini and Antonioni but the work of a more approachable set of individualist directors who commentators seem to be reluctant to put in the man hours to explore - the great Etorre Scola (C'eravamo tanto amato, Le bal), Gianni Amelio (Porte aperte, La tenerezza), Gabriele Salvatores (Mediterraneo, Quo Vadis Baby?) Giuseppe Tornatore (Nuevo cinema paradiso, La sconosciuta) and Gabriele Luchetti (Domani accadrà, La Nostra vita) who is the only one to have a film in this event.

I don't like his new Confidenza/Trust as much as Luchetti's earlier work. It pivots on that old-style art movie standard - enigma. The film kicks off with the always attention-getting man on a ledge, here the window sill of his distinctive yellow-painted medium-rise city apartment block and it moves into one of those calamity struck – or it didn't - routines which they use to unsettle the viewer throughout the film.

Turns out that our protagonist is a respected academic who has drawn Ministerial approval for his secondary school "pedagogy of love" theory which we see him explaining in a classroom, where the green board is divided into two lists – love and fear. How this works out is dramatised in a flashback structure that shows him among devoted ex-pupils who tell him one girl, (Federica Rosellini outstanding in a strong cast) someone he particularly encouraged, has dropped out of further education and become a waitress. Pretty much instantly he has sought her out and moved her in, to the ire of her grabby Villa Totosa cafe employer, and we get a glimpse of his educational technique in action using wall charts and homeschooling to inject her back into the system. However, he goes along with her urging to participate in the truth game (never a good idea in movies - La loi, Er piú ) and, after his revelation, she packs up and leaves.

The film weaves back and forward in time, revealing the lead to be Elio Germani shedding a great, inobvious age make-up job. We follow the parallel careers of the pair as she becomes an achiever while Germani marries fellow teacher Vittoria Puccini, whose own attempt at self-improvement gets no further than contact with a lecherous professor, deciding her to live in Germani's shadow. The shape of the piece clarifies with their grown daughter Pilar Fogliati recruiting now famous Rossellini as a reference for Germani's prestigious award candidature - tension from the risk of her spilling the beans on his old revelation.

Trust - Germani & Rossellini

Germani and Luchetti are the Italian A team and money has been spent on this one, dignified by it offering elaborate observation on education, family recognition and (a bit of) sex. Craft aspects and performance are superior. Unfortunately, this comes deliberately engulfed in a cloud of non-sequiturs, confusing omissions and misleading film form, which leaves the viewer struggling to construct their own version of the back story, distracted by questions like do the oranges rolling down the palace steps relate to those moldy lemons from Germani's fridge? The stamp of quality is firmly upon the piece – like one of George Stevens' failed serious films – and while Confidenza has imposing passages and effects, it unfortunately also outstays its welcome, never providing the moment of truth that would justify its pretensions.

If there’s been a movie like Margherita Vicario’s Gloria!, I haven’t seen it – think a kind of Napoleonic Mean Girls, except don’t. This one musters the servile orphans of La Pupille and a more skillful version of the dim colour of the Caravaggio’s Shadow cycle.

The opening is the most familiar element – a symphony of sound in the old Mamoulian Porgy & Bess – Love Me Tonight manner as the orphan girls of the 1800 Sant’Ignazio Institute outside Venice go about the yard chores that take up the time when they are not working under their tyrannous, played-out choir master/chaplain Paolo Rossi. Bottom-rung participant Galatéa Bellugi is bound by a kind of blackmailed vow of silence.

However this round of drudgery is to be disturbed by a Papal Coronation, the first in Venice, simultaneous with the donation of one of the then unfamiliar new pianofortes to the Intsitute’s girl orphans called upon to perform for the Papal Dignitary despite the fact that whatever talent their maestro custodian may have once possessed has been rung out by a life as turnkey for the underaged. His many guilty secrets are going to be exposed and his supporters among the local officials shamed.

Gloria - Paolo Rossi.

The film’s great innovation is that characterisation is done with the girls' music - Bellugi’s gift of the tree branch flute to the little boy raised by the Governor’s lady and her mastering the keyboard’s decidedly modern music after a simple instruction on a Mbira. Her traditionalist rival impatiently turning the hourglass by which they share the hidden piano, proves to have a surprise skill comparable to our heroine’s. One apparently minor character suddenly bursts out in an impressive singing voice.

Despite the notion that the liberty promised by the new French Revolution will fail to save the girls and indeed their miserable masters from retribution, events push forward, more by musical arrangement than narrative, to the scheduled performance, the climax with calls of excommunication and a chorus of cheering kids.

Well, we do get female solidarity and priest-bashing but the gay characters are dissolute and the film manages to hustle up a couple of defensible males for the Swiss finale, when we are getting uneasy about the substantial political correctness quota. They even provide a nice historical justification for the apparent anachronisms in the score.

Gloria! (not a character’s name but a religious citation) has the kind of charge that makes coming back for more at the movies worth the effort. I wonder whether it will achieve recognition.

Another title that they are pushing offers current heavyweight star Francesco Favino in a new major release, Edoardo de Angelis' Comandante, an accomplished production filmed in an imposing studio realist style. This one is spun off the Atlantic WW2 war incident where Royal Italian Navy submarine "Cappellini" recovered the personnel of a freighter they had sunk and ferried them to safety. Italians are big on the notion of its chivalrous WW2 Navy. It crops up in the Italian-English co-production Torpedo Bay. Dulio Colletti's 1953 I sette dell'orsa maggiore had Italian frogmen at Gibraltar tip off the British before their charges blew, to save lives. The shadow of that story can also be glimpsed in the revisionist British The Valiant.

Camandante - Favino

Comandante gives Favino a chance to shine.  We first see his captain Salvatore Todaro, abusing the doctor, who has fitted him with a steel brace to resume his duties as Comandante of the "Cappellini"  - rather than staying home soaking in the tub with bare-assed wife Silvia D'Amico. Like Coleti's film, bruta bestia Gibraltar is the target. The confronting scene of the volunteer diver among floating jellyfish, cutting the mine cables, which bar their passage, is an early highlight.

The variety of imagery they manage to put into the film's confined setting impresses. It takes a while to get the core statement –  "We are at war." "We are at sea!" With instruction to sink shipping with anything mounted on the deck, Favino's lot spots the gun on the Belgian freighter "Kabalo", which opens up on them. The Italian sub's cannon sends it to the bottom, putting its crew into fragile lifeboats,  "The Nazis would leave them in the water." 

Surprisingly the anti-fascists turn out to be the bad guys - not too much of that in current movies. 

Works out that the imposing giant submersible comes back twice for the survivors, creating extraordinary hardship on board and a further tension when only Flemish officer Johannes Wirix is able to communicate between the two crews.  Favino decides to land the Belgans and has to sail through the British fleet, who open fire as they come within range. Diving would drown the men packed into the conning tower.  We get an exceptional tension. The film's imagery is a great match for this.

Another of  Comandante's craft skills is the dramatic use of music, an interesting comparison with Gloria! Repeated cutting back to D'Amico in her slip at the piano is a motif and we have the on-board song. In particular, a scene that gets our attention early has Comandante Todro/Favino at the head of his crew at night, joining their ship. Picking up the marching rhythm, they break out in their naval anthem. Three of their women watch mute on the pier. Favino orders one man to not sail with them. He has saved the sailor's life, increasing a sympathy with Favino's character who joins his current gallery of imposing heavy men - Il traditore,  L'ultima notte di Amore. 

The final captions saying that we are seeing a true account makes what has been a naval movie action adventure more compelling. 

Scrape away routine submarine movies – Deep Six, Torpedo Alley, We Dive at Dawn, Submarine Command, Ice Station Zebra and we get to a layer that's substantial and diverse – Morgenrot, Morning Departure, The Bedford Incident, Das boot. This one is not outclassed among them.

Comandante - De Angelis with Favino

Fans of Alba Rowacher's attempts to turn around our expectations of what a film star should be - what a film star should look like - will add director Roberta Torre's Mi fanno male i capelli/In the Mirror to the Rowacher gallery with some interest. Anyone coming at it cold will probably not be so sure.

Korsakoff Syndrome clouds Alba's mind as she is found wandering on the remote beach that fronts the reduced-by-debt home husband Filippo Timi has set up. Old format home movies of a 2009 Thailand holiday, falling flower petals or a shot of a peach with one bite missing gradually add in the details of her life, as she identifies with Monica Vitti (mainly) characters in the old films they print up with black and white clips with Alain Delon and Marcello Mastroianni and inserting mirror reflections of Alberto Sordi. Alba transcribing the stars' dialogues into a note book (the title is a Vitti quote about tearing her hair out) joins enacted scenes with Timi and disconcerted diner guests, which now take the place of her memories. Those elegant glimpses of Vitti's Anonioni movies contrast with Sordi's 1973 Polvere di stelle where the on-screen lion which terrifies the star merges with the stone statue in her yard and TV coverage of a zoo escaper. The ridiculous fantasies and the menace of sold-up property and repercussions for taking away the kid in the cafe to see the composited beast crowd in.

Rowacher - In the Mirror.

Intermittently interesting and another out-of-whack part for the star, this one has minimal connection with Angela and Tanno da morire, the Palermo crime pieces which have represented established writer-director Roberta Torre's work in screenings here. A score by Wong Ka-wai musician Shigeru Umebayashi effectively integrates the nostalgia and realist crazy lady elements. We are curiously close to I Saw the TV Glow where the movie experience invades the world of the lead again.

Simone Godano's Sei Fratelli / Family Matters is a lucky dip film. The reviews are in Italian and the most familiar face has the craggy features of Riccardo Scamarcio (Nanni Moretti's Tre piani). This one proves to be another one of those family reunion pieces we keep on getting from European directors like Arnaud Desplechin

Patriarch Giole Dix is on a hospital morphine drip and, rather than cling to a miserable life, he disconnects it and throws himself over the upper floor railing, bringing to an end his first-person narration which was our best chance of working out what is happening. Turns out he's fathered six – no, seven – now mature offspring from different women and, coming from the European locations they've made their homes, his extended family turn up for the cremation and reading of his will. Old antagonisms surface (of course) and new bonds are forged. Oldest son Scamarcio tries to mediate, only to be rebuked for bad advice. Flakey fry cook Gabriel Montesi is particularly stroppy. Valentina Bellé, the daughter they didn't know about is fresh out of jail after a drug bust and young Mati Gali faces a Scarlatti audition for his crucial music scholarship. The mood isn't lightened by finding out their inheritance is a debt-ridden oyster lease, where the staff are owed nine months back pay. The grown children plan a reconciliation, spreading Dix' ashes on his favorite beach but that isn't a great success, even with spontaneous skinny dipping. Things end up as a drunken night on the town with a turn at the Lazer game parlor.

The most telling touch is their final resolve that the scattered family will reunite.  We learn they will never gather again.

Individual scenes and performances, spaced by glimpses of the Bordeaux setting, get attention but the piece goes on too long and impetus wilts because there's too much now-who-is-this-one-again?  Family Matters ends up being another glimpse at the sea of unknown movie product out there.

Barrie Pattison 2024

I Saw the TVs Glowing.

My generation was stiffed for fantasy horror. Lon Chaney and Conrad Veidt didn't mean much to my olds but they did have Hollywood European masters like James Whale and Karl Freund batting out long-life monster classic movies, with Val Lewton as a chaser. We on the other hand were protected by career civil servants proudly boasting on media that they had purged our screens of the corrupting horror films destroying overseas youth - like The Catman of Paris! The salaried custodians hung on into the era of those tacky British Hammer films, which topped up the Gainsborough costume melo formula with dabs of Technicolor gore. 

Eddie Cahn & J. Lee Wilder snuck into the outlets that encouraged us to believe this stuff was transgressive. It was only thanks to furtive industry pressures and a bit of not wanting to look too ridiculous that the Seigle Invasion of the Body Snatchers got two bookings in greater Sydney. The generation who came along after us did better. They were the Fantasy Film Festivals lot, getting Paul Naschy and Dario Argento on their way to the drive-ins. 

Action moved from cobweb castles through a line of visions of contemporary U.S. weird - cloaked Bela Lugosi looming in the mist next to the family refrigerator, The Fly escaping its B movie world into Cronenberg land. A dancing dwarf dominated  Twin Peaks or Bodysnatchers went big  close up on Dana Wynter's eyes.

Well, we have since gone through a period of respectability for monster movies and lackluster it was. Think Coppola's Dracula, Ken Branagh's Mary Shelley's Frankenstein and Tom Cruise as The Mummy. However, there's a new player. U.S. indie producer A24 has been batting out a string of budget shockers which have been filling the void that is engulfing theatrical distribution.  In the wake of their airing Ari Aster films Midsommar onwards, we could see Jane Schoenbrun's I Saw the TV Glow coming - festival bookings follow Sundance and sympathetic notices from writers who normally consider these beneath them.

This one echoes the phosphorescent make-ups and spooky nighttime settings of  Schoenbrun's admired 2021 debut We're All Going to the World's Fair. Black teenager Ian Foreman is found wandering Void High's already surreal school celebration - a billowing rainbow parachute silk dome, a light-up Fruitopia machine in the gloom. Who should Foreman find there but equally alienated Brigitte Lundy Paine, who relates, though she's two years his senior. The thing that makes her conspicuous is that she's engrossed in an episode guide for "The Pink Opaque" TV program which he's never been able to watch because it comes on after his bedtime, in the young adult zone that precedes late-night black and white movies for old people. The Pink Opaque becomes central to the film, more intense than the drabness that is the kids' small town reality. 

Commentators home in on the pair's rule-setting dialogue. Complete with a hint of mustache, she prompts "I like girls. What do you like?" That out of the way they hit on having him do a secret sleep-over at her home to watch the forbidden program, which is a low fidelity old-format piece. She takes to leaving pirate VHS copies in the school Dark Room (where else?) for him.  He has to scrub off the reproduction of the show's spook symbol that she's drawn in pink marker on his back. Observers seem to recognise their own viewing - Buffy The Vampire Slayer is the most common nomination. Stranger Things gets a nod. Curiously no one mentions Meliés and the Tarot Deck whose Man in the Moon and Mr. Punch duo are strikingly rendered in the on-screen series. 

... and we're only starting.  With diversions like a downed wire setting fire to the Pink Opaque guide or glowing coloured chalk graffiti on the roads, Lundy Paine vanishes and the kid, grown to be Justice Smith, becomes gopher in the local mall Fun Center, where the manager is lewdly abusive. Ten years later, she makes an abrupt reappearance - in the after-hours frozen goods division of course. She claims to have left this joyless life and really entered The Pink Opaque, through being buried alive, and has prepared a plot near the sports oval, for him.

 Such is the film's hallucinatory strength that we are drawn to her morbid vision rather than his oppressive reality. This goes with Smith's shaking off the alternative worldview as a useful member of society. The Pink Opaque comes back on streaming - the episode he saw in her lounge room. "The whole thing had become cheezy and cheap." We've got to the film's most disturbing concept. Nostalgia and fandom are on the operating table.

Ian Foreman,  Brigitte Lundy Paine

Using real locations, the set-up is done with basic characterisation, muttered straight-faced dialogue and voice-over and staged with a minimal supply of support players. Isolation is the film's key element.  It also cuts costs. Fear doesn't rise from the tomb anymore.  Now it comes out of the TV - Poltergeist, Harlequin, Videodrome, The Ring. 

What I Saw the TV Glow is saying is up for debate. The film's solemnity makes it ridicule proof. I can only wonder how the passage of years will leave it. It seems crass to believe that Jane Schoenbrun is just jerking our chain. All we are lacking for the full experience is the protection of professional moralists to tell us how dangerous it is. I now understand they were part of the show. 

Barrie Pattison 2024

Vienna, Forst & Wessely.

Austrian star and director Willi Forst is one of the cinema greats but often the most ardent movie enthusiast hasn’t heard of him, let alone viewed their way through his substantial body of work. As an actor, he co-starred with Lillian Harvey in Ein blonder Traum and a pre-Blue Angel Marlene Dietrich in Café elektric and Gefaren de brausit and his work as director extended over three decades. 

 I encountered Forst when new (West) German material was first shown in Australia post-WW2. East Germany was a blessing to “serious” film criticism which only had the draggy Slatan Dudow-Brecht Khule wampe to offer as German Marxist film. That didn’t work out too well when The Wall went up and the East Germans banned an entire season of DEFA’s output as being compromised by foreign ideology. We are beginning to see the problem. Forst’s career spanned Germany’s Third Reich, leaving him tainted by association. There is no suggestion in his output that he sympathised with Nazi values or even their aesthetics. Being an element of the Viennese scene had given him a measure of separation.

The belated arrival of (black and white) TV in fifties Australia revived awareness of thirties Busby Berkley and co. What we didn’t know about then was the parallel blossoming of the  German  musical with Erik (White Horse Inn) Charell’s 1931 three-language Der Kongreß tanzt/ Old Vienna/The Congres Dances/Le congrés s’amuse followed in 1933 by Forst's Maskerade. Rivalry between the Ameican and  Viennese traditions will be dramatised in Forst's fabulous 1949 Wiener Mädeln. His productions would become the only example of the quality end of previously mighty German-language film to survive the arrival of the National Socialists and the departure of Erich Pommer. Sorry Hans Albers, you gave it a good try but all we ever saw was Leni Reifenstahl’s boring Nazis

I didn’t find my enthusiasm mirrored in Europe where the few people who recognised Willi Forst’s name said I should be putting the time in on Max Ophuls, the first filmmaker to feature at the London NFT incidentally. Turned out that I’d already seen Ophuls’ best work and long nights in the Paris Cinémathèque further undermined his status – though I did quite enjoy their three-tints copy of his Tendre enemie. I would come to the conclusion that Ophuls was Willi Forst light, though for many years the only indication had been that one, decades-old library 16mm. of  Maskerade. Now after all this time, sub-titles are appearing on Youtube copies.

Theft of the Mona Lisa - Forst

Maskerade/Masquerade in Vienna proves not to be the start of the cycle. In the first years of sound, Forst had appeared for director Géza von Bolváry in a series of Walter Reisch’s scripts including Zwei Herzen im Dreiviertel-Takt/Two hearts in Waltz Time, Das Lied ist aus Der Herr auf Bestellung and the exceptional 1931 Der Raub der Mona Lisa /Theft of the Mona Lisa. However, with Maskerade Forst took over direction, von Bolváry’s status never recovering.

Maskerade asserts as the archetype off which subsequent efforts were struck, pretty much the key work of the Alt Wien cycle, launching Anton Walbrook/Adolf Wohlbrük as the ultimate European movie sophisticate, opposite theatre-trained actress Paula Wessely. The Wessely-Walter Reisch Episode is modled on it. Reisch’s actress wife Lisl Handl borrowed the Poldi Dur character name for appearances. MGM’s Escapade is a re-make. That studio was particularly determined to manufacture their own Viennese tradition, putting out three versions of "The Merry Widow" and importing doe eyed Luise Rainer to front productions. They had had Jacques Feyder directing Ramon Novarro and Helen Chandler in the excellent if compromised 1931 Daybreak from an Arthur Schnitzler piece with the Duvivier life of Johan Strauss, The Great Waltz to come. Little wonder Joe Pasternak rolled up there.

Wohlbrück/Walbrook & Tschechowa

Maskerade has a great opening with the Masked Ball in progress – streamers, dancing masked couples and Olga Tschechowa (Hitchcock’s Mary and conspicuous in the Dupont Moulin Rouge) sweeps up in the feathery shoulderless number to accept the Tombola prize chinchilla muff. At this point, sketch artist Anton makes his great entrance down the white stairs into the festive activity, still munching his paper horn of Sascha sweets, and Olga moves on him, producing a pistol/cigarette case to threaten him into reviving their liaison but Anton (cheeky possum) demands an introduction to her sister in law to-be Hilde von Stolz. Blonde women in curls are bound to be trouble in these films.

Olga warning him off doesn’t stop Anton moving on Hilde, proposing she poses nude for him. Turns out she doesn’t need any urging, immediately hiring a fiaker to take her to his studio. Her fiancé, court music director Walter Janssen and his brother, Olga’s husband, bearded Royal Chief of Surgery Peter Petersen won’t notice. They are going to be arguing about Bach all night, while the orchestra plays “You Should See Me Do the Polka” in the background.

Anton’s housekeeper Grete Natzler, whose Fandango-pose painting dominates the hallway, has admitted Hilde and soon the visitor is Anton's subject in only the borrowed muff. However sketch completed, he loses interest and sends her off. Next morning he’s up late after all this exertion and the housekeeper lets his publisher’s runner have the drawing, which we never get to see. It appears on the magazine cover of the next day’s Carnival issue - montage of sniggering groups, barber shop dandies, ballet girls, hospital staff. Petersen assumes the worst and orders his inoffensive brother to demand satisfaction.

Janssen presents himself to Anton, who assures him the model was another girl. Told “If you don’t give me a name, I’ll have to challenge you”, the artist invents one, which happens to be unique in the Vienna ‘phone book, that of ladies companion Paula Wessely. She, it turns out, has won over not only elderly Princess employer Julia Serda but also gardener Hans Moser by her daily readings from the news papers. Janssen turns up at the Princess’ coffee and chocolate cake afternoon gathering to verify and a ball invitation he offers the Aristocrat is declined and passed to her companion, who is thrilled at the prospect of going to a society event. They have a gown which is just her size and, despite her round shoulders and boyish haircut, Paula turns out plausibly glamorous. She’s a bit puzzled by all this conversation about the brother everyone except her knows.

At the ball, Anton who of course has never met her, is smitten and carries Paula off, away from the snobby society guests to a cheery beer garden (we keep on seeing this juxtaposition – The Congress Dances, Michael Curtiz’ The Mad Genius) It’s a big ask to believe worldly Anton is enraptured by the simple servant but that’s where the picture lives. You have to give them a bit of suspension of disbelief.

Needless to say, Olga is outraged and scandal looms, not to mention the demise of the amorous artist. Now desperate, Paula has to find a solution as the formally dressed crowd, that had been listening to Janssen conduct Enrico Caruso, surges out of their opera loges to engulf her and Peterson.

His character is even more remarkable than the  leads – austere, forbidding and entitled, to the point where there is no question of involving himself in a common duel (like Louis Salou in Les enfants du paradis) he faces the hysterical Wessely and it will be Peterson who will get to make the iconic hand kissing gesture that resolves the film. His extended story becomes more involving than the leads’.  Revealingly the comparable John Barrymore character in MGM's Maytime is obliterated in a comparison.

It would be difficult to find a 1934 film made anywhere in the world with such accomplished technique, though we are told equipment was basic. Cast, costumes and setting are matched by sure editing (nice use of hard-edged wipes) and camerawork by the great Franz Planer later to film Hollywood's most effective Viennese outing, Ophuls' A Letter to an Unknown Woman, along with The Big Country and Breakfast at Tiffany's. Maskerade has the ability to draw in an audience who have no knowledge of its imaginary on-screen world and make it as compelling as their own. The Waltz (and polka and the rest) cycle appears to have been established with this film. It became the prototype of more than a decade of a European music drama rival to Busby Berkley World as the gold standard in popular entertainment of the day. Forst’s 1949 Wiener Mädeln dramatises that US-European musical competition – even if that contest is now all but forgotten. Too many critics and fans are unaware when they are foot soldiers in culture wars.

Forst and Wessely now a hot ticket, re-surface as co-stars of the 1934 So endete eine Liebe/So Ended a Great Love directed by Karl Hartl from another Walter Reisch script, which places the leads in The Congress Dances’ Napoleonic setting. The French Emperor’s calamitous campaigns still loomed large in European awareness, not unlike the conquest of the American West in the U.S. The lack of this dominant frame of reference diminishes contemporary Hollywood Napoleon films like Frank Borzage’s Hearts Divided or the Garbo Marie Walewska once again from MGM.

Paula Wesswely and Willi Forst

Here Erna Morena’s Josephine proves barren and an heir is required to establish a dynasty. This time we get Gustaf Gründgens (Mephisto in person) as the scheming Austrian Count Metternich conspiring with Edwin Jürgensen’s Talleyrand to put young Austrian Grand Duchess Marie Louise, Wessely of course, opposite the Emperor.

To smooth the path, they recruit her cousin Forst, as Franz defeated Duke of Modena, who no longer has his troops to command and compensates by spending his time choreographing ballerinas. The prospect of  getting his crippling debts paid off sends Willi galloping across the straight line (compare Miklos Jansco's The Hopeless Ones) Hungarian horizon to ensure she accepts the dubious proposal, which will save Austria from being reduced to just another French Duchy, after the countries’ five failed wars.

The playboy Duke discovers that the nineteen year old (!) girl has nursed a crush on him, after his promise to return years before, only to now find he's there to tell her that she's to marry the Emperor who needs a childbearing spouse.

Particularly after seeing Ridley Scott’s giggly depiction of the Imperial match, Forst and Wessely seem an unlikely mature aged rendition of the historic characters but the pair, at the top of their game, prove irresistible. Wessely realising that her beloved is the agent of her destruction and Forst desperate to assert himself with the powerful, who rather than dismiss his pleas, share his anguish, offer the whole Viennese doomed costume romance.

More charm pours out of the screen. Mounting is elaborate and imposing, complete with much striding about designer Werner Schlichting’s palace decors in white tights, carrying swords that are never drawn. Spot the set-height white double doors used in Maskerade. It all comes backed by Franz Grothe’s score and is again expertly filmed by Planer. Classy! Forget Joachim Phoenix. We are seeing a plausible first run of the Charles Boyer and Danielle Darrieux in Mayerling cycle.

The YouTube version is uneven – gummed together from several copies where French sub-titles come and go behind the new computer translation.

By the time we get to 1935’s Vienna-filmed Episode, the impetus of thirties German-speaking sound film is already winding down. Now directed by Reisch, this is a toothless attempt at RomCom with everyone doing their best to be winning, as the middle-aged leads struggle to involve us in their comedy of confusions.

The opening raises expectations. It's 1922 Vienna but it’s not waltz time. Among more streamers, the black girl cafe vocalist is doing "Yes, We Have No Bananas." In a sustained take, Harry Stradling's camera circles the orchestra and dancing couples, while a floozy picks the pocket of her drunken escort and goes off to dance with the gigolo seen adjusting his make up in his pocket compact mirror. At the bar, a stressed drinker is told that two men are waiting for him outside, unable to enter the formal event without diner suits. He shoots himself.

 Wessely

Turns out he was a city banker who had lost twenty-eight million crowns in speculations, wiping out the savings of depositors, including elderly Rosa Albach-Retty, now in a panic making her first-ever long distance call to daughter, senior class art student Wessely. Paula has to desert Professor Ferdinand Mayerhofer's clay sculptures to storm into the office of Dr. Walter Janssen. He can only confirm the disaster. The meager savings of the mother's lifetime will no longer be there to pay her a pension.

Paula lies to Albach-Retty and abandons her studies to provide for the old woman. Hunting employment, she considers stuffing envelopes and other such menial tasks but none are to be found. Her bouncy blonde chum Friedl Czepa has a Hungarian to meet her needs and proposes his Romanian friend for Paula, who is politely outraged. Though desperation sets in, she tells fatherly Otto Treßler that she's not that sort of girl and he proposes regular cheques for merely accompanying him to theatres and cafes with the occasional peck on the cheek. The attempt to sanitise this one has already done in its credibility.                                                       

Now one of these Treßler rendez vous coincides with a wedding anniversary that he had forgotten and he has to send his sons' tutor in dual piano, former Uberleutenant Karl Ludwig Diehl (The Devil's General) to tell Paula he can't make it. Well one thing leads to another and Paula and Karl dance the night away, despite her shaky stiletto heel on the shoe that Czepa borrowed. The sons misunderstand the situation and accuse one another of associating with Paula. Diehl slaps them and resigns but their mother, Erika von Wagner (the Curtiz Austrian Sodom & Gomorrah) knows that an officer who commanded the respect of his troops for four years of the late war would not act irresponsibly.

Meanwhile, Karl is taking Paula to watch a dupey copy of one of Gunnar Tolnæ’s fake Maharaja silent movies and romance has bloomed. The boys discover the truth and there is an obviously telegraphed further misunderstanding when Czepa, rather than face destitution, her provider now revealed as a defaulting cashier, cashes Treßler's last cheque, which Paula wanted returned. I did warn you about girls with blonde curls.

It of course all ends happily due to the saintly understanding of mother knowing best von Wagner. The handling is studiofied. It trades heavily in Viennese atmosphere - balls, cafes, private boxes, art montages and street performers. There's a nice superimposition where silhouette dancers appear on lines of "Pizzicato Polka" sheet music. "When day is Done" plays on the track. All this might have introduced an artificiality needed to boost cred. The scene where Wessely and Diehl unite at the street brazier in the snow, observed by the passing musicians, edges towards the ambience they want to believe they are offering but, despite all the effort, this one is hopelessly over shadowed by Maskerade. They need Anton Walbrook and another duel to get by.

Reisch, writing collaborator with Bracket and Wilder, joined the pair in Hollywood, notably for Ninotchka. He never managed to navigate his directing career past Universal’s Song of Scheherezade. Appealing actress wife Elisabeth (Liesl) Handl appears peripherally here. Stradling, whose imaginative lighting manages the odd striking shadow, did better, continuing his distinguished globe trotting with La kermesse heroique, Streetcar Named Desire and My Fair Lady.

These three Wessely films can only provide a shadowy representation of the cycle they represent. Forst, Walbrook, Lillian Harvey, Karl Hartl, Ludwig Berger and the rest would – maybe will – provide material for more detailed studies than this. Meanwhile I remain glued to the TV, busily making up for lost time.

Barrie Pattison 2024

WELL THERE IS CHINA AND INDIA.

Not so long ago, we had unprecedented access to the films of China and India - and not a few more - in dedicated cinemas and video stores. Where did all that go? Well not really all that far. The multiplexes now run their product in late sessions, sometimes to empty houses and occasionally in sold out auditoria.

Wuershan’s grim new Block Buster Creation of the Gods I: Kingdom of Storms is getting a down town first run. This one offers big budget myth as a special effects piece and is being touted as the second biggest earner in the history of the Chinese film. Actually it logs in about number twenty eight but its owners are talking it up big with an eye to the overseas market -  European musical scoring and script participation by James Schamus, long time collaborator with Ang Lee, including Crouching Tiger Hidden Dragon.

The film opens with the usual captions on graphics explaining the descent of the Shang Dynasty from the Gods, to rule a China divided into four territories, the governor of each having to send a non-heir son to the Shang court to participate in the hostage Legion of the Disinherited. It is this that the Shang ruler sends against a rebel province (where have I heard that description before?) under the command of his own son Fei Xiang who is scornful when the commanders are repulsed by a fire barrier, which their horses will not cross and sends them back with the animals blindfolded.

The now defeated governor is pursued by two of the Legion Commander sons, who overtake him and his alluring daughter Narana, that they feel it would be wasteful to slaughter with her father. They bring her back to Fei Xiang for his victory celebration. Bad move guys! Her pupils narrow to those of a cat. Yes she’s a Fairy Fox in human form, who sets about bewitching the macho leader. His solution to the disturbances is to have a massive funeral pyre which - promises, promises - he will ascend to assuage the wrath of the Gods.

It’s not long before people are assassinating their children or parents as part of the royal struggle and the concerned gods dispatch ancient sage, comedian Huang Bo in loads of make up, with the enchanted message stick, to impose control. The convoluted plot is spaced by mass action footage and, rather better, a bit of erotic by-play like the scene of the power couple bathing together naked in the milky pool with  Narana’s floor length hair trailing in a circle round them.

Fei Ziang & Narana

It's about time we had some monsters and the effects guys and a Taoist sorcerer oblige with suitably spectacular examples.

Seems like things get sorted but a couple of epilogues tell us that the fox demon will have it all going again for part two.

We recognise a mash-up of Shakespeare, Eisenstein, John Woo and Kurosawa (the fake head in the bag is instantly Ran). Westerners would be battling to follow events or to find a focal point for their sympathies in three hours of all this violence within power families. 

Origins in the Chinese classic “Investiture of the Gods” from sixteen hundred AD would be known to its home audience, if not from the original, then from adaptations like the Xu An’s 2016 Feng Shen Bang / League of Gods  3D, which similarly buried Bingbing Fan and Jet Li in CG effects work.

It all left me yearning for the great days of Chu Yuan and the Shaw Brothers whose fantastic costume melodramas packaged this kind of material with welcome self deprecating comedy -  at considerably shorter length.

Bring back Lo Lieh and Lia Chia-hui!

The great days of (mainly) Hong Kong Chinese movies were succeeded by the great leap forward in Twenty first Century Hindi Cinema, which followed the arrival of MTV in India. Front runners were the Yash Rash productions with their imposing stars Shah Rukh Kahn and Amitah Bachan, who now make joke promotion videos about giving roles offered them to one another.

Despite the diffusion of interest through Bengali, Tamil and Sanskrit regional cinemas (not however their English language productions), Yash Rash is still a thing and director Atlee’s new Jawan is a big hit for them. It proffers the old Yash Raj over-production even before SRK shows up again.

Our superhero first surfaces looking spectral as he arrives to take down the hoard of red star soldiers conducting a village massacre. It’s not long before that looks like him again running the hijack, terrorising the commuter train with ransom demands by ‘phone to the minister and providing his own casualties, like the bank bandits in Un Flic, before blending in with the crowd like the team in the 1981 John Huston Victory - all backed by his personal Charley’s Angels. While we are processing that, our hero, rendered youthful, shows as the governor of the model women’s prison sheltering lines of green uniform inmates (OK digitally populated aerial shot intro) which provides a haven for arrestees who never re-offend. Confused - that’s the idea.

Throw in intrusive production numbers, like the one where our high stepping hero does his routine in the red shirt, the “Fly Away Little Birds” song all becoming progressively more imposing till we get to the finale, where a couple of him dance together while the motion capture camera weaves around them.

As a follow up to the red star soldiers, we get Bhopal style industrialists, backed with goon squad heavies and money from the Mafia (who are making a comeback as movie villains - Equalizer 3) Our heroes out smart them by holding the country's voting machines ransom, when it looks like the election will be bought, complete with the spectacular highway stunt action piece where the veteran biker retainers fan out to make a moving wall and truck loads of bribe money blow in the wind. It takes a super cop to battle our super heroes, so Sanjav Dutt (Munna Bhai himself) makes a late appearance - ripple of audience recognition.

Jawan - SRK in the slammer.

Despite virtuoso touches, this one is too nasty, too loud and too simple minded to recommend to the outside audience that once lapped up their industry’s Lagan, Mohabateen and Robot - when they had the chance.

The current sample is (far) too small to make any real generalisation about the state of non endorsed foreign language film but it isn't all that encouraging.

Barrie Pattison  2024