The Molly Maguires (1970)

If there’s a life-blood that courses through the veins of this country, it’s black. It always has been.

I was born in the center of West Virginia, to a railroad family. After college I hitched my car to a coal miner’s daughter from Wheeling, a decaying, once glorious city where the National Road crosses the Ohio River in the far northern part of the state. Now we find ourselves in Pennsylvania, in what’s called the Coal Region. I teach at one of the myriad small private liberal arts colleges that proliferate in Pennsylvania like no other state save Massachusetts. A few miles from here there’s a modern day ghost town — a curiosity called Centralia — claimed by eminent domain, condemned, and finally abandoned by its residents because of a uncontrollable mine fire that has been burning continually under its streets for fifty years.

The people here are fascinating. They have a culture all their own, a way about them that’s foreign to me even though I come from only a few hours south. Manhattan is three hours by car, but might as well be a million miles away. People here for the most part haven’t made the trip, and really don’t care to. Less easy going than folks in West Virginia, they are more gruff, not so quick to trust. The southern tendency towards public manners doesn’t extend this far north, as if the area’s hard winters somehow keep courtesy at bay. Don’t get me started on the Amish. People around here have an uneasy relationship, or rather an uncomfortable dependency, on the local colleges (every town’s got one), which since the waning of the coal industry have become the driving force behind the local economy. (Natural Gas has recently arrived like a Biblical whirlwind, but that’s another story.) Yet like West Virginians, Pennsylvanians have been defined in some way by coal. The history of the people around here and the black rock is long, very well documented, and bitter. It’s an immigrant history, an American one. It’s a story of the captains of industry, and the backs upon which this country was built. It’s a story of abuses, of resistance, of labor, of unions, and finally of progress.

It has largely been forgotten. Or ignored.

Yet it’s such an alluring story! Dappled as it is with secret societies and violent, sensational crimes. It’s often pure bedtime stuff, and it makes wonderful film fodder, as historians can’t seem to form any consensus as to the truth, or in some cases, even the existence of many of the historical players that populate this modern mythology. That brings us to the Molly Maguires, the subject of a 1970 film starring Sean Connery and Richard Harris. If you don’t know who the Molly Maguires are (I’ve got no perspective there, they are ingrained in the culture here) I encourage you to check out the Wikipedia article — surprisingly, it’s one of the most exhaustive (and fairest) I’ve read. In a nutshell, the Maguires were a secret society of Irish coal miners who violently resisted the working conditions in the Pennsylvania coal fields in the latter half of the nineteenth century. Events in Mollie history culminated in the 1870s, when a Pinkerton man infiltrated the group and brought about the arrests, convictions, and executions of numerous men accused of being Mollies. The film, The Molly Maguires, presents a dramatized version of these events.

Sean Connery plays the ringleader of the Mollies, while Richard Harris is the detective. In many ways Martin Ritt’s film follows typical Hollywood formula — sticking to the thirties gangster film tradition: infiltration – acceptance – betrayal – outrage – revenge. Yet the movie shines in its attention to detail. Too often we take for granted the toil that went into the things we see around us. Here’s a film that provides a fair depiction of what life in a mine was like for the men who descended into that unique hell each day of their lives, until the black dust ruined them. It shows us the dirt, the sweat, the blisters, and the constantly looming ceiling of rock, always a moment from crashing down. We see everything from the cruel ritual of payday to drinking company lager and shopping at the company store, but the film manages to never preach at us. Richard Harris plays a police officer that clearly empathizes with the men he suspects of murder, and time and again the script refuses to let us know with whom his loyalty truly lies. Harris’s struggle is the dramatic thrust of the film, yet he’s not engaged enough with his part to make us truly care which way he’ll go in the end. Even Connery seems subdued, as if his efforts to create a “hard man” stifled his ability to show us what’s happening beneath the surface. Director Martin Ritt refuses to take sides, and in his effort to avoid preaching at the audience, he leaves us with a film that feels more like a detached action picture than an emotional human drama.

After watching a movie with such a “can’t miss” pedigree, it isn’t surprising to see how it only scored an Oscar nomination in the set decoration category. As I watched I kept wishing for the passion of Paul Muni in 1935’s similarly themed Black Fury, everyone here just seems to be going through the motions. Such a powerful, yet unknown chapter in American history deserves better treatment than this. 

The American (2010)

For the first time ever as a blogger I’m reviewing a new film — better look outside to see if the sky is still there! At any rate, I’m not so sure this is a review as much as it is a brief discussion of the pros and cons of George Clooney.

It’s surprising to me in reading critical reaction to Anton Corbijn’s The American that so many viewers consider Clooney to be the saving grace of the melancholy film. While I’ll be the first to admit that without Clooney’s interest in the project it likely doesn’t get made, as far as his presence in the cast is concerned, quite the opposite is the case here — Clooney is the problem. Don’t get me wrong, I’m as much a fan of the actor as the next guy, but he is a man with a very particular set of skills, and what he has to offer isn’t very conducive to this sort of work. Lest ye forget, we are talking about the same guy that got raked over the coals repeatedly during his E.R. days for acting all of his scenes with his head bowed while looking up at his costars. It was Clooney’s go-to “blue steel” back in those days, and well, he went with it often. (It’s also not lost on me that the image of Clooney on the poster for The American finds him exactly this way.) Of course he’s come a long way since then, and with the exception of the career trajectory of one Tom Hanks, it’s fair to suggest that no other performer has come so far.

I actually like to think of him as the modern day Gary Cooper. Like Coop, Clooney is a deliberate performer who does not articulate his performances with a ton of acting tics. He’s cautious, quiet, and deliberate in his movements, yet there’s a quality of self-assuredness resounding in his screen persona that makes him special. While Cooper constantly battled his gangly tallness (in 1938’s The Cowboy and the Lady his character is actually named Stretch), Clooney has to deal with clumsiness. He’s an awkward mover — look closely enough at his films and you’ll see it. George moves so awkwardly that he brings to mind a good-looking Walter Matthau. Watch his flat-footed running in The American, Oh Brother, or Burn After Reading and you’ll see what I mean. The filmmakers try to hide it, as they so often do, but it’s there. In the end, George does his best work in fast films where he’s the placid center around which everything else revolves: Up in the Air, Michael Clayton, Syriana, and so on. In a film such as The American, when nothing else moves, Clooney simply becomes part of the landscape. He just lacks the gravity to capture our imagination through the long sequences of screen time that find his character exploring the small village, or is simply lost in thought. After watching the film, consider instead the role as Sean Penn, Edward Norton, or better yet, a youthful DeNiro or Eastwood may have interpreted it: simmering, vibrant…alive.

This is nevertheless a good film, beautifully rendered and deliberately paced — punctuated with a few well placed action sequences and erotic moments. If given the choice of experiencing the film with Clooney, or not at all, I’ll happily accept it as offered, and wonder.

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Finally, let me apologize for the long gap in posts. The film noir poster countdown over at Where Danger Lives consumed a great deal more of my time than I ever imagined, and I was forced to neglect Cin-Eater for a little while. Hopefully I can return to regular posting very soon!

The American (2010)

Directed by Anton Corbijn

Starring George Clooney

Released by Focus Features

Running time: 105 minutes

Availability: Not a problem.

With Byrd at the South Pole (1930)

Here's a great film for Independence Day, one that celebrates the American spirit and the American Century — not to mention the most famous son of my own hometown, Winchester, Virginia. With Byrd at the South Pole is one of the earliest and most captivating film documentaries. A deserving Academy Award winner for Best Cinematography, the film chronicles in stark realitytheAntarctic expedition that led to Byrd's famous flight over the south pole.

Richard Byrd seems to be one of the forgotten men of the first half of the twentieth century, possibly overshadowed by his contemporary, and sometimes rival, Charles Lindbergh. Byrd was one of the men who wanted badly to win the $25,000 Orteig Prize for being the first to complete the New York - Paris flight, but Lindbergh captured the award just ahead of him. Byrd would make the crossing a mere four weeks later, but was obliged to ditch his craft in Normandy when Paris was unapproachable due to fog. Yet Byrd was no stranger to the limelightin the twenties and thirties, and enjoyed the life of a national hero. He retired from naval life with the rank of rear admiral, and during the course of his lifetime was awarded with countless citations, including the Navy Cross, the Distinguished Service Cross, and the Congressional Medal of Honor.

The film opens with a somewhat awkward sound introduction featuring the explorer / adventurer himself addressing the viewer. Clad in his white naval dress uniform, Byrd primarily offers thanks a brief explanation of his motivations,all the while looking sheepishly away from the camera — as if reading cue cards. The film then changes gears for the bulk of its duration, into a silent affair with classic titles cards. Although With Byrd at the South Pole was made at exactly the time studios were heavily engaged with the transition into talking pictures, lugging sound equipment into the wasteland of the film's location would have been impossible even a decade later.

We are shown the expedition from beginning to end, from the opening shots of the heavily laden ships leaving New York Harbor to their journey south, eventually to break through the ice pack and make harbor on the barren plateau of Antarctica. We see the dozens of adventurers carve a base camp — known as Little America — out of the frozen landscape; build shelters for the three carefully assembled aircraft, the largest of which is fated to make the flight over the pole; store the seemingly unending supply of rations and equipment, and build friendships with the many Huskies brought to pull sleds and equipment across the expanses ice. In fact, one of the movie's more poignant moments comes when one of the older sled dogs becomes unableto shoulder his load or protect himself from the sub-zero temperatures any longer. We are also greeted by the wildlife of the region, as penguins and seals curiously explore Little America, and pods of whales startle the surface of the ice in search of breathing room. Weare treated to blizzards, gales, and unceasing monotony — including a single night that lasts more than four months.

The greatness of the film is in its camera work. That the work of the two Paramount Studios "ace" cameramen would win the Oscar for their work must have been a foregone conclusion. Although the finished picture runs a mere eighty minutes, over thirty miles of footage was generated over the course of the two-year expedition — and the professional Hollywood filmmakers involved certainly knew their stuff. The juxtaposition of static shots, aerials, even handhelds, combinedwith the inherent drama of the situation, makes for a rewarding film experience as exciting and contemporary as any studio production.

Sound returns for the film's final, climactic sequence, as Byrd and his fellows make their flight over the pole. A professional narrator speaks over spectacular aerial shots as the men back at Little America — and the world at large — wait for Byrd to complete his task. Although the events of the film occurred more than eighty years ago, I was nonetheless on the edge of my seat as the film came to aclose.

This is a must for anyone interested in documentary films, as well as the Academy Awards. Having grown up in the same town as Byrd, his story is remarkably absent from the public memory — undoubtedly pushed aside by our town's somehow even more iconic daughter, Patsy Cline. In a way it's too bad,the example of Byrd's adventurous, quintessentially American spirit is missed.

With Byrd at the South Pole (1930)

Grade: B-

No director credited

Released by Paramount Pictures

Running time: 82 minutes

Availability: DVD, Netflix.

Dive Bomber (1941)

Fred MacMurray and Errol Flynn have strong chemistry together in director Michael Curtiz’ big budget aviation film. I’ve never been a big Flynn fan, but this film helped my opinion of him — he’s certainly more believable here than in a film such as Objective, Burma!, where we are supposed to buy him as a hardened infantry commander. Freddie Mac is as reliable as ever, and Bellamy is fine in a serious role. It's actually nice to see him cast as something other than the boob in a romantic comedy for once.

It may not be accurate to call this a WWII film as it was produced and released during the buildup of 1941, but looking back it functions as one. The film is formulaic in its approach: MacMurray plays a salty flight commander to Flynn's pretty boy M.D. When MacMurray's best friend is killed in a crash, he blames Flynn for the man's operating table death. Flynn keeps his cool and turns his guilt into resolve to do something about the high-altitude blackouts that are really to blame. He transfers into the flight surgeon's unit and draws Freddie Mac as his flying instructor. Of course MacMurray and his pals give Flynn a miserable time, but he eventually wins them over through the progress he's able to make alongside fellow doctor Ralph Bellamy.

Dive Bomber is entertaining, but overlong at two + hours by at least 30 minutes. There are some incongruous and unnecessary comedy bits and even an out-of-place romantic angle with Alexis Smith. What this does have going for it are some spectacular aviation scenes filmed in technicolor. The movie scored Oscar nominations in visual effects and cinematography, both of which were well deserved. Dive Bomber is clearly a cut above other early-war flight films, if not in story then clearly in cinematography. There are numerous scenes are formation flying that are impressively stirring.

Dive Bomber (1941)

Grade: B-

Directed by: Michael Curtiz
Starring: Fred MacMurray and Errol Flynn
Released by Warner Brothers
Running time: 132 minutes
Availability: DVD