Or have they?
A few months ago in Entertainment Weekly's Ask the Critic column, a reader asked Owen Gleiberman which staple of classic cinema he had never seen. (His answer, incidentally, was the John Ford-John Wayne Western, Stagecoach.) This got us thinking: Which hallowed titles have Charlotte's contingent of critics never watched -- and why?
After coming up with my own picks, I posed the question to three other local film reviewers. The criteria wasn't just movies that are considered must-sees of world cinema; also eligible were critical and/or commercial hits that made a big splash in their day and are still fondly remembered.
Here, then, are my own admissions of negligence, followed by those from the Charlotte Observer's Lawrence Toppman, Charlotte Theatre Magazine's Lon Bumgarner, and South Charlotte Weekly's Sean O'Connell.
The 400 Blows (1959). When it comes to the giants of international cinema, I've seen my fair share of Kurosawa, Bergman and Fellini. But Francois Truffaut? Astonishingly, in my youth, the only Truffaut flick I saw was one of his lesser works (Mississippi Mermaid), and I only caught up with his beloved Day For Night about six months ago. But Jules et Jim? Shoot the Piano Player? The Last Metro? No, nope and ix-nay. Still, I'm most embarrassed over never having seen any of the films in his Antoine Doinel series, most notably the first one. Along with the same year's Breathless (co-written by Truffaut -- and yes, I've seen that one), The 400 Blows was a seminal picture in the dawning of the French New Wave, an influential movement that captured the fancy of audiences and film scholars worldwide and affected the way many movies were -- and still are -- made. I don't exactly know why I've never made time for Blows; maybe it's because I've seen its famous final shot -- the freeze-frame of young Antoine on the beach -- so many times that I feel as if I've seen the movie itself.
East of Eden (1955). With the exception of Marilyn Monroe, no other film icon has had his image reproduced as much as James Dean (posters, coffee mugs, calendars, you name it). His film career was oh-so-brief, yet he's considered one of the giants in his field, mentioned in the same breath as fellow Method men Marlon Brando, Montgomery Clift and Paul Newman. Plus he's merely the epitome of "cool," still emulated by any number of actors, posers and thugs. So with only three starring roles before his death at the age of 24, it's not exactly an exhaustive resume to work through. Yet I didn't see Giant until my mid-20s, I didn't catch Rebel Without a Cause until two years ago, and I have yet to screen this acclaimed adaptation of the John Steinbeck novel. Dean earned one of his two posthumous Best Actor Oscar nominations for this film (the other was for Giant), and by all accounts, he's terrific in a movie that still packs an emotional wallop to this day. But I wouldn't know. . . yet.
A Woman Under the Influence (1974). Jim Jarmusch, Steven Soderbergh and Miramax Pictures are often given credit for the success of the modern American independent film, but seriously, folks, one has to go back to John Cassavetes to find its true roots. Of course, independent cinema has been around as long as the film medium itself -- whether it was Oscar Micheaux making films for African-American audiences from the 1910s through the 1940s, or enterprising young filmmakers churning out ultra-low-budget splatter flicks in their own backyard, the maverick spirit has always prevailed on the fringes. Yet it was Cassavetes who's largely credited with garnering mainstream approval for Hollywood's bastard children, by creating personal movies that were more raw than almost anything the big studios were producing -- and garnering widespread acceptance (not to mention Oscar nominations) along the way. A Woman Under the Influence, starring his wife Gena Rowlands, is considered by many to be his crowning achievement, but it pains me to state that I haven't seen it -- ditto Faces, Husbands and most of his other acclaimed indies.
The Music Man (1962). It was a commercial and critical hit and managed to even snag a Best Picture Oscar nomination. Still, I've been burned by too many musicals to let myself foolishly watch another one without having my guard up. It's not that I have a bias against musicals -- there are moments of pure bliss in classics like, say, Top Hat, Singin' In the Rain and Meet Me In St. Louis that allow me to experience cinematic nirvana like nothing else -- but I am wary when it comes to musicals based on Broadway hits of the 50s and 60s. Too many of these overproduced extravaganzas lumber when they should lift, and despite the presence of Robert Preston, I have a hard time making room on my schedule for this celebrated piece of melodious Americana.
Lawrence Toppman The Charlotte Observer
Cabaret (1972). Liza Minnelli has a definite, well-defined talent, but she's a taste I haven't acquired. She's like the hollandaise sauce of world cinema for me.
The Towering Inferno (1974). The best-known of all disaster movies, a genre I can skip from top to bottom. Not even seeing Fred Astaire, Paul Newman, Steve McQueen and O.J. Simpson in the same film is sufficient inducement.
Zorba the Greek (1964). Love that zither theme, but I'd sooner have ants crawl into my underwear than sit through two hours of Anthony Quinn singing, dancing, and bellowing folksy wisdom in his baklava-laden accent.
The Alamo (1960). There's camp value to John Wayne's deadpan monologues about liberty, and a gorgeous Dimitri Tiomkin score. Do I ever need to sit through the rest of it? Not so far.
Fellini Satyricon (1969) and Fellini's Roma (1972). These seemed like pretentious, faux-decadent drivel when I walked out of them early -- and that was back in college, when I was presumably part of the target audience. Half of each was enough.
Lon Bumgarner Charlotte Theatre Magazine
Reservoir Dogs (1992). When I was in film school, this was a new release, and they showed the dancing/razor/ear scene in a class I was taking. I'm not a fan of a lot of film violence: I believe many times it's used recklessly. I picked up the tape years ago and intended to watch it many times, but every time I did, I just got put off thinking about the violent nature of that scene and put it back in the package. Call me a prude, but so far I'm surviving without seeing it.
The Way We Were (1973). As with Reservoir Dogs, I actually own this film -- even now, the package is staring me in the face. I just have never been in the mood when I had the time and I never have the time when I'm in the mood. I even have made promises to people to watch it with them but haven't done so yet. I'm looking forward to it. . . someday.
Triumph of the Will (1935). Once again, when I was in film school, one of my cinematography teachers placed this picture on a syllabus, stating it would play on a certain date in the class and we were required to see it. Now, I have always believed that Leni Riefenstahl was an unrepentant Nazi. I abhor fascism: Six of my uncles fought against it and I could not see myself admiring or studying the work of a woman who I believe not only supported Nazism through her so-called "art" but probably was the mistress of a man who murdered tens of millions of innocent people. Therefore, for the first time in 10 years of college, I told a professor that I would not participate in a class activity. When he asked why, I had a very intelligent exchange with him about it, and he understood. He still docked me a grade for walking out of class when the film began, but I sleep better.
Sean O'Connell South Charlotte Weekly
Gone With the Wind (1939). I've been trained to dislike Gone with the Wind. One of my cinema studies professors loathed the film, describing it to his eager class as bloated, boring and endless. His "recommendation" inspired me to avoid Wind for years. Also, it's not like you can just pop it in the VCR for a quick screening, since the movie clocks in at a whopping 238 minutes. According to MGM, Wind is "the highest-grossing movie of all time." Frankly, David O. Selznick, I don't give a damn.
Dr. Strangelove, or How I Learned to Stop Worrying and Love the Bomb (1964). Maybe it's because the Cold War ended so many years ago. Maybe it's because I prefer Peter Sellers in his brilliant Pink Panther films. But mainly, I think I've avoided Dr. Strangelove because Stanley Kubrick and "comedy" go together like peanut butter and paste. Watch A Clockwork Orange, Paths of Glory, The Shining and Full Metal Jacket, and tell me if the man responsible for such masochistic visions has a sense of humor.
Sunset Boulevard (1950). You can't argue Billy Wilder's genius. But did the man have to make so many great films? It's nearly impossible to get to each one. You simply cannot avoid The Apartment. You shouldn't skip Some Like It Hot. Double Indemnity's a dream come true for film noir fans. I own Sunset Boulevard and plan to watch it. Soon.
