John Borowski’s H.H. Holmes: America’s First Serial Killer is alternately fascinating and dopey, an interesting journey into the mind of the country’s first sociopath that too often succumbs to severe over-dramatization. Holmes was clearly a sadistic maniac, his smooth appearance and demeanor belying an underlying hatred for the world—do we really need a dum-dee-dum score and theatrical voiceover to reinforce it? Every hokey moment is doubly frustrating, because Borowski shows a clear appreciation for the demonic workings of Holmes’ mind, as well as some genuine filmmaking talents. His decision to cast actors in the roles of Holmes and his victims, mixing reconstructed murder sequences with actual archival footage, was an excellent touch—since (obviously) no videos exist of Holmes unleashing his assortment of deathdreams on unsuspecting citizens, I found Borowski’s decision to be useful. Unfortunately, too many of these moments are more interesting from a historical perspective; very few—due mostly to the silly delivery—are really scary. It’s lucky that Holmes is such an intriguing character; otherwise, America’s First Serial Killer’s flaws would be much more difficult to forgive. Borowski paces the picture well—at 64 minutes, there’s no wasted time, and he does a good job of blending Holmes’ personal background with the overall significance and influence of his actions. Ultimately, there’s not a great deal more to say about it—it’s certainly worthwhile viewing, especially for fans of serial killers or American history, but it’s merely competent cinema. Never theatrically released, H. H. Holmes: America’s First Serial Killer can be purchased at www.hhholmesthefilm.com.
42/100
Mike Leigh’s Vera Drake isn’t a pro-choice defense picture—it’s a character study first and foremost, as well as an examination of English class tensions. It seems that most critics place a premium on the latter—and admittedly, I’m not familiar with Leigh’s filmography, which apparently is heavily focused on the class struggle—but I found Vera Drake most interesting in its portrayal of a woman in a crisis, and the subsequent emotional reactions it provokes in her and her family. The anti-abortion crowd probably wouldn’t give Vera Drake a chance—George Dubya would spit on it, call it despicable. That’s a shame, because abortion is primarily a mechanism here to trigger the film’s themes. Set in mid-1900’s London, Vera Drake is the story of its title character (played by Imelda Staunton), a kindly housekeeper with sturdy family values and a caring husband. What her family doesn’t know is that on the side, she performs illegal abortions to aid (predominantly) young women who’ve made mistakes. When a complication occurs with a teenage girl, however, and her mother breaks down and informs the police of Vera’s identity, a wrenching legal struggle ensues, one that threatens to shatter the strong home that Vera’s built.
Vera Drake does an excellent job of establishing Vera’s persona—the first 20-25 minutes are everyday dilly-dallying in her life, which seem somewhat superfluous. Once the abortion equipment comes out, however, and Vera’s humane manner and expressions remain exactly the same, it’s clear that she truly believes that she’s simply, “helping people,” as she puts it. Those initial everyday moments are crucial in setting up Vera’s disposition, and help us analyze her actions objectively without feeling pressured by Leigh to choose sides. Personally, although she was somewhat oblivious to the risks of her actions, I fully understand Vera’s mindset—what she was doing and why she was doing it—and I found credible the fact that Vera took no money for her actions and was unaware that Lily (Ruth Sheen), an elderly snooty lady who frequently recommended girls to Vera, was pocketing a few bucks on the sly. It may be easy to vilify Vera’s naivete, but much more difficult to vilify her heart—a real testament to Leigh’s direction.
In regard to its depiction of class differences, Vera Drake is rife with controversy. Is it fair that the prosperous can afford proper abortions, yet crucify the poor for going the makeshift—and dangerous—route? Is it fair that these same, upper class blokes are the ones who set the laws for the poor, forcing them into illegal actions to avoid an unwanted child? In some respects, Leigh’s portrayal of the upper vs. the lower classes follows stereotypes—most of Vera’s family are tender, upstanding, and unattractive, while most of the affluent are stern and cold—but those images are faithful to the circumstances in the real world of back alleys and amateur surgery.
The second half of Vera Drake, featuring many close-ups of Vera’s heartbroken face, effectively communicates the importance of her selfless actions—she’s consistent to the end; her tears come not from regret at ‘helping people,’ but from the pain she’s inadvertently and unintentionally caused her family. After a while, the nonstop close-ups become tedious and repetitive—no individual scene is unimportant or poorly done, but combined they feel somewhat stretched. However, Leigh’s depiction of the family dynamic is very strong—the supporting characters are all nicely fleshed out, and their individual reactions to Vera’s arrest and imprisonment are believable. Though I wasn’t especially emotionally invested in Vera Drake—Leigh’s methodical style isn’t involving—and I wouldn’t want to see it again, it’s worth checking out once for Staunton’s performance. Evaluating Vera’s morality—and the class issues—will challenge and intrigue the most ambitious of movie-goers.
Undertow , David Gordon Green’s latest venture into the Southern wilderness, is a vast departure from his lyrical pictures George Washington (2000) and All the Real Girls (2003). Those two films predominantly rely on mood and characters, while Undertow’s a more plot-oriented venture, producing mixed results. As a thriller, it’s moderately successful—the problems arise when you realize that anyone could have penned & helmed Undertow without Gordon Green’s admirers being any wiser. Too frequently, Gordon Green bludgeons his audience with precocious moments and ineffective interludes that siphon emotional momentum down the drain. Undertow is never dull, but it’s forgettable and lacks an identity to separate it from its genre cohorts. I expected more from the 28-year old Gordon Green, whose previous work showed so much promise—while not a fatal setback, Undertow certainly represents a significant backpedal for the talented filmmaker.
The story—actually vital here, a rarity for Gordon Green—focuses on a single father and his two sons living in the middle of southern bumblefuck. John’s wife passed away several years before, and to avoid facing the anguish head on, he decides to move himself and his two sons (Chris and Tim) away from humanity. Not surprisingly, Chris becomes something of a problem child—as his father bails him out, he wearily remarks on how it’s become a weekly occurrence. When John’s brother Deel surprisingly arrives at the farm one morning, a cloaked past begins to poke its nose into the open, and all hell breaks loose. The first half of Undertow is mostly development, the second half a chase of sorts—and not a particularly riveting one, at that.
Gordon Green forges intriguing individuals but stops short with too many ideas, creating a muddled and often ineffective atmosphere. Chris’ initial ‘troubled punk kid’ persona is emphasized by the aforementioned arrest-and-lecture sequence (also including a painful nail-through-the-foot moment that would’ve really caused me to wince if an identical puncture hadn’t occurred in last year’s equally mediocre House of Sand and Fog), but it essentially vanishes as soon as the family returns home from the station. Nothing else happens to emphasize a troubled childhood, a severely flawed relationship with his father…anything. In fact, Chris is obviously very close to Tim, and never seems particularly distant from his father either—aside from a brief hissy-fit about their unbearable solitude, everything appears fairly normal, both on the surface and below. It’s difficult to become especially attached to such a mixed-up portrayal—no fault of Jamie Bell (Billy Elliot), who does an admirable job for such a flatly written kid. His performance occasionally lacks bite, but that’s more Gordon Green’s doing than Bell’s in this case.
Tim is wasted even more than Chris…he could have been fascinating! Early on, he appears at the table wearing a girly pilgrim outfit—coupled with his floppy hair and feminine mannerisms, I began to sense some real homosexual undertones. When I caught on to his tendency to consume inedible substances such as paint and dirt, and his aversion to real food—combined, they caused regular bulimic torrents of vomit—I was sure there was something deeply dark and intriguing going on. Irritatingly, though, there’s nothing more to say on the subject. That’s not lazy reviewing, but simply that for the rest of the picture, Tim’s little more than a normal, scared kid brother on the run! How many shots of Chris pulling Tim somewhere by the hand do we need? Arrgh! That I’m being as generous with my rating as I am is indicative of the vast potential I felt existed here—indeed, the first half of Undertow is far more interesting than the second, with an enticing buildup involving the four leads and their various interactions with one another. This could have been a terrific film.
Flashes of Gordon Green’s signature poetic style make sporadic guest appearances, but they’re infrequent at best, and joined by something that’s generally foreign to the skillful director—pretentiousness, and I hate that word, unless I’m referring to post-70’s Godard pictures. For every authentic speech, we’re treated to cutesy monologues, pointless snazzy editing technique that contribute nothing thematically, and an imposing score with the dreaded heavenly wail making sure we’re aware of just what’s important. Interestingly, an almost identical musical technique is used in Zhang Yimou’s House of Flying Daggers, yet it seems right at home in the forests of China—or more importantly, under Zhang’s direction. For most of its second half, Undertow really only comes alive when Josh Lucas (Deel) is onscreen—taking charge of the surroundings and cliched moments, he gives them energy and makes them palatable. Despite being a passable thriller, I hope Gordon Green goes back to his moody previous works, and realizes that’s where his niche lies, because it’s sure not here.
Though no longer even slightly funny, Clarence Badger’s romantic comedy It maintains its charm with witty camerawork and a powerhouse performance by the lovely Clara Bow. More than anything, It is a Bow vehicle, designed to get the men oggling and the women dreaming. On this level, the film’s quite a success—Bow dominates every scene, with other characters existing to play off her in some manner. She has a magnetic personality, one that smacks of a man-killer with a heart. As there are few of 
The title refers to that special somethin’, that sex appeal that can’t be put into words. It’s about flamboyance and carrying yourself, an aura of unique splendor. Well, Clara most certainly has *it* and ain’t shy about flaunting it either. Unfortunately, Badger goes overboard with his contrasting casting; everyone else feels like little more than a Waltham’s manequin, and things bog down whenever she’s offscreen, even if it’s just for a split-second. By placing so much weight on Bow’s shoulders, Badger’s taking a big risk, and it only partially pays off. Bow makes the picture worth seeing with her spicy performance, but It isn’t much to boast about on any cinematic level. Visually, the camera mundanely moves along, perking up only when Betty appears in a medium close-up. In fact, the film’s so one-dimensional that almost the entire commentary focuses on Bow’s career, her every movement, her every article of clothing. Hell, the commentator even scoffs at the other actresses! The concept of “It” is fine and dandy, but it’s pounded relentlessly into our heads. The dialogue (shown in intertitles) has its moments, but remains predominantly secondary to Bow’s expressionist acting and reaction shots.
Completed in 1930 but released in 1932—when Al Capone ruled Chicago gangland—Hawks’s Scarface was pulled back after its first run, presumably for fear of mob repercussions. To even get it initially released, producer Howard Hughes was forced to significantly tone down the violence, add a subtitle (“Shame of a Nation”, which indicts America’s passive approach to ending Mafioso activity) to the opening credits, and insert some politically condemnations here and there. Despite these regulations, Scarface is still shockingly bold for its time, holding up marvelously today as an anti-gangster picture—it’s particularly strong, considering our current adverse situation in Iraq. Whether Capone would have deemed it prudent to take on a major Hollywood director is questionable—though in 1932, Hawks hadn’t really built his reputation yet—but it certainly must have been in Hawks’s mind while making Scarface. While Tony Camonte (Paul Muni) isn’t a mirror image of Capone, he’s clearly a symbolic, cinematic reincarnation of the legendary ringleader. Indeed, the alternate title—Scarface: The Shame of a Nation—speaks volumes about Hawks’s intentions, and his feelings about America in the Depression.
Set in Chicago, Scarface is the story of the aforementioned Camonte, a power-hungry mobster whose thirst for blood grows with every murder and blackmail he commits. Initially, Camonte is merely a bodyguard for warlord Big Louis Costillo—one of the last of the old-school mob leaders—but after Costillo is mysteriously snuffed out, presumably by Johnny Lovo (Osgood Perkins), Camonte graduates to assistant henchman, and shoots his way up the ladder until he’s capo. As Scarface draws to a close, Camonte is shot dead—a fantastical interpretation of what Hawks hopes to see, the demise of the Mafioso operation—but not until he’s instigated a bloody massacre that takes countless lives, including that of his sister Cesca (Ann Dvorak), a beautiful 19-year-old who rebelled against her overprotective, thuggish brother.
I’ve always thought of Hawks as a meat-and-potatoes director, but he really goes for broke in Scarface. I wonder…did that make the studios more wary of giving Hawks visual leeway in the future? His later work—Only Angels Have Wings (1939), His Girl Friday (1940), The Big Sleep (1946), for instance—is pretty much typical Hollywood in terms of the mise-en-scène: shot // reverse-shot, standard framing, etc. Great films, all, but I can’t think of a sequence that stands out as revolutionary or extraordinary. In Scarface, however, there are several: the St. Valentine’s Day massacre—where Camonte’s boys line up a slew of men and mow them down with machine gun fire; it’s a chilling shot of their shadows crumpling to the ground—is particularly memorable, and exceedingly violent for its time. Other gutsy highlights include a slaughter in a flower shop, Camonte’s titillating discovery of machine guns—he becomes starry-eyed like a kid in a candy store—and his evident incestuous feelings for his sister (despite his sexual pursuit of Poppy (Karen Morley), who was formerly Johnny’s mistress). I imagine Scarface was among the first pictures to present such controversial themes—and images— without blushing. Its subtlety and ability to tackle such a range of important societal issues keeps Hawks’ Scarface powerful today.
DePalma’s cultish remake keeps Hawks’s plot, but shifts the scene to 1980’s Miami, where Cuban refugee Tony Montana (Al Pacino) is climbing the proverbial ladder himself. With his friend Manny Ray (Steven Bauer) at his side, Montana blazes his way to the top of the drug ring. Along the way, he steals Elvira (Michelle Pfeiffer) from his boss Frank (Robert Loggia), and builds an empire the likes of which has never been seen. Unfortunately, his greed and power-hungry demeanor never take a break…nor does his need for cocaine. They ultimately lead to his downfall. Scarface (1983) glorifies and enhances everything about the original—the violence is frequent, furious, and vicious: chainsaws, pools of blood, severed limbs, non-stop cursing…. As a result, it’s difficult to view DePalma’s version as a social commentary, even though it’s certainly an indictment on the swelling drug smuggling problems of the 1980’s. Pacino’s hammy performance is a blast, but it lacks any restraint to make us care about Montana’s fate. When he finally falls in a smoky, gory finale, I didn’t really care—frankly, it was long overdue. Personally, I had nothing invested in Montana, which is genuinely how campy films operate—they’re a trip, but it’s rare that they inspire any lingering thought. Other souped-up elements in the remake include Tony’s relationship with his sister Gina (she actually bares herself to him near the end—there’s nothing ‘hinted’ at in the 1983 film), and Elvira’s important role. In Scarface (1932), Poppy is an object of Camonte’s hormonal urges and lust for power, but it’s brushed over delicately. DePalma’s version is rife with brief encounters between Pacino & Pfeiffer, and they’re often full of venom…when the two aren’t fucking, that is.
None of Scarface’s (1983) differences make it a bad film, though. Even though it’s overlong at 170 minutes, it’s still a lot of fun, the acting is perfect for the tone, and it’s richer than the majority of cult hits. Hey, DePalma loves blood and guts—nothing wrong with that! However, there are simply too many cinephiles out there who rank it among their favorite movies…without having seen Hawks’s far superior version! That’s inexcusable, and could possibly be more easily remedied if a DVD print was readily available here in America—unfortunately, I had to obtain my copy from Australia on e-bay, though it can be obtained in the deluxe Scarface (1983) DVD box set. That said, try your hardest to track down Scarface (1932)—anyone with a passing interest in Mafioso history, or top-notch early American cinema would do well to view it.