Martin Scorsese/USA/1967+74; R4
Warner Bros, NZ$19.95 | Reviewed by Tim Wong

ORIGINALLY a graduate piece for NYC Film School, Martin Scorsese's Bring on the Dancing Girls (1965) developed into an ongoing affair, first with the addition of a romantic subplot in 1967 (retitled I Call First), and then a year later with the inclusion of a gratuitous "skin" scene at the request of exploitation distributor Joseph Brenner. The picture became known as Who's That Knocking at My Door?; Scorsese would go onto to direct his first great feature Mean Streets; star Harvey Keitel would traverse a similar route of critical success.

As an amalgam of narrative strains and creative phases (shot sporadically over several years, its inconsistency of 16 and 35mm stocks is particularly noticeable), the film melds reasonably well, juxtaposing JR's (Kietel) listless street life amongst delinquent buddies Joey and Sally Gaga, and his burgeoning relationship with a "girl" (Zina Bethune). They first meet on the Staten Island ferry, where he glances at pictures of John Wayne in a French magazine she's reading. Soon, he's enlightening her on the greatness of The Searchers; then, as they stroll across an apartment rooftop, he elaborates on the fury of Lee Marvin in The Man From Liberty Valance. Later, they attend a screening of Rio Bravo.

Granted, this is a piecemeal formative work – an extended student film that Scorsese makes no secret of disliking – but bears thrilling early insight into the director's book of plays: Italian-American angst, Little Italy, faith and Catholicism, occasional gussets of anger and violence. Visually, there's evidence of aesthetic grace and flair, while aurally, it's peppered with banter between guys busting balls in thick New York accents to the tune of a jukebox soundtrack. Though this would all come to fruition in the electric Mean Streets, the foundations were laid here. Few American filmmakers make movies as personal as Scorsese; for him, this would be the mere first of many.


SEVENTIES stalwart Ellen Burstyn – of The Last Picture Show, of The Exorcist – saw Mean Streets as custodian of a yet-to-be-filmed script entitled Alice Doesn't Live Here Anymore. On the prowl for fresh, exciting talent, she admired the film so much that on Francis Ford Coppola's recommendation, hired a nervous Scorsese to direct what would be his first studio picture. Marty admitted to knowing nothing about the female species prior to the making of the film; clearly, he was quick learner.

Arriving on the cusp of the women's movement, Alice Doesn't Live Here Anymore was, like so many films of the decade, inherently of the moment. It's a bastion of the single mom movie: Alice (Burstyn) is married, unhappy but content (she can't live without a man, so she says), and with a loving foul-mouthed son (Alfred Lutter, displaying great repartee with an equally lively Burstyn). The husband's no saint, but supports his family diligently until suddenly is killed in a car accident. The wheels of change are set into motion: Alice is forced to find a job, a new life, if not independence itself.

Julia Roberts or Reese Witherspoon would have turned this into a pink-tinted chick flick; not Burstyn, who after acquiring the Robert Getchell script, noted in Peter Biskind's Easy Riders Raging Bulls that it was "written like a Rock Hudson-Doris Day movie," and needed "the opposite of polish" and "roughing up." As Burstyn's "baby" (although taking no credit, she essentially executive produced), Scorsese's presence is somewhat muted, but still palpable, particularly in the audacity of the opening scene: a soft focus gibe at how rosy old Hollywood might've dealt with Alice, beginning with a Blue Velvet-frilled title sequence, before cutting to a sound-stage setting, complete with matte backdrop, artificial sunset and diorama props.

This is Alice as a child, embellished in a flashback, already plucky and headstrong, muttering something about "I can sing it better that Alice Faye" ("You'll Never Know" from Hello Frisco, Hello scores in the background). Before she can prove it, the camera protracts, launching into a trademark Scorsese tracking shot across the rooftops of Socorro, New Mexico to "All The Way From Memphis" some 27 years later. Warners apparently scoffed at this, calling it too "artsy"; similarly, Scorsese, Burstyn, and the studio tussled with the ending, eventually finding some middle ground between Alice leaving the rugged David (Kris Kristofferson, the man she falls in love with) to pursue a singing career in Monterey, and settling down with him in Tucson. Some decry David's impulse to discard everything on a whim and follow Alice – that she gets to have her cake and eat it too only serves to reaffirm her codependent existence – but few can deny it satisfying in resolution.

Scorsese would toil with "happy" endings again – namely, on New York, New York (one time the boy didn't get the girl). However much he wrestled with Alice's conclusion, the compromise on this occasion worked. Notably, when Alice embraces David, ready to set off as partners into the sunset, customers at the diner she works at burst into spontaneous applause. It's a whimsical high-point in a film that teeters on the edge of hard-luck realism – Alice's short-lived tryst with the affable-yet-deceptively violent Ben (Harvey Keitel) comes to mind – counterbalanced with moments of comic and romantic liberation. In a perfect coda, Scorsese signs off with a shot of mother and son, avoiding the genre cliche he no doubt was dreading.

The film may have come together, but Burstyn and Scorsese never quite saw eye-to-eye according to Biskind. Either way, she went on to win a Best Actress Oscar for the role; he moved on to greater things himself.


EXTRAS come in retrospective form. On Who's That Knocking at My Door?, we're given an incidental 12-minute "Making of" featurette. The commentary proves more noteworthy; while only running 42-minutes, it covers far more ground by way of Scorsese and directorial assistant Mardik Martin's reflections.

Alice Doesn't Live Here Anymore features a theatrical trailer, 19-minutes of interviews with Burstyn and Kristofferson, and a 50-minute commentary shared between Scorsese, Burstyn, Kristofferson and Diane Ladd. Ladd's input comes off as the strongest of the four, with great personal anecdotes tinged with some genuine emotion – specifically, when recalling with fondness her time spent rehearsing with Scorsese. Fittingly, Ladd's turn as bolshy waitress Flo saw her nominated for a Best Supporting Actress Oscar.