I find the presence of Blowup on my movie page to be a degradation to all that is right and good in the cinematic industry, but my sense of civic duty has managed to overcome my painful gag reflex. Much in the same way that the world should be exposed to the truth about John Malkovich, it must come to understand the sheer horrible-ness of this cinematic travesty that dares to label itself "a classic."
I will preface my rant with this information: I very much wanted to see this movie. I was desperate to see this movie. The accidental photography of a murder - with the photographs as the only evidence - was a brilliant plot concept, in my estimation. Further, director Michelangelo Antonioni's vision had received such critical and artistic acclaim that my sisters and I actively sought out and rented this movie, on the premise that our cinematic studies were sorely lacking in exposure to this Gem of the Silver Screen.
After slightly less than 111 minutes (we sped through the vastly over-hyped menage-a-trois scene) of naked breasts, polyester pants and - I'm not making this up - tennis mimes, the film had devoted all of 13 minutes to developing a storyline purported to be the central plot. While I do not intend to be plebian in my viewpoint and while I understand that the director was attempting to convey some sort of 1960s message about the ephemeral qualities of reality, I feel compelled to point out to Mr. Antonioni that he could have spent far less time on actors playing with a nonexistent ball and having sex with barely pubescent girls without betraying the core of his artistic expression. Certainly, a more substantive storyline would have helped to increase the longevity of the film, and assisted in entertaining an audience far less intrigued with the inner workings of a mind, which is (quite frankly) rather dull.
Having incurred the wrath of the faded flower children, I am further compelled to suggest that the film would have been vastly improved by the addition of a little music to the (essentially) silent proceedings. The fact that there is a purchasable soundtrack for Blowup is utterly incomprehensible to me - I recall approximately 30 seconds of beating brums 2/3 of the way through the film, but nothing more! The sound was certainly not enough to rouse an already snoring audience.
Conclusion: If given the choice to rent Blowup or watch your own fingernails grow, choose the latter. Don't waste your time.
I was surprised to find that Witness for the Prosecution was released in 1957. The cast chosen and the fact that the film was shot in B&W kept me guessing about the historical context of the film itself - not just the story. Only the aged appearances of Tyrone Power (in this, his last film) and Philip Tonge hinted to me that the production was post-1950. Marlene Dietrich looked wonderful! (Side note about the "bedroom" scene - I never imagined that coffee could be such an aphrodisiac!)
Beyond that, the film was delightful. I did not know the story and thoroughly enjoyed the guessing and second-guessing until the denouement. The dialogue was masterful and Charles Laughton brilliantly delivered every syllable. While Tyrone Power and Marlene Dietrich occasionally bordered on melodrama, the story was fascinating and I was especially thrilled to see - and then try to place - so many, many splendid character actors, including Henry Daniell, Elsa Lanchester, Una O'Connor, Norma Varden, Philip Tonge, John Williams and Ian Wolfe (whom I failed to place!) And looking at IMDB this morning, I find that I even failed to spot Marjorie Eaton and Ruta Lee!
Conclusion: I would recommend Witness for the Prosecution to old film buffs, especially those convinced that the majority of modern dialogue was written by mischievous kittens dancing across a keyboard.
I inaugurate this database with a review of the film Laura, a sentimental favorite starring Gene Tierney and Dana Andrews. While the dialogue is not particularly thought-provoking nor the performances particularly inspired, Laura was groundbreaking for its exploration of some truly disturbing themes. Where does love cross the line to obsession? And can it blossom beyond the grave?
Needless to say, the title of the movie contributes to a significant amount of bias on my part, but the 88-minute film is truly engrossing, especially if the story is foreign to you. The performances are stiff, but they fulfill their function without distracting from the story. Gene Tierney (Laura Hunt) is beautiful. Dana Andrews (Mark McPherson) is sexy and tortured. Clifton Webb (Waldo Lydecker) is prissy; Vincent Price (Shelby Carpenter) is feeble; Judith Anderson (Ann Treadwell) is jaded; and Dorothy Adams (Bessie Clary) is peevish. They all capably fill their metaphorical shoes and move the story along with only the occasional disruption for melodrama.
All told, the film is vastly superior to the book by Vera Caspery (although she deserves acclaim for the originality of her plot and presentation, spinning the story from three different viewpoints.) The delicious Cassini costumes, the infamous portrait of the heroine, and, of course, the haunting theme song weave a tapestry of "film noir" that has proven difficult for other films of the genre to emulate. Laura is as much a work of art as it is an entertaining picture.
Conclusion: I would highly recommend Laura as a standard for a rainy Sunday afternoon. And for all women named Laura.
The lyrics to the theme song:
Laura is the face in the misty light,
Footsteps that you hear down the hall,
The laugh that floats on a summer night
That you can never quite recall.
And you see Laura on the train that is passing through.
Those eyes - how familiar they seem.
She gave your very first kiss to you.
That was Laura, but she's only a dream.