Harlan Ellison's Watching (15 page)

Then there is the acting. Oddly, one tends to remember the amateurs in
Staircase
, rather than the professionals. Eileen Heckart, Sandy Dennis, Sorrell Booke, all do fine jobs (though I wish to God someone would tell Sandy Dennis that a persistent stammer, a waving of arms and invariably moist eyes does not necessarily connote deep intense feelings, but merely a studied inarticulateness that wearies as time passes). But it is the helpless character played by Ellen O'Mara that thrusts up from all the wonders of
Staircase
with a fragile strength that will remain with the viewer long after the subtleties of plot have faded.

Miss O'Mara's background and biography were sadly neglected in the Warner Bros. handouts on the film, so I have no idea if she is a student actress, a novice hired out of a Manhattan schoolroom, or possibly Dame Edith Evans in disguise. All I can say is that for me, her portrayal of the lovesick high school girl, doomed to a life trapped in a body shaped like a pound of mud, hopelessly infatuated with an English teacher who is a coward and in many ways a rotter, was the high point of the film. It captured for all time the plight of an unlovely child in a world that is geared for the Pretty Plastic People. Her performance is worthy of much more than merely a nomination for the debased Oscar, but as that is the only yardstick we have at present, certainly that, at least, is due her.

The other younger actors—Jeff Howard, Jose Rodriguez, John Fantauzzi—and the ones who played Harry A. Kagan, Rusty, Lou Martin, Linda Rosen—all sparkle and glimmer as they perform the most difficult task an actor can undertake: to instill individual character into the personality of an unformed entity. Children have no real style, no real pattern. They cannot be tagged on sight the way adults can. They have no real touches with the master world. To indicate this, and yet separate each one as a human being with a face and a name and a way to go, is an enormously difficult chore. It has been done not once or twice in
Staircase
, but almost a dozen times. What do we remember of
Blackboard Jungle?
Poitier? Morrow? Rafael Compos? Certainly not Ford.

Which brings us full circle to nature imitating art. After
Blackboard Jungle
, all depictions of schools where the underprivileged were concerned modeled themselves after the inaccurate Richard Brooks high school. And soon, the reality came into being. The kids acted that way, the teachers accepted it as truth, the parents shuddered at all the knifeplay in the halls of academe, and it became a
fait accompli. Staircase
mirrors reality. It shows us what our schools have become. It does not belabor us with plot, therefore I have not bothered explicating the minimal twists and turns of same, but forces us by holding us roughly by the neck, to watch the kind of nightmare world in which the kids of today must function for eight hours, five days a week.

I submit
Up the Down Staircase
is a film that approaches perfection. It entertains, certainly, but it fulfills even more of the criteria for perfection: it stimulates, it touches, it understands, it deals with truth on several levels. It is my understanding that
Staircase
has not done smash b.o. business. It has done reasonably well in its first runs, but it is by no means one of the big smasheroo hit successes of the year. It does not approach
Blackboard Jungle
for public acclaim.

And therein lies the answer to the questions posed earlier anent the debasement of taste of the American filmgoing public.

Cinema
/ Winter 1967

As a writer of fantasy, I cannot conceive of any way in which
Rosemary's Baby
could be improved. It is, for this reviewer, one of the very finest fantasy films ever made. The promise of Roman Polanski remains undimmed. The talent he displayed with
Repulsion
is more controlled, more adroit, certainly more impressive here. The acting is beyond reproach: not only Mia Farrow and John Cassavetes, who are so right they ring like finest crystal, but a cast of the most exemplary character actors working at the top of their form; to be treated to the likes of Ruth Gordon, Sidney Blackmer (oh, that glorious professional!), Ralph Bellamy, Maurice Evans, Patsy Kelly and (unparalleled joy!) Elisha Cook, all in one film, all
working
, is to know up front that the vehicle rolls on the safest treads.

I will not deal with the plot. For those who read Ira Levin's masterful novel (the best contemporary fantasy since Fritz Leiber's
Conjure Wife
), be apprised it is followed faithfully. Polanski, who both scripted and directed, is a friend to the often-ignored novelist whose work is sold to films and then masticated so thoroughly that even Shakespeare had "additional dialogue." For this alone Polanski deserves hosannahs.

For those who have not read the book, and have not had the film's puzzle explained to them by blathering reviewers who should know better (lop off their hands!), best you go to it fresh and unsullied. For those who have heard descriptions of what it's all about, merely this: the film is about a girl named Rosemary who gives birth to a child, and is not happy about it, for reasons no one could consider anything less than horrendous.

It is difficult for me not to rush into the streets to sing the praises of this remarkable and compelling film, a darkling vision of unforgettable tension. It is the sort of film Hitchcock would be making today, had he not grown old along about
The Man Who Knew Too Much
. Polanski has not taken on the Old Master's mantle, he has created his own, with the warp and woof of black magic, danger, the essence of fear and a sinister simplicity that is like all great Art—so deceptively simple-looking, until one tries to take it apart and find out why it functions as well as it does, without any moving parts.

It would have been incredibly easy for a director as brash as Polanski—who would have had to be infinitely less talented—to muck this film up. All the elements for cheap sensationalism are there. But with the lean, hard scripting (idiomatically so American one wonders how Polanski managed such a flawless translation . . . until one considers Nabokov) and the fiercely underplayed acting, Polanski has spun out his tale dualistically—both as story of growing suspense and as study of young girl going psychopathically paranoid. It can be enjoyed thoroughly from the first moment, with none of the fantasy elements yet making their appearance, simply as an interesting mainstream story of a young married couple; evocative testament to the excellence of Miss Farrow's and Mr. Cassavetes's sturdy, craftsmanlike, entirely engrossing performances. A word more about Miss Farrow later.

Polanski. Jesus, the man is good! Let me tell you a thing: in all the canon of fantasy writing, the very hardest job of all is the creation of a contemporary fantasy, using the elements of ancient myth or folklore—gnomes, witches, demonology, dragons, dryads, mermaids—in such a way that the old horrors have relevance for our times. The new demons are with us, yet they are merely manifestations of the old deities. Today we tremble before the wrath of the gods of Neon, Smog, Freeway, Street Violence; the God of Machines and the Paingod, the God in the slot machine and that most jealous of Gods who needs to be worshipped daily, The All-Seeing Eye of the Teevee. These gods and demons can frighten us out of our minds where vampires and werewolves cannot. Polanski knows this. He has been constructing with his last three films a modern grimoire utilizing these ancient, dust-and-hoar-covered legends in their modern settings. And he has become a master at it. This is a task of great rigor, but Polanski has somewhichway tapped into the bubbling lava of fear down in the gut of all of us.

Additionally, the film is filled with a thousand goodies: the dichotomous artificiality of the apartment settings in which Miss Farrow and Mr. Cassavetes play out their nightmare. The rooms seem to be setups for
House Beautiful
; nothing could be more apple pie American in this day and age of materialism. Decorator furniture, mentions of Vidal Sassoon, Lipton Tea, the
Reader's Digest
: against which a crawling horror takes hideous shape. Even the usually detrimental use of a publicized pretty (in this case the 1967
Playboy
Playmate of the Year, the staggeringly attractive Angela Dorian) works to full advantage. Miss Dorian underplays and
acts
, seeming at once winsome and touching. Her exit from the film has genuine impact, extraordinary for the brief space of time she is actually onscreen.

But it is Mia Farrow who carries the production. No mean feat working chockablock with such inveterate and splendidly adept scene-stealers as Ruth Gordon, Blackmer and Bellamy. She is the exhibitor of a kind of tensile strength that I have seldom seen in recent years. Her characterization is fleshed-out completely. There will be no man in the audience who could doubt her selection by the father of the baby as his mate. What she never seemed to possess on television, even at her best,
presence
, she exhibits here with controlled passion. There can be no doubt after this film: Mia Farrow is an
actress
.

For those who need specific statements, who have not yet been able to grasp that this reviewer was knocked out by
Rosemary's Baby
, let me conclude by saying quite boldly: this film will be looked back upon with growing recognition as the years pass. It is in every way and by every standard of critical judgment, a classic of that most intriguing of genres, the film of fear.

Cinema
/Fall 1968

Jean-Luc Godard's 1963 film is an exercise in audacity. It is also, like Kubrick's 2001:
A Space Odyssey
, an exercise in directorial self-indulgence. It is, in many ways, an exercise in idiocy.

Life is too short. To be bored for even seventy-nine minutes is too long. I await the
thunk
of poison-tipped arrows. The critics have acclaimed
Les Carabiniers
a small masterpiece; friends whose cinematic opinions I respect, have labeled me a lout; followers of my reviews have accused me of carrying a grudge against Godard since I proclaimed I'd felt shucked at
Breathless
. I stand naked before mine enemies. Perhaps the nictating membranes that slip down over my eyes when I am being stoned into sleepiness by an "art film" have obscured my appreciation of a stunning experience. Perhaps. I suggest those who find this deprecating review of M. Godard's pud-pulling unacceptable, cross check with less-Philistinic reviewers and then go or not go accordingly. I can only report what I can report: and what I report is that this is an elaborate fraud, the practice of which by an American filmmaker would bring forth howls of outrage by the selfsame dilettantes who foam and fawn over Godard's silliness, merely because it is in French.

Disjointed, spastic, directorially on a level with the famous Candy Barr epic,
Smart Aleck
, self-consciously acted, it makes a point that was dulled along about the time William March wrote "Company K"; the point being that war is absurd. Oh, really! Don't tell that to Aristophanes, M. Godard, he thought
he
pointed that out with skill in "Lysistrata." War is absurd? Never been said before so powerfully (according to the critics)? What about
Dr. Strangelove?
What about
Paths of Glory?
What about
King and Country, How I Won the War, The Brave Italian People?
No, I'm afraid not. Which is not to say that Godard, or anyone else, shouldn't try. Saying what has been said already is an accepted attack; only the final product need be judged. By that standard, Godard fails dismally.

We open with two military police,
carabiniers
, visiting a rural hovel to deliver conscription letters from "the King." How do they do it? They charge in, Sten guns at the ready, and chivvy the women. With a certain pardonable crankiness, the husband of the house attacks one of the soldiers. They struggle and wrestle about on the ground (save for an instant when M. Godard's camera picks up the actors relinquishing their holds on one another to smirk awkwardly, as though "Cut!" had been called . . . then they go back at it again, once the husband has jammed his cigar in his mouth). The other soldier comes to his buddy's rescue. The four people on the farm are then held at gunpoint while one of the
carabiniers
lifts the women's skirts with the muzzle of his Sten. (And I can understand why these particular soldiers lose the war, for they don't even know how high to lift a girl's skirt to ascertain the worthiness of the goods. Calf-high just don't get it, fellahs.)

Then, with total lack of sanity, the husband invites the marauders into the house. They begin flirting with his wife. They laugh at him, whisper at his stupidity, and tell him if he becomes a soldier and goes to war he can steal, kill, maim and in every other way indulge his adolescent dreams of rape and pillage with impunity. This is more than enough provocation for the husband and his
lumpen
son (brother? friend? farmhand?) to rush off to the Holy Crusade. For the balance of the film we see these two basest evocations of the mud-condemned nature of Man shoot unarmed women, harass civilians, steal and kill and rut about like the foremost clots in the bloodstream of humanity.

Upon their return to the farm, the husband brings a satchel filled with all the treasures he has been promised by the recruiters. Cars, hydroelectric plants, pyramids, naked women, seaplanes, Tiffany's department store . . . all on picture postcards. This is to indicate to us that all of these treasures will be conferred on the brave warriors when they get in touch with the King. Sort of title deed by photo. But the war isn't over, and finally they are shot to death by the very
carabinierie
who recruited them.