Vicente Minnelli | Brigadoon / 1954 [dance only]

cyd charisse and gene kelly

by Douglas Messerli

 

Alan Jay Lerner (screenplay and lyrics), Frederick Loewe (music), Vicente Minnelli (director) Brigadoon / 1954

 

Although Cyd Charisse was brilliant as the gambler's dancing moll in the long "I've Got to Dance" routine in Kelly's Singing in the Rain, she is even more exciting as the restrained Scottish elder sister in Minnelli's Brigadoon, where she again pairs up with Gene Kelly.

 

    Particularly in "The Heather on the Hill," where Kelly first sings the song's lyrics before the two break out into dance, we can sense Fiona's growing sexuality in the gracefulness of the long-legged Charisse's moves. The couple begin their duet as a tease, pulling on the basket in which she gathers heather (which in actuality was purple spray-painted sumac) and spinning like innocents before she begins her gentle run higher and higher up the hill.

     We perceive even through their costumes—Kelly's beautiful ensemble of an emerald green silk shirt underneath which he wears an orange tea shirt, matched by his stockings and Charisse's pearl-white dress with an underlining of orange—that they are a perfect match. The dance itself soon tells us that as he seemingly effortlessly lifts her time and again, and after running forward and backward in reversing patterns, each gracefully lifts their entire bodies, one after the other, into the bough of a nearby tree.

     There is a shyness about Charisse's balletic movements that perfectly fits her character and allows us to take in the scenery, loch and heather-covered hills, below where they dance.

    Minnelli and others wanted to film the scene on location in Scotland, but the studio insisted they do the entire shoot on the lot, which led some critics to later criticize it for its slightly staged, artificial look. Yet, so film-lore goes, the set was so realistically painted that several birds attempted to fly into it. Certainly the dance is magical enough that viewers may want to join them, leaping through the screen.

 

Los Angeles, February 27, 2011

Reprinted from World Cinema Review (February 2011).

Luca Guadagnino | Queer / 2024

broken heart

by Douglas Messerli

 

Justin Kuritzkes (screenplay, based on the book by William S. Burroughs), Luca Guadagnino (director) Queer / 2024

 

Luca Guadagnino’s 2024 film Queer, based on the book of the same title by William S. Burroughs is not so much a coherent narrative as it is a gay picaresque where every morning its central character William Lee (the name that Burroughs himself used early in his career) moves out on yet another adventure. Or perhaps in the manner of Malcolm Lowry’s amazing novel Under the Volcano (made into a movie in 1984 by John Huston), we might describe his daily forays as a gay bar and drug trawl, except unlike the central character of Lowry’s book the British consul Geoffrey Firmin, who visits numerous different bars, in this case Lee keeps returning to the same one, Ship Ahoy or, on occasion, the Green Lantern—although his drug searches in Ecuador take him far into the Amazon rain forest. Instead of his body being tossed over a mountain cliff into a ravine below as in the Lowry work, Lee dies perhaps more suitably in a bed as an old man; but as an alcoholic junky he is probably no better off.

     But then coherent narrative, even in his early works, was never Burroughs’ surreal Beat shtick.

     Although Queer was not a cut-up, it might as well be in director Luca Guadagnino’s hands, who is more interested in presenting the images that represent Lee’s quiet (and sometimes quite boisterous) desperation. Performed brilliantly, if at times rambunctiously, by Daniel Craig, this rather autobiographical depiction of Burroughs presents him first as a seemingly blasé expatriate, who has escaped to Mexico to satisfy his cocaine and heroin habits. He sits at the center of the small gay community which includes Joe Giudry (Jason Schwartzman) and Winston Moor (Henrique Zaga), among others such as the sleazy John Dumé (Drew Droege)—the latter a true Green Lantern denizen—Lee almost holding court at Ship Ahoy as he tells outrageous stories, demonstrates his disinterest in current news, bears with Giudry’s endless woes of having the boys he picks up steal his typewriter, clothes, and  other possessions, and who himself occasionally takes one of the hunky local denizens (pop-star Omar Apollo in the scene we are presented) for a quick night of sex at the local hotel filled with human warrens on either side of a long hall painted in red.

    But this abrasive and loud-mouthed Lee is a cover for the real man, who makes it clear at one point early in his life just how much he feared the discovery of his own homosexuality back in Baltimore. Leo Gleiberman, writing in Variety, summarizes Lee’s early fears: “Lee, who wears white linen suits, a fedora and clear-framed glasses, a trusty handgun, and an appraising scowl, looks like the dandy version of a CIA spook. It’s the early 1950s, and though he drinks around the clock and is frequently a disheveled mess, in his appearance and demeanor he’s something of a straightarrow. At first, he says, he regarded his proclivities as a ‘curse.’ He shook with horror at the word ‘homosexual,’ which made him think of “the painted, simpering female impersonators,” he says. ‘Could I have been one of those subhuman things?’” He even considered suicide.

     A Baltimore drag queen, however, explains just how important it is that he go on living, being himself. And so he has, if as we gradually realize rather uncomfortably and still filled with self-hate, which is what lies behind so much of his bluff, as well as the alcohol, cocaine, and heroin (although the latter is down-played in Guadagnino’s film as compared with the original book).

    And when, quite by accident, Lee catches a glance from a young former soldier now an ex-pat new to town, Eugene Allerton (Drew Starkey), a tall lean lanky American that looks like he just stepped out of a Graham Greene novel as one of the dangerous innocents who destroy everything in their paths, it is love at first sight.

   In several of the early adventures, we see the love-hungry Lee simply attempting to determine whether Allerton, who regularly plays chess with the town’s most beautiful female, is really gay. Yet even during the games with whom some describe as his girlfriend, Allerton glances back at Lee’s fixed stares, even seeming to wink at moments as in a flirtation that sends the usually aplomb Lee bowing in homage. At the very moment he decides to approach the boy to get it all settled, he sees Allerton stop on his way out to speak to Dumé, which certainly must mean the boy is gay, but clearly slumming. But Dumé does not really know him, he insists. Allerton simply wanted a tour of the bars, particularly the Green Lantern. Dumé argues, however, that he doesn’t take people to the lowdown Green Lantern (perhaps a bit like The Green Parrot in Casablanca in relation to Rick’s Café Américain); people go there only of their accord.

    Lee’s friends describe Allerton as a cold fish, and when Lee finally does get the opportunity to talk with him, his metaphors are outrageous, as he imagines a pig only partially cooked, or with brandy poured on a live pig and set afire as he runs squealing away, only the surface actually cooked. These references to the surface beauty that cover the inner secrets of the boy’s sexuality certainly do not help lead Lee to the young man’s heart. But, quite amazingly, the boy does finally go to bed with a quite drunken Lee, the two this first time simply exchanging a quite sexy blow-job for a hand job. But later they have intense sex, and Lee is so in awe that he is set off course, particularly when immediately after the boy suddenly can find no further time for him and returns to his beautiful female chess player each afternoon.

     Lee finds solace, once more in alcohol and drugs, finally confronting the boy at a Green Lantern party when he passes out on the floor, dead drunk.  

     So far, Guadagnino has presented us with only a love story that might make a teenager blush with shame at the central figure’s slavish devotion to a man who clearly doesn’t have an open heart. But the second half of the movie moves toward the magic and supernatural elements that later Burroughs argued are at the heart of all of his writing.

    Lee, deciding to get out of town for a while and travel to South America, suggests to Allerton that he join him, even if he participates in sex just a couple of times each week. He will prove his good will, he argues, by purchasing the boy a round ticket, suggesting he can leave at any time he wants.

      Even here Allerton is a slippery fish, saying that he has business for a few days but will think it over. But amazingly, at the end of those few days, he agrees to tag along.

     This trip, however, is even more of a disaster, Lee’s drugs being more difficult to find, complicated with his contracting dysentery which leaves him so cold and ashiver that the only warmth he can find is in the boy’s sometimes not so willing arms. They have one intense morning of sex, but Allerton here also pulls away from him, finally dragging his traveling companion to a doctor who when he finds that Lee is a Junkie tears up the prescription, but finally relents, allowing him to purchase his desperately needed drugs.

     Allerton flies on to Quito alone to search out what has been his true goal in the trip, to find the doctor and researcher who is doing work on the effects of yagé, a plant that when properly rendered is said to allow telepathic communication. But the doctor explains this is not simply a drug, but an experience that needs careful guidance and help. What you discover you may not like, and the results are long lasting, not at all like any other “drug.” He refuses to be Lee’s guide, and to help him in any manner. But he does suggest that in the Amazon forest there is a female Dr. Cotter who might be willing to help him explore the yagé. He gives him a map of her jungle location.

     In real life, also, Burroughs was fascinated by the yagé, recounted in the letters between the author and Allen Ginsberg titled The Yage Letters. In the movie Guadagnino plays it as a kind of comic adventure, as Lee, now again with Allerton, hacks his way through the clearly sound-stage jungle on their way to find Cotter’s cottage. They meet up with an obviously digital snake that pops out at them like any great serpent of the Indiana Jones Franchise might, and finally meet up with the gun-toting Cotter (campily played by the wonderful Lesley Manville) seemingly channeling a grumpy, testy Walter Brennan. But what the hell, she takes a liking to the truth-telling Lee and her pet tree beast takes a liking to Allerton. She readily agrees to cook up some yagé, “which results” as Gleiberman reports, “in a hallucinatory sequence that’s pure high-wire loony-tunes filmmaking. The movie we thought we were watching comes close to stopping dead in its tracks.”

     They first vomit out their hearts before stripping off all their clothes and rolling around naked for hours during which their bodies dissolve, with Lee still unable to make his voice heard, while Allerton expresses the fact that “he’s not really queer,” at least in the same way Lee is. Yet they exchange bodies and enter in and out of one another freely, obviously having some sort of deep kinship. Whether that is positive or negative is apparently something neither of them wants fully to discover, for they pack up and plan to leave the next morning. Cotter tries to warn them, “Door’s already open, there’s no going back now. All you can do is look away. But why would you?”

      They not only would, but do as they begin once more to machete their way back out of their artificial paradise. In the midst of their journey Lee loses sight of Allerton, who in the very moment disappears from his life.

      Guadagnino’s movie does not truly ever come back to real earth, and since Burroughs’ original novel was never completed, that is perhaps justifiable.

       Two years later Lee stumbles back into Mexico City and the Ship Ahoy bar from where most its patrons have seemed to disappear. Yet Guidry, now shoeless since they have been stolen by his newest trick, reports that Allerton had returned but has now gone back to South America as a tour guide for an Army Colonel.

       Lee continues his drugs as a replacement lover, but as the reviewer for Time magazine, Barry Levitt, pontificates, feeling the necessity of explaining the ending to the reader:

   

“Then things get bizarre—or rather, even more bizarre. We’re dropped into a hotel room, the same one Lee had a hookup in at the beginning of Queer. The camera pans slowly around the room to find Lee lying alone in his white suit. He gets up, only to find things have changed. He’s now in a different room, with a spiraling carpet—a suitable metaphor for his mental state—and a dollhouse on the table, a replica of the hotel he’s in. He peers in with one eye and sees himself walking the red hallway, alone. His miniature self walks to the last room on the right, which is almost entirely empty.

 

    Dr. Cotter’s words ring particularly true here. While she was talking to Eugene [Allerton] about an open door, we don’t really see the results of his newly open mind. We do, however, see how the ayahuasca has opened Lee’s, via a series of mysterious dreams that punctuate the end of Queer. The dollhouse represents Lee’s past, a seedy encounter that happened before he first fell for Eugene. Here, Lee’s sadness manifests in a desire to revisit the past, a time before he fell for Eugene. But he doesn’t wish to erase the memory of Eugene; instead, placing himself in the dollhouse affords him the chance to try again—perhaps if he wasn’t so detestable this time around, Eugene wouldn’t declare he isn’t queer, and he’d stay with Lee.  

       He closes the door behind him and finds a snake eating itself in the shape of the infinity symbol. This is an ouroboros, a representation of the natural cycles of life, death, and rebirth. Yet this snake sheds a tear. Lee looks up and sees Eugene on a single bed, with a glass pane over his crotch area. Eugene’s centipede necklace—the same necklace worn by the man Lee seduced at the beginning of the film—has come alive and is moving. Lee looks down, and the snake is gone. Looks up, the glass is gone, and Eugene is sitting on the bed. Lee stares at him.

    While Eugene’s symbol (the centipede) is moving ahead, Lee’s (the snake) is consuming itself, doomed to make the same mistakes over and over again. Eugene is able to carry on after his romance with Lee, while Lee is confined to a life of falling into the same miserable cycles of loneliness and addiction, a feeling manifested by the snake shedding a hopeless tear. Eugene can walk away from Lee—and from queerness—but Lee cannot escape who he is, nor the repressive society he lives in, and it’s bound to eat him alive. In an interview with Time, Guadagnino spoke to the movie’s symbolism, explaining that the centipede represents repression: ‘The centipede is the villain in the movie,’ he said.”

 

    I’ll stop there, although Levitt goes on for several more paragraphs. Levitt's interpretations sound at moments like desperate attempts to turn these somewhat surreal images into fully meaningful tropes, however he is not entirely wrong-headed, despite restating much of what is quite obvious to any sensitive viewer.

    The director also throws in bits and pieces of Burroughs’ real life, particularly when Allerton, sitting in the room places a shot glass on his head, leading Lee to pull out his gun and shoot, killing him. The incident is based on Burroughs’ own either murder or perhaps accidental killing of his common-law wife, Joan Vollmer Adams in Mexico in 1951. Their Mexican life was miserable, Vollmer suffering from Benzedrine abuse (she had previously been in Bellevue) and Burroughs without heroin. Wikipedia describes it quite accurately supported by the other sources I’ve previously read:

 

“One night, while drinking with friends at a party above the Bounty Bar in Mexico City, a drunk Burroughs allegedly took his handgun from his travel bag and told his wife, "It's time for our William Tell act." There is no indication that they had performed such an action previously. Vollmer, who was also drinking heavily and undergoing amphetamine withdrawal, allegedly obliged him by putting a highball glass on her head. Burroughs shot Vollmer in the head, killing her almost immediately.”

 

     Burroughs later changed the story to suggest that his gun was dropped and accidentally fired, and others argue that Vollmer, who had grown suicidal, was ready for death. If nothing else Burroughs was certainly frustrated at the time for being unable to return to his homosexual patterns of living. His brother came to Mexico City and bribed authorities to release the writer on bail. Burroughs returned to St. Louis, while back in Mexico he was convicted in absentia with culpable homicide.

      Back in the movie, the rooms are cleared with another blink of the giant Lee’s peeping eye, the saddened explorer taking off his hat to suddenly reveal a head of white hair. He sits down on a bed and begins to shake, reminding us somewhat of his dysentery in South America; but we recognize these are shakes of an old man on his deathbed.

      But even now, decades later, Allerton remains still in the old man’s mind, as he appears as a ghost laying down with him as in their South American days to keep him warm. His lips tremble, the hand still shaking, but with a final gasp even the shaking hand stops.

      The body is transformed through colors of blue, yellow, and purple into a kind of holy spirit now loosened from the world.

     If it is a kind of hokey ending worthy of Terence Malick or Stanley Kubrick’s 2001: A Space Odyssey (works I am not fond of), so be it. I agree with the Variety reviewer that Guadagnino is really again playing out the ending of Call Me by Your Name, wherein once more love does not end happily. As that reviewer puts it, queer love does not always deliver “the salvation it promises, withers under the gaze of the real world. The film’s final shot is stunning. It shows that you after all the drugs, the warped crusades, the queerness he owned, the one thing William Burroughs could never figure out was how to heal his broken heart.”

       Queer, like it’s subject William Lee, bluffs its way through an empty plot and portentous attempts at transcendental projection to end up in its last frame with a man on his death bed, all alone—to reveal only the reality of most of humanity. And in the end, accordingly this work is more a sad comedy than a tragic drama of lost love.

 

Los Angeles, December 16, 2024

Reprinted from My Queer Cinema blog (December 2024).

 

 

 

 

 

Gary Halvorson and Mariusz Treliński | Iolanta and Bluebeard's Castle / 2015 [Metropolitan Opera HD-live broadcast]

what’s love got to do with it?

by Douglas Messerli

 

Pyrotr Tchaikovsky (composer), Modest Tchaikovsky (libretto, based on a play by Henrik Hertz), Iolanta and Béla Bartók (music), Béla Balázs (libretto, based on a story by Charles Perreault), Bluebeard’s Castle, Mariusz Treliński (stage director), Gary Halvorson (film director) / 2015 [Metropolitan Opera HD-live broadcast]

 

I originally intended, before actually viewing the two operas presented in the MET’s HD Valentine’s Day broadcast, to discuss these works separately, adding my remarks about the Bartok opera to those I had already made above on the Los Angeles Opera production, and writing about the Tchaikovsky work, never before performed on the Metropolitan Opera stage, within another context. After seeing the pair of short operas, directed by Mariusz Treliński, it became apparent that to do so would be to ignore the carefully constructed and, at times, revelatory links between the two works.

     Of course, there is absolutely no reason to imagine that these two very different pieces, written only 20 years apart, need have anything to do with one another, Iolanta representing clearly a work of 19th century that romanticizes love and seeks for its characters’ purification through their orientation to the light, “the pearl” of God’s gift to mankind. Light is not just God’s first creation, but representative of moral value and comprehension in the Tchaikovsky work.

     This work struggles with a pre-modernist dilemma: how is someone without the knowledge of light and all that it represents—good, beauty, love, wisdom—able to comprehend what is missing from their life? Importantly, the opera asks questions that Blake had previously posed: can innocence be good, does lack of knowledge allow for salvation, or, as Pope Francis recently pondered, can an animal be forgiven and granted eternal life? For in this opera, which the director has linked up intimately with animal life, represents the blind Iolanta (Anna Netrebko) locked up, not in a beautifully enchanted cottage—as the original libretto would have it—but in a hunting cabin, replete with the trophies of deer antlers posted across its walls. Deers are seen roaming about the place, are shot, and their blood is drained all during the course of short performance.

     In Treliński’s version, the young girl’s father, King René (Ilya Bannik) is not just a misguided parent, attempting to protect his beloved daughter from a truth which may, he fears, transform her joyful demeanor into a world of fear and terror, but is a dictatorial figure who pretends wisdom while denying even the concept of it—no one with access to girl is allowed to mention light and vision. Yet at opera’s start, Iolanta has come of age enough to perceive that something is missing from her life, and begins to suffer even though she cannot yet comprehend why she might have any right to do so, particularly since she is lovingly cared for by servants day and night. Eyes, accordingly, have no purpose but for tears, and tears, alas, have become to appear in her eyes without cause. What we begin to perceive is that, even in the closed world in which she has been sheltered, the young blind girl is beginning to comprehend that something is amiss. How can her nurse, for example, know that she is crying without touching her eyes, to spot her fever without putting her hands to her forehead?

     The opera’s libretto, however, does hint, moreover, that René’s intentions may not all be a as loving as they are manipulative. Why will he not even reveal that he is the king or that Iolanta has been promised in marriage to Duke Robert (Aleksei Markov)? This beautiful young maiden locked away in her enchanted garden, after all, is not so very different from the forested animals the King keeps on his property to hunt them down and destroy them. And not only is René mistaken in his notions of filial protection, but he has not bothered to discover whether or not the young man to whom she is promised is a suitable husband for her. In fact, Robert, even knowing of the vow to which he has been committed, has been, so to speak, actively playing the field, and has fallen in love with another woman, Mathilda.

      Fortunately, his close companion, Vaudémont (Piotr Beczala) has not yet found the perfect woman he is seeking, and which, almost as soon as he has sung of his desires, he discovers in the visage of Iolanta. But even suddenly witnessing everything for which he has been seeking, also reveals his own failures: for him everything is based on sight. Accordingly, just as he begins to reveal to the unknowing girl the importance of light and all that it represents, she, in incomprehension of words, begins to reveal to him that love, wisdom, and knowledge can (and must) be known even in the darkness.

     Had Tchaikovsky been a 20th-century composer, he surely would have sought out that second truth more thoroughly, faced as Bartók would soon be, with the bleakness of the already discordant future. But Tchaikovsky and his story, being of another time, pursues instead how to bring the light to his heroine’s life so that she, too, can be blessed just as has her loving knight.

     Today, the ridiculousness of the magical cure by the Arab doctor Ibn-Hakia (Elchin Arizov) is apparent, with its mysterious “backstage” melodramatics which, we are told, the young girl bravely endures as she is forced to wear a blindfold to cover eyes that cannot see the light. Chalk it all up to a dramatic revelation of the fact that she is cured, and is now suddenly able, because she has willed it, to share in God’s great and glorious gift, all somewhat campily represented in this opera’s conclusion through the project of white rays emanating in an art- deco-like pattern behind the carefully arranged gathering, for the work’s conclusion, of the chorus and leads.

     Hinting that the happy girl of the first opera, in entering the new century, is drawn to return to the world of her father’s dark domination—or, one might almost argue, as if young Countess of Rossini’s Barber of Seville were to sudden awake in the bed of Mozart’s Le nozze di Figuro—Judith (Nadja Michael) of Bluebeard’s Castle inexplicably leaves her happy home of light to follow the Bluebeard (Mikhail Petrenko) into his nightmare castle. Like Vaudémont of the Tchaikovsky opera, Judith hopes to help Bluebeard—by opening the doors to all his rooms and revealing their secrets—to see the light and, in that process, discover just what they meant for Iolanta: good, beauty, love and wisdom. Treliński, in attempting to link these works, brings in, quite naturally, elements of the first work, the antlered deer heads, the roots of trees, flowers, etc into the second opera as Judith tries to entice Bluebeard to perceive (perhaps with a bit tweaking of the translation) just what Modest Tchaikovsky described as “the pearl” of God’s gift to mankind. And, in this sense, by performing these works together, they function to slightly shimmer off of one another, giving each work an intensity of meaning that alone they might not reveal. What also became clear by bringing these works together, was how informed they both were by eastern European thought, along with its inherent appositions of evil and good, meaninglessness and revelation.

    Yet, as my companion Howard pointed out, too often this can lead to “connect the lines” sort of sketch that easily collapses with any careful thought. For Judith is not and never could have been as innocent as Iolanta, even as a child. She is attracted to Bluebeard and his dark world, not because she herself once shared it, but because she cannot truly believe in his rumored evil. A bit like the Biblical Judith, Bartók’s figure might even imagine herself as being able, in the end, to take charge of the situation by beheading her Holofernes when he attempts to rape her in her bath. But she cannot act in time, needing still to prove her would-be lover innocent, refusing to believe the truth she already knows but cannot will herself to believe.

     In fact, even more so than when I saw the great Bartók opera late last year, I could not help but comprehend the work, this time around, as a horrifying, nightmare prediction of World War I and the fascist interventions of the rest of the 20th century. Everything that Bluebeard reveals to Judith will be realized in the century ahead, as the idealist’s life—the dreamer in the moonlight—will be the required sacrificed of mankind.

     What these operas do ultimately reveal by their pairing is that while the first may represent a dream of love, the second has actually very little to do with love, but is a tale of the twisted human attraction to the perverse, concerning the awful hypnotic draw of the human species to the heart of darkness.

 

Los Angeles, February 16, 2015

Reprinted from USTheater, Opera, and Performance (February 2015).