The Studio Canal/Lionsgate Bluray of Alexander McKendrick‘s The Ladykillers is a strawberries-and-whipped-cream nightmare — perhaps the most visually unappealing manipulation of a classic film ever issued. It’s saturated with the brightest and bleachiest white light seen anywhere since the aliens stepped out of the mother ship at the end of Close Encounters. It’s like someone turned down the color key and then poured milk and cherry sauce over the master negative. The effect is one of rosey anemia — a sickly dilution like nothing I’ve ever seen from a 1950s color film.

(l.) Anchor Bay DVD image; (r.) ditto from Studio Canal/Lionsgate Bluray.

I bought this Blu-ray for $35-something last night at Kim’s, and I’m infuriated. I tried to see into the virtue of the white-pink color scheme or whatever, but I can’t watch the damn thing without getting angry. And I’m especially pissed at the reviewers who gave this disc a pass without mentioning the bleachy saturation effect.

N.Y. Times DVD columnist Dave Kehr called The Ladykillers Blu-ray a “revelation” — a revelation of strawberry-shortcake suffocation, he meant! He noted that “no earlier home video edition has done justice to [this film’s] rich, bold use of Technicolor, that distinctively sharp-edged, cool-toned Technicolor that came out of the British labs.” Did Kehr actually say “rich? And there’s no way “bold” is an appropriate adjective unless Kehr is referring to the boldness of Studio Canal technicians saying “eff you!” to the average Blu-ray consumer.

DVD Beaver‘s Gary W. Tooze noted a possible “chromatic aberration”(which a reader pointed out) but said he’s “very happy with the final product [which I] strongly endorse. This is a fabulous film and a strong Blu-ray package.” Why would he say this? This is a Blu-ray disc that literally pisses on any person dumb enough to have bought it.

The only half-honest assessment came from DVD Talk’s Stuart Galbraith IV. He noted that 1955 Ealing Studios comedy “is saturated with rich hues,” but then explained that the Anchor Bay Ladykillers DVD “was a bit dark” while the Studio Canal Bluray “is too light, at least some of the time.” Correction — the white-out effect is evident throughout the entire film.

I’ll let the views in this Eli Roth/Inglourious Basterds slam piece speak for themselves, but you can tell right off the bat that Melissa Lafsky (i.e., “Horror Chick”) is a zappy and flavorful writer. “The bulk of the rest of Roth’s career — and even the success of Hostel — has rested on the unbelievably lucky move of becoming Quentin Tarantino‘s shoulder monkey,” etc.

I still really love hearing studio-logo fanfare music — those brassy and boastful intro chords that always accompanied the openings of mainstream flicks until…oh, roughly the mid ’60s or thereabouts. These beginnings revved audiences before the film started, selling them an often fanciful notion that something momentous was about to happen — despite the sometimes dispiriting truth of the matter.

Logo fanfare reflected the old-fashioned carnival-barker instincts of studio chiefs. This was especially true for Warner Bros. features, for which film-score composers would always throw in a vigorious “tah-dah!” before beginning the main-title music. Even if the show in question was a middling so-so caper flick starring Frank Sinatra and his booze-sipping homies, the fanfare promised much, much more.

What I’m saying, boiled down, is that the studio fanfare music that begins Lewis Milestone‘s Ocean’s 11 (1960) is the most enjoyable part of the film, hands down.

The second most pleasurable part is arguably Saul Bass‘s casino-attitude title sequence. It”s a little slow by today’s standards, but you can feel the cocky mentality of late ’50s showbiz culture — the chickie-baby attitude of Sinatra wearing those awful orange sweaters as he lounged around with Dean Martin and Sammy Davis, Jr. The mob guys who used to run things in Las Vegas would cater to their every whim, and there were always the broads to hand out back rubs and…uhm, whatever else.

My 2.17 review of Roman Polanski‘s The Ghost Writer came out decently, I think, given the haste and the coffee-shop conditions that influenced the writing of it. But David Denby‘s appreciation in the 3.8.10 issue of the New Yorker is the most eloquent I’ve read anywhere. I’m posting this to remind how utterly wrong and short-sighted the Doubting Thomases have been on this film. History will judge them fairly — i.e., without mercy.

The only weird part of Denby’s review is a statement that The Ghost Writer is “the best thing Polanski has done since the seventies.” It’s actually the best thing he’s done since The Pianist.

Excerpt #1: “The Ghost Writer offers not the blood and terror of Polanski’s early work but the steady pleasures of high intelligence and unmatchable craftsmanship — bristling, hyper-articulate dialogue (the stabs are verbal, and they hurt) and a stunning over-all design that has been color-co√∂rdinated to the point of aesthetic mania. [It’s an] extraordinarily precise and well-made political thriller.”

Excerpt #2: “Polanski takes care that the…story is never rushed, mauled, or artificially heightened — the usual style of thrillers now. He respects physical plausibility and the passage of time; he wants our belief in his improbable tale, just as Hitchcock did. There may be nothing formally inventive in this kind of classical technique, but, in the hands of a master, it’s smooth and satisfying, and I suggest, dear reader, that you gaze upon it, because it’s all but gone in today’s moviemaking world. There’s not much violence in the movie, but your scalp tightens anyway.”

Excerpt #3: “[Polanski] concludes The Ghost Writer with a twin flourish: first, a virtuoso travelling shot of an explosive note slowly but inexorably passed through many hands at a social occasion until it reaches its destination, and then a final shot of Lang’s manuscript, the fluttering pages now forlornly scattered about a London street. As in the famous last sequence of Chinatown, Polanski is close to despair, but his rejuvenation as a film director is a sign of hope.”

Excerpt #4: “Pierce Brosnan gives the strongest performance of his rather lazy career. He doesn’t imitate [former Prime Minister Tony] Blair; he offers his own interpretation of a public man’s impersonally brisk and hardened charm — the smile is reflexive, dazzling, and savage. Lang tells stories about his youth with hearty indifference to their phoniness — even in retreat, he’s a calculating pol, playing the angles, manipulating his eager amanuensis. And, when Lang is criticized or challenged in any way, Brosnan’s charm dissolves into fury; he catches the defensive self-righteousness of power, a leader’s disbelief that anyone might be seeing through him

Excerpt #5: “Olivia Williams is Ruth, Lang’s brilliant wife and longtime political adviser. Slender and tense, with short dark hair, Williams pulls her legs up under her chin as she sits . Williams’s gaze could sear the fat off a lamb shank, and her line delivery is withering, yet Ruth is badly wounded, and Williams makes her sympathetic — she’s one of the rare actresses who seem more intelligent and beautiful as they get angrier.”

Yesterday I re-read a nearly six year-old piece I wrote on the day after Marlon Brando died (i.e., 7.2.04), and I really enjoyed some of it so I’m re-posting apropos of nothing. Well, something. I was researching yesterday’s Oscar death-tribute item that touched upon a decision not to to run a special tribute to Brando during the February ’05 telecast, and I happened upon it.

“We all knew death wasn’t too far off for Marlon Brando, what with his age (80) and his weight issues and all, but the news of his passing on Thursday night carries more than just sadness,” I wrote. “A guy I used to really and truly love is gone, and all kinds of backwash is starting to pour in.

“It’s hardly unique to say that my feelings about Brando will always be split between what he didn’t do when he got older along with the glories achieved during his phenomenal prime. Almost everything I’ve ever heard about the guy testified to his having been a tangle and never a day at the beach, but his obstinacies always seemed to pale when measured against the his once undeniable genius.

“The transcendent beauty of his acting in On The Waterfront, Viva Zapata, Julius Ceasar (his delivery of Marc Antony’s “cry havoc and let slip the dogs of war” speech is jolting, electrifying), A Streectar Named Desire, The Men…and then that brief one-two in the early ’70s with The Godfather and Last Tango in Paris…no one will ever forget his greatness. It will always burn through.

“Since starting this column in ’98 I’ve written more than once about how Brando had become a sad paragon of rot, ruin and failed potential. He became this (or gave in to the syndrome) over the last 25 years or so. In my mind, the beginning of the sag started with Guys and Dolls. The deeper degeneration period kicked in with Superman in ’78. When I think of the metaphor of that white wig he wore…

“Marlon should have tried harder, gone back to the theatre, eaten a lot less ice cream, directed more films (I’ve always loved One-Eyed Jacks, and I’ve always regretted that a remnant of the much longer and more experimental Jacks he originally shot had been saved somewhere), avoided being a recluse, hung with more people, gone back to school, worked out more, been a better dad….the things he seemed to do wrong! Endless!

“He got rolling as a New York actor in ’44 and had a ten-year run (until ’54) when he could do no wrong… then he got caught in the muck of Hollywood and was in and out (mostly out) for the next 16 or 17 years. He restored himself with The Godfather and Last Tango, and then he began to spiral down again. He never again caught serious heat or wind.

“In short, he was in a state of becoming for his first 20 years, an absolute God for 10 years, and a guy grappling with more than his share of disappointments, frustrations and pain for most of the other 50.

“I remember reading somewhere that his using the word ‘wow’ in On The Waterfront was one of the most revolutionary improvs ever spoken in the 1950s. Up to that point ‘wow’ was something you said when you sat on a blanket and watched the 4th of July fireworks. But Brando’s ‘wow,’ spoken to Rod Steiger‘s Charlie character after he pulls out a gun and threatens Brando’s Terry Malloy, his brother, was all about sadness… a stunned and wounded lament.

“There’s also that moment when Charlie urges Terry to join him inside a bar, and Terry, wanting to be alone with his feelings of grief for a friend named Joey who’s just been killed for squealing to the authorities about the waterfront rackets, begs off. I don’t know how Malloy’s reply actually reads in Budd Schulberg‘s script, but all Brando says to Steiger is, ‘Well, I’ll be around….’ and then the rest trails off. The acting is in the incompletion. It’s masterful.”

I’m finally paying attention to a six-day-old Art of the Steal/Carrie Rickey/Paul R. Levy alleged-conflict of-interest story that’s been unfolding in Philadelphia. Gawker had it Monday, but I was otherwise engaged. A tipster e-mailed me the particulars this morning, and I wrote back saying “thanks…I really love being several days behind on a story!”

Last Friday Rickey reviewed Don Argott‘s Art of the Steal, a doc about the Barnes Foundation, its art collection and a controversial relocation plan. “As a movie, Steal is as finely wrought as the decorative ironworks that hang on the walls of the Barnes between Picassos and Seurats,” Rickey wrote, “yet as a narrative of the facts, it is as one-sided as a plaintiff’s brief.”

The rumpus is an argument/complaint that (a) Rickey should have let someone else review Art of the Steal given her marriage to Paul R. Levy, president and C.E.O. of the Center City District which allegedly benefitted from the contravention of Albert Barnes’ will, etc., as it is believed there are ties to local property tax assessments, or (b) failing that, she should have acknowledged her relationship to Levy as part of her review.

The matter seemed to be thoroughly addressed in a Philebrity story that was posted yesterday. The author quoted Levy as follows: “As advocates for filling in empty spaces on Philadelphia’s Benjamin Franklin Parkway so there is more pedestrian activity, we suggested new residential development (hasn’t happened), a new Calder family museum (didn’t happen) and were publicly supportive of the Barnes Foundation when it announced its move. But neither I nor anyone on my staff had any role at all (let alone any authority) to recommend, lobby or cause the Barnes Foundation, its board, or local foundations to decide to move to the Parkway.”

Levy added, “The CCD is supported by assessments on taxable real estate, and the Barnes is tax-exempt.”

I’ve never known Rickey to be anything but brilliant, very cool and as ethical as the next venerated critic. She’s one of the good people. But if I were she (or one of her editors), I probably would’ve included a full-disclosure statement about her marriage to Levy in the review. It’s always wiser to acknowledge the appearance of issues upfront and say “this is no issue in case you had any suspicions along these lines,” rather than just say nothing.