Brief thoughts on the films - shown for free at the Glasgow Film Festival (isn't that nice of them) - in the "Dangerous Dames" series that I managed to get along to.
Leave Her to Heaven
The first thing that strikes you about this film is the gorgeous technicolor. During this period, the dark themes of film noir would usually be reflected by the shadowy, moodily lit scenes in which the drama plays out. However, this is not the case in Leave Her to Heaven. Indeed, director of photography Leon Shamroy paints an idyllic picture of their surroundings, we see the deep blues of lakes and verdant hues of trees in all their glory. This hides the typical noir vice which bubbles beneath the surface in a rather apt manner, echoing the way in which our main character Ellen masks her transgressions beneath a facade of seemingly innocent beauty.
Gene Tierney's murderously jealous partner Ellen is beguiling, playing her with a quiet coldness obscured by her good looks, she laces every coquettish smile with threat. A particularly chilling scene captures Ellen watching her husband's brother drown. As he starts to struggle, she sits there expressionless - eyes hidden behind her sunglasses - passively deciding his fate. We are implicated in what she has done by a performance that in many ways manages to make Ellen - a sociopath - sympathetic; somehow her motives are made to seem reasonable. Unfortunately, Cornel Wilde's performance as Ellen's husband Richard is far less engaging. My mum summed it up perfectly after leaving the cinema, describing him as "wet in the extreme". He seems to meander from one tragedy to another with a perverse lack of emotion. Given a narrative which lends itself to melodrama, one would expect a more involved performance.
We also have an extremely anticlimactic final courtroom scene that feels meaningless, a lawyer swans around - acting his little heart out - while director John M. Stahl attempts to tie the plot into a needlessly tidy bow. Despite this disappointing finish, Leaver Her to Heaven is a film of considerable appeal, pulsating with frenetic energy whilst simultaneously delivering a detached character study, it is a film all about what lies beneath its lacquered sheen.
Scarlet Street
Quintessentially noir themes abound in Fritz Lang's version of the Jean Renoir film La Chienne; we have the corrupting power of women, deception, and murder. Despite this, the film doesn't play like your typical noir. Indeed, it has an acutely comic edge which makes it feel like more of a black comedy thanks to a sharp script and excellent acting from the leads that many darkly funny moments.
Edward G. Robinson - excellently cast - plays a married cashier who falls for Joan Bennett's deceitful femme fatale Kitty. These performances are central to the success of the film, the physicality of Robinson's depiction of Chris Cross (great name) is admirable - always submissive with eyes downcast - he portrays a man used to subservience. Bennett plays Kitty with delightfully duplicitous allure, scheming for the duration, she is as charming as she is two-faced.
Milton Krasner's cinematography also displays classic noir at its best, every shot is under-lit, shadowy and deceptive, reflecting the typically dark noir themes. Perhaps best displayed in a brilliantly bleak scene towards the end of the film. Chris - wracked with regret - sits in a cramped room, haunted by Kitty's voice; the minimal lighting makes you feel like she could really be with him in the room, hidden in one of the many dingy corners.
When we are first introduced to main character Rosie Ming - voiced by Sandra Oh - the way in which her face is drawn sticks out; it is practically featureless, two small dashes for eyes on a white oval, we see her as a blank canvas. This aptly reflects Rosie's personality, an inquisitive - perhaps impressionable girl - still exploring what makes up her identity. This exploration of identity politics is a central theme as Rosie comes to learn more about her complicated cultural heritage when she is invited to a poetry festival in Iran, discovering more about the circumstances surrounding her upbringing.
Above all though, Window Horses - directed by Ann Marie Fleming - is a film that champions the universality of creative expression, focusing on the things that unite different cultures. During her time at the festival, Rosie encounters poetry from many countries, discovering that she doesn't need to understand Mandarin or Farsi to appreciate the emotion expressed in these poems. It is these moments that the film is most effective; the animation never ceases to find creative, visually arresting ways to articulate complex ideas. One particularly compelling sequence shows a performance from a Chinese poet. As he speaks, each noise he produces is represented by a white wave on a black background, travelling outwards until it reaches a member of the audience where it outlines their figure. This uncomplicated technique describes adeptly the effect of the poet's performance whilst captivating you on a visual level.
Artistically exciting animation is present throughout the film; as Rosie explores Iran, we see the country through her eyes, marvelling at its beguiling mystery. The muezzin's call to prayer is brought to life in extraordinary fashion in another example of an inventive visual representation of sound. However, the film does bring more than just thought-provoking animation, the script possesses a number of understated moments of comedic charm, backed up by strong voice work from the likes of Sandra Oh, Ellen Page and Don McKellar. McKellar's Dietmar - a brooding German poet with a droll turn of phrase - is particularly entertaining. One moment he is trying to inject some political commentary into Rosie's distinctly innocent poetry, the next he complains about his unhappiness, "I have angst!".
Unfortunately, these moments are infrequent. Occasionally, the film seems to lack direction, as we meander from descriptions of Iranian history to somewhat predictable encounters in Rosie's discovery of her family. A pensive mood is created which can interest on an intellectual level, but at times things get a bit too cerebral and we stray into the world of navel gazing. However, it should be noted that this film was not created to grip. In many ways, the contemplative atmosphere is central to the film's appeal, and when coupled with the stunning animation and a brisk running time, there is plenty to keep you engaged.
In director Cate Shortland's first foray into the world of genre cinema, she shows uncomplicated style, creating an unrelenting captivity thriller that plays something like Before Sunrise gone terribly wrong. Despite the film's undeniably genre tinged setting, it maintains distinctly art house trappings through its somewhat slow pace, uncompromising gender politics and distant tone, which is exemplified in the film's opening sequences. Almost voyeuristic shots of our backpacking protagonist Clare (Teresa Palmer) capture her making her way through Berlin as she is dwarfed by the city's imposing architecture. This portrayal paints her in a fragile light, aptly foreshadowing the helpless situation in which she will find herself.
When Clare meets teacher Andi (Max Riemelt), she is taken with his gentle manner as he makes seemingly cute English errors and talks about his childhood. Their relationship soon escalates; sensual sequences are captured with a tactility that serves to heighten the eroticism, as portions of the two bodies are silhouetted by moodily alluring lighting. During these intimate moments Andi assures her that "no one will hear you", a line that - when repeated later in the film - takes on a new, all the more sinister meaning. Delicate touches such as this epitomise the smart precision with which the film is constructed.
The story is adapted from Melanie Joosten's 2011 novel adroitly. Via a gradual dissemination of information during the opening portion of the film, a level of ambiguity is maintained which laces the section with a discomforting uneasiness. This feeling is amplified by an excellent Bryony Marks score which - via discordant strings - taints seemingly harmless moments with a sense of disquiet. Throughout the film, an aptitude for the manipulation of perspective is displayed as Shortland finds tension in unexpected moments, eschewing certain conventions of the thriller genre.
As the film progresses and Clare is subjected to a bizarre imprisonment through Andi's distorted sense of masculine entitlement, their confusing relationship lurches from banal discussions to cruel displays of his power. Although the threat of violence is omnipresent - it is used sparingly - giving the brief moments where it does appear a quivering intensity. Shortland instead prefers to focus on the complex emotional dynamic between the two characters, exploring - with subtlety - the intricacy of their relationship. Essential to this are the two lead actors, Palmer plays underplays Clare, depicting her recession into herself cleverly and Riemelt's depiction of Andi betrays a quiet tension that seems to be at the heart of his discontent.
An oppressive atmosphere pervades the scenes depicting her captivity; the flat where she is held is captured with claustrophobic realism and a bleak colour pallet lends a sense of hopelessness. This lack of colour makes the moments where it does appear all the more striking. The vivid pinks with which Clare's face are illuminated when she stares out the window towards some fireworks, and the deep red varnish left on a nail clipping found by Clare are given heightened significance. Indeed, Berlin Syndrome is an exercise in understatement - demonstrating the effectiveness of minimalism - the film has a lean simplicity that is entirely gripping.
