text: Sometimes realism can work against the effectiveness of a film. That's no problem here. The sets are cheesy, inside and out. The fog is ubiquitous, half disguising the shabbiness of the production. If there's a bar, the name painted on the front window says simply, "Wine And Spirits." The result is a claustrophobic set of scenes. Not a single shot of a city or even a fake skyline. That's the kind of Dublin this story is about, just as Jack the Ripper movies are about seedy, foggy, cobblestoned Whitechapel. Who would want it any other way? How could it have been any other way with no bankable stars, a minuscule budget, and a four-week shooting schedule? The acting follows suit -- outrageously hammy on everyone's part. Sometimes, my God, it's positively excruciating. Mrs. McPhillips moaning after Frankie is shot dead outside the house. Victor McLaglin however delivers exactly the right kind of overdone performance. Wardrobe has stuffed him into a too-small jacket so that he seems to be bursting out of it like Frankenstein's monster. His every movement seems to go a little farther than it was intended to. When he slaps his cap on his head, he bops himself on the temple. A big, blustering, blubbering baby, he seems constantly drunk. He betrays his best friend for the reward money which will take him and his would-be girl to America, not a good guy in the ordinary sense. Yet we wince as he begins to spend the 20 pounds, more and more of it during a wild, alcoholic night, because every expensive and grandiose gesture takes him farther from his dream. I wouldn't argue it, but I can understand why he won an Oscar.<br /><br />As for Max Steiner's score, wow. Every movement, already overdone, is not only underlined by the Mickey Mouse music but highlighted in glossy yellow. It shouldn't have happened -- the heavenly choirs, the endearing young charms, the minstrel boy, the gurgling tune while McLaglen drinks from the bottle. It would have been better off with no score at all.<br /><br />Well, how is it as a whole? Dated -- by any measure, but not a product of its times. That's why I admire it. Yes, the symbolism is clumsy at times. McLaglen, a real dummy, bumping his head against a hanging sign. The fog. The blind man. But what impresses me is how little of this was being tried at the time. What strikes us as overly arty today was in 1936 something quite different from what was seen in most of the programmers being ground out at the time. If it falls short at times, it doesn't matter. The movie was an act of courage, politically and morally as well as poetically. (The legion of decency condemned it because of a scene in a brothel.) A director's goal should exceed his grasp, or what's a script for? Watching it now, however, in 2006, the story is more disturbing than ever. John Ford obviously sympathized with the Irish rebels. They kill, but only out of what they see as necessity. ("He knows too much to live. What if he goes to the Tans? Oh, it's not me-self I'm thinking of but all of us, of Ireland herself.") The Irish are sentimentalized and sympathetic. I wonder if the Jihadists in the Middle East don't use a similar logic to justify their acts of violence.
query: Sometimes realism can work against the effectiveness of
gen_review:  a film. That's no problem here. The sets are cheesy, inside and out. The fog is ubiquitous, half disguising the shabbiness of the production. If there's a bar, the name painted on the front window says simply, "Wine And Spirits." The result is a claustrophobic set of scenes. Not a single shot of a city or even a fake skyline. That's the kind of Dublin this story is about, just as Jack the Ripper movies are about seedy, foggy, cobblestoned Whitechapel. Who would want it any other way? How could it have been any other way with no bankable stars, a minuscule budget, and a four-week shooting schedule? The acting follows suit -- outrageously hammy on everyone's part. Sometimes, my God, it's positively excruciating. Mrs. McPhillips moaning after Frankie is shot dead outside the house. Victor McLaglin however delivers exactly the right kind of overdone performance. Wardrobe has stuffed him into a too-small jacket so that he seems to be bursting out of it like Frankenstein's monster. His every movement seems to go a little farther than it was intended to. When he slaps his cap on his head, he bops himself on the temple. A big, blustering, blubbering baby, he seems constantly drunk. He betrays his best friend for the reward money which will take him and his would-be girl to America, not a good guy in the ordinary sense. Yet we wince as he begins to spend the 20 pounds, more and more of it during a wild, alcoholic night, because every expensive and grandiose gesture takes him farther from his dream. I wouldn't argue it, but I can understand why he won an Oscar.<br /><br />As for Max Steiner's score, wow. Every movement, already overdone, is not only underlined by the Mickey Mouse music but highlighted in glossy yellow. It shouldn't have happened -- the heavenly choirs, the endearing young charms, the minstrel boy, the gurgling tune while McLaglen drinks from the bottle. It would have been better off with no score at all.<br /><br />Well, how is it as a whole? Dated -- by any measure, but not a product of its times. That's why I admire it. Yes, the symbolism is clumsy at times. McLaglen, a real dummy, bumping his head against a hanging sign. The fog. The blind man. But what impresses me is how little of this was being tried at the time. What strikes us as overly arty today was in 1936 something quite different from what was seen in most of the programmers being ground out at the time. If it falls short at times, it doesn't matter. The movie was an act of courage, politically and morally as well as poetically. (The legion of decency condemned it because of a scene in a brothel.) A director's goal should exceed his grasp, or what's a script for? Watching it now, however, in 2006, the story is more disturbing than ever. John Ford obviously sympathized with the Irish rebels. They kill, but only out of what they see as necessity. ("He knows too much to live. What if he goes to the Tans? Oh, it's not me-self I'm thinking of but all of us, of Ireland herself.") The Irish are sentimentalized and sympathetic. I wonder if the Jihadists in the Middle East don't use a similar logic to justify their acts of violence.
reference_response:   a film. That's no problem here. The sets are cheesy, inside and out. The fog is ubiquitous, half disguising the shabbiness of the production. If there's a bar, the name painted on the front window says simply, "Wine And Spirits." The result is a claustrophobic set of scenes. Not a single shot of a city or even a fake skyline. That's the kind of Dublin this story is about, just as Jack the Ripper movies are about seedy, foggy, cobblestoned Whitechapel. Who would want it any other way? How could it have been any other way with no bankable stars, a minuscule budget, and a four-week shooting schedule? The acting follows suit -- outrageously hammy on everyone's part. Sometimes, my God, it's positively excruciating. Mrs. McPhillips moaning after Frankie is shot dead outside the house. Victor McLaglin however delivers exactly the right kind of overdone performance. Wardrobe has stuffed him into a too-small jacket so that he seems to be bursting out of it like Frankenstein's monster. His every movement seems to go a little farther than it was intended to. When he slaps his cap on his head, he bops himself on the temple. A big, blustering, blubbering baby, he seems constantly drunk. He betrays his best friend for the reward money which will take him and his would-be girl to America, not a good guy in the ordinary sense. Yet we wince as he begins to spend the 20 pounds, more and more of it during a wild, alcoholic night, because every expensive and grandiose gesture takes him farther from his dream. I wouldn't argue it, but I can understand why he won an Oscar.<br /><br />As for Max Steiner's score, wow. Every movement, already overdone, is not only underlined by the Mickey Mouse music but highlighted in glossy yellow. It shouldn't have happened -- the heavenly choirs, the endearing young charms, the minstrel boy, the gurgling tune while McLaglen drinks from the bottle. It would have been better off with no score at all.<br /><br />Well, how is it as a whole? Dated -- by any measure, but not a product of its times. That's why I admire it. Yes, the symbolism is clumsy at times. McLaglen, a real dummy, bumping his head against a hanging sign. The fog. The blind man. But what impresses me is how little of this was being tried at the time. What strikes us as overly arty today was in 1936 something quite different from what was seen in most of the programmers being ground out at the time. If it falls short at times, it doesn't matter. The movie was an act of courage, politically and morally as well as poetically. (The legion of decency condemned it because of a scene in a brothel.) A director's goal should exceed his grasp, or what's a script for? Watching it now, however, in 2006, the story is more disturbing than ever. John Ford obviously sympathized with the Irish rebels. They kill, but only out of what they see as necessity. ("He knows too much to live. What if he goes to the Tans? Oh, it's not me-self I'm thinking of but all of us, of Ireland herself.") The Irish are sentimentalized and sympathetic. I wonder if the Jihadists in the Middle East don't use a similar logic to justify their acts of violence.<|endoftext|>
query_reference_response: Sometimes realism can work against the effectiveness of  a film. That's no problem here. The sets are cheesy, inside and out. The fog is ubiquitous, half disguising the shabbiness of the production. If there's a bar, the name painted on the front window says simply, "Wine And Spirits." The result is a claustrophobic set of scenes. Not a single shot of a city or even a fake skyline. That's the kind of Dublin this story is about, just as Jack the Ripper movies are about seedy, foggy, cobblestoned Whitechapel. Who would want it any other way? How could it have been any other way with no bankable stars, a minuscule budget, and a four-week shooting schedule? The acting follows suit -- outrageously hammy on everyone's part. Sometimes, my God, it's positively excruciating. Mrs. McPhillips moaning after Frankie is shot dead outside the house. Victor McLaglin however delivers exactly the right kind of overdone performance. Wardrobe has stuffed him into a too-small jacket so that he seems to be bursting out of it like Frankenstein's monster. His every movement seems to go a little farther than it was intended to. When he slaps his cap on his head, he bops himself on the temple. A big, blustering, blubbering baby, he seems constantly drunk. He betrays his best friend for the reward money which will take him and his would-be girl to America, not a good guy in the ordinary sense. Yet we wince as he begins to spend the 20 pounds, more and more of it during a wild, alcoholic night, because every expensive and grandiose gesture takes him farther from his dream. I wouldn't argue it, but I can understand why he won an Oscar.<br /><br />As for Max Steiner's score, wow. Every movement, already overdone, is not only underlined by the Mickey Mouse music but highlighted in glossy yellow. It shouldn't have happened -- the heavenly choirs, the endearing young charms, the minstrel boy, the gurgling tune while McLaglen drinks from the bottle. It would have been better off with no score at all.<br /><br />Well, how is it as a whole? Dated -- by any measure, but not a product of its times. That's why I admire it. Yes, the symbolism is clumsy at times. McLaglen, a real dummy, bumping his head against a hanging sign. The fog. The blind man. But what impresses me is how little of this was being tried at the time. What strikes us as overly arty today was in 1936 something quite different from what was seen in most of the programmers being ground out at the time. If it falls short at times, it doesn't matter. The movie was an act of courage, politically and morally as well as poetically. (The legion of decency condemned it because of a scene in a brothel.) A director's goal should exceed his grasp, or what's a script for? Watching it now, however, in 2006, the story is more disturbing than ever. John Ford obviously sympathized with the Irish rebels. They kill, but only out of what they see as necessity. ("He knows too much to live. What if he goes to the Tans? Oh, it's not me-self I'm thinking of but all of us, of Ireland herself.") The Irish are sentimentalized and sympathetic. I wonder if the Jihadists in the Middle East don't use a similar logic to justify their acts of violence.<|endoftext|>