Fellini’s Toby Dammit

There is a long and fruitful tradition of not particularly faithful Poe adaptations. Best exemplified by Roger Croman and classic Karloff & Lugosi vehicles at Universal, scores of filmmakers took just enough from Poe to create something interesting. In 1969, some of the top auteurs in Europe got in on the fun, contributing to the Poe anthology film, Spirits of the Dead. In honor of his centennial, Federico Fellini’s 43-minute segment, Toby Dammit releases virtually this Friday, “at” Film Forum.

Ostensibly, Fellini adapted the story “Never Bet the Devil Your Head,” but don’t get hung up on the details. The titular Toby Dammit is still a h-e-double hockey-sticks-raiser, but this time around, he happens to be an angry-not-so-youngish, classically-trained British actor, badly in need of rehab (ever so appropriately played by Terence Stamp).

Dammit has come to Italy to star in an allegorical spaghetti western funded by a Catholic arts agency, solely because he was promised a snazzy red Ferrari. Dammit is already in bad shape when he arrives and the boozy reception only makes him worse. Clearly, Dammit has not handled fame well, but he is also trying to self-medicate away hallucinatory visions of the devil chasing him in the guise of a little girl.

Toby Dammit might be a relatively short genre film, but it is vintage Fellini all the way. Right from the start, he capitalizes on the postmodern dystopian vibe of the airport’s 1960’s space-age-chic décor to create a disorienting vibe. Arguably, this film could easily serve as a color addendum to 8½, because it presents the trappings of fame in similarly caustic and chaotic ways. If anything, Dammit is a more intense viewing experience, in accordance with Poe’s maxims.

Viking Destiny

Helle is no Brunhilde. She is a warrior who is not about to break out into song. Nor is she inclined to wait around for a man to save her. She also comes from mortal stock, albeit of a noble vintage. She is in fact, the king’s rightful heir, but instead, she was raised by the king’s deceitful brother, Prince Bard, or the Half-Prince as some derisively call him. Although they played the roles of father and daughter for years, they will both be perfectly happy to kill the other when the truth comes out in director-screenwriter David L.G. Hughes’ Viking Destiny (a.k.a. Of Gods and Warriors), which opens today in New York.

Helle was born at an inconvenient time. King Asmund of Volsung was off saving the Viking realm from foreign invaders while his wife died in childbirth. When he returned, his jerky brother convinced him he needed a male heir to ensure stability, so they swapped infant progeny. Helle turned out to be the fighter, whereas the presumed Prince cuts a rather underwhelming figure. Alas, Helle’s time together with her real father will be brief once the truth is revealed by a loyal retained. However, her desire for revenge burns brightly just the same.

Of course, Helle also happens to be a loose end Bard needs to tie up. Frankly, his pursuit of her is rather counterproductive, taking her distractions, like a love triangle among a peaceful tribe of vegetarian nomads. Arguably, you cannot judge the mortals too harshly for strategic errors, because they have Odin and Loki perched on either shoulder, like the angel and devil in old school Saturday morning cartoons.

To be fair, Anne Demetriou has decent screen presence and action cred as Princess Helle, but Hughes’ narrative is dull and lifeless, while his dialogue is horribly clunky. That does not leave her much to work with. When in doubt, Odin and/or Loki reappear for some power-people-whispering. These scenes would be utter cringe fests were it not for Game of Thrones alumnus Murray McArthur in high camp mode and a depressingly embarrassed looking Terence Stamp cranking up the wtf randomness, as Loki and Odin, respectively.

Aside from that, there are a few nicely blocked out fight scenes (but not nearly enough) and a lot of trudging through the forest, which turns into gamboling when Helle stumbles across the vegetarian cult. Rarely, have destined ones been so easily distracted. Not recommended (even though we approve of Helle’s fierceness and resourcefulness), Viking Destiny opens today (10/5) in New York, at the Cinema Village.

Crooked House: One of Dame Agatha’s Favorites, Finally Adapted for Film

Reportedly, Dame Agatha Christie’s two favorite novels from her voluminous oeuvre were this twisty novel from 1949 and Ordeal by Innocence. Yet, neither featured a Poirot, Marble, or Beresford (Tuppence), so they have rather been odd men out. There was an under-rated 1985 film adaptation of Ordeal, but the anticipated BBC production has been shelved, due to criminal allegations leveled against one of its co-stars. Formerly only staged for radio, Crooked House is now left alone to draft off Branagh’s pseudo-blockbuster Orient Express. French director Gilles Pacquet-Brenner helms a slyly British drawing room whodunit with his adaptation of Crooked House (trailer here), which opens this Friday in New York.

Private investigator Charles Hayward met the well-heeled Sophie de Haviland while he was stationed in Cairo for the secret service, but she inevitably broke his heart (a slight departure from the book). Nevertheless, de Haviland trusts the embittered Hayward to investigate the presumed murder of her grandfather, Aristide Leonides, a Greek immigrant who made good. Leonides’s latest trophy wife Brenda stands to inherit everything—a fact that does not sit well with the rest of the family.

For reasons that eluded just about everyone else, old man Leonides insisted on keeping his entire dysfunctional, bile-soaked family in residence at his grand country estate. That includes the newest wife Brenda, Sophie’s dilettante father Phillip, her self-absorbed stage diva mother Magda, and her wastrel uncle Roger, who has been running the family catering business into the ground. Only the widowed Lady Edith de Haviland shows much strength of character, which is why she assumed responsibility for the education of the de Haviland children, including the precocious twelve-year-old Josephine.

Obviously, everyone is a suspect, especially Laurence Brown, the children’s tutor, whom it seems has been carrying on an affair with the presumptive merry widow, but that would be too easy, wouldn’t it? Like the best of Dame Agatha’s work, the murderer in Crooked House is not immediately apparent, but the real pleasure comes from all the gnashing of teeth and door-slamming that come during the investigative process. Co-screenwriter Sir Julian Fellowes (of Downton Abbey acclaim), Tim Rose Price, and Paquet-Brenner deliver all the elements in spades, including the faithful ending, which must have been quite a shocker in 1949.

Glenn Close is terrific as the tart-tongued, no-nonsense Lady Edith. She is imperious yet grounded, in a way maybe only Kristin Scott Thomas could pull off with equal style. Gillian Anderson, Julian Sands, Christina Hendricks, and Christian McKay hold up their end, chewing the scenery and effortlessly bandying about barbed dialogue as Magda, Philip, Brenda, and Roger, respectively. Terence Stamp adds his well-earned gravitas and immediately recognizably baritone as Chief Inspector Taverner, a colleague of Hayward’s murdered father. Plus, the real breakthrough-discovery is young Honor Kneafsey, who is quite remarkable as Josephine.

Not surprisingly, Hayward and Sophie de Haviland are the dullest of the lot, but Max Irons somewhat exceeds expectations, playing the former with a welcome degree of forcefulness and intelligence. On the other hand, Stefanie Martini should have portrayed the latter as more of a femme fatale, but she is really just forgettably pedestrian.

Regardless, Crooked House is a triumph of set decoration and period details. The richly detailed trappings are spot-on, while the locations (King’s College Maughan Library and the Gothic Revival Tyntesfield estate) are wonderfully suggestive of elegance and murder most foul. Honestly, it is such good fun to see an old-fashioned mystery like this hit the big-screen again. Highly recommended for fans of British mysteries and the accomplished ensemble, Crooked House opens this Friday (12/22) in New York, at the Cinema Village.

Bitter Harvest: Ukraine’s Tragic History, Finally on the Big Screen

On the spectrum of human enormity, the Holodomor, Stalin’s genocidal campaign to starve Ukraine to the brink of extinction, ranks somewhere near the Cambodian Killing Fields, just below the National Socialist Holocaust. Yet, many in the West never knew it was happening. The prime culprit of Stalin’s disinformation campaign was the compromised journalist Walter Duranty. The New York Times no longer stands by his reports but the Pulitzer organization refuses to rescind the prize they awarded for his denial of Stalin’s crimes against humanity. On one level, George Mendelok’s English language Bitter Harvest functions as a historical romance, but it is also a timely reminder of what happens when journalists chose to serve as propagandists. Truth is a victim along with upwards of 7.5 million Ukrainians in Mendeluk’s Harvest (trailer here), which opens this Friday in New York.

There was no love for the Czar amongst Ukraine’s sturdy peasantry, so they initially welcomed the revolution as an opportunity to finally declare independence. Unfortunately, Lenin soon reconquered the republic, expressly so its grain could fuel the Soviet regime. After his death, Stalin pursued a more exploitative and intentionally brutal policy. All land was nationalized and collectivized. Harvests were almost entirely exported back to Moscow, leaving insufficient stocks for even subsistence living and the borders were sealed, with full knowledge mass starvation would result.

Like so many Ukrainians, Yuri comes from Kulak stock, the so-called “rich land-owning” peasants, a term that only makes sense to a Marxist-Leninist theorist or a Bernie Sanders intern. His childhood sweetheart Natalka grew up in even meaner conditions, but her family will still suffer and starve at the hands of the brutal commissar quartered in their village.

When Yuri is awarded a scholarship to a Kiev art school, he assumes it will offer opportunities to help his family, but conditions in the city turn out to be worse than in the countryside. He also witnesses the Party’s attack on free expression first-hand when Socialist Realism is rigidly mandated throughout the school. He assumes his old village chum will protect him when he is elected Ukrainian Party Secretary, but poor Mykola fails to understand the caprices of Comrade Stalin until he finds himself on the business end of a purge. When Yuri is also imprisoned, his hopes of reuniting with Natalka look grim, but the grandson of a legendary Cossack warrior has more fight in him than the art school pedigree might suggest.

On-screen, Bitter Harvest has the epic tragedy of its obvious role model film, Doctor Zhivago. However, if you sniff underneath the celluloid, you might smell the burnt rubber and tear gas that permeated many crew members who participated in the Maidan Square demonstrations on their free days from shooting. The parallels between the Lenin and Stalin eras of exploitation and attempted annihilation and the Putin era neo-Soviet militarism hardly need explaining. Yet, lingering ignorance of the Holodomor helps embolden Putin’s military incursions.

Much like Andrzej Wajda’s Katyn, Mendeluk and screenwriter Richard Bachynsky Hoover clearly illustrate the acrid demoralization of the propaganda that so brazenly denied the victims of Communism’s abject suffering (Duranty does indeed make an appearance in the film, but there is no context to explain who he is). Yet, the Zhivago-esque storyline has plenty of sweep and even harbors a handful of surprises. Samantha Barks was probably the best part of the Les Mis movie, but she is even more convincing as an illegitimate Slavic peasant than a French street urchin. Max Irons is a little stiff portraying Yuri’s puppy love years, but he shows some surprising grit in the second and third acts. Terence Stamp does his hardnosed thing as old leathery Ivan, while Tamer Hassan chillingly projects the wanton cruelty of the empowered extremist.

Bitter Harvest is not a pitch-perfect film. Frankly, Mendeluk’s dream sequences are far too woo-woo for a film that ought to be all about cold hard realism. However, it vividly shines a light on a criminally under-reported and often deliberately misunderstood case of systematic mass murder, while the family saga picks up speed and power as it develops. Highly recommended for fans of big picture historical dramas, Bitter Harvest opens this Friday (2/24) at the AMC Empire in Midtown and the Village East downtown.

Unfinished Song: Lift Every Cranky Voice

It is hard to blame a working class misanthrope for being such a sourpuss.  He is surrounded by quirky old-timers.  Still, performing with his late wife’s swing choir might help the grouchy old widower.  Surely everyone will learn and grow from the empowering experience in Paul Andrew Williams’ Unfinished Song (trailer here), which opens tomorrow in New York.

Besides his granddaughter, the only person Arthur Harris ever got along with was his beloved wife Marion.  Unfortunately, the ailing woman is not long for this world.  Harris does his best to make her comfortable, including schlepping her to and from her chorale practice.  Of course, he never joins in.  He just stalks about outside, chain-smoking and scowling at the world.

When Marion finally succumbs, Harris cuts ties to his resentful son James, essentially resolving to give up on living.  However, Elizabeth, the perky-on-the-outside volunteer choir director keeps popping round, slowly but surely luring him out of his shell.  It turns out grumpy old Arthur can do a bit of crooning himself.

At the screening I attended, several colleagues were openly mocking Song’s mawkishness (but yours truly scrupulously observed decorum).  They might have been a bit harsh, but there is no denying the film is loaded with enough saccharine to give lab rats cancer.

Frankly, Song is like two mismatched halves imperfectly squished together.  Terence Stamp’s work as Harris is uncompromising honest and admirably understated.  Viewers will really wonder what he is doing in a maudlin film like this, instead of something with a bit more edge, like Harry Brown. Likewise, former Doctor Who Christopher Eccleston gives an unusually sensitive yet down-to-earth performance as the estranged grown son.  However, every scene featuring Vanessa Redgrave’s impossibly chipper Marion Harris and her plucky choirmates becomes a goey bacchanal of sentimental indulgence.

If you could not get enough of the Young@Heart chorus getting down with a decidedly contemporary repertoire in their eponymously titled documentary than Unfinished Song is surely your cup of tea.  However, general audiences will face a potential risk of sugar shock.  Only for Terence Stamp’s die-hard admirers, Unfinished Song opens tomorrow (6/21) in New York at the Paris Theatre.