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Monday, March 17
SEARCHING FOR JOHN FORD
by
Lloydville
on Mon 17 Mar 2008 12:56 AM PDT
I recently finished Joseph McBride's excellent (and massive) biography Searching For John Ford. It tells you everything you want to know about the man . . .
except who the hell he was. The mysteries and contradictions of his
character simply cannot be sorted out. I'm sure the same would be true
of Shakespeare if we had massive documentation and testimony about his
life. The depth of the work in each man's case comes out of the
mysteries and contradictions and transcends them but sheds no light backwards on the
man himself. Perhaps, to be a truly great dramatist, you have to
abandon all hope of a coherent self in real life.
The biggest revelation in the book, to me, was the extent of Ford's
WWII service, which was far greater than I realized -- but even in that
arena, nothing he did seemed to satisfy him. He told outrageous
lies about his wartime service, even when the things he actually did
were far more impressive. Reading the book makes one more and
more convinced that Ethan Edwards comes as close to a portrait of Ford
the man as we will ever have -- a psychotic searcher who does heroic
things that no one else can do, and then wanders off alone, permanently
lost.
It's a sad tale but also, in some mysterious, unaccountable way, inspiring.
Tuesday, February 19
CHEYENNE AUTUMN
by
Lloydville
on Tue 19 Feb 2008 12:26 AM PST
This
was the next to last feature film John Ford completed, in 1964, when he
was 69 years-old. It doesn't work as a drama, much less a
melodrama, or as a character study or as an historical epic . . . but
it's one of the most sublime visual poems in the history of movies and
a very great work of art.
It tells the once little-known story of a band of Cheyenne who, in
1879, broke out of confinement on a reservation in Indian territory,
present-day Oklahoma, and made a 1500-mile trek back to their homeland
in Montana. Pursued and harried by a succession of cavalry
expeditions, starved and near death, the band made it to its old home where
it was allowed to remain.
In his excellent commentary on the wonderful new DVD edition of the film, Ford
biographer Joseph McBride says that Ford originally intended to make Cheyenne Autumn
as a small, black-and-white film, an intimate study of the Cheyenne
pilgrims, but that he was persuaded by the studio to expand it into a
big wide-screen Technicolor extravaganza. It was, says McBride, a
"Faustian bargain" which led to a film that was neither fish nor fowl,
since Ford lost sight of the Cheyenne characters yet failed to create a
genuine epic.
This may indeed reflect the development of the project but I think it
misses the essence of the film that Ford finally made. All
of the characters in the film, both Cheyenne and white, recede into the
images, become secondary to the images. Ford doesn't lose sight
of them as dramatic personae because he has no real interest in them as
dramatic personae. They're just narrative markers that guide us
through the landscape of the film.
Landscape was always a character in
Ford's Westerns, a kind of Greek chorus commenting on the relative
smallness of human intention and desire. It stood in, one might
even say, for the regard of Eternity, in which human endeavor held an
insignificant place. It transformed the melodrama of his stories
into tragic
absurdity.
In Cheyenne Autumn, as in
Shakespeare's late romances, the author lost interest in the mechanics
of plot altogether, in the centrality of individual character, and became enchanted by the
mystery of his medium -- the magical poetry of words, in Shakespeare's
case, and of images in Ford's. The
progress of the Cheyenne through the magnificence of the landscape, the
evolutions of mounted cavalry on the march or at the charge, fill
Ford's imagination fully -- the characters dissolve into the beauty of
movement itself. They are elevated into a transcendent glory not
by the specificity of self but by their possession of space. They
are dancers, sculptures in motion.
This is not an abstract vision, however, a celebration of
technique. In his old age, disillusioned with the legends of the
West he did so much to reinforce, Ford lost his faith in man's
essential goodness, or at least in that part of it related to his
will. Primal values, transcending individual human character,
were all he could believe in -- the dumb urge to go home, to preserve
community, to do one's duty.
At the center of the film Ford inserted, unaccountably to many critics,
a 21-minute sequence set in Dodge City which mercilessly satirizes the
myth of the Western hero, of the frontier town. Jimmy Stewart
appears as a corrupt and cynical Wyatt Earp leading the hysterical townspeople on an
absurd pursuit of the phantom Cheyenne, who in truth are nowhere near
Dodge. The familiar narrative of the old West is deconstructed, revealed as
a tale told by an idiot, full of sound and fury, signifying nothing.
After this strange interlude, the film switches back to the story of
the Cheyenne, doing what they have to do, and the horse soldiers, doing
what they have to do. When the Cheyenne are restored to their
ancestral Eden, Ford shows us how much they have lost recovering it,
just as
he shows us how much honor the soldiers have lost in fulfilling a duty
that's been applied to a meaningless and inhuman mission.
The triumph on both sides was only in the journey, the movement, the dream -- all of
which vanish in the end, as the eternal landscape looks on impassively.
The
film has a nominal "upbeat" resolution in its penultimate episode in
which
Secretary of the Interior Carl Schurz, wonderfully played by Edward G.
Robinson, goes to visit the escaped Cheyenne in Montana and promises to
help them stay there. This scene, oddly, is shot against
cheesy-looking back-projections -- such a radical violation of the look
of the rest of the film that it almost seems deliberately surreal . . .
as though Ford was asking us not to take this superficial "climax" too
seriously. Perhaps it can be compared to the improbable events
that "resolve" the narrative of Shakespeare's The Winter's Tale,
in which the playwright seems to be asking us to laugh with him at the
conventions of the stage -- to remind us that the true heart of his
work lies elsewhere.
Saturday, February 16
DUDLEY NICHOLS AND JOHN FORD
by
Lloydville
on Sat 16 Feb 2008 11:45 PM PST
With the notable exception of Stagecoach,
I'm not a big fan of the movies John Ford made with screenwriter Dudley
Nichols, even though these include some of Ford's most celebrated and
entertaining films.
Nichols was an extremely skillful writer, with a sound sense of story structure and a good ear (usually) for
colorful dialogue. But he also had a self-conscious, "literary"
style -- he tended to see situations and characters in emblematic,
metaphorical terms. This aspect of Nichols' work encouraged Ford
to indulge his gorgeous visual expressionism at the expense of what he
did best -- create cinematic spaces and places of mesmerizing
specificity. The images of The Lost Patrol and The Informer
are supremely beautiful but they grow claustrophobic after a
while. The desert and the fog-bound city are too obviously
surrogates for existential states, symbolic and airless.
In his best work Ford found ways of imbuing interiors and landscapes
with an uninsistent symbolic quality -- we read them as real spaces and
feel their emotional resonances on a subliminal level. We have a
sense of discovering and exploring these spaces on our own, no matter
how many times we come back to them. The shadowy streets of Gypo
Nolan's Dublin in The Informer, the merciless desert that swallows up The Lost Patrol, are places we visit with a guide, always reminding us what these environments "mean".
The streets of Tombstone in My Darling Clementine,
the unfinished church on the edge of town, the maze of the O. K.
Corral, are every bit as charged with meaning and significance, but
Ford lets us tease them out for ourselves -- he lets us inhabit them at
our ease, until the places seem to speak to us in their own voices.
Monday, December 31
HOW GREEN WAS MY VALLEY
by
Lloydville
on Mon 31 Dec 2007 12:14 AM PST
Jean-Luc
Godard once said that every tracking shot is a moral statement.
This is true and worthy of much meditation. Another way of
putting it might be "where a director moves his camera, there will his
heart be also".
It occurs to me that the pacing of a film and the length of its shots
also involve moral choices. There are vast areas of human
experience which cannot be addressed with the kind of fast-paced MTV
editing that many films today employ, and moral choices come into play
when excluding these areas from popular culture.
These thoughts are prompted by a recent re-viewing of How Green Was My Valley,
one of the greatest works of American cinema. The film is not
really slow-paced -- it's full of incident and movement -- but it's
episodic and it pauses often to record the precise and deliberate way
certain incidents unfold. It's the story of a particular family and a
particular community but it's also a poem about family and community as
phenomena. It concerns itself, as Ford's films often do, with
process -- in this case the process by which family and community are
constructed, the practical ways they function.
This involves showing the ways that mundane activities are ritualized,
so that everyone's role in them is clear. It involves showing the
ways that mutual consideration is shown -- which might include a rude
jest or keeping one's peace, joviality or silence, singing and dancing
boisterously or slowing down the pace of a social interaction to
accentuate its gravity.
Modern films -- which people in Hollywood are fond of referring to as "rides" -- can feature families but they cannot be about
family in the way that Ford's films were about family. Families
can certainly go on rides, but family life is not constructed like a
ride. Family life is what happens between rides -- and so is the
real story of How Green Was My Valley.
The family in the film, like all families eventually, comes apart --
through kids leaving home, disagreements between the generations,
external social pressures and death. The film's narrative is
almost a litany of
ordinary tragedies. But these are not the things that sum up the
film in your mind after you've seen it. It is not a tragedy, nor
a soap-opera ride. It's a movie about the creation of a miracle,
a work of art -- a family. It's about the deathless essence of
family -- the highest achievement of human civilization.
In Hollywood today, moral choices masquerading as aesthetic, stylistic
preferences virtually insure that this subject can never be presented
on the screen -- though I would guess that there's hardly any subject modern audiences are hungrier for or more in need of.
Sunday, December 30
TOBACCO ROAD
by
Lloydville
on Sun 30 Dec 2007 03:16 AM PST
In
1941 John Ford, as a contract director at 20th-Century Fox,
made two films for the studio. One was the sublime How Green Was My Valley. The other, made right before Valley, was a bewildering misfire -- Tobacco Road.
You just have to throw your hands up at Tobacco Road.
It's clear why the studio would be interested in the property -- based
on a novel by Erskine Caldwell but derived more directly from a
theatrical adaptation which at the time held the record for the
longest-running Broadway play of all time. The movie pokes
merciless fun at the same class of sharecroppers who were treated as
almost saintly characters in The Grapes Of Wrath, made only a year before.
The film's humor is extremely broad but rarely funny. Ford
lets his actors mug and jerk around like puppets -- they might as well
be shouting "look at me, laugh at me!" It's only the occasional
throwaway gags that actually elicit chuckles. At the end of the hi-jinx Ford tries to summon up some pity for his
rustic clowns, but they aren't real enough to pity.
The film is
beautifully shot and its perversity is impressive if not exactly
entertaining. (Some might find the whole thing worthwhile just
for the chance to watch a scantily-clad Gene Tierney slithering
lustfully through the dirt like a sex-crazed slug -- surely the strangest thing she was ever
asked to do in Hollywood.) It almost seems as if Ford was
indulging his worst
instincts -- to get them out of his system before tackling How Green Was My Valley.
Apparently it worked -- in the latter film he hardly makes a single
wrong move, and takes the poetic possibilities of filmmaking about as
far as anyone ever has.
If he did indeed need to root around for a bit on Tobacco Road to create the miracle of How Green Was My Valley you'd have to say that, on balance, it was a road well-taken, though not much fun to revisit today.
Saturday, December 29
READING JOHN FORD
by
Lloydville
on Sat 29 Dec 2007 01:41 AM PST
In
the present age of extreme political and cultural polarization, it can
be hard to read John Ford. He worked in an era when it was
possible to revere military culture with an almost religious fervor and
hate political war-mongering at the same time, when it was possible to
traffic in racial and ethnic stereotypes and subvert them at the same
time, when it was possible to worship the family and family values and
see the oppressive role of families at the same time, when it was
possible to be at once a social conservative and a political
progressive, a deeply religious artist and a man with a profound
suspicion of organized religion.
In our own either/or age, Ford's complexities can be confusing, with
what seem to be conflicting cultural signals. This is due partly
to Ford's rhetorical strategies, in which the obvious pieties of his
stories could be completely undercut by their emotional undercurrents
-- and it's due partly to
Ford's comprehensive sympathies, essential for a great dramatist, which
wouldn't allow him to judge anyone based on an ideological position or
professed beliefs.
Many people are distressed by the presence of Stepin Fetchit (above) in several
of Ford's films. Fetchit specialized in impersonating what was on one level a most objectionable
stereotype of the slow-moving, slow-witted African American. But
he was usually, in Ford's films, far wiser and cannier than his image
suggested, in itself an interesting comment on the stereotype, with its
inescapable implication that it might be no more than a mask.
(Fetchit was also a brilliant physical comedian and Ford showcased his
art with great care -- which has to count for something.)
Even more remarkable, in a film like Judge Priest (above), starring Will Rogers in the title role, is the way the
Rogers character subverts the stereotype -- by treating Fetchit as a
peer, with total respect. You search in vain in Rogers' performance for
the slightest hint of paternalism or condescension -- it's simply not
there. Since Fetchit-like characters were used in large part to justify
paternalism and condescension, Ford is subverting the phenomenon at its
root.
The same phenomenon is at work in another scene from Judge Priest
when Hattie McDaniel (above), a "mammy" stereotype, starts singing a silly
song about the judge to a Gospel-sounding tune. The judge chimes in
with heartfelt responses of "Oh, Lord! Oh, Lord!", in full,
joyful voice, again without a trace of irony. He likes the way he
and she sound singing together -- he treats her "quaint" musical idiom
as a serious medium of communication, and also as a medium they share
and rejoice in equally.
For the judge, the character we most identify with, to see through the
most extreme stereotype to a real person behind the facade, is radical.
It's like the way Priscilla sees past the racial stereotypes and
imperialist assumptions in Wee Willie Winkie, the remarkable collaboration between Ford and Shirley Temple.
In a superficial reading of that film one might see it as a celebration of the
British Empire and its mission -- unless one remembered that Ford was an
Irishman, with a built-in grudge against the British Empire. When Khan
laughs hysterically at the idea that Queen Victoria wants to help his
people, he's probably expressing Ford's truest feelings on the subject.
Ford was both a subtle artist a wily old son-of-a-bitch -- taking anything he does too much
at face value is always dangerous. It risks missing the deepest meanings of his films.
Friday, December 28
THE WORLD MOVES ON
by
Lloydville
on Fri 28 Dec 2007 12:33 AM PST
The World Moves On, starring Madeleine Carroll and Franchot Tone (above),
is a fairly undistinguished and only mildly entertaining John Ford film
from 1934. One might be tempted to see it as an assignment in
which he had no great personal interest, except for the fact that its
themes are ones that preoccupied him all his life -- family, war and
religion.
The film is an epic family saga that begins in 1825 with the setting
up, in New Orleans, of an international textile combine. After
this lengthy prologue the film concentrates on the first third of the
20th Century -- showing how war and greed destroy not only the combine
but the family that runs it and, by not so subtle implication, the
fabric of civilization itself. There are chilling and prophetic
hints of the war to come -- with documentary images of Hitler reviewing
marching Nazis, of Imperial Japanese and Russian and French troops on
parade, of British ships and American warplanes on maneuvers.
The coming apocalypse -- which in 1934 could conceivably have been
averted -- is presented, like the previous apocalypse of the Great War,
as the direct consequence of rejecting Christian values. At the
end of the film, when the lead couple visit their crumbling home in New
Orleans, the ruined patriarch says, "There's nothing left." His wife
answers that there is something left -- and points to a crucifix hanging on the wall.
Ford was rarely so explicit in his references to religion, because he
didn't need to be. They were built into the narratives of his
films, as they were built into the parables of Jesus (before he
explained them in private to his disciples, at which point they lost most of their
power.) Here the religious references seem imposed from outside
the narrative -- one
of the few cases in which we catch Ford preaching. Ford wasn't at
his best in a pulpit -- like Jesus, he did his best work out of
doors, in taverns and in the homes of ordinary people.
The most moving sequence of the film shows a series of
soldiers walking through a town towards the train that will take them
to the front. We see the film's young lovers but also nameless
characters -- a stiff-upper-lip officer walking with his son, tenderly holding the little boy's
hand, a soldier walking with his mother, who babbles advice as a way of
not falling apart. In these small vignettes we feel the truth of
war, feel its threat to decency and humane life, far more deeply than in
the noble pronouncements of the characters who expound Ford's
sentiments directly.
Thursday, December 27
PILGRIMAGE
by
Lloydville
on Thu 27 Dec 2007 01:13 AM PST
[With plot spoilers -- don't read what follows unless you've seen the film . . .]
Pilgrimage,
a John Ford film from 1933, is unapologetic melodrama -- it makes a
shameless appeal to the emotions. A modern sensibility, schooled
in a cynical age, tends to resist this sort of appeal and I did, too,
the first two times I saw the film, and it worked -- up to a point. Beyond that point I found myself crying
like a baby. I'm still not entirely sure how Ford got around my
defenses (twice!) but I'm
forced to admit that he deployed the complex and mysterious resources
of melodrama with devastating effectiveness.
One of the key resources of melodrama, especially cinematic melodrama,
is indirection -- while the conscious mind is busy resisting the
obvious assault on the heartstrings, the filmmaker finds an unexpected
avenue around the conscious mind, and the emotion catches you unawares
by some other route than the one you were defending.
Pilgrimage tells the story of
a possessive mother who ships her son off to WWI rather than lose him
to the young woman he plans to marry -- and the kid dies "over
there". The fiancée is pregnant with the boy's child, whom the
grandmother refuses to recognize. Something has to give -- but
where, and how?
The first radical shift in the tone of the film is visual rather than
(explicitly) emotional. The embittered old woman is offered a
trip to France to visit her son's grave and is shamed by her neighbors
into going. We cut to the station where she's boarding her
train, and the cut is a shock -- because the station is an exterior
location, shot in sunlight . . . the first such shot in the film.
Everything else, even the rural exteriors, has been shot on a sound
stage, with moody, often expressionistic lighting. (There is a
single shot prior to this, of a moving train at night, which couldn't
have been shot on a sound stage but might as well have been -- all we
see is the train surrounded by darkness.)
From this point on in the film, Ford shoots on real exterior locations or sets built out-of-doors
as often as he can. Real sunlight becomes a player in the
tale. You don't need to notice this consciously for it to have
its effect. It's disarming. It prepares us for deeper
changes. At the station, the mother of her son's child asks the
old woman to take a bouquet of flowers to the grave for her. She
raises it up to the window of the train compartment where the old woman
is sitting, unseen by us. Slowly the old woman's hand reaches out
and takes the bouquet, draws it in to the train.
We never see the old woman's face in this exchange -- and we really
want to. We want to know if she takes the flowers angrily or
tenderly, if she's softening or still hard as stone. Ford
won't tell us. The next time we see her, we look at her a bit
more closely -- suspicious that Ford might be keeping something else
from us. We might think we don't care about this old woman and
her damned intransigence -- but the damned director better not try to
hold out on us like that again. It's a master melodramatic stroke.
As we watch what happens to the old woman in France, surrounded by
other mothers who lost sons in the war, things develop in a conflicted
and complicated way. The old woman finds a kind of companionship
she's never known in her life -- and we suddenly realize the depth of
the loneliness that made her want to hang on to her son. We'd
been looking at the pathology of it before, at its horrifying effects
on other people's lives -- now we're blindsided by an awareness of the
unutterable isolation and sadness at the core of her being. She
doesn't seem so much delighted as bewildered by her ability to get on
with others -- and that's what breaks our hearts
But as the old woman comes alive among her peers, she also grows more
distant from them, dealing with the fact that they mourn loving relationships
with loving sons while she wrecked her son's life, and sent him off to
die. She faces up to her guilt with courage but it estranges her
from these woman in whose company she has blossomed as a human being
for perhaps the first time.
In Ford films, of course, with their strong Christian, Catholic
underpinnings, facing up to one's sins leads to redemption -- often by
miraculous means. In this case it's a young suicidal man the old
woman meets on the street and saves from himself -- a surrogate son,
who gives her a second chance to be a good mother. This doesn't
remove her burden, but it gives her the final measure of courage she
needs to visit her son's grave.
That visit is shot on an exterior set built inside a sound stage, lit
moodily,
with a long tracking shot through the crosses in the graveyard.
Stylistically, we're back where we started in the film -- we have made
a kind of circle through the sunlight and come back to the shadows
again. The old woman places the withered bouquet given to her by
her son's fiancée on the grave -- then falls into the dirt and asks her
son's forgiveness. She's saved -- and somehow Ford has badgered,
enchanted and tricked us into following the mechanics of her salvation,
believing in them because we have felt them, in spite of
ourselves. The Christian dynamic of confession, repentance and
redemption is rendered in convincing psychological terms.
In one sense, it's all done with mirrors, with clever deviations and
circumnavigations around the story's deep undertow -- but the tears it
draws out of us, the tears it allows us, finally, to release, are quite real . . . and precious.
Wednesday, December 26
JOHN FORD AND THE COMING OF SOUND
by
Lloydville
on Wed 26 Dec 2007 12:42 AM PST
In
a 1966 interview John Ford was asked what happened when talkies
came to Hollywood. "Nothing," Ford said, "we just made them with
sound."
That might seem like typical Ford bluster but on the evidence of his first three sound features for Fox -- Born Reckless, Up the River and Seas Beneath, all included on the new Ford At Fox DVD box set (and all
from 1930!) -- it seems like a fair assessment of his own remarkably
assured transition into the sound era. (Ford had made one sound
short and one silent feature, The Black Watch, which was released with interpolated talking sequences, before the three sound features from 1930.)
The first two of the three are admittedly clumsy programmers.
Ford moves his camera occasionally in these films but they also have a
number of scenes that feel stagebound, with proscenium
framing and little dynamic choreography within the shots. Often
these scenes were staged and directed, at Fox's insistence, by "dialogue experts" with stage experience.
The results could be truly dreadful -- especially so for a film like Born Reckless,
which was meant to be a gritty underworld drama. To hear actors
portraying hoods declaiming street slang in theatrical tones, with
slight pauses between lines to avoid overlaps, is laughable today, and
was probably laughable to a lot of people when the film first came
out. Interestingly there is one scene in a bar, undoubtedly
directed by Ford himself in an experimental mood, which features fast
overlapping dialogue by a number of characters. It's impossible
to make out much of what's said but the film suddenly feels modern for
a few moments.
Up the River, a whimsical
prison comedy, had better lead actors -- Spencer Tracy and Humphrey
Bogart no less -- and so feels a bit more naturalistic, but it's a
routine film, with Ford often straining too hard for his comic effects,
as he had a habit of doing throughout his career. The inspired
visual touches are few and far between. It doesn't help that Up the River
as presented in this set derives from a severely damaged print, with
missing frames (and thus dropped bits of the soundtrack) which make the
dialogue in several places impossible to follow. Apparently this
print represents the best surviving material for the film.
Then suddenly we have Seas Beneath.
The story material is potboiler stuff -- recounting the adventures of
some plucky U. S. sailors in WWI venturing forth on a decoy ship to
hunt German submarines. But visually the film is breathtaking,
with scenes shot at sea that have to be seen to be believed. Even
the built sets, for the episode when the sailors go on shore leave in
the Canary Islands, have solidity and depth and often look out onto
exterior sets alive with action.
The delivery of dialogue is occasionally stilted, but you can see that
Ford was going for something resembling natural speech. He's
greatly aided by George O'Brien (above) in the lead role, whose lack of stage
experience is a decided advantage to him here.
The film has some remarkable action sequences and many beautiful,
powerful images, reminiscent of silent-era filmmaking. Ford
doesn't seem to be straining against any limitations imposed by the
microphone -- he seems perfectly at home in what amounted to a new
medium. The visual bravura lifts the film above its pedestrian
story and script, as it so often did in the silent era. One can
easily imagine it as a silent film. Ford just made it with sound.
Thursday, December 13
HANGMAN'S HOUSE
by
Lloydville
on Thu 13 Dec 2007 08:12 AM PST
Hangman's House is the last, and least, of the five silent films included in the new Ford At Fox box set. It's not a bad film, exactly, just sort of respectably mediocre.
Ford here abandons his effort to out-Murnau Murnau. He moves his
camera very little, and only once or twice with any real effect or
beauty. Generally he returns to his more characteristic style of
fixed camera positions looking into deep spaces with lots of
choreographed movement within them. There is some moody lighting
here and there, and some fog effects on studio "exterior" sets,
reminiscent of those in Sunrise -- but the film rarely comes alive visually.
You get a feeling that Ford simply wasn't all that inspired by this
somewhat creaky melodrama -- entertaining enough, but just
barely. Viewers who only know Victor McLaglen's work as a comic Irish drunk in later Ford films will be surprised by his easy, restrained performance here. It makes you wish he were the
romantic lead in the film, instead of the limp Larry Kent. And there's one
really powerful camera move -- in on the villain as he appears suddenly
in an apparently deserted house. It's spooky and unsettling -- like the push-in on Ethan's face in The Searchers as he registers the horror of the condition of the female captives just freed from the Indians. It's markedly different from the longer, Murnau-esque camera moves in Four Sons, which are typically about exploring locations or expressing high spirits.
In his book on Ford, Andrew Sarris said that if Ford's career had ended
with the coming of sound, he wouldn't be recognized as a major
director. Even Joseph McBride, in his notes for this new set,
says that Pilgrimage, a talkie from 1933, is Ford's first great film. Having seen just the five silent films in this set, along with Kentucky Pride a few years ago, I must say I find these judgements puzzling. 3 Bad Men and Four Sons are hardly lesser works than Pilgrimage, The Iron Horse is a masterful film with elements of greatness, and Four Sons is one of the finest achievements of the silent cinema.
Ford would go on to make finer films, but he was "major" well before the coming of sound, at least in my book.
Wednesday, December 12
FOUR SONS
by
Lloydville
on Wed 12 Dec 2007 12:26 AM PST
Four Sons,
from 1928, is one of the greatest works of German expressionist cinema
-- even though it was made by the Irish-American John Ford in
Hollywood, U. S. A. Ford doesn't just seem to be working under
the influence of Murnau here -- he seems to be channeling Murnau.
If the film had somehow been misattributed to Murnau, it would be very
difficult to correct the mistake by means of a stylistic
analysis. Ford even, at one point, seems to be following in
Murnau's missteps -- Four Sons, like The Last Laugh,
has an odd extended epilogue which violates the tone of the rest of the
film but somehow seems to work in spite of that, lightening the mood
in a strange, surreal way without diminishing the power of the work as a whole.
In Four Sons Ford moves his
camera as elegantly and expressively as any director ever has -- and
the plastic invention involved is ravishing. The lighting is
typical of Murnau, employing soft, glowing, complex chiaroscuro
effects as opposed to the stark contrast of light and shadow often
associated with expressionist cinema (and which Ford himself came
to favor in his later "expressionist" films, from The Informer to The Fugitive.)
Ford had two great masters in his formative years, first Griffith and
then Murnau. What's astonishing is how totally he was able to
absorb each man's style -- he didn't seem to be imitating it so much as
working within it naturally and unselfconsciously. Maybe even
more astonishing is that Ford absorbed Murnau so quickly. We know
how powerfully Sunrise
affected him -- just from viewing the rushes he declared it the
greatest film ever made. Less than a year later he was working
with full confidence and mastery in the Murnau style -- and even shot
parts of Four Sons on sets from Sunrise that were still standing.
Apart from its lack of a strong female lead, Ford's Just Pals
could have been directed by Griffith and would rank among Griffith's more
enjoyable minor films. The epic visual poetry of Ford's The Iron Horse bears favorable comparison with the epic visual poetry of The Birth Of A Nation -- which is saying a lot. If Four Sons had been directed by Murnau, it would rank among the German director's most important works -- and that may be saying even more.
Tuesday, December 11
3 BAD MEN
by
Lloydville
on Tue 11 Dec 2007 12:40 AM PST
[Caution -- this post contains plot spoilers.]
In
modern-day Hollywood it's fashionable to analyze drama in terms of
"character arc". A character starts off a tale with a problem
which he or she must then develop the skills and inner resources to
solve, and this development follows a chartable arc. I think
corporate executives are drawn to this model of storytelling because it
reminds them of the charts and case studies they used in business
school -- it reduces human experience to something resembling the
problem of growing a business or maximizing profits.
The model is useless, of course, for understanding the actual life
experiences of human beings or the great stories and dramas in the art
of the past. Achilles has no character arc, neither does
Hamlet. They both undergo various experiences which sometimes
reveal their characters, and sometimes make their characters seem
hopelessly mysterious. Neither of them "solves" anything.
The character arc model is particularly useless for analyzing the films
of John Ford, which are full of characters who suddenly do complete
turnarounds, often without the slightest explicit motivation -- the
most famous case in point being Ethan Edwards in The Searchers.
Their "arcs" are unchartable, mysterious -- they raise more questions
than they answer, but the questions are ones of profound interest . . .
they provoke moral thought in audiences.
In 3 Bad Men, a silent film by
Ford from 1926, three criminals are suddenly converted into saints by a
young woman who mistakes them for heroes, and from that moment on they
behave like heroes, and in the end sacrifice their lives for her.
Such a tale would never make it past the first story conference in
Hollywood today. The film would have to spend most of its length
working up to that moment of conversion, showing the conflict within
the men as they struggled with the decision to be good.
Instead, Ford presents us with a mystery up front, and lets us spend
the rest of the film wondering what it means. For Ford, the
answer lies somewhere in the realm of the moral, the spiritual, the
religious. This is a realm not studied in business schools, not
relevant to ordinary business practice, and thus meaningless to the
corporate executives who run Hollywood today. In modern corporate
culture, which is Hollywood's culture, moral issues are covered by
charitable contributions, perhaps by a dedication to ethical behavior
or to worthy political causes. The issue of saving souls does not
arise.
But the saving of souls is what Ford's films most often concern, which
involves positing the existence of souls in the first place. 3 Bad Men
suggests that the worst of men have souls and are just waiting for a
chance to save them -- just waiting for a call to goodness. And
it further suggests that goodness is not always approached on paths
with chartable arcs. Sometimes goodness descends on men like a
dove and changes them in an instant.
We may cheer when the hapless nerd grows his business or maximizes his
profits against all odds -- but the bad men in Ford's movies,
unaccountably redeemed, make us cry. It can be argued that they
also make us wise in the actual ways of the human heart.
[With thanks to the Silents Are Golden web site for the images above.]
Monday, December 10
THE IRON HORSE
by
Lloydville
on Mon 10 Dec 2007 07:05 AM PST
You can look at John Ford's The Iron Horse
in two ways -- as a silent melodrama set against the epic backdrop of
the building of the transcontinental railroad, or as an epic poem about
the building of that railroad with some melodrama woven through it to
give it a more coherent structure.
In truth the film is both these things, simultaneously or alternately
-- the two halves of its nature are never entirely reconciled.
The melodrama isn't at all bad -- it's entertaining and sometimes
moving -- though it has one of the lamest lovers' misunderstandings in
all of movies. (Interestingly, the international version of the
film tries, through rewritten intertitles, to make the misunderstanding
more plausible but just succeeds in making even lamer than it already was.) The real
problem is that the epic poem which hosts
the melodramatic narrative is one of the most sublime achievements of
the silent cinema. It's hard to imagine any melodrama which could
holds its own with such poetry. (It should be noted that Griffith
faced the same dilemma with The Birth Of A Nation, and similarly failed to solve it.)
The epic poem within The Iron Horse
has themes and developments peculiar to itself. Ford is
interested, as he often was, in the process of things, which in this
case centers on the land, the physical fact of the land, which
determined the challenge the road builders faced. Ford is also
interested in the moral development this challenge prompted --
specifically the uniting of diverse peoples in a national consciousness.
The inclusiveness of the film is notable, and notably modern.
Building the railroad unites former antagonists in the civil war
between
North and South. It unites Eastern engineers with Western scouts
and hunters. It unites ethnic groups -- most specifically the
Irish
and the Italians, though there are a few scenes demonstrating
good-natured camaraderie between Europeans and Chinese. It unites
women and men, who at one point take
up arms together to rescue some besieged track layers . . . and in the
climax of that scene, a band of light cavalry rides to the rescue --
not U. S. soldiers but Pawnee Indians, allies of the train
workers. The only people conspicuously absent from this American
mosaic are blacks -- probably to avoid alienating white Southern
audiences of the time.
The epic poem of America that's at the heart of The Iron Horse unfolds
at a stately pace, even though it's brimful of incident and exquisite
lyrical images. (There's enough pure cinema in this picture to
supply a dozen ordinary movies) Unless you surrender to its
rhythms, are willing
to just sit back and enjoy the sheer spectacle of it, you are likely to
find The Iron Horse tough going. If you're primarily interested in the
melodrama, wanting Ford to get on with it already, you'll find it even
tougher going.
On the other hand, if you let Ford take you at his own pace, show you
want he wants you to see, you'll be deeply rewarded. Here is the
vernacular lyricism of Leaves Of Grass
applied to a truly epic subject and translated into visual terms that
transcend its melodramatic armature. It's an imperfect but genuinely awesome work.
The film is part of the new Ford At Fox
box set, where it's presented in two versions -- the American release
and the somewhat abridged international release, derived from a
separate negative made up of second-camera shots and alternate
takes. The American version is far superior but apparently better
print material survives from the international version. You
really need to be familiar with both to appreciate the film fully.
The international version on the set has a first-rate commentary by
Robert Birchard, filled with a wealth of information about the
personalities involved in the making of the film and about the
production.
Sunday, December 9
JUST PALS
by
Lloydville
on Sun 09 Dec 2007 06:35 AM PST
Just Pals, the first film John Ford made for Fox, makes an
illuminating pendant to another silent film also recently released on
DVD, D. W. Griffith's True Heart Susie. They could have been made by
the same director -- which is to say that Ford, the younger of the two
and the one newer to the business, obviously studied hard at his
master's feet.
Both films fall into the American Pastoral genre, both feature plots
that are outrageously melodramatic, unashamedly sentimental -- and both
are visual masterpieces.
We forget it sometimes, but American culture is in love with virtue -- a
love tempered only by the desire not to be taken for a fool. We like
our virtue delivered sidewise. In less cynical times than the present,
this sidewise delivery could be only slightly oblique. So we have
Griffith's gentle teasing of the innocent protagonists of his tale, and
Ford's cursing urchin in his. But simple decency is the theme of each
film -- as it is of Huckleberry Finn, from an earlier age, and of Casablanca, from a later one. The differences in attitude mainly
involve how cynical the narrator or protagonist has to pretend to be
before getting down to doing or celebrating the right thing.
The message of most works of art can be boiled down to a platitude, if
one is so inclined. The message of Huckleberry Finn is "blacks are
human, too, and anyone who thinks otherwise risks losing his or her own
humanity." But art is not about messages. It's about creating psychic
movement within the audience -- about internalizing the wisdom
trivialized in a platitude.
In silent movies, this process of internalization happens visually --
not in the plot or in the intertitles. In Just Pals, Ford convinces
us that he loves his protagonists not by making them narrative agents of
good but by the way he situates them in space, in the settings of the
story. The cursing urchin is revealed as plucky and independent and
admirable not by his curses but by the way he rides a moving train.
Bim's moral authority in foiling the express office robbery is conveyed
not by his statements of resolve but by the way he commandeers and rides
a horse in the execution of his resolve.
Just Pals is a celebration of sacrifice -- of the mechanics of
sacrifice -- not a sermon about sacrifice. It makes sacrifice seem
beautiful by making the mechanics of sacrifice beautiful.
Just Pals is part of the recently released Ford At Fox DVD box set. It can't be said often enough that the release of
this set is one of the most important cultural events of
recent times.
Friday, December 7
IT'S HERE
by
Lloydville
on Fri 07 Dec 2007 02:16 AM PST
The Ford At Fox box. Twenty-four films made by John Ford at Fox, eighteen of them new to DVD in this country, including five silents.
Oh, my God . . .
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