"The Tree of Life" (2011)

 

Memories and Change: Part 2.  A look now at a wholly original, contemporary movie, which attempts to replicate how we see our memories from childhood and beyond.  Its very style suggests the constancy of change.

THE TREE OF LIFE

“Tell us a story from before we can remember.”  A young boy’s request to his mother, in “The Tree of Life”

The endless uncertainty about returning to life as we remember it, before the pandemic canceled, postponed, or changed things beyond recognition, has sent many of us into various stages of confusion and depression.   

As I struggled to remember the things and places I loved, that are so far unavailable or are considered unsafe: a conversation at home with a group of friends; a table in a pleasantly crowded coffee shop; a new film or play in a theater; dinner at a favorite spot with my husband; daily trips to the gym; I rediscovered a favorite film from 2011 that provided some lofty perspective.

“The Tree of Life” remains one of the most unconventional and beautifully thoughtful pieces of mainstream cinema I have ever encountered.

While a movie like “How Green Was My Valley” is a classic use of narrative to portray memory, “The Tree of Life” treats memory as a rapid series of disjointed, short-lived moments.  It is a poetic mosaic of images and music that replicates the way our brains work to create memory. 

I’ve never seen a more accurate and effective depiction of the way our minds recall minute impressions of concrete events and fleeting fantasy, while leaving us to reflect, to ponder and to feel, rather than to focus exclusively on a narrative.

More than that, “The Tree of Life” reaches profound levels of beauty and even exaltation, a rare film that uses its minimal plot and gorgeous imagery to speculate on the meaning of the universe and our place within it.  

Terence Malick, a famously private film director who earned a degree in philosophy from Harvard before turning to filmmaking, made his directing debut in 1973 with the elegiac crime-romance “Badlands”.  Painstaking in his development of projects, “The Tree of Life”, released in 2011, was only his fifth film in 38 years.

The movie functions on a higher plane, focusing on spiritual matters and abstract ideas.  Not surprisingly, mainstream audiences were strongly polarized by it.   A Best Picture Oscar, for which it was nominated and lost, would have seemed inadequate for this ambitious accomplishment, like awarding Saint Peter’s Basilica the Good Housekeeping Seal of Approval.

The only indication that the film sought popular appeal was the inclusion of two A-list stars: Brad Pitt (also a co-producer) as the demanding, 50’s-era Father, Mr. O’Brien, and Jessica Chastain as the soft, giving, and grieving Mother, Mrs. O’Brien.

The plot is more like a premise, in the way that rhythm is to a piece of music, in this case a way to support the weight of the film’s ideas.  Mother, in a hushed monolog, explains the difference between Nature and Grace.  After her voice-over meditation, she receives a tragic telegram that J. L., one of her three sons, only 19 years old, has been killed.

The eldest son, Jack, played as an adult by Sean Penn, is an architect. Years later, he sullenly meditates on life, and on his deceased brother, whom he saw as a pure soul. 

As Mother cries out to a higher power, to make sense of the loss, the film moves into an extraordinary sequence lasting 17 minutes, with no dialog, comprised of powerful sounds, images and music.  Malick ambitiously recreates the origins of the universe, from the Big Bang to the dinosaur era, culminating in a symbolic birth, as Jack arrives as Mother and Father’s first child.

The sequence is reminiscent of the light-show in “2001: A Space Odyssey”. Douglas Trumbull, who designed the “2001” sequence, was called out of retirement to create the Origin of the Universe here, using no CGI effects, but the kind of physical and in-camera effects used in the earlier film.  The scene is confounding and awe-inspiring.

The body of the film is a rapid chronicle of Jack and his two brothers growing up in a their late-1950s small town outside of Waco Texas.

Infancy, first steps, siblings, play, rebellion, anger, confusion, death, disaster, mystery, parental love and disappointment, brotherly love, sexual yearning, all of the touchstones of a human life are depicted quickly and then the film moves on.

The final sequence is Jack’s fantasy of reunion with his loved ones, at the world’s end.  In less than two hours and 30 minutes, we are witness to Malick’s personal vision of the history of the universe, with the lives of these boys as the centerpiece. 

Malick’s editing and photographic style, as well as the epic nature of what he attempts here, provide a couple of interesting messages to ponder.  On one hand, our lives are as fleeting as each individual shot in the picture, each beautiful in itself, but needing the other pieces to give it full meaning.

On the other hand, and even more profound, Malick demonstrates that the birth of one person is as momentous as the creation of an entire universe. And death is just another destination on an ever-moving voyage.  The film’s tone of beauty and reverence may be a comfort for anyone coming to terms with the death of a loved one.

“The Tree of Life” is not really a linear film; it is more like a piece of music, or a painting.  The camera is always moving, in a constant forward motion.  The sun is visible in almost every scene, a symbol of a higher power, or the origin of life, and one of many visual motifs that tie the film together. 

The film moves like a constantly running river.  To get the most from it, it is best to step in, and allow it to carry you along, letting the marriage of images and music leave an impression as the ideas widen and make sense in an intangible, poetic sense.  The accumulation of shots and brief sequences reveals a whole picture of sorts, like a true mosaic. 

The film’s disjointed and constantly shifting narrative intersperses fantasy and subtle connections of time within its family story.  An unexpected shot of Mother levitating is the obvious musing of a young son who sees her as a saintly figure.  A river, where a dinosaur drinks early in the film, appears much changed later, as one of the boys casually finds a dinosaur bone in the tall grass where the brothers play.

The film is breathtaking to look at.  Most of the credit goes to Emmanuel Lubezki for his consistently mellow lighting and color, recreating a plausible 1950s suburb, while using the unusual angles and movement to give the film a feeling of something imponderable, mysterious.

Malick’s film, which borrows heavily from his own family and boyhood, has selected unforgettable pieces of music.  These mostly classical pieces enhance the photographic effects and fix each sequence forever in our subconscious, even if they pass by too quickly to grasp them all at first viewing.  A second viewing, at least, is a must.

After Jack returns from his reverie about the afterlife, there is a cut to a field of sunflowers, before we follow him silently through his office complex, the windows of the stupendous glass buildings around him reflecting the trees.  The final shot is held for several seconds on a vast bridge.  I wonder if Malick is inviting us to see life, death, spirituality, or whatever we took with us from the film, as a bridge between Nature and Grace?

"How Green Was My Valley" (1941)

 

Memories and Change: Part 1.  Nostalgia is a natural part of getting older. Over time, we discover some parts of our lives, that we used to take for granted, are different, or have gone away altogether.  We remember them with fondness, or maybe with relief at their passing.  We adjust, perhaps, and move on; or, we embrace the past, and dismiss the changes.   

Our experience of the coronavirus has accelerated the phenomenon, which normally takes a lifetime, of discovering how much of our lives has disappeared.

HOW GREEN WAS MY VALLEY

“Memory:  Strange that the mind will forget so much of what only his moment has passed, and yet hold clear and bright the memory of what happened years ago, of men and women long since dead…  It is with me now, so many years later; and it makes me think of so much that is good that is gone…  Men like my father cannot die.  They are with me still, real in memory as they were in flesh, loving and beloved forever…”    --Huw Morgan, narrating his life in “How Green Was My Valley”

John Ford’s sweeping, sentimental 1941 “How Green Was My Valley” has the unfortunate reputation as being the movie that stole the Best Picture Oscar from the almighty “Citizen Kane”.  While “Kane” has endured as a masterpiece of technique, “How Green Was My Valley” is an example of epic Hollywood moviemaking at its finest.  Taken on its own merits, it’s a moving and rewarding experience, whose subject matter and approach are still innovative.  It speaks to us, too, maybe more than ever, and it deserves to be seen.

In “How Green Was My Valley”, memory forms the narrative, and slowly leads us into the film.  The off-screen, adult Huw Morgan, 50 years old and packing to leave his once-beloved valley forever, narrates in flashback his years as a small boy in a Welsh mining town.  He tells of his strong, colorful parents (Donald Crisp and Sara Allgood), his brawny, protective brothers, his beautiful sister Anharad (19-year-old Maureen O’Hara) who is on the cusp of womanhood, and the new church pastor, Mr. Gruffyd (Walter Pidgeon), a poetic mentor to Huw who forms a difficult attachment to Anharad, who loves him.

Huw’s memories are free-flowing and vivid, describing the voices of old friends and those who have long gone as a “living truth within my mind”.  Huw’s narration, which is the only spoken dialog for the film’s opening ten minutes, introduces us to the characters and his town, the events that both inspired him and caused him sorrow, and the injustice and bitterness that slowly crept into his environment.

Playing the young Huw Morgan (pronounced “hugh”), Roddy McDowell, in his film debut, is the innocent observer through whom we see everything he remembers.  There are even some subplots in which Huw was not present, but we don’t question it; the film skillfully makes this feel plausible. 

It is amusing to watch McDowell, so open and compelling, his eyes wide with an expression of sincere anticipation, and realize he will somehow become this wise, educated narrator who leads us through his past, which is both sentimental and harsh. 

In spite of the relative safety of his boyhood, Huw also observes and relates to us the difficulties and misfortunes that led him to abandon what was once a beautiful, idyllic, “green” valley.   Philip Dunne’s intelligent, literate screenplay lets us revel in the sentiment, and the catharsis of memory, while drawing us into the crisis of the coal mines and the touching human dramas that unfold throughout the film.  

One major plot thread involves the physical danger, depressed wages, and unfair treatment of miners, some of whom risk family division in planning to organize a union.  The mine owners create emotional conflict in the Morgan family, too, especially for the romantically conflicted Anharad. 

We also follow Huw, a budding young scholar, through the cruelties of a new school, his recovery from a near-fatal icy plunge, and his striving to act grown-up for the object of his boyhood affection.

At first, Huw has the love and support of a whole community of parents, siblings, pastor, fellow miners, neighbors, and a full-throated Welsh men’s chorus which lends the film an atmosphere of invincibility.  Even the valley, filmed in exquisite black and white, with the entire village constructed on a studio lot, is like an Eden to Huw, at first.  (Due to the War ravaging Britain, the filmmakers decided not to film on location in Wales, as was originally planned).

Slowly, the petty conflicts, the meddling gossip, and the judgment of some ignorant townspeople seek to devastate Anharad and Mr. Gruffyd, and their most tender and decent of relationships. In a stirring, angry speech delivered by Mr. Gruffyd to his congregation before leaving the church and the town, he decries the “cowards and hypocrites, the idle tongues and poverty of mind”, and those that attend services out of fear of retribution instead of love.  

(The film may bog down for some in its melodramatic mention of divorce, which was a minor taboo subject in 1940s Hollywood; but the outrage reflects the time and place of the film, and so it feels accurate and authentic.)

Even the imagery of the film changes, from its pristine, spring-like clarity in the first half, to something gradually grittier, grimier as it goes along.

Surprisingly for a 1940s Hollywood movie, “How Green Was My Valley” indicts the hypocrisy of religion, where politics and human judgment are allowed to intrude on a divine sanctuary, and almost destroy the community, just as the “black fingers of slag” reach over the green of the valley and turn it ugly. Finally, it is a tragic disaster that unites the villagers at the end.

“How Green Was My Valley” is a near-perfect film, a prime example of popular entertainment with an intelligent edge and a devastating emotional pull.  John Ford, one of cinema’s most accomplished and popular directors, handles the logistics of large set pieces as well as more intimate scenes, revealing their humor and drama with equal skill.  Under Ford’s direction of Dunne’s script, Alfred Newman’s romantic and nostalgic score, and the impeccable work of designers and technicians, “How Green Was My Valley” is a highly rewarding film.

Best of all are the performances, especially McDowell, whose natural screen presence draws the viewer to him, and a cast of top stars of the era.  As Huw’s parents, Donald Crisp (Oscar winner) and Sara Allgood are among the movies’ sharpest, funniest, and strongest screen parents.  They are truly the head and the heart of the family and the film, and what their characters lack in education, they more than make up in good sense.  Walter Pidgeon, as Mr. Gruffyd, has the perfect voice as an orator of the pulpit, and is also a gentle inspiration to young Huw, in a role of quiet strength.  Maureen O’Hara as Anharad showed the promise of beauty and fire that would make her a star for decades.

While critics over the decades have decried “How Green Was My Valley” as maudlin and dated, and an unworthy victor at the Oscars in the year of “Citizen Kane”, I can understand why the Academy chose this film as the Best Movie of 1941.   “Citizen Kane” deserves its place at the top of the cinema pantheon, a film whose innovations paved the way for hundreds of movies to come. But it lacked the heart of “How Green Was My Valley”, which was also an impeccably made film of technical innovation which is harder to notice for blending so well with the narrative.

I would ask these critics to look at “Valley” again, and to be open to the deep, strong emotions the film elicits during the final ten minutes.  The filmmakers don’t resort to cheap effects; the emotions are honestly earned.  It can hit you on many levels, which intensifies its effect.

“How Green Was My Valley” was originally conceived as a 4-hour epic on the scale of “Gone With the Wind”, following Huw into adulthood.  That would have diminished the power of the final sequence, and its effectiveness as a narrative of memory. 

The film runs just under two hours. It is left for us to ponder what happened to Huw between the mine disaster when he was just a boy, and the opening narration in which he prepares to leave his boyhood home for good.

"Cabaret" 1972

 

“Do you still think you can control them?”  Brian Roberts, on Maximilian’s assertion that the Nazis ‘are just a gang of stupid hooligans’, “Cabaret”

“Cabaret” is an entertaining, enormously influential drama, based on the hit Broadway musical that was inspired by the stories of Christopher Isherwood.  Set in Berlin in 1931, “Cabaret” is a demanding film, a musical that doesn’t feel like a Hollywood musical, a movie that works on multiple levels visually, narratively, and symbolically. 

You may come away from “Cabaret” feeling overwhelmed by its startling imagery, the energy of its music and staging, the urgency of its ideas, its colors and textures, its emotional punch.  This is a movie bursting with creative innovation, a true original, a film that looks like no other, one with artistry in almost every frame.  “Cabaret” is like a rich, multi-course meal.  You stagger away, full and needing time to digest it all; later, you realize you’ve developed a taste for it, and can’t wait to go back for more. “Cabaret” is so layered with detail, that after upwards of 50 viewings, I still see something new every time.

Beneath “Cabaret’s” parallel stories and brilliant stage numbers, like an eerie undercurrent, is an allegory of the rise of Nazism.  The film demonstrates, through music and subplot, how the Nazis infected German culture like a virus, slowly at first, but with building menace.  The film’s characters, in pursuit of love and fame and pleasure, ignore the signs, hide from the truth, or subscribe to baseless conspiracy theories to explain it away. 

Soon, the Nazis have infiltrated everything.  The violence, the oppression, the racism that seemed impossibly far away, take over like an epidemic of evil.  Although it cost years and many lives to eradicate Nazism, we are now threatened by a second wave, a new outbreak, as it were.

The end of WWII, and the liberation of the concentration camps, occurred in 1945, just 27 years before “Cabaret” was released.  The film’s message, about the dangers of Nazism in an ignorant and hedonistic society, seemed a bit obvious then, almost a moot point.  Today, the film's depiction of a sinister political ideology consuming a culture (in much the same way that a virus creates a pandemic), looks visionary.  As a cautionary tale, “Cabaret” is more urgent and chilling than ever. 

As “Cabaret” begins, Brian Roberts (Michael York), a naïve, bisexual Cambridge student, arrives in Berlin to study, and give English lessons to survive.   At his rooming house, he meets Sally Bowles (Liza Minnelli), a carefree, promiscuous American singer, who performs at the sleazy, sexually ambiguous, politically sinister cabaret called the Kit Kat Klub. 

Welcoming us (and Brian) to Berlin is the Emcee of the Klub (Joel Grey), who breaks the fourth wall, looking right at us, seducing us. He appears only on the stage of the club (or in hair-raising cutaways at significant moments); and communicates with us only through song and dance.  

Grey's Emcee is jovial and a little frightening, his death’s-head makeup is a disorted, mocking disguise. He draws us in to the Klub’s world of frivolity, then turns us into reluctant accomplices as the entertainment reflects the tragedy taking place outside.  The gaiety becomes more pointed, more desperate as the film goes along.

Brian and Sally form a friendship, and then an unlikely romance, while their friends Fritz and Natalia become involved in an uneasy affair of their own.  Fritz Wendl (Fritz Wepper), a gold-digging gigolo and one of Brian’s English students, falls hard for fellow student Natalia Landauer (Marissa Berenson), a beautiful, aloof heiress to a department store fortune.  Their relationship is complicated by awkward lust and impropriety, and by secrets that are kept due to rising anti-Semitism.

Into Brian and Sally’s midst comes Maximilian von Heune, an enormously rich baron, who feels it is his duty to corrupt them both.  He plays on Sally’s hunger for wealth, and Brian’s yearning for male companionship.  When Sally becomes pregnant, the uncertainty of their futures almost rips them apart. (Interestingly, Sally calls the baby “just about the most significant baby the world has ever known…since Jesus.”)

Bob Fosse directed this, his second feature film, after his less-than-successful debut with “Sweet Charity”.  Fosse took “Cabaret” and transformed it from a typical musical-comedy-drama into something grittier and more realistic, something brand new for movie musicals at the time.  

He eliminated some characters from the play, and drew on Isherwood’s original stories for new characters, lending authenticity to the prevailing malaise of German culture.  He dealt matter-of-factly with sexuality, especially bisexuality and homosexuality. He didn’t look away from violence that plagued the rising regime, nor from the alarming effects of anti-Semitism.  

Fosse eliminated some songs from the original, preserving them as instrumentals heard on Victrola record players, or as background music for some of the stage numbers. Known for his edgy choreography, Fosse has minimal dance sequences here, keeping them as authentic to the period as possible, but infusing them with his brand of slow, deliberate movement.  

The musical numbers occur mostly on the stage of the Kit Kat Klub, and are incorporated thematically into the story.  They are the the film's most exciting, startling sequences.   Only one song, a rousing anthem in a beer garden, takes place outside, occurring as a natural part of the scene. 

“Tomorrow Belongs to Me” is chilling and brilliant; “If You Could See Her” is a gut-punch.  The title tune, a show-stopper from Minnelli near the end, is incredibly sad in context.  And “Wilkommen” is the perfect opening, a lighthearted but tentative theme that plays throughout the film, getting slightly distorted each time until it is absolutely discordant at the end. 

Each number, whether it’s a frantic chorus line of storm-troopers, or a frenetic folk-dance intercut with some surprising violence outside the Klub, comments on the lives of the characters and on the transformation taking place in Germany.  With a steady hand, Fosse dazzles us, entertains us, and maintains a sense of dread throughout.

Fosse’s mastery of the film medium is evident in his staging, and the brilliant work he gets from his performers and crew. 

Geoffrey Unsworth lights each scene like a cinematic work of art.  His colors and moods have a primal effect.  David Bretherton had a gargantuan task of editing the film (in an era without electronic editing equipment).  He keeps the pace brisk, creating layers of meaning  through his use of inserts, fabulous intercutting, and a breathtaking variety of shots within many of the musical numbers.  

(As a 14-year-old aspiring filmmaker, learning to use my new, Super-8 film editing equipment, no movie ever had as much influence on me as “Cabaret”.)

This was Liza Minnelli’s finest hour.  She uses her antsy, sparkling personality to great effect in her portrayal of the vulnerable, likable, aggravating and uninhibited young woman, who has untapped talent and a huge capacity, and need, for love.  

Michael York is excellent and charming in a more conventional role as the practical, “very British” Brian.  York makes a terrific impression in what is actually the lead, acting as our surrogate, a subjective observer of the fun and danger around him, who gets momentarily caught up in the decadence, before coming to his senses and escaping it.  Without York’s skill, the film would not have worked as well.

Joel Grey reprises his Tony-winning role as the Emcee, a strange, mysterious little character, who acts as our host even as we recoil from his slimy advances.  Grey is a consummate performer, immersed in his role, the symbol of moral and sexual ambiguity, convincing us that our troubles have been forgotten, even as the cabaret has become the troubled world, and is no longer an escape from it.  Grey has almost no dialog, but uses his diminutive frame and leering expression to the hilt, dancing and singing in a strange hybrid accent, and chilling us to the bone.

“Cabaret” has the dubious honor of having won more Oscars—8 in total—than any other film that did not go on to win Best Picture.  Its impressive haul of Academy awards included those for Minnelli as Best Actress, Grey as Best Supporting Actor, Fosse (in a welcome upset) as Best Director, along with Cinematography, Adapted Musical Score, Art Direction, and Film Editing.  Unfortunately, it was the year of “The Godfather”, and no film, no matter how artful, could spoil that juggernaut.

It is amazing that “Cabaret”, made during the cinema renaissance of the 1970s, a film about the dangers of a growing political movement in 1930s Europe, has emerged today as an allegory for our time.  The insidiousness of fascism, like the intrusion of a deadly virus in the world, is a perfect parallel to what we face; and as the movie strongly implies, unless we pay attention, our lives could be changed forever.

"Sounder" (1972)

 Back to School: Part 3 of a 3-part series. Of all the great vintage films about schools and teachers, one stands out today as a timely look at the black experience and the power of education in an age of crisis.

“The longing of black men must have respect…The rich and bitter depth of their experience, the unknown treasure of their inner life, the  strange rendings of nature they have seen, may give the world new points of view and make their loving, living, and doing precious to all human hearts...” 

W.E.B DuBois, quoted by teacher Camille Johnson to student David Lee Morgan, in “Sounder”

“Sounder” is a movie we need very much right now.  Although it is a family film, made at a time when a G-rating didn’t mean suitable only for pre-schoolers, “Sounder” sneaks up on you with serious intent.  It plays like a small art film, on the surface a straightforward story that reveals surprising emotional depth.  In fact, the quote by W.E.B. DuBois above could have been a perfect tag line for the movie.

This simple portrayal of a black family, struggling to overcome poverty and endure pervasive racism in 1933 Louisiana, moves us by focusing on the humanity of its characters.  “Sounder” was a groundbreaking movie at a time when “black” cinema often meant Hollywood “blaxploitation”, with its emphasis on drugs and crime, pimps and hookers, violent action and exploitive sex, providing an adrenaline rush without human dignity.

Among its great qualities, “Sounder” is one of the few Hollywood films to elevate the experience of learning and going to school, all without fuss, and with inspiring success.

Most of all, with the skill of its brilliant actors, it illuminates the delicate strength of a loving family, and transcends race.  It is a film of gritty realism that honestly stirs us.  It accumulates scenes of increasing warmth and power, while maintaining the leisurely tone of a languid summer.  Most of all, it is an extremely quiet film that communicates so much with its silences.

The great Cicely Tyson and the powerful Paul Winfield play Rebecca and Nathan Lee Morgan, a hardworking couple raising three young children, eking out a sparse existence as sharecroppers.  David Lee, their oldest son, played by Kevin Hooks, is a thoughtful and respectful young man, eager to hunt with his father, help out in the fields, and roughhouse with his younger brother and sister.  He travels miles on foot each day to attend school, and is the only member of the family who can read and write.

When Nathan Lee, desperate to feed his family, is sent away to a labor camp for stealing food, David sets out on a journey to find him.  Along the way, he encounters a school unlike any he has ever seen, and is inspired by the teacher he meets there. The trip changes his life and his family forever.  His odyssey is the allegorical heart of the movie.

Tyson and Winfield were rightly honored with Oscar nominations (as was the film, and the screenplay by Lonne Elder III.)  It was the first time that two black actors were nominated in the same film. (Also, that year, Diana Ross earned a nod for “Lady Sings the Blues”.  The multiple nominations for black actors and for films about black experience was a defining moment for black cinema.)

Director Martin Ritt was unfairly left out of the nominations list.  He made “Sounder” into a stunning tone poem, with beautiful imagery that works on many levels.

The movie’s title refers to the family’s beloved coon-hound, but despite the title, the dog is not the main subject.  Sounder is a symbol, a presence, always there, in the background.  He is the warning call and the cry of joy; when we see him in closeup, it foretells something major will occur. He is a traveling companion and a loyal protector.  Sounder comes to represent love and caring, hope and healing.  He is the omnipresent soul of the family.

When Sounder is grazed by the bullet of an unfeeling white lawman and runs away, Rebecca comforts the children, telling them that Sounder “has just gone off to heal himself somewhere.” Her words might describe the painful experience of an entire people.

The effects of racism are portrayed in a matter-of-fact way, showing how the victims appear resigned in order to protect themselves.  This is made all the more powerful by the film’s refusing to sermonize.  In “Sounder”, racism hurts everyone, particularly the repressed minority group, but also those in the majority who sincerely want to help, but risk being rejected or worse by members of their own community.

“Sounder” illustrates subtle, commonplace racism another way, by showing us two different schools, and contrasts David’s experience in each: 

In his regular school, the white teacher is unsympathetic as David walks in late, having traveled over a long, hot distance. Far from inspiring her students, she reads aloud (and badly) from “Huckleberry Finn”, a passage filled with offensive vernacular and dialect, as David takes his seat with the other black students in the back of the room.

On his journey to find his father, David happens upon a school run by Camille Johnson (Janet MacLachlin), a compassionate and intelligent black woman, who leads her class of all-black students in reciting the multiplication tables.  Our first glimpse of Miss Johnson is a very brief but striking shot: she stands in the front of the classroom, with an enormous American flag draped on the wall behind her.  (What a perfect illustration for Black Lives Matter.)

“Sounder” is based on Newberry Award-winning book by William H. Armstrong.  The film itself is a champion for the importance and life-saving potential of books.  Few Hollywood films honor books the way “Sounder” does.   In one sequence, Mrs. Boatwright, a wealthy woman who takes great risks to help the family find Nathan, loans David a copy of “The Three Musketeers”.  Later, Miss Johnson introduces David to an amazing world of books, especially those of essential black voices. 

The accomplished blues musician Taj Mahal co-stars as the good-natured family friend Ike, and also supervised the musical score, writing the song that opens and closes the film (“Needed Time”).  The music is an authentic mix of blues and spiritual, incorporating the lyric style and instrumentation of rural Southern blacks that gave birth to jazz.  The score uses banjo and guitar, and in key moments, a single flute.  Artfully, during “Sounder’s” most dramatic moments, there is no music.

Two of the most unforgettable scenes are reunions.  In the first, David and Sounder run toward each other, but unlike most films that might wring every drop of pathos, it is shot in an extremely wide angle, so it can barely be seen.  The camera moves to reveal that the moment is Rebecca’s, as she watches silently, with secret hope for another homecoming.

The second reunion is unforgettable.  Shot urgently and at a respectful remove, the emotions on display are raw and honest, from performers who are immersed in the moment.  This well-remembered sequence has rightly become a classic on its own.

Some may complain that “Sounder” is too slow, that it is too antiseptic a portrayal of black experience told from a white perspective, that it is too “feel-good”.  They are missing the point.  This is a story about human beings in a time and place that is, unfortunately, not too different from our own.

 It is meant to be a healing film, not an angry one; if it rouses anger, it is only to the extent that its characters are able to express it.  Instead, the film wants to inspire us, and connect us to the more loving and forgiving parts of ourselves. “Sounder” is accessible to the very young, who will understand its basic story, while appealing to those who want more substance under the surface.  It is also a gentle reminder of the value of learning.

Not only did “Sounder” address issues of race and injustice in 1972, but it continues to explore the foundations of those issues today.  It might stir up your anger, but it would rather open you to empathy. 

"To Sir, With Love" (1967) / "Up the Down Staircase" (1967)

BACK TO SCHOOL:  This is Part 2 in a series about teachers, students, and the classroom experience.  Re-visiting the movies of a particular era, that shaped my idea of school, is a nostalgic and reflective experience. It drives home how the uncertainty over reopening schools must affect the psychological and educational well-being of students and teachers.

“To Sir, With Love”, starring Sidney Poitier as a young black teacher who takes over a room of tough, disadvantaged kids in a working-class school; and “Up the Down Staircase”, starring Sandy Dennis as a young white teacher assigned to teach English to a group of unruly students in a poor New York neighborhood; are a perfect mirror image.

Both released in 1967, each is the story of a first-time teacher who faces the difficulties of maintaining order and the challenges of relating to students and school administrators.  Both are fish-out-of-water stories (even the title “Up the Down Staircase” suggests swimming upstream), as each teacher succumbs to frustration and even considers resignation before making a breakthrough.  Both classroomss are full of colorful and diverse students, some funny, some dangerous, some heartbreaking.  These students present various problems that each teacher confronts with charisma, personal strength, and wisdom.

Both films explore the inevitable schoolgirl crush on a teacher; one with innocence and humor, the other with dire results.   Finally, both films explore, in simple ways but with surprising depth, the issues of poverty and racism.

“To Sir, With Love” and “Up the Down Staircase” are both time-capsule and comfort-food, funny and sad, highly watchable, and filled with compelling drama and good nature.  Both employ humor with varying degrees of success.  They each remind us of the richness and uniqueness of the classroom, both for students and for teachers, in times of conflict or accomplishment.  Together they  make a terrific double-feature.

“TO SIR, WITH LOVE”

“I teach you truths. My truths. Yeah, and it’s kinda scary, dealing with the truth.  Scary, and dangerous.”  --Sidney Poitier as Mark Thackeray, “To Sir, With Love”

In 1967, when I first saw “To Sir, With Love” at the age of ten, honoring the truth was something our culture took for granted, even in a time of chaos and change like today. Dishonesty was especially unacceptable from our leaders. When Sidney Poitier imparted bits of wisdom, as in the above quote, it was less like learning something new than it was reinforcing what we already knew.  It was reassuring.

(If only that were true today, as we wade through misinformation to protect ourselves from a crisis that has killed more Americans to date (158, 337) than did Vietnam (58,220 confirmed casualties).

Poitier gives an Oscar-worthy performance as the shy Thackeray (his students address him as Sir), who finds his strength, and his voice, as he guides his rude, unkempt charges toward the scary responsibilities of adulthood.  

Poitier had the odd distinction of three stellar lead performances in 1967: besides “Sir…” there was Virgil Tibbs, the reluctant police officer trapped in a Deep-South murder investigation in "In the Heat of the Night”; and John Wade Prentice, a widowed doctor who falls in love with a white woman in “Guess Who’s Coming to Dinner”.   Competing against himself, Poitier canceled out his votes, and failed to be nominated for any of them.

“To Sir, With Love” is based on an autobiographical novel about a black teacher in London’s East End, by Guyanese-born author, teacher and diplomat T. R. Braithwaite. Braithwaite was known for his writings on racial discrimination, and the film takes some liberties with the Braithwaite’s story.  He felt the movie was too sentimental, and eliminated some important personal material, such as his mixed-race romance (which was still a difficult subject in Hollywood).  

As a film, however, the story works within the boundaries it sets for itself.  True, it is a little sentimental, and the conflicts are sometimes conveniently resolved.  But it successfully involves us in the dilemma of a new teacher before a group of hardened students. It draws us in to see just how he will get through to these kids, with whom he seems to have little in common.

The turning point for the characters, and the high point of the film for me, comes during a field trip to a history museum, in spite of those who claim that Thackeray will be unable to control his students.  The scene is done in a series of still photographs, showing the young people interacting with the museum displays and each other.  The sense of bonding is palpable and inspiring, and it is scored to one of the most recognizable movie theme songs of the 1960s.

Lulu, whose recording of “To Sir, With Love” became a huge success in the US, plays one of Thackeray’s students. She has a natural screen presence, tough and “mod”, and also brings out the character’s more gentle and sensible qualities.  Also worth mentioning is Judy Geeson, who plays the blonde beauty Miss Dare, a wisecracking student with real intelligence, who develops special feelings for Thackeray.

The movie benefits greatly from its title song.  It is performed four times within the body of the film; during the montage, it lends the scene a sort of dreamy nostalgic quality, steeped in the fashion and sound of the 1960s.  Without the song, and the presence of Sidney Poitier, the film might not have caught on and become one of the biggest hits of the year.

 

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UP THE DOWN STAIRCASE

“If you deny what you know, or what you are, or where you are, you deny the simplest part of being alive, and then you die.”  --Sandy Dennis as Sylvia Barrett, “Up the down Staircase”

Maybe because “To Sir With Love” captured audiences first, or maybe because it lacked a catchy popular theme song, “Up the Down Staircase” did not become as well-known.  It is, however, every bit as engaging, emotional, and filled with moments of inspiration and wisdom.  It’s also much grittier, and more involved with the drudgery of the administrative tasks a teacher must contend with in American schools.

Directed by Robert Mulligan and produced by Alan Pakula (the team that did “To Kill a Mockingbird” in 1962), this film is based on the New York Times 1964 best-selling autibiographical novel by Bel Kaufman.  Kaufman was an educator and author, who had difficulty getting published at that time, because major publishers would not take manuscripts from women (she shortened her name from Bella to get around it). 

The film tells of an idealistic young English teacher, Sylvia Barrett, on her first assignment in a tough inner-city school in New York.  Sylvia’s challenges seem insurmountable: jaded, unsympathetic administrators, a predatory fellow English teacher, a room of 40 unruly students of all races and backgrounds who don’t seem interested in books or learning; mountains of paperwork, and a low-grade, constant threat of violence.

We learn little about Sylvia, except that she is single, graduated with honors in her Master’s program, lives alone, and gets a weekly phone call from her mother.  The film concentrates on Sylvia’s experiences at school, or traveling the dangerous streets to and from school.  

The movie mixes tones to interesting effect: the music by Fred Karlin uses flutes and snare drums to invoke humor or suspense, and the students seem a rowdy bunch, until their individual stories come into focus, with real drama and serious overtones that are gripping.

The students are played by non-professionals, most of them actual high school students. Given the 2-hour running time, we know many of these characters intimately, or learn about their home lives.  The rawness and freshness of these amateur performers is charming.  Along with the students, “Up the Down Staircase” uses cutting-edge camerawork and ambient sound recording, which give it a breath of realism that overcomes some moments that stretch credibility.

Most of all, the film belongs to Sandy Dennis, in a winning portrayal.  Dennis subdues her usual mannerisms to give us a portrait of a gentle, sincere and caring woman who wants so badly to break through to her students.  I think it’s her best work, coming one year after her searing, Oscar-winning portrayal of an unhappy young wife in “Who’s Afraid of Virginia Woolf?”. 

I really believed in Dennis as Sylvia, and I was invested in how she would finally have her breakthrough.  It comes rather suddenly.  After almost an hour of frustration and failure, she leads a spirited discussion of Dickens’ “A Tale of Two Cities”.  I felt physical relief when she smiled in quiet pleasure at the real learning taking place in front of her, even though the slow process of gaining their trust was eliminated for the sake of time.

Some moments are unforgettable: 

The “Tale of Two Cities” discussion is lively and breathtaking, incorporating literature with social issues of the time (and our time): race, power, poverty, and the contradictions found our culture. 

A student approaches the teacher she has a crush on, but  he embarrasses her by correcting the grammar of her love note (which has tragic consequences).  

A tough, delinquent student develops a complicated relationship with Sylvia, leading to what may be an understanding, or maybe an unleashing of his libido.  

A simulated courtroom late in the film, that Sylvia uses as a learning exercise, reveals a surprise, and leads Sylvia to make a fateful decision.

We need to remember what school was and can still be.  We need to hope for a way for schools to open safely again, and give students a chance to find enrichment from their teachers and fellow students, and even learn from the mistakes of youthful exuberance.  

I loved both of these movies in different ways.  I am grateful to the educators who authored their experiences in the books that were eventually adapted into these films.

T. R.  Braithwiate died in 2016 at age 104.  Bel Kaufman died in 2014 at age 103.  Perhaps there is a secret to longevity in teaching, and perhaps teachers today can take comfort in that thought.