Three Films about Borders

The recently departed Peter Bogdanovich was one of the great filmmakers of his generation, but while New Hollywood was out making rock ’n’ roll movies, Bogdanovich took his cue from classical Hollywood where storytelling was straight, dialogue was flamboyant, and romance ended with a pan to the window. He was also one of the most thoughtful and dedicated cinephiles to fall in love with the art-form, once stating, “There are no old movies really – only movies you have already seen and ones you haven’t.” With this in mind, let’s take a look at three movies that may have slipped by you when they were bright, shiny, and new.

Since this issue of MOOP is all about barriers and borders, we have to start with a classic image of the border: Mexico. It’s a cliche of the Wild West that no matter how many dollars are stolen or bodies stacked up, Mexico is a haven where outlaws can grow old in the sun. A terrific novel that turns this idea on its head is Jim Thompson’s The Getaway (1958), a classic heist and head-for the-border story that ends in an obscure land that is a kind of hell. While this was cut from the Peckinpah adaptation in 1972, it must have been firmly in the mind of Thompson fan Quentin Tarantino when penning From Dusk Till Dawn (1996).

Directed by Robert Rodriguez, From Dusk Till Dawn is a single film acting as its own double bill, a full grindhouse experience, before the earnest homage Tarantino and Rodriguez would attempt a decade later. The film follows the Gecko brothers on the run as they take a family hostage and head for Mexico, but what they find there is a lot farther south of heaven. Like the opening track of Pulp Fiction (1994) abruptly channel-hopping from Dick Dale to Kool & the Gang, the tonal switch of From Dusk Till Dawn is unexpected and thrilling, going from a crime flick with whip-smart QT dialogue (that even he half manages to deliver), to a grotesque horror flick full of Tom Savini’s practical effects wizardry. It’s mad, but a hell of a lot of fun.

While borders are often between countries, Berlin’s historical divide has served as a fascinating backdrop for filmmakers, including Luca Guadagnino’s remake of Dario Argento’s cornea-scorching ‘giallo’, Suspiria (2018), and Martin Ritt’s The Spy Who Came In From The Cold (1965), both exploring fractured identities. While more commonly used as a backdrop for serious exploration, the divided city has also been a source for comedy, including the brilliant Goodbye Lenin (2003), following a young man post-fall of the wall desperate to maintain the illusion of a communist East Berlin so as not to shock his mother back into a coma.

My favourite comedy of this kind is Billy Wilder’s One, Two, Three (1961), a picture that may not be as instantly recognisable as Some Like It Hot (1958) or The Apartment (1960), but is every bit as sharply written and a thousand times faster. It follows West Berlin’s Coca-Cola executive McNamara (James Cagney) tasked with looking after his boss’s socialite daughter who, of course, falls for a passionate communist East Berliner, leaving the exec to clear up the mess before the boss flies in. Cagney fizzes with the energy of a shaken Coke can, firing off joke after joke that will leave you breathless either from laughter or the relentless pace. This is the very definition of ‘they don’t make 'em like they used to’.

While physical walls and fences hold sway in our imaginations, sometimes it’s the invisible boundaries of language that can be the hardest to overcome. Miscommunication can be the backbone of comedy, or provoke immense frustration and a unique kind of terror in audiences. Brazil (1985) is a frustrating vision of bureaucratic doublespeak worthy of Kafka, while being unable to convince anyone of a desperate situation in Rosemary’s Baby (1968) is the stuff of nightmares. Communication is one of humankind’s greatest tools in triumphant movies like Lumet’s 12 Angry Men (1957), but sometimes clear communication and common sense simply fail, as is the case in the exemplary Paths Of Glory (1957).

This World War I drama directed by Stanley Kubrick follows Col. Dax (Kirk Douglas) who is to serve as defence for three soldiers on trial to be executed as a warning against cowardice after a failed attempt to storm a strategic point. While often described as a cold and emotionally distant filmmaker, Kubrick's Paths of Glory burns with a passion for communication and understanding as our best course to overcome barriers, and the disaster inherent in failing to do either. The film closes with one of his most emotive scenes, that of a young German girl singing in her native tongue to French soldiers who don’t understand a word, but feel every word of the song.

Jack Wightman occasionally leaves his home either for coffee, the cinema or to browse a bookshop. If you don’t happen to find him there, please send for help – he will most likely be trapped under his book collection.