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  • Spring Coming

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    Under discussion:

    Winter Passing  (2004)

    Like A Winter’s Tale, the Shakespearean comedy that Winter Passing frequently alludes to, story is barely comic at first. 

    Reese Holdin (Zooey Deschanel) is dealing with destructive relationships, drug dependencies, and grief over the recent suicide of her mother.  Reese hasn’t talked with her father, reclusive novelist Don Holdin (Ed Harris), since her mother’s death.  She seeks Don out, but only because a book editor offers Reese $100,000 to deliver the correspondence her mother and father wrote during their courtship. 

    Reese leaves New York City for Michigan’s Upper Peninsula where she is shocked to discover that her father is living with two people she’s never met before.  Shelly (Amelia Warner) is a kind graduate student who, Don explains, “needed a place to get away for awhile.”  There is also the loyal, simple Corbit (Will Ferrell) who is almost childlike in his innocence.  Will Ferrell describes Corbit in an interview as a “lost soul who’s found a home.” 

    All of the main characters are lost souls, but Don, Shelly, and Corbit are building a community together.  Shelly and Corbit need a play to stay, and Don is so stricken with grief that he needs people to care for him.  (When one of Don’s fans seeks a meeting with the author, the faithful Corbit tells him that Don has “expired.  He’s officially concluded all of his earthly business.”) 

      Every day before dinner, Corbit and Don put on protective gear and tee off in Don’s old study, the room where he found his wife’s body.  Reese discovers that the walls are pocked, the windows broken.  They don’t explain to her why they do this.  I don’t think they need to.  Reese sarcastically says to her dad, “You’ve got a little utopia here.”  Don answers truthfully, “It works pretty well.”        

    This movie is full of sadness, but also full of grace.  We see hurting people passing from a winter into spring because of the warmth they’re willing to share with one another.       

    Unlike in A Winter’s Tale, Don’s dead wife does not return to him.  But he is not left alone.  Don, Corbit, Shelly, and Reese have learned how to be a different kind of family.  Reese discovers that her father has completed a manuscript of his first novel in two decades.  The man who once wrote “literary nightmares” (in Reese’s words) has written a love story that Reese affectionately calls “a little sentimental.”  Don asks her, “Do you think I’m getting soft in my old age?”  “Yes,” answers Reese with a smile, pleased.

    Don’s new novel is called Golf, which leads us to believe that he is slowly learning how to live through the unexpected and painful parts of life.  Winter Passing isn’t a comedy in the sense that you’ll be laughing out loud (though Corbit is frequently delightful); this is a comedy because it shows that grace prevails and good wins.        

    This is writer-director Adam Rapp's first and only film.  I hope he makes more.


  • Move Over, Bogie

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    Murder, My Sweet  (1944)

    In 1944 Dick Powell was well known as a squeaky-clean crooner, appearing in movie musicals such as Happy Go Lucky, Riding High, and Star-Spangled Rhythm.  By then Powell was in his early forties and wanted to try some meatier, more dramatic roles.  He got his opportunity when he signed to the nearly bankrupt RKO Pictures, who promptly filmed and released Farewell, My Lovely. 

    Powell’s waning fan base came expecting another light musical comedy; what they got was one of the greatest film noirs ever made.  Once RKO figured out they’d shot themselves in the foot with the title, they changed it to Murder, My Sweet, and soon enough the studio had a very deserving hit on their hands. 

    One of Raymond Chandler’s best novels provided the raw material for John Paxton’s smartly written screenplay.  Chandler’s plots are notoriously incomprehensible; if I were asked what this film is about, I wouldn’t know what to say other than “murder, deception, obsession.”  Murder, My Sweet isn’t plot-driven, it's more like the plot is the vehicle we ride in with private detective Philip Marlowe (Powell), meeting strange and brutal characters in places we’re sure we’ve seen in dreams.  When the film comes to a close, I don’t think “Wow, that’s a good story.”  I think, “Wow, that’s a great movie!”

    The cinematography of Murder, My Sweet is beautiful and gritty at the same time.  A dank, dirty feeling hangs in the L.A. air.  It’s like walking along the floor of a tropical rainforest—you’re up to your ankles in decay.  

    Powell’s Marlowe is tart, aloof, funny and cool.  But he’s also just, and somehow manages to seem vulnerable at the same time.  He wants to do good but doesn’t always know how.  Powell also develops chemistry with both female leads, Claire Trevor (femme fatale) and Anne Shirley (girl next door).  Eat your heart out Bogie, Powell is at the very least your equal.   

    The only part of the film that hasn’t aged well is Marlowe’s drug-induced nightmare.  Director Edward Dmytryk appears to be attempting a sequence like the one in The Big Lebowski, minus the bowling, the Vikings, and Kenny Rogers. 

    I don’t know many people, let alone film lovers, who have seen Murder, My Sweet.  It’s superior to The Big Sleep (1946), which means it’s the best Raymond Chandler adaptation, and just possibly, the best film noir ever.  


 

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