The Times, They Were a'Changin'

Films: Sanma no Aji (An Autumn Afternoon)
Format: DVD from Rockford Public Library on laptop.


Eventually, every great director makes his or her last film. Kubrick’s career ended, Hictchcock made a final film, and someday so will my current favorites, Danny Boyle, Guillermo del Toro, and David Fincher. I bring this up because today’s film, Sanma no Aji (An Autumn Afternoon), is the last film in the distinguished career of Japanese film maker Yasujiro Ozu.

It’s easy to think of Japanese films as falling into one of three categories: monster movies, martial arts movies, and samurai movies. That’s the equivalent of saying that the entire American film industry consists of nothing more than blockbuster action films, horror films, and remakes. It may feel that way sometimes, but it’s far from the truth. Sanma no Aji is a domestic film about life in post-war Japan and the changes in the culture. More specifically, it’s about how those changes affect the people living in that society.

Shuhei Hirayama (Ozu regular Chishu Ryu) is an older widower, a veteran of the war, who lives with his daughter (Shima Iwashita) and son Kazuo (Shinichiro Mikami). His older son, Koichi (Keiji Sada) is married, and has a difficult relationship with his own wife. Shuhei isn’t sure he wants his life to change, but he is encouraged by his friend Kawai (Nobuo Nakamura) to get his daughter married off before it becomes too late for her and she turns into an old maid. Shuhei is convinced that she isn’t ready for marriage despite the fact that other women of her age are getting married. She is equally convinced that her father and brother would not survive without her assistance.

At the same time, we learn of Koichi’s relationship with his wife, Akiko (Mariko Okada). Koichi very much wants to have a traditional wife, but she talks back to him and doesn’t let him do what he wants. Shuhei’s friend Horie (Ryuji Kita) has a new young wife who he claims makes him happy, but she seems to rule the household and keeps him in line. Additionally, the men reconnect with one of their old teachers, nicknamed “The Gourd” (Eijiro Tono), who has an old maid daughter who he claims to have ruined by not allowing her to marry.

It would seem that this should be straightforward. Michiko is young and pretty, and there are plenty of marriage prospects for her. But Shuhei isn’t sure, she isn’t sure, and the portrait of marriage presented by the various matches in the film don’t seem to paint a rosy picture of wedded bliss. Shuhei wants his daughter to be happy, but he also doesn’t want her to go away from him. And so, the film is essentially about his decision of whether or not to allow his daughter to, more or less, grow up.

The world of Japan at the start of the 1960s is changing, and this film is a reflection of that change. Any change encounters resistance from a variety of quarters, here no more than the Hirayama family. Ozu reflects this in a number of ways, contrasting elements of the film with each other both to reflect constancy as well as change.

The soundtrack, for instance, is entirely western, and French in particular. At the very least, the music is not traditionally Japanese. Additionally, we are bombarded by images of the changing reality in Japan. We see, for instance, Koichi, who wants a traditional marriage and to rule his own home, happily standing in the kitchen cooking and wearing and apron while his wife brings home pre-made hamburgers for dinner. Change is occurring, and it cannot be stopped.

On the other hand, Ozu never moves his camera. While every scene contains a variety of shots and camera angles, in any given shot, there is not a single camera movement—no pans, no tracking shots, not a zoom or a pull back. Once a camera is placed, the scene does not move until it simply switches to another camera. In a sense, there is a sea of constancy amid the growing changes of Japan. Additionally, Ozu uses the older feeling 1.37:1 aspect ratio instead of a wider screen format, which gives the film in many ways a more traditional feeling. And throughout the film, the marriages talked about are arranged, as traditional as one can get. It’s almost cute as one man talks about being engaged to a woman whose hand he has held.

Sanma no Aji is a pretty film. It’s impossible not to like these characters and want them to make the decisions you know in your heart they should make. This film is charming and sweet, and I enjoyed it completely.

Why to watch Sanma no Aji: Sweetness and light.
Why not to watch: No monsters, karate, or samurai swords.

The Century Mark

Films: Murder, My Sweet (Farewell, My Lovely), Mildred Pierce
Format: DVDs from Rockford Public Library projected on big screen.

Certain film genres, over time, develop a particular reputation in that there are things you expect from them as a member of the audience. Sometimes it’s a particular running theme, a specific type of plot twist or ending, a general type of character, even a specific actor or actors. Every genre has its conventions, perhaps none quite as detailed as film noir. Sitting down for some noir action tends to mean a hard-bitten detective, a complicated plot, a femme fatale or two, wise guys, danger, and snappy dialogue, particularly with a voiceover done by the detective. No one is more associated with film noir than Humphrey Bogart. But Bogie didn’t make them all.


Murder, My Sweet, which started life as Farewell, My Lovely until too many people mistook it for a musical of a similar name, starred Dick Powell, whose early career was in musicals. Powell plays the great mystery writer Raymond Chandler’s greatest creation, Philip Marlowe. Things start out easily enough, as in any good noir. Marlowe is contracted by a former convict named Moose Malloy (Mike Mazurki) to find a woman named Velma Valento.

Moose, who is none too bright and far too crude, claims to have once been engaged to Velma before he was sent to prison. All he wants is Velma back. Marlowe tries to track her down, but is sidetracked when a man named Lindsay Marriott (Douglas Walton) contracts him for another job. Marriott pays Marlowe $100 to go with him on what appears to be either a drug buy or at least an exchange of cash for stolen goods. Sadly, the job goes badly; Marlowe is clubbed over the head and Marriott is beaten to death.

Now things get really fun. Marlowe is questioned by the police, who let slip something about a jade necklace and a man named Jules Amthor (Otto Kruger). When Marlowe gets back to his office, he meets a young female reporter who turns out to actually be a young socialite named Ann Grayle (Anne Shirley). It turns out that Ann’s step-mother Helen (Claire Trevor) had a jade necklace stolen from her, perhaps by Lindsay Marriott. And now we have more plot threads than it seems like we can handle. Then the bodies start to pile up, and life gets more and more interesting for Marlowe, interesting in the way of that traditional Chinese curse.

Any noir depends on its plot, of course, but a good plot isn’t enough to keep people in the seat. You also need at least one great (and yes, I’m using this word intentionally here) dame, and a couple is better. This one has two in the Grayles. While Helen is presented in slinky clothes and the forward personality, it’s Ann—all giant shoulder pads and crooked nose—who is the woman to watch.

The big sell here, though, is Marlowe’s patter and voice over. No one really truly speaks like Marlowe does, but it’s a joy to listen to. The man is quick with a metaphor, and what metaphors he uses! There is such pleasure in simply listening to the man describe something. Even a silly, straightforward plot would be made entertaining by Powell’s internal monologue and pieces of dialogue. There’s not an actor in the world who wouldn’t kill to say these phrases. “She had a face like a Sunday school picnic,” and “She was a gal who’d take a drink if she had to knock you down to get the bottle.” You can’t put a price on dialogue that entertaining.


Any good noir involves a dead body or two, and in Mildred Pierce, we don’t have to wait long to get one. The film opens with a series of gunshots and a man flopping dead on a floor. He gasps out the single word, “Mildred,” before breathing his last. We then meet Mildred Pierce (Joan Crawford), our title character, who looks to be about to throw herself into the ocean to kill herself before she is stopped by a cop. She runs into an old friend/pseudo-flame Wally Fay (Jack Carson) and takes him back to her house. She runs off, Wally finds the body, and now the cops are involved.

We get Mildred’s side of the story in flashback, and from this point forward, it sure doesn’t feel like a noir anymore, but a domestic drama. Mildred is married to a schlub named Bert (Bruce Bennett) who is dallying with the woman down the street. Bert also objects to the way Mildred is raising their daughters, Veda (Ann Blyth) and Kay (Jo Ann Marlowe). Mildred dotes on Veda, who is spoiled and expects only the very best things in life for herself. Kay is something of a tomboy. She kicks Bert out, and now has to fend for herself, and fend off the advances of Wally.

Eventually, Mildred gets a job at a restaurant, which she keeps a secret from Veda, knowing that Veda will torment her relentlessly not only with working, but working at such an “embarrassing” job. Mildred continues to work herself raw, until she decides to open her own place, which she does by working out a deal with a faded heir named Monte Beragon (Zachary Scott). Sharp-eyed viewers will remember that this Beragon character is the same guy who died in the beginning. Those of a more Japanese monster slant will soon realize that he is not the spike-nosed monster that once fought Gamera the flying turtle.

In the film’s tearjerker moment, Kay dies from a sudden (and evidently severe) bout of pneumonia, leaving Mildred and Veda to themselves. Mildred dotes on her daughter even more, as does the destitute but high-living Monte, and it soon becomes evident that Veda is a horrible person. While certainly beautiful, she is twisted, conniving, and evil, thinks only of herself, and wants only money and nice things. She is, in short, a rotten kid. But Mildred is devoted to her and will do anything for her, something that Veda has understood for years. The fact that Veda is attracted to Monte makes for an uncomfortable and weird romantic triangle.

The biggest issue going on here for me is the cognitive dissonance between the character Joan Crawford is portraying on the screen and the reality of her relationship with her children. Mildred is a woman who will do anything to win the love of her daughter, a miserable and nasty person, while from many reports (most notably from Crawford’s daughter Christina), the exact opposite was the case. Personal life shouldn’t necessarily intrude on art, and I try to keep the two separate, but in this case, it’s really difficult.

My complaint is that it does get a little schmaltzy toward the end. Mildred is perhaps too perfect, too self-sacrificing, too giving of herself to everyone around her, particularly Veda, to be believed. I don’t doubt that mothers like this exist—I just find Mildred’s success in the restaurant business both as a paean to her love for Veda and Veda’s rejection of same to be overwhelmingly difficult to swallow. Good movie, but I’m not sure how well it translates to today.

On a completely unrelated note, these are films 99 and 100 from the original list, 100 and 101 overall. It's not quite 10% of the complete list, but I have finally hit triple digits, and I'm back to averaging a film per day.

Why to watch Murder, My Sweet: Snappy patter and a plot that can just be followed.
Why not to watch: You need it to be Bogart instead of anyone else in the role of Marlowe.

Why to watch Mildred Pierce: It’s noir-lite.
Why not to watch: An intense desire slap the hell out of Veda and the cognitive dissonance of Joan Crawford as a mother who cares about her children.

Sounds Like Conspiracy

Films: Das Leben der Andern (The Lives of Others), The Conversation
Format: DVD from DeKalb public library (Lives), DVD from personal collection(Conversation), both on laptop.


Unless completely avoidable, I don’t really want to add politics into this blog, but there are times when it will undoubtedly be necessary to bring them up. The first of today’s films makes the discussion of politics inevitable, since it concerns itself with socialism and communism. I suppose that by the end of this entry you’ll be aware of what my stance is, which probably can’t be helped. When I write, I’m something of an open book.

Das Leben der Andern (The Lives of Others) is a drama set in East Germany about half a dozen years or so before the fall of the Berlin Wall and the reunification of the country. East Germany at the time was full under the sway of socialism, and more specifically communism. The reality of this means that many people—anyone suspicious and most artists and similar creative types—are under surveillance at all times by the Stasi, the East German secret police/KGB equivalent.

We spend the bulk of the film with two main characters. The first, Hauptmann Gerd Wiesler (Ulrich Muhe), works for the Stasi doing surveillance of people suspected of thinking, acting, or otherwise working against the East German government. He is soon made aware of the only author not currently being watched, a playwright named Georg Dreyman (Sebastian Koch). Dreyman is not being watched despite his influence (he’s even read in the West), because it is evident in his writing that he truly believes in the socialist state.

Despite this, Wiesler is put under watch by Minister Bruno Hempf (Thomas Thieme). Wiesler spends days essentially living his life through what he observes in Dreyman’s apartment through bugs and phone taps. He discovers several important things. First, Dreyman truly does believe in the socialist state. He is not hiding subversive thoughts or tendencies, and his plays really do support the ideas he holds true to. Second, Wiesler discovers that the relationship between Dreyman and his girlfriend Christa-Maria Sieland (Martina Gedeck) is intimate and passionate. Third, and most disturbing, he discovers that Minister Hempf desires Christa-Maria for himself, and wants Wiesler to frame Dreyman so she will be freed up and forced into a relationship with him. When Dreyman does start doing something that the Stasi isn’t happy with, Wiesler must make an even more difficult decision regarding his actions.

What we have, then, is a crisis of conscience for Hauptmann Wiesler. Does he do what he is asked by his superior, going against his ideals of communism, or does he disobey his orders, putting himself in jeopardy by remaining true to what he believes is right? This question could easily be asked in any other setting, and is frequently asked in film. What makes this film compelling and worth watching is the setting itself because it is so unfamiliar to us. Just as much at question here beyond Wiesler’s actions is in fact the morality of the surveillance itself. Many will claim that the current political administration is doing exactly this—moving us more and more toward socialism and this sort of oppression. It’s worth reminding those people that it was the previous administration that allowed for warrantless wiretaps—essentially the kind of surveillance occurring in the East Germany of this film.

The question is not really the legality of the surveillance or the oppression it implies. Rather, the real question here is the abuse of power and where this constant surveillance leads. Anyone—the East German Stasi or the American politicians who defended the practice of wiretapping as required for the protection of the American people—can justify whatever they wish. What they cannot justify is that such information can and always will be used not for the good of the state, but for the private gain of those in possessing it.

Ulrich Muhe owns this film. His expression rarely, if ever, changes throughout the film, and yet he conveys a great deal of emotion with his face throughout the film. Years of living and working under the state machinery have left him appearing passive, a facial expression George Orwell describes in 1984 as a sort of benign optimism as a facial neutral. And yet, through that expressionlessness, Muhe shows a great deal of longing, pain, and desire. He wants to be needed and loved, his position prevents that sort of emotional attachment, and so the desire burns in him just barely visible under the surface. It’s easy to show longing. It’s difficult to show that much passion while pretending to be emotionless.

I did guess how the film would end, but only moments before the actual event. While I did predict accurately, this in no way reduced the power or the poignancy of that ending. At the risk of sounding trite, the ending is uplifting and beautiful.


Francis Ford Coppola’s The Conversation works with the same themes and ideas, or, since this film is a good three decades older, it blazed a trail into the lives of surveillance people that was furthered by Das Leben der Andern. Unlike the later film, this one takes place in the U.S., and doesn’t involve any government agents.

We start with what looks like Union Square. We see people milling around, music playing, and folks having a good time in general. As the camera pans around, we seem to be focusing on a couple walking aimlessly. We catch some of their conversation, but other pieces are broken up by what seems to be electronic interference. It soon becomes evident someone is taping them. Their conversation is being recorded from multiple positions around the park. The couple is Ann (Cindy Williams) and Marc (Frederic Forrest).

We are also soon introduced to Harry Caul (Gene Hackman), who is in charge of getting this recording for his mysterious employer. Harry is a sound expert, and makes most of his living doing surreptitious surveillance as a freelancer. He doesn’t concern himself too much with what he’s recording as long as he gets the entire conversation he’s being paid for. Perhaps because of the nature of his expertise, Harry is exceedingly private, not letting anyone in too close to him. This manifests itself in something that goes further than bordering on paranoia. When he finds a birthday gift in his apartment after the taping session, he calls the gift giver not to say thank you, but to find out how she bypassed his locks and alarm system.

The next day, we see Harry at work in his lab. He takes each of the different recordings of the conversation from the park and plays them back, making a master recording, carefully mixing out any other noise and background static, switching from one mike to another depending on the quality of each recording. As he does this, we get a flashback to the park and the locations of the different mikes, getting more of the conversation this time. This is a recurring theme throughout the film. As we get deeper and deeper into the plot, this conversation is played again and again, each time with a different meaning. It’s made apparent that the woman in the conversation is the wife of the man who hired Harry, and the other man is evidently her lover. This more than anything convinces Harry that something bad is going to happen to the two of them.

When Caul refuses to turn over the tapes to the assistant of the man who employed him (the assistant is played by a very young Harrison Ford; the director is played by an uncredited Robert Duvall), things start to get stranger. Harry is convinced that the two people he recorded are in danger. This causes real problems for him, because it is revealed that he was once involved in a similar situation on the East Coast, a situation that resulted in the deaths of two people. It was this that caused Harry to become the paranoid recluse he is, refusing to tell anything to anyone, hiding himself even from his girlfriend, Amy (Teri Garr).

It’s a fascinating world that is portrayed here, a private and disturbing little hell that Harry Caul lives in. Aside from his saxophone playing, the only thing he is really good at is surveillance, but the jobs are starting to tear him apart with guilt. As he gets deeper and deeper into the recording in question, his paranoia increases, and is pushed still further by the presence of another recording expert (Allen Garfield) who appears to be moving his operations from Detroit to San Francisco, which is Caul’s territory. This competitor makes a move at hiring Harry’s assistant Stan (John Cazale), further pushing Harry into paranoia. The end, the last 20 minutes or so, are absolutely shattering to Harry's psyche.

It is perhaps not too strange that in both films, the men in charge of getting information about other people are themselves obsessed with keeping their own private lives as private as possible. Perhaps it is the nature of the business, perhaps it is something about knowing exactly how vulnerable other people are at moments they believe are private but really aren’t. Whatever it is, these men live in a world where the only things more precious than the secrets of other people are their own secrets.

A few noteworthy things here—this film feels completely out of character for Cindy Williams, who is most famous for being the second half of Laverne and Shirley. She made a name for herself through most of her career in light comedy and other comedic fare, but here she is deadly serious. Interesting to think of what tracks her career could have taken if she’d found more roles like this one. Second, it’s a very different side of Gene Hackman. I typically think of him in both charismatic and bombastic roles: the coach in Hoosiers, the sheriff in Unforgiven, and of course Popeye Doyle in both French Connection films. Here he is socially inept, quiet, almost mildly autistic. If you think he didn’t have range as an actor, this movie will show you different.

Why to watch Das Leben der Andern: A familiar dilemma given a fascinating setting and characters.
Why not to watch: You’ll want to check your light switches and outlets for bugs.

Why to watch The Conversation: A fascinating descent into paranoia.
Why not to watch: It’s entirely possible that paranoia is communicable through film.

Chop Socky!

Films: Enter the Dragon, Shao Lin San Shi Liu Fang (The 36th Chamber of Shaolin, Shaolin Master Killer)
Format: DVD from personal collection on big ol’ television (Dragon), DVD from DeKalb Public Library on laptop (36th Chamber)


Ask people who the greatest cinematic martial artist in history is, and you’ll get one of two answers. Here’s a hint—no one ever says Jeff Speakman or Steven Seagal. Many will say Jackie Chan, and that’s not a bad vote. Many more will say Bruce Lee, which is certainly the more popular and classic answer. Chan is far more acrobatic and comedic than Lee ever was, while Lee appears more classically trained and straightforward. Chan is all about the amazing stunts and set pieces. Give him a set of nunchaku, and he’ll battle two guys for six minutes, doing wild and crazy stuff. Give them to Lee, and he’ll beat the snot out of 50 guys in a couple of minutes with one efficient strike on each one.

Lee’s most famous film is Enter the Dragon, and with reason. It’s not only a great film, it’s had tremendous influence on martial arts films and action movies since 1973 when it was first released. We start with an opening fight between Lee (Bruce Lee) and an uncredited Sammo Hung, who gets his butt stomped in short order. A short dialogue scene tells us that Lee has progressed in the Shaolin temple to the point where his skills are more than physical. He demonstrates this by espousing his philosophy both to his master and his student.

We also learn of a man named Han (Kien Shih) who has disgraced the Shaolin temple by involving himself in the drug trade. Both the British rule in Hong Kong and the temple would like Han taken out, and Lee is the man to do it. The British are represented here by Mr. Braithwaite (Geoffrey Weeks), who gives Lee the information he needs to know about Han. It’s worth noting, since it’s unintentionally funny, that Lee really can’t say “Braithwaite.” Regardless, Lee’s cover is that Han is holding a martial arts tournament, and Lee will be going.

As Lee sails out to the junk that will take him to the island of the tournament, we learn that he’s already got a connection to Han. Han’s bodyguard, Oharra (Robert Wall), killed Lee’s sister a number of years ago. We’re also introduced along the way to our two other heroes. Roper (John Saxon) is evidently some sort of businessman. He’s also a relentless gambler, owes hundreds of thousands of dollars to the mob, and is broke. He leaves for Hong Kong as a way to get away from his problems. We also encounter Williams (Jim Kelly), who is hassled by the police as he heads off to the tournament. Evidently, Kelly’s crime is that he’s tall, black, and going to Hong Kong. The three arrive on the same boat, and we learn that Williams and Roper evidently know each other from Vietnam.

What we find on the island is a stately pleasure dome run by Han. The competitors are wined and dined in preparation for the big tournament. Williams gets bored and goes exploring, as does Lee, although Lee’s exploring is more about finding out what is going on. Han decides to bump off Williams, tries to recruit Roper, and tries to make an example of Lee, which sets us off on a massive battle royale around the island that culminates in a fight between Han and Lee set in a hall of mirrors. Once the tournament really starts, it’s ass kicking from start to finish, and that’s really what you came to this movie for, isn’t it? We’re here to watch Bruce Lee destroy people quickly, painfully, and with a purpose.

The fight scenes, really, are great. There are several exceptional ones. The first, when Lee breaks out of his room and is discovered by guards, goes on for much longer than it feels like it can, but never gets dull. It’s also the only time in screen history that both Bruce Lee and Jackie Chan are on screen at the same time. Chan is one of the guards who attacks Lee; Lee grabs him, kills someone else, then kills Chan by breaking his neck.

Another is Roper’s fight against Bolo (Bolo Yeung), one of Han’s main goons. Roper devastates him repeatedly, both destroying him physically and humiliating him at the same time. Lee does the same to Oharra, a scene that culminates with some classic martial arts brutality. The great set piece, though, is the giant battle in the courtyard and the fight between Lee and Han. Like Lee’s second battle against Han’s guards, it goes on for a very long time, but remains consistently exciting, tense, and riveting.

Enter the Dragon was Lee’s last film; he died about three weeks before it was released. Much like James Dean, a huge part of Lee’s legend is that he had such a relatively short career. It’s entirely possible, likely even, that Lee’s star would have eventually faded, and like most martial artists, he’d have ended his career in low budget, direct-to-DVD releases. Hard to say. Here, he is immortalized as an ultimate, complete warrior unlike any to cross the screen before or since. If for no other reason—the martial arts tournament, the giant battle, the secret Kung Fu island—this film will live forever.


Of course martial artists have to come from somewhere. When we first meet Bruce Lee in Enter the Dragon, he’s already fully trained. One of the most basic, fundamental truths of the martial arts film is that the training comes from somewhere. Most martial arts films include a training sequence that takes from the novice trainee to bad ass kung fu master. No film takes that concept more seriously than The 36th Chamber of Shaolin. This movie goes by a few hundred names it seems like, and is also commonly known as Shaolin Master Killer and known in China as Shao Lin San Shi Liu Fang.

The film is broken into three main parts, with the middle being by far the longest. We start with life in a Chinese village in a part of the country that has been overtaken by the Tartars. They oppress the people mercilessly, and there are those who would like to fight back. One of them is San Ta (Gordon Liu), who is a student at a local college. He and his friends are pulled in by their teacher (Siu Tien Yeun), who enlists their support in rebellion.

Sadly, the Tartars know what’s going on. They kill off the leading rebel general, then start going through the town, killing off anyone they believe is part of the rebellion. The teacher and one of San Ta’s friends are killed. Then the Tartars start to work on families, killing off San Ta’s and his friends. They run, hoping to reach the Shaolin temple to learn Kung Fu so they can defend their people. The friend is killed, and only San Ta, wounded and in a coma at the end, makes it to the temple. He fights for his right to stay, and is allowed to train as a monk, ending the first part of the film.

In the second part, San Ta complains that he wants to learn Kung Fu, but all he does is clean things. He is told that he can train whenever he is ready. He wishes to start at the most difficult level, and he fails miserably. He then decides that he will start at the bottom and learn Kung Fu the way it should be learned. This means that he starts at the lowest ranking chamber, the 35th.

As San Ta progresses from chamber to chamber, he learns valuable and powerful lessons about how to move, how to stand, gains strength, learns to coordinate mind and body, and finally gets to learn boxing, kicks, and weapons. This sequence, starting from the 35th chamber and returning him back to the 1st takes the middle hour of the film. Yes, that’s the middle hour.

Here’s the thing: I love this stuff. While it’s arguable that San Ta progresses too rapidly and learns too quickly, and that some of the lessons seem to come too easily to him, I find these training sequences absolutely entertaining. At one point, I half feared, half hoped that we’d get to see all 35 chambers as he progressed, but even with just 5 minutes per chamber, that would take three hours. And yet, I would have watched it. I understand that for many people, this section of the film can be incredibly tedious, slow, and boring, but I am not one of those people. The only thing I was disappointed in here was that he never used the arm rings shown in the opening credits; those things are bitchin’ cool.

Once his training is done, San Ta is given the choice to control any of the 35 chambers he wants except for the top one. He instead asks to create a new lowest chamber—the 36th—to take Kung Fu to the masses to help the people outside the temple learn to defend themselves against oppression. He is denied (we are led to think) and kicked out of the temple, only allowed to return with a filled prayer book. Instead, he goes to fight the people who drove him to the temple in the first place, picking up new recruits along the way. Incidentally, he’s also credited in this film with inventing the three-section staff, which is a hard weapon to use.

I love the training stuff. I could stand more of it. If I have a complaint here, it’s that in the translation to English, the main character’s name in the version I found is San Ta. I kept wondering if, like the Wrist Chamber, the Eye Chamber, and the Leg Chamber, there would be a Toy Chamber.

No matter. For me, it all goes by too fast. I’d have preferred more of a montage here. It simply should have taken San Ta longer to reach the final chamber. It doesn’t hurt that my first teaching job was teaching self defense, so the more weapons stuff, the better in my opinion.

Why to watch Enter the Dragon: The quintessential Bruce Lee film, and massively influential on martial arts movies and action films.
Why not to watch: “Hewwo, Mistah Bwaithwaite!”

Why to watch Shao Lin San Shi Liu Fang: Training and ass kicking, ass kicking and training.
Why not to watch: There’s a temptation to say “Ho ho ho!” every time someone says “San Ta.”

The Alpha and Omega of Special Effects

Films: Avatar, La Voyage dans la Lune (A Trip to the Moon)
Format: Campus Cinemas (Avatar), internet video on laptop (Voyage).


Let’s start with my coming clean. I watched Avatar yesterday, not today. However, it didn’t really fit with the Nosferatu-based theme of Tuesday, so I figured I would wait and talk about it today. I was, evidently, one of the last six people to see this movie, since it’s been out for several months and has brought in something like the GNP of half of Europe in ticket sales, merchandising, advertising tie-ins, and everything else.

The visuals are the first, last, and only sell here. The story that is told is one that has been told before, over and over. Except for the very young, those who never see movies, or the very thick-skulled, there is nothing approaching innovation in terms of the story, the story telling, or the message at the heart of the film. Want to see it summed up in one sentence? A man learns to value and appreciate the savage but noble people who are very different from him and helps them stand against the corporate, machine-based oppression of his own people.

Chances are good that you’ve already seen Avatar, so I won’t go too into detail about the plot. Our main character, Jake (Sam Worthington), has lost the use of his legs as well as his identical twin brother. His brother had been hard at work on a top-level project on a moon four or five light years away from Earth. Jake agrees to go take his brother’s place on the moon, called Pandora.

So, once we get to Pandora, we’ll have good guys and bad guys. The good guys are Jake, Dr. Grace Augustine (Sigourney Weaver), Norm (Joel David Moore), Trudy (Michelle Rodriguez), and Dr. Max Patel (Dileep Rao). These good guys are either the scientists running the Avatar project, or their friends. See, humans can’t breathe the air on Pandora. So, using genetic clones of the giant, blue humanoid indigenous life, the Na’vi, humans can plant their own consciousness in an alien body and run around on the planet. The most important of the Na’vi in terms of the story is Neytiri (Zoe Saldana), who is quite naturally the daughter of her tribe’s leader Etyukan (Wes Studi) and the tribe’s seer Moat (CCH Pounder).

Jake’s job is to infiltrate and gain info on the Na’vi, because they live right on top of a huge cache of minerals that can solve Earth’s energy crisis. This mineral is called unobtanium. No, seriously. The bad guys want it, and are lead by corporate goon Parker Selfridge (Giovanni Ribisi) and military hardass Colonel Miles Quartich (Stephen Lang). Jake, of course, learns to appreciate the beauty of Pandora and the Na’vi people, and all hell breaks loose when the military and corporate bad guys decide that they want the minerals and it’s time to destroy every goddam thing on the planet to get it.

Sigh. It’s little more than Dances with Wolves or The Last Samurai. An outsider becomes part of an insular, tribal group that is far down on the technology scale from those oppressing them. The outsider learns to love the simplicity, the “noble savagery” of the indigenous folk, and helps them stand up against their technologically superior but morally inferior enemies.

The problem is that this shows the world as two extremes—on the one hand, we have the bad guys who are a stop-at-nothing, obtain-the-valuable-polluting-resource, we’re-better-because-we-have-stuff bastards who are uncaring, unthinking, and unfeeling. They are bad because they don’t respect the land or the people. Certainly people like this do exist. But not everybody who works for a logging company, a mining operation, or any given factory is a heartless bastard actually looking forward to raping the land. On the other side, we get Jake, the scientists, and the Na’vi, who are so in touch with their world and their environment that they may as well be carrying non-polluting signs that say “Root for Us!” In fact, the Na’vi are so in touch with their world, that their long queues hide a nerve bundle that they can use to jack in to other creatures and the plants of their world. They can, for instance, hook up to their horse critters and control them mentally through this connection. It’s like they’re walking around with their own private Wi-Fi, and there’s a terminal everywhere.

Where’s the middle ground? Where is the “We’d like some stuff from your planet, but we’ll try not to screw it up too much” opinion? Oh, that’s far too nuanced for a film like this, so it simply doesn’t exist.

What does exist is the incredible visuals. They are astonishing, although there are times when it’s evident that the Na’vi are animated. They move well and look good, but there’s something about the mouth movements during speech that sometimes looks unnatural. Despite these little glitches, though, the world of Pandora is beautiful, and beautifully rendered. Okay, with the floating mountains it does look quite a bit like every Yes album from the 1970s, and the bio-luminescence of everything is cool for about 10 minutes and annoying for about two hours. That said, the visual wow is present.

But that’s it. The story is a retread, and predictable to boot. I knew exactly how the film was going to end a good twenty minutes before it did, and chances are that you did, too. The message is one I’ve seen over and over, and it’s applied with all of the delicacy of a sledgehammer. It’s a stereotypical supermodel of films—big, pretty, and dumber than a fencepost. It is the definition of style over substance.

*** STOP! SPOILER TIME! ***

Out of deference to the six people who still haven’t seen Avatar, I’ll spoil the ending here, but will place it under a warning. The moment Sigourney Weaver’s character was injured and the Na’vi had a way to heal her by essentially uploading her into the white fiber optic tree and downloading her into the body, I knew what was going to happen. She wouldn’t make it, because if it worked, there’d be no “tension” for when they tried it next. At that moment, I also knew we’d see this ritual again with Jake’s crippled body and his own avatar. The music would rise, his human body would die, the camera would pan over to his blue Na’vi face and…the eyes open, end film. I saw it coming, I knew it would happen, and it did. If you didn’t see that coming, shame on you.

*** RESUME NON-SPOILERS ***

When I was a kid, my parents spent three weeks in Kenya on a camera safari. During that time, my mother had her birthday, and the guides presented her with a cake. As it turns out, that cake was actually a frosted elephant turd. And that’s my opinion of Avatar. You can frost the hell out of a dumb story with all the pretty visuals you want, but at its heart, it’s still just a really dumb story. All of the pretty pictures in the world don’t change the fact that it’s unoriginal, predictable, and, essentially, an elephant turd.

So why did I watch it? Because you know it’s going to show up on this list sooner or later, and I wanted to see it on the big screen. I decided to act preemptively.


Sitting at the other end of the special effects spectrum is Georges Melies’s La Voyage dans la Lune, or A Trip to the Moon. Made in 1902, it’s arguably the first science-fiction movie, one of the first to use any sorts of camera trickery, and one of the first to have even something of a coherent plot, although this really isn’t so easy to follow. There are no title cards beyond the name of the film, and no dialogue described throughout, making it essentially a mime show.

We have a group of astronomers who look more like alchemists with their robes and pointy hats having a meeting. The leader of this group proposes a trip to the moon in a bullet-shaped capsule fired from a huge gun. Five of the astronomers agree to go on the trip, and they launch themselves with the assistance of pretty, shorts-clad women. On the moon, they watch Earthrise and take a nap.

While they are sleeping, women appear in the stars and planets and snow begins to fall. The astronomers take shelter in a cave, where they find huge mushrooms growing. One of the astronomers uses his umbrella to compare its size to the mushrooms, but it takes root and grows into a large mushroom itself. Then, a group of Selenites (moon critters) shows up and attacks. While savage, the Selenites are fragile; a single hit from an umbrella turns them into a cloud of dust. However, the astronomers are captured and dragged before the Selenite king.

The astronomers loose themselves from their bonds and attack and kill the king. They run back to the capsule and one pushes the capsule off the edge of the moon, grabbing hold of a rope himself. The capsule splashes into the ocean and sinks, then slowly rises to the top, where the astronomers are heralded in a huge parade. Sadly, this footage is missing from the film and is considered lost, although a nearly complete version was found in 2002. Still, for the available versions, you’re not likely to see much once the capsule splashes down.

This is not a movie in the traditional sense. It is blocked much more like a stage production, and the sets and props are very reminiscent of a stage play. This makes sense—with nothing else to compare it to, early films like this one did have a sort of staged drama feel to them. What’s worth watching here is not the obvious rudimentary stage and film craft, but how advanced some of Melies’s techniques were for the time. Early in the film, for instance, the astronomers are given telescopes to hold. These suddenly turn into stools for them to sit on. Certainly, today, we understand that the crew stopped filming for a minute, replaced the telescopes with stools, and started the camera back up. But in 1902, this was new, innovative, and startling.

More impressive are the battles with the Selenites, who really appear to vaporize in a cloud of smoke and dust. For its time, this kind of effect was unheard of, and would influence dozens of nascent filmmakers in the years to come. Melies was perhaps the first to truly understand what the film medium could be capable of doing and of pushing the known boundaries as far as he could.

With a running time (depending on the version you locate) between eight and 15 minutes, there isn’t a lot to see here, and it goes by pretty quickly. But real filmmaking, real cinematic storytelling, real cinema started here. It is charming, innocent, and sweet with its goofy professors and moon played by a man with whipped cream covering his face. It’s also silly and impossible to take seriously on its surface. So don’t, but do take it seriously for what it really represents.

Why to watch Avatar: Boy-howdy pretty.
Why not to watch: Putting a wedding dress on a pig doesn’t mean it stops being a pig.

Why to watch La Voyage dans la Lune: It’s charming and innovative.
Why not to watch: It’s awfully silly.

Who Said Vampires are Romantic?

Film: Nosferatu, eine Symphonie des Grauens (Nosferatu: A Symphony of Terror), Nosferatu: Phantom der Nacht (Nosferatu the Vampyre)
Format: DVD from personal collection on big ol' television (Symphony), DVD from Scott Community College Library through interlibrary loan on itty bitty bedroom television (Vampyre).





















If you went to Wheaton North High School in the 1980s, you had three choices when it came to taking a foreign language. Most people took Spanish, another group took French, and a small, select few opted for German with Herr Kurtz. If you took German, you could be assured of a few things every given year. First, Herr Kurtz would spend some days not so much teaching as talking about other stuff like reminiscences of his childhood. Second, you could be sure that Herr Kurtz would screen two movies: Der Blaue Engel and Nosferatu: eine Symphonie des Grauens.

This was years ago for me, so my memories of this may well be hazy. As I recall, though, the further along we got in our knowledge of Deutsch, the less Herr Kurtz translated for us. I understood him showing us Der Blaue Engel, but I never really got why it seemed so important for us to watch Nosferatu. I suppose it allowed us a chance to follow written German rather than spoken, or perhaps Herr Kurtz just really liked Nosferatu. I kept hoping he’d show us Das Boot to no avail.

Today is probably the first time I’ve seen Nosferatu in 25 years, the last time I was in a high school German class. Despite this, there are parts of the film I remembered almost completely and almost perfectly. Murnau’s film still resonates despite its age and still has enough power to be compelling. The story is nothing new—if you’re remotely familiar with the Bram Stoker’s Dracula, you’ve seen this with different names.

Horror movies rely strongly on their ability to shock and stun, which means that many older horror movies lose their power over time. Once we can see the strings, the scare is gone. It can be argued that the average of the movie-going public has had expectations reduced due to lowered standards and limited attention spans. It can just as easily be argued that this same public has gotten smarter. We understand how movies are made and many of the tricks that are used. We know how the effects are done, which limits the ability of those effects to terrify. This is particularly true of very old films like Nosferatu. The stop motion of the carriage, for instance, looks silly now but must have startled audiences in the 1920s.

And yet, much of it still works and works beautifully. Early in the film as Harker/Hutter (Gustav von Wangenheim) arrives in Transylvania, a werewolf is heard outside the inn he stays in. We get a few close-ups of the beast…and it looks damn good. In truth it’s just film of a hyena, but how often have you seen a hyena at close range? They’re creepy looking, and the thing still works as an otherworldly, dark creature.

What really works here is Max Schreck as Count Orlok. He is a disturbing and evil presence, eyes rimmed with black, huge hooked nose, pointed ears, and sharp, needle-like teeth. He has several particular mannerisms that still come off as exceedingly bizarre and terrifying, even now because they have so seldom been duplicated or done as well. He walks stiffly, arms at his sides, giving him a corpse-like quality, or at least a quality of unnaturalness that even today is disturbing. Second, and far creepier and more effective is his habit of moving first his head and then his eyes, as if his eyes are compelled to turn where his head leads him. It is impossible to describe the effect of this other than to say it is horrifying because of how naturally Schreck does this and how unnatural it appears. Schreck appears as Count Orlok for about 10 minutes, yet he dominates the entire film.

It’s worth noting that but for some savvy film lovers, Nosferatu: eine Symphonie des Grauens would not exist today. Because the film is essentially the Dracula story with new names substituted, the widow of Bram Stoker sued, and as part of the settlement, all known prints and negatives of Murnau’s film were destroyed. Fortunately, versions of the film survived in other countries, allowing this film to live on, as well it should.

It’s valid to say that Nosferatu no longer has the ability to frighten a modern audience. In truth, for an audience used to more explicit violence, more graphic gore, and far better special effects, much of Nosferatu may appear silly or juvenile. And yet it is still fantastic, still beautiful, and still a film to be reckoned with. Scary or not, its influence is still felt. And imagine the terror of an audience in 1922, seeing a creation like Count Orlok for the first time. Viewed in the context of its time, it is one of the greatest films ever made.


Normally, I’m a purist when it comes to remakes. I’m aware enough to realize that there are some remakes that are as good or better than the original, but I also wonder at the necessity for the vast number of them that seem to be happening now. Most remakes don’t match up to the original because they are changed dramatically or dumbed down for the assumed dumb audience. Time and time again, we discover that the dumbed down versions of films aren’t received as well as the originals, because once again, the movie companies have vastly underestimated the smarts of the typical movie audience.

Essentially, I think that directors should avoid remakes of films that are less than 50 years old. If you’re going to remake a film, at least choose one that has been out of the public consciousness for a good amount of time. Additionally, you should avoid redoing a true classic. Only the very best can get away with redoing something that has achieved that status.

Werner Herzog tried with his version of Nosferatu. He filmed it simultaneously in English and German, so there are some differences between the two, but they are essentially the same. A difference certainly exists from previou films in tone—the opening montage of mummified human remains is disturbing and off-putting, and indicates with no uncertainty that this will be a very different Nosferatu. Because the copyright had died off the original Dracula story, Herzog went with the more familiar names from Stoker’s book, including using the name Count Dracula (Klaus Kinski) for his vampire. Still, he stuck with the story of the original Murnau film rather than sticking with Stoker’s book. So, Harker (Bruno Ganz) is not engaged to Mina, but is married to Lucy (Isabelle Adjani). I’m not sure of the reason for this—it would be simple to just switch the names of the two women to stick with the book.

Regardless, the story is again one that you know in general. Kinski is made up to look as much like Max Schreck from the original film as possible, and it’s a good job. If anything, the appearance is far more disturbing in color than it was in black and white. Rather than being simply pale and pasty, here the vampire is the color of a frozen corpse, sort of pale blue-white. Most disturbing are the needle-like front teeth that prevent Kinski from closing his mouth. Kinski does manage to capture some of the style and movement of Schreck, which adds to the validity of this film.

There are some really notable performances here. Isabelle Adjani is fine, although her main function is to look pretty and have incredibly huge eyes that are constantly as wide as possible. Still, for eye candy, she fits the role. The insane Renfield (Roland Topor) punctuates every sentence with an annoying insane giggle that speaks very much to his character. Ganz’s portrayal of Harker is compelling, particularly as he falls further and further under the spell of Dracula, ending up as a pale shadow of himself, acting somewhere slightly more sane than Renfield, but certainly headed toward madness.

The real performance of note is Kinski’s. Perhaps it is the color, or perhaps it is merely the sound of his voice, but this version of Dracula is the most sympathetic I have seen. He is a tormented figure, one to be feared but also one to be pitied. He wants desperately to be loved, but is so hideous a countenance that no one could possibly love him. Where Schreck was merely fearsome, Lugosi was romantic, and Christopher Lee was powerful and even masculine/sexy, this Dracula is really tragic, filled with pain, longing, and palpable angst.

It’s not the original, but it’s not half bad. What’s most surprising and welcome here is the twist at the very end that changes this particular bloodsucker film into something rich and strange.

For the record, I watched the English version.

Why to watch Nosferatu, eine Symphonie des Grauens: Incredible influence that is felt today.
Why not to watch: You can’t put yourself in that 1920s mindset.

Why to watch Nosferatu the Vampyre: An interesting update on a classic film with an odd poignancy and a surprising twist.
Why not to watch: You can’t decide between the English or the German version.

School Days

Films: If…., Zero de Conduite (Zero for Conduct)
Format: DVD from Rockford Public Library on itty bitty bedroom television (If….), Internet video on laptop (Zero).

There is a perversity about British boarding schools, which have achieved a measure of celebrity and charm thanks to the popularity of Harry Potter. Giant tables and mass meals, group common rooms and fun, fun, fun. We get a similar view of the American versions of such schools in films like The Emperor’s Club and most especially Dead Poets Society, where such schools are looked at as perhaps having some problems, but where the students are smart, attentive, and well mannered in general. My guess is that the reality is substantially different, and that much like the Royal Navy, they endure based on rum, buggery, and the lash. You can tell which house at Hogwarts has the most buggery, too. It’s undoubtedly Slytherin.


Lindsay Anderson’s If…. (four dots, not three) takes place at such a boarding school, and suggests all of the terrors and horrors that such a place might—and likely does—have. Those in charge haze and bully those below them, who in turn bully and haze the ones below them. In addition to being dedicated to education, the school is also a lesson in hierarchy and power. The younger students “scum” for the older ones, which means that they act as unofficial, unpaid servants who must do what they are told. We learn quickly, in fact, that one scum’s job is to warm up the toilet seat for one of the older students. The students in charge, typically called “prefects” at most schools, are called “whips” at this one—and with a purpose.

Our main character here is Mick Travis (Malcolm McDowell), an older student at the school, but not a whip or one with much power or importance. He is a definite rebel, as we see on his initial appearance wrapped in a long black scarf covering his face, with a hat pulled down over his head. He keeps the scarf on in defiance of the people in charge of him until he can sneak off on his own, when it becomes evident that he has grown a mustache over the summer. A rebel, yes, but not so much of one that he doesn’t shave it off right away before being told to.

We quickly learn the daily life of the students, which for the younger students is not what their parents sent them to school for. A collection of whips, for instance, frankly and openly discusses their collective homosexual conquests of the younger boys. One of the whips, almost certainly interested in the pretty, almost female looking Bobby Phillips (Rupert Webster) chides them of their adolescent sex, but is given Phillips as his new scum.

Mick, in the meantime, hooks up with his pair of friends Johnny (David Wood) and Wallace (Richard Warwick). The three flout authority when they can, and are punished for it. These floutings of authority become more and more serious and culminate in a pitched battle outside of the school at the end of the film.

What’s really fascinating here though, is that a considerable amount of the film is purely fantasy, and not actually happening. When and where these fantasy scenes take place can be difficult to see. For instance, at one point, Mick and Johnny head into the nearby town, steal a motorcycle from a showroom, and head off for a cup of coffee. Mick kisses the girl behind the counter, and she slaps him hard. And then, moments later, the two are having rough, animal sex on the floor of the shop…and suddenly it’s done, she’s dressed again, and Johnny is just sitting there having his coffee.

This dips into surrealism and fantasy occur more and more as the film progresses, but not everything is fantasy. For instance, the scene where Mick and his friends are hauled off by their whips and punished—a vicious caning after which they are forced to thank the caner and shake his hand actually happens. So too does the scene where Wallace and Bobby are laying in bed together, sleeping peacefully. But I find it difficult to accept any of the scenes that contain the presence of the girl from the coffee shop (Christine Noonan) after her initial slap at face value.

*** HERE THERE BE SPOILERS ***

The famous scene of If…. is the closing, in which our three heroes, the girl, and Bobby take up arms against the school, the other students, and the parents. They place themselves on the roof of a building and set fire to the building where a presentation is being made to the rest of the school. As people flee the fire, the group opens fire with machine guns. And yet, the girl is here as well, and earlier, she appeared from nowhere, a female at an all-boys school. I can’t take it at face value, and assume that virtually everything that happens after the military maneuvers toward the end of the film happens in Mick’s fantasy world. I’m not saying he’s crazy, but I am saying that I don’t buy the reality of this part of the film.

At the very least, their punishment for actually firing live rounds into a crowd would be much stiffer, and there’s no way there would be limited consequences for Mick shooting blanks at the vicar and then threatening him with a bayonet. And what was the vicar doing in the drawer in the headmaster’s office?

No. It’s fantasy. It’s nothing more than what Mick would like to do, but finds himself impotent to do in reality. This is the only way the last 20 minutes or so of the film make any kind of sense for me. Despite this unreality, the final scenes are incredibly powerful, and prophetic. This is a dangerous film, the kind anyone would fear falling into the hands of young students just smart enough to understand it and just dumb enough to think it reality. I live in a town that survived a school shooting a few years ago; this is still pretty raw for many of us here.

*** THUS ENDETH THE SPOILERS ***


Jean Vigo’s Zero de Conduite (Zero for Conduct) in many ways is an earlier version of Anderson’s film. Filmed more than 30 years earlier, this film also takes place at a boarding school, French this time, where the seeds of rebellion are slowly growing. Here too the boys are hounded by their instructors and anyone bigger than they are, and they can only complain to each other and themselves.

Our three main troublemakers are Colin (Gilbert Pruchon), Bruel (Coco Golstein), and Caussat (Louis Lefebvre). All of the boys are constantly threatened with a “zero for conduct,” but it is these three who seem to be the constant victim. They are given Sunday detention on the first day back at school, and they scheme to find a way to escape their fairly arbitrary punishment, or at least rebel against the people in charge.

This, honestly, shouldn’t be hard for any kids with any sense at all. We see over and over that the various instructors and masters at the school are more concerned with themselves than the boys. In fact, it seems quite often that they are unaware of the boys at all. All of the boys manage to get away with virtually everything they try—plotting openly in front of their instructors, caging smokes immediately behind their teachers’ backs.

There are certainly surreal elements throughout the film, the same sort of detachment from reality that Anderson used in If…. The school headmaster, for instance, is a dwarf and is shorter than virtually all of his students. A drawing created by one of the instructors suddenly animates for a few seconds while he looks on. The headmaster uses a portrait to primp himself, and the man in the portrait reacts as if it is a mirror. On a walk through town, the students continually lose and find their instructor, who is completely oblivious to their presence.

A fourth boy joins the crew. This is Tabard (Gerard de Bedarieux), who is effeminate, a sissy, and a crybaby. However, the one thing he does have going for him is a hiding place for the things that the trio wants to keep out of the hands of their teachers and headmaster, the “ammunition” for the plan that they will enact. When Tabard stands up to a teacher and refuses to back down, he becomes one of the crew for real.

That night, in preparation for the school’s Commemoration Day, they boys plan a revolt. A huge pillow fight ensues, and the boys march off with all of the others in their dormitory in a scene reminiscent of the French Revolution. The next morning, the boys tie a teacher to his bed, then stand the bed up. Other adults pass, not noticing the bizarre display and the four boys leave and barricade themselves in the attic, then assault the proceedings with tin cans and garbage, a scene that will be mimicked with more significant effect in If….

Vigo seems to be saying that the struggle is not necessarily child against adult or student against teacher, but rather conformity versus freedom. The boys are fighting not against doing things they don’t want to do or don’t like, but against things that seem to have no sense or purpose to them. The teachers, with one exception, value conformity for its own sake, while the boys value their own freedom and spontaneity.

Ultimately, this film is surreal and lighthearted, but the message it presents is a legitimate one. How far should we be willing to go to fit in with everyone else? Vigo is willing to offer a surreal distance, while Anderson seems willing to go a lot further.

Why to watch If….: A raw look at violence, repression, and adolescence that resonates more today than it did when it was made.
Why not to watch: School shootings tend to bring things very close to the surface.

Why to watch Zero de Conduite: It’s a French Little Rascals short.
Why not to watch: French. Little. Rascals.