Cinema Survey 14

The Red Shoes: Michael Powell and Emeric Pressburger are the only directors—besides David Cronenberg—to have their credit cards applauded at the Charles Theater in Baltimore this year. The second half of this year’s revival calendar has been full of their movies: Peeping Tom, The Small Back Room, Black Narcissus, A Matter of Life and Death, and the new documentary Made in England: The Films of Powell and Pressburger. It’s one of the great films—undeniable. I’m not about to go out and buy memorabilia like Martin Scorsese, but it’s a wonderful movie. Anton Walbrook wailing Moira Shearer’s inability to perform at the end was the only scene that stuck with me in the six years since I first saw it; it’s one of the greatest scenes Powell and Pressburger ever directed, a highlight of Charles revivals this year. It wasn’t the revelation that was Peeping Tom, one of the best films I’ve ever seen, but it was a confirmation, rather than more disappointment and plateaus during a couple years of classic reappraisal.

Babygirl: The final dud of the year is Babygirl, a movie with a few good actors, a decent premise, and a trailer that utilizes every image, line, and sequence that could be salvaged to make something appealing. Nicole Kidman has been all over the place, whether introducing movies at AMC or asking if Martin Scorsese will ever “make a film a about women,” and just from osmosis, I assumed she’d made her directorial debut with Babygirl. This was back in the summer, and I hadn’t seen writer/director Halina Reijn promoting the movie. I still haven’t. Her script, direction, and montage are alternately dull and confused, leaving actors flailing and failing not to embarrass themselves. This is being “hailed” as one of Kidman’s best performances. Are you out of your fucking mind? A good actor can only work with what they’ve got. This is not Eyes Wide Shut, it’s not Dogville, it’s not Body Heat or Basic Instinct or Unfaithful—it’s worthless. Last year’s Sanctuary was a much better film about a somewhat similar dynamic, but far more radical, and more importantly, interesting.

The Third Man: The final movie of the year, the final 35mm print of the year, a full house at the Charles. This never happened in the last decade, even when New Year’s Eve lined up and The Thin Man or one of its sequels screened. As we move deeper into the 2020s, crowds at revival screenings continue to grow; new releases have yet to recapture the audience they could count on pre-pandemic, although each year things get better. I may have been disappointed by Babygirl, but it’s a movie that, however ineptly, addresses our culture and our present, and there was a decent amount of people on Sunday at the Charles five days after its release.

There was no applause, nor any excitement when an actor appeared on screen for the first time—unlike The Third Man, where Orson Welles’ dolly-in introduction was met with gasps. Carol Reed’s most famous movie, largely known for its infectious theme song (which is remarkably similar to the theme for Curb Your Enthusiasm) and Welles’ brief appearance as Harry Lime an hour into the movie. Of course Welles wrote his “cuckoo clock” speech, or so he said; it’s easy to believe him, if only to give him one more morsel of credit and accomplishment in a career that topped out at 25 and ended in hucksterism and semi-ignominy. Welles may be on his way to being properly appreciated now, but he’s been dead for nearly 40 years—that’s not justice. If he was this good in an otherwise pro-forma British noir, what could he have achieved with the might of mid-century Hollywood behind him?

—Follow Nicky Otis Smith on Twitter and Instagram: @nickyotissmith