The Phantom of Liberty (1974)

Directed by Luis Buñuel
Written by Luis Buñuel, Jean-Claude Carrière
Starring Monica Vitti, Milena Vukotic, Michel Lonsdale, Michel Piccoli

Writing a review would be pointless. Trying to write something about The Phantom of Liberty that is more absurd than the film itself would be a game of one-upsmanship I would not win. Here then is a recipe for inducing pink vomit:

1 package strawberry Jell-O
1 quart of milk

Mix ingredients in a bowl and chill for at least one hour.

Bon appetit.

Sword of the Beast (1965)

Directed by Hideo Gosha
Written by Hideo Gosha, Eizaburo Shiba
Starring Mikijiro Hira, Go Kato, Shima Iwashita, Toshie Kimura

The beast had been wandering for centuries. Once it was the ruler of this land, and its influence had even spread to realms beyond. The beast knew this much. Beyond that it knew how to forage to survive. But in truth, it would have died many years ago had its body still required sustenance to carry on. For this was a dead land.

There had been a time when the beast would have never imagined a need to seek its own food. He had only to move his head and bellow, and men would sacrifice their young and their beautiful maidens. The beast would consume them whole and pass their bones.

Later the meat had not been as tender. Only the elder ones remembered and recognized his power, and they sacrificed from within their own ranks. When the last of them had exhausted their short lives, the beast’s howls would go unrewarded. The angry beast would infect the men with plagues, cause their homes to catch fire, and would swell the ocean to rise up and wash away their towns. But the stupid men never thought to feed him.

Now there were few signs that the land had ever been civilized. The beast spent his days patrolling a dead forest. Sometimes something new would sprout from the ground, but then a spontaneous fire would erupt and scorch the earth. Occasionally, the beast would pick up the scent of a man, but it was always distant and possibly only imagined.

But today the beast encountered an odor that had been all but forgotten to him. A demon was in his land. In better times, the beast had taught demons to stay away from his food. Demons corrupted men’s souls and soured the meat. This the beast would not tolerate.

But the meat and the souls were long gone from this land. What business would a demon have here now?

The beast did not care for the taste of demon and did not have the motivation to fight. Nevertheless he felt protective of the land that was still his, depleted though it was. He would have to deal with the intruder.

He did not have to search for long. At the edge of what had once been a treeline was a lake that had been created by the blood of men and the piss of the beast. On the other side of the lake the beast’s one good eye followed a pillar of black smoke down to its source, and there saw the demon, sitting stone still by a campfire and meditating.

The beast took his time walking around the lake. He had not spoken in a thousand years, but in any case communication with demons scarcely required it. Like many of the ancient races, demons could instinctively read souls. What made them skilled predators was their ability to just as instinctively pervert them.

The demon stood up slowly as the beast approached. He beckoned for him to join him by the camp. The beast instead stopped in his tracks, and the demon addressed him.

You are the master of this land. I am a young demon, and I do not know you, but I can tell that this is true. I hope you will forgive my trespass. I am waiting for someone.

You will not wait here. If someone is coming, I will greet them with my jowls and welcome them into the pit of my stomach. I would offer you the same, but you are unappetizing. Leave my land and do not return.

I am sorry, old one, but I will not leave yet. What will you do about it?

The beast had not been so brazenly defied in all its existence. It was confused more than anything else. Had the beast a little more intelligence, he might have recognized that confusion as the moment he lost the battle.

I am old, that is true. I do not fight as fiercely as I once did. But I am more than capable of tearing a little demon into many pieces.

I believe you, old one. So why did you so graciously offer me the option of leaving here whole?

I … do not know.

Oh, but you do. You cannot deceive a demon, as you well know. I see what is in your soul.

The beast knew he was trapped. If he retreated, his hold on the land would end, and he would become mortal. His body was far too old to survive such a transition. And though a moment before he could have destroyed the demon with ease, it was too late. The demon had found his soul. It was corrupted by tendrils that caressed and weakened his spirit. Even if he had been able to focus enough to mount an attack, killing the demon would kill himself.

Your spirit has been dying for too many years, old one. Thankfully your bones are still strong. I may be able to fashion a weapon from them.

Above his campfire the demon had mounted a spit. The beast was drawn to it.

Climb onto it, old one. Use those jowls one more time and swallow it whole. That should not be too difficult for you.

The fire was roaring strongly now. The beast found it oddly inviting. Perhaps this was not such a bad way to leave this land. He opened his jaws wide around the spit and pulled himself forward.

A Generation (1955)

Directed by Andrzej Wajda
Written by Bohdan Czeszko
Starring Tadeusz Lomnicki, Urszula Modrzynska, Tadeusz Janczar, Janusz Paluszkiewicz

The debut film for director Andrzej Wajda is also the first part of his unofficial “war trilogy” (there are no character or storyline connections between the three films), depicting Poland at different stages during World War II. A well-made first feature that kind of pales beside the second and third installments. Not a bad movie, but I have no insights to offer and can’t think of anything funny to say about it. One more movie off the list. Next.

Wait, that’s a terrible blog entry. Where is the value for my reader’s time spent indulging me in my obsessive quest to watch all these DVDs and report on them? This isn’t Leonard Maltin’s Movie Guide. I have to do more.

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OK, so after much research, here are some Interesting Facts I discovered about A Generation:

-- Roman Polanski is in this movie somewhere.

-- So are Alfred Hitchcock, Amelia Earhart, and one of the stunt double vehicles from Herbie Rides Again.

-- Despite the fact that director Wajda and all of his cast and crew were native Polish speakers, only pig latin was spoken while filming in case there were still any listening devices nearby left over from the recent occupation. This meant dubbing all dialogue in post-production. To more closely match the rhythms of the Polish language, the footage was played in reverse while the actors recorded their lines. So during production, all actions that included dialogue had to be performed backwards. Thankfully the actors were up to the task. One would never know any better by watching the final film unless his or her attention is distracted by all the backward-walking animals and bullets going back into their guns.

That’s it. I got nothing else. My apologies to Andrzej Wajda. He really is a good director.

The Hidden Fortress (1958)

Directed by Akira Kurosawa
Written by Ryuzo Kikushima, Hideo Oguni, Shinobu Hashimoto, Akira Kurosawa
Starring Toshiro Mifune, Minoru Chiaki, Kamatari Fujiwara, Misa Uehara

Mifune was born with a katana in his hand. He emerged fully grown from the womb, performing a c-section from the inside. After severing his umbilical cord, his first action was field surgery to save his mother’s life.

He spent his first years farming. He had a natural ability with the soil. There was a form of communication between them. His crops grew tall and plentiful.

When his mother died, Mifune’s grief became an earthquake that ravaged the farm. The bond between him and the land was broken. He salvaged enough food for a long journey, and picked up his sword.

He encountered no person on the day he left home, but his travels did not go unnoticed. A pack of wolves surrounded him. Mifune bowed and asked for safe passage. The leader of the wolves attacked and became Mifune’s winter coat and a quiver. A snake tried to bite him, and provided Mifune a belt and string for his bow.

On the first night he made camp, a demon visited Mifune by the fire. It was interested to know how Mifune had come by the blade he carried. Mifune answered that he was born with it, and offered no more in the way of conversation. The demon’s presence annoyed him.

The demon told him that the blade was cursed. He could sense the presence of a demon more powerful than himself bound within it. It was this that had drawn him to Mifune’s camp.

This angered Mifune. He called the demon a liar and challenged him, but the demon smiled and refused. He would stand no chance against Mifune’s blade, he said. He then walked into the fire and rode the smoke upwards and was gone.

Mifune did not sleep that night, nor for several nights after.

He did not know how long he had been travelling. His senses were keen, even sharpened, by the lack of sleeping. But the measurement of time had been lost. As dawn broke one morning, he saw the outlines of a town.

The smells of the city were different from those of the farm he had known for most of his life. The concentration of people and the poor living conditions made it a foul place that assaulted and overwhelmed him. He vomited twice before his body could adjust.

Mifune walked from building to building and observed. He carried no money and had little in the way of social skills. The townspeople were clearly frightened by his appearance. Some would skitter away, but just as many adopted defensive postures and kept their eyes on him.

He encountered an older man who had lost his legs and was begging in the street. Mifune asked to sit a while with him and rest. The beggar was glad for the company.

The beggar began telling Mifune things about the town. What it was called, how it began, and who its prominent citizens were. But the travel had taken its toll, and Mifune was soon asleep.

He was awakened when his sword was snatched from his hand. Mifune was on his feet in a second. He barely got a look at the thief before the crowd closed in around him and blocked his view.

Mifune fought them well, but he was only one man, weakened by travel and lack of rest. He was beaten badly and eventually succumbed to unconsciousness when a rock struck his head hard. Mifune had just enough sense to register that the throw had come from the direction of the beggar before everything faded into blood red.

It was some time before he realized his spirit was now walking without his body. He was beside a nearly dry river bed. Only a trickle of dirty water ran past him. A dam built of corpses and manure was blocking the water upstream.

A strong campfire was burning ahead, with a beast Mifune could not identify turning on a spit above it. Stoking the flames was a familiar demon. As Mifune approached, the demon addressed him.

You are brave to visit this world, living man. Without your blade you are powerless against me. And you did not treat me with hospitality when we last met.

Mifune did not reply. Instead he pulled a piece of meat from the roasting creature and ate. It was burnt and rancid.

You will find no nourishment in the flesh of that creature. At one time it was a god, but its name has long since been forgotten, even by itself. It asked me to kill it, and I granted its wish.

What do you wish, living man?

Nothing from you, said Mifune, and started to walk past the demon. The demon grabbed him by the throat and lifted him with one hand.

You are not welcome here. You will return and face me again, and on that day I will destroy you. But you have more demons to face before me.

The demon threw Mifune over the dam of corpses, over the foul reddish-brown lake past it, over the charred remnants of a forest, over a ruined castle, and over the edge of anything Mifune could comprehend. He fell and fell into nothing.

He felt an impact and his body jolted. The sudden movement sent up flares of pain from his broken ribs. An inhuman sound was forced from his lungs, and he began breathing in quick, forced gasps.

It took some time before he was able to stop shaking long enough to stand. When he had regained control of his body, Mifune took in his surroundings. He was at the bottom of a gully in a forest, but it was too dark to determine more than that.

Mifune began gathering material for a small campfire. Morning would come soon. Then he would retrieve his sword.

The Bank Dick (1940)

Directed by Edward F. Cline
Written by W.C. Fields (as Mahatma Kane Jeeves), Richard Carroll 
Starring W.C. Fields, Shemp Howard

It was, I believe, last Wednesday night. Whichever night it was raining and that fog seeped in. I was taking the train home from work when I became convinced by a completely illogical premonition that the conditions would somehow cause us to derail. I made it a point to disembark at the next stop.

I found myself in a part of town that I had never seen before. It smelled like it was laundry day, and everyone had washed their clothes in urine before hanging them out to dampen in the mist. I was shivering and pulled my coat up tight. But I needed a different kind of warmth in my belly.

I walked toward where the fog was at its brightest yellow-grey. I found there a tavern lit by gas lamp, with a better-than-average weeknight crowd, no doubt driven by the same impulses as myself.

Edgar Allan Poe and Mark Twain were arm wrestling in a booth. A lively game of Texas Hold ‘em was underway in the middle of the room. Colonel Sanders was holding a cigar and looking very confident. Minnie Pearl and one of the Monkees each had a decent stack of chips. Paul Lynde appeared to be out of the game and was just hanging around to chat. Poor Elisha Cook was obviously about to be dealt out.

There was one open stool at the bar and I worked my way over, careful to avoid a collision with Carmen Miranda balancing a tray of drinks atop her head.

Shemp Howard was moving faster than I would have imagined him capable, applying a lemon twist to a martini on his left and pouring a jigger of amaretto on his right, then quickly turning around to tighten up a faulty beer tap. I didn’t want to interrupt his work to place my order just yet, and looked to the neighbor on my left.

“It ain’t a fit night out for man nor beast!” said W.C. Fields, and threw down a shot. He had his own bottle of rye, and immediately poured another.

“What an apt phrase,” said the silly old bear to my right. He turned up his hunny jar and then, licking his lips, offered it to me. I politely declined, but then the bear leaned in and whispered to me in confidence.

“It isn’t really hunny, you see. Or at least it hasn’t been in some time. Do you, sir, imbibe of mead?”

It was a libation I had never tasted, but my curiosity was piqued. I hefted the hunny jar in both hands (it was surprisingly large), took a cautious whiff, and drank in a large gulp.

“You won’t tell anyone, will you?” the bear continued. “None of my friends know, but then none of us are very bright. I feel I’ve been sending warning signals for years, vainly hoping for intervention.” He sighed loudly. “How very silly of me.”

I had drunk more than I’d intended, and I passed the jar back to my gracious host. But his expression changed to one of consternation.

“Oh bother, all gone.”

On my left, Fields stopped his glass halfway to his lips. He glanced nervously at our companion. “Everything OK there, Mister Saunders?”

“How very, very silly of me,” the bear repeated, swaying awkwardly on his stool.

By now his behavior had drawn Shemp’s attention. He poured a glass of ice water and placed it before the drunken old bear. “You uh, want us to call that boy to come get ya?”

Apparently that had been the wrong thing to say. The bear knocked back his stool and stood on his haunches. “That boy -- is never coming back!”

And then, his balance lost, he fumbled his paws around the hunny-mead jar just as his body rolled over with a crash. Somehow he worked the jar over his entire head and then pawed and clawed in the air like a turtle on its back.

Aghast, I looked to Fields, but he had already returned to his rye. “Silly old bear,” he muttered.

The mead was burning in my stomach. I’d gotten what I came for. Sensing that the place would be closing and perhaps ceasing to exist very soon, I made for the exit and never looked back.