And One Sword To Rule Them All: "Excalibur" (1981)

directed by John Boorman
Starring Nicol Williamson, Helen Mirren, Nigel Terry, Liam Neeson, Corin Redgrave, Cheri Lunghim with newcomers Patrick Stewart, Gabriel Byrne, Neil Jordan and Ciaran Hinds

Excalibur, the Sword Of Power.

I watched Excalibur last night. I've seen it a handful of times since it was first released and it's one of those flicks where if it's on, I gotta watch it to the end. So involving and detailed is its whole mise-en-scene that I get swept into that world and have a hard time coming back out. It's a weird movie with its own distinct mood. Still, I'm never ready for it to be over.

I'd been fascinated by the King Arthur myth since I was a kid, beginning with Disney’s The Sword In The Stone, in which the kid Wart is tended to by a daffy Wizard and a talking owl (the same Disney universe of woods where, apparently, Aurora is being seen to by three daffy fairies before meeting her spinning wheel fate the next glen over, and beyond the next clutch of trees Snow White is tending to her dwarfs). In the animated fable, Wart falls into a river and is transformed by Merlin into a fish in order to learn a few life lessons before resuming his human form.

I loved that sequence as a kid; the idea that a poor anybody could experience magic and then be transformed into a king was transfixing for a fantasy-minded kid from the Bronx. The boy-as-fish scene -- in fact the entire Disney movie and title -- is taken directly from the first book of T.H. White’s opus The Once and Future King, a thoroughly detailed and deeply researched rendering of the King Arthur tale that I read in high school. The book gave me a deeper understanding of all the players in the Arthurian legend, their motivations, and the ultimate tragedy that befell them all.

Excalibur pulls from that source but more directly from the 15th century Thomas Malory classic Le Morte D'Arthur, which I have never read. In my estimation, Excalibur is one of the best contemporary screen adaptations of that story. It retains both the folksiness and the grandeur of the legend, but also the abiding sadness of a world lost through the folly of man himself. All of that is due to the off-kilter but brilliant world view of director John Boorman. But while I live for this kind of artsy approach, the critics panned Excalibur when it arrived in theaters.

I saw Excalibur soon after its April 1981 release in Boston with a Cape Verdean guy I had just begun seeing. We were crazy about each other. We were young and there was a desperate, star-crossed lovers aspect to our relationship since I was graduating from college within the month and returning to New York, while he had no plans to go to college or ever leave Roxbury. Every moment we spent together had a dramatic urgency and perhaps this lent to the initial romantic impact of the film on my senses.

The spellbinding Excalibur is a cinematic dirge, mourning the loss of a world that was both more magical and more noble than ours. There is a pageantry about the film, a surreal, distant quality to it that is the embodiment of myth. Each shot is gorgeously composed in exquisite, painterly detail to serve as an eternal tableau. The film has its excesses, to be sure: the lighting of the titular sword and the outre musings of Merlin can be over the top. But the story is not to be imagined as taking place in the natural world as we know it. History has already shown us that things will not end well; Arthur will be betrayed and outwitted even as he establishes the roots of a democratic thought system that remains the bedrock of the British and American judiciary today. Excalibur is impressionistic art. It's high opera captured on film.

Excalibur also features a number of British stars we will come to know well later in their careers – Helen Mirren, Gabriel Byrne, Liam Neeson, Patrick Stewart, Ciaran Hinds – but for the most part, they are all unknown to us and are treated as an ensemble. Even the actor who portrays Arthur (Nigel Terry) is an unknown quantity to Americans, so this adds to the sense that the viewer is being plunged into a strange history in which there are no star turns (none of that “with Sir Laurence Olivier as Uther Pendragon!” crap). The plunge is also enhanced by the fact that Boorman uses “Siegfried’s Funeral March” by Richard Wagner in the opening and throughout the film, to give the whole a distinctly operatic atmosphere, and by the fact that Excalibur has no opening credits other than title and a few lines about the setting. The audience is dropped front and center into a medieval land-rights battle between the armies of King Uther Pendragon and the Lord of Cornwall, mud and spittle flying, armor clanking, broadswords hefted, grunts and curses and horse whinnies fogging the night air.

Merlin: "I wish I didn't already know what's going to happen here (sigh)."


Merlin the magician is adviser to Uther. He is the fulcrum from which the storyline swings, as he knows all that will happen before it does and can summon otherworldly powers to his and Uther’s aid. Uther forms a truce with Cornwall after hours of bloody night clashes, and Cornwall invites him and his men to his castle for a celebration where Cornwall’s wife Igraine is bidden to dance for the throng. Mistake. Within hours of forging the truce, Uther is rudely salivating over Igraine and announcing his lustful intentions toward her, which gets him and his men thrown out of Cornwall castle. As Cornwall plans to take his battalion into the forest to dispatch Uther et al once and for all, Uther prevails on Merlin to aid him in his quest to screw Cornwall’s wife. Merlin does so against his better judgment, magically transforming Uther into the image of Cornwall so he can slip into the palace unchallenged and bed Igraine. As Uther sates his lust, the real Cornwall meets his death in battle with Uther’s men. (“He came, and he went,” said my witty date.)

Thus is the story set in motion, for Uther takes the now widowed Igraine to wife as her young daughter, the necromantically gifted Morgana, watches. Igraine gives birth to a son, but Merlin shows up to collect the child as part of the bargain he struck with Uther to bring him to Igraine in the first place. Baby Arthur is secreted away and give to Sir Ector to raise alongside his son Kay.

We next see the teenaged Arthur at the jousting tournament where the misplacement of Kay's sword leads to the pulling of the Sword In The Stone. Lines among the local knights are quickly drawn between those who believe that with the sword Excalibur in hand, Arthur is the rightful king of England, and those who think its hooey, and new battles are fought. Tutored by Merlin in wisdom and the natural magic that is dying out with him, Arthur proves to be an apt pupil and a harmonizing force among the different factions. But as soon as Arthur claps eyes on Guenevere (Lunghi) he's a bumbling goner, and though Merlin tries to get him to cool his jets the two are eventually married.

The story is well known by now. The only notes left to add are that Lancelot is here played by hot stuff Nicholas Clay, and it would be tough for any Arthurian chick to ignore him. Lance's armor is highly polished so as to appear blindingly white on the screen, thus telegraphing the goodness of his soul. He appears truly tortured over his love of Jen.

Boorman's own son Charley plays Arthur's wicked son Mordred, spawned when Arthur was tricked into laying with his own evil sister Morgana (Mirren). The film takes a truly icky turn when Mordred shows up, and also when poor Percival is tortured by Morgana on his quest for the Holy Grail.

Excalibur is not a perfect movie. But its images, musical moments, and ideas about justice, peace, faith, and the destiny of Man will haunt you afterwards. It goes to show why the story of King Arthur and the ideal of the Round Table has endured for generations.

"Begin Again" (2014) or, A Music Industry Fairy Tale

directed by John Carney
with Keira Knightley, Mark Ruffalo, Adam Levin, Yasiin Bey, Hailee Steinfeld





Finally made it down to Ye Olde Cineplex to take a gander at Begin Again, the new film by director John Carney, who helmed 2006's Once -- a film I haven't seen all of and which is apparently so charming that a Tony-winning Broadway musical of it was mounted.

My principle reasons for wanting to see it were 1) Its storyline has something to do with today's music industry, 2) Mark Ruffalo, 3) Mark Ruffalo, and 4) Mark Ruffalo.

Ruffalo had been acting for a decade by the time I really noticed him, in 2000's You Can Count On Me, where he played the sexy, rumpled, rebel ne'er do well brother to Laura Linney's uptight big sister. The role fits him well. He did a version of the sexy interloper in The Kid's All Right, and here he reprises that kind of character as Dan, the hard-drinking down-on-his-luck record label exec reeling from the break up of his marriage to Catherine Keener and being fired from the label he co-founded after a streak of bad signings.

Drunken Dan stumbles into an East Village open-mike night event -- where A&R men do occasionally discover great talent -- and hears the reluctant singer-songwriter stylings of Gretta, played by Keira Knightley. Gretta herself is mourning betrayal by her songwriting partner and longtime love Dave, a budding pop star (Maroon 5's Adam Levine in a smarmy turn) with whom she had traveled to New York on his label's dime to start ramping up his career. Morose Gretta is importuned by a busking friend to come to this show, so her half-hearted performance is a skidmark along her tucked-tail retreat home to London. While the audience at this NYC hip-pit is lukewarm to Gretta's skills, Dan has A Beautiful Mind-like power to hear all the fully-produced potential in Gretta's music and accosts her with the idea that they can make beautiful music together. The sequence of how he hears her music more fully produced is magical -- but also doesn't quite fit with the rest of the film's tone. Up to now Gretta has been a behind-the-scenes-kinda chick in Dave's universe, so she's is reluctant to alter her music or step out front, and certainly not with Dave, whose glory days as a Grammy-winning producer are significantly behind him. He admits that his clout to get anyone signed is severely diminished if not nonexistent.

Ruffalo's grizzled boy-charm comes into play and Gretta finds herself convinced to do something outrageous -- record an album of her songs live at various outdoor locales in New York City. It's an intriguing idea, though thoroughly impractical. The fun of the film is seeing how this improbability comes to life with a motley crew of musicians, a rigged traveling recording studio, an influx of cash from a Dan-friendly artist (Cee-Lo Green, in a picture-stealing cameo), some risky locations, and even a guest turn on guitar by Dan's precocious teenage daughter (Hailee Steinfeld of True Grit fame showing an unprecedented amount of thigh). The songs are pleasant and mildly thought-provoking, but not earth-shaking.

Knightley, dressed down here to represent your average bohemian girl singer, doesn't embarrass herself at the microphone but has little real star power as a performer in this role. (I was astonished to notice in the closeups how jacked up Knightley's teeth remain this far into her full-fledged movie-star trip -- but perhaps the small physical flaw is part of her appeal? She's so easy on the eyes I guess it doesn't matter that her teeth are triple-rowed up in there.) Knightley's Gretta stands up for the craft of music, just making songs for their own sake and not wanting to sell out for pop stardom. Cute, noble, even, but from my current window seat in the music biz, this looks exactly like that time-honored recipe for starvation that bedevils many a brilliant music creator.

Begin Again gets the finer details of the music industry wrong. For instance, one of the founding partners of a label -- here played by Mos Def (officially credited as Yasiin Bey) -- can't just "fire" his co-founding partner. And while the music industry of yore (1940s through the 1990s) is rife with music execs who boozed, drank, screwed, smoked, popped pills, flouted the rules and barely functioned in their jobs, today's trouble-beset industry has no room and no tolerance for money-sucks and fuck-ups like Dan. There is too much still at stake. And if you're going to go around the city recording live music in open-air venues -- already a nightmare for background and ambient noise -- make sure that the tech holding the microphone isn't simultaneously jumping up and down, stomping his feet, and screaming "Great!" before the track is over (as Dan does a few times).

What it gets right is the power of music itself to transform, to heal, to bond, and to uplift. The real golden threads of Begin Again, at least for me, begin with the recognition that for many creative folks, music is the lingua franca not only of artistic expression but of human communication. One's musical tastes do tell a lot about one. Trading lyrics and song titles is a form of language that many of my friends indulge in. Bonding over appreciation for certain artists or tracks can be an indelible connection. By listening to each other's iPods, Dan and Gretta draw even closer and forge a deeper understanding of the other's musicality. This is probably a spoiler: Some moviegoers may find it jarring or unrealistic that when Dave plays Gretta a new song he has written on his own during a solo trip to LA, she knows instantaneously that something is amiss in their relationship. I thought it was a great detail about their music and their communication style.

The movie also demonstrates the many ways in which music brings together people who might never have met or worked together in any other capacity. Looking at the performers that Dan and Gretta gather for her project is a perfect example. Another detail I like is that the film may take place in New York City, a classic setting for thousands of films and my home town. The director doesn't give us the glossy, high finance, fantasy corporate center New York, and neither do we get the gritty, dark, crime-ridden mysterious New York either. It's just everyday life here, the weird mix of funk, grunge, utility, surprise, art, retail, and workaday monotony that undergirds the soul of the city. It's brownstones and bodegas, cobblestones and fire escapes, fire hydrants and chain link fences, plate glass and cement. And of course people of all shapes and sizes who flock there to make music.

For about five minutes in the latter part of the film, we think that we're going to get a pat, Hollywood ending tied up with a Valentine red ribbon. That it doesn't happen feels far more real and true. The two main characters do begin again, and that new beginning could not have happened without their meeting. But their beginnings are facilitated by their connection, not the goal of it.

Like most fairy tales, Begin Again is a sweet film (despite all of Dan's cussing). If you're a music person like me it will restore or reaffirm your belief in music as a tonic to the soul.

Backward Glance: "Three Days of the Condor" (1975)

Directed by Sidney Pollack
Robert Redford, Faye Dunaway, Cliff Robertson, Max von Sydow

I caught this classic of '70s angst for the first time in 2010. Hearing the title, I would mix it up in my mind with similarly titled flicks, including Night of the Iguana, a Tennessee Williams drama with Richard Burton and Ava Gardner; Day of the Jackal, a thriller about Fench military hero and prime minister Charles de Gaulle that I’ve never seen; and Day of the Locust, an insane flick about 1930s Hollywood that still haunts me.

Director Sydney Pollack's political thriller is about an everyman caught in a nightmarish and hard-to-follow government plot that is scarily prescient. Robert Redford is Joe Turner -- can you get a more Everyman name than that? -- a CIA reader/researcher who is a little too good at his gig. When he discovers what he shouldn't, the running begins in earnest. Using a grainy color film stock that looks almost like newsreel, Pollack paints a portrait of sheer paranoia that fits perfectly with the Vietnam era of covert government operations and suppressed public information.

PLOT SUMMARY:
At a small CIA outpost inside a fashionable upper East Side Manhattan townhouse, Joe Turner works with a close-knit team. He's great at what he does. No sooner has he called his superiors in Washington to report evidence of a covert CIA operation set to invade the Middle East than a crew of government assassins is dispatched to hush it up. As fate and the gods of storytelling would have it, Joe slips out the back to fetch lunch and returns to find everyone in the office murdered, including his co-worker girlfriend.

Marked for death, Joe – code name Condor -- contacts his New York home office via pay phone for help and comes up with one Higgins (Cliff Robertson with an outsized 70s comb-over), a CIA deputy chief whom he’s never met. Higgins says he'll help and tells Joe to meet agents in an alley at the back of the Ansonia Hotel on 72nd Street. When Joe balks, Higgins tells him to bring a friend. Unsurprisingly, when Joe and his bestie arrive in the alley, a shootout ensues that leaves the friend and the two agents sent to meet them dead. Desperate to elude the killers as well as the police, who are converging on the crime scene, Joe stumbles into a clothing store and kidnaps a customer, Kathy Hale (played by an atypically vulnerable-looking Faye Dunaway) and has her drive him to her apartment in Brooklyn. She is justifiably terrified, doesn’t believe his tale, and struggles to get free of him.

Joe is not an agent, but a reader. He must rely on his wits and everything he has ever read about political intrigue, spying, hit men, even gun play to unravel the mystery of what has happened. Realizing that another friend is in imminent danger, he ties Kathy to the toilet and drives her car to the friend’s highrise apartment, convincing his wife to leave immediately. On the way out he unknowingly crosses paths with killing machine-for-hire Joubert, played by Max von Sydow. The two share a long and suspenseful elevator ride to the lobby in which Joe realizes who the guy is. He allows Joubert to leave the building, but knowing that he could be killed the minute he walks out the door, Joe engages a group of black people in the lobby to walk him to his car, promising them $5 apiece. Joe escapes, and Joubert, hiding in some bushes with Joe in his sights, must accede defeat for the moment. But not before noting the license plate of the car.

Joe returns to Kathy’s apartment and ungags her, and here’s where things get even more complicated. Her live-in boyfriend, who has gone to Vermont to ski and is expecting her to join him, calls up but Joe threatens her not to let on she's in trouble. She blows the man off with a tale of a car breakdown, and actually sounds none too sorry about it. Meanwhile, Joe is checking out her place, studying the black n white photos of spare, haunting autumnscapes she has posted and surmises that she is a lonely woman with secrets. Joe is no criminal, but he is hella observant. He tells Kathy that he needs time to figure things out, but he also needs at least one night to forget before he'll go away and leave her be. “You like men who go away,” he tells her, adding, “Why haven’t you asked me to untie your hands yet?” The handsome stranger has just looked deep into her hidden truth. And after all, it's Robert freakin' Redford. So of course she lays back and lets it happen. Cue the jazzy Fender Rhodes Dave Grusin score as Joe and Kathy get busy.

Their idyll is interrupted the next morning when a postman knocking with a package turns out to be one of the uniformed hitmen who helped take out all Joe's co-workers. The scene erupts into a full on fight with furniture flying and a struggle for the gun. Joe ends up shooting the assailant as Kathy screams. Joe calms her and the two leave the apartment. Love on the run.

This is the point at which the Hunted becomes the Hunter. Putting two and two together, Joe decides to turn the tables and now tracks the CIA chief who's rubber-stamping all the mayhem, while being dogged at every step by Joubert. The path leads to the home of an agency official in suburban Washington, D.C., where Joubert breaks in, grabs the gun and surprisingly offs the man Joe’s been trying to squeeze. Seems the hitman switched sides for a bigger paycheck. Joubert explains that he takes no sides, he’s just the hired help. No hard feelings. He lets Joe go.

Back in NYC, Joe uses Kathy as bait to locate and identify Higgins, whom they kidnap from a lower Manhattan lunch spot so he can get answers. Check the irony in this prescient exchange, when Joe asks, Would the US really secretly invade the Middle East over oil? Higgins says Yes. Joe thinks that the American people should be given the choice to vote on it, that government operations should be transparent. Says Higgins: “Today it’s oil, but what if it’s water, or food? When people run out, they won’t want to be asked, they’ll just want us to GET it for them.” Righteous Joe tells Higgins that he has leaked the information about the secret "CIA within the CIA" to the New York Times, as they stand in front of the paper's headquarters.

“You have no idea how much damage you’ve just done,” says Higgins.

“I hope so,” says Turner, who then melts into the crowd.




NOTES:
You know I love my New York, especially Dirty Old 1970s New York. In this film Times Square is still the delightfully sleazy neon cesspool it used to be, the buses are still forest green with sliver panels, Broadway looks like Broadway, the old apartment buildings still have the same old chain fences and cheesy lobbies, the Ansonia Hotel is in all its architectural glory on 72nd Street, and the World Trade Center towers still stand tall. That was the New York I grew up in, went to school in, spent my early career in.

Director Sidney Pollack makes a few nods to the city's diversity, with one of Turner’s murdered CIA co-workers was a lovely Asian woman. And of course there is the crowd of African Americans in the lobby, though when you get right down to it, Joe uses these innocent black folk as human shields. I was convinced that any of them would be gunned down in the scene, much as we've been conditioned to see the token black character be the first to catch a bullet in most mainstream flicks. This doesn’t happen, I was relieved to note, but neither does Joe Turner cough up the $5 he’d promised to dole out, to the crowd’s jeering disappointment. Also, several of the sisters and brothers are wielding tambourines, because of course any gathering of colored people in New York City would naturally include percussion instruments.

On first viewing I’m intrigued by the Redford-Dunaway relationship. I'm not a complete prude, but it always astounds me how quickly strangers fall into bed together in movies, particularly in the films of the ‘70s. Dunaway plays a truly complicated woman where still waters run deep, and when she finally believes him it’s a beautiful moment. She confesses, “You’re a really sweet man to be with.”

My favorite character is the nonpartisan Joubert, whose European coolness as the hitman (smarty-pants Joe IDs his accent as being from Alsace-Lorraine in France) actually makes him the most interesting person in the flick. Actor Von Sydow has one scene in a hotel room, passing the time between hits by painting a miniature soldier. He's a killer, but he has an inner life. It's a detail coopted by director John Frankenheimer in his ‘90s thriller Ronin, where the Jean Reno character's safe house contact lives in Alsace Lorraine and paints miniature ronin figures before removing a bullet from American operative Bob DeNiro.

Three Days of the Condor is a classic of the genre, where the Everyman knowingly or unknowingly comes in possession of The Thing That Will Change the World, and must run from those who violently want it stopped or violently want to take it for themselves.

FAVORITE LINE
Turner: Have I raped you yet? Have I even tried?
Hale: The night is young.

Backward Glance: "Black Narcissus" (1947)

Directed by Michael Powell and Emeric Pressberger
Starring Deborah Kerr, David Farrar, Kathleen Byron, Flora Robson, Jean Simmons, Sabu

Prayer on the Roof Of The World in "Black Narcissus."

I had heard the title Black Narcissus for years, and was intrigued. Eventually I learned that it was based on a novel by British novelist Rumer Godden and starred Sabu, the Indian actor who had anchored Hollywood's Technicolor live action The Jungle Book. I then assumed the movie was a 1940s Hollywood jungle epic. Then I was able to see it -- once again, thanks Turner Classic Movies! -- and was captivated.

Though certainly a colonialist fable of sorts and employing the racist casting policies of the times (several East Indian characters are played by white actors), it's a film unlike any other, posing philosophical questions about the nature of faith thematically while seducing the viewer visually. Like the perfume of the title, Black Narcissus is impossible to forget.

Deborah Kerr has one of her best screen roles here; the film is also glorious for its painterly cinematography, large-scale sets, and relentlessly haunting mood. It was directed and produced by Powell & Pressberger, the Anglo-German team that produced The Red Shoes, and their cinematographer Jack Cardiff, so there’s a similar look of heightened fantasy, scale, and saturated blues and reds. The lush atmosphere is in itself a character in the action. And while the film begins harmlessly enough -- it's about nuns for heaven's sake! -- it snowballs dramatically into a thriller.

PLOT SUMMARY (**SPOILERS**):
A group of British Anglican nuns is sent to the Himalayas to establish a mission, dispensary and school for girls. This is a test of sorts for Sister Clodagh (Kerr), in her first posting as a Sister Superior. The locale is to be a palace donated to them by a local Indian general. When the nuns arrive they discover that Mopu Palace was previously the opulent cliff-top dwelling of his ancestor’s harem. Spacious with spectacular views of the valley, the locale is problematic: the locals are mistrustful of outsiders; a local shaman competes for their religious attentions; the building itself needs renovations; and the palace is decorated with erotic paintings. More troubling: a relentless wind blows against its walls.

It is an uphill climb for the sisters, who must establish the school, plant a garden, treat the sick, and overcome language and cultural barriers. Clodagh particularly dislikes the General’s English agent, Mr. Dean (David Farrar, the Colin Farrell of his day). Like any good degenerate colonialist, Dean is enjoying the local lifestyle a bit too much for Clodagh's taste. Always half-clad, half-drunk, and in the habit of bedding local girls at will, Dean nevertheless provides has the muscle and the know-how to get things done around Mopu and the sisters come to rely on him, a fact that Clodagh resents. Resentment turns to fascination, however, as the virile and handsome Dean – the only European male for miles -- stirs up long-dormant feelings.

Sabu as The Little General.

The Indian general’s teenaged son shows up one day and begs to be educated alongside the girls. Played by Sabu, the Little General is all pious platitudes about Christianity and worldly ambition, and he charms Sister Clodagh. He attends lessons among the girls bedecked in jewels and silks, waving a handkerchief soaked in a pricey Darjeeling perfume called Black Narcissus that sets everyone’s senses astir. Meanwhile, Mr. Dean has brought in the Indian girl Kanchi (wonderful Jean Simmons, but gasp, in muddy brownface makeup) to be educated and used as an extra hand. It is not clear whether Dean has had his way with her, but once Kanchi and the Little General lock eyes, it's a love worthy of legend -- references by characters to the folktale of "The Prince & the Beggar Maid" abound.

Setbacks proliferate for the nuns at Mopu. The thick sensuality of the air around the palace seems to bewitch and confound them. A child falls ill and dies. Sister Philippa finds herself planting bright fragrant flowers instead of the vegetables the community needs. Kanchi runs away. Clodagh suddenly dreams of her life before taking the veil, as a redheaded Irish beauty engaged to a suitor who ultimately abandons her for a future in America. And Sister Ruth, a troubled young nun who has become a thorn in Clodagh's side, becomes unhinged.

The nuns' mission was to transform this edge of India known as The Roof Of The World into a place of strict Christian order. But surrounded by the sexual awakening of their girls, a blossoming young love affair between the Prince and Kanchi, cultural nudity, the lush landscape, the sensuality of fragrance, and the endless wind, they find themselves questioning their mission, their convictions, and even their sanity. Jealousy, envy, repression all take their toll. Noting recent developments, Mr. Dean predicts the nuns won’t last beyond the rainy season in this beautiful but unsettling place.

One evening Clodagh finds Sister Ruth wild-eyed in her room, in civilian clothes and declaring that she has given up the order. Alarmed, Clodagh offers to sit the night with Ruth in prayer but Ruth, in a none-too-subtle gesture of sexual rebellion, slowly and defiantly applies red lipstick to her mouth. It's a chilling moment. Clodagh falls asleep, however, and Ruth, catlike, streaks from the room and locks it behind her. She rushes straight into the arms of Mr. Dean, who laughs her off and suggests she go back to Sister Clodagh. Rejected, the very mention of Clodagh makes Ruth see red and faint. When she comes to, she dashes into the jungle.

"Sister Ruth has gone mad!" is the rallying cry now at the palace, as everyone is awakened to look for her. Ruth returns to the palace unseen, slinking up stairs and along corridors in sinister shadow. As the morning breaks, Clodagh climbs to the bell tower, situated on a Himalayan peak, to sound the morning chimes. Ruth leaps from her hiding place and attacks Clodagh, who falls over the side clinging with one hand to the bell rope. Desperate not to fall to her death, Clodagh claws her way back onto the ledge, unintentionally knocking Ruth off balance and over the side.

The last scene has the sisters packed up and leaving the palace on donkeys. Clodagh says goodbye to Dean, for whom she has developed a grudging respect. She has failed in her mission and most likely won’t get another chance to lead, but she’s fine with it. As the sisters leave, the first rain of the monsoon season begins to fall. Dean’s prediction has been borne out.

NOTES:

Kanchi considers a decorated screen at the Palace of Mopu.

The film was shot entirely on soundstages in England, and the incredible scenery of the cliffs and the palace were actually paintings created for the film. The shots of the palace, with its high-ceilinged rooms, Moghul woodworking and archways, winding stairways and terraces are breath-taking. The scale of many of the shots, which makes the locations look gargantuan and the people look small, only heightens the feeling of isolation and helplessness in the face of overwhelming forces. There's also a scene during one of Clodagh’s flashbacks, when she is in hip boots, fly fishing in Ireland with her red hair flying around her. The water is photographed with the light glistening from the surface like jewels. It's lovely. The cinematography captures the billowing, virginal white habits of the nuns flitting through the stone hallways, great rooms, and terraces, looking like so many fluttering doves in the predawn light.

I gained new respect for the acting skills of Deborah Kerr in this flick. I’ve seen quite a few of her films (The Sundowners, Separate Tables, An Affair To Remember, From Here To Eternity, Heaven Knows Mr. Allison, Tea And Sympathy, The King And I, Quo Vadis, Bonjour Tristesse) and she’s a bit stiff most of the time. In Black Narcissus, pared down to just the planes of her face due to the nun’s costume, she is extremely effective at wordlessly communicating her every emotion from pride to disgust to fear to longing.

As noted, three major Indian characters are played by white actors. In a switch, the character of a young local boy named Joseph, who serves as the nuns’ interpreter, is played by a child who is clearly mixed-race. He turns out to be Eddie Whaley Jr., son of Eddie Whaley, who was part of England’s first black on-screen vaudeville team, Scott & Whaley.

Black Narcissus is a spellbinding film. It will make you think about what the repression of desire can do. Culturally, this is a typical English picture about yet another effort by the Europeans -- and European religion -- to colonize and control the “heathens.” What I love about it is that they are confounded in their efforts – the mystery, majesty, and tradition of the Roof Of The World is too strong for these missionaries and they are beaten back. In the process, the proud and controlling Sister Clodagh must bend and soften a bit. She fails, but she learns a thing or two -- including Christian humility. She also gains much-needed respect for the Indian way of life in the process.

"Think Like A Man Too" (2014)

Directed by Tim Story
Gabrielle Union, Regina Hall, Taraji P. Henson, Meagan Good, Kevin Hart, Michael Ealy,
Romany Malco, Jerry Ferrara, Terrance J, Gary Owen, Lala

There's a cottage industry in populist African American films these days, and I am happy to see it. Still, too many of the current spate are lightweight entertainments, some with the thinnest of plots or the most old-fashioned of sermons as themes. As showcases for African American talent, they can be heart-warming, affirming, side-splitting affairs. The current trend is to display a glossy world of middle- and upper-class mobility where most of the characters are employed, educated, well groomed and culturally aware. Gone are the once-stock black characters of gangsters, maids, victims and ho's, now replaced by morally conflicted players, workaholic entrepreneurs, newly minted minor celebrities, class clowns and insecure home wreckers. They need love and/or redemption -- as we all do.

In the case of this toothless second installment in the franchise -- born of a popular book by Steve Harvey -- the thin plot, the familiar characters, and the high gloss are all firmly in place. But I love seeing my girls Taraji P. Henson and Gabrielle Union do their thing, plus a chance to feast my eyes on Romany Malco (doesn't that sound like a Harry Potter villain?) and Michael Ealy is always welcome.

While 2012's original Think Like A Man focused on the use of a popular advice book to complicate the lives of four couples on their path to love, Think Like A Man Too has far less to say on how to scale hurdles once inside love's gates. We get tepid lessons on compromise, overcoming the past, and standing up to one's meddling in-laws. But most of the flick is focused on a bachelor/bachelorette party competition weekend in Vegas, with the wedding tacked on as an afterthought. Any discussion of what it actually means to be married is not explored. Viewers won't notice because of the bells and whistles of this fast-cut exercise; Think ... Too is a sparkly catalog of all that modern-day Las Vegas has to offer. What else are we to make of a film where supposedly strong, self-actualized women sing along to the ultimate '90s misogyny anthem "Poison" with hop-headed gusto? It's all good clean, dirty fun.

Beyond that, the flick is a singular vehicle for the hyperkinetic motor-mouthed antics of Kevin Hart. For most viewers, that is just fine. People love this pint-sized dynamo. No doubt: Hart is a funny, funny man. A lot of his comedy is built on being the loudest, most persistently clueless guy in the room. He carries Think ... Too on his back the way Atlas is shouldering the world in the realm of myth right now. His portrayal of best man Cedric had me laughing out loud. Yet, there were also points where I was compelled to shut my eyes just to grab a time-out from his double-barreled sensory assault. Not only does Hart talk fast, he moves so rapidly that at times he seems a blur on the screen.

I know many will disagree with me, but Kevin Hart -- who also narrates -- is Just Too Much here. Only the charismatic Malco (and occasionally salt-of-the-earth Regina Hall) has enough presence to bear up against Hart's cinematic onslaught. Everyone else in the cast is wiped off the screen. Ealy, perhaps still stinging from Hart's outperforming him in the recent About Last Night, seems positively comatose by comparison, and the cheery Mama's Boy Terrance J. doesn't fare much better. Gabrielle has a few silly moments with Jerry Ferrara, and the divine Jenifer Lewis gets in a few slow-burn zingers until her character is gentled down by the basso smoove-ness of Dennis Haysbert.

But the rest of the cast is just there to pick up a quick paycheck on a fun shoot in Sin City. And since they let all of us viewers in on the good times, who's complaining? Not me.

"Maleficent" (2014)

Angelina Jolie, Sharlto Copley, Elle Fanning, Sam Riley

I'm not sure when I first saw Disney's animated Sleeping Beauty, which was produced in 1959. It may well have been on television. By then, the exacting animation style of Bambi had given way to broader artistic strokes and goofier caricatures. This wasn't one of my favorite Disney animated outings, but I loved the goofiness of the three good fairies who were charged with caring for Aurora, even as I questioned whether this princess was indeed all that beautiful. Like Cinderella and Snow White, this was one of those fairy tales that cemented the anti-feminist myth that if you are beautiful by conventional standards, then One Day Your Prince Will Come and sweep you off your feet, magically transforming your life -- but I digress.

The nastiest shock of the entire picture is the evil witch Maleficent, who casts a vengeful spell on the princess to guarantee her death at 16. That was one scary-looking heffa (though the evil queen in Snow White is a close second).

And now comes the live-action picture Maleficent, starring Angelina Jolie. I finally saw it this weekend, and it was better than I thought it would be -- since my expectations for it were not particularly high, especially after Snow White & the Huntsman, which was a showcase for Charlize Theron, but an overall mess otherwise. This picture takes the original story of Sleeping Beauty and twists it so that the motivations and psychology of the witch -- now a fairy gone rogue -- are laid bare (much as the revisionist tale Wicked explained the Wicked Witch of the West's reasons for her actions). In fact, the film struck a chord with me on a personal level. I'll explain shortly.

The picture begins with the titular anti-heroine's origin story, and that's where I have my first quibble. Too many things are left unexplained. For instance. we first see Maleficent as a girl, but she doesn't seem to have parents. She is described as a fairy, but she's a pretty gnarly looking one, because although she's got a pretty face she's got horns like a ram twirling out of her head and giant clawed wings as well. There don't seem to be any other fairies that look like her living in these Moors. She is regarded as the queen extant of this realm, but how did she get into that position?

And while she is initially depicted as a benevolent and good spirit, her very name suggests otherwise. Just as magnificent at its root means "characterized by largeness and grandeur," and beneficent means "doing or producing good," Maleficent means "doing or producing bad." It would have made more sense to me, if sense can be made out of these massive fictions, if the character was born with another name and became known as "Maleficent" later. Any good fiction writer (or maker of myth) knows how important the names of characters can be (J.K. Rowling was a wiz with bestowing appropriate names on her Harry Potter characters that encapsulated who they are) so this was a bit of a misstep.

This Maleficent is a story of redemption through love -- but not the love we've been taught to expect. It's about a woman deeply betrayed, a woman with a good heart whose chance at love and fulfillment was violently stolen from her by someone she trusted. After years of living in bitterness with elaborate plans of revenge, she is transformed through the love of a child. That it is a child she could never have had on her own is of no consequence. Love -- and family -- is what we make of it. Maleficent is ultimately restored to herself and who she was meant to be when she chooses good over evil and literally takes a human girl under her wing.

This story struck a chord with me. People who don't know me assume that being childless is a conscious choice or the consequence of letting my biological clock run out. Not so. In some ways I felt betrayed by my own body, and by the men in my life who didn't -- or wouldn't -- commit to co-parenting through assisted or adoptive means. Maleficent's story was one I related to on an organic level; her wailing upon discovering that she had been stripped of a precious part of her anatomy brought a rush of tears to my eyes, as it immediately reminded me of my own anguish when told that my only option to deliver me from pain was a hysterectomy. (Jolie herself underwent a double mastectomy to forestall breast cancer last year.)

Angelina Jolie is fantastic and entirely dominant as Maleficent. Her body swathed in voluminous black robes and her hair covered, with prosthetic cheekbones, black horns and elf ears, she does a lot with very little, letting her eyes communicate the entire spectrum from warmth to dismay, pity to thoughtfulness, wrath to resolve. The picture falters when she is not on screen.

As Princess Aurora, Elle Fanning -- not yet as riveting an actress as her big sister Dakota --is a cipher, forced by the script and the director to play the Sleeping Beauty role as Little Susie Sunshine -- often to the point of idiocy (in one scene, Maleficent uses magic to knock the Pollyanna princess into floating unconsciousness in the middle of a chirping sentence just to shut her up). We only care for Aurora vis a vis her relationship to Maleficent. And unlike in the original fairy tale, in which Sleeping Beauty slumbers for hundreds of years before being awakened, this little gal gets what appears to be a day's worth of shuteye before she is restored to wakefulness.

Another quibble: the three good fairies are once again played for laughs. But while their animated doppelgangers were good-natured but absent-minded aunties, this trio of winged "saviors" (played by Imelda Staunton, Leslie Manville, and Juno Temple) are just carping idiots. With a major part of the setting established with a war between humans and the non-human inhabitants of the Moors, it doesn't make sense that King Stefan would have allowed these three anywhere near his castle or his child.

The unusual creatures and landscapes created by CGI effects recall alternately the Tim Burton Alice In Wonderland reboot, OZ The Great And Powerful, Avatar, and the Ents of The Lord of the Rings (no wonder, the flick is directed by Robert Stromberg, the production designer on the first three films).

Overall, it's a dark movie and some may find the scene of Maleficent's betrayal extremely disturbing. The brightest single moment has to be when a very young Aurora heedlessly toddles over to the bad fairy and engulfs her in an unwanted hug. The sunny smile of Vivienne Jolie-Pitt, the last of Brad 'n' Angie's brood, is enough to melt the hardest heart at a thousand paces, and Jolie's maternal regard for her own makes the humanization of Maleficent very easy to believe.

Have You Seen These Black & White Films?

Not too many commercially released films are photographed in black and white anymore. Once color was introduced to filmmaking in the 1930s, the film stock fell out of favor. Directors still use b&w as an artistic statement, to evoke mood or era, or to focus viewers on characterizations and subtext. Generally, though, audiences have come to expect the exuberant, hyperreal colorized palette when it comes to the big screen. Too bad, because the gradations of gray can indeed intensify the plotline and draw our attention to texture and other small details by not overwhelming the senses with color. The canon of great films includes several black & white favorites, from Casablanca to All About Eve, to more contemporary choices like Manhattan and Raging Bull. Here's a couple more you may not know.

1. No Way Out (1950)

No, not the 1980s thriller with Sean Young and Kevin Costner -- which is a great flick about the continuation of espionage for a Cold War that was supposedly over.

No -- This "No Way Out" is a landmark 1950 Sidney Poiter melodrama that also features the luscious Ruby Dee as his wife and stately Ossie Davis as his brother. The theme is racism, and for the times, this film was groundbreaking in its portrayal of how hate affects both the hated and the hater. The villain is Richard Widmark, at his most vile as a rabidly racist thug, and Linda Darnell as the girl struggling with allegiances but who ultimately does the right thing.

Sidney is Dr. Luther Brooks, a standup medical professional who has earned the respect of his colleagues at the prison's medical ward. He is called in to treat the wounds of the Biddles, two white punks injured while nabbed for robbing a gas station. When one of the punks dies due to his already advanced brain tumor, his racist brother, Ray, swears vengeance and tries to pin a murder rap on the doctor. Widmark -- who in real life was friendly with Poitier -- is absolutely repugnant as Ray. The bigoted things he says to Brooks -- multiple uses of the n-word not to mention "Sambo" -- are so full of vitriol, it is often hard to watch. Brooks -- played by young Poitier at his most noble -- retains his composure.

As fate would have it, Ray escapes the police and with another brother, who is a deaf/mute, crashes uninvited with their dead brother's estranged wife (Darnell), who wants nothing to do with them. In the process of trying to discredit and harm the doc, Ray enflames the sensibilities of a group of like-minded whites and plans an ambush of the black neighborhood, but Darnell warns the good doctor and the whole thing turns into a race riot. The scene is fantastically filmed, with the African Americans shooting flares into the sky before pouncing from the rooftops to attack their would-be white attackers at the city junkyard. A full-fledged brawl ensues and it is gritty. Injured in the melee, Ray Biddle follows Darnell to the doctor's house with a gun. But he can barely stand, he's bleeding and weak. Though he'd rather die than be attended to by a black doctor, he's too weak to protest. Brooks treats him and saves his life; in these final scenes we see that Biddle is crazed with hatred due to his own insecurities and hardscrabble life. In the meantime, Darnell is able to run out to get the police, thus ending the standoff.

This is an edge-of-your-seat drama that doesn't turn all the whites into villains nor all the blacks into saints. The film is a snapshot of the glacial pace of integration in post WWII America. And sad to say, in many places in the country, race relations haven't advanced much further than this.

2. Lost Boundaries (1949)

This is not exactly a great example of gorgeous black and white cinematography, nor a flick featuring towering feats of great acting. But it is notable as an early attempt by Hollywood to portray the country's growing "Negro problem": the legacy of bigotry kept alive thanks to the "one drop rule" and the attendant issue of "passing." Introduced as a "Drama of Real Life from the pages of Reader's Digest," the title says it all -- implying that we should all stay on our own side of the line or there will be hell to pay. But the tone and point of view is mostly sympathetic to the main characters.

The story starts with a snooze-inducing voiceover about the "secrets" and "legends" of Keenham, New Hampshire. Milquetoast (and milk-white) thespian Mel Ferrer plays fair-skinned African American doctor Scott Carter, who graduates from an integrated Northern medical school and marries another fair-skinned African American woman -- at the campus Kappa Alpha Psi house, no less. Dr. Scott knows he is black and has no issues with living in a black world. But his skintone offers him unique challenges. After rushing to Georgia to intern at a Southern black hospital, he finds himself rejected by the hospital's black chief because his skin color would cause too much of a row.

Dr. Carter moves north but finds he cannot gain a position as a black doctor and his wife is now pregnant. The family moves to New England to be closer to his wife's relatives, who are already passing, and against his better judgment, Dr. Carter takes a position at a local hospital without divulging his race. He is assumed to be white, and no one is the wiser. He is a success at the hospital and well-regarded in the New Hampshire town, and he and his wife raise a son and daughter. It's hard to believe that the Carters wouldn't at least let their children in on the news, but they keep them in the dark for 20 years. (The daughter even has some racist epithets for her brother's black friend.) Shock of shocks, when Scott Jr. decides to become a Navy officer, a background investigation (his father's military records) reveals the truth. You too are a "Negro," kid.

Junior does not handle the news well. Not only is his career as a Navy commissioned officer scuttled, his entire future as he envisioned it is out the window, including the loss of the lily white girlfriend he planned to marry. And where does someone in the Northeast go when they have just discovered they are black? Stereotypically, right to Harlem. As if there will be any answers or a grand homecoming awaiting him there. Let the jazz saxophones wail and the temptation to crime, drugs, and alcohol do their worst -- because to Hollywood that's what being black is, isn't it? (As in Showboat and Imitation of Life, the tragic mulattos run to the bad side of town and take up drinking -- Hollywood standing firm in its view of African Americans as lowlifes.) Junior wallows in the streets, lost and confused, until he is picked up by the police and returned to the bosom of his family.

As the news spreads in their community, the neighbors attempt to close ranks against them, until their local preacher reminds them that we are all children of God and there is a "Kumbaya" moment.

3. La Belle et La Bete (1946)



OK, OK -- I know it's in French and it's all artsy fartsy. And possibly you are so cool that you're already hip to this. So many people fall into the "God, I hate reading subtitles" camp, or the "this is ancient foolishness" camp. Either way, put aside your preconceived notions and spend some time with this masterpiece of filmmaking, directed by French artist and poet Jean Cocteau. Because the film is 1. breathtakingly beautiful, 2. startlingly innovative, and 3. the original "beauty is only skindeep" parable for loving past surface appearance.

"La Belle et la Bete" is the basis for Disney's hella popular "Beauty & the Beast" franchise, which includes the animated film and stage musical (the concept has also inspired at least three live-action TV versions). Disney "borrowed" much of what Cocteau brilliantly presents in terms of characterizations, costuming, and special effects, but the animated version is nowhere as original, haunting, ironic, fantastic, and profound as this black and white masterpiece. Many of Cocteau's shots are copied exactly to the Disney work, but because the original is live action, Cocteau's special effects (fades and wipes for disappearing or morphing characters, flying, "living" statuary, smoke effects, other inanimate objects that move and "speak" by themselves) are astounding. This is especially so because it was filmed decades before there were the standard Hollywood crutches like computerized special effects, sophisticated makeup, camera dollies, and the like.

The basic story is the same: In 17th Century France, a beautiful peasant girl's family must sell everything for money. She spurns a marriage proposal from the local brawn-for-brains, Avenant, who is having money problems of his own, and endures the taunts of her awful sisters, who treat her like Cinderella. On the way back from a bad-news business trip, Belle's father stumbles onto the grounds of a mysterious castle. Amazingly, he finds his every need magically met. On the way out, he sees a rose and picks it for Belle. He is confronted by a well-dressed but hideous Beast (who is truly frightening looking -- like a Hellcat Creature from the Black Lagoon who stuck his finger in an electric socket for good measure), who tells him that the price of stealing his roses is death, but if he sends one of his daughters back to him in three days, he will spare his life. Frightened out of his mind, the father gallops home on the Beast's enchanted horse. Only Belle is brave enough to return to the castle on the horse.

And what a return! When not at the Beast's castle, the film is fairly conventional; inside, the fantasy elements run rampant and the eyes can scarcely register so much wonder. Belle runs in slow motion, cloak billowing, through an entryway lined with sconces made of human arms -- an image from a fever dream. She floats up a stone staircase and plunges down another hallway, her feet not touching the ground in an early (and far superior) version of the trolley shot much used, and reviled, in numerous Spike Lee flicks. Belle drifts past a series of open windows fluttering long white curtains -- another effect that has been copied in countless films because of its ethereal beauty. She pauses before a door, and as the arm-sconces lean in, a voice whispers "je suis le porte du votre chambre" (I am the door to your room). The door opens to reveal a fantastic bedroom, filled with plants, flowers, drapery and statuary. A full-sized nymph on a fountain turns and nods, the faces carved into the mantelpiece blink, even the mirror speaks to Belle. When the covers slide off the bed by themselves, Belle returns to the stable to flee. The Beast appears. "Where are you going?" he demands. The sight of him sends her into a faint. The Beast carries her back to the beautiful bedroom and when he lays her on the bed, her clothing magically changes to the elaborate gown and headdress of a princess.

We all know the rest. The Beast -- under a spell from a malevolent fairy -- asks her nightly to be his wife, and every night she refuses. Belle doesn't flinch from the Beast, but tells it like she sees it. Through their talks she becomes fond of him, and earns his trust. Embedded in this tale on one end of the spectrum are the countless "opposites attract" romances, and on the far end, the fascination with human/vampire love stories. Belle comes to understand that this Beast needs to kill and eat animals to survive. After he has killed, the Beast's body is literally smoking and his bloodlust is a danger to her as well. French actor Jean Marais (who also plays Avenant) is marvelous -- his physicality tells us how miserable and tortured it is to live under this spell, and how much Belle's presence means to him. When Belle begins to address him as "Ma Bete," or "My Beast," there is so much love in those words. In this film -- far more than in the Disney reboot -- we can see the soul of this beast, who is always courteous and considerate of Belle (apart from the fact that he is holding her hostage).

To experience this film is to be caught up in its fantastic details. The cinematography is very soft-focus, as if sketched in smudged charcoals, making the scenes in the castle particularly intimate in feel. Yes, it is a fairy tale. But it will weave its magic around you and remind you of the purity of promises, and that true love is not dependent on beauty or riches.

4. Ascenseur pour l'échafaud (1957)

"Je t'aime. Je t'aime," coos a woman passionately from a phone booth on the street (remember those?).
"Je t'aime," affirms the man from a phone in his Paris office, moments before he dons a pair of gloves, grabs a rope, and slips out of the office window onto the ledge.
Thus, with murderous lovers swearing their allegiance, the plot of this stylish noir thriller glides into motion.

Yes, another French flick! Get over it. This early Louis Malle film is better known for its brilliant use of jazz giant Miles Davis' taut score. But it stands on its own as a tense depiction of the "perfect" crime gone horribly, horribly wrong.

Jeanne Moreau as Florence: "Where oh where is that murdering, two-timing sweetheart of mine?"

Elevator to the Gallows (sometimes "Elevator to the Scaffold") concerns Florence and Julien, who plot to kill Florence's husband, a wealthy industrialist, who is also Julien's boss. Julien enters the boss' office unseen, shoots him dead, arranges it to look like suicide, and escapes over the balcony. (Director Malle neatly shows us a black cat crouching on the railing outside to signal impending doom.) But as Julien is about to drive away, he realizes he left the rope dangling outside the window. Leaving his car running, he goes back to retrieve the rope and becomes trapped in the elevator as the building shuts down for the weekend, leaving Florence to agonize about what has gone wrong. Meanwhile, a young punk and his girl -- Louis and Veronique -- see the convertible coupe idling and steal it for a fun weekend in the country. Impersonating the car's owner and his wife, the pair commit a few ugly crimes of their own. The two couples' fates become entangled as they race to stay ahead of the police and each other. The cinematography captures the kinetic thought processes of two sets of loose cannons, and the busy trumpet solos by Miles underscore their desperation as well. The film also showcases a great performance by French acting treasure Jeanne Moreau, whose surface composure as the murdered businessman's wife slowly unravels. This was Malle's first directorial effort; he went on to direct Pretty Baby, Atlantic City, Damage, and My Dinner With Andre.

5. A Hatful of Rain (1957)

One of my favorite black and white films from this era is actually the well-known drama The Sweet Smell of Success, which in addition to the best Tony Curtis performance of his career, boasts a lot of night shots of midtown New York during the 1950s: the legendary luncheonettes and nightclubs (21, Birdland, Sardi's, Schrafft's, Nedick's) of the era. That story concerns the backbiting and underhanded wheeling and dealing of the well-heeled Broadway types, with a Clifford Odets script that snaps.

Meanwhile, down on the Lower East Side, is this other little story from the same year. The crisp black and white photography shows us what it's like to live in one of New York's housing projects, and gives a few angles on the Brooklyn Bridge and lower Broadway. While the story isn't quite as smart or witty as Sweet Smell, it boasts plenty of grit and a great cast.

Don Murray (the lunky cowboy who wins Marilyn Monroe in Bus Stop) plays Johnny Pope, a soldier who returns to New York after being injured serving in Korea and released from a military hospital. He reunites with his wife Celia (Eva Marie Saint), and his brother Polo (Tony Franciosa), who all live in a housing project apartment at the foot of the Brooklyn Bridge. Celia begins to despair as Johnny stays out to all hours of the night; she's pregnant and wonders what their future together will hold if he is having an affair. (The one hole in the plot: How did she become pregnant if her husband was gone?) To complicate matters, Johnny and Polo's dad (played by veteran Lloyd Nolan) has come to town for a visit expecting an all-American family scene, while Polo confesses to his sister-in-law that he's in love with her.

What Johnny is keeping from his family is a serious heroin addiction, developed when he was given morphine for pain in the hospital. Now he owes a goodly sum to the drug-dealing gangsters -- led by "Mother" (Howard da Silva, whose film resume includes playing Asians, Indians, Native Americans, and Italians) -- and they're not waiting any longer for their money.

This was an early portrayal of how soldiers were affected by drug addiction in trying to reacclimate themselves to civilian life.

"I'm gonna quit, I swear!" "That's what you said the other 15 times."