Let's Make Love (1960)

This was to be Marilyn Monroe's penultimate movie, a witty musical rom-com that showed she could bring a modicum of acting ability to a role instead of just being a magnetic on-screen 'presence'. The director here, the old master George Cukor, who had a reputation for skillful direction of female leading ladies, would say afterward, "...she couldn't sustain scenes. She'd do three lines and then forget the rest, she'd do another line and then forget everything again. You had to shoot it piecemeal. But curiously enough, when you strung it all together, it was complete. She never could do the same thing twice, but, as with all the true movie queens, there was an excitement about her." If the performance was created with the magic of editing, it doesn't show, Monroe is smart, touching, and of course, unabashedly sexy. She's a struggling off-off-Broadway actress rehearsing a small topical review in a Greenwich Village theatre-in-the-round. One of the notable celebs the show is poking fun at is a headline making billionaire playboy (Yves Montand). He deigns to travel downtown to see for himself if he should get litigious with this pipsqueak show and he gets mistaken for a neophyte actor auditioning for the piece. He falls for Monroe who doesn't know his real identity. Yes, it's a gimcrack plot device but isn't that the price of entry for most musicals anyway? What makes it work is Monroe's undeniable star quality; when she's in the frame you look at nothing else. Every leading male star at the time turned down this picture because of her infamous behind the scenes shenanigans, so props to Montand for giving a funny, nuanced performance that holds its own against her mega-watt charisma. You really feel his struggle to find a partner who doesn't love him for his bank account alone. There are some nifty musical numbers supplied by Sammy Cahn and Jimmy Van Heusen, mostly for Monroe and her show-within-a-show co-star, Frankie Vaughn, who's like a strapping Tony Bennett clone. And credit goes to Cukor for maintaining the right smart tone for the whole piece, not letting it veer into corny schtick and to coax the goods out of his difficult star. Somehow he got everything he needed to 'string it all together' beautifully.

Encore review: "The Last of Sheila" (1973)

This is an expanded review of one I originally did a few years ago. It's now appearing on Moviefied.com where I'm supplying some articles.
You can read it here.

Moviefied.com

Or, if you're lazy, just read it here:

If you like a good whodunnit--and who dudn’t?-- then this acerbic and bitchy puzzle of a film is de rigueur viewing. In the best tradition of the genre, a group of suspects is plopped down in an isolated locale and the murderous hijinks ensue as clues, red herrings, and bodies pile up. Here, James Coburn plays a conniving Hollywood producer who gathers a group of his movie biz friends for a weekend of parlor games on his swanky yacht off the coast of France. But there’s an air of malice among the festivities; see, exactly one year prior all the attendees were present the night Coburn’s gossip columnist wife (the titular Sheila), was wickedly run down by a hit and run driver. Perhaps that murderer is now among the revelers? As the games progress, someone's not playing fair as the body count starts to rise. This was the first and only produced screenplay by the estimable Broadway composer Stephen Sondheim, a famous lover of word games, anagrams, and puzzles (his co-writer was Anthony Perkins-yes, that Norman Bates). The fascinatingly knotty plot (don’t even try to deduce the killer), is kept buoyantly afloat because it’s also a biting lampoon of all those awful denizens of LaLaLand. There’s the vapid starlet (Raquel Welch) and her leeching manager (Ian McShane), the has-been director (James Mason), the dried-up screenwriter (Richard Benjamin), and his mousy wife (Joan Hackett). Best of all is Dyan Cannon doing a lethal caricature of real life monster agent Sue Mengers. She’s got one terrific mad scene where her evil cackle curdles into a cry for help. Director Herb Ross keeps things moving along nicely in the stunning St. Tropez locations; there’s just the right amount of disturbing menace amongst the twisty doings and tart dialog. Kind of like what you’d expect at a Hollywood party filled with beautiful people…don’t turn your back or you’ll get stabbed. And who can resist a final ironic Bette Midler tune as the credits roll and you’ve just realized the answer to the caper has been staring you in the face all along?

Moviefied.com

One of my past reviews has been featured on the very fine movie website Moviefied.com...a great place to find all matter of film features, reviews, fun facts, and opinions...a cineaste's dream.
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And see my post here.