The Rake Magazine

Lagaan: Once Upon a Time in India, 2005. Written and directed by Ashutosh Gowariker, music by Padmashree A. R. Rahman, lyrics by Padmashree Javed Akhtar. Featuring the incredible talents of Aamir Khan, Gracy Singh, and Rajesh Vivek (and a cast of literally thousands); and also starring the mediocre, scene-chewing likes of Brits Rachel Shelley & Paul Blackthorne.

Playing tonight at the U of M's Nolte Center, Room 125, at 7:00. Sponsored by the Institute for Advanced Study and the Asian American Studies department.

Bollywood: "Refers to the burgeoning film industry of India, the world's biggest film industry, centered in Bombay (now Mumbai); the etymology of the word: from Bo(mbay) + (Ho)llywood; unlike Hollywood, however, Bollywood is a non-existent place." --Cinematic Terms

Once upon a time, musicals were the pride and joy of Hollywood. From the 1930s through the 1950s, with only a short break for the big war, the moguls in SoCal were pumping out these candy-colored dreamworlds nearly every month. Although there was plenty of garbage, filmgoers of the time were also treated to some magnificent works of art: Robert Mamoulian's delightful fable Love Me Tonight; the Fred Astaire wonders; the nostalgic and sometimes creepy Meet Me In St. Louis; and my personal favorites, the athletic films of Gene Kelly, from On the Town to An American In Paris, to the greatest musical of all, Singin' in the Rain. I can literally watch many of these films two and three times at a sitting, and every time I leave them I find myself stepping along to their friendly beat. When I was a child I saw both Superman and Singin' in the Rain on the big screen; unlike my pals, I didn't want to be Superman, I wanted to be Donald O'Connor. Same thing, really, for they were both flying.

On the big screen, we don't have much to dance about nowadays. The genre has fallen and fallen hard. Musicals from the 60s to the present day don't stand up to the test of time (and, yes, I'm including the so-called classics like Cabaret, Chicago and Moulin Rouge). Today's musicals are soulless, corporate garbage, or they're aimed at the adult Broadway crowd, or they're the Disney crap for children and brain-dead grown-ups, sung by Elton John and Phil Collins. I could come up with a dozen theories as to why musicals "don't work" anymore: we're too cynical, the stars are too much with us now, innocence lost, etc., etc. For the longest time it depressed me to think that we're not going to see their likes ever again.

But there's a whole galaxy of musicals coming from the heart of the Indian subcontinent, spinning into the universe of DVD (and available, with subtitles and letterboxes, at Netflix, or your local Indian market). These are the Bollywood films, lengthy historical and romantic musicals with handsome and wholesome heroes, beautiful heroines, dastardly villains, and show-stopping numbers. I give you one of the best, the only Bollywood film ever to be nominated for an Academy Award: Lagaan: Once Upon a Time in India. That it is showing tonight on the big screen only heightens its appeal.

The facts: in the middle of the 19th century, a small village is suffering through a drought, barely able to feed themselves, when they are told that they have to pay double lagaan, or tax. This is imposed by a towering ruffian of a Brit, the menacing Captain Russell (played with dastardly verve by Paul Blackthorn). Russell's a fellow with a permanent scowl and a long moustache that I was just praying he would twirl in his gloved hand. The villagers approach the Rajah, who is forced to work with the British government (and, specifically, the antagonist), and ask for a reprieve from the tax. In the process, the Brit is insulted by our hero, the young, handsome, and headstrong Bhuvan (the charmer Aamir Khan). There's a wager: if this ragtag village can beat the crack British club at a cricket match, there will be no taxes for three years.

Sounds corny? As corny as three sailors in NYC hoping to meet Miss Turnstiles on the subway and get a date in On the Town. As ridiculous as the stories in Seven Brides For Seven Brothers, Brigadoon, and even An American In Paris, which doesn't really have a plot. In Lagaan's nearly four hours (!), there's romance (a rivalry of sorts between the girl who loves Bhuvan and a British woman who also falls in love with him), praying for rain and victory, accepting the poor Inidan untouchable and the Muslim on the team, and learning about cricket (which is damned weird sport). All the while the lucky viewer is treated to these great songs and some nifty choreography. Though Lagaan can't approach the mastery of a Gene Kelly or Fred Astaire film, it matches their energy frame for frame, and completely eclipses such dead works as Rent and The Producers, which I can't imagine inspiring anyone.

Bollywood films are notoriously wholesome--there's not even a kiss exchanged. Privately, I was imagining myself gyrating with either female lead. But I'm here to tell you that can't take all the underclad inmates of Chicago and make them as sexy as the village girls of "Lagaan". Bumping shoulders never seemed so erotic.

Because of this sexy innocence, and despite its running time, this is a great kids film. You can take your children to see tripe like Superman Returns, Talladega Nights (I hope not) or even Cars, and I doubt you're going to give them the thrills Lagaan did for our crew last summer, when I saw it for the first time. The evening after Lagaan--and for days afterward--the children who watched it with us danced around the living room with scarves, not in celebration of the rain (as in the film), but in celebration of the approaching lunch of macaroni and cheese. The adults even spun around with them at times.

Ultimately, Lagaan is great fun, which is the backbone of the best musicals. Like poetry, musicals connected to a rhythm, to music, and they tell us that our best--and worst--moments are heightened by this song and dance. I've heard all the arguments against Bollywood: that the 'average viewer' (whomever they are) won't warm up to the subtitles, to the length, to the musical in general. Different cultures, different tastes, etc. But I don't believe any of that. Critics who are willing to waste time and space on Little Miss Sunshine and Beerfest scoff at the Indian film industry. You're telling me that those films are better for us than Lagaan (or any of the mediocre Indian musicals)?

One night that summer, around dusk, I was playing cricket Frisbee in the park with the kids, to the tune of "Chale Chalo". While we were trying our best to sing in Hindi, I couldn't help but wish that the Bollywood phenomena was spreading to the American market. When I was a kid I was both playing with yardstick lightsabers as Darth Vader and spinning myself around lightpoles in the rain as Don Lockwood. That evening the kids were doing the same. With the Bollywood musical you get nothing but music, simple plots, good songs, and no violence, explosions, or special effects. The movie had kept us riveted and then made us play. Later, it followed us into our sleep, and we woke with the tunes on our lips.

L'Armee des Ombres, 1969 (Army of Shadows). Written and directed by Jean-Pierre Melville. Starring Lino Ventura, Paul Meurisse, Jean-Pierre Cassel, and the magnificent Simone Signoret.

Now showing at the Edina Cinema.

With perhaps as much mystery as the Maquis fighters it showcases, Army of Shadows has snuck into town with little fanfare, spending its week at the Edina Cinema and, having blown the minds of the few who have seen it, will drift away again in a pair of days. When I went to see it last evening, there were perhaps ten people, including my party of three. When we stumbled out, one of us was seemingly attuned to every existential clue, while the other two (myself included) were quite a bit more baffled. It struck me, then, that there's no way in hell this movie could make any money. Like Cache earlier this year, this is a film that will invigorate some, confound others, and be loathed by those that hate to be confounded.

Army of Shadows is ostensibly a story of the French Resistance fighters, but it is a war movie unlike any I've seen before. Steeped (as I understand it) in existentialist philosophy--Satre worked in the Resistance, I'm told, and was represented here in the character of Luc--it makes for an astounding view of what life would really be like during wartime. That is, living under pressure with mounting terror now and again; long stages of dour and depressing existence; this contrasted to the continued presence of death; and, for the most part, little heroism but a lot of seemingly meaningless, and often joyless, survival. If Army of Shadows is a masterpiece--and it may well be--it is also a strong tonic against the chest-thumping heroics of many a war film, and perhaps especially World Trade Center. That it is essentially a story of terrorists makes it even more profound.

The plot is and as full of holes as a pair of rationed silk stockings. Philippe Gerbier (the owlish Lino Ventura) is a leader in the underground, and, at the film's opening, has been arrested on suspicion. He will undoubtedly receive no trial, just torture. After a transfer to the torture-house, he makes his escape and regroups with his men, Le Masque (Claude Mann) a frustrated and at times cowardly man; Le Bison (Christian Barbier) a gentle giant; and Felix, a bowler-capped fellow who is Philippe's number two man. They work for the leader, Luc Jardie (Paul Meurisse), who is the Satre double, and whom Philippe worships. He is also worshipped by his younger brother, Jean-Pierre--who, I have to admit, no one in our group was sure whether or not he was the brother of Luc, or merely a student (IMDB indicates the characters share the same last name). Working with the resourceful and heroic Mathilde (Simon Signoret, wonderful as always), the men work to topple the Nazis. In the course of the movie's two hours, these men will make plans that will not come to fruition, get captured, fail to save their comrades, get captured, save a comrade, and finally, execute one of their beloved own.

We are never privy to the group's attempts at unsettling the Nazis. The assumption is, of course, that the French Resistance worked diligently to fight against their oppressors, but Army of Shadows is a story of internal strife and conflict. Jean-Pierre Melville drops you right in the middle of a complex web of relationships within the Resistance, whose existence seems solely to survive. Only one Nazi is seen killed, and that is in Philippe's initial escape--the rest of the film is about bumping off traitors in their camps and trying to bust their compatriots out of Nazi prisons. The streets are empty, but without the foreboding mood of films like The Third Man--these are simply empty streets, devoid of life, space to fill in-between assignments.

In the course of the movie (and in a strangely homoerotic scene), Le Masque, Felix and Philippe have to kill a traitor, who can only whimper by way of resistance. Men don't struggle against the approach of doom, they seem to either steel themselves for the worst, chomping on the bit of philosophy, or cry quietly and die. Philippe ends up in London to attend the decoration of his hero Luc (by DeGaulle), and then returns to France when fellow fighter Felix is captured. At times the existentialist symbolism is an obvious slap in the face--Philippe stares down into the blackness before parachuting into France, and in another instance, during a daring rescue, is confronted by a wall of pitch black smoke that he must plunge into for freedom. The attempt to save Felix comes to a lot of nothing, resulting in the death of Felix and the younger Jardie, both by cyanide pills. Remorse seems to have been bled out of these people, along with their hope.

Melville creates perhaps the most banal wartime land in film history. France is eternally overcast, the whole film shot in a dour blue and gray, the soundtrack a motley collection of old motors screeching, sirens bleating, lights clicking on and off monotonously. It appears as if the Nazis are here to stay, just another aspect of an already forlorn life. Does resistance, then, simply become a metaphor for the daily struggle, which will, inevitably, lead to a meaningless death?

It's a lot to take in, and a great deal to turn over, which I did in my fitful sleep last evening. Despite its often creaky and overly coincidental plot, Army of Shadows is a great film because of its crack filmmaking, stellar and understated cast, its edginess and its willingness to ignore the world's continued cries for simplistic heroes who do nothing to provoke questions. Perhaps like my understanding of the world's conflicts, if there's one thing I know about this strange film, it's that I probably won't grasp its entire meaning, ever.

The Magnificent Ambersons, 1942. Directed by Orson Welles, written by Welles (and fully credited to him), with additional dialogue by fellow legerdemain Jack Moss and pal Joseph Cotten. Starring Tim Holt, Anne Baxter, Joseph Cotten, Dolores Costello, the incredible Agnes Moorehead, Richard Bennett, and narrated by Welles.

Available on DVD exclusively at Cinema Revolution.

In this state, which is not madness
but Michigan, here in the suburbs
of the City of God, rain brings back
the gasoline we blew in the face
of creation...

From the files of street critic Sandoth "Guy" Fresno.

I've spent a good quarter of my life looking for the lost hour of The Magnificent Ambersons. I've trudged through old warehouses, stolen into the archives of RKO, been locked away for a month waiting for a lawyer just to give the world what it deserves. Because Ambersons is a signpost, a warning. It's Michigan, man. Sure it takes place in Indian, God-freakin' Indiana, home of the Danforth Quayles, but it's about Michigan, Damnit. Or: it's about what was coming to ruin us all.

Welles was looking for something lost, a time of innocence, of simplicity. Just like always, he wanted the dreams of childhood which, when he grew old, he mistook for reality. Check out those Ambersons in their buggies! Dancing in a ball, laughing, scraping their upturned noses against the sky. Bastards. It kills me to watch the thing, knowing I'm supposed to care about these sons-a-bitches. Only I don't. Care about them, that is. Who I care is Joe Cotten, reeling over what he's done. He's brought the gasoline-soaked clouds down on top of all of us. And now he's sorry.

And I care about Agnes. Agnes Moorehead. It's the movie that made me think Agnes Moorehead is a beautiful woman. That's saying a lot because she seemed to make it a point to play spinsters, to tie her hair up tight and harden her features. Even here. Watch her while Tim Holt shovels his God-damn dessert down his throat and Agnes swallows her pain. Your throat will hurt for the rest of the movie, or you're dead.

It's the typical Welles soaker about lost love, an innocent past, men and women who don't realize what they had in their hands until it had flown away, never to return. The Mighty Ambersons, holding onto the past, wasting their money in creaky investments and turning their nose up at progress. Only progress eats them alive.

Bratty little Tim Holt confronts Joe Cotten over the coming of the auto-age. No, not because he really gives a rat's-ass about the automobile, but because he's spoiled and his widowed mom is paying just a bit too much attention to old Joe. And Joe Cotten, doing what he does best, loping around, bewildered, even as a successful man knowing that he can't hold onto the reins. He gives a little speech, when he's been insulted and knows he, too, can't have what he really loves. And it's beautiful, man, a sweet punch in the face in a small but testy fight in some backwater arena.

Listen to Joe for a moment:

With all their speed forward, they might be a step backward in civilization. Maybe they won't add to the beauty of the world or lift our souls, I'm not sure.

And it may be that George is right. Maybe that in ten to twenty years from now, if we can see the inward changes, by that time I shouldn't be able to defend the gasoline engine.

I don't know if Booth Tarkington wrote that, or Welles, or who, but that's it, man, that's Michigan. That's the ruined wasteland of Detroit, Flint, Saginaw, Jackson, the whole rotten constellation of half-empty blue collar towns. A story of the bastard rich that reaches right down and scratches our flea-bitten heads. Rich and poor: we all breathe that gasoline air. We all punch our clocks and drink away our pain and then go through the same thing over and over and over again. Sometimes we quit drinking to think we can live better, but then the clouds clear and we sit over a ruined plate of eggs and know that life isn't going to get any better than this, without any more color than the Saginaw Bay in February.

Ambersons is a wreck, though. You can see what a masterpiece it would have been, if they hadn't taken sixty God-damned minutes out of it. From 150 to 88 minutes? Holy shit. I spent two years nonstop, with the memory of Detroit haunting my every step, just looking for the footage they lost. And keeping my eyes and ears open since. Everyone said it was gone, melted down for the silver, but I just couldn't believe that. Those moronic scholars speak of it in hushed tones, but movies should never be analyzed, just felt. And I can feel in my bones that that sixty minutes is out there somewhere, like the Dead Sea Scrolls.

It was a corporate decision to hack the thing, just as it is a corporate decision to belch carbon monoxide into the air, just as it is to invade countries, just as it is to grind the human soul into a lubricant to run the machines.

I don't know, man. Sometimes the movies just bring you down.

...If the Messenger entered now
and called out, You are my people!
the tired waiter would waken and bring
him a coffee and an old newspaper
so that he might read in the wrong words
why the earth gives each of us
a new morning to begin the day
and later brings darkness to hide
what we did with it.

--Philip Levine, "Rain Downriver"

Jesus H. Tapdancin' Christ on a popsicle stick I'm busy. So I'm going to be lazy and lead you to an obituary of a very interesting person. I love characters like this, and would've given up fifteen weeks of coffee and beer (not mixed) to have sat with this gent and just listened, over drinks, in some cozy New York bar.

Notice the crooked eyes, the weary smile. "You don't have to tell everybody. They already know." A classic line from what appears to be a classic fellow. Mr. Roger Donoghue, RIP.

The Philadelphia Story, showing tonight at the Walker's Summer Music and Movies in Loring Park.

According to an History of the Movies class I took at Michigan State University--taught by one of the screenwriters of Top Gun, for God's sake--when The Philadelphia Story was released, Katherine Hepburn was considered "box office poison". Kate being Kate, she decided to expand her horizons, extended Hollywood her middle finger, and headed east to act on Broadway. They didn't like that, naturally, so they said she was poison. Well, Kate being Kate, she was wise enough to buy the rights to the thing she was wowing them with in New York, namely "The Philadelphia Story". Since it was a huge hit on Broadway, suddenly the moguls desperately wanted it, and discovered they had to go through Kate. So they gave her scads of dough for the rights to the story, and the lead role. Thus, the legend continued.

Frankly, I think The Philadelphia Story is the weakest of this lot, but I still enjoy the thing. Why they gave Jimmy Stewart his Oscar for this vehicle remains a mystery (he wasn't even nominated for Vertigo), but you can do no better than spend a balmy evening watching this classic on the big screen. And take note: Stewart works for Spy Magazine, for which a short lived humor mag was named, and Hepburn's character is named Tracy Lord, for which young porn star and John Waters ingenue Traci Lords named herself.