20,000 Leagues Under the Sea (1954), Richard Fleischer.

What are you implying?  I'm just whittling my harpoon over here.

I love Kirk Douglas.  He's so goddamn enthusiastic!  It's as if he savours every breath he takes, and I doubt it was just the ham acting -- he always strikes me as a guy who grabbed what he could lay his hands on and enjoyed every minute of it.  Now let's picture 20,000 Leagues Under the Sea without Kirk Douglas.  Pretty lame, huh?  Discounting a seal named Esmerelda and two prostitutes that appear briefly in the first scene, we have an entirely male cast (all the shots on the first ship look like gay Victorian erotica, what with all the bearded sailors).   Captain Nemo (James Mason looking, as someone commented to me, "like a shorn Wayne Coyne,") is a misanthropic submarine despot and Peter Lorre just looks depressed.  Was 20,000 Leagues a proto-tent pole summer flick? It's a little boy escapist fantasy and is kitted out with super gadgets and explosions.  I am curious about the technical aspects and whether they furthered the artform at all, what with all the models, wide shots and undersea filming.  But when those end credits rolled, I was overwhelmed with a feeling of despair and my ass was seeing stars.  

Heaven Can Wait (1943), Ernest Lubitsch.

A satirical movie made in 1943 that gently chides the sobriety of the social morés of a bygone era is pretty much destined to become completely dated by 2009. Though the concept of what is risqué has certainly changed and this story feels toothless by today's standards, it remains watchable because of its wonderfully witty dialogue and lovely performances. Don Ameche plays Henry Van Cleve, a well-to-do New Yorker who, though he marries the girl of his dreams, continues to dog around ceaselessly up to the point where he ends up explaining himself to some kind of maitre d' to the ante room of Hell. Ameche's playboy (whose minor sin is to love women too much) remains sympathetic - unlike many other characters who appear destined for a fiery afterlife.

I find Lubitsch's witty comedies of manners to be well crafted but ultimately weightless - real human emotion is either sparse or lacking. As well, I instinctively chafe at a little cast of characters for whom work is optional and money is no object. The beautifully composed colour (simply stunning Technicolor) is just another demonstration of its artificiality. I find I often walk away from these confections feeling amazed at the craftsmanship, yet underfed.

An unfortunate old biddy meets her end.