Movie Review #73

Kind Hearts and Coronets (1949)
Directed by Robert Hamer
Written by Robert Hamer & John Dighton
Based on the novel Israel Rank by Roy Horniman

Rating: 9.50/10.00 or ****

Kind Hearts and Coronets was my third choice for the feature of the night in the movie club I have joined. It happened to be on during TCM's "Summer Under the Stars" day-long look at the works starring Alec Guinness, the acting everyman of the 20th century. Guinness was known for his roles but not for his appearance. Indeed, before the emergence of Star Wars in 1977, Guinness would not have been recognized by a majority of people. Part of this was due to his choice of roles, which were generally quiet and composed. His range in roles was significant, however. From spies to criminals to royalty to military servicemen, Guinness enjoyed an enormous diversity of characters to portray. A lot of his roles required heavy make-up, and often Guinness would be unrecognizable in his films. But Guinness undoubtedly had screen presence. He is wonderful as the severely misguided prisoner-of-war in The Bridge on the River Kwai. His supporting role in Lawrence of Arabia is riveting, and his masterful subtlety in Doctor Zhivago alleviates the film from mere mediocrity. In this film, Guinness takes on the monumental task of eight roles (albeit all of them brief). And, as usual, Guinness succeeds with professionalism, style, and amazing intelligence.

I was ecstatic with the choice I made. Kind Hearts and Coronets is one of the best comedies ever made, a film that defines the phrase "dry humor". The dialogue is bitingly satirical, ironic, and wickedly cunning. The plot is well-conceived and impressively presented. Kind Hearts and Coronets features a lot of voiceover, but it is necessary for the story's unfolding. In fact, this movie may have the best use of voiceover that I have ever heard.

The story of Kind Hearts and Coronets is deliciously sinister. Louis Mazzini (Dennis Price) is the son of Mama Louisa (Audrey Fildes). Louisa is a daughter of royalty. She is disowned by the family (the D'Ascoynes) when she runs off with a relatively poor Italian musician. He happens to die on the day of Louis's birth. When Louisa pleads to her father (the Duke) for aid, she is coldly ignored. When Louis had grown, Louisa told him his family history and hoped that he would somehow become the Duke one day.

She eventually dies. Her last wish is to be buried in the family vault, but the D'Ascoynes once again deny her. Louis, bitter about the poor treatment of his mother, promises revenge on the family. His plan is to fulfill his mother's wish and become the royal leader after killing the current Duke and all of his heirs. All of these people happen to be played by Alec Guinness, whose performances probably made Peter Sellers proud. Guinness gives distinction to each of his roles. Common to his performances are subtlety, quietness, and naivete. These three characteristics are important, as each character's premature death is all the funnier because of these traits.

The methods of death are complex and often had me in stitches. The first murder was especially humorous, as Louis kills one heir by releasing a canoe's anchor and watching D'Ascoyne and his mistress float down the river into a menacing waterfall. As the two are passionately kissing, they silently float to and through the waterfall. Louis narrates: "I was sorry about the girl, but found some relief in the reflection that she had presumably during the weekend already undergone a fate worse than death."

The second murder is equally as funny, all the more so because of our distance from the murder. Louis had "befriended" young Henry and his wife Edith (Valerie Hobson). Louis carefully plans young Henry's murder and is talking to Edith when the plan unfolds. We see Edith talking calmly when a muted bang is heard followed by smoke rising a decent distance behind her. The scene is hysterical, such a clever presentation. Louis investigates the smoke with the clever quip: "Needless to say, I was too late."

Other murders are equally funny. Louis decides upon the Parson next with the following words: "I had not forgotten or forgiven the boredom of the sermon of young Henry's funeral, and I decided to promote the Reverend Lord Henry D'Ascoyne to next place on the list." And then Lady Agatha: "I shot an arrow in the air; she fell to earth in Berkeley Square." Or even the Duke himself: "From here, I think, the wound will be consistent with the story I shall tell."

The movie has an effective parallel story that shows in a different and more dramatic light how off-the-handle Louis is. Louis is in love with Sibella (Joan Greenwood), a girl he has loved since his youth. But Sibella is not impressed with Louis's life, and she marries the richer Lionel (John Penrose). Lionel is a bore to Sibella, however, and she continues to see Louis. But Louis has taken an interest in Edith, the rich, sophisticated, responsible wife of the late young Henry. This love triangle is all the more complicated since Louis seems to always be interested in the person he is not with at the time.

The love interests of Louis show his conflicting opinions of people and society. Louis despises the snobbery of the rich social class, but he has an uncontrollable urge to be a part of it (After all, he murders eight people to become Duke). Furthermore, he at times admires the sophistication, especially of the trusting and intelligent Edith. But his love for Sibella clouds his judgment, especially when around Edith. He has a raw desire for Sibella, who seems beautiful and innocent to the troubled man.

Of course, all of this is glazed over by biting satire and an aloofness that borders insanity. This is key to the film's success. All of the murders generally take place off screen or are at least quick and mostly painless. Most of the murders are described with or via voiceover. We do not get long sequences focusing on the victims, so the murders do not seem as sinister. And, the motives of most of the D'Ascoynes are not exactly gleaming with genuineness. I say these things because the material is most certainly dark, but it is presented with such a detached style of humor that its material is overshadowed by the comedic wit this film contains.

The performances in the film also help. Guinness is astounding as the doomed victims. His performances never overshadow the focus of the film; there is not one shred of overacting. Valerie Hobson is wonderfully plastic and yet subtlely vulnerable as the widowed Edith. Joan Greenwood is superb as the shallow and cunning Sibella, whose motives become more malicious with time. And Dennis Price is perfect as Louis. This is Price's film, and he performs tremendously.

Kind Hearts and Coronets ends well. It ends the way it should. The ending is quick (though not abrupt), subtle, and yet potent. It's the genuine "gotcha" that a film of this caliber deserves. Kind Hearts and Coronets can be described in a lot of ways. It is sarcastic, wicked, brutal, unflinching, and hysterically funny. And brilliant.

Ask the Critic

Based on your Great Movies entry for City Lights, I immediately went out and rented it. I'm glad I did. The ending is just as good as you described, and other parts of the movie were very funny. I was surprised by this for two reasons. The first is that I hate black and white movies, and the second is that I hate silent movies even more. So the fact that I withstood City Lights, much less enjoyed it, is noteworthy.

My question to you is this. You obviously have a knack for "the classics" and black and white movies. How about with silent movies? And how do you get over the visually difficult b&w?

To be honest, I haven't seen many silent films. City Lights was my first silent movie, and I saw that for the first time last year. I have seen a few throw-aways on TCM before bedtime on Sunday nights (TCM always has one on at around midnight Sunday night/Monday morning). I've seen a couple of glimpses of Buster Keaton's films, and I've watched a part of Gold Rush (another Chaplin -- I unfortunately was not able to see all of it).

Part of my pleasure in watching silent films is their innocent simplicity. The films are generally easy to understand, so they don't require much intellectual involvement. I sometimes desire this when watching a movie because my tastes in film are generally for the opposite. Once in a while I desire an escape from my tastes, and silent films are a good source of this for me.

Now having said this, City Lights is an involving movie. It's simple to follow, but the emotional impact of the ending is profound. It's the film that has brought me closest to tears since Schindler's List (that film being the only one to have ever brought me to tears). That ending is the moment I realized a movie does not have to have dialogue for me to feel a tremendous impact.

I think if you ignore the silent film genre, you're missing a real gold mine of entertainment. Not only that, but there are some cinematic masterpieces here. Just because a film has no dialogue does not mean it will be painfully boring to watch; on the contrary, a good silent film can sometimes be more entertaining than its talky partner.

As for black and white, I find b&w films not at all "visually difficult". In fact, I find them refreshing. Why is color so important? And what would color do to films like Notorious, Casablanca, or Psycho? Can you imagine seeing the blood go down the shower drain in its natural color in Hitchcock's classic Psycho? Can you imagine seeing the Tramp with a colored wardrobe? Can you imagine seeing the colors of the museum in the scene in which the dinosaur skeleton crumbles to the floor in Bringing Up Baby? My answer to all three of those is yes, and it is because the films are in black and white. I can't imagine them if they are in color because their color is already defined.

I'm not at all saying that color in movies is bad (Several benefit from specific usages of color), but what I am saying is that the black and white movies help spur my imagination. They add a sense of mystery and escape that I enjoy and take pleasure in. Black and white is not visually difficult; it is visually stimulating.

Who is Robert Osborne?

He is the host of Turner Classic Movies in the prime time slot. He is also a highly knowledgable film historian who could tell you just about anything from any film before 1980. He typically gives a five-minute commentary before and after each movie on TCM is presented, many of which I refer to in my reviews.

One reader actually claimed that I slyly used Osborne's name to make it appear as if I have done more research than I actually did for a film review. I assure you that that was not the intent, as personally I don't care how much any of you think I put into a review. What matters is that you can take something from the review. Which, of course, leads to the following question (asked by 13 people so far)...

How much time do you spend writing these reviews?

That varies depending on the film. If it's a "Great Movie", I spend quite a bit of time. Generally, I watch the film two or three times in the two week span between each review. For the City Lights review, I spent about two hours actually writing the review. For American Beauty, I spent three hours writing the review and watched the film three times.

For my regular reviews, I generally watch the film once (and have begun to take notes during my viewing) and write the review in about an hour. I often write the review about two days after watching the film and post the review about one week after I watch it. I spend little time editing, which is probably something I should be doing a little bit more of (taking a look at some of my recent reviews, at least).

Why do you think Alan Alda is so highly revered as an actor even though his performances are so outrageously over-the-top, as you allude to in your review of The Aviator? I watched The Aviator when it came out in theaters, and I couldn't agree with your assessment of his performance more.

Alan Alda has a strong following of supporters and a strong following of opponents. I'm sometimes in disbelief at some of his acclaim. I believe many episodes of M*A*S*H were ruined by his domineering performances. I'll take a David Ogden Stiers or a Mike Farrell or a Harry Morgan any day over an Alan Alda.

But there is one thing that Alda is good at and that is creative talent. Alda wrote and directed several of the most memorable episodes of M*A*S*H and has even directed a few movies (for better or worse). I think Alda is revered because the show M*A*S*H was such a hit. Without M*A*S*H, I don't think Alda would have made a name for himself.

If you follow television at all, you may be disappointed to note he is now Emmy-nominated as a best supporting actor for The West Wing (The Emmys unjustly ignored Jimmy Smits and Richard Schiff).

I found your review of Batman Begins disappointing. It's obvious you don't see many superhero or blockbuster flicks (given your frequent admissions), but it seems like your relatively low rating of Batman Begins is basically because the motion picture is a superhero flick.

I gave Batman Begins a low rating because I found it to be somewhat uneven, unoriginal, and less-than-energetic. Now that's not entirely the filmmakers' faults because the film is based on the comic series. And I was glad there was a lot of emphasis on character development although that seemed to end about halfway through the movie. My biggest problem with the film is its latter half, which seemed to me like setting a plane on autopilot. The first half was superb, but the last half was stale and boring. I don't care about the action sequences anymore; give me more character development.

There are superhero movies I enjoy (X-Men, for example, is quite good) and even some that I love (Superman). Maybe I'll take another glimpse at those films to prove to you that I am entertained, highly so, by some superhero flicks.

How could you not give Casablanca four stars?

Because I was pickier two years ago. I saw it last year, and it's rating went up to four stars. It'll eventually be on the Great Movies list.

It's refreshing to see you look at an occasional foreign film like Kings and Queen. I saw that movie last week, and I greatly enjoyed it. Thanks for your review; it prompted me to have a most enjoyable two hours at the theater.

Thanks! I'm glad you liked it. And if other readers enjoy an occasional foreign flick, Kings and Queen should be on your list.

I appreciate your using other people's reviews as well as your own on your website. It's nice to see multiple viewpoints on movies on the same website, and I'm glad you've made this a part of yours.

Thanks. I'm sure my guest reviewers will like to hear that. Currently, I have seven guest critics, and I'm so far quite pleased with the results.

You reviewed an Almodovar? Nice.

Yes. You should see some of the friends I have talk about Almodovar. They love his movies (I've only seen three...that I can remember). I'm not as much of a fan, but I do like the uniqueness of his films. I'll be sure to throw another one in there soon.

Any chance you'll see Broken Flowers?

I'd like to, but so far, no theater around me wants to show it. So that one might have to wait until it comes out on DVD.

Tell your girlfriend she wrote a great review.

Heh, I will.

Movie Review #72

Key Largo (1948)
Directed by John Huston
Screenplay by Richard Brooks and John Huston
Based on the play by Maxwell Anderson

Rating: 7.75/10.00 or *** 1/2

I had never seen Bacall and Bogie together until just a couple of weeks ago when I first saw this flick. I had heard of the magic the two had when together on screen. From the clips I had seen of the two on film, it was hard not to feel the chemistry. Their love for each other offscreen created quite a bond onscreen. These two work well with each other as actors, and Key Largo is a wonderful example of this. However, Key Largo should not be remembered for the onscreen pairing of Bogie and Bacall. Rather, this film should be remembered for its superior acting in all facets and for its excellence in storytelling.

Key Largo stars Humphrey Bogart as the disillusioned war veteran Frank McCloud, who is visiting the Florida Keys to meet with hotel owner James Temple (Lionel Barrymore) and his daughter-in-law Nora (Lauren Bacall) to discuss his friend George's last days. George (the son of James and husband of Nora) was killed in the battlefield during World War II, leaving a mournful father and a melancholy wife behind. McCloud, meanwhile, has returned to a country that he feels has been corrupted by gangs, crime, and politics. He is a misfit, going from job to job with no sense of pride, dignity, or hope. McCloud tells James and Nora that he plans to own a boat, and you can't help but wonder if it's because he wants to get away from the land he is on.

McCloud is suspicious of some of the hotel's customers. Their behaviors seem calculated, cautious, and sinister. His feelings are confirmed with the appearance of Johnny Rocco (Edward G. Robinson), one of the most notorious gangsters in America. His personality is cold, matter-of-fact, ambitious, and evil. He will go to any means to show that he is in power, and he will kill anyone to get what he wants. The character of Rocco is one of the most sinister villains of the first half of the 20th century on film; Robinson's performance as Rocco is entertainingly malicious, deliciously cunning. His performance is easily the best in the film.

The gang (specializing in counterfeiting) is at the hotel for several reasons. For one, they are to have a transaction with another gang there. Second, they plan to take Rocco safely back to Cuba, and the hotel provides a safe departing point. Rocco has been deported from the country, but he has temporarily ignored the deportation to continue his American life in crime. Rocco's success is obvious but his age more so. Further and further into the movie, it becomes clear that Rocco is haunted by his age. The gang takes the hotel's occupants hostage during the storm to secure their safe departure from the Keys.

The gang is faced with two problems. One is an incoming hurricane, which may hinder their planned illegal transaction. Two is a prisoner they have taken, the local deputy sheriff (John Rodney). Other unplanned events occur during the hurricane's onslaught, such as shelter-seeking Indians and mind-games between Rocco and McCloud. The second third of the film is easily the best. The extended sequence between Rocco and McCloud is bursting with adrenaline. Rocco gives a gun to McCloud, prompting McCloud to shoot him with it. McCloud stares at the gun for seemingly hours, but he turns away. The deputy's temptations overwhelm him, and he takes the gun. But he is killed before he fires it. The gun is discovered to be empty of bullets; the sheriff never had a chance.

Rocco's cold-bloodedness is further amplified by his insinuations that two troublemaking Indians actually killed the deputy. When he persuades the county sheriff (who visits the hotel after the hurricane) that the two Indians commited the crime, the sheriff quickly searches for them and shoots them. These two events, though somewhat predictable in today's "thriller" standards, remain shockingly effective. Furthermore, Rocco is written as a complex villain, strangely vulnerable even with his absolute power. When the hurricane's winds threaten the hotel, Rocco begins to shake with obvious fear. Rocco senses his losing control, and this will become his undoing.

The transaction, even with the hurricane's recent passage, goes as planned. But another problem turns up. The skipper of their ship has left without them. So Rocco calls on McCloud to take them to Cuba. McCloud reluctantly agrees, but before his trip one of the hostages secretly gives him a gun. McCloud gathers up the courage during the voyage to Cuba and eventually takes matters into his own hands.

The key to the success of Key Largo is in the acting. Bogart's performance is subdued, almost melancholy. There are hints of Casablanca in his role, but he gives it a strange twist of hope, always just under the surface. Bacall's performance is equally quiet. She was known for her outspoken roles in her early days, but this performance should be noted for its subtlety. Bacall's versatility is confirmed in this picture. Barrymore's performance is fierce and zealous, definitely appropos for his character. And Robinson is superb as Rocco. The Oscar-winning performance of Claire Trevor, as Gaye Dawn, is also notable, but not in a good way. Her performance is quite bland, not helped by the stereotype her character is written as. Her portrayal is the worst in the film, yet she wins the Oscar. Here's one example of why the Oscars are simply meaningless to me. But Trevor's performance does not detract from the overall power that Key Largo contains.

Another aspect of Key Largo's triumph is its focus on character rather than plot. The plot itself is rather crude and simplistic, but the focus on the characters is complex and stimulating. It's not hard to see the similarities between McCloud and Rocco. Both are aging, cynical, and sensible. But McCloud's grim outlook on society is tinged with a glimmer of hope while Rocco's energetic quest for power is mired by his overwhelming fear of losing it. The mind games they play with each other are convincing because of the well-crafted development of their characters. This is something that many modern thrillers are missing and that all successful thrillers require.

Key Largo was the last picture Bogie and Bacall would film together. But they went out in style. Knowing Bogie and Bacall as we do today, they wouldn't have it any other way.

Movie Review #71

After Hours (1985)
Directed by Martin Scorsese
Written by Joseph Minion

Rating: 9.25/10.00 or ****

It was a bad night for Paul Hackett. Very, very, very bad. But in a way, he found life that evening. Even after almost getting his hair cut off at a mohawk party, after leaving his date for the evening and then discovering her dead from sleeping pills, and after meeting person after person who frightens him to death in unbelievable ways. After Hours is a comedy, but it has thriller written all over it.

Paul Hackett has a simple job and a dull life. He works in New York City and lives by his lonesome self in a standard apartment. His life is a bore. He reads a book at a local diner, probably to just get out of his cramping apartment. He reads the book with a hand to his face. You've seen this look before. The hand to the face makes it look as if a fierce amount of attention is held into reading the book, but it's certain he hasn't read a single word.

Paul meets Marcy, an open and personable girl who is a long way from her home in Lower Manhattan. They hit it off, and she gives him her phone number via a sly cover (Her roommate sells paper weights). After a couple of hours, he goes home and calls Marcy's friend Kiki. Kiki puts Marcy on the phone, and Marcy invites him over to Kiki's place. And Paul's night from hell begins.

There is a moment in every great movie when you know the movie is going to be great. In After Hours, it occurs during the taxi ride to Kiki's apartment. The taxi driver is a maniac, and his drive to Lower Manhattan gives quite a lot of support to the t-shirts that say, "I survived a taxi ride in New York City!" Paul survives too, but he is not unscathed. In his attempt to give the driver the fare, his twenty dollar bill flies out the window. As Paul is trying to convince the driver of this, we glimpse the bill somewhere well behind the taxi slowly floating to the ground. It reminds me of the end of Blood Simple, when a drop of water oscillates much like a star twinkles. It's the directors way of winking at us. The effect is wondrously funny. How much Paul will want that twenty (It's the only money he brings) by the end of the night.

Paul then meets Kiki, a gruff but kind artist. Paul gives her a massage, and he tells a story. His story is mind-numbingly boring, and Kiki falls right to sleep. Marcy arrives home (She went to the drug store) and asks, "What did you do to her?" Paul stumbles a defensive answer. "It was just an innocent question." What Paul and we are about to realize, however, is that there is nothing innocent about this night or these people.

Paul is soon told of Marcy's rape, which happened to occur in the same room they are now in. She was raped by a former boyfriend. When Marcy is out of the room, Paul finds a book describing severe burns. The vivid imagery in the book overwhelms Paul. The night is getting a little too uncomfortable for Paul, so he quickly leaves the apartment while Marcy is in Kiki's room.

Oh, if only he stayed. He goes to the subway, but the fare has been raised. He does not have enough change to board. So he goes to a bar in the now-pouring rain. He sits down and smokes a cigarette. "I have 97 cents." "That's not a lot," the waitress says. After Paul washes his face, he returns to his booth to find that the waitress has left him a note: "Help! I hate this job!" Paul is not very interested; he soon sits at the bar and chats with the owner. He describes his dilemma, and the bar owner quickly offers him money for the subway. But he can't open the cash register; it's jammed. So the owner offers Paul an exchange. Go to his apartment and get the key for the cash register, and he will give Paul the money for the subway home.

Problem is there are a bunch of burglaries occurring in the neighborhood. So when Paul goes to the bar owner's apartment, a bunch of his neighbors are suspicious. Paul tries to convince them he's harmless. "Tom gave me his keys." "Tom who?" "Look, I don't know his last name. The Tom on the top floor. How many Toms live on the top floor?" Paul shows them Tom's keys, and he leaves. As he is leaving, he sees two suspicious-looking individuals with a sculpture and a TV. Strange, that looks like it came from Kiki's apartment. So he scares the burglars off and returns to Kiki's apartment.

Kiki is bound and gagged. But intentions were not criminal; they were sexual. Kiki has a visitor named (Yes, really) Horse. Horse tells Paul, "You should be ashamed." "Yes, yes, I am," Paul says. Kiki and Horse convince Paul to return to Marcy's room to "finish what he started". But Paul has made an awful discovery: Marcy has killed herself.

Oh, but it gets better. You see, he returns to the bar to find it closed. But the waitress is there, who turns out to be a marble that has rolled off the table. A little while later, Tom returns to the bar. He is about to return Paul's keys to him when he gets a phone call. His girlfriend happened to have commited suicide that evening. Hmm.

Paul exits the bar and returns to the waitress to give Tom a little time to react. After more strange moments at her apartment, he returns to the bar to find it closed again. So Paul goes to Tom's apartment. No luck, but the neighbors find him again with suspicions raised. Paul quickly flees. And a posse that would make John Wayne proud forms in the streets of New York City, looking for Paul.

Scorsese presents all of this in such mocking suspense that it's almost too much to take. Sometimes scenes are outrageously funny, at others they seem remarkably dramatic for a comedy. There is this strange line that Scorsese travels here. On one side is laughter; on the other is dread. Scorsese does not go from one side of the line to the other; he prefers to straddle the line. What results is a movie so precisely calculated that each moment is amazingly intense. There is a voice in the back of my head saying, "Nah, we're not supposed to believe this." But despite the outlandishness of what I'm seeing, I want to believe it. It seems plausible.

Scorsese has made a comedic masterpiece, or maybe a thrilling masterpiece, or maybe even a successful horror film. I don't know. What I do know is that After Hours is a movie like no other, one so carefully crafted and so meticulously designed that each scene is completely necessary and eerily powerful. Each moment on screen provokes a certain reaction, and that reaction permits the next scene to exist. Scorsese has made a movie that works with an audience as much as it works for the audience. This is one of his best films.

Movie Review #70

Duck Soup (1933)
Directed by Leo McCarey
Written by Bert Kalmar and Harry Ruby
Additional Dialogue by Arthur Sheekman and Nat Perrin

Rating: 7.00/10.00 or ***

These are the laws of my administration
No one's allowed to smoke
Or tell a dirty joke
And whistling is forbidden...
If chewing gum is chewed
The chewer is pursued.
And in the hoosegow hidden...
If any form of pleasure is exhibited
Report to me and it will be prohibited.
I'll put my foot down, so shall it be.
This is the land of the free.

Perhaps the universal accessibility of the Marx brothers is best illustrated in their musical scores. Their humor comes in all facets: subtle, stinging, poignant, below-the-belt, physical, artistic, bawdy, and intelligent. And when hearing the words to Just Wait 'Til I Get Through With It, all of these charactersitics are found.

The Marx brothers were masters of timing, and their mastery was multi-faceted. Take, for example, their timing in this musical number. Not only was the physical timing of the musical presentation remarkable, especially given the complexity of the set and the number of characters involved, but the lyrics themselves were amazing foreshadows of the events in the world. Maybe people should have taken hints when Mussolini refused to allow Duck Soup to hit screens in Italy.

Mussolini should have been insulted; a lot of Duck Soup's jokes were aimed at fascism and the utter stupidities of politics and war. One-by-one, each political aspect of foreign policy is dismantled in Duck Soup. From Cabinet meetings to diplomacy to treaties, no political topic is left unscathed in this film. I especially enjoyed the jabs at foreign diplomacy, as Groucho (as Rufus T. Firefly, leader of Freedonia) allows personal issues to get in the way of any agreement with neighboring Sylvania and its ambassador Trentino (Louis Calhern). Some of the jokes and puns seemed like obvious insults to the issues prompting World War I, but they also seem amazingly on cue in today's world.

Duck Soup is full of tremendously funny sequences. I especially enjoyed the mirror scene, featuring Groucho looking for his impostor(s). In a location where a mirror once was (It was broken earlier in the sequence), Groucho and Harpo give an exquisitely long action-reaction sequence. You see, Groucho is dressed as Groucho, and so is Harpo. This is because Harpo is trying to imitate Groucho (well, Rufus T. Firefly, but no matter) so he can obtain important military/security information (the "war plans") without suspicion. But Groucho returns and discovers the impostor. So Groucho chases Harpo and runs into the location where the mirror used to be. So Groucho tests the "mirror" in many ways, unconvinced that it exists. Groucho tries to trick Harpo into making a mistake, but he is always on cue.

It appears as if Groucho is almost tricked into believing the mirror is still there (even when obvious physical impossibilities occur), but Chico stumbles into the scene (also appearing like Groucho) in the last seconds. The scene is uproarious not only for its extraordinary difficulty in physical timing (the best example I have seen of pantomime) but also for this wink-of-the-eye, punch-to-the-gut addition of Chico at the end. I can imagine this scene in silent films, and it would have worked just as well there. It comes as no surprise to me that (according to film critic Tim Dirks) the Marx brothers borrowed this sequence from none other than Charlie Chaplin, who used it in 1916's The Floorwalker.

This is not the only funny sequence. Who can forget the three-hats scene, the hilariously insulting Cabinet scene, the When the Clock on the Wall Strikes Ten musical introduction to Firefly's leadership of Freedonia? Or when Harpo and Chico try to enter the Freedonian leader's mansion, which inexplicably has the doorman and the two all twisted about inside and outside the main entrance? Or the food throwing firing squad? Each scene is like a magic trick; you know it's an illusion, but you can't help but sound out an "ooh" or an "ahh".

Undoubtedly, the Marx brothers' staple of comedy is the Groucho zinger, and he has hundreds in Duck Soup. It's not the intelligence of Groucho's one-liners that is so memorable. Instead, it is Groucho's quick, almost deadpan delivery. His comic genius is in his rhythm. His quick setup is followed by an almost equally toned and paced punch line. This has the tendency (in my case) to promote a more satisfactory laugh because I'm not just amused with the line I have just heard. I am pleasingly surprised. The laughs are more instinctive than reactionary, and those are the most enjoyable ones.

I haven't discussed the plot of Duck Soup at length; I see little reason to. The plot is not the focus of Duck Soup. The focus is on satirizing politics and war. And with the wit and rhythm of the Marx brothers, this satire is biting, humorous, sarcastic, and delicious. Duck Soup is not a great movie, but it is certainly a great commentary of 1930s politics. However, what makes the movie such a pleasure to watch is that in 2005, Duck Soup remains a poignant reminder of a political world that once was and of a political world that still remains.