TSPDT placing: #20
Directed by: Michael Curtiz
Written by: Murray Burnett (play), Joan Alison (play), Julius J. Epstein, Philip G. Epstein, Howard Koch, Casey Robinson (uncredited)
Starring: Humphrey Bogart, Ingrid Bergman, Paul Henreid, Claude Rains, Conrad Veidt, Sydney Greenstreet, Peter Lorre, Dooley Wilson, Joy Page
.
ILSA
You’re saying this only to make me go.
.
.
RICK
I’m saying it because it’s true.
Inside of us we both know you
belong with Victor. You’re part
of his work, the thing that keeps
him going. If that plane leaves
the ground and you’re not with
him, you’ll regret it.
.
ILSA
No.
.
RICK
Maybe not today, maybe not tomorrow,
but soon, and for the rest of your
life.
him going. If that plane leaves
the ground and you’re not with
him, you’ll regret it.
.
ILSA
No.
.
RICK
Maybe not today, maybe not tomorrow,
but soon, and for the rest of your
life.
.
ILSA
But what about us?
.
But what about us?
.
RICK
We’ll always have Paris. We didn’t
have, we’d lost it, until you came
to Casablanca. We got it back last
night.
.
We’ll always have Paris. We didn’t
have, we’d lost it, until you came
to Casablanca. We got it back last
night.
.
ILSA
And I said I would never leave you.
.
RICK
And you never will. But I’ve got
a job to do, too. Where I’m going
you can’t follow. What I’ve got to
do you can’t be a part of. Ilsa,
I’m no good at being noble, but it
doesn’t take much to see that the
problems of three little people
don’t amount to a hill of beans in
this crazy world. Someday you’ll
understand that. Now, now…
.
And you never will. But I’ve got
a job to do, too. Where I’m going
you can’t follow. What I’ve got to
do you can’t be a part of. Ilsa,
I’m no good at being noble, but it
doesn’t take much to see that the
problems of three little people
don’t amount to a hill of beans in
this crazy world. Someday you’ll
understand that. Now, now…
.
Ilsa’s eyes well up with tears. Rick puts his hand to her chin
and raises her face to meet his own.
.
RICK
Here’s looking at you, kid.
.
RICK
Here’s looking at you, kid.
.
Ah, Casablanca. What other film can evoke such powerful feelings of nostalgia, can exemplify so completely the golden period of Hollywood film-making? The year was 1942, and the world found itself in the midst of the bloodiest conflict in modern history. Unlike anything our generation could possibly imagine, citizens were faced with an incredible uncertainty about their future. The Nazis marched across Europe, an astonishing, seemingly-unstoppable enemy, and the United States watched with bated breath from across the Atlantic. Most Hollywood productions responded to such ambiguity with fully-fledged, unabashed patriotism, and war-time filmmakers became obsessed with validating audiences' beliefs that the Allied forces would inevitably win out against Germany, and, indeed, many often concluded their pictures with unnecessary epilogues in which we've apparently already won. Such propaganda, while no doubt ensuring commercial success from war-weary cinema-goers, has regularly tarnished and outdated even the most otherwise-impressive contemporary WWII pictures, as the directors' willingness to simulate a happy ending strikes distinctly false from an era in which the overwhelming atmosphere was that of uncertainty and insecurity {see Billy Wilder's Five Graves to Cairo (1943)}.This is not to say that Casablanca (1942) is not a work of American patriotism; indeed, it might just be the greatest example. The film owes its enduring legacy to how seamlessly director Michael Curtiz, and his troupe of writers and actors, was able to encapsulate the sentiment of the time in which the picture was made. The story ends with Rick and Renault strolling resolutely into the thick mist, their futures obscured by the fog of uncertainty that hovers before their faces. What will the next few turbulent years have in store for these heroes? Will they be overwhelmed by the enemy, or continue their noble fight for freedom? Following Operation Torch, the 1942 Allied invasion of North Africa, there were plans to film one of those dreaded propagandistic epilogues, showing Rick, Renault and a detachment of Free French soldiers on a ship. Owing to Claude Rains' fortuitous unavailability for filming, the original ending was left intact, and producer David O. Selznick was never more correct than when he concluded "it would be a terrible mistake to change the ending."
When Casablanca was first conceived, the filmmakers apparently had little idea they were about to produce one of cinema's best-loved pictures. A prime example of the studio-bound exotica that was popular at the time, and obviously a war-time off-shoot of Howard Hawks' Colombian aviation adventure Only Angels Have Wings (1939) – perhaps also John Cromwell's Algiers (1938), which I unfortunately haven't seen – the film reproduced the stuffy, humid climate and seedy, corrupt personalities of Morocco on the Warner Bros. sets, which ironically communicate more romantic charm than the real location could ever have provided. The film was shot by veteran cinematographer Arthur Edeson, who had previously worked on the wonderfully-atmospheric All Quiet on the Western Front (1930), Frankenstein (1931) and The Maltese Falcon (1941). His perfectly-framed photography suggests a mixture of stuffy melodrama, glamorous adventure and shadowy noir, though, interestingly, he avoids the sordidness of the latter style's successors, despite the wealth of suitably-seedy characters to be found in Casablanca. Framed through Edeson's lens, it seems that even the most squalid and repulsive of personalities can take on a curious facade of nobility.No less than six people had a hand in the film's justly-celebrated screenplay. The story was based on a then-unproduced play by Murray Burnett and Joan Alison, "Everybody Comes to Rick's," and was adapted for the screen by Julius and Philip Epstein and Howard Koch, with uncredited input by Casey Robinson. The Epstein twins were initially keen to give the film a few comedic elements; this would, no doubt, have made for entertaining viewing, not unlike a Howard Hawks picture, but might have detracted from the story's core themes of love, loyalty, regret, moral responsibility and self-sacrifice. Koch had perhaps a clearer understanding of the director's preferences – another wonderful film from Curtiz, Angels with Dirty Faces (1938), also poses a vital moral dilemma – and chose to focus largely on the politics and melodrama of Burnett and Alison's play. That so many conflicting artistic ideas somehow melded together, not only into a cohesive narrative, but also into history's greatest screenplay, is a miracle to be credited only to the cinema gods, particularly in view of the fact that Curtiz commenced filming with an incomplete script that was updated daily.
Perhaps another possible explanation for the film's unlikely legacy lies with the distinguished cast, borrowed from all over Europe. Humphrey Bogart, Dooley Wilson and Joy Page were the sole American "imports," and assorted supporting talents were plundered from the United Kingdom (Claude Rains, Sydney Greenstreet), Sweden (Ingrid Bergman), Austria (Paul Henreid), Hungary (Peter Lorre) and even Germany (Conrad Veidt, who fled the Nazi regime in 1933 after marrying a Jewish woman). Bogart, who had been typecast throughout the 1930s as a lowlife gangster, had been given the opportunity to show some humanity in Raoul Walsh' film noir High Sierra (1941), but it was Casablanca that proved his first genuinely romantic role, and, with several notable exceptions, the remainder of his acting career would comprise of similarly-noble yet flawed heroes. Bergman, despite having a rather passive role, was never more enchanting than as Ilsa Lund, and, photographed with a softening gauze filter and catch lights, positively sparkles with gentle compassion and sadness.Perhaps it's just the romantic in me, but Casablanca represents, without a doubt, one of Hollywood's most unforgettable accomplishments. Even as the film draws to a majestic close, and two men forge a lifelong friendship in the fog-ridden uncertainty of war, we immediately feel like asking Sam to play it again… just for old time's sake.
10/10
Currently my #1 film of 1942:
1) Casablanca (Michael Curtiz)
2) The Magnificent Ambersons (Orson Welles)
3) The Major and the Minor (Billy Wilder)
Aside from Allen and Keaton, numerous smaller roles provide a crucial framework for the overall structure of the film. Tony Roberts is Rob, Singer's old friend and confidant. Paul Simon (of Simon and Garfunkel) plays a record producer who takes a keen interest in both Annie and her singing. Shelley Duvall is a reporter for 'The Rolling Stone' magazine, and a one-time girlfriend of Singer. There are also tiny early roles for Christopher Walken (as Annie's somewhat disturbed brother), Jeff Goldblum (who speaks one memorable line at a party – "Hello? I forgot my mantra") and Sigourney Weaver (who can be briefly glimpsed as Singer's date outside a theatre). Two slightly more unusual cameos come from Truman Capote (as a Truman Capote-lookalike, no less) and scholar Marshall McLuhan (whom Singer suddenly procures from behind a movie poster to declare to a talkative film-goer that "you know nothing of my work!").
Unlike some gangster pictures, which tend to take a few minutes to swing into gear, White Heat opens with a daring railway robbery, in which Jarrett and his gang murder four innocent men and flee with thousands of dollars in cash. In order to escape the gas chamber, the master-criminal surrenders to the authorities and claims responsibility for a minor hotel heist, receiving 1-3 years imprisonment but eluding suspicions that he played a role in the bloody train robbery. The detectives in charge, however, remain unconvinced, and dedicated undercover agent Hank Fallon (Edmond O'Brien) is sent to the prison to gain Jarrett's trust and acquire evidence of his involvement in the crime. Meanwhile, opportunistic femme fatale, Verna (Virginia Mayo), plays a deadly game with treacherous associate Big Ed (Steve Cochran), while Jarrett's predatory mother (Margaret Wycherly) seethes ominously in the shadows. When Jarrett and a gang of lackeys stage an exciting jail-break, Fallon attempts to alert the authorities to his latest movements – but this felon isn't going to take failure lying down.
White Heat played an important role in the development of the heist picture sub-genre, and, like Walsh's High Sierra (1941) years earlier, paved the way for the classic and influential narrative formula to be found in John Huston's 
A perfect example of the film's style of satire can be found early on, after veteran news anchorman Howard Beale (Peter Finch) learns that he is to be fired in two weeks' time, on account of poor ratings. The following evening, Beale calmly announces to millions of Americans his intentions to commit suicide on the air in a week's time. The show's technicians idly go about their duties, oblivious to what their star has just proclaimed, before one employee tentatively ventures, "uh, did you hear what Howard just said?" The network, in their ongoing quest for high ratings, was so blindly obsessed with perfecting all their technical aspects that the mental-derangement of their leading anchorman went almost completely unnoticed. At first, there is an attempt to yank Beale from the air, but one forward-thinking producer, Diana Christensen (Faye Dunaway), proposes that the network could double their current ratings by keeping him in the spotlight. 
Peter Finch, who was awarded a posthumous Best Actor Oscar for his performance, is simply explosive as the unhinged anchorman whose volatile outbursts of derangement are celebrated by a society which, in a better world, should be trying to help him. Beale's memorable catch-cry – "I'm as mad as hell, and I'm not going to take this anymore!" – symbolises his revulsion towards the crumbling values of today's society, and, as fanatical as he might be, most of his raves are worryingly close to the truth. William Holden is also excellent as Max Schumacher, Beale's long-time colleague, who resents the networks' treatment of his friend, but does little to interfere. Schumacher's adulterous relationship with the seductive but soulless Diana (Dunaway) consciously follows the conventional path of a television soap opera, ending with the realisation that his affair with the ratings-obsessed mistress is sapping him of any real emotion or humanity; in Schumacher's own words, "after living with you for six months, I'm turning into one of your scripts." Television corrupts life.
Love and Death (1975) was obviously produced shortly after an Ingmar Bergman marathon, and the film is both an affectionate homage and an enjoyable spoof of The Seventh Seal (1957), Bergman's memorable meditation on the nature of religion and death. The perfect bittersweet ending sees Death, cloaked in a white sheet, leading our hero in a Danse Macabre across the countryside. Also targeted by Allen's razor-sharp flair for parody are the epic Russian novels of Dostoyevsky and Tolstoy, such as "Crime and Punishment," "The Idiot" and "War and Peace." A singularly-absurd recreation of the Battle of Waterloo, which – among other anachronisms – is catered by a New York hot-dog vendor, is also an amusing send-up of Sergei Bondarchuk's impressive box-office disaster Waterloo (1970), and even Bonaparte himself makes a surprise appearance as both an assassination target, and to demand the completion of the pastry to be named in his honour {we call them vanilla slices down here in Australia}.
Woody Allen and Diane Keaton, in their third of many collaborations, work together perfectly as cousins (and later partners) who like to bicker endlessly about the meaning of life, their conversations descending swiftly into dubious pseudo-philosophical ramblings of which I was able to make neither head nor tail. With the exception of one bottle gag that wouldn't have been out of place in a Chaplin film, most of the humour is purely verbal, and Allen even experiments with breaking the fourth wall, a style of comedy that he would implement with astonishing success in Annie Hall. In terms of story, Love and Death, in spite of its episodic nature, comes together more completely than any of Allen's previous films, and the jokes are consistently funny enough to draw a laugh. Considerably funnier than that other famous historical comedy released in 1975 (if I may be so bold), this is one of Woody Allen's funniest movies, with more than enough intelligent humour to go around.
If any director was most suited to adapt "Doctor Zhivago," Boris Pasternak's mighty retelling of a difficult era in Russia's history, it was, indeed, David Lean. As was the case in his previous film, the plot itself comes second to the director's astonishing ability to capture the majesty of every instant, and to place the audience in the midst of the moment. As such, Doctor Zhivago (1965) lacks any straightforward narrative, but its strength is drawn from the incredible emotion that accompanies each turn in events: it's a story of love, loss, hope, war, family, revolution and death… basically, everything that makes life worth living. Yuri Zhivago (Omar Sharif) stumbles passively through the turmoil that is Russia during the 1910s, both before and after the onslaught of WWI, and through his submissive eyes we watch citizens acclimatise to the constantly-shifting political climates of the era. During the Revolution of 1917, and the subsequent Russian Civil War, one's very existence was forever in doubt, and the uncertainty of the times consistently casts an ominous shadow over the fate of the film's major characters.
Filming for Doctor Zhivago, as was the case in Lawrence of Arabia, was a long and gruelling experience for all involved. As Pasternak's novel was still banned in the Soviet Union at the time of the film's production {it would not be officially published there until 1988, though several earlier samizdat editions could be found}, filming took place primarily in Spain, with several sequences also shot in Finland and Canada. This extensive location-shooting allowed Lean to accurately reproduce the splendour of the Russian wilderness: the bitter cold of the snow-swept winter landscapes, the vibrancy of the fresh and chilled summers. An entire Moscow city-block was recreated just outside Madrid, and it would take a sharp eye to discern that the icy cobbled streets of the film's opening act are not located in the Russian capital. Such are the scenes' authenticity that you shiver at the very thought of stepping outside into the falling snow, and, as Zhivago – encrusted in a numbing case of ice – trudges stiffly through the winterscape, we can almost feel our own limbs becoming numb with frostbite.
Rarely has an epic delivered such an impressive display of acting performances. Omar Sharif, who was apparently surprised to have landed the lead character in David Lean's latest, doesn't initially strike one as being "leading man" material, but it is his passiveness in the role that proves crucial to the telling of Pasternak's story. He wanders dutifully through the changing landscape of Russia, rarely saying what he truly believes, and never displaying any genuine outbursts of emotion; he is a ghost of a person, and simply perseveres through his belief that better times are yet to come. Zhivago's primary emotional outlet is through his poetry, through which he articulates his passions and anguishes, though he only finds himself able to write when he finds himself in a comfortable living situation. His work has been condemned by the government for focusing on personal sentiments rather than the "good of the state," an ironic foreshadowing of the censorship that Pasternak himself would encounter. Nevertheless, Zhivago comes across as quite a cold and detached character, and there's a selfishness inherent in his decision not to pursue his estranged family to Paris.
Julie Christie provides the film's primary love interest, an abused and neglected woman in whom Zhivago finds an illicit companionship. Independent, and yet very vulnerable, Lara forms the emotional core of the story, and it is through her association with the lead character that he is able to divulge his true feelings and pen his finest work. Geraldine Chaplin (for better or worse, a spitting image of her father) is also quite good as Zhivago's wife, Tonya, though her presence – perhaps intentionally – fails to evoke the same glamour and compassion as is the case with Lara. Rod Steiger, who has been greatly impressing me of late, is a slimy figure of egotism and malevolence ("...and don't delude yourself this was rape, that would flatter us both"), though his deeds in the film's final act raise a level of ambiguity that is interesting to ponder: why, indeed, did he arrive to offer Lara warning? The motives of Gen. Yevgraf Zhivago, played by the great Alec Guinness, are similarly uncertain, and his apparent detachedness - almost indifference - to the plight of his half-brother is a puzzling riddle that only a second viewing could possibly resolve.
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