My Inner Misanthrope cringes at the cuteness of holiday movies and for that I am truly sorry. I make up for it by weeping through my annual viewing of "Love, Actually" and vowing never to watch "It's a Wonderful Life" again because it leads me existential despair. ("See, George, life ain't that bad. And, you got me a nifty set of wings. Thank you for your service.")
I gave "Die Hard" a watch this year--first time--but was so distracted by all the eighties hairstyles that I barely had a chance to notice Alan Rickman. And that is sad.
So it's back to the shadowy foreshadowing--appropriately redundant as a descriptive phrase--of the alone-in-a-scary-house noir movie. Ideally, it's black-and- white, allowances made, of course, for Alan Arkin terrorizing Audrey Hepburn in "Wait Until Dark" and Mia Farrow dodging warlocks at the Dakota (because technically, she is never, ever alone) in "Rosemary's Baby."
Tonight's pick was "The Two Mrs. Carrolls," a wind-whipped English countryside suspense about a more-than-troubled painter whose muses become his wives and when muse no more, are subsequently poisoned. With milk. Yes, like "Suspicion." In each film I found myself wondering what kind of substance was added to the milk to provide that special, cinematic viscosity. I was thinking about that milk/goo mix rather than the possible motive to murder--for either Humphrey Bogart's or Cary Grant's characters.
My attention, you could say, was distracted, misdirected. Good thing nobody counts on me to be a dick. A cop. A gumshoe. Or a cinematographer.
Now it takes some doing to see Humphrey Bogart--who I always thought looked like my dad--as a bad guy (a latent Electra complex issue, surely). I mean, I do know that in his early films Bogart was typecast as a gangster (a far cry from his privileged, private school, New York Episcopal upbringing). But unlike James Stewart's diabolical transformation into an obsessive phobic in "Vertigo" or Spencer Tracy's protean, unnerving flipping in "Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde," or even Lawrence Olivier's suave opacity in "Rebecca," Bogart has a face and hands that just seem so--well, plaintive.
And the music? Well, Franz Waxman scored "Rebecca." And "Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde." And "The Bride of Frankenstein." And "Rear Window." You see where I'm going? The score is a kind of Greek chorus in each case. Not a note that doesn't cue you of what you are supposed to feel.
So "Twas the Noir Before Christmas" has begun. But why? Who knows? Maybe I got the messaging that the charming haplessness of Hugh Grant in "Love, Actually" has morphed into a charmless and hapless psychosis in "The Undoing." Or maybe I don't like animation. Or nostalgia. Or maybe this time of covid has warped my sense of what's entertaining. All these are entirely possible reasons, I reckon.
Yet "Twas the Noir Before Christmas," like the Dude, abides!
This week's line-up? Still to be determined. But "Elevator to the Gallows," "Odds Against Tomorrow," "Ministry of Fear," "On Dangerous Ground" and "Experiment Perilous" are timely sounding titles and under consideration. And wouldn't it be nice to have an IRL watch party? I mean, I have a boatload of comfy pillows, lots of toasty blankets, a cozy fireplace. And I make a seasoned, spicy, buttered bowl of popcorn.
Nevertheless, I well understand that, given current conditions--and my taste in movies--you may be quite grateful that this isn't the season for sharing!