The Music Lovers (1970)

Ken Russell died on November 27th of this year at the age of 84. In the 60’s and the 70’s, Russell specialized in opulent, decadent spectacles; the musical biopic, in particular, was a favorite subgenre for the director, where he could rely almost solely upon visuals and music to tell his stories. And those stories were astonishing: beautiful, horrific, outlandish, both classical and cutting-edge. But by the 80’s his budgets began to shrink, and in the ensuing decades so did the opportunities. He still managed to work consistently, albeit in the realm of television and independent film. Speaking to the BBC, Glenda Jackson, who had starred in many of Russell’s films as his transgressive muse, spoke with outrage when reflecting on how the British film industry overlooked one of their greatest talents: “It was almost as if he never existed – I find it utterly scandalous for someone who was so innovative and a film director of international stature.” It does seem scandalous, when you’re watching The Music Lovers (1970). Here is someone picking up where Michael Powell left off and guiding British film into the 1970’s: it’s sophisticated filmmaking that takes risks; it rockets forward with the same “vulgar” passionate overtures of its subject, Pyotr Ilyich Tchaikovsky. And like Tchaikovsky, Russell was considered just a bit too vulgar by many of his peers.

Peter Tchaikovsky (Richard Chamberlain) receives support from his sister Sasha (Sabina Maydelle).

The extraordinary opening sequence, which recalls David Lean (and, of course, Doctor Zhivago), sees Peter Tchaikovsky (Richard Chamberlain) at the height of his happiness, ecstatically charging up an icy sled run with his lover, Count Anton Chiluvsky (Christopher Gable of Russell’s Women in Love), while children in their sleds fall toward them, and eventually they both tumble happily to the bottom. On the other side of the town square, Russian soldiers parade through a crowd, and a young woman watching from a landing high above – Antonina Milyukova (Glenda Jackson) – becomes instantly infatuated with the mounted lieutenant leading their march. She races to keep up with them, sliding her hand across the railing and scattering the snow, until she finally lobs a snowball at the head of the retreating lieutenant. He turns and smiles. All this, of course, is set to the thunderous music of Tchaikovsky, which will animate the entire film. About ten minutes in, Russell indulges in a tour de force: Tchaikovsky performs “Piano Concerto 1” and Russell uses the sprawling piece to introduce all the players in our melodrama: the wealthy widow Madame von Meck (Izabella Telezynska), who, watching the composer perform, falls in love with him, and decides to sponsor his music; his sister Sasha (Sabina Maydelle), who has a sublimated incestuous longing for her brother; the Count, jealous and possessive of Peter; and Antonina, who daydreams about her whirlwind romance with that lieutenant, now her husband – and awakens to the disappointment that the chair beside her is empty. And in the center of the hall, Tchaikovsky pounds at his piano (rare for a film of this sort, the actor is clearly playing the music) – the object of all those unrequited lusts and dreams circling him. When he finishes, he receives rapturous applause…and then Nicholas Rubinstein (Max Adrian) arrives to mock his pupil’s overwrought compositions in front of those spectators who remain, instantly humiliating him. No hyperbole: this entire sequence stands as one of the strongest pieces of filmmaking of the 1970’s.

Tchaikovsky performs the First Piano Concerto.

This is still a biopic: an intensely problematic genre which has nonetheless proven irresistible to auteur directors. The best of these, as far as I’m concerned, are those which choose not to tell the entire story of someone’s life, but just one passage which can be firmly structured as good storytelling: Capote (2005), for example, which only focused on how its subject wrote In Cold Blood. Russell nearly has it both ways. The Music Lovers depicts a key moment from Tchaikovsky’s childhood, but only as a flashback, one suffered by the composer as he fails to separate the past from the present, and momentarily confuses a stranger in a bathtub with his mother being plunged into scalding water as a fatally misguided cholera treatment. The film also portrays Tchaikovsky’s death, but only as an epilogue. The story is built instead upon the composer’s struggle with his sexuality, and in particular his failed marriage to Antonina (his “Nina”). Russell shows Nina – emerging from a deeply troubled past – to be a hairsbreadth away from insanity. Peter, who responds to her rapturous love letter (in which she threatens to kill herself) with a hasty wedding, might rescue her from the brink, but his quickly withdrawn affection pushes her over it. He’s in love with the idea of being in love, much as how Nina and Madame von Meck are in the love with the idea of Tchaikovsky. His heightened, romantic feelings can’t overcome the barrier of his homosexuality. His ex-lover, the Count, constantly haunts the film, following Peter with a knowing look. His friend can’t pretend forever.

Spectators - including Peter and Nina (Glenda Jackson) - spy on two lovers with a camera obscura.

A weakness of the film is that much of this is stated outright rather than implied. Well, it was 1970. Gay cinema was still largely in the underground. When Count Anton first warns Peter against denying his past, he does so by suggestively stroking a phallic bottleneck. In one dizzying and chaotic scene, Peter and Nina get drunk during a bumpy train ride, and her attempt to seduce him is accompanied – from Peter’s point-of-view – with shots swooping through the rings in the hoop of her skirt, like falling down the rabbit-hole, albeit one that’s a bit too overburdened by Freudian meaning. Ken Russell wants us to know that Tchaikovsky is really intimidated by vaginas. When Nina undresses, she sprawls out, completely nude, on the floor of their cramped compartment, writhing like some monstrous worm – or at least this is how Peter sees her. Never has heterosexual sex been so frightening. But as much as I criticize this scene for being so obvious, I also sort of love it. It’s all so very Ken Russell. He scorned subtlety and embraced delirium. He was cinema’s Lord Byron (unsurprisingly, a character featured in one of his other films).

Sasha and Peter's assistant man the cannons during a scene from Ken Russell's hallucinatory treatment of the "1812 Overture."

One of the film’s most famous scenes is its climactic use of the “1812 Overture,” which is how Russell compresses the latter half of Tchaikovsky’s life. Another director might have depicted those years over the course of another hour of film – the marathon aspect of your usual biopic. Russell takes an impressionistic approach: a fantasy sequence in which Peter flees from his family and friends, to be overtaken by a mob of admirers directed by his brother Modeste (Kenneth Colley); multi-colored streamers spontaneously fall from the sky and he’s borne through a parade and draped in flowers, eventually transforming into a bronze statue. Those participants of his past that he’s so desperate to escape have their heads blown off, one by one, by firing cannons – all but Nina, who only grins madly (neglected by her husband, she’s drifted into promiscuity, and is eventually committed to a sanitorium, which Russell later depicts as a horrifying hell). We don’t need dry melodramatic scenes guiding us through every checkpoint in Tchaikovsky’s later history; we understand Russell’s telling, which is that the composer detaches himself from his sexuality, pushes past his romances and his failures, and pursues fame and glory with Modeste’s guiding hand. This is what cinema is supposed to be: visual, passionate, breathtaking. It’s shining proof that with the right subject matter, Russell was a force to be reckoned with.

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Christmas Riffing with MST3K

Now that the holidays are upon us, and we are a few decades deep into the Age of Irony, why not spend this Christmas season with some silhouettes in the front row, riffing on absurd and/or awful cinema misadventures of the past? To celebrate the release of Shout! Factory’s new Mystery Science Theater 3000 Volume XXII (which features Time of the Apes, Mighty Jack, The Violent Years, and The Brute Man), let’s review those episodes of Best Brains’ ten-season series which program best when the snow is falling, Christmas lights are illuminating the block, and crass holiday specials starring the likes of Lady Gaga and Shrek are glutting the television.

Santa and kids confront some wacky invaders in "Santa Claus Conquers the Martians."

By season three, Joel Hodgson, Crow T. Robot (Trace Beaulieu), and Tom Servo (Kevin Murphy) were enjoying full-season orders from Comedy Central, and their riffing on the Mads’ “experiments” had become comfortable, rapid-fire, and consistently hilarious. In a season dominated by the Gamera films and other poorly-dubbed Sandy Frank productions, by the end of the year the Satellite of Love tried something different, and riffed their first holiday film, Santa Claus Conquers the Martians (321, aired on 12/21/91). The 1964 matinee movie is best known for featuring a young Pia Zadora – that, and for having a plot in which Santa Claus is abducted by Martians and, at one point, almost executed Alien style by being blasted out of an airlock. Two young stowaways on the Martian spaceship attempt to rescue him – and also to teach the grumpy aliens the meaning of Christmas (which involves a chaotic, toy-oriented climax). The Martians are represented by actors in spandex with painted-green faces. To alleviate the oppressively terrible film, Joel and the Bots perform holiday-themed sketches, including singing the Road House-themed ditty “A Patrick Swayze Christmas.” The episode was released on DVD by Rhino as part of Mystery Science Theater 3000: The Essentials (also featuring Manos: The Hands of Fate), but, like many of Rhino’s releases of the show, it’s gone out of print. I would expect Shout! will remedy that soon.

Santa Claus ponders the Devil in "Santa Claus."

It would be two seasons later before MST3K attempted another Christmas episode. Joel Hodgson had left, unhappily, in the middle of season five, to be replaced by head writer Mike Nelson. The transition wasn’t quite as awkward as it might have been, since Nelson was already a key part of the show’s comic voice; very quickly some more classic episodes arrived, including Santa Claus (521, aired 12/24/93), a contender for my favorite MST3K of all time. This Mexican production (Mexican version directed by René Cardona, American dub by K. Gordon Murray) is one of the most jaw-droppingly surreal films ever made, to compete strongly against anything Lynch or Buñuel might throw at you. The confused theology of the film depicts Santa in his eternal battle against Satan, here represented in the form of a devil called Pitch, who prances about in a leotard and goatee in an attempt to corrupt the soul of a girl named Lupita. Highlights include a politically incorrect ceremony in Santa’s domain, parading out costumed children representing the different nations of the world that celebrate Christmas; Santa’s bizarre gadgets and creepy robotic reindeer; and a glimpse of Hell that threatens to turn into Swan Lake. Pitch, as played by MST3K writer Paul Chaplin, became a recurring character on the show with the same prominence as Mike Nelson’s Torgo. Mike and the Bots sing the delicate “Merry Christmas, If That’s Okay.” The episode is available as part of Shout! Factory’s MST3K: Volume XVI, and also on Netflix streaming.

A winter sleighride with "Jack Frost."

After an abrupt cancellation from Comedy Central, MST3K was miraculously revived on the Sci-Fi Channel, with writer/performer Bill Corbett replacing Trace Beaulieu in the role of Crow. Their first season on Sci-Fi was their longest on that network, with its first half given over largely to black-and-white monster movies from the Universal vault, and the second half to more outré offerings. To the latter category belongs Jack Frost (813, aired 7/12/97), aka Morozko, a Russian film from 1967. Like the Aleksandr Ptushko films which MST3K had previously riffed, it’s a visually-spectacular fairy tale that just so happens to be borderline insane. A young boy and girl fall in love in the snowy Russian woods, but face obstacles in the form of the girl’s ugly stepsister, and the witch Baba Yaga, who resides, as folklore dictates, in a hut with chicken-legs. Jack Frost, god of winter, intervenes to save the day. Though this isn’t technically a Christmas movie, Jack Frost is outfitted in resplendent Father Christmas fashion, and the snowy landscape and nonstop “magical” happenings have the film resembling a live action version of those Rankin-Bass specials which air this time of year. The episode was released by Shout! as part of MST3K: Vol. XVIII.

Mike Nelson, Bill Corbett, and Kevin Murphy riff "A Visit to Santa" in the "2009 Rifftrax Live: Christmas Shorts-stravaganza!"

Some years after MST3K was cancelled for the second time, the cast and writers reformed into two separate camps. Mike Nelson, Kevin Murphy, and Bill Corbett formed Rifftrax, creating downloadable movie commentary and specializing in more contemporary films. Joel Hodgson, Trace Beaulieu, Frank Conniff, Mary Jo Pehl, and J. Elvis Weinstein formed Cinematic Titanic (specializing in riffing older, frequently public-domain films); in the past few years they’ve turned their effort into a wildly popular touring show. Cinematic Titanic re-conquered Santa Claus Conquers the Martians for DVD, writing all-new riffs. (For a while, their DVDs consisted of the familiar silhouette approach of MST3K, performed in a studio and without an audience. These days their DVD releases are strictly documents of their live shows.) The film is available in physical or downloadable digital format from Cinematic Titanic‘s online store, in addition to their latest release, Cinematic Titanic Live: War of the Insects.

Rifftrax, in recent years, has branched into live performance by taping live shows and broadcasting them to cinemas nationwide. One of their first to attempt this was the 2009 Rifftrax Live: Shorts-stravaganza! The very entertaining ninety minutes consists of Christmas-themed live action and animated shorts from decades past (plus vintage toy commercials); Weird Al Yankovic is a guest. Not live, but still full of Christmas kitsch, is the Rifftrax take on Santa and the Ice Cream Bunny, a travesty from the early 70’s. Both Rifftrax specials are available from their website.

Until Rifftrax takes on that Lady Gaga Christmas special, I think these are your best alternatives.

[Shout! Factory has just announced the titles of their next box set, to be released March 27th: those include King Dinosaur (210 – one of my favorites); The Castle of Fu Manchu (323); Code Name: Diamond Head (608); and Last of the Wild Horses (611).]

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Witches’ Hammer (1969)

At one point in Witches’ Hammer (1969), Otakar Vavra’s document of a 17th Century witch hunt in the Czech Republic, an accused witch, tied to a stake, screams through rising smoke, “I was made to acknowledge my guilt! I was tortured for nine days.” The Inquisitor, watching the proceedings with the esteemed lady of the estate, assures her, “That’s a lie. She was interrogated with the usual application of thumb-screws and boot. Of course, that’s quite common.” One of the arguments leveled by critics of the Bush/Cheney administration’s “enhanced interrogation techniques” is one that forms the central obsession of Vavra’s powerful film: when someone is tortured, they will say anything. The information should not be acted upon. Furthermore, it is more likely to be inaccurate and spoken only to cease the torture. But what does torture really mean? The Inquisitor, one Boblig of Edelstadt, believes that thumb-screws don’t qualify, but in his own secret court he applies even crueller punishments, so perhaps he only parses the word out of diplomatic respect in the presence of fine persons. Say what you want in the light of day, as long as you can do what you wish at night. The lady certainly doesn’t want to hear any of it. The Bishop, who appointed him, remains aloof and deliberately separate from Boblig’s witch-hunt, only expressing alarm when his friends attempt to defend those who have been accused of witchcraft. Forming an argument about the method of torture is meaningless when the one person in the position to stop it will end the conversation at the mention of the word “witch.” Everyone outside of Boblig’s immediate court clears a path out of fear. Those within, like Boblig himself, indulge in every hypocrisy because they gain the spoils of the hunt.

Over supper, the aristocracy discusses appointing a judge to handle an old woman accused of being a witch.

It’s a matter of social climbing, and Vavra might overstate his case, for he has made Boblig the central character of his story, and follows the man from a filth-covered innkeeper (retired from a position as director of Inquisitions) to the most powerful man in the community, wallowing in his greed, throwing feasts for his close friends; meanwhile, they plot to see whose estate they can claim next by accusing the owner of sodomy with Satan at nearby “Peter’s Rock.” Inquisitions are expensive, Boblig carefully explains when he is first interviewed for the job, but Inquisitions pay for themselves, as the witches’ belongings and homes are claimed for the court. When a skeptic scoffs, “A fat lot we’d get out of those beggars,” he makes clear that he has no idea how quickly the flames of a witch-hunt can spread, and how lucrative it can really be. Soon Boblig is deliberately targeting enemies and anyone for whose power or privelege he’s become jealous. Those who express a privately-whispered protest are reassured that Boblig has “forty years’ experience.” And anyone who speaks up to defend an accused is immediately put under suspicion: why would you defend someone in league with Satan, who already has a flock of bloody-thumbed witnesses? “Witch” is the sensitive word. “Witch” is the word to seize power. It might be “terrorist,” or, if that doesn’t grant you what you need, “enemy combatant.” Every law has loopholes. In fact, in one scene the Deacon, the man with the firmest moral integrity in the narrative, and the rare religious man with a deep and studious regard for law and science, pulls one of Boblig’s books from the shelf to directly point out the very loopholes that allow Boblig to torture his accused, promise them cessation and peace if they name names, and burn them at the stake anyway.

The Deacon reads from the witch-hunter's lawbook, "The Hammer of Witches."

The Deacon is the subject of intense, if unspoken, jealousy by Boblig and others in Velke Losiny because of his ravishing young cook. He’s single, and much is read into their relationship; in fact, much of it is true, but he is still one of the most respected men in the community. He has actually ended their affair to devote himself to his duties as a clergyman, but, as he says late in the film, he will not discuss his relationship with God to the lowly ones who deal with the Inquisitor. He is brought down. First his friends, then the young cook are taken before the court and tortured into confessions. When he is arrested, he asks to see his accusers, assured that they will not lie to his face. In the most compelling scene in the film, each is brought before him, accusing him, then begging for forgiveness. He studies their bloodied limbs, forgives them, and refuses to admit anything to Boblig. Finally, the cook begins repeating the testimony that has been scripted for her by the wardens, but can’t bring herself to address the Deacon directly with the lies; when she sees him, she breaks down. Then the Deacon is taken away.

Boblig searches for marks of the devil upon the body of the servant girl he desires.

Vavra is clearly influenced by Carl Theodor Dreyer, but the parallels to The Passion of Joan of Arc (1928) extend from the loving (and economically necessary) use of black-and-white, to the close-ups of anguished faces, and to the fact that much of the courtroom dialogue is taken directly from transcripts. Still, the license of the Czech New Wave allows him to illustrate more explicitly the motivations of the cruel men. He begins with our narrator – a fevered man sitting in a dark cell, describing in sordid and too-fantastic detail the methods of Satan’s disciples – whispering, “Sin reached the world through woman. Woman is sin.” We are quickly shown a woman’s fully nude form slipping out of a bath, and Vavra cuts across this giddy utopia of nude or semi-nude women bathing, gossiping, nursing, laughing. In the early scene in the church, there’s a throwaway shot of a female at worship, her hands folded in prayer squeezing against her chest, while the parishioner standing next to her steals a furtive glance of the moving breasts. Later these passions will be freed for all the priveleged who sit on Boblig’s court, as they leeringly inspect the pretty young cook for the Devil’s mark. While Vavra might initiate you into the sin game in the opening scene, he’s not in the exploitation business; the opening scene is poetic, lively – the later scenes acting as a righteous call for outrage.

A confession in progress.

Mercilessly, this play happens as it happened, and travels along to its necessary, despairing and cynical end-point. Boblig, rising drunkenly from his banquet table, the others passed out from the orgy, almost addresses the camera when he declares that now no man is above him. Was it all just a matter of wounded ego? In fact, the witch-hunt began in the smallest imaginable manner: an old woman steals away her sacrament in a folded cloth; when questioned by the furious clergymen, she says a witch instructed her to give it to her cow, so that it would give milk again. Although the Deacon tries to assure everyone that local superstitions are common and harmless, he isn’t heeded, and the wheel is set rolling. It can be a bit heavy-handed, as any screed can be, but Vavra’s approach is, for the most part, measured. The film clips along, and he finds ways of sharply defining even minor characters–everyone has a moral crisis, for in the days of a witch-hunt, everyone must choose a side. When Vavra calls for outrage in the film’s final scenes of torture, you’re ready to take your marching orders. There are no witches. The Devil, as the Deacon tries vainly to explain, is only in the hand that harms.

[This essay originally appeared, in slightly altered form, in 2006 on my old blog Kill the Snark.]

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