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Blu-ray Review: Dietrich & von Sternberg in Hollywood

The set affirms the profound emotional power of these idiosyncratic collaborations.

4.5

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Dietrich & von Sternberg in Hollywood

Director Josef von Sternberg and actor Marlene Dietrich fashioned films together that feel more vitally strange and neurotic than ever before, now that mainstream cinema has been tamed by corporations to follow a set of generically empowering tropes as rigid as the rules of any production code. Taming, in fact, is also the driving action of von Sternberg and Dietrich’s films. In Germany, their joint breakthrough was The Blue Angel, which remains an astonishingly cruel examination of a male’s fear of having his lust and loneliness turned against him by a sexual superior. The six American films that von Sternberg and Dietrich made in the wake of The Blue Angel’s success, starting in 1930 with Morocco and concluding in 1935 with The Devil Is a Woman, similarly utilize gender subjugation to explore the essential social divide between men and women. These films aren’t as cathartically sadistic as The Blue Angel, which offered a cleansing exorcism of the mutual resentments existing between the genders, though they have a lingering, more internalized dream power. Their sadism is buried beneath the surface.

These American films—Morocco, Dishonored, Shanghai Express, Blonde Venus, The Scarlet Empress, and The Devil Is a Woman—also reflect another kind of taming. In the early 1930s, the Production Code was gradually taking shape, reining in not only the content of films, but their attitudes as well, ushering in Hollywood’s moralistic, heteronormative streak. This development would lead to Dietrich and particularly von Sternberg becoming passé, seen as European outcasts in an American landscape that began to insist on unceasing proclamation of the values of family and patriotism.

One can see von Sternberg and Dietrich inventing new ways to play their erotic music as the Production Code was being more rigorously enforced. Morocco and 1931’s Dishonored are more openly bawdy than The Devil Is a Woman, which expresses its unbridled sensuality through a combination of set décor and wardrobe that’s almost alien. At one point, Dietrich’s character appears to be wearing an Egyptian headdress—never mind that we’re in fin de siècle Spain—and her visage is heartbreakingly soft. No wonder the film’s two male protagonists nearly kill one another trying to have her.

Though the films make loose pretenses of being set in real places against historical backdrops, they’re rooted in a fantasy realm in which Man and Woman play out a sex game that at once subverts and expresses the strictures of a caste-ridden society. Dietrich cumulatively plays one character, rather than six, across the set of films: that of Marlene Dietrich, warrior artist who uses male vulnerability to her advantage, transcending traditional female pigeonholing. In all these American films, Dietrich plays an iconoclast, usually a notorious femme fatale and stage performer who shares a past with male characters who are played by such impressive stars as Gary Cooper, Victor McLaglen, Cary Grant, Herbert Marshall, and Cesar Romero. Usually Dietrich’s characters are provided two men per film to spar with: one a schmuck unworthy of her powers, who’s blessed with the humility to recognize this truth, and one a primordial hunk of masculinity who’s capable of rising to the challenge of her beauty and unsentimental intelligence.

These films are governed by ritualistic plotting and staging that parallels the ritualism of even progressive sexual relations. The nearly pointillist precision of Dietrich’s movements contrasts with von Sternberg’s maximalist determination to create a filmic style worthy of his muse. Von Sternberg is Dietrich’s greatest and most neurotic suitor, seemingly capable of changing even his star’s genetic code. In Morocco, Dietrich is still the fleshy cherub of The Blue Angel, but by the time of The Devil Is a Woman, she’s grown lankier and more angular, those angles suggesting the thorns of a human rose. That angularity is also evident in 1932’s Shanghai Express, when Dietrich’s Shanghai Lily is legendarily framed looking up toward the ceiling, cloaked in darkness, her face emitting a heavenly mournful light.

These films, when watched in succession, reveal patterns, forging an über-narrative of a woman bound to live the same story over and over again. With the notable exception of 1934’s The Scarlet Empress, the Dietrich character succumbs to a man, unbelievably, at the end of each film so that she may reestablish her independence by the beginning of the next narrative only to fall for the same trap again. This pattern abounds in the notion of a woman who submits out of exhaustion from holding the wolves at bay, refuting an element and irony of her power: that she’s completed by the stereotypes that men force her to play, particularly that of the femme fatale, which provides her a pretense for her to create an art of performance and roleplay.

Throughout these films, seemingly endless motifs also suggest a fluidity of identity within Dietrich’s persona that perpetually solidifies and dissolves in infinitum. In Morocco, Dietrich’s Mademoiselle Amy Jolly is becoming in a tuxedo, clearly enjoying the women watching her, though by the end of the film she becomes a legionnaire’s (Gary Cooper) willing lover, trailing behind him in the desert with soldiers’ wives. As Helen Faraday (a.k.a. Helen Jones), Dietrich rediscovers a tux in 1932’s Blonde Venus, extending to another chorus girl a startling gesture of sexual familiarity as she assumes the stage, though she submits again to the rules of a housewife. In The Devil Is a Woman, Dietrich’s Concha Perez evades a man by ascending a staircase resembling the one that leads to death and torture in Shanghai Express.

Sometimes, these patterns are pointedly contradicted or re-contextualized. In the six films that von Sternberg and Dietrich made in America, there’s no sight more alarming than that of Dietrich as a housewife in the first half of Blonde Venus. Initially, von Sternberg’s compositions are correspondingly plain, at least by his standards, though the film gradually grows cluttered and surreal as Dietrich’s character goes on the run, effectively allowing herself to become a classic Dietrich heroine. By the end of the film, Dietrich is hiding in a shelter that’s right out of von Sternberg’s dreams, abounding in his usual scrims, veils, shutters, webs, animals, and frames within frames within frames.

Occasionally, von Sternberg and Dietrich’s formalisms seem to be in competition with one another. It’s ironic that The Scarlet Empress is the one film in which the Dietrich character refuses to submit to a man, as it’s also the film in which von Sternberg’s poetry comes closest to swallowing the actor alive. Audacious even for Sternberg, the film is full of ghoulishly comic statues that suggest characters’ repressed, calcified desires, with tableaux that seem to be set in a garish, extraordinary hell and epic sequences that revel in the elaborate transmission of political power. (Dietrich is also uncharacteristically upstaged in this film by another actress, Louise Dresser, who gives a delicious comic turn as the perturbed Empress Elizabeth Petrovna.)

Von Sternberg and Dietrich’s American films have often been derided as camp, and such an attitude springs from the presumption that art should be good for you, with declarative themes and “realistic” stylization. Von Sternberg and Dietrich fashioned instead a fantasy world that embodies the longing that drives one to cinema: for a grandeur that invites our complicity with icons, rendering our anxieties into pop myth. In their unreality, these six films elucidate our sexual hungers as well as the miscommunications and insecurities that often prevent said hungers from being satiated.

Image/Sound

There are inconsistencies in the images of these restorations that indicate the challenge of refurbishing old films without losing their essence. Image clarity varies across the six discs, though the softness is often beautiful and at least partially intentional. Certain elements, such as rainfall, are rendered with a piercing clarity, as are many close-ups of the films’ many unforgettable faces. The multilayered depth of these images is phenomenal, as is most evident in the stairway scenes in Shanghai Express and The Devil Is a Woman, as well as in the hallucinatory musical numbers of Blonde Venus and the nearly cubist gothic interiors of The Scarlet Empress. The monaural soundtracks are sturdy, particularly in communicating the varied diegetic noises of von Sternberg’s bustling sets, though dialogue is occasionally muddy and eclipsed by the films’ scores. Generally, though, these are glistening, dazzlingly well-detailed preservations of some of the most stylish films ever created.

Extras

It’s difficult to communicate the beauty of these six films together in words, and critics Cristina Álvarez López and Adrian Martin circumvent this problem by offering an evocative juxtaposition of quotations and film footage in their video essay Bodies and Spaces, Fabric and Light. López and Martin manage to elucidate the existential loss of identity that’s communicated by Josef von Sternberg’s obsession with ornamentation, and their work here is one of this package’s highlights. Meanwhile, several new documentaries elaborate on how The Blue Angel brought von Sternberg and Marlene Dietrich to America, where their styles quickly evolved. Von Sternberg is portrayed as a control freak and self-conscious myth maker, while Dietrich is shown to be a brilliant chameleon, a master of several languages who could suggest a woman from everywhere and nowhere and thusly embody von Sternberg’s obsession with creating an essentially borderless fantasy zone.

An interview with film scholar Homay King acknowledges the racial quandaries of such fantasies, as applied in this case to the orientalism of Shanghai Express. In another interview, von Sternberg’s son, Nicholas, talks of his father’s influence on his own photography, parsing von Sternberg’s aesthetic in the process. This package includes a variety of other odds and ends, most notably a booklet with three astute and poetic essays by Imogen Sarah Smith, Gary Giddins, and Farran Smith Nehme. One does wonder, however, about the set’s lack of even a single audio commentary, and why several discs are unaccompanied by features pertaining directly to the individual films. For instance, only Morocco gets a making-of supplement. Though there’s quite a bit to savor in this set, it doesn’t quite achieve definitive status.

Overall

This rapturous package affirms the profound emotional power of the art born from one of Hollywood’s most influential and idiosyncratic collaborations.

Cast: Marlene Dietrich, Gary Cooper, Adolphe Menjou, Eve Southern, Francis McDonald, Victor McLaglen, Warner Oland, Gustav von Seyffertitz, Lew Cody, Clive Brook, Anna May Wong, Eugene Pallette, Louise Closser Hale, Cary Grant, Herbert Marshall, Rita La Roy, Sidney Toler, Morgan Wallace, John Lodge, Sam Jaffe, Louise Dresser, C. Aubrey Smith, Gavin Gordon, Lionel Atwill, Edward Everett Horton, Alison Skipworth, Cesar Romero Director: Josef von Sternberg Screenwriter: Jules Furthman, Daniel Nathan Rubin, Josef von Sternberg, S.K. Lauren, Manuel Komroff, John Dos Passos, Sam Winston, David Hertz, Oran Schee Distributor: The Criterion Collection Running Time: 542 min Rating: NR Year: 1930 - 1935 Release Date: July 3, 2018 Buy: Video

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Blu-ray Review: Arrow Video’s Crimson Peak

Guillermo del Toro’s gothic romance receives a significant packaging upgrade from Arrow Video.

4.5

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Crimson Peak

Crimson Peak may be the quintessential Guillermo del Toro film, as it compresses his fetishistic attention to detail into a single looming set where creaking floorboards, scores of dying moths, and the frequent intrusions of mutilated ghosts are just pieces in the giant dollhouse where the director merrily plays. The combination of gothic ghost story and harlequin romance doesn’t break new ground for either genre, but the intensity of Brandt Gordon’s art direction and Kate Hawley’s costume design reinforce the innate connection that period romance and horror share in how these genres so purely express their most profound ideas through ornate style.

Amusingly, the action of the film’s first act, the gamesmanship of high society’s courtship rituals playing out in well-lit parlors, is no less tense than the story’s eventual retreat into the dark confines of Allerdale Hall. The most dominant sound effects in these early scenes are the gasps and mutterings of New York’s nouveau riche as English nobleman Sir Thomas Sharpe (Tom Hiddleston) ignores the pampered bachelorettes trotted out before him. Instead, he homes in on the bookish Edith Cushing (Mia Wasikowska), an aspiring horror author and the only child of a self-made magnate (Jim Beaver) from whom he seeks financing for mining equipment. Del Toro films a scene of Thomas and Edith waltzing for a gathered crowd of elites, all while trying to keep the flame from the candle they grip in their hands from going out, as if it were a circus stunt, the couple’s willingness to dance in front of a wall of judgment akin to performing acrobatics without a net.

Such flourishes are almost subtle despite their intricate blocking and rich color palettes, but when Crimson Peak finally arrives at the Sharpe family home in remote Cumberland, del Toro indulges his most freewheeling whims. Allerdale Hall itself appears to have been hand-carved out of blatant symbols: the dulled seafoam-green wall paint that points to its overgrown ruin; the dank corridors lined by ominously spiked stone pillars and arches; and the gnarled architecture, with rooms that intersect so erratically with other chambers that they become entangled with one another. Rot has claimed the roof, letting dead leaves and, eventually, snow coat the long-faded grandeur of the foyer. Meanwhile, the blood-red clay that Thomas mines from the property seeps up through the floorboards, occasionally giving the house the impression of bleeding from ripped-open sutures.

So precisely defined is every aspect of Allerdale Hall’s physical decay that even the people who dwell within it feel more like conduits for the manse’s soul than independent agents. If Wasikowska’s surprisingly fortitudinous naïf is meant to recall Jane Eyre, Hiddleston’s version of Rochester comes not from Charlotte Brontë’s classic tome, but the revisionist version found in Wide Sargasso Sea, a feckless brute who maintains a veneer of respectability just long enough to nab a wife he can exploit to boost his own faded status. Hiddleston’s best performances always hint at a bit of sleaze beneath a show of welcoming charm, and the hunger that fills Thomas’s eyes whenever talk of money arises lays bare the sham of his romance from the start.

Jessica Chastain outdoes him, however, as Thomas’s even more mysterious older sister, Lucille, her face frozen in resentment and given to mirthless, thin-lipped smiles only in moments of extremely rare generosity. Perpetually clutching a set of ornate keys in her hands, Lucille is at once a judging matron, jealous sibling, and pitiless overseer. If Thomas embodies the house’s self-loathing and revulsion, Lucille is its unrepentant pride—neither the hole in the ceiling nor the sinking floor, but the decorated walls and lavish furnishings that stand defiant to the reality of their obsolescence.

Compared to the siblings, Edith lacks a memorable hook, and Wasikowska doesn’t get the chance to pore over her character the way that Hiddleston and Chastain do theirs. Nonetheless, most del Toro films feature a proxy for the director, and Edith’s ghost-seeing bookworm fits the bill here. As in the director’s other films, the supernatural is both real and imagined, clearly having a direct impact on a character’s surroundings while also pitched with sufficient ambiguity that some encounters suggest projections from the mind. Del Toro typically plays that line for maximum fairy-tale effect, but Edith’s tendency to continue to believe in the fundamental romance between herself and Thomas puts her in as much danger as her openness to the paranormal prepares her for the eventual confrontation with the truth of her new family.

Del Toro’s decision to explicitly underline the weaknesses of his proxy in Crimson Peak belatedly exposes prior stand-ins as equally shortsighted, and in the process the director clarifies a crucial thematic through line of his filmography. In retrospect, his fantasies are the opposite of escapes from harsh reality: It’s the real world, with its war and discrimination, that intrudes on the imagination, which can conjure up impressively detailed creatures and settings, but often struggles to map the complexities of emotion and history. Del Toro’s films tend toward the mythological, which is to say they’re timeless, rooted in a deep, era-nonspecific past. When social and historical context finally breach his microcosm, they expose the rifts of immaturity and sadness of a child who knows it’s time to grow up, but cannot face adulthood.

In that sense, del Toro may have less in common with the masters of horror than he does Wes Anderson, who similarly papers over his characters’ melancholy and displacement from the present with elaborate bricolage and immersion in esoterica. Crimson Peak, then, may be the director’s Life Aquatic, his fussiest, most compartmentalized construction, and therefore the one filled with the most powerful sense of repression and delusion.

Or perhaps, more accurately, it’s his Grand Budapest Hotel, what with its deranged aristocracy fighting a losing battle against time by targeting the new stewards of capitalism, leaching from them in a futile attempt to be restored to the old pomp and wealth. In Anderson’s film, a fading way of life tries to remain relevant by ignoring the atrocities begat of its willful obliviousness. In del Toro’s more explicitly generic terms, however, it’s the old guard that directly commits those atrocities to stem the tide of progress, a strategy so all-consuming that only at the point of self-destruction can one character realize what a waste it was to cling to so rotten a home in the first place.

Image/Sound

This Blu-ray edition’s hardback book indicates that the transfer was “made available by NBC Universal.” Indeed, there are no appreciable differences between this transfer and the one on Universal’s 2016 home-video edition of the film. Only a few instances of noise exist in the darkest shots, but otherwise this remains a crisp transfer. The 7.1 and X lossless audio tracks are likewise pristine, perfectly balancing the film’s exacting sound design—so rich in creaks and ghostly whispers—relative to Fernando Vélasquez’s tense but mournful score.

Extras

Arrow Video has ported over all of the features from Universal’s original release, which contained mostly brief EPK documentaries and one of Guillermo del Toro’s indispensable audio commentaries. Arrow supplements these extras with some new—and meatier—goodies, chief among them “The House Is Alive,” a 50-minute documentary that dives deep into the film’s intricate production design and literary inspirations. Del Toro also contributes a new interview, while two new critical pieces are included. One is an interview with critic Kim Newman, who places the film in the broader context of gothic romance, the other a video essay by Kat Ellinger on del Toro’s entire filmography and Crimson Peak’s place within it. Arrow’s lavish packaging also includes production stills and a booklet with an interview with del Toro and critical essays by David Jenkins, Simon Abrams, and Mar Diestro-Dópido.

Overall

A slew of excellent new features ensures that this is, for now at least, the definitive home-video edition of Guillermo del Toro’s elegant haunted-house film.

Cast: Mia Wasikowska, Jessica Chastain, Tom Hiddleston, Charlie Hunnam, Jim Beaver, Burn Gorman, Leslie Hope, Doug Jones, Jonathan Hyde, Bruce Gray, Emily Coutts Director: Guillermo del Toro Screenwriter: Guillermo Del Toro, Matthew Robbins Distributor: Arrow Video Running Time: 118 min Rating: R Year: 2015 Release Date: January 15, 2019 Buy: Video, Soundtrack

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Blu-ray Review: Julien Duvivier’s Panique

This dynamic and balanced restoration makes a significant case for the film as one of the most moving and beautiful of unjustly neglected noirs.

4.5

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Panique

Julien Duvivier’s Panique informs small-town life with rich menace, suggesting a correlation can exist between vicious gossip and physical violence, as people seek to assert dominion over the reputations of their neighbors out of boredom and resentment. Throughout the film, a doubling motif links classism with atrocity, and rumor-mongering with the tragedy it incites—such as linked images of two funerals, one of the murder victim that drives the film’s plot, the other of a person framed for the murder, essentially for being an eccentric outcast. As in many a film noir, Panique has, at its center, the structural rigidness of a mathematical equation, which it fleshes out with macabre comedy, piercing pathos, and a mad blend of realism and rococo expressionism.

The outcast is Monsieur Hire, played by Michel Simon, in casting that recalls Jean Renoir’s La Chienne. In both films, Simon plays a frumpy, lonely, and artistic man stuck in his own head, who falls for a beautiful woman who exploits his affections with the encouragement of her true lover. Renoir allows us to understand from the outset that Simon’s character is trapped, by his self-loathing as much as by his manipulators, while Duvivier offers a panorama that gradually closes in on Hire. In fact, one of the driving pleasures of Panique’s first act is in attempting to discern where it’s going, as Duvivier studies the respective habits of a baker, a prostitute, a shifty young man, a hypocritical accountant, and so forth. The film’s foreboding emphasis on daily life sometimes suggests The Marseille Trilogy by way of Shirley Jackson.

Hire initially appears confident, accepting his status in this picturesque country as the resident weirdo. After resisting the butcher’s attempts to talk with him, Hire orders a bloody pork loin and proceeds to the cheese shop to search for its “ripest” Camembert. Such details, which are plentiful in Panique, are amusing for their own sake while revealing that Hire fashions himself a ghoulish aesthete who’s somewhat difficult for the sake of being difficult. (The emphases on blood and ripeness also suggest a rechanneling of thwarted sexual hungers.) Unlike the immediately pitiable hero of La Chienne, Hire allows the audience to enjoy his loneliness. Perhaps this is a man who’s figured out how to live apart from society with dignity intact. In other words, Hire, who possesses the gifts of Simon’s own inherently introverted magnetism, flatters similarly-minded people in the audience.

This narrative misdirection mirrors Hire’s fooling of himself, underscoring how he’s attempted to transcend his human need for companionship—a nuance that renders his fall from grace all the more moving. As Hire becomes intoxicated with Alice (Viviane Romance), Simon’s physicality becomes subtly heavier and more awkward, as the actor understands Hire to be reverting to a vulnerable state that’s been long suppressed. Duvivier’s compositions complement this notion, particularly when Hire is framed in his cluttered apartment, regarding Alice’s residence from below as carnival lights luridly illuminate him. The carnival isn’t only a metaphor for the “show business”—the manipulations, the play-acting—that govern everyday life, but for how society always requires freaks for projection and ostracizing.

A beautiful and merciless film, Panique has been read as an allegory for Vichy France’s complicity with Nazis, which is apparent in the way the conspiring villagers are shown to unify against a diseased cause that’s been engineered by a third party. And such an association is complicated further by the controversy of Duvivier leaving his country for Hollywood during WWII, which is helpfully illuminated in the essays in the booklet included with this disc. But humankind has so often betrayed itself—honoring its irrational base instincts above issues of morality or common sense—that Panique now operates as a free-floating nightmare of persecution, one which offers a vividly haunting victim. As Hire ascends a building to his doom, fleeing his vengeful neighbors, one may think of Merian C. Cooper’s King Kong, only in this case there’s no mythical creature to offer one the distancing assurance of the fantastic.

Image/Sound

The image has a few minor blemishes but is generally quite sharp and rich in tactile detail. Throughout the film, this superb clarity particularly emphasizes the relationship between the various foregrounds and backgrounds of the frames, underscoring the vitality of tracking shots that elaborate on the various connections between the characters, emphasizing how small this troubled community really is. Blacks are rich, and whites are delicately soft, the latter of which is important in rendering characters’ flesh, particularly in the surprisingly erotic images of a woman teasing her male voyeur with glimpses of her body. The monaural soundtrack expertly preserves the film’s intricate soundstage, which often pivots on a contrast between the sounds of everyday work (carpentry and butchery) and those of the carnival, which physicalize the lurid thoughts driving the narrative’s action.

Extras

“The Art of Subtitling,” a new short documentary by Bruce Goldstein, founder and co-president of Rialto Pictures, offers an unusual and fascinating glimpse into the day-to-day challenges of translating foreign dialogue into English text. Like a lot of things many of us take for granted, subtitling requires an exactitude and discipline that’s invisible at first glance. For instance, a subtitle must disappear before one image segues into another, so as to not jar the audience. And, for the sake of flow, subtitles must also summarize dialogue rather than literally transcribe it, so that an audience doesn’t spend a film’s entire running time reading. Goldstein also examines the process of updating and improving subtitle tracks over the years as films are restored, including the production of the new track of Panique that was commissioned for this release, as modern audiences have grown to crave a precise rendering of the slang and humor that give characters and narratives texture.

A new interview with author Pierre Simenon, the son of legendary Belgian novelist Georges Simenon, offers an inside look at how Julien Duvivier altered one of his father’s novels to arrive at the screenplay for Panique, while providing a short overview of Georges’s life, particularly during WWI and WWII. (Georges wasn’t especially fond of the many films made from his work, though Pierre has high praise for Panique.) Meanwhile, a conversation from 2015 between critics Guillemette Odicino and Eric Libiot succinctly covers a variety of topics, especially the rocky reception that Duvivier received when he returned to France after working in the United States so as to dodge the Nazi occupation. French audiences, somewhat understandably, were resistant to a critique of mob justice from someone who managed to avoid the danger and turmoil of the mob altogether. The essays by film scholar James Quandt and Duvivier expert Lenny Borger also discuss the political context of Panique, while reveling in the film’s brilliant melding of realist and expressionist textures. The theatrical trailer rounds out a slim but informative supplements package.

Overall

With this dynamic and balanced restoration, Criterion makes a significant case for Panique as one of the most moving and beautiful of unjustly neglected noirs.

Cast: Michel Simon, Viviane Romance, Paul Bernard, Charles Dorat, Louis Florencie, Max Dalban, Émile Drain, Guy Favières Director: Julien Duvivier Screenwriter: Charles Spaak, Julien Duvivier Distributor: The Criterion Collection Running Time: 98 min Rating: NR Year: 1946 Buy: Video

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Blu-ray Review: Brian De Palma’s Obsession

Brian De Palma’s showy Vertigo tribute gets a significant A/V upgrade from Shout! Factory.

4

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Obsession

Geneviève Bujold was a little bit like the Björk of late-‘60s, early-‘70s cinema. She worked between predominately pop-minded American films and hermetic, aggressively Euro productions, coasted a long way on adorably pliable looks, and kept you perpetually off-balance with her off-kilter line readings and interpretations. She was a sterile cuckoo with a voice whose grit confirmed the darkness in her eyes. Paul Schrader may have ended up having to capitulate Obsession’s original (ridiculous) scripted ending to the will of Brian De Palma, but the casting of Bujold in what is essentially Kim Novak’s role in Vertigo results in a literary emphasis not seen in De Palma’s work again until the strong-arm showboating of Oliver Stone and David Mamet.

Obsession is, as far as De Palma’s tributes to Hitchcock go, half-baked and far-fetched without even the benefit of being audacious-unto-tasteless. It’s the film in which the only dearth of a metaphoric “double” is the comedy mask that ought to complement the dour visage of tragedy. (Is that the reason that it’s Obsession, and not any other De Palma film up until Femme Fatale, that’s included in the top 1,000 film list of Jonathan Rosenbaum, who sneered at the director for delighting in audience reactions to Dressed to Kill?)

While Bernard Herrmann’s rapturously funereal score (with at least four separate dirge leitmotifs swirling around the opulent, central “Valse Lente”) ratchets up Obsession’s metastasized, polluted doom-gloom, Bujold takes her role in the opposite direction, at least initially. (The character is a screenwriter’s “pitch” if there ever was one—e.g., “What if we took the idea that Kim Novak was practically young enough to be James Stewart’s daughter and just ran with that?”) Within minutes of meeting Cliff Robertson’s sad sack Michael, Bujold’s Elizabeth bites heartily into Schrader’s symbolic dialogue about the ethical implications of discovering an original draft of art and restoring the revision.

That’s clearly an expression of self-deprecating guilt from a writer who felt a little dirty turning Vertigo into a teary-eyed sick joke. But Bujold’s enthusiasm as a performer redeems the entire picture, especially when she’s asked to perform flashback scenes that shouldn’t work, but, thanks to her, represent another of De Palma’s fearlessly experimental whims.

Image/Sound

Vilmos Zsigmond’s cinematography has looked too washed-out on previous home-video editions of the film, but it finally looks right on Shout’s Blu-ray. Colors are natural and the exaggerated lighting dazzles when refracted off of mirror surfaces. Even more impressive is the surround-sound remix, which amplifies Bernard Herrmann’s bombastic, swelling score to deafening levels while leaving all dialogue clear in the center channel. The original mono track is also included and sounds every bit as crisp despite the lack of separation.

Extras

On his commentary track, Douglas Keesey offers a drily academic breakdown of the film. The author of Brian De Palma’s Split-Screen: A Life in Film sounds too much like he’s reading from a script, but he still provides intriguing observations on the director’s stylistic flourishes. Interviews with producer George Litto and editor Paul Hirsch see both men reminiscing about their careers and work with De Palma, with the former more gregarious about his own life and the latter more specific about the details of his work on Obsession. An archival documentary on the film features interviews with De Palma, Cliff Robertson, and Geneviève Bujold, who all reflect on the film’s production and how well they worked together. The disc also includes a trailer, radio spots, and an image gallery.

Overall

Brian De Palma’s showy Vertigo tribute gets a significant A/V upgrade, highlighting the dreamy haze of Vilmos Zsigmond’s cinematography and Bernard Herrmann’s score better than any home-video release of the film to date.

Cast: Cliff Robertson, Geneviève Bujold, John Lithgow, Sylvia Kuumba Williams, Wanda Blackman, J. Patrick McNamara, Stanley J. Reyes, Nick Kreiger, Stocker Fontelieu Director: Brian De Palma Screenwriter: Paul Schrader Distributor: Shout! Factory Running Time: 98 min Rating: PG Year: 1976 Buy: Video, Soundtrack

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