The Screengrab : the jazz singer

Yesterday's Hits: The Jazz Singer (1927, Alan Crosland)

Paul Clark — Tue, 12 Aug 2008 19:00:00 GMT

What made The Jazz Singer a hit?: The talking, of course. For more than three decades, moviegoers could travel to the other side of the world or even back in time, but they couldn’t hear the people onscreen actually talking. But in the late 1920s, various studios began to experiment with synchronized sound. While several short films, including Disney’s Steamboat Willie, had been already released with spoken dialogue, The Jazz Singer was the first widely-seen sound feature. Because of the sound equipment, the cost of the film was roughly twice that of a normal Hollywood production, but the movie proved so popular that its success demonstrated the commercial viability of “talkies.” According to Oscar legend, Hollywood’s executives were so bowled over by the success of The Jazz Singer that it was declared ineligible for the first-ever Best Picture Oscar, so afraid were they that it would run away with the award.

What happened?: When The Jazz Singer was first released, audiences couldn’t get enough of “a movie that talked.” But within a few years, talkies became fairly commonplace, to the point where the majority of big-budget releases had spoken dialogue throughout. As a result, the occasional sound scenes in The Jazz Singer no longer held any magic. Unfortunately for The Jazz Singer, this gave viewers ample opportunity to pore over the more rudimentary aspects of the film- the acting, the directing, the storytelling, and so on. And in these respects, The Jazz Singer was even less sophisticated than it was technologically.

Al Jolson, the star of The Jazz Singer remained a popular singer and performer in the decades that followed, and the film itself experienced a resurgence in popularity with the release of the twin biopics The Jolson Story and Jolson Sings Again in the late 1940s. But with the increasing consciousness of race in the United States, the scenes in which Jolson performs in blackface caused the film to fall out of favor with audiences and critics, turning it into little more than a footnote in the history of cinema.

Does The Jazz Singer still work?: Nope, and not just for the obvious reason. I hadn’t seen The Jazz Singer prior to watching it for this review, and its reputation led me to expect a movie that was chock full of minstrelsy. Actually, it contains roughly ten minutes of blackface- two musical numbers and a dramatic scene. But even those scenes left a bad taste in my mouth, less for their offensiveness than for their sheer ridiculousness. While I realize that blackface was considered a legitimate form of entertainment in the 1920s- instead of a reason to be kicked offstage at a Friars’ Club roast- it doesn’t make it any less laughable today.

What’s more, it feels completely gratuitous to the story that the film is telling. Jack Robin (Jolson) works his way to the top as a straight jazz singer, and once he hits Broadway he suddenly begins blacking up for performances, and the film treats this sudden change like it’s perfectly natural. What’s more, in the backstage scene involving Jack and his mother, the presence of blackface subverts the dramatic intent of the scene. When Jack’s mother cries out that her son has to come home to be reconciled with his dying dad, it’s supposed to be heartbreaking, but all I could pay attention to was Jolson’s blackened face and curly wig. Surely that couldn’t have been the film’s intention, could it?

But even out of blackface, Jolson’s performance hasn’t aged well at all. Jolson was primarily a theatrical performer, which is reflected by his overly emphatic acting style- an arsenal of broad facial expressions, shoulder shrugs, eye rolls, and head tilts. But while these gestures might play well on the stage, they’re unsuited to the cinematic medium, and even in intimate moments it feels like Jolson is playing to the cheap seats. What also becomes apparent in close-ups is the strange glint in Jolson’s eyes, which is interpreted by the other characters as pep but looked more to my eyes like mischief, almost malevolence. This gives The Jazz Singer a creepy vibe that couldn’t have been the filmmakers’ intention.

Rare and special is the film that actually holds up to eight decades’ worth of hindsight, and The Jazz Singer isn’t remotely that rare or special. Setting aside its technological advances, it was the kind of broad, simplistic melodrama of the sort that gives silent movies a bad name among non-cinephiles. That it was made at a time when silents were reaching their artistic apex just demonstrates how forgettable it really is. If not for its status as Hollywood’s first sound feature and the subsequent uproar over its racial insensitivity, it’s pretty safe to say The Jazz Singer would have been pretty much forgotten by cinema history, like so many other films of the period.

But hey, it’s still better than the Neil Diamond version, right?

Reviving Richard Fleischer: "Violent Saturday" and "Mandingo"

Phil Nugent — Fri, 22 Feb 2008 18:00:00 GMT

The director Richard Fleischer, who died a couple of years ago at the age of 89, had a long career, an immaculate bloodline (as the son and nephew of Max and Dave Fleischer, the animators behind the great short films starring Betty Boop, Superman, and Popeye), and no critical reputation to speak of. Fleischer's vast filmography is all over the map in terms of subject matter and style, and his name is attached to a number of big commercial disasters (Dr. Dolittle, Tora! Tora! Tora!) and minor embarassments (Che!, an attempt by 20th-Century Fox to cash in on '60s revolutionary youth, starring Omar Sharif in the title role and Jack Palance as Fidel Castro; The Jazz Singer, starring Neil Diamond, with Laurence Olivier as his chagrinned poppa; Red Sonja with Brigitte Nielsen) that are unified mainly by their lack of personality. But he's begun to attract defenders, and Dave Kehr, for one, thinks it's surprising that he "still has not been given a major New York retrospective." As it happens, three of Fleisher's movies are enjoying return engagements on the New York revival circuit in the days and weeks to come. Violent Saturday (1955), which plays for a week at Film Forum starting February 29, is one of those odd film noirs where the thugs from the city hit the highway and track their mud all over the clean, open fields of the American heartland. Written by Sidney Boehm, who also did the script for The Big Heat, it serves up Lee Marvin as the nastiest of a trio of bank robbers who impose their bad morals and worse manners on a quiet little town where they may fit in a little than the locals want to admit. It was made the same year as James Sturges' better-known rural thriller Bad Day at Black Rock, where Marvin and Ernest Borgnine both served as muscle for the local forces of darkness. Borgnine is in this one, too, but cast against type as an Amish farmer who has understandable cause to worry that his religious proscription against violence may not be strong enough to survive its encounter with Lee Marvin. The film, which enjoyed a brief period of revival and acclaim in the mid-80s when it was discovered by critics and used as a club against Peter Weir's tonier Witness, is a reminder of how well Fleischer's no-frills filmmaking technique worked when applied to simple but gimmicky thriller material, as in the 1952 The Narrow Margin and Armored Car Robbery, both testaments to the grip of nuts-and-bolts noir and the nut-cracking sturdiness of Charles McGraw's jawline.

The "Film Comments Selects" series at Walter Reade Theater is showing Fleischer's 1971 10 Rillington Place on February 21 and 24, thus giving audiences the chance to see the director of Gandhi, Richard Attenborough, sweat up the screen as a serial killer who strangled eight women and left it to an innocent fellow played by John Hurt to be hanged in his place. But the real once-in-a-lifetime opportunity here may be the chance to see the 1975 Mandingo (screening on February 23) on a big screen, assuming that no one tears it down before the closing credits roll. This anti-Gone with the Wind, set on a Southern slave-breeding plantation presided over by James Mason, was made in 1975 from a script by Norman Wexler, the ad executive turned wild man screenwriter who wrote Joe and Serpico. (Wexler, who reportedly served as a model for Andy Kaufman's loathsome lounge-singer character Tony Clifton, was notorious for such stunts as blowing off a man trying to make conversation with him on a commercial airplane flight by telling him that he was on his way to assassinate President Nixon. Wexler's seatmate notified a flight attendant, who in turn notified the FBI, and when the plane landed, Wexler wound up having to talk to a lot of people he would rather have not talked to.)

Kehr takes the position that "Mandingo is Fleischer’s last great crime film, in which the role of the faceless killer is played by an entire social system." This is a very interesting take on the picture, though some will feel that it may amount to putting a little too much thought into a movie that climaxes with Perry King reacting to the news that his wife (Susan George) has been having an affair with his prize slave, played by the heavyweight champ Ken Norton--King finds out the hard way, after his wife has given birth--by sticking Norton into a boiling cauldron and jabbing him with a pitchfork. But however seriously you end up taking Mandingo, it's definitely one of a kind, and very entertaining, if you can handle the fact that Eric Cartman would question its political correctness. (I remember that it was briefly on rotation on HBO around the time that my high school buddies first got cable, and for a long time, they were much taken with King's line, "I fancied her, so I bought her! She's gonna be my bed wench!" I can promise you, however, that use of this line in the real world got them no action whatsoever.) Devotees of hambone turns will want to see it just for the great James Mason drawling his lines, sitting with his bare feet on a black kid's tummy (it's supposed to be good for the arthritis), and generally giving the kind of performance that gives one visions of the star constantly asking the director, "Now, that last take, you're just going to show it for laughs at the wrap party and then burn the negative, right?" There was actually a sort of sequel to Mandingo called Drum, and it had a script that Wexler had worked on and a cast headed by Warren Oates, Pam Grier, and Yaphet Kotto, who you might think would raise the stakes a bit from Perry King, Susan George, and Ken Norton, but it had none of the, um, magic of the original, and is beloved by no one. Fleischer didn't direct it. So maybe he's some kind of auteur after all.

Fleisch And Blood

Leonard Pierce — Tue, 19 Feb 2008 15:45:00 GMT

It's often difficult to know exactly what it takes to qualify someone for the title of 'major American filmmaker', other than the obvious qualifications of being an American. Some people, like Terrence Malick or Stanley Kubrick, get the nod for quality despite a major lack of quantity; others will never reach that status despite prodigious output because they're pure hacks. But there are a few whose status is forever in dispute due to wild inconsistency; although there aren't many filmmakers whose reputation is mixed because they have such vast catalogues that it's hard to sort the wheat from the chaff, it does happen on occasion. And if anyone qualifies for such a debate, it's Richard Fleischer.

Fleischer — son of the legendary animator Max Fleischer — made dozens of movies prior to his death two years ago. Some of them were terrific (Compulsion, The Narrow Margin, 20,000 Leagues Under the Sea); some were awful (Conan the Destroyer, Blind Terror, The Jazz Singer); and some are downright (Mandingo). In a New York Times profile, Dave Kehr looks at his curious career, his obsession with mass murderers (which resulted in films that, by and large, are nothing like what we've come to expect from serial-killer movies), and his excellent, well-crafted sense of decay and social slippage. It's a long-overdue critical assessment of a director whose great work has been lost in an equal amount of dross.

The 37th Annual Razzies Nominations

Phil Nugent — Tue, 22 Jan 2008 21:00:00 GMT

The nominations for the 2007 Golden Raspberry Awards, or "Razzies" have been announced. The awards, which seek to recognize the worst in filmmaking, were created in 1980 by publicist John Wilson. In the first year of their existence, awards were presented to the Village People-Bruce Jenner-Steve Guttenberg vehicle Can't Stop the Music (Worst Picture and Screenplay), Neil Diamond (Worst Actor for his remake of The Jazz Singer, and Brooke Shields (Worst Actress for The Blue Lagoon); the Worst Director prize that year went to the director of Xanadu, Robert Greenwald, who, perhaps seeing the writing on the wall, made no more disco-roller skating musicals but instead resurfaced as a specialist in progressive-minded political documentaries. Thus have the Razzies served as a shaper of culture and careers.

One novelty if this year's event is that two performers are up for playing multiple roles in nominated films. Eddie Murphy scored a record five nominations for the Worst Picture Norbit, including Worst Actor, Worst Supporting Actor, and Worst Supporting Actress. (He's also nominated for having had a hand in the screenplay.) The thriller I Know Who Killed Me garnered nine nominations, including Worst Picture and a pair of Worst Actress nominations for its star, Lindsay Lohan; both Murray and Lohan are also, paradoxically, nominated for Worst Screen Couple for their work with themselves. Other nominees for Worst Picture include Bratz, Daddy Day Camp, and I Now Pronounce You Chuck and Larry, a movie whose trailer had repulsed moviegoers stampeding out of theaters as if a wizened prospector had announced that gold had been struck at the concession stand. The awards are traditionally announced the day before the Academy Awards ceremony. Unlike the Oscars, the Razzies are unlikely to affected by the writers' strike.

The Thirteen Greatest Long-Ass Movies of All Time, Part 1

Peter Smith — Wed, 12 Dec 2007 18:00:00 GMT

There are long movies, and there are really long movies. But there's also that notorious third category: The Long-Ass Movie. You know them. Usually they have to be split into two or three parts. Sometimes they have to be released as mini-series, with abbreviated versions put out in theaters. Occasionally they're hacked to pieces by studios and distributors, and become founts of controversy. More often that not, they're made by Germans. (We're not kidding. Check the list.) And most of the time, though sadly not always, they're great — ambitious, sprawling, uncompromising, and riveting. There's something really special about a long-ass movie, which, for our purposes, we're classifying as a film over four hours long. You never forget the experience of sitting through it. We certainly didn't. Here's our list of the Greatest Long-Ass Movies of All Time.

HAMLET (1996) Running time: 242 mins.

It's highly unlikely that anyone in Shakespeare's time actually saw Hamlet in full. As many critics and biographers have noted, the full text of The Bard's masterpiece would run over four hours if performed — a prohibitive length even today, despite such modern conveniences as lighting, electricity, and weekends. Clocking in at a limber four hours and two minutes, Kenneth Branagh's full-text version of the play struck a remarkable balance: an uncompromised performance that was also relentlessly cinematic. Some called Branagh's camera tricks show-offy, but he was simply following in the footsteps of one of the great linguistic show-offs of all time. The film's baroque visual style complemented the verbal gymnastics of Shakespeare's sweet tongue, and the result is not only the most faithful adaptation of Shakespeare ever filmed, but also, for our money, one of the absolute best.

UNTIL THE END OF THE WORLD (1991) Running time: 280 mins.

Don't laugh. The two-hour, thirty-eight-minute U.S. theatrical release version of Wim Wenders's insanely ambitious sci-fi epic romance was a messy, albeit fascinating, journey through an ultra-globalized millennial world, with William Hurt and Solveig Dommartin bouncing around the planet recording with a revolutionary camera designed to help blind people see, accompanied to snippets of songs from the director's favorite rock acts (Nick Cave, R.E.M., U2, etc. — the soundtrack CD for this thing was a mainstay in many a contemporaneous college dorm room). The full, nearly-five-hour version, it turns out, wasn't nearly so messy. Rather, it was a sober, compelling, and visionary lament for the ways in which the oncoming technological transformation of society would transform human contact; Wenders's portrait of a hyper-connected world predated the Internet revolution. More importantly, it had even more of that awesome music.

1900 (1976) Running time: 315 mins.

Unjustly tarred on its initial release as a disaster, Bernardo Bertolucci's epic, a highly personal film despite its five-hour running time, has withstood the test of time far better than anyone would have expected. Its big-name cast, surprisingly, doesn't hold up particularly well — thanks to a sometimes shaky script and a not insignificant language barrier. But as an epic of great scope and a continuation of Bertolucci's tremendous visual-storytelling techniques, it's a raging success. Five hours fly by in the presence of such gorgeous filmmaking, thanks to the sensual, earthy tone of the film, the solid pacing, and the director's extreme care. Bertolucci apparently envisioned 1900 as his own response to the success of The Godfather — he would tell the modern history of Italy, just as Francis Ford Coppola had told the modern history of Italian-Americans, with a similar sense of range and scope and sweep. At the time of its release, no one would have credited Bertolucci's film as successful on that level, but if he'd had the foresight to do as Coppola did and release it as two separate films telling a single story, it's easy to imagine that 1900 would have enjoyed a much better critical reception.

NAPOLEON (1927) Running time: 330 mins.

Abel Gance was one of the towering French directors of the silent era, one of those pop-eyed geniuses whose only reservation about the movie medium was that it would be a shame if it turned out to have any boundaries at all. The massive epic that is now Gance's best-known work was originally intended to be only the first chapter in a multi-part historical epic consisting of six enormous features. You get a taste of what Gance hoped to achieve at the end of this picture, when three different projectors are used to show contrasting images on three screens, achieving something like a split screen image to the nth degree. Unfortunately, this silent landmark was completed the same year as The Jazz Singer, and Napoleon was released in America in a savagely truncated version that didn't even attempt to preserve the triple-projection imagery. Gance would continue to work, but most of his wildest ambitions would go unfunded and unfulfilled. He didn't become fully appreciated until the film historian Kevin Brownlow assembled a restored version that, with live musical accompaniment, played to ecstatic responses in packed theaters in 1980 and 1981. (Thankfully, Gance lived to see it — he died late in 1981.) That initial restoration ran five minutes short of four hours, but Brownlow kept going back, and by 2000 he had extended the film by another thirty-five minutes. It remains a thrilling mixture of audacious filmmaking, charming corn, and some very strange politics: Napoleon is so thrilled by the French Revolution that he sets out to bring democracy to other countries by invading them — evidence that the French, of all people, created the Bush Doctrine.

LA COMMUNE (PARIS, 1871) (2000) Running time: 345 mins.

As huge fans of Peter Watkins, we found that the number of Watkins-related items on Screengrab has been shockingly low of late, so we'll take any opportunity we can to plug his work. La Commune, his epic film about the Paris Commune of 1871, which in its full form runs five hours and forty-five minutes, is in many ways a summing-up of Watkins's career that tests the methods and techniques he'd developed over the course of more than thirty years. The Commune was a group of intellectuals, students and workers who took over a section of Paris in 1871 and formed an experimental government. True to form, Watkins took over an abandoned factory and staged the rise and fall of the "Commune" as covered and reported on by modern TV crews, who take turns interviewing the non-actors who represent the political leaders, the common people, the military forces working to smash the Commune, et al. He even tosses in a dandyish news anchor who spreads anti-Commune sentiment on a competing network, "Versailles TV." Ever the iconoclast, Watkins refuses to consign the fervor of Communards to the distant past, and by doing so he celebrates the revolutionary spirit both past and present, as when a discussion between the characters gives way to a contemporary debate about globalization. It may be the crowning achievement of one of the strangest film artists of his time — a man who sees himself as trying to bring history alive in order to educate the masses, but who has no apparent ability to make films in a way that might entice the masses to want to see them.

— Paul Clark, Bilge Ebiri, Phil Nugent, Leonard Pierce