They Might Be Giants (15.)
Directed by Anthony Harvey. 1971
Starring George C. Scott, Joanne Woodward, Jack Gilford, Rue McClanahan and Lester Rawlins. 82 mins.
Or, alternatively, they might not. This cult movie from the early seventies is about a rich man who is convinced he is Sherlock Holmes (Scott) slowly trying to persuade his Doctor Watson, Mildred (Woodward) the psychiatrist who is supposed to certify him and allow his unscrupulous brother (Rawlins) to get his hands on his money, to become part of his delusional battle with Moriarty. The film has a loyal following, and inspired the You're-Not-The-Boss-Of-Me band of the same name, but I found it almost unbearable. The title is from Don Quixote and it's another paean to the innocent wonders of insanity, casting a severe paranoiac as a noble pursuer of a higher truth. In that it concerns a deluded man inspiring others to join him in a lofty noble quest through the not so lofty and noble streets of New York (early 70s New York, looking incredibly rundown) it is surely an inspiration for the Fisher King.
It seems to me that Oscar are often not fully thought through: no consideration is given to the consequences of these prizes. So after a decade of thespian/ alt rock fumblings, it was inevitable that once Jared Leto got his award from wearing a dress in Dallas Buyers Club that we'd be saddled with him as the Joker, a Cesar Romero fronting Jane's Addiction. (Yes, it is too early to tell, but I strongly suspect that his Joker will be like a holiday trip that takes in Kathmandu, Ulan Bator and Pyongyang on its way to a two week stay in the Costa Brava: a flashily provocative build up to conventional entertainment.) They Might Be Giants is a typical Oscar earned indulgence. Scott had just won for Patton: Lust For Glory while Harvey and writer James Goldman had previously combined on The Lion In Winter. Between them they decided that they wanted to dig up a play Goldman had written a decade earlier, and had then put aside after a London production directed by Joan Littlewood, convinced that he hadn't managed to successfully crack the challenge.
There is a poignant idea at the heart of it. Scott is a brilliant legal mind who cracks under the strain of the random savagery of human nature and decides that all evil is the work of a single evil master mind, Moriarty and his sinister network. It is a conceit that addresses humanity's need for fictional narratives to give a of order to the chaos. The film's major problem is that despite the rundown New York locations the film can't escape its theatrical background. Of course, with his deerstalker and pipe Scott is supposed to be a theatrical anachronism in a very harsh reality; the problem is everybody else is too. It's all little bits of business and big speeches. All the performances seem so calculated, so worked out and it takes all the fun out of it. Ultimately the film is so confused and contrary even John Barry's score doesn't know what to do with it.
Directed by Anthony Harvey. 1971
Starring George C. Scott, Joanne Woodward, Jack Gilford, Rue McClanahan and Lester Rawlins. 82 mins.
Or, alternatively, they might not. This cult movie from the early seventies is about a rich man who is convinced he is Sherlock Holmes (Scott) slowly trying to persuade his Doctor Watson, Mildred (Woodward) the psychiatrist who is supposed to certify him and allow his unscrupulous brother (Rawlins) to get his hands on his money, to become part of his delusional battle with Moriarty. The film has a loyal following, and inspired the You're-Not-The-Boss-Of-Me band of the same name, but I found it almost unbearable. The title is from Don Quixote and it's another paean to the innocent wonders of insanity, casting a severe paranoiac as a noble pursuer of a higher truth. In that it concerns a deluded man inspiring others to join him in a lofty noble quest through the not so lofty and noble streets of New York (early 70s New York, looking incredibly rundown) it is surely an inspiration for the Fisher King.
It seems to me that Oscar are often not fully thought through: no consideration is given to the consequences of these prizes. So after a decade of thespian/ alt rock fumblings, it was inevitable that once Jared Leto got his award from wearing a dress in Dallas Buyers Club that we'd be saddled with him as the Joker, a Cesar Romero fronting Jane's Addiction. (Yes, it is too early to tell, but I strongly suspect that his Joker will be like a holiday trip that takes in Kathmandu, Ulan Bator and Pyongyang on its way to a two week stay in the Costa Brava: a flashily provocative build up to conventional entertainment.) They Might Be Giants is a typical Oscar earned indulgence. Scott had just won for Patton: Lust For Glory while Harvey and writer James Goldman had previously combined on The Lion In Winter. Between them they decided that they wanted to dig up a play Goldman had written a decade earlier, and had then put aside after a London production directed by Joan Littlewood, convinced that he hadn't managed to successfully crack the challenge.
There is a poignant idea at the heart of it. Scott is a brilliant legal mind who cracks under the strain of the random savagery of human nature and decides that all evil is the work of a single evil master mind, Moriarty and his sinister network. It is a conceit that addresses humanity's need for fictional narratives to give a of order to the chaos. The film's major problem is that despite the rundown New York locations the film can't escape its theatrical background. Of course, with his deerstalker and pipe Scott is supposed to be a theatrical anachronism in a very harsh reality; the problem is everybody else is too. It's all little bits of business and big speeches. All the performances seem so calculated, so worked out and it takes all the fun out of it. Ultimately the film is so confused and contrary even John Barry's score doesn't know what to do with it.
