Book Review: Alfred Hitchcock and the Making of 'Psycho' by Stephen Rebello

                                  (originally posted on Goodreads on August 7, 2020)

Few films have been the object of as much enduring fascination as Alfred Hitchcock's Psycho (1960), and there's good reason for this. It's one of those rare paradigm-shifting films, like Frankenstein (1931), Citizen Kane (1941), and Bonnie and Clyde (1967). It's also become a urtext for many of the horror films which came afterward, including Roman Polanski's Repulsion (1965), Brian De Palma's Sisters (1973), and Tobe Hooper's The Texas Chainsaw Massacre (1974). In addition it's one of the most complex and interesting of all horror films, and probably represents the peak of Hitchcock's cinematic craftsmanship. I can say from personal experience that the film still retains its power despite many later films topping it in terms of shock and violence, and the fact that at this venture most viewers know its central plot twists going in. Not only that, but the film remains just as rich and compelling, as well as exciting and invigorating, across a number of repeat viewings.

As such, it's not just an appropriate but a perfect subject for a book chronicling the making of a film. Said book, Stephen Rebello's Alfred Hitchcock and the Making of 'Psycho', is one of the greatest books about the making of a film I've read. Although it's a short book, it packs quite a punch: it's as informative and well-researched as it is entertaining and engaging, a perfect match for the film it covers. It's a fascinating look at both Psycho and the man who made it, and covers the film's effect on both audiences and Hitchcock himself.

Rebello starts by recounting the real-life crimes of "Butcher of Plainfield" Ed Gein, and novelist Robert Bloch's decision to loosely base his book Psycho on him. He then chronicles Alfred Hitchcock's decision to turn Bloch's tale of a schizophrenic murderer into his next film, and some of his motivations for doing so- wanting to make a smaller, more intimate film after the big-budget likes of Vertigo (1958) and North by Northwest (1959), his desire to push the limits of sex and violence in the Hollywood cinema. One of his biggest reasons was to one-up Henri-Georges Clouzot, whose grisly shocker Diabolique (1955) had won him acclaim as the "French Hitchcock."

Rebello says Hitchcock and Psycho "seemed like an odd coupling," but this actually isn't the case. Even someone only familiar with Spellbound (1945) and Rear Window (1954) would be able to see what drew Hitchcock to Bloch's novel, and it reflects many of Hitchcock's key preoccupations (people's hidden dark sides, murder, dark plots and schemes). Although Psycho's gruesome violence was unlike anything in Hitchcock's previous films it was a perfect fit for his style and sensibility, and no other Hollywood filmmaker of the time was a better match for Bloch's novel. In fact, the pairing was a match made in heaven- or, more appropriately given the film's macabre subject matter, hell. (Certainly few American filmmakers were bold and daring enough to make a film like Psycho, and none were better-suited to the material than Hitchcock.)

Rebello offers a fascinating look at Hitchcock as a filmmaker, as well as his working methods. He meticulously preplanned his films: he said that "my films are made on paper," and there was little extra footage because he tended to only shoot what was necessary. In truth the actual production of Psycho wasn't particularly eventful, but what is interesting is Hitchcock's filmmaking style: he had a strong mental conception of the film, and was exacting about getting things right. He also wanted his films to be as plausible and believable as possible, and had a level of technical expertise unusual for most directors. (Rebello also highlights Hitchcock's devious side: when he submitted his films to censors he drew their attention with deliberately outre material so what he wanted would be left in- a tactic also used by cartoon director Bob Clampett.)

Rebello also gives an interesting look at Hitchcock as a person, and it's very much a warts-and-all portrait. He had a great deal of personal flaws: he could be vindictive, held grudges easily, had a strong elitist streak, and was unwilling to give credit to his contributors. (The famous story of Saul Bass claiming to have directed the shower scene in Psycho seems to have stemmed from resentment over Hitchcock minimizing his contributions.) He also had a bad habit of becoming obsessively infatuated with his female stars. (The one covered in this book is Vera Miles.)

Still, Hitchcock does emerge as a figure who's able to elicit sympathy. He was shy and socially awkward, took a great deal of pride in his craft and respected those who gave it their all, and deeply craved recognition and validation. (He was nominated for the Best Director Oscar five times but never won.) I think that Hitchcock's struggles with his dark side probably informed his work, and allowed him to have a degree of sympathy for characters like Bruno Anthony and Norman Bates.

The promotion of Psycho has become the stuff of cinematic legend- the way audiences weren't allowed to enter the theater once a showing had started, how the publicity discouraged audiences from spoiling the film's major plot twists, the way Hitchcock played the role of salesman/ huckster with the gusto of William Castle. (In fact, Hitchcock so thoroughly out-Castled Castle that he pivoted to making a number of Psycho-inspired shockers.) It's one thing to grow up with Psycho as an iconic cultural touchstone and know that it was the most shocking and revolutionary American horror film since Frankenstein, but before I read Rebello's book I didn't truly realize how much of a monster hit it really was or how profoundly it scared audiences.

Reading about the release of Psycho I was struck by how similar the public reaction was to that of The Exorcist (1973): audiences went berserk in theaters, there were outraged walkouts, and the film inspired a heated debate about its gruesome content. It was then that it truly hit home for me that Psycho profoundly frightened audiences in a way few horror films have, including Rosemary's Baby (1968), Night of the Living Dead (1968), and The Texas Chainsaw Massacre. It struck a nerve in a way few films do, and captured the same dark corners of the imagination as the Ed Gein case.

From the mid-'60's onward many directors have made their names with low-budget horror films (Roman Polanski with Repulsion, George Romero with Night of the Living Dead, Brian De Palma with Sisters), and Psycho both precedes this pattern and serves as an interesting variation on it. In this case it turned a major director, who had achieved a level of fame and success few filmmakers do, into a genuine superstar. Psycho was the film that made people start to take notice of how good Hitchcock really was, and he became the most in-vogue filmmaker of the '60's. (Only Jean-Luc Godard could seriously compete for that title.) As the legend and reputation of Psycho grew over the years Hitchcock's subsequent films- The Birds (1963), Marnie (1964), Frenzy (1972)- existed in its shadow.

Hitchcock was unsure of how audiences would react to Psycho, and the furor it generated exceeded his wildest dreams. He said that he was able to predict the audience reaction to his other films, but wasn't able to do that with Psycho. (Anthony Perkins said that one of the aspects that caught Hitchcock most off-guard was the way audiences found the film darkly funny as well as frightening.)

Psycho has struck a chord with audiences in a way few films have, and has deservedly become one of the most iconic films of all time. It continues to frighten and fascinate viewers even when they know its secrets, and Norman Bates has long since supplanted Ed Gein as a cultural boogeyman. The final line of Robert Bloch's sequel novel Psycho II aptly describes the film's enduring appeal: "Norman Bates will never die."

Artists and Models (1955)

I first heard of Frank Tashlin when I was starting to get into the Warner Bros. cartoons. I was intrigued when I found out that after his two directorial stints at the studio (one during the '30's and the other during the '40's) he became a director of live-action comedies, and was interested in the prospect of seeing a live-action feature from the director of "Porky Pig's Feat" (1943) and "Swooner Crooner" (1944). The first live-action film of his I watched was Artists and Models (1955), the first of his two collaborations with Martin and Lewis. It more than lived up to my expectations: there's no way I'd describe it other than as one of the greatest comedy films ever made. It's a perfect starting point for Tashlin's live-action comedies of the '50's and '60's, as well as for Jerry Lewis' filmography.

Tashlin is unique among American directors in that he has considerable bodies of work in two different mediums (animation and live-action film). His cartoons are known for having a cinematic quality (unusual angles and shot compositions, use of techniques more commonly associated with live-action film), and his live-action films have wild, cartoon-like gags that stretch the laws of reality (Bob Hope's head spinning around in Son of Paleface [1952]). While his black and white Warner Bros. cartoons are the best-looking monochrome ones the studio produced, most of his live-actions films feature bright, vivid Technicolor (De Luxe color in his Fox films).

Another thing that distinguishes Tashlin's live-action films is their penchant for satire: there are satirical gags even in films that aren't predominately satirical (the gags lampooning TV advertising in Rock-a-Bye Baby [1958]). Indeed, many film critics have called Tashlin one of the most underrated satirists of the '50's. His most overtly satirical films lampoon specific aspects of American society and culture during the '50's: The Girl Can't Help It (1956) targets rock n' roll, Will Success Spoil Rock Hunter? (1957) advertising. This film skewers comic books (as well as the moral panic against them), and also ribs Cold War espionage.

The plot centers on roommates Rick Todd (Dean Martin) and Eugene Fullstack (Jerry Lewis). Rick is an aspiring artist, and Eugene an aspiring children's author. Eugene is obsessed with comic books, particularly the one about a superhero called the Bat Lady. Their neighbor, commercial artist Abigail Parker (Dorothy Malone, Written on the Wind), draws the comic, and her roommate Bessie Sparrowbrush (Shirley MacLaine) serves as her model. When Abigail's publisher, Mr. Murdock (Eddie Mayehoff), tries to pressure her into including more violence in her comics, she quits and joins the anti-comics crusade, recruiting Eugene to her cause.

Looking for a ticket to success, Rick creates a comic book based on Eugene's comics-inspired dreams about a superhero called "Vincent the Vulture." However, said comic accidentally reveals half of a top secret rocket fuel formula, and Rick and Eugene are drawn into a battle between the FBI and foreign spies.

Tashlin's perspective on comic books is that of an amused outsider, as with his view of rock n' roll in The Girl Can't Help It. He clearly finds them ridiculous, but regards them as a joke rather than a menace. One of the aspects he latches onto the most is the violence of the EC horror comics: Mr. Murdock chastises Malone for her comics' lack of blood, stranglings, and decapitations. Murdock is clearly an analogue for EC Comics publisher William M. Gaines, and has the air of a huckster or used car salesman. (Tashlin also skewers merchandising, with Murdock hawking Vincent the Vulture brand brass knuckles and atom guns.)

Tashlin finds the anti-comics panic to be as ridiculous as the comics themselves, if not more so. He's also willing to call out the hypocrisy of moral guardians, and make them the target of ridicule. At one point a woman brings her son to Murdock, blaming his comics for his misbehavior. When he questions her decision to go out and leave him with him, she responds by threatening him.

Tashlin's satirical bent is also evident in other areas of the film. Murdock mentions competition with television, a medium which is ribbed a number of times in Tashlin's '50's film. He treats Cold War spying as ridiculous farce, and rather than portraying the conflict in black-and-white terms he has both side manipulate Martin and Lewis in different ways. (In the case of the enemy they try to seduce them with a sexy agent played by Eva Gabor.) At one point an FBI agent even tells Martin that it's his duty to the United States to take Gabor to the Artists and Models Ball rather than Malone, his love interest by this point in the film.

The film also displays Tashlin's fondness for metafictional humor. When Malone asks who's singing while Martin unknowingly rubs lotion on her back (thinking she's listening to the radio), MacLaine responds that it's "the guy who had that big record on 'That's Amore.'" There's also a nifty Hitchcock parody involving FBI agents spying on Martin from the building across the street, with a photographer with a Jimmy Stewart-esque voice saying, "I can't see so well from this rear window."

Another thing the film displays is Tashlin's fascination with sexuality and appreciation of the female form. The opening credits feature a variety of sexy women posing, Gabor plays a sexy femme fatale, and there are shots where only the legs of Malone, MacLaine, and Gabor are shown. (Tashlin's sense of deviousness is also on display: near the end of the film MacLaine is seen bound and gagged in her lingerie.)

Tashlin tends to feature a number of sexy women in his films- Jane Russell in Son of Paleface, Anita Ekberg in Hollywood or Bust (1956), Jayne Mansfield in The Girl Can't Help and Will Success Spoil Rock Hunter? Shirley MacLaine is one of these sexy women, is allowed some of the most visceral displays of sexual desire in any Tashlin film. In a scene where she backs Lewis against a water tank and kisses him, she causes the water to bubble and boil in a moment that also doubles as one of Tashlin's best cartoon-like gags. She tries to come on to Lewis after he goes gaga at her in her Bat Lady costume, but he's respectively oblivious and intimidated. When she puckers her lips at him in a not-so-subtle attempt to get him to kiss her, he responds, "What's wrong with your mouth? Is it sore?"

This film marked the beginning of Tashlin's long and fruitful collaboration with Jerry Lewis. which stretched over seven subsequent films. He was a perfect match for Tashlin's style and sensibility, and during the '50's and '60's he gravitated toward him just like he'd gravitated toward Daffy Duck during his '40's stint at Warner Bros. Lewis was a master of physical comedy: his facial expressions and body language are both incredibly expressive and uproariously funny. His style of comedy has a great sense of physicality and doesn't really rely on verbal humor as much as comedians like Groucho Marx and Bob Hope: many of his vocalizations consist of loud shouting, and much of what he says is either rambling or incoherent. A great example of his comic gifts occurs in the scene where Gabor drugs him, with him screaming and convulsing on the floor before passing out.

Lewis has the same sense of madcap energy as the '40's incarnation of Daffy Duck, and feels like a 10-year old boy in a 29-year old man's body. This can be seen in a scene where he sticks his tongue out at a literal 10-year old who does the same do him. He also uses his imagination in a way similar to Stan Laurel in Block-Heads (1938), lighting candles without a match and playing an imaginary piano.

By the end of his partnership with Lewis Dean Martin felt overlooked and underappreciated, so it's worth pointing out that he's very funny as well. Although best-known for his self-assured sense of cool, he was also a very gifted comedian, and he and Lewis play very well off each other. He's vital to a lot of the humor in many scenes with Lewis, and is also very funny playing against Malone.

Martin and Lewis' best scene together, and one of the best of the film, involves one of those great routines you often see in classic comedies (the mirror scene in Duck Soup [1933], the hat-eating scene in Way Out West [1937]). Murdock has his secretary (MacLaine) call Martin, but since he's in the bathtub and the phone is downstairs, Lewis has to go up and down the stairs to tell Martin what Murdock wants. Lewis starts out bouncy and energetic but becomes progressively more tired with each trip, until by the final time he's so exhausted he can't even speak. When he gets back to Martin he has to tell him what Murdock wants via pantomime, and this scene is a great display of Martin's comedic gifts. (I love the way Martin goes cross-eyed when he screams, "WHAT DOES HE WANT??!!!")

Another highlight of the film, and one of the scenes that best utilizes Lewis' gift for physical comedy, is the scene where he's taken to a chiropractor. The way the chiropractor unstiffens his body is hilarious, as is the way she twists and contorts his legs. The best part of the scene starts when she gets her leg stuck under Lewis' body, and the efforts of Martin and two assistants to help only gets them tangled up as well. Eventually Lewis is able to pull himself free, leaving everyone else stuck together.

Other comic highlights include a scene where Lewis and his comics are sucked into a suction tube, with the comics pages are blown out of the mouth of a billboard, and one where he's so shocked at seeing MacLaine dressed as the Bat Lady that when he rushes downstairs to tell Martin he runs into the wrong apartment. Another great scene is the one where the boy dumped in Murdock's office plays the role of a rude, obnoxious comedic heckler, biting Murdock's thumb and insulting MacLaine's appearance. Lewis gets the worst of it: he throws a knife at him, then topples the water tank on him and laughs as water runs down his pants.

In addition to the comedy Tashlin does a great job with the musical numbers, as he also would with The Girl Can't Help It and Hollywood or Bust. The best is the one where Martin dances in the street after selling his comic book to Murdock, set to a ditty called "The Lucky Song." It's the best display of Martin's singing talent in the film, and is livelier and more energetic than most of the musical numbers in Martin and Lewis' films. The credits say that the musical numbers were "created and staged by Charles O'Curran," so I'd guess that he deserves a lot of the credit for it as well.

My Best Friend's Wedding (1997)

The great film critic Robin Wood once wrote that, although generally well-received, the romantic comedy My Best Friend's Wedding (1997) hadn't received the acclaim and recognition it deserved: he said that it was "perfectly written, perfectly cast, perfectly acted, perfectly directed," and "continuously alive down to the smallest detail." He was absolutely right: it's quite arguably one of the greatest comedy films of all time. Wood's comparison of it to the great screwball comedies of the '30's is an apt one, and it's particularly similar to The Awful Truth (1937): like that film it's fast-paced, energetic, and very funny, but also has a sense of lightness and grace. Although it's very similar to the classic screwballs, its character dynamics are very different: there are four main leads rather than two, and thus rather than being about one relationship between two characters it's about a number of interconnected relationships between the four.

The film's two central characters are food critic Jules (Julia Roberts) and sportswriter Michael (Dermot Mulroney, Young Guns), who had a brief relationship in college and became best friends after they broke up. The two of them swore to marry each other if they hadn't found someone else by the time they were both 28, and with her 28th birthday coming up Jules anticipates hearing that the day has finally come when she gets a call from him. However, it actually turns out that he was calling to tell her that he's about to marry architecture student Kim (Cameron Diaz), the daughter of a wealthy businessman. Suddenly overcome with feelings of jealousy, Jules conspires to drive a wedge between Michael and Kim before the wedding day comes. Her editor, friend, and confidant George (Rupert Everett) serves as the voice of reason and tries to talk her out of this.

My Best Friend's Wedding is different from most romantic comedies in that lingering feelings between two people who were once together is a strong aspect of it. It's clear that Jules and Michael have never gotten over each other, and Michael tacitly encourages Jules' obsession with him even after she reveals her plans to sabotage his wedding. (Indeed, there's a sad poignance in many of Jules and Michael's interactions that's quite rare in romantic comedies.) This line from Kim is telling: "From the day I met Michael, all I've heard is 'Julianne this' and 'Julliane that.'" In truth, Michael has greater chemistry with Jules than he does with Kim. In one scene Kim sits awkwardly while Michael and Jules converse enthusiastically, visibly uncomfortable with their chemistry together and keenly aware of the fact that she's the odd man out. Jules is ambivalent toward romance (as evidenced by a string of broken and short-lived relationships) and uncomfortable with affection, which were probably factors in her relationship with Michael floundering. Kim's greater willingness to display affection (she enthusiastically hugs Jules and George when she first meets them) was likely what attracted him to her as much as anything.

Jules and Michael both repeatedly refer to Kim as "perfect," but this is hardly the case. She's a perfectly lovely person: she's sweet, kind-hearted, and good-natured. However, because of her emotional vulnerability she seeks to avoid conflict and is unwilling to stand up and assert herself. She's too eager to give in to Michael when conflict arises with him, and allows he and Jules to pressure her into singing at a karaoke bar despite her reluctance to do so. Her confrontation with Jules after she sees her kissing Michael is the only time she asserts herself in the entire film. She's also naive and overly trusting: she tells Jules that she trusted her because Michael did. One of her good aspects is that she's easily forgiving, but given the circumstances she's quite arguably a bit too forgiving.

Despite Michael and Kim's love for each other there's good reason to doubt their comparability in a number of areas- personality and temperament, conflicting life goals. Despite the dinner party's refrain that "you'll never break up," the long-term future of the relationship is doubtful.

Although Kim is the most endearing character in the film, the best is quite arguably George. He's the most well-rounded and likeable character, and the one with the most common sense. His role is basically that of the gay friend, but he's not played at all as a stereotype. He's witty, urbane, charming, and intelligent- and without a hint of prissy effeminacy. (In fact, his is probably one of the most flattering depictions of a gay character in all of cinema.) He serves an advisory role for Jules (underlined by the fact that he's her editor), and he's the voice of reason and moral clarity for her, urging her to act sensibly and do the right thing. He also encourages her to be honest with Michael rather than underhanded and conniving. When Jules tries to rope him into her schemes he goes against her (like making it look like she likes Kim more than she actually does). When Kim sees Jules kissing Michael he chases after her when she runs off, and Jules chases after him in a bagel truck. When she calls George he asks her a pointed question: "Who's chasing you?"

The film is unconventional for a romantic comedy in that it doesn't end with the main character winning over the object of her desire. It instead subverts this trope, with Jules relenting and allowing Michael and Kim's wedding to go through as planned. The film instead ends with an unconventional coupling between Jules and George, one that's affectionate yet platonic, and doesn't compromise George's fundamental gayness. (This is an entirely natural course for the film to take: Jules has as much chemistry with George as she does with Michael, if not more.) Indeed, this relationship promises much greater comparability and more long-term stability than Michael's marriage to Kim.

A big part of the reason the film works so well is because of how great, likeable, and fleshed-out the four main characters are. In turn the great performances of the four leads are a big reason why the characters work so well: they bring their characters to life, and say a lot about them with subtle body language. (A lot about the characters can be inferred by reading between the lines while watching the actors' performances.)

The best performance is probably that of Cameron Diaz as Kim. Hers is the performance most similar to the classic screwball heroines like Katharine Hepburn in Bringing Up Baby (1938): she's fun and funny, and shows herself to be a very talented comedienne. She's appealingly quirky, as well as bouncy and excited, and brings a sense of madcap energy to many of her scenes. One of the funniest aspects of her character is her fast, reckless driving: she makes those riding with her nervous, and in one scene a few people have to leap out of her way to keep from being run over.

She portrays Kim's sweetness very well, as well as the sense of vulnerability that makes her so endearing. One of her best scenes (and one of the best of the entire film) is the one where Kim's pressured into singing karaoke by Michael and Jules. Her off-key singing initially causes the audience to jeer ("You suck!," someone yells), but she eventually manages to win them over and get them caught up in her performance. One of the best aspects is the way Diaz's demeanor and body language change throughout the scene, going from nervous and awkward to enthusiastic and joyous.

Julia Roberts' performance as Jules is great as well. She's not just funny but sheds light on her character's inner emotional workings- her crushed reaction when Michael tells her that he's going to marry Kim, and her hurt response when he decides to call the wedding back on after a rift between he and Kim. During the final quarter she becomes needy and desperate as she tries in vain to convince Michael to choose her over Kim. She has the challenge of making her character appear likeable and sympathetic when her underhanded plotting against Kim could easily make her come across as a mean-spirited bully, and meets it very well. Jules retains the audience's sympathy because of the way Roberts plays her: her love for Michael is sincere, and at her core what she wants is to be with the person she loves the most and who makes her the happiest.

Rupert Everett's turn as George is one of the best performances of the film: he effectively projects his character's suave charm, and is very likeable and charismatic. He also has many of the best lines of the film. (I particularly like this gem: "It's amazing the clarity that comes with psychotic jealousy.")

P.J. Hogan's direction is fantastic: it's lively and energetic and also has a sense of grace, and his direction of the four main leads is superb. Also great is the script by Ronald Bass: it's well-constructed, has great characterizations and character dynamics, is clever and funny, and has a lot of great lines. (A highlight is when Kim insults Jules as a "two-faced, big-haired food critic.") It's very similar to that of Hogan's earlier romantic comedy Muriel's Wedding (1994), and shares the same basic plot structure. In addition to great direction, writing, and acting, the film also looks great thanks to cinematographer Laszlo Kovas, who also photographed Easy Rider (1969) and Paper Moon (1973); he's aided in this by production designer Richard Sylbert (The Graduate, Rosemary's Baby).

One of the comic highlights of the film (similar to the karaoke bar scene) is the scene where George leads a pre-wedding dinner party in an impromptu rendition of Burt Bacharach's "I Say a Little Prayer," and gets everyone in the restaurant to begin singing and clapping. It's one of the most infectiously fun and energetic moments in the entire film, and the way Hogan gets the actors and extras caught up in an ensemble performance is fantastic. As with the conversation between Jules and Michael in the karaoke bar, who doesn't get caught up in it says a lot: the only two people who are silent and visibly uncomfortable are Jules and Michael.

Hogan stages a great musical number during the credits with a group of actresses singing and dancing to another Burt Bacharach song, "Wishin' and Hopin'" (whose lyrics foreshadow the conflict of the film): the performances and choreography are excellent, and the number has an infectiously fun energy. Another element I liked was the screwball-esque running gag involving Jules repeatedly falling down and collapsing.

Way Out West (1937)

Way Out West (1937) is one of Laurel and Hardy's most beloved and celebrated films, and there's good reason for that: it's one of their best, and is their greatest feature after Sons of the Desert (1933). It's not just one of their funniest films but one of their liveliest and most energetic, and is a highlight not just of their filmography but of '30's comedy in general.

The plot involves Laurel and Hardy going to an Old West town to deliver the deed to a gold mine to a young woman (Rosina Lawrence) who's the daughter of a deceased friend. Since they've never seen her before, the shifty saloon owner (James Finlayson) who serves as her guardian has his saloon performer wife (Sharon Lynn) pretend to be her so they can get the deed. When Laurel and Hardy are unable to recover the deed after realizing their mistake, they decide to sneak back into his house at night in order to recover it.

The film features some of the best and most memorable scenes in any of Laurel and Hardy's films. The scene of Stan and Ollie dancing while the Avalon Boys sing "At the Ball, That's All" is one of the most beloved in their oeuvre, and indeed it is a delight: it's both charming and funny, and they perform their dance with a lot of grace. Another highlight is a parody of the hitchhiking scene in It Happened One Night (1934), with Stan Laurel causing a stagecoach to screech to a halt by baring his leg. There are also echoes of their short "Scram!" (1932), with the local sheriff warning Laurel and Hardy to take the the next stagecoach out of the town after they annoy his wife. It also features some of Stan Laurel's trademark tongue-tied and non-sequitur quotes. When, posing as the young woman, Lynn asks if "her" father is dead, he replies, "Well, we hope he is. They buried him." This line to her is probably the best in the film: "Now that you've got the mine I bet you'll be a swell gold digger."

The film benefits greatly from having frequent Laurel and Hardy supporting player James Finlayson play the villain. He played the irate homeowner in their great silent short "Big Business" (1929), and added something special to their films. The way he portrays shock and outrage is absolutely hilarious- first a surprised double take, then an angry narrowing of the eyes. Oliver Hardy's reactions to Stan Laurel's behavior is also hilarious, like his exasperation when he uses a piece of meat that's "as tough as shoe leather" to patch up a hole in his shoe.

There's a vein of zany, madcap humor in this film that was largely absent in most Laurel and Hardy's previous films, and which was taken even farther in Swiss Miss (1938) and Block-Heads (1938). When Laurel and Hardy sing "Trail of the Lonesome Pine" Stan's voice suddenly drops into a deep bass, and when Hardy hits him on the head with a mallet it ascends into a high-pitched, feminine falsetto. There are also cartoon-like gags that stretch the laws of reality, like Stan Laurel lighting his thumb like a match, and Oliver Hardy's neck stretching like rubber when Stan tries to pull his head out of a trapdoor. There's also a scene where Finlayson plays a piano when Laurel and Hardy hide in it, which is more like something out of a Warner Bros. cartoon than a typical '30's comedy.

The most memorable of these gags is the routine that occurs when Hardy reminds Laurel of his promise to eat his hat if they couldn't get the deed back. Laurel is reluctant to at first, but soon finds that the likes it, and decides to put on a napkin and sprinkle salt on it. Hardy then snatches his hat back, and when he takes a bite he spits it out in disgust.

Never Give a Sucker an Even Break

Never Give a Sucker an Even Break (1941), W.C. Fields' final starring vehicle, is one of his best and funniest films. It's his most anarchic and freewheeling film, his equivalent to the Marx Brothers' Horse Feathers (1932) and Laurel and Hardy's Block-Heads (1938), as well as his wildest and most out-there film since "The Dentist" (1932). It's also his most slyly referential film, a movie about the process of moviemaking, and one with a metafictional, ironic edge.

Rather than playing one of his usual henpecked husbands or wisecracking con men, in this film Fields plays comedian and movie star W.C. Fields, and much of the film involves him trying to pitch a script to the studio. Being Fields, he of course has to endure the abuse of nasty waitresses, irate studio heads, and hostile children, but he's supported all the way by his steadfastly loyal niece Gloria Jean (played by actress Gloria Jean). (The loving, loyal young woman is just as much of a key Fields archetype as the nagging houseife: other characters of this type appear in Man on the Flying Trapeze [1935] and Poppy [1936].)

Given that much of the film is devoted to a film-within-a-film which serves as a visualization of Fields' script, that means its plot structure is even looser than that of the typical W.C. Fields film. It's also even sillier and loopier than his typical work, and throws all notions of logic and coherence out the window. When Fields jumps out of an airplane he lands outside of a house on a mountainous cliff, and meets a sexy young woman who's never seen a man in her life. Her mother, played by frequent Marx Brothers straight woman Margaret Dumont, is an old hag with bushy eyebrows, and her pets include a saber-toothed Great Dane and a gorilla who lives on the side of the cliff. (In a typically Fieldsian touch, her name is Mrs. Hemoglobin.) Although Fields lands in Russia, a nearby village looks like it's either in Mexico or the Old West, and when Fields drinks some goat's milk it renders his breath flammable.

The studio head is outraged when he reads the script. (I've read that the Universal executives felt the same way about this film: Fields had recently signed a contract with them, and they let him go after the film was released.) He says, "This script is an insult to a man's intelligence- even mine." (There's many a terrible film I'd say the same about.) The studio head (played by Franklin Pangborn, who Fields slipped a mickey to in The Bank Dick [1940]) has some of the best lines of the film. Here are some other gems:

"It's impossible, inconceivable, incomprehensible- and besides that, it's no good."

"Do you actually think I'm a dope? Now, don't answer that."

The referential, metafictional nature of the film extends beyond the film-within-a-film. An early scene shows Fields gazing at a billboard for his previous film, The Bank Dick, which two young boys make derisive remarks about. (The entire conceit of Fields playing himself is a unique one, something which no other screen comic of the time had done.) When Fields goes into an ice cream parlor, he turns to the camera and says, "This scene's supposed to be in a saloon, but the censor cut it out."

Fields is known for including a lot of jokes about drinking and alcohol in his films, and this film has some of his best booze-based humor. In the film-within-a-film, when he drops a bottle of liquor from the deck of an airplane he dives down after it. This line to Gloria Jean is one of the great Fields lines: "I was in love with a beautiful blonde once. She drove me to drink. It's the one thing I'm indebted to her for." When he sees Dumont's gorilla, he remarks, "Suffering sciatica! Last time it was pink elephants." After breaking a bottle of liquor, he says, "What a catastrophe." This line is also a gem: "Drown in a vat of whiskey. Death, where is thy sting?"

A Fields film isn't a Fields film without some kind of hostile or aggressive behavior on his part. When a boy conks him on the head with a brick, Gloria Jean picks it up and prepares to hurl it back at him. However, Fields admonishes her to stop and count to ten. When she does, he says, "Okay, now let 'er go, you got a good aim."

The final scene, in which Fields drives a woman to maternity hospital, is the wildest and most madcap scene in any of his films, even more so than the climax of The Bank Dick. Fields drives like a maniac, gunning it and driving all over the road: he causes bedlam as he veers all over the place and other cars try to keep from hitting him. (One of the best moments involves his car being lifted into the air by the ladder of a fire truck, which later deposits him in the parking lot of the maternity hospital.)

It's a sad truth that many of the classic comedians of the '20's and '30's didn't go out at the top of their game: after leaving Hal Roach Laurel and Hardy made lousy films like Great Guns (1941) and The Big Noise (1944), and the Marx Brothers' salad says were over after A Day at the Races (1937). Never Give a Sucker an Even Break, on the other hand, ends Fields' career on a high note, and serves as a fitting swan song for him.

Weekend (1967)

Jean-Luc Godard's satirical black comedy Weekend (1967) is a film that at its core is comprised of two elements one would expect to be diametrically opposed. On the one hand, it's a wickedly funny film, one that has a bright, vivid color palette and a freewheeling, madcap sense of energy. On the other hand, it's a very dark film: it covers subject matter that's quite morbid and features imagery that suggests graphic violence, and its musical score creates a sinister, menacing atmosphere. It's this commingling of elements that gives the film its distinct identity- that is, as one that's both very dark and extremely funny.

Its fundamental subject is societal disintegration and breakdown, one covered the next year in George Romero's Night of the Living Dead (1968). It was made during a time of great upheaval for much of the world: America was experiencing great civil unrest, and in the year following Weekend's release France would be racked by the student uprisings of May 1968.

The plot involves a middle-class couple (Jean Yanne and Mireille Darc) making a weekend trip to her father's house so they can make sure he wills them a large inheritance before his impending death. However, they accidentally crash their car on the way there, and have to walk and hitch rides the rest of the way. The film's plot is a loose, freewheeling one, in which what happens to the couple and what they encounter along the way is more important than the story per se.

Godard's version of '60's France is a heightened, exaggerated one, in which car crashes seemingly happen every five minutes and the countryside is littered with wrecked cars. The couple encounter a number of colorful people along the way, from a man who can perform magic (or at least play with the laws of cinematic reality) to figures from history and literature. As they make it farther and farther on their journey society descends further and further into chaos around them, with them walking past burning cars and bloody corpses.

The couple are truly beastly, abominable people, and serve as representations of what Godard loathes and despises. They plan to kill the wife's mother if she doesn't give them what they want, and unbeknownst to each other have been planning to kill the other one with the help of their lovers. Their behavior is aggressive and belligerent from the get-go, and they become more and more violent as the film goes on. When a woman demands that they exchange insurance information after the husband backs into her car, they start a fight with her. When a man in a phone booth is taking too long to finish a conversation, they harass him until he hangs up. While driving they force cars, pedestrians, and bicycles off the road. When they encounter Emily Bronte, they burn her alive when she goes off on a philosophical tangent.

They're hardly the only terrible people in the film. When a tractor driver hits a young couple's sports car and kills the man, his girlfriend screams at him, saying that he deserved to live because he was young, rich, and handsome. (On a side note, I think it's absolutely hilarious to see the tractor driver singing the "Internationale": it's certainly not the kind of thing you'd see in America.)

While most of what I've described makes the film sound quite dark and grisly, Godard makes the proceedings feel fun and lively, as well as humorous. Some of the funniest scenes are those which reflect Godard's Marxist politics. When the husband tries to hitch a ride a passing motorist asks him whether he'd rather be screwed by Johnson or Mao, and when he responds Johnson she angrily drives off. When he asks one of a pair of truck drivers he and his wife hitch a ride from for some of his sandwich, he gives him a tiny piece and says that it represents the amount of U.S. foreign aid given to the Congo. When the wife asks the other one for some of his, he forces her to kiss him and then slaps her when she takes the piece he offers her. When she reacts with outrage, he responds that he's only emulating the behavior of Western oil companies toward Algeria.

Godard also has fun with the film, and there are certain scenes where he seems to be deliberately messing with the viewer. When the wife discusses a sexual encounter with a previous lover with her current one, the music is so loud that it's often hard to hear what she's saying. (This is a case where an English-speaking viewer watching the film with subtitles would have an advantage over a native French speaker.) In one scene one of the truck drivers eats a sandwich and stares at the camera while the other goes off on a long-winded political tangent offscreen, and when he finishes it's the other man's turn to do the same while he goes off on an extended tangent of his own.

Godard also includes a lot of colorful dialogue in the film. When the couple drive off following the confrontation with the woman whose car they backed into, her son yells at the husband, "Bastard! Shit-heap! Communist!" When the young woman screams at the tractor driver, she yells, "You impotent bunch are incapable of screwing!"

Godard uses interesting cinematic devices in a few scenes. One scene consists of several minutes of Godard panning past a massive traffic jam caused by a car crash up the road, which the couple of course impatiently try to make their way around. (This scene features incessant honking by impatient motorists, and the more patient ones play cards and throw balls to each other.) One scene features a rotating shot of a barnyard as a man plays the piano, and the camera does quite a number of revolutions.

Godard also gleefully plays with cinematic reality and the onscreen image. A mysterious "miracle man" who forces the couple to pick him up at gunpoint causes a flock of sheep to suddenly materialize via a jump cut. When the couple's car crashes, Godard doesn't show it directly but splits and fractures the image, making it look like the projector's messing up.

Godard is also known for using the distancing device of having his characters acknowledge that they're in a film and even address the audience at times, which was also used by Tex Avery. At one point the husband tells his wife that they're in a "rotten film" where "all we meet are crazy people." When they kill Emily Bronte the husband says that she's only a fictional character, and the wife remarks that they are as well. When a passing motorists asks the husband whether he's in real life or a film, he responds that he's in a film. (Godard's distancing devices also make the film's violence easier to take: since its characters are two-dimensional and he acknowledges that they don't actually exist, the viewer doesn't have an emotional reaction to the couple's horrible mistreatment of those around them or the horrors eventually inflicted on them.)

Godard is known for being a passionate cinephile, someone who truly loves the medium of film, and that's on dispaly in this film. When communicating via two-way radios, the revolutionaries in the latter portion of the film use code names derived from some of Godard's favorite films. The choice of films reflects not just cinephilia but a truly worldwide cinephilia: namechecked are not just American films like Johnny Guitar (1954) and The Searchers (1956) but European ones like The Saga of Gosta Berling (1924) and Battleship Potemkin (1925).

As I've alluded to earlier, Godard eventually gives the couple their comeuppance and they suffer a horrible fate of their own. After they kill the wife's mother they're kidnapped by a gang of revolutionaries, who kill the husband. This is the point where the film's descent into chaos reaches it peak, and it arrives at its darkest and most violent point. When the wife and one of the revolutionaries look down at the bloody corpse of a murdered man, he says that "the horror of the bourgeoisie can only be overcome with more horror," which is a truly chilling statement. (It's clear that despite his radical politics Godard doesn't sympathetic with them, and finds them as dark and frightening as the viewer.) Godard also includes (unsimulated) scenes of a pig and chicken being killed during this portion of the film, to serve as a shock to the viewer's senses. However, these dark, violent elements are counterbalanced by sillier and, more lighthearted ones, like a woman being raped with a fish (too outlandish to be taken seriously) and one of the revolutionaries playing the drums in the middle of a forest clearing.

The film ends on a great gag. While the wife is eating some pork one of the revolutionaries tells her that some meat from her husband is mixed in with it. She shrugs it off and continues eating it, which is a fitting reaction for her: given the behavior we've seen her display throughout the film, one wouldn't expect anything else.