A Heartfelt “Miss Valentine”

The other day I had lunch with Peter Pan. Yes, really! Blayne Weaver has been the official voice of Disney’s classic Peter Pan character since 2001. Leaning into the classic sound of Bobby Driscoll, Disney’s original Peter,  Blayne records Peter Pan’s voice for films, TV, and Disney theme parks. Driscoll, I’m sad to report, came to a tragic end at age 31, a victim of drugs, alcohol, and Hollywood burn-out. Blayne, though much less famous, has found a way to keep his showbiz career moving forward. Though he started as an actor, and still loves the profession, he’s also kept busy in recent years as a screenwriter and director, mostly of indie movies of all stripes. Are you looking for a low-budget thriller? Or a romantic comedy? Blayne adores the whole process, challenges and all. His latest project, arriving this week on streaming service Xumo Play, is a holiday-themed rom-com called Miss Valentine. As he described it to me, “I’m trying to make When Harry Met Sally, with a tiny budget and without Tom Hanks.”

 At present he has almost a dozen credits as a director, nearly as many as a producer, and a number of writing credits as well. I met him through my once-upon-a-time Roger Corman pal, Mike Elliott, who has long specialized (through his company Capital Arts) in direct-to-video-style productions, of which he’s made scores. Capital Arts is backing Miss Valentine, which takes advantage of Blayne’s longtime connection with the state of Virginia where he holds a prestigious teaching post in Shenandoah University’s film department. It seems that nearby Winchester, Virginia hosts an annual springtime Apple Blossom Festival. But cable channels love holiday themes (Christmas, of course, is the big one), and so Valentine’s Day got the nod. Local pride allowed Blayne and company to shoot the apple-blossom festivities, with organizers permitting cast and crew to add Valentine’s Day hoopla to their parade and other events. The neighborhood turnout gave Miss Valentine a cast of thousands. They got to play themselves as townsfolk, and also gave a warm welcome to the film’s stars, who include appealing TV personalities Paris Berelc (as the beauty pageant winner guilty of an unforgivable faux-pas) and Luke Benward, as the young man who’s long fancied her. Many veteran players are featured too, including Marilu Henner (Taxi) as a no-nonsense pageant organizer. But despite the film’s big look, it was shot economically, over a Corman-like period of three six-day weeks.    

 Blayne is too practical a guy to be obsessed with any hyper-ambitious future project. (No Megalopolis for him, I suspect). Having finished Miss Valentine, his current dream is “getting the next one going.” He’s tried out many genres, but admits to a fondness for horror comedy, in which “bad things happen to funny people.”  

 Thinking back to Manic, a film that was his big break as a screenwriter, Blayne has strong feelings about the atmosphere he wants to create on a set. This 2001 drama about emotionally damaged teens was written with a starring part for himself, but the funders eventually pushed for big money and a big-name cast. It should have been a tremendous break, but the atmosphere on the set was so toxic that he vowed—when he started directing—to take the opposite route. As he says now, “You get the best work from artists when they’re encouraged.” He puts it succinctly: he starts each project with “a no-asshole policy.”  

 Nothing, I suspect, is going to stop Blayne from doing what he loves. As he told me, “I’m my best me when I’m on set.”

 

 

 

 

Mid-Career Kurosawa, both High and Low

"Red Beard"  

 Spike Lee, always shrewd about finding material, turned to a farflung source for his most recent release, Highest 2 Lowest. His inspiration for this contemporary crime story was a 1963 drama by Japanese master cineaste Akira Kurosawa, known as High and Low. (Its original Japanese title, Heaven and Hell, is certainly more vivid.) Kurosawa, who knew something about borrowing from the best, derived his plot from a 1959 thriller by Ed McBain (a pseudonym of Evan Hunter). Both films drew from McBain’s novel the notion of a wealthy, ambitious man secretly scheming to take over his industry, but being derailed along the way by the kidnapping of a child.

 I haven’t seen Lee’s film, which disappeared rather quickly from local theatres, but as a longtime Kurosawa fan I recently watched High and Low, which most critics strongly admire. This is not the visceral Kurosawa of jidaigeki (period costume dramas) like Rashomon, Seven Samurai, and Yojimbo. Nor is it an elegant take on Shakespearean tragedy (see one of my very favorites, Throne of Blood, which is Kurosawa’s remarkable adaptation of Macbeth). High and Low is set in present-day Yokohama, where its central character (Toshiro Mifune, of course) is a successful manufacturer of women’s shoes. (The Spike Lee version makes him a record exec, which is certainly a cooler profession.) A Japanese bullet train plays an important role in Kurosawa’s plot, and the kidnapper also has drug-dealing on his résumé, preying on immigrant communities. 

 High and Low (which spends most of its first half in the main character’s hilltop mansion) seems static and talky at times, but the tension nicely ramps up, and the ending (which apparently Lee doesn’t copy) is thematically as well as dramatically powerful. Kurosawa didn’t plan this ending—in which Mifune and the kidnapper meet face to face under dramatic circumstances—until he saw the intensity of Tsutomu Yamazaki’s portrayal of an angry young criminal.

  For me, one of the intriguing aspects of High and Low is that it is followed in the Kurosawa canon by a film that couldn’t be more different. Red Beard (Akahige, 1965) returns Kurosawa to the Tokugawa period (early 19^th century), when clothing and manners were quite distinct from what they are now. It’s a medical drama (based on a book of Japanese stories) that easily calls to mind such all-American projects as a popular TV series of the era, Dr. Kildare. This long-running series, based on a 1938 Hollywood film, pits an idealistic young doctor (Richard Chamberlain) against a shrewd veteran of the profession (Raymond Massey). During its five-year run, Kildare evolves from intern into experienced physician, tempering his idealism with lessons learned on the job.

 Red Beard is not so very different, though it’s set in an era when medical knowledge is limited and traditional social values are hard to navigate. One distinction is that the film is named after the seasoned doctor, not the young one. The nickname Red Beard refers to the character played by Mifune (in his very last Kurosawa role). He’s a dynamo whose iconoclasm is not always appreciated, though he has a deep commitment to his patients and his profession. Into his clinic comes young Dr. Yasumoto (Yuzo Kayama, whom I well remember as a Japanese pop singer). Yasumoto is cocky about his intended future: he has studied modern medicine at a Dutch clinic in Nagasaki, and he now fully intends to take a cushy post in the court of a local lord. But gradually, under the tutelage of the irascible but brilliant Red Beard, he develop a higher regard for those in genuine need.

 The opinions expressed above are all mine, but for a fascinating in-depth assessment of the  filmmaker at mid-career I strongly recommend Donald Ritchie’s 1965 work, The Films of Akira Kurosawa.

 

 

Counting Down the Hours with “The Clock”

I’m discovering that, in tough societal times like these, I truly appreciate movies that take me to an earlier era. It’s good to see that people can survive—even thrive—during dark days. Perhaps that’s why I’ve reacted so positively to The Clock, a 1945 romantic drama directed by Vincente Minnelli and starring his soon-to-be wife, Judy Garland, in her first non-singing dramatic role. Set against the backdrop of World War II, The Clock gives a happy ending to a tale that is best described as pure wish-fulfillment fantasy.

 The Clock begins with boyish-looking Robert Walker, in full military uniform, arriving at New York’s Grand Central Station. He’s a young American G.I., on weekend leave from training camp, and he’s come to the Big Apple to look around. I  couldn’t help comparing this opening section to the naïve young sailors on shore leave in a great 1945 musical—and subsequent 1949 film—On the Town, which like The Clock celebrates romance but hints at a world war always lurking in the background. 

  It’s quickly established that Walker’s character, Joe, is a small-town fellow, one who’s encountering for the first time such wonders as an escalator. While hanging out aimlessly in the station, he accidentally trips a pert young lady, whose heel snaps off of her stylish spectator pump. Mortified, Joe manages to get the shoe repaired, then wonders if he can tag along with its wearer (who of course is Garland) as she heads home from work. Garland’s Alice is naturally wary of this stranger. But she’s a good-hearted soul and finally agrees to meet him for dinner. Their rendezvous spot: under the clock in the lobby of the Astor Hotel.

 The clock, of course, soon becomes a symbol of the swift passage of time. As the two get to know each other, a dinner date turns into a romantic walk in Central Park. (The camera’s s-l-o-w build-up to the first big kiss is rather hilarious.) Suddenly it’s midnight, too late for Alice to catch a bus back to her working-class neighborhood. Cabs, as always in NYC, are nearly impossible to get, so Al, a friendly milkman making early morning deliveries, offers them a ride in his van. But the van gets a flat tire; the three enter an all-night café to call Al’s company; a drunk attacks poor Al and knocks him out. After the van is repaired, Joe takes over the driving, and he and Alice work together to make all the deliveries on Al's route in record time. Al, now recovered, invites them to his home for breakfast; his loyal wife greets them warmly, and the conversation turns to the homey joys of married life.

 Now it’s Saturday morning, and the pair have agreed to spend together the waning hours  before Joe’s early Sunday departure. Enter the challenges of the New York subway system. In a crowded station, Alice is forced onto a train car, leaving Joe behind. Their search for each other becomes frantic (if only they had cell phones!), made more desperate by the fact that they don’t know one another’s full names.  But, since this is a fairy-tale, they do at last reunite—and agree that they never want to be parted again. And so they take steps to make their love permanent, via matrimony.

 It's the love-conquers-all ending we’re rooting for, one that I’m sure was highly necessary in wartime. By 2025 standards, though, the lovers seem painfully naïve.  Ironically, both Garland and Walker found no lasting happiness in marriage. Both turned to drink and drugs, and died young.  

 Thanks to Danish Qureshi for alerting me to a careless error that made my storytelling VERY confusing. I've fixed it now. 

 

 

 

 

Becoming Baltimorons

I don’t know what there is about Baltimore that makes it such a funky film mecca. But Baltimore spawned Barry Levinson, whose first film, Diner (1982), was an homage to his young adult years hanging out in the city of this birth. Levinson quickly moved on to bigger and better things, and won an Oscar for directing 1988’s Rain Man, primarily set against the bright lights of Las Vegas. But he returned to his Baltimore roots for 1987’s Tin Men, 1990’s Avalon, and 1999’s Liberty Heights, while also pursuing a major directorial career elsewhere.

  Levinson may have mostly traded his hometown for mainstream Hollywood, but John Waters never left. Each of his deliberately trashy movies (which include such titles as Pink Flamingos, Polyester, and Cecil B. Demented) is set in Baltimore, where he has assembled a loyal stock company of acolytes.

 I bring up all of this because I’ve just seen an amiable new indie called The Baltimorons, directed by Jay Duplass, and co-written by Duplass with Michael Strassner, who also plays the overstuffed but totally endearing lead. Strassner, a Baltimore native, portrays to perfection a sadsack comedian and improv actor who—having finally achieved sobriety—is trying hard to turn his life around. It all happens on Christmas Eve in Baltimore. When Strassner’s Cliff breaks a tooth and needs an emergency dental appointment, he has no idea that he and the one dentist who’ll meet his needs will soon be off on an odyssey through Baltimore that becomes—surprise!—downright romantic.

 The Baltimore we encounter in John Waters films and on TV’s The Wire leans heavily toward the down-and-dirty side of the Charm City. Think tacky trailer parks, and worse. But in The Baltimorons (named after Cliff’s stage soubriquet), the city is filmed with loving eyes. Yes, the Christmas lights on the rowhouses may look slightly tacky, but the Inner Harbor at night gleams with promise. It’s enough to make us want to jump on a plane—or better still a boat—and see that majestic bridge for ourselves. (Admittedly, I believe it’s the bridge that collapsed after a container ship rammed it in 2024, so The Baltimorons allows us to turn back the clock. The disaster, with its tragic loss of life, is addressed in the film’s credits.)

 I’d be remiss if I didn’t hail the performance of Liz Larsen, a veteran character actress who’s not usually in the spotlight. We first meet her as a no-nonsense dental professional, then gradually come to appreciate what life has done to her, and how badly she needs something positive to happen, especially on Christmas Eve. Under Cliff’s tutelage, she gradually reveals (via a trip to a comedy club followed by a late-night cruise in her ex-husband’s fishing trawler) a madcap side we didn’t at first suspect. Is love blooming? Well, sort of—though this may be the most unlikely pairing since Harold and Maude.

 This modest indie isn’t perfect. The whole relationship between Cliff and his recent fiancée is never fully explained: why is she so exceedingly loyal to a jobless loser like him? And comedies that kick off with a failed suicide attempt are not exactly original. Still, it’s always a pleasure to see a small film that tugs at the heartstrings. Jay Duplass, who often works with younger brother Mark, is a former actor (TV’s Transparent). Both brothers were inspired early on by the work of another pair of brothers, Ethan and Joel Coen, especially their dark but exceedingly comic Raising Arizona. As a Coen Brothers fan myself, I wish the Duplass duo long, happy creative lives.

 

  

 

 

Couples Therapy: “The Roses”

Someone out there is spending tons of money publicizing the new British film, The Roses. It was the feature attraction, over Labor Day weekend, at the very popular Century City Mall, and I’ve spotted  elaborate merchandising attempts at my supermarket. Here’s the question: is the film worth all that attention? It’s gorgeous to look at, with Australia’s dramatic sea coast filling in (alas) for Northern California. There’s a opening credit sequence that’s a delight. And the film stars two of Britain’s finest, Benedict Cumberbatch and Olivia Colman, as loving spouses who can’t quite adjust to a change in their marital circumstances. Both are lively presences who have a talent for dishing out nasty quips at one another’s expense.

 Moviegoers with long memories (or subscriptions to Amazon Prime) might recall that The War of the Roses, a cleverly-titled novel by Warren Adler, was made into a 1989 battle-of-the-sexes film starring Michael Douglas and Kathleen Turner as marital sparring partners. The highly popular black comedy was cleverly directed by Danny DeVito, who also cast himself as a chain-smoking divorce attorney. Serving as narrator, DeVito takes the viewer back to the meeting of Douglas (as Oliver) and Turner (as Barbara) at an auction for high-end collectibles. Both have a passion for home design (and a special yen for English ceramics), so when they marry and nest in a mansion, décor is very much on their minds. Ultimately, alas, the bloom is off the Roses, and Barbara demands a divorce. Moreover, she demands full custody of their dream house, something Oliver would never willingly grant. Soon nothing—and no one—is safe, including the household pets and Oliver’s prized sportscar. It all builds to a grim conclusion that is a hoot if you enjoy seeing things go smash.

 I’m not sure The War of the Roses has much of a point to make (outside of this: never run over your spouse’s cat). But it’s an uproarious exploration of people at their worst, and we can all use a good bitter laugh from time to time. By contrast, the new British film, The Roses, seems determined to be about something. More precisely, it seems to want to put its finger on how marriages go sour, and when precisely this happens. Theo and Ivy Rose are an English couple who share a snarky sensibility. They’ve moved to Northern California to pursue their creative passions. Theo is a trained architect with a taste for the ultra-modern. Ivy is a chef who has put her professional aspirations aside while raising two children, until Theo buys her a hole-in-the-wall diner she promptly renames “We’ve Got Crabs.” As it turns out, the same natural disaster that scuttles his newest and most innovative design proves to be a boon to her little café. So she’s suddenly famous, and he’s out of work.

 The film then becomes a study of what happens to a marriage in which one partner is thriving professionally while the other is put out to pasture. (I’m certain matters are all the worse because it’s the formerly stay-at-home wife who’s suddenly the Next Big Thing.) The topic is definitely a pertinent one, but this film seems determined to cover lots of territory by bringing in additional plot strands. There are many new characters (the rather baffling children, the horny best friend, the doofus buddy, the sinister attorney) to distract from the central his-and-hers conflict. The irony of the conclusion is well handled, with a nice jab at the “smart house” Theo has designed, but well before that point I was tired indeed of the couple’s overblown spat. 

 

For The Birds: “Birdman of Alcatraz”

Birdman of Alcatraz? As a youngster, I was fascinated by this intriguing title. And I knew that Burt Lancaster had won plenty of kudos for his portrayal of Robert Stroud, who—sentenced to life imprisonment in solitary confinement for committing two murders—became a world authority on our avian friends. I didn’t know the movie was based on a sympathetic biography of the still-living Stroud by Thomas E. Gaddis. On the strength of this biography, Gaddis became a character in the 1962 film, and (portrayed by Edmond O’Brien) serves as its narrator.

 Biographers have always had an interesting relationship with the film industry. At a recent conference of the Biographers International Organization, I heard Pulitzer-Prize winning biographer Kai Bird talk about the thrill of seeing his book on J. Robert Oppenheimer brilliantly translated to the screen. And right now my longtime friend Jack El-Hai is eagerly awaiting the release of Nuremberg, based on his The Nazi and the Psychiatrist. Other serious biographers are less happy about what Hollywood has done to their well-researched work. But it’s also true that there’s a place for biographers in sharing with the moviegoing public the behind-the-scenes facts related to popular films.

 My colleague Kate Buford is the author of Burt Lancaster: An American Life, as well as Native American Son: The Life and Sporting Legend of Jim Thorpe. Because of her scholarly reputation, as well as her skills as a public speaker, Kate has been asked to do audio commentary on several of Lancaster’s major films. When I recently watched Birdman of Alcatraz for the very first time, I was dazzled by Lancaster’s complex performance as well as by the moody black-&-white cinematography of Hollywood veteran Burnett Guffey. I also appreciated the supporting performances of such classic Hollywood actors as Karl Malden, Thelma Ritter, and (in an Oscar-nominated role) Telly Savalas as a likable fellow inmate. I don’t usually have the time to re-watch a film while listening to a commentary track. But when I saw Kate Buford’s name on the screen, I knew I had to pay attention.

 Given her exhaustive research, Kate was able to put Birdman of Alcatraz into context for me. She helped me to understand how much this film was a product of Lancaster’s personal and social values. It was he, as honcho of Norma Productions, who chose relative newcomer John Frankenheimer to direct, after firing British director Charles Crichton (known for comedy classics like The Lavender Hill Mob). And he imbued the material with his own dedication to progressive social concerns. The evolution of Stroud from crazed killer to gentle soul devoted to nurturing canaries is heightened in the screen version, but Kate makes clear that the actual Stroud never entirely lost his volatile edge. Part of the reason for his abrupt transfer from Leavenworth (where he had a full aviary and research lab) to the new, modern, and very stringent Alcatraz was that he was secretly using some of his equipment to concoct alcohol for his own pleasure. And his real-life aggressive homosexuality (never hinted at in the film) helps explain why over the years of his confinement (from 1909 until his death in 1963) he was so stringently guarded.

 The film makes for such powerful viewing that I would have thought it earned a fistful of Oscars. There were four nominations (including for Lancaster and Guffey), but no wins. Not a surprise, really. This was a year for inspirational projects like The Miracle Worker, To Kill a Mockingbird, The Longest Day, and big winner Lawrence of Arabia. So the camels beat out the birds in 1963. 

 

A Tale of Two Fernandas: “Central Station”

When, at this year’s Golden Globes ceremony, Fernanda Torres was called to the stage, I was surprised. She had just won the statuette for “best performance by a female actor in a motion picture—drama,” the cumbersome title for a category that included such big names as Nicole Kidman, Tilda Swinton, and Angelina Jolie. Torres’ film, the Brazilian I’m Still Here, meant nothing to me back then. But I began paying attention when Torres followed up her Golden Globes win with an Oscar nomination for Best Actress for the same film (Mikey Madison ultimately took the prize for Anora), and when I learned more about her.

  It’s always been rare for actors to nab Oscar nominations (let alone wins) for films made in foreign languages. In 1960 Sophia Loren won her Oscar for the Italian-language Two Women, making her the first lead performer to ever be honored by the Academy for a foreign language role. But Torres’ nomination was by no means a first for Brazil nor for Latin America as a whole. Back in 1999, her own mother, also named Fernanda, was Oscar-nominated as Best Actress for Central do Brasil (also known as Central Station). Fernanda Montenegro, the mother of Fernanda Torres as well as film director Claudio Torres, is considered one of Brazil’s cultural treasures. Now 95, she is still active, and even played her daughter’s character—now at an advanced age—at the tail-end of I’m Still Here.

 But Central Station (directed by Walter Salles, who would later helm I’m Still Here) remains Fernanda Montenegro’s greatest international triumph. Since I’ve now seen—and very much admired—I’m Still Here, I was curious indeed to watch a film that shows Montenegro in all her glory. It’s hardly a glamour role, and she was almost 70 at the time, though I would have pegged her for a somewhat younger woman. The film begins in Rio de Janeiro’s central railway station, where someone named Dora has set up a table to serve passersby. She’s a retired teacher, and in a country where illiteracy is rampant she offers her services writing letters for a modest fee. That’s how the story begins: we see vivid close-ups of locals dictating the letters they want to send—angry letters, love letters, plaintive missives to Jesus. For a small extra charge, she’ll promise to post your letter too. What the customers don’t know is that, after she briskly leaves the station, she’ll head for her modest flat and stuff the unsent letters into a drawer. Or even tear them up.

 But her encounter with one customer unexpectedly changes everything. The woman shows up at Dora’s table with her young son, who’s desperate to meet the father he’s never known. The woman herself seems to have mixed emotions about her former spouse, who’s apparently a drunk, though she ultimately admits she misses him. I won’t go into the circumstances that put Dora herself suddenly in charge of the boy’s future, but the film evolves into the duo’s long and complicated journey to a remote northern Brazilian town. This is ultimately one of those films, like for instance Claude Berri’s The Two of Us, in which a crusty oldster evolves into a kindly protector for a needy child. The growing bond between the cantankerous woman and the street-smart kid (young Vinícius de Oliveira was an airport shoeshine boy before landing this, his film debut) is convincing, and the big nightime scene in which they lose one another in the midst of a smalltown religious festival is a small cinematic masterpiece, leading up to a deeply poignant ending.

 

Elegy Written in a Westwood Burial Ground

Recently I attended an event both sad and uplifting:  a memorial service for Frances Doel, who was Roger Corman’s right-hand woman for decades. The high esteem in which she was held by everyone who knew her was indicated by the who’s-who list of attendees, including producer Gale Anne Hurd, who credits Frances with being the very first to read and support her and James Cameron’s landmark script for Terminator.

 Frances’ celebration of life, wonderfully stage-managed by her sister Rosemary, was held at what is now called Pierce Brothers Westwood Village Memorial Park. As cemeteries go, it’s tiny, and tucked away behind office towers that make it hard to find. But it dates back to 1905, and has been an interment site of choice for many well-known members of the Hollywood community. That’s why it’s a popular draw for tourists. L.A. has several celebrated burial sites that attract looky-loos. Hollywood Forever cemetery near Paramount Studios boasts the celebrated wall crypt that holds the remains of Rudolf Valentino and for years was ritually visited by the mysterious Lady in Black. (Hollywood Forever also hosts an annual summer film series on its sprawling lawn.)

 Westwood Village Memorial Park is known, first and foremost, as the final resting place of Marilyn Monroe. I couldn’t resist seeking out her site, and admiring the fresh flowers in a vase next to her wall plaque. Famously, right next door to Marilyn is Playboy honcho Hugh Hefner, although his flowers are fake (which seems rather apt). On my leisurely stroll through the premises on a very hot day, I missed many other famous names: among them Burt Lancaster, Natalie Wood, Dean Martin, Ray Bradbury, and Billy Wilder. Still,  I saw some historic resting places, like that of early director Josef von Sternberg, celebrated today for directing Marlene Dietrich in The Blue Angel. Kirk and Anne Douglas share a simple space that also bears a poignant reference to their troubled son Eric, who died young. Screenwriter Ernest Lehman’s gravestone sums up a busy, fulfilling life; composer Ray Coniff’s boasts a snatch of one of his most popular musical themes. Carl Wilson of The Beachboys is memorialized as “the heart and voice of an angel.” Soul singer Minnie Riperton (mother of Maya Rudolph), is honored by the presence of some actual CD’s of her work. Any native Angeleno will be especially moved, I think, by the joint resting place of Harry and Marilyn Lewis, whose Hamburger Hamlet restaurant chain was the backdrop for our growing-up years.

 Most eccentric gravesites? Comic actor Don Knotts has a plaque etched with images of him in highly familiar roles, like Mayberry Deputy Barney Fife. The splashiest site I saw belonged to German-born filmmaker Wolfgang Petersen, whose most celebrated work was 1981’s World War II submarine drama, Das Boot. (His ample section boasts candles, a world globe, landscaping, and a lot of fabric roses.) I also appreciated the sites of more modest Hollywood figures, like one Jeff Morris, whose plaque describes him as fine actor, and records what must have been a favorite phrase: “weather permitting.”

 But of course not everyone interred here has a Hollywood connection. I don’t know who Rita Kaslov was, but her stone contains her photo, as well as the information that she was a psychic. At bottom, passers-by can read an advertisement for her services: there’s the image of a hand, fingers  outstretched, and the announcement that she offers $5 palm readings. It’s impossible to say where the late Rita is now, but I’m sure she has gained a lot of insights since she shuffled off this mortal coil.

PS I couldn't resist looking up the gravestone for writer/director Billy Wilder, famous for (among many others) Some Like It Hot.  It reads: "I'M A WRITER. BUT THEN .  . . NOBODY'S PERFECT." 

Beating a Tin Drum

Decades ago, on assignment from the Hollywood Reporter, I wrote an article on child actors who were required to perform in very adult situations. I came away disturbed but fascinated by parents who allowed—or even encouraged—their kids to play roles that involved heavy doses of sex or violence.  The parents, and the kids themselves, all insisted that there had been no harm done, but a child psychologist I interviewed wasn’t so sure that the youngsters ultimately came away unscathed.

 So you can imagine how curious I am about Daniel Bennent. The Swiss-born actor is 58 now, and apparently doing fine. But he was a mere 11 when he starred in Volker Schlöndorff’s bold 1979 adaptation of a tragicomic German anti-war novel, Günter Grass's The Tin Drum. The film (distributed in the U.S. by Roger Corman) shared the Palme d’Or at Cannes with Apocalypse Now, and went on to win the 1980 Academy Award for best foreign language feature.

 Bennent, the child of actors, apparently got the plum leading role because of a medical condition that stunted his growth at an early ago. Oskar, the boy he plays, has made the eccentric choice not to grow any taller once he’s reached the age of three. So at 11 and at 16 and at 19, he’s still got the look of  a very young boy. It’s not just his height that’s distinctive: he has a solemn face marked by an intense blue-eyed stare that keeps the audience riveted. And then there’s the toy drum (a gift from his sensual and eccentric mother) that’s his constant companion, something he turns to at moments of high emotion, rapping out his feelings with two wooden sticks. (He also depends on a shriek that can literally shatter glass.)  In the course of the film, though his body stays the same, his spirit definitely evolves, leading him to discover lust and ultimately sorrow.

 Oskar and his family live in Danzig, an independent coastal city that’s a blend of German and Polish influences. It’s the 1930s, and Nazi ideology is definitely on the rise. In some ways it divides his household, which is an unusual one. Mother Agnes seems to split her attentions (sexual and otherwise) between her shopkeeper-husband and the male cousin who shares Oskar’s bright blue eyes and is quite probably his biological parent. The two dad-figures are on opposite sides of the town’s political and ethnic divide, and ultimately both face tragic fates, with Oskar always sensing that he’s a slight bit responsible.

 Following the loss of his mother and both father-figures, Oskar is drawn less to political ideology than to the simple need to survive. Which is how he ends up in a circus act featuring a cynical band of what we might call munchkins, all of them far older than he but not much taller. They perform for Nazi troopers who greet them gleefully, but they find their happiness (not to mention sexual gratification) within their own ranks. This is not to be the end, though, of Oskar’s odyssey through wartime Europe. He winds up back where he started, finally making the curious decision to start growing once again.  

 The cinematography of The Tin Drum is often distinctive, and the European cast is strong. I want to single out  Charles Aznavour, known worldwide as a French singer/songwriter of Armenian descent. He was also a lifelong supporter of human rights. In The Tin Drum he has the small but vital role of a kindly Jewish toy-shop owner who (of course) meets a sad fate, and he’s not easily forgotten.