What a blessing it is to be able to see a film such as Himalaya, set in Nepal’s Dolpo region, on the big screen.  Yes, it came to Tulsa in 2002—a fictional near-documentary made by Frenchman Eric Valli, a former National Geographic photographer and author.

The story is that of Tibetan herdsmen, and one woman and one child, leading groups of yaks through the Himalaya mountains with the objective of trading for food the salt those yaks are hauling.  The scenery is imposing, the mountains frightful in their size.  Soon we are accosted by a beautiful blue lake at the bottom of one of those mountains; one of the yaks plunges into it.  Thereafter winter sets in and the herdsmen endure the brutal power of a snowstorm destined to leave the Himalayas white.  And it does:  another exquisite sight.

Two cinematographers were employed here, and the look is smooth and un-garishly easy on the eye.  The snowy landscape under the sun does not shine too brightly for us, and yet we know, we can see, why it is too bright for the Tibetans.  That’s cinematography as it should be.  Valli backs away from too many closeups and, instead, lets us see nature dwarfing the herdsmen.  The music by Bruno Coulais is brusque and nicely ethnic, and Valli’s enjoyable cast is mostly nonprofessional.  They’re from Nepal’s Dolpo region.

Cover of Himalaya

The forgotten The Grissom Gang (1971) was directed by Robert Aldrich, maker of Kiss Me Deadly and The Dirty Dozen.  What could have been a decent crime flick-cum-1920s period piece lacks the finesse of the morally offensive Bonnie and Clyde, even if it has its stirring dramatic moments and a gripping denouement.  Based on a novel by James Hadley Chase, the film stars Kim Darby as a society girl kidnapped and held for ransom by a Barker-family simulacrum headed by Ma Grissom (Irene Dailey), mother of the likes of Slim Grissom (Scott Wilson), who begins to love the society girl.  Besides being clumsily directed and edited, the film is uneven in tone:  Levity arises only to be cast down by ugly bloodshed.  Grissom is would-be Peckinpah—and an odd duck to boot.

I’ll say this:  it isn’t at all boring.  Get a load of the actors.  Scott Wilson plays a repulsive character repulsively.  Miss Dailey is over-the-top and just plain odious.  Miss Darby, however, is excellent.  Often called upon to be emotional, she never simply huffs and puffs, never exaggerates.  She can be frantic but also moving, and is believable as an heiress.  Fine, too, are down-to-earth Robert Lansing and handsome, intimidating Tony Musante.  Why, though, did all the actors have to be coated with perspiration under the klieg lights?  Every time there is a closeup we see this perspiration.  It is yet another thing that demonstrates the film’s slipshod execution.  I’m glad The Grissom Gang is on DVD but only because of Miss Darby’s performance.

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An often disappointing artist, David Mamet is also a talented one.  As well, he is now a conservative—and was probably leaning toward conservatism as long ago as 1999, the year he released his dandy film adaptation of Terence Rattigan’s play, The Winslow Boy.  The hero here is Sir Robert Morton, a respectable conservative barrister who has proven to be solidly anti-feminist and anti-trade union.  Jeremy Northam plays him with graceful intensity, enviable poise, even a spark of eccentricity.

It is he, Sir Robert, who must clear the name of  the young brother of a dignified suffragette (Rebecca Pidgeon).  Ironically, this conservative barrister begins to condemn “the great” as they side against “the powerless,” as though he were a liberal—the great being the Crown and, probably, the English press.  (The Winslow Boy is set in early 20th century England.)

Mamet’s film is knowingly directed, finely photographed, and well acted.  This movie and his follow-up picture, the rather vulgar State and Main (2000), evince what an interesting man Mamet is.  I look forward to seeing his HBO film about Phil Spector.

Cover of The Winslow Boy

The Federico Fellini film, Amarcord (1974), is autobiographical and nostalgic and seeks to be genial, amusing and slightly political and religious.  In the final analysis, it is an overrated load of insulting grossness.  An adolescent picture partially about adolescents, it features a boy who, after getting lewdly physical with an obese woman, feels so guilty he promises his mother he will become a missionary.  Forget it, kid:  in this movie that seems highly out of place.

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The 1994 Queen Margot, adapted from an Alexandre Dumas novel, is about Margaret of Valois (Isabelle Adjani), who during the 1500s was forced to marry Henri the King of Navarre (later the King of France) in the midst of post-Reformation violence and conflict.  The marriage is essentially no good; as in life, Margaret—Margot—has her lovers, and so does Henri.  Yet the Catholic Margot feels compelled to save the Protestant Henri’s life after Margot’s evil mother (Virna Lisi) engineers the massacre of the Huguenots on the eve of St. Bartholomew’s Day.  It’s a famous horror in French history.  Even after this, Henri remains a marked man since he desires the French throne, while Margot gets together with another man she must try to protect: La Mole (Vincent Perez), her newest lover.  He too is a Protestant.

The film is a vivid and bloody historical drama with a dark screenplay by Daniele Thompson, et al.  The direction by Patrice Chereau is generally sensible and brave.  In the world of Queen Margot, some needed relief emanates through loyalty and through love affairs, but largely there is the chaos of perilous times.  What is practiced is the politics of death.  We might as well be in Ukraine during the Stalin era.  People are fearful, moving with a liveliness that demonstrates the need to escape. . . The movie ends with nasty Anjou, one of Margot’s brothers, poised to take the throne after the death of Charles IX and commenting to his mother that now, in the kingdom, hatred shall come to an end.  Empty optimism, I’d say.

(In French with English subtitles.)

Cover of Queen Margot (La Reine Margot)