Hombre (1967)

 

Entranced Earth (Terra em Transe) 1967

 

Cool Hand Luke (1967)

 

Closely Watched Trains (Ostre Sledované Vlaky) 1967

Bonnie and Clyde (1967)

 

Belle de Jour (1967)

 

The Graduate (1967) ***

And here’s to you, Mrs. Bancroft…I love you more than you will know. Only you could make me give director Mike Nichols’ The Graduate (1967) three out of four stars.  Had it not been for your phenomenal performance as Mrs. Robinson I am quite certain that I, and countless others, would have been much less enthralled with this satirical look at 1960s suburbia.  I expect that had you played a more dominant role in the second-half of the movie it would have garnered four stars instead of three.  Yet, for some reason screenwriters Calder Willingham and Buck Henry gave you short shrift after you absolutely dominated the first hour of the film. 

Yes, the story is about Benjamin Braddock's (Dustin Hoffman) disillusionment with life following a very successful time at college. He stares into fish tanks as though he were drowning in suburbia and materialism. He listens as older men (Walter Brooke) extoll the virtues of plastic.  Yet, it is your Mrs. Robinson that breathes life into Benjamin and the movie. Had it not been for your sexy, cynical, and ferocious turn as one of the most iconic film personalities ever, The Graduate may have been nothing more than an exercise in post-war American male self-loathing. 

It took guts to play a 45-year-old woman when you were only 35 yourself.  Perhaps that’s why Mrs. Robinson always looks so decisively confident.  It is probably also why the audience believes that you are really seducing a man half your age when in fact Hoffman was only a mere six years younger than you. My goodness, Mrs. Bancroft, you sure did know how to rock the costumes Patricia Zipprodt put you in.  Nichols viewed your character as a jungle cat stalking her prey. Not everyone can wear animal prints, but tiger stripes looked great on you.  Oh, and those furs—especially that Somalian leopardskin wrap—just accentuated your femininity and brimming sexuality. 

Mrs. Bancroft, I must tell you how bitterly disappointed I was when the film turned away from your character and focused on Benjamin and that beyond-boring Katharine Ross, who played your daughter Elaine. When your complex and compelling character gets pushed out of the picture so Nichols can focus on what I view as Benjamin’s complete break with reality (he and Elaine were obviously riding that bus at the end of the film to an asylum) I get bored…so bored. I find myself asking, “When will she come back and rescue me from this idiotic exercise in youthful insanity?” When will I hear another perfectly delivered exchange like this:

Mrs. Robinson: Benjamin.

Benjamin: Yes?

Mrs. Robinson: Isn't there something you want to tell me?

Benjamin: Tell you?

Mrs. Robinson: Yes.

Benjamin: Well, I want you to know how much I appreciate this. Really.

Mrs. Robinson: The number.

Benjamin: What?

Mrs. Robinson: The room number, Benjamin. I think you ought to tell me that.

Benjamin: Oh, you're absolutely right. It's 568.

Mrs. Robinson: Thank you.

Now I know, Mrs., Bancroft, that you felt as though The Graduate defined the rest of your career. You had a habit of reminding people that you’d given other great performances in your career, but sometimes one role is just so spectacular that it must be owned forever. You do know you were the original “cougar”, right? And, that you forever destroyed the image of motherhood. The June Cleaver’s and Donna Reed’s of the world were completely scandalized and revolutionized by you revealing the truth that even married mothers of a certain age have sex drives. And, who can hear Simon and Garfunkel’s “Mrs. Robinson” and not immediately think of you putting on silk stockings or calmly asking Benjamin if he’s armed as you call the police to report a burglar. Quite simply, Mrs. Bancroft, if it hadn’t been for you The Graduate would not be considered one of the most iconic films of the 1960s.  Yes, you lost the Best Actress Oscar to Katharine Hepburn for her role in Guess Who’s Coming to Dinner (1967), but think about it: who really remembers that film much anymore?  Ah, but people will always remember you, Mrs. Bancroft, in The Graduate.

Playtime (1967) :(((

You suck, Jacques Tati! I’ve seen three of your films and they all blew. Francois Truffaut wrote that your Playtime (1967) was a “film that comes from another planet, where they make films differently.” I expect he meant that as some sort of compliment—to me it means that somewhere in the galaxy there is a planet full of films I would never want to watch.  I’m glad you went bankrupt after this ₣17-million fiasco, and I’m especially pleased that the man who constantly criticized modernization had to do an advertisement for Lloyd’s Bank ATM machines to pay off debts incurred while making this pointless, plot-less, meandering film.

For a man who said he grew to dislike playing his signature character, Monsieur Hulot, you sure went to the well a lot.  Many people find the pipe-smoking Hulot lovingly innocent and likable.  He just annoys me.  Just how many people in the French army did this man meet? And, how many after meeting him would be so pleased to run into him years later on the street and offer him a job or to buy him a drink, etc.?  Even worse, he spawned an evil doppelganger in England with the creation of Mr. Bean!  You suck Jacques Tati, and so does M. Hulot!

I’d discuss what Playtime is about, but that would require a plot.  Your Hulot is back in Paris and he is still bewildered by modernization.  Everything is cold and sterile in his view of the modern world. Ultra-clean lines, metal and glass are everywhere to be seen.  You built a massive set that was nicknamed Tativille and then shot it with 70mm film—those were your best ideas.  The set design is awesome—everything else sucks, just like you, Jacques Tati! 

Hulot’s mindless wandering is overlapped with the sightseeing of an American tourist played by Barbara Dennek.  Through their travels you visually criticize the modern workplace, transportation system, and home.  Along the way you make us watch the complete deconstruction of a restaurant for 45-minutes and then your idiotic carousel of cars.  The only thing in your entire film that I found mildly entertaining was how you designed your apartment scenes to appear as TV screens.  Everything else sucks, just like you, Jacques Tati!

Overall, this film sucks, just like you, Jacques Tati!

The Young Girls of Rochefort (Les Demoiselles de Rochefort) 1967 **1/2

In 1964 director Jacques Demy shocked the Cannes Film Festival when he released The Umbrellas of Cherbourg, a modern day (popular) opera entirely sung and set primarily to a jazz score.  Along with legendary French songwriter Michel Legrand, Demy wrote a musical soundtrack/script that was at times playful, romantic, and haunting. It was a box office and critical success, and it made its star, Catherine Deneuve, an internationally recognized movie star. It was Demy’s aim to create a new musical format, one that owed “nothing to American musical comedy and nothing to French operetta.” Yes, he found inspiration in such films as An American in Paris (1951) and Les Girls (1957), but he wanted his musicals to be uniquely Demy—a colorful fantasy world awash with whimsical musical numbers.  That is exactly what he created with The Young Girls of Rochefort in 1967. 

Set and filmed in the French western seaside town of Rochefort (on the banks of the Charente River),  The Young Girls of Rochefort centers around the artistically gifted and ambitious Garnier sisters: twins (and real-life sisters) Delphine (Deneuve) and  Solange (Françoise Dorléac).  Unfulfilled with their jobs of teaching ballet (Delphine) and giving music lessons (Solange), the sisters long to escape to Paris to realize their dreams. Oh, and both are looking for their dream man, too.  When a fair comes to town for the weekend the sisters decide they will leave with it and make their way to Paris and, hopefully, stardom. 

All of Demy’s films have a thematic connection in that they somehow examine the meaning of love and separation.  In The Young Girls of Rochefort these themes are examined by the search for one’s ideal love.  Not only do the twins long for their ideals, but so does their mother Yvonne (Danielle Darrieux) and a number of other characters in the film.  By being separated from their ideals (some of whom have already been met and others who were just missed by coincidence and/or circumstance), the film has an underlying melancholic feel to it which is sharply contrasted by the overly bright production designs and the energetic musical numbers. These are the elements that define and set apart a Demy musical from others.

The musical numbers here are unlike those in The Umbrellas of Cherbourg in that no dialogue is sung and they are clearly breaks in the story.  The film opens with an intricately choreographed number by Norman Maen, as a carnival sets up in the town square with Legrand’s jazz introduction playing in the background.  This really sets the atmosphere for the rest of the film—clothed in bright colors the dancers effortlessly construct an entire set before our very eyes.  From this scene Demy smoothly transitions to the twins overlooking apartment, where we find the girls immersed in their artistic pursuits.  We are quickly introduced to them and the next thing we know they are engaged in a hilarious dancing duet about being “Les Demoiselles de Rochefort” (AKA “The Twins’ Song”).  From there we are treated to countless other upbeat numbers full of pep and color.  Still, there are a few melancholic songs, the most famous being “Chanson de Delphine” (although the music is set to various lyrics, based on what character is singing the song, it is after all everyone’s love song, just with a different ideal lover sung in mind).  Oh, and did I mention Gene Kelly is in the film, too?

That’s right, Mr. American Musical himself is in this quirky French musical extravaganza, too.  Demy waited two years to make The Young Girls of Rochefort because Kelly was engaged with other projects.  He plays an American composer destined to meet and fall in love with Solange.  He may have been 55 when he made the film, but he was clearly in peak shape and performs two of the best numbers in the movie.  “Andy in Love” finds Kelly exuberantly dancing through the streets of Rochefort after having met his true love: Solange.  Each person he meets along the way he engages in a small, separate dance—he even jumps atop a car (not so bad for 55, huh?).  Of course, the most beautifully fluid dance is the one he does with Dorléac near the end of the film.  Balletic and romantic, it takes my breath away every time I see it.  Still, after watching these musical numbers you might be a tad confused by the voice of Andy—it was dubbed.  This is strange because Kelly spoke and sung fluent French, but Demy chose to use someone else’s voice. 

While The Young Girls of Rochefort may not be as wonderful as The Umbrellas of Cherbourg, it is still a highly enjoyable (and colorful) musical. The songs are bubbly and the dance sequences are brilliantly choreographed.  In addition, the film has a rather poignant note for two reasons.  One, Françoise Dorléac died in a car crash just prior to the film’s premiere, and so it is nice to see her working so happily alongside her real-life sister Catherine Deneuve.  Second, this is the last good film Kelly danced in (Xanadu was crap).  For those of you who call yourselves Gene Kelly fans but haven’t seen this you should be ashamed.  Yes, it’s in French, but it is also the last time you truly get to see Kelly show off his extraordinary gifts as a dancer.  In the words of Shakespeare (sort of): Get thee to Netflix!

In the Heat of the Night (1967) ***

(This article is from guest contributor Rick29 and first appeared at http://classic-film-tv.blogspot.com/.  The rating in the title is my own.)

This racially-charged mystery, 1968’s Oscar winner for Best Picture, has aged gracefully over the years. The secret to its success can be attributed to its many layers. Peel back the mystery plot and you have a potent examination of racial tension in the South in the 1960s. Peel that back and you have a rich character study of two lonely police detectives, from completely different backgrounds, who gradually earn each other’s respect.

The film opens with a nighttime “tour” of Sparta, Mississippi, as police officer Sam Woods (Warren Oates) makes his rounds in his patrol car. He stops at a diner for a cold Coca Cola, then drives past closed shops with their bright neon signs. He pauses at a house where a young exhibitionist walks around in the nude. It’s a typical night in the sleepy little town…until Sam finds a dead body in an alley way.

The murder victim turns out to be an industrialist who planned to build a big factory in Sparta. The local police chief, Bill Gillespie (Rod Steiger), quickly launches an investigation that results in the arrest of a well-dressed black man at the train station. Much to Gillespie’s dismay, he learns his prime suspect is actually a police detective from Philadelphia named Virgil Tibbs (Sidney Poitier), who was awaiting a connecting train to Memphis. Tibb’s Philly superior tells Gillespie that Virgil is his “number one homicide expert.”

Though Gillespie doesn’t like Tibbs, he realizes that he needs help. Gillespie knows his subordinates are ineffective (they can’t even remember to oil the air conditioner) and the mayor won’t support him if he fails to find the killer quickly. Most importantly, Gillespie realizes that he’s out of his element; he just wants to run a “nice clean town” and lacks the expertise to handle a homicide investigation. For his part, Tibbs is torn—he’s eager to leave, but wouldn’t mind showing up these prejudiced, ignorant white men.

The film’s most famous scene is the confrontation between Tibbs and Endicott (Larry Gates), a wealthy cotton farmer and a principal murder suspect. Their conversation begins as a calm discussion on orchids, but Endicott quickly shows his racist side when he notes his flowers are “like the Negro…they need care and feeding and cultivating.” Tibbs coolly ignores the insult and persists with probing questions. When Endicott realizes he’s under investigation for murder, he slaps Tibbs across the face. Without hesitation, Tibbs strikes him back. When an enraged Endicott asks Gillespie what he’s going to do about Tibbs’ actions, the police chief replies simply: “I don’t know.”

Seen today, the scene still works as powerful drama. It no doubt had a greater and more significant impact when In the Heat of the Night was originally released. Ironically, Tibbs’ slap wasn’t in the novel nor the original screenplay (in both, Tibbs just walks away). In a February 2009 interview with the American Academy of Achievement, Poitier said he read the script and then told producer Walter Mirisch: “I will insist that I respond to this man (Endicott) precisely as a human being would ordinarily respond to this man. And he pops me, and I'll pop him right back. And I said, if you want me to play it, you will put that in writing. And in writing you will also say that if this picture plays the South, that that scene is never, ever removed.” Mirisch agreed and a classic, landmark scene made its way into a mainstream Hollywood film.

Historical significance aside, the film’s best-played scene has Tibbs and Gillespie relaxing in the latter’s drab home as a train whistle echoes in the distance. Drinking warm bourbon, Gillespie confesses to Tibbs that the Philly detective is the first person to see the inside of his home. Then, in an unguarded moment, Gillespie opens up about his mundane existence and isolation.

Gillespie: Don’t you get just a little lonely?
Tibbs: No lonelier than you, man.
Gillespie: Oh now, don’t get smart, Black boy. I don’t need it. No pity, thank you. No thank you.

The scene perfectly illustrates the performers’ contrasting acting styles (which is one reason why they work so well together). Steiger dramatically transforms from a sad sack looking off into a corner of room into a proud man who is offended that Tibbs would empathize with him. Poitier, meanwhile, says very little, slumping in his chair to convey exhaustion and leaning forward attentively to show interest in Gillespie.

Thanks in part to Stirling Silliphant’s excellent dialogue, In the Heat of the Night provides an ideal showcase for its two leads. Steiger, who had a tendency to overact in later movies, remains in total control here. Gillespie’s sloppy appearance, yellow-tinted sunglasses, and constant gum-chewing makes him look like a typical redneck Southern sheriff—but Steiger skillfully avoids playing the stereotype. Gillespie comes across as wily, independent, proud, prejudiced, and lonely. The performance earned Steiger a well-deserved Best Actor Oscar.
Poitier matches him scene for scene as the intelligent, proud, equally prejudiced Tibbs. He skillfully underplays the Philadelphia detective, so that when Tibbs strikes Endicott or flashes his anger toward Gillespie, those scenes catch fire. Amazingly, Poitier was not Oscar nominated, perhaps because his votes were split among three memorable 1967 performances: In the Heat of the Night, Guess Who’s Coming to Dinner, and To Sir, With Love.

Strip away its atmospheric setting and riveting characters and In the Heat of the Night is just an average mystery. But, in this case, the plot is just a means to the ends. The film is foremost a character study of two strong-willed men (played by two actors at the peak of their careers). Secondly, it’s a portrait of Southern life in the late 1960s. Some of it may be exaggerated, but overall, screenwriter Silliphant and director Norman Jewison skillfully capture a time and a place—making the viewer feel like they’ve just experienced a visit to Sparta in the 1960s. That’s what makes the confrontation between Tibbs and Endicott so powerful.
In the Heat of the Night also spawned one of the most famous lines of dialogue in movie history (the American Film Institute ranked it #16…it should have been higher). When Tibbs’ investigative skills expose a flaw in Gillespie’s initial theory about the crime, the following exchange take place:

Gillespie: Well, you're pretty sure of yourself, ain't you, Virgil? Virgil, that's a funny name for a nigger boy to come from Philadelphia. What do they call you up there?
Tibbs: They call me Mister Tibbs!

And that’s exactly what they called Virgil in two sequels in which Poitier reprised the role: They Call Me MISTER Tibbs (1970) and The Organization (1971). Sadly, neither film is very good. They transform Tibbs into a family man working in a big city—making him just another detective working the streets in a 1970s urban crime film.

In 1988, In the Heat of the Night was adapted as a television series starring Carroll O’Connor as Gillespie and Howard Rollins as Tibbs. Set in Sparta again, the show lasted for eight seasons, although Rollins was dropped after 1993 due to legal problems.