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Thijs van Leer 1978
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Cléo is in fact awaiting a diagnosis from her doctor which she is convinced will be one of mortal illness, and in a quick aside in the film's opening scene, even the tarot reader refuses to give Cléo a palm reading, and later confesses to what one assumes is the reader's husband that Cléo is very ill with cancer. On her way out of the tarot reader's building, Cléo stops in front of a mirror (just the first time she will do something like this), admiring herself and congratulating herself on at least not being "ugly", which she equates as something worse than actual death. Already the film is off on questions of mortality, pride and even perception, and it's only in the first few minutes of Cléo's two hour (give or take) tale.
There are fascinating structural peculiarities in this film throughout. An early scene after the tarot reading finds Cléo distraught in a cafe with her maid Angèle (Dominique Davray), but when Angèle, who is sitting right next to Cléo in what Varda has understandably framed as a two shot, starts regaling two waiters with stories of the village she grew up in, Varda simply repositions her camera to take in two squabbling lovers sitting on the other side of Cléo, on whom Cléo is obviously eavesdropping. Much later in the film, Cléo and another friend of hers, Dorothée (Dorothée Blanck), visit a projection booth in a movie house where the projectionist screens a supposed silent which features Jean-Luc Godard as an almost Harold Lloyd-esque character.
The film also features a really fun sequence that finds legendary composer Michel Legrand as a pianist friend of Cléo's named Bob, who shows up to help Cléo with her nascent singing career. Suddenly, the film is almost a quasi-musical, and with Legrand's participation, seems to be presaging the two famous musical films he would soon make with Jacques Demy. If some of the melodrama in terms of Cléo's expected diagnosis ultimately simply makes her look neurotic for no apparent reason, the film is rife with an almost curious joie de vivre (ironic given its subtext of death), and its "real time" aspect keeps the story involving with a considerable amount of suspense.
The town seems peaceful and quiet -- at least in the beginning. Mary quickly moves into a small but cozy apartment and then visits the church that has hired her. It is exactly as she had imagined it would be -- not too small and not too big, with a beautiful old-fashioned pipe organ that has been kept in perfect condition.
Then a gradual but noticeable shift occurs -- and you are not surprised. You have been expecting it to happen but you were unsure when or why. It was just an odd sensation you had that it was coming. Like you, Mary also recognizes it and becomes terrified. She would try to talk to people but they will ignore her, and then she will see things that no one else would. For some unknown reason she would also find herself drawn to an abandoned carnival pavilion that may have been overtaken by ghosts.
This low-budget film scripted by John Clifford and directed by Herk Harvey -- who had previously done some fairly straightforward documentaries and commercials for the Centron Corporation in Lawrence, Kansas -- enjoys a well-deserved cult status. It does look a bit dated now, but it is a serious mind-bender with some genuinely creepy atmosphere.
The narrative is broken into multiple segments that constantly pull the film in different directions. For example, there are bits with some obvious Hitchcockian overtones that would easily fit in an old-fashioned thriller. Elsewhere, however, there is plenty of gothic exoticism that infuses the film with dark and quite heavy intensity. The entire film is also shot in a way that reveals an obvious desire to manipulate expectations without necessarily worrying about the legitimacy of key aspects of the narrative that bring some coherence to it during the final act.
Carnival of Souls is frequently grouped with various classic horror films, but it is probably more appropriate to place next to the likes of Jean Cocteau's Orpheus and Alain Resnais' Last Year at Marienbad. Though far less refined (and at times actually visibly flawed), it seems to be driven by a similar ambition to experiment with contrasting themes and ultimately creating and delivering a unique cinematic experience.
The acting is rather difficult to judge. Hilligoss frequently looks uncomfortable and nervous but her character actually benefits because the shift that occurs during the second act makes the roughness look most appropriate. The same can be said about the non-professional actors that step up in front of the camera as their odd lines and stiffness further enhance the spooky atmosphere.
Criterion's upcoming release of Carnival of Souls includes the shorter Theatrical Version of the film. Before the film's theatrical and drive-in premieres in 1962, some footage was intentionally removed by its producers. Additionally, one reel of the film was accidentally destroyed and approximately 8 minutes of footage from the dance sequence at the end was lost. However, Criterion's release features three missing scenes, with head and tail from the new restoration of the film, that were sourced from an analog one-inch videotape (the best available source for this material).
Cady was sent away to prison eight years prior the film's beginning, largely on the testimony of Bowden, ironically not as an attorney but as a witness to a vicious assault Cady was perpetrating on a young woman. The clear implication is rape, but 1962 censors simply wouldn't allow that word to be used, especially since a lot of the rest of the film has Cady stalking Bowden's attractive wife (Polly Bergen) and young daughter (Lori Martin). We meet Cady, ironically dressed all in white, as he ambles through a Georgia courthouse, almost breaking his neck on several occasions to check out passing women, ultimately drifting into a courtroom where he sees Bowden in action. Bowden doesn't notice Cady, and in fact doesn't even initially recognize him even after Cady suddenly shows up at Bowden's car as he is starting to drive away from the courthouse, yanking Bowden's keys out of the ignition and beginning what will be a very dangerous cat and mouse game for the rest of the film.
Mitchum's Cady simply oozes menace, and not just with regard to the Bowden family. In one of the film's most disturbing sequences, Cady picks up an attractive young woman (Barrie Chase) at a bar and then viciously assaults her. Bowden has been struggling to deal with Cady's escalating threats (including Cady murdering the family's dog), but even the local police chief (Martin Balsam) hasn't been able to find anything to arrest Cady for. The assault seems to be the ticket, but the young woman is so traumatized by her interaction with Cady that she refuses to testify against him. (Chase was the long time dancing partner of one Fred Astaire late in his career.) Mitchum, clutching a cigar and sporting a languorous Southern accent, conveys so much threat in simple movements and even glances that his performance becomes indelibly etched on the mind, making it easy to understand the terror those who come into contact with Cady feel to the core of their being.
Things ratchet up slowly but steadily under J. Lee Thompson's nuanced direction. Everything Bowden tries, from involving the police to hiring a private detective (Telly Savales) to actually trying to bribe Cady himself to leave him alone, fails, leading to the tense third act of the picture. Bowden takes his family to a houseboat on the titular Cape Fear, hoping that Cady will follow, trespass, and finally give the police a reason to put the madman away. That sets up a really terrific series of showdowns where Mitchum's hulking physicality and incredibly dangerous persona are allowed to fully shine. It's a commanding performance, one that is miles ahead of the more over the top but much less effective turn by Robert De Niro in Martin Scorsese's remake of the original. As that oft-quoted adage goes, sometimes less is more.
In Act II, Fellini's Le tentazioni del dottor Antonio, the false virtue under fire is prudery—specifically the fiery, religious brand of indignation towards sex that's typically the result of repression and guilt. Peppino de Filippo stars as Antonio Mazzuolo, a self-righteous citizen who takes it upon himself to crusade for public decency. He's a pious tyrant, basically, the kind of guy who goes down to Lover's Lane to shine bright lights on the couples making out in their cars. What really gets his goat, though, is when an advertising agency erects a billboard in the vacant lot across from his home, with the image of a sultry, large-chested sex-bomb blond—Anita Ekberg, looking like a precursor to Anna-Nicole Smith—reclining bare-legged on a couch and holding a frosty glass of milk. Antonio calls it "an offense to the most sacred aspect of maternity"—breastfeeding—and makes it his mission to get the sign taken down. His quixotically sanctimonious obsession leads gradually to all-out insanity, as Antonio imagines the woman coming down out of the billboard and stomping around town, a curvy giantess intent on exposing her lewdness to the innocent and pure of mind. It's Fellini's take on Attack of the 50 Foot Woman, and it's every bit as bizarre as you'd imagine, with double entendre imagery galore —see the fire hose spraying the breasts on the billboard—and a great deal of comedy at the intersection of the supposedly sacred and so-called profane.
Luchino Visconti's contribution, Il lavoro, is the film's weakest and strongest entry. Weakest because it doesn't fit as well with the others—it's a rather serious, dialogue-heavy parlor drama, while the others are essentially sex farces—and strongest because it's the film that best stands alone if viewed separately. Like several of Visconti's films, it's about the unsatisfied lives of the rich and fabulously bored. In this case, it follows the crumbling relationship of an aristocratic couple who married for convenience and mutual wealth. The husband, Ottavio (Tomas Milian), a count, has just become embroiled in a Silvio Berlusconi-esque sex scandal—he was caught frolicking with high-class prostitutes—and he's being lambasted daily in the press. This has obviously upset his wife—played by the supremely elegant Romy Schneider—who has retreated to her room, comforted by a litter of kittens. (Really.) The contessa is convinced she's going to find some kind of job and prove to her husband and father that she's worth more than her good looks, but this proves difficult. Ennui-afflicted, she spends most of the story getting dressed, undressed, and dressed again, putting on a series of fancy outfits as if these superficial changes could somehow give her meaning. Schneider's performance aches with sad beauty, and as always, Visconti is a master of control and perception, finding the chips in the gilded veneer of a moneyed life. In the context of the other parts, Il lavoro does slow down Boccaccio '70 considerably, but the ending—which I wouldn't dare spoil—is the most poignant moment in the entire film.
The film is based on the popular novel by Thomas Gaddis, but while its reconstruction of the big events that are described in it is mostly accurate, the positive image of Stroud that it promotes is seriously misleading. The real Stroud was a vicious abuser who caused a lot of trouble while being incarcerated at Leavenworth and his reportedly never-ending antics very quickly created a large group of sworn enemies amongst the guards and the rest of the prisoners. He really was a genuinely dangerous guy to have around and this is the very reason why he was eventually placed in a segregation unit. In the film Burt Lancaster quickly transforms Stroud into a rational loner who comes to terms with his fate but also vows to expose the hypocrisy of the people that are responsible for it. So by the time the final credits roll Shroud actually emerges as something of an oppressed hero who has had the courage to take on a supposedly strikingly inhumane justice system.
The embellishments and Lancaster's ability to brilliantly sell his character certainly make the film entertaining, but anyone who has taken the time to read Gaddis' novel, which by the way is also full of fabrications and fancies, and then actually study Stroud's history should quickly realize that the charismatic man with the birds in the film is a fictional character. Of course this helps tremendously the film's political message, which is that the only fair justice system is a lenient justice system, but because so much of Stroud's history was made public it is very difficult not to notice that the many contrasts that are used to deliver it are indeed either seriously exaggerated or completely fabricated.
The crucial transformation occurs in the second act where Stroud discovers an injured bird while having his routine 'free time' in the backyard of the penitentiary and then takes it back to his cell. Soon after, he is allowed to have more birds and while looking after them his anger gradually disappears. His new passion causes a string of conflicts with the wardens that come and go while he serves his sentence, but he never gives it up and even does some important medical discoveries while trying to cure a deadly bird disease. Years later, after he is relocated to Alcatraz, he is also the voice of reason during a bloody riot.
Having succeeded in creating insensitive monsters from the wardens and the rest of the state officials that had rejected Stroud's numerous parole requests over the years, the film ends with a classic carefully scripted Hollywood encouragement to think about the big picture and the many other prisoners like Stroud that might have suffered a lot more than they deserved. It is a bit much, really, but hardly surprising.
The performers routinely go unpaid, and Pop, a perpetual optimist, assumes that they'll stay with him out of loyalty. Unfortunately for Pop, his chief competitor, John Noble (Dean Jagger), better understands human nature, and he's been steadily hiring away the Wonder Circus' acts for some time, simply by promising that people will be compensated for their work—and delivering on his promises. Noble's real goal, however, is to acquire Pop's star attraction: Jumbo, a performing elephant like no other in the business. Jumbo is so smart that, as far as Kitty and Pop are concerned, he's a person and a star performer, not an elephant.
As more acts defect, Kitty finds herself pulling double and triple duty to cover for the missing players. One day, a stranger named Sam Rawlins shows up looking for work (Stephen Boyd, best known as Messala in Ben-Hur). Kitty suspiciously turns him away as a "sundowner", circus slang for someone who's here today and gone tomorrow. But Sam sticks around and proves his mettle, and Pop takes to him immediately. So does Pop's long-suffering fiancée, Lulu, who works the sideshow as a fortune teller (Martha Raye, who by this point in her career was a major star on TV). Lulu has long encouraged Kitty to get out and find someone, and she thinks Sam would be a perfect candidate. Indeed, there's chemistry between Kitty and Sam, but Sam keeps pulling away, for reasons Kitty can't understand.
Much of Jumbo is taken up with the rehearsals and performances of the Wonder Circus, which MGM stocked with real circus acts and director Walters shot with fluid camera movements. Paralleling the circus routines are the dance numbers choreographed by Busby Berkeley in and around the Big Top props and paraphernalia, which incorporate circus elements into their movement. The best parts of Jumbo have very little to do with the story. They're all about song, movement and comic routines like Pop Wonder's failed efforts to design an act where a man (or, as it happens, Lulu) is shot out of a cannon. Durante also gets to repeat his most famous line from the stage show. Discovered by creditors when he's trying to hide Jumbo, Pop is asked: "What are you doing with that elephant?" Pop stands in front of Jumbo, looks to left and right and deadpans: "What elephant?"
Kitty can only shield her father from his debts for so long, and ultimately, through a chain of events that audience members will see coming long in advance, the scheming John Noble acquires the Wonder Circus. Their spirits unbowed, Kitty, Pop and Lulu cobble together a traveling sideshow, where they are shortly joined by Sam, who has managed, by methods that don't bear close scrutiny, to bring along a familiar pachyderm as company. In its last ten minutes, Jumbo trades carnival sleight of hand for movie magic, as the cast performs circus routines freed from the laws of physics or the constraints of time, soaring aloft into realms of fantasy that John Noble could never hope to equal.
Once Billy boards Avenger, the film falls neatly into three acts. In the first, Billy gets acquainted with the ship and its crew, and they are quickly won over by his innate goodness and boundless generosity. The men are hungry for a dose of uplift in their daily lives, which are ruled by the Avenger's cruel master-at-arms, Mr. Claggart (Robert Ryan, making no attempt to disguise his American accent). Claggart is Billy's polar opposite: suspicious where Billy is trusting, brutal where Billy is kind, and manipulative where Billy is guileless. He is despised by the crew, whom Claggart routinely suspects to be on the verge of mutiny—and ironically, because of Claggart's harsh treatment, they often are.
In the film's second act, Claggart focuses on Billy as his archenemy, not because Billy has committed any offense or evidenced any bad influence. On the contrary, his presence among the crew has a demonstrably calming effect, and he respects the ship's chain of command. But for Claggart, Billy represents an existential threat, because his very nature challenges the dour master-at-arms' Hobbesian world view, in which men are beasts who respond only to fear of the whip. After discovering Billy's weak spot, which is his inability to speak when emotionally distraught, Claggart contrives to provoke the innocent seaman into an offense that, in the charged environment aboard the Avenger, will almost certainly be deemed mutinous. The smile that passes across Ryan's face after he succeeds is a masterpiece. It's not just a reflection of Claggart's pleasure at besting his enemy; it bespeaks profound satisfaction that his bleak assessment of humanity has been vindicated.
In the third act, Billy is tried by the ship's officers, and the trial devolves into an argument between justice, represented by Gunnery Officer Wyatt (David McCallum), and the practical needs of social order, represented by Captain Vere. It is here that one can appreciate why Ustinov wanted to play the captain, as Vere articulates at length the reasons why Billy's actions, however justified, cannot be excused, lest his example incite other sailors to even more serious infractions. The extended trial sequence is the part of the film that feels most stage-bound, even in a film that routinely bears the marks of its initial incarnation as a play, despite six weeks of filming at sea on an actual ship sailing in the Mediterranean.
Ustinov's stature in the entertainment world attracted a sterling cast of mostly British actors, with the addition of a few Americans like Ryan and the reliable Melvyn Douglas, who plays "The Dansker", a sailor with an indeterminate accent who says he's Danish, though his crewmates doubt his word. But it is first-timer Stamp who stands out from the crowd, his chiseled features and infectious smile lending Billy a weight and credibility that are essential to the story's impact. It's not surprising that the role launched an exceptional career, attracting the attention of great directors like William Wyler, John Schlesinger and Federico Fellini (with whom Stamp would make Spirits of the Dead). In its totality as a film, Billy Budd may feel stagey and dated, but Stamp's performance as the man to whom Melville routinely referred as "the Handsome Sailor" remains just as glowing as when it was new.
Senate investigation into the President's newly nominated Secretary of State, gives light to a secret from the past, which may not only ruin the candidate, but the President's character as well.
Alan Bates plays Vic Brown, a working-class draftsman whose life is one big repetitive cycle of seriously dull and disappointing events. Each day Vic walks to the nearby factory and spends long hours staring at projects that he forgets as soon as he clocks out. Occasionally he would force himself to have a drink with friends, but their company bores him to tears. He also tries to support his favorite football team, but after a long streak of underwhelming games he no longer feels the urge to routinely visit the local stadium.
The cycle is broken when Vic accidentally bumps into Ingrid Rothwell (June Ritchie), a flirty blonde who works in the same factory as a typist, and she makes it clear that she would love to go out on a date with him. Vic proposes that they see a movie together and when she enthusiastically agrees he concludes that the man upstairs has finally heard his prayers. He has the evidence to prove it -- Ingrid is even better looking than the sexy girl from the dirty magazine that he has been carrying for months in the secret pocket of his coat.
The date does not disappoint. Vic and Ingrid spend more time looking at each other than at the fuzzy black-and-white film. Soon after, they also kiss in a secluded shack in the town's biggest park. But when Ingrid starts talking about the power of true love and spending the rest of her life with the man of her dreams, Vic becomes visibly nervous.
The lovers and their relationship are put under the microscope when Ingrid reveals that she is pregnant. Vic decides that the right thing to do is marry her, but soon after the two sign their official wedding certificate a series of events force Vic to reconsider his commitment.
Schlesinger's directorial debut offers an unfiltered look at working-class Britain that appears fairly similar to the one promoted in Tony Richardson's film A Taste of Honey, which was released a year before it. It is worth mentioning that despite their unique flaws both films also embrace their protagonists with similar compassion and at the end part ways with them with practically identical optimism about their future.
In Schlesinger's film, however, there is more time dedicated on the gap that exists between two very different generations -- that of Vic and Ingrid, which expects and seeks greater freedom and prosperity, and that of their parents, which appears quite uneasy with the fast evolution of traditional values and relationships. The static that emerges between the two is basically the source of the drama that the film documents. (A similar clash occurs in Richardson's film as well, but there the two opposing sides are the two sexes, and at the end there is a very different message).
The film relies greatly on the performances of its two stars and they certainly do not disappoint. Bates looks fantastic as the young and quite naïve draftsman who is dying to be in a 'meaningful' relationship with an attractive girl. Ritchie is just as good as the flirty blonde who has a crystal clear plan for her future. Thora Hird plays to perfection the utterly annoying mother-in-law.