I Was a Communist for the FBI

Gordon Douglas – 1951

Unflappably loyal American Frank Lovejoy goes undercover as a communist subversive to help the FBI build a case against a spy ring, at great risk to his reputation with family and friends. It’s the kind of movie that, on impulse, you want to laugh off as completely artless, state-sponsored propaganda that can only be enjoyed ironically, but in fact, it’s too good and too (believe it or not) progressive, to dismiss so comfortably. Even the comically on-the-nose pulp title, mimicking sensational newspaper exposés, conveys some degree of self-awareness, the same type that would give us titles like I Was a Teenage Werewolf and I Married a Monster from Outer Space within the same decade. The naked earnestness of its flag-waving, hyper-patriotic agenda is undoubtedly laughable. It’s hard to imagine anyone less conservative than the John Birch Society finding the movie persuasive, plausible or even entertaining on its own terms. Workhorse journeyman director Gordon Douglas tackles the material as matter-of-factly as any other noirish crime drama of the period, comparable to Act of Violence, Mystery Street, or Storm Warning, that continued the noir genre’s swerve into social issues over strictly murder and detective stories. It couldn’t have been made at a more opportune time for this type of material. In 1951, both HUAC and Joseph McCarthy were at the height of their power, goaded on by the even more powerful J. Edgar Hoover, and Hollywood studios were happily cooperating with the professional blacklisting of anyone listed in Red Channels. The entire premise of the movie is both ludicrous and reprehensible, presenting as fact the notion that any outbreaks of unionization, civil rights activism and/or advocacy for the poverty-stricken could only be the result of direct orders from the Kremlin as part of a massive conspiracy to actively undermine the American system. Yes, miniscule, mostly ineffective spy rings existed, and there were traitors who deliberately fed classified information to the Soviet Union, but there was never – (in the 50s or throughout the Cold War) – anything close to the comfortably thriving mafia-like “fifth column” shown at work in I Was a Communist for the FBI. What makes the film a little intriguing, along with its lean, procedural Dragnet brand of storytelling, is that expressions of blatant racism and antisemitism are put into the mouths of the pro-communist antagonists, not the heroes. Honest, black union workers are shown to be victimized, not helped, by the rabble-rousing agitators, and union-busters wrap the pipes they’re going to bash heads with in recognized Jewish newspapers, presumably to frame Jews for the crime. This shows that the film’s producers understood that racism was frowned upon by a majority of audiences and that, rather than coding racist ideas to make them seem innocuous and pander to the public’s prejudices, they opted to make their villains even more hateful and hateable by making them the racists. That doesn’t make the film significantly less odious, but it is of interest as a kind of signpost about the country’s slowly evolving attitudes about race. Long story short, I Was a Communist for the FBI has the dubious honor of being one of the most famous Red Scare mania movies, but it’s far from the worst. The genre also includes winners like The Red Menace, The Big Lie, Guilty of Treason, and My Son John (the film that killed poor Robert Walker).

Scream

Wes Craven – 1996

It’s odd how Scream continues to exert such a commanding power after all these years. It’s still always credited with revitalizing the horror genre, even though its secret recipe was never really replicated. The fact of the matter is that it’s better than it should be, and that’s part of its mystery; somehow rising above Kevin Williamson’s hip TV-style dialogue and bottomless plot holes. It remains insanely popular, the rare non-supernatural thriller that was never misunderstood nor required rediscovery or reevaluation by succeeding generations. It’s always been loved for what it is, and – like all successful IP’s – it demanded a string of sequels, spinoffs and reboots, which only served to demonstrate that not even Williamson and director Wes Craven combined could force lighting to strike again. The Scream franchise is comparable to Halloween and A Nightmare on Elm Street in that there’s not a lot to them beyond the original standalone film, and fans are left having to do all the heavy lifting by filling in various sequels’ inadequacies with their feelings of love and nostalgia.

I feel that the Scream franchise took a wrong turn right out the gate, desperately rushing out Scream 2 in 1997, just under a year after the first film’s debut. The problem for just one sequel, let alone six, is that all of the interesting characters from the Scream universe didn’t even survive the first film, meaning that we’re left with a handful of so-so heroes who get picked off over the years, no consistent villain, and absurd amounts of ret-conning. If the creators had been capable of tempering their greed with a little imagination, they could just as easily have made a prequel or two back in the 90s instead, so that not only Sidney and Randy, but Casey, Steve, Billy, Tatum and Stu could all appear. It sounds far-fetched, but what keeps Scream so interesting after all this time? It’s not the notion of slashers in ghost masks targeting pop-culture-referencing teens. It’s Williamson and Craven’s ingenious world-building. Scream approaches Twin Peaks dimensions with its effective presentation of so much lore and tidbits of backstory about the fictional Woodsboro community, populating it with the likeable, intelligent high schoolers of A Nightmare on Elm Street. I think that’s where the magic is. So many mysteries. What was really going on with Sidney’s parents, (and everyone’s parents)? Who was Cotton Weary? How could Billy and Stu kill one person and successfully frame Weary for the crime, stay dormant for a full year, and then make a complete mess of massacring all their friends while right in the glare of the police and media spotlight? Are Billy and Stu more like anarchists or just bloodthirsty? Are they lovers too? Are they equal partners or is Stu just Billy’s pawn? Just one film teases so much fascinating backstory. (And how in the world exactly is Steve killed? I’ve seen the film over a dozen times and I still don’t know what happens in that scene.) The point being, there is so much material to explore, it would have been great to see the same cast in at least one more film leading up to the events of the crime spree.

Aside from its postmodern analysis of the changing role of media at the fin de siècle, it’s hard not to be aware of class issues when watching the film too. The main characters are all fairly privileged and live in fabulous houses on isolated cul-de-sacs. Parents all seem to be out of town, leaving the kids to have sleepovers and host house parties. Casey and Sidney are so easy to target because they’re known to be home alone. Stu is more worried about his parents being mad at him than about being arrested for murder. Even the most “wrong side of the tracks” character, Billy Loomis, has a yuppie father who feels entitled to chew out the sheriff for questioning his son about Casey’s murder. Randy, the goofy, official third wheel of the clique of friends, seems to be the only one who actually has a job, though even he is proud of having been fired from the video store twice already, suggesting that he’s more likely employed on the orders of his parents than because he’s actually supporting himself. Though shown to be very bright, Sidney is so removed from natural instincts by her lifestyle that she doesn’t consider that her boyfriend is a psychopath until he literally tells her so himself, and she’s so conditioned to feel safe in an SUV that she doesn’t see, hear or even sense that the vehicle’s liftgate is being opened by the killer right behind her. This is a world where the affluent prove to be vulnerable precisely because of their isolation from the real world and consequences for their actions, and where a working-class drifter like Cotton Weary can be easily framed and convicted for a crime committed by rich kids. “My mother wouldn’t have touched him,” Sidney reassures herself, incredulous that her mother could associate with someone so low class.

As for the film as is, its series of impossible situations is notorious, and no one really minds. Trying to figure out how the killers could possibly know to be here or there at various times is pointless. The plot is not a conundrum to be pondered like Carpenter’s The Thing; it’s all a meta joke to be laughed off, just like the characters’ sometimes correct and sometimes wrong movie references. It’s such a unique film, lightning in a bottle, that appears effortlessly crafted on its surface and yet depends so much on quirks of character and Craven’s knack for unsettling angles and injecting a sense of foreboding into brightly lit, suburban locales. It is a bit too long; the third act and climax take up nearly all of the second half of the runtime. The cat-and-mouse chasing around the property gets repetitive after a while, especially for repeat viewers no longer on pins and needles waiting to learn the story’s twists and resolutions. These criticisms are pretty minor, though, as the film’s enduring allure can’t be denied. I still watch it every year or two around Halloween.

The Phantom of the Opera

Terence Fisher – 1962

Hammer Films’ resident auteur Terence Fisher made a string of sumptuously lurid horror films in the late 50s and early 60s, and deserves a huge chunk of the credit for the revitalized studio’s success. He essentially crystalized the Hammer brand that fans still recognize and love today with films like Curse of Frankenstein, Horror of Dracula, The Mummy, The Two Faces of Dr. Jekyll, and The Curse of the Werewolf. Hammer and Fisher continued their cycle of classic remakes with The Phantom of the Opera, and as with their others, they wisely made it their own instead of a by-numbers re-staging of past versions. Surrounded by rich and ornate production design, Herbot Lom plays the scarred musical genius wreaking havoc on an opera house to avenge himself against the corrupt owner (Michael Gough) who stole his compositions and ruined his life. Behind a pale, one-eyed mask, Lom uses voice and gesture to create a feeling of gravitas. The mask itself might be the greatest detail in the film. It looks like hand-pressed clay, completely primitive and without aesthetic intention. Aside from having the rough shape of a human face, and nostril holes, it includes no opening for a mouth. Though the Phantom can speak, the absence of a mouth in his mask represents the cruel theft of his ability to express his talent. While not a forgotten film, Hammer’s The Phantom of the Opera is easy to miss compared to their more famous works starring Peter Cushing and Christopher Lee. Of the many screen adaptations of the classic story, this one is my favorite.

The Room Next Door

Pedro Almodóvar – 2024

Making a kind of companion to his Pain and Glory, Pedro Almodóvar returns to the themes of aging and illness with The Room Next Door. Tilda Swinton and Julianne Moore play successful women who were once close friends and get reacquainted due to one of them being terminally ill and the other agreeing to accompany her on a vacation that is to culminate in her suicide. While Pain and Glory felt more genuine, possibly simply due to it being a more autobiographical story about a film director dealing with chronic pain, The Room Next Door in comparison is theatrical and calculated, as if the director is just indulging an impulse to make his own Persona. The former film was an original work written by Almodóvar, while the new one is an adaptation of a novel, a fact that tends to make it even less personal. The gorgeous color cinematography and striking production design are as satisfying as ever, and there are times when it seems like this is just enough to make the film worthwhile. Swinton and Moore, two of the greatest actresses in the world, are brittle and reserved, admirably avoiding easy tear-jerking moments. The film never milks the situation for obvious emotion, instead sticking close to the slow exploration of two very different and very difficult personalities. Almodóvar is one of my favorite living directors, and a new film from him is always an important occasion, so it troubled me that I was so distracted while watching The Room Next Door. I kept asking myself how I would feel about the film if I didn’t know that it was Almodóvar. The fact that it’s in English makes its dialogue feel pretty theatrical and obvious in contrast to the earthy and passionate quality of his Spanish-language films. Whether that effect is the result of my lack of fluency in Spanish or possibly to Almodóvar's lack of ease with English, I don’t know. Long story short, fair or not, I just hope that Almodóvar makes many more films and that they’re all in Spanish.

National Lampoon’s Christmas Vacation

Jeremiah S. Chechik – 1989 

A perfect example of when an otherwise great comedy is ruined by one egomaniacal star who is willfully out of synch with everyone else and doesn’t care about anything except his paycheck. Yes, I’m referring to Mr. Chevy Chase, who couldn’t be bothered with remembering how to play Clark Griswald, so just played himself and made a lot of wacky faces. Because of this, the character doesn’t work at all. Clark is supposed to be a lovable, not-too-bright bumbler, but Chase interrupts his “performance” constantly to make sarcastic wisecracks in his normal “Chevy” persona, presumably to remind the audience that he’s so above this material. Chase’s entitled attitude and inability to cooperate blinded him to the fact that he was surrounded by quite an amazing cast of character actors in the roles of his extended family, including John Randolph, Diane Ladd, Doris Roberts, E.G. Marshall, William Hickey and Mae Questel. Even the kids are played by good actors; Juliette Lewis and Johnny Galecki. Even the yuppie neighbors are good; Julia Louis-Dreyfuss and Nicholas Guest. It’s sad because this has become such a holiday favorite over the years, but I can’t help thinking how much better it might have been with someone else in the lead role. It didn’t have to be a Vacation movie; it could have been essentially the same except with John Candy, Rick Moranis or Steven Martin in the role and it would have been so much better.  

Miami Rhapsody

David Frankel – 1995 

 

Sarah Jessica Parker does a stand-up comedy routine for 90 minutes in this Woody Allen knock-off written and directed by David Frankel. A lot of people try to make Woody Allen films, but not all of them manage to get Mia Farrow to act in them, so that’s an impressive achievement for which I give the film due credit. That doesn’t make it good, though. Most of the time, Frankel doesn’t give you a single moment to forget that he really, really loves Woody Allen movies, which doesn’t give his film a chance to stand on its own. While Allen’s familiar situations and dialogue patterns are a stylistic choice that his fans enjoy, here they are made frantic to the point of bordering on parody. Characters relentlessly spew sit-com-like jokes and one-liners throughout every scene, until it’s time for the sad stuff, when everything slows down for a succession of heart-tugging cliches. It’s not all absurd, though. There are quite a few shot compositions that are eye-catching. And the focus on a central female character is a noteworthy deviation from Woody Allen’s template. The basic problem is that the protagonist is not very interesting or likeable. She rants and raves neurotically but with a superior streak that’s never endearing or captivating. Luckily, she’s surrounded by a bunch of much more intriguing and fleshed-out supporting characters, played by Farrow, Paul Mazursky, Antonio Banderas, Carla Gugino, Kevin Pollack, Jeremy Piven and Donal Logue. All in all, it’s not bad as a light romantic comedy-drama, but it never satisfies the viewer’s desire for it to be a little better.

Santa Claus: The Movie

Jeannot Szwarc – 1985

It’s hard to buy into the whimsy of the Santa story and the Christmas spirit when this film is shamelessly plugging McDonald’s and Coke and other junk food every few minutes. When the violins kicked in during Santa’s weepy soliloquy about how folks these days have forgotten the true meaning of Christmas, I’d had about enough. The most surreal highlight for me was when Burges Meredith appeared in a bit part, putting a strange bit of gravitas into an otherwise soulless movie.