slaytonf

Thanks for the heads up, cigarjoe. It inspired a mini-odyssey about the movie, artist and more. First, the movie and the murals. I saw 3 Women (1977) a long time ago when it was available (without charge, of course) on YouTube. I don't remember a lot about it, except it was a tour de force of performances by Shelly Duvall, Sissy Spacek, and Janice Rule. And that, notwithstanding M*A*S*H (1970), it is his most subversive movie for it's attack on our understanding of identity and gender roles. The murals, grotesque, chimeric, tortured, menacing, sexually perverse: Done by artist Bodhi Wind, they are the expression of Willie Hart's (Janice Rule) rage against the patriarchal culture of America and the accompanying psychic injury, confusion and horror inflicted on women. That's just my guess. You can find out more about Mr. Wind by searching his name. His other work is not so disturbing, seeming to be a combination of surrealist, abstract, and cubist elements. Here is a good link: https://rutheh.com/2013/04/29/the-extraordinary-art-of-bodhi-wind/ I also stumbled on this Wikipedia page listing artists who created work that appeared in movies. It's not nearly comprehensive, but it's something: https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/List_of_artists_who_created_paintings_and_drawings_for_use_in_films

A Web search of her name results in many sites with more or less information in them. My experience in this is that while a lot of the information is repetitive from site to site, you will find some items that are new, and maybe one or two sites that have good overviews.

Sporting Blood (1931): It's not a great movie. Not remembered with the titans of cinema. But it has a lot of appealing things in it, and retains a higher position in my rotation of movies than many ones more famous. It has a fine cinematographer (Harold Rosson) as can be seen in the opening shots. Charles Brabin does a nice job directing, with inventive composition and staging making for entertaining viewing. The dialog is easy and casual, and the actors deliver it with an informality and naturalness that is comfort food to watch. Madge Evans and Clark Gable particularly have a good screen chemistry. But in it there is a moment of true greatness. Sam, the young stable hand at a thoroughbred farm has been detailed to bring the horses in to shelter from a rainstorm. In the confusion, he loses track of the prize mare, heavy with foal. She falls, breaks her leg, and has to be destroyed after dropping the foal. Sam is miserable, as we see in the clip. It would have been nothing for Jim Rellence (Ernest Torrence) to crush him. But he doesn't. Or what would have been almost as bad, he doesn't make any big deal saying he's not to blame, the surest way to cement his guilt feelings and guarantee lifelong insecurity. What he does is give him responsibility, treating it as routine, even chiding him for not doing what he ought to know he should do. It's a simple act, but I don't know of any greater instance of wisdom and compassion in movies. Again, I apologize for the aspect ratio. Can't seem to figure out how to correct for it.

Thanks for your reference. I see it's available for viewing on YouTube, with subtitles. I wonder if you know of any movies featuring art created for that movie, as opposed to works by real artists?

In Ex-Lady (1933) shown Wednesday Bette Davis, in various states of dishabille, portrays an artist wrangling with her lover/husband about how to handle love and marriage and the whole damn thing. The importance/unimportance of marriage with regard to sex and human relations was a common theme explored in movies in the early thirties before the enforcement of the Production Code, primarily because it was a common theme in plays of the period, which the studios vacuumed up on account of their voracious appetite for material. Though she is an artist in demand, we see almost none of her work. But we do see a lot of that of an associate of hers. A scene takes place in his apartment, where he mounts a show. It's typical of the way collections of an artist were portrayed in movies of the time. It's a jumble of all different styles and qualities, as if someone gave a requisition slip to a subordinate and told him to go grab 25 or thirty paintings from the warehouse: You don't get a good look at anything, and maybe you don't want to. But there is one featured that looks good to me: The figure has reference to human anatomy, skeletal and muscular, but also has a boneless flexibility. The pose creates a sinuous energy. I'm racking my brain trying to think of whose style this is reminiscent of. The lady viewing the painting is Claire Dodd.

Only Angels Have Wings (1939): Might as well stay with Howard Hawks. I mentioned one of his hallmark techniques was how he made ensemble scenes. Here's his best I know of, in one of my favorite of his movies. I'm also confident it's a general favorite of TCMers, too. It's also one of my favorite Jean Arthur movies. Despite the plot, the heavily weighted male casting, the supercharged machismo-testostero-saturated atmosphere, Miss Arthur cooly waltzes in, picks the movie up from the bar, puts it in her pocket, and walks off with it--and, I suspect, by Howard Hawks' design. This, notwithstanding the shabby treatment she got in the middle part of the movie; changed from a smartly dressed, self-possessed, sexy woman into a frumpy go-about in--what was she wearing?--pajamas? I know the story, she was sidelined to avoid competing with Columbia's new hot property, Rita Hayworth, whom the execs wanted to promote. That says two things, or at least two things. One, Jean Arthur had star power, and sexiness, and screen swagger to pose a threat. And two, the idiocy of the execs in thinking that by downplaying Miss Arthur, they were helping Miss Hayworth. They hadn't the sense to realize that credible competition would be the best way to raise Rita Hayworth's profile. Having nothing real to punch against is only shadow boxing. And if she couldn't hold her own, then there was no help for her, no matter how they stacked the decks in her favor. As it turned out, Miss Hayworth was true pay dirt, and all that resulted was the only serious flaw in an otherwise terrific movie. Well, ok, the exploding condors in the mountain passes aren't so hot, either. Jean Arthur, Hawks proxy, takes control of the clumsy musical undertaking, driving it forward and shaping it. She's clearly in her zone. Below the viewer's notice, people and energy are steadily added to the scene, until by the end, the frame is filled with a complex tapestry of people, motion, and music. To accomplish this, Hawks must surely have had the people at the back of the screen stand on boxes. All in two-and-a-half minutes.

The Thing From Another World (1951): There is much debate still about who really directed this movie. Some saying it was Christian Nyby, others Howard Hawks, with all gradations and variations of mixing between the two. This depends on who was being asked, and when. But when I watch the movie, I see Howard Hawks all over it. His signature elements are plain to be seen. His overlapping dialog, to recreate the messiness of conversation. The composition and choreography of ensemble scenes. And panning across a static setting, one technique he used to overcome the limits of the 4:3 aspect ratio to encompass a wider landscape. Given these and others, I'll go with him as the director. And because this scene is something no one but the likes of Hawks could have done. Choreography of the characters' movements, plot development, and the score are brilliantly synchronized here. Viewers are unsuspecting of where they are being led, until the astonishing instant they realize, along with the characters, what is buried under the ice. By making the viewers identify with the characters, Hawks draws them into the movie. It's an incredibly powerful and adroit bit of filmmaking, all done with little more that a few dark spots on a light background. This is what I watch movies to see.

Ziegfeld Girl (1941): The movie is not your typical Hollywood extravaganza. Well, it is. I mean it has all the usual features and what people call "production values" of a major front-line feature. Great music (including the bonafide standard we hear at the beginning of the clip). And a solid list of talent (Ms. Turner among the nascent) to put it over. But it has a lot more dimension to the themes and the imagery than is normal, or even needed for a successful production. A theme that has a central place in the plot development is walking up and down stairs. That may seem thin for a movie that explores such a range of heavy issues. On the surface it's a means for Mr. Ziegfeld to show off the shapes of his glorified girls. From the scene of the Follies recruits learning posture, clumsily climbing and descending steps with books on their heads, to their debut on stage, gliding up and down staircases as graceful as they are, we see their acquisition of poise and refinement. But it's also a symbol of a girl's control over herself and her life. Mastery of stairs is mastery of life--or vice versa. And as Shiela goes up and down in life, we see a change in how she handles her stairs. Hitting her nadir, she falls off them. But it also affords her an inner strength, as we see in the clip. Faced with a long descent, fearful at first, she recalls her training, composes herself, and starts down. All the different aspects of moviemaking harmonize in it to create a rare and wonderful moment. And unlike in the Baby Face (1933) clip which is silent, here there is music. And it's vital, recalling her past triumph, providing atmosphere and rhythm for her movement. Lana Turner's character, Sheila Regan, was marked for death at the end of the movie--a fitting reward for a dissipated life . But audiences wouldn't have it. The least MGM could get away with was making her end ambiguous. She's carried off by her squeeze, babbling of duck farms. But does she make it? It's possible her knockout loveliness and outandout starpower influenced movie goers. But I think what went a long way toward her salvation was this last walk down the stairs. If only unconsciously, they must have seen something in a woman who could manage such grace at death's door (though I'm damned if I can see it) worthy of saving.

Golddiggers of 1935 (1935): Acerbic, sardonic, wry. These are all words one might use to describe Ned Sparks' acting style. He is definitely one of the best character actors, wonderfully complementing whatever leads he's teamed with. He's the salt of salt-and-pepper, the sour of sweet-and-sour, the vinegar--you get the idea. Whether by design or by the way he played them, his characters posed themselves as more-or-less detached observers, their dialog chorus-like comments on the action. Nobody else could deliver their lines in such a persistent deadpan monotone and get away with it. Remarkably he was able to convey considerable subtlety. He never had much opportunity to show his real chops, and this as far as I know is his best. The scene goes way beyond plot development. It strikes at the misery being felt by many Americans, the sense of helplessness and betrayal. And he must have hit contemporary audiences hard. It still resonates today.

Thanks for the notice. I have edited my post.

Vertigo (1958): Some love it. Some hate it. Some think it is the best movie ever made. Well, that's a lot to say for any movie. For me, it certainly is the best movie Hitchcock ever made, and is what elevates him to the highest ranks of directors. Notwithstanding one's opinion of it, there is no denying the movie's theme of perversity. It dwells on it, romanticizes it, wallows in it, exalts in it. Scotty and Judy--Madeleine, that is, are both tortured, warped souls, desperate for salvation. Perhaps it's part of their sickness that they delude themselves into thinking they can find it in each other. Whatever relief they find, or hope they can is only a twisted parody of real love. Their desperation pulls them to catastrophe, speeding to devastation: Please, please do this for me, and I will love you. If I do this, will you love me? The scene is a masterful culmination of the theme. Bathed in garish green neon light, evocative of their sickness, their hopes and desires are consummated. Scotty has finally reshaped Judy into Madeleine. The hair is the last detail. She walks out of a haze at him, his ideal reincarnated. His infatuated gaze makes us understand that for all his manipulation, he is as helpless as Madeleine. They embrace. The world spins. And they spin in the world. But it is a horrible parody, because Madeleine is not real, was never real. She was only what Scotty projected onto Judy, his romanticized ideal of playing the savior, to relieve the intolerable need to expiate his guilt. But Judy is also playing a role--and not playing it well. Only because he was so wounded was he taken in. A detective would have seen through such a thin ploy. He willfully ignored it before, and here his rational mind is aware of where things are headed with a vision of the livery stable. But the draw of his perversity is too strong, and he dives back into it. Yeah. This is his best scene.

In a movie with a lot to feast on visually, this is perhaps Victor Fleming's best moment. I guess the best moment of his career. The slowly retreating crane shot reveals a growing sense of the enormity of the disaster to the audience, and of how hopeless the efforts of people to cope with it are.

This is the only ending I've ever seen. Perhaps you are conflating it with another movie.

Saved from the maudlin by De Sica's brilliance.

My guess is the pretty girl is Cathryn Harrison. The Polaroid snapping woman in bed is probably Therese Giehse. The movie is probably Black Moon (1975).

Well, that's different. . . .

Looks like North By Northwest (1959), with Eva Marie Saint, and Cary Grant.

The Light That Failed (1939): It's not a great movie. Not even a very good one. The material it's based on is standard Kipling, all about hewing to a code of morality, conduct appropriate, the jingoist eulogizing of war, the right and proper expansion of the British way of life--all very conventional, including the heavy dose of racism. It's made watchable, just, by the abilities of its stars, Ida Lupino, Ronald Colman, and Walter Huston. William Wellman also contributes, though he's hampered by the constraints of the settings, with one brilliant exception, the basis of this post. The story centers on an artist (Colman), lured by the siren of filthy lucre to capitalize on notoriety from some recent war work to make some easy money, regaining his muse by painting the agonized laughter of a streetwalker (Lupino), only then to lose his eyesight. The only thing he finds more intolerable than sitting around not feeling sorry for himself, is his friends coming by to show him how they are not feeling sorry for him. But he does not have to put up with that for long. Though they stuck close to him while he was successful, tut-tutting him admonitorialy for his selling out, they all fly away to another war, abandoning him now that he really needs them. Well, his hits on a course of action, which lifts all the gloom of not feeling sorry for himself. He travels to the war where his friends are at, gets them to put him in a cavalry charge, and. . . .you see the result. That's sure a lot for a movie that ain't so much. But if there ever were an indifferent movie redeemed by a great ending, this is it. And it's not even the last scene, which is a conventional cavalry charge, although well done. It's the very last shot of the movie, which you see in the clip. We follow his friends rushing up to his body, but the camera doesn't do the expected thing and look down at it. It leaves them behind and looks up to the distance. What? What's there to see? Then, before we are aware of what to look for, his riderless horse has come out of the horizon running at the camera. The effect is eerie. Some ghostly symbol of death. Pale horse, pale death. Or is it his muse, or some otherworldly escort, startled to find itself unaccompanied, come back to look for his spirit? It's something you'd expect of Fellini, or Kurosawa, and is unique in studio era movies. I apologize for the aspect ratio. I don't know how to correct it.

One of my favorites. Despite his subservient roles, he was never a subservient man. He was much more than an actor.

Playtime (1967): Jacques Tati's genius was primarily visual. By far this is his most accomplished (though not successful) movie. It's a challenge to watch from the first moment, so dense is the imagery, so subtle the choreography of all the different elements in the scenes. The one in the night club being the most complex and fascinating. He must have intended it as, and it is the high point of his career. The movie is rounded off by a wonderful set piece centered on a roundabout. An american boards her group tour bus at the end of their stay in Paris. As it makes its way around on the way to the airport, a series of curious events begins. Bright colored and festive decorations appear, installed by anonymous agencies. People show up carrying rainbows of balloons. The soundtrack is infused with calliope music. The viewer is intrigued. Surely these are preparations, but for what? Then the vehicles in the roundabout start to behave strangely, jerking and bucking. Anticipation builds, traffic stops. Breaths are held. Then someone puts a coin in parking meter and--realization comes, the magic begins. The viewer knows: a carousel! Tati has turned the roundabout into a carousel! He ends the movie with a charming interlude of unalloyed joy and simple gaiety, all in a carnival atmosphere. One of the most delightful in movies.

Sure.

The Leopard Man (1943): Horror is a transient artifact. Surprise is it's main element, either in timing, or what happens. Once you've seen it, surprise is gone, and so is the shock value. Except for one scene in Val Lewton's The Leopard Man (1943). It's the scene where Teresa is sent by an impossibly obtuse mother out late at night to fetch some corn meal for her father's supper. It's scary enough the first time you see it (remember jumping when the train passes overhead? Now, don't say you didn't!). But no matter how many times I see it, that scene still creeps me out. Maybe it's something primal in my mind that recognizes a threat. Something not only of injury or even death, but complete annihilation. But maybe I'm over thinking it. Anyway, if you wanted to point out a scene in Mr. Lewton's catalog that was the best example of his style, this would be it. He specialized in isolating people in bleak, dark, and largely deserted landscapes to heighten the sense of vulnerability, and the shock of the attack when it does come--if it comes. Also, we see almost nothing of the menace, mostly just a pair of glowing eyes. Allowing us to draw on our fears to create the horror. Much better to hear a hysterical scream while looking at a comfortable domestic setting, and then witness a stream of blood under the door than any amount of refined special effects showing a cat mauling the doomed senorita. Maybe it's because when we see it, we know it can't be real, it's just a movie. But if we see it in our minds, it could be real.

Setsuko Hara.

A devastating end to a movie relentless in its portrait of an abused woman. The contrast of the revelers in the nighttime park with forlorn Cabriria walking among them is awful. Their joyful mood infects her and she smiles. But it is not a sign of her regeneration, but her susceptibility. Fellini and cinematographer Aldo Tonti set a cheerful scene, the trees and figures glowing in the night, with Nino Rota's lilting, slightly melancholic music. But it's Giulietta Masina who gives it it's tragic power, showing her capitulation to the life she leads, and showing why she is one of the handful of the very best actresses.

A great rallying cry against oppression and the abuse of power. For the constant struggle to maintain dignity and freedom in the face of the people and interests that would thieve them from us.