Dances with Wolves (USA, 1990)
Directed by Kevin Costner
Starring Kevin Costner, Mary McDonnell, Graham Greene, Rodney A. Grant

It may be a clichéd complaint, but more often than not the Academy has got the Best Picture Oscar dead wrong. Sometimes, as with Crash, their mistake is obvious and the outcry is instant; on other occasions, as with Citizen Kane, both the Academy and the public have taken time to see the error of their ways. And then we have Dances with Wolves, which beat Goodfellas to the big gong to deny Martin Scorsese his Oscar for a third time. While not as crass a mistake as the others, time has not been kind to Kevin Costner's debut, which now seems long on principle but short on actual story.The obvious way to prey on Dances with Wolves would be to attack Costner's subsequent career. His later efforts behind the camera have left a lot to be desired, with Waterworld running hugely over budget and The Postman being the dictionary definition of tedious. His acting style and drawling delivery suggest a man who takes himself far too seriously, rivalling only Nicolas Cage for stony-faced absurdity. But a quick glance at his back catalogue reveals a slightly more complicated picture. Lest we forget, Costner was once an admired and popular actor, who acquitted himself perfectly well in No Way Out, The Untouchables and Field of Dreams. And for all the gaping flaws in his directorial efforts, you could never accuse him of going in with anything but the very best intentions.The most obvious quality of Dances with Wolves is that it is very even-handed towards its subject matter. It approaches the relationship between Native Americans and American soldiers with the same restraint and intelligence that Clint Eastwood applied to the subject of revenge in Unforgiven. There has clearly been a lot of effort expended by Costner and the writer Michael Blake to get away from the clichéd depiction of Native Americans as a backward, violent people, who deserved everything they got from the brave, civilised white men driving them off the land in the name of God and Progress.You also have to applaud Costner's ambition as a director. There are few actors, let alone big stars, who would have taken on such a big project first time out. Costner was shooting in mostly external locations for four months, including several elaborate sequences with hundreds of real horses and buffalo. His commitment was such that he nearly broke his back from doing his own stunts, and stumped up over $3m of his own money to cover the costs incurred by bad weather. Costner was prepared to take risks with Dances with Wolves, and that deserves praise regardless of whether the film works or not.A further point of admiration comes in Costner's decision to have much of the dialogue spoken in the Lakota language. The fact that the film grossed more than $400m worldwide, and $184m domestically, is a massive raspberry to the notion that Western audiences won't pay to watch films that aren't in the English language. But it also proves that the respect for the different cultures within the film is genuine, not just a device for boosting Costner's artistic standing. This remains the case even after Russell Means pointed out the flawed translations, which left all the men in the film speaking in the female Sioux dialect.In terms of the admiration it generates, Dances with Wolves is in the same league as Battle of Britain in terms of pure good will. But like Battle of Britain, this admiration does not guarantee good drama, and little by little Costner's film begins to look earnest to the point of being dul. It ends up stuck halfway between Unforgiven and Heaven's Gate, being neither as gripping nor elegiac as the former, nor as wretchedly pretentious as the latter. It never becomes as well-meaningly dull as Battle of Britain, but its flaws in terms of pacing and emotion cannot help but prey on our minds.The first 45 minutes of Dances with Wolves are very slow and very portentous. Costner is clearly pulling out all the stops to make us admire and believe in the character of John Dunbar, but he ends up both trying too hard and not enough. The opening battle sequence features Costner attempting suicide by riding straight at the Confederate front line with his arms held out in a messianic pose - a decision which results in sniggers or sneers rather than feelings of empathy. In the various scenes that follow, where Dunbar is sent out to the frontier, too much effort is expended trying to express his bravery and not enough made on showing him as a rounded human being.When I reviewed (500) Days of Summer, I argued that the presence of a narrator in any kind of film creates an element of certainty which can sometimes work against dramatic tension. In the case of Dances with Wolves, one could argue it is necessary since the diary is integral to the later stages of the plot. But while it is partially justified on a narrative level, Costner's delivery of it is frankly third-rate. His readings feel rushed and increasingly desperate, as he tries to convey the gravity of the situation without much success.The narration aside, there is precious little about Dances with Wolves which is rushed. At just over 3 hours long (4 hours in its Director's Cut), comparisons with Heaven's Gate are unavoidable; the project was even nicknamed 'Kevin's Gate' after the production delays were leaked to the press. Costner's film is nowhere near as baggy as Heaven's Gate, let alone as self-serving, but it is every bit as drawn out, especially in its final act. Had Kevin gone through with a pair of scissors and lost even 30 seconds from every scene, it would have made a world of difference.The biggest problem with Dances with Wolves is that it constantly tells us how important the events are without doing enough to show us why this is the case. There are many beautiful or poignant images throughout, from the hundreds of dead buffalo lying on the plains to the couple's departure from the winter camp. But these images don't carry the weight that they should because we haven't invested enough in the characters to make them any more than pretty compositions.The film is so respectful towards the Sioux that it is almost hesitant to scratch the surface and ask the difficult questions about how their society works, such as the relationship between fathers and sons, and the position of women. This is understandable up to a point, considering the negative depiction of Native Americans in Hollywood throughout the 20th century - a fact which, if you believe Marlon Brando, led him to turn down his second Oscar. But you would think that if Costner were brave enough to embark on something of such scale and ambition, the last thing he would be worried about was mildly offending people.Fortunately, the film does pick up after the first 45 minutes and has moments where the action and characters do take flight. Many of these scenes find Costner willing to let his hair down, whether it's dancing with Two Socks around the camp fire or giving audiences a clear view of his naked bottom. It is hard not to get swept up in the chases scene across the plains, diligently matched by John Barry's stirring score. And some of the lighter moments within the camp help us to relax as well; when Dunbar interrupts Kicking Bird's nearby lovemaking, Graham Greene's facial expression says it all.The romantic aspect of Dances with Wolves is well-played for an epic, if only because the central relationship develops at a reasonable rate. We don't get that agonising sensation as in Out of Africa, where we know the characters are meant to kiss and are begging them to get on with it. The scenes of Stands with a Fist interpreting between Dunbar and Kicking Bird are well-played, serving their purpose while conveying the sexual tension between the characters. Their relationship conveys the conflicted identity of the central characters and the possibility of future harmony between the nations.Dances with Wolves is ultimately a very middling film. It's too long to adequately serve its story, but not so long that we lose all patience with it. Its respect for its characters undercuts the drama, but not to the extent that we sit there drifting into a coma. And its direction is uninvolving, but not in an artsy, egotistical way. Calling it an average or ordinary film is to belie Costner's ambition, but any higher praise is impossible in light of its flaws. It remains significant but not stirring, admirable but not engaging, important but not profound.

Rating:
Verdict: Admirable but not always engaging

The War of the Worlds (USA, 1953)
Directed by Byron Haskin
Starring Gene Barry, Ann Robinson, Les Tremayne, Cedric Hardwicke

It's a common complaint that American adaptations of British novels lose the quintessential nature of their source in favour of something more glossy and marketable. That's certainly true of The War of the Worlds, the first attempt to put H. G. Wells' iconic novel up on screen, and the first to come in the shadow of Orson Welles' ground-breaking radio play. It's not as tense as Welles' version, or as enjoyable as Steven Spielberg's take, but it is a perfectly passable adaptation with a number of strong points.The film starts off with our narrator (played by English character actor Sir Cedric Hardwicke) guiding us on a whistle-stop tour through the solar system. He explains the hostile nature of other planets' atmospheres, concluding that if the Martians should invade anywhere, it would have to be Earth. The Martians are presented as an intelligent race, and we are to some extent shown the build-up to the invasion from their point of view.

Having started promisingly, it isn't long before some of the film's budgetary constraints become apparent. Like a lot of B-movies, the film is heavily reliant on stock footage during its bigger, more action-packed moments. Its re-use of the same shots of cannons firing and tanks rolling into battle make it seem like an ad campaign for the American army. In the middle of the film there is also a montage of destruction and chaos intercut with footage of the actors, a technique which would later be used to perfection in the opening sequence of Mad Max 2.On the other hand, we have the special effects of the aliens. This is the element which Byron Haskin and his team had to get right, and generally speaking, they did. The swan-shaped copper aliens were specifically designed not to resemble flying saucers, and in the wide shots especially they are pretty threatening. They are not, however, tripods as detailed in the book; rather than walking (which is difficult to replicate mechanically), the war machines float via beams of blue light, which at the very least distract us from the wire work.But while the war machine designs are truly out of this world, the Martians themselves are disappointing human. The faces of the Martians, which are replicated in their periscopes, are made up of red, blue and green panels, which are arranged to vaguely resemble the outline of a human face - the red panel is at the bottom to denote a mouth, and the blue and green panels above it could easily be eyes. As is so often the case, the aliens in The War of the Worlds look most sinister from a distance - when a Martian touches our heroine on the shoulder, it's a bit pathetic.This version of The War of the Worlds deviates sharply from the novel in a number of ways, some interesting and successful, others less so. Most obviously, the action is relocated from 1890s Woking to 1950s California, and in doing so a lot of the substance of Wells' novel is lost. So much of the original story is about turning the accepted British political and social attitudes on their heads by portraying a war in which the British are the victims of an invasion rather than the conquerors. British imperialism, Herbert Spencer's natural selection and the 'English way of life' are all held under the microscope and shown to be ruthless and unjust.By transferring the story to America, as Welles had done, The War of the Worlds becomes more about the Cold War and American fears of 'Reds under the beds'. Some of this substance fits quite nicely around the original plot: the Martians, who come from 'the Red planet', are demonstrated to be highly organised and efficient, and working collectively towards a single goal. But even as bald allegory goes, it's not as satisfying an examination of Communist threat as Invasion of the Body-Snatchers (which itself is trumped by the 1970s version by Philip Kaufman).

More frustratingly, the film makes big concessions to melodrama. We are required, for instance, to believe that Gene Barry is a famous and highly intelligent scientist, despite the fact that he looks every bit as chisel-jawed and rugged as Charlton Heston. When Ann Robinson's character questions him about this, he says that he shaved his beard off before coming to town and so no longer resembles his photo on the cover of Time. As laughable excuses go, it's up there with the line in The Hunt for Red October in which Sean Connery's unique accent is explained away by saying he is Lithuanian.Being an old Hollywood film, the role of women is, shall we say, restricted. Robinson is required to scream and be hysterical on cue, while all the men around here can be noble, restrained and carry out a plan of action. While the male leads dash around the bunker, planning their attack on the Martians, she is left to hand up cups of coffee; and after the couple have sheltered in a tumbledown house, she makes Barry his breakfast first thing in the morning. The film may not be as sexist as The Snows of Kilimanjaro, but it's hardly pushing the envelope when it comes to female roles.

Despite these contrivances, however, we find ourselves bonding to these characters and staying with them for the course of the film. Although their introduction might be slightly silly, they are generally well-drawn and sympathetic. We certainly care about them enough to worry that they might get separated and never see each other again, as happens in the last twenty minutes when the film really girds its loins and shows human society on the verge of collapse. Critics of The War of the Worlds have written the story off as people running away for 90 minutes, but these scenes are both visually spectacular and emotionally engrossing.The film is at its most interesting when it taps into the characters trying to cope with the invasion and depicting the surrounding chaos. Aside from the street scenes in which men are turning on men and money has become worthless, there are a number of moments of genuine panic or alarm which stick in one's mind. The scene of the vicar wandering out to meet the Martians while reciting Psalm 23 will have you on edge, as will the feeling of desperation after the aliens survive an atomic bomb.

As with all productions of The War of the Worlds, we eventually have to face one of the anticlimactic endings in literature. Having the aliens being killed by bacteria is a classic deus ex machina, drawing the action to a convenient close through a plot device which is deeply unsatisfying. But rather than go the way of The Blob or Invasion of the Body-Snatchers and leave us on a daring cliff-hanger, this adaptation takes the original ending and manages to fudge it further.Wells was a scientific socialist who believed in rational progress towards a better society. In the book, our narrator takes shelter with a priest who loses his mind and meets a sticky end: the rational survive, the irrational do not. But Haskin and his screenwriter Barré Lyndon (an obvious but witty pseudonym) fudge this by inserting religious themes. Just before the Martians start falling out of the sky, the survivors are gathered in a church praying for a miracle. The narrator explains that "humanity was saved by the littlest things, which God, in His wisdom, had put upon this earth.". Suggesting after such carnage that God was involved all the time simply doesn't cut the mustard in this context.The War of the Worlds is perfectly passable tosh. It doesn't have the political balls or ambition of Orson Welles' version, and it deviates from its source so wildly that purists will be annoyed. But there is enough schlocky B-movie charm in it to entertain for its short running time, and those who are not fans of Spielberg's version will probably enjoy this more. It's nothing to write home about, but as 1950s B-movies go it has lasted and dated surprisingly well.

Rating: 3/5
Verdict: Perfectly passable B-movie tosh

The Third Man (UK, 1949)
Directed by Carol Reed
Starring Joseph Cotten, Alida Valli, Orson Welles, Trevor Howard

There are few people out there with the nerve to claim that The Third Man is a bad film. But there are also far too many who rush too far the other way, and claim that it is perfect beyond compare. For all the virtues of Carol Reed’s film, there is much about The Third Man which is loose, muddled or incoherent. Indeed it is a classic example of a film which is judged more by its reputation than its actual structure or content. More than 60 years on it’s still a frustrating experience, and though an ultimately decent affair it is high time its shortcomings were brought into the open.

For its first hour, The Third Man is a potentially enthralling and atmospheric crime drama which is undermined by a series of creative mistakes. The first and most obvious problem is the soundtrack, provided by the acclaimed zither player Anton Karas. If Reed had used his compositions sparingly, this could have been an effective way of setting the scene, an intelligent means to take the audience into the cultural heart of post-war Vienna. Instead it is plastered over nearly every scene, undercutting some of the most dramatic moments and becoming steadily more irritating as the film rolls on.

Up until the arrival of Orson Welles, The Third Man seems very unsure as to what kind of storyline it wants to follow. At the centre of it is the story about Holly Martins looking for Harry Lime, questioning all the people who saw ‘the accident’ and extracting information. The plot twists in classic noir style, and our protagonist is typically downbeat, and when the film is focussing on the central premise (finding ‘the third man’) it feels thrilling and intimidating, as the military and public begin to obstruct Martins’ investigations.

The problem is that this attractive central story is competing for screen time with a number of sub-plots, which are either unnecessary or distracting. The entire subplot about Martins’ lecture to the literary club is overdone: it serves its initial purpose of getting him to stay in Vienna, but after that it isn’t sure how to resolve itself. Martins’ lecture, in which he is dismissed and humiliated, feels like a lift from The 39 Steps, only here the humour which results is severely out of kiltre.

The romantic relationship between Martins and Anna also feels half-hearted and repetitive. Graham Greene’s dialogue is generally good but he struggles to move the relationship on from the initially functional exchanges. There isn’t the same kind of suppressed sexual magnetism that there is in Chinatown, nor does our heroine display quite the same strength of character. Towards the end, when Martins begins bringing her flowers and she begins to grow angry at the mention of Harry’s name, Anna’s emotional state and true intentions become clear, but the film could have benefited from hurrying this development along.

For all that has just been said, The Third Man is visually effective even when its character arcs begin to flounder. Robert Krasker’s cinematography is very atmospheric. During the night shoots in both Vienna and Shepperton, the cobbled streets were sprayed with water to reflect more of the artificial light, and throughout the use of exaggerated shadows is very effective. These expressionistic gestures make the story edgier, recalling the work of Franz Kafka or Edvard Munch.

You also have to admire The Third Man simply for how cynical it is. Being a film noir, we don’t expect the protagonist to be all bright-eyed and chirpy. But The Third Man does manage to capture the sense of post-war malaise, and in the case of Harry Lime take it to dangerous extremes. The film’s repeated shots of rubble, dirty apartments and people sweeping are interesting, showing the day-to-day consequences of ‘liberation’ from Nazism. The slow speed at which life returns to normality is not something which comforts Vienna’s inhabitants. Either it dulls them into resigned silence, or it serves as a golden opportunity for personal gain at the expense of others.

For all its interesting gestures, the film only really picks up when Orson Welles arrives on screen. It is quite simply impossible to make Welles appear uncharismatic, and from the second his face is illuminated he is the only one you are interested in. His presence, both physical and intellectual, hangs over The Third Man, to the point at which you start looking for moments in which he might have snuck behind the camera (though sadly, any rumours of Welles ‘co-directing’ are untrue).

The character of Harry Lime is fascinating because he is completely amoral and unrepentant. He doesn’t care about other people, treating his best friend as a potential business partner and referring to people as ‘little dots’. And yet, in spite of all this, we find ourselves caring for him. We are charmed by his playfulness, warmed by his blustering smile, and even saddened when Martins has to shoot him. Just like The Silence of the Lambs, the greatest strength of the film is its demonstration of how human, and rational, and likeable evil can be, and as a result how prone we are to either ignoring or accepting it.

All of which raises the question: if Welles is so effective, why not bring him on sooner? Why is he merely talked about for so long, when surely it would be more effective for him to sporadically appear from the shadows?

To understand the implications of Welles’ entrance, we have to jump forward thirty years to Alien and the nerve-jangling tension achieved by Ridley Scott. In Alien we are briefly introduced to the evil at the beginning, and the tension mounts because of the subsequent lack of information. We never know where it will strike again, or when, or how, or why all of this is happening; add in the claustrophobic setting of the Nostromo and you have everything you need for sheer, unrelenting terror. The Third Man has the same lack of escape route, but it relies too much on reputation building and talking up the character, rather than attempting anything more adventurous.

The best scene in the entire film is the sewer chase, because it contains none of the flaws which scuppered the earlier scenes. Here there is no annoying music, no drawn-out dialogue, no inappropriate comedy and no rambling sub-plots. Instead we have nail-biting suspense aggravated by the realistic sounds of water, footsteps and echoed shouting; sections of this chase would make Hitchcock proud. One special moment comes when Lime is standing at the mouth of the tunnels, all of which are echoing with sounds of police and dogs, and he cannot decide where to run. The image of his hands reaching up through the grill is brilliant, and his entire death sequence is very moving.
The Third Man is a film of two halves. The first half ties itself in knots, complicating an interesting crime story with unnecessary entanglements with peripheral characters. Once Welles arrives, however, all is well and the film does what it was always meant to do, exploring the dark underbelly of post-war life. For every moment which delights you, whether in the chase sequence or the speech in the fairground, the prevailing feeling is one of frustration: for every second Welles is on screen, you can’t help wishing you’d seen him earlier. For all its faults, The Third Man is still a decent film, but it is not the finest work of either Welles or Reed. It’s an interesting chapter in both their careers, but it cannot come close to their defining works.

RATING: 3/5
VERDICT: Worth a look, but don't expect a masterpiece