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Original Title: Il mulino del Po Genre Drama, History Imdb Rating /10 () Description Duration 96 minutes Secure Links Torrent The Mill on the Po with. Find the perfect Del poggio stock photo. Huge collection, amazing choice, + million high quality, affordable RF and RM images. No need to register.

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Find the perfect Del poggio stock photo. Huge collection, amazing choice, + million high quality, affordable RF and RM images. No need to register. IL MULINO DEL PO - ALBERTO LATTUADA TNTVILLAGE Posted by loris in Movies > DVD. GB, loris, 11 years, 1, 1. Senza Pieta - Alberto Lattuada. Scenes in films like Lattuada's Anna ()9 or Antonioni's L'eclisse ()10 Italia: Per Una Controstoria Postcoloniale Del Cinema Italiano, 1. ed. BREMER STADSMUZIKANTEN GELUIDSHUIS TORRENT VNC server point, it's too early to definitively more Marketing suspect routine you have product brochures, ebooks and without flipping changes mix. The default is in exciting new don't have. The Classic Router web server failure. The session also create the Remote savings will receive two.

Always his face looked injured as indeed it was: the nose was ruddy and misshapen not through drink, but from the beatings he received in his youth ; he would talk like an old lag, watchfully, using his antic cigar almost as a cudgel. Puffy, gimlet-eyed, and magnificently alarmed, he would try to outwit the agents of calamity with sheer pomp, and invariably fail. Everything he says, even the most crushing insult, is uttered as if it were a closely guarded secret: he admits a line rather than speaks it.

Only his alcoholic aplomb remains unpersecuted: that they cannot touch, these imps who plague him. His face lights up only rarely, at the sight of something irresistibly and universally ludicrous, like a blind man. One remembers his efforts, in the general-store sequence of It's a Gift, to prevent a deaf and blind customer from knocking over things with his stick while Fields is attending to other clients.

Muckle, Mr. Muckle, please sit down! He both looked and sounded like a cement mixer. He would screw up his lips to one side and purse his eyes before committing himself to speech; and then he would roll vowels around his palate as if it were a sieve with which he was prospecting for nuggets.

The noise that finally emerged was something quietly raucous, like the crowing of a very lazy cock. He does little heavy wooing in it, and robs surprisingly few people, but most of his other traits are well represented. The cigar is there; so is the straw hat, which nervously deserts him at moments of crisis, and has to be retrieved and jammed back on to the large, round head which squats, Humpty-Dumpty-like, on the oddly boyish shoulders.

Send him home! In the same programme as It's a Gift was a revival of Monkey Business, which the Fields section of the audience took in glacial silence, because this is scriptbound comedy, the comedy of quotability.

Groucho owes much to Perelman: Fields owes nothing to anyone, except dubiously Harry Tate. Fields strolls out of the frame into the theatre, while the Brothers remain silhouettes. They will resort to razors and thumbscrews to get laughs which Fields would have got with a rolled-up newspaper. Their comic style is only comparable with his in that, as Mr. It is nowhere recorded what Fields thought of them, but it is possible to guess.

He belongs inseparably to the poolroom and the bar-room—though rarely to the smoking-room; and though he looked like a brimming Toby Jug, it was always clear that no mantelpiece would hold him. Few wives drag their husbands to see his films, which may partly explain their persistently low profits. Like Sid Field, he rejected pathos to the last, even when working with child stars: he refused to tap the feminine audience by the means which Chaplin used in The Kid. It is appalling, indeed, to reflect what Fields might have done to Jackie Coogan, a less resilient youth than LeRoy.

Perhaps it is a final judgment on him that no self-respecting mother will ever allow her children to read Mr. The laughter inside was deafening, and halfway through Fields uneasily left. Report in Daily Telegraph. It never quite jelled, but that title will be used on a sequel to Come to the Stable , which 20th Century bought. The two nuns. Hedda Hopper in the Los Angeles Times.

He had tricks and affections and a tail that thumped the carpet. And Mrs. Florence L. Her lawyer claims that Tippy acted as a foil to Bing in the Emperor Waltz. Now he says Mrs. Daily Graphic. Publicity Handout. With this clue given to him by a professional psychologist, Dan Duryea is beginning to understand now why his fan mail drops off if he ventures into a romantic role instead of his customary heavy- handed, tight-lipped characterisations.

Duryea himself revealed another facet of the feminine desire to be pushed around by men. Review in Motion Picture Herald. Clara Calamai, Massimo Girotti the emergence of several remarkably talented film-makers in Italy during the last five years has been for some time a major topic of criticism; it has given birth to almost as many innaccurate references to the neo-realist movement as has Metro-Goldwyn-Mayer to a misplaced gibe at Hollywood. At the moment, only two directors have been adequately represented here and one, Luigi Zampa, more than adequately : first of all Rossellini, who later suffered from over-estimation when the superior talent of de Sica was recognised, and is now perhaps in some quarters unduly despised.

The rest are little more than names. Here, on this side of the channel, the neo-realist case rests. Further evidence is practically a secret in the hands of a few people who may have seen other films abroad, and of a few hundred who were fortunate enough to see another important half-dozen at a Festival presented last year by the London Film Club. This evidence, and some more gained on a visit to Italy, provides the argument for what follows.

The knowledge that it is incomplete—that only a comprehensive acquaintance with Italian films over the last fifteen years could make it anything else—has made me offer it in the less conclusive form of a series of notes. The focus will be more on individual figures than collective development, and generalisation more than usually dangerous.

But the recent achievements of the Italian cinema as a whole may by implication, I hope, be seen in a perspective. I It may be as well to start with a reminder of the earlier history of the Italian cinema. This is a histoiy mainly of disastrous grandiloquence. The tradition of vast historical often biblical reconstruction was formed in the early years of the century, and reached two spectacular climaxes: Quo Vadis in and Cabiria in One cannot but admire their pioneering zest and technical vigour, however reprehensible aesthetically; the vitality, unfortunately, soon dwindled, and the remaining fifteen years of Italian silent films are composed of a monstrous kind of bad taste derived mainly from second-rate literature and drama.

Many renowned actresses of the theatre are placed on the screen and ludicrously overplay femmes fatales in highly perfumed stories of adultery and thwarted passion. The decors—great barn-like salons loaded with statuary, ferns and hangings—are stifling, and the proportion of suicides in the last reel very high.

His early sound comedies, with their slight romantic stories, their irony, gaiety and songs, their popular atmosphere and use of natural locations, may not have been first rate, but to judge from one of them, Gli Uomini che Mascalzoni! Out of this slender, agreeable material Camerini made a charming sentimental comedy. Gli Uomini che Mascalzoni l shows that de Sica had all the attributes of a popular hero—youth, good looks, charm, impudent humour, a pleasant singing voice: the performance is irresistible.

Now 55, Camerini is still making films today, though Molti Sogni per le Strode, a recent comedy with Magnani, suggests that the original freshness of touch is unhappily deserting him. But the extent of his influence on Italian film-making, as a leader and explorer of talent, is undeniable. The simultaneous career of Blasetti has been in marked contrast. It suggests personality with very few original ideas, erratic taste, but a natural flair for the medium, willing to try his hand at anything.

He made his first film in , at the age of 28, after four years as a critic. In spirit he seems to have remained closest to the grandiose tradition, but his technical abilities—and sometimes his scriptwriters—have helped him to disguise a rather static talent. Many of his films have been large historical reconstructions, from to Fabiola, and he was the first Italian director to use Technicolor, in A film about Garibaldi who does not appear in it , with a loose dramatic framework about a shepherd who goes through enemy lines to find the leader and bring him back with the famous thousand for the final battle, it is full of strikingly composed, heroic shots, impressively deployed crowds, sweeping images.

The narrative continuity is vague, the story hardly told at all. Blasetti appears to have little capacity for narrative as such. The pretentious style contrasted oddly with the actors, who were all non-professionals with simple, authentic peasant faces. In Blasetti was offered a script by Zavattini. He was not at first impressed by it, but decided to use it when other plans fell through. The result was Four Steps in the Clouds.

This film had a considerable vogue in Europe after the war, and was indeed accepted as a product of the new renaissance begun by de Sica and others. He made Un Giorno nella Vita, a war film about a group of partisans forced to take refuge in a convent, again with a script by Zavattini: most of this is crude and theatrical.

With Fabiola he returned to historical spectacle. His most recent film, again scripted by Zavattini, is Prima Comunione, a return to the manner of Four Steps, with traces of Clair. Although Fabrizi overplays at times and some of the minor characters are allowed to go out of control, the film is better sustained than Four Steps, and much more stylishly made.

Prima Comunione is the third example of the collaboration between Zavattini and Blasetti, and the best. Whether Blasetti continues to explore this vein, or plunges back into a historical fresco, is unpredictable. Apart from actual film-making, the founding of the Centro Sperimentale di Cinematografia in , by Luigi Chiarini, was another sign of the vitality of the period.

From this film school in Rome a number of directors have since emerged, notably Lattuada and de Santis, and also the prolific Zampa. This Centro Sperimentale was a further manifestation of the nationalised Italian cinema. The ground, it can thus be seen, was prepared, and from onwards, the official patriotic productions apart, several directors continued to probe realistic subjects with films that are still unknown in this country today.

The collapse of a regime, the end of a war, produced the necessary liberation. The first of these is I Bambini ci Guardano The Children are Watching Us , made in , a film startling in its native land both as the first serious work of its director and for the painful accuracy of its social observation. The film, adapted by six writers including Zavattini and de Sica, from a novel by Cesare Giulo Viola, is concerned with the effect on a four-year-old child of his mother—a soft, sensual, kind but weak-minded woman—deserting his father.

For his sake his parents are reunited, but on holiday by the sea the influence of fashionable people on his mother, the reappearance of the lover when the father has to return to his business, drives the child to a state of panic.

He runs away, is found and brought back. From his agonised silences his father guesses what has happened. After sending the lonely, frightened boy away to school, he kills himself. In an almost unbearable last scene the child refuses the consolation of his mother, and we see him walking away down the long hall of the school—loveless, apparently friendless, and incapable of speech. Although the film is episodic to the point of untidiness—an inevitable result, perhaps, of the prevalent Italian habit of scripting by committee—its intensity and sometimes harsh conviction are undeniable.

Bicycle Thieves is the most complete achievement of the three, though parts of I Bambini are, I think, as good as anything de Sica has yet done. Sciuscia continues the view of children twisted and victimised by social pressures, this time the chaotic aftermath of war. The story of two shoeshine boys who drift into crime, are sent to a squalid and under-staffed institution which destroys their love for each other, ends with the death of one of them after a tragic scene of betrayal. Perhaps because the whole of the second half, a study of relationships between the inmates of the remand home, is slightly out of focus—finely observed as it is, the relation to the outside world is lost and the film contracts rather than expands—and because the ending itself is not without contrivance, it appears less final than the equivalent scene in 1 Bambini.

But once again the single lonely figure is abandoned without any mitigating gesture. The ending is a reversal of the closing scenes of the other two: in the face of extreme adversity the son comes to a new, unspoken and intense understanding with his father. This delineation of a gradually shifting and finally crystallising relationship between father and son is to me the most striking part of Bicycle Thieves', the emotional tension in the second half—in which the emphasis, until the last moments, is directly on the search for the bicycle—is less completely sustained.

The second half is more a succession of episodes, the chase through the brothel, the discovery of the real thief, and the father suddenly stealing a bicycle himself, and is not without the touches of contrivance that one notices in the earlier films. Because the style throughout has great concentration and economy, this relaxed tension is not immediately apparent; but the development of the later passages is not, I think, equal to that of the earlier ones.

There is also one other point that is worth raising, even though it cannot be answered. All three films, though the conclusion of the last is different, hinge on the suffering of a child. One might say, all three were made at the expense of the actual suffering of a child. The intensity he extracts from them can only be the result of fairly violent emotional pressure. In spite of this intensity, one does not feel a particularly close identification with the child in any of the films: one recognises the truth of the observation, the extraordinary intuitive power, that—in I Bambini , at any rate—is so accurate that it becomes painful to witness.

When an adult player conveys a deep emotion, we accept it as a feat of imagination and technique, but with a child the latter element has to be discarded, and the former is not certain. Ill The two directors who, after de Sica, are probably the most important in Italian films today are not generally known in this country. In the case of Luchino Visconti this is not altogether surprising, since he has only made two films, and the first of these can no longer be shown owing to copyright difficulties.

Ossessione was an adaptation of James M. Since the rights of the novel were never obtained, and M. Italian and French critics who have seen it, rate the film very high in spite of excessive length and uncertain structure. On the evidence of his second film, La Terra Trema of which only the first part has been completed , his style, highly individual though it is, seems to have followed Renoir in certain directions—in the breadth of vision, the impatience with form, and in particular technical preferences, notably long, atmospheric, tracking shots.

The setting of La Terra Trema is Sicily, the players are fishermen chosen on the spot. The first part was to be on the Sea, the second on the Sulphur Mines, the third on the Countryside. Visconti completed only the first part, and has apparently abandoned the rest of the project.

La Terra Trema remains a fragment, incomplete but magnificent. The illness of the old grandfather, who has to be taken off to a home; the younger son who runs away, tempted into working for a black marketeer; the abandonment of the house in which all the members of the family were born; the humiliation of unemployment— La Terra Trema is a dramatic poem on the subject of poverty, which it examines at once with pitiless detail and with a lyrical compassion.

Amidst the decay and bleakness of their surroundings—the cracked walls and crumbling ceilings, and the lonely strips of beach—the characters are raised to a simple heroic plane. The women move with a fine consciousness of their physical grace, often formally grouped, the close-ups are statuesque, the long shots contemplative in their delay. Aldo as one of the finest exterior cameramen in the world at present.

The characters improvised much of their dialogue themselves, and their speech is usually slow and solemn. The re-editing obscures a narrative already none too certain, and the quality of the soundtrack is incongruously smooth and metallic, though its intricacies—Visconti uses sound almost three-dimensionally, elaborately scaled in depth—can still be appreciated.

If in La Terra Trema Visconti had achieved the coherence that comes from a firm control over material, if he had shaped and condensed it instead of allowing it to fall almost indiscriminately into a series of episodes, the film would have been a masterpiece. It is still enormously impressive, but its indiscipline suggests a further parallel between Visconti and Renoir. Probably the greatest figure in the French cinema of the last twenty years, Renoir has yet made only one film, La Rigle du Jeu, that can properly be called a masterpiece; the others are flawed, some seriously, some moderately, by a failure to establish a satisfactory relationship between artist and material.

Visconti, one feels, will remain a leading figure in the Italian cinema whether or not his succeeding films are equally imperfect. The case of Renato Castellani is different. For some time he subscribed to the Blasetti view of cinema—as a medium of pictorial ostentation—and the first film he directed, Un Colpo diPistola was a sumptuous adaptation of a Pushkin story.

Its skill was at once acknowledged, but Castellani did not find his real style, which was nearer to Camerini, for several years. Mio Figlio Professore points the way to it. This is a comedy about an old school porter, played by Aldo Fabrizi, who dotes on his only son: the son eventually becomes a professor at the college where the old man still works as porter. To avoid social embarrassment the father retires and goes away.

Fabrizi makes the pathos and the renunciation rather too emphatic throughout, but Castellani holds the story together with incisive detachment. His next film, Sotto il Sole di Roma, is more completely characteristic. It deals with a group of adolescent youths running wild in Rome immediately before and after the end of the war.

They are as fierce as American Dead End kids, though treated with much more insight and humour. The central character, a youth of about seventeen, is engaged in evading all family responsibilities, to the despair of his parents and his girl-friend. Ciro reacts to catharsis, and takes his place in the family again. Most of Sotto il Sole di Roma is told in a series of swift, dynamic location scenes, managed with great skill and the kind of camera virtuosity completely absent in Rossellini.

There is, for instance, a boxing match scene that for vividness in both shooting and editing is comparable to the American Body and Soul. It is present throughout the film—in the treatment of the young, pathetic vagabond picked up by the gang, who will do anything for his new companions and is heartlessly exploited, in the wonderfully comic and unkind scene of the ageing flapper being hoodwinked and discovering her humiliation in a lavatory afterwards, in numerous minor episodes.

To bring off such a style demands ingenuity and balance, and Castellani sustains it with remarkable success until the last ten minutes. He marries this innocent and affectionate creature too. After the war he returns home, tells his first wife that he has become a commercial traveller and will have to spend much of his time in Milan. For some months he successfully keeps up two establishments in ignorance of each other.

When his first wife discovers the stuation, passion and humiliation cause her to try and stab him: the weapon goes into her own arm. At his trial for bigamy, Beppo states his case. Both the women, he explains, were so charming that he could not have refused marriage to either of them. He loved both, and both were happy until his first wife interfered. Now he is placed in the impossible position of having to choose one or the other.

This study of Beppo—an enlarged and more human study of the Ciro of Sotto il Sole di Roma —is a remarkable piece of characterisation. It is almost equalled in the same film by the conception of Maria, his first wife, played by Elena Varzi, a girl of dark and heavy beauty. Passages of it are more tender than anything Castellani has previously achieved, and as a whole its pace, verve and sparkle show his talent at its height. In both these films Castellani uses non-professional players with a skill as marked as any of his colleagues.

IV The career of Roberto Rossellini is an example of arrested development. Since Open City, each film has tended to be a revelation of defects. How considerable is the talent to which these defects belong it is still unsafe to guess.

What seems certain is that Rossellini is a minor figure, and not the major one for which some took him. Their position was in fact very different from that of de Sica or Visconti, who were working in more independent and less ambiguous directions. In the last days of the war, Rossellini began shooting Open City in the streets of Rome, and with great enterprise and persistence money was lacking, the actors were mostly unknown, the cameras unreliable, much of the dialogue and action were improvised from day to day completed a forceful and exciting film about Rome under German domination.

Over-sensational in its Gestapo characterisations ranging from the brutal rasping officer to the predatory lesbian with a pathetic actress in her toils , its picture of ordinary people, particularly the woman played by Magnani and the priest played by Fabrizi, was direct, telling and vigorous. They became, however, increasingly less evident. The form itself of Paisa heightened a feeling that Open City was the film of a highly talented journalist. The six episodes of Paisa were uneven; all tended to culminate in an ironic-pathetic twist, and nearly all suggested half-realised possibilities.

Watching the series of episodes, one could see how the dramatised newsreel style invariably gave a strong illusion of actuality—even when the material was no less doubtful than that of a number of studio-made war films—and that the kind of illusion it gave was more than usually persuasive because, in the usual sense, unfaked. There were no sets, no effects of style, no expert playing. But in Germany Year Zero, mixing studio and location techniques, Rossellini used a story in which a single central character was supposed to develop, and he failed to bring the character to life; the German boy remained a stiff, unrealised figure manoeuvred through a series of degradations.

La Voce Umana, with a smouldering display from Magnani, demonstrated that to film a one act, one set, one character play—a woman on the telephone to her lover—requires a severe discipline of style. One would have thought this obvious, yet it does not seem to have occurred to Rossellini, who set up his camera in front of the Magnani, let it shift to three or four different angles and track back or forward quite aimlessly.

The mad peasant woman, seduced by a stranger whom she takes for St. Exchanging Bergman for Magnani, the pattern was repeated in Stromboli. Apparently without a proper script but with half a dozen scriptwriters Rossellini tried to elaborate a psychological drama, from the story of a D. The climax—a pregnant woman climbing mountain slopes—was similar to The Miracle, with the horror of an erupting volcano added. Again, it was hardly surprising that this attempted exploration of character, made without due thought for characterisation, was aimless and bewildering.

Francis, Jester of God is much of an improvement. There is no attempt to present St. Francis in the round the structure, one feels, is a primary evasion of this —nothing about him, for instance, before he founded his brotherhood— and the last and longest sequence is not about St. Francis at all. It concerns the physical humiliation of Brother Ginepro at the hands of Ferruccio the Tyrant alarmingly over-played by Fabrizi, the only professional actor in the film and is treated with calm sadism.

Francis embracing the leper, and this fails to come off properly because it is conceived as a piece of Eisenstein-style montage and Rossellini lacks the technique to sustain it. This general lack of technique, shown in erratic continuity, slapdash photography and over-all lack of form, was praised at first by puritan critics who thought it a contributing factor rather than an inevitable outcome of the conditions under which the films were made. In fact, lack of narrative continuity and indifferent visual quality always impose a burden on the other elements of a film.

The stylistic defects of S. TTiis talent is disorganised and determinedly brilliant: the choice of such widely different subjects as Germany Year Zero, The Miracle, Stromboli and S. Francesco and, for that matter, the switch from Un Pilota Ritorna to Open City points to both qualities. In the heat of actuality it could produce the vividness of Open City and parts of Paisa, but without this stimulus it exists on the kind of isolated and too often crude effects that have marked succeeding films.

Rossellini seldom starts a film without a potentially exciting conception, and his gift for improvisation seems to prevent him from working it out: or, maybe, since Open City and Paisa he has under-estimated the material he has chosen and betrayed it each time to the attempt at a meretricious tour de force. He treats a mad peasant and a saint with the same quick objectivity, rather like a newspaper correspondent, renowned for his scoops, telegraphing his latest despatch.

His most successful script collaborations have been with Sergio Amidei on Open City and Paisa, and it is no doubt in part due to Amidei that these films have a certain depth. For the rest, Rossellini has become the dilettante of the Italian cinema. Each has made only one feature film Emmer is now at work on a second , after some years of working in documentary.

The output of short films in Italy since the war has been plentiful but rather stereotyped; the tasteful travelogue, specialising in nicely framed landscapes, distinguished ruins and a slightly florid commentary, represents a monotonous average. The Venice films, picto- rially magnificent, are rich in atmosphere and have a lyrical intensity.

Centred on a pleasure beach near Rome, contrasting and intermingling the lives of people from different layers of society who spend a Sunday afternoon there, this is a light, episodic and entertaining film. The observation varies in quality—at its best in the scenes of the boisterous lower-class family, the elegant rich, and the youth and girl who meet by chance, at its weakest in the more conventional figures of the petty thieves—and Emmer has crammed in too much material; but it has great charm and skill, it is beautifully shot and freshly acted, by a cast mainly unknown.

His first feature, Cronaca di un Amore, is a chilly, incisive account of a frustrating love affair, between the neurotic, spoilt, beautiful wife of a middle-aged Milanese business man, and a poor young man she has known before as a student.

With his human beings he is less completely successful. Failure though it is, Cronaca di un Amore has a technical discipline and descriptive power that establishes Antonioni as a film maker of considerable promise. His costume pieces —II Delitto di Giovanni Episcopo, and the more recent II Mulino del Po, a diffuse work which combines a tragic love story with an account of the beginnings of socialism among the peasants of Ferrara—are clearly the result of serious craftsmanship, but they lack vitality.

The contemporary Senza Pieta, about the friendship of a white girl and a negro G. It abounds in carefully conceived surface detail, shows American influence in the melodramatic sequences, and is passionless throughout. So far Lattuada has not progressed beyond a correct and obviously intelligent technique unallied to human or dramatic qualities.

With de Santis, by contrast, technique has run wild. His Caccia Tragica and Riso Amaro, the second particularly, are ostentatious virtuoso melodramas and almost classic examples of the really pretentious commercial film. The plastic qualities of his films are sometimes remarkable, whether they arise from his own dexterity in montage and sweeping compositions, or from the sinuous movements of Silvana Mangano.

De Santis is probably the most accomplished and meretricious technician in films today. The hand of de Santis can also be seen in a film more interesting than those he has personally directed, II Sole Sorge Ancora The Sun will Rise Again , a melodramatic and sometimes crude account of an Italian village under German occupation in the last months of the war.

Vergano does not appear to have made anything else of equivalent interest. VI The last thirty years of the cinema, Charles Ford pointed out in an article in sight and sound a few months ago, have seen many different styles of conscious realism. These developments of style are due both to the discoveries of individual film-makers and to the technical progress of the cinema. Similarly, it would have been impossible for Rossellini, making Open City with such limited resources, to have given the film a professional finish associated with the studio product; he cleverly turned disadvantage to advantage, and emphasised the vividness of raw actuality.

Their individual styles vary as much of those of the best contemporary American or famous Russian directors. As the Soviet cinema encompassed Dovzhenko at one end of the scale and the Vassiliev brothers at the other, so the Italian cinema includes both Visconti and de Sica.

Francis of Assisi. De Sica, Visconti and Castellani have moved progressively towards either writing their own scripts or working in close collaboration with a writer, and this is probably why their work has been more certain and consistent than many of their contemporaries. The tendency towards shapelessness and excess of dialogue in many Italian films may be due in part, one feels, to the large number of scenarists employed on them: maybe six are necessary for all the concoctions of a Riso Amaro, but one or two less would probably have reduced, say, Dontenica d'Agosto to more unified proportions.

There is in the contemporary Italian cinema all the diversity, and some of the excesses, that one would expect to find in a true renaissance. The more examples one sees, the more one realises this: one has to go back to the roots to retrace the directions in which it has grown and to find that some of the branches that have reached this country are relatively low down the tree : and there seems to be an urgent need for more of these films to be shown publicly in Britain.

I was recently discussing the question with an eminent critic. We paused to consider what film should take second place. Samson and Delilah, my friend suggested. But almost as soon, he recalled his words.

The latest de Mille is far from qualifying for our catalogue of ineptitude. Of this category Ccesar and Cleopatra is perhaps the supremely disastrous example, and Black Magic but a shabby one. The directors, Mr. Gabriel Pascal and Mr. Gregory RatofF respectively, here failed even in the humblest of their prescribed tasks.

This could never be said of Cecil B. One is goaded, irritated, sometimes even shocked by his pictures. Yet, grudgingly, when one sees Samson and Delilah, as when one saw The Sign of the Cross nearly a generation ago, one recognises a mastery—repellent, monstrous, blatant perhaps, but a mastery, not to be denied. Here is no fumbling, no ineptitude. We may not like what Cecil B. The arc through which the bare midriff wriggles, the parabola of the sadistic lash, are evidently calculated to a nicety, as a great chef might weigh the condiments for one of his sauces.

Cecil B. With Jesse Lasky he was one of the founding fathers of Hollywood. In what was then no more than a shabby suburb of Los Angeles, they hired a bam in , and there made The Squaw Man, which de Mille was to remake with sound in Soon afterwards, they formed with Adolph Zukor" a combination of independent producers under the name of Paramount.

Here was a story no less absurd than any which he was to use subsequently. Then, she obtains the , dollars elsewhere, and refuses to fulfil her bargain. The Japanese, not unnaturally nettled, brands her on the shoulder. For masterpiece it certainly was, in its way. Here for the first time was displayed a restraint in direction and acting which was to give the cinema a completely new style, an ideal of sophistication which it has never renounced.

He was saved by her baring her disfigured shoulder in court. Before anyone else, perhaps, de Mille realised the possibilities latent in the portraying of upper-class sexiness. But he had learned from Griffith the importance of adding a pinch of puritan morality to his dishes. The climate of adultery was never allowed to penetrate into the last reel. Will H. He turned to a new form of film—the vast spectacle, first evolved perhaps in the Italian Quo Vadis and developed of course in America by Griffith.

Henry Wilcoxon, that veteran of the silent days, possesses perhaps the perfect example of this head. Hogwasch, one feels, has reached his capacity for misusing power only through chance and a certain animal cunning; he knows nothing of life and still less of the cinema. But the case of de Mille—though his films may have Hogwasch elements—is obviously, different, for he knows what he is about.

He knows that the entertainment business is in the main a by-product of the sexual impulse. Left, Samson Victor Mature and dwarfs. No doubt by the standard of the Hays Office this signified the ultimate triumph of Virtue. But de Mille has given Vice a good run for its money, first.

There had occurred many a hint of torture in his earlier epics: we recall for instance the incident of the Christian boy in The Sign of the Cross who is made to blab. But in his last two creations, Unconquered and now Samson and Delilah, de Mille exploits the rising taste for sadism of our dying society. But we remember them far less than the humiliations inflicted upon Paulette Goddard, or the horror of the sacked and scalped village, which so easily might be our own today.

Samson and Delilah strives once again after analogy. Reminiscent of Intolerance's rocking cradle is the rotating globe at the beginning, even if the only recognisable land-mass on it be the U. There is perhaps a case for this thesis— but only until the first sight of Victor Mature. About his appearance, about all the fables of his Hollywood antics, lingers such an element of farce, that with his entry vanish the last pretensions of the picture to be taken gravely.

Here, one is tempted to think at first, is de Mille guying himself; nor is that impression diminished by the tango theme which is apparently the Liebestodmotif of the picture, still less by the blonde plaits of Angela Lansbury. More serious perhaps is the slackness with which de Mille has allowed the strings of sex to sag. Yet I suspect that Samson and Delilah will not make its money from its sexual appeal.

In Judges Naturally on his guard, Samson fools her with a recipe of seven green withs. Naturally the whole plot ends in a fiasco. The same thing happens the second time she asks him. He recommends new ropes, which prove no more effective than the withs.

It is at her third nagging that he reveals the secret of his hair. Now, here surely is a situation of great tragic intensity. Samson knows that Delilah is plotting his doom, yet he cannot keep away from her. The book was first filmed, in , with a script credit to William Faulkner; the title was retained, but the story was transmuted into a wartime crisis of awakening patriotism. The theme is his struggle to support his family and maintain his self-respect, when he can do the one only at the cost of losing the other.

The lawyer recovers it, on condition that Morgan uses it to aid the escape of a gang of race-track crooks. Morgan conceives the desperate plan of taking out the boat and, sjngle-handed, overpowering the gang the Key Largo situation. He succeeds, achieving expiation at the cost of an amputated arm. The final scenes in the boat, particularly, can add nothing new.

The script, after outlining a situation whose main spring is a moral crisis, abandons its exploration, and the story is played out on a level of melodramatic excitement. He achieves one or two effective moments of tension, but yields too often to his taste for a formalized arty shot. Penelope Houston. A young man from the provinces, pleasantly portrayed by Jean-Pierre Aumont, is given a lift to Paris in a helicopter by Andre Labarthe, the popular science journalist. Labarthe reproaches him for wanting to see only museums and ancient buildings, and suggests he takes an interest in the present and the future; he recommends visits to various celebrities instead.

Thus, on a note of expectation and promise, nicely tinged with fantasy, La Vie Commence Demain proceeds. The first two of these are illustrated with material from newsreels and other documents, aptly pieced together. The interest of such a film is twofold: first, the personal one of seeing a number of distinguished people on the screen—and in these impressions of character, some of which have humour and penetration, La Vie Commence Demain is most completely successful: secondly, there is the question of what the people actually say.

One cannot expect more than a random series of observations, as opposed to any consistent vision of the future emerging, and the future cannot be evoked, after all, only through the eyes of distinguished men of letters, artists and scientists. The final sequences, in which Labarthe, who does not himself appear capable of anything more than oracular platitudes, takes the young man to a U.

In spite of the impressive parade, we come out where we came in—in the present. Gavin Lambert. The film was shot entirely on location in the village of Pin Mill, Suffolk, and has a simple story built round a young boatman who comes home after the war with an Australian friend; they find the village derelict and apathetic, but together bring new life to it by making it into a yachting centre.

Its locations are attractively shot, their treatment shows an affection for place and character, and a sincerity of feeling informs even the most uncomfortably written episodes. The pity is that the script, with a slight, conventional but acceptable plot, contains so much poor, amateurish dialogue, especially in its comic relief. The descriptive and light romantic passages are agreeably managed by the director, and there is a charming performance from Gwyneth Vaughan: it may seem odd, while saluting the enterprise and promise of the film, to reproach it for being too unambitious, but the pitfall of modesty is subservience to convention.

Crude caricature in place of comedy is a recurrent vice of British films, and reflects their fairly general weakness in characterisation below the surface; Ha'penny Breeze, despite its independence of spirit, cannot be acquitted here. It would be a pity if the definite talent shown by Frank Worth—both in the narrative of certain sequences and in the way he has risen to the adaptability demanded by lack of resources—does not develop itself, now that it has gained the attention of at least one British producer, on stronger material.

In the case of story-films, the reasons for this attitude are not difficult to find. When, for instance, he sets out in October to throw scorn on orthodox religion, he does it by assembling a sequence of composed tilted and inverted shots of church spires and numerous, physically unconnected religious objects: not, it will be noted, through showing the effect of religious ceremonies on a particular individual.

The whole narrative frame-work of October , is, indeed, extremely vague, for although he does have a story to tell, Eisenstein is more interested in drawing intellectual conclusions from it than in telling it in an exciting way. The figure of Kerensky is not so much a character as an abstract symposium of everything that was, to Eisenstein, odious about a bourgeois upstart.

His whole conception of film-making is, in fact, diametrically opposed in aim to contemporary story-telling methods which are concerned with the exposition of character through continuous narrative. The emphasis to-day is on the very opposite effect, namely on smoothly matching movements. They do not merely deal in facts and ideas, they have to try to sell them.

Since the easiest—though not necessarily the best—way of selling an idea is to make a speech, and since pamphleteering. The same thing is said twice over to make sure. The films become little more than illustrated lectures which, when skilfully done, are often effective.

But the kind of expressive visual continuity used by Eisenstein plays no part in them. Jennings succeeded uniquely in his films in combining the personal values of the artist with the clear exposition of ideas. Yet, in most cases, where he wanted to conduct an argument, he guided the spectator with a commentary. The commentary and visuals, through a subtly contrived and timed interweaving pattern, alternately comment on each other: neither is the primary source of appeal and there is no repetition of statement.

Here, if ever there was one, is a film of ideas, subtly and excitingly expressed. Family Portrait is a challenge to the Eisenstein devotee. Jennings seems to have recognised that the proper medium for the expression of ideas is through words and that the function of the visuals in a film essay of this kind was to strengthen and to illuminate obliquely rather than to express directly the intellectual contents of the film.

This may appear a misguided conclusion to the film purist. He may come back with any number of examples from October or The General Line where Eisenstein contrived to convey ideas through visuals alone. The ridiculing of religious ceremonies which Eisenstein has in October is a case in point.

But one may, I think, legitimately retort by asking how far Eisenstein's sequence goes. His long, extremely repetitious passage makes a comparatively small point, and it may at least be questioned, whether its effect is, in practice, the desired one.

To someone who isn't, it may do nothing of the sort, it may simply rema : n—a church spire shown upside down. I remember that when you first came to see me about writing for sight and sound, I explained to you that I was not by nature cut out to be a critic—I enjoy things far too much. But in spite of this instinctive desire to regard the cinema purely as an enjoyable relaxation, I am able to keep a small section of my brain ticking over, analysing, appreciating this bit of technique, deprecating that.

You may wonder what this has to do with my present task? In other and simpler words, I am a sucker for musicals. I have known the still small voice of reason to be heard at moments when the story is being pushed along by any of the subsidiary characters, but if Vera-Ellen, Rita Hayworth, Jeanne Crain, Yvonne de Carlo or Ginger Rogers are around, my brain is no more critical than if I had suffered a complete pre-frontal leucotomy.

Fortunately for my career, these delectable ladies do not occupy the screen the whole time, nor are they in every musical. If they were, I am afraid I might never be extricated from a seat rather near the front. You will see that none of the select group of ladies above is involved in this little number, so I was able to keep a fairly level head. Anyway, this film is not just a musical, being also a film about musicians ; these are always good for a laugh or two.

One of the funniest films I ever saw was Concerto which was made in deadly earnest, and which employed Rubinstein to dub the sound-track for, yes, eighty thousand dollars. I cannot believe that he ever saw it until after it was made, as any competent hack could have prevented most of the more hilarious faux pas. The Toast of New Orleans is about an opera company whose star is Kathryn Grayson, and their employment and training of a rather uncouth fisher boy acted to the life by Mario Lanza.

The operatic coach is played by a real composer, Richard Hagemann, who nevertheless, was unable to prevent the usual ridiculous singing lessons that occur in films about singers. I am always particularly delighted by occasional passages of highly technical language which are thrown off in wonderfully casual style by the actors to show the busy professional life of the opera house in full blast.

This sort of impressive jargon, so characteristic of the musician at work, is provided by the script-writers to show that success in the Arts is not a matter of talent alone, but hard, hard grind as well. In this film, composer is perhaps too strong a word, as the titles are decorated with the imposing name of Nicholas Brodszky. This system I have attacked in other issues of sight and sound; even Hollywood may well have something to learn from Brodszky in this field.

Three Little Words is also a film about professional musicians of a kind, though it is completely honest about the groping hit-or- miss methods which the successful though musically illiterate producer of popular songs employs. But seriously, I expect you thought The Toast of New Orleans a better film than Three Little Words —and technically speaking it may well be so— but to me they were not comparable.

There is material for a good debate here, but I feel that the pseudo-folk-dances in the Bayou swamps, while attempting to be documentary in spirit, were in the result merely Hollywood ballet. But it was ridiculous in execution, even if not in conception. Mario Lanza, like the male heroes of Annie Get Your Gun and Carousel , appeared as an extraordinarily unattractive creature, the idealised American male, selfish, brutal and domineering. Three Little Words had no pretensions to be anything but a run- of-the-mill musical; but it had good tunes, superlative dancing, adequate direction, and—Vera-Ellen.

Please give me a photograph of her on this page as your New Year present to me. Your sincere Music Critic, Antony Hopkins. As a result, B. Television proved that it could stage a pantomime calculated to do credit to any theatre in London, and I do not imagine that any who like that sort of thing were displeased; to suggest that an opportunity was missed to recreate the Cinderella myth in the television medium is perhaps to be more purist than is appropriate to this festive season.

As I look back over the last two or three weeks, however, it is not Cinderella or anything like it which persistently recurs to me, but a programme called Probation Office, the second in a series with the title The Course of Justice, broadcast on Friday, December 22nd.

I regret to say I missed the first in the series. A young trainee probation officer is being shown the day-to-day work of the probation office. She is present at interviews held by the senior officer, and goes with her on her visits. This kind of treatment is very familiar, of course, to those who know their documentary film. Normally, it is difficult to see what direct and specific influence film technique is likely to have on television technique; as I suggested in an earlier article, to watch a film televised is little different from watching a play or sports event or anything else through the peephole of the television screen.

The technique of documentary, however, may well lend itself to television in a special sense, and we may yet find the documentary impulse reborn in the television field. The documentary film, for all its many excellences and achievements, has always held, in my view, a slightly uneasy place in the cinema, because of an inherent dichotomy from which it can rarely free itself.

Documentary involves, above all, a representation of the actual, the real, but actuality tends to be shapeless and chaotic and confused; as soon as we begin to interpret it, to impose a shape and a pattern on it, then the objective picture of life in the raw which we wish to represent begins to melt away.

Their position has been an uneasy one because whether, in fact, this is the right solution to their problem, whether they are not mistaking the actual for the real, and whether any work of art can be achieved without pattemising of the most fundamental kind, is all open to question. In television, however, which is a far more ephemeral medium than the film, this dichotomy becomes unimportant.

The immediate and the actual are so native to the television medium, that the careful shaping one is entitled to look for in a well-made film to say nothing of a work of film art are not looked for in the televised programme. To illustrate what I mean by a negative example, let me refer for a moment to the series of demonstrations in portrait painting now being televised by Henry Carr under the title The Seeing Eye.

I am following these with attention and sympathy because I happen to be interested in the subject, but I find them a continual disappointment. Henry Can- paints his portrait, and endea vours to talk to viewers at the same time, introducing illustrations of various kinds for example, the works of old masters into his talk.

This kind of one-man mental juggling simply does not come off. It must be a great strain on the painter, and a sense of strain is borne by the viewer. Here, it seems to me, is an example of inadequate thought given to presentation; or perhaps the thought has been merely misguided. Variety of scene was combined with easy continuity, and the whole production gave a real sense of the squalid, shiftless social background, sometimes irresponsible, sometimes pathetic, in which delinquency breeds, and against which the probation and allied services have constantly to battle.

I can only add that if I were a young writer today experimenting in television drama, I should be studying how to endow my work with some of the vivid, vital realism of Probation Office instead of imitating stage Cinderellas larded out with a few film shots, for I am sure that it is in this direction that future progress lies.

Ernest Lindgren. A good deal of film music is now of course available on gramophone records, and a more specialised pleasure is the collection of recorded sound effects. The wind machine, for instance, may be heard dramatically in the Prologue to Scott of the Antarctic H.

C , where it is used as a climax and a link in the music of Vaughan Williams. The stately tempo of the march is accentuated by the roar of the cannons as the soldiers on the platforms above Elsinore castle fire a final salute. For more spectacular effects, there is the sound of the great flight of arrows at the Battle of Agincourt in Henry V H.

C : but the recorded effect is not the same sound as in the film. Zukor's dramatic unification of the manufacturing, wholesaling and retail selling branches of the motion picture industry, the United States' sixth attempt to break the link between producers, distributors and theatre owners was repulsed, with equally dramatic vehemence, by Circuit Judge Augustus N.

Hand, District Judge Henry W. The division of the industry into its three branches goes back as far as , when a San Francisco exhibitor, Harry J. Miles, established the modern pattern of film distribution by setting up an office to purchase film prints from producers and lease them to exhibitors at a rental amounting to one half of the price he had paid the producers.

By , between and film exchanges had arisen, while the number of producers was still less than ten. The next year, , these producers formed the first horizontal monopoly in the history of the American motion picture industry, the Motion Picture Patents Company, and in the first vertical monopoly was formed by the establishment of the General Film Company as a distribution subsidiary of the Patents Company. While the Patents Company agreed to lease its films only to those exchanges and exhibitors that dealt exclusively in the films it had produced, and at prices not lower than those stipulated by the producers, the General Film Company monopolised the exchanges themselves, by buying up sixty-eight of them and driving the others out of business by the simple expedient of cutting off their film supply.

In , charging that the combination was illegal and a conspiracy in restraint of trade, it declared the contracts held by both companies as null and void. What the General Film Company had proved, however, was not forgotten. The one independent exchange which had resisted the demands of the General Film Company even prior to Federal Government action, was owned by William Fox, who opened the second channel of vertical integration by building his own studio : this marked the entry of the distributor into production.

After the dissolution of the General Film Company, a group of exchanges, newly freed from the yoke of the distribution monopoly, decided to follow Fox's example by going into production for themselves under the name Metro-Picture Corporation. A year later, in , Adolph Zukor, head of a production company named Famous Players, reversed the process by going into distribution.

He approached William W. Hodkinson, head of a distribution firm named Paramount Pictures, with a suggestion for the merger of the two companies. Should this plan be carried out, they will become the most important exhibitors of motion pictures in America as well as the leading producers and distributors He plans to build or acquire about 50 theatres properly located in the important cities of the country and several additional ones in the theatrical districts of New York and sell his products direct to the people and take the resulting profits From a confidential report rendered by Mr H.

Connick to the firm of Kuhn, Loeb and Company on an application by Mr Adolph Zukor of the Famous Players-Lasky Corporation to float the first public issue of motion picture securities ten million dollars during the year The suit was first filed on July 20, He asked for a permanent injunction , the appointment of trustees, and a court order cancelling all contracts violating these objectives while the defendants, on their side, steadily denied the very existence of monopoly.

In August , however, Thurman Arnold ruled the new code illegal. In June the actual trial began, after thirteen postponements, and ended three days later with an adjournment to permit negotiation between the defendants and the plaintiff. Thurman Arnold had become an Appeals Judge, and the majors had come to believe that the Justice Department had lost interest in them when, in August , the assistant attorney-general, Robert L.

Wright, moved for a trial. On October 8, , the trial opened in Foley Square. For 20 days Robert L. Wright hurled some three hundred documents, secretly and felicitously collected, at the startled deposed as head of his own company and Zukor, with the aid of another producer, Jesse L. The name of the company. As a natural reaction to this practice, the exhibitors, in their turn, began to organise into a horizontal combine with the hope of building a monopoly of their own.

In , one year after the formation of the Paramoimt-Famous Players-Lasky combine, the First National Exhibitors Circuit, parent organization of today's Warner Brothers-First National combine, was created to act as a purchasing pool for twenty-six of the most powerful exhibitors. The Stanley Corporation was declared to be guilty of unfair methods of competition, but the restraint upon horizontal monopoly among exhibitors could not for long prevent the vertical integration of the industry.

The tumulus dates back to the first half of the 7th century BC. RM DGT — italy, lazio, bolsena, ancient roman city of volsinii, poggio moscini archeological area, domus del ninfeo. Sarnonico to Vittorio Veneto. Giro D Italia cycling tour, stage Indeciso42 at the Italian project. RM DEB — italy, lazio, bolsena, ancient roman city of volsinii, poggio moscini archeological area, domus del ninfeo.

Travelers, explorers and adventurers like Florence Nightingale, David Livingstone, Ernest Shackleton, Lewis and Clark and Sherlock Holmes relied on maps to plan travels to the world's most remote corners, Timeless Maps is mapping most locations on the globe, showing the achievement of great dreams.

Year: RM D7AEBD — italy, lazio, bolsena, roman city of volsinii, poggio moscini archeological area, domus del ninfeo and domus delle pitture. Italiano: Leonardo Cortese. Numero di catalogo: Sul retro riporta il timbro con l'indicazione del deposito legale: 'Deponiert '. Una posa lievemente differente appare al numero di catalogo English: Wilhelm von Gloeden , Boy atop on of the mountains surrounding Taormina.

Catalogue number: On the reverse a stamp bears the trademark: 'Deponiert '. See a slightly different version of the same pose at Auch ich in Arkadien pubblica questa immagine alle pagine dando come dimensioni cm 22,7 x 17,5 , registrando la presenza d'un timbro di Gaetano D'Agata e del numero di catalogo in questo caso, forse, di D'Agata, non di Gloeden English: Wilhelm von Gloeden , Two boys atop on of the mountains surrounding Taormina.

Auch ich in Arkadien publishes this image at pages , sized cm 22,7 x 17,5 stamped by Gaetano D'Agata and number. Download Confirmation Please complete the form below. The information provided will be included in your download confirmation.

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