retro movie review: The Man who Laughs

I ended up watching The Man who Laughs -- a 1928 melodrama often erroneously remembered as as horror film -- through a rather round-about manner. When Heath Ledger won his posthumous, well-deserved Oscar for his performance as the Joker in The Dark Knight, formerly trivial knowledge about the Joker started to creep into the mainstream. One of these little tidbits is that two out of the three people who created the character of the Joker attribute their inspiration to the main character in The Man who Laughs. For a long time, my reaction to this bit of information was the same as yours probably is: a half-interested nod, followed by a complete dismissal. At best, this information is good for answering a question in "Trivia Pursuit" (and yes, that question actually does appear in the classic version of the game) but be honest, does the knowledge that this is the movie that led to the creation of the Joker make you want to bother with this movie?

Well, it should. Because The Man who Laughs is a fine piece of cinema. Granted, if you are the type to be automatically bored by old movies, no amount of quality in the world will be able to sway your personal tastes. I am not here to try to change your mind, nor will I attempt to persuade you to make an exception. But if you, like me, love good movies regardless of the era, The Man who Laughs will not disappoint.

In the prologue, we meet Gwynplaine, a little boy who (through an unnecessarily convoluted series of events) has been abandoned in the wilderness of 17th Century England. (If this movie is to be believed, the English wilderness is apparently an arctic glacier. But nevermind.) The boy rescues an infant whose homeless mother has perished in the cold, and the two are taken in by a traveling showman named "Ursus the Philosopher." The infant grows up to be the beautiful but blind Dea, while the boy, whose face is permanently in a disturbingly wide grin, grows up to be played by Conrad Veidt, whose involuntary, permanent smile is outright maniacal. Both work as performers for Ursus, who markets Gwynplaine as a famous clown known as "Gwynplaine the Laughing Clown," or, more commonly, as simply "the Laughing Man."

Dea and Gwynplaine are very much in love (and the movie sidesteps the incestuous fact that, although not related by blood, the two characters have been raised as siblings) but Gwynplaine, because of his deformity, feels unworthy of Dea's love -- despite the fact that, because she is blind, she is not bothered by it. (The story, by the way, was written by Victor Hugo, who also wrote of a deformed man falling in love in The Hunchback of Notre Dame.)

The story is set in motion when Gwynplaine starts to earn fame at a massive festival. His fame attracts the attention of Duchess Josiana, who attempts to seduce him -- apparently for no other reason than because she has either flirted with or slept with every other man in England, and she just wants to complete her record. Gwynplaine sincerely loves Dea, but feels a sort of vindication in the Duchess's attraction, since, unlike Dea, the Duchess can actually see Gwynplaine's deformity, and is attracted to him anyway. (He is unaware of the fact that the Duchess is attracted to every man in the kingdom.) Gwynplaine agrees to meet with the Duchess in her room, but at the last minute, decides he loves Dea too much to go through with making love to the Duchess. Unfortunately for all concerned, it is at this very moment that Gwynplaine's true heritage -- he turns out to be the rightful heir to the wealth that the Duchess currently enjoys -- is revealed, thrusting Gwynplaine into a mess of royal intrigue.

I haven't seen Conrad Veidt in that many things. I really only know him as Cesare the Somnambulist in The Cabinet of Dr. Caligari and as the head Nazi officer in Casablanca, and while he delivered adequate performances in both films, I'd hardly describe either role as especially challenging. But his performance in The Man who Laughs is a revelation. He exhibits a full range of emotion -- some of those emotions quite complex -- throughout the film, and while that may seem like faint praise -- it is, after all, an actor's job -- keep in mind that he does all of this without the use of either his voice or even half of his face! After all, this is a silent film, and he can't move his face because the plot requires the character to be permanently stuck in that creepy grin. Yet Veidt illustrates fear, joy, sorrow, and countless other emotions, often mixed in various combinations, with little more than his eyes alone. I refuse to devalue my praise for his performance by allowing any consideration that I am merely projecting my own interpretation onto him because of narrative context. This is a performance that has to be seen to be believed.

One quibble, not about Veidt's performance, but about the movie itself: Through no fault of the makers of this masterpiece, it is obviously dated. This is most evident in the form of the animal character, Homo the Wolf -- a name laughable not only because of what the word "homo" has come to mean (I dare you to not laugh when, during a dramatic moment, Dea says, "where are you leading me, Homo?") but also because this "wolf" is clearly played by a common household dog that doesn't resemble a wolf in any way.

One final note: This movie is just dripping with sexuality. It's not uncommon for movies to use sexuality to contrast the devious "bad girl" with the purity of the "good girl," but in this pre-Code flick, the Duchess is one sensuous figure. Now, some know-it-alls who are familiar with the term "pre-Code" know that it refers to a time when Hollywood didn't yet have any form of censorship, and so they might feel like launching into a lecture along the lines of "oh, pre-Code, well, what do you expect?" But the fact of the matter is, even pre-Code films -- at least those in the mainstream, like The Man who Laughs -- were generally prudish compared to films of our time. Their version of "scandalous" sexuality meant scantily clad women, and talk of sexual activity. Well, friends and neighbors, the Duchess -- played by the very attractive Olga Baklanova -- does a lot more than talk, and wears a lot less than scanties. There is a bathing scene in which she appears in all her glory, and even if the shot is from behind, it's still a shock to see in a movie from that era. But it's really the explicit depiction of the Duchess's behavior which made my jaw drop, simply because it seemed wildly out of place for a 1920s movie (and yet perfectly right for the character). We see her allow men to fondle her breasts (over her clothing, but still, this is something that would never be seen in the days of, say, Clark Gable) and at one point, she gleefully gives the villain a peek up her dress (we don't see it ourselves, but it's been established that she's not wearing any underwear) in exchange for information. Yes, she has an ulterior motive, but she's clearly enjoying herself! Now, I'm not reporting all of this because I'm a horn-dog, or to complain, or to prudishly "warn" you about the sexuality, but at the risk of repeating myself, it's just so unexpected for a movie from this era, that it simply must be addressed.

That being said, sexuality aside (or maybe not putting the sexuality aside) The Man who Laughs is a very good movie. It boasts an interesting storyline, excellent performances, and atmospheric direction -- and deserves to be remembered as more than the answer to a trivia question.

retro movie review: The Karate Kid, Part III

Back when it was released in 1989, nobody seemed to like The Karate Kid, Part III. Critics alternately panned it or dismissed it outright, few people actually went to see it, those who did mostly complained about it, and even the screenwriter, who had also written the first two installments, was so frustrated by it that he swore he would never write another Karate Kid movie again. Add it all up, and you don't get a very promising legacy.

But you know what? I recently watched the movie for the first time, and I actually enjoyed it. It's true to both the characters and the tone of the first Karate Kid movie, which is rightfully considered a modern classic. After watching The Karate Kid, Part III, I tend to feel that most complaints against it are based more on knee-jerk reactions to sequels, than to the quality of the film itself.

After the opening credits sequence provides us with a brief recap of some of the events in the first two films, the movie opens with an extended sequence involving John Kreese (very well played by Martin Kove), the villainous dojo master from the first film. The humiliating loss to an unknown in last year's karate tournament has ruined Kreese's business, and he is now broke, depressed, humiliated, and lonely -- in short, a completely defeated man. This early sequence is very interesting to watch, as it makes us sympathize with a villain from the previous entries in the series. We realize that this is a man who has his own dreams, disappointments, and friendships. He becomes -- albeit briefly -- a truly three-dimensional character. In cinema, such a sympathetic portrayal of a villain is rare and thus very interesting, from a viewer's standpoint.

The story is set in motion when we learn that Kreese is not the owner of the Cobra Kai dojo, as we were led to believe in the first film; the actual owner is his best friend, a duplicitous but charming karate master and millionaire named Terry Silver. Silver refuses to hear of Kreese's plans to leave town with his tail between his legs, and the two manage to convince each other that Kreese owes all of his current woes to our heroes, Daniel LaRusso (Ralph Macchio) and Mr. Miyagi (Noriyuki "Pat" Morita). They hatch a revenge scheme that partially depends on hiring a small group of thugs to terrorize Daniel, Miyagi, and Daniel's new girlfriend, Jess (Robyn Lively).

Now, I emphasize the word "partially" because too many people latched onto this aspect of the plot, to falsely accuse The Karate Kid, Part III of being a carbon copy of the first film. Yes, it's true that both movies involve a group of bullies using karate as a constant physical threat to Daniel and his friends. But aside from the climax, which again takes place at a tournament where Daniel must face unethical opponents, that's really where the similarities in plot end.

Anyway, back to the story: The thugs start to beat on Daniel on a fairly regular basis, and also do everything they can to hinder Daniel and Miyagi's attempts to open a bonsai tree store. Ostensibly, the thugs' motivation is that they want to bully Daniel into entering the next karate tournament, so that one of them, "Bad Boy" Mike Barnes, can win the title from Daniel, who was last year's champion. Daniel has no way of knowing that it's all part of an elaborate scheme orchestrated by Terry Silver, who enters the picture pretending to be a fan and new friend of Daniel's. When Mr. Miyagi's refuses to train Daniel for the tournament (more on this in a moment), Silver offers his own services as trainer, free of charge. Of course, Silver's "let me help" attitude is all an act, and his training program for Daniel is secretly designed to bruise Daniel's body and spirit until he is incapable of properly defending himself at the tournament.

Much that has been written about this movie has focused on the alleged rift that develops between Daniel and Miyagi when Mr. Miyagi refuses to train Daniel for the tournament. That's a very, very misleading assessment of the storyline, for two reasons. For one thing, the story is more focused on Terry Silver's schemes than on any conflict between Daniel and Miyagi. More to the point, any claim that such a conflict even exists is simply inaccurate; yes, Daniel and Miyagi repeatedly argue over Mr. Miyagi's refusal to endorse Daniel's entry into the tournament, but their friendship never suffers from the disagreement. They still go out of their way to care for each other, further developing their unique relationship which is one half friendship and one half paternal in nature. Anyone who has avoided this film due to rumors that it depicts a rift in the friendship that was so central to the first two films needn't worry.

I do have a couple of nitpicks, and one involves Mr. Miyagi's refusal to train Daniel for the tournament. Yeah, I know I said it was relatively unimportant to the storyline, and that's true, but I still have a problem buying it as a subplot. At first, Mr. Miyagi's decision is understandable, and consistent with character, as Daniel initially wants to enter the tournament just to defend his title, and Mr. Miyagi says, "karate for honor, karate for self defense, karate not for winning championship." But after the bad guys make it clear that they will continue to harass Daniel and Miyagi until Daniel enters the tournament, Mr. Miyagi's mantra stops making sense. Is he really so blind that he cannot see the necessity for Daniel to fight? No, he eventually admits that Daniel has no choice, but then, he ridiculously still refuses to help Daniel train, and it becomes clear that writer Robert Mark Kamen just needed an excuse to get Mr. Miyagi out of the way, so he could set up the subplot about Terry Silver offering to become Daniel's trainer. The writing is just a little too transparent here.

My other nitpick involves a scene in which Kreese and Silver are plotting against Daniel. "Make his knuckles bleed," Kreese instructs, bitterly remembering the humiliation and pain he suffered when he injured his own knuckles while attacking Mr. Miyagi in the beginning of The Karate Kid, Part 2. In the context of the story, it's a powerful line, well delivered by Martin Kove, and emphasizing the pettiness behind the villain's motivations. Good way to end a scene! But then, bafflingly, the writers let the scene continue: "I like that, Johnny!" Terry Silver says, laughing hysterically. "I'm gonna use that!" Now, what, in God's name, were they thinking when they added that last part? It's bad enough that they used a completely pointless bit of dialogue to ruin the carefully constructed tone built during Kove's powerful moment. But Silver's laughter isn't even appropriate for the scene. It's not manic laughter, or realistic laughter, or even sadistic laughter, any of which might have worked. Instead, he laughs like a dork. "Good one, Johnny!" Yeah, it was a good line, until you ruined it. Yes, this is a small complaint, but it bothered me that the scene was ruined so pointlessly.

All in all, however, The Karate Kid, Part III is a better movie than you've probably heard. The dialogue is naturalistic as can be in this type of genre, the characters are believable and effective (hissable villains, likable good guys), the fight scenes are realistic, and the performances range from good to excellent. If you liked the first movie, you'll like this one too.

Muppet Review 2: The Great Muppet Caper

A while back, I wrote a blog entry praising the virtues of the Sesame Street movie, Follow That Bird, so it should be no shock to anyone -- especially anyone who has known me for a long time -- that I love The Great Muppet Caper. When I was a kid, I loved it because it featured my beloved Muppets, whom, without exaggeration, I considered a second family when I was young. Now that I'm an adult, I admire it for an entirely different reason, a reason that almost contradicts the first: In a way, this isn't really a Muppet movie at all.

Now, I know that may seem preposterous -- the Muppets are, after all, the stars of this movie, and take center stage in nearly every scene -- but hear me out. This movie may have been written with the Muppets in mind, but watching it tonight, I realized that it would take very, very little rewriting to plug in human stars instead of the felt guys. Oh, sure, some of the jokes are too character specific to apply to anyone but the Muppets -- Animal's still got a crazy appetite, frog and bear jokes abound, and so on -- but most of the dialogue, both comical and serious, could be taken verbatim and put into human actor's mouths, with equal effect. The comedy is an effective mixture of styles -- absurdist humor, clever word-play, sharp observation, and an occasional breaking of the fourth wall all vie for dominance in the screenplay's arsenal. But despite the Muppet reputation for wackiness, the script never devolves into Naked Gun level silliness.

The plot is equally sophistocated. Fozzie Bear (Frank Oz) and Kermit the Frog (Jim Henson) play two New York City newspaper reporters who are also brothers (the fact that they look nothing alike, and are even different species, is hilariously both acknowledged and dismissed as irrelevant to their claim to be identical twins). Together with their photographer (Gonzo the Great), Fozzie and Kermit are fired by their editor after they distract themselves with a mundane story and fail to notice a high-profile jewel robbery across the street. Determined to get their jobs back, the trio decide to journey to London, to interview the victim of the crime, famous fashion designer Lady Holiday (Diana Rigg). Enter Miss Piggy (also played by Frank Oz), as an American immigrant determined to become a model for Lady Holiday. Holiday instead hires Piggy as a receptionist, but when Kermit mistakes Piggy for Holiday herself, Piggy falls in love at first sight and goes to great lengths to make him continue thinking she is the famous fashion designer. A romance develops, complicated by the fact that Piggy is lying about her identity, and has to avoid Kermit's constant questions about a jewel robbery she knows nothing about.

Meanwhile, Holiday's ne'er-do-well brother Nicky (Charles Grodin, in his best performance) falls in love with Piggy, forming a love triangle that is exacerbated by the fact that Kermit knows that Nicky is actually the leader of the jewel thieves that are repeatedly targeting Lady Holiday.

Take away the bear and pig jokes, and this is the kind of old-fashioned mixture of adventure and farce that could have starred Astaire & Rogers instead of Kermit & Piggy.

Now, on a personal note, it's no secret that my desire to master puppetry was the reason that I first got interested in becoming involved in the world of entertainment. But what I never realized until tonight is that I actually learned how to write dialogue by listening to the Muppets. This self-revelation came during a scene in which Fozzie, Gonzo, and Kermit talk at cross-purposes, simultaneously discussing Miss Piggy's possible culpability in the jewel heists, trying to solve the identity of the other thieves, and engaging in small talk. The conversation's humor, and even its cadence, sounded suspiciously familiar to me, and I soon realized that this was not only because I had seen the movie many times before; what I was recognizing was a dialogue style remarkably similar to my own, when I'm at my best. So I guess I owe the Muppets more than just countless hours of entertainment. They really have helped make me who I am today.