Jazz Score: Le Menace

If you have seen Wages of Fear, you know there will be trouble whenever Yves Montand gets behind the wheel of a big rig. In Alain Corneau’s Le Menace, the big trucks come accompanied by a deadly love triangle and a nifty jazz score by Gerry Mulligan, which is why it is screening as part of MoMA’s Jazz Score film series.

Henri Savin might be considered a man of the world. A French trucking manager with an extra lover and sketchy past, he does not have much faith in the law. Savin has broken off his affair with Dominique Montlaur, the owner of his trucking firm which bears her name, but she refuses to accept that it is over. In desperation, she ambushes Julie Manet, Savin’s pregnant younger lover, first attempting bribery, than resorting to physical violence in hopes of running her off. When all else fails, she does a header off a cliff, inadvertently creating serious trouble for Savin and her rival—a measure of revenge she would not live to savor.

As the police investigate her death, suspicion falls on Manet, the last person to see Montlaur alive. When Savin’s advice of denial lands her behind bars facing a murder rap, Savin takes it on himself to clear her name, by framing himself. He has no intention of sacrificing himself though, expecting to flee to his old Canadian stomping grounds once he has finished manipulating the plodding coppers. While in France, Menace follows in the tradition of Clouzot thrillers like Diabolique, but when it moves to Canada, it veers into Duel territory. Let’s just say this is indeed a film about big trucks.

The effect of Mulligan’s rich, warm baritone saxophone underscoring the sight of Savin’s eighteen-wheeler rumbling over the open road is surprisingly effective, giving a lush 70’s feel to the film, in the best sense. Mulligan composed the score during what was considered his fusion period, due to his use of moog and synthesizer effects. Compared with much of the era’s music though, his score is still relatively straight-ahead jazz.

Dave Grusin, no stranger himself to soundtrack work (Three Days of the Condor, The Firm), provided an organizational assist and is heard on keys throughout. Jay Leonhart and Jack Six shared the bass duties, joining either Bobby Rosengarden or Michael DiPasqua on drums, with various keyboard players augmenting the ensemble. The soundtrack, together with unused themes, was issued under the title Watching & Waiting, which holds up well when heard apart from the film’s visuals.

Menace is the sort of naturalistic crime drama European filmmakers used to excel at. It might have benefited from a little tightening (and the slip-shod subtitles do not do it any favors), but over all, Menace is a clever film, well served both by Mulligan’s music, as well as Corneau’s judicious use of silence. It screens again on Monday.

Jazz Score: TV Land

Although Hollywood never really embraced jazz, it did find its way into many film noir pictures, signifying the sultry dangers of the urban underworld. Not surprisingly then, it also underscored some late 1950’s television detective shows, samples of which are screening at the MoMA as part of the Jazz Score retrospective.

Probably the best known and most successful example of the jazz-scored television series was Peter Gunn (NBC 1958-1961). Featuring Henry Mancini themes performed by top West Coast jazz artists, Gunn (sample opening here) dedicated a relatively large portion of its brief twenty-four minutes to music. For instance, in “The Comic,” the episode MoMA selected, trumpeter Pete Candoli gets about a minute of screen time for a solo and a brief speaking part. In another episode, “Keep Smiling,” Shelley Manne and His Men, including Joe Gordon and Herb Geller, get about a minute and a half for a complete breakneck number. Also, Gunn’s girlfriend Edie Hart, played by Lola Albright, is frequently heard crooning at Mother’s nightclub.

Gunn’s plots were simple due to time constraints. They usually involved Gunn, played by the square-jawed Craig Stevens, getting knocked unconscious by accomplices of the criminal he was tailing, only to be saved at the last minute by Lt. Jacoby, whose officers followed him, hoping to be lead straight to the perp. However, the show had a very stylishly noir look, nicely directed, usually by either series creator Blake Edwards or veteran television director Boris Sagal.

Less successful, Johnny Staccato (NBC 1959-1960) is often considered an imitation of Gunn, but it had it moments. Starring John Cassavetes as the title character, a former jazz pianist turned P.I., Staccato might have been moodier than Gunn, but it had similar elements. In this case, the jazz influenced composer was Elmer Bernstein, and the setting was Waldo’s jazz club. West coast jazz artists were also frequently heard in the background, as in “The Naked Truth,” where the house band included Candoli again, with guitarist Barney Kessel, Shelley Manne on drums, and Red Norvo on vibes.

The real oddball in the Jazz Score program is Blues for Trumpet and Koto, a one-hour stand-alone television drama, starring Quincy Jones as himself and inexplicably featuring performances by Al Hirt and his Dixieland combo. Jones is preparing for a Japanese tour and essentially shanghais his old lovesick compatriot Peter Clay to write special arrangements for the event, including the title piece. There are some pretty swinging big band performances of standards like “Night in Tunisia” and Clay’s special composition, from what appears to be Nobuo Hara’s Sharps and Flats, augmented with some members of Q’s big band.

Unfortunately, the acting and story brought forth forgivably audible groans from the audience. Anthony George would have a long career in television on series like Dark Shadows (he also had a supporting role in Otto Preminger’s Where the Sidewalk Ends with Craig Stevens), but he is frankly terrible as Clay, and his vocal number, which was barely more than the Rex Harrison-style speaking on pitch, was a complete mistake. For his part, Jones appears to have come out of the Burt Reynolds show-the-audience-how-much-fun-you’re-having school of acting. Still, it is a true rarity with some appealing big band music that is unlikely to turn up on DVD or cable anytime soon.

Altogether, this Jazz Score program represents a decent selection of jazz television scoring. Probably, the most notable omission was Mr. Broadway (opening credits here), which featured some great Dave Brubeck themes, but also starred Stevens as Broadway press agent Mike Bell, so it might have seemed too similar to Gunn. Also, the short-lived car-racing series Straightaway, was all but unwatchable, but featured the music of Maynard Ferguson’s band at height of its power. Of what MoMA did program, Gunn and Staccato hold up reasonably well as noir entertainment, and the novelty of Koto is at least worth a look. They screen together again on Sunday.

Jazz Score: A Man Called Adam

As cool as Saul Bass’s titles are for Anatomy of a Murder, this film has them beat, thanks to an opening sequence from the Hubley Studios, renown for their jazz animation. While Benny Carter’s soundtrack for A Man Called Adam might not best Ellington’s classic score, it is at least competitive. Screening Wednesday as part of the Jazz Score series at the MoMA, Adam is an overlooked classic of jazz cinema.

Sammy Davis, Jr. plays Adam Johnson, a superstar jazz trumpeter, who despite the occasional crooning, is clearly inspired by Miles Davis. Arrogant and uncompromising, Johnson bows to no man, but is not overtly political. He is more interested in assuaging his guilt over the accident that killed his wife and child with drink, drugs, and cheap sex. Fronting a band fast losing its patience with his self-destructive behavior, he has few meaningful relationships, besides a long suffering friend played by Ossie Davis and an earnest young white student played by Frank Sinatra, Jr. Yes, Junior, and he is darn good in the role too.

Adam is a film with a plethora of interesting relationships, including the Rat-Packers, Davis, Sinatra Jr., and Peter Lawford as Johnson’s stone cold evil booking agent Manny. There is no ring-a-ding-ding in the scenes between Davis and Lawford, just the characters’ pure contempt. Cicely Tyson plays (the fictional Miles Davis) Johnson’s love interest who tries to straighten his life out, with mixed results. Fifteen years later she would marry the real Miles Davis, and is generally credited with stabilizing his then chaotic life.

Davis, Sinatra, and Lawford are all great in the film, but the best performance comes from Louis Armstrong playing Willie “Sweet Daddy” Ferguson, essentially a fictionalized version of himself. He has two dynamite musical features with Tyree Gleen and his All-Stars of the time, but he is truly touching in his dramatic scenes, playing a man who might be respected, even beloved, but who realizes time has passed him by. At a Downbeat party, after “All That Jazz,” a killing swinger from Mel Tormé (yes, the Velvet Fog), Johnson finds the shy Ferguson sitting off in a corner. The kids at the party are nice enough he tells Johnson, but it “seems like the people don’t know what to say to me.” “Maybe it’s just that they don’t know what to say to a genius,” he responds, in a scene of cinematic perfection.

There is indeed fantastic music in Adam, composed and conducted by Benny Carter. In addition to Armstrong and Tormé, the Johnson combo performs some great music as well, with Nat Adderley getting screen credit for dubbing Johnson’s cornet. Kai Winding also appears as himself, as a member of Johnson’s band, with Junior Mance fulfilling the piano duties behind the scenes.

There are scenes in Adam addressing issues of race and music that cut like a knife. Yet, the swinging music makes it all go down sweet as candy. At times swinging, at times sad, Adam is neglected cinematic jewel, containing the best film work from everyone involved. It screens tomorrow and Saturday at MoMA.

Jazz Score: Martial Solal

“If A Bout de Souffle didn’t exist, nobody would think its music was particularly interesting.” So Martial Solal says in the liner notes to a French collection of his film soundtracks. That film is known to English speaking audiences as Jean-Luc Godard’s Breathless, the watershed film of the French New Wave, regarded as much for its perceived revolutionary aesthetics as for its own cinematic merits. However, Solal himself played no originals, cinematic or otherwise, during his concert at MoMA last night as part of the Jazz Score series, opting instead for a program of standards.

Even though the recently arrived Solal explained it was 2:30 in the morning by his time, he was in the mood to play, performing approximately two hours, including a lengthy encore. He was truly in the mood to play “Caravan,” playing two significantly different versions in a row and later head-faking the audience with a sizeable quote from the Tizol standard before starting a completely different tune.

Solal is still at the top of his game, simultaneously playful and explorative. His approach to standards can be almost cubist, but he always brings things back into the pocket. He and bassist François Moutin were perfectly in-synch playing together, though at times Solal seemed to be changing things up to make things interesting. “He’ll get tired before I will,” he told the crowd.

Solal’s wit came through in both his music and his banter, delighting a sold out house. Those who return tomorrow can screen Breathless, Godard’s radically influential directorial debut (music-less trailer here). Loosely based on a treatment by François Truffaut, crediting Claude Chabrol as a technical advisor, and featuring Jean-Pierre Melville in a supporting role, Breathless is the end product of contributions from at least four major French directors, but Godard is the unquestioned auteur.

Breathless is nihilism triumphant, but fascinatingly so. In any other film, Jean-Paul Belmondo’s Michel Poiccard would be a pathetic jerk. For Godard, his accidental violence is his existential redemption. He apes the gangsters of American film noir, particularly Bogart, and after much effort, seduces the not very impressed American Patricia Franchini, played by Jean Seberg. He convinces her to accompany him on the lamb, until she betrays him more or less on a whim. Like Jean-Pierre Léaud’s Marc in Le Départ, Poiccard is an immature young man, who fancies himself a bad customer, but his posturing escalates into full-blown criminality. Solal’s music helps evoke the film noir that influenced both director and character, with themes that swing, but have a hint of menace. Indeed, his main theme, “La Mort” is classic crime jazz.

Breathless has been interpreted as an anti-American statement: a Frenchman seduced by Hollywood images into a life a crime is betrayed by an unfeeling American working for The New York Herald Tribune, an arm of the omnipresent American media. Knowing where Godard went in later films, it is probably a fair interpretation. It hardly needs be said that millions saw those same gangster movies without being similarly effected as Poiccard. They simply had stronger personalities and moral compasses. Of course, that makes them boring to Godard.

Breathless screens again at MoMA this afternoon, as part of the well programmed Jazz Score retrospective. MoMA’s concerts in the series have had a distinctly international flavor, with the French-Algerian Solal following that of Polish trumpeter Tomasz Stanko. Solal does not play in America that often, so hearing him live last night was a rare treat.

Jazz Score: Jazz in Genre

Jazz is not usually thought of in conjunction with genre films, but it does turn up in the odd (or very odd) sci-fi or horror picture. British tenor star Tubby Hayes appeared as himself and played on the soundtrack for one story in the Amicus horror anthology film Dr. Terror’s House of Horrors, which also featured the sophisticated gruesome twosome of Peter Cushing and Christopher Lee (in separate story arcs). Moon Zero Two, a rare Hammer Films foray into sci-fi, has not aged well, but at least boasts a pretty cool Don Ellis score. Add to their ranks some of ultra low budget auteur Roger Corman’s films, including Bucket of Blood (trailer here), screening at MoMA as part of the Jazz Score retrospective.

Bucket is probably most notorious for the film it spawned: Little Shop of Horrors. As the near-legendary story goes, after wrapping Bucket, Corman realized his sets were paid up through the next two days, so why not crank out another picture in that time? Both films also feature a score by the same composer, jazz cellist Fred Katz.

The onetime musical director of the Chico Hamilton Quintet, with whom he is seen in Sweet Smell of Success, the cerebral Katz might seem an unlikely associate for the camp king Corman, but he scored several of his pictures. Katz’s score often swings in a crime jazz mood, while at other times it reflects the goofy whimsy of Charles B Griffith’s beanik spoof. Katz’s fellow Hamilton alumnus Paul Horn (before his defection to New Age music) also appears in the opening scene, accompanying an over-top pretentious poetry recital, in the spirit of the jazz-and-poetry performances of the era.

Cult actor Dick Miller plays busboy Walter Paisley (a sad sack character he would revive for future Corman productions), slaving away for unappreciative beatniks in a hipster coffee house. By accident, he kills his landlord’s cat, which he conceals by disguising the body as a statue. When his “Dead Cat” is received as a work of genius, he logically starts escalating with humans.

Many Corman enthusiasts prefer Bucket to its more famous offspring. The story might be ridiculous, but it has its clever moments. In particular, Julian Barton is spot-on as the pontificating poet Maxwell Brock, looking like an unkempt Theodore Bikel, while Katz and Horn, perhaps the greatest talent attached to the film, lend it a touch of class. Clearly a product of its time and budget, Bucket still has an undeniable charm. It screens at MoMA this Thursday.

Jazz Score: Sounds of Komeda

Krzysztof Komeda is often considered a victim of the curse of Rosemary’s Baby, dying less than a year after the release the famous film he scored. He and producer William Castle were actually admitted to the same hospital, at the same time, but while Castle recovered, Komeda eventually succumbed to his injuries. He died prematurely young, but already one of Poland’s most influential jazz musicians and soundtrack composers. Saturday night, MoMA’s Jazz Score series showcased several films Komeda scored, and tonight, Tomasz Stanko, a former member of Komeda’s Quartet, will play his music at MoMA, backed up by the Marcin Wasilewski trio.

Komeda had a long association with Roman Polanski, which brought him to Hollywood in the late 1960’s. Though it is Polanski’s first full-length feature as a director, Knife in the Water hints at some of the psycho-sexual themes that would pre-occupy much of his later work. It also bears some slight similarity to Dead Calm, telling the story the arrogant, well-connected Andrzej and his trophy wife Krystyna, who pick up a young, un-named hitchhiker, and take him on their day cruise, evidently out of boredom and the challenge of his banter. However, that witty patter often gives way to darker expressions lurking below the surface, intensified by the claustrophobic conditions aboard the small yacht.

As dark and moody as Knife might be, Komeda’s score is not as dark as one might expect. It often swings nicely, capturing the bouncy of the open water with clear skies. At others times it is cool and laid back, almost languid like the placid sea.

Despite featuring some musicians associated with the avant-garde, including cornetist Don Cherry and tenor saxophonist Gato Barbieri, Komeda’s score for Le Départ is also a surprisingly swinging affair. The first film directed by Knife screenwriter Jerzy Skolimowski, it was actually filmed in Belgium, with a largely French cast, including Jean-Pierre Léaud, one of the most consistently annoying screen presences in international cinema.

To be fair, Léaud was often cast in roles demanding such performances, like in Last Tango in Paris and the great Day for Night. Again, here in Départ, he plays the immature dreamer. This Léaud character is Marc, a young hairdresser’s assistant obsessed with entering a motor rally, at the expense of his relations with real people, particularly a potential girlfriend he drags on a foolish, bordering criminal spree, in lieu of an actual date.

Départ is very much a continuation of the New Wave, crying out for comparisons to Godard’s Breathless. Skolimowski has a distinctly subversive eye, well matched by Komeda’s music. At times, his music undercuts the on-screen action, rather than reinforcing it, as when Marc begins a half-hearted attempt to seduce a middle-aged client at a fashion show. Komeda worked with Skolimowski on several projects, including Barrier, which often features the darker sounds frequently associated with the composer. Indeed, a Komeda retrospective would be a great follow-up series for MoMA.

Komeda was an important mentor to Stanko, who has often recorded his compositions. Tonight you can hear him interpret them anew at the MoMA. Tomorrow night, the Wasilewski Trio, mentored by Stanko, will play at Birdland, capping off a mini-festival of Polish Jazz in New York (but Knife and Départ will screen again on May 22nd).

Jazz Score: Friday the Thirteenth

Artist Ray Johnson died on Friday the thirteenth, drowned in the waters of Sag Harbor. Numerologists will take note: he was checked into room 247 of a local hotel, numbers which director John Walter’s documentary How to Draw a Bunny points out, add up to thirteen. In addition to displaying a shrewd sense of humor, Walter’s film also makes keen use of solo drum improvisations by the great Max Roach, making it a welcome, if somewhat idiosyncratic addition to MoMA’s Jazz Score series.

Well regarded by colleagues like Roy Lichtenstein, James Rosenquist, Chuck Close, and Christo & Jean-Claude, all heard in interview segments, the renown of his contemporaries eluded Johnson. He probably was not helped by his eccentric approach to business dealings, which the film interprets as an extension of his performance art pieces, dubbed “nothings” by Johnson in the pre-Seinfeldian era. Introducing the film Wednesday, Walter explained the initial uncertainty surrounding Johnson’s death—murder, accident or “performance art gone wrong?”

Watching Bunny, so named for the rabbit figures which often adorned Johnson’s graphic work, one is easily convinced the artist was a mad genius. While the film unquestionably accepts Johnson’s artist merits, some of the work shown makes one wonder if he were truly a fine artist or a con artist, pulling an elaborate gag on the art world. Some of his portraits and collages are indeed fascinating, but other smaller works using Lucky Strike packages kind of make one wonder. Indeed, much of his work comes across as an extended joke for his own amusement, like a nothing in which he whipped a cardboard box with his belt while hopping on one foot before a stunned hipster audience.

Regardless of one’s take on Johnson’s art, Bunny is a surprisingly entertaining film. Roach’s solos swing hard, accentuating Walter’s strong visuals. The decision to incorporate footage of Roach’s hands in performance, described by Walter as an “analog” to the creative work Johnson shaped with his own hands, gives a mysterious, almost spiritual dimension to film.

Ultimately, Johnson’s death was ruled a suicide—essentially a performance art piece gone tragically right. Given the artist’s subversive methods used to get his work into the MoMA collection so it could be included in an exhibition curated by Close, the film seems like a particularly apt choice for their Jazz Score series. Documentaries have also been relatively under-represented thus far, so Bunny is a nice change of pace. It is a fascinating story briskly propelled by Roach’s brushes. It screens today at 2:30.

Jazz Score: Sweet Smell of Success

Publicists have a difficult job. Getting press for clients is often a tough assignment. I have been able to cover some truly great artists and films here because of their assistance, and have real respect for those I have worked with. So it is important to remember Sidney Falco from The Sweet Smell of Success is far from representative (but in some cases he has provided a sort of tongue-in-cheek inspiration). His story also comes accompanied by a jazz soundtrack, which explains its inclusion in the MoMA’s Jazz Score series.

As a press agent, Falco played by Tony Curtis, is desperate to get his clients into the newspapers, particularly in the column of one J.J. Hunsecker. Clearly inspired by Walter Winchell, Burt Lancaster’s Hunsecker is the tyrant of the tabloids. Oozing schmaltz for his readers and radio listeners, he is a Machiavellian figure, who also has a strange need to keep his young sister under his tight control. Unfortunately, she has taken up with the doggedly principled Steve Dallas, a jazz musician, which is unacceptable for obvious reasons. Now the obedient Sidney is charged with torpedoing the relationship. Until he does, he will be frozen out of Hunsecker’s column.

Co-written by notorious lefty Clifford Odets, Success seems like a naturalistic, almost muck-raking expose of the world of Broadway press agents, in which Falco is totally done over by the Hunseckers. However, after viewing it several times, the real villain who emerges is Falco himself. Hunsecker is indeed a moralizing hypocrite who abuses the power of the press, but Falco is a willing accomplice in his own debasement. There is nothing and nobody he will not voluntarily sacrifice, including whatever shreds of dignity or sense of self he might have left, simply to suck up to his press master. In cringe-worthy scenes, we see Falco obsequiously light Hunsecker’s cigarette after the columnist publicly humiliates him. At one point Hunsecker tells Falco: “I’d hate to take a bite out of you. You’re a cookie full of arsenic,” and he is not wrong.

Success is a great film, as is much of the music, particularly that of Chico Hamilton’s quintet. There is also a sort of crime-jazz influenced orchestral soundtrack by Elmer Bernstein, which is not quite as swinging as his score for Man with the Golden Arm. The Hamilton Quintet does indeed get screen time the Dallas group. Portrayed by Martin Millner (no kidding), Dallas is seen as the leader and guitarist of the combo, whereas drummer Hamilton was the actual leader and cellist Fred Katz was the de-facto musical director. Hamilton’s guitarist at the time, John Pisano, is heard but not seen, dubbing Millner’s performances.

The dialogue of Success crackles and Hunsecker may well be Lancaster’s best film performance. Effectively directed by the British Alexander MacKendrick, Success is a film noir-ish time-capsule look at early 1950’s Times Square New York. It also represent one of the better troupes of jazz films—the association of jazz with integrity. It screens at MoMA May 24th and 25th.

Jazz Score: Bad Love with Subtitles

“Go to the movies to see love!” a rather agitated dance judge tells an inebriated Marlon Brando towards the end of Last Tango in Paris. It is one of several pictures screening as part of MoMA’s Jazz Score series in which you will not see much love, but plenty of unhealthy obsessive behavior. They have nice scores though.

There is love of a kind in Kô Nakahira’s Crazed Fruit (trailer here, with unrepresentative music), but it is corrupted by boredom manifesting as lust and obsession. Brothers Haruji and Natsuhisa have nothing better to do than while away their summer sailing and drinking with the elder’s equally aimless friends. Haruji is the shy, sensitive younger brother, whereas Natisuhisa is a brash, self-styled ladies man. They both fall for the beautiful Eri, who seems like an innocent sun worshipper, but harbors a dark secret: she is married to a middle-aged American. In the post-occupation mindset of Fruit, where the kids actually shout “yankee go home” to tell each other off, that is about as scandalous as it can get.

Played by Mie Kitahara, Eri is a tragically corrupted young woman, who loves the Haru, but cannot resist Natisuhisa. Eventually, the brothers’ respective puppy love and lust both lead to obsession, focused on an awfully young looking object of affection. (Kitahara was attractive to be sure, but did not have the beauty of a real woman like Hideko Takamine in A Woman Ascends the Stairs.)

Of course, that is sort of the point. Each side of the love triangle, particularly Haruji and Eri look too young to see the film they are in. If this 1956 picture were to be released today, it would at least rate a PG-13 for some very frank discussions of sex and downright misogynistic dialogue. Fruit wants to show a generation bereft of values, idly exploring hedonism. It was evidently influential in spawning other so-called “Sun Tribe” films. However, Fruit’s generation of Japanese youth would knuckle down and rebuild the Japanese economy into a world-leading power, so its influence only extended so far.

Fruit is often compelling, with an intriguing undercurrent of dark comedy. The climatic shot is still impressive filmmaking, even in 2008. It also has a jazz influenced soundtrack, often voiced by a baritone saxophone, with a bit of Polynesian steel guitar accents for color, making it another interesting selection for MoMA’s Jazz Score.

The kids of Fruit were at least looking for happiness through sex. That is not the case for Marlon Brando in Bernardo Bertolucci’s notorious Last Tango in Paris (not quite safe for work trailer here). Perhaps the most misrepresented film of all time, Tango is considered either a masterpiece or pornography. It is actually neither.

Jeanne, a young woman played by Maria Schneider, catches the eye of Brando’s Paul. He follows her to a vacant apartment she wishes to see, where they have a rather forcefully initiated sexual encounter. She however, does not seem to have any problem with it, agreeing to come back for more.

There are several critical defenses made of Tango: Paul’s sexually depraved acts are meant to demean himself and not his partner. As we learn about the recent suicide of Paul’s wife, we come to sympathize with him, despite his misanthropic actions. By sharing intense intimacies, regardless of the depraved nature, Paul is able to feel love again.

Maybe, maybe not. There are elements of truth to some of this, but clearly Paul’s actions are often humiliating for Jeanne. Her reasons for repeatedly coming back remain obscure—her boredom with her idiot filmmaker of a fiancé hardly seems sufficient motivation.

Truthfully, Tango is not erotic at all. Jeanne seems to be in a child-like stage of arrested development, and really is not that attractive. Brando is Brando—all of him. Their sex scenes are total turn-offs. Nobody could be aroused by the now infamous butter scene. However, probably the vilest dialogue of any film comes when Paul basically has Jeanne return the favor as he describes a bestial fantasy.

The main theme to Tango would become a bread-and-butter tune for Gato Barbieri, but his score actually does not get the credit it deserves for making the film respectable. Elegant and sweeping, it has a lush romanticism that counteracts the baseness of the acts seen on screen. As Jeanne leaves the flat after her first encounter with Paul, she looks stunned, vacant. Yet as Barbieri’s theme swells up in the background, it becomes easier to think of what transpired as a “ravishing” in the paperback bodice-ripper sense.

Barbieri began his career recording for the very avant-garde ESP label, but would record popish material for A&M in the mid 70’s. In a sense, Tango would foreshadow the commercial appeal of Barbieri’s later work, while maintaining the passion and intensity of his earlier recordings. With an assist from Oliver Nelson as orchestrator and conductor, the soundtrack is among Barbieri’s best work. The 1972 vinyl soundtrack release consisted of eleven themes expanded into full tunes, but the late 90’s CD reissue also included nineteen original film cues.

Tango is not porn. It does not seek to arouse and there is hardly any nudity. It is serious cinema, but not a masterpiece. Schneider brings little to the underwritten role of Jeanne and there are serious flaws in character development and motivation in general. Yes, the music is great. It would be interesting to see Fruit and Tango programmed together, because in their own ways, each addresses sex, obsession, and betrayal. That will have to be during a different retrospective. Fruit screens at MoMA May 3rd. Tango screens July 5th and 12th.

Jazz Score: Some Game-Playing

Given their improvisational spirit, it is not surprising many French New Wave directors were receptive to jazz soundtracks. For a time Roger Vadim was included in the New Wave ranks, before veering into Barbarella territory. Indeed, some of his early films featured very influential jazz soundtracks, a particularly controversial example being Les Liaisons Dangereuses, which will screen as part of MoMA’s Jazz Score series.

Often referred to as Dangerous Liaisons 1960, despite having been filmed in 1959 and released in America in 1961, Vadim’s film is the first cinematic adaptation of Pierre Choderlos de Laclos's novel and is particularly notable for the liberties it takes setting the film in contemporary times.

The film was notorious in its time, even facing French censorship for allegedly slandering French virtue (is that even possible?). Likewise, the jazz soundtrack was somewhat controversial, for more bread-and-butter issues of composer credits. There were two rival soundtrack albums available. The official release was recorded by Art Blakey’s Jazz Messengers augmented by French saxman Barney Wilen, performing themes written by the hitherto unheard of, and never to be heard from again, J. Marray. Duke Jordan, Charlie Parker’s longtime pianist also claimed credit for Liaison’s themes and would record them on his own album two years later.

Of the original themes, “No Problem” has become something of a standard, and nearly every version credits Jordan as composer. Ironically, for all the questions regarding authorship, most of the music heard throughout the film are Monk standards. The opening titles even acknowledge groups led by all three musicians, which happen to be some of the coolest credits ever, lingering over close-ups of chess pieces, while Monk’s ruminative music works its magic.

Of the various Liaisons, Vadim’s might be the stone coldest, thanks to Jeanne Moreau’s performance as the ruthless Juliette de Merteuil. Vadim radically alters the dynamics of the novel, making the two antagonists husband and wife. As the movie opens, they are enjoying a sort of open marriage, where each takes vicarious (and sadistic) pleasure in their partner’s conquests. Early in the film they debate how affairs should be ended. For Juliette argues it should be done with style, but Valmont’s favors a direct approach: “I wanted you, I had you, goodbye.”

Vadim’s power couple would seem to be courting a karmic payback, and indeed events take them outside their comfort zones when Valmont begins to pursue a woman out of genuine love rather than the seducing another target to suit the machinations of his wife. Moreau is perfectly matched by Gerard Philipe as Valmont, whose life was cut short by cancer less than a year after filming Liaison.

MoMA’s Jazz Score also features Joseph Losey’s The Servant, another film featuring quite a bit of psychological and sexual gamesmanship. Penned by Harold Pinter, The Servant is a disturbing look at the control games valet Hugo Barrett plays with his employer, Tony, played by James Fox. As Barrett, Dirk Bogarde is sinister and calculating but, aside from some implied sexual overtones, his motives are never explained. Of course, coming from lefties like Losey and Pinter, perhaps class distinctions are supposed to be motive enough for any hostile behavior. The Servant has moments of chilling black comedy, but as the film becomes increasingly fever-dreamlike it is difficult to stay invested in the story.

British jazz saxophonist Johnny Dankworth did compose an interesting score that does fit within the series parameters, thanks to his sax passages, but is often quite classical in its conception and use of string quartets. It features two notable musical “guest stars.” Dankworth’s wife and longtime vocalist, Dame Cleo Lane, recorded Pinter’s song “All Gone,” which is often heard on Tony’s turntable. Bert Jansch associate Davey Graham also appears briefly performing the folk-blues “Rock Me Mama” in a café scene.

Unfortunately, Liaison and Servant are not scheduled for the same day, as they would make an interesting double feature. Of the two, Liaison is richer film and music. It screens May 3rd and 4th, while Servant screens April 26th.

Jazz Score: When a Woman Ascends the Stairs

Many Hollywood film composers experimented with jazz elements, including figures represented in MoMA’s Jazz Score retrospective, like Alex North, Henry Mancini, and Elmer Bernstein. Though celebrated as a leading figure of Japanese classical and electronic music, Toshirô Mayuzumi composed several jazz-influenced soundtracks, including Black Sun, a collaboration with Max Roach and Abbey Lincoln, and Mikio Naruse’s Criterion Collection worthy When a Woman Ascends the Stairs, screening this week as part of Jazz Score.

Featuring xylophone and piano, Mayuzumi’s score has a chamber jazz vibe that brings to mind the film work of the MJQ’s John Lewis. His xylophone passages bear a similarity to Lewis’s use of Milt Jackson’s vibraphone, and both composers partially shared a classical aesthetic. How well Mayuzumi’s Ascend would stand on its own remains an open question, but his themes hauntingly enhance the on-screen drama, which is considerable in Ascend.

Ascend takes its title from the walk Keiko must make every night up to her job as a hostess at a Ginza bar. Keiko, or Mama-san, ranks hostesses in the following terms: the best go home each night by car, the not so good must walk home, whereas the worst go home with clients. Not everyone in her line of work concurs with her hierarchy though, making it impossible for her to get ahead while simultaneously maintaining her integrity.

Stress is literally tearing Keiko apart. As a hostess, she must maintain the clothes and trappings of luxury, or risk deflating her clients’ idealized fantasies. At the same time, she must support an ungrateful mother, an idiot brother, and a nephew in need of treatment for polio. To play the game, she could take a “patron” (read: sugar-daddy), but she refuses out of principle and love for her late husband. Keiko is filled with past regrets, wishing she had treated her husband better while he was alive, so now refuses to do anything she might later repent. Yet, in her situation, she is nearly doomed to failure, as she takes the stairs up to the Carton Bar each night.

Hideko Takamine’s performance as Keiko is heartbreaking, vividly portraying the desperation barely contained beneath her carefully controlled, beautiful exterior. Naruse leaves little doubt the world of Ginza is not fair, particularly to a woman as sensitive as Keiko. Tragic and naturalistic, Ascend has a sad beauty, effectively amplified by Mayuzumi’s score, making it a nice addition to MoMA Jazz Score series. It screens at MoMA this Friday and also July3 at Film Forum as part of a Tatsuya Nakadai retrospective.

Jazz Score: Man with the Golden Arm

A jazz musician suffering from drug addiction—imagine such a thing. Yet that is the subject of Otto Preminger’s Man with the Golden Arm (partial trailer here, dig the Saul Bass design). Based on Nelson Algren’s novel, Arm is a mixed bag, distinguished by its music and Frank Sinatra’s performance as Frankie Machine, the man with an arm for drumming that he abuses with a needle.

Arm had a reputation at the time for being brutally frank in its depiction of addiction, and Sinatra does indeed deliver in those scenes. Machine has just returned from taking the cure in Lexington, but he now must face all the same old problems and temptations. His wife Zosh pretends to be confined to a wheelchair to exploit Machine’s guilt over their fateful accident. Louis the pusher immediately pursues Machine, both as a customer and as a card dealer in his associate’s illegal card games, where Machine’s arm was first dubbed golden.

As part of his treatment, Machine learned to play drums. With the help of a reform-minded agent, he hopes to find better employment for that golden arm. Ironically, life on the road with jazz musicians is portrayed as an escape from the temptation of drugs.

Arm tries strives for realism, but sometimes looks odd in retrospect. The mean streets of Chicago look more like an old-fashioned neighborhood. Darren McGavin is effectively creepy in keys scenes, as he tries to lure Machine back on the needle again, but dressed in his jacket and vest, with handkerchief and umbrella in tow, he looks more like a villain from 1920’s England than the mean streets of 1950’s Chicago.

Elmer Bernstein’s score was the first jazz-influenced soundtrack to be nominated for an academy award. Full of foreboding, yet still swinging, Arm is the prototypical sound of what would come to be dubbed “crime jazz.” It features West Coast jazz greats Shorty Rogers and Shelly Manne, who even appear as themselves during Machine’s ill-fated audition.

If you have seen Travolta pop the syringe full of adrenaline through Uma Thurman’s sternum in Pulp Fiction, Arm might seem a little tame overall. However, when Machine kicks cold turkey, it is pretty serious stuff, even by today’s standards. The film honestly represents some of Sinatra’s best screen work.

According to Chris Fujiwara’s The World and Its Double, Preminger notoriously rubbed Algren the wrong way and took great liberties with the screen adaptation. By cutting the class-warfare elements and giving the film a redemptive conclusion, Preminger actually made the film more relevant to more people. It screens as part of MoMA’s Jazz Score series April 26th and 27th.

Jazz Score: Anatomy of a Murder

Many reviewers considered Duke Ellington’s soundtrack an awkward fit for Otto Preminger’s courtroom drama Anatomy of a Murder. However, both film and music are of unusually high quality, and work together in ways not fully recognized by such critics.

Jimmy Stewart plays Paul Biegler, the former district attorney of Iron City, a small upper peninsular Michigan town, recently defeated in his bid for re-election. We quickly learn Biegler, in a departure from Robert Travers’s source novel, is also a jazz enthusiast, whose records collection goes “from Brubeck to Dixieland.”

Biegler accepts a difficult client in Lt. Manion, a hard case Army officer with anger management issues, accused of murdering the man who raped his flirtatious wife. His investigation takes him to an Upper Michigan roadhouse, where Duke Ellington appears as the bandleader Pie Eye. Biegler even sits in for some four-handed piano, clearly proving he is indeed a jazz kind of guy. Anatomy is a film that deftly handles some very delicate subject matter, with the help of powerful performances from Stewart, Ben Gazzara as Manion, and Lee Remick as his wife, Laura.

The majestic blues of Ellington’s soundtrack are completely at odds with our impressions of small town white America, but it is precisely this dissociative effect which serves the film so well. Viewers first meet Biegler driving home through his familiar town, returning late at night from a long fishing trip, as the Ellington Orchestra swings hard in the background. In effect, it sets Biegler apart from his community—an alienation any former DA reduced to scuffling for divorce cases is likely to share.

James Stewart is perfectly cast in a role that capitalizes on his everyman image, but gives it a twist. Though a decent person and an underdog, Biegler is no saint. We see him subtly lead Manion into adopting an insanity defense and watch as he navigates the grey areas of his legal defense. When his associate asks about the case, he frankly replies: “I’m making a lot of noise and Dancer [the prosecution] is racking all the points."

After a grueling trial, we hear Biegler teasing out some blues on the piano as he waits for the jury to come in, courtesy of the off-screen Billy Strayhorn, Ellington's writing and arranging partner. According to Chris Fujiwara’s The World and It’s Double: the Life and Films of Otto Preminger Strayhorn made a characteristic effort to fit the music to Stewart’s personality. Fujiwara reports:

“‘He asked me to play something I liked,’ said Stewart, who had studied piano and played with a jazz band as an undergraduate at Princeton. ‘What I think he did, you see, was write something for me that I would have played myself.’” (p. 242)

The soundtrack for Anatomy of a Murder is an enduring classic of Ellingtonia. Whether it is Johnny Hodges’ sweet alto on the suggestive “Flirtbird” or Cat Anderson’s high notes on “Upper and Outest” heard over the film’s ironic closing scene, Ellington demonstrates his inspired ability to compose for particular sidemen that marked his remarkable career. Anatomy is arguably one the greatest soundtracks ever, and the rest of the film is also quite good. It screens tonight and the 26th at MoMA as part of the Jazz Score series.

Jazz Score: Paris Blues

What is the best pairing in Martin Ritt’s 1961 Paris Blues? Easy: the combination of the music of Duke Ellington and Billy Strayhorn with the trumpet of Louis Armstrong. The worst pairing? At the risk of heresy charges, it must be said the casting of Paul Newman and Joanne Woodward was a mistake. It screens tonight as part of the MoMA’s Jazz Score series, so you are invited to judge for yourself.

Paris Blues could have been great. It is based on Harold Flender’s book (currently out-of-print), which, though not stylistically remarkable, did address some interesting issues. It centers on Eddie Cook, an African-American alto player (in Flender), who falls for a visiting American tourist. Cook faces two conflicts. He plays traditional New Orleans hot jazz, while many of his colleagues try to push him towards more modern bop-oriented styles. At the same time, his new lover wants him to give up the expat life and join her in America to campaign for civil rights.

Newman and Woodward are on the cover of my old movie tie-in mass market, but you won’t find anyone who looks them inside. According to Krin Gabbard’s Jammin’ at the Margins, Ellington committed to scoring Paris with the understanding that the central romantic relationship would be an inter-racial one between Newman and Diahann Carroll, but by the time cameras rolled, Newman and Woodward were the safe romantic leads.

For jazz audiences, Paris is also problematic for its treatment of the music itself. Newman’s Ram Bowen (a name Boogie Nights could have used) seeks musical validation through recognition for his classical compositions. Paris leaves little doubt as to its musical hierarchy—classical is up and jazz is down.

In effect, the music of Ellington, Strayhorn, and Armstrong is at war with the very film it is in. Which faction wins? Given the lameness of the Newman-Woodward relationship, it is no contest. Early in the film, Louis Armstrong, essentially playing himself in the role of Wild Man Moore, arrives at the train station, received by throngs of Parisians like a conquering hero. As the film closes, the Ellington band starts on a mournful note, but they suddenly rise up in revolt, ending on a defiant high note.

Although Cook’s moldy fig vs. bop conflict is not retained from the novel, Sidney Poitier and Carroll do debate whether Cook should stay in Paris living a relatively comfortable expat life, or return to America to pursue their relationship and progress in the civil rights struggle. Their scenes together are the best written in Paris. Of course, the greatest attraction in Paris is the music the film does not fully appreciate. It screens tonight and Wednesday at MoMA.

Jazz Score: Mickey One

Call it a noble failure. Arthur Penn’s Mickey One was a somewhat experimental film for its time that fell short of its ambitions. It was graced with a great jazz soundtrack composed by Eddie Sauter, featuring Stan Getz’s tenor as the lead voice, in a follow-up to their collaboration on Getz’s classic album Focus. Little seen since its release, it is perfect title to showcase with a restored print during MoMA’s Jazz Score retrospective.

Warren Beatty plays Mickey (as he comes to be known), a comic on the run from the mob. For what he is not sure, but he seems to assume it involves the fast life he was living: women, booze, whatever. He drops out, taking anonymous menial work, until he suddenly finds himself back on stage in a seedy nightclub. Again, Mickey finds himself sucked into a place where show business and the underworld are scarcely distinguishable. Or perhaps not. Mickey’s perception of reality is highly suspect. This is indeed the sort of film that wants to blur the distinctions between the real and the illusionary.

Despite the hallucinatory sequences, Mickey has a relatively straight forward narrative structure if you chose to accept the events on-screen at face value. It is much more accessible than its reputation suggests, particularly in light of films which have come after it. Still, as a film, Mickey just does not work. A major reason is Beatty’s complete lack of believability as a comic. He is simply not funny and scenes of him in performance make the film even weirder. Even off the stage, this is not Beatty’s best work.

However, the music works brilliantly. Getz sounds especially lyrical blowing over Sauter’s lush charts. The opening theme “Once Upon a Time” is a beautiful accompaniment to the fall-from-grace montage that starts the film, a perfectly representative sequence of the swinging sixties and Penn’s New Wave auteur inspirations—if only the entire film had maintained that energy. With a full string section and great studio jazz veterans, like Clark Terry, Barry Galbraith, and Mel Lewis, the excellent late 1990’s CD reissue combines the original album release, which expanded the major themes into full performances, with the actual film soundtrack themes and cues.

There is no getting around the fact that Mickey One has serious flaws. Yet it is highly watchable—downright fascinating even. It screens at MoMA through Monday.

The Jazz Score: Odds Against Tomorrow

Two of director Robert Wise’s great “issue” movies feature great jazz soundtracks and will be screened during MoMA’s Jazz Score retrospective. The first is I Want to Live!, his capital punishment drama. The second is Odds Against Tomorrow, a grimly naturalistic film noir indictment of racism.

Ed Begley is Dave Burke, an ex-cop looking to make a quick score. To take down a sleepy upstate bank, he hires Earl Slater, a racist ex-con with anger management issues and Johnny Ingram, an African-American jazz musician deep in debt to the mob. Conflict will be unavoidable.

Robert Ryan plays Slater—exactly the kind of role he specialized in—a man bitter at a world he thinks owes him a living. Unable to hold a job, Slater’s girlfriend, played somewhat over the top by Shelley Winters, tries to control him through her purse strings, which only increases his resentment. Harry Belafonte is the suave, sophisticated Ingram, whose weakness for horses threatens the security of his estranged family. Due to their dire economic circumstances, they both agree to Burke’s caper. However, the perfectly planned score is needlessly undone by Slater’s fatal racism in a brilliantly realized climax.

Effectively supporting the film is a moody, dramatic score composed by pianist John Lewis, best known for his work with the Modern Jazz Quartet and his Third Stream jazz-classical innovations. There were actually two official Odds Against Tomorrow LPs, both involving John Lewis. The first was the actual soundtrack of Lewis’s jazz-flavored orchestral themes and cues. It was recorded by a large ensemble, including Jim Hall, Joe Wilder, and Lewis’s three colleagues from the MJQ (Milt Jackson, Percy Heath, and Connie Kay), with Bill Evans filling the piano chair.

The MJQ with Lewis on piano also recorded a full jazz album in which they stretch out and elaborate on some of his Odds themes. The soundtrack album is pleasant enough, but the MJQ record is an underappreciated classic, at times much more upbeat than its original source material (let’s hope for another reissue in the near future). Not appearing on either record is a brief vocal performance by Mae Barnes appropriately singing “All Men are Evil.”

Indeed, Odds paints a desperately grim picture of human nature. In a telling early scene, Ingram off-handedly mentions he has another bet down on a race because: “you can’t lose forever.” Burke responds: “you’d be surprised.” There are certainly no winners in Odds. Burke turns to crime having been punished for his honesty while on the force. Ingram is a loving father, but hopelessly weak. Slater is irredeemably racist and violent. Together they hurtle towards an inevitable end deftly directed by Wise. It screens at MoMA April 20th and 30th, along with I Want to Live!

The Jazz Score on I Want to Live!

Great movies with great music. That is what the MoMA’s Jazz Score retrospective series will be offering. I have taught many of these pictures in my jazz film class and will be previewing most closer to their MoMA run, but in light of Eliot Spitzer’s legal problems, Robert Wise’s I Want to Live! (trailer here) is unexpectedly timely now. An early, pivotal scene of Live takes on added relevance for referencing the Mann Act, which prohibits trafficking women across state lines, as is now well known to New York State residents.

Based on the actual criminal case of Barbara Graham (a.k.a. “Bloody Babs”), Live is sanitized to strongly suggest her innocence of the crime that sent her to the gas chamber. It features a fantastic jazz score composed by Johnny Mandel and performances by an all-star combo of Gerry Mulligan on baritone, Art Farmer on trumpet, Pete Jolly on piano, Frank Rosolino on trombone, Bud Shank on alto, Red Mitchell on Bass, and Shelley Manne on drums, who are even listed in the opening credit sequence. (Different artists recorded Mandel’s large ensemble themes.) One tune, “Black Nightgown,” would later become part of the band book for Mulligan’s Concert Jazz Band.

Graham, euphemistically called things like a “goodtime girl,” is first seen on screen sitting up in bed after perhaps some exertion. It is a great shot—perhaps the best entrance since Harry Lime in The Third Man. Shortly thereafter, vice comes knocking. “Now c’mon, let’s not make a federal case out of it,” says her “friend.” “It is a federal case—ever hear of the Mann Act?” chastises the flatfoot. However, Graham has seen a picture of her client’s family in his wallet and takes the fall for him. She thereby establishes her credentials as a “you-know-what” with a heart of gold and earns her first stint behind bars.

Even though Live completely sides with Graham, she still comes across as a difficult person to embrace. Susan Hayward plays Graham with complete conviction, for which she received her only Academy Award. It also boasts great supporting work from decidedly unglamorous character actors, like Simon Oakland as Ed Montgomery, the journalist who first demonizes Graham and then rallies to her defense. A note signed by Montgomery at the beginning and end of the film claims the screenplay was based on his stories and other primary sources.

In a twist of fate, Gerry Mulligan was sentenced on a drug charge by the same judge who condemned Graham to death, Charles W. Fricke. In his Chet Baker biography, Deep in a Dream, James Gavin writes:

“Fricke treated Mulligan kindly. When the saxophonist testified that the household pot was all his, the judge leaned over and whispered, ‘Son, you don’t want to say that.’ He ended up ignoring the marijuana charge but gave Mulligan six months in prison for possession of heroin—a light penalty, given the harshness of L.A.’s drug laws.” (p. 72)

Live might have taken factual liberties to support its indictment of the death penalty, but it is compelling cinema—one of the best examples of vérité-style film noir, with great music throughout. The entire I Want to Live! experience does offer up two object lessons Client Nine would have benefited from. First, pick up your “goodtime girls” after you arrive on a trip and not before you leave. Secondly, if a judge tells you to shut up, you should stop talking. It screens at the MoMA April 20th and 30th.