Charming Interwar Entertainment
by Kristin Battestella
Despite the turbulent times before and
after, these films and television series set in the twenties and
thirties are brimming with charming wit – mostly.
The Grand Budapest Hotel –
Snowy, bleak cemeteries contrast the orange mid century accents and
picturesque postcard designs of this 2014 quirky comedy from director
Wes Anderson (The
Royal Tenenbaums).
While the visuals are aesthetically pleasing; the books, voiceover
jokes, timeline transitions, and Jude Law's (Captain
Marvel)
detailing of the kitschy, dilapidated hotel's off season are a lot to
digest amid dialogue within the internal monologue, rapid newspaper
headlines, zany zooms, action pans, elevator doors parting, camera
ups and downs, and in and out of focus views. Fortunately, the busy
exposition gives way to calm and curious introductions – our
hotelier F. Murray Abraham (Amadeus)
nestles in the baths of this enchanted old ruin as we follow the
inter title style chapter cards back to a grandiose thirties heyday.
Choice reds, lush purple, vintage cars, trains, delightful
architecture, and golden chandeliers set the period lavish while
tight camera angles convey the cramped servant areas and sweeping
pans reflect the patron's splendor. Tom Wilkinson (Essex Boys),
Jeff Goldbum (Independence
Day),
Saoirse Ronan (Byzantium),
Edward Norton (Red
Dragon),
Lea Seydoux (Spectre),
Adrien Brody (The Jacket),
Willem Dafoe (Shadow of the Vampire),
Harvey Keitel (National Treasure),
Owen Wilson (Midnight in Paris),
Bill Murray (Little
Shop of Horrors),
a dynamite in the sack old lady Tilda Swinton (Only Lovers Left Alive),
and more
star
power cameos, however,
make for a vignette feeling as viewers wonder which
part of the story is the story and not just another scene change.
Thankfully, such hotel hustle and bustle fits the nostalgic
whirlwind, and swift “Are you fucking nuts?” asides pepper the
rose colored glasses framework as our lobby boy learns the ropes from
Ralph Fiennes'
(The English Patient)
sermon giving, tight ship running, serving all the rich blondes
concierge. Modern sarcasm lifts the who's swindling whom heists, and
the best zingers come in the one on one, smooth talker tongue in
cheek. We're invested in the interplay farce but take nothing at face
value, reading between the lines of the embellished court case,
recountings to the camera, and butler did it gags. Conspiracies and
suspects mount, however the loyalty and button up routine of the
jailhouse isn't that different from the formality of the grand hotel.
In fact, impoverished origins and unusual circumstances unite these
quirky gents when the players themselves admit the thickening plot
confuses them. Shocking heads in a basket and a larger than life
scale keep the murder and suspense stylish while cable car graphics
and cats tossed out the window picked up at the coat check add to the
bemusing hotel prayer chain. Genuine characters and core friendships
sustain the increasingly preposterous on the run adventure – speed
walking chases, monastery disguises, second copies of the second
will, shootouts, and macguffins create a knowing cumulative amid
outlandish travels, whimsical ski jumps, and silly poetics straying
into the fantastic. At times, this is quite pretentious and overly
clever, doing too much when the casting winks and lavish production
handle the complexity without any extra need to be high brow for the
sake of it. Some outwitting and double crossings are confusing, and
the redundant, intentionally unreliable narration builds toward a
bitter, black and white montage that feels abrupt and unfair compared
to the preceding yarn. Fortunately, a fuzzy frame within a frame game
of telephone wraps the past grandeur almost in fiction – a long
gone embellished splendor made up by an old hotel proprietor and
compounded by a wayward writer. Although one needs to appreciate old
movies and what this film is trying to do to enjoy its wit, this is
an entertaining, intelligent piece with a careful, award winning
attention to detail that takes more than one viewing.
Mapp and Lucia –
Prunella Scales (Fawlty
Towers),
Geraldine McEwan (Marple),
and Nigel Hawthorne (Richard III)
lead this charming 1985 coastal comedy based on the books by E.F.
Benson accented by English gardens, pleasant melodies, and jolly good
formalities flummoxed by over the hedge gossip. Foreign metaphors,
“Au
Reservoir,”
and fake Italian make one sound fancy while seething sighs, squinting
“dear” objections, and frienemy let's do lunch fakery punctuate
arguments over everything from who gets to play Elizabeth I in the
local play to who's servants are courting who else's servants. Nobody
says what they mean thanks to the stiff upper lip tone and attempted
continental refinement, yet the over the top gentility
provides backhanded zingers to match all the haughty decorum, period
stylings, and fur coats worn in the summer. A quaint
local artist paints scandalous nude portraits and content
domestic evenings full of piano duets replace sexual acts. Oh, such
harmony when they finish together! Some
taboos can be chuckled over at tea time yet others ruffle the
snobbish feathers one and all as vain high society facades parallel
the subtle gender bending innuendo. Everyone lives to push someone
else's buttons – back then one had to make her own entertainment
with country drives in classic cars, telegrams to famous friends, or
rival parties and art exhibitions scheduled at the same time. Despite
unannounced
pop ins,
overcharging for a broken piano, faking influenza to get out of a
concert, and real estate low balling; the love to hate, doing dirty
ladies remain bemusing and likable characters without any venomous
soap opera nasty to the secret
lobster recipes, exposés, and just deserts. Who's eating the produce
from who's garden tiffs rage over bridge in “they know that we know
that they know that we know” suspicions that can't be proven until
one climbs the church tower to spy. Townsfolk take sides over pearl
clutching shocks and sordid tales of the sea as the stock market
bound women whip the embroidering men into shape by coloring the gray
in a beard and serving giant cups of sobering tea. Intercut policy
debates in the street and servants gossiping at the beach lead to gas
line mishaps and delusions of Roman ruins bested by veiled pregnancy
scandals. The vitriol remains scrumptious in spite of the selfish
church organ dedications, ulterior hospital ward donations, and
manipulated local politicians as our rich snobs insist on making this
pastoral little seaside town's society page all about them. The
eponymous ladies welcome every opportunity to help the needy in the
most self serving ways possible, and their attempts to look good
always leave egg on the other's face. Marriages of convenience
understood to have separate bedrooms and no caresses feign to be
simple unions when the couple really seeks the spectacle of the year
on top of carefully orchestrated mayoress achievements and making the
bicycle all the rage. The poor chauffeurs would be out of work if
they weren't needed to run behind the peddling ladies, a dead pet
bird sat on is reused as the feather in one's cap – literally
–
and a true opera diva and a real drunken duchess deliciously put our
tiny village big fishes in their place. Although these ten episodes
are a little long at fifty minutes, the ongoing
comeuppance arcs are staggered over the time and thus easy to
marathon– half of one tale leads into the next episode rather than
the expected, typical one plot sitcom. Those of a certain age can
certainly enjoy the dulcet period piece snobbery and the snappy, pip
pip cheerio
camp rhythms here.
For
the Kids Perhaps
Tutankhamun
–
Lord Carnarvon Sam Neill (The Tudors)
hires Max Irons' (yes, Jeremy's son) Egyptologist Howard Carter to
dig for undiscovered tombs in this 2016 miniseries from ITV opening
with turn of the century desert rocks and orange haze in the Valley
of the Kings. When one has enough money, you can buy the past
regardless of proper papers and techniques, and the sophisticated
parasols, entitled rich, upscale parties, and vintage cars contrast
the tents, lanterns, dust, and pottery. Despite the atmospheric
spectacles, books, maps, sketches, and parchments; the story restarts
several times with introductions, historical figures, and obvious
scene setting CGI. Fortunately, there's an enthusiasm over the
possibility of unplundered tombs – innocent questions on seemingly
deliberately desecrated relics and Amarna and Luxor references to the
heretic Akhenaten and his obscure pharaoh son Tutankhamun.
Archaeologists put the puzzle together without over-explaining or
trite monologues, but the deductions and withered ruins must wait as
The Great War interferes – leading to local resentment, plundered
digs, and years of no luck in the Valley. Withdrawn funding and
arguments about searching on a whim, however, finally lead to
uncovered steps, tunnels, sealed walls, and hieroglyphics. By 1922
the golden splendor, jewels, and “wonderful things” in the
antechamber begat flashbulbs, new tools, and dark rooms in nearby
tombs as stunning artifacts are photographed and cataloged. Crowds
full of a new post-war hope arrive amid gunfire, mobs, and exclusive
newspaper backlashes with stories of theft and ancient curses. Our
archaeologists fight humidity and fresh air with wax preservation but
technicalities arise between these British finders and the Egyptian
Antiquities Service. Local authorities wanting to keep their royal
artifacts at home are unfortunately made the villain against the
young and lovelorn Carter – who was really a crusty middle aged man
more concerned with what his find meant to the world. Further
unnecessary liberties are taken with love triangles and grossly
inaccurate fluff padding the series alongside juvenile acting and
supporting ethnic characters' deaths used for white man angst.
Contrived rifts and blood poisoning drama become uneven in the final
hour compared to the wondrous opening of the titular burial chamber.
It's the moment we've all been waiting for but early film reels and
one telling another about the nested sarcophagi cheat on the
historical achievements. Thanks to all the superfluous flirtations
and overly romanticized aspects, important deaths and the famous
golden mask reveal are glossed over in favor of sappy breakups,
laughable portrayals, and annoying man tears. What should have been a
two hour event film becomes an overlong yarn frustrating to any
academic Egyptology obsessed audience. However, the inaccuracies here
also lead one to read up on all the facts, and this may have some
merit for youthful viewers new to archaeology looking for a fun
adventure.
I
Wanted to Like It but...
Death Defying Acts
– Bubbles, boats, chains, and crowds at the docks counting down to
the spectacle open this 2007 Houdini drama directed by Gillian
Armstrong (Little Women) and
starring
Guy Pearce (Brimstone),
Catherine Zeta-Jones (Chicago),
Timothy Spall (Harry Potter),
and Saoirse Ronan (Byzantium).
Unfortunately, the CGI and special effects are terribly cheap and
noticeable, as are the poor accents. An unnecessary, flowery
narration telling viewers nothing intrudes on visuals that need no
explanation with spoon fed confusion, and the entire disjointed
opening with our sassy gals picking pockets and living by their wits
could have been left on the cutting room floor. Colorful on stage
cons and exotic mediums better set the scene alongside period
fashions, vintage streets, suave cars, and theatre marquees –
mother and daughter seeing the Houdini mania newsreel at the cinema
is all the connection needed. Instead, we have a little girl telling
us about Houdini's inner dark side when viewers could be watching on
mute and see his pesky manager or our psychic lady studying the
newspapers for clues on the illusionist. The adults debate the
fakery, hocus pocus, and mumbo jumbo, questioning whether showbiz
needs proof or science, and the mature conversations prove this
juvenile anchor is an absolutely unnecessary character altogether.
Let us see the hotel maid stunts, handcuff tricks, and upside down
tanks for ourselves as the onscreen audience holds its collective
breath. Visions of dead mothers, $10,000 offers for psychics who can
contact the great beyond, and pushing the titular limits are story
enough alongside a bemusing montage of those tap dancing for that
reward – literally. Edwardian sophistication sets off the
experiments on the existence of the afterlife, pop powder cameras,
and letters locked in a safe so a psychic can reveal the contents.
Champagne dinners, playing hard to get, steamy dream sequences, and
romantic evening races lead to ruined abbeys, gargoyles, and roof top
stunts. However, the time wasting, childish storyline continues to
sag, sputtering the already obvious and hamfisted by keeping the
smoke and mirrors at arms length with superficial trite and no
emotional depth. Third wheel intrusions replace the audience's fly on
the wall view and we never get to be in on the daredevil charm.
Though watchable for fans of the cast, the stars here deserved a
better script, less liberties taken, and the gosh darn proper point
of view. This picture is told from the entirely wrong perspective!
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