Locke (Steven Knight, 2013)

Tom Hardy in Locke

Cast: Tom Hardy, voices of Olivia Colman, Ruth Wilson, Andrew Scott, Ben Daniels, Tom Holland, Bill Milner, Danny Webb, Alice Lowe, Silas Carson, Lee Ross, Kirsty Dillon. Screenplay: Steven Knight. Cinematography: Haris Zambarloukos. Film editing: Justine Wright. Music: Dickon Hinchliffe.

A man driving on the highway alone at night, talking to people on the car phone. It's the stuff of which radio dramas like the 1943 Sorry, Wrong Number were made -- or might have been, if there had been car phones in the 1940s, the peak era of radio drama. Sorry, Wrong Number was "opened up" to show other characters than the woman on the phone when it was filmed by Anatole Litvak in 1948, but Steven Knight's Locke remains alone in the car with its title character, played by Tom Hardy in a performance that leaves no doubt that he's one of our best actors. But the actors whose voices are heard in the film, including Olivia Colman, Ruth Wilson, Andrew Scott, and Tom Holland, are just as compelling in their performances. The chief objection made by critics is that Locke is basically a "gimmick" film, that there's no reason why Knight shouldn't have shown the people on the other end of the line -- or whatever passes for "line" in the era of mobile phones. It's a tour de force that keeps the camera trained on Locke for the film's entire 85 minutes, with only occasional cuts to the surrounding traffic, and it's an added departure from the expected to cast an actor known mainly for his work in action films in a role that puts him in one seat for the whole movie. But I think Knight and Hardy make it work splendidly, focusing our attention on the character of Ivan Locke, and the decision he has made to abandon both the important construction project he supervises and the family gathering to watch a big soccer match on TV in order to drive to where a woman with whom he had a one-night stand is giving birth to his child. Knight hasn't really solved all the problems of motivation that he should have: The decision to have Locke deliver a series of monologues directed at his dead father, who abandoned him and his mother, feels contrived. But there's real drama in the conversations with Donal (Scott), the inexperienced and rather feckless man he has left in charge of the crucial concrete pour, with the hysterical Bethan (Colman), who is giving birth to their child, and with his wife, Katrina (Wilson), to whom he is just now confessing that he slept with Bethan. Best of all, Knight has the good sense not to provide closure to Locke's story: When we leave him, he has a marriage in ruins and a baby to help support, and he's been fired from his job. But because we have spent so much time face to face with Locke, and because Hardy has so deftly created the character, it's easy to sense that he's capable of surmounting these problems. 

Girlhood (Céline Sciamma, 2014)

Karidja Touré in Girlhood

Cast: Karidja Touré, Assa Sylla, Lindsay Karamoh, Mariétou Touré, Idrissa Diabaté, Simina Soumaré, Dielika Coulibaly, Cyril Mendy, Djibril Gueye, Binta Diop, Chance N'Guessan. Screenplay: Céline Sciamma. Cinematography: Crystel Fournier. Production design: Thomas Grézaud. Film editing: Julien Lacheray. Music: Jean-Baptiste de Laubier.

Girlhood is an altogether absorbing look at young lives in the Paris banlieue, which might also be a description of Mathieu Kassovitz's celebrated 1995 film La Haine. But the difference between the two is striking and important: La Haine was about young men, a Jew, a Black, and an Arab, and worked out its story a little self-consciously as a commentary on the relations among three major ethnic groups. Its writer-director and its three principals were male, with all the implications of privilege that suggests. But Girlhood was written and directed by a woman, and its protagonist is female, a Black teenager named Marieme (Karidja Touré), who is determined to go her own way in life. Told that she doesn't have the grades to go to high school but should choose vocational education instead, Marieme rebels, determined to find her way against the odds. She falls in with a group of girls -- the French title was Bande de Filles, which might be translated Gang of Girls -- and adopts their ways, which include a little shoplifting, a little bullying of smaller kids for money, and excursions into Paris for the bright lights of the big city. They also include fights with other gangs, and when the leader of Marieme's gang, Lady (Assa Sylla), loses a fight and is embarrassed, Marieme, who has become known as "Vic," short for "Victory," takes on the winner of that fight and triumphs, stripping off the other girl's top and using a knife to cut away her bra as a trophy. Still, she must face the outside world. Her mother, Asma (Binta Diop), works as a maid in a large hotel and arranges for Marieme to take a job there, but she turns it down. Her life at home becomes intolerable when she sleeps with her boyfriend, Ismaël, and is beaten for being a slut by her older brother, Djibril (Cyril Mendy). So she goes to work as a runner for Abou (Djibril Gueye), a drug dealer, which gives her an income, a place to live, and some glimpse of the high life. But the end of the film finds her still solitary, still facing obstacles. Girlhood is a smart, sad movie with a deeply engaging performance by Touré, and a strong supporting cast.

Piccadilly (Ewald André Dupont, 1929)

Anna May Wong in Piccadilly

Cast: Gilda Gray, Anna May Wong, Jameson Thomas, Cyril Ritchard, King Hou Chang, Hannah Jones, Gordon Begg, Harry Terry, Charles Laughton. Screenplay: Arnold Bennett. Cinematography: Werner Brandes. Art direction: Alfred Junge. Film editing: J.W. McConaughty.

I share the opinion of the contemporary reviewer of Piccadilly that Arnold Bennett's screenplay is more interesting than what its director, E.A. Dupont, made of it. Bennett was a major novelist who, like such contemporaries as John Galsworthy and H.G. Wells, fell from favor with the ascendance of modernist writers like James Joyce and Virginia Woolf. It was Woolf's riposte to Bennett, who had written an unfavorable review of her 1922 novel Jacob's Room, that severely damaged his standing among intellectuals. Her essay, "Mr. Bennett and Mrs. Brown" contained the much-quoted observation that "on or about December 1910 human character changed," Woolf's way of saying that an exhibition of Post-Impressionist art indicated a new way of approaching existence through the arts. Bennett's naturalistic fiction began to fall in critical esteem. It may simply be that Bennett was so prolific a writer, with more than 30 novels, scores of stories, a substantial number of plays, and hundreds of essays, that he simply spread himself too thin. But his script for Piccadilly shows his interest in marginalized characters, including the lowlife of Limehouse and the backstage competitiveness of the London theater. And most of all, it gave Anna May Wong one of her most prominent and interesting roles, that of a scullery maid named Shosho who becomes a night-club sensation, but falls victim to jealousy tinged with racism. Unfortunately, Dupont's direction is often a little sluggish, and his staging of Shosho's big dance scene doesn't make it clear why her finger-waving hoochie-koochie -- she's outfitted in a costume more Balinese than Chinese -- causes such a sensation. Still, the film benefits from atmospheric sets by Alfred Junge and cinematography by Werner Brandes. It's also full of watchable actors, including Gilda Gray, who rose to fame for her shimmy, as the dancer Shosho replaces in the interest of the audiences and of the club owner. We first see Gray's Mabel when she's teamed with Victor, played by Cyril Ritchard, in a dance duet modeled on Fred and Adele Astaire. Dupont seems more interested in shots of the audience than in the dancers, partly because the plot is set in motion by an unruly diner complaining about a dirty dish. The diner is played by Charles Laughton in his feature film debut. His complaint leads the club owner, Valentine Wilmot, played by Jameson Thomas, to discover that the dishwashers are goofing off and watching one of them, Shosho, dancing. Though he fires Shosho on the spot, he later takes her to his office where he watches her dance, which gives him the idea to give her a big number in the club. When she succeeds, and Mabel discovers that Valentine has fallen in love with Shosho, the plot, as they say, thickens. Although made as a silent film, Piccadilly was enough of a success that the producers decided to add some scenes with sound and a music score. TCM, however, shows a silent version with a score added in 2004 after the film was restored.

Diamantino (Gabriel Abrantes, Daniel Schmidt, 2018)

Carloto Cotta in Diamantino

Cast: Carloto Cotta, Cleo Tavares, Anabela Moreira, Margarida Moreira, Carla Maciel, Chico Chapas, Hugo Santos Silva, Joana Barrios, Felipe Vargas, Maria Leite. Screenplay: Gabriel Abrantes, Daniel Schmidt. Cinematography: Charles Ackley Anderson. Art direction: Cypress Cook, Bruno Duarte. Film editing: Gabriel Abrantes, Raphaëlle Martin-Holger, Daniel Schmidt. Music: Adriana Holtz, Ulysse Klotz.

Diamantino is very much of a moment, that pre-Covid-19 moment before the pandemic shifted the focus off of right wing nationalism, celebrity culture, big-time sports, media manipulation, genetic experimentation, the refugee crisis, globalization, sexual identity, and all of the other obsessions that have receded into the background. The film's co-writer-directors, Gabriel Abrantes and Daniel Schmidt, pile all of these and more into Diamantino, but their film is idiosyncratic enough that Diamantino never bogs down into cause-championing or scattershot satire. After all, any film that centers on a soccer hunk who imagines that he's playing the game with the aid of a stampede of giant puppies is not going to take a wholly predictable course. When the film begins, Diamantino Matamouros (Carloto Cotta) is the world's most acclaimed soccer player, a blissful naïf who is managed by his father (Chico Chapas). But when he misses a penalty kick and loses the World Cup for Portugal, things fall apart. His father dies of a stroke, leaving Diamantino grieving and at the mercy of his wicked twin sisters (Anabela and Margarida Moreira), who send him to therapy with the sinister Dr. Lamborghini (Carla Maciel), who is secretly trying to clone him and create a super-team of Diamantinos. He's also under investigation for money laundering -- where there's wealth there must be wrongdoing, the theory goes -- by two agents named Aisha (Cleo Tavares) and Lucia (Maria Leite), who also happen to be lovers. During a talk show interview, Diamantino recalls how once when out on the Mediterranean in his yacht, he and his father came across a boatload of refugees; tearing up at the memory, he declares his intention to adopt a refugee. This spurs the investigators to have Lucia pose as a nun from a refugee resettlement program and offer up a boy named Rahim for adoption by Diamantino. Rahim is actually Aisha in disguise, which gets her into his house to crack his computer and spy on him. Meanwhile, the wicked sisters have hooked up with a group that wants Portugal to withdraw from the European Union, with the plan to get Diamantino as the celebrity figurehead for the group. He makes a TV commercial for this "Make Portugal Great Again" group that is actually modeled on ads produced by the supporters of Brexit. The rest of the film, of course, is about the way this elaborate setup unravels. Abrantes and Schmidt admit to having been inspired by classic screwball comedy, and the girl-disguised-as-a-boy plot is older than Shakespeare, but Diamantino succeeds on its own merits, which include an anything-goes spirit on the part of the filmmakers. There's so much going on that the film sometimes wobbles and risks falling apart, but it's held together by the altogether charming performance of Cotta as the holy fool Diamantino.

Strike Up the Band (Busby Berkeley, 1940)

Mickey Rooney and Judy Garland in Strike Up the Band

Cast: Mickey Rooney, Judy Garland, Paul Whiteman, June Preisser, William Tracy, Larry Nunn, Ann Shoemaker, Margaret Early, Francis Pierlot, Virginia Brissac, George Lessey, Enid Bennett, Howard Hickman, Sarah Edwards, Milton Kibbee, Helen Jerome Eddy. Screenplay: John Monks Jr., Fred F. Finkelhoffe. Cinematography: Ray June. Art direction: Cedric Gibbons, John S. Detlie. Film editing: Ben Lewis. Music: Leo Arnau, George Stoll.

At one point in Strike Up the Band, the kids put on a show that's a burlesque of a "Gay Nineties" melodrama. Which might remind us that 1890 and 1940 were not so remote from each other as 2020 is from 1940. We might even look at a film like High School Musical (Kenny Ortega, 2006) or a TV series like Glee (2009-2015) as a burlesque of Strike Up the Band, except they took the subject matter more seriously than the kids in the 1940 movie did the material of old-time melodrama. Strike Up the Band is a still-honored subgenre, the "hey, kids, let's put on a show" musical. It has all the caricaturable excesses of its kind: big musical numbers that would never fit on an actual stage; the struggle to raise money for the show; the setback when one kid gets sick; the protagonist struggling with whether to become a musician or a physician; the teen romance that isn't quite gelling; the kindly, understanding mother; and even a rousing finale that actually waves the flag. Unfortunately, it's also something of a dud, especially considering the talent involved: Mickey Rooney, Judy Garland, and direction by Busby Berkeley. But this is the Berkeley of the MGM years, not the unfettered "choreographer of space" of the Warner Bros. musicals of the early 1930s -- or even the Berkeley who snuck over to 20th Century Fox in 1943 and gave Carmen Miranda a tutti-frutti hat in one of the craziest moments in The Gang's All Here. At MGM he was reined in too much, though you can sense him yearning to break free in numbers like the title sequence and "Do the La Conga." Garland sings some mostly unmemorable songs well -- though MGM bought the rights to the 1927 stage musical by George and Ira Gershwin, it retained only the title song; the rest are by Roger Edens and the film's producer, Arthur Freed, along with some period oldies for the melodrama sequence. And Rooney is as manic as he ever got on film: dancing, mugging, and frenetically playing the drums. Still, at 120 minutes, Strike Up the Band sags a little too often, especially in a stop-motion puppetry sequence in which Rooney imagines conducting an orchestra made up of fruit -- an idea that Vincente Minnelli came up with and producer Freed enthusiastically adapted. Better songs and a brighter supporting cast might have helped, and the 40-year-old hairlines on some of the supposed high school students are too much in evidence.

The Baron of Arizona (Samuel Fuller, 1950)

Vincent Price and Ellen Drew in The Baron of Arizona

Cast: Vincent Price, Ellen Drew, Vladimir Sokoloff, Beulah Bondi, Reed Hadley, Robert Barrat, Robin Short, Tina Pine, Karen Kester, Margia Dean, Jonathan Hale, Edward Keane, Barbara Woddell. Screenplay: Samuel Fuller, Homer Croy. Cinematography: James Wong Howe. Production design: Jack Poplin. Film editing: Arthur Hilton. Music: Paul Dunlap.

"An occasionally true story" goes the tag line to Tony McNamara's delicious The Great, a miniseries about Catherine the Great. It's certainly a phrase that applies to almost every biopic ever made, but especially to Samuel Fuller's The Baron of Arizona, the second of his feature films as director, sandwiched between two better-known movies, I Shot Jesse James (1949) and The Steel Helmet (1951). The film purports to tell the story of James Addison Reavis, a fraudster par excellence who tried in 1880 to lay claim to virtually the entire United States territory of Arizona. The real story of Reavis's scheme is far more complex and far less romantic than the one Fuller carved out of it. Fuller's version is full of shady doings in a monastery, a hair-breadth escape abetted by Spanish gypsies, high-rolling arrogance, near death by lynch mob, and sentimental true love, everything that could allow Vincent Price to play both dashing and disreputable. You can probably sense Fuller feeling his way as a director in the movie -- it's not quite as solidly grounded as either of the ones that flank it in his filmography -- and its budgetary shortcomings are evident. But few directors could do as much with so little.

Much Ado About Nothing (Joss Whedon, 2012)

Alexis Denisof and Amy Acker in Much Ado About Nothing

Cast: Amy Acker, Alexis Denisof, Nathan Fillion, Clark Gregg, Reed Diamond, Fran Kranz, Jillian Morgese, Sean Maher, Spencer Treat Clark, Riki Lindholme, Ashley Johnson, Emma Bates, Tom Lenk, Nick Kocher, Brian McElhaney. Screenplay: Joss Whedon, based on a play by William Shakespeare. Cinematography: Jay Hunter. Production design: Cindy Chao, Michele Yu. Film editing: Daniel S. Kaminsky, Joss Whedon. Music: Joss Whedon.

Fleet, light, and lucid, Joss Whedon's film of Shakespeare's Much Ado About Nothing is made without undue reverence or pretense, which is pretty much the way Shakespeare ought to be filmed -- or at least his romantic comedies, which have so much in common with the classic Hollywood screwball comedies. Amy Acker, who should be a bigger star, is a pitch-perfect Beatrice, and Alexis Denisof is well-matched as Benedick. The obvious comparison here is with Kenneth Branagh's 1993 film version of the play, a more elaborate and star-studded affair, but Whedon's film, shot mostly in and around his house in Santa Monica, more than holds its own in comparison. It actually comes off a little better in casting Sean Maher as the villainous Don John, where Branagh's choice of Keanu Reeves in the role shows off some of that actor's limitations. The weakest casting in Whedon's version is Nathan Fillion as Dogberry, which Branagh bettered with Michael Keaton. Fillion is too bulky and handsome an actor to play the clown, and he struggles to make Dogberry quite as fatuous as he should be, whereas Keaton relished every one of the character's malapropisms. But as Dogberry himself put it, "Comparisons are odorous." Fran Kranz makes more of the somewhat flimsy role of Claudio than is usual, and it's fun to see Clark Gregg step out of the Marvel universe into the Shakespearean one.

The Secret of the Grain (Abdellatif Kechiche, 2007)

Hafsia Herzi and Habib Boufares in The Secret of the Grain

Cast: Habib Boufares, Hafsia Herzi, Farida Benkhetache, Abdelhamid Aktouche, Alice Houri, Bouraouïa Marzouk, Cyril Favre, Leila D'Issernio, Abelkader Djeloulli, Bruno Lochet, Olivier Loustau, Sami Zitouni, Sabrina Ouazani, Mohamed Benabdeslem. Screenplay: Abdellatif Kechiche, Ghalia Lacroix. Cinematography: Lubomir Bakchev. Production design: Benoît Barouh. Film editing: Ghalia Lacroix, Camille Toubis.

With its unsparing closeups and its two great extended sequences, the family dinner and the restaurant tryout, The Secret of the Grain is obviously designed to be an immersive film.  Sometimes it calls to mind the Italian neo-realists with its focus on ordinary people and their doggedness in the face of social circumstance, but it's "realer" than those films, with an improvisatory quality in its best scenes that evokes the films of Mike Leigh. Best of all, it plunks you right in the middle of a culture, that of North African immigrants living in France, and lets you find your footing in it. The focus of the film is Slimane (Habib Boufares), a 60-something worker in the shipyards of Sète, a small Mediterranean port city explored more than half a century ago by Agnès Varda in La Point Courte (1955). (In that film the exploration was done by outsiders, a Parisian couple. In this case, the city is seen from the point of view of residents with one foot in their original Arab culture, the other in the adopted culture of France -- people who are both insiders and outsiders.) Slimane is being laid off as the film begins, but he doesn't relish the prospect of retirement. Instead, he wants to open a restaurant on an old ship he has acquired. He's aided in this plan by Rym (Hafsia Herzi), the young daughter of his mistress, who owns the hotel where Slimane lives. Rym helps him put together a prospectus that they present to a skeptical but intrigued bank loan officer. Complications are inevitable because Slimane wants the restaurant to feature couscous and fish as prepared by his ex-wife, Souad (Bouraouïa Marzouk). And so we're drawn into the lives of Slimane's doubly extended family, whom we meet at a dinner in Souad's home. The Franco-Arab mixture is enriched by a touch of Russian: Souad and Slimane's daughter-in-law, Julia (Alice Houri), married to the philandering Majid (Sami Zitouni). These and other characters get introduced to us in various ways, but primarily at the raucous, noisy family dinner. Eventually, Slimane decides that the only way around the bank's reluctance and the bureaucracy's red-tape about permits, is to stage a party on the ship and invite bankers, bureaucrats, and potential investors and to serve them Souad's couscous and fish. Abdellatif Kechiche is a master at working out all the complicated relationships of family and town, and at setting up the eventual roadblocks that constitute the plot, but he also lets his actors carry the emotional burden of the story, which they do superbly. I have to admit that The Secret of the Grain sometimes feels like a party you want to leave but can't. That's partly because of its 151-minute run time -- I felt like it could lose half an hour without diminishing its immersiveness, the suspense of the last section of the film, and its overall tragicomic effect. But I would hate to be the one who had to decide which of its often astonishing scenes to cut.

The Public Enemy (William A. Wellman, 1931)

James Cagney in The Public Enemy

Cast: James Cagney, Edward Woods, Jean Harlow, Joan Blondell, Donald Cook, Leslie Fenton, Beryl Mercer, Robert Emmett O'Connor, Murray Kinnell, Mae Clarke, Mia Marvin. Screenplay: Kubec Glasmon, John Bright, Harvey F. Thew. Cinematography: Devereaux Jennings. Art direction: Max Parker. Film editing: Edward M. McDermott.

James Cagney has always seemed to me the movies' greatest loner, and the film that made him a star bears that out. The scene that brings it home for me is the one in which Cagney's Tom Powers is hiding out from the rival mob, and the woman named Jane (Mia Marvin) who looks after him gets him drunk and seduces him. In the morning, when he remembers that they had sex, he's shocked and slaps her, then storms out of the hideout. It's a less famous scene than the one in which he shoves a grapefruit in Mae Clarke's face, but that's partly because the scene with Jane was cut by the censors after the Production Code went into effect; it was restored only after the movie made it onto video. The two scenes are similar in suggesting that although Cagney's characters aren't exactly chaste, they don't connect with women except for their mothers, like Beryl Mercer's Ma in The Public Enemy or Margaret Wycherly's Ma Jarrett in White Heat (Raoul Walsh, 1949). Almost every major leading man of the 1930s and 1940s can be identified with his on-screen teamwork with a leading lady (or two): Cary Grant with Katharine Hepburn, Spencer Tracy likewise, James Stewart with Jean Arthur or Margaret Sullavan, Clark Gable with Jean Harlow or Joan Crawford, Gary Cooper with Barbara Stanwyck or Marlene Dietrich, and so on. But Cagney never struck sparks with any of his leading ladies. He seems too coiled and defensive to give up any part of himself to a woman. In The Public Enemy, he's matched with Harlow, who does her best to thaw him out, but their scenes are not particularly memorable. In his private life, Cagney was notable for having married only once and having stayed married from 1922 till his death in 1986, without rumors of extramarital dalliance, something of an anomaly in Hollywood. The Public Enemy uses this enclosed quality of Cagney's to good effect, and it's a tribute to whoever made the decision to give him the lead -- claimants include director William A. Wellman and producer Darryl F. Zanuck -- after initially casting him in the secondary role of Matt Doyle, played by the now mostly forgotten Edward Woods. It's largely thanks to Cagney that The Public Enemy still hold up today, even though it has some of the stiffness and uncertainty of early talkies, especially when it comes to dialogue. Robert Emmett O'Connor, for example, who plays Paddy Ryan, tends to introduce long pauses between sentences when he's delivering his lines, as if afraid that the audience won't keep up with what he's saying.

Daisies (Vera Chytilová, 1966)

Ivana Karbanová and Jitka Cerhová in Daisies

Cast: Jitka Cerhová, Ivana Karvanová, Julius Albert, Jan Klusák, Marie Cesková, Jirina Myskova, Marcela Brezinová, Oldrich Hora, Václav Chochola, Josef Konicek, Jaromir Vornácka. Screenplay: Vera Chytilová. Ester Krumbachová, Pavel Jurácek. Cinematography: Jaroslav Kucera. Production design: Karel Lier. Film editing: Miroslav Hájek. Music: Jirí Slitr, Jirí Sust.

Girls just wanna have fun. The adjective usually applied to Vera Chytilová's Daisies is "anarchic," but that doesn't quite apply to a film so cleverly staged, photographed, and edited. To be sure, the impish young women whose adventures the film chronicles are in some sense anarchists, in that they try to break all the rules they can find to break. And if you're looking for the conventional beginning-middle-end narrative structure you won't find one. But Daisies is not just Dadaist nose-thumbing. It's framed by images of the mass destruction of war, against which, the film seems to be saying, the sheer mad hedonism of its two uninhibited sprites should be viewed as trivial. Chytilová takes her cue not only from Dada but also from the Marx Brothers, whose antics would be appalling in real life but are liberating to the spirit when viewed in the context of a work of art. Daisies is akin in this sense to an apocalyptic comedy like Stanley Kubrick's Dr. Strangelove, made only two years earlier, and its spirit and some of its techniques come from Richard Lester's A Hard Day's Night, also from 1964. They reflect an era when youth thought it could change the world, only to be put down, as the Czech filmmakers like Chytilová would brutally be put down, by the establishment it so gleefully mocked. That Daisies can be grating as often as it is giddy suggests an awareness that the road of excess may lead to the palace of wisdom, but not without paying a price.