In the Heat of the Night (Movie Review by Bob Racine)

1 hr and 50 min, color, 1967

                                               

Landmark movies do not have to be super spectacular creations.  “In the Heat of the Night”, released fifty years ago this summer (yes, another half century anniversary), did not introduce any new cinematic devices or any technical innovations or original narrative techniques.  Viewers did not set new records in attendance; crowds were not lined up at box offices in serpentine formation around the block.  But the picture did sell, enough to start a groundswell of interest that led to Oscar victory and did make an unmistakable impact upon the American movie audience’s mind.  It was what it signaled that set it apart and drew earnest attention from all over the country.  To put it precisely, in the words of Malcolm Boyd, it was in this one that “the black man became a man” on screen at last, in every sense of the term.   The African American male image has never been the same since in motion pictures. 

Sidney Poitier is a proud, professionally competent northern police detective, a homicide expert, traveling through Sparta, Mississippi, who gets roped into showing bigoted small town sheriff Rod Steiger how to solve a murder and throws Jim Crow racism back into the redneck teeth with a flourish.  Director Norman Jewison and Screenwriter Stirling Silliphant, working from a John Ball novel, are our benefactors.  The film is full of high tension face-offs, and almost every scene is memorable.  It not only portrayed the entrenchment of Southern bigotry at the time but ripped into it and exposed its raw core.  And it did not do this in the garb of a docudrama or a narrated, topical illustration.  It was staged as one might stage any conventional who-done-it, served up with a heaping helping of police detective work and undercover investigating.  But its detective hero just happened in this case to be a man whose racial identity pushed buttons that set off a chain reaction of enmity and violent aggressiveness. 

This was not by a long shot Sidney Poitier’s first starring role.  He has been in films since the early 1950s and in most of them he has played a lead.  (The most memorable of those is “Lilies of the Field”, which I recently reviewed.)  But this was the first case in which the film was devoted intentionally and conspicuously to the red hot button issue of Southern styled racism.  By 1967 most of the landmark civil rights legislation of the Johnson years had already been enacted.  The 1963 March on Washington was recent history and Martin Luther King’s “I Have a Dream” speech at the Lincoln Memorial was fresh in most Americans’ minds.  But of course what was on the books and what was being enforced were worlds apart.  Jim Crow still ruled the South, especially in small town and rural areas.    

Many of you reading this may be unfamiliar with the film for the simple reason that it came out before you were born or at least well before you were of an age when you would have been aware of its existence; maybe it got lost in the torrent of world events or of personal struggles of your own.  I myself was only thirty-four when I first viewed it at a theater on Times Square.  It was an afternoon in the middle of a week, with very few people present.  That was nothing unusual at a matinee, except for the fact that the rest of the viewers in the audience were all black, and they were so exercised by what they saw that I began to fear that maybe I, the lone whitey, would not get out of there alive.  (I did, of course!  They acted as if I was not even present, and that pleased me no end.) 

Can we now imagine how cathartic as well as electrifying it must have been for them to see a black man stand up to the white baron of the community, returning the man’s facial slap without hesitation?  That was a first, and it tore through the air.  The big shot is so startled by what this supposedly inferior black man has done that he is reduced to tears.  What gets unmasked in this scene is the essence of so-called Southern white paternalism.  We see that it is nothing more than a thin veneer loosely disguising hate, thuggery, and paranoia.   The black folk who saw it on first release must also have found catharsis in the scene in which three redneck hooligans gang up on Poitier in a garage, and this black Philadelphia citizen fights them back with courage and expertise.  This is one of two scenes actually in which the detective comes perilously close to getting lynched.  But he does not kow-tow for an instant. 

Not that the man is a crusader.  He is a reluctant participator.  He is on his way to visit his mother when he is corralled by a twist of circumstances into taking charge of the investigation.  He is not out to prove anything, other than the identity of the killer.  He simply believes in being thorough and professional in the performance of a duty, regardless of the time or place.  In the larger sense he has nothing to prove and is not out to impress the white establishment or curry favor.  

Poitier may be the focus of attention all the way through, but he is not the only leading player.  Rod Steiger is mammoth in the role of the sheriff, who is conflicted over the investigation Poitier is doing.  He feels pressure from two sides.  The white oligarchs of the town do not want Poitier to show them up; Steiger is ready to put him on the train and ship him out.  But the wife (Lee Grant) of the murdered man, an industrialist from the north who has come south to build a factory, has other ideas.  After seeing how hasty and incompetent the sheriff is in arresting a suspect who Poitier proves is innocent, she declares that she wants the black detective kept on the case until the true felon is caught, threatening to pack up her dead husband’s engineers and equipment and leave the area, if her wish is not met.  The factory is something of huge economic importance to the life of the community, and the bigwigs need to keep her appeased.  And there is Steiger right in the shaky middle – the horns of a daunting, king-size dilemma!  

Steiger was quite brilliant with anything he did, though he was never a box office champion.  He was something very special and quite versatile.  He might have second billing here, but he makes something prodigious out of this easily rattled, nervous, slouchy, gum chewing officer of the law.  Not only do we get to observe his chief’s performance on the job, but in an intimate scene the screenwriter takes us into his inner mind to show us how lonely and wretched he is.  By film’s end he has come to feel a quiet respect for Poitier.  Steiger’s work in the movie earned him a well-deserved Oscar, and the work of the combined cast and crew earned the Best Picture trophy.   

The settings are so believable that I sometimes get the feeling while watching that I am smelling the town, smelling the dusty roads, smelling the jail and police station, smelling the depot.  There is nothing phony about the visuals and nothing half disclosed about the reactionary fear of the isolated town.  And a low keyed jazzy score by the celebrated Quincy Jones on the soundtrack adds its rich flavor as well as the voice of Ray Charles singing the title song. 

Not often have I ever pleaded with my readers for their attention to what I am highlighting, but this time I cannot think of a better word for what I want to say.  I plead with everyone reading this who has never seen “In the Heat of the Night” to check it out from Netflix and screen it, or if you remember once seeing it but the memory is hazy, check it out and refresh yourself on a vital aspect of American life and history.  I am saddened to have to say that it still reflects upon a very real danger dogging at our nation’s heels.  Hate crimes and enflamed racism are still very much with us, as recent killings that have made front page news so painfully demonstrate.  Jim Crow may not be as dominant as he once was, but he is still lurking around.   See this and educate yourself a little more on the subject.

To read other entries in my blog, please consult its website:  enspiritus.blogspot.com.  To know about me, consult the autobiographical entry on the website for Dec. 5, 2016.

Sully (Movie Review by Bob Racine)

1 hr & 36 min, color, 2016

                                     

The badge of heroism is not always so easy to come by.  So many who end up feted for valorous behavior or courageous undertakings have to be proven worthy of the honor, in some cases posthumously.  “Sully” is the true story of Chesley Sullenberger, the U. S. Airways pilot forced on January 15, 2009 to land his passenger plane in the Hudson River, with one hundred and fifty-five on board including the crew, when both of his engines conked out within minutes after taking off from LaGuardia; it seems a huge flock of birds collided with the aircraft and killed the engines.  He ended up doing what had never been done before in the entire history of aviation – using a riverbed as a landing platform for a jet.  He has long since been credited as a hero, but following his accomplishment he was subjected to testing and debriefing and the overwhelm of publicity that proved just as rugged as the ordeal in the air and on the water which he and his passengers and crew had survived.  Both the physical and the emotional tolls for Sully and his copilot are portrayed in no uncertain terms.

                                     

It is significant that the film begins with a nightmare in which Sully finds himself back in the air, trying to pilot his craft in descent over the New York skyline, the nightmare ending in his crash into one of the skyscrapers.  The flaming impact wakes him up in a state of abject terror.  He deals with the dream’s aftermath by jogging through the Manhattan streets.  What he is undergoing is a form of PTSD that he has to carry with him for many days, made no easier by the grilling he has to undergo from the flying commission’s panel.  The two airmen find themselves on the defensive about the decision that was made at the moment of midair crisis. 

                                     

Heroes it seems are not so easily recognized in present times, when everything in officialdom is appraised with caution and skepticism, both in government and in the private sector.

                                     

The challenge to derive something tense and exciting out of true story material in which the inspiring outcome is already known at large is one that few film makers seem to tackle anymore, but Director Clint Eastwood and his fellow producers have taken on the job with very informative and satisfying results.  The incisive screenplay is the work of Todd Komarnicki, based upon Sullenberger’s own book.   One thing that helped make the adaptation a success is the excellent casting of Tom Hanks as Sully.  He seems to be one of those multi-dimensional actors who can do no wrong; he has portrayed a plethora of characters during his many years on the screen, and he never disappoints.  His face always plays a major role in giving the character visibility of body and soul.  I will never forget how his countenance conveys the sharp edge of quiet incredulity when he hears that all passengers and crew members have survived the ditching in the river.  He does not dance around or whoop and holler.  He barely even smiles.  You know that he wants to believe it is true, yet it takes him a few stubborn moments to ingest the news and internalize it. 

                                     

If that had been the end of his internal warfare, there would scarcely be a story to tell.  The most trying days and hours, however, are yet before him, as his professional reputation hangs in an uncertain balance and he is virtually required to be guilty of negligence until proven innocent.  As Sully sees it, his three decades of safely flying passengers will be practically worthless to his examiners; he knows history will judge him solely for how he performed during what turned out to be only 208 seconds.

                                     

The crash and the rescue are enacted (in flashback of course) with superb attention to detail.  The passengers know something is wrong when the plane’s main power goes out.  The flight attendants must preside over near panic, especially after the dreaded message comes from the captain to “Brace for impact”.  The attendants must keep them all buckled up and bent over with heads completely down.  Sullenberger has to call forth his trained instincts and draw upon his years of experience and learning to make sure the wings stay level and well balanced over the water; if one or the other dipped, the plane would have flipped over and probably broken in half.  In such a case it would have been a different story; deaths would have been almost impossible to avoid, maybe many. 

Once the aircraft has ceased moving and settled in upon the riverbed, Sullenberger leaves the cabin at once and goes to his passengers with the urgent request to disembark from the plane, as water begins to flood into the aisles.  He and the attendants manage to get most all the people out onto the wings, though some activate the emergency exits and slide into the freezing water. 

                                     

What a blessing it was that the bird encounter took place where it did – in the New York vicinity where rescue help was plentiful and speedy.  The rescuers consisted of people who were primed and ready to save lives and had the provisions for getting the endangered passengers warm, and boating them out to the area to safety.  I lost count of how many there were.  I teared up a bit watching this display of humanity coming to the willing aid of humanity.  Eastwood takes his time with these details, and I am so glad he does.  He does not go for spectacle; he keeps the action intimate and heartfelt.      

                                     

What we are so vividly reminded of in this narrative is the fact that some decisions in this world must be made by only one person, even though many lives are at stake.  Sullenberger is required to act solely on his own; it is a dilemma he has not asked for.  The size of the flight crew, including the copilot, and the many voices over the radio giving him information about possible nearby airports where he might try landing was really of no help to him in the final analysis.  No one outside that cockpit could possibly have known what it felt like to be faced with his situation.  It is the loneliest place in the world to be.  It is not the kind of decision that he can take time discussing with fellow flyers; there is no time to weigh options in preparation for something that awaits him with hours or days to spare.  He had to act quickly.  That kind of thing separates the adults from the kids.  At first I found the panel’s digging to be harrowing for me to watch, but slowly I began to see that walking through that hail of stones provided a chance to open up this pilot’s heart and to place us all in that crisis, physically and emotionally.  It made the outcome that much more sweet and cathartic.   

                                     

Jeffrey Skiles, the copilot who stands with Sully and supports him with great admiration is warmly portrayed by Aaron Eckhart.  And though Sully and his wife (a marvelous Laura Linney) never do more than talk over the phone, the bond between them emerges as strong as if their encounter had occurred  in the wee hours of the night in their bedroom.  You can feel how much their arms ache for each other.  Those hours of separation while required to wait through the lengthy investigation must have been the most trying they as a couple had ever experienced.  Is it any wonder that Sullenberger retired during the following year, wrote his memoirs and concentrated on a new career as an international speaker on airline safety.  

                                     

While our nation’s moral compass is being weakened by a near despotic administration, this factual parable about true honor and idealism could not come before us at a better time. 

To read other entries in my blog, please consult its website:  enspiritus.blogspot.com.  To know about me, consult the autobiographical entry on the website for Dec. 5, 2016.

A Man Called Ove (Movie Review by Bob Racine)

1 hr & 55 min, color, 2016

                                            

It is not often that we see a lighthearted motion picture featuring an individual’s repeated attempts to commit suicide.  Yes, you are reading me correctly – suicide intentions made humorous.  Not an easy task, but a Swedish auteur named Hannes Holm, director and screen writer, has succeeded where many others would probably have failed.  The individual whose grim, resolute efforts are depicted is a fifty-nine year-old construction engineer Ove (pronounced o-va) laid off from his decades-long job and six months a widower.  He is in every respect a curmudgeon who alienates himself from his neighbors over the most inconsequential issues.  He is a loud constant complainer, what we Americans might call a regular sourpuss.  

                                             

Most of the magic in the story derives from an astoundingly effective performance by an actor named Rolf Lassgard, someone fittingly unhandsome, whose tall obese body, pudgy face and deep base bark give us a kind of ferocious music.  Ove is a perfectionist, whose avocation is watchman in a lower middle class housing project, a gated community where each morning he does the rounds and tries to enforce rules of cleanliness and order, including the disallowance of automobiles on the narrow main street.  He never hesitates to dress down any violator, however slight the violation.  But his job has become only a habit; his heart has not been in it since his wife Sonya died, a woman he dearly loved.  Each day he takes flowers to her grave and talks with her, promising to join her very soon.  He is such a “proper” person that before each attempt to snuff himself out he dresses up in his finest clothes, as if he is going on a date, anticipating his reconciliation with his beloved.  That practice alone supplies comic value to his brash behavior.  Something in his manner begs us not to take him too seriously. 

Of course he is not very good at dying by his own hand.  Something or someone always distracts him or interrupts him.  An attempt at hanging from his living room ceiling is thwarted when the rope breaks.  This failure impels him to march back to the supply store and bawl out the saleswoman for selling him material that is not as strong as she allegedly claimed it was. A plan to throw himself in front of a train goes awry when another individual on the station platform accidently passes out and falls onto the tracks, and he is faced with the “inconvenience” of rescuing the guy.  By the time the others present pull Ove to safety the excitement for him is passed.  An attempt to asphyxiate himself in his car garage is interrupted by neighbors who pick up the scent.  And it is neighbors again whose pounding on his door causes him to lose his grip on his shotgun pressed to his throat.  Even a stray cat does its share in slowing his rush to extinction.  You have to witness these scenes to really appreciate the droll humor in them.                                      

There is, however, a sober and serious aspect to the story, one that becomes visible to us in an extended interwoven flashback.  It seems that Ove has not had the happiest life.  Death has visited him with great shock three times.  First, his mother dies when he is but a small child, he being the only offspring.  Then his father, a railroad worker, is accidentally killed on the job when Ove is in his early twenties.  This crisis leaves him vulnerable and all alone, until he meets Sonya (played with great sparkle and zest by Ida Engvoll), preparing to be a teacher.  Their courtship is very touching and joyously uplifting and ends when she successfully supports him in becoming an engineer.  They have a long and largely happy marriage.   Of course the third death and the most heartbreaking is that of Sonya herself, paraplegic and childless because of a severe tragedy.  In the wake of her passing from cancer, which is never portrayed, Ove grows hard and decides that nothing good has happened to him other than the woman he has loved.  “There was nothing before Sonya and there will be nothing after Sonya”.  

The rest of the magic stems from a lively supporting performance. 

Bahar Pars plays Parvaneh,  a young Persian mother of two who is expecting a third, a refugee from her Middle Eastern country, a woman who turns out to be a match for Ove, at least in the strongminded department.  She and her young Swedish husband and their two children move in next door, and Ove is repeatedly drawn with much resistance into helping them with one thing or another.   Parvaneh becomes the closest thing to a real friend, something that causes some conflicting emotion for Ove.  It is Parvaneh who finally breaks through his shell and lets him know how insane he is thinking that he does not need anyone.  She is the one to whom he ends up telling the flashback history.  The sharing of it, which apparently he has kept for so long to himself, does much to quieten the self-destructive urge that has been driving him.                                          

It is a real delight watching the influence of the two women upon Ove.  He betrays the fact, ever so slowly, that he does have a conscience and a heart of sympathy.  It takes relatively little to uncover that heart that still beats below the bluster.  Every time he does a favor upon request we get the feeling that he is just getting some duty out of the way so that he can effect his escape from the lonely life he is living.  Just this one last bothersome thing before I depart!  But one “bothersome” thing leads to another and another, until we are finally treated to his smile.  For me the most touching moment in the story is his holding Parvaneh’s newborn baby and placing it lovingly in the cradle he once made for the child he expected but never had.                     

“A Man Called Ove” is a sensitive and warm movie, very much on the side of the angels, well written and cleverly conceived, adapted from a novel by Fredrik Buckman.  It is one of the most enjoyable films from the continent of Europe I have seen in quite a while. 

My only fault-finding has to do with the casting of the young Ove.  Filip Berg is a competent actor and one to whom I extend my best wishes in the pursuit of his career, but I think he was miscast.  Admittedly it is always a challenge trying to match up different generations of the same character.  But I see nothing in the physique of Berg that bears any comparison to Lassgard’s bulkiness and broad countenance.  The same can be said for their personalities.  One is unassuming, the other is forceful and in your face.  I cannot close the gap between old and young, something I know is possible in motion pictures, because I have seen it done many times.  But what makes the flashback so enjoyable nonetheless is the appeal of the lovely Ida Engvoll.  She is the dominant figure in most of the scenes in which Berg appears.  She is the sun that outshines his moon.  As such they make a lovely pair.                               

I highly recommend “Ove” for viewers who are drawn to storytelling about ordinary people struggling with sorrow and in transition toward crucial personal discoveries about themselves, people crawling out of cages of their own making.

To read other entries in my blog, please consult its website:  enspiritus.blogspot.com.  To know about me, consult the autobiographical entry on the website for Dec. 5, 2016.