Unsung Heroes: The Cinematography of 'Once Upon a Time in the West'

Michael C. here with the second season finale of Unsung Heroes. A recent obsession with the music of Ennio Morricone led me to the perfect subject, which manages the tricky feat of being both a landmark achievement and the work of an artist who is still somehow underappreciated. 

When Orson Welles finished Citizen Kane he was so grateful for Gregg Toland’s contributions to the film that he took the largely unprecedented step of sharing his title card with his cinematographer. I think it can be argued that the subject of this week’s episode of Unsung Heroes, cinematographer Tonino Delli Colli, was worthy of similar recognition. Delli Colli shot all of Sergio Leone’s famous spaghetti westerns climaxing in Once Upon a Time in the West (1969), which many, myself included, consider their masterpiece. Yet I rarely, if ever, hear recognition extended past Leone the way I do with the cinematographers of other great auteurs, even though Delli Colli played a large role in creating one of the most iconic and influential visual styles in film history.

Has anyone ever photographed sunlight to such powerful effect as Delli Colli? The heat and light in his westerns is infinite, baking everything to a dry, brown crisp. I wonder if his name is not as renown as other greats like Vittorio Storaro or Gordon Willis because they used darkness and shadow so memorably, while Delli Colli painted almost entirely with brightness. Even the shadows in Once Upon a Time appear scorching. I’ve read people credit the arid, flat Spanish landscape for the distinctive feel of Leone’s westerns, yet scenes in Once Upon a Time are shot in the heart of John Ford’s legendary Monument Valley and Delli Colli manages the same harsh, parched feel there as in the rest of the film.

Leone was a perfectionist when it came to making sure the images on the screen exactly matched those in his imagination, and he preferred to work repeatedly with the same collaborators, like Delli Colli, whom he could count on to operate at a high level without fail. There is a wonderful moment in the DVD documentary on Once Upon a Time where a now elderly Claudia Cardinale begins, “Tonino Delli Colli…” then gets a distant look in her eyes, smiles and says simply “He knew how to light me.”

(On a side note, I think Delli Colli was worthy of the Oscar in ’69 for West if only for his lighting of Cardinale whom he pushes into serious Marilyn Monroe territory in the film. I mean wow.)

I suppose my idea here isn’t to call attention the visuals in Once Upon a Time in the West, which need no help from me being recognized as a monumental achievement, so much as it is to draw a big red circle around Delli Colli’s name. His work with Leone represents one of the great director-cinematographer partnerships along with the likes of Kubrick-Alcott or Coens-Deakins or Powell-Cardiff. No list of the greats is complete without his name.

Season Two of Unsung Heroes: Minority Report, The Adventures of Robin Hood, Hedwig and the Angry Inch, Glengarry Glen Ross, Searching for Bobby Fischer, Zodiac, Oldboy, The Iron Giant, I’m Not There, The Hustler, The Royal Tenenbaums, This is Spinal Tap, and Amelie 

Unsung Heroes: The Think Tank of 'Minority Report'

Michael C here from Serious Film. With Spielberg poised to dominate the end of the year discussion with the one-two punch of Tin Tin and War Horse, I felt now was a perfect time to look back at his last film I enjoyed without reservation.

On screen, every historical era comes packaged with its own handy kit of movie clichés, most likely because a lot of lazy screenwriters did no more research than to watch other movies. The Old West has the bartender drying the glass with a rag and the draw down over someone a-cheatin’ at cards. Medieval periods come standard with a foppish lute player and a crowd of filth encrusted peasants. You know the drill.

This gets particularly egregious with movies set in the future. The majority of stories opt for either the Blade Runner urban hellscape treatment or the slick, sterile 2001 route. Each approach has its appeal but seldom do either have a real ring of truth. To my mind the most plausible vision of the future was done in Steven Spielberg’s 2002 film Minority Report. More than any film I’ve seen the 2054 of Report is recognizably a believable extension of the time we live in.

This was the result of a lot more than clever art direction. Spielberg was determined to have the most believable future world ever put to film. So where most directors would lock a bunch screenwriters in a room to brainstorm variations on the flying car, the man who directed E.T. convened a three-day think tank of the world’s brightest minds, including computer scientists, biomedical researchers, the architectural dean of MIT and various other luminaries, to brainstorm a bible of predictions for his production team to work from.

Let me quickly add that Mr. Spielberg should get points here for not letting all this technical info stymie his movie’s artistic mojo. It seems to have had the opposite effect, providing the film with a springboard for some unforgettably imaginative riffs, from the Fantastia-evoking conducting of the computer screen to the creepy metallic spiders that skitter about scanning retinas.

And now that it’s 2011 and the future world Minority Report envisioned is nine years away from fantasy and toward being a provable or disprovable collection of educated guesses, what do we find? Turns out so far Minority Report was scary accurate in ways too numerous to list here.

It may not be surprising to learn that the identity recognition advertisements are in the works or that the use of retina scan equipment is become increasingly prevalent, but would you be surprised to learn that that the US Military is developing work along the lines of Report’s insect robots? Or how about the fact that crime prediction software is being developed at the University of Pennsylvania attempting to predict future crimes based on past ones? True, it’s not exactly Samantha Morton floating in a tank of milky water, but it’s way too close for my taste.

Most future-set movies eventually inspire chuckles at its creators for assuming we would all be zipping around in jetpacks by the late 70’s or some similar naïveté. So far, Minority Report appears to be experiencing the opposite fate. One where we look back and admit we can’t say we weren’t warned.

Unsung Heroes: The Archer of 'Robin Hood'

Michael C. from Serious Film here. As a rule, I don't indulge in nostalgic, "They don't make 'em like they used to" wallowing. I don't see the point. There was quality then and there is quality now. That having been said, it doesn't mean I can't geek out over one of the shining examples of classic Hollywood, which I will now do.

Watching The Adventures of Robin Hood (1938) directed by Michael Curtiz and William Keighley it is hard not to feel a twinge of longing for the studio system, Hayes Code and all. It was firing on all cylinders with this production and, man, is it glorious to behold. Everything is bold and colorful and exciting. It can go toe-to-toe with Singin’ in the Rain for pure joy of filmmaking on display. 

As a nine-year-old viewer it was enough to inspire lifelong devotion. More than anything I think I responded to the reality of the film. Not realism, of course. This is a Movie-Movie if ever there was one. I mean the tactile reality of the things physically happening on the set. This is what we are losing with CGI. When something isn't faked it reaches a viewer (especially a young one) in a powerful way. In this movie we have Errol Flynn’s athleticism - swinging on vines and scaling walls - the impossibly cool sword fighting. And the arrows. Above all the arrows.

Howard Hill (archer) with Errol Flynn (movie star)

No movie does archery like The Adventures of Robin Hood. Which brings us to the hero of this episode, one Mr. Howard Hill, archer. If the arrows here have an impact lacking in other movies there is a good reason for that. Howard Hill was actually shooting people with real arrows.

I’ll say that again.

For a bonus $150 stunt men would throw on a steel plate and some padding and Hill would shoot them with real arrows fired at actual lethal speed. They could get away with this because Hill simply never missed. Seriously, he has to be seen to be believed. You can look for yourself on the DVD extra features where he is shown in archival footage splitting twine from fifty paces. He even worked with the sound team shooting his own specially designed arrows past microphones to create that instantly recognizable high-pitched “whoosh” sound that arrows make in this movie and no other.

Now, if I had to decide whether it’s right for stuntmen to risk getting shot with arrows by anyone, no matter how skilled, I would have to be a killjoy and say no. But since the arrows in question all flew over 70 years ago, I feel at liberty to point out that this method is really, really cool. Not only does it come across brilliantly on camera, but it spares us all the tricks the director would have needed to get around fake arrows - the kind of minor slight of hand that viewers let slide but nevertheless take us out of the movie a tiny bit each time.

Legend has it Hill personally performed the unforgettable stunt of splitting the arrow in one take. I saw an episode of Mythbusters where they declared this an impossible feat for a variety of reasons. Call me naïve and protective of my favorite childhood movie but I’m not convinced. I would prefer Mythbusters amending their verdict to “Busted for anyone who is not Howard Hill.” 

previously on Unsung Heroes: Glengarry Glen Ross, Zodiac, Oldboy, The Iron Giant, Hedwig and the Angry Inch...

Unsung Heroes: The Animation of 'Hedwig and the Angry Inch'

Hey everybody. Michael C here from Serious Film. I wasn't necessarily feeling it when I sat down to write this week's column so I went searching for a subject I couldn't help but get enthusiastic about. Five minutes after I pulled Hedwig down off the DVD shelf and Presto I can't type fast enough. 

When the movie musical experienced a mini-renaissance at the start of the last decade I doubt I was the only one to notice a disturbing trend. For some of these broadway adaptations it's as if appearing on the big screen required them to apologize for being musicals. Chicago couldn’t do a number without first cutting to a close up of Rene Zellweger’s retinas to assure everyone that all the strange singin' and dancin' was in her imagination. When Dreamgirls’ characters ventured offstage, as in “Steppin' to the Bad Side”, it's cut as if they’re hoping no one will notice it is the characters singing and is not just a song on the soundtrack.

Even when movies were unapologetic about being musicals, like Sweeney Todd, the movie's advertisements went to great lengths to conceal its Broadway roots. The tagline on the Sweeney’s poster should have been “Stephen who?”

During this time period, one of the movies that defied this trend was John Cameron Mitchell's Hedwig and the Angry Inch (2001). I remember working in a movie theater the day the poster arrived. No ticket buyers for this were going to be surprised when the characters burst into song. 

Hedwig embraced the rock musical. It wanted to squeeze every last drop of joy, pathos, wit, and fun out of it. Like Cabaret, it was logical to construct the story around a series of stage performances, but within that structure Mitchell stripped it down and decorated it like a punk teenager graffitiing his text books with Sharpie. The star/director throws in everything from split-screens to follow-the-bouncing-ball sing-alongs (with the occasional *ahem* car wash) but I think his most brilliant movie was to hire animator Emily Hubley to create a short film to accompany the song "The Origin of Love". With lesser material the addition of all these elements might seem like flash over substance, clutter for the sake of it, but the songwriting here is so strong that it can support grand gestures. 

Hubley's scaled down, hand drawn animation is a perfect fit for Hedwig's cheap, trailer park punk aesthetic. A more polished animation style would have stuck out horribly. It's simplicity allows it to add a bit of dazzle and underline the substance of the piece all without distracting from what's really important, namely, the character of Hedwig and what this all means to her. When the song climaxes with Hedwig singing directly into the camera until the animation gradually takes over half the screen it's easy to miss how well this technique works because of how surprisingly moving it is.

I don't know exactly how else to praise Hubley's work except to say that it is just plain beautiful. Origin of Love is my favorite song from Hedwig (which places high in my favorites from musicals in general) and as strong as Mitchell's performance of it is, he was right to conclude it deserved something extra. 

Unsung Heroes: The Editing of 'Glengarry Glen Ross'

Michael C. from Serious Film here this week with an appreciation of the craftsman that took what could have been an incredibly un-cinematic project and turned it into one hundred of the most riveting minutes of the nineties.

Alec Baldwin in Glengarry Glen Ross (1992)

Whenever a prominent stage play makes the trip to the big screen it is, without fail, greeted by throngs of film writers questioning how well the material has been “opened up” for the big screen. This always gets under my skin.  Never mind that many, if not the majority, of the most beloved stage adaptations were not “opened up” at all.  No, what gets me is the implied idea that there is something inherently uncinematic about dialogue. As if audiences say things like, “I guess it’s okay when Sidney Poitier tells Rod Steiger they call him Mr. Tibbs, I just wish they were doing something cinematic at the time, like dangling from a helicopter.”

a desperate phone call with Jack LemmonThe truth, of course, is that any film that makes you identify with the events on screen is cinematic. It can take place entirely in a restaurant, a jury room, or the mind of one paralyzed man; if it makes you forget the darkened theater with the sticky floor it’s doing its job.

Director James Foley along with editor Howard E Smith knew this when he made the film of David Mamet’s Pulitzer Prize winning Glengarry Glen Ross (1992).  To paraphrase what he says in the DVD commentary, Ed Harris smoking a cigarette is as much a movie moment as Lawrence of Arabia coming over a hill leading a thousand men.  In the lesser Mamet films, the stylized writing can feel stilted and airless, but not this time. Throughout Glengarry we feel as if we are privy to the interior monologues of the characters.   

I could fill ten columns highlighting perfectly constructed moments but I’ll limit myself to three favorites:

Al Pacino's nomination was the only Oscar attention for the film

• Any discussion of Glengarry has to begin with Alec Baldwin’s legendary scene. It's an audacious move to begin the movie with one actor delivering an uninterrupted eight-minute monologue, but Foley and Smith get away with it largely by breaking the whole sequence down into a series of short scenes – Baldwin belittles Lemmon, Harris confronts Baldwin, Baldwin denies them the leads – that add up to one riveting whole. 
• There is a perfectly held moment just after Spacey has opened his big mouth and blown Pacino’s big sale and just before Pacino lets loose with one of the most memorable torrents of profanity in film history. It just holds on Pacino’s face as he absorbs what has just transpired, giving the audience an all time great “Uh-oh…” moment watching the fury gather behind his eyes.
• I love the way the filmmakers relax the film’s tension just long enough to let Lemmon’s Shelly “The Machine” Levine recount what he believes to be his great triumph to Pacino. It’s a small oasis of peace and contentment before the character’s final slide down to destruction. 

Throughout the film there is never a cut for it’s own sake, never a moment where Foley and Smith showoff just to prove that it’s a movie they’re making. Instead they rely on the basic language of cinema to give the bouts of verbal violence an impact that makes most movie violence feel like playing patty-cake.