In Brief: BRIGHT STAR (2009)

It was a negative review that I didn't get around to reading until after Jane Campion's film had left the local art house that finally interested me in seeing her tale of the romance of John Keats and Fanny Brawne. The review appeared in The New York Review of Books, and was written by Christopher Ricks, a critic and Keats scholar. The full review is only available for subscribers, but the excerpt available for free will give you idea enough of Ricks's beef with Campion. To sum up, Campion's offense, in Ricks's view, was to wander into the old debate between the critics and the biographers. It's kind of a one-sided war. The biographers do their thing, which is to inquire into the influence of life on art, and certain critics attack them. These critics accuse the biographers of going overboard, as if they meant to prove that every word written by an author could be traced to an episode from his life. That approach, to the extent that anyone employs it, supposedly denigrates the author's power of creation and, more importantly, imagination. Ricks feels that Bright Star compounds the biographic fallacy by illustrating Keats' inspirations in so literal-minded a fashion that the movie might undermine the poetry's potential to evoke sympathetic imagery in another reader's mind.

Ricks's diatribe got me interested in seeing Bright Star because it left me wondering whether Campion intended anything like what Ricks accused her of doing. I can't say I'm a Campion fan; her only films that I'd seen before this were The Piano and Holy Smoke! That selection should tell you that I approached those films as a Harvey Keitel fan first. I did like both of them, though, and I don't mind the occasional 19th century period piece or biopic, so once a copy of the new film turned up on the New Arrivals shelf at the library, and especially after some bloggers have touted it as among the best films of last year and the decade, I grabbed it.

I was quickly satisfied that Campion had attempted neither literary criticism nor biography. Bright Star is not about Keats's career; it opens with him having already published, albeit without popular success. Nor does it attempt to explain the composition of specific poems in the manner of the old Hollywood biopics. The film is a romance set in the Romantic era, in a milieu pervaded with art. Keats writes his poems, brainstorms plays with his crony Charles Brown, and sings (or vocalizes) in an informal male chorus. Fanny Brawne is an artist (or craftsman) in her own right, a creator rather than follower of fashion, and someone who can be moved by poetry while struggling to understand how it works. For a while I thought the lovers would serve as symbols of craft and genius as separate aspects of art, but Campion isn't up to anything that pretentious. But there is a payoff to the interplay of art and emotion. Keats is moved to poetry by his romance as his earlier poetry had moved Brawne toward romance, but the romance shapes her craft as well. During one of the poet's absences, she gives up her sewing and tells her little sister that she doesn't care a damn for stitches. But at the end, her love for Keats inspires a work of art from her: a new mourning dress she wears for a walk through the wintry woods and a recitation of the title poem.

You don't need to know anything about John Keats beforehand or want to read his poems later to appreciate Bright Star. It's quite self-sufficient as a persuasive evocation of the Romantic age. The actors talk and move like people from another time; Campion's ear and eye for the soulful formality of old-time manners are impressive. Films like this remind us that manners can just as easily encompass emotions as suppress them, especially when enacted by actors of the caliber of Abbie Cornish and Ben Whishaw as our romantic leads. Paul Schneider as Charles Brown overdoes it a bid in a more comical role that overstates a rivalry between him and Brawne for Keats's attention if not affection, and the film did seem to run out of things to say or do before the inevitable end and a moving finale. But the overall experience is a positive one, enhanced by Greig Fraser's cinematography and an original score by Mark Bradshaw that reaches beyond the period for dramatic effect rather than aping the stereotype sounds of 1820.

Bright Star is also one of those films where you'll want to stay through the closing credits. That's because you'll hear Whishaw reading some nice lines from Keats as the credits roll. These lyrics aren't illustrated in any way that could offend Christopher Ricks or any other critic, nor does the film as a whole brainwash you into any interpretation of Keats's work. Ricks's concern over how the movie would influence future readers of Keats made him overlook the obvious. Bright Star isn't a work of criticism or interpretation; it's a work of art in its own right.

WILD RIDERS (1971): Don't F*CK with Classical Music!

"I'll show you what nothing can do!"

That's the defiant vow of Pete, a renegade biker and the main character of Richard Kanter's quasi-biker film. He and his sidekick Stick (Alex Rocco) have been exiled from their motorcycle gang after they raped and crucified a girl for sleeping with a black man. They set out on their own, a George and Lenny for the Savage Seventies, romping like children in a park in a just vaguely homoerotic vignette, busting each other's chops and scheming to score some bread. Stick is the Lenny of the pair, not quite as simple as the original but still the sort who's happy to eat lunch out of a trash can. He can be quite friendly but freaks out if he thinks people are insulting him. Pete tries to keep Stick out of trouble but gets into plenty on his own. It's his idea to crash a mansion where a classical musician's wife, Rona, is hosting her old sorority girlfriend Laurie while hubby's at a recording session for a movie score. There's something just vaguely homoerotic about their friendship, too, but once our biker pals settle in Pete and Rona pair off for some occasionally romantic coupling while Stick and Laurie get down to rape, Stick's naturally aggressive playfulness aggravated by his belief that a frog figurine is a personal insult to him. Wild Riders finds its tone in the scene in which Rocco flips out over the frog, demanding that Laurie tell him what it is and whether it looks like him. Rocco, best known as Moe Green from The Godfather, is the only real name in the cast and takes advantage of his top billing to give a performance of barnstorming barbarism, just the kind that a bad movie like this needs to keep you interested.

Alex Rocco earns his top billing in Wild Riders, and director Richard Kanter's camera clearly loves him, even if the women in the film (like Sherry Bain, below) don't.

The film's title leads you to expect a full-scale biker film, but while the old gang does reappear briefly, Wild Riders has little to do with the motorcycle lifestyle. It's mainly a four-player captivity psychodrama somewhere between Of Mice and Men and The House at the Edge of the Park. Kanter tempts you to sympathize with Pete and Stick and their two-against-the-world attitude, but cures you of it once they start roughing up the ladies while increasingly feeling sorry for themselves. Stick avenges his ugliness by raping women, while Pete resents the rich for getting all the breaks he feels he was denied. By forcing themselves on Rona and Laurie, they're playing a game of role reversal, and as Pete says, "There's only one law in this game and that's power, and I've got it all."

Wild Riders "introduces" Arell Blanton as Pete, above meeting cute with Elizabeth Knowles while coming on more forcefully below.

Despite Rocco's outbursts, Wild Riders starts to drag as it struggles toward the 90-minute mark. It looks like Kanter is setting up a twist as the women try to turn Stick against Pete while the latter is out trying to sell some antiques from the house. The twist comes when Rona's husband finally returns to the house. Stick subdues him and is happy to see that Pete's come back after all instead of abandoning him to take the rap for an earlier murder. Pete seems ready to kill all the hostages, but he wants to hear hubby, a cellist, play his instrument first. Hubby is defiant at first, determined to play only for those who can appreciate it, but he finally complies. Pete's impressed but wants hubby to slow down so he can study the fingerwork. He muses that he could have been as good on his guitar as hubby is on the cello had he enjoyed the same opportunities in life. Opportunities? Hubby's parents died in a death camp. This fact is established as a warning that the man of the house is one not to be trifled with. And as he builds to a musical crescendo, so the film builds to a sudden crescendo of violence as our virtuoso takes the offensive. As Pete intently studies the cello, hubby puts the bow through his eyeball! And as Stick stumbles to his friend's defense, the cello itself becomes a devastating weapon, at once a blunt instrument and a lethal stabbing tool as the man of the house reestablishes his mastery.

Damn! Whoever has a whole orchestra of men like that could conquer the world. Wild Riders is in some ways a generic biker-roughie-captivity film, but it definitely gets extra credit for that finale. There's little to see otherwise apart from Alex Rocco, but he may do just enough to tide you over until the deadly cellist arrives. This letterboxed edition is from the latest collaboration between Mill Creek Entertainment and Crown International, a 12-film Savage Cinema collection that also includes such beloved items as The Pink Angels and Death Machines. Given what I paid for the set at FYE, Wild Riders cost me not quite sixty cents. It's worth at least that.

Here's a TV spot for the film, including some of the cello attack, uploaded to YouTube by psychotronictv.

ASTROPIA (2007)

Our ongoing tour of the wild world of cinema takes us to Iceland, which presents a comedy that was the country's box-office champion of 2007. I don't know if it ever played theaters in the U.S., but Vanguard Cinema has taken a chance on the film in DVD form on the fairly safe assumption that its subject matter has some cross-border appeal. "Reminiscent of Clerks," says the box-cover blurb, if for no other reason than that the main character becomes a clerk at a comic-book store (for which the film is named) and falls in with its all-too knowledgable staff. That character is Hildur, whom the cover copy tries to sell as an Icelandic Paris Hilton. She looks the part but lacks the wealth. For her, the simple life becomes all too real when her car-salesman boyfriend is arrested on a racketeering charge. Her looks and her relationship with the suspect turn her into a media celebrity, but she hardly benefits from it. The Astropia store represents her last best hope for a job, and the management is so stunned by her mere presence that they hire her on the spot, with no questions asked, despite her near-total ignorance of comics, anime, RPGs, etc.

Hildur (Ragnhildur Steinunn Jonsdottir, above right, in her movie debut) travels a desperate career path from car dealership hostess to the door of Astropia (below, with Borg exiting).

Gunnar B. Gudmundsson's film stakes out its own territory when Hildur decides that she should learn about fantasy role playing in order to sell the product better. She discovers a dark, stuffy basement with the usual suspects diligently rolling dice and doing their character-development paperwork. She's handed a sheet and told that that's her character. The situation looks doomed from the beginning, but once the game master begins to narrate, the walls of the basement literally explode, immersing Hildur in a fantasy world. The writers prepared us for this by opening the film with another fantasy scene inspired by Hildur's reading of romance novels, one in particular with an Old West setting. She has an inner life and an imagination after all, and while she initially questions the conventions of D&D or whatever the gang is playing -- she never calls her character anything but "Hildur," for instance -- she gradually gets into the whole experience. It helps that she's starting to fall for another player, but she's also discovering her inner nerd, or if you prefer, her receptivity to new concepts and experiences. And that does make her a better salesman: she can move the product by telling laymen that it's "just like daydreaming, only with game rules."

But Astropia isn't finished yet. Hildur's old boyfriend breaks out of jail and takes the entire prison population with him. He wants a necklace he's left with Hildur; inside is a flash drive or something with Cayman Island bank account numbers and other goodies he needs. He and Hildur have grown estranged since his sentencing as she questions his constant demands (cigarettes, a blow-up doll, etc.) and finds her new life more congenial. But that doesn't stop Jolli, who kidnaps her with his new private army. One of the gamers has witnessed this, however, and calls for aid....and suddenly the real world becomes a fantasy landscape as the elf, dwarf, wizard, etc. ride to the rescue against the evil lord and his army of monsters. Our heroes use their powers and skills (which range from light saber combat to administering oversized wedgies) to rout the evil ones until it's down to Hildur and Jolli battling with swords and martial arts to decide the battle. And when it's over the Icelandic paparazzi arrive, and the scene shifts again to show a devastated real landscape of burning cars and escaped cons strewn along the street. Real havoc has been wrought -- don't ask me how -- and good has triumphed over evil.

There's something nearly Scorsesean about this absurd triumph of delusion over common sense; the finale somehow reminded me of the end of The King of Comedy, though the devastation it reveals is also just slightly reminiscent (albeit bloodlessly) of Taxi Driver, but I suppose there's less ambiguity about the truth of Hildur's triumph. It sounds ridiculous to invoke Scorsese while reviewing an Icelandic nerd comedy, but I calls 'em as I sees 'em. But maybe it's just me. In any event, don't get the wrong idea. Astropia isn't really a very good or very funny film. Most of its humor is based on Hildur's fish-out-of-water presence among the gamers, and on pop-culture name dropping. Before watching Astropia I never appreciated how much the comics-store culture is an American colonization of the world (allied with Japan), but the Icelandic nerds wear Star Trek costumes, read American comics and novels and recite Star Wars dialogue in English. These details unto themselves were probably funny for Icelandic audiences, but it'll probably leave American viewers shrugging off the thought that nerds are the same all over the world. That might make Astropia more accessible to Americans, but it might also make most of them question the point of looking at it. Gudmundsson and his writers had some interesting ideas, but in translation at least they lacked the wit and visual inventiveness to turn those ideas into a great comedy. I can only recommend it to people from the comics-RPG milieu with a sense of humor about themselves, and to people making a similar world tour to mine who can't find another Icelandic film....Or anyone who likes what they see in the American trailer, uploaded to YouTube by njd666

On the Big Screen: IRON MAN 2 (2010)

As a longtime comic book reader, I'm used to picking up a monthly title and finding myself in medias res. Buying a single issue and getting a self-contained story is pretty rare these days. Even if you get one, the issue is usually so thick with subplots carried over from previous installments or foreshadowing of future events that a casual reader might get frustrated when he's expected to be hooked into buying future issues. I don't think this is a good idea, but I've grown accustomed to the convention to the point that it doesn't bug me too much. So I was prepared for the narrative approach of Jon Favreau's new film, which is not merely the sequel to his own Iron Man but chapter three (following The Incredible Hulk) of a larger story that doesn't have a formal title yet, and for which at least three more chapters are planned, not counting the possibility of Iron Man 3. Of course, in those innocent days of 2008 most people didn't know that Iron Man was chapter one of anything but its own franchise until after the end credits. Two years later the sense that there's something basically incomplete about the new film is inescapable, since Samuel L. Jackson is parading around with his eyepatch and his ridiculous jacket in the main body of the film. And he exposes the fundamental cheesiness of the, for want of any other name, "Avengers Initiative" concept with his performance. Because he isn't giving a performance in the sense of playing a character. He's simply doing "Samuel L. Jackson," and while that may be the only way he can stand up to Robert Downey Jr, the blatancy of his cliched presence makes it hard to regard the "Avengers" thing as anything but a corporate mandate that compromises the integrity of anything it touches. This subplot (or metaplot) is hardly advanced in Iron Man 2, so that Jackson's interventions fill the film with dead rather than hot air. They add to the impression that there's too much going on for Favreau and writer Justin Theroux to wrangle into proper narrative shape.

But don't you suppose that Tony Stark has an eventful life and many enemies? If you do, then you shouldn't be surprised if things seem to hit him from several directions at once. Iron Man 2 actually does have a narrative structure; it's built on the magnetism of Tony Stark, his knack for attracting trouble and disaster to himself. It seems to lack focus because we're still used to superhero movies being focused on a supervillain or an extraordinary threat. But the Iron Man films are star vehicles in a way, arguably, that no other superhero film has been before. The drama of the new installment is to see how he copes with all the crap coming his way. Let's see: a crazy Russian genius is out to kill him, not knowing that Tony's own technology is doing the job pretty well; the federal government (or specifically one powerful Senator) wants him to turn over the Iron Man technology, and will use Tony's somehow-transformed pal Jim Rhodes to do it; his business rival Justin Hammer is tight with the Senator and the military, and later recruits the crazy Russian to his side; and Pepper Potts is jealous of Tony's new personal assistant "Natalie Rushman" and more exasperated than ever, despite his promoting her to CEO, at his reckless behavior. It's not for you to make sense of it all; your job is to watch Robert Downey roll with the punches and throw some of his own.

Favreau's Iron Man films are a breath of fresh air in the superhero genre because they dare speak the truth that even the best Batman films, for instance, sidestep: the main reason the hero does what he does is because he can. And in this case the hero openly enjoys doing it. But what you might expect to come off as insufferable arrogance comes across as honesty instead. Neither the man nor the mask is a put-on or a penance. Tony Stark is not just an alter ego; he is the hero of the movie, and Iron Man is just a suit he wears. That's why this film can get away with having him in the suit relatively rarely -- and they could actually have done without at least one suit scene this time. These films are also unique to the genre for embracing a political context, even if the politics of the sequel are dubious or muddled. Parts of Iron Man 2 sound like Ayn Rand with a sense of humor, but it's unclear whether Stark has recanted some or all of his "privatized world peace" viewpoint by the film's close. In any event, Tea Partiers are likely to dig this movie, but don't hold that against it.

Iron Man 2 has plenty of flaws. Its best action sequence, the Russian's attack on Stark at the Grand Prix of Monaco, comes way too early in the movie, and none of the CGI armor wars that follow can match that scene's flair and inventiveness. The scene I would have gotten rid of is a rock-em sock-em slugfest between a drunken Stark and Rhodes in stolen armor. I expected someone's helmet to come flying off to end it, but they did nothing that clever in the whole fight. In fact, the only other really good action sequence is "Natalie's" demolition of a dozen or so security guards, humorously intercut with actor Favreau's desperate combat with a single flunky. Scarlett Johansson is welcome to return in future Marvel movies. There does seem to be an inherent limit to creative fighting for armored characters. Meanwhile, both villains were underwhelming. Mickey Rourke as the Russian is built up as the main menace, but has to yield the floor for the middle third of the picture to Sam Rockwell's flamboyant idiocy in the role of Justin Hammer. Rockwell is far over the top here. He made me think of Dana Carvey doing Gary Oldman; too infantile to be threatening, though I grant that the film's comedic nature doesn't require a very high threat level. Rourke is a menacing physical presence, but his character is just a collection of quirks (e.g. fond of birds) and the actor is slightly unconvincing as a Stark-level technical genius. He seems more like someone who, instructed by Rockwell figuratively to "take a dump on Tony Stark's front lawn," might obey him literally. Finally, the film just stops instead of having a proper ending, probably because Marvel insists that the real ending is what comes after the credits roll, the now-traditional extra scene that sets up more Avengers continuity. I won't spoil it but I will say it's not really worth waiting for as long as you know what the next films are on the Marvel schedule.

But I liked the film because there's still some novelty to Favreau's approach and mainly because of Downey's dominant performance -- though Gwyneth Paltrow as Pepper really picks up the fast-talking romantic-comedy pace this time as well. I paid my eight bucks to see him play Tony Stark and I was not disappointed. Maybe I've reached the point where I'll tolerate a lot for his sake (I liked Sherlock Holmes too, some will recall), but I found Iron Man 2 easy to tolerate. I'm less demanding here than others may be, and I'm not going to go out of my way to defend it from its critics -- I think I've been critical enough myself to give people who aren't comic-book or Downey fans warning. Both Iron Man films are among the better superhero movies, but I worry that the Avengers imperative can only compromise the integrity of future films and the Favreau-Downey conception of Tony Stark. For all I know, this might be the last good Iron Man movie, so let me savor it a while.

THE PRICE OF DEATH (Il Venditore di Morte, 1971)

The Italian title means, "the salesman of death," and it refers to the man called Silver, played by Gianni (Sartana) Garko. This guy is Sartana in all but name. When he's on the job, he dresses like Sartana: dark suit, red tie, etc. He carries little trick guns like Sartana. But this film, written and directed by Lorenzo Gicca Palli, alias "Vincent Thomas," shows us something we never see in a proper Sartana film: the bounty hunter at his leisure. We find him at his hacienda, attended by two Mexican mistresses, in the middle of judo practice. His sparring partner throws Mr. Silver all over the mat until our hero gets up and lays the master out with a punch to the face. Then it's time to talk with potential clients: a poor couple who want him to track down the man who raped and killed their daughter. We saw this at the start of the picture in a giallo-esque POV attack scene.

The only clue the parents have is a decorative belt buckle that must belong to the rapist. They leave it with Silver, but he refuses to take their case: he's a bounty killer, not a detective.

Gianni Garko as Sarta--er, Silver in repose (above) and in his work clothes (below).

He's more receptive when an old friend, the lawyer Jeff Plummer, asks him to track down the man who shot up a saloon and killed one of the saloon girls. We saw that earlier, too. Two of the three robbers were shot down at the scene. The authorities think they have the third man in jail already: local no-goodnik Chester Conway (Klaus Kinski). Saloon proprietress Polly Winters (Gely Genka) has her own grudge with Chester, but she's convinced that he's being railroaded in this particular case. He claims to have an alibi, but won't divulge it. She wants to save him from the hangman so she can have her own revenge later. Because the authorities are aligned against her and Jeff, she sends him with money enough to get Silver interested. As he gets closer to the truth, a hooded gunman starts picking off his informants, including Polly. And as it turns out, Chester is a patsy, set up to take the rap for powerful people who were out to preempt a blackmail scheme. On the other hand, Chester isn't exactly an innocent man....

What kind of a town is it when they keep a poor soul like Klaus Kinski in prison (above, taunting Gely Genka), when they let the guy below run free?

Some of the subject matter here is pretty brutal, but just as you can see a sort of giallo influence in the rape scene you can also see the more direct influence of They Call Me Trinity in the more laid-back hero Garko plays and the broad comedy bits thrown in at odd moments. Consider this: Silver has brought a miner into town thinking that he can identify someone who can help clear up the mystery. The hooded killer promptly drills the miner. Silver chases the killer while a dumb deputy chases Silver, thinking him the killer. Caught between two fires, Silver ends up climbing to the second floor of the saloon and diving in through a window. He startles a prostitute who starts pelting him with intimate apparel while cutesy-funny music from Mario Migliardi tinkles in the background. Migliardi's score overall is actually pretty interesting, different from the usual Morricone-inspired sound with a sinister-sounding main theme. The film as a whole tries to strike a balance between the sinister and the satirical, maybe seeking to be more sophisticated than Trinity. It can't help being a mixed bag, with some good action sequences and the right kind of lead performance from Garko, but also with really pointless comedy bits like a subplot involving the constantly-brawling miners that ends up going nowhere. On the other hand, it's the sort of story that needs to throw potential plot threads all over the place in order to keep you guessing about who killed whom, who raped whom, etc. You can tell while you're watching that the movie's a bit of a mess, but there's enough going on, and you see enough of Garko and Kinski, to keep you interested over its reasonable running time. Il Venditore di Morte should end up on no one's list of top spaghetti westerns, but it should entertain fans of the Italian genre in their more undemanding moments.

In Brief: A SERIOUS MAN (2009)

"Even though you can't figure it out, you'll still be responsible for it on the midterm!" That's Prof. Lawrence Gopnik closing a class on Heisenberg's Uncertainty Principle in the middle of a midlife meltdown in the latest film from Joel and Ethan Coen. This one has something to do with fables, and it's a kind of fable itself. As his wife leaves him and he lusts after a nude-sunbathing neighbor, as a student tries to bribe him into improving a midterm grade, as a neighbor's boat house encroaches on the property line, as his mad-genius brother gets into ever deeper legal trouble, as the Columbia Record Club calls him repeatedly over unpaid bills on albums he didn't know he was buying, Larry desperately seeks meaning in events. He yearns for a story that will explain things for him, as many people yearned in 1967.

Michael Stuhlbarg finds himself between an immigrant (do the Coens have a thing about Asians?) and a suspicious goy in A Serious Man. Below, he tries to absorb the essence of the historical moment.

In this period piece the Coens use a Jewish community as a microcosm of Sixties America, its slightly alien quality an analogue for a mannered formality in the larger culture that seems alien to us now, but its mystical tradition also symbolizing the stumbling spiritual seeking under way. The connection is most obvious in the tour-de-force "Second Rabbi" episode, in which the rabbi narrates the Tale of the Goy's Teeth to a Hendrix soundtrack. The Coens try the same juxtaposition to more jokey effect when the ancient Rabbi Marshak recites lyrics from a Jefferson Airplane song and the names of the band members -- except that he can't quite remember Jorma's last name. Can these wise men offer any guidance to Larry, his son Danny, or us in the audience? It seems so, though the record is mixed. Some of the advice he gets ("Look at the parking lot, Larry!") is pretty useless. Later, Larry's told, "Doing nothing is not bad," but as a Columbia billing rep explains, doing nothing means you get the Selection of the Month automatically, and you have to pay for it. On the other hand, the moral of the Goy's Teeth story seems to recommend patient endurance in riding out the spiritual storms of the moment, advice virtually borne out by the end as Larry's life seems to turn back for the better. It also seems borne out negatively when one more ordeal causes Larry to at last succumb to temptation and invite almost instant retribution -- including a literal storm that might well prove to be the wrath of God.

By doing without stars this time the Coens' writing comes to the forefront more than ever. They have an able, articulate cast -- almost too articulate. At times A Serious Man comes across like filmed theater, or even a radio play. I'm not saying that the film ever becomes uncinematic -- that'd be impossible for the brothers -- but it often comes out highly mannered, though I think it was meant that way. If the screenplay has a real weakness, it's in the concept of the main character. Larry seems like such a hapless nebbish that you're left wondering how he won a wife and achieved a career in the first place. But at least he has a grotesquely dysfunctional brother to make him look relatively normal. I don't know if it's the Coens' fault or Michael Stuhlbarg's if I find Larry somewhat unconvincing. I can't recall seeing the actor in any other role, so I don't know if he's overdoing the wimpiness or faithfully carrying out a flawed concept.

But because the story is really bigger than Larry, my problems with the character don't really damage my estimate of the film, which is that the Coens are still on their current winning streak (from No Country For Old Men forward) after an early-decade slump. I'll need to see it again a few times before I try to rank it in their overall filmography, but I think I'd agree with the Academy and place it among the ten best American films of 2009.

MR. KLEIN (1976)

Here's a satirical thriller set in Occupied France, written by Franco Solinas (Battle of Algiers, A Bullet for the General, Burn! etc), directed by expatriate American blacklistee Joseph Losey and starring Alain Delon, who co-produced the film. He agreed to the project on the condition that Losey, who directed him in The Assassination of Trotsky, do the honors here as well. Delon seemed able to shift with ease from action films like Tony Arzenta or Le Gitan to more arty fare like Losey's film. He must have seen the script as an acting challenge, and it certainly is in some respects.

Delon is the title character, Robert Klein the art dealer. He's making a killing off the plight of French Jews. They have to liquidate their assets, and he takes advantage of their necessity, offering them take-it-or-leave-it low prices that assure him of huge profits later. Klein is a Catholic of Dutch descent, so naturally when he escorts a Jewish seller out the door and finds a copy of a Jewish newspaper on his doorstep, he assumes that his client must have dropped it coming in. But the client has his own copy in his pocket, and the paper on the doorstep is addressed to Robert Klein.

The rest of the film follows Klein from the newspaper office to police headquarters and onto the trail of a second Robert Klein who seems to have taken steps to throw investigators onto our Robert's trail. While Robert follows the trail, we're reminded with increasing urgency that some big roundup of French Jews is in the works. That establishes Robert's peril as his efforts to clear his name only put him in deeper trouble. But I doubt whether audiences feel the normal sort of anxiety for our antihero. That opening scene primes us to accept the worst case scenario as Robert's just desserts. That's why I regard Mr. Klein as a satire rather than any other genre. Its subject is Robert's representative failure to recognize a larger injustice while worrying about himself. His failing is the failing of most French under the Occupation, Solinas and Losey suggest, for as the worm turns on him, his friends increasingly treat him as he treated Jews. Nor does he really learn his lesson; arrested and thrown onto a bus to the train station where Jews will be transported eastward, he snaps at a fellow prisoner who wonders what will happen: "It's none of my affair!"

A larger point is made in a prelude to Klein's story, in which a woman is subject to a ridiculous examination, including walking in the nude, in order to determine whether she might have Jewish characteristics. The doctor's determinations seem to be completely arbitrary, based on pseudo-science -- or science that seems pseudo by modern standards. Following this with Klein's hard bargaining invites us to see Klein's conduct as "Jewish," -- or to assume that it would look so to an anti-semite. Yet when we see his lawyer try the same kind of bargaining with the imperiled Klein, should we see him, presumably an impeccable Frenchman, as another "Jew?" You're left with the feeling that Klein isn't so much a victim of mistaken or confused identity (though some critics make much of the doppelganger aspect of the story) as he is a victim of a mania to label certain people as "Jews" for no good reason. Mr. Klein is less about anti-semitism than it is about the logic of a witch hunt, a subject with which Losey had some sympathetic experience.

Klein is a cold film, as satires often are. It has sharp cinematography by Gerry Fisher and excellent art direction throughout. Alain Delon's challenge playing Klein is to remain a basically unsympathetic character yet keep us interested in his quest and his jeopardy. In my opinion he solves the problem quite well, never playing for pathos or becoming a hero but projecting charismatic determination all the way to the end. I'd recommend Mr. Klein for Delon's fans first, and then for people interested in the Occupation subgenre that encompasses everything from Army of Shadows to Inglourious Basterds. It's not going to be to everyone's taste because of its cool approach to a tragic subject, but it should reward attentive viewing by people who share its mood.

The DVD comes with an English-dubbed trailer, but we'll have to settle for one in the original French, uploaded to YouTube by jorjones2222.