While it’s easy to expect new films to look great on Blu-ray what does surprise people is how old films, even those in black and white, can really shine in high definition. Admittedly this is affected by the quality of the original print, the time and expense spent on remastering, and the skill of the technicians involved. But with a bit of elbow grease, money, and a lot of love the stars of yesterday can sparkle just as brightly as those of tomorrow.
Warning: The following contains numbers and is just a tad bit geeky.
Like Standard Definition TV and DVD, High Definition is measured in lines. Films on Blu-ray have a resolution of 1920x1080. That is to say there are 1920 horizontal lines and 1080 vertical lines. Blu-ray is therefore capable of a resolution of just under 2K. Those good old DVDs only had a resolution of 480 lines. Film on the other hand isn’t measured in lines and technically doesn’t have resolution in the same way. However, to keep life simple you can say that 35mm film is roughly equivalent to anywhere between 4k and 6k. Right there you can see that film is capable of producing an image with a greater resolution than is available on the latest home technology.
In real simple terms this means that film is theoretically able to produce a better picture than that found on Blu-ray. But…
Before releasing an old film on Blu-ray a studio ‘should’ prepare a new version. This ideally involves having the original negative scanned in at 4K, or even at 6K. The highest number is desired to ensure the master can be used in the future when resolutions in home cinemas increase. However, as with anything, this can be expensive so studios sometimes don’t bother and only do a 2K version. The film then has to be examined frame by frame and any damage or dirt is removed. To some extent this can be done by computer (but can cause problems with over excessive DNR). The film may also need to be color corrected, as it could have faded or age may have played havoc with the original color balance. When this is completed a copy is then made at a lower resolution that is suitable for Blu-ray. As you can imagine all of this is time consuming and costly. So while films like Gone with the Wind are given the full treatment because the studio knows there will be a return on their investment, it’s unlikely that something like Arthur Askey’s Bees in Paradise would ever get the full VIP, 4K treatment.
Bear in mind the above has been simplified. There are many other complications that can be caused by the original negative being Technicolor, cinemascope, vistavision etc. It’s also hard to determine the correct color balance of a really old film when nobody is alive to remember what it originally looked like.
So what about TV? Well, I’m glad you asked.
In the world of TV there are even more complications. In the USA during the sixties a lot of TV enjoyed the luxury of being shot on 35mm film. That’s why the original series of Star Trek looks fantastic on Blu-ray. It has lush colors, it’s clear, sharp, and almost looks like it was shot yesterday. In the UK things were not as great. Classic shows from that period like Callan, The Sandbaggers and Dr. Who were made on the smallest budget possible. For Dr. Who this meant that the interiors were filmed using videotape and the exteriors were shot on 16mm film. They did this because videotape was cheap to record with (and reusable), but the cameras were too big and bulky to use on location so they would then switch to film. When watching an episode you can easily tell the difference between the two formats. Unfortunately neither videotape or 16mm film have a resolution that can provide the clarity that is required for Blu-ray.
So there you have it. Old films are capable of producing stunning images on modern projectors and TVs… Sometimes.
One of the most talked about films of 2010 was Monsters directed by documentary film-maker Gareth Edwards. His debut feature is set six months after a NASA probe carrying samples of extraterrestrial life has crash-landed in Central America. These alien samples then mutated into giant ‘creatures’ causing half of Mexico to be quarantined for fear of the ‘infection’ spreading. The story itself focuses on two characters, Andrew Calder, a young photographer trying to capture images of the destruction the creatures have caused, and Samantha Wyler, the daughter of Calder’s boss. In a frantic telephone call Andrew is instructed to help get Samantha through the infected zone and to the USA. While at the beginning they’re strangers to each other, along their torturous journey a relationship starts to form.
It’s worth pointing out that in every review of Monsters there’s at least one mention of the film’s budget (and this review is no different). Apparently, the film cost half a million dollars and its effects were completed by Edwards on his home computer. To be fair this is an astonishing achievement and the film certainly has the scale of a Hollywood production with a much larger accounting sheet. Yet I feel the (well-deserved) praise for this has also being used to hide any faults the film may have. Personally I can’t see what the cost of the film has to do with how much an audience can enjoy it. If Michael Bay turned out a film that did cost less than Wesley Snipes tax bill to make, I still probably wouldn’t enjoy it any more than I did Transformers 2 (for the record, I would rather flay my skin off with the rough edge of a coconut than sit through that again).
However, it’s clear that those budgetary restrictions have pushed the film in a certain direction. The Monsters of the title are conspicuous by their absence. This subtle trick that worked so well for Jaws (1975) when they couldn’t get the shark to float, doesn’t feel as successful for Monsters. It’s possible this is due to the film being centered on the relationship between Andrew and Samantha, and can only work if the audience feels for their plight. This is an interesting premise, but it’s hampered by Edwards demonstrating his documentary roots and deciding against scripting the dialogue. This free-form jazz approach to words may be suitable for the council estate setting of a Mike Leigh film, but here it feels out of place. Occasionally it even creates odd moments. For example in one scene the travelling duo have left a boat and are meeting some people in a forest clearing. There’s a loud unearthly noise from the undergrowth and Andrew surprisingly responds with, ‘What the hell was that?’ Well, I’m no boffin but perhaps it might be one of those aliens that have been all over the news, all the time, constantly.
I can see what Edwards was trying to achieve. In a recent radio interview he claimed that the dialogue is naturalistic because people don’t speak in most films the way they do in real life, and he wanted to change that. He’s right, genre movie speak isn’t natural, it’s often succinct, witty, interesting, quotable, and pushes the film in a certain direction. What it doesn’t do is meander along with no direction, or yank a scene to a crashing halt, which is what often happens in Monsters. Without that verbal spark you’re left watching two dull people on a trekking holiday.
Finally, in a film that seems determined to deny that it is a ‘genre’ movie, the concluding scenes feel like the director couldn’t resist aping those Hollywood epics he had previously sought to dismiss. It feels more like a loss of conviction from the director. Perhaps this is why the film seems to struggle for me as it seems schizophrenic in deciding what kind of film it wants to be. Is it a monster movie or a love story? Audiences seeking either may be ultimately disappointed as it falls somewhere between the two.
This is not to say that Monsters doesn’t have its good points. The creatures themselves (when seen) are fantastic, and it’s obvious that Edwards is a director to look out for in the future. With a script that contained tighter dialogue and a clear idea of what type of film it was supposed to be it may have been more enjoyable. At the end of the day though, in cinema terms it cost next to nothing to make, so that makes it good.
Monsters is released on Blu-ray / DVD in the USA on 1st February, and in the UK on 18th April
When DVDs started to became mainstream there were many arguments about whether the films should be in fullscreen or in their original aspect ratio. Many consumers had to be educated on why they were seeing black bars on square TV sets and why this was correct, and not due to a broken copy. It seems that while this discussion has now been muted by the introduction of widescreen TVs, a new problem has appeared with the appearance of Blu-ray. This HD format had created a debate regarding the importance of film grain.
Grain naturally occurs in film. It is caused by microscopic particles of silver halide that when exposed to light turn silver and create the image. Now the grains are tiny, but they cling together in different quantities, and it’s this density of groups that causes grain to be visible. There are a number of factors that determine how grainy a film can be. It can be affected by the type of film that is being used and the shooting conditions (amount of light etc), and these are combined with the artistic decision of the director and the director of photography. It’s this last point that’s the most important.
Studios have been recently trying to remove grain under the misapprehension that this makes a film look better. It has led to some recent Blu-ray releases being ruined by the excessive use of what is called Digital Noise Reduction (DNR). The first Blu-ray release of Gladiator (2000) is a perfect example of this. In order to achieve the smooth clean look that digital film has, the noise reduction was turned up to eleven. This not only removed the offending grain, but also the texture in an actor’s hair, the pores on their faces, and in some instances the process even deleted flaming arrows. Luckily the film has been re-mastered with a more forgiving DNR applied. This isn’t the first time this has occurred Patton (1970) and the second release of Predator (1987) also suffered at the hands of an over enthusiastic engineer. One easy way to tell if there has been some DNR performed is to look at the actors faces. This visual scrubbing often leaves them looking smooth and plastic like a Gerry Anderson puppet.
It’s obvious that some balance needs to be achieved between making the print look pristine and retain the original look of the film. A Blu-ray release that has received some unfair criticism is Bullitt (1968). It lacks the clearness of other releases (of films produced around the same date) and has quite a fair amount of grain. Unfortunately this has lead people to dismiss the transfer as being below par. However, this look is intentional, and is probably close to how it would have been seen on its initial cinema release. The director, Peter Yates, intended this Steve McQueen film to have a documentary appearance. Right down to using non-actors in some of the scenes, and having McQueen do most of the driving sequences. The grain is then not a mistake but a creative decision.
The problem is the consumer doesn’t understand this and when they see a grainy film on Blu-ray they believe that there is something wrong. However, this isn’t so. What consumers need to realize is that Blu-ray is not about making every film look like it was shot with a digital camera, but is in fact supposed to present the film in the way it would have been seen on its first theatrical performance.
Having just watched the BBC’s excellent Hatti, a docu-drama about Hatti Jacques, I was left feeling sorry for her husband John Le Mesurier. It’s an emotion that he probably wouldn’t have appreciated as apparently he always felt that his life had been lovely. This British actor had also featured in another of the BBC’s life stories that dealt with Hancock’s affair with Mesurier’s third wife. In both of those recreations he is relegated to the sidelines, and unfortunately this seems to be a place he occupied in many of his films, and in British film history. Perhaps it’s time that Le Mesurier was given a documentary that focused on him and his work rather than his convoluted love life.
Le Mesurier appeared in approximately 125 films, not including his pivotal role in the acclaimed TV series ‘Dad’s Army’ . He was never really the headliner of any of these films, but every one of them benefits from his presence. In quite a few of them it’s his understated performance that is the only redeeming feature. He effortlessly moved back and forth from the comedy of the Boulting Brothers, like Private’s Progress (1956) and Brothers in law (1957), in which he appeared alongside Boulting regular, Ian Carmichael, to working with Jack Hawkins in serious fare like Gideon’s Day (1958). An odd film in that it’s a claustrophobic British police procedural directed by John Ford, a filmmaker more associated with the wide vista of the western. Le Mesurier has in fact made a least one appearance in pretty much every memorable British film series, whether it be alongside the fearful terrors of St. Trinians in Pure Hell at St. Trinians (1960), chasing the pink cat in The Pink Panther (1963), dealing with the bumbling medical staff in Doctor in Love (1960) and Doctor in Trouble (1970) or raising an eyebrow at the clowning antics of Norman Wisdom in The Bulldog Breed (1960) and The Early Bird (1965).
Le Mesurier would often play the reserved, silent member of the establishment. Be it a bank manager, a civil servant or a clerk, and according to Hatti this typecasting was one that did eat away at him. However, his portrayal of the repressed older generation came into the fore during the late 60s when the younger generation appeared to be rebelling against the attitudes of the war years. Le Mesurier’s characters would observe the chaos from the distance and deliver their lines with a wry smile. It’s easy to dismiss this laid back attitude as limitations of his acting, but to do so would be to misunderstand the craft and art that is involved. Often the best acting is not the loudest or the most visible, but is really the depth that can be found in the quiet moments, and the reactions to what is happening around them. It is often said that the majority of acting is about reacting, and nobody was more a master of that than John Le Mesurier.
As I'm looking forward to Criterion's release of the 'Sweet Smell of Success' http://www.criterion.com/
I thought I'd post my essay about the film.
On the one hand the Sweet Smell of Success is a film that is firmly planted in its production year. The clothes, the music, and the hip dialog, all label it as pure late fifties. Yet, its display of corrupted power and its bitter, almost angry look at the world have made it timeless.
British director Alexandar Mackendrick was best known for his Ealing films from the early to mid fifties. He oversaw Alec Guinness in The Man in the White Suit (1951) and received accolades for directing Guinness again in the distinctly British black comedy, The LadyKillers (1955). His next film in 1957 was a far cry from this world of eccentric old ladies and inept criminals.
The Sweet Smell of Success, starring Tony Curtis and Burt Lancaster is a ferociously dark noir. Yet, nobody is ‘physically’ murdered and there is very little mystery, which are the usual tropes of the noir style. Lancaster plays J. J. Hunsecker, an arrogant and powerful newspaper columnist, who is the kind of man who can make or break a life with a single word. Tony Curtis is Sidney Falco, a morally weak and back-stabbing press agent who worships Hunsecker and his lifestyle. The film fades in by revealing that Falco cannot get any of his clients’ names placed in an influential newspaper column because he failed to break up a relationship between Hunsecker’s sister, Susan played by Susan Harrison, and a Jazz guitarist called Steve. As the film progresses Falco’s attempts to splinter the relationship become more devious until he does finally succeed. However, Hunsecker isn’t happy at the result and wants Steve’s life destroyed by having Falco plant drugs in his jacket and tipping-off a corrupt detective. Falco, unwillingly goes through with the plan, but is eventually consumed by guilt, as this is too far across the line, even for him. In the final scene Hunsecker’s house of cards tumbles when Susan discovers the truth of his machinations. Hunsecker, in one last desperate attempt to cling to control tries to make his sister seek psychotherapeutic help, and has Falco beaten and arrested. She walks out on him and Falco is last seen being pushed into a Police car. Hunsecker stands alone, viewing the city and the people he thought he could control.
The first thing that strikes one as the opening credits appear is James Wong Howe’s beautiful black and white cinematography of a wintery New York. Mostly shot during the twilight hours the contrast between the inky darkness and the glaring lights of the city is dramatic. It’s almost as if the film is a moving portrait of the shots taken by acclaimed photographer Weegee (Arthur Fellig). The film utilizes various locations of the Big Apple without resorting to the normal method of filming on a studio back-lot. In fact Mackendrick claims that the film “was actually one of the first attempts to shoot night scenes on location in the city” (Film in Focus). This documentary style cinematography does more than provide a setting to the characters. It actually allows the city to become a character itself and loom over all the players as if it is the puppet master holding the strings. Early in the film Hunsecker says, “I love this dirty town” (Sweet Smell of Success), and the audience has to wonder that even with his unnatural infatuation of his sister, perhaps the cold concrete and glass of New York are indeed his true love. In fact Hunsecker mirrors that city beautifully. He towers over the other characters and is aloof, and emotionally cold.
Almost at the same time that the visual aesthetics hit you the music by Elmer Bernstein is heard. It is an adrenalin filled Jazz soundtrack that captures the frantic nature of the characters especially Falco, but is also a statement of the time the film was produced. Jazz was primarily seen as music with dubious moral qualities and during the fifties was usually only used for “films dealing with depravity and madness…drug addiction…and degradation” (Ness 55). Making Susan’s boyfriend a Jazz musician makes it easy for the audience of the time to identify a schism between Hunsecker’s world and the one of the next generation. It also allows the film to mix non-diegetic with diegetic music, as the rhythms leak outside of the confines of the smoke filled clubs. In Sweet Smell of Success this music seems to be the song of the city that creates a rhythm for the characters to dance to.
The screenplay was based on a short novel by Ernest Lehman (who also wrote the screenplays for Sabrina, North by Northwest and West Side Story) that was published in Cosmopolitan. However, the screenplay for the cinematic adaptation was penned by Clifford Odets (Time.com). For a film that seems intent on injecting a sense of realism into its story some of the dialog appears to be too artistic to be true. For example when Hunsecker turns to Falco and says, “I’d hate to take a bite out of you – you’re a cookie full of arsenic” (Sweet Smell of Success). It would seem ridiculous if you heard it in the street, but here in context these delicious lines actually work. The filming technique, the music and the way the actors deliver them with conviction makes you believe that in their reality people do actually speak in that way. So when Lancaster says, “this syrup you’re giving out with, you pour over waffles, not J.J. Hunsecker” (Sweet Smell of Success), the audience doesn't consider it odd or out of place, but merely an acceptable form of speech. Each time one of these great lines appears the audience smiles, and there are a lot of lines to smile about.
Unlike many films of this period it’s hard to root for any of the characters. There is nobody who is without flaws. Even Susan Hunsecker, J.J.’s poor sister, who is really the only one that is truly innocent, seems too weak to be likable. Her small attempts to break out from her brother’s control are easily corralled, and she spends most of the film hysterically weeping. The Sweet Smell of Success does seem to have an interesting opinion of women. Falco uses Susan, his secretary, called Sally, and a cigarette girl named Rita like objects. He’s only interested in them when they can be instrumental for his own goals, and verbally abuses them when they don’t. In one exchange his secretary offers to help him and he snaps back, “Help with two minutes of silence” (Sweet Smell of Success). When dealing with Rita, Falco isn’t just rude but morally bankrupt. He pimps Rita out to a columnists in order to get a story planted. The fact that the audience discovers that Rita and the columnist have met before doesn’t lessen the uneasiness we now have for Falco. His relationship with women is similar to the relationship that Hunsecker has with him. It’s almost as if the bile Falco receives has to be released onto the women that surround him. The only strong female character is Hunsecker’s secretary, which is understandable. A powerful man needs a powerful woman, but it is apparent that the only way a woman can be a success in this film is if she acts like a man.
Other relationships also have complex shifts, none more so than the central one between Falco and Hunsecker. It’s apparent that Falco wants to be like him and is trying to emulate his every move. This subservient infatuation is demonstrated by the simple act that when Hunsecker pull out a cigarette Falco instantly moves to light it. Film critic Roger Ebert best describes the relationship between Hunsecker and Falco as being “like junkyard dogs. One is dominant, and the other is a whipped cur, circling hungrily, his tail between his legs, hoping for a scrap after the big dog has dined” (Chicago Sun Times). Why Hunsecker is kept around is less clear, but then every general needs a soldier to do his dirty work. Or, as one sees Hunsecker’s other relationships it becomes apparent that he enjoys seeing other people squirm and fight for his attention. The other relationship that is pivotal in the film is the one between Hunsecker and his sister. He controls her more like a submissive wife than a sister, and Lancaster, when referring to her, manages to make the affectionate word “darling” seem threatening and full of dark thoughts. This is complicated by the fact that Hunsecker has no wife, or girlfriend, and seems to have no sexual desires to other women. In fact he appears to have no friends in the film, merely people who work for him or fear him. Perhaps this is why he clings to Susan. She is the only person who loves him for who he is, not because of what his power can do. However, during the film he uses his power to contain her and this is his undoing. Susan eventually sees the real Hunsecker, and discovers that she doesn’t love her brother, but just pities him. None of the characters every truly get a whiff of the film’s title. Even Hunsecker with all his power and money loses the one thing that he holds dear. Falco is broken, beaten and arrested, and Susan whilst free from her brother’s grasps may never truly recover. Meanwhile, the city watches, uncaring and cold.
Ironically for a film that deals with the hunger for success it failed to ‘eat up’ the box office. Whilst the two main stars were unaffected by its dismal performance, Mackendrick never really recovered and his career began to wind down. In the film Steve says, “Just so you don’t leave me in a minor key” (Sweet Smell of Success) and this is probably one of the reasons the film didn’t appeal to the general public. The downbeat ending, whilst suiting the films dark nature, isn’t uplifting enough when compared to the usual Hollywood fare of the time. Audiences also seemed to have been repelled by the fact that the film is incredibly dialog heavy. However, with a further sense of irony it is that ending and verbal sparring that has increased the film’s popularity over the years.
My knowledge of Japanese cinema is shamefully limited. Like most film viewers I’m aware of the films by director Akira Kurosawa and the work of actor Toshiro Mifune. However, apart from those two cinematic giants very little has passed my way, although I did get to see Kwaidan at the Film Forum cinema last year. When you think of cinema from this region I tend to conjure up two images, either tales about ghosts returning to reap vengeance, or scenes of epic battles. (Three, I suppose if I include the city terrorizing monster films). So it’s interesting to read about the smaller more intimate dramas that were being produced in the post-war period. These seem to have a sociological link with cinema that was occurring around the world. Just like in the USA and in Britain, Japanese cinema started to take a bleaker look at its own country.
After the war Japanese cinema appears to have embraced the aesthetic challenges of the medium. Some directors incorporated traditional Japanese art, while others like Yasujiro Ozu headed toward a more realistic style. Yet, even within this he has a sense of style that differs from his peers. In a typical scene directed by Ozu he may focus on small objects in a room, or employ a subdued color scheme. One of the more interesting and disorientating techniques that Ozu uses is to film with a 360 degree circle. Films generally have a 180 degree rule when editing more than one viewpoint together. This ensures that two characters in a scene have the same left-right relationship to each other. Ozu would dispense with this in order to achieve a more visually interesting scene. When we watch Early Summer (1951) it will be fascinating to see if this enhances the film or proves to be too jarring for our sensibilities.
By the time Bonnie and Clyde reached the cinema screens the old studio system had gone. Previously, actors, directors, and especially screenwriters signed a contract for a particular studio. If you were a Warner Brothers man, you stayed a WB man (only being loaned out on occasion), until you faded away (or until the audiences stopped coming to your films). But powerful personalities like Warren Beatty had started to change the way films were being made. Directors were finally being given more creative control, and artists were signed on a film by film contract rather than locked in for life. This meant they could choose who to work for and when.
For the previous twenty years Europe had looked to the USA’s film industry, but now it was the other way around. A new breed of filmmaker was coming and they clutched their Godard, Bazin and Truffaut inspired ideas with them. Bonnie and Clyde is a perfect example of this fascination of European cinema clashing with the American gangster tradition, and giving birth to a more realistic and violent film.
In Bernstein’s article he sees the character of C.W in Bonnie and Clyde as a surrogate son. I’ve always viewed him as being representative of the audience. When C.W. first meets the bank robbing duo he is in awe of their glamor. The clothes, the car, and the romantic ideal of stealing from the banks all excite him. Just like it excites the audience. When we first see Clyde shoot the man from the badly driven getaway vehicle it shocks us. So far the film has been a light hearted, almost a comedic romp, but here is a sudden shift in tone. C.W. is also shocked by this and is next seen sitting at a seat in the cinema crying. Thus, mirroring the the reaction of the viewer. As the film progresses C.W. becomes confused between the glamor and the frightening reality of their actions. In the final scenes C.W. knows (like the audience) that Bonnie and Clyde are heading into a trap, yet feels that they will get away. His final sight of them is through the glass of the store (almost like the window is his own cinema screen). Like the audience he is separated from them, unable to change their predestined ending. He watches them drive away into history.
