Big Night Turns 20

Big Night (1996) is a fun and fabulous film for foodies. In fact, you’ll probably gain a pound or two just watching it. It’s all about a struggling Italian restaurant at the Jersey shore during the free-wheeling, optimistic days of the 1950s. At this humble trattoria, two immigrant brothers: Primo (Stanley Tucci) and Secondo (Tony Shalhoub), offer an array of exotic and authentic recipes from their native Italy. Actually, the fare is a little too authentic for this working class neighborhood, as the brothers find their customers would prefer familiar pizza and spaghetti. With their clientele staying away in droves, the brothers decide to risk it all by throwing a ruinously elaborate dinner party for bandleader Louis Prima, who is performing in the area. What transpires will be an unforgettable night with ancient scores settled, secret perfidies revealed, old romances rekindled and new loves blossoming, all while chowing down on an eye-popping, belt-busting bacchanal for the ages.

If Big Night doesn’t feel like the typical focus grouped, dramaturged to death Hollywood feature, that’s because it isn’t. Filmed on a low budget over 32 days, the movie was a labor of love; intended by writer and co-director Tucci as an homage to his childhood. Many of the dishes in the film were actually prepared by Tucci’s mother Joan, using old family recipes from Calabria. The film was also a boon to Tucci’s acting career. He had gotten pigeonholed as a cruel gangster drug dealer type, and Primo’s sincere, lovably neurotic character showed a new range in his persona. He and Shalhoub have an impressive comedic chemistry, born of years of experience. Shalhoub’s superb timing was hardly a surprise - he was a regular on the NBC sitcom Wings (1991-1997) - but here he proved himself capable of stepping out of the supporting actor shadows, and carrying a film on his back.

For all its astonishing culinary fireworks, Big Night is actually a film of small moments, played to perfection. The scene where the brothers discuss replacing the seafood risotto on their menu with a hot dog never fails to get a big laugh. Another memorable moment occurs when Shalhoub describes to his would-be girlfriend (Alison Janney) a lasagna so good he wanted to kill himself. Not only is the scene hilarious, it’s a classic example of the wide gulf between Latin and Anglo-Saxon temperaments. But it’s the film’s final three minutes that - like a slice of Secondo’s ultra rich timpano - will stay with you a long time. Filmed in one take, Tucci makes fried eggs for the exhausted, and mightily hung-over, restaurant staff. Though nary a word is spoken, we know that somehow, despite their depleted savings, despite their dwindling prospects, despite their family squabbles, the brothers will find a way to venture on; their bonds of love unbreakable.

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Big Night Turns 20

Big Night (1996) is a fun and fabulous film for foodies. In fact, you’ll probably gain a pound or two just watching it. It’s all about a struggling Italian restaurant at the Jersey shore during the free-wheeling, optimistic days of the 1950s. At this humble trattoria, two immigrant brothers: Primo (Stanley Tucci) and Secondo (Tony Shalhoub), offer an array of exotic and authentic recipes from their native Italy. Actually, the fare is a little too authentic for this working class neighborhood, as the brothers find their customers would prefer familiar pizza and spaghetti. With their clientele staying away in droves, the brothers decide to risk it all by throwing a ruinously elaborate dinner party for bandleader Louis Prima, who is performing in the area. What transpires will be an unforgettable night with ancient scores settled, secret perfidies revealed, old romances rekindled and new loves blossoming, all while chowing down on an eye-popping, belt-busting bacchanal for the ages.

If Big Night doesn’t feel like the typical focus grouped, dramaturged to death Hollywood feature, that’s because it isn’t. Filmed on a low budget over 32 days, the movie was a labor of love; intended by writer and co-director Tucci as an homage to his childhood. Many of the dishes in the film were actually prepared by Tucci’s mother Joan, using old family recipes from Calabria. The film was also a boon to Tucci’s acting career. He had gotten pigeonholed as a cruel gangster drug dealer type, and Primo’s sincere, lovably neurotic character showed a new range in his persona. He and Shalhoub have an impressive comedic chemistry, born of years of experience. Shalhoub’s superb timing was hardly a surprise - he was a regular on the NBC sitcom Wings (1991-1997) - but here he proved himself capable of stepping out of the supporting actor shadows, and carrying a film on his back.

For all its astonishing culinary fireworks, Big Night is actually a film of small moments, played to perfection. The scene where the brothers discuss replacing the seafood risotto on their menu with a hot dog never fails to get a big laugh. Another memorable moment occurs when Shalhoub describes to his would-be girlfriend (Alison Janney) a lasagna so good he wanted to kill himself. Not only is the scene hilarious, it’s a classic example of the wide gulf between Latin and Anglo-Saxon temperaments. But it’s the film’s final three minutes that - like a slice of Secondo’s ultra rich timpano - will stay with you a long time. Filmed in one take, Tucci makes fried eggs for the exhausted, and mightily hung-over, restaurant staff. Though nary a word is spoken, we know that somehow, despite their depleted savings, despite their dwindling prospects, despite their family squabbles, the brothers will find a way to venture on; their bonds of love unbreakable.

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The Battle of Algiers Turns 50

Gillo Pontecorvo’s The Battle of Algiers (1966) has the look and feel of a distant time and place, yet it depicts harrowing events that could have been torn from today’s headlines. It’s the story of the early days of Algeria’s struggle for independence from France, and the deep seated anger and resentment that simmered within the city’s muslim population against their French occupiers. When a group of disaffected young men led by Ali (Brahim Hadjadj) begin a series of random shootings of police officers, their campaign of terror rapidly escalates to well-planned bombings of crowded cafes and government offices. Eventually, a highly decorated French colonel with a reputation for ruthlessness (Jean Martin) is brought in the quell the violence, and all hell breaks loose.

Filmed in stark tones of black and white, The Battle of Algiers offers the viewer a stunning, immersive experience. In the sequence that ends act two, the terrorists decide to execute a ghoulish series of simultaneous bombings. As we see their meticulous planning and perfidy, nail biting tension builds to nearly unbearable levels. But Pontecorvo is careful to be even-handed in his presentation, and we see that both the police and the rebels are capable of despicable acts leading to the slaughter of innocents. The film was screened at the Pentagon by the Iraq War braintrust in 2003 as an illustration of how to put down a civilian rebellion. Its lessons may have been learned too well, as the film’s graphic depiction of torture techniques - including waterboarding - soon became standard practice for the American occupation. The other side may have been inspired by the film as well, as the recent truck bombing in Nice looks a lot like an attack in the film’s closing minutes.

In an interview in Rolling Stone in 1975, Marlon Brando described Gillo Pontecorvo as “the best director I ever worked with,” (the pair had teamed on “Burn!” in 1969) placing the filmmaker in heady company. The Battle of Algiers is rife with beautifully constructed sequences that rank with the very best thrillers, stirring deep wells of suspense and dread within the viewer. It is a film that will leave you emotionally exhausted, not only from the violent struggle on screen, but from the realization that the conflict between Islam and Christendom has made so little progress over the last 50 years. In fact, it’s only gotten worse.

The Battle of Algiers Turns 50

Gillo Pontecorvo’s The Battle of Algiers (1966) has the look and feel of a distant time and place, yet it depicts harrowing events that could have been torn from today’s headlines. It’s the story of the early days of Algeria’s struggle for independence from France, and the deep seated anger and resentment that simmered within the city’s muslim population against their French occupiers. When a group of disaffected young men led by Ali (Brahim Hadjadj) begin a series of random shootings of police officers, their campaign of terror rapidly escalates to well-planned bombings of crowded cafes and government offices. Eventually, a highly decorated French colonel with a reputation for ruthlessness (Jean Martin) is brought in the quell the violence, and all hell breaks loose.

Filmed in stark tones of black and white, The Battle of Algiers offers the viewer a stunning, immersive experience. In the sequence that ends act two, the terrorists decide to execute a ghoulish series of simultaneous bombings. As we see their meticulous planning and perfidy, nail biting tension builds to nearly unbearable levels. But Pontecorvo is careful to be even-handed in his presentation, and we see that both the police and the rebels are capable of despicable acts leading to the slaughter of innocents. The film was screened at the Pentagon by the Iraq War braintrust in 2003 as an illustration of how to put down a civilian rebellion. Its lessons may have been learned too well, as the film’s graphic depiction of torture techniques - including waterboarding - soon became standard practice for the American occupation. The other side may have been inspired by the film as well, as the recent truck bombing in Nice looks a lot like an attack in the film’s closing minutes.

In an interview in Rolling Stone in 1975, Marlon Brando described Gillo Pontecorvo as “the best director I ever worked with,” (the pair had teamed on “Burn!” in 1969) placing the filmmaker in heady company. The Battle of Algiers is rife with beautifully constructed sequences that rank with the very best thrillers, stirring deep wells of suspense and dread within the viewer. It is a film that will leave you emotionally exhausted, not only from the violent struggle on screen, but from the realization that the conflict between Islam and Christendom has made so little progress over the last 50 years. In fact, it’s only gotten worse.

Jean de Florette Turns 30

Claude Berri’s Jean de Florette is part one of a sprawling Shakespearean-style tragedy; a multi-generational tale of parched, flinty soils and equally barren human souls. Set in the blinding sunlight of Provence circa 1920, it’s the story of the last surviving members of the Sobeyran family (Yves Montand, Daniel Auteuil), a once flourishing clan laid low by decades of petty squabbles and shady dealings. To rescue the Soybeyran name from its death rattles, Montand and Auteuil devise a scheme to virtually steal a neighboring farm rumored to have a hidden spring, thus providing an endless supply of water for their lucrative cut flower enterprise.

A wrench is thrown in their plan when the land is inherited by a hunchbacked Parisian accountant (Gerard Depardieu) with designs on building a life there with his family. Their foul machinations threatened, Montand and Auteuil resort to vandalism and sabotage to ensure the naive Depardieu’s failure. But in pursuing their cruel strategy, the smirking Soybeyrans unwittingly seal their own disastrous fate, opening a Pandora’s Box that will eventually unleash upon them a ruthless justice of recrimination, regret and abject misery.

The film works both as an engrossing rural melodrama, and as a tactile evocation of time and place. Cameraman Bruno Nuytten’s glowing frames are filled with the rocky cliffs, dusty trails and azure skies of the Vaucluse district. It’s a landscape as beautiful as it is unforgiving, and those who attempt to scratch out a living from its hardscrabble wastes must fight and conquer the hostilities of nature. But equally harsh is the bedrock of arrogance and narcissism that lies just below the surface of the Soybeyrans. Berri cleverly makes the family’s odious history visually manifest in Auteuil’s gap-toothed, squinty-eyed portrayal of the appropriately named Ugolin. Looking like a French peasant version of Alfred E. Newman, this role made Auteuil an international star; his embodiment so convincing audiences were shocked to later learn that off screen he was actually a handsome fellow.

But this is truly Gerard Depardieu’s movie. His energetic capture of the urban innocent with dreams of a simple life in the country still rings true today. His attempt to learn farming from musty textbooks is a classic miscalculation that initially amuses, then turns dangerous and deadly as his fruitless toil damages his body and psyche. Depardieu dominates his scenes, emitting a foolhardy passion that seems to jump from the screen. And as we will learn in the sequel Manon of the Spring (1986), underneath Depardieu’s infantile enthusiasm lies an arrogant streak of his own, and he comes by it honestly.

Jean de Florette Turns 30

Claude Berri’s Jean de Florette is part one of a sprawling Shakespearean-style tragedy; a multi-generational tale of parched, flinty soils and equally barren human souls. Set in the blinding sunlight of Provence circa 1920, it’s the story of the last surviving members of the Sobeyran family (Yves Montand, Daniel Auteuil), a once flourishing clan laid low by decades of petty squabbles and shady dealings. To rescue the Soybeyran name from its death rattles, Montand and Auteuil devise a scheme to virtually steal a neighboring farm rumored to have a hidden spring, thus providing an endless supply of water for their lucrative cut flower enterprise.

A wrench is thrown in their plan when the land is inherited by a hunchbacked Parisian accountant (Gerard Depardieu) with designs on building a life there with his family. Their foul machinations threatened, Montand and Auteuil resort to vandalism and sabotage to ensure the naive Depardieu’s failure. But in pursuing their cruel strategy, the smirking Soybeyrans unwittingly seal their own disastrous fate, opening a Pandora’s Box that will eventually unleash upon them a ruthless justice of recrimination, regret and abject misery.

The film works both as an engrossing rural melodrama, and as a tactile evocation of time and place. Cameraman Bruno Nuytten’s glowing frames are filled with the rocky cliffs, dusty trails and azure skies of the Vaucluse district. It’s a landscape as beautiful as it is unforgiving, and those who attempt to scratch out a living from its hardscrabble wastes must fight and conquer the hostilities of nature. But equally harsh is the bedrock of arrogance and narcissism that lies just below the surface of the Soybeyrans. Berri cleverly makes the family’s odious history visually manifest in Auteuil’s gap-toothed, squinty-eyed portrayal of the appropriately named Ugolin. Looking like a French peasant version of Alfred E. Newman, this role made Auteuil an international star; his embodiment so convincing audiences were shocked to later learn that off screen he was actually a handsome fellow.

But this is truly Gerard Depardieu’s movie. His energetic capture of the urban innocent with dreams of a simple life in the country still rings true today. His attempt to learn farming from musty textbooks is a classic miscalculation that initially amuses, then turns dangerous and deadly as his fruitless toil damages his body and psyche. Depardieu dominates his scenes, emitting a foolhardy passion that seems to jump from the screen. And as we will learn in the sequel Manon of the Spring (1986), underneath Depardieu’s infantile enthusiasm lies an arrogant streak of his own, and he comes by it honestly.

Notorious Turns 70

Those looking to curl up with a sleek and stylish thriller could do a lot worse than Alfred Hitchcock’s Notorious from 1946. Now celebrating its 70th birthday, Notorious is an engrossing and - at 101 minutes - efficient piece of moviemaking that artfully avoids spelling out every iota of backstory; often substituting mood and nuance for conventional plotting. It’s a film that feels very modern, despite its shaggy vintage, and incorporates enough noir elements to remain true to its lineage, while charting a narrative course for the legions of spy flicks that followed.

Written by the legendary script doctor Ben Hecht – winner of the first ever screenwritng Oscar for Underworld in 1927 - Notorious is as lean and spare as a haiku. Through just a few laser focused scenes, Hecht and Hitchcock establish their characters’ histories, tendencies and motivations without a single wasted word or gesture. The sprawling plot will involve complex schemes with international implications, yet not a moment feels false, rushed or over simplified. The story gives us only the necessary and savory tidbits, perfectly reduced to the elemental, and Hitchcock commits nary a fumble in its deceptively simple execution.

Set in Miami, Notorious is all about Alicia Huberman (Ingrid Bergman), daughter of a convicted Nazi spy, who has decided that oblivion drinking and easy virtue are fine methods of forgetting her troubles. During a sloppy party one night at her beachbox bungalow she meets a handsome friend-of-a-friend named Devlin (Cary Grant) and, several bottles later, Alicia finds herself reeling, both from lust and too much wine. But Devlin has designs greater than a quick roll in the hay. His employer, a nameless U.S. spy agency, has determined that Alicia has the perfect resume for a secret mission to save the world from nuclear destruction, and it’s Devlin’s job to transform this hollow-legged floozy into a competent spook.

Notorious features a cast of such stalwart talents its reductive story takes on larger and richer dimensions. Claude Rains is fun to watch as an architect of evil undone by his own mushy lapses, and makes a superb foil for Grant. The great Louis Calhern, as Devlin’s boss Prescott, reprises his sleazy diplomat role from Duck Soup - and a dozen other pictures – and it’s a joy to watch this consummate character actor ply his craft. Bergman’s apparent effortlessness is impressive, and few leading ladies could pull off her transformation from Florida party girl to reserved hausfrau as convincingly. And Grant, despite the gravity of his role, glides through with his patented elegance and beguiling sense of imminent wit.

In the Hitchcock filmography, Spellbound precedes Notorious by a year, but the stylistic differences between the films seems like decades. Spellbound, a Selznick production, feels stogy and stagebound, its sets clunky and overdecorated; brimming with an insecure person’s idea of good taste. Notorious, produced by Hitchcock himself, feels fresh and contemporary and it’s a fitting battlefield for this tale of entrenched European privilege versus the ideals of a New World. While Spellbound wallowed in shadowy plot contrivances, Notorious attacks its narrative with straightforward, determined vigor. Here, Hitchcock tells a tight, muscular story in a tight, muscular style, and provides both a model and a standard for countless Cold War spy thrillers still to come.