THE PEARL (Emilio Fernández, 1947)

Gabriel Figueroa’s gorgeous black-and-white cinematography immeasurably enriches John Steinbeck’s fable in this U.S.-Mexico co-production boldly directed by Emilio Fernández. La perla is a gem.
     An impoverished Mexican couple flee their fishing village and are torn apart—at one point, Quino strikes his wife, Juana, to the ground—after Quino unearths a precious pearl in the sea. Everyone, especially the already rich, would kill for the pearl, and in time, as a result of the parents’ possession of it, the couple’s baby is murdered and Quino himself takes human lives, in self-defense and for revenge.
     Generally, the film is understood as a study of greed; and so it is, around the fringes. But while greed motivates those who want to divest Quino of his newfound fortune, something else motivates Quino. Once he possesses the pearl his desires are basic: shoes; schooling for his son, for whom he dreams a better future. In clinging to the pearl, Quino is clinging to the hope that it symbolizes for him—and for us: the possibility of a better future. Once she sees how much harm follows from their having it, Juana counsels her husband’s ridding himself of the pearl. It has become a curse. Indeed, after their son’s death, Quino does toss the pearl back into the sea. Someday someone else might find the pearl, and hope will be renewed just to be dashed again. The pearl’s appearance may have been an instance of divine intervention, but even God is powerless to help the poor.
     Shimmering with poetry, La perla is a mournful ballad about the instransigence of social class and structure—an implicit call to political action, since nothing magical can alter the status quo. One’s lot in life can be improved only when past inequities are swept away.

THE QUATERMASS XPERIMENT (Val Guest, 1955)

I e-mailed these remarks to friends in early June 2006:

A sharp satire on Cold War tunnel vision in which science substitutes for politics, The Quatermass Xperiment confirms for me what The Day the Earth Caught Fire, about which I wrote to you maybe two weeks ago, suggested: Val Guest, who died last month, is a brilliant artist. He brings documentary realism to the most outrageously grotesque sci-fi/horror material. This particular film, which was originally released here in the States in a trimmed version titled The Creeping Unknown, ingeniously conflates the vampire and the sci-fi alien genres before anticipating The Blob. Much of the black-and-white imagery is stunning, and some of it resembles that of an American film released the same year: Robert Aldrich’s Kiss Me Deadly. The one American member of the cast, Brian Donlevy, who plays Quatermass, doesn’t quite fit in, but the Brits are all excellent. Quatermass is the last word in mad scientists; he seems perfectly sensible and sane.
     This is one of the most terrifying movies imaginable; it must have been considerably milder in its American incarnation, because I saw The Creeping Unknown with my mom when I was 8 or 9, and at that age I simply wouldn’t have survived anything as frightening as this complete version. The all-absorbing blob at the end is a bit of a disappointment, but I promise you that, after seeing this film, you will never look at a cactus plant again without thinking about the film and experiencing a shudder. I recommend seeing the film, either on DVD or VHS, late at night, with all the lights turned off. And not alone, because you’ll need someone to grab onto in terror. I’m not kidding! And this movie is about something—something, as it happens, that’s applicable to Bush and his war in Iraq.

THE DAY THE EARTH CAUGHT FIRE (Val Guest, 1961)

I e-mailed these remarks to friends in late March 2006:

I just saw The Day the Earth Caught Fire twice on DVD—the second time, with director Val Guest’s commentary. Guest died earlier this month.
     With the exception of some excrutiatingly corny quasi-romantic stuff, this is a wonderful piece of work—and, given the current global warming crisis, scarily prophetic. Guest’s science-fiction film was produced in 1961, although he had been trying for eight years to get it made.
     The frames are beautifully composed. The black-and-white cinematography by Harry Waxman is gorgeous; the reddish-orange-yellow tint at the front and back of the film, to convey the end-game heating of Earth by the sun, is frighteningly vivid. The special effects are awesome.
     Renée Asherson has one exquisite scene as the protagonist’s ex-wife; look and listen for young Michael Caine, as a cop, in a fifteen-second part.
     Guest’s commentary is all the more amazing given that he is remembering back some forty years. The dude with him will opine how a shot was done, and Guest will pipe in, “No, no, no,” and proceed to tell how it was actually done. Only once or twice does Guest say, “I really don’t remember.”
     The Daily Express office scenes are absolutely convincing; the kids’ water-orgy after water is being rationed, a little less so.