Peter Pan (1924)

Peter Pan (1924), directed by Herbert Brenon, 3.5 stars

There’s really no need to recount the plot of Peter Pan; the original stage play, written by James Barrie in 1905, his expanded novel several years later, and the many subsequent incarnations on stage and screen are so well-known that the story has become part of the cultural fabric throughout most of the English-speaking world.  The 1924 silent film starring Betty Bronson as Peter in her first starring role was the earliest filmed version that I’m aware of, and it alternately closely follows and freely takes liberty with the source material.

George Ali in his only appearance on film (according to IMDB) is wonderful as Nana, the faithful watchdog, who is sent to the doghouse on the night of Peter’s arrival and, thus, is unable to intervene on the children’s behalf.  Not that they would have wanted her to.  They are positively rapt with the prospect of flying off to Neverland to cavort with pirates and mermaids and Peter’s band of lost boys.  Betty Bronson captures all of the charm of the self-absorbed Peter, perhaps, borrowing from Maud Adams, who first played him on the Broadway stage.  Bronson is no doubt also a model for later stage performers, most notably, Jean Arthur (in 1950 with Boris Karloff as Captain Hook and music by Leonard Bernstein), Mary Martin (in 1954 and is probably the best known musical adaptation), Sandy Duncan (1979), and Cathy Rigby (throughout the 1990s).  In one minute she’s leaping about the room, crowing with confidence and serene smugness, and in the next, she’s soaring gracefully from wall to wall joyfully teaching the children to fly.

Director Herbert Brenon and cinematographer James Wong Howe, both of whom would team up again for one of Lon Chaney’s greatest performances in the film, “Laugh, Clown, Laugh,” insert numerous magical effects, including Tinker Bell’s flickering flights around the children’s darkened bedroom, and later, the fairy in miniature, holding on for dear life to the huge handle of a cabinet drawer as her skimpy raiment blows fiercely about her.  Rather peculiar is the Americanization of the lost boys, who upon routing the pirates, sing “My country ‘tis of thee” and take down the Jolly Roger, raising in its stead the Stars and Stripes.  This seems bizzare given Barrie’s Scottish heritage and the manifestly London location--Bloomsbury, according to Barrie’s notes in the stage play.  Perhaps, this is an alternate version made specifically for U.S markets.

As with “The Little Princess,” I was fortunate to attend a screening of “Peter Pan” with harp accompaniment and a lovely, original score by Leslie McMichael.  A well-written, well-executed, live musical performances really enhances a silent film, and McMichael's paean to Peter Pan is  proof positive that this is so.

The Little Princess (1917)

The Little Princess (1917), directed by Marshall Neilan, 3 stars

Ten year old Sara Crewe (played by Mary Pickford, “America’s Sweetheart” and 25 at the time) is left at Miss Minchin’s boarding school by her father who is heading off to war.  A widower, he adores his only child and has pampered her like a little princess.  In the boarding school she is also treated well—until the news comes that he has died and left his daughter penniless.  With no funds, poor Sara is now forced by Miss Minchin to act as a virtual servant, cleaning and cooking and seeing to whatever menial chores require her attention.  She lives in the attic with the housemaid, Becky (played by Zasu Pitts), and make the best of the situation until, miraculously, it gets better on its own due to the fortuitously serendipitous appearance of a rich benefactor.  The film, a simple, highly-synopsized version of Frances Hodgson Burnett’s 1905 novel, relates the riches to rags to riches story, 250-plus written pages worth, in just over an hour.  And that includes a twenty minute or so digression during which Sara recounts to her schoolmates the story of “Ali Baba and the Forty Thieves,” which I don’t recall from my ages-ago reading of the book.  While the Arabian fable is charming and delightfully directed, it is completely irrelevant and adds nothing but filler to the film.  It’s as if the studio decided to make a short, and rather than release it on its own, cut and paste it into “The Little Princess.”  I would have preferred to devote the time to additional character development—or, maybe some cute tricks performed by the pet monkey who lives next door.

One visual element that is immediately apparent and, at times, unsettling is the fact that Mary Pickford is tiny by comparison to some of the household furniture and towered over by several of the actors and actresses, particularly mean Miss Minchin, played by Katherine Griffith.  I haven’t been able to find out how tall Ms. Griffith was, but Mary Pickford stood 5’1” according to my Google query (“How tall was Mary Pickford?”), and Griffith stands at least a foot taller.

The film also contains a few, brief but lovely little fantasy elements, far less grandiose and far more to the point than the insertion of the tale of Ali Baba.  One of these is the sequence in which Sara’s dolls play with one another in stop-motion when no one is in the room.  Another is the ghostly image of her father, helplessly watching through the window before vanishing into the night as Sara tells Becky that she has just learned of his death.  Both are nice touches that underscore Sara’s creative imagination.

There’s nothing like seeing a silent film on the big screen and it’s better still with live accompaniment.  I was fortunate to attend a screening in a local theater with a performance and an original score by harpist, Leslie McMichael, who certainly gave the audience its money’s worth and stuck around after the film to answer questions.  She’s also written a score for the 1924 version of “Peter Pan,” a film I’ll be talking about next.

Whisper of the Heart (1995)

Whisper of the Heart (1995), Yoshifumi Kondô, 4 stars

Yoshifumi Kondô’s first and, unhappily, only full-length feature of Japan’s Studio Gibhli is a wonderful blend of teenage angst and imaginative escapist fantasies that make coping with the awkward rebelliousness of young adulthood bearable.  Shizuku, the film’s heroine, has committed to reading 20 books during the summer and notices that every one she selects has been previously checked out a person named Seiji Amasawa.  Her idealized fantasy of this person is shattered when she discovers that he is a classmate and an egocentric braggart—at least that is her initial opinion of him.  Her journey toward reevaluating this first impression begins when she encounters a cat on the subway and follows it through back streets and alleyways to an exclusive area high above the city where it leads her to an eclectic antique shop.  She enters and is immediately entranced by a small sculpture of a dandified, two-legged cat.  The proprietor, an elderly gentleman who turns out to be Seiji’s uncle, informs her that this is the Baron.  For years, the shop owner has been searching for the Baron's companion piece, whom he has named Louise. This story fuels Shizuku's imagination, and she decides to write an elaborate novel featuring Louise and the Baron.

 

Featured prominently and, I must say, a bit bewilderingly in the film is the John Denver song, “Country Roads,” an extremely popular hit in the U.S. in 1971 and apparently in Japan a few years later when covered by Olivia Newton John.  But why this tune pops up as a central motif in a Japanese anime more than 20 years later is a mystery to me.  Its relevance to the plot revolves around Shizuku’s various revisions to the lyrics, which reveal her initial penchant and talent for writing.  I discovered an interesting tidbit while trying (unsuccessfully thus far) to find out if the song also figured in the original manga on which the film was based.  In early 2012, a railway company in Japan decided to use the song in a train station in the town that acted as a model for the film to alert passengers that a train is approaching.  (Click here for more details.)

“Whisper of the Heart” is yet another wonderful, understated contribution by Studio Ghibli in the tradition of “My Neighbor Totoro” and “Only Yesterday.”  These coming of age films all use imaginary elements—wondrous, forest monsters, fading memories of childhood, the statuette of a cat transformed into a high-flying muse—to gently nudge their young female protagonists into the next phase of their lives.  The films are sweet, smart, whimsical, and poignant--family entertainment (and fodder for discussion) at its best.

Pom Poko (1994)

Pom Poko (1994), directed by Isao Takahata, 3.5 stars

It’s the 1960s and Japan is experiencing unprecedented growth.  The once verdant Japanese hillsides surrounding Tokyo are being turned into huge apartment complexes and the wildlife that formerly inhabited these dense forests is being forced out or worse.  Bands of raccoons that have traditionally fought each other come together to form a unified front whose purpose is to fend off further incursions by man.  One such band has learned the ancient raccoon art of transforming into other objects, including humans.  The elders teach as many of the other groups who are able to learn to shapeshift in order to perform terrorist activities whose purpose is to thwart any new construction, thereby preserving what’s left of the receding forest.

Like many animated films from Japan’s Studio Ghibli, this feature has a strong environmental focus.  The destroyers of the natural habitat are not depicted as evil, simply as misguided and incapable of restraining their escalating population growth.  Of course, the raccoons have the same problem.  They, too, cannot contain their sexual urges and exacerbate their own situation by having to share with greater numbers a dwindling supply of food.  The humans are simply the superior species, and the raccoons must adapt or die.  But not without at least one last display of their abilities.  Under the tutelage of three great shapeshifters from afar, they perform a spectacular nighttime display, filling the city sky with dragons, skeletons, ancient spirits, flying squids, fire-breathing tigers, and other ghostly visions.  The scene is an animator’s dream, combining vivid Japanese iconography with wacky characters right out of a Bob Clampett Warner Brothers’ cartoon.

Unfortunately, the spectacle backfires.  Instead of instilling fear and dread, the humans take great delight in the display and want more.  Some raccoons go back to their old ways, some join the humans, others coexist dangerously on the fringes.  The film bears witness to conflict between young and old, old ways and new, war and diplomacy, and the endless cycle of life and death.  Not having much of an appreciation of Japanese art, history, or culture, I’m sure that many of the nuances were lost on me.  Although I liked the film quite a bit—better on this, my second viewing than on my first—I’m sure it would have been a much more rewarding experience seeing it in the company of native speakers with a true understanding of the cultural references, rich symbolism, and folk tales scattered throughout.

Laugh, Clown, Laugh (1928)

Laugh, Clown, Laugh (1928), directed by Herbert Brenon, 4 stars

Lon Chaney plays Tito Beppi, who with his partner Simon, comprise a two-person clown act that travels the pastoral Italian countryside entertaining townsfolk and eking out a modest living.  They stop along a riverbed where Tito stumbles upon a young girl who has been abandoned.  He decides to adopt her as his own, dubs her Simonetta to ingratiate her to his partner Simon, and the pair raises her until she grows up to be a very pretty teenager played by Loretta Young.  Seeking out a rose for her hair, she is ensnared in a barb-wire fence where Count Luigi Ravelli (Nils Asther) rescues and is immediately smitten by her.  It turns out that Tito, her foster father, is, too, so Simonetta must navigate the slippery slope between the wealthy count who is more her own age (she was only 15 in 1928) and her aging foster father (45 at the time).  Tito is afflicted by intense sadness; Luigi has a nervous habit of laughing inappropriately and being unable to stop.  They are actually well-matched with respect to Simonetta’s affection, except for the fact that the odds are significantly stacked against Chaney.  Despite his stellar performance, he’s never gotten the girl in any of the films I’ve ever seen him in.

Chaney’s acting is wonderful throughout his progression from a free-wheeling young clown performing tricks using sleight of hand to a seasoned professional with star quality undergoing a fairly severe mid-life crisis.  He displays the jaunty exuberance of a carefree youth, the recklessness and oversized antics of a circus clown, the deeply-felt joy he derives from parenting, and the pathos of a man so truly in love that he is willing to sacrifice all for the happiness of his adopted daughter.  The film intermixes sequences that are almost Felliniesque in their energetic carnival-like abandon with others that are quiet and still.  The scene in which Tito discovers Simonetta by the river reminded me very much of the scene in “Frankenstein,” filmed a few years later, during which the monster discovers the young girl playing with flowers by the lake.  The outcomes are very different, but it would not surprise me to discover that director James Whale modeled his camera setups in “Frankenstein” on his memory of this lovely moment from “Laugh, Clown, Laugh.”  This is Chaney at his best.  It’s a tragedy that he would die of throat cancer at the age of 47 just two years later.

Drive (2011)

Drive (2011), directed by Nicolas Winding Refn, 3.5 stars

A quiet young man (Ryan Gosling) who drives fast cars for mobsters and movie producers meets a lovely young lady (Carey Mulligan) with a small boy.  As luck would have it, they happen to live on the same floor of their apartment complex.  He and she are both attractive, so it is no surprise that they are immediately attracted to one another, but complications soon arise.  The lady’s husband (Oscar Isaac) returns from prison, and three (or four if you include the boy) gets a bit crowded.  Fortunately, they get along pretty well given the circumstances.  The husband’s got a good soul.  It turns out that he just fell in with the wrong crowd (Ron Perlman, Albert Brooks, etc.)  Now he wants to go straight, but the bad guys say “no way.”  Driver, the young man who drives fast cars, volunteers to help the husband take care of his financial obligation to the criminal element.  This appears, is his only way out, but it requires performing one last job for the mob.  He and the husband are sent on a mission to rob a pawn shop.  Sadly, the heist turns out to be a set up and things go south quick.  Driver, still a man of few words, emerges from the abyss transformed into one tough motor scooter and sets out to wreak vengeance on the bad guys.

This admittedly playful plot synopsis doesn’t nearly do justice to the film, which was highly regarded by critics and the festival circuit, winning a Best Director award and a nomination for the Palme d'Or at Cannes.  It has an overall feel very similar to a 1980s Michael Mann thriller, with a relentless pace that is propelled forward by the action, editing and Cliff Martinez's driving rhythmic score.  Many parts of the film, in particular the sequences that take place in moving automobiles, feel very claustrophobic.  An overall sense of anxiety results from the fact that very little dialogue is exchanged among the major characters.  The audience must seek out motivational cues in reaction shots, which may or may not reveal the very slightest furrow of an eyebrow. The selective use of slow motion creates additional tension.  Though the film certainly has its fair share of violent outbursts, the more extreme brutality takes place off screen, leaving our imagination (with the help of sound effects) to do the dirty work.

“Drive” is a well-paced, well-acted thriller that falls within and pays homage to a long line of laconic-outsider-metes-out-his-own-brand-of-justice films.  Driver may have traded in a steed for a sedan, but like the many slow-burn strangers in town before him, he chooses to live by and risk dying for his personal code of ethics.  And, also like his predecessors, when he’s leveled the playing field, it’s time to move on.

The Ace of Hearts (1921)

The Ace of Hearts (1921), directed by Wallace Worseley, 3 stars

An assortment of aging anarchists has gathered to vote on whether a person they know should be put to death.  Should he be declared anathema, this individual will become “the man who has lived too long,” and it will fall to one of the assembled to rid the world of this evildoer.  Enter three additional individuals—each a member of this group, and each equally if uniquely ill-suited to the task at hand.  The first to arrive is Mr. Forrest (John Bowers).  One can only wonder how this callow, dashingly handsome youth first encountered this sordid group of self-selected dispensers of justice. One might well ask the same of the young and lovely Lilith (Leatrice Joy), who is not present for the voting but arrives in time to dole out the fateful cards that will determine who must do the dirty deed.  Finally, there’s Mr. Farallone (Lon Chaney), an older and extremely emotional, long-haired lover of Lilith whose excessively artistic temperament is hard for everyone to take, including Lilith herself.  Instead, she is smitten by Mr. Forrest, more her own age, and to whom she deals the ace of hearts, the card that determines who must kill the man who has lived too long.  Mr. Farallone is crushed.  It is too much for him to have not been selected for the mission and to have lost his lady love--both in a single day.

Chaney is as always riveting, and viewers are hard-pressed to take their eyes off him whenever he is on screen.  Even though he is outrageously melodramatic by today’s standards in demonstrating an inability to contain his emotions, alternately pouting, slouching in his chair, weeping, and standing outside Lilith’s apartment all night, gazing up at her window for hours in the rain, he is simply masterly in his larger than life performance.  In the morning, still sitting on the steps of Lilith’s apartment, he is so self-absorbed in sadness that he completely ignores a stray dog that has wandered by and is intent on cheering up the morose man.  The dog yaps insistently, only inches from Chaney’s face, scratching playfully at his pants leg and licking the back of his hand, all in a vain attempt to get the poor man’s attention.  As the sequence goes on, one feels more sorry for the dog than for the man.

Chaney’s performance is not the only over-the-top feature of the film. The intertitles (of which there are many) teem with highfalutin dialogue.  Even the editing succumbs to extremes.  Chaney finally acknowledges the dog once it climbs into his lap.  As he caresses it, the camera cuts to a scene in the upstairs bedroom where Lilith and Mr. Forrest are clasped in each other’s arms.  This juxtaposition is so jarring that it pulled me completely out of the picture.

The DVD version release by Turner Classics is part of a Lon Chaney retrospective.  The print of “The Ace of Hearts” is very scratchy, but it’s better to have access to a less than perfect print than to have no copies of the film at all, which is the case with much of Chaney’s work, as well as that of many other of his contemporaries.  I especially liked the opening of the film, with its sound effects that include the rapping associated with a sequence of secret knocks required to gain entry into the anarchists’ lair.  There’s also a wonderful extreme high-angle shot of the dealing out of the cards from directly overhead that suggests that fate is playing a hand in the outcome.  Vivek Maddala was christened by TCM to compose an original score for the DVD, and its subtlety mitigates much of the excess in acting, editing, and overblown intertitles.

The more I watch his films, the more I admire Lon Chaney and the creative genius he brought to the screen.  There are few actors before or since that have been able to display anywhere near the range of characters that he seems to have done so effortlessly.

Only Yesterday (1991)

Only Yesterday (1991), directed by Isao Takahata, 4.5 stars

Hayao Miyazaki's name is most closely associated with the animated films of Studio Gibhli, but his fellow director and animator Isao Takahata certainly deserves his fair share of accolades and a much wider audience, especially in the U.S.  Unlike Miyazaki, not all of Takahata's films have been dubbed by Disney for DVD nor do they circulate widely in theatrical release.  More important, and perhaps this is why the Disney studio has yet to devote more resources to Takahata’s films, they are not filled with spectacle and dazzling effects like those of his counterpart.  They are more often quiet, introspective, wistful, and even sad.  They deal with mundane matters, and they are incredibly affecting in doing so, especially if the viewer pays attention and allows them the time they require to build to their rich, if sometimes elegiacal epiphanies.

“Only Yesterday” is a masterly slice-of-life story of a girl in her twenties who is perhaps, plagued, perhaps, obsessed by memories of her childhood.  In the world of the early 1980s, the animated world of the elder Taeko is marked by vibrant, vivid colors. In contrast (literally), her younger days from the mid 1960s are painted more finely in lighter pastels.  These discernibly distinct drawing styles are not jarring, just sufficiently dissimilar to help the viewer differentiate past and present.

Small, unforgettable moments abound.  One particularly resonant sequence features Taeko and her family’s attempt to come to grips with their first grapefruit.  They’ve never seen one before, and they don’t know how to open it.  By the time they finally figure it out, they react as if the fruit has soured.  Taeko takes the last bite, seems to come briefly to a different conclusion, but then bends to the overall sentiments of the family.  This is one of several instances in which Taeko's younger self accedes to the feelings to others.

There are many other wonderfully human moments, such as when Taeko and a young boy in her school, each of whom is attracted to the other, meet unexpectedly and make an awkward attempt at conversation.  And then there's a particular sequence that you just don’t see occurring in an animated (or any other kind of) American film: 10 year old girls in a serious discussion of menstruation.  Suffering from a bad cold, Taeko must sit out her gym class, something she is loath to do because she is sure that her classmates will believe that she is having her period.  She’s not even begun ovulating, but because menstruation is the most common reason given for girls not participating in physical education, to her chagrin, nobody believes her.

I’ve read on a few sites that this sequence is the root cause of Disney’s reticence to dub the film and release it on DVD.  Apparently, their distribution agreement with Studio Ghibli stipulates that no cuts or significant changes to dialogue are allowed to any of the films.  No matter what the reason, it’s a shame that Disney has not released this film on DVD, dubbed or not, and I consider myself very lucky to have seen a pristine print in a rare theatrical setting.  This film is a real treasure.

Porco Rosso (1992)

Porco Rosso (1992), Directed by Hayao Miyazaki 3.5 stars

Porco Rosso aka The Crimson Pig aka the once great aviator and dogfighter Marco (at least in the Disney-dubbed English version) has pretty much given up on the world.  The ace pilot has literally devolved into a pig, ostensibly due to some sort of curse to which vague reference is made.  When he is not doing mercenary battle with sky pirates, he gorges himself, smokes and drinks incessantly.  It lies to the ladies in his life to ultimately reawaken the spirited idealism of his youth.  Like Rick in “Casablanca,” Porco is fortunate to have encountered a woman (two in fact) able to slowly chip away at the bitterness that takes away the pain and nudge him to a hero’s redemptive state.  The first is Gina, a chanteuse and a close friend of Porco from long before he lapsed into his peculiar, porcine state.  The other is Fio, a young, energetic, airplane engineer who after redesigning and helping to repair his plane, accompanies him on his quest.

It’s often acknowledged that Hayao Miyazaki, the director and writer, is at his very best when animating objects in flight, and this film is filled with extended sequences during which planes soar through the skies in hot pursuit, in pitched battle, or simply for a pilot’s sheer thrill of flying.  One particularly memorable aerial sequence occurs as Porco recounts a vision he had during a particularly bloody dogfight during the Great War.  A glimmering pattern of what at first appear to be specs of dust appears high above him in the distance.  Suddenly, planes emerge from the clouds below, and as they slowly continue their ascent, they themselves eventually merge with the speckled band: a ghostly gathering of pilots and planes formed from the extensive casualties of air warfare.  It is an unanticipated, extremely powerful emotional moment in an otherwise fairly light-hearted romp.  The moving images work their magic beautifully, providing us our one and only glimpse into the soul of the hero.

This film is not a well-known or particularly highly-regarded product of Studio Ghibli, Japan’s premier animation house.  However, upon seeing it on the big screen recently, my second viewing in the space of about a year, I enjoyed the film quite a  lot—a lot more, in fact, than I had when I originally watched it on DVD.  Whether my recent, more positive reaction was as a result of a shared viewing experience, the size of the screen, the quality of the dubbing, the pristine print, or likely some combination of all these elements, I don’t know, and it really doesn’t matter much.  The intermixing of adventure, humor, and, on occasion, deep pathos worked for me, and on a big screen, this combination worked together even better.  Now as to the kid in the seat behind me who kept kicking my chair …

Speedy (1928)

Speedy (1928), directed by Ted Wilde, 4.5 stars

Let me start right off by saying that this film is a real gem.  Even if you can’t imagine yourself liking a silent movie, you’ll be dazzled by this lively comedic time capsule filmed in the late 1920s largely on the streets of New York City and on location at Coney Island’s Luna Park.  Harold Lloyd may come in third place when measured against the great Charlie Chaplin and Buster Keaton, but at his best—and it doesn’t get much better than this—he can certainly hold his own against either of his comedic contemporaries.

Lloyd plays Harold 'Speedy' Swift, a guy who can’t seem to keep a job, largely because he’s constantly distracted by baseball.  Jane (Ann Christy) is his perky girlfriend, and Pop Dillon (Bert Woodruff) is her gruff grandfather who happens to own the last horse car in New York.  Pop’s route is coveted by a big railroad conglomerate. The company wants to build a new line along the existing track, and Pop won’t sell—at least he won’t sell cheap.  Speedy ensure this by further raising the stakes when the railroad’s owner makes one last and genuinely reasonable offer.  But high-stakes finance isn’t the only way to obtain the route, and it takes a free-for-all between plug uglies and Civil War veterans and a high-speed chase through the streets of New York City before our fearless hero manages to get not only Pop’s exorbitant asking price but the girl in the bargain.

Whether it was intended to be or not, “Speedy” is a magnificent tribute to the city in which it was filmed.  The streets are packed with pedestrians going about their daily routines, and the details bring the roaring twenties to life.  This richness is nowhere more in evidence than during the extended amusement park sequence filmed at Coney Island.  Preeminent are kewpie dolls, cotton candy, Cracker Jacks, and wild rides the likes of which they just don’t make anymore—and that’s probably just as well.  As an added treat, there’s another sequence during which George Herman Ruth appears as himself.  This rare glimpse of the “Babe” in his prime has him mugging marvelously as a petrified passenger trapped in the back seat of Speedy’s cab as it careens around the busy, city streets.  One lesser moment that caught my attention was a brief sequence during which pre-radio baseball fans were keeping each other abreast of an ongoing Yankees’ game by phone via an elaborate call tree.  This is something I must admit I had never thought about.  Oh, yes, there’s also a very clever dog that comes to the rescue on several key occasions.

There’s no better way to see a silent film than with live accompaniment, and I was fortunate to see Lloyd’s last fully silent feature in a large theater with an original score performed by the Alloy Orchestra.  I consider “Speedy” to be one of Lloyd’s best, and it was nominated by the Academy of Motion Pictures Arts and Sciences for an Oscar at their very first ceremony.  I can’t recommend it highly enough for its antic comedy, for its wonderful depiction of 1920s New York City, and as an excellent example of silent films (and films in general) at their very finest.

The Trip (1967)

The Trip (1967), directed by Roger Corman, 2.5 stars

“Anything is possible…” begins “The Trip,” a film whose screenplay was written by (of all people) actor Jack Nicholson.  This catchphrase from a commercial that Paul (Peter Fonda) is directing at the start of the film might be difficult for him to swallow just then given that his beautiful wife, Sally (Susan Strasberg) has shown up on the set to remind him that he needs to sign their divorce papers. Fortunately, poor Paul has a good friend in John (Bruce Dern), who offers him exactly the right thing for a man looking to expand his horizons: 250 micrograms of lysergic acid diethylamide.  They venture together to an old Victorian home remodeled in a stereotypical, psychedelic 60s style, where under John’s watchful eye, Paul drops 250 micrograms of LSD and departs for places unknown.

The bulk of the film’s 80 minutes or so documents Paul’s trip, much of which consists of rapid-fire kaleidoscopic colors, extended sex and dance scenes, fog-bound strolls through sets from Roger Corman’s earlier Edgar Allan Poe movies, and a surreal hike through a forest in which Paul is accompanied by twin Tolkienesque dark riders.  But there are a few less over the top high points as well.  During a quiet moment, Paul stops to consider the implications of the term “living” room.  Later, he wanders into a house, turns on the TV, and when he is discovered there by a little girl, accedes to her request to get her a glass of milk.  Later still, he makes his way into a laundromat where he is mesmerized by a woman’s clothes spinning circuitously in a dryer.  Why he doesn’t scare the bejeezus out their owner a whole lot sooner than he does with his bizarre behavior I don’t know.

It’s not easy to convey on screen what it must be like to experience the world in a drug-induced state, but despite its eccentricities, “The Trip” does as creditable a job as any film I’ve seen.   The interactions between Paul and John as the former is just beginning to feel the effects of the drug ring the truest.  Paul runs an emotional gamut, experiencing wonder, embarrassment, playfulness, and vulnerability.  His awe at ordinary inanimate objects, an orange glowing like the sun at one point, television towers appearing like crosses on the mount at another, feels absolutely genuine.  So, too, do John’s reactions to his friend’s experiences.  They are subtle, compassionate, filled with empathy and deep pleasure at his friend’s interior adventure.  The problem is that the film attempts to sustain an intense drug induced state for more than an hour, and this is more time than the average straight viewer is probably interested in investing in another person’s hallucinatory journey.

Salmon Fishing in the Yemen (2012)

Salmon Fishing in the Yemen (2012), directed by Lasse Hallstrom, 3.5 stars

A “best man wins” scenario plays out against the dream of a very wealthy sheikh (Amr Waked) to bring the sport of fresh water salmon fishing to the Yemen.  Ewan McGregor plays Dr. Alfred Jones, a British scientist in the public’s employ who is called upon to work the miracle.  Emily Blunt plays Harriet, the sheikh’s go-to gal, and Kristin Scott Thomas plays Patricia Jones, the Prime Minister’s press secretary, who lends government support to the aquatic effort because she knows the value of a good story, especially when elsewhere things political are not going so well.  Robert, played by Tom Mison, is Harriet’s love interest, but when he disappears during a covert raid in Afghanistan, Dr. Jones’ ministrations are the cure for what ails her, and the relationship blossoms on what I believe is referred to as the “rebound.”

Director Lasse Hallström (“Chocolat”) made the film in London, Scotland, and Morocco (not Yemen, perhaps for lack of water, perhaps for political reasons), and his film seems very much to want to play matchmaker not just to Alfred and Harriet, but to these geographic representations of eastern and western civilization as well.  My guess is that in today’s world, Alfred and Harriet have a better chance at a long-term relationship, though the world would be a much better place if I were wrong about that.  Perhaps, I need more faith, a virtue that the sheikh prizes highly.  He gently chides Alfred for thinking that science and faith are incompatible, and in the context of the film, he appears to be referring to faith in human potential rather than in religious ritual.  The film understandably backgrounds or sidesteps altogether the deeper rifts that divide European and Muslim culture.  The most extreme examples of extremist conflict occur between Arabs in support of the sheikh’s dream and those who see him as a potential puppet of the West.

You might wonder why I rated the film so highly when I seem more bent on trashing it than saying anything good.  The truth is that despite the presence of an all too familiar romantic narrative and its rather superficial treatment of cultures in conflict, I liked the film quite a bit.  From the first moment you see them together, you want Ewan McGregor and Emily Blunt to hit it off.  The sheikh is so noble and wise in the ways of Europeans and Arabs that you immediately want his fantastic vision to materialize.  In between the dream and its fruition come bureaucratic bumblers, slimy politicians, angry Arabs, and seriously mismatched couples, but the plot resolves into a dewy-eyed finale that ends pretty good if not quite as well as one might have wished.