Showing posts with label Claudia Cardinale. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Claudia Cardinale. Show all posts

“Once Upon a Time in the West” - Sergio Leone (1968)


After rounding out his famous “Dollars”,  (aka “Man With No Name”) trilogy – A Fistful of Dollars (1964), For a Few Dollars More (1965), and The Good, the Bad, and the Ugly (1966) – Sergio Leone’s intention was to move on from Westerns to other forms. However, American production companies only wanted to fund another “Spaghetti Western”.  So Leone set about erecting his epic commemoration of the Old West narrative: Once Upon a Time in the West (C’era una Volta il West, 1968). 

The film was constructed to go beyond even the grandiosity of Leone’s big box-office hit, The Good, the Bad, and the Ugly.  But when it was released, critics and the public alike found Once Upon a Time in the West to be confusing and ponderous. The film bombed at the American box office.  Over time, however, the film’s reputation has grown, and it is now considered by many people to be Leone’s masterpiece. 


In my view the film does have some serious flaws, but those are outweighed by the work’s considerable virtues.  Curiously, one could say that the sum of the film’s many wondrous parts amounts to greater than its whole.  In many ways, nevertheless, as I will try to explain, the film stands as a unique monument of cinematic expression.  One of Leone’s problems with the critics was that, like Alfred Hitchcock, he was sometimes dismissed as a hack showman who lacked artistic talent and subtlety. That was because Leone’s dramatic deployment of visual compositions and sounds was so emphatic and absorbing that the viewer felt overwhelmed.  Anyway, specific artistic accreditation is not the focus here; this cinematic work was the collaborative product of numerous talents.
  • The script was based on a commissioned story by Bernardo Bertolucci and Dario Argeneto, two young film writers who would go on to have considerable success of their own.  Bertolucci, at that time still only in his twenties, was an established film director even then, having already made La Commare Secca (The Grip Reaper, 1962) and Prima Della Rivoluzione (Before the Revolution, 1964). 
  • From that story the screenplay was written by Leone and Sergio Donati.
  • The breathtaking cinematography was handled by Tonino Delli Colli, who besides working on Leone’s films, also handled the cinematography for films directed by Roman Polanski, Louis Malle, Jean-Jacques Annaud, Pier Paolo Pasolini, and Federico Fellini
  • The music, always a crucial element to Leone’s films, was once again composed by Leone’s friend and former classmate, Ennio Morricone. 
The resulting tale that these creative talents put together concerns the fates of four principal characters who have distinct personality types that represent almost archetypal narrative character attitudes:

  • Harmonica (played by Charles Bronson)  is the iconic, taciturn, and mysterious “Man With No Name” in this story and is only identified by his frequent harmonica playing.  Indeed the original Man With No Name role in the Dollars trilogy had been offered to and rejected by Bronson before it was taken by Clint Eastwood.  But in some ways Bronson is the truly perfect embodiment of this character.  As a character type in the story he is the Relentless Avenger.
  • Frank (Henry Fonda) is the epitome of cruelty and evil, the Sadistic Narcissist. Casting Fonda, whose entire career was spent playing upright and morally self-assured characters, in this dark role was a stroke of genius.
  • Cheyenne (Jason Robards, Jr.) is an outlaw who becomes entangled in the story against his will.  As the Reflective Outsider, he offers assessments as to what is going on.  Another case of interesting casting, Robards’s raspy voice reinforces his commentary.
  • Jill McBain (Claudia Cardinale) is the Pragmatic Cooperator. The inclusion of her role added depth and humanity to Leone’s story. 
The story itself has several concurrent threads and is sometimes obscure, partly because significant information is withheld from the viewer for the narrative purposes of slow disclosure.  In fact the narrative comprises a set of discrete scenes, most of which can stand on their own as fascinating and memorable mini-narratives.  Perhaps the best of such is the opening scene at the railway station.
1.  The Killings
The unforgettable opening scene of about 12 minutes, which is shown while the film’s title and opening credits roll across the screen, offers an extremely slow and deliberate buildup of tension.  Three armed men with murderous intent are waiting for a train to arrive at a remote railway station in Arizona.  The train arrives and a lone passenger, Harmonica, gets off looking for someone named Frank. There is a deadly shootout that results in the deaths of the three gunmen, but no motivations are given for what has happened.

The action cuts to another setting, a homestead where a widowed father, Brett McBain (Frank Wolff), is preparing for his wedding party with his three children.  Frank suddenly arrives with some companions and, with a sadistic smile on his face, cruelly murders the defenseless family.  Again, no reason is given.


Jill McBain, the new second wife of the father just killed, arrives by train in Flagstone and arranges to travel by horse and buggy to the McBain homestead, known as “Sweetwater”.  On the way there, as her buggy is shown passing through Monument Valley in Arizona [1], her driver stops at a way station saloon which at that moment is also visited by Cheyenne, an outlaw gangster who has just escaped from jail.  Harmonica is there, too, and accuses Cheyenne’s men of being behind the assassination attempt on his life in the opening scene, because those men wore the long duster coats characteristic of Cheyenne’s gang.  Jill then goes on to Sweetwater and learns that her intended family has been massacred.

At this point we are 50 minutes into the film and have been introduced to the four main characters, but they are all disconnected and there are many unanswered questions.

2.  Connections
In this section of the film a few connections between the main characters are made. Framed for the Sweetwater killings and trying to find out why, the outlaw Cheyenne goes to Sweetwater and talks to Jill.  Neither he nor Jill knows what Frank’s men were after, but we do at least learn that Cheyenne likes coffee and that Jill used to be a prostitute in New Orleans before meeting Brett McBain.  The scene cuts to an isolated railway car luxuriously outfitted to hold the mobile office of a terminally ill and crippled railway baron, Morton (Gabriele Ferzetti), who is in a discussion with Frank.  The ever-westward spreading railroad line has so far only reached Flagstone (we periodically see shots of new railroad track continually being laid down by workers extending the line west of Flagstone).  In this connection Morton has hired Frank to get hold of the Sweetwater property that lies a little further to the west.  Meanwhile back at Sweetwater, Cheyenne departs, but Harmonica shows up and guns down two more of Frank’s assassins who had apparently come to kill Jill.

There are now, halfway through the film, three principal locations for further actions: the town of Flagstone, Morton’s railway car, and the Sweetwater homestead.  We still don’t know
  • why Morton and Frank are after the McBains
  • why Frank and Harmonica want to kill each other
  • what Cheyenne is doing in this story.
3.  Some Answers About Sweetwater
Separately seeking answers, Harmonica and Cheyenne sneak over to Morton’s parked railway car to spy.  Harmonica is captured by Frank, but on the urging of Morton, Frank passes up the chance to kill his mysterious nemesis and merely has him tied up while he rushes away on horseback to deal with Jill McBain, himself.  Cheyenne then makes his presence known and kills all four of Frank’s men guarding the tied-up Harmonica, whom he frees.

Back at Sweetwater, Harmonica explains the mystery of Sweetwater’s importance.  It has the only water well in a region west of the built railway, and therefore its land is a highly valuable site for a future town.


4.  The Sweetwater Auction
Meanwhile Frank captures Jill and forces her to have sex with him.  This is a further revelation of Jill’s character – she will cooperate in whatever way necessary in order to survive.  Frank forces her to sell the Sweetwater property at a rigged auction in town.  However before the final gavel comes down, Harmonica shows up (he has this practice of mysteriously showing up at critical moments) holding at gunpoint Cheyenne, whom he turns over to the town sheriff for the reward money, which he uses to win the auction.  Cheyenne is then to be sent back on the railway to a jail in another town.

Afterwards at the town bar, Frank and Harmonica confront each other once more, but again they only exchange words, not bullets.  There is then another assassination attempt – this time on Frank by four of his own men who have been bribed by Morton to kill him. But with the unexpected help of Harmonica, Frank escapes, and his attackers are all killed. 

Frank rides out to Morton’s railway car and discovers the results of another deadly shootout: 10 more dead bodies, plus Morton, who is dying of a mortal wound, much to the grinning delight of the sadistic Frank.

5.  The Coming Together
The scene shifts back to Sweetwater, where Harmonica watches the relentless laying down of railway track that is now within sight of Jill McBain’s new train station and surrounding town under construction.  Cheyenne arrives (so we must infer, at least in the version of the film that I saw, that he somehow escaped his jailers) and has another coffee chat with Jill.

Frank arrives for what we know will be the final confrontation with Harmonica.  But again Leone draws out the scene, like that with the matador and the bull, for its full dramatic effect.  We learn at this point that Harmonica’s single-minded mission has always been to take revenge for a murder Frank committed long ago.

There are still some other narrative threads to be tied up, though.  Harmonica and then Cheyenne take their leave of Jill and head to unknown destinies.  Only afterwards do we learn that Cheyenne received a fatal wound sometime earlier, apparently at the railway car shootout mentioned in Act 4. This means that when Cheyenne was having coffee with Jill in Act 5, he was suffering from a mortal gunshot wound.

The final long shot shows Jill attending to the railway construction workers, while Harmonica departs on horseback with Cheyenne’s dead body.
Once Upon a Time in the West is a varied cinematic potpourri, with both effective and ineffective elements.  The weaknesses are mainly associated with the narrative, itself.  Certainly it lacks sufficient realism, even for a horse opera. Though we are generally willing largely to suspend our disbelief and immerse ourselves in the mythology of the Old West, some of the things depicted here are too much of a stretch even under those circumstances.  For example, Harmonica and Frank meet several times during the story, during which they could have come to their final accounting.  But instead, though we know they are bent on killing one another, they merely engage in aphoristic discourse. 


Another narrative weakness is the issue of the Cheyenne character.  Why is he so prominent in this story? Setting aside the unrealism of the extended time period during which he shows no ill effects despite suffering from the effects of a concealed mortal wound, his entire character seems to be an odd throw-in to this story.  He is a notorious outlaw who freely kills Frank’s men on occasions, and yet at other times he seems to be thoughtful and sensitive to others. 

A third weakness to the film is the insensitivity to killing (the film has a vast body count) and the celebration of vengeance as a worthy mission to undertake.  Harmonica, the presumed hero of the story, has no other interest than to satisfy his thirst for revenge.  We don’t even know why he wants revenge until the very end, but his relentless pursuit of old-fashioned “justice” is chilling.

And yet the film does have its undeniable strengths.  Leone’s magisterial cinematography is so compelling that it is an artistic end in itself.  His use of deep-focus shots in depth goes further than just about any film I have seen. And these shots don’t just stand out on their own, but are woven into a visual tapestry that fits together into a smooth-flowing dreamworld.  On top of that is Leone’s characteristic coupling of wide-view long shots and extreme close-ups. This creates a more intense and interior emotional involvement in what is being presented. 

In general, Leone understands that presence requires neighboring absence, and so sound requires closely occurring silence. Thus with respect to the temporal interweaving of effects, the use of sound in the two opening killing scenes is notable. In that wonderful first scene at the train station, the sound of the squeaky windmill and the buzzing fly portend something awful that is about to happen.  And in the second killing scene, at the McBain residence, the momentary cessation of the cricket buzzing is eerily disturbing and cause for existential alarm.

The grandest use of sound, of course, is the musical score, which drives the "inner” emotional narrative that is always under construction in the viewer’s mind.  Ennio Morricone has surpassed himself here by constructing a score that does justice to Leone’s monumental cinematography.  Each of the four main characters has a musical theme that serves as an aural motif for when he or she makes an appearance.  The way these themes are blended together during interactive scenes of the principal characters adds further to the cognitive experience. As usual with the Leone-Morricone collaboration, the score was produced before the shooting was begun so that Leone could engage in the shooting with the musical themes in his mind.  But on this occasion and since the film was, as usual, not shot with synchronous sound (all sound was dubbed in the editing phase), Leone had Morricone’s music playing on the set during the shooting.  This was used to inspire the acting performances with the operatic mood that Leone wanted to achieve.

Leone also liked to use the technique of slow disclosure to great effect.  For example, for a long time we don’t know why the McBains were murdered or why Harmonica is after Frank.  The slow disclosure of Jill’s screen entry enables the viewer to have a slowly revealed and circumspect view of Jill's character and the Western town that she has traveled to.  These slow-disclosure effects, in combination with Leone’s juxtapositions of long landscape shots with extreme close-ups, build up a pervasive sense of tension and expectation that runs throughout the film. 

Some reviewers have remarked that Once Upon a Time in the West has, more than Leone’s earlier films, characters that are deeper and that evolve during the course of the story.  I don’t think this is true.  The four main characters are types, as listed above, that don’t change much during the story.  What is unique here, though, is the fact that these principal characters spend much of their time trying to make out what makes the other main characters tick. In that sense they show some empathetic instincts that engage our attention. Like the viewers watching the film, they are all trying to figure out what is going on and why. 

So what is ultimately going on with all these characters?  Are there larger themes above that of revenge?  I would say so.  And I would say that the story is more than just a depiction of the coming of technological civilization, as symbolized by the railroad, to a barbarous territory.  All societies and civilizations have their narratives that underlie how they see themselves.  The Old West had its own narratives, too, about integrity and manhood, toughness and independence.  This film presumes that the viewer from the outset is very familiar with that Old West mythology, and this is supplemented by the inclusion of a number of familiar Hollywood images  (e.g. Monument Valley) and character actors, including Jack Elam, Keenan Wynn, Woody Strode, and Lionel Stander. In this connection the film often invokes, and sometimes inverts, some of the classic Old Western film themes from American cinema, as typified by the productions of John Ford.


In particular, Frank represents the ultimate narcissistic adulteration of these characteristics – a representation of how simple Old West norms can be perverted in the direction of nihilistic perfidy. Jill, on the other hand, represents compassion, compromise, and working for a communal harmony.  The fact that Leone had this character played by the extraordinarily beautiful Claudia Cardinale (to me, the most beautiful of all screen actresses) is an indication that this was the real hero (heroine) of his story.  She is not just a passively pretty image; instead her soulful, expressive eyes and her graceful physical movements indicate that she wants to be compassionately involved with those around her.  Her character does not force a programmatic scheme of how to act on others; instead she is willing to compromise and make the best of any situation. 

This suggests to me that an underlying theme of this film is that American promotion of simplistic and self-righteous independence (and hence selfishness), as exemplified by the Old West mythology, was passing away.  It was time for a new cooperative sense of humanism to take its place. In that sense we can see Once Upon a Time in the West for the masterfully expressionistic elegy for the overdue passing of the Old West narrative that it really is.
★★★★

Notes:
  1. Most of the film was shot in Spain, but there was some exterior shooting done in Arizona.

“Cartouche” - Philippe de Broca (1962)

Cartouche (aka Swords of Blood, 1962) was a French historical action-comedy written and directed by Philippe de Broca that starred two epic film figures of that period, Jean-Paul Belmondo and Claudia Cardinale. On the surface, the film is clearly a ridiculous historical farce, with broad comedic turns that border on slapstick. Jean-Paul Belmondo plays a shameless and irreverent thief who mocks everyone he encounters. As such, the film appears to be directed at the adolescent community and anyone who enjoys seeing the authorities get their comeuppance. But the film has other dimensions and themes to it that are quite at odds with its lightweight tomfoolery, and these extra layers are what really interest me.

The story of the film is based on a real figure in French history, Louis-Dominique Bourguignon (1693 - 1721), who achieved legendary status in his day as a French Robin Hood who robbed from the rich and gave to the poor. To deceive the authorities, he went by other names, too, including Louis Dominique Garthausen, Louis Lamare, and Cartouche. But whatever the historical reality of Bourguignon was, what we see in this film seems mainly to be tongue-in-cheek fantasy.  Nevertheless, there are some interesting aspects here that go beyond the superficial silliness.  One is associated the romantic personae of the two principal characters; and another is the dramatic swerve in the fourth act that altogether changes the tenor of the story.

The principal characters in Cartouche are

  • Louis-Dominique Bourguignon (Jean-Paul Belmondo) – a dauntless thief.
  • Venus (Claudia Cardinale) – a Parisian commoner.
  • Malichot (Marcel Dalio) – the original ringleader of the Parisian thieves. Dalio had a lengthy film and TV career that included appearances more than two decades earlier in the classics, La Grande Illusion (1937), Rules of the Game (1939), and Casablanca (1941).
  • Isabelle de Ferrussac (Odile Versois) – the wife of the Parisian Police Chief, Gaston de Ferrussac.
The film’s four acts are quite distinct, and in fact the fourth act utterly alters the entire mood and meaning of the film.
1.  Bourguignon, the Thief
The first act features Bourguignon’s devilish antics, as he careens around the city streets picking pockets at his leisure. As a member of Malichot’s gang, he is supposed to be subservient to his ruthless master, but his natural rebelliousness prevents him from appropriately knuckling under to  the chief. He also meets and wins the love of the street wench Venus during this part, but he and his two pals have to flee Paris after rudely challenging Malichot’s leadership.

2.  In the Army
To escape punishment from Malichot’s thugs, Bourguignon and his two friends run away and join the army.  But the army is commanded by witless fools who sacrifice their soldiers in near-suicidal encounters with their enemies. Although fearless, Bourguignon looks out for himself first, so he deserts the conflict and runs for cover. Hiding in the bushes, he and his friends are the only ones to survive one of their company’s futile attacks, which winds up earning them decorations as heroes.

3.  Cartouche in Command
Bourguignon returns to Paris, now under his new name of Cartouche, and he reclaims Venus and again challenges Malichot. This time he gets the upper hand, and the entire gang rallies to follow the more humane Cartouche, who tells them they should only steal from the undeserving rich. So Cartouche becomes the king of the Paris thieves, and Venus is his queen.

4.  Cartouche and Isabelle
In the final act the film abruptly turns away from its previously carefree tenor. The pivotal event is one of Cartouche’s robberies during which he encounters a regal, upper-class woman, Isabelle de Ferrussac, whom he had briefly seen in the first act. Isabelle’s aristocratic air and reserved demeanor ultimately proves to be an irresistible challenge to Cartouche. Unabashedly lustful of Isabelle even in front of Venus, Cartouche openly throws himself at the feet of the still hesitant Isabelle. Soon, though, Cartouche is arrested by the police and headed for the gallows. Despite Cartouche’s betrayal, Venus leads the gang in a desperate rescue, but she dies in his arms during the skirmish. In the finale, Cartouche grimly conducts a grand nocturnal burial by placing Venus’s body, now covered with stolen jewels, in a stolen golden coach and sinking it in the river.

For much of the film, Cartouche is a relentless sequence of prankish acts on the part of Belmondo and his wiseguy pals. This is exemplified in the pirouette-filled sword fights that frequent the action.  In fact it might be interesting to compare the choreographed swordplay in Cartouche with what appeared later in Asian martial arts films.  In both settings the almost ludicrous acrobatics are very carefully staged, but the later Chinese martial arts action is probably more seamless and skillful.  On the other hand, the swordplay in Cartouche is performed without the benefit of special effects.  Nevertheless, there is something disturbing in Cartouche in connection with the film’s casual depiction of killing.  Cartouche and his pals are seen smirking their way through numerous scenes filled with blood and guts. Is all this carnage supposed to be funny? What kind of culture do we have that supports this attitude? Perhaps it is just part and parcel with the cavalier tough-guy attitude that prevails in this context.

The real lasting feature of Cartouche, though, is the fact that it stands as the ultimate vehicle showcasing its two stars, Belmondo and Cardinale. Jean-Paul Belmondo was perhaps the French anti-hero of this period, but with impertinent and comic overtones. He emerged to become an iconic cultural figure with his role in Jean-Luc Godard’s Breathless (À Bout de Souffle, 1959).  Critics at the time struggled to articulate just what was the essence of Belmondo’s charm. Clearly he was not classically handsome, and he was sometimes characterized as “handsome-ugly”. But he did have a kind of naturally good-natured recklessness that was appealing to women (or so they tell me). Basically, he was a naughty boy, a wiseguy, who was continually forgiven for his transgressions – the kind of guy that the gangsters in Scorsese’s Goodfellas (1990) imagined themselves to be. And it was Cartouche that best displayed Belmondo’s impertinent persona. 

Claudia Cardinale was an entirely different figure.  She was one of those unique actresses who projected a feminine allure that somehow went well beyond mere physical beauty.  There are others who had this kind of magic, too, such as Marlene Dietrich, Ingrid Bergman, Audrey Hepburn, and Maria Schneider.  But perhaps Claudia Cardinale was my favorite of all of them.  She was naturally beautiful, without need of any adornment, and she was always physically sensuous, passionate, and innocent all at the same time.  Static images do not capture her charm; you have to see her flashing eyes in action.  She was the ultimate screen goddess, and she lit up every scene that she was in. 

So I assume that anyone watching Cartouche is naturally mystified when in the third act Cartouche turns his back on Venus (Cardinale) and falls for Isabelle. Clearly on the level of pulchritude, Claudia Cardinale, as Venus, was far more desirable than Odile Versois (who is pretty in her own way), as Isabelle.  Cardinale suggests passionate, animated engagement, in comparison to Versois’s bleached-out passivity.  What was it about Isabelle that so charmed Cartouche?  (I will set aside the possibility that de Broca simply erred by casting the too-beautiful Cardinale in the role of the street wench, Venus.) Perhaps it was the fact that Isabelle was refined and oh-so upper-class. This made her an iconic trophy that Cartouche, the embodiment of French masculine charm, simply had to have. But there is another factor, too, to consider: Isabelle was a blonde. And it might be said that the mysterious seductiveness of blondes is even greater in France than elsewhere. In fact the French even hold academic conferences where their intellectuals examine and discuss the nature of why they are so attracted to blondes [1]. 


Whatever it is that fueled Cartouche’s downfall – blondes, class – it doesn’t matter. What lingers by the end of the downbeat fourth act is the unfathomably self-destructive craving that often leads men to turn away from what they hold most precious. Why are we so often like that? We viewers know that Venus was Cartouche’s messenger from God.  But Cartouche at the end of the story is still blind to his failings, and he covers Venus’s naturally beautiful form with jewels – as if those artificial decorations could somehow enhance her perfection. What we are left with at the end is an enhanced awareness of romantic engagement’s ultimate ephemerality. Isabelle was a frozen image, a static cosmetic form; while Venus embodied the promise of interactive magic that may come.

★★★

Notes:
  1. Henry Samuel, “French University to Study Whether Gentleman Really Do Prefer Blondes”, The Telegraph (2009), 13 January 2009, http://www.telegraph.co.uk/news/newstopics/howaboutthat/4230941/French-university-to-study-whether-gentleman-really-do-prefer-blondes.html.