Classe tous risques

Lino Ventura and Jean-Paul Belmondo

Claude Sautet's Classe tous risques is a superb Gallic gangster film from 1960.  It is a fluid genre film that upends some of the conventions of the genre. Lino Ventura stars as Abel Davos, a lifelong hood who we first meet in exile in Italy. He has a wife and two young sons and he yearns to return with them to France even though a death sentence hangs over his head there. In order to finance this move, Abel and his partner in crime, Raymond (Stan Krol), commit a daring daytime robbery in Milan. On the run from the Italian police now, Abel and Raymond hijack a small boat and try to sneak into France with Abel's wife and children in tow. They are met on the shore by gendarmes and a gunfight ensues which results in numerous deaths including that of Abel's wife and Raymond.

The opening thirty minutes of Classe tous risques are a terrific example of terse action cinema with a minimum of exposition and dialogue. Sautet admitted he modeled his style on the lean pursuit Westerns of Budd Boetticher, especially Seven Men From Now. Sautet and screenwriter José Giovanni based the screenplay on Giovanni's noir novel, but reworked the book. The film includes an omniscient narrator, but the narration is more spare and ironic than in the novel. Giovanni was quite a sinister figure and gleaned the source of this tale from a buddy in stir. He penned many a noir tale that ended up as films including Le trou, Le deuxième souffle, and Symphonie pour un massacre. Classes tous risques was Sautet's debut as a director. He had worked as an assistant director previously for such luminaries as Jacques Becker and Georges Franju. He had just filled in on a film after the director had been fired. Ventura had been the lead in that film and, impressed by Sautet, recommended him to Classe tous risques' producer.

After the shootout on the beach, the film changes tone somewhat and becomes a mournful meditation on friendship, or the lack thereof, and fatalism. Ventura's hangdog looks are perfect for a tale that limns an arc of decline. Abel has to hole up in Nice with his two young sons. I don't recall another noir that has its protagonist in such a predicament. Thus, Ventura gets to show two sides of his talent in this role. Ever since his film debut in Touchez pas au grisbi, Ventura, a former champion wrestler, had been stuck playing, as he put it, "gorilla' roles. He does get to show off this aspect of his talent in the film, dispatching a number of opponents with brute strength in striking, well-directed action scenes. However, Abel's scenes with his sons display a vulnerability and sensitivity heretofore unexplored. Sautet even coaxed spontaneous and believable performances from those kids. Abel knows that he must ditch the tikes, but needs help. He calls up associates from his old criminal days in Paris. They seem reluctant, but do eventually agree to hire an ambulance and a driver in order to squire him and his sons covertly to Paris.

Sandra Milo and Belmondo

The driver is named Eric Stark and is played by Jean-Paul Belmondo, on the verge of stardom. Retroactive advertising for this picture made him the co-lead, but this is Ventura's picture. Belmondo pops up forty minutes or so into the flick. Abel is initially suspicious of Stark, but bonds with him after finding out he was a friend of Raymond's. He doesn't even mind when Stark picks up a skirt named Liliane (Sandra Milo), an actress they witness being abused by her manager by the roadside. Ms. Milo was the girlfriend of the producer and was foisted on Mr. Sautet, but holds her own in sterling company. Maybe it was not so hard to appear to be turned on by Mr. Belmondo, then at the height of his beauty/ugliness. More importantly for the film, the cocky young bantam Belmondo has a great rapport with the taciturn bull Ventura. Stark proves a friend  when Abel needs it, for his former companions prove slippery indeed. Noted scene stealer such as Marcel Dalio and Claude Cerval etch a memorable rogue's gallery. Abel has his revenge, but it is muted, limited, and not passionate. It is served cold by a heart in winter. Abel has had enough and walks resignedly to his fate. He melts into a crowd, as if Sautet is saying: they walk amongst us. 

Even the smallest roles in this movie give it texture and bite: an old friend of Abel's who works in at a maritime museum, a bratty step-daughter of Dalio's fishy fence, and an innocent maid at Belmondo's hotel are all memorably drawn and executed. Sautet is not a particularly distinctive stylist, but his work does seize upon the world at large in all its breadth. If I had to type him it would be as an analytic objectivist like Otto Preminger. Which makes sense since Sautet like Preminger was feted by the Mac-Mahonists in Paris. Sautet had many ups and downs in his career. Classe tous risques was initially a flop, but has built up enough of a following to land in the Criterion Collection. When Sautet was not directing, he worked as a very successful script doctor, akin to Elaine May or Robert Towne in our country. He did leave us many excellent films that he directed himself including Max et les Ferrailleurs, Un cœur en hiver, Nelly and Monsieur Arnaud, and Classe tous risques.

Miroirs No. 3

Paula Beer

Christian Petzold's Miroirs No. 3 is another rewarding and disquieting expansion of the German writer/ director's oeuvre. At 86 minutes, it is a terse yarn with crisp and telling editing by Bettina Böhler. The film centers on Laura (Paula Beer), a depressed music student who we learn is studying in Berlin. Traveling through the countryside, displayed in the film in all its autumn finery, Laura and her boyfriend experience a horrible auto accident and the boyfriend is killed. Dazed after the crash, Laura is taken in by a seemingly kind older woman named Betty (Barbara Auer). However, it soon seems that Betty is the one in need of support.

I must warn the reader that I will now spoil the plot. Petzold does so himself, following Hitchcock's dictum that the audience will experience the thrill of anticipation if the audience knows a ticking time bomb is about to explode rather than just detonating a bomb without warning. At one point early in the proceedings, Betty calls Laura "Yelena", a slip of the tongue that told me and I'm sure many other viewers that Betty is using Laura as a daughter substitute. We soon meet Betty's husband and son who seem partially estranged from her. They both operate a slightly shady garage. Not much really happens except for unhealthy family dynamics until the son blurts out the truth about Yelena. There is a twisted sense of healing achieved for all concerned. Laura starts out being treated like a child by Betty who tucks Laura in like a toddler. When she ultimately learns the truth about Yelena, she acts outs like a teen. She ditches Yelena's wardrobe which Betty had given her and dons again the psycho grungy duck sweater she wore at the film's beginning. She leaves her temporary nest, as all children must do.  

I feel Miroirs No. 3 is an autumnal and ironic comedy, like Hitchcock's The Trouble with Harry. This explains Beer's Mona Lisa smile in the final shot. In this bourgeois satire, the characters are too terse to communicate. The males tinker with their gadgets while the females have at least the balm of culture in the form of painting and music. There is no score per se, but this heightens our awareness of the film's use of songs. They range from Frankie Valli and the Four Seasons to Ravel, part of whose piano suite gives the film its title. The music expresses what the characters feel more that the feeble words they provide for one another. In some respects, this mirrors the formal intent of Petzold. This film is not one of his magnum opus masterpieces (which include Barbara, Phoenix, and Undine), but it is a first class étude. All the actors are superb and Hans Fromm's cinematography is as striking and unsettling as a Courbet.                       

Sirat

Sergei Lopez

I was a tiny bit disappointed by Oliver Laxe's Sirāt. The Galician filmmaker still must be considered a comer at the age of 44, but I prefer his previous features, Fire Will Come and The Settlers. Sirāt, set entirely in the deserts and mountain ranges of Morocco, represents an opening up in terms of scope in the director's work, but at the loss of characterization. The film's slim plot concerns an aging Spaniard named Luis (Sergei López) who is searching the arid country with his prepubescent son, Esteban, in tow searching for Esteban's sister. They attend a rave and pass out leaflets with her picture. They attach themselves to a caravan of two buses hoping to find her at the next rave. The duo are not prepared for a cross country trip across Morocco and it is only with the assistance of the ravers that they are able to survive. Luis and Esteban ultimately bond with the motley crew and the boy has his hair braided and shaved to mark the moment.

Laxe's primary thematic concern has been the clash of cultures, perhaps not surprising coming from a Galician, and Sirāt is no exception. However, I found the motivations of his characters to be awfully thin in this picture. Part of the reason is that Laxe has filled his supporting cast with non-actors who seem to have been hired more for their appearance than their ability to project a character. Mr. López has extensive and impressive credits, including Pan's Labyrinth and Happy as Lazaro, but Luis is too taciturn a character to explain his back story or motivation. I do suppose it is realistic for the other characters not to chatter about themselves since they are zonked out all the time on different herbs and spices. It is difficult to find words when in the throes of ecstasy.  

However, Laxe starts bumping off his characters halfway through the film and I was surprised how little I cared. No spoilers, but it began to feel random to me. Luis' unarticulated mission ultimately feels foolhardy and the title, which mean "path", becomes ironic. The film does capture an aura of pre-apocalyptic jitters. It looks great and sounds great, but it never struck a tragic chord with me. Laxe, though, has the technical ability to make a great film and, hopefully, one day he will.

Une affaire de femmes

Marie Trintignant and Isabelle Huppert

Claude Chabrol's Une affaire de femmes, which was released in the US in 1990 under the unsatisfactory title Story of Women, is set in Cherbourg under the Nazi occupation. It focuses on a lower class woman named Marie Latour (Isabelle Huppert) who finds her calling as an abortionist after taking it up to make ends meet. The film was based on a novel by Francis Szpiner who is better known in France for his careers in politics and law. Marie Latour is based on the real life Marie-Louise Giraud who was guillotined in 1943. In the film, Marie is saddled with a traumatized husband, Paul (François Cluzet) who returns from a POW camp after the first reel to reunite with Marie and their two small children. Marie wants nothing more to do with her quietly seething husband and takes up with a young wheeler-dealer named Lucien (the dashing Nils Tavernier) who has profited by collaborating with the Nazis.

Part of the reason I think Une affaire de femmes is second tier Chabrol is its predictability. As soon as scorned Paul learns that Marie has taken a swanky lover, we know he will rat on his wife to the authorities. Paul never seems truly damaged, just sullen and frustrated because the talented Mr. Cluzet is busy tamping down his natural charisma. I also don't completely buy Ms. Huppert as a semi-literate. A bigger problem is the film's shaky point of view. During the course of the film, we learn that the tale is being told later in life by Marie and Paul's son, Pierrot. However, Chabrol doesn't really adhere to Pierrot's perspective, so that reveal comes off as clumsily as the film's one onscreen shooting. On the plus side, Marie's relationships with the women she encounters who need her services are superbly and empathically rendered. Best of all is Marie Trintignant as Lulu who befriends Marie and mentors her on expanding her client base. A seaside tracking shot of the two conversing is the highlight of the film.

Roger Ebert suggested that Ms. Huppert was the perfect performer for Chabrol and I concur. Whenever Chabrol needs her to show what Marie is thinking or feeling in the film, Ms. Huppert is able to make it plain to the viewer without punctuating the proceedings with unrealistic demonstrativeness. Marie is the only multi-dimensional character in the film and Huppert is able to range across a wide spectrum in displaying both her character's grasping materialism and lyrical love of music. It is a commanding performance and was duly rewarded with the Best Actress award at the Venice Film Festival in 1988. She has gone on to prove and continue proving that she is the premier film actress of her generation. Une affaire de femmes may not be one of Claude Chabrol's best films, nor one of his worst, but it does contain one of Isabelle Huppert's best performances.

Violent Streets

Noboru Andō and Akira Kobayashi

Hideo Gosha's Violent Streets is a terrific yakuza film from 1974. It ranks with the best of the dozen or so of his 24 films that I have seen: Three Outlaw Samurai, Samurai Wolf 2, Goyokin, and The Geisha; all outstanding. I have been a champion of his work since seeing Goyokin, still my favorite, at the Vinegar Hill Theatre in Charlottesville in 1984. May it rest in peace. Violent Streets is only one of three modern day films Gosha directed. He was best known for working in the samurai genre. Certainly, he stands as one of the outstanding action directors of the late 20th century. Every bit as stylish and interesting as Sam Peckinpah or John Woo.

The protagonist of Violent Streets is a retired, for the moment, yakuza named Egawa (Noboru Andō). Egawa owns and manages a flamenco club named the Madrid located on the Ginza. The first fifteen minutes of the film establish Egawa's back story and the tone of violence that dominates the film. While a flamenco trio entertains, Egawa dispatches a quartet of rude hoods with clever aplomb. Then, to fully establishes that he is beyond the pale, he violently rapes his drunken mistress, Minami (Minami Nakatsugawa). She alludes to him loving another woman (Miyoko Akaza) who is now married to a yakuza boss. We eventually learn that Egawa had to leave organized crime and hand over his fiancee to broker a deal. The Madrid was his consolation prize, but he holds onto it tightly as if it were his last shred of self-respect. Andō was a tough customer himself, getting his trademark scar while serving a stint in prison before appearing in over fifty films. He is superb at putting up a stoic front that masks the seething need for vengeance inside him.

Violent Streets is a thorough composed picture, every shot that goes into its brisk 96 minutes is there for a reason. When the first segment entirely set in the Madrid concludes Gosha inserts a flashing green pedestrian walk sign to connote a transition. The film opens with the title backgrounded with barking dogs. Animals are a constant motif in the film (dogs, chickens, and a parrot), highlighting the barely evolved level of the characters. Another motif is that of performance, there are numerous shows within shows in the film ranging from classical theater to striptease. There is even a "lesbian' sex show featuring a performer who we learn is a kick-ass trans assassin (Lady Joy!). This is a movie of masks and that is one way to interpret it. Another is that show biz is a guise, a mask for organized crime. Indeed, as in the contemporaneous Charley Varrick and Pat Garrett and Billy the Kid, it is the titans of big business who are the ultimate criminals.

A masked marauder

Minami's brother helps mastermind the kidnapping of a pop star with dire results. A battle of completing clans subsequently erupts and Egawa is compelled to return to the yakuza life. He gains his revenge in a series of bravura sequences which include Egawa driving a car into his rival's nightclubbing, blasting away and a final coup de grace in which Egawa interrupts his target's menage a trois. Violent Streets is greatly helped by the appearance of Bunta Sungawara's gunsmith who calmly guzzles a Coke while Egawa is massacring his foes. Sungawara brings needed comic relief to a fatalistic flick. Violent Streets has much to offend sensitive modern viewers. Its fire engine red blood seems out of a Herschel Gordon Lewis movie and it certainly fails the Bechdel test. Ms. Nakatsugawa was used in the film because of her experience in softcore porn. Like Lady Joy, this was her only mainstream film. However, if you look beneath the veneer of commercial exploitation, you will find a multi-level masterpiece and crackerjack picture.

Return to Silent Hill

Jeremy Irvine

Christophe Gans' Return to Silent Hill is a reboot of the Silent Hill horror franchise that commenced in 2006, with a film also directed by Gans. The original is not a good film, but it has some mitigating assets that make it one of the better video game adaptations. The script, by Roger Avary, is ludicrous, but Gans manages to elicit solid performances from a good cast including Radha Mitchell, Sean Bean, Laurie Holden, Alice Krige, and Deborah Kara Unger. The CGI for this film was ahead of its time and the production design is impressive.

Likewise, Return to Silent Hill's attributes are wholly contained by its look and design. The script, co-written by Gan, is drivel and, this time, the acting ensemble is second rate. Whatever power the original film had derived from its sense of place, a mining town in West Virginia. There was a sense of ecological decay that is lacking in the new film, mostly because Silent Hill is now set next to a pristine lake in Serbia. Silent Hill becomes not a place, but a state of mind. Unfortunately, the film's script provides a jumbled back story that provides the viewer with few tangible plot threads to grasp. The monsters that haunt Silent Hill, the only holdovers from the original film,  are vague unconscious emanations that have little connection to Return to Silent Hill's flimsy plot. 

Shadows in Paradise

A bad date at the bingo parlor: Kati Outinen and Matti Pellonpää

Aki Kaurismäki's Shadows in Paradise, from 1986, is the first distinctive Kaurismäki feature. Matti Pellonpää and Kati Outinen play Nikander and Ilona, a couple whose rocky romance we witness through the course of the film. Pellonpää ended up appearing in 18 Kaurismäki features and Outinen five. Most of the supporting cast reappear in Kaurismäki films multiple times. Along with his nascent stock company, almost all of the attributes of the filmmaker's work are fully formed and on display in Shadows in Paradise: a concern with the economic struggles and romantic travails of working class people, deadpan humor, and an unfussy visual style.

The jobs of Kaurismäki's character are central to their identities, a trait he shares with, of all people, Howard Hawks; another unfussy visual stylist. The credit sequence establishes Nikander's daily routine driving a trash truck and collecting garbage. It is a model of classical filmmaking in which there is not a wasted shot, something that holds true for the remainder of the film's scant 74 minutes. We glimpse multiple times that totem of the capitalist work place: the punch clock. Nikander and Ilona meet cute at her place of work, a supermarket where she works as a cashier. There, she utter her first magic words to Nikander, "37.20." Workplaces are shown to be cutthroat, but the director tosses off the message instead of beating the viewer over the head. As the manager of the supermarket says to Ilona when he lays her off, "A supermarket is a merciless machine." Worse is the fate of a co-worker of Nikander's who dreams of owning his own trucking concern and building a better future for himself. He drops dead of a heart attack on the job before those dreams can be fulfilled.

The world of Kaurismäki would be very bleak without the vein of humor he provides. The stoicism of his characters is pronounced to the point of absurdity. Compared to Kaurismäki, the characters in other Scandinavian films, like those of Joachim Trier, seem animated. During the course of their romance, Nikander is able to open up to Ilona about his meagre aspirations, but won't reveal to her his first name. He is an extremely diffident and clumsy Casanova. He takes her to a bingo parlor on their first date which almost immediately puts the kibosh on their relationship. His enticement for a second date is even worse: let's go see my institutionalized sister. What a card! Yet, Nikander's caveman straightforwardness eventually wins over Ilona. She briefly dallies with the manager of a department store, but ultimately decides she is not cut out to join the petit bourgeoisie. When Nikander threatens to punch out her new swain, she realizes she has found her true lug.

The other leavening agent in the dour films of Kaurismäki is his use of music, both on the soundtrack and in live performance. Kaurismäki loves to use rock music for his transitional scenes. The scenes of people in transit in Shadows in Paradise almost all feature blaring rock instrumentals. The live performances range from cocktail jazz in bourgeois haunts to the Schlager music that accompanies the working class drinking themselves to sweet oblivion at their haunts. It is the counterpoint to their life of toil, a brief respite until the workers trudge back to the salt mines. The pattern repeats in most of the best of Kaurismäki's work: Ariel, Fallen Leaves, The Match Factory Girl, La Vie de Boheme, Drifting Clouds, The Man Without a Past, and Le Havre.

Madonna of the Seven Moons

Phyllis Calvert and Stewart Granger strike a pose

Arthur Crabtree's Madonna of the Seven Moons is a ridiculous melodrama released by Gainsborough Pictures in 1945. Unlike most of the Gainsborough romantic melodramas which are set in Restoration England, the picture is set in Italy before the Second World War. The picture centers on Maddalena (Phyllis Calvert) who, as the picture begins, is a teen being educated in a remote convent. In the first reel, Maddalena is raped by a peasant, the subsequent trauma triggers a "dual personality" in her with tragic repercussions. The film leaps two decades ahead and finds Maddalena married to a rich aristocrat (John Stuart, suitably dull as dishwater) and living in Rome. They are awaiting the arrival of their daughter Angela (Patricia Roc) who has been abroad in the UK for the past five years attending finishing school. She is not her mother's little girl anymore.

Whereas Maddalena has her hair up and is dressed primly. Angela has her hair down and shows as much skin as the British censors would allow. One of the many absurdities of the picture is that Ms. Calvert was only four months older than her onscreen daughter, Ms. Roc. Another is that the notion that the curvy Ms. Roc could have been birthed by the more boyish Ms. Calvert. Yet another is that even though almost all of the characters are Italian they speak with pronounced British accents. I don't think modern audiences can suspend this much disbelief. However, I must say I enjoyed some aspects of the picture. Peter Glenville has the most ridiculously pronounced British accent, but he superbly embodies an oily rake named Sandro. Angela succeeds in loosening up her tightly wound Ma, but an incident at a ball triggers her split personality.

This is when the script of the film, based on Margery Lawrence's novel goes as cuckoo as that justly forgotten author. We subsequently learn that Maddalena has had these episodes before in which she has abandoned hubby and child for a year at a time and then returned offering no explanation. While her husband dithers during her absence, the audience happily follows Maddalena to Florence where we meet her feisty doppelgänger, Rosanna. Calvert gets to let her hair down and show some cleavage as Rosanna. You can tell Calvert is having some fun with the role, unlike her clenched performance as Maddalena. Whenever Maddalena is having a traumatic flashback she curls her lip like Carol Burnett in her old comedy skits lampooning 40s movies and quakes. She looks like she is digesting a rotten apple and I suppose she is. Luckily, Rosanna has a dashing thief for a lover named Nino who is played by Stewart Granger. Granger adds some dash to the film without putting too much sauce on the pasta.

Stewart Granger and Phyllis Calvert

Granger and Calvert had both been featured in 1943's The Man in Grey which had been a big hit for Gainsborough and on which Crabtree had been the cinematographer. Madonna of the Seven Moons was his first effort as a director, both a reward for past services and a concession to wartime scarcity. Crabtree's pedestrian direction is the weakest aspect of the film. The lighting looks good, but the choreography of sequences is stilted. Even when he tries something relatively outlandish, a circle dolly around Angela after she has been slipped a mickey, it has little impact or emotional heft. The film's Carnival in Florence is especially feeble compared to similar sequences in Sternberg's films. The ludicrous script could only have been brought to fruition by a director with the audacity of a Sternberg, Hitchcock or Buñuel. Instead, what we have is an enjoyably bad movie. 

Neighboring Sounds

Irma Brown, WJ Solha and Gustavo Jahn     

Kleber Mendonça Filho's Neighboring Sounds is set amidst a three block section of the coastal Brazilian city of Recife. The 2013 picture depicts interconnected lives that range across class and racial spectrums. The main character if there is one is a young mother named Bia (Maeve Jinkings) bedeviled by a neighbors' yapping dog who won't shut up at night. Slightly higher up the economic ladder is Joao (Gustavo Jahn) who manages the condo complex his grandpa Francisco (W. J. Solha) owns. We meet Joao after he has drunkenly hooked up with Sofia (Irma Brown). The movie follows the romantic arc of their relationship. A group of sinister seeming men arrive in the neighborhood promoting themselves as a security team, but they have really arrived to settle a lifelong vendetta. When the score is settled, it brings the film full circle back to the days of exploitive sugar plantations shown in period photographs that commence the film.

The film is a cross cut look at society, like many of Altman's films especially Short Cuts. As with Altman's best films, the acting is exceptional. Some of the cast are amateurs, but you can barely tell. Even Mr. Solha who delivers a marvelous portrait of a fading patriarch boasted a scant six film acting credits. Part of the verisimilitude is due to the flow of Mr Mendonça's direction. His self-written script boasts a number of weighty themes, such as European emigration to Brazil in the 20th century, but they are not trumpeted as if on a soapbox. Rather Mr. Mendonça adroitly slips his themes fluidly into the criss-crossing rivulets of Neighboring Sounds. A part of the mix, not surprisingly gives the title, is the interesting soundscape constructed by Mendonça and the talented DJ Dolores. The film mixes pop songs (Queen, Jorge Ben) with a score that mixes electronica with found sounds, like in the work of Tom Ze. The soundtrack becomes one with the lives of the characters who use sound to vent micro-aggressions and camouflage murder.

Neighboring Sounds has the density of a great novel. I was fully engrossed by it. Mendonça has gone on to greater international acclaim with Bacurau and The Station Agent, but I think Neighboring Sounds is still his best film because of its polyphonic expansiveness.

The Caretakers

                        Janis Paige and Robert Stack                       

Hall Bartlett's The Caretakers is a turgid 1963 melodrama almost wholly set in a public mental hospital. The film is complete dreck, possibly the worst American feature of that year. Mr. Bartlett was at least consistent. His 1973 film of Jonathan Livingston Seagull is one of the worst American films of any decade. Bartlett co-wrote the script with Jerry Paris who makes a brief cameo appearance during the film's opening as Polly Bergen runs into him on the street. Ms. Bergen then enters a movie theater and has a public meltdown which gets her a one way ticket to the loony bin. Bergen's performance is the type of Oscar grasping fiasco that can blight a career and it did. The rest of the cast is made up of fresh faces (Diane McBain, Robert Vaughn) and veterans reaching the end of their tether (Joan Crawford, Herbert Marshall). For the record, the best performances are by Ellen Corby and Barbara Barrie.

The Caretakers was made with the best intentions. Its brief is to make the case for the deinstitutionalization of public mental health in America. Making that case is Robert Stack as a crusading psychiatrist who has the novel notion that mental patients would be helped best by being treated like human beings as opposed to inmates. Most of the film is taken up by the group therapy session with his borderline patients, Bergen and a motley group of female patients each with a separate tic and traumatic backstory. Opposing the newfangled notions Stack champions is head nurse Crawford, here monikered Lucretia,  who wants to treat the inmates as the crazies they are. She touts the safety of the staff as her first priority. The camp highlight is the judo class Lucretia "teaches" in which Crawford and a bevy of beauties don leotards. Crawford sports a bizarre blonde wig. Indeed, The Caretakers is a veritable wig fest, an unsparing look at how the conformist styles of the 1950s were getting a little rococo in the Kennedy era before all hell broke loose. Individual characters' sanity levels can be gauged by how askew their wigs are. It is that kind of movie.

Yes, a movie that is over serious, slipshod, and kooky. The Caretakers feels both endless and abortive. Plot lines, like the film's parallel romances amongst the staff members, feel truncated. Bergen is about to be gang raped by the men's ward when the film cuts to her being comforted by Stack and the cast. What the heck happened! Bartlett utilizes a lot of distorted POV shots when Bergen is first in the hospital, but then drops the technique like a hot potato. Stack was the most emotionless actor of his generation, but the film gives him a traumatic backstory that explains his lack of people skills. He gives a committed performance, I'll avoid the obvious joke, but it ends up over emphasizing the overly earnest humorlessness of the project. Such talents as Lucian Ballard and Elmer Bernstein worked on this picture. All for nought. 

Though worthless as art, The Caretakers is interesting as a reflection of changes within the American mental health system. The borderline diagnosis was first formulated in 1938 by Adolph Stern. To boil it down to its essence, it describes patients who veer from neuroticism into psychosis. The concept took some time to be accepted which The Caretakers reflects. It was not until 1980's DSM3 that the diagnosis was codified by the America's psychiatric establishment. The Caretakers presents a false dichotomy between borderline patients and other mental health sufferers. In the film, if you aren't borderline, you are seemingly doomed to wallow in a catatonic state. The Caretakers posits outpatient clinics as the hope for the post-institution future. Needless to say, things have not worked out that way. The legacy of deinstitutionalization stalk the streets of America's urban centers to this day.

I think that the nature of psychiatry and mental health therapy is antithetical to drama. This is probably why the two best American nut house movies aren't really about mental health issues, but are allegorical portraits of the nation: One Flew Over the Cuckoo's Nest and Sam Fuller's truly great and crazed Shock Corridor.