Here Comes Mr. Jordan (Alexander Hall, 1941)

 

Officially, Alexander Hall’s Here Comes Mr. Jordan is only seven minutes shorter than Warren Beatty and Buck Henry’s 1978 remake Heaven Can Wait, but feels much tighter than the later film, sometimes to the point of seeming to rush: for example it sets-up the dimension-crossing romance at its centre in a mere few minutes of screen time, whereas the later version productively lingered at least a little longer. Notwithstanding that broad impression though, and leaving aside Beatty/Henry’s main tweak of making the protagonist Joe Pendleton a football player rather than a boxer, the two follow very similar trajectories, with an almost identical arrival point, both in tone and content. In both versions, Pendleton is killed in an accident (a plane in the original, a bike in the remake), denying him a chance at an upcoming sporting triumph. The administration of the afterlife concedes an error and sends him back, but into the body of a rich industrialist murdered by his wife and secretary; Pendleton rapidly overhauls the man’s cold-hearted public image, along the way turning a bitter young adversary into a star-crossed love. As the change of title may herald, the otherworldly Mr. Jordan is a more prominent presence in the original than the remake, its impact more fully conditioned on the interplay of Robert Montgonery’s pugnacious Pendleton and Claude Rains’ unflappably genial Jordan. Although further point-to-point relative evaluations of the two are largely subjective, the remake certainly does more with the murderous duo by casting Charles Grodin and Dyan Cannon, albeit both under-utilized – the characters in the original barely register as more than plot devices. Pendleton’s friend and trainer Max Korkle is a highlight of both, James Gleason snappy and short-fused in the original, Jack Warden in the remake more slow-burn befuddled (and benefiting from additional time spent on establishing the Pendleton/Korkle relationship).

Youth (Hard Times) (Wang Bing, 2024)

 

As the title indicates, Wang Bing’s documentary Youth (Hard Times) paints a gloomier picture than the preceding Youth (Spring), notwithstanding that both films run over three and a half hours and are set almost entirely in the dingy textile workshops and living quarters of Zhili (the closing captions tell us the city contains some 18,000 such businesses, employing 300,000 mostly young migrant workers); in each case, the great length serves to release us from normal expectations of pace and narrative, allowing at least a somewhat heightened sense of the claustrophobic repetition of such lives. The first film is hardly light viewing by any measure, but contains much camaraderie and joshing and flirting among the workers, the constant preoccupation with hourly rates and productivity offset with conspicuous consumption of the kind whereby one individual notes that another is still using last year’s iPhone. Hard Times feels both literally and figuratively darker, more deeply characterized by anxiety, by recurring resentment that the rates are insufficient, that they’re lower than those paid last year or in other shops; a greater number of its subjects are somewhat older, with families, working to pay off debts. But despite their efforts to act collectively, the workers have inherently little power, particularly embodied by a group whose crooked boss takes off, his obligations unpaid, leaving them to scurry around salvaging what they can. Like its predecessor, Hard Times ends by showing some of its people back in their home villages, the explosion of light and space almost dizzying in contrast to the compressed dinginess of what’s gone before, partly celebratory but also underlining the strangeness of such far-flung economic structures; the basic decency of the final note, one of respect for a neighbor’s crops, underlines (if it were necessary) the scant evidence of generosity in what precedes it.

The Shrouds (David Cronenberg, 2024)

 

The critical response to David Cronenberg’s The Shrouds was heavily informed by the styling of star Vincent Cassel to evoke Cronenberg himself, and by the knowledge of Cronenberg having been widowed after a long marriage; although those data points aren’t irrelevant, they may lead one to expect a more morosely introspective film than the director actually delivers here. On the contrary, it’s in some respects among his most playful works (even as the customarily frosty tone discourages such a reading), a construct in which almost nothing can be taken at face value, even (or perhaps especially) the facts attaching to the dead. The shrouds of the title are designed by Cassel’s Karsh to be wrapped around bodies (including that of his own wife, dead from cancer) before burial, allowing the family to view their decomposition, or whatever else may transpire underground; the technology is hacked and the graves vandalized, kicking off a chain of events including both Chinese and Russian interests, and transgressions including suggestions of extreme medical malpractice. But it’s all mostly talked about rather than dramatized, and further, talked about in terms that are either speculative or unreliable; for example, the narrative culminates in an unexplained burial, for which it offers at least four different explanations, with Karsh declining to take the obvious action that would narrow those down. The overall effect is certainly somewhat rarified and cerebral, but also uncommonly destabilizing and invasive, its ending providing only the most superficial closure (at best). Cronenberg allows his protagonist two sexual partners in the course of the narrative, one his wife’s twin sister, and the other the blind wife of an important prospective client, providing even ecstatic release an enmeshed and over-loaded quality (although again not without a streak of wry amusement – the sister, for example, gets turned on by conspiracy theories, seemingly the more outlandish the better…)

Une femme douce (Robert Bresson, 1969)

 

Much of Robert Bresson’s Une femme douce is devoted to spectatorship, emphasizing the “gentle woman’s” passivity and lack of agency: the film includes an extended scene from Michel Deville’s Benjamin (when she and her husband go to the movies), another from Hamlet (a trip to the theatre), exhibits at a natural history museum and art gallery, shows watched on TV, even animals at the zoo. Further, the film begins by establishing her death, her body laid out on a bed as her husband narrates the story of their relationship, a story in which he all but harassed her into marrying him, and in which one senses that even his acts of generosity and openness are oppressive to her (for example, he praises an incident he observed in which another man tried to pick her up and she seemingly turned the man down, but it’s already been established that her actions were ambiguous, and the husband’s words serve to make him rather than her the owner of the narrative). The (pointedly unnamed) woman is far from a blank slate - she’s sufficiently educated to recall a passage that’s been omitted from the production of Hamlet, and on their wedding night she appears to be the sexual instigator – but when married to a less intuitive man, this may impede rather than facilitate happiness; as played by Dominique Sanda, the film has a recurring sense of sadly thwarted inquiry and possibility, and when she says near the end that she’ll be a faithful wife, it rings with defeat more than commitment. The film anticipates Bresson’s later L’argent in the recurring focus on money changing hands: after getting married she goes to work in her husband’s pawnshop business, one of her main attempts at rebellion embodied in paying needy people more than the items are worth (another action later appropriated by the husband when trying to prove himself to her).

New Rose Hotel (Abel Ferrara, 1998)

 

Abel Ferrara’s singular (well, of course) New Rose Hotel is a fascinatingly displaced piece of work, a globe-spanning tale of conspiracy and manipulation and perhaps eventual catastrophe, built around a hundred million dollar transaction, that takes place almost entirely in hotel rooms, bars and the like, major events recounted to us third hand or else briefly glimpsed on blurry surveillance screens. Christopher Walken (dizzily idiosyncratic even by his standards) plays Fox, mastermind of a scheme to lure a brilliant sought-after Japanese scientist away from his corporate base, the plan consisting almost entirely of dangling a woman that the scientist won’t be able to resist (Asia Argento’s Sandy), complicated when Fox’s faithful lieutenant X (Willem Dafoe) also falls for Sandy, to the extent of the two talking about getting married. The plan works improbably well, and Fox collects his fee, but then things fall apart; Sandy vanishes, and the two men have to make a run for it. Ferrara’s astounding structural coup has the story essentially ending some twenty minutes before the end (and that’s with various momentous developments merely mentioned in passing), thereafter focusing on X as he goes to ground and mournfully runs through the events we’ve already seen, the film revisiting prior scenes with added details and shifted emphases that suggest the two men perhaps never fully grasped what they were involved in, Sandy increasingly taking on the contours of a classically unknowable noir-type woman. One is left with the sense of a movie that even if barely of this world in many of its particulars, taps a universal capacity for loss and regret (and, especially in the various songs we see performed, for fragile beauty); the ending constitutes no form of closure, provoking on the contrary a sense that Ferrara's film would as happily have circled back to continue picking obsessively at its own bones, and so on and so on indefinitely.

Spectateurs! (Arnaud Desplechin, 2024)

 

Arnaud Desplechin’s Spectateurs! would provide a most engaging introduction to the director’s oeuvre, despite (detractors might say because of) being a somewhat atypical project for him; it’s a largely academic observation though given that like all Desplechin’s recent work, it’s hardly been seen outside France. The film is a personal journey through cinema, including a few montages that wouldn’t be out of place in an Oscar broadcast (Die Hard!), but also spending extended time on memories of Claude Lanzmann’s Shoah, and most unexpectedly, the late Misty Upham (with whom Desplechin worked on Jimmy P). Desplechin intersperses sweet-natured recreations of key moments in his cinematic growth, including being taken by his grandmother to see a sixties remake of Fantomas but then having to leave when his sister got scared, and screening Vera Chytilova’s Daisies for a school film club and in the process having a girl develop a heightened interest in him. Despite some moments of gravity, the film’s prevailing sense is of lightness and openness to possibility; one feels that on another day Desplechin might have gone in this or that different direction (the film includes a montage of diverse people talking about memorable cinematic experiences, including such quirky choices as a woman recalling that she went to see Train to Busan, and didn’t like it). The film’s final moments are suitably and delectably diverse, contrasting a chance glimpsing of Desplechin stalwart Mathieu Amalric at a screening of 400 Blows, an aspiring director talking in awestruck terms about his transcendent experience of that film, and Desplechin himself, alone in a room, sitting and typing, muttering a final maxim in a manner that lovingly (and is it more self-deprecatingly or self-regardingly?) evokes Godard, an impression immediately cemented by playing Tom Waits’ Ruby’s Eyes under the final credits (just as in Godard did in Prenom Carmen).

Maps to the Stars (David Cronenberg, 2014)

 

David Cronenberg’s Maps to the Stars ranks in the lower half of his work, Hollywood’s empty materialism and drained humanity seeming basically like too narrow and obvious a topic to fully engage him. Julianne Moore plays Havana Segrand, a career-challenged actress who engages a new arrival in town, Agatha Weiss, as a personal assistant; Agatha’s teenage brother is the (wantonly unpleasant) star of a “Bad Babysitter” comedy franchise, their father a lifestyle guru who counsels Havana. The film has a broad vein of vicious satire, exemplified by how Havana giddily celebrates the death of another actress’s little boy (an event causing the actress to withdraw from a role that Havana covets), but that’s familiar territory, albeit more sharply executed than average. Of greater interest are its multiple instances of doubling: two (at least) quasi-incestuous relationships between siblings, two characters visited by visions of dead people, two name actors beset by career anxiety, two case histories involving fires, two instances of drowning, all of which contributes to a sense of proliferating stasis, a perception that Hollywood stories are essentially just all the same (of the two movies foregrounded in the narrative, one is a franchise sequel and the other a remake). At the same time, the gradual revelation of so many interconnections between characters creates an ultimately savagely implosive quality: Cronenberg goes relatively light here on the “body horror” (mostly displaced into conventional concerns about appearance, and to skin permanently marked by earlier calamities), but the film ultimately feels no less invasive and destabilizing (conspicuous by its absence of course is anything close to lush cinematic pleasure). Still, Hollywood mythmaking isn’t entirely absent: an early scene has Agatha bragging in seemingly transparently bogus manner to a driver she’s just met about her connections with Carrie Fisher, all of it turning out in short order to be true!

The Grapes of Death (Jean Rollin, 1978)

 

In a way, nothing in Jean Rollin’s The Grapes of Death penetrates as much as the opening images of weary agricultural labourers trudging through the vineyards, their heavy breathing prominent on the soundtrack (the film’s feel for rural landscapes and textures makes the title’s evocation of Steinbeck more apposite than one might expect – it’s also sometimes been released under the far more prosaic title of Pesticide). One of the labourers complains of feeling sick, his concerns brushed aside by the boss, and from there it’s a short hop to Living Dead territory, with a young woman, Elisabeth, jumping off a train to escape a murderously demented passenger and thereafter wandering through a rugged landscape which appears challenging enough even in its usual state, let alone when populated by zombies (although, intriguingly, the contagion takes radically different forms, for example affecting one conniving woman’s mind while leaving her body unmarked – in the film’s most ultra-Rollinesque moment, she obligingly takes everything off to demonstrate). Even when at its more conventional, the film has an intriguing sense of remove, starting from the oddly under-populated train; an exchange about the distinction between those who fought during the war for an unexamined notion of patriotism and those who specifically opposed Fascism in all its forms hinting at festering cracks that only needed slight prodding to split open (it’s amusing that two of the primary characters avoid contagion because, being solidly of the working class, they drink beer rather than wine). It all winds its way to a suitably bleak, un-celebratory conclusion, seeming to portend a bleak future for Elisabeth, perhaps for all. A minor mystery concerns whether the “Francois Pascal” cited in the credits refers to Francoise Pascal of Rollin’s The Iron Rose, even though she’s not in the film: at least one online site says that it does, and that her scenes were cut, but I think I would have more faith in Rollin’s spelling ability, if nothing else.

After the Hunt (Luca Guadagnino, 2025)

 

Many reviewers responded to After the Hunt as if Luca Guadagnino had temporarily forgotten how to direct, and the film certainly lacks the seamless, sink-in stylishness of Challengers or Call Me by Your Name; possibly indeed seeming at times (noting for example its lurching, too-close close-ups, indifferent framings and peculiar fixation on hands) downright shoddy. But greater reflection and open-mindedness suggests a sly strategy on the director’s part, indicated early on by the precise use of Woody Allen-style opening credits, and at the very end by an audible “Cut,” both making small contributions to a foregrounding of artifice and provocation that’s evident in everything from the chaotically piling-up narrative to the barely-controlled performances (the question of whether the actors are “good” hardly seems relevant). The film initially teases us with the promise of a cozy institutional saga, immersing us in a Yale philosophy department characterized by strong, flirtatious collegiality and spiky banter, soon disrupted by a student’s accusation of sexual assault against a teacher; from there it’s consistently expectation-defying in its treatment of the core premise (for example making little real attempt to engage with the facts and perspectives underling the allegation, let alone to resolve them), along the way snatching away points of certainty, throwing in much that’s mainly bewildering, ending up in a place that seems barely explicable on its own terms, let alone as a logical outgrowth of what preceded it. One certainly registers at the end though how the initial warmth and sense of connection has been replaced by distance and isolation (the final scene takes place in a diner that we previously saw bustling but is now deserted, and with snow outside yet!), seemingly suggesting that the kinds of stridently entitled machinations depicted in the film, however all-consuming at the time, are ultimately detrimental to one’s social positioning and basic contentment.

Annette (Leos Carax, 2021)

 

Even by modern-day standards, the closing credits of Leos Carax’s Annette feel unusually prolonged, especially as the film sticks in the mind as a relatively “small” and intimate one (notwithstanding its splashes of grandeur), an impression cemented by the opening (the most straightforwardly enjoyable part of the movie) in which the two principals of Sparks, the three leads, the director and his daughter Nastya and a few others march out of the studio and into the street while singing an opening song. The real-life father-daughter presence seems to promise autobiographical revelation ahead, but if so, it’s fairly depressing in nature given what transpires, a downbeat story of a romance between Henry, a comedian/performance artist (Adam Driver), and opera singer Ann (Marion Cotillard) that generates a child with an ethereal singing talent, even as the family becomes mired in tragedy and murder. The film often seems most audacious in its withholding quality, its refusal to straightforwardly entertain (summed up by the scene in which singing prodigy baby Annette is booked for the Super Bowl half time show and then refuses to do anything, except to denounce her father for his crimes). One registers one aspect after another in which the fabric feels defiantly dour: Henry’s act is at best angry and abrasive and often downright audience-hostile, the clips of Ann’s performances sterile by comparison; the device of having Annette played by a puppet counts for surprisingly little (the manipulation of Annette’s strange talent by her father is hardly made more resonant by such a distancing device), and her replacement by a real girl in the end only confirms the wretched isolation lying ahead for Henry). The closing credits return to celebratory mode, the cast and crew inviting us if we liked the film to tell a friend about it, or failing that to tell a stranger, but the camera’s slow journey up into the beyond seems to embody the faint hope of soliciting too many such recommendations.

God's Angry Man (Werner Herzog, 1981)

 

Werner Herzog’s 1981 portrait of tele-evangelist Gene Scott, God’s Angry Man, is ultimately perhaps too brief to do justice to its bizarre subject, rendering it too easy to caricature him as a straightforwardly hypocritical materialist. Not that Scott, who we’re told is dealing with as many as seventy lawsuits at any given time, doesn’t apparently spend a large portion of his broadcasts asking for money, but based on what we’re shown he does so with a self-entitled, hectoring rage that seems distinct from the smarmy latter-day “prosperity gospel.” Herzog doesn’t probe the details of Scott’s doctrinal positioning, and it’s unclear what the experience of watching his show, which seems unstructured and rambling at best, actually amounts to (at times, in fact, as in his creation of an “FCC Monkey Band”, a collection of wind-up animals intended to embody his view of a adversarial Federal Communications Commission, it might be consumed as unhinged performance art). On that issue of materialism, Scott claims he doesn’t own anything directly except a black bag he carries around with him, the contents of which are revealed to no one (he somewhat puckishly allows it might just be his dirty socks); his expenses are entirely borne by the church, implicitly allowing him a defense against being the rich man who can no more enter heaven than a camel can go through the eye of a needle. Even so, the film’s (almost) last words are a song about a prosperous man who, if he can scrape into heaven at all, will only be granted a rusty halo and second hand wings, and one wonders if that’s partly an expression of Grant’s own insecurity (he does allow earlier that he sometimes wrestles with his faith), of whether his ranting reflects fear of an afterlife which will fail to justify the choices he made in this one.

Messidor (Alain Tanner, 1979)

 

In Alain Tanner’s Messidor, two young women randomly meet while hitchhiking, sharing a ride and then getting out together when they decide the driver’s a creep, continuing along together for a while, spending the night in the woods, and then just going on and on, in a vaguely defined game of no clear purpose and with no way to win, especially after some of their actions (including stealing a policeman’s loaded gun) have their names and faces on TV as wanted and possibly even dangerous criminals. Looked at one way, the film presents a slow stripping-away of resources and possibilities, the girls visibly worn and hungry, and yet they keep going, surmounting occasional frictions, unlocking occasional ecstasies, getting help even from some people who recognize them. Tanner takes them through a dizzying volume of encounters and pivots while eliding some major points: whether the women at one point have sex with each other, or at another with two bikers (notwithstanding all the other men they resist, sometimes violently); there’s even a faint suggestion that a bullet fired into the sky as a plane flies overhead might have caused it to crash. It’s very much a product of the old Europe, with frequent language barriers and a recurring awareness of borders, but allowing glimpses of elevating release from stifling convention (the title, we’re told, refers to one of the months in the alternative calendar used during the French revolution). Near the end, one of the women muses on where all the people in the street can be going to or coming from, recalling how as a child she was amazed at the knowledge that everyone went home to their own bed; it’s both a fundamental incomprehension of the world’s organizing principles and also thereby a liberation, an ability to transcend, albeit only briefly, and in inevitably doomed fashion, such stifling structure.

Night of the Juggler (Robert Butler, 1980)

 

Robert Butler’s 1980 New York-set Night of the Juggler amply makes up in pace and aggressive local colour for what it lacks in other areas (plausibility, for one). Cliff Gorman plays Gus Soltic, driven by obsessive hatred of the real estate developers he blames (often in violently racist terms) for ruining his life; he plans to kidnap the daughter of one such tycoon, but gets the wrong girl, setting her ex-cop father Sean Boyd (James Brolin) on his trail, and the local cops chasing after both of them (including a crazed former colleague of Boyd’s bearing a murderous grudge, played with absurd relish by a heavily indulged, bulging-eyed Dan Hedaya). The film packs a tremendous volume of confrontation and incident into its hundred or so minutes, with some top-quality extended chase scenes (one of them featuring an uproarious, if again dubiously conceived appearance by an edge-of-stardom Mandy Patinkin). The film conveys a recurring faint sense of loss and longing: in Soltic’s constant references to his dead mother (he makes the kidnapped girl wear one of her old dresses); in the objectively inexplicable decision of a woman who helps Boyd along the way to drop everything and tag along with him, perhaps forever; even in the plaintive look of a nude Times Square dancer who passes along a key clue. But that’s all intertwined with a sense of teeming, often almost gleeful possibility, albeit of a kind that might at any moment become deadly, the city as depicted here being riven with factionalism and race-based suspicion. In the end, despite all the trauma, the girl asserts that she still doesn’t want to move to boring Connecticut with her mother: a glib wrap-up given all she’s endured, but in line with how, in classic action movie manner, the newly constituted family is allowed to walk away into something close to a sunset.

The Golden Fern (Jiri Weiss, 1963)

 

Jiri Weiss’ The Golden Fern is conventionally described as a “fairy tale,” and the story is certainly rooted in the supernatural, but such a label misrepresents the actual experience of watching the film, which is often bracingly pained and violent. Jura, a shepherd, finds the titular plant in the depths of the forest and brings it home, in turn summoning Lesanka, a mysterious and beautiful woman who asks him to give it back, but ultimately stays and becomes his wife. For a while the movie surrenders to dreamy romanticism, but Jura is far pricklier than a conventionally bland hero, overly sensitive for instance to any suggestion that he’s being laughed at, and one night takes off for a binge, drunkenly signing up for a long stint in the army, allowed only a cursory goodbye to Lesanka during which she gives him a shirt which she says will shield him from harm. Thus magically equipped, he becomes a military hero and is promoted to captain, but his desire to return home, and the machinations of a superior’s calculating daughter, lead him through a series of challenges at which he improbably succeeds (this element of the film, a staple of the folk tale, offsets its flourishing adventurism with depictions of the grisly consequences for those whom he outwits), but only to experience further frustration, and then catastrophe. The film is certainly in part a veiled comment on class, the venality of the military superiors emphasized at every stage: in exploiting poverty and fallibility, in flagrantly failing to live up to promises made, in treating enlisted men like playthings, or almost arbitrarily condemning then to death. But it also suggests that one can escape and transcend such grim confines, albeit perhaps only to escape into a different kind of despair, a lonelier and more mysterious one.

Twilight's Last Gleaming (Robert Aldrich, 1977)

 

Robert Aldrich’s Twilight’s Last Gleaming gradually reveals itself to be seeped in imperial America’s driving contradictions: it amply showcases the immense resources of both the military and the Presidency, their multi-faceted responsiveness in the face of an emergency situation, but also reveals the confused or absent moral and strategic purpose beneath, in this case harking back to a secret document that demonstrates the effort in Vietnam was always known to be hopeless, that indeed the hopelessness was largely the point, in demonstrating to its enemies the country’s capacity to shed its humanity. In extreme contrast to a present-day governing infrastructure that sublimates itself to Presidential willpower, Aldrich’s film indicates the supremacy of what would now be called the Deep State, the President accepting he may be collateral damage for the sake of greater interests; this may have been idealistic even at the time, but even the positing of it makes the movie a sobering monument to how far things have fallen (it’s rather amusing that the President, played by Charles Durning, is a particular accident of history, having won his party’s nomination only because of an old-fashioned deadlocked convention). The film is meatily cast, inevitably of its time in that the levers of power are entirely held by older men (mostly but not exclusively white): Burt Lancaster persuasively weary and unkempt, preeminent as a disillusioned former General and Vietnam POW who leads the hijacking of a nuclear silo, the character’s back story illustrating another aspect of institutional ruthlessness. Aldrich makes good periodic use of split screens in navigating the multi-faceted narrative, and if the film often falls short of realism (the final moments, played as stately and distanced, would surely in practice be marked with chaotic urgency; more generally, the film feels oddly under-populated, even tinny at times), it’s dramatically effective, and a lastingly fascinating reference point.