The 100 Best Movies You've Never Seen (17 page)

A mother's love is a beautiful thing. Someone to love you unconditionally. Someone to tell your secrets to. Someone who'll make you tea and biscuits after a hard night of terrorizing London and extorting honest businessmen out of their hard-earned money.

Yes, a mother's love is a beautiful thing, especially if you are the Kray boys, identical twin brothers who ruled London's East End in the 1960s.
The Krays
, a film by Peter Medak, may be a one of a kind: the only Oedipal gangster movie ever made.

Based on the book
The Profession of Violence
by noted English criminologist John Pearson,
The Krays
tells the story of Ronald (Gary Kemp) and Reggie (Martin Kemp), twin brothers bonded by a fierce devotion to their mother Violet (Billie Whitelaw) and an even more ferocious predilection for violence and control.

In England's swinging '60s the siblings owned a number of nightclubs in London's East End. They were café society types, palling around with celebrities and posing for photographs with the elite. Several scenes of the 1963 British film
Sparrows Can't Sing
were shot at one of their clubs, and director Peter Medak, an assistant director on that film, remembers the immaculately dressed brothers hosting an elaborate wrap party for the cast and crew.

When not climbing the social ladder they were cutting a swath of a different sort through the streets of London. Using their favorite weapon, a sword, they maintained their underground empire with bloodletting and violence. To paraphrase Willie Nelson, the nightlife ain't no good life, but it was their life.

The contradiction of the Kray brothers lies in their lives after the nightclubs rang last call. The twins would return home to their modest, semi-detached East End home, hang up their Savile Row suits, and wish Violet, their Cockney mother, sweet dreams. This dichotomy lies at the heart of
The Krays
— the violent killers as mama's boys. Although the brothers had romantic interests — Ronnie with men, Reggie with women — their mother was their great love. Violet doted on her sons, making them afternoon tea while they plotted their reign of terror. As the maternal Kray she became something of a celebrity herself, enjoying royal treatment — born out of the fear of her sons — wherever she went.

While Violet enjoyed the spillover notoriety of her sons, not all the people in their lives were as lucky. Ronnie's life was filled with a string of good-looking but disposable young men. Reggie's love life had more devastating effects on the object of his affections. Following a long courtship, he married Frances Dawson, who cracked under the pressure of marriage to the viciously controlling gangster. Initially attracted to Reggie's power and glamour, she soon realized that she had given up her life. In despair, she attempted suicide before finally descending into madness.

The Krays
is propped up by several great performances. Billie Whitelaw shines as Violet Kray. Onscreen, she's a dynamo. As the mother who affectionately refers to her sons as her “little monsters,” Whitelaw builds a character of strength whose only weakness is the unconditional love of her sons. Tom Bell and Steven Berkoff are suitably venal as rival mobsters, while Kate Hardie lends Frances a heartfelt sensitivity that is particularly touching.

“I see things in your eyes,” Frances tells Reggie.

“What things?” he asks.

“Monsters,” she replies, with a mix of fear and wonder.

Gary and Martin Kemp, the leaders of the foppish Spandau Ballet pop group, are the movie's real revelation. They're not twins, but convincingly pass as mirror images with an almost psychic bond. What could have been stunt casting — hiring two pop star brothers who bear an uncanny resemblance to one another — pays off for director Medak. They embody the glamorous Krays, looking smart in their high-priced suits and spit-polished shoes, but the performance is more than window dressing. They convincingly portray an air of cold-blooded evil, especially apparent in the boxing scene where they beat one another senseless, snarling and grinning all the while. In another scene Ronnie, the more violent of the two, carves a smile in a rival's face. Gary Kemp is particularly effective as the psychopathic Ronnie, the instigator of the hard-core violence, although it is Martin who has gone on to huge success on the small screen in Britain, playing Steve Owen on
East Enders
.

The Krays
is sketchy at times, glossing over details of the twins' lives, but more than makes up for its plot deficiencies in atmosphere and style. It's the rare kind of gangster film that doesn't dwell on violence, instead choosing to examine the reasons behind the violence. Buoyed by good performances and the folkloric appeal of the real life Ronnie and Reggie,
The Krays
is one of the most original crime dramas in years.

Gumshoe Philip Marlowe, Raymond Chandler's most famous literary creation, has been played by a variety of hard-boiled actors. Dick Powell first introduced moviegoers to the character in 1944's
Murder, My Lovely
(a.k.a.
Farewell, My Lovely
, the book's title). The movie was a hit and led to a series of Marlowe films. Humphrey Bogart put his indelible stamp on the role in 1946's classic whodunnit
The Big Sleep
, but that didn't stop George Montgomery, James Garner, Elliot Gould, and Robert Mitchum from donning Marlowe's distinctive overcoat and busting heads on the mean streets of Chandler's Los Angeles.

Perhaps the most original take on the sleuth came in 1946 with actor/writer/director Robert Montgomery's
Lady in the Lake
. Based on a 1943 novel, the labyrinthine plot involves the disappearance of the wife of a magazine publisher (Leon Ames). It is assumed that she has run off to Mexico, and Marlowe is hired to track her down. Seems simple enough, but when bodies start piling up the plot thickens. The story is typical Chandler, populated with tough-talking dames, hard-edged police detectives, and Marlowe's unconventional methods.

What distinguishes
Lady in the Lake
from other Marlowe films is the use of the subjective camera. Director Montgomery (who also plays Marlowe) shot everything from the detective's point of view.
Everything.
The only time the viewer actually gets a glimpse of Marlowe is the odd time he passes by a mirror. This technique leads to some wildly inventive moments, such as the scene where a severely beaten Marlowe crawls from a phone booth. We see the world from his point of view, on his hands and knees. Other shots aren't as successful: each time Marlowe lights a cigarette smoke swirls around the camera lens, obscuring the image.

The rhythm of the film takes a few minutes to get used to because of the structure of the film. Scenes are played out in long, uninterrupted takes, with the characters directly addressing the camera. This method flies in the face of the conventional wisdom that calls for rapid editing in thrillers and gives the movie a wonky tempo, but as the scenes play out the unusual first-person pov technique becomes less noticeable and adds to the intrigue of the film. Strong dialogue (most likely cribbed directly from Chandler's book) propels the action, while a bizarre musical score adds to the experimental feel of the movie.

Chandler was not overly impressed with this film, and refused to have his name included in the credits. “Old stuff,” he said dismissively. “‘Let's make the camera a character'; it's been said at every lunch table in Hollywood at one time or another.” After the box office failure of
Lady in the Lake
Robert Montgomery never again directed for a major studio, although he went on to have a successful acting career and to direct a handful of films in the next dozen years.
Lady in the Lake
stalled in the theaters, but remains a brave attempt to redefine the film noir genre.

Despite his stature in the world of letters, less than half of Vladimir Nabokov's novels have been adapted for the screen. Only eight works have made their way to the movie house, although his most famous book, the controversial
Lolita
, has been filmed twice.
The Luzhin Defence
is based on
The Defence
, a novella literary critic Martin Amis called “the nearest thing to pure sensual pleasure that prose can offer.”

Set in 1929 the film tells the story of Alexander Luzhin (John Turturro), an awkward, introverted chess Grand Master who travels to a Northern Italian lakeside resort to participate in a world championship match. People from all over the world have congregated here, including the Russian debutante Natalia (Emily Watson) and her aristocratic mother Vera (Geraldine James). Vera has brought her daughter to the tournament to meet a suitable husband. She has her eye on the perfect candidate, Comte Jean de Stassard (Christopher Thompson), a gifted chess amateur.

Natalia is aware of her mother's motives, but isn't attracted to Stassard. Instead she falls for the unconventional genius of Luzhin and his erratic behavior. The feeling is mutual, and after only one meeting he proposes. “I want you to be my wife,” he says, “I implore you to agree.” Disobeying her mother she begins a whirlwind romance with the man she describes as the most “fascinating, enigmatic, and attractive man” she has ever met.

As Luzhin's world with Natalia is flourishing, another person arrives who will make any newfound happiness in his life shrivel. Valentinov (Stuart Wilson) is Luzhin's childhood schoolteacher, a corrupt and vicious man who exploited his student's talent while at the same time resenting his protégé's genius. He guided Luzhin's chess career for a decade until it seemed that he had lost his touch. Valentinov then abandoned his client in Budapest, taking on a fresher talent. Now that Luzhin has made it to the Grand Championship, Valentinov has resurfaced.

It seems that everyone save for Natalia is conspiring to keep Luzhin from finding happiness. The evil Valentinov turns up the pressure on Luzhin, hoping to shatter his delicate grasp on sanity, while Vera tries to undermine his new relationship. Even the film's setting, which was the site of one of his childhood matches, seems to stoke his internal trauma. His first true love, chess, the only thing he truly understands, now threatens to destroy him and his chance at happiness.

The Luzhin Defence
is a costume drama that uses chess as a metaphor. From a marketing point of view, this is a lethal combination that spelled certain box office death. While the film fared poorly financially, it is rich in artistic merit. Director Marleen Gorris (best known for directing the Academy Award-winning film
Antonia's Line
) skillfully mounts the story in two distinct pieces. We see Luzhin in the present and, through well-timed flashbacks, we also learn how the events of his life shaped him. These flashbacks provide crucial information. “Luzhin is a very hard character,” says Turturro, “although the flashbacks help to show from where he has developed. As a listless, apathetic boy he couldn't connect with his parents, but once he got his chess pieces it was love at first sight and he found a way out.”

The success of
The Luzhin Defence
depends on the believability of the characters, particularly Luzhin and the ability of the audience to get inside of the head of the troubled genius. Gorris and her cast sell the unusual premise and give the love story a ring of truth.

The film is driven by the performance of John Turturro. He portrays Luzhin as a child-like being, almost incapable of dealing with the world around him. Luzhin is tortured by past demons, but is not without humor. Turturro finds a balance between pathos and comedy and, in doing so, finds the humanity of his character. Like other angst-ridden-genius movies like
Shine
and
A Beautiful Mind
, the central character, fuel the film and, as they descend into their own personal hell, they must be compelling enough to take the viewer along for the ride. Turturro gives a powerhouse performance that is part Groucho Marx, part Bobby Fischer.

Turturro looked to the original source material to help him build his character. “The book is about the inside of his mind,” he said. “It's more of a chess game, less dramatic, but there were some useful ideas for me in there since it's a very well drawn character.” He also studied the game of chess. “I'm now at a beginner's stage and it's a great game, but so complex. I think the fact that I have had experiences other than acting has helped me. Certainly directing and editing a film ensures that you deal with a number of processes at the same time, putting all the pieces together to make this big breathing body. Chess Grand Masters know so many games and they can see so many moves ahead that when you play as a novice you realize how limited you are, unable to think in such a free, conceptual way.”

Emily Watson has the thankless job of playing against the showier Turturro role. She holds her own, giving an emotional depth to Natalia, a woman who is beguiled by Luzhin's manic lust for life. “It was a departure for me in that I'm the one watching somebody having a nervous breakdown,” says Watson. “It's a very sane, centered, amused, and healthy character, which is unusual for me to play.”

The Luzhin Defence
is a thoughtful, old-fashioned movie that relies on the emotional punch of the story to provide the fireworks.

This is a film of firsts. It was legendary German director Fritz Lang's first experiment with sound, Peter Lorre's debut as a lead actor, and is credited with being the original serial killer/police procedural committed to celluloid.

Set in 1931 Berlin, this melodrama chronicles a police department's efforts to capture a mysterious child murderer. Frustrated in their attempts, they begin to round up every criminal in town. “There are more cops on the streets than girls,” says one disgusted pimp. Tired of being rousted, Berlin's underworld characters decide to find the killer themselves. They succeed where the police have failed, rounding up the baby-faced killer Hans Beckert (Peter Lorre), putting him on trial for his life in their own kangaroo court. He breaks under the pressure, screaming that he is unable to manage his homicidal tendencies. “Ghosts pursue me — ghosts of mothers, ghosts of daughters . . . I can't help myself,” he cries in a dramatic speech. “I haven't any control over this evil thing that's inside me. The fire. The voices. The torment.” Before a verdict can be reached, the police raid the impromptu trial, rescuing Beckert from certain death, so he may seek justice under more “respectable” circumstances.

M
was originally titled
Murderer Among Us
, but was changed when members of the Nazi party objected, assuming it was a critique of their heavy-handed politics. At the center of the film is a career-making performance from Peter Lorre as the gnome-like killer who lures children with candy and companionship. He is invisible for most of the film, hidden in shadows, but when we do see him the effect is chilling. Often his ghostly presence is signaled by his eerie whistling of
Peer Gynt
(Lang did the whistle as Lorre never learned how), a tune that becomes a musical motif for the murders.

The role made him a star in Europe, paving the way to Hollywood, where he fled to avoid Germany's growing Nazi threat in the 1930s. An unauthorized picture of Lorre from the movie would later be co-opted by the Nazi's as an example of the “typical Jew” on the posters for their anti-Semitic propaganda film
The Eternal Jew
.

Lang (who would also leave Germany in 1934) uses creative cinema language to frame the murders. In the first 10 minutes of the film he sets up the horror of the situation without showing any violence, instead using clever editing and the implication of terror to build a feeling of dread. When Beckert abducts his first victim, we see a young girl named Elsie bouncing a ball against a kiosk with a “Wanted” poster plastered to its side. He approaches the girl, buying her a balloon. Lang cuts to her mother, sitting at a table set for two. As she calls out for her daughter to come inside she is greeted with silence. Cut to Elsie's ball on the sidewalk and the balloon trapped in some utility wires. The scene is spare — there's virtually no dialogue — but it packs an emotional hit. Elsie is gone without a trace, and Lang creates terror without resorting to graphic violence or bloodshed.

Lang has stated that
M
is his most fully realized film. In fact, when Lang plays himself in the 1963 Jean-Luc Goddard film
Contempt
, there is a scene where Brigitte Bardot's character Camille remarks that her favorite film of his was
Rancho Notorious
. “I prefer
M
,” he says. It's easy to see why; it is a commanding masterpiece of style and suspense.