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Reviewed by Glenn Erickson
Few of Woody Allen's movies are said to be great successes at the boxoffice, even when
they reach the heights of Hannah and Her Sisters, Crimes and Misdemeanors,
or The Purple Rose of Cairo. But then every so often he throws one of his somber
dramas into the stew. Although deep-dish reviewers of the likes of September can
sing Allen's praises in their own way, most of these films have to be appreciated for
encouraging Woody to sometimes get serious in his 'comedies.' Way back in Everything
You Always Wanted to Know About Sex, Woody seemed to be adept at mimicking the styles
of his favorite European directors - Fellini, Bergman. Only later did it come to pass
that he seemed to be trying to be them. Allen often used humor to humanize what were
at heart horribly grim stories, often with excellent results. Shadows and Fog
is an experiment, the kind we always say filmmakers should be attempting,
even though they rarely succeed.
Synopsis:
Lowly clerk Kleinman (Allen), cowed by everything and everyone in his
miserable life, is yanked from bed on a foggy night to be a part of a vigilante
group hunting a serial strangler (Michael Kirby), who is claiming victims by the hour despite
the torchlit posses roaming the streets and harassing any soul out alone. Kleinman is bullied by several self-appointed vigilante leaders, all of whom
threaten him and doubt his 'loyalty.' Meanwhile, circus sword-swallower Irmy (Mia Farrow)
catches her clown boyfriend (John Malkovich) in the wagon of another performer (Madonna)
and packs her bags. Walking the dangerous streets, she's taken in by a streetwalker
(Lily Tomlin) to shelter at a brothel, where an impetuous student (John Cusack) pays her
hundreds of dollars to sleep with him. When Kleinman is caught stealing circumstantial
evidence that places him at the scene of one of the murders, he suddenly finds himself the target
of a lynch mob.
Wacky, fun stuff, right? Actually, Shadows and Fog has a lot going for it. The
visual look is a match for what Pabst's Pandora's Box must have looked like when
it was new, with a truly interesting mittel-Europe cobblestoned town created through
some very impressive sets. Carlo Di Palma's b&w lensing is truly an asset, with
frequent breathtaking compositions that remind one of any number of expressionist
films. Because Pabst isn't Fellini or Bergman, copping his style results in a fairly
refreshing-looking movie. You really expect to see Lon Chaney Jr. walking Evelyn Ankers
on his arm through the fog. The fogbound denizens of this nowhere-land speak English but
dress and act like characters in a period film like The Three Penny Opera, or
Gaslight, which adds to the dislocation. The soundtrack is entirely made up of
great recordings of Kurt Weill music for Three Penny Opera, so fresh that they
overpower the movie. They're too light to be a good match with Woody's grim show, but don't
cheer it up any, either.
The acting is also tops, not a surprise in an Allen movie. Mia Farrow is as sensitive
as ever, and most of the other guest star turns are just fine. John Cusack has
the luck of an interesting , pleasantly written character to play. Lily Tomlin is
creditably restrained, as is the frequently hyper Donald Pleasence, in his role as a humanitarian
practitioner of midnight autopsies. Madonna makes zilch impact in a nothing bit, and John Malkovich
seems a bit forced in his obviously-written part. Elsewhere, Kathy Bates, Jodie Foster, and Julie Kavner don't have
near enough to do. Top-notch types like Kenneth Mars, Fred Gwynne, William H. Macy, David
Ogden Stiers, John C. Reilly, Kurtwood Smith, Wallace Shawn and Kate Nelligan are barely
there at all.
Script and conception don't seem to have come together in this Allen effort, and it's
more than just a matter of the jokes not being very funny. With such a special atmosphere,
Allen's predictable one-liners fall flat. The story has plenty of content, with
its pitiless killer, insane lynch mobs, mercenary police and priest, but Allen never goes
far enough to connect any of it with anything we can specifically relate to. When we're
constantly trying to find our bearings, figuring out that the various bullies that
torment Kleinman (ex-wives, landlady, employer, priest, vigilantes) aren't going to
relent comes as a let-down, even when such unresolved anxieties remain true to the
Kafka-like sensibility. The scenes with the killer show that Allen could make a perfectly
appalling gothic horror film if he so desired, but he's instead inclined to strive for meaningfulness,
with his witch-hunt allegories. This may be an acceptable world view for a moral artist,
but Allen's personal solution to existence in this foggy hell (ignore everything and run away
to join the circus) is both trite and dramatically unfulfilling. Doubtless, the parallel
story of Farrow and Malkovich becoming proud parents of the child of a strangler victim
is meant to force a lighter aspect into the proceedings, but it doesn't quite come to life.
Shadows and Fog is an Allen title Savant wanted to see, and now my curiosity
is satisfied. DVD is great for pictures like this. You might want to give it a chance
too. There are some nice things in it, especially any scene with Mia Farrow.
MGM Home Entertainment's DVD of Shadows and Fog is a tidy package with the
film's somber poster art on the cover and a richly graded black and white movie, enhanced
with 16:9 formatting, inside. With Allen's contractual insistence that no added features
be included whatsoever (he has a point when he insists that doing so is like appending
a short story with explanations and analysis) the disc is left with a trailer, excellent
mono tracks in English, French and Spanish, and a folded piece of paper with production
notes that MGM still laughably calls a Collectable Booklet. The
standard 16 chapters are adequate for this title - it's only 85 minutes long.
On a scale of Excellent, Good, Fair, and Poor,
Shadows and Fog rates:
Movie: Good
Video: Excellent
Sound: Excellent
Supplements: Trailer
Packaging: Amaray case
Reviewed: July 16, 2001
DVD Savant Text © Copyright 2007 Glenn Erickson
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