A Girl Walks Home Alone at Night (Ana Lily Amirpour, 2014)

A Girl Walks Home Alone at Night (Ana Lily Amirpour, 2014)

Cast: Sheila Vand, Arash Marandi, Marshall Manesh, Mozhan Marnò, Dominic Rains, Rome Shadanloo, Milad Eghbali, Reza Sixo Safai, Masuka the Cat. Screenplay: Ana Lily Amirpour. Cinematography: Lyle Vincent. Production design: Sergio De La Vega. Film editing: Alex O’Flinn. Music: Bei Ru.

Girls probably shouldn’t walk home alone at night unless they’re chador-wearing vampires who ride skateboards. That seems to be the major point made by Ana Lily Amirpour’s A Girl Walks Home at Night. The Girl (Sheila Vand) has no name that we know of, and she doesn’t seem to go out in the daytime, but we learn that she’s a vampire when she bites off the finger of and then desanguinates Saeed (Dominic Rains), a sleaze, a pusher, and a pimp. Saeed has earlier confiscated a 1957 Ford Thunderbird from Arash (Arash Marandi) as payment for debts he incurred trying to support his junkie father, Hossein (Marshall Manesh). Arash’s attempt to retrieve his car brings him into contact with the Girl. What little suspense the film generates lies in how the relationship between Arash and the Girl will progress. Will he become her victim, as Saeed, a homeless man, and eventually Arash’s father do? Or will they find some other way of connecting? More droll than scary, A Girl Walks Home at Night takes place in Iran’s imaginary Bad City, which seems a lot like Southern California except that everyone speaks Persian and it’s more thinly populated. We meet some other characters in the course of the film, including a streetwalker and an urchin, but the most memorable is probably the cat Arash adopts, which eventually winds up with the Girl, to Arash’s surprise. Almost everything about this film, Amirpour’s first feature, defies summary, except to note that it’s extraordinarily original, confidently conceived and directed, sometimes very funny, and its black-and-white cinematography is often quite beautiful. 

Twilight (Catherine Hardwicke, 2008)

 Twilight (Catherine Hardwicke, 2008)

Cast: Kristen Stewart, Robert Pattinson, Billy Burke, Taylor Lautner, Peter Facinelli, Ashley Greene, Anna Kendrick, Nikki Reed, Elizabeth Reaser, Kellan Lutz, Jackson Rathbone, Cam Gigandet, Gil Birmingham, Justin Chon, Christian Serratos. Screenplay: Melissa Rosenberg, based on a novel by Stephenie Meyer. Cinematography: Elliot Davis. Art direction: Christopher Brown, Ian Phillips. Film editing: Nancy Richardson. Music: Carter Burwell. 

Twilight was always going to be critic-proof, based as it is on a best-selling YA novel and featuring good-looking actors playing teenage lovers, one of whom is a vampire. The audience was ready-made, no matter what the critics said, and they mostly said their worst about it. And yet, getting around to watching it for the first time, 14 years late, I can’t find it in myself to say anything terribly harsh about it. The dialogue is often clunky, oh my, yes. The idea that vampires sparkle and not burst into flame in the sunlight is silly, as is the notion that they are somehow randomly endowed with superpowers: Some have super-strength and can read minds, others can tell the future. The invocation of Native American legends is a slightly racist plot gimmick, and one not developed in the film. It would be in the sequels, of course, which means Twilight is just a setup for more to come, and not a satisfactory movie on its own. And yet I watched with amusement and not a whole lot of condescension, partly because it’s premised on an interesting subtext, adolescent sexual confusion – vampire movies are always really more about sex than about death. And because Kristen Stewart and Robert Pattinson were on the brink of significant careers, going on to prove that they were more capable actors than the screenplay of Twilight allowed them to show. 

Stamboul Quest (Sam Wood, 1934)

 Stamboul Quest (Sam Wood, 1934)

Cast: Myrna Loy, George Brent, Lionel Atwill, C. Henry Gordon, Rudolph Anders, Mischa Auer. Screenplay: Herman J. Mankiewicz, based on a story by Leo Birinsky. Cinematography: James Wong Howe. Art direction: Cedric Gibbons. Film editing: Hugh Wynn. Music: William Axt. 

Stamboul Quest is a middling spy-vs.-spy romance based very loosely (i.e., hardly at all) on the career of the World War I German spy known as “Fräulein Doktor” (real name Elsbeth Schragmüller). The film makes a nod to the better-known German spy Mata Hari, herself the titular subject of a 1931 MGM film directed by George Fitzmaurice and starring Greta Garbo and Ramon Novarro. Mostly Stamboul Quest is an excuse for Myrna Loy to slink about in various alluring states of dress and undress. There is, for example, a scene in which Fräulein Doktor (aka Helena Bohlen) takes a bath with the door open between her and the spymaster Herr von Sturm (Lionel Atwill), and a key moment in the plot turns on Helena’s slipping down one shoulder of her evening gown to allow the Turkish spy Ali Bey (C. Henry Gordon) to write a message in invisible ink on her naked back. Loy does all of this nonsense with grace and wit. Unfortunately, she’s matched romantically in the movie with George Brent as an American studying medicine at Leipzig. Brent was unaccountably borrowed from Warner Bros. for the film even though MGM had a stable of contract leading men that included Clark Gable and Loy’s frequent co-star William Powell. As a leading man, Brent was never much more than a foil for powerhouse leading ladies like Bette Davis or Barbara Stanwyck, and it’s awfully hard to see why Fräulein Doktor should fall in love so swiftly and thoroughly with him. Stamboul Quest is a sort of bridge in Loy’s career from the earlier roles in which she was cast as a femme fatale, often with exotic origins, and the years in which she took on the image of a witty, sophisticated wife or girlfriend, often paired with Powell, as in The Thin Man (W.S. Van Dyke, 1934) and its string of sequels. 

People on Sunday (Robert Siodmak, Edgar G. Ulmer, 1929)

People on Sunday (Robert Siodmak, Edgar G. Ulmer, 1929)

Cast: Erwin Splettstößer, Brigitte Borchert, Wolfgang von Waltershausen, Christl Ehlers, Annie Schreyer. Screenplay: Billy Wilder, based on reporting by Curt  Siodmak. Cinematography: Eugen Schüfftan. 

Only a strict formalist could watch the celebrated docufiction People on Sunday (aka Menschen am Sonntag) solely for its artful blend of storytelling and preservation of the way things were. But for the rest of us, there’s no way to watch Berliners enjoying themselves on a Sunday in 1929 without thinking about it as a picture of the calm before the storm – more especially because the young filmmakers who created it were soon to be caught up in the storm. Within a few years, directors Robert Siodmak and Edgar G. Ulmer, screenwriter Billy Wilder,  cinematographer Eugen Schüfftan, and even his camera assistant, Fred Zinnemann, would be driven out of Germany and eventually into Hollywood by the rise of Nazism. No work of art, after all, exists ahistorically. And People on Sunday is a work of art, a charming, slightly saucy glimpse at people being themselves. The five people the film concentrates on are non-actors: a taxi driver, a wine salesman, a salesperson in a record store, a woman who makes her living as an extra in movies, and a model. They’re all marvelously un-self-conscious about playing fictionalized versions of themselves, as are the hundreds of Berliners that surround them on the screen.

 

César and Rosalie (Claude Sautet, 1972)

 

Cast: Romy Schneider, Yves Montand, Sami Frey, Bernard Le Coq, Eva Maria Meineke, Henri-Jacques Huet, Isabelle Huppert. Screenplay: Jean-Loup Dabadie, Claude Sautet, Claude Néron. Cinematography: Jean Boffety. Production design: Pierre Guffroy. Film editing: Jacqueline Tiédot. Music: Philippe Sarde.

There’s a reason why there’s no English word or phrase for ménage à trois. It may be a concept foreign to Anglo-American culture. Instead, we have “eternal triangle,” which implies hostility rather than affection. To be sure, César and Rosalie contains a considerable amount of hostility among César (Yves Montand), David (Sami Frey), and Rosalie (Romy Schneider), but in the end we are almost persuaded that they love one another, and even that they might make it work. Everything pivots around the woman, of course, very fetchingly played by Schneider. Rosalie has had many lovers, but perhaps none so different from each other as the bullish self-made man César and the reserved and sophisticated cartoon artist David. And yet they are both men, and they display common characteristics when it comes to women. When César has a poker night with his buddies, Rosalie is ordered about, fetching ice and beer and vodka for the guys. She flees this smoky gathering for David’s, where he’s meeting with other men about a publishing product. And sure enough, it’s not long before one of the men asks her to make coffee. David, to his credit, comes to her aid, and César, upset by her sudden disappearance, spends the evening searching for her. And so begins a series of oscillations between the two men until finally Rosalie reaches her limit, realizing that she can’t live peacefully with either of them – or with both of them. Or can she? The end leaves that question deliciously unresolved. This is a film with a great deal of charm and insight. Montand gives one of his best performances as the cigar-chomping, blustering guy who made his fortune in the scrap metal business, but Schneider and Frey in their quieter roles are equally fine.