By Calum Marsh
By Michelle Orange
By Michael Atkinson
By Simon Abrams
By Zachary Wigon
By Aaron Hillis
By Casey Burchby
By Stephanie Zacharek
A new book by an obscure film writer with the suspicious handle J. Hobermana blacklist pseudonym?occasions this 14-title salute at BAM, curated by the author himself. Moving from the immediate postWorld War II period to Eisenhowers re-election in 1956, An Army of Phantoms: American Movies and the Making of the Cold War collates action in Hollywood, Washington, D.C., and around the 38th parallel, defining the era as one in which collective drama was elevated to a cosmic struggle against National Insecurity for possession of the Great Whatzit by the movies.
That Whatzit refers to the doomsday device Ralph Meekers swinging detective seeks in Kiss Me Deadly (1955), one of several classic zeitgeist-condensations in the series, along with Johnny Guitar (1954), starring HUAC-friendly witness Sterling Hayden in the title role, with Ben Cooper tortured into naming names.
On other fronts, Gregory Peck leads a detail of misfit soldiers attempting to hold a mountain pass against hordes of Apaches in Gordon Douglass wasteland cavalry Western Only the Valiant (1951), which can be taken as a Battle of Thermopylae replay or a containment-policy primer. The latter reading is encouraged by a double-feature pairing with Rear Admiral John Fords grudging, trudging frontline doc This is Korea! (1951), in which artillery and napalm pour endlessly onto an invisible enemy that is always, maybe, over the next frozen hill.
Introducing one of pop cultures most enduring flexible metaphors, Invasion of the Body Snatchers (1956) leads the sci-fi contingent, in which screen space invaders are suggested as stand-ins for Commies. Nothing, however, seems so much set on another planet as Storm Warning (1951), in which Ginger Rogers hooks up with D.A. Ronald Reagan to break the code of silence around the Ku Klux Klan in a small California town. Part of the films premise is that the KKK isnt explicitly involved in racial terror; other than a violent prejudice against out-of-town folks, they might pass for a hooded Kiwanis Club.
As we breathlessly anticipate One Tree Hill star Paul Johanssons adaptation of Ayn Rands Atlas Shrugged, King Vidors one-of-a-kind, Rand-y melodrama The Fountainhead (1949) will have to tide us over. Uncompromised individualist architect Gary Cooper rails against classicist porticoes and, by sheer willpower, fills the Manhattan skyline with International-style matte paintings. Monumental camp right up to the climactic elevator-ride into Coopers crotch, The Fountainhead endures as hardline anti-collectivist Russian émigré Rands gift to her adopted country: a blueprint for a popular art as irony-dumb and straitjacketed as the Socialist Realism Stalin was pushing back home.
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