film is love.

The Ascent (Shepitko, 1977)

2008-11-06T01:37:00.002Z

An unsettling sense of disconnect permeates The Ascent (1977). Further scrutiny reveals a surprising source for the phenomenon: a simple segregation of black and white. Its first half is situated almost entirely in snow-smothered Belarus, where high-contrast photography figuratively exposes the two divergent strands of morality that will come to dominate the film's psychological canvas. In these initial chapters, Larisa Shepitko shows few qualms in pursuing a partisan approach to her subject matter: this is World War II, where the Soviet populace struggle to survive alongside the malevolent spectre of their German tormentors. It certainly appears as if the director's aesthetics are being used to sculpt a patriotic tale of good vs. evil.

But perhaps inevitably, all is not as it seems in Shepitko's sombre terrain. Although this most basic of dualisms haunts the entirety of her characters' journey, the director's moral examination probes deeper than one might initially suspect. When the German threat physically materializes midway through the film, The Ascent navigates away from the either/or oppositions that have heretofore defined its thematics, and veers into murkier philosophical territory. Shepitko's staging adapts accordingly, substituting panoramic distance for pragmatic intimacy. As her long-shots surrender their filmic prevalence to scrutinizing close-ups, so the scrupulous distinction between black and white blurs into a more fully-formed grayscale palette. The director's grasp of these most basic cinematic tools (distance, colour) cannot be underestimated; her enactment of filmmaking 101 allowing her to maximize the visual effectivity of her disparate scopes. Furthermore, Shepitko pioneers a type of organically metaphysical camera, whose kineticism (or lack of) seems acutely attuned to the temperamental rhythms of the natural world - human subconsciousness included. During particularly nerve-racking moments, her vibrant - and at times violent - camerawork embodies the tenuous relationship forged by the film's most pressing elements: national consciousness (painted with broad, severe strokes) and the individual psyche (more complex, confused).

The Ascent is most alive when exploring the expanses offered by the Belarussian countryside, in which it discovers a brand of lyrical realism that intoxicates the senses. Nevertheless, the film's greatest gift is also its biggest flaw. Shepitko's visual style is ravishing to the point where its absence during the confined spaces of the film's second half is felt all too resolutely by the viewer. Undoubtedly, this is her intent; the transition from agoraphobia to claustrophobia inducing a dissonance that reinforces the inhumanity of the protagonists' incarceration. Yet in opting for such a technique, the director strips away at the imagery that grounds her shamelessly allegorical narrative in authenticity. Without the open spaces in which her camera thrives, The Ascent begins to sag under the weight of its Christian metaphors: this is, in essence, a 20th-century reconceptualization of the Jesus/Judas relationship. Jesus (Sotnikov) is venerated beyond belief, whilst Judas (Rybak) exchanges his integrity for survival - degenerating into delusional paranoia as a result. Has Shepitko therefore duped us? Are her attempts to comprehend the individual/national conscience merely a disguise for yet another dualism (hero vs. villain), this time with a Biblical twist?

To assume as such would require Shepitko to simplify the source that inspired her - and she does anything but. No doubt, her contemporary spin lacks subtlety (Sotnikov-as-Jesus gets Dietrich-esque star lighting, whereas Rybak is outright decried as "Judas!" by an insignificant bystander), but fortunately the director isn't concerned with archetypes so much as she's interested in the spiritual dilemmas that birth them. Lest we forget that all this takes place under the guise of an intense war film, where every breath could potentially be the character's last. As The Ascent takes flight, the friction generated by its oppositional characterizations provokes a reactionary meditation on the director's own existential ethics. What is heroism? Is it compatible with everyday survival? Does patriotism have any value to the individual? Who defines betrayal? What does it mean to live? What does it mean to die? Under the umbrella of her conventional plot mechanisms, Larisa Shepitko weaves an intricate parable that asks many questions and searches desperately for their answers. That search may well be in vain, but as the viewer eventually comes over to the realization that it's Judas and not Jesus that we're asked to identify with, Shepitko's sonorous portrait of humanity-in-limbo assumes a resonance that's nothing short of thunderous.

Brick and Mirror (Golestan, 1965)

2008-11-06T01:17:00.002Z

I expect that my experiences with Iranian cinema have generally conformed to those of my fellow arthouse junkies. That is to say, I'm familiar with (and incidentally, a huge admirer of) the films of Abbas Kiarostami, and adequately acquainted with his New Wave contemporaries. Still, as far as I was concerned, the birth of the country's film industry coincided with its emergence onto the international festival scene during the 1990s.

Imagine my surprise then, when I had the opportunity to acquire a pre-revolutionary film from 1965. Was this to say that Iranian cinema existed before Kiarostami? Before even Dariush Mehrjui's The Cow (1969) - widely credited with kickstarting the New Wave? A chance to outperform my comrades in the obscurity stakes is not a temptation that someone like myself can humanly resist, so naturally I snapped up the oddity - entitled Brick and Mirror - without a moment's hesitation, despite knowing approximately zero about either film or filmmaker Ebrahim Golestan.

Cinema, in both its breadth and its depth, is a beast that will forever remain unfathomable to the 21st century enthusiast. Who knows just how many masterworks are currently lost in the annals of oblivion? How is it possible for even the most ardent devotee to comprehend the real gravity of everything that's preceded them? With over a century of history and a reach that's close to globe-spanning, this is a medium doesn't make life easy for its followers. Yet for all its innate futility, the disciple's mission is not one that's without its rewards. As a (budding) cinephile myself, I can claim with fair certainty that there are few greater (intellectual) pleasures than the joy of cinematic discovery.

It's that sensation, that adrenaline rush, that abstract high that coursed through my veins during Brick and Mirror. Perhaps the element of surprise affected my judgment - in the Internet age where hype is impossible to escape (not necessarily a bad thing, but undeniably tiresome on occasion), it feels liberating to enter into a filmic contract without any expectations. Even so, upon further reflection and post-viewing scrutiny, I find myself arriving at the same conclusion that I formed immediately after film’s end: this is remarkable, essential filmmaking, which deserves far greater recognition than that which can be provided by a critical flyweight like me.

Brick and Mirror offers us two leads: a taxi driver and his on/off lover. One night, after giving a cab ride to a mysterious woman, the former discovers a baby in the back of his car. Cue an episodic 24hr journey through a cross-section of Iran's urbania, where everyone he turns to - from bohemians and tramps to doctors and lawyers - stumbles in their attempts to find a feasible solution to his problem. Only with the appearance of his smart and worldly lover is he able to discover some sort of tentative peace. The couple's brief moments of harmony reveal their potential to forge a makeshift family with the abandoned child. But to do so would require a commitment that might be beyond their capabilities as struggling, blue-collar citizens who value their individualism. In essence, the baby is a catalyst for self-discovery. The real journey here is into their respective consciences, and it's one that doesn't necessarily provide comforting results.

It's easy to see how Brick and Mirror could have influenced the New Wave features that followed in its wake. Golestan is a socially-conscious filmmaker, whose neo-neorealist direction creates a compelling discord against the more metaphysically-inclined analyses upheld by his screenplay. From a contemporary Western perspective, his approach to Brick's subjects grounds the film in an authenticity that invites the viewer's interest on a secondary level as historical document. With the lines between narrative and reality often blurred, Golestan's observational record of moral degeneration, spiritual stagnation and financial deprivation retains its ability to surprise and unnerve. We never get the sense that we're watching characters here - these are real human beings, facing up to the difficulties of everyday life in Tehran. It's these attributes that lend such credence to the work of many of Iran's later, more acclaimed directors.

This is not to say that Golestan is without his stylistic flourishes, nor should one assume that the film is simply a record of poverty and hardship. Brick and Mirror's opening sequence takes place inside our protagonist's taxi as he slowly makes his way through the neon nightscapes of modern Tehran. (One wonders if Martin Scorsese had come across this prior to the making of a certain classic from 1976...) Soon afterwards, the film takes a sharp left turn into the world of expressionistic mysticism during an encounter in a dilapidated house. And Golestan, free from cinematic conventions as we know them, liberally alternates between handheld camerawork and static long-takes, whilst frequently defying the 180 degree rule that's such a staple of continuity editing. Meanwhile, his journey into the night takes the audience into a vibrant café where alcohol flows freely, where women can dance in Western attire, and where (presumably) homosexual men exist as equals. Needless to say, this is worlds removed from the portrait of Iranian life that many of us have become accustomed to in recent years.

Indeed, the film's strongest presence is the female lover who, at one point, struts around like a sex kitten in her undergarments. Golestan maintains too much distance to venerate any of his characters, but he clearly values the forthright emotional honesty of the woman over the commitmentphobic, responsibility-shunning man. Nevertheless, the director takes pains to portray his character's malaise as symptomatic of a much wider condition plaguing masculinity during the era. Brick and Mirror reverberates on an allegorical plane, as a cinematic treatise on the resounding failure of government and establishment to provide for their people. A prolonged discussion between a police chief and a doctor exposes the exasperation and anger that even respected pillars of the community feel towards their society. Yet neither feels the need to act upon it. This is a trait that one finds in all of the film's men: there is much talk, but when it comes to genuine action, they wilt.

An external, presumably malevolent spectre instills a paranoia that no doubt affects their mindsets - an ominous radio plays underscores the aforementioned opening sequence by discussing "anguish", "fear" and the "thousand-eye perils"; and our protagonist spends a lengthy amount of time worrying about the judgments of his unseen neighbours after taking lover and child home for the night. The nature of this implacable fear is never quite clear to us, though its enfeebling effect upon his mentality (and, consequently, his decison-making process) is painfully apparent. Against this context, the film's most significant female characters morph into beacons of strength, better-equipped to tackle social problems than their male counterparts.

For all his feminist tendencies and institutional critiques however, it appears that Golestan is first and foremost a humanist. He remains forever attuned to the intimate dramas that define his emotional content. In this director's view, both personal and political are as fundamental as one another, and Brick and Mirror is at its core a desperate plea for the reconciliation of these increasingly divergent modes of thought. His film reaches its absolute zenith by achieving just that during the unforgettable finale at an orphanage. Actualizing his promise as a documentarian, Golestan dispenses with his narrative trajectory altogether and instead focuses in on the faces and bodies of Iran's forgotten children. His seamless montage confronts the viewer with the uninhibited joy and purity of blameless innocents. Their figurative weight is astounding, demanding a call to action. How can we live with ourselves if the world inherited by the next generation is one that's in complete disarray? And yet, damningly, it turns out that our two leads can do just that. The film ends ironically: another taxi ride intimating technological progression despite the abiding feeling of moral immobility.

Brick and Mirror undoubtedly appears even more striking today when one notes Iran's path through history since 1965. Bear in mind that I was subjected to an abysmal copy of the film, that required the utmost concentration even to make out the characters. It was worth it. I wouldn't be surprised if this was the most sexually frank and overtly polemic Iranian film ever made (not that it's particularly indulgent in either category). But what do I know? If a film as accomplished as Brick and Mirror can remain neglected for so long, then who's to say that there aren't other, more critical, more damning and daring Iranian masterworks out there waiting for reappraisal? And why stop at Iran? How much cinema have we, even in the West, supposedly lost to the hands of time and misguided distributors? As cinephiles, we spend so much time adhering to the canon and listening to what other, apparently more distinguished critics have to tell us. How else have Citizen Kane and La règle du jeu - both superb films - retained their virtual monopoly at the top of Sight & Sound's Top Ten lists for the last half-century? It's too easy to think "the buck stops here" when it comes to this most infinitely rewarding of art forms. It doesn't. There is no objective truth in so subjective a medium, so why place limitations on the potential gifts that it can bestow upon us? Granted, accessibility is an issue - though it shouldn't prevent us from searching, from seeking, from fighting. I realize that Brick and Mirror could have been a stinking mountain of dog turd. But isn't this a chance that we have to take? Perhaps I feel too great a sense of duty here. Perhaps one should exercise some restraint with one's devotion. I don't know. I guess I just love adventures. And thanks to this one, I hope that at least a few more individuals will be aware of Brick and Mirror's existence.

Cat People (Tourneur, 1942)

2008-11-06T01:12:00.002Z

Producer Val Lewton and director Jacques Tourneur reached immortality within seventy minutes during their first collaboration together. 1942's Cat People is today noted as the first in a series of nine films Lewton churned out as head of RKO's horror unit. But this isn't the sort of genre film that contemporary audiences have been trained (bludgeoned?) to expect from Hollywood. Even by Production Code standards, Cat People appears scarce of genuinely shocking imagery. But what the film lacks in discernible horror it makes up for in psychological assaults. See, for Tourneur and Lewton, there's no greater terror than that which can be imagined by the viewer.

Tourneur's aesthetics reflect this belief, and the sinister atmosphere that he conjures up is all the more remarkable given the financial limitations imposed on a B-picture of this ilk. To watch Cat People is to experience a bravura demonstration of stylistic economy, where simplicity reaps huge rewards. Consider the verticalized decor of (anti-)heroine Irena's apartment, which creates a veritable human cage that's intrinsically bound to the animalism that plagues her. Or how about the masterful editing displayed during the sequence where Irena stalks her nemesis, Alice? Expertly-modulated cuts give the impression of diminishing time, a sensation that's heightened by the expressivity of the director's favoured low-angle shots. All the while, Tourneur's deployment of realistic sound effects (clicking heels in the aforementioned sequence, screeching animals at a pet store) ratchets up the tension to near breaking point.

Nothing evokes invisible menace quite like his manipulation of light, however. The majority of the film's scenarios occur during nightfall, with darkness subsequently posing an omnipresent threat to the characters' everyday lives: it haunts them, it envelops them and, ultimately, it entraps them. Theirs is a world engulfed by shadows - and it is precisely these shadows that allow Tourneur to substitute visible monsters for intangible abstractions. As a result of their malevolent presence, the director is able to sow the seeds of fear without ever resorting to shock-mongering. One recalls the memorable swimming pool scene, where reflected light creates a phantasmagorical backdrop against which glowering silhouettes induce the most piercing panic attacks. This is atmospheric horror at its finest.

One could be forgiven for expecting the simplicity that characterizes Cat People's style to concurrently infiltrate its thematic content. But this is a film that surprises the viewer with its psychological density (in spite of its inherent ambiguity). Although its subject matter appears somewhat lurid on paper, Tourneur's sensitive approach to the material enables him to transcend his settings, with Cat People ensuingly morphing from pulp fiction to pulp poetry. Simone Simon's awkward but intuitive performance as the conflicted Irena undoubtedly plays into this filmic elevation. In her near-literal embodiment of the femme fatale, the actress deftly subverts the archetype and tentatively guides the film towards an examination of female sexuality, a satire of middle-class conventionality and an exposé of the transgressive - but in her hands utterly humanistic - impulses that torment the individual. Granted, the story performs its own part, populating the film with characters of questionable motive (husband Oliver included), but the vulnerability that Simon reveals in her social alienation, not to mention the desperation with which she attempts to fend off her supposed destiny, consolidates her right to reside in our affections.

The film arguably loses a fair amount of dramatic steam during its later scenes, where the presence of the smarmy psychiatrist Dr. Judd both convolutes and nullifies its thrilling potency. And yet conversely, it's in these moments that its at its most beguiling. Irena is a character that seems ripe for Freudian analysis, but Cat People contends that rational thought is of little use when attempting to comprehend the complexities of the human psyche. Dr. Judd's inept counsel has the ironic power to repel the viewer into an acceptance of the supernatural. As the film swiftly brings the curtain down upon its narrative, one message reverberates above all else: some matters will forever remain beyond our grasp. Fortunately, the spiritually-deformed beauty of Cat People doesn't have to be one of them.

Mother Joan of the Angels (Kawalerowicz, 1961)

2008-09-30T17:04:00.003+01:00

The metaphysical malady that plagues Jerzy Kawalerowicz's 1961 Cannes-winning feature is a familiar one, begging for comparisons with the more widely-seen exorcism pictures that followed in its wake. But even as the possessed antagonist of its title feverishly courts Satan in a manner that's wholly reminiscent of a certain William Friedkin film, it's clear that Mother Joan of the Angels is cut from a different, unique cinematic cloth.

Kawalerowicz's mélange of unbridled eroticism, anti-dogmatic rage, and ecclesiastical chaos is disconcertingly repressed by the devotional austerity that overwhelms his mise-en-scène. The film consequently teeters on the brink - its delirious psychology threatening to explode into some sort of expressionistic cornucopia, but ultimately settling for a visual vacuum that harbours only claustrophobic desolation and confrontation (characters frequently stare into the camera, initiating a jarring intimacy with the viewer). A symbolically-charred stake amidst a barren field is the ominous result of this discrepancy between form and content: those who wish to traverse the distance between the corporeal and ethereal face a date with a form of social barbarism that masquerades as justice or destiny. Against this context of spiritual subjugation, the blasphemous hysteria of Mother Joan and her Sisters borders on the rational - an understandable result of their stifled passions. Human needs are disfigured into satanic desires, exacerbated by an institutional framework that values condemnation over empathy.

When the pious Father Jozef enters into this hermetic netherworld, he does so with the intent of saving Mother Joan's damned soul. In actuality, it's his devout veneer that comes undone, unleashing a torrent of doubts and uncertainties that culminates with a provocative dream sequence featuring an angry rabbi (the two individuals, it turns out, are not dissimilar). What transpires alongside this scenario is a wholly unorthodox romance that finds mutual longing displaced into medieval Catholicism's more ritualistic domains. Thus, Jozef and Joan's answer to the sex scene is to self-flagellate their naked torsos at opposite ends of a room, before staring awkwardly at one another after their suffering is complete. Remove the doctrines that they adhere to, and these individuals seem woefully ill-equipped to deal with the pressures of reality.

Tellingly, an image of a downward-facing human cross (Jozef) opens the film, promising an inverted transcendence that's actualized by the conclusion's final, unsettling act of kindness. Following the discovery of moral destitution in a fundamentalist society then, Mother Joan exalts only one solution: compassion. But Kawalerowicz's critical view of static religious ideals lends vigour to the delivery of his material, and in its unnervingly subdued soundscapes he finds only the figurative howls of internal torment. How can compassion survive in a world of such disarray? Mother Joan of the Angels casts its glare upon the increasing divergence between man and institution, and suggests that the former holds the true key to enlightenment. Even then however, we may not find the answers that we're looking for.

Street of Shame (Mizoguchi, 1956)

2008-09-22T00:12:00.002+01:00

Street of Shame is about prostitutes. Working with perhaps the most complex narrative of his career, Kenji Mizoguchi observes the interconnected lives of five such women from a sympathetically detached viewpoint. The differing ideals, motives and social backgrounds that colour their respective experiences are woven into a multifaceted tapestry of totality, providing an expansive image of their profession that's as broad as it is deep. In an early scene, a cleaner (presumably a former prostitute herself) recalls an era when their livelihood was looked upon more favourably: "...we were seen as courtesans, trained in the arts... and we were treated just like noble women." Past glories have little effect upon the present reality however, and in the film's opening minutes Mizoguchi is quick to place the ideal of the courtesan in her 1950s context. An Anti-Prostitution Bill going through the national Diet is discussed almost immediately, and its developments are mentioned with a regularity that lends a quiet urgency to the ensuing drama. Meanwhile, the desperate straits of the era become painfully discernible when the female leads resort to harrassing their potential clients for business - which, unsurprisingly, is a method that repels more than it attracts. It soon becomes clear that the position occupied by these women is a precarious one, miles removed from any outdated allusions towards "nobility".

Street of Shame is about sex. A risqué shot of Machiko Kyô's derrière threatens to endow the film with amatory undercurrents that live up to its sordid Anglicized title. However, the director refrains from eroticizing his subjects, with the female body being viewed less as a figure of desire and more as a social commodity. Thus, although the characters discuss copulation with a bluntness that may surprise the audience (particularly when touching upon taboo topics such as incest), their conversations are overwhelmed by more frequent references to their finances (or lack of) - which, of course, are inherently bound to their sex lives. Mizoguchi's discussion of transactional intercourse is founded upon a visible delineation between the respective worlds of the customers and their "purchases", revealed most acutely by the plight of the middle-aged Yumeko. Her forays from the artificial sets of the akasen district into the location shots of the outside world result in only alienation and condemnation. The director is unyielding in his assertions: sex and pleasure are far from interrelated - and in selling the former, Yumeko and her colleagues seemingly relinquish all rights to the latter.

Street of Shame is about men. The lack of significant male characters may temper the vigour of his arguments, but Mizoguchi nonetheless remains implacably critical of his own gender's influence in this cycle of exploitation. His recriminations are discreetly enmeshed within the narrative, minimizing the disruption to its female-centric dramatic flow, but it quickly becomes obvious that each woman's predicament is at least to some extent motivated by the male(s) in her life. Cruel fathers, inconsiderate partners and ungrateful sons inhabit the background of the film, engendering a feminine need to abnegate. Moreover, the brothel's Madame is superseded in power by her husband, who twice rounds up his workers to give resoundingly hollow pep talks designed to extol the benefits of their vocation. Even men who are extraneous to the womens' everyday lives manage to exert their influence: note the aforementioned Anti-Prostitution Bill, whose merits are debated by a male-dominated parliament. Mizoguchi is astute enough to shine his empathetic light upon all of his flawed individuals, but the impression of female subjugation at the hands of a still-patriarchal society is one that's hard to dispel - this, despite the irony of the male characters' dependence upon the oppressed parties.

Street of Shame is about modernity. As the shrill, frenzied sounds of Toshirô Mayuzumi's avant-garde score accompany an establishing vista of 1950s Tokyo during the opening credits, it becomes immediately apparent that this is a very different beast in its director's oeuvre. It is demarcated as a film attuned to contemporary concerns in a manner heretofore unseen within Mizoguchi's work: gone is the classicism and lyricism that both opens and defines his renowned jidai-geki pieces. In its place, there exists a meticulously-crafted melodramatic realism that allows him to discard the sentimental disposition of his most popular films and go straight for the jugular. The socio-political perspective that's present in so much of Mizoguchi's work now assumes the foremost prominence as he turns his attention to the breakdown of traditional family structures. There is little serenity in his examination, which is willing to plumb harrowing depths to illustrate the despondent underbelly of Japan's post-war economic miracle: the image of the über-maternal Hanae confessing to her husband ("I'm glad we decided not to commit suicide.") whilst cradling her malnourished baby in her arms is the sort of tangible human atrocity that only Mizoguchi could construct. And in his eyes, it is indeed a human atrocity for he points the finger of blame directly at a government that's failed its female citizens, and consequently its families. Newsbites from the Diet blare out from numerous radios, creating a politicized soundtrack against which the audience witnesses the limited employment opportunities available to the Japanese woman of the '50s. Almost all of the film's female leads dream of escaping their neon bordello (another irony: it's named Dreamland) but their limited earning potential as women is further hindered by the permanent stigma of a profession that none of them entered entirely through free will.

Street of Shame is about resilience. This is a film that confronts the issue of a prostitute's ignominy head-on and dares to question society's right to authorize that humiliation. Only one member of the original quintet, Yasumi, manages to leave Dreamland for good - but she does so through a deception that effectively exterminates her conscience and morality. Mizoguchi notes the heavy emphasis placed upon performance in this environment, and when Yasumi continues the charade in her next line of work, the blurred distinction between her role and her reality implies that her physical prostitution has been supplanted by spiritual prostitution. Her apparent "escape" accordingly raises further questions about the viability of women in the commercial marketplace, and in doing so alludes to an entire history of female suffering that continues to weigh down most visibly upon her former co-workers. Like Yasumi, none of these women intrinsically require the audience's sympathies, but Mizoguchi's humanistic treatment of femininity-in-crisis elicits more than distanced admiration. His women are more likely to be seen fighting against one another than the powers-that-be, but with each of their personal conflicts they contribute to a cumulative vision of outdated-yet-neverending self-sacrifice that demands the viewer's active engagement with matters of gender equality. The film is a paean to their vulnerabilities as well as their strengths, but most of all it's a tribute to the women themselves.

Street of Shame is about style. His ninety-first film of a métier spanning three decades finds Mizoguchi doing everything except resting on his laurels. Indeed, one could argue that his filmic prose has never been so concise in its articulation. The director rises to the challenge of a dangerously convoluted narrative by refining the renowned aesthetic flourishes of Sansho the Bailiff and Ugetsu down to their threadbare essentials. What the later film lacks in pictorial beauty, it makes up for with stylistic complexity. The director uses depth of field and fluid long-takes to toy with the audience's spatial awareness: a simple track or zoom can expand or contract the planes of action within the frame, and in any one shot he can be using middleground and/or background to bring nuance to the foreground. Take, for example, the scene in which Yasumi visits a café to borrow more money from her benefactor: during their discussion they both dominate the frame, but Mizoguchi uses its depth to interweave a casual commentary on the subject of career openings with the image of a subservient waitress slaving away in the distance. His subdued visuals have rarely been so gloriously unassertive in their intricacies. Additionally, his editing grammar reaches a new level of sophistication, cutting effortlessly across five plotlines that converge and diverge with alarming inconsistency. Somehow, the stories find a way to feed into one another - often via the overarching theme of familial breakdown - and the friction generated by each cut infuses the text with all the potency of a seismic polemic against the social order. It's to Mizoguchi's credit that this impeccably synchronized crescendo of emotional violence retains an organic intensity that grounds it within a wholly identifiable reality.

Finally, Street of Shame is about Kenji Mizoguchi himself. Throughout his adult life, he had been a frequent consumer of prostitutes - a fact that boggles the mind when one considers the pro-feminist/anti-prostitution readings applied to so many of his films, this one included. Street of Shame's final coda however, may well expose the true nature of his personal convictions. [Spoiler]The director brings down the curtain by going full circle and turning his attention to the next generation: the latest addition to Dreamland's roster, a teenage virgin named Shizuko, makes her public "debut" in an uncharacteristic Mizoguchi close-up. As he scrutinizes her innocent but terrified face, she uncomfortably whispers to the passers-by - "come inside... please..." - and so the cycle begins once again. With his choice of shot, the director's camera eradicates its gender-neutral viewpoint and reverts to a perspective that boldly recalls the male gaze. But the last shot of his incomparable career is surely also Mizoguchi's gaze - and with it, he acknowledges the destructive potential of the profession once and for all. In a courageous move, the closing moments of Street of Shame reveal their true colours as a filmmaker's desire for redemption.[/Spoiler] Thus, the director's final gift to the world of cinema is also his most intimate and personal - and it somehow seems fitting that this poignant diatribe should have been cited as one of the factors behind the eventual ratification of the Anti-Prostitution Bill in 1958. There could be no greater tribute to the everlasting eloquence - and relevance - of Mizoguchi's cinematic expression.

Yôkihi (Mizoguchi, 1955)

2008-09-22T00:04:00.004+01:00

Mizoguchi's first of only two colour films is also one of the most obviously misread works in his oeuvre. The film's title, Yôkihi, can often be sighted masquerading under the guise of Princess Yang Kwei-fei or even The Empress Yang Kwei Fei. Alas, these monikers have little relation to the text at hand: the titular Kwei-fei is neither princess nor empress, but merely a servant girl who's pushed into the Emperor's court and, subsequently, his affections. (The UK Masters of Cinema DVD release reinterprets the title as the more appropriate Imperial Concubine Yang.)

Such pedantry may seem foolish: after all, what bearing can a poorly-translated title have on the content of the film? The answer is probably very little, but the failure of Western distributors to comprehend the relevance of Kwei-fei's role alludes to a more significant problem within the text itself. To return to the opening sentence, an informed viewer might expect Yôkihi to be misunderstood as a result of the camouflaged intricacies typically locked up inside Mizoguchi's visual style. This is not the case. Yôkihi's problems arise because it is perhaps the most misconceived and ill-judged effort from a director otherwise renowned for the precision of his craftsmanship.

The Chinese legend that birthed the film's premise seems ideally suited to Mizoguchi's favoured concerns. A tale of love and sacrifice that's centred upon female oppression at the hands of male political manoeuvring should, in theory, provide a home run for someone of his proto-feminist background. Consider also the privilege of witnessing a cinematic master direct in colour, not to mention the reteaming of Machiko Kyô and Masayuki Mori - two of the leads from Ugetsu, a film that resides amongst his most brilliant achievements. Surely with all this in mind, Yôkihi begins to scream "recipe for success".

Perhaps it is this misplaced faith in the sum of its exemplary parts that allows for the film's pitiful storytelling. Despite the acclaim of the source material and a screenplay penned by the director's regular collaborators, Yôkihi's narrative is riddled with flaws that sabotage the final product. The most glaring problem lies with the dialogue, which insists on vocalizing the subtext normally created by Mizoguchi's editing, framing and mise-en-scène - thus depriving his imagery of its trademark nuances. Thematic subtlety is surprisingly abandoned as the incessant talk of moral bankruptcy, political corruptness and, of course, oppression, browbeat the issues over the viewer's head.

Meanwhile, the three-act structure to which the narrative adheres causes further headaches with its careless execution. A detailed introduction does both too much and too little for the film as a whole, establishing characters and conflicts that the hurried later sections fail to address. Take the powerful Mother Abbess for example (deliciously played by Haruko Sugimura, Japan's answer to Thelma Ritter), who offers a tantalizing counterpoint to female abnegation in an early scene only to then be completely discarded as the film "progresses". Yôkihi simultaneously ignores characters that do merit further consideration - note how the Emperor's son, whose relevance to both prologue and epilogue cannot be underestimated, is absent for the entire duration of the film. Having spent so much time verbally articulating its themes, the director and his writers end up compromising on both the story's momentum and its character development to abysmal effect.

Moreover, the concept of plot has never been so visibly mechanical in a Mizoguchi effort, and the contrived transitions that propel it toward its conclusion are imbued with the exasperation of authors who, frankly, don't give a damn. At one point during the final act, Yôkihi reverts to describing the events of a temporal ellipsis with subtitles. There is no precedent for such laziness within either the film or its director's filmography, meaning that the decision comes across less as a stylistic tactic and more as a bizarre reproach to both the audience as well as the talents of its creators. Needless to say, these few minutes provide horrifying viewing for the Mizoguchi enthusiast, offering a culmination of the film's numerous troubles that's nigh-on unwatchable.

And yet bafflingly, when all is said and done, it's not Yôkihi's many mistakes that linger in the memory - it's the flashes of its director's unparalleled genius. Despite the hackneyed mess of a script that he does little to visibly tame, Mizoguchi manages to locate an opening that allows him to experiment. The film is bookended by sequences featuring the aged, now-former Emperor mourning his past - suggesting that the bulk of the content could be viewed through the filter of his memorializing perspective, thereby explaining some of the textual incoherencies whilst raising numerous questions about the male gaze. Familiar Mizoguchi territory? Of course, there is little within the narrative itself to imply that the writers are aware of these quasi-modernist inclinations, but the otherworldly atmosphere that Mizoguchi creates with his blend of languid camera movements, exquisite colour photography and ethereal musical accompaniments at least creates the possibility of an alternative reading.

Although Mizoguchi's visual style may be stripped of its nuances, its capacity for inspiring awe is conversely stronger than ever. One recalls the Lotus Pool scene, which marries the sensuality of Ugetsu's hot springs episode with the erotic frankness advocated by Naruse's Floating Clouds. Or how about the eerie beauty of the plum blossom sequence, whose beguling lyricism melds with the delicately opaque performances to create an indelible portrait of loneliness, as in The Life of Oharu? And then there's the climactic [Spoiler]self-sacrifice scene, which acknowledges the poignant model of dignity pioneered by Sansho the Bailiff's Anju, and remoulds it into an economical apex of melodramatic potency.[/Spoiler] In short: Yôkihi finds Mizoguchi the cinematic artist reverting to his old palettes to enliven the messiest canvas of his career. It's a testament to the director's mastery that the new decorations manage to equal, and perhaps even surpass the aesthetic majesty of earlier efforts.

As the camera searches for high angles amidst the polychromatic artifice, it is not unjustified to claim that the Emperor and Kwei-fei bear resemblances to lifeless figures in a painting. Factor in Mizoguchi's rigorous observation of social rituals (and, on a more basic level, a prologue that divulges the conclusion!) and the metaphorical noose around these characters necks seems tightened from the get-go. Gender politics and social obligations imprint themselves into the awkward diction and body language of the two leads, whose filmic "activity" functions as an extended metaphor for their actual captivity.

For a film that's so consumed by its characters restrictions then, it is perhaps appropriate that the most brilliant sequence in Yôkihi should be entirely concerned with the idea of movement. During a particularly artificial starry night, the prospective lovers adopt disguises to escape the regulations of their palatial abode. They arrive at a Festival of Lanterns where, after a trivial process of self-discovery on the Emperor's part as well as the random assistance of strangers that insist upon getting the pair drunk, the duo enact what is surely one of the most moving expressions of mutual desire in screen history. Kwei-fei dances, the Emperor plays guitar, and as their respective performances coalesce somewhere within a stratosphere of ecstasy, so the viewer understands the real value of personal freedom. These few, hypnotic minutes tell the story of the film as a whole. Despite resting upon a series of misguided clichés and contrivances, the end result here is the same as in any other Mizoguchi film from this period: his artistry prevails. Yôkihi might well be the most flawed work in his later canon, but its missteps allow the viewer to cherish its moments of bliss that much more.

Aleksandra (Sokurov, 2007)

2008-09-22T00:00:00.002+01:00

Sokurov's latest film casts his titular heroine as a defiant Mother Russia figure who's as eccentric as characters get in his closed artistic universe. Aleksandra's visit to her grandson, stationed at a military barracks in Chechnya, offers the director a rare opportunity to comment on contemporary regional turmoils. Those familiar with films such as The Sun however, will soon realize that Sokurov has minimal interest in politicizing his threadbare narratives. Instead, he typically elevates his film unto a plane above everyday reality: characters don't talk so much as they mumble against the audible gasps of their desolate environment; deliberately poor dubbing gives the effect of dialogue emanating from the subconscious; and all the while, a plaintive symphony interpolates the soundscape, punctuating the most emotionally-charged moments with a heavy dose of appealing irony. Sokurov's imagery remains as beautifully stark as ever, appearing as if saturated by a celestial presence that leaves the natural looking artificial. It is against this backdrop that Aleksandra and her companions can be caught moralizing with jarring frankness - their strained confessions forming the discursive backbone of the director's poetic ruminations on the wayward Russian spirit. This rambling approach to so substantial a subject pays dividends: the national question, stifled by Sokurov's elegiac construction, both transcends and relapses into something more akin to intimate self-analysis. The very notion of Russian identity is deconstructed into an abstract conflict of spiritualism vs. realism. Aleksandra embodies the former, her grandson the latter, and in his tender examination of their familial bond Sokurov charts the ebbs and flows of this most peculiar conception of nationality. Even if his evaluations are lacking and somewhat misguided in their political foundations, his crisis of the Russian soul's moody allure strikes a chord that's as relevant as much as it is resonant. When Aleksandra's Chechen counterparts bid her farewell at film's end, their outpouring of affection may well have concluded the most crushing fantasy of the 21st century.

Stazione Termini (De Sica, 1953)

2008-09-21T23:54:00.004+01:00

Jennifer Jones furrows her brow, Montgomery Clift flares his nostrils, and together they strive to breath life into the sterile romance that debilitates Vittorio De Sica's bizarre Stazione Termini (1953). Unfolding entirely inside Rome's titular train station, the accomplished director's English-language debut seems to draw clear inspiration from David Lean's Brief Encounter (1945), whilst anticipating his later Summertime (1955). De Sica embroiders an entirely different emotional fabric however: the romantic impulse is substituted for illicit carnality, and the tender, empathetic perspective that one associates with Lean's intimate dramas is noticeably absent. It remains unclear if this was De Sica's intention, or whether this is simply a byproduct of the execrable performances from his distinguished stars. Clift's brooding hyper-intensity is humorously undercut by his wavering attempts at an Italian accent, but all worst in show honours surely belong to Jones whose underwhelming "damsel in distress" schtick conveys as much human resonance as a brain-dead pig. With lipstick. And Dior.

Woefully misguided as the actors are, one must surely attribute some of the blame here to the film's creative team. A collaboration between screenwriters of such pedigree (Cesare Zavattini and Truman Capote are amongst the contributors) has no reason to feed the stars such laughably trite dialogue, nor should it facilitate such a conservative message (the maternal archetype is venerated beyond belief). And as for De Sica, Stazione Termini finds the filmmaker caught in perpetual limbo between the social documentarian of neorealism's heyday and the metteur en scène demands placed upon the Hollywood melodramatist. The ensuing awkwardness manifests itself in more than just the acting: the director lingers upon shots of ordinary people long after the stars have left the frame, evidently struggling to tailor his auteurial instincts to the conventions of continuity editing. His approach would seem refreshing if it refrained from painting its innocent bystanders as participants in an urban freakshow - what does one make of the vertically-challenged Kirk Douglas lookalike who drools over anything with a vagina and angrily clings to an orange? Or how about the gaggle of eccentric clergymen who overwhelm the screen at the most random intervals? And the crazed policeman-as-pervert who pulls "Fuck me!" faces at Jennifer Jones, of all women? De Sica may be attempting to represent the discomfort and shame felt by Jones's guilt-ridden adulteress, but he ends up creating a cross-section of Italian society that reveals a worrying sense of national self-loathing.

Like so many other entries in the genre of directorial missteps however, Stazione Termini has its merits. De Sica shows a mastery of visual style here that might surprise the viewer. The vibrant hubbub of the station is frequently wedded to expansive long-shots that revere the near-glacial beauty of its architecture. What ensues is an abiding feeling of disconnection from space and time (note the giant clocks that the director so often returns to) - and, given the iconic location, modernity. The director draws attention to this with the deftest of touches: shot/reverse-shots used during the lovers' conversations discreetly position each participant at opposite ends of the frame, highlighting the distance that separates them (and accentuating the moments of intimacy when they do share the frame). Moreover, at one point, Jones's face is filmed from a high-angle with toplighting, evoking memories of Dietrich, Garbo and the exoticized splendour of the fallen woman. The actress's ineptitude is advantageous here, drawing attention to both her characters' detachment as a clueless American in Italy, as well as her personal disconnect from the proponents of the shot's prototype.

De Sica's insinuations regarding the perils of modern life are admirable, going so far as to create an alternative narrative simply through the strength of his potent imagery. When the actual, contrived narrative - complete with its dour eroticism, simplistic orthodoxy and stultified emotional masochism - concludes with what is quite possibly the most elongated and laborious farewell in the history of forever, he might well have given the audience enough reason to wonder whether their feelings of nonchalance after ninety minutes of intensive "romantic melodrama" are intended.

But this is still a crock o'shit.

On Dangerous Ground (N. Ray, 1952)

2008-09-21T23:47:00.004+01:00

The cineaste's inherent need to categorize is masterfully exposed by Nicholas Ray's On Dangerous Ground (1952). With Bernard Herrmann's dynamically sinister score providing a serrated edge to the murky cityscapes of the opening credits, one could be forgiven for assuming that this is a film that will conform to the conventions of the urban noir. And indeed, for almost half an hour the director revels in the seedy underbelly of his dystopia, where perversity and profanity collide in a flurry of violence amidst the shadows. Credit the ominously restrained (for the most part) fervour of Robert Ryan's tortured police officer for grounding this segment with a psychological quandary that demands a resolution: how is it possible to survive in the gutters of society without losing one's humanity? In pursuit of those depths, Ray sends his cop on an ontological odyssey into the wilderness, via the morbid conceit of a manhunt for a murderer. Although the stylistic values of the noir appear to have evaporated, in the snow-covered desolation of the countryside the director locates the same crisis of morality that plagues the city. Accordingly, the film becomes a study of man in relation to his environment: in both locations, Ray follows his low-angle shots of the inhumanly tall Ryan with long-shots where the actor seems dwarfed by his ultimately empty surroundings. But all is not lost - without the neverending activity of urbania to shield him, Ryan's cop is at his most vulnerable. And then... he discovers Ida Lupino, blind yet resilient, and readily capable of empathising with his spiritual isolation. With a series of penetrating close-ups, Ray breaks down the defences that the pair have constructed against the world, and thereby emancipates their wounded souls. In mutual heartbreak and weariness, the duo enact a filmic ballad of loneliness that redefine the once unnerving snowy exteriors as a poetic source of revitalization. Ray has deceived the viewer: this is about the environment in relation to man, and the latter's potential to change it for the better. But this is no Hollywood ending: [Spoiler]it takes a death to enliven these hearts, and it requires the protection of blindness for them to thrive - the director is all too aware of his happy facade.[/Spoiler] No matter, in both reality and fantasy, the audacity of Nicholas Ray's filmmaking makes for nothing less than scintillating viewing.

Summer Interlude (Bergman, 1951)

2008-09-21T23:43:00.003+01:00

Summer Interlude (1951) is often acclaimed as the best of Bergman's early features. And indeed, there are stretches here that suggest that the film does deserve to stand alongside the glories of later years. Not until Fanny and Alexander over three decades later would Bergman evoke the naivety of youth in quite so enchanting a manner. With Interlude, the director focuses his attention upon sexuality and, more specifically, the increasing sexual awareness that's integral to the adolescent experience. To romanticize his concerns, Bergman conjures up a noteworthy brand of visual lyricism, defined by its dependence upon the natural world. Benefited heavily by Gunnar Fischer's ability to capture so many resplendent moments on film, the director draws a scintillating - if somewhat simplistic - parallel between one's sexual awakening and nature in full bloom.

Bergman clearly has his finger on the pulse when it comes to imagery, but with the film's other elements he stumbles considerably. His frank, penetrating dialogue always has the potential to be read as overbearing and heavy-handed, and with the benefit of hindsight, Interlude verges dangerously close to self-parody. Its characters espouse lines that will sound familiar to anyone with Bergman's work - "Is there no meaning to life?", "Why has God forsaken me?" etc. - but the artistry of the director's later films often allow for such gloomy statements to be organically born from his mise-en-scène. After appearing so concerned with the natural, Bergman's dialogue here seems anything but. At one stage Marie, the film's lead, stares at her uncle's hands and randomly announces: "I stand here looking at your hands... they're beautiful, yet somehow ugly." The viewer can't help but laugh. Bergman in 1951 is a visibly accomplished director, but not one that can yet iron out the flaws and contrivances of his scripts with an assured hand. (Note the scene where he resorts to using a distinctly unterrifying owl's hoot to ratchet up the tension.) Without the assistance of the idyllic summer scenes, his film grinds to a tedium-inducing halt by the time of its finale.

But despite his own attempts to sabotage his work during its conclusion, Bergman struggles to dispel the memories of what preceded it. His captivating portrait of young love may seem a little excessive at stages, but it's somehow appropriate considering how so much of it is underscored by an intensely mournful perspective. Moreover, the director's ambition often makes for fascinating viewing: consider the sprightly morbidity of a bizarre animated sequence! Or revel in an early template for THAT scene, where an eccentric aunt plays a game of chess with a Priest who has the nerve to comment: "I feel as if I'm sitting next to Death himself!" For the Bergman enthusiast, it's a privilege to witness the master experimenting with such familiar ideas. The role of performance in this narrative, and the preoccupation with theatre and the internal worlds of its artists, surely plays into this. (As a sidenote, the film features a couple of absolutely ravishing ballet sequences that augment these concerns.) Meanwhile, his gentle allusions towards sex and desire assist the film in its refreshingly modern approach to matters of the heart (not to mention other organs). There's even the suggestion of Bergman's first gay coupling in a pair of old, gossiping theatre clerks. Summer Interlude may be too convoluted to join the ranks of his greatest achievements, but there's enough creativity here to ensure that it stands the test of time on its own merits.

Madame de... (Ophuls, 1953)

2008-08-26T19:50:00.004+01:00

Writer's Note: Do NOT under any circumstances read my thoughts if you haven't seen the film!

The filmography of Max Ophuls arguably lends itself better than most to the auteur theory. It's an oeuvre that mirrors its creator's national displacement - he made films in five different countries - but despite the personal upheavals, Ophuls nevertheless managed to spend almost a quarter of a century redefining and then refining the art of the cinematic romance. The language of his dialogue may be dependent upon location, but the director's film language is a constant that remains instantly recognizable: the glistening surfaces of his sets; the meticulously choreographed camerawork; the motifs of movement that support his enactments of desire in motion; the dominance of the dance and the duel; and the melodramatic yet evocative compositions that painfully underscore the naked heart of his cinema. The circular and cyclical structure of the director's biggest popular hit, La Ronde (1950), can well be applied to the entire output of a career that finds him reusing and remoulding themes, symbols and even entire scenes in order to augment the sense of predetermination that intrigues so many of his characters. Bearing his particular concern with European history in mind (a turn-of-the-20th-century backdrop informs many of his most acclaimed works), it is perhaps fitting that Ophuls's own cinematic past should so invariably inform his present.

His penultimate achievement, Madame de..., represents the culmination of this creative phenomena. Not only does it bear the auteurial stamps that were cited earlier, but it also draws from his preceding efforts in a manner that identifies the film as the pinnacle of his craftsmanship - eventually attaining a type of postmodern singularity by means of its plurality. Although not strictly necessary, a basic comprehension of the cinematic roundabout that is Ophuls's oeuvre deepens the subtleties of Madame de..., whilst concurrently accentuating the passions that enflame its core. Here lies the circularity of La Ronde, the masochism of Letter from an Unknown Woman, the stylistic excesses of Le Plaisir, the historical evocations of De Mayerling à Sarajevo. Note also: the pre-eminence of a single object; the obligatory train station scenes; the centrality of an opera house; the inescapable presence of the military. All of these traits persistently manifest themselves throughout the director's work, but nowhere do they coalesce within a single film as supremely as they do here. Appropriately, Madame de...'s inevitable conclusion operates on a dual front: through the strength of Ophuls’s storytelling; and via the weight of the director's past tales. The final, definitive action of the film and the events that lead up to it suggest that it is not simply Louise, the General and Donati who are entangled within these hands of fate. Their love triangle is the final and greatest entry in a star-crossed line that stretches back over two decades, encompassing: Lisa and Stefan from Letter; Sophie and Franz from Mayerling; and, most directly, Christine and Fritz from Liebelei. Each lover’s failure to transcend their physical milieu is glaringly exposed by this director’s ability to figuratively traverse space and time with such enviable ease.

Valid discussions of Ophuls’s career are of course impossible if one bypasses the role of women in his work. The director’s feminist credentials can well be debated (are women not merely the most accessible and arguably effective tools with which to examine the more pertinent matter of love and its relationship to the social order?), but his consistent alignment with female characters cannot. 1934's La Signora di tutti receives numerous citations as the film where the mobile, Ophulsian camera of the 1950s first rears its head. Yet it remains equally significant for the development of its female-driven narrative, whose deconstruction of celebrity provides early prep work for 1955's more renowned Lola Montès. Signora's muddled interspersion of gaiety and tragedy struggles to locate the harmonious equilibrium of later films, but the presence of the ultimately sympathetic female protagonist is crucial. In so many of Ophuls's narratives conflict emanates from a woman's heart, and Signora illustrates this at its earliest stage. Feminine desire is forever engaged in a battle against the social order, and the dramatic friction caused by two such powerful, vital forces spills over into the everyday - a woman's revolt against society becomes an urgent struggle against other individuals and the self. By 1953, Ophuls excels in the transmission of such concerns, and thus the fractured characterizations and overt sensationalism that undermine Signora's tragic undercurrents are replaced with the intricately-drawn participants of Madame de...'s ill-fated love triangle, here supplemented by a melodramatic framework that magnifies the tragedy by unearthing its nuances instead of encouraging its histrionics.

One can also find a unique sense of bliss in the director’s image-conjuring prowess. Madame de...'s entrancing presentation of the Parisian Belle Époque is emblematic of his later films' expertise in realizing success on a base, though nonetheless intoxicating plane where luxurious artifice equates to unabashed viewing pleasure. And yet for many casual observers, Ophuls's visual flair either belies the integrity of his sentimental scenarios, or predicates a taste for surface sheen over narrative substance. To side with such charges however, is to ignore the acumen with which the director executes his magisterial vision. In Madame de... every track, every pan, every prop and every ray of light contribute to a suave exercise in cinematic deception. To borrow a prominent example, the trademark fluidity of Ophuls's camerawork embodies an interfilmic binary opposition through its ability to impart both liberation (acting as a spiritual extension that provides temporary release from the corporeal), as well as incarceration (by defining the parameters of this escape), all the while veiling its intents behind a shroud of dignified hyperactivity. A camera that is as happy to waltz with its subjects as it is to magically glide through walls understandably poses a threat to a hardened aesthete's resistance - but the illusory experience on offer in Madame de... is just that: a mask that disguises the camera's active participation in content as well as style.

Concealed depths such as these are not just restricted to traditionally stylistic devices. A series of ironies and evasions perfuse the dialogue also, thus revealing the chasm between the characters' self-constructed exteriors and the realities of their internal yearning. Throughout their courtship, Louise insists to Donati: "I do not love you"; although neither lover nor audience believes this proclamation for a second, with the conspicuous lie betraying an antithetical truth. One of the heated encounters during the film's final act finds the General falsely accusing Donati of calling "the army, and consequently its generals... useless!" Donati says no such thing, but admits to the crime as a penance for his forbidden love - a topic that cannot enter the forum of public debate. And early on in the film, Louise and the General participate in a delicious tête à tête regarding the earrings' whereabouts. Their shared rapport is attractively transparent during verbal exchanges where the audience is privileged with the knowledge that both parties are deliberately suppressing their awareness of the truth to win greater gain from their significant other. Yet even in a comedic encounter that radiates as much warmth as this, narrative and visual style work in unison to intensify the film’s emotional canvas. Despite reinforcing the pair’s companionship with a sequence of shot/reverse-shots in close-up from their respective beds, the director employs an 180˚ pan to precede the sequence and two long-shots to conclude it, both sharing the same purpose: to divulge the startling distance between the sleeping quarters in question. Charm, vivacity and mutual affection may characterize the tone of this scene, but Ophuls typically ensures that it is a somewhat dispiriting lack of romance which the viewer is ultimately left to ponder.

Tellingly, marital vows in Madame de… are not far removed from those in other Ophuls pictures. Liebelei, La Ronde and Le Plaisir all to some degree depict the carefree attitudes with which certain partners treat their prescriptions of monogamy. Madame de…’s thorough exploration of frivolity’s limitations - which eventually unravel its characters’ pretences - allows it to differentiate itself from its predecessors with a triumph of depth. Late into the film, the General provides a remarkably bold and self-reflexive analysis of his predicament to Louise: “Our marriage is a reflection of ourselves. It seems superficial only superficially.” Both character and director effectively dare the viewer to better scrutinize story and frame, as the General’s startling recognition of his façade points towards intelligence undervalued. Moreover, the self-confessed undertones of role-playing allow us to presume that any shortfall in the romantic stakes has less to do with the couple themselves and more to do with the privileged positions that they enjoy within their social hierarchy. Their marriage may be a reflection of themselves, but they in turn are a reflection of society - at least, superficially.

To elucidate the weight of the social obligations placed upon the haute monde, Ophuls frequently returns to scenes that involve communal gatherings. Lavish balls and operas prove indicative of the trivialities that plague a patrician’s schedule, whilst more serious-minded endeavors such as diplomatic meetings or hunts and duels function primarily as platforms for destruction. The seemingly irreconcilable subjects of fun and death hereby converge to define the director’s near-decadent portrait of elite social structures. True romance’s inability to persevere in such a habitat should therefore come as little surprise. Although its members are readily capable of emotional gravity, Ophuls’s high society is built upon a foundation of hollow joviality that constrains the emergence of feelings as potent as that of love. Hence, its textual absence until the arrival of a relative outsider thirty minutes into the film.

If the suppression of love is an issue for the aristocracy, then it is a problem amplified in the case of its women. With its suggestive title and its creator’s experience, Madame de… flourishes in the arena of gender politics, and a true to form Ophuls commits himself to imbuing the film’s every frame with an underlying commentary on the veiled sexism of the era. His aims are complemented by a narrative that parallels Louise’s extramarital impulses with that of the General’s, before investigating the ensuing hypocrisy that the contrast generates. Whilst society sanctions the husband’s apparent right to pursue sexual relations with another partner (his mistress, Lola), it simultaneously curbs the desire of the wife, whose genuine love for Donati is denied the opportunity for consummation. This basic inconsistency is key to Madame de…’s development, for the early revelation of the General’s adultery casts a permanent shadow over Louise and Donati’s romance, acting as a perpetual reminder of the inequality inherent within the marital couple’s partnership.

Ophuls’s opulent mise-en-scène is never more alive than when expanding upon this theme. From the outset, the director instigates a dynamic cinematic correspondence with the viewer that deepens his plot with coded imagery. The lauded opening take of the film lasts for approximately two and a half minutes, and as Louise briskly mulls over her possessions (her debt as yet unknown to us), the camera effortlessly skims around the room with her. In a tantalizing move, Ophuls refuses us an unobstructed view of his heroine for over half of this take, instead opting to interrogate her ornate surroundings - dominated by innumerable jewels, furs and mirrors. When the mystery of Louise’s face is finally revealed to us, she appears not in front of the camera, but as a reflection in one of these dressing-table mirrors. Thus, she is promptly divulged as another constituent in the commodity-infested environment on-screen. Although Louise’s gaze stares back at the audience, her physical presence as the film’s subject is overwhelmed by the multitude of surrounding props, motivating her retreat into objectification. Our perception of the aforementioned commodities thereby undergoes a significant transition: no longer are they mere symbols of wealth and power, they now morph into instruments of covert patriarchal oppression - symptomatic of a “trophy wife” culture that’s adhered to all too fervently. In hindsight then, it is uncomfortably incongruous of Louise to state that “…I can do as I like with them,” when discussing her valuables this early on. Her chimera of independence is negated by the exact materials that furnish her fantasy.

As if to thwart any lingering doubts that the viewer might have about Ophuls’s thematics, the scenes that immediately follow his bravura introduction conspire to consolidate Louise’s commodification. Over breakfast, she is confronted by a looming portrait of the General that establishes his authority as the archetypal patriarch, not to mention her diminutive figure in relation to the social order, over five minutes before he makes his first physical appearance in the film. After leaving her home Louise visits a church, in which she visibly arouses the interest of a praying soldier, before reaching her intended destination at a jeweller’s (Monsieur Rémy’s), where she again causes titillation as both the tradesman and his son struggle to contain their own desires. At each of these stages Louise is able to either ignore or spurn the attention showered upon her, but never is she able to entirely reject her elemental status as a receptacle of the male gaze.
Curiously, for a notable portion of the film Louise actively revels in this socially-sanctioned role. During the film’s first act she cheerily absorbs male affection and cultivates a reputation as a sort of sophisticated coquette. It is a position that her husband both observes - “she is adept at making you die of hope” - and accepts: “A pretty wife is meant to be looked at.” In a context where gender equality is palpably absent, Louise’s simple concessions to her voyeurs enable her to manipulate the prevailing male attitudes of chivalry and lust to a limited extent, thereby granting her a minor but nonetheless important degree of control within her social circle. In spite of this victory, the budding relationship with Donati later in the film provokes Louise to relinquish her privileges in favour of an all-consuming romance: “I hate society. I want no one to look at me but you.” In actuality, the concept of self-objectification is so ingrained into her mindset that her defiance is rendered a delusion. Louise may attempt to reject collective demands, but by immersing herself so wholly into an individual’s gaze she finds herself entrapped within a different social norm bound by the same stipulation: an existence that is to be defined by her male admirer(s).

Louise is thus incapable of negotiating herself a status greater than that afforded to the possessions that she so cherishes. In essence, she remains another thread in the materialistic drape that blinds the nobility. It is therefore ironic that her life should come to depend so heavily upon the earrings referenced in the film’s (unfortunate) American title. If Louise is exemplary of the patriarchy’s propensity for objectifying its subjects, then the earrings conversely relay its ability to substantiate its objects. Their initial worth is minimal: relics of a marriage contract that each partner treats with merry nonchalance. When Donati miraculously returns them to Louise however, they assume the romantic significance that should arguably have always been assigned to them. It is the discord in personal value between the General’s original gift and Donati’s emotionally-repackaged version of it that triggers the former’s determination to remove them from Louise’s grasp, escalating their price towards even loftier heights. By the finale, they are so value-laden that they undergo a metamorphosis from recreational commodities to religious exhibits. In other words: they become priceless.

Although the narrative suggests that Louise’s original transaction occurs due to her debts (as well as an implicit need to protect her husband’s prestige), the film’s peculiarly nameless title and the cause-and-effect frameworks that link the earrings to Donati (and therefore, love) hint towards alternative reasoning: a subconscious longing on Louise’s part to escape the confines of her marriage. Standing against her is a patriarchal clasp on Madame de…’s theatre of exchange that is especially rigid, as demonstrated most clearly by Monsieur Rémy’s consultations with the General. The jeweller’s betrayals of Louise’s misplaced confidence stifle her inadvertent rebellion, administering her passivity in an economic sphere that restricts marketplace activity to men. Meanwhile, Rémy’s visitations to the General’s barracks additionally help to establish a visual association between the military and the return of the earrings, binding the latter to an ultra-masculine order that repeatedly lures them back from their misadventures. It is only her husband’s refusal to re-purchase the jewellery at a critical juncture that allows their escape from this system, meaning that Louise’s triumph over the rules of trade is a virtually empty one. Furthermore, she exchanges almost all of her valuables to regain the earrings, an act that violates the social codes that her possessions represent. By disregarding la règle du jeu, Louise sets into motion the chain of events that will drive both her and Donati to their ruin. This is the cost of forbidden love in Ophuls’s world.

A specific distaste for patriarchal regulations permeates much of the director’s work, and with the evidence thus far one could certainly argue that the trait is most pronounced in Madame de…. Fortunately, Ophuls is sagacious enough to prevent his art from descending into misandry. The film may condemn the status quo, but it sympathizes with everyone that it subjugates. Ophuls counterbalances Louise’s woes with the subsequent repression of the men around her, observing that both the General and Donati are suffocated by the very system that endows them with their primacy. That the latter should meet his end thanks to a duel with the former only compounds this issue. Throughout his career the director casts a critical eye upon this socially-acceptable contest of “honour”, though he lambasts the doctrines that permit it rather than the individuals that perform it. This conflict’s victim is perhaps the least interesting member of the film’s romantic triumvirate, but he is also its most important catalyst. It is Donati’s arrival that propels Madame de… to its giddy highs and its cataclysmic lows, and with his loss both Louise (whose fate becomes entwined with his own) and the film helplessly expire. If his need to look up “desire” in a dictionary and his willingness to terminate relations with the heroine invites the viewer’s suspicions, then his resigned fatalism during the final confrontation scenes emphatically dispels such doubts. When Louise questions him - “You do no longer love me…?” - Donati’s failure to respond implies that his decision to fight is a harrowingly necessary one: death is now more preferable than the burden of a broken heart.

Donati’s murder/suicide further tarnishes the filmic standing of the General, whose effective implementation of social protocols means that of the film’s leads, it is he who veers closest to reprehensibility. However, looks always deceive in an Ophuls picture, and the General is relieved of potential villainy by the director’s careful assertions of his vulnerability. Whilst his breakfast-room portrait that was noted earlier does indeed have a foreboding presence, it is the disparity between role and reality that strikes a chord with the viewer: the charming, urbane and surprisingly short man married to Louise is a far cry from the tall, imposing and authoritative figurehead of the painting. In a much later scene where the General attempts (and fails) to exert this authority by dissuading Louise from leaving Paris, he restlessly begins to shut all the windows in his house. Borrowing a technique from Le Plaisir, Ophuls shifts perspective by cutting to an external tracking shot to document this action. The camera’s placement outside the zone of activity allows it to assume the gaze of an extraneous influence at the precise moment when the General locks himself and Louise inside their home. Had the camera been placed behind him, one could have asserted that the General was in control of this decision to entrap; but by venturing beyond the initial line of vision, Ophuls implicates society for the filmic snare and indicates that this patriarch is as fundamentally enslaved by its conventions as his wife. As he himself poignantly conceded earlier in the film: “We are not our own masters… especially a general.”

This revelatory statement is spoken during the departure scene of his mistress, Lola, and is echoed later on by a near-identical episode with Louise. A comparison of the two incidents unearths the depth of the General’s feeling for his wife. His overall demeanor with Lola is a continuation of the playful ebullience with which he is initially synonymous: he seduces, bids his farewells and exits without once looking back. By contrast, Louise’s departure induces his first visible signs of melancholia, and as her train leaves he gazes forlornly at the mechanisms that pull his wife away from him. In another of the film’s many ironies, it is Lola who receives the farewell kiss on the lips, with Louise settling for an unnervingly formal peck on the hand. The General’s superficial lifestyle and his adherence to militaristic codes have paralyzed his confidence in genuine matters of the heart. Of all the characters in the film, it is he who suffers the greatest divergence between their public and personal identities.

Madame de…’s great tragedy then, is that all of its leads experience an epiphany during the course of the film. Take Ophuls’s euphorically informative visuals out of the equation and they begin, on paper at least, as shallow and careless individuals, content to wallow endlessly in their merry masquerades. As their character trajectories progress however, each of them undergoes a radical change. The introduction of passion into the narrative engenders a process of humanization that coincides with an increasing awareness of their desires. Unfortunately for them, these desires also unravel their orderly lives, heightening the need to restore the frivolous standard and imprisoning them within roles that they no longer wish to play. And with the comings and goings of the earrings constantly sculpting the film’s emotional panorama, one begins to comprehend just how irrevocable society’s materialism really is.

Materialist ethics go so far as to infiltrate the domain of the spiritual. “My cross?”, says Louise in the opening scene when evaluating her possessions, “Oh no, I adore it!” Her actions in the film affiliate religion with the prevalent world of transactions, but neither she nor Ophuls ever lose sight of its intensely personal value. Towards the end of the film, Louise visits a church and begs a saint to accept her treasured earrings as a suitable exchange for Donati’s safety. The saint’s apparent “refusal” to enter into this bargain says less about the absence of the divine than it does about the worth of life itself. Ophuls uses Louise’s act of desperation to delineate between the institution of the Church and the integrity of private faith: it is the former that accepts the gift and presents them in their most fetishized form at film’s end; it is the latter that reassigns the ethereal relevance entrusted to the earrings unto Donati’s existence. The celestial powers-that-be thus reveal themselves as the only abstract forces in the film that esteem the invaluable beauty of the human spirit over the metallic perfection of the earrings. In freeing Donati and consequently Louise from the shackles of society, it could be argued that the saint does, in actuality, grant her wish. The film’s seemingly tragic finale allows the couple to relocate their love to the only realm in which it can possibly survive: the afterlife.

There is a sequence in Madame de… whose reputation is nearly as great as the film’s own. It can be summarized as a dance between Donati and Louise, but to describe it as such seems a woeful miscarriage of justice. It is more akin to an elegant roundelay of passion, charged with all the urgency of repressed desire. As the two admirers waltz, the director’s camera seamlessly cuts and dissolves around them, layering emotional subtexts onto one another and completely disregarding time whilst remaining all too aware of the threat that it poses. The cumulative effect of all this is overwhelming, compelling the audience to surrender themselves to the impeccably crafted-insularity of the burgeoning love that saturates the frame.

It is this enchanting sequence that best encapsulates the spirit of Ophuls’s magnificent art. Supported by his camera’s graceful choreography, the director concisely articulates the importance of pure sentiment in environments where they are consistently marginalized. Moreover, he excels in charting the progression of such feelings: during a five-minute ballroom routine Ophuls can leap at will from formality to informality, from vacuity to cognizance, and most importantly from frivolity to love. For this artist, such oppositions work in symbiosis to enrich the texture of his films, and his penultimate effort exemplifies these contradictions at their finest. It enamours with its celebration of the superficial, only to take apart its own convivial artifice once the viewer is on side. When its masquerade is eventually unclothed, there lies a film that exalts love as the greatest emotion that one could ever know. In denying this joy to the characters with whom it is so acutely attuned, Madame de… proves itself to be the most cynical of all cinema’s great romances.

The Round-Up (Jancsó, 1965)

2008-08-26T19:41:00.002+01:00

Welcome to The Round-Up.

This is a world of desolation. This is a world of containment and oppression. This is a world where physical and psychological torture are considered routine; where men commit suicide simply to escape the nightmare that is reality. Honestly, this is not a world at all: this is madness.

A detention camp provides the immediate setting of Miklos Jancsó's macabre experiment. It is the resounding sparseness of this prison that proves so unnerving. Tall, whitewashed walls and a series of compact sleeping cubicles are the only notable features in what is otherwise nothing more than a large empty space. The surrounding Hungarian plains that engulf this complex offer little solace - they seem to breed malevolence within every blade of grass. Jancsó has a particular interest in exploring psychology's potential for shaping space, and as the absence of humanity begins to unsettle the viewer, so the barren expanses become inversed to induce a stifling sense of claustrophobia.

Minimalistic rigour characterizes Jancsó's visual style. He favours long, observational takes that leisurely pan around his characters, encircling them further within their confines. Moreover, he deploys a number of crane shots to open up his widescreen format to its greatest capacity. Always, there is a detachment of camera from scenario that allows Jancsó to toy with characters as if they were miniature figurines. Indeed, this is exactly what they devolve into when the director is at full visual flight. There are times when the film unfolds as if in a militaristic ballet: humans move in and around the frame with geometrical precision, exposing a vital discord between the systematic modernism of Jancsó's framing and the harrowing primitivism of his narrative content.

The Round-Up deals with plot on only the very loosest of terms. There are army officials and there are prisoners. The former wish to identify a group of rebels amidst the latter, much larger group, and repress accordingly. Although physical might is wielded (as we witness on more than one occasion), the preferred method of persecution here is more covert. Ruthless verbal interrogations instigate a series of double-bluffs and betrayals amongst the defenceless detainees, fuelling an atmosphere of distrust. Most terrifying of all however, are the long stretches of film when the authorities do absolutely nothing. Jancsó's limited use of dialogue and the frequent absence of significant activity means that silences can overwhelm the compound, throwing its characters and audience into the uncomfortable territory of the unknown. Factor in the stifling emptiness of the aforementioned surroundings, and one finds oneself in a situation where the overarching intent is to numb the mental state, making it ripe for degradative manipulation.

This is a film that quietly consumes its audience, as opposed to vice-versa. After a short but wry prologue, it places us in a situation where we are as lost and disorientated as the prisoners on-screen. Jancsó's camera is far too impassive to examine any of the characters in real detail, and the refusal to question their behaviour effectively presents dehumanization as a fact of life. Additionally, this impassivity restricts the emergence of an identifiable protagonist - [Spoiler]the closest we get is with János, who is murdered well before the final act[/Spoiler]. The emotional substance that we so often demand from the cinema is on permanent vacation here, and in denying the potential sentimentalization of his prisoners' plights, the director confronts his audience with an unappealing proposition: to fill in that resonance themselves. Jancsó dares us to turn a blind eye, whilst holding up a mirror to our conscience.

Roughly fifty minutes into the film, there is a brief moment where it seems as if the prison might degenerate into mass chaos. Tellingly, these few seconds of violent commotion gift the viewer with a reprieve from the cold, military order that swiftly overwhelms the rebellion. It also spares us, however fleetingly, from our increasing awareness of the military's formidable grasp on the mechanisms of power, for it is this realization that unmasks the real horror story of The Round-Up. This is a film that was made over forty years ago, and it’s set almost another hundred years before that, but it never feels anything less than unerringly prescient. Jancsó's observations regarding the abuse of power eclipse time and retain contemporary significance. Do today's conditions of cruelty deviate notably from what is shown in the film? The director suggests that moral absence is an everlasting theme of history, and one finds it hard to resist his arguments. This may be madness, but this is above all a world that we recognize and shape – this is the tragedy of the human condition.

So yeah, welcome to The Round-Up. Did I mention that escape is futile?

Ivan's Childhood (Tarkovsky, 1962)

2008-08-26T19:31:00.002+01:00

Anti-war films have traditionally struggled to traverse the narrative minefields generated by their thematic concerns. The nature of their idealism makes it difficult to navigate around material that can so easily lapse into a tedious sermon of maudlin sentiments, misguided politics and/or manipulative moralizing. These pitfalls tend to be best avoided by more original treatments, and Andrei Tarkovsky - a director who so frequently dispensed with traditional conceptions of narrative - would seem an ideal candidate for such a task. His stature as one of cinema's master craftsmen is not unfounded: an ability to encapsulate the depth of the human spirit within sensory feasts of fragmented time, ambiguous sounds and incomparable visual poetry endows him with a genuine claim to the "greatest of all time" moniker. If anyone can tackle the dangers of this emotional-ethical fabric and come out unscathed, it is surely this man.

Understandably, one turns to Ivan's Childhood with high expectations. This is, however, Tarkovsky’s debut feature - and it shows. The director has never flirted so closely with standard narrative etiquette; the "sculpting in time" aesthetic present in only its most primordial form thanks to a number of flashback/fantasy sequences. Although the film is named after him, the scrawny-yet-aggressive Ivan's thirst for vengeance surrenders screentime to both Galtsev (an idealistic and inexperienced lieutenant) and the momentum-sapping Masha (a vapid teenage nurse). The young Tarkovsky ambitiously attempts to paint a multifaceted portrait of wartime frailty, but the resulting fragmentation is swamped by the intensity of Ivan's subjective memorializations, hindering the broadness of his scope.

These reveries also display a worrying penchant for simplifying the complexity of war into the black of the terrifying present, and the white of the remembered past. Such bold delineations are uncharacteristic of Tarkovsky, who would spend the remainder of his career inhabiting much grayer textual areas. Nevertheless, they succeed in externalizing the internal conflicts of a troubled youth, whilst providing the director sufficient space to experiment with his imagery. And what imagery that is! Tarkovsky’s visual genius is apparent in even the earliest of his features, where he plays with the idea of stylistic dualism: the naïve lyricism of Ivan’s memories is set against the expressionistic horrors of the war, and piercing gunshots mark the tenuous borderline between the two. The ensuing antagonism triggers the film’s evolution into a mesmerizing cornucopia of wild kineticism and delirious angles that fight for supremacy over the sensual tranquility offered by the natural world and its maternal comforts - the quieter half of this duality anticipating the director’s later cinematic elegies with its deconstruction of the “Mother Nature” image.

Ivan’s Childhood provides a rare opportunity to witness a great artist threatening to stumble, as Tarkovsky very nearly does at the last hurdle with his problematic decision to intersperse newsreel footage into the text (these images of reality being outweighed in substance by the director's fiction, thereby undermining the integrity of his moral stance). But alas, he recovers, and the film regains its composure with a final sequence that stands as one of the great tributes to innocence lost. The very best anti-war films are those that can communicate their resonance without preaching it. With its poignant conclusion, Ivan's Childhood creates a tragic delusion that tells us everything that we could possibly wish to know about the grave, destructive costs of war by saying nothing direct about the subject in question. By refraining from the obvious, Tarkovsky transcends all genre constraints and lays the foundations for a future that would prove itself to be unrivalled.

Dead Ringers (Cronenberg, 1988)

2008-08-26T19:24:00.002+01:00

Dead Ringers (1988) marks my fifth David Cronenberg experience - and with this provocative, fascinating film he solidifies his status as one of my favourite English-language directors of recent years. I appreciate how beneficial this viewing proved for my understanding of his filmography - only now have I grasped just how intensely psychological Cronenberg's work is. His films seem to be terrorized by the inner demons of his characters, and the themes of sex, technology and violence that he so favours assume a more emotionally potent dimension as a result.

In this particular film, Cronenberg chooses to personify the concepts of yin and yang with a pair of identical twins. Their intense fraternal bond reaches far beyond the platonic - when Beverly (the yin to his brother Eliot's yang, at least initially) angrily cries out: "Do you think I'm gay or something?" after the most minor of provocations, he alludes towards deeply repressed homosexual tendencies that manifest themselves most clearly with the perverse sexual co-dependency that he shares with his brother. By casually exchanging one another's women, the Mantle twins find a successful outlet for their mutual desires. Their professional status (as gynaecologists) intertwines with their subconsciousness: the objectivity with which they examine the vagina during the everyday allows them to eschew the remnants of their heterosexual attraction to it. The female genitalia's socially-sanctioned purpose is therefore displaced as the brothers reclassify it to the role of an illicit harbour for their most intimate physical connection. The Mantle twins don't fuck women at all, they simply use them to fuck each other.

When the sensual and ever-astute Claire begins to figure out their ruse, the brothers' tenuous harmony is understandably thrown into chaos. Her confrontations trigger a psychosexual rupture within Beverly's fragile state of mind, leading to an attempted fission of the unique Mantle union - which in turn provokes Elliot's own slide into mental disarray. Finally, the pair are forced to confront their sexual fears and urges - and, with Cronenberg's brilliantly grotesque visualizations in tow, so too is the audience. Beverly may be externally devoted to her, but he subconsciously continues to view Claire as an object or, more specifically, a "mutant". A lifetime of ignorance regarding their misuse has birthed a vagina that fights back with reason. Ironically, the doctors cannot reciprocate the intellectual war, and respond only with the undercurrents of violence that have lurked ominously since the film's opening credits. "The women's bodies are all wrong!", says Beverly, as he wields the newly-distorted blades and instruments that constitute his new arsenal for gynaecological warfare. In misplacing the blame for his predicament he merely ignores his own figurative mutations, and thus entrenches himself further within the claustrophobic psychosexuality that will destroy the Mantle entity.

Sex has always been the most intriguing vertebra in the backbone of Cronenberg's oeuvre. The director's films consistently deconstruct and then reconstruct the concepts of sexuality and desire. Dead Ringers continues in this vain, as it reconceptualizes our perceptions of bondage gear to include an absolutely bizarre (but incredibly hot) amalgam of medical tubes and scissors. And how easy is it to dismiss the inherently sexual instruments of "gynaecological warfare" cited in the previous paragraph? Their sharp, steely disfigurements endow them with the means to horrify, but the camera's decision to fetishize the objects draws attention to their penetrative potential. Sex and violence share an uneasy yet scintillating co-existence in Cronenberg's world of malevolent perversity where human survival exists in perpetual limbo.

Cronenberg films his subjects with clinical precision to conserve this sense of unease: cool, icy whites and blues dominate the colour palette, rendering the eventual bursts of red frighteningly inevitable. Yet in spite of this cold treatment, one never feels that he has anything less than the utmost sympathy for the damaged souls at the heart of his film. Dead Ringers may not be its director's finest effort (from what I've seen, Crash takes that title), and it may not even be the best 1980s flick about disturbed male twins (an honour that must surely be afforded to Peter Greenaway's visually resplendent diatribe against Thatcherite Britain, A Zed & Two Noughts), but this is nevertheless a work of surprisingly moving beauty. I'm finding that Cronenberg's most interesting films deal with a sort of reverse spritiualism, whereby scientific and technological forces are engaged in an everlasting battle to denigrate the human spirit. Sure, there's blood, there's gore and there's a helluva lotta sex, but the director's indulgences are the inevitable results of his explosive examinations. In their own way, films like Dead Ringers and Crash strike me as cinematic hymns for the lost souls of postmodern society - and that surely makes David Cronenberg one of the most justifiably humane directors working in the medium today?

Ballad of a Soldier (Chukhrai, 1959)

2008-08-26T19:18:00.003+01:00

Ballad of a Soldier comes armed with a hefty reputation as one of cinema's great war movies. 8.2 on IMDb? Resounding raves with every review that one reads? A quick Google search should uncover words like "lyrical", "poignant", "understated", "poetic" and "humane". Criterion go so far as to describe it as "unconventional"!

Bullshit.

The appeal of Chukhrai's "masterpiece" will lie solely with good-natured numbskulls who struggle to resist the simplistic trite that the director offers up for them. Ballad is a film that chooses to disregard the horrors of war in favour of a tentative romance between an ennobled young hero and a flawless young heroine. This is all very well and good (who are we to assume that such love stories cannot exist in times of turmoil?), and Chukhrai reveals wise judgment in situating a sizeable portion of his film within the enclosed space of a hay-filled train carriage, thereby extinguishing the necessity to comment on the external world. But Chukhrai cannot hide forever, and it is when finally obliged to leave his safety pen that he misfires so horribly. An early battle (the film's only one) prepares us for what is to follow: edited as if to resemble a chase sequece in a commercial monster movie, it typifies Chukhrai's audience-pandering aesthetics that cheapen the integrity of the war effort. As if this wasn't enough, the film's peculiar conception of Soviet life in this era is defined by the military's jovial camraderie and the everyman's ceaseless charitability. This presentation of World War II as a positive catalyst for community spirit and patriotic idealism smacks of propagandistic conceit, but its most bitter aftertaste is one of emotional manipulation. When destruction finally, inevitably enters the narrative, Chukhrai's blissful portrait is exposed as a detestable setup designed solely to extract greater dramatic weight for the viewer.

Late into the film, the protagonist (Alyosha) finally reunites with his beloved mother (lest we forget that Ballad is a vigorous proponent of traditional family values). Their tender embrace is perhaps the film's only genuinely poignant moment, but even here understated silence quickly regresses into melodramatic wailing. Thus, with partial redemption on offer the director insists upon maintaining the saccharine, insulting the intelligence of all innocent civilians unfortunate enough to experience his contemptible dirge in the process. For the 23 million Soviet citizens who lost their lives in the Great Patriotic War, Chukhrai and his superiors could not have crafted a better cinematic fuck you.

Well, fuck you too, Grigori Chukhrai. Tosser.

Distant Voices, Still Lives (Davies, 1988)

2008-05-29T14:25:00.002+01:00

Terence Davies's intimate investigation into the persistence of memory announces its intents with its opening sequence. A BBC shipping forecast is heard off-screen as his camera statically observes the exterior of a somewhat dreary house. In the middle of a storm, a woman (known simply as "Mother") opens the front door and collects the bottles of milk that have been deposited outside. She quickly returns to the safety of her home, and Davies follows her by cutting to a shot inside the house. The camera remains static as we now observe the unsurprisingly drab interiors of this humble abode. Mother shouts up a staircase to awaken the other members of this household. After a second reminder, we hear the rest of the family coming downstairs - but curiously we do not see them, although off-screen dialogue identifies them as Mother's children. As "I Get the Blues When It's Raining" plays on the soundtrack, the camera slowly glides forward towards the staircase before completing a 180-degree pan and resting upon a shot of the same front door that we had previously viewed externally. The shot dissolves and a temporal ellipsis occurs - the formerly closed door is now wide open, revealing a hearse pulling up outside (the storm has since disappeared). Another dissolve leads to a tableaux of Mother and her three children (Eileen, Tony and Maisie) staring directly at the camera, as if from a photograph album. The soundtrack has since moved on to an operatic rendition of "There's A Man Going 'Round Taking Names". The camera once again glides forward, this time towards a genuine photograph hanging on the wall. As the family walk off-screen, the image of a man and his horse comes to dominate the frame. In its lucidity, we correctly presume that the man is the (now deceased) "Father" of this household.

In under four minutes then, Davies manages to fully establish the context in which Distant Voices, Still Lives will unfold. The shipping forecast and the decor situate the film historically in the post-war era of late 1940s/early 1950s Britain, and the latter also helps define the distinctly working-class milieu that the director will survey. Familial bonds are already placed at the fore, and the early allusions to weddings (during the words that Mother and Eileen exchange off-screen) and funerals emphasizes the communal rituals around which the film's loose structure is constructed. The long-takes, gentle pans, tableaux vivants, frequent dissolves and stately pacing that characterize the film's visual style create a stream of consciousness sensation that intensifies and complements its narrative of remembrance. Meanwhile, Davies's veritable soundscapes marry the everyday rhythms of blue collar life to a catalogue of incredibly emotive songs, whilst further muddying the waters of time: the traditional relationship of aural to visual is modified to accommodate the temporal ellipses that pervade the film. In the director's complex memorializations, the manes of the past engage in an neverending process of imprinting themselves upon the present. The close-up that concludes the opening sequence identifies Father as this film's ghost that refuses to disappear.

Distant Voices, Still Lives is actually a diptych of two short films that comprise a single 80-minute feature. Although structured as a serene entanglement of memories, the differentiation is not inappropriate as the first part (Distant Voices) clearly focuses on life with Father whilst the second (Still Lives) is concerned with life after him. The coercion generated by the presence of this antagonistic patriarch renders the Distant Voices segment the more emotionally volatile of the two, with its tones oscillating wildly between the harmony of recollection and the trauma of unhealed wounds. Numerous juxtapositions enunciate these cinematic mood swings: one such instance finds Eileen longing for her father's presence, but the scene that immediately follows finds said Father savagely beating his daughter with a broom; in the midst of her piercing screams, Davies cuts back to a shot of Eileen summoning a brave smile and repeating her initial refrain - "I wish me dad was 'ere". Tragic irony is used to expose Eileen's blind reverence as a symptomatic consequence of domestic violence, and the device will feature frequently in both halves of the film.

Despite its tendency to appeal to our sympathies, one shouldn't fall into the trap of making character judgments as a result of a single (albeit fairly typical) sequence. A later juxtaposition finds Father placing stockings on his children's bed at Christmas, and in this rare moment of clarity the paternal affection that radiates from his unassuming face is endearingly visible. Naturally, the very next scene sees him exploding in untriggered fury at the dinner table, before ordering Mother to clean up the damage caused by his wrath. The contrast here is especially vital, for not only does the film's prevalent streak of character ambiguities finally manifest itself in the most unexpected of locations, but the completely unprovoked nature of the outburst implicates external factors beyond their control for both Father's authoritarianism and his family's capitulation to it. One senses that these troubles are not entirely divorced from their socio-historical context - the archetypes of the British working-class ingrain themselves into these characters, and a reluctant tolerance of domestic strife is the result.

Still Lives builds on this premise by quietly shifting the film's focus from the private to the public sphere, thus comprehensively articulating the social dimensions that tantalized in Distant Voices. It expands upon the collective practices of the family and views life itself through the prism of multiple social gatherings, thereby reinforcing their status as one of the core components of this class experience. The prominence of baptisms, weddings, funerals, Christmases, and even (or especially) meetups at the local pub highlights the reassuring unity that can be offered through these shared encounters, and it's a comfort that confers the women in particular with the strength to assert their once "distant" voices. These female and communal proclamations take the form of songs that are contemporaneous with the era, and which subsequently uncover the most intriguing peculiarity of Davies's work: its relation to the movie musical.

The use of songs as an extension of the characters' mindsets is a recurrent feature in Distant Voices, which fluctuates between the use of diegetic and non-diegetic sound. However, Still Lives finds a more emphatic movement towards the former option, and in doing so it transposes the essence of the musical into the unlikeliest of contexts. Its expertise in conveying the transformative power of personal expression is contrasted against the bleak actualities of impecunious Liverpool, thus exposing a painful dichotomy that denies its characters the multicoloured transcendence available to their Hollywood predecessors. When Eileen defiantly belts out a heartfelt rendition of "I Wanna Be Around" in solidarity with her best friend, the entire world momentarily seems to pause as a lifetime of suppressed sentiments comes to the fore. For less than a minute the cathartic bliss of movie-euphoria overwhelms both film and audience - but never are we divorced from reality. The grimy, indifferent pub setting and the presence of its misogynistic males drives the song towards its ecstatic highs, but it's these same factors that simultaneously provoke the sombre resignation on Eileen's face after her impassioned stand is completed. The long-term viability of this brand of escapism is something that Davies and his characters are all too acutely aware of.

"I Wanna Be Around" is exemplary of the softened restrictions facing modes of expression in Still Lives. Father's absence here alludes to an elapse of time that provides it with a greater scope than its sister segment. Time inevitably causes change with progression as a potential byproduct, but the content of Still Lives is a fundamental actualization of its title. In spite of slight but discernable differences such as the increased presence of radios and the more affirmative female voices, this later section maintains the introspection of Distant Voices both stylistically and emotionally. One of Davies's deftest touches in this regard is the motif that he creates with doors - throughout both parts characters are framed against doorways, quietly magnifying their need for escape. Tellingly however, the doors are used as entrances as opposed to exits - and in the few instances when people do exit, it's simply to collect an item before returning back into the comfort of their home. The need for escape is a projection of the audience's desires onto characters who resist with the insularity that dominated their life with Father, thus accentuating the discrepancy between our freedom and their entrapment. In this way, Distant Voices feeds directly into Still Lives: the transitional scene between the two is punctuated by an off-screen male's angry screams at Eileen. Had it not been for the man's utterance of "I'm your husband!", we would have sufficient grounding to presume that this was another flashback with Father. And yet in some senses it is, for the cyclical nature of abuse has fully manifested itself within this family's lives, and the spirit of their patriarch continues to infringe upon the action from beyond the grave. The past's inextricable link with the present ensures that the ruins of the former will permanently handicap the latter.

This is not to say that Davies's film is a bleak one, however. There are glimpses of deliciously off-the-wall humour (think Uncle Ted), and its resonance derives from the autobiographical warmth of tender familial bonds that even Father can't destroy. Perhaps the most memorable sequence in the film occurs towards the end: a crane shot rises from a floor of umbrellas amidst pouring rain, towards the roof of a movie theatre as the swelling strings of "Love Is a Many Splendored-Thing" inundate the soundtrack; as we pass a poster for said film, the take dissolves into a delicate pan over the faces of the audience, before resting on Eileen and Maisie - weeping like little children. These two simple shots serve as a beautiful homage to the unparalleled power of cinema, and it's a description that's perfectly applicable to the rest of Distant Voices... Davies's working-class ballad is a staggering achievement that refuses the despondency that many of his compatriots succumb to when dealing with the underprivileged: under this director's microscope, their troubles are harrowing, but they themselves retain their dignity. Moreover, the fragmented narrative functions as a breathtakingly unique exposition of the internal, imbuing each of Davies's exquisite compositions with an emotional panorama that remains unmatched within British filmmaking. Through this series of disjointed memories, the director crafts a remarkably cohesive and full-bodied portrait of life itself, and whilst doing so pays tribute to: the cinema; the working-classes; the past; the present; and, most stirringly, the future. For any astute film enthusiast (and particularly those that are British), Distant Voices, Still Lives gives cause for pure elation.

Vagabond (Varda, 1985)

2008-05-29T14:07:00.002+01:00

Agnès Varda's deceptively simple observations about a girl who willfully drifts on the peripheries of society are packed with resonance. Her decision to intersperse the action with "interview" footage from those that "knew" the girl (Mona) is inspired, providing the audience with a variety of perspectives that contribute to the unique prism through which we view Mona's life. These testimonies don't entirely correlate with Mona's on-screen actions, but they're fascinating examples of the ways in which human beings view one another, and they simultaneously highlight the concept of the unreliable narrator. Take Yolande for example, who romanticizes Mona and her brief fling with a fellow drifter as a portrait of idyllic love after their first 'meeting' (in reality, it's simply somewhere for Mona to sleep and smoke a joint or few), before villifying her after their second encounter when she threatens to encroach upon the sanctity of both Yolande's job and her relationship. On both occasions, Yolande's own concerns take precedent over any attempt to understand Mona's situation, thus begging the question: just how much do we really know and understand about brief acquaintances such as this? By having the viewer witness Mona's final days as she herself pieces them together, Varda manages to illuminate the film with some lofty themes: the transience of life; and perhaps more importantly, the difficulty of truly comprehending it.

Varda's unassuming direction allows the viewer to remain neglectful of the fact that Mona/Varda's journey is one that traverses the breadth of (then-)contemporary French society until late into the film - by which point the director's critique re: the inability of Mona's former companions to prevent her fate has considerably sharpened. The final act, rife with a series of coincidences and a downright bizarre paint fight of sorts, alludes to a society in chaos (although the strength of such allegory is debatable). "Society" is a potent presence throughout this piece: Mona's predicament (presumably) occurs through her continual defiance of that which is socially acceptable. Mona even disregards an opportunity provided by reformed hippies who sympathize with her plight and offer her a chance to succeed on the peripheries of the "system"; and one of the most humorous yet telling encounters finds a prostitute asking her to leave her turf because she's "bad for business". Varda deftly reveals how materialism is a fundamental part of life, and by relinquishing the former Mona effectively sabotages the latter.

No one is willing to help Mona on her own terms, but Mona isn't necessarily looking for help. Varda's matter-of-fact presentation never explicitly asks any questions of either viewer or character. This stark but sincere depiction of life outside accepted norms lacks the venom to function as a diatribe against French society as a whole. Furthermore, Mona's rebellion is one that Varda refrains from romanticizing or moralizing (as some of the film's ancedotes do). The director's refusal to provide any real background for this character combines with her documentarian approach to reinforce the integrity of what's on-screen. Mona exists, Mona expires, and there's little more to it. Vagabond's ability to so directly expose this tenuous hold on one's existence is the source of its genius.

Limelight (Chaplin, 1952)

2008-05-27T19:10:00.002+01:00

A portrait of the artist as an old man, then. And what a melancholy mess of a portrait this is! A self-reflexive, shamelessly narcissistic meditation on the increasing irrelevance of the fading star, this might well be the most complex and intelligent film of Chaplin's career. (As a sidenote, the fact that I watched this straight after The Gold Rush meant that I inadvertently found myself with a fascinating double-bill on my hand, esp. when one considers that it's the simplicity of the earlier film and the "Tramp" that I admire so much.) Watching arguably the greatest movie star that ever lived pour so much of himself into this project makes for a viewing experience that's as uncomfortable as it is compelling. Limelight marks the filmmaker's poignant attempt to exorcise his personal demons once and for all - and for a figure as gargantuan as Chaplin to willingly deface the mythology of his cherished past is an act of bravery that commands nothing but awe from this viewer.

The film unfolds in the tradition of grand, if somewhat bizarre, melodrama - perhaps the genre best able to accommodate the insecurities of a star such as this. Moreover, Chaplin's refusal to leave the ghost of the past behind contributes to a sense of unease regarding the film. The spectre of the Tramp manifests itself throughout: in Calvero's costumes; in his description as a "tramp" comedian; in a dream sequence where Calvero pours salt on a rose and proceeds to eat it (harking back to a similar scene in The Gold Rush); and in every one of his Charlot-esque mannerisms that only heighten the sense of awkwardness which characterizes the film. At one point, Calvero goes so far as to declare that: "There's something about working the streets that I like. It's the tramp in me, I suppose." Chaplin's nonchalant delivery belies the significance of a statement that so tellingly alludes to both the performer's vaudeville past as well as his most famous creation. And this is merely one of many instances where the text mines the depths of its author's career to deepen its own perspective - the entire film is transfused with an acute awareness of history and the artist's place within it. To this end, one finds Calvero frequently framed against self-portraits in the interior spaces of his home. Although the framing alternates between subtle and unavoidable, each composition carefully augments the inescapable hold of stardom within Chaplin's intricate narrative.

Notably for a Chaplin film, Limelight is almost shockingly devoid of humour. Whereas the director's previous features had attempted to negotiate an equilibrium between comedy and pathos, Limelight extinguishes the bright flame of the former altogether and thus allows the latter to overwhelm the film's thematics. Calvero's jokes and wisecracks simply aren't worthy of our laughter, and his comedy routines make for painful viewing. Compare, for example, the "flea sequence" with anything made prior to 1940 and the discrepancy becomes grossly apparent. It's when in his supposed element that Calvero becomes most devastatingly exposed as an outdated relic. As he attempts to bury his shame under: first, a false name; and then, one last showcase; one senses Chaplin simultaneously attempting to bury his own past in the character of Calvero, with Limelight's canvas itself functioning as the platform for the final triumph.

With this in mind, perhaps the most moving facet of the film is to be found in its examination of the relationship between star and audience. The blatant artificiality of the film's sets and the prominence given to the stage/audience delineation during the film's final third contribute to this fundamental dilemma regarding the construction of stars. However, its within the core Calvero/Terry relationship where these questions find their most pertinent voice. The aforementioned "Tramp-isms" that Chaplin brings to this role are coupled with a taste for excess when it comes to line delivery during their scenes together, thus elevating him to the level of "performer" with the bed-ridden Terry as the effective replacement for his lost "audience". At one stage, after an impassioned monologue about the beauty of life, Calvero concludes by exclaiming "Goodnight!", as if to further emphasise this mutually beneficial role-playing. It's in the comfort of the theatrical world where one receives glimpses of the real Calvero: after the revelation of an empty theatre during a dream sequence, the camera cuts to a close-up of Chaplin's devastated face. Few stars managed to film so successfully and consistently in close-up as Chaplin, and the indelible image of the heartbroken yet resilient Tramp that's recalled by this shot is difficult to dispel.

Limelight is the most structurally incoherent of Chaplin's major features (that I've seen, at least), and I imagine that the occasionally-clunky editing and bizarre tonal shifts do little to help its cause in the eyes of the general public. (And that's saying nothing of Claire Bloom's marmite work!) But this is a film that appears on-screen as a confessional outpouring of the soul. Surely then, it's cluttered narrative and confusing emotional landscapes are somewhat appropriate? It's easy to accuse Chaplin of self-indulgence here, and the decidedly underwhelming showdown with fellow silent-era giant Buster Keaton provides fuel for the fire. Nevertheless, this seems to bypass the purpose of their much-anticipated sequence together, which is designed first as a self-critique of Calvero/Chaplin's own egotism and second as a touching reminder of all that's been lost due to the cruelty of time. As Calvero himself poignantly defers: "Time is the great author. It always writes the perfect ending." Limelight is one of the saddest demonstrations of this ideal that I can imagine. But Calvero does indeed find peace at film's end, and Limelight itself benefits from that phenomenal conclusion. One can only hope that Chaplin too, managed to get rid of his own demons once and for all. Lord knows he deserves it for providing us with a Hollywood swansong as beautiful as this.

The Gold Rush (Chaplin, 1925)

2008-05-27T19:02:00.004+01:00

Objectively speaking, 1925's The Gold Rush is - in spite of all the acclaim - a surprisingly flawed effort from Chaplin, imo. In terms of its plot, it seems considerably less refined than his later comedic efforts. Much of that fault lies with the issue of character development - what's the real purpose of Black Larsen, for example? Or why waste precious momentum by focusing on the Georgia/Jack relationship? The dynamics of that union, complete with the former's carefree persona significantly detracts from the already distractingly-contrived [Spoiler]happy ending. Is this ho-that-appears-from-nowhere really meant to be worthy of our beloved Tramp?[/Spoiler]

And yet, to focus on these elements strikes me as somewhat reductive, for all the plot gripes in the world pale into insignificance when one is dealing with what could well be the funniest of all Chaplin comedies. And that's as lofty as praise gets. For a film that's defined by its boundless energy, it seems thoroughly appropriate for the director to play fast and loose with staple narrative tools. This decision works a treat, because his alternative is to create a series of increasingly outrageous setpieces that launch a full-scale tickling assault upon the funnybone. The film brims with these bravura sequences that underline its star's gift for slapstick: the first appearance of the bear (this was the point where I fell in love with Chaplin all over again); the boiled shoe; the fights against the storm; the dog at the dance; the initial brawl between Big Jim and Black Larsen; the cabin on the cliffside; and my personal favourite, Charlie in a chicken suit. Whilst the art of film comedy probably reached its peak with the sophisticated screwballs of the 1930s/1940s, the simplistic splendour of Chaplin's own endeavours serves as a pervading reminder that complexity doesn't necessarily equate to superiority.

Personally, I find that the resonance of Chaplin's art consistently derives from his ability to locate light in the bleakest of situations. Although the potential for social commentary in this particular film is mostly disregarded, it nonetheless boasts moments that lay to bare the director's modest (but powerful) emotional canvas. Key to all this is the creation of the Tramp himself, whom Chaplin always embodies with such irresistible charm - to the point where I often find myself taken aback by those that don't fall for him like I do (fortunately, these people seem to exist only on the Internet, which means that they need not fear my real-life wrath). He may well be my favourite character in film history, and although his position in the social hierarchy bestows him with an underdog status that ensures sympathy to a certain degree, I really believe that the Tramp genuinely the audience's affections in his on-screen adventures. Rarely has this been better expressed than during The Gold Rush's dream sequence, where Chaplin's extraordinary talent for blending comedy and pathos reaches its zenith with the famed "Oceana Roll" - typically amusing, but concurrently gut-wrenching as a result of its distance from the Tramp's present reality. Chaplin follows this with one of the most heartbreaking close-ups this side of his own conclusion to City Lights - and once again, his crestfallen face expresses more in a mere few seconds about love, dreams, social status and loneliness, than 180 minutes of spoken dialogue ever could.

I guess I see this film as a reflection of the Tramp himself. What he and it lack in intelligence, they more than make up for with their heart. Chaplin's enduring appeal throughout the years has surely been in large part due to his ability to express painfully honest emotions with a uniquely humorous filter. It's a combination that I'm a sucker for, to be honest. So to return to an earlier point, who really gives a damn about plot?! [Spoiler]If the Tramp wants the girl, then I want him to have her too![/Spoiler] In a world where life is always hanging precariously in the balance, the Tramp's resilience and his ceaseless optimism is both admirable and infectious.

There's a brief scene in this film where the Tramp finds a self-release from all his inhibitions, and bounces off his cabin walls as if all the happiness of the world has been momentarily imbued into his meagre little frame. I feel no shame in confessing that both Chaplin and The Gold Rush have the same effect upon me. For consistently reminding me of the beauty of innocence and sentimentality where so many other directors have miserably failed, I'm indebted to him. And I would never dare let my objectivity get in the way of my subjective love for this here film.

Shadows of Forgotten Ancestors (Paradjanov, 1964)

2008-05-27T18:39:00.003+01:00

I will not dispute the status of Pomegranates as Paradjanov's most heralded film, but I will say that Shadows - as far as I'm concerned - is an even more vibrant and exciting work that dispenses with conventional film language in a manner that I find twice as scintillating as the later masterpiece. Of course, this is arguably the less complex and challenging work of art, but what does that matter when the work in question is as extraordinary as this?

Although I've only seen two of them to date, I've nonetheless arrived at the conclusion that Paradjanov's films are consistently draped in a cultural fabric that's miled removed from our own. In Pomegranates, the director overwhelms his work with symbolism that's daunts as much as it stimulates due to its privileged position in the foreground - the subtext is inextricably bound to the text itself. Shadows utilizes the same complex metaphors that characterize the later film, but here they co-exist with the narrative and enrich (as opposed to define) it. Moreover, Paradjanov grounds the film in an empathetic reality: at its core, Shadows is really a cinematic ballad about one man and his attempts to make peace with a love snatched away by the hands of fate. Armed with the dual forces of both intellectual and emotional wizardry then, Paradjanov crafts a film that's significantly more palatable than the monumental Pomegranates.

That's not to argue that Shadows is less sophisticated in its construction, however. As previously stated, Paradjanov works in a context whereby he can powerfully affirm the localized cultures of the Caucasus. Naturally then, Westernized narratives have no place in this director's filmic worlds. Shadows has an identifiable (but relatively passive) protagonist (Ivan), and reveals traces of traditional plot development, but it stops right there in terms of Western cinematic conventions. The remainder of the film exists partly in the realm of mythical folk tales, and partly as an observational ode to the customs of the Hutsuls. The film is loosely structured as a series of chapters that are inconsistent in length, and one of the most dazzling sequences finds an entire one of these chronicled through the everyday gossip of people who are completely unrelated to the dominant plot strand. This is what I mean when I claim that Paradjanov cares not for our conceptions of narrative exposition! And during the course of some 90-odd minutes, he still manages to find time to interpolate proceedings with a Biblical thread (Pieta; shepherds + sacrificial lambs; the church at the community's centre), whilst implying that the [Spoiler]film's entire first act might've taken place in Ivan's memory,[/Spoiler] thus underlining the density of the film's emotional texture. At its most polar oppositions, Shadows is a work of both irresistible romanticism and harrowing despair. It's to Paradjanov's credit that he so successfully manages to traverse the vast gulf that exists inbetween.

This world of sentimental warfare and spiritual conflicts would make for an engaging film in its own right. When one throws in this director's potent ability to express himself visually however, hyperbolic praise becomes extraordinarily difficult to resist. If The Colour of Pomegranates was a revolutionary declaration of the static camera's potential in cinema; then Shadows of Forgotten Ancestors is a revelatory extravaganza of delirious kineticism that's perhaps even more breathtaking. Mere words fail to capture the ecstatic rhythms of the director's pulsating camerawork here, the experience is akin to a primal romp played out at a hyperspeed - Paradjanov's camera bounces off walls, waltzes around entire communities and scrutinizes its picturesque surroundings with alarming intensity. From its very outset, it proves itself as quite a literal force of nature: one of the film's very first shots assumes the viewpoint of a falling tree! Later in the film, there's a supernatural occurrence when a similar tree suddenly bursts into flames, as if the fiery depths of Hell have suddenly been unleashed upon Earth. Shadows negotiates a reconciliation of these divergent natural and supernatural impulses, and Paradjanov articulates it most astoundingly following [Spoiler]the death of Ivan's father, whose "soul" is briefly glimpsed through the image of horses in red silhouettes, gracefully departing the body.[/Spoiler] Paradjanov's visual style is an intoxicating concoction of delicious colour schemes, bizarre angles and rapturous movement that could perhaps be described as some sort of super-expressionistic brand of modernism. Except that really, the director's work stubbornly defies the reductive labelling that we're accustomed to in the West. The phrase "seeing is believing" has never been more appropriate than it is here.

In the meantime, it seems necessary for me to return to the aformentioned "emotional texture" of the film, because Shadows particularly resonates on this front. Typically, Paradjanov outlines the foundations of his prevailing concerns from the get-go. [Spoiler]The film opens with the death of Ivan's brother Alekso, who meets his end whilst saving our hero. In effect, the fate that was meant for Ivan has been transferred onto Alekso - but Ivan's destiny continues to haunt him throughout the film (even during that initial death scene, part of Ivan's trauma derives from his inability to escape from the clasp of his brother's dead hand).[/Spoiler] One of the characters describes the world of Shadows as "a land forgotten by God", and it's an apt description because savagery and death seems to be a part of everyday existence here. Ivan's forbidden romance with Marichka then, functions as a tantalizing glimpse of optimism in a pessimistic world. Their scenes together are characerized by an innocence and a joviality that evaporates following [Spoiler]Marichka's death[/Spoiler]; Paradjanov's camera excitedly encircles them as if an extension of their romantic longing, but concurrently embodies the pervading mystical gloom that serves only to entrap them within their fates. Nonetheless, it's Ivan's inability to extinguish that longing that the film venerates. If Pomegranates is about the redemptive power of art, then Shadows is about the transcendent power of love. And really, who can resist such an idea when it's as compellingly rendered as it is here? The final song shared by Ivan and Marichka might well be one of the most gorgeous moments I've ever come across in cinema. Paradjanov's peculiar brand of humanism resonates so strongly with this image of two lovers-that-never-were, lost in the impeccable beauty of their own memories (lest we forget that there's also a celebration of Hutsul culture here thanks to the music involved). Although the film's final shot, [Spoiler]with a manic camera dancing alongside the drunken guests at Ivan's funeral[/Spoiler], draws us back into the circularity of the director's vision [Spoiler](death is inevitable; the world remains indifferent)[/Spoiler], it's the strength of this romance that leaves the most indelible impression here. Paradjanov instils in his audience a sense of yearning for the love itself - and he does it with such panache that one can't help but yearn for a myth like Shadows to accompany it.

The Colour of Pomegranates (Paradjanov, 1968)

2008-05-27T18:20:00.002+01:00

The opportunity to investigate the singular filmography of Sergei Paradjanov is not one that I'd ever turn down. Paradjanov's cinema has forever piqued my interest, and the self-generated hype that overwhelmed me with regards to his most acclaimed work - The Colour of Pomegranates - motivated my decision to blind-purchase an American box set of his feature films.

However, my initial reaction here was a little confusing for me: I admired this and could clearly see that it was brilliant, but I didn't feel like I'd engaged with the text at all. Paradjanov's tableaux are so vivid and exciting, and they possess such rich symbolism that's so heavily steeped in Armenian history + culture that it makes the film something of an imprenetable behemoth of breathtaking imagery - but for the ordinary Westernized viewer like myself, it's difficult to gain much more it. Or at least, that's how I felt after that first viewing.

Following the inevitable (and necessary) second viewing I saw things differently. I think my natural instinct as a film enthusiast is to decipher all these images that are put before me, as I get a kick out of participating in the whole cinematic experience, and I also like to get the most out of the films that I love. Pomegranates, saturated as it is by a culture that's quite alien to me, denies me the gratifications that I've become accustomed to as an audience member. But I feel that Paradjanov is first and foremost concerned in evoking a response on a purely visceral level here. I imagine that even a professor in 18thC Armenian symbolism would struggle, in one sitting, to fully digest the wealth of imagery with which the director confronts the viewer. And after all, Pomegranates is effectively "poetry in motion" - designed to externalize the internal life of the poet, according to the aims that are defined in the film's prologue.

Bearing that in mind, I found the film to be quite a profound experience the second time around. With Pomegranates, Paradjanov attempts to penetrate the soul of the tormented artist, and the 'character' of Sayat Nova here is really little more than an abstract concept that allows the director to channel his own insecurities and tribulations through the poet's textual presence. Thus, I think the film is permeated by a stark emotional clarity that manifests itself most notably in the numerous intertitles, all of which seem to reveal the artist's increasing despair. A typical refrain such as "In this healthy and beautiful life, my share has been nothing but suffering" suddenly becomes infused with much greater depth of meaning when one realizes this. Pomegranates is essentially a filmic embodiment of that very quote, no? The poetry that accompanies the artist's on-screen journey via the expository intertitles articulates the latter, more despondent part of the line. But Paradjanov achieves a remarkable balance between the despair which punctuates the film, and the visual content which enlivens the first half of the sentence. The director is very much attuned to the joys of life, and Pomegranate's vibrant imagery emphatically celebrates the beauty of this decidedly Armenian existence.

It's the co-existence of these two basic strands - happiness and sadness - that make the artist's suffering (and consequently, Paradjanov's achievement) all the more poignant. The former exposes the extent of the latter as I see it, and the fact that the artist's desperation prevails despite the creation of this sumptuous filmic environment strikes me as a pretty affirmative statement on the director's part. The reconciliation of Armenian culture and history with the soul of the artist is denied (until he achieves a debatable transcendence at film's end, at least), and I sense the presence of external forces in this refusal? There's a potential critique of the Soviet regime, but I'm unsure as to whether I could come up with any particular examples off the top of my head... perhaps the return to the image of the 'bleeding' pomegranates, that are apparently symbolic of fertility in Armenia? (Thank you, Wikipedia!) Although, as we've established, the content of the film is an act of defiance in itself. Moreover, I think Paradjanov astutely notes the transience of the cultural mores that he so relishes. By working with the past, he highlights the discrepancy with the present. The distinct religious/biblical imagery and the parallels that the director creates between Sayat Nova and Christ mark a concerted attempt to elevate these traditions into the realm of the timeless through the medium of film.

And that brings me onto the last issue that I wanted to discuss, which is basically the specific role of art in Paradjanov's world. I think I've already implied that Pomegranates is markedly different from anything else that I've ever seen... but how so! The director's unnervingly static camera is compensated by the visual opulence within the frame. And the 'characters' that inhabit it are almost confrontational in the way that they frequently stare directly at the audience (which distorts the privilege of our cinematic gaze somewhat). Furthermore, there's his use of sound which threatens to render the diegetic as non-diegetic?! Either way, the film strips away the cinematic language that we draw comfort from, and remoulds the essence of the medium (the visual image) into something that's at once both archaic (the use of tableaux + Christian tapestry) and thoroughly modern (had this been done before, in this style?).

There's a glorious moment in the film where a number of saz seem to be floating in mid-air, as if they've surpassed the limitations of reality and have attained the status of metaphysical objects. The saz of course, is the instrument of the kerib, and in Pomegranates this equates to the artist. The transcendence of these guitars then, is a beautiful encapsulation of the redeeming qualities of art. And that is probably the message that most resonates with me here. Sayat Nova the man may no longer be with us, but Sayat Nova the artist is immortal. The Colour of Pomegranates, imo, proves that the same is true of Sergei Paradjanov.

Lola (Fassbinder, 1981)

2008-05-27T15:51:00.002+01:00

Lola (1981) maintains Fassbinder's tendency to play with our notions of genre, but this time the director underscores his work with a platform provided by the 1950s melodrama. Fassbinder's exaggeration Sirkian colour schemes borders on the grotesque, creating another image of over-perfection that paradoxically induces nothing but disgust from the viewer. And of course, the implications of Fassbinder's visual designs convey themselves within the text. Sirk is noted for probing a distinctly American psyche, and through the importation of this brand of Americana into a German environment, Fassbinder arguably makes a broader comment regarding his skepticism towards the influence of the US economy during this period (consider: the grossly fetishized results of his decision).

Lola is perhaps more directly concerned with the cost and effects of materialism than the others in the trilogy. The presence of commodities such as TVs and radios permeate the film, and the construction of a new building (later noted by Fassbinder as symbolic of the future, both due to its existence and the forces that created it) is central to the plot. Lola herself is one of these very "commodities" (has any other woman in Fassbinder's oeuvre been so willfully objectified?), and one that's desperate to become socially-acceptable - to the point where she denigrates the institution of marriage to mere deal-breaking. And yet, in a departure from Maria Braun, this film is more focused on the trajectory of a male character: von Bohm. Both he and Schukert represent the strongest male characters in the BRD trilogy, and together with Esslin they enact a compelling battle between morality and greed. No prizes for guessing which one prevails.

I initially spent quite a bit of time debating whether to watch Veronika Voss or Lola first. Watching this would've made chronological sense in terms of what the audiences of the 1980s experienced, but Veronika Voss is apparently "BRD 2" whilst this is "BRD 3"... I eventually decided to conform to the Criterion order, and I'm now thankful that I did. The titular character is the only one of the BRD's female heroines that [Spoiler]actually survives at film's end. So, whilst both the other films heavily implied the continuity of their amorality in spite of the lead's absence, Lola offers the most pertinent scenario of them all. The moral integrity of Von Bohm and Esslin has been eroded by the small-town ruling class, leaving the characters nothing else to do but resign themselves to the imagined reality of the '50s melodrama. Von Bohm and Lola are married at the end, but Schukert ultimately retains both his power and Lola herself. Von Bohm's love has become a corrupting force in its own right, as if to suggest that there's no room for it in a society so characterized by its thirst to consolidate the economic miracle. Everyone is malleable in Fassbinder's final worldview, and the final shot which establishes a graphic match between Lola's child and an earlier scene featuring Lola herself implies more brilliantly than ever that nothing will change.[/Spoiler] C'est magnifique!

This is not to say that I consider Lola to be a flawless film, by any means - it's the weakest of the trilogy, imo. I find it's final third extremely rushed in comparison to the rest of the film, and that affects our comprehension of these moral conflicts that are being waged by its characters - they come across as trite, underdeveloped (although this is also possibly appropriate, no?) Nevertheless, the film boasts some astonishing photography and some magnificent individual scenes (Lola's cabaret act; the country church). Plus, Barbara Sukowa is truly gorgeous in the title role (one of the sexiest performances in cinema?) . Anyway, the performances from Sukowa, Armin Mueller-Stahl and Mario Adorf are uniformly great (and appropriately 'melodramatic'), and Fassbinder's attack is more scathing than ever. And that makes this delectable, pour moi. So... yay?!

In conclusion: the BRD trilogy is essential viewing.

Veronika Voss (Fassbinder, 1982)

2008-05-27T15:32:00.006+01:00

Finally continuing with Fassbinder's acclaimed BRD trilogy. Thoughts on the first part, The Marriage of Maria Braun (1979), can be found here. Comments on Lola (1981) - the final chapter of the trilogy, but second part chronologically - will follow this post.

Veronika Voss is an incredibly self-conscious film that takes pains to expose its artificial nature to the audience. With every cut, Fassbinder literally seems to be underlining the relationship of Veronika to cinema itself - has any other director ever deployed such a wide variety of ways in which to edit his film? Filmed entirely in black-and-white as if to further toy with our conceptions of the 1950s noir-esque drama, Fassbinder is clearly paying homage to Wilder's Sunset Blvd. (1950) here: forgotten diva of yesterday's pictures + 'innocent' man caught up in the saga = exposé of stardom's deformed underbelly (amongst many other things). Veronika steals that basic formula and considerably widens the scope, resulting in a film that stimulates the intellect whilst slyly awakening the audience's own sense of self with its constant references to artifice and film history.

Fassbinder draws upon the pessimism of the typical noir feature here, and also takes full advantage of its potential as social critique. The role of Veronika the "star" then, plays into the BRD trilogy's trademark attacks upon the post-war German lifestyle. Under particular scorn here are the supporting characters' reactions to what she represents - namely, the 'glory' of a bygone era. Unlike the other leading women of this trilogy, this film's 'heroine' is deprived of her sexuality - she's a tragic and unwanted antique, rendered hopelessly vulnerable in a regenerative society driven simultaneously by capitalistic greed and a need to repress the historical past of which she's so emblematic. This is not to argue that Fassbinder is completley uncritical of the character - the flashback scenes, dubious wartime ethics and contemporary egotism ensure a balanced insight - but Veronika is a perfect testament to the director's ability to humanize even the most grotesque of his creations.

Nevertheless, it's Veronika's undesirable personality traits that provide the narrative with much of its gravity, because it renders her supposed 'romance' with Robert completely unbelievable and consequently poses all sorts of complications for the viewer: why would he fall for that so quickly? (Especially when he has a beautiful girlfriend at home?) And why would his girlfriend both accept his unfaithfulness and then actively participate in the mystery? These are curious propositions for the audience, but their troublesome nature evaporates when one realizes that Veronika is working less on the grounds of emotional identifiability and more on the level of self-aware cinematic constructs. Fassbinder's characters do not react as everyday people would in such situations, but the film maintains no pretenses of resembling reality either (although it certainly has illusions, but more of that in a sec) - they exist in an alternate filmic universe where their fates seem pre-ordained by all-governing cinematic gods. [Spoiler]For example, the girlfriend's fate was kinda inevitable, no? And if Veronika is some sort of bizarre re-imagining of the femme fatale (not implausible) then she too, meets an entirely necessary end. Although the final conclusion, moulded by the overarching intents of the trilogy itself, is a brilliant defiance of the status quo so the screenplay shouldn't necessarily be taken at face value here.[/Spoiler]

Anyway, as fascinating as the film is when viewed through a socio-political filter, it's really this compelling engagement with narrative's relation to spectacle that provides the film with its most provocative fibre. In my (very) limited experience with the director, I've discovered that he enjoys filming his characters in long-shot, presumably to preserve the audience's capacity for objectivity. In Veronika Voss, the titular character is frequently seen from such distances, emphasizing her own isolation alongside this impartiality. Moreover, Fassbinder's visualization complements the aforementioned reference to a "repressed historical past" through his use of stark b&w photography - the surface shimmer of the film is ridiculously pristine, provoking a glaring discord between visual design and narrative content. This accordingly seems to reflect cinema's own "repressed past" (inc. the memory of stars such as Sybille Schmitz - the film's inspiration), whose spirits Fassbinder reconceptualizes as a relucent external catharsis that overcompensates for the failure of the internal drama to provide a morally-desirable ending. Appropriately, Veronika's flashback sequences scale the heights of this unbearable perfection: the earliest ones are saturated by light that literally imprints a wealth of manufactured stars onto the frame, deliciously revealing the extent of her alienation from life itself. At one point, Veronika makes a similarly tantalizing meta-reference to cinema's need for "light and shadow". This exploration of the cinematic and its very definition, combined with numerous intertextual references, helps to make the film an exhilarating experience for any cultured film enthusiast.

In conclusion: isn't Fassbinder wonderful?

Oh, and I must also give a shout-out to Veronika's rendition of "Memories Are Made Of This", which - after watching it on repeat about five times - might well be one of my favourite sequences in film. Ever. Fassbinder is in such complete control of his craft here (as he is throughout the film actually... it might be the most technically accomplished feature I've seen of his) and his precision is on such perfect display in this brief, but perfect scene:

Now, go and watch the film if you haven't already, so you can understand why the subtext here makes me so unbearably sad.

When a Woman Ascends the Stairs (Naruse, 1960)

2008-05-27T15:14:00.002+01:00

When a Woman... marks my sixth (and, for the moment, final) Naruse - and after traversing my way through the intimate small-town dramas that seem to dominate his 1950s work, this one came as a huge (but pleasant) surprise. From its very beginning, we're told that this will be something quite different: its credits are projected onto a black widescreen vista, accompanied by stark images and punctuated by Toshiro Mayuzumi's vibrant jazz score - thereby marking a notable contrast to the traditional grey introduction (complete with more classical imagery and melodramatic music) that normally opens Naruse's works. The director signifies that this will be a more modernist effort, and he spends the remainder of the film delivering on that promise. Its mish-mash of unrequited love and burning lust gives rise to a cluttered emotional panorama that seemingly marks Naruse's concerted attempt to engage with the afflictions of urban life. That life is rendered magnificently through his impeccable sets, which tend to centre on cosmopolitan bars or lead character Keiko's relatively sophisticated apartment, thereby reinforcing this break from the more homely interiors that Naruse admirers must've been accustomed to at this stage. And then there's the CinemaScope format, which Naruse milks for every inch of its worth. Some of the framing here brought to mind Michelangelo Antonioni, whose seminal L'Avventura was released this same year. Funky coincidence, huh? I actually think that comparison with Antonioni is useful because it's quite revealing... although Naruse's stylizations have effortlessly adapted to reflect his more modern surroundings (therefore allowing for such comparisons to be made), his thematics effectively remain the same and thus, in that distinctly Narusean way that I've come to adore, the director emphasizes the continuity of his standard preoccupations (thus refuting my Michelangelo comparison in the process).

With When a Woman..., Naruse once again shines his cinematic light on the rigidity of the social order and the difficulties that arise when attempting to 'break the mould', so to speak. The issue of female independence is typically at the forefront of his inquiries, and the plight of Keiko functions as a mirror on which to dramatize the conflicts that the thirst for autonomy creates. Although this perhaps makes the film sound more contrived than it deserves? Naruse is always (and I mean always) dedicated to observing his characters in all their naturalistic beauty, in order to genuinely recreate the wealth of human experience. So whilst a number of When a Woman...'s characters behave in ways that surprise us, the director ensures that the machinations of his screenplay remain concealed thanks to his unique ability to preserve that organic 'flow' which defines his best efforts.

And talking of 'flows', there's a similarity between this film and the earlier Flowing re: the way in which both deal with the subject of women as commodities. Obviously, this is more overt in the geisha house of the earlier film, but When a Woman... is shrouded by the issue of money and debt as well, and the glamorous images projected by the bar hostesses are stressed by Keiko as nothing more than mere 'performances' (a point that the film poignantly expands upon with both Keiko and supporting characters such as Yuri) conceived to maximise their monetary gain. The cost of Keiko's desired independence further augments the prevalence of transactions within the film, and the role of money (to purchase her own bar) and its relationship to the patriarchy (she needs patronage) is a central theme here. The film's opening segment establishes Keiko's dilemma: as an 'aging' (she's only 30!) woman in a disreputable profession, she is left with only two options - to open her own bar, or to enter into a doomed marriage (for no "decent" man would apparently desire a woman like her). In both cases, she's dependent upon the patriarchy, and although she tries to manipulate it to her own benefits by gaining capital from numerous patrons in an attempt to resist becoming possessed by a single one, the aforementioned 'organic flow' of Narusean life painfully catches up with her and underlines the difficulty of achieving one's dreams. As a woman, that is.

Keiko is in many ways too outdated for the bustling Ginza district in which she works. She's perhaps too virtuous and moralistic to ever run a truly thriving bar like her rival, Yuri (although, conversely, this adds to her 'appeal' for her clientele). We sense that, had she been born a few years earlier, she would've assumed the role of the antiquated geisha whom she offends during the film's final act, and whose purpose she is uncomfortably replicating in 1960s Japan. Still, the attribute that compels her to continue with her fight is that of perseverance and it's really this sense of endurance (in spite of the suffering) that the film ultimately leaves us with. Visually, the motif of "ascending the stairs" is an extension of this idea. One recalls her own distaste for her profession', yet still she climbs - as if by doing so she'll figuratively rise above jaded reality and towards spiritual harmony. The fact that each of these ascents leads only to the same objectification and 'performance' speaks volumes. It's a continuous cycle, and a ritual that culminates in one of the most poignant finales of a director's career that's seemingly full of them.

Flowing (Naruse, 1956)

2008-05-27T15:03:00.002+01:00

Flowing marks the second of Naruse's "geisha" films that I've been privileged enough to watch, alongside the earlier Late Chrysanthemums (1954). The scope of the later film is narrower than Late Chrysanthemums, and its structure much tighter, thus making it the superior dramatization (in this writer's opinion). Moreover, the film boasts an extraordinary ensemble of Japanese actresses: Kinuyo Tanaka, Isuzu Yamada (both arguably icons of these geisha dramas thanks to their collaborations with Mizoguchi?), Hideko Takamine and Haruko Sugimura -- all in the same film! Needless to say, the opportunity to witness so much of Japan's crème de la crème in the same film is not one that should be passed up.

This film is such an intimate examination of the precariousness of geisha life in the 1950s. And it proves to me that Naruse is truly a great woman's director, as he seems so acclimatized to the psychologies of his female characters. He entirely assumes the female perspective here by using Tanaka's character to enter into, and retain an external commentary on, the declining geisha house that serves as the film's main setting. Thus, the audience too is compelled to appreciate the feminine viewpoint. And, typically for Naruse, it's a very poignant one that's on offer: these women are observed both in strength and in weakness, although their increasingly outmoded occupation ensures that it's the latter point that is most pertinent. How Narusean!

It's the director's ability to (once again) so brilliantly capture the richness of everyday existence that resonates above all else, imo. The film's title is befitting, as it opens with a shot of a flowing river that streams into the next shot of an urban street (a very familiar scene, for anyone acquainted with the director) and closes with the mirror image: a street that segues into the river. Naruse is situating his female crises in the daily 'flow' of modern life, whilst hinting at the continuity of their experiences - after all, the film doesn't really "resolve" any of its plotlines, so to speak.

Nevertheless, Naruse's observations are as acute and rigorous as ever. From the enfeebled-but-determined Madame of the house (movingly played by Yamada) and her vociferous employees, to the conniving 'superiors' who plot behind her back, right down to the two 'external' characters (the daughter, Takamine, and Tanaka's maid) that offer us an alternative outlook in this geisha-dominated environment - Naruse's devotion to, and sympathy towards, his characters is never in doubt. Therefore, one feels the need to give him something of a free pass for the film's one minor flaw (a tendency to become a little too overt with the internalized conflicts), because he and his actresses seem to have earned their right to express their grievances. The film's finale, which contrasts a discouraging affirmation of the geisha lifestyle with equally pessimistic shots of Takamine's forlorn attempts to carve her own future, underlines a world where both traditionality and modernity continue to fail the Japanese women that reside within. Bearing in mind the circularity of this scenario that's enforced by the film's visual bookends, who can really blame these women for letting loose every once in a while? Certainly not Naruse, that's for sure.

Spring in a Small Town (Fei, 1948)

2008-04-07T15:53:00.003+01:00

A husband (Liyan) and wife (Yuwen) are physically and emotionally estranged from one another. His friend (Zhichen) pays them an unexpected visit. Unbeknownst to the husband, the doctor turns out to be his wife's former lover, and thus: the central conflict of Spring in a Small Town has been established. If the plot sounds familiar it's perhaps unsurprising, for domestic entanglements and unfulfilled longing exist in fairly orthodox territory for the seasoned cinephile. However, Fei's distinct approach to this material is anything but conventional, and Spring's ingenuity consequently remains very much intact for contemporary audiences. Indeed, it's the director's remarkably adept exploration of his narrative's subtext that initially impaired my own response to the film.

To expand on that last comment: Spring boasts a vast reservoir of disordered feeling, much of which is internalized through the art of performance. Fei (as cinematic technician) is thereby required to supplement his characters' unsettled intrinsicalities using the film's veneer, and although his directorial touch is an expressive one it can occasionally be read as somewhat heavy-handed: intercutting a scene featuring the potential lovers with shots of their designated partners, for example; or the symbolic emphasis placed upon a pot of orchids through the use of repetition. Such judgments threaten to overwhelm the fragility of an otherwise understated drama, but therein lies the film's perplexity: although a delineation between the inferred internal domain and the lucid external one is seemingly apparent, these are interrelated oppositions whose boundaries are constantly breached both physically and figuratively (note Zhichen's entrance into the household). Thus, to misinterpret one is to miscontrue the other, as Fei is really observing the overlap of these two worlds. In its essence, Spring attempts to navigate the gradual movement of its characters away from this opaque middle-ground and towards a new-found clarity, whilst mediating over this precarious transition's necessary confrontations with a host of contentious dualities: heart vs. mind; desire vs. morality; fantasy vs. reality; rebellion vs. conformity.

Spring's conscious decision to underscore proceedings with Yuwen's poignant voiceover enriches this transitory experience for the viewer - rarely has the power of narration been utilized so effectively. Yuwen's apprehensive contemplation subsidizes the film's prevailing melancholia, but curiously lacks a fully coherent affiliation with the main narrative. In some instances, we hear her pre-empting on-screen events; in others, she comments on events that have already occurred; and all the while the audience is plunged into her subjective viewpoint which illuminates those aforementioned dualities. Although beneficial to our comprehension in that sense, the narration is detrimental in another as it obscures the filmic concept of time. [Spoiler:] Aside from the inconsistencies pertaining to its usage, it should be noted that the film's ending visually replicates (and expands upon) its beginning, clearly implying that all preceding events have been born from Yuwen's memory. Despite furthering the depth of our understanding then, Yuwen's voiceover also augments a blurring of fantasy/reality whilst concurrently reconfiguring Fei's mise-en-scène into a dense psychological playground of emotionally-charged imagery.

Accordingly, the film becomes inundated with metaphorical meaning. Previous reservations about Fei's bold intercutting or the use of orchids are somewhat redundant when viewed via the prism of Yuwen's subconscious. Meanwhile, the director's deployment of dissolves in his editing serves as an apt visualization of Yuwen's desires (note how they occur after Zhichen's introduction). Moreover, his frequent return to walls (in the garden, the house, and the all-important "city wall") reflects both the self-made and socially-prescribed barriers that contain Yuwen's passion; whilst their noticeable disrepair fortifies the authority of the emotional (their imbued status as life-governing boundaries) over the physical (their clear fallibility) that permeates the film. So exquisite is Fei's construction that even the patterning of doors and doorways plays into this exposition of interiority: the stark, rectangular designs acribed to the males form a contrast against the complex and elaborate decorations in Yuwen's quarter.

Although her presence dominates the film, Yuwen's introspection is not at the expense of others - Fei's camerawork remains committed to all of Spring's characters. The actual gaze of the film frequently articulates the infiltration of subjectivity (the narrative dictates that this is her perspective) into objectivity (the visualization is often something that she couldn't possibly have seen). Take for example, the scene in which Yuwen and Zhichen undergo their initial walk: at one point, Fei films them from behind at considerable distance as the two have a dispute expressed entirely through gestures. Yuwen would never have recalled the event from such a position, but her subsequent instincts dictate a repression of such incidents, thereby complementing Fei's own intention of veering the film away from the melodramatic. Of course, there are also the numerous instances when Yuwen isn't even in the scene, and in these cases Fei simultaneously: explores the wandering mindset of a woman seeking a resolution; questions the validity of her memorializing; and provides opportunities for the audience to sympathize with other characters. And indeed, each of these characters is sympathetic - if any of them are even remotely demonized it's Yuwen herself, who is depicted as the quiet aggressor with both Liyan and Zhichen, and seen as (self-?)isolated in scenes featuring the 'familial' collective.

Yuwen's wilful detachment from her family could arguably reflect a disconnect with a changing society, although Fei's film is never overtly allegorical. Nevertheless, the fact that the Communists rejected the film suggests that there are ideas waiting to be explored here. One could examine an tenuous link between Yuwen's frustration and the evident destruction caused by years of war (briefly alluded to during Zhichen's arrival). Additionally, using their clothing styles as a platform, we could feasibly interpret the characters of Liyan and Zhichen as representative of the (admittedly simplified) values of traditionality and modernity, with the former's illness reinforcing his derogatory role as the 'Sick Man of Asia'. Bearing this in mind, Fei's tender-hearted treatment of Liyan might well have been problematic for Leftist thinkers, and Spring's finale - which sees [Spoiler:] Yuwen conclusively opting for the traditional over the modern - amplifies this dilemma.

Could Spring therefore be conceived as an effort to engage with the issues facing a war-torn nation? Perhaps, but the film's enormous power derives primarily from its success in penetrating the intricate psyche of its lead character. Political commentary, however slight, is inevitable given the historical context that manifests itself in the film, but it's also tangential to the primary investigations of love, honour and duty. As it's these concerns that motivate Yuwen's final decision, it's on these terms that they should be judged. [Spoiler:] In reality then, her resolve to repair her own world instead of escaping to pastures anew is an optimistic one, albeit one with a self-sacrificial element to it. Lest we forget that Liyan also undergoes a significant change: initially, Yuwen describes him as having "no courage to live"; later, he himself states that "I have to get better, I have to go on living." Thus, his character's movement from opacity to clarity is decisively complete, and although Yuwen's personal transition is an ongoing process, there's no reason to believe that the future will be as desolate as the past. The fact that these changes have been (ironically) instigated by her forbidden love is perhaps an extension of the story's pure compassion for its characters, for in charting their journey the film posits love itself as a redemptive and potent force for change. If this is political conservativism, then let it be said that the world is in need of more such 'undesirables.'

Palms (Aristakisyan, 1993)

2008-03-24T11:38:00.003Z

Palms opens with footage of a silent film set during the Roman era. The ensuing images of women and children being torn to death by lions as a packed auditorium cheers establishes the notion of man's savagery from the outset. What follows is an elliptical jump to 1990 - but, in a disconcerting sign of things to come, the film stock retains the same grainy texture that defined the preceding century-old excerpts. In essence, Aristakisyan is telling us that nothing has changed, and so begins his despondent rumination on the state (and fate) of contemporary 'humanity'.

If one judges a society by the condition of its poor, then what the director offers here is an overwhelmingly damning indictment of the world in its entirety because, as far as this film is concerned, little exists outside of the impoverished misfits that populate its impaired milieu. Aristakisyan doesn't seek to place his mentally and physically disabled 'ensemble' into the constraints of conventional narrative, nor does he maintain any pretenses about the creation of a non-fictional work (his narration provides the characters with backstories, often used for dramatic purpose) - so, what the Hell is he doing?! Palms is perhaps most notably a portrait of the marginalized, that smothers its audience with harrowing images which they'd prefer to ignore. It's a film that shatters our utopian fantasies and forces an uncomfortable confrontation with individuals that are repressed on a daily basis. Therefore, one could argue that it's a social commentary, and the remnants of Communist relics visible during the film imply an engagement with the Moldovan national question as well. Moreover, Aristakisyan's narration repeatedly returns to the idea of a powerful, oppressive and undefined "system" that's failed its citizens. This isn't a simple critique, it's a browbeating assault that infuriates the viewer with a muddled ideology consisting primarily of anarchic variations on the idea of extrication from the "system" as the sole method of living.

That ideology is muddled with intent, however. Palms is a film that defies the shackles of reductive labelling, and accordingly it functions on a multitude of levels. Aside from scrutinizing the social then, Aristakisyan also penetrates the personal. Thus, through his narration (which, it should be noted, is the only sound to be heard in the film, besides the occasional intrusion of a Verdi piece) he assumes the role of a potential parent talking to his unborn child. This lends the film an occasional tenderness that's doubly refreshing given the visual context, as when he states: "I want to see so badly how you first look at me." We can deduce that it's tenderness which motivates his extended monologue as well, an attempt by a father to assuredly point the way for the next generation. Of course, this father is a product of the "system" that permeates the film, and his evident mental trauma ("I can't find my place in life") not only links personal to (socio-)political but also parlays itself into his aforementioned 'guidance'. The majority of the dialogue is thereby rendered as little more than paranoid rambling that reflects his socially-induced pessimism. He advocates a life of destitution for his child, arguing that the on-screen characters possess a liberation that he sorely lacks. At one point he draws a link between poverty and virginity that's confounding in its connotations. How regressive must the "system" in question be if it can provoke a confessional that bequeaths all too visible hardship unto the future?

As if these questions weren't daunting enough, Aristakisyan introduces a further dimension to proceedings that elevates his film into the dizzying realm of the spiritual. From its opening intertitle (which details the outlawing of Christians in Rome), Palms is interpolated by a biblical tapestry that explicitly manifests itself on a regular basis. The initial ellipsis outlines the influence of religion upon the present, and the compression of time draws attention to the previously-noted film stock whose observational utilization invites a comparison with the early works of the Lumière brothers. The director is thereby manipulating his film's temporal qualities against the context of cinema history, and by evoking this particular parallel he effectively locates Palms at the beginning of cinematic time (the date of 1990 reinforces the timelessness of the portrayal.) Having noted the imprint of a Christian fabric here, one can't help but follow a certain trail of thought: before all else, there was God - the creator; Aristakisyan's narrator/father here is the creator of both life and the film itself. His confused assertions can thereby (arguably) acquire the status of God's own words, and thus Palms itself is recast as a filmic embodiment of the Bible filtered through the prism of the 20th-century experience. The provocative implications of this are obvious, although nonetheless startling in their audacity. Moreover, this transfiguration requires the unborn child to metamorphose into Jesus himself - except that [Spoiler:] in actuality he doesn't receive the chance, for Aristakisyan makes clear that this is a child destined for abortion. The world depicted in Palms is consequently deprived of even the slightest possibility of redemption, and it therefore seems thoroughly appropriate for the narrator-as-God to claim that: "The end of the world is our only salvation."

Aristakisyan's success with Palms is a stupendous one, but it inevitably makes for strenuous viewing. His decision to attack the audience with a neverending stream of monotonous despair is one that provides few of the gratifications that we're accustomed to, even in an arthouse. One cannot rejoice at the formal beauty of the work, nor can we easily appreciate its thematics: some of the ideas that his narrator puts forth run against the grain of the liberal, Western viewer that the film will most appeal to (anti-abortion, anti-contraception etc.), and we can't help but wonder what exactly prompted such a brutal diatribe against the social order - but to do so is to lose sight of the film's intent, literally. The narration is, of course, inextricably linked to his images and it's these poignant vignettes of life on the fringes that allow us to comprehend the source of Aristakisyan's grievances. To his credit, the director humanizes his handicapped characters in a way that's rarely seen here (basically, he doesn't patronize them) and his dedication to authentically recording their lives gifts the film with the power of realism. So, when Palms concludes [Spoiler:] in a cemetery, with the phrase "This is my life!" on repeat, its ramifications (both material and celestial) are unnervingly tangible. If even the smallest amount of that reaction is used to regain our awareness of the less fortunate, then perhaps Aristakisyan's goal will have been achieved and maybe, in his worldview, salvation will be possible after all.

The Wind Will Carry Us (Kiarostami, 1999)

2008-03-24T11:29:00.001Z

Soooo... this is one of the towering achievements of its decade, ja?! If there's one aspect of my taste that particularly stands out to me, it's the fact that I consistently find myself leaning towards the great spiritualist filmmakers for comfort: Bergman, Tarkovsky, Dreyer, Bresson. I didn't realise it before, but having seen Wind I don't think it's too much of a stretch to place Kiarostami alongside those greats (double this up with Taste of Cherry and I'm sold.)

The delicately languorous rhythms of Wind allow the audience to savour every sweet moment of this masterpiece, whilst contemplating the director's deft use of space (which, more than character or plot, is where I derive the bulk of the film's meaning.) Kiarostami's most overt visual tactic is to deploy breathtaking long-shots of the Iranian landscape, which not only acts as a tribute to this naturally ravishing country, but also serves to underline the relationship of character to the world beyond - a world that humbles any pretensions of self-importance by rendering everyone within it an indistinguishable dot against the might of its beauty. But Kiarostami doesn't stop there - he's concerned with matters beyond the physical, and accordingly utilizes an aural dimension that expands his scope considerably: a simple, but effective use of sound that alludes to the expanses outside our frame of vision. His soundtrack seemingly captures the wealth of rural and village life in its entirety, but on more cogent terms it also frequently separates ethereal from corporeal by presenting us with voices that aren't accounted for by on-screen events. Thus, numerous characters are heard but not seen, quietly compelling the viewer to confront the nature of (their?) material existence.

It's within this set-up that we're presented the character of Behzad, our narrative's channel for these concerns. As a possible filmmaker (I don't think it's ever made entirely clear?) he arguably functions as Kiarostami's alter-ego here, whilst his relatively Westernized outlook simultaneously embodies him with the traits of the film's audience. The former role gifts the film with much of its peculiar comicality (the grievances and dubious ethics intrinsic to the filmmaking process), whilst the latter reinforces the distinctly metaphysical concerns at its core. This duality reaches a literal and figurative altitude with a delightful running gag that finds Behzad having to drive to the top of a mountain graveyard in order to perform the cosmopolitan task of answering a mobile phone. Aside from the humour inherent in these trips, the journey is also a curious ascent towards death that metaphorically falls short of reaching Kiarostami's heavenly skies. Implicitly, the phone contributes to the deprivation of Behzad's spiritual self through its inextricable link to his inferred past which, it should be noted, is what provides him with the decidedly inhumane goal of awaiting a village elder's death. The driving force of this narrative then, is the attempt to reconcile those aforementioned divergences between ethereal and corporeal, but within Behzad's character. Kiarostami's typically subtle observations in this regard belie the complexity of Wind's undercurrents, which - for a film that's preoccupied with the idea of death (it's referenced in more ways than I could possibly recount) - ultimately make this one of the most moving paeans to the marvels of human life that I've ever encountered.

Sound of the Mountain (Naruse, 1954)

2008-03-24T11:18:00.002Z

Mmmhmm! Sound of the Mountain (1954) is a film that practically invites comparisons with that Yasujiro fellow, innit? Post-war familial strife featuring Setsuko Hara as the perfect daughter-in-law, and Sô Yamamura as her father-in-law! Shit, Tokyo Story redux (with Yamamura instead of Chishu Ryu?!) Well, okay, no. Sound of the Mountain isn't really one of the twenty greatest films evah... but the rigorous minimalism of Ozu's masterpiece makes for an interesting contrast with Naruse's more relaxed approach towards similar subject matter. Naruse's construction is by no means as perfect as Ozu's, and his commentaries re: family and society are probably less acute, but his emotional scope is arguably more expansive and the cumulative effect is just as overwhelming.

Sound of the Mountain also invites comparisons with a couple of other important Japanese films: namely, Naruse's own Repast (1951) and Ozu's Late Spring (1949) - and it compares pretty favourably to both of those wonderful efforts imo. Repast presented us with a couple's marital woes, and their somewhat reluctant attempts to work through them. Mountain offers up the same actors from the earlier film (Hara + the very underrated Ken Uehara), who are again asked to enact a marriage on the rocks - except this time, Naruse's pessimism is considerably amplified to the point where the tensions of Repast seem far tamer as a result (of course, this is all brilliantly disguised by the director, but I shall return to that in a sec!) As for Late Spring, our first view of the wife (Kikuko) in this drama is a shot of Hara riding into the frame on her bicycle, complete with that radiant smile of hers - and only the cine-illiterate among us would fail to make the link between that image and the Ozu, right? I'm not entirely sure how Late Spring was perceived in mid-1950s Japan, but I can't help but feel that Naruse is actively drawing upon certain elements of that film here: the father-daughter relationship at its core is echoed by the father/daughter-in-law one here. Both paternal figures want the best for the Setsuko Hara character, but crucially Yamamura's Shingo is both less able to provide it and more misguided in his attempts to do so - a sign, perhaps, of the feelings of disconnect that permeate so many of these characters' relationships. Moreover, by evoking the image of Noriko, the director is surely utilizing the virtuous, idealistic aspects of Hara's star persona? In short: Naruse essentially seems to be reviewing the couple from Repast three years later, by way of Yasujiro Ozu, and his conclusions (which are even more damning) suggest that any optimism that the audience took away from the earlier film (which wasn't much) is in need of abrupt revision.

Judging by the very few Naruses that I've now seen, I'm starting to think that one of the director's overriding concerns is the disintegration of traditional family units? Nowhere (lol, I've only seen four films!) is that better expressed than in Sound of the Mountain imo, which is a film whose characters all fail miserably in their socially-prescribed roles. Shingo (the father-in-law) explicitly states that he judges himself by the success of his children's marriages, so the film's conclusion must leave him with very low self-esteem indeed; Shuichi (the husband) is a philanderer and a drunkard; his sister is revealed to be incompetent as both housewife and mother; even Kinuko, the "other woman" of this piece, subverts the villainous nature of her role and also [Spoiler:] becomes pregnant, thereby breaking the understanding between herself and Shuichi. As for Kikuko, despite her best intentions her marriage is a failure that provokes a displaced (but mutual) affection for Shingo. Furthermore, to return to that earlier point, Naruse recalls the myth of Noriko and her resilience only to shatter any illusions that we may have about that character's ability to survive in his filmic world. He manipulates Hara's role as "Eternal Virgin" in order to suggest its regressive qualities (compare Kikuko with Repast's Michiyo), and - in one of Mountain's more startling moments - he even alludes to the character's underwhelming performance in the bedroom. Such frankness seems to be a typically Narusean trait, and the director takes it a step further with his attitudes towards the pivotal [Spoiler:] abortion, which is presented so matter-of-factly (we have no idea that the decision is even being contemplated) that one can't help but reconsider Kikuko's own role in the breakdown of her marriage.

Whilst Naruse certainly has an interest in the sympathetic qualities that are inherent in Hara, it's a concern that seeks to undermine these attributes in order to achieve a more complex presentation of modern life imo. By shifting his emotional focal point from the issue of marriage towards the dynamics of the Kikuko/Shingo relationshp, Naruse examines cross-generational failures but also exploits the dramatic ebbs and flows that characterize their platonic (but possibly more?) love. Their social roles prevent them from being completely honest with one another, and their close friendship means that both repress certain facts in order to protect their precarious sense of harmony - and the audience is as often as blinded by this as they are. Indeed, one could argue that Mountain is a film preoccupied with that which is concealed, and Naruse's aim is to uncover those secrets and expose them for the glaring inconsistencies that they create in our idyllic portrait of family life. The director's visual presentation augments such notions, for the world that's provided to us is a lush and lively one filled with light - i.e. one that creates a notable discord against the individual turmoils that exist within it. Naruse's decision to maintain this façade even as his characters are in perpetual crisis has a devastating purpose, because during the film's finale - when this surface has finally been overwhelmed by anguish - there's nothing left for audience to do but stare down reality alongside Kikuko and Shingo. And it's this that makes Sound of the Mountain a definitive example of Naruse's unbridled pessimism, because over the course of 96 minutes he has effectively deprived his characters of all their aspirations and left them with nothing but "an unobstructed view of everything." And it's that "unobstructed view" which heartbreakingly reveals how hopeless life really is in Naruse's world.

La Ronde (Ophüls, 1950)

2008-03-24T11:09:00.002Z

La Ronde has such a winning sense of humour, no? There's a moment in the film where a scene abruptly stops, and jumps to a shot of our cinematic guide (played with flair by Anton Walbrook) cutting away at some film strips. "Censorship!", he exclaims, before Strauss' delicious waltz resumes alongside the the aftermath of the offending scene. A moment like this should remove us from Ophüls' filmic world, but somehow it manages to feels like a continuation of its organic flow. Ophüls' ability to create a unique atmosphere of frivolity through his gorgeous sets and the trademark camerawork makes such bizarre humour completely plausible, and a delight to watch.

Like its structural cousin Le Plaisir, La Ronde is so charming on a purely superficial level that it's easy to dismiss as nothing more than cinematic confectionery. And just like its cousin, La Ronde's spellbinding surfaces conceal surprising levels of depth. After all, this idea of the "roundabout" of human desire is - at its core - a depressing notion, no? Ophüls' irresistible artifice allows the concept to become palatable for audiences, but it also underlines the artificial nature of love in the film. Ophüls' pessimistic portrayal of romance, complete with constantly shifting relationships that end with little regard for either of the lovers (especially the women, for this director is always critical of the patriarchal order), is as fun-but-hollow as the mise-en-scène that's constructed around it. For all it's sparkle, it's the poignant moments of La Ronde that leave the most indelible of impressions: lovers being stood up, disregarded, forgotten. Of course, Ophüls' presentation of this is so fresh and 'modern' that we can't help but go along for the ride - before realising at the end that we too have been "used" by the romantic dazzle of the film itself.

Ophüls' style is as faultless as ever, but I feel his narrative occasionally lets him down here. La Ronde deals with ten different stories, and to maintain dramatic momentum when the plot is degenerating/regenerating every few minutes is a difficult task. Fortunately, Ophüls is talented enough to iron over these narrative creases making this is a minor gripe with what is undoubtedly another major work from this most brilliant of directors. Although I feel that Le Plaisir arguably performs some of the same intents better (it's certainly tighter in structure, and possibly THE peak of his stylization), this one still comes thoroughly recommended.

Repast (Naruse, 1951)

2008-03-24T10:57:00.003Z

Repast is my first experience with this underseen Japanese director, and it conforms to all the Narusean traits that I was expecting: bleakness, pessimism, embitterment etc. - but in spite of that, those are not the feeling that linger in my mind? Naruse's observations re: the minutiae of everyday existence are so meticulous that one leaves the film feeling privileged for having experienced such a rich portrait of these characters' lives. He establishes this idea of gender conformity (and its mundane consequences) from the get-go: Michiyo (a sorta deglammed Setsuko Hara) plays the role of subservient housewife to Hatsu's (Ken Uehara) indifferent breadwinner. With Michiyo's every movement however, one detects her sense of discontentment. This unhappiness can be stifled for the sake of social convention if this uninspiring stalemate is maintained by the couple, but the narrative's introduction of Hatsu's niece Satoko upsets this status quo. Satoko's brash (but perhaps modern?) outlook functions as the catalyst that threatens the order - aka, Michiyo's entire world.

Naruse is committed to depicting his characters as three-dimensional human beings here, which adds to both the realism and the complexity of the film's emotional undercurrents. Michiyo - as Hara plays her - is a character who demands our affections whilst stubbornly refusing our sympathy (she even says as much in the film - that scene where her cousin inadvertently hits upon her marital pride? Wow!) She's perhaps more responsible for her relationship woes than her husband, due to her inability to express herself before reaching a breaking point - although this arguably says as much about her social role and her desire to maintain the patriarchal order than it does about her personality itself. As for Hatsu, he's miles removed from being cast as the villain of this piece (as one might've expected) - his love for Michiyo is evident, he's simply a relatively hapless and unobservant individual caught up in the monotonous rhythms dictated by his own role in this order. One of the film's most touching scenes finds Michiyo bumping into an old schoolfriend in Tokyo (now an impoverished single-mother) who states that: "A woman on her own can't achieve much." There's a curious irony to these words however, for the director repeatedly cuts back to shots of Hatsu - shown to be completely incapable by his self during Michiyo's absence from the household. This deft suggestion that men on their own aren't much better seems typical of the director's aspiration towards a full-bodied presentation of life. The design of this presentation finds Naruse sympathetic to his characters, but successfully preserving enough distance to remain forever critical of the structures that provoke their grievances.

One of the reasons for Naruse's exclusion from the Holy Trinity of Japanese masters is his (apparent, for I am not well-versed enough to comment yet!) lack of a definitive stylistic imprint à la Mizoguchi or Ozu. I'll discover whether or not this is true as I experience more of his work, but the director certainly has a clear grasp on how to tailor his visual style to some level of substance. The artificiality of the director's sets has a curious relation to the acute emotional realism of his story, and creates a dichotomy that Naruse is surely aware of. Indeed, he actively exploits it - after all, his films are all about the (potential) friction caused by people attempting to defy established conceptions of behaviour, no? And I think this plays into his manipulation of the spatial dimensions of Repast - the whole idea of man-made constraints repressing characters... which, incidentally, is something that Mizoguchi utilizes as well imo. Moreover, there's a consistent separation of foreground and background in the film's domestic spaces, which serve to further isolate Michiyo whlist entrapping her in the confines of that godforsaken kitchen in which she's so frequently seen during the first hour or so - the kitchen, tellingly, is in background space. The effect of this is to render the framing of Michiyo in open spaces a more refreshing experience for both character and audience, in short: we share the delicious taste of her freedom with her.

Repast wouldn't be a Naruse film if this lasted for too substantial a portion of time, however. The "taste of freedom" is a peculiar one: Michiyo's family are outwardly hospitable but nonetheless tangibly lukewarm to her extended stay, whilst her potential love interest ends up [Spoiler:] with Satoko, the one character she overtly dislikes! The outside world is incapable of assisting in Michiyo's liberation, and thus, we are left with an inevitable conclusion which can be seen as slightly problematic in terms of the film's gender politics - not so much for the [Spoiler:] return to domesticity, which I think Naruse is weary of, but more for Michiyo's voiceover which wonders if: "maybe this is a woman's happiness?" On the one hand, Hatsu's decision to come to Tokyo and - more importantly - the importance of the context in which he uses the phrase "I'm sorry!" (after saying that he's starving), shows that he is willing to respect and value her more. On the other hand, the final scene leaves us with some doubts regarding the extent of this compromise ("I'm tired!"), and Michiyo's internal monologue is at odds with her demeanour which hints at a realisation of this act of submission. Repast's finale leaves the audience with a bittersweet aftertaste for sure, but it's Naruse's generosity in providing us with even the slightest glimmer of hope that I'll take away from this. And because of that, I find it to be a perfect introduction to his work? Oh, and also the fact that it's a friggin' terrific film, LOL!

Close-Up (Kiarostami, 1990)

2008-03-24T10:51:00.003Z

How does one even begin to discuss this dizzyingly complex work of art? Kiarostami's aesthetic choices give us the illusion that this will unfold as something of a docu-drama, and certainly the blurring of fact and fiction plays into that. But this is so much more? In one sense, it's a humbling profile of a man in clear spiritual need. His decision to live the life of his most beloved filmmaker perhaps alludes to a national identity crisis, but on a more personal level it affords him the social recognition and respect that he would otherwise be severely lacking. Sabzian frequently mentions the idea of his "suffering" and a perceived indifference towards the marginalized lower-classes, and one of the most poignant moments in the film occurs when he admits that he stole money to simply "have a meal." In short, this is an examination of social status and the mobility that certain professions - in this case filmmaking - can provide. In another sense, it's a more formal exercise in deconstructing that very process itself. Kiarostami's film is a fragmented one, intent on preserving the ambiguity of its characters' moralities and motivations. As previously stated, it blurs those lines between what's real and what's fabricated, and never wholly makes clear when exactly Sabzian stops playing a "role", so to speak. Additionally, the film plays with perspective by offering us a plurality of opinions (from the family, the journalist, the taxi driver, Sabzian himself) that thwarts the conceit of an "absolute truth." Thus, the penetrating use of the titular "close-up" is rendered deliberately ironic, much like the film itself: the director's confession of this lack of cinematic authenticity is, in actuality, an "absolute truth" in its own right. Kiarostami is too astute to weigh his film down with such hefty theoretical baggage however, and his final gift is one of infectious compassion. The film's extraordinary conclusion is not only a moving tribute to a human capacity for empathy, but also a tantalising confrontation of the audience: by undermining the potentially overwhelming sentimentality of this moment with his disruption of sound design, Kiarostami is effectively asking us to fill in the emotional blanks of these final scenes. And therein lies the beauty, for in spite of the intimidating nature of its conception, Close-Up's generosity ensures that both Sabzian and the audience are involved in the creation of this masterpiece. And surely, that is the greatest accomplishment of them all?

Bigger Than Life (N. Ray, 1956)

2008-03-05T09:04:00.005Z

Bigger Than Life professes to tell the story of a "miracle drug" (cortisone) and the adverse reactions that it provokes in an unsuspecting schoolteacher and his picture-perfect family. This isn't simply a cautionary tale about the potential perils of drug usage, however - Ray's scope broadens to attack the very idea of placing blind faith in such unproven solutions. Moreover, whilst watching the film one realises that the role of drugs in its thematics is surprisingly minimal: the most pertinent concern lies with the "American Dream" and the fragility of that concept. The director's meticulous attention to detail deftly subverts this paradigm until it's exposed as little more than a fraudulent and unattainable fantasy - and rarely has the dissolution of an ideal made for such absorbing viewing.

From the outset, any illusions of a middle-class utopia are quickly undermined. The personal life of Ed Avery (James Mason, providing one of the extraordinary screen performances) forms a diametrical opposition to the petit bourgeois impeccability that his household radiates in more public environments. Ed is discontent: he feels undervalued as a schoolteacher (reflected by his poor salary), and accordingly feels compelled to take on an 'inferior' part-time job at a garage; he's amiable, but cares little for the soirées that his social status deems a necessity (he sits out most of an early bridge game); he's awkward with his son, dispassionate with his wife, and at one point he flat-out states that "we're dull!" when referring to his family. Ray's mastery means that the very slightest of details can further contribute to these early assessments of Ed's predicament: like the quaint bow-tie that he wears, signifying his perceived superiority over his colleagues; or even Mason's distinctive English accent, which works at odds with the self-image of an all-American high school football hero that he memorializes (and later, attempts to project onto his son), and effectively underlines the fallacies inherent in his lifestyle.

Having established this façade then, the film introduces its "miracle drug" - whose negative side-effects are not isolated from these initial dramas. The cortisone functions here as a catalyst for Ed, unleashing the insecurities that already exist within him, thereby weaving a megalomaniac from the fabric of his own personality. "Bizarre" is perhaps the only word one can use to describe a film audacious enough to equate the addictive pursuit of the American Dream with a dependence on prescription drugs, but Ray somehow pulls the conceit off with aplomb. Ed's increasing paranoia allows Ray to create a scathing indictment of middle America, damning the conformity of his characters whilst manipulating the sudden realisation of their goals in order to unnerve them back into conventionality. It should be noted that Ed is not the only character who slides into mental turmoil - his wife Lou's complete regression into the role of submissive absorbent of Ed's verbal abuse ("Why couldn't I have married my intellectual equal?") is equally delusional, as is her misplaced blind faith in the power of love. What eventually emerges is a despondent portrait of bourgeois life in which Ray brutally unmasks a crisis of self-entrapment - for which he provides no route for escape.

It's difficult to imagine there being more conclusive justification for Nicholas Ray's place in the canon than his achievement here (and should such justification exist, then he needs to be propelled into the upper echelons of that pantheon immediately.) The nature of Ray's material requires him to indulge the melodramatic aspects of the story, so his sets are appropriately bold whilst remaining infinitely rewarding. His use of colour is especially noteworthy - dull, lifeless hues dominate the palette for the early scenes (bar the odd splash of ominous reds) but a revelatory 'makeover' sequence in a fashion store (which Hitchcock surely ripped off for Vertigo) sees the addition of much brighter shades that highlight the growing disconnect between Ed's reality and the socio-economic ambitions that ultimately prove beyond him. These ambitions are reinforced in the familial home - that paradise of domesticity which Ray perturbingly reconceives as a suffocating nether-world of blandness - where a series of posters depicting various European cities prominently adorn the Averys' walls. Indeed, one of the most brilliant compositions in the film sees Ed and Lou at opposite ends of the widescreen vista, with a map of the world engulfing the space between them. The director's dexterity over his mise-en-scène doesn't end there, however - to borrow just a few of the more memorable examples: a staircase is transformed into a metaphor for Ed's mental state; a cracked mirror temporarily shatters his unruly ego; and most chillingly, a manipulation of light sources allows his menacing shadow to fulfil the film's titular promise during a scene of intellectual and emotional torture. Throughout the film, Ray constantly searches for ways to further articulate and augment his narrative's psychological complexities, culminating in a harrowing finale to Ed's mental traumas where he assumes the role of a Bible-thumping charlatan and spits out the film's most immortal line: "GOD WAS WRONG!" Both visually and aurally, the madness hits a peak here with the grotesque excesses of materialism crashing with a thud as a mocking soundtrack emanates from the television (that most iconic of consumerist symbols) in the background.

Bigger Than Life is essentially a cinematic treatment of those all-too familiar Hollywood themes: the American dream, suburban life, the hollowness that resides within etc. etc. And yet, despite being a fifty-year-old melodrama, it miraculously seems to have retained every ounce of its potency over the years - in fact, I'd go so far as to say that it's the definitive film on those aforementioned themes, by quite some distance. Aside from Nicholas Ray's previously-noted talents, one could argue that the film's outright success can in part be attributed to the way in which it uses its core social concerns as a platform from which to explore other ideas. Thus, the issue of schoolteachers' paychecks assumes relevance (one could argue that it's economic demands that disrupt and then drive Ed's state of mind) alongside the limitations of medical science, and during the final act the film takes on a quasi-religious dimension with Ed's numerous biblical references. One could even go so far as to draw parallels between the latter stages of Ed's illness, and the (supposed) totalitarians of history. Does the film attempt to implicate those "bigger than life" figures alongside Ed Avery? Such theories are perhaps far-fetched, but the fact that the text allows for even their consideration speaks volumes about the respect with which Ray gifts his audience, not to mention the thought-provoking substance of his art. Another facet of the film's genius is its sly sense of humour: the external world (the school, the hospital, the pharmacy, the milkman) frequently provides a source of comic relief for the audience that's notably lacking in the internal environments of the Avery household, allowing the film to briefly flirt with the territory of entertainment.

Of course, perhaps the most fundamental point to make about Bigger Than Life's success is the most obvious one: it's a superb character study that penetrates extraordinary depths during its relatively short length. One cannot emphasise the greatness of James Mason's work here enough, his ability to sell a role with so much room for failure is a triumph far beyond the descriptions that mere words can provide. As for the character that he sells - Ed Avery is a man whose not a victim of insanity so much as he is of his own repression. What's so striking about this portrayal is how ordinary it is. Take the notorious parents' evening scene at the school: it's not so much the philosophy that Ed spouts during his diatribe that's a cause for contention (some of the parents in this scene agree with him, and the idea that children are born bad and must be socialized into goodness is not one without its believers), but the spite with which he espouses it: "childhood is a congenital disease, and the task of education is to cure it!" Furthermore, Ed's initial scenes after consuming the cortisone can just as easily be described as "enthusiastic" and "passionate" as they can "volatile" and "unhinged." The unease which this film induces is a result of Ray's decision to make Ed an utterly average human being with a completely tangible lifestyle - in short, he comes to represent the everyman: aka, the target audience itself. As a result, the film's overwhemlingly pessimistic worldview combines with the precariousness of Ed's social acceptability to create a critique that's conclusively damning of us. Ray provokes us to reconsider the security of our own lives, and orders us to examine whether our private worlds are capable of spinning violently out of control should a "miracle" occur. That a mere film could render such outlandish situations completely plausible is what makes Bigger Than Life - and not cortisone - the bitterest of all pills to swallow.

A few quick notes on the ending, which requires HEAVY spoiler alerts:

[Spoiler:] If people perceive the ending of this film to be a "happy" one that diminishes the rest of the film (and, judging by the film's inexplicably low IMDb rating, I'm going to presume that they do) then allow me to vehemently disagree. To see light here is to remain blissfully ignorant of what Ray has spent the previous 90 minutes telling us: which is that Ed's 'madness', his arrogance, his snobbery and his prejudices were already within him as an individual prior to the cortisone. Despite the doctors' insistence for him to "learn" from his experience at film's end, there's nothing substantial enough to suggest that he will have done so. By hugging Lou and Richie, he is entering back into the problematic social repression that we witnessed during the first part of the film. In essence: he will be living a lie. Moreover, the experience that his friends and family have shared with him, and the horrid depths to which he sank are hardly memories that are going to be easily erased in these characters' mindsets. Of particular importance here is the role of Richie, where one recalls the ghastly confrontation at dinner over the milk pitcher as Ray's camera slowly tracks forward - erasing both Ed and Lou from the frame and focusing solely on the effects of this breakdown upon Richie himself. As anyone should well be aware, childhood traumas leave a colossal impression, and what Richie has experienced (his dad attempting to murder him) is no doubt going to shape his development more than any of Ed's mathematical inquisitions ever could. Finally, I suggested earlier that it was the economic demands that were driving Ed's recklessness - well, we conclude with no resolution to his financial woes. If anything, he is in a weaker position than before. So I repeat: do not be fooled by the Hollywood machine here, Ray's subversions deserve far closer inspection.

Rocco and His Brothers (Visconti, 1960)

2008-03-02T05:50:00.003Z

So... those Italians pretty much stole the cinematic limelight in 1960, eh? Fellini's La Dolce vita and Antonioni's L'Avventura are wondrous achievements, and amongst my fave films ever. But Luchino Visconti may well be my favourite Italian director of them all... well, if he wasn't before then he's more than likely won that title now that I've seen Rocco and His Brothers - his own contribution to that extraordinary year in film.

Visconti's film is a melodrama of epic proportions, enriched by the decision to treat it with a realist aesthetic (of sorts.) The effects of this dichotomy make for exhausting viewing: Visconti's earthy presentation not only grounds the socio-political concerns of his saga, but simultaneously highlights the discrepancy that exists between style and narrative thereby allowing the inevitable tragedies to amplify considerably as a result. This isn't simply melodrama for the sake of it - the meticulously-plotted fortunes of the Parondi brothers are a filmic embodiment of the immigrant experience itself. Structurally, Rocco consists of five uneven segments that are (very) loosely based around each of the five siblings. Each brother deals with the issue of potential urban alienation differently, with their dreams and setbacks subsequently charged by the parallelling ordeals of thousands of others, motivating the film's drive towards operatic excess. Within this grandiosity however, lies an identifiable sense of honesty that allows (and sometimes even forces) its audience to share in the characters' hardships, and lends a universality to a film that's quintessentially Italian in its nature.

Rocco is, at its essence, a story about cultural displacement - specifically, the transportation of the traditional family-oriented codes of southern Italy's peasant villages into the industrial conurbation of Milan in the north. Over the course of 170 minutes, Visconti reveals the futile attempts to reconcile these two worlds and their opposing value systems. It follows then, that over those three hours we also bear witness to the breakdown of the Parondi family unit, set against the backdrop of an impervious 'modern world.' Tellingly, the two brothers that most successfully engage with this new environment (Vincenzo and Ciro) are also the two revealed to have the least concern for their background, and are ensuingly provided with scant weight in the dramatic showdowns that define the film. It is with the sensitive, sentimental brothers - the corrupted, hot-headed Simone and the backward-looking dreamer of Rocco - with whom the impassioned core of the film is allineated. Accordingly, it is they who enact the bulk of this filmic 'opera' alongside Nadia: the woman who comes between them, thus functioning as the catalyst for all the drama.

Nadia is a character who defies traditional notions of sexuality, unlike the men that she associates with: it's she who sees Simone as another fling, whilst it's he who insists upon a serious relationship; and her ennobling love for Rocco is countered by his steadfast devotion to preserving the family unit. The dynamics of the Rocco-Nadia-Simone relationship shatter each character's dreams of romance, an act that proves to be catastrophic for these most impulsive of brothers: Simone slides into barbarism and financial debt, and Rocco suffers heartbreak and an unwanted career in order to save his brother. Rocco's self-sacrifice is in vain however, for he clings to ideals that are rendered irrelevant by his new surroundings and his overwhelming capacity for forgiveness does more to destroy Simone (and by consequence, the entire Parondi family) than it does to save him.

The director's dedication to emotional detail here is as acute as ever, in spite of his expansive scope. To this end, he gains explosive performances from his cast members (Annie Girardot's Nadia and Renato Salvatori's Simone in particular are up there with the greats), ensuring that the theatrics are never less than utterly absorbing. Moreover, he uses editing to create a series of dramatic juxtapositions that maximise the film's volatility - scenes infused with promise and hope are frequently followed by those that destroy such illusions, hurtling both character and audience back to painful reality. The film's most brilliant sequences are also it's most harrowing: Nadia's rape, in which Visconti aligns us with Rocco's perspective of paralyzed horror; and her later murder by Simone, in which the intercutting between her screams and Rocco's victory in the boxing ring not only heightens the rhythmic violence of this world, but also implicates the younger brother in his former lover's death. If one feels compelled to look away in disgust during these scenes (as I did), it's because director and actor do a terrific job of winning our belief in these damaged individuals. After all, the irresistible optimism radiated in an early sequence - where the still-united brothers are nudged by their mother out into the snow to find work - is as difficult an image to etch from one's memory as the tragedy of later scenes. Although subsequent events cast a shadow over the reading of this initial portrait as familial affinity, it's one that persists - and one that becomes almost a necessity after our final image of the main characters in Rosaria's bedroom.

Visconti's elaborate meditation on the eradication of national unity and spiritual harmony is, needless to say, an experience of tremendous power. Thankfully, the director is merciful enough to provide us with some compensation for our exhaustion at film's end with the character of Luca - the fifth, and youngest, brother. Luca exists in Rocco's epic canvas as less a fully-fledged character and more a reflection of our own role: the quiet observer, learning from and being affected by the wreckage around him. By gently guiding him towards the faint possibility of a more progressive future, Visconti is effectively talking to his audience as well. Where Rocco, Simone, Vincenzo and Ciro have failed, maybe... just maybe, the rest of us can succeed?

The Reckless Moment (Ophüls, 1949)

2008-03-02T05:48:00.005Z

Again, very quick and very informal thoughts on an Ophüls classic that deserves a much lengthier appraisal:

Now, to move on to The Reckless Moment (1949) - this has never been a film that I'd really pegged down as essential (although The Deep End certainly provoked my interest.) Perhaps it's because Ophüls' American work is forever overshadowed by the brilliance of Letter from an Unknown Woman (1948)? Well, let's get this straight: The Reckless Moment is most definitely the equal of its acclaimed predecessor - and I'm tempted to stick my neck out on the line and say that I might even prefer the later film.

Apparently, this is both a film noir and a melodrama. Great, but those terms belie the fact that this is also a psychosexual thriller and a surprising examination of post-war bourgeois life. Perhaps the best description of this would be a noir of domesticity, where the idyllic suburban home is subverted into a menacing cascade of eerie shadows and claustrophobic commodities that inhibit the comfort of this perfect lifestyle (hence, Mrs. Harper's constant need to escape this environment.) Ophüls gets a kick out of toying with audience expectations here: one of the film's most mesmerizing sequences - [Spoiler:] Mrs. Harper's removal of the dead body - unfolds on-screen in virtual silence. The director brilliantly strips his cinema to its barest essentials, revealing how the power of narrative + image is a far more potent solution than the exaggerated string accompaniment that Hollywood believes should be taking place at this moment.

The characterizations here are as brilliant as any others in the cinema of Ophüls, and keep well in tone with the director's concern with subversion: at some point (perhaps in the drugstore?) our heroine (Mrs. Harper) and our villain (Donnelly) meet in the middle, causing a gradual merging of their filmic roles - it's as if Mrs. Harper's rigid adherence to maintaining order and her refusal to reveal emotional complexity (until the astonishing conclusion) provokes a transposition of her audience identifiability onto Donnelly, who accordingly thwarts his criminal role and veers the film into a universal hymn for the socially entrapped. Thus, when The Reckless Moment concludes by conforming to the character trajectories that the viewer initially expected, we're left in shock. Hell, I'm still in shock now. Rarely have I seen films that are so damning of the status quo, nor have I come across a "happy ending" quite like this: with the "happy" so thoroughly undermined. How appropriate then, that it was the great Max Ophüls who was responsible for this audacious effort.

Oh, and just to quickly say that both Joan Bennett and James Mason are perfect here. And I found the representation of the black maid character here so refreshing, given the context. Bravo!

Le Plaisir (Ophüls, 1952)

2008-03-02T05:45:00.001Z

VERY quick and VERY informal thoughts:

Le Plaisir (1952) is perhaps the best example of Ophüls' magical camerawork that I can think of (I really need to rewatch Madame de...! Oh, and that's one of the greatest films ever so GET TO IT if you haven't already, cunt.) The opening sequence finds his camera frivolously sweeping into a ball, waltzing past the absurdly attractive artifice of the ballroom, before performing an effortless dance with a masked lothario which intensifies to a literal breaking point - one that concludes by exposing the playboy as an elderly married man!

One would think that Ophüls would let up slightly after this breathtaking introduction, but that's unheard of in this director's rulebook. He simply builds on that momentum and takes it to further extremes: other stylistic masterworks featured in this one film include a wistful glide around the exterior of a lively brothel, and a single-take PoV shot of an attempted suicide. In terms of structure, Le Plaisir is an unusual translation of three stories into a portmanteau film featuring two small (but very effective) bookends and a lengthier central segment. Each explores the pursuit of pleasure, and the ways in which our desires can overwhelm our lives. Even the charming middle-section concludes its countryside soirée on an unbearably poignant note before quietly criticising the amorality of its patriarchs. Typically for Ophüls, he veils his critiques with a stylistic opulence (I dare someone not to be awed by the film's mise-en-scène) which is too frequently dismissed for lacking substance. What this fails to consider is that Ophüls' style is his substance, and thus the grandeur of these sets is a moving overcompensation for the hollowness of these characters' lives. When the film concluded by stating that "happiness is not a joyful thing", I actually found myself moved to tears? LOL. This is so emblematic of Max: his cinematic seduction is a delicious-but-frail guise for the undercurrents of emotion that lurk beneath, and without even fully comprehending why, the audience always finds itself moved by film's end.

Quick shout-outs to Danielle Darrieux, Jean Gabin (always marvellous, the both of them) and especially Simone Simon's work in the final segment. Also, the scene at the church is sickeningly beautiful.

The Woman in the Rumour (Mizoguchi, 1954)

2008-02-28T15:46:00.004Z

Thanks to the wonderful folks over at Masters of Cinema, the Chikamatsu DVD features another Mizoguchi from the same year: Uwasa no onna (aka The Woman in the Rumour.) It's a relatively short effort (84 mins) so I decided to put some spare time this afternoon to good use by giving it a spin. This was my first experience with a contemporary film from the director, so I wasn't quite sure what to expect. Of course, the concern with women (specifically, prostitutes) is typical of Mizoguchi and to his credit, he doesn't shove the issue of their oppression down our throats. On the contrary, he spends some time articulating the possible empowerment and safety that the profession can provide whilst never losing sight of the instabilities that plague this world. Mizoguchi's knack for social commentary is at it's most effortless during these scenes in the geisha house. However, his astute observations share an uneasy relationship with the romantic turmoils that gradually assume the film's spotlight - frankly, they're just not that interesting despite the unpredictable directions that they take (the ease with which Dr. Matoba accepted Hatsuko's money really surprised me!) Fortunately, Mizoguchi isn't focused on the melodramatic aspects so much as he's concerned with the clash between traditionality and modernity. The distinct use of costume in this film (geishas sporting classical Japanese dresses, other characters in Western attire) underscores the tensions which manifest themselves most clearly in the mother-daughter relationship at the film's core. These conflicts are deftly played out by both female leads, but Kinuyo Tanaka's work as the ageing madame is particularly worthy of commendation. The actress lets loose here, using every fibre of her frame to convey her character's insecurities. It's a brave and highly expressive performance, which dares to use body language as a method for audience communication, and Tanaka pulls it off with ease. Her trademark ability to internalize her characters' anxieties is not lost either - the film's most memorable sequence occurs at a noh theatre where the cruelty of a comedy ridiculing an older woman's love becomes unbearable to watch thanks to Tanaka's heartbreaking reaction shots.

The contemporary setting of this film restricts the extent to which Mizoguchi can utilize the lyrical compositions that characterize his period pieces, but the film is nonetheless an aesthetically pleasing effort. Intriguingly, the film begins and ends with exactly the same high-angled establishing shot that opens Chikamatsu Monogatari (which would be Mizoguchi's next film), drawing attention to the circularity that's a recurrent idea within the director's filmography. Rumour concludes by criticizing Japan's failure to create more opportunities for females to escape their objectification, and thus the graphic match that's created by the film's last shot and Chikamatsu's first has the effect of underlining the shared mysoginism in society both past and present. It's a powerful conclusion, and one that makes The Woman in the Rumour essential viewing for any Mizoguchi enthusiast.

Chikamatsu Monogatari (Mizoguchi, 1954)

2008-02-28T15:37:00.011Z

(aka, The Crucified Lovers)

One of the bonus features of my (beautiful) Chikamatsu Monogatari DVD is a short discussion with Mizoguchi 'expert' Tony Rayns. It's an informative piece rather than an analytical one, and he claims that the film is lesser Mizoguchi, suggesting that the director wasn't entirely committed to the film - in part, due to the messy end to his professional (and personal?) relationship with favoured actress, Kinuyo Tanaka. His points aren't lost on the viewer, but although Chikamatsu isn't as supreme an artistic achievement as Sansho the Bailiff (one of the five greatest films ever made, for those who continue to live in ignorance) or even Ugetsu, it's nevertheless a fantastic demonstration of Mizoguchi's ability to elevate mediocre material simply with the sophistication of his craft.

It's not difficult to grasp why the director would be suited to this story. Thematically, Chikamatsu is typical Mizoguchi thanks to its concern with the oppression of females, the rigidity of social hierarchies, the hypocrisy of patriarchal conventions etc. etc. Unusually for Mizoguchi however, the narrative that gives birth to these ideas is only partially successful. The central romantic drama rests upon contrivances that require a wilful blind-eye on the audience's part, and its melodramatic nature is convoluted by the decision to expand the scope by interweaving underdeveloped subplots concerning the Master and Otama (a servant in love with Mohei, the male lead.) Chikamatsu's characters are further hindered by a horrid tendency to expose concerns that the narrative and/or Mizoguchi already makes clear - thus, after a premonitory crucifixion procession we're browbeaten with the Master's unnecessary articulation of the consequences of adultery, which is followed by a group of female servants questioning the misogynism inherent within the prevailing status system. It's startingly uncharacteristic of Mizoguchi to treat his audience with such disrespect, so one could be forgiven for wondering whether Rayns's arguments about the director's engagement with the production are legitimate.

Well, actually - no! One couldn't and shouldn't be forgiven for doubting the credentials of the greatest of all the Japanese auteurs (I'm calling it.) How easy it is to forget that this is the same director who ironed out the creases in Ugetsu's problematic screenplay with his unrestrained lyricism, thereby deeming it worthy of the 'masterpiece' moniker. Chikamatsu lacks the stylistic flourishes that makes Ugetsu (and also Sansho) such captivating viewing, but it does reveal a refinement in Mizoguchi's technique that's advantageous in terms of taming the melodrama. Above all, the film is an exercise in elegant restraint - each composition quietly ripens the subtext, achingly edging the audience closer towards its moving culmination. The overriding motivation behind much of Mizoguchi's framing is the issue of entrapment: Chikamatsu is overtly concerned with the concept of freedom, so it follows that for much of the film's first half (when the would-be lovers exist within the social order) the drama is interiorized into the cluttered spaces of the Master's house. Mizoguchi frequently uses this mise-en-scène as a 'device' to confine his characters even further within the already-tight frames, or to emphasize the distinctions between the public and private spheres of the household. In reality, this 'device' discloses the spuriousness of their confinement and the tragedy of self-imprisonment: all that binds these characters to their mores is a series of man-made constructs.

Chikamatsu Monogatari is not simply another sentimentalized paean to the resilience of the human spirit, however. Mizoguchi's use of repetition as a cinematic accessory fortifies the depths to which this legacy of entrapment has been ingrained into the society of this era: the film uses exactly the same establishing shot of a busy street during the opening in Kyoto (the home of the "crucified lovers", therefore associated with their confinement) as it does upon the lovers' escape to Osaka (which, briefly, becomes associated with their freedom.) 'Civilized' spaces refuse to grant the couple a reprieve, so only in the organic settings of countryside, lakes and forests can intimacy occur. Chikamatsu deals with a love that's stifled, so its rare emergence implores us to treasure its value all the more. Additionally, the drama that accompanies these moments of romance is nigh-on unbearable due to the consistency in Mizoguchi's subdued treatment of the story that surrounds it. Nevertheless, even in the elegiac beauty of the natural world, the pair are constantly forced into enclosure (a peasant's hut, a makeshift treehouse, Mohei's familial home) - the reality of the bloodthirsty world they inhabit catches up with them at each and every turn.

[SPOILERS HEREIN]

Tragically then, we come to the realization that the only avenue which presents an escape into the spiritual freedom that our protagonists' crave is that of death. Cruelty, greed and selfishness are the traits which taint the personalities of nearly all of the film's notable characters. Even those that we initially trust, such as Osan's mother, are eventually unmasked as merely another facet of this incriminating portrait. What these characters have in common is their conformity - they live by the status quo (although the ease with which Mohei, Osan and eventually the Master lose their place in their hierarchy reveals a wicked paradox between the rigidity of the order and the precariousness of the social status that it provides.) Chikamatsu doesn't suggest that obliterating the rulebook is the path to guaranteed enlightenment, but it does ask its audience to consider the restrictions of the world in which they exist and then presents an outlet for countering those limits: love. The beauty of this particular prescription is the surprise with which that love confronts its recipients, privileging them - however briefly and inadvertently - with a taste for living, as voiced by Osan herself after an aborted suicide attempt. It's this that lends Chikamatsu's finale its poignant intricacy. Mizoguchi's repetitional device resurfaces here, with a second crucifixion procession that augments the cyclical nature of his filmic world. The sequence is harrowing, explicitly recalling its predecessor and provoking a replacement of the first procession's anonymity with sorrow as we're forced to comprehend the fact that our "crucified lovers" are not the only ones. The gravity of this implication is contrasted with the serenity of the lovers' faces - both are calm, at peace. For the first time in their lives, they are genuinely free. And yet, the deplorable cost of this freedom is not lost on Mizoguchi, who leaves it up to an innocent bystander to articulate the express the bitter irony of the situation: "It's hard to imagine that they're on their way to die." After the experience of Chikamatsu Monogatari, one realizes that no, it's not hard at all - it's devastating.

Americanized 2007 Ballot

2008-02-26T15:17:00.013Z

Going with US release dates here. I'll post my actual 2007 ballot later in the year when I get a chance to watch Alexandra, The Edge of Heaven, The Man from London etc. I've now seen of the critically-beloved US releases from the awards season (Persépolis and Ratatouille are sadly exceptions) so without further ado, I present the Americanized 2007 Spiceys (better than the Oscars):

TOP TEN FILMS

Syndromes and a Century (Weerasethakul)
4 Months, 3 Weeks and 2 Days (Mungiu)
No Country for Old Men (Coen Bros.)
The Assassination of Jesse James by the Coward Robert Ford (Dominik)
Control (Corbijn)
Private Fears in Public Places (Resnais)
Bamako (Sissako)
Golden Door (Crialese)
Eastern Promises (Cronenberg)
The Diving Bell and the Butterfly (Schnabel)

Also: Black Book (Verhoeven), Lust, Caution (Lee), I'm Not There (Haynes), Lady Chatterley (Ferran), This Is England (Meadows), Margot at the Wedding (Baumbach)

BEST DIRECTOR

Apichatpong Weerasethakul, Syndromes and a Century
Joel & Ethan Coen, No Country for Old Men
Cristian Mungiu, 4 Months, 3 Weeks and 2 Days
Alain Resnais, Private Fears in Public Places
Anton Corbijn, Control

BEST ACTOR

Casey Affleck, The Assassination of Jesse James by the Coward Robert Ford
Sam Riley, Control
Viggo Mortensen, Eastern Promises
Daniel Day-Lewis, There Will Be Blood
Brad Pitt, The Assassination of Jesse James by the Coward Robert Ford

BEST ACTRESS

Anamaria Marinca, 4 Months, 3 Weeks and 2 Days
Marion Cotillard, La Vie en Rose
Nicole Kidman, Margot at the Wedding
Marina Hands, Lady Chatterley
Carice van Houten, Black Book

BEST SUPPORTING ACTOR

Javier Bardem, No Country for Old Men
Max von Sydow, The Diving Bell and the Butterfly
Tommy Lee Jones, No Country for Old Men
Vlad Ivanov, 4 Months, 3 Weeks and 2 Days
André Dussollier, Private Fears in Public Places

BEST SUPPORTING ACTRESS

Samantha Morton, Control
Jennifer Jason Leigh, Margot at the Wedding
Laura Morante, Private Fears in Public Places
Vanessa Redgrave, Atonement
Charlotte Gainsbourg, I'm Not There

BEST ENSEMBLE

Private Fears in Public Places
(Laura Morante, André Dussollier, Sabine Azèma, Pierre Arditi, Lambert Wilson, Isabelle Carré, Claude Rich)
The Diving Bell and the Butterfly
(Mathieu Amalric, Max von Sydow, Emmanuelle Seigner, Marie-Josée Croze, Anne Consigny, Marina Hands, Jean-Pierre Cassel, Patrick Chesnais, Isaach De Bankolé)
No Country for Old Men
(Javier Bardem, Tommy Lee Jones, Josh Brolin, Kelly MacDonald, Woody Harrelson)
Eastern Promises
(Viggo Mortensen, Naomi Watts, Armin Mueller-Stahl, Vincent Cassel, Jerzy Skolimowski, Sinéad Cusack)
I'm Not There
(Charlotte Gainsbourg, Marcus Carl Franklin, Cate Blanchett, Heath Ledger, Richard Gere, Ben Whishaw, Julianne Moore)

BEST ORIGINAL SCREENPLAY

Cristian Mungiu, 4 Months, 3 Weeks and 2 Days
Noah Baumbach, Margot at the Wedding
Aberrahmane Sissako, Bamako
Todd Haynes & Oren Moverman, I'm Not There
Shane Meadows, This Is England

BEST ADAPTED SCREENPLAY

Joel & Ethan Coen, No Country for Old Men
Roger Bohbot & Pascale Ferran, Lady Chatterley
Jean-Michel Ribes, Private Fears in Public Places
Ronald Harwood, The Diving Bell and the Butterfly
Matt Greenhalgh, Control

BEST CINEMATOGRAPHY

Roger Deakins, The Assassination of Jesse James by the Coward Robert Ford
Janusz Kaminski, The Diving Bell and the Butterfly
Agnès Godard, Golden Door
Martin Ruhe, Control
Edward Lachman, I'm Not There

TECHNICAL GRAND PRIZE

I'm Not There
Lust, Caution
Sweeney Todd: The Demon Barber of Fleet Street
There Will Be Blood
Black Book

BEST ORIGINAL SCORE

Nick Cave & Warren Ellis, The Assassination of Jesse James by the Coward Robert Ford
Alexandre Desplat, Lust, Caution
Jonny Greenwood, There Will Be Blood
Dario Marianelli, Atonement
Howard Shore, Eastern Promises

Lancelot du lac (Bresson, 1974)

2008-02-26T03:07:00.002Z

Robert Bresson confounds me. I've loved and/or admired every film of his that I've seen, and yet there's probably no director whose output I'm less willing to discuss. Bresson makes me feel small as a cinephile, for any semi-decent commentary on his films requires an engagement with the formal aspects of his craft (for Bresson's techniques are surely amongst cinema's most distinct?), and I'm simply not well-versed enough in film-school language to comment on that. But y'know what? Fuck it. I love Lancelot du lac and I'm going to quickly attempt to explain why, so stick with me on this and then enlighten me with more intellectual thoughts, please.

Unsurprisingly, the most striking element of Lancelot du lac is its visual style. Bresson's subdued, metallic palette dominates every frame to the point where the presence of colour is rendered almost a novelty. His unique coloration thus serves as an apt metaphor for the lives of his disillusioned knights, whose failed quest for the Holy Grail has degraded them into a group of factioning marauders so consumed by their individual desires that they've lost a sense of their own humanity. It's a sign of the director's neverending genius when one realises that the film's most glaring use of a bright schema comes with the unrealistic reds spilt during bloodshed (which begins in the very opening sequence) - its artificiality reflecting the characters' own, and tellingly highlighting the fallibility of their armour. Lancelot du lac from the outset then, reveals itself as a demythologizing of Arthurian legend that deprives its characters of their heroism and subsequently frees them from a filmic convention that dictates romanticism is the only way to depict their tale.

The culmination of this unique approach is a jousting tournament that functions as the film's most action-filled sequence, with a Bressonian spin on events of course. He chooses to film most of these jousts from the neck down, focusing primarily on movement and reaction (from the bystanders and the injured.) The editing of the sequence draws attention to the fragmented nature of his shot-making, which denies its audience the privilege of knowing character identities. The issue of identity is further compounded by the aforementioned armour - a costume that's seemingly used by its owners as a status symbol, judging by the rarity of any moments without the disguise. Do these characters even know themselves, or has the legend of the Round Table infiltrated their own mindsets to the point where they define themselves by it and it alone? In the titular character's case, the armour is symbolic of the barrier that stands between him and Guinevere. Only with its removal is he able to allow himself to love, but the expectations of his peers prevents such hope.

Personality is an alien concept in the world that Bresson has created for us. His much-remarked use of actors as 'models' has accordingly never been so appropriate. And yet, despite the film's overt formalism, Lancelot is far from being devoid of emotion. Although the actors lack in this department, their deficits are the audience's gain for the tragedy of the film is all the more vital as a result of its characters' helplessness in the face of the drama. As is customary with Bresson, there is an intense spiritual vein that permeates the film, with the search for the Holy Grail symbolizing a search for God - but as Guinevere notes, "God isn't a trophy to take home." The emptiness performed by the models is more than a gimmick on Bresson's part, it's a filmic articulation of the characters' desolation, arising from their incapacity to realize this statement. Their religosity has been compromised by attempts to subvert their Christianity into a weapon of destruction. Thus, there's a sobering sense of irony when they pose the question: "Why has God forsaken us?", failing to realize their own complicity in this dilemma. Bresson deconstructs these larger-than-life characters down to their fundamental cores, substituting their valiance for ethereal ignorance, before reconstructing them as pawns in a critical study of humankind. When the film concludes with an image of the damning resolution to these conflicts - [Spoiler:] a cluttered heap of broken bodies on the forest floor - it's as if Bresson is daring us to contemplate how this all occurred. The answer, we can infer, may have something to do with our inability to understand the myths that we revere.

The Conformist (Bertolucci, 1970)

2008-02-26T02:59:00.002Z

Has the relationship between narrative and image ever been as consistently potent as it is in Bertolucci's The Conformist? An exuberantly sensual exercise in cinematic style, the film's every frame threatens to burst as a result of its creativity: the compositions, the plays on light and colour, the elegant gliding of the camera... all the visual elements of film coalesce to produce a work of art that's pictorially astonishing. And Bertolucci's style isn't merely hollow posturing, it IS his substance. Thus, the sequences of the film that take place in Italy are characterized by their acute angles, imposing interiors and sharp distinctions between light and shadow, all in order to underscore the restrictive claustrophobia of fascism. It follows that the Parisian segments are notable for their warmer hues, more extensive infiltration of light and external night sequences that are draped in a luminous shade of blue - a shade that seems curiously befitting for its protgaonist's internal concerns. In spite of these vague generalizations, the power behind Bertolucci's shotmaking derives from its lack of a consistent agenda - he's daring enough to stylize for the scene at hand, so the [Spoiler:] higher cutting rate that accompanies the Professor's murder (shot from a number of angles) is followed by the rapid movements of a handheld camera during Anna's death scene.

A non-linear, sequential narrative complements the director's stylistic audacity. Bertolucci uses a car journey that occurs prior to the aforementioned death scenes to reinforce the centrality of the film's primary concern - that being the extent to which lead character Marcello is willing to whore himself in order to become the conformist of the title. With fascism forming the film's socio-political backdrop (and dominating so much of the mise-en-scène) the implications of his attempts to extinguish the less desirable elements of his personality aren't lost on the viewer. Bertolucci's intercutting between past and present invites us to make a further analogy: namely, the link between sexual repression and political extremism. It's this invitation that's perhaps the film's only flaw, for it's both predictable and underdeveloped. Nevertheless, the quiet stoicism of Trintignant's performance thwarts this criticism to an extent, and the remainder isn't enough of a hindrance to even make a dent in the might of Bertolucci's cinematic construct. The film's poignant finale, which sets loose the secrets that our conformist was attempting to subjugate against the background of Italian Fascism's decline, is a solemn reminder of the effects of entrapping the free spirit.

The Conformist is so many things: a treatise on Italian (European?) history, an invigorating thriller, a fascinating character study... but really, the star of this show is the incomparable visual style (thank you, Vittorio Storaro you God.) So there's no other way to conclude (nor is there a more convincing argument for watching this film) than to allow some glimpses of Bertolucci's electrifying vision:

Gun Crazy (Lewis, 1949)

2008-02-23T18:19:00.005Z

Where to begin? This is such an exhilarating joyride of a film, and so much of that can be accredited to Joseph H. Lewis's virtuosity behind the camera. The director (whom I had never heard of prior to this) assuredly ratchets up the tension by employing every trick in the noir book - so in come the acute-angles, the ominous toying with light and shadow, the frenzied cutting rates at key moments, the elaborate tracking shots. And yet, for all this elaborate stylization it's something closer to documentary realism which marks the film's greatest setpiece (and also the point where I ran out for air!) - a single-take of a bank robbery filmed from inside the back seat of the getaway car. With this bravura sequence, Lewis thrillingly affirms his grasp of film language and the spatial and temporal possibilities that the medium offers.

Gun Crazy presents the audience with a story that we've grown accustomed to over the years: "love on the run", aka Bonnie and Clyde pre-Beatty and Dunaway. Lewis & co. add a peculiar spin on the subject matter however which maintains our enjoyment on a base level whilst confronting us with stark questions about gender, sexuality and violence. A cinematic prologue establishes the perverse sexual undercurrents that will pulsate throughout the film: we witness the fervor of the young Bart's thirst for guns, and we suggestively learn how it's "something else about the guns that gets him, not the killing." In spite of the phallic connotations that repeatedly demand consideration however, the film makes its case less for repressed homosexuality than it does for an emasculated masculinity implicitly motivated by the post-war context (the lack of a father figure established in the prologue no doubt plays into this.) The firmness of Bart's devotion to guns makes his inability to use them in their traditional filmic roles (as a means to kill) all the more striking, and a compelling contrast is provided by the character of Annie who is in essence a walking, talking and decidedly attractive human firearm. It makes perfect sense for Bart to fall in love with this most curious of femme fatales - a woman who exploits her femininity in order to disguise her sociopathic tendencies: her adoption of the 'masculine' traits lacking in Bart (her superior wiles, her domineering personality, her ability to kill) alludes to an overlap in gender roles, which makes their love a near-necessity. They need one another because of what they lack as individuals and because together they can counter those deficiencies.

The motivations of Annie's character are dubious for much of the film, and even after several robberies with Bart it's possible to doubt the sincerity of her love. Lewis puts paid to such notions in an extraordinary sequence following the couple's final robbery, however: the plan is for them to depart in separate vehicles and meet three months later after the dust has settled - and yet, in a stunning avowal of their mutual dependence, the camera cuts between each as they abruptly u-turn at the same time and reunite in the middle of the road (tellingly, it's Bart who leaves his car to get into Annie's.) This is l'amour fou taken to its dizzying extreme, augmented by a delirious substitution of foreplay with gunplay - thereby blurring the lines between eroticism and violence. To depict such bold forms of sexuality would be noteworthy in itself, but Lewis provides more by extracting every ounce of pulp from his doomed lovers' tango with fate: their tantalising first encounter is a brilliant exercise in marrying overt (Bart's attraction, Annie's gun-wielding seductress, the firing challenge) with covert (it doesn't take a genius to figure out the innuendo in this sequence.) Annie's employer/former lover describes the budding young couple as "wild animals", and he isn't far wrong for Annie's primal feline pinpoints the animalistic urges in Bart's passivity and exploits them.

To discuss this film without addressing the issue of guns would be foolish, but I'll confess that I'm not entirely well-versed in America's gun laws. Certainly, their accessibility and availability is of cause for concern here - particularly in the early segments featuring the young Bart. The B-movie sensationalist in Lewis glorifies and fetishizes the issue to a certain extent with the character of Annie, but to his credit the moral centre of the film is to be found within Bart and he's a solid reflection of our desire for thrills but also our disdain for harming others. Both Annie and his boyhood friends encourage him to kill at certain points, and its his resistance to them that the film venerates. Appropriately then, when he succumbs to murder at film's end the narrative compels him to meet his own death, in spite of the perhaps-justifiable reasoning behind his decision.

At the risk of negating all my rambling, I need to conclude by emphasizing just how tremendously enjoyable this film really is. The film's bizarre marriage of sex and violence is the type of concoction that will no doubt reward endless viewings, and on its basest level its an electrifying chase drama that swathes a familiar narrative with an irresistible sense of urgency. And then there's Peggy Cummins. Unheard of to contemporary audiences, but worthy of immortalization for this one turn alone. She's meant to be playing British (she even claims to be from my hometown!), although the accent is all over the place. What does it matter though, when one's confronted with a presence like this? Her performance is equal parts delicious and ferocious, and her success at internalizing Annie's insecurities renders all other noir females dull and lifeless by comparison. And finally, I return to Lewis whose sense of style cannot be commended enough. How could such an infinitely talented director have become so marginalized by Hollywood? Gun Crazy is perhaps above all a reminder of the painful restrictions imposed by the studio system, but on a more positive note, it's as fine a testament to the rewards of working outside of that mainstream as I can think of.

Oscar Predix

2008-01-21T20:53:00.000Z

Unfortunately, it's that time of the year again. Unfortunately, I always follow the deplorable Oscar race. So unfortunately, I'm gonna have to post these predix. This year's Academy Award nominees are guaranteed to look a little something like this:

BEST PICTURE

* The Diving Bell and the Butterfly
* Into the Wild
* Juno
* No Country for Old Men
* There Will Be Blood

Alt: Michael Clayton

BEST DIRECTOR

* Paul Thomas Anderson, There Will Be Blood
* Joel & Ethan Coen, No Country for Old Men
* Tony Gilroy, Michael Clayton
* Sean Penn, Into the Wild
* Julian Schnabel, The Diving Bell and the Butterfly

Alt: Tim Burton, Sweeney Todd: The Demon Barber of Fleet Street

BEST ACTOR

* George Clooney, Michael Clayton
* Daniel Day-Lewis, There Will Be Blood
* Ryan Gosling, Lars and the Real Girl
* Emile Hirsch, Into the Wild
* Viggo Mortensen, Eastern Promises

Alt: Johnny Depp, Sweeney Todd: The Demon Barber of Fleet Street

BEST ACTRESS

* Cate Blanchett, Elizabeth: The Golden Age
* Julie Christie, Away from Her
* Marion Cotillard, La Vie en Rose
* Angelina Jolie, A Mighty Heart
* Ellen Page, Juno

Alt: Amy Adams, Enchanted

BEST SUPPORTING ACTOR

* Casey Affleck, The Assassination of Jesse James by the Coward Robert Ford
* Javier Bardem, No Country for Old Men
* Hal Holbrook, Into the Wild
* Tommy Lee Jones, No Country for Old Men
* Tom Wilkinson, Michael Clayton

Alt: Philip Seymour Hoffman, Charlie Wilson's War

BEST SUPPORTING ACTRESS

* Cate Blanchett, I'm Not There
* Catherine Keener, Into the Wild
* Kelly MacDonald, No Country for Old Men
* Amy Ryan, Gone Baby Gone
* Tilda Swinton, Michael Clayton

Alt: Saoirse Ronan, Atonement

BEST ORIGINAL SCREENPLAY

* Brad Bird, Jim Capobiano & Jan Pinkava, Ratatouille
* Diablo Cody, Juno
* Tony Gilroy, Michael Clayton
* Tamara Jenkins, The Savages
* Nancy Oliver, Lars and the Real Girl

Alt: Judd Apatow, Knocked Up

BEST ADAPTED SCREENPLAY

* Paul Thomas Anderson, There Will Be Blood
* Joel & Ethan Coen, No Country for Old Men
* Christopher Hampton, Atonement
* Ronald Harwood, The Diving Bell and the Butterfly
* Sean Penn, Into the Wild

Alt: Aaron Sorkin, Charlie Wilson's War

BEST CINEMATOGRAPHY

* Roger Deakins, The Assassination of Jesse James by the Coward Robert Ford
* Roger Deakins, No Country for Old Men
* Robert Elswit, There Will Be Blood
* Janusz Kaminski, The Diving Bell and the Butterfly
* Seamus McGarvey, Atonement

Alt: Eric Gautier, Into the Wild

BEST EDITING

* The Bourne Ultimatum -- Christopher Rouse
* Into the Wild -- Jay Cassidy
* Michael Clayton -- John Gilroy
* No Country for Old Men -- Roderick Jaynes
* There Will Be Blood -- Dylan Tichenor

Alt: American Gangster -- Pietro Scalia

BEST SCORE

* Marco Beltrami, 3:10 to Yuma
* Alexandre Desplat, Lust, Caution
* Michael Giacchino, Ratatouille
* Alberto Iglesias, The Kite Runner
* Dario Marianelli, Atonement

Alt: Clint Eastwood, Grace Is Gone

BEST SOUND

* 300
* The Bourne Ultimatum
* No Country for Old Men
* Sweeney Todd: The Demon Barber of Fleet Street
* Transformers

Alt: There Will Be Blood

BEST SOUND EDITING

* 300
* Beowulf
* The Bourne Ultimatum
* Ratatouille
* Transformers

Alt: No Country for Old Men

BEST VISUAL EFFECTS

* 300
* Transformers
* Pirates of the Caribbean: At World's End

Alt: I Am Legend

BEST ART DIRECTION

* Atonement -- Sarah Greenwood & Katie Spencer
* Elizabeth: The Golden Age -- Guy Hendrix Dyas & Richard Roberts
* Harry Potter and the Order of the Phoenix -- Stuart Craig & Stephanie McMillan
* Sweeney Todd: The Demon Barber of Fleet Street -- Dante Ferretti & Francesca Lo Schiavo
* There Will Be Blood -- Jack Fisk & Jim Erickson

Alt: The Golden Compass -- Dennis Gassner & Anna Pinnock

BEST COSTUME DESIGN

* The Assassination of Jesse James by the Coward Robert Ford -- Patricia Norris
* Atonement -- Jacqueline Durran
* Elizabeth: The Golden Age -- Alexandra Byrne
* Sweeney Todd: The Demon Barber of Fleet Street -- Colleen Atwood
* La Vie en Rose -- Marit Allen

Alt: Hairspray -- Rita Ryack

BEST MAKEUP

* Pirates of the Caribbean: At World's End
* Sweeney Todd: The Demon Barber of Fleet Street
* La Vie en Rose

Alt: 300

BEST ORIGINAL SONG

* "Come So Far (Got So Far to Go)" from Hairspray
* "Falling Slowly" from Once
* "Grace Is Gone" from Grace Is Gone
* "Guaranteed" from Into the Wild
* "That's How You Know" from Enchanted

Alt: "Do You Feel Me" from American Gangster

BEST FOREIGN-LANGUAGE FILM

* 12 (Russia)
* The Counterfeiters (Austria)
* Katyn (Poland)
* The Trap (Serbia)
* The Year My Parents Went On Vacation (Brazil)

Alt: Beaufort (Israel)

BEST ANIMATED FEATURE

* Persepolis
* Ratatouille
* The Simpsons Movie

Alt: Bee Movie

BEST DOCUMENTARY FEATURE

* Body of War
* Lake of Fire
* No End in Sight
* Sicko
* Taxi to the Dark Side

Alt: Nanking

Lola Montès (Ophüls, 1955)

2008-01-20T10:39:00.001Z

Lola Montès (1955) is something of a mixed bag. And I'm not entirely sure why that is? I'm too tired to go into specifics anyway, but I'm not "ga-ga-OMG-best-film-evah" with this like I am with Madame de..., Liebelei and Letter from an Unknown Woman. I think that has as much to do with my reception of the film - on a shoddy video + half-awake + only a single viewing - as the actual work itself. That said, the more I contemplate this, the more I admire it. Lola Montès is a continuation of the Ophülsian theme of the fallen woman, but it nonetheless stands out as an anomaly within his oeuvre. There are numerous reasons for this, but the most apparent one to me was the fact that instead of using the titular character as a vehicle with which to cross-examine the nature of love, Ophüls opts to tell a very different story - one with a peculiar celebrity spin on it.

Lola Montès as (im?)pure character is nothing less than fascinating - and yet one never truly sympathises with her plight in the same way that we do with Lisa Berndle and Madame de. Ophüls' stylizations here distance us from Lola Montès, and it's within this distance that the director creates a metaphysical world whereby he weaves a discourse that deconstructs the role of celebrity. The centrality of the circus within this narrative demands us to consider the relationship between performer and audience, and in essence this applies to Lola's own history and her controversial (and supposedly numerous) liaisons. Furthermore, the stage at the film's core emphasises the role of artifice in the film - a concept that Ophüls naturally exploits to its full potential.

As was the case with my viewings of Liebelei, I cannot even begin to imagine how resplendent this film initially seemed - particularly in terms of colour. I must've caught about a tenth of the film's glory when I watched it, which is a shame because the effect of a decent print makes a world of difference and could've bludgeoned my senses into submission simply through its colour palette (much like the restoration of Renoir's The River, for example). The much-discussed fluidity of Ophüls' camera here is a curiosity: whereas in his other films I perceived these movements to be motivated by a romantic desire on the characters' part to escape the restrictions imposed upon them by plot, in Lola Montès I felt none of this? In fact, I felt that the camerawork here often had the converse effect of further entrapping Lola within the decadent confines of her environments. Of course, it would take a second viewing of this film to comment on that more...

Before I get too carried away, allow me to pause and say that Ophüls' complex manoeuvres aren't always successfully reconciled with his story, and it's a discrepancy that isn't necessarily countered by his genius. The structure of the narrative is markedly uneven, most obviously in the lack of consistency re: our returns to the circus. And upon those seemingly random forays onto the stage, the ringmaster's commentary occasionally proves detrimental - as in the moments when he describes Lola's social ascendancy whilst the camera acrobatically follows her climb to a theatrical summit (although it's very uncharacteristic of Ophüls to treat his audience with such disrespect, so perhaps there are others force at work here?) Moreover, the story of Lola Montès itself does little to inspire our enthusiasm - her lifestyle in 1955 must surely have seemed tame, so what to make of it in this day and age?! As a result of this discord, Lola's struggle to love in spite of society's rigidities is rendered lifeless, and lacking in resonance.

However, if the story of Lola Montès - a character whose aforementioned struggle is so Ophülsian it hurts - comes across as uninspiring, then perhaps it's necessary to ask ourselves why this is. He's struck gold with these characters before, so why fail with this one? I notice that Roger Ebert's review takes issue with Martine Carol's performance: "...she comes across as wooden, shallow, not even very attractive." He's accurate, but I think he's also missed the point. Perhaps it's just my love of the guy shining through here, but anyone with a familiarity of his work knows that Ophüls is a terrific director of actresses - Danielle Darrieux, Magda Schneider... hell, this is the guy who even managed to utilize Joan Fontaine's errant brow to his advantage. What I propose is that Carol's prosaicism is intended, and is entirely befitting of the director's thematic concerns. Personally, I don't think it's a performance that's completely banal - there's poignancy in Carol's work - but even so, the fact that she so underwhelms as a character is surely part of Ophüls' commentary about the ludicrous nature of myth-making? Her vacant expressions constantly undermine the narrative's core creation of a sensual seductress - so effectively, she's a mirror and not an originator of the film's frivolous lust. Through Carol's intelligent performance then, the film assumes a feminist dimension that it might otherwise have lacked, forcing the audience to confront the frequent objectification of Lola, and drawing attention to our own expectations of sex and desire.

Lola Montès isn't a flat-out masterpiece, but I'd argue that this is perhaps an essential demonstration of Ophüls' directorial flair? His ability to overcome a somewhat cumbersome screenplay through his bold celebration of artifice is a marvel to behold, and his handling of wider themes is perhaps more astute than ever. The film's exploration of the relationship between performer and audience is something that I find particularly striking considering that this would be his last film, and the surprising finale is perhaps his most well-executed from all that I've seen to date. It's as heartbreaking as his greatest romances, but ultimately a scathing critique of our own needs as an audience. As the final word on the physical and moral decadence that permeates so many of his films then, Lola Montès is a fitting epitaph to an exceptional career.

And LOL, I think I convinced myself of my love for this whilst typing up those thoughts!

Liebelei (Ophüls, 1933)

2008-01-15T22:05:00.000Z

Is Max Ophüls the greatest director of love stories ever? I'm starting to think so...

Those whose knowledge of this shamefully underrated genius is restricted to the American/French classics of his later career need to familiarise themselves with Liebelei - not simply because the film's influence on works such as Letter from an Unknown Woman and (the incomparable) Madame de... is ostensible, but also because it's a heartbreaking masterpiece in its own right. Thematically, this is pure Ophüls to its very core: the doomed love affair, disdain for the rigidity of social conventions, the climactic duel of misguided machismo... all these hallmarks of his oeuvre seem to originate from here. Stylistically, Liebelei predates the birth of his extraordinarily fluid camerawork but one nevertheless gets the sense of a master at work: the film brims with marvellous set-pieces and sequences, linked together by Ophüls' curious preoccupation with doorways and windows - as if to constantly augment the shared desire of both director and character(s) to escape and break free of the restrictions imposed upon them (specifically, upon the camera and upon love itself.)

It's when conveying these aforementioned restrictions that Ophüls' strengths as a director begin to luminesce his audience into submission. Of course, the characters' limitations are often explicitly referred to within the dialogue itself (Mizzi's reference to the unattainability of the "gold-braided" members of the military, for example), but in his acute juxtapositions and startling manipulation of music it's the director's magic that leaves the biggest impression. A particularly striking sequence sees the newly-coupled Christine and Fritz losing themselves to a passionate waltz in an unremarkable café - their surroundings underwhelm, but their love does anything but and it's one of the most enchanting moments in the film. As this scene quietly fades to black, the waltz on the soundtrack continues but morphs into something more grandiose and suddenly we find ourselves in the lavish ballroom of the Baroness - Fritz's former lover who's determined to maintain her hold on him. Now it's the turn of Fritz and the Baroness to waltz yet despite the same tune and a more magnificent setting, the affection is painfully absent. Through this simple parallel then, Ophüls effectively highlights the difference between his two filmic worlds and three of the relationships at their centre (it should be noted that the Baron's intense glare is an integral part of the latter scene's tone.) The concept of an idyll disrupted by the powers-that-be is one that surfaces repeatedly during the film: Christine and Fritz's initial walk home is followed by a confrontation with the Major, whilst the party that Theo and Mizzi arrange is interrupted by the Baron's questioning which subsequently seals Fritz's fate.

To return to the initially-discussed sequence for a moment, Ophül's' use of music as continuity here is typical of the way in which Liebelei takes us to the very roots of melodrama, and certainly the presence of music in the film is felt throughout - not just through Ophüls' impressive utilisations but also through its infiltration of the characters' lives: the opening scene at the opera emphasises its relevance as social ritual whilst Theo is seen to be an accomplished pianist. Most notably, Christine and her father are both musicians themselves and such apt professions in a film that often plays like the cinematic equivalent of a tragic melody does much to underline where the director's allegiances lie.

A distinct lack of music then, characterises the more painful moments within the film (through their association with the aristocracy.) Taking this into account, much of the film's final act is relatively chilling in comparison to what's preceded it: the fate of both the star-crossed lovers, Christine's devastating close-up etc. are all set into motion following Fritz's request that Theo stop playing the piano after the Baron inadvertently gatecrashes their soirée. The ease with which Fritz capitulates to the Baron during this encounter is unusual ("I am at your disposal") but maintains Ophüls' observations re: the power of social mores. What's especially stunning about this commentary is his decision to set the story in 1910 - something marked prominently in the film's introductory shot. Ophüls depicts a society dominated by an emotionally barren aristocracy, and governed by a militaristic regimen of codes and conventions (it's no coincidence that the role of the military is so marked here.) Yet from Liebelei's 1933 release right through to today, the audience is gifted with the benefit of hindsight - we are well aware that just four years later this Ophülsian portrait of society would abruptly collapse into irrelevance, and Fritz's painful submission is made all the more poignant with the knowledge that it was perhaps unnecessary. As if to emphasise this point, Ophüls allows for a clash between Theo and the Colonel that proves that it is possible to defy the system. By this point however it's too late for Fritz, and Theo's assertion that "every shot not fired in self-defence is murder!" subtly points towards the events of 1914 and questions whether or not Fritz could have survived WWI as a lieutenant, even if he had managed to successfully avoid 1910.

Liebelei's final act is tinged with sadness (and the finale itself is crushing) and yet to argue the same for the film as a whole would be disrespectful to Ophüls' vision. Too often, this most marvellous of directors has been unfairly maligned for his concern with subject matter that is considered too 'slight' in the world of film criticism. To this, I argue: how on Earth could one argue that love is a 'slight' subject? If anything, it is the most complex feeling of them all, and Ophüls' repeated success at engaging with the topic makes him perhaps even more essential than most (although his brand of cinematic style should render him thus anyway.) Ophüls is as timeless as his favourite issue, so despite the importance of historical context when discussing Liebelei and its tragedy, it's crucial to remember that the film is above all a brilliant meditation on love. The plethora of different relationships on offer here accentuates this: the lack of love between the Baron and Baroness, the affair between the Baroness and Theo, the frivolous nature of Theo and Mizzi's relationship (which forms the crux of the film's humorous counterpoint to its tragedy), and the intense and beautiful romance shared by Fritz and Christine. Although this final pairing makes us emotional wrecks, it's the love and not the sorrow that resonates the most. Liebelei strikes a chord because it's vision of love is nigh-on unrivalled within cinema. For a film made nearly ¾ of a century ago, it stands as a testament to Ophüls everlasting genius that the sleigh ride in the snow is possibly the most effortlessly romantic sequence that I've ever come across. When the film concludes in a similarly snowy field, with the distant voiceovers of Fritz and Christine whispering "I'll love you forever"... well, my eyes are welling up just thinking about it.

McCabe & Mrs. Miller (Altman, 1971)

2007-12-23T22:29:00.000Z

Why have I NEVER heard McCabe & Mrs. Miller mentioned when people are discussing the best American films from that supposedly brilliant decade that was the 1970s? Coppola's efforts always get cited, so do Taxi Driver and Chinatown, and a couple of Allens and Kubricks... even Altman's own Nashville gets the odd mention. Now I'm not saying that the aforementioned films aren't worthy or anything (I pretty much love all of them bar Annie Hall and A Clockwork Orange) but it's obvious to me that McCabe & Mrs. Miler pisses over them all? It's also the first Western that I've actually liked! Well, ok, I think Dead Man is pretty great too (I think this says something about where my tastes skew with the genre?) but McCabe... is just complete love, through and through.

The film marks itself out as an anomaly from the moment the credits start floating across the screen (unique in itself.) What's Leonard Cohen doing in this landscape, for example? A few minutes later, one starts to question Altman's insufferably brilliant use of overlapping dialogue, especially when the mumbling from the supposed 'star' of the film (Warren Beatty) is drowned out as a result. Naturally, the director is several steps ahead of us all, and these early decisions are all part of his thoroughly unique evocation of the West: Cohen underpins the film's impalpable atmosphere and thus forms a notable counterpoint to the realism inherent within the use of dialogue. As for Beatty, is it not utterly appropriate that a film so concerned with overturning the hallmarks of the genre would strip him of his star status (externally) and heroism (internally)? Take note also, of his co-star's non-entrance: Altman gives us a brief glimpse of an opium-smoking mess of a woman whilst McCabe is haggling over the price of prostitutes - and that 'mess' turns out to be Julie Christie of all people.

Considering their high-profile relationship off-screen, it's remarkable that Altman (and the actors) manage to so successfully convey the tentative nature of the McCabe and Mrs. Miller partnership. The attraction and tenderness shared between the two is more than evident, but they're denied the opportunity to let it fully materialise because of their unforgiving surroundings which insist that they think of themselves first and foremost. Their self-denied love infuses the film with a melancholy undercurrent of romanticism, but imo it's when examining them as individual types that they truly become alive as characters. Altman is concerned with deconstruction of course, but I think there's also a contemporary relevance to his work? Despite her trashy façade, Mrs. Miller is perhaps the most astute character in the film and in possession of far greater business acumen than her 'partner.' She and her 'girls' highlight Altman's refreshing focus on the significance of women in the West: their traditionally perceived role as noble homemakers is thus transposed into the realm of prostitution where Mrs. Miller is - again - a homemaker, simply cut from a different end of the cloth. Thus, Altman undermines our preconceptions re: their profession, which is used here for the women to empower themselves and to carve out a safe refuge in their daunting environment (compare their sense of community to the snide world in which the men reside.) Mrs. Miller couldn't have existed in, say, the 1940s but link her to the onslaught of second-wave feminism and her presence becomes almost a necessity.

Similarly, the role of McCabe is surely not unrelated to the ruminations on the role of masculinity that occur in those other 'classics' of 1970s American cinema? In relation to the Western, he's so far removed from John Wayne it verges on the humorous. After a short time spent on establishing the myth of John McCabe during the film's opening ("he shot Roundtree?!"), Altman devotes pretty much the entirety of the remainder to obliterating that legend altogether. He can't add up, he's submissive to his female business partner, he has a heart ("I got poetry in me!"), he spends much of the film drunk and he's a coward to boot - and this is exactly why he's so appealing as a character. The very idea of heroism strikes me as far-fetched when the main objective is plain survival as it is here. McCabe's actions, whilst not something we're accustomed to within the genre, are nonetheless completely identifiable and therefore essential for the director's realistic designs.

This is not to say, however, that Altman is entirely non-conformist when it comes to toying with genre. As soon as McCabe starts deviating from his prescribed role as hero, one gets the sense that there's a single way for his journey to end: death. This is brilliantly foreshadowed within the film itself through the character of the Cowboy: Altman records his entrance in a long-shot which perpetuates a 'foreboding lone ranger' hero-type, but then cuts to reveal a completely amicable young man looking for the famed brothel. His departure from the film is perhaps it's shocking and most heartbreaking moment: a manipulated murder at the hands of one of the hitmen out for McCabe (who himself is initially seen as a hero only to then undo himself through his good-natured greed.) The resounding idea here is one of destiny, and a fate that's beyond one's own grasp - and this in itself is a brilliant subversion of the concept of Manifest Destiny. Altman shows us how expansion was neither obvious nor certain, but instead brutal and potentially fatal. The only 'obvious' and 'certain' aspect of this film is death.

A severe lack of innocence permeates this cinematic world. McCabe's attempts to survive during the finale then, are all the most devastating as a result. It's the bravura moment in Vilmos Zsigmond's gorgeous lensing, and a superbly edited sequence that induces tension in spite of the inevitable outcome. With all his other options exhausted, the 'innocent' McCabe is finally coerced into actualizing his myth. The brilliant battle in the snow sees the town church go up in flames, and McCabe manages to gun down all three of his hitmen but he's nonetheless unable to escape his own destiny. On top of all this, Altman denies him even these final moments of 'heroism' as he tellingly cuts away to images of the oblivious townspeople concerned only with the saviour of their dilapidated church. A concluding shot of Mrs. Miller, lost in a haze of opium as if to avoid the pain of it all, is the devastating masterstroke - with this, the entire trauma of the Western experience weighs down upon the audience and Altman's dual engagement with past and present finally achieves transcendence.

Marketa Lazarová (Vláčil, 1967)

2007-12-15T20:44:00.000Z

František Vláčil’s 1967 epic was a film that I hadn’t even heard of prior to a much-hyped DVD release here in the UK. Out of seemingly nowhere there then seemed to be mumblings about this being “the best Czech film of all time” which, naturally, aroused my curiosity. I then recalled reading a mini featurette on it during an issue of Sight & Sound earlier this year. And THEN I noticed that it was retailing for dirt cheap (at least, relative to other world cinema titles.) As my knowledge of Eastern European (let alone Czech) cinema is somewhat lacking to say the least, I read all these factors as a SIGN for me to pick this shit up. And that I did.

I’m not familiar enough with their national cinema to know whether this “best Czech film ever” tag is accurate or not. But I feel confident in throwing this in amongst the best that I’ve personally come across – which probably has something to do with it being the single most challenging experience that I’ve had with a film to date (David Lynch included.) Marketa Lazarová is a devilish fiend in the pantheon of great cinematic works. It claims to be a historical epic, but to allow any preconceptions to infiltrate one’s mind as a result of this would be a grave mistake indeed, for it’s simply one of the ways in which the film defies audience expectations. The back of my DVD cover sums the plot up as thus: ”...it follows the rivalry between two warring clans and the doomed love affair of Mikoláš Kozlík and Marketa Lazarová.” This sentence is arguably fraudulent however, as the notion of a ‘plot’ is irrelevant in a film that adheres to the creation of mood and tone as its driving narrative force.

Marketa Lazarová is a challenge precisely because of this last fact. It confronts the viewer with that which is (probably) unfamiliar: an incoherent structure that cares little for traditional dramatic development, instead manipulating soundscape and imagery as if to reinforce its mysteries. The film is divided into twelve ‘chapters’, complete with inter-titular headings that guide our quest for scraps of information. This, curiously enough, fails to provide any semblance of thematic congruity due to Vláčil’s decision to allow these divergent threads to run wild – an act that creates tension within itself. Furthermore, he obliterates our ability to relate completely with what’s on-screen thanks to his frequent use of flashbacks, narration and off-screen conversations in order to distort our perceptions of the filmic past and present. Numerous characters come and go, their voices (and selves) unidentifiable because of the aforementioned distortions, and we’re left with a myriad of overlapping relationships that run a daunting gamut of emotions but nonetheless take us even further outside of our comfort zone.

If what’s been described thus far sounds offputting it’s felicitous, for Marketa Lazarová never strives toward anything but. It’s primary concern with the brutality of the Middle Ages combines with Vláčil’s bold disregard for the machinations of convention to create what is perhaps the most frightening world that I’ve ever encountered. The result of the director’s experimentation is to force our gaze upon the cinematic image, which is the primary source of his film’s harrowing strength. Vláčil has a painter’s eye for composition, but a film historian’s conception of affluence: his employment of deep-focus shots, nigh-on montage editing, painfully intimate close-ups and sinuous camerawork combine to leave an indelible impression. In terms of it’s visual magnificence, think Tarkovsky’s Andrei Rublev with much heavier doses of the ominous, sinister and brooding. Marketa’s visual coherence actively complements its narrative incomprehensibility as Vláčil’s artificial engineering succeeds in ironically bringing us closer to the reality of the setting: his fearless re-creation of environment and his refusal to pander to his audience instils in us the confusion and terror that we’d feel if we actually were magically transported back to 13thC Czechoslovakia.

Marketa Lazarová’s themes and ideas are understandably difficult to fathom, and I don’t really wish to decipher them although there’s certainly substance underneath the style. There’s a seething undercurrent of paganism that forms a diametrical opposition to the Christian forces within the film. Upon first glance, Vláčil plays this as a spiritual dance between organised religion and the natural world, but after only one viewing it’s too early to comment definitively on this. Anyway, the most resounding theme is surely the utter lack of humanity in this unforgiving climate. From the animalistic moans that permeate the soundtrack, to the recurrent images of a pack of wolves, carnivorous in their lust – Vláčil goes to lengths to denigrate his characters to the level of mere beasts. He succeeds, and what we’re ultimately left with is a gargantuan and uncompromising vision, a provocative mood-piece that stimulates the senses whilst shattering (yet also illuminating) our knowledge of both cinema and history. I mentioned earlier how Marketa Lazarová wants us to believe it’s a historical epic – I hope by now that it’s become apparent that this is more akin to a nightmare-on-film. The difference with this one is that I fully intend to keep going back for more.

The Last Laugh (Murnau, 1924)

2007-12-15T20:42:00.000Z

The Last Laugh is another of those films that took me far too long to get to, and now that I’ve finally reached it I’m scolding myself for holding off for so long. Murnau is, of course, nothing short of a cinematic genius and my affinity for him is undying, as his Sunrise… is permanently lodged amongst my favourite films ever. The Last Laugh is another masterpiece to add to his collection, albeit one which threatens to tear me apart with joy (of the film’s genius) on the one hand, and sadness (of the film’s story) on the other.

Looking at it from a purely contemporary perspective, as if people weren’t averse enough to silent films – to watch one without any intertitles to guide us… well, I can understand why lesser film enthusiasts would hold off. Allow me to place emphasis on the “lesser” however, for it’s surely impossible to term one’s self as a lover of cinema whilst refusing to experience one of the most cinematic of all films? Murnau’s achievement is nothing short of astonishing – he disregards words almost completely, and in doing so exposes the goldmine that is the medium’s potential. Karl Freund’s cinematography should not be underestimated at any cost: his camerawork sits proudly amongst the most exquisitely choreographed in history (alongside Murnau’s other films, of course) and the way in which it darts and glides around the sets gifts an irresistible vitality to proceedings. I personally was sold from the get-go, with that dance in the rain which beautifully encapsulated the hustle-bustle of Weimar life.

Of course, the camerawork alone is not enough to make this a masterpiece. The film has another great trick up its sleeve in the performance of Emil Jannings. So much has been said about his performance that it seems futile to even tread that same territory, but whatever: he is MAGNIFICENT. In every sense of the word. His exaggerated mannerisms are appropriate for upholding the expressionist tone that the film demands from him, but what’s stunning about Jannings is the depth with which he imbues his theatricality. His eyes radiate happiness, pain and exhaustion with effortless ease and his entire body seems to follow these feelings through – look no further than his demotion scene for proof. Jannings really does embody the very fibre of this character, and seems perfectly attuned to the nature of his plight – it’s a performance that is perhaps best described as operatic in its essence. Moreover, the relationship between Jannings’ performance and Freund’s work provides much of the film’s power – the camera consistently reflects Jannings’ mindset, seeing what he sees and feeling what he feels. The visual collage of his neighbours’ faces cruelly laughing at him; the moment when the hotel seems to fall on top of him; that brilliant drunken dream – all of this is great within its own right, but it’s all the more wonderful thanks to Jannings’ touching reactions.

It’s important to note that other element which makes The Last Laugh so brilliant: Carl Mayer’s story. The idea of a man who defines himself completely by his uniform is thought-provoking to say the least, especially given the historical context of the film. Jannings’ character is so enveloped by his profession, and so consumed by the (painfully humbling) social status that it provides that he loses touch with him-self. The fact that all the other characters in the film are revealed to be equally concerned with these ideas perhaps says a lot more about Weimar social mores than we initially think. Mayer and Murnau paint a powerful portrait of society, and expertly chart the decline of their old man – but there is the unavoidable issue of that ending. Interestingly enough, it introduces the film’s only use of an intertitle (excluding the opening) – and even more intriguingly, the intertitle sees Murnau pulling his audience out of the filmic world to take an apologetic tone for the epilogue that follows. Understandably I think, I found this both bizarre and extremely detrimental to such a brilliant work of art – after all this sadness, surely Murnau wouldn’t pull out the cheap happy ending on me? He does. And yet, at the same time… he doesn’t. As one watches the epilogue, it becomes apparent that Jannings and Murnau are together enacting a fantastic lampooning of this very idea of a “happy ending.” Jannings’ operatic performance again comes into play, but this time it’s boisterous and comical to the point of absurdity – it doesn’t complement the action, but actually undermines it and thereby accentuates the implausibility of the fairy-tale scenario that we’re presented with. What we’re ultimately left with is the unbearably poignant image of what could never have been – so although in one sense it’s out-of-sync with everything that’s occurred before, in another it’s perhaps the perfect and most heartbreaking conclusion that’s possible. I don’t know if this ending was a request on the producers part, or whether it was agreed upon by the filmmakers, but Murnau’s ability to manipulate such phoniness into something so tender is perhaps one of THE everlasting testaments to his genius.

Le Notti bianche (Visconti, 1957)

2007-12-15T20:41:00.001Z

Luchino Visconti’s Le Notti bianche is the latest member of that exclusive club of films that have managed to break my little heart. Some might see the idea of a film making a grown man (well, I still feel like an unruly teen…) cry to be shameful, but alas – such is the power of le cinema. This film has now usurped The Leopard as my favourite Visconti, and it’s gone and displaced The Seventh Seal as my #1 of 1957 – something that I never thought would happen!

I think what makes Le Notti bianche so devastating is the fact that it’s imbued with so much emotional truth, as I see it. Mario’s displaced dreamer is a type that I think we can all identify with at times? But more than that, his search for love, the lengths that he’ll go to in order to achieve it, the way in which he defines himself by that goal, and Visconti’s decision to emphasise its fleeting nature and the negative effects of it… it all contributes to the film’s complex conception of what love is and how we deal with it.

All of the above is obviously recurrent throughout the film but it reaches a poignant zenith in a nearly-wordless dance sequence that fully displays Visconti’s ability to encapsulate entire worlds of feeling in brief moments of time. The awkwardness with which Mario and Natalia perform is as charming as it is emblematic of their tentative relationship. Moreover, the sequence speaks volumes about their relative states of mind. Mario (engaged with the contemporary) is the one to lead them into the bar in order to help Natalia (unable to forget the past) re-engage with life – but as soon as she remembers her familiar ritual of waiting on the bridge, she runs out again and leads them both back to that metaphorical crossing between memory and modernity.

The fact that the film is grounded in such genuine sentiments allows Visconti to embark on a miniature flight of fancy regarding the film’s visual construction. As I understand it, Le Notti bianche was filmed pretty much entirely on sets at Cinecittà – and it shows. As ravishingly beautiful as it is, the film (in its exteriors, at least) clearly creates an artificial reality for it’s characters. In doing this, Visconti forces us to ponder over the line between the dreamworld of his setting and the reality of the characters’ experiences, and these doubts are then parlayed back into the film thanks to Mario’s heedless remarks about Natalia’s own false dreams. Heedless, yet perhaps justified, for Natalia seems like a distant cousin of Lisa from Letter from an Unknown Woman – a similarly hopeless romantic who veers dangerously into obsession. Of course, this fact shouldn’t (and doesn’t) prevent us from reprieving Mario, whose ‘love’ for Natalia could well be better perceived as infatuation. Is his heartbroken face at film’s end illustrative of a man shattered by the experience of love and his own sincerity, or is it a picture of a naive man-child crying because he couldn’t get what he wanted? I know what I personally believe, but I think it’s a testament to the film’s brilliant treatment of its subject that both options are feasible.

Point is: this is the most gorgeous-yet-heartbreaking film I’ve seen for a while. So y’know, watch it, or something… if only to share my pain!

Nightmare Alley (Goulding, 1947)

2007-12-15T20:39:00.000Z

Nightmare Alley is one of the more ludicrous noirs that I’ve come across, but I mean that as a compliment. Its carnival setting early on in the film instantly brings to mind Tod Browning’s Freaks, and the brief but memorable focus on the “geek” cements this comparison. The spectre of the “geek” and protagonist Stan’s notable horror at the very idea of falling so low provides the film with an eerie fatalism that contributes immensely to the tension inherent in his gradual “rise” to stardom. This whole concept of predetermination links nicely to the film’s concern with religion. Stan’s virtual pontification with his audiences introduces an omnipotent aspect that confuses the already-twisted proceedings, and which suggests that his downfall might have something to do with his own divine retribution. Moreover, the fascination with tarot cards (and their unnerving reliability) as well as the ease with which Stan manages to deceive so many of his followers is surely a reflection upon the status of faith systems as a whole, and their relevance to contemporary society? The film toys with these fascinating ideas, and as such it never quite plays by the rules. For sure, there are certain noir hallmarks here: the chiaroscuro lighting is as vibrant as one could expect, as is the heavy undertone of cynicism. However, the film’s a deviant in other respects: it transposes much of its drama to the bizarre and unconventional setting of the carnival (whose grotesqueries remain lodged in the memory even during the lengthy time we spend in the city); there’s a peculiar redefinition of the femme fatale, who is reimagined as an almost androgynous and sexually ambiguous intellectual dominatrix; and even for a noir, the eventual depths to which our ‘hero’ sinks defies belief. For all it’s structural issues (the final act, although powerful, is somewhat rushed in comparison to the leisurely set-ups that precede it) and its distasteful-yet-necessary redemption at film’s end, the inspired performance from Tyrone Power and the sheer audacity with which it tackles its themes is more than enough for me to give Nightmare Alley a free pass.

Sátántangó (Tarr, 1994)

2007-12-15T20:33:00.000Z

So this is effectively THE greatest cinematic achievement of the 1990s.

I’m not even going to attempt to deconstruct the thematics behind this, because they’re far too daunting for me to handle at present. It really is absolutely extraordinary though – Tarr uses his 7hr+ length as a platform to explore the possibilities of the medium itself. At various points, Sátántangó’s style endeavours toward: gritty realism, expressionist fantasy, poetic sur-realism and finally, enigmatic modernity. If these terms contradict each other in any way, it’s intentional, not to mention appropriate: I doubt that Tarr intends for us to make sense of his work (and really, I’m not sure if anyone really could), it’s more a case of his wanting us to ‘feel’ it on a purely visceral level.

To this end, his well-documented use of the long-take comes into play. Those familiar with the more widely-seen Werckmeister Harmonies will know what to expect, but Sátántangó’s shots demand much more from the viewer – to the point where the film often left me physically exhausted. In spite of this, I was nonetheless thrilled by the director’s experiments. Tarr plays on his audience’s inherent fear of the unknown, exploiting the film’s otherworldly mysteries to the max and completely disregarding traditional expectations of narrative in the process. The pacing for example, is irksome but only because Tarr succeeds in thwarting conventions to the point where we don’t know what the hell he’s going to pull off next, and any dramatic tension that we feel is inevitably a result of this exercise. His perplexing world is aided by a further dimension whereby he sculpts a temporal complexity that layers and overlaps scenes in order to enrich our understanding (I use the term loosely) of what’s occurring on-screen.

I should really mention the fact that the film deals with a community of farmers in rural Hungary. The characters, as Tarr paints them, are ugly, repulsive and in short: not the sort of people that one would wish to spend seven hours with. It’s a testament to the success of Tarr’s exquisitely choreographed mise-en-scene (not to mention the lush use of sound and the interlacement of a wicked brand of very dry humour) that the experiment pays off – some of the scenes take one’s breath away, particularly those in which animals are concerned: Tarr’s pessimistic view of humanity is often compared to the superior ‘community’ in the animal world. Most notable from these however, is a scene which highlights the stark reality of isolation in this society: the segment in which we’re introduced to the young girl (and later, her cat…) As soon as it began, I was foolish enough to become slightly disenchanted with Tarr – surely he wouldn’t use so blatant a metaphor to explore the concept of innocence in such a grotesque world, right? Rest assured, he doesn’t, and what does ensue is the most excruciating yet gripping sequence that I’ve probably ever encountered – and all the while, Tarr succeeds in colouring it with a sense of poignancy that culminates in a final act of transcendence that is perhaps the single most important image in the film. And oh my GOD, the cat!!

I said earlier that I didn’t want to discuss the thematic resonance of the film – but I’ll digress for a second to wonder out loud about the relevance of allegory. It’s apparent that there are certain ideas being explored here: community (and therefore, perhaps commun_ism_?), poverty, social order etc. (I’m not doing the film any justice, but you’ll understand when you watch it.) There’s definitely a spiritual dimension to the world as well, with the character of Irmiás being presented as an, admittedly fraudulent, Christ-like figure. I’m not sure how far to pursue this idea, and if anyone who’s seen the film can help me I’d be pretty grateful? Needless to say, the conclusion, with the visual inverse of ”...and then there was light” provides much food for thought.

Anyway, I’m rambling. The point is that any fans of cinema owe it to themselves to watch this. It’s available on a beautiful Artificial Eye box set so y’know, watch it NOW!

Raise the Red Lantern (Yimou, 1991)

2007-12-15T07:58:00.000Z

Raise the Red Lantern is surely one of the finest films of its decade? It’s visually spellbinding, as expected, but unlike Yimou’s recent efforts Lantern’s style is less to do with our being blitzed with special effects and more to do with the director’s ability to exploit his setting’s potential to the max. Almost the entire film takes place in a palatial complex of enormous proportions. When we first arrive here along with our protagonist, Songlian, it’s difficult not to be overawed by the extravagance of a residence that apparently branches out in all directions. Nevertheless, it’s the banality of this sparsely-inhabited space that emerges as it’s most resounding feature, and the narrative’s direction ensures that what first seems magnificent later morphs into little more than a stifling human compound. The greys and browns that dominate the palette of Yimou’s exteriors contribute to this nullifying effect, forming a brazen contrast to the copious use of reds that paint internal space. That colour’s primary connotation here is a sexual one: the lighting of the red lantern indicates that the Master will spend the night, and the bathing of each wife’s apartment in the colour places further emphasis on the fact that these women’s rooms (and their roles) are conceived as purely eroticised areas.

The prevalence of red also works on another level, foreshadowing the inflamed passions that take centre stage later in the film. Lantern is, perhaps above all else, a brilliant melodrama rooted in the vindictive hearts of its central characters. The film plays out like an intricate web of power battles: Songlian vs. the other wives, Songlian vs. the Master, Meishan vs. Zhuoyan, Yan’er vs. Songlian etc. These people exist in an enclosed world dominated by mind-games that reach unrivalled heights of spitefulness. Initially, one can’t help but react with glee at some of the bitchiness that takes place – not to mention the wicked irony of each wife continually referring to the other as “sister” – but as the action progresses it becomes apparent that the women are toying with one anothers’ lives and the intrigues resultantly take on a far more threatening dimension. Yimou’s great achievement derives from his ability to utilise these already gripping dilemmas as a platform for a wider and more scathing commentary on various facets of the Chinese experience.

Women are at the heart of this film and accordingly it’s their plight that the director is primarily concerned with. Although they’re privileged to an extent, Lantern deftly shows us that wealth by no means equates to freedom – as previously stated, their opulent surroundings actually serve to entrap and even destroy them. Female roles are confined to the sexual spheres of their bedrooms where they are expected to satisfy their Master and provide male heirs to maintain the patriarchal lineage, or alternatively they’re limited to a domestic sphere that requires complete subservience. The vapidity of such expectations is incongruously validated by the male guardians of this realm, with the housekeeper telling Songlian: “The Chen family’s customs go back many generations. It is important that you obey them.” Clearly, an all-pervasive faith in the integrity of tradition is what motivates this code of conduct. How ironic then, that those very traditions should breed the friction that disrupts the fragile unity of the household. The repeated use of one specific ritual demonstrates this to agonizing effect: every evening, custom dictates that the four wives stand outside their gateways to anticipate whether or not the Master will spend the night with them. His decision is marked by the placing of a red lantern outside the chosen wife’s house, thereby divulging the titular object’s status as a power symbol alongside the aforementioned sexual intimations. The entire process serves only to degrade all concerned: the unsuccessful wives face humiliation whilst the ‘victor’ in the power struggle is forced to contend with the underlying resentment of her fellow concubines. This scenario is especially pitiful when one considers the chosen wife’s scant rewards: a foot massage, the ability to set the next day’s menu, and another chance at producing an all-important male heir. The fact that all of these women consider such meagre scraps worth fighting for speaks volumes about the extent to which their silent repression has permeated their mindsets.

That Songlian, an educated woman confident enough to frequently exert her authority over the Master, should resort to engaging in these games is disheartening – although only on a surface level. The character as Gong Li so magnificently plays her is obstinate, petty and as caustic as her rivals: in short, she’s far from the most likeable of heroines. Regardless, if one considers her hostile new environment and, perhaps more importantly her youth (the girl is only nineteen, after all) it’s possible to develop a basic understanding of the motivation behind her dubious actions. Certainly, her age and her education combine to beset the film with a lingering sense of squandered potential. Moreover, should we dare to see Songlian’s predicament as a figurative representation of the fate of Chinese women as a whole (in the film’s early 20th-century setting, if not the present day), then this wilful loss of female promise is lent much greater relevance. Bearing this in mind, certain other aspects of Yimou’s portrayal warrant further analysis: for example, what of the film’s ignorance towards the forces that led to Songlian’s degradation? Yimou shows us the downfall but, minor allusions aside, keeps us unaware of the background and thereby hints at its irrelevance in a domain where female oppression is simply another fact of life. Another important feature is the ‘reward’ of the foot massage which evokes an inevitable comparison with the more controversial act of foot binding. My knowledge of the procedure is somewhat limited, but it’s clear that Yimou’s use of the act is fundamental, for although the two practices seem polar opposites on paper the massage assumes the same problematic implications of its predecessor: binding has, rightly or wrongly, often been viewed as an instrument of patriarchal enslavement and this is reiterated in the film through the massage which is awarded to the wives solely for them to “better serve their man.” In other words, Yimou astoundingly parlays the intellectual negativity associated with the pain of foot binding into the deceptive comfort of the foot massage. Nonetheless, he also draws from the alternate viewpoint: binding has conversely been seen as a desirable yardstick for women due to its functioning as a status symbol and, of course, the massage in Lantern performs exactly the same role by affording one wife privilege over the others. It’s emblematic of the film’s trademark complexity that an event so seemingly insignificant could penetrate such depths of meaning.

Yimou’s directorial decisions, and their ability to illuminate his story, surely reach a daring peak with his refusal to grant us an unobstructed view of his film’s most powerful character. The ‘Master’ is central to the narrative, yet Yimou hides him behind painted veils, obscures him through long-shots and even denigrates him to the rank of a mere off-screen voice. The Master’s literal role in the film forms a stark contrast to his metaphorical role as the patriarchal head – and perhaps this is the point that Yimou is trying to make: the Master’s authority is omnipotent to the point where his presence is no longer necessary to enforce his will. He presides over a system where gender roles are strictly defined, as is class status – one recalls how the servant Yan’er is used as sexual fulfilment but is admonished for aspiring to be a mistress. The third wife Meishan’s affair with the doctor both threatens the Master’s sexual supremacy (extra-marital relations are reserved to the male realm) but more importantly it deviates from the prescribed norms, and is subsequently punished with brutal force. This incident in particular, and the categorical denials of Meishan’s fate that follow, induce memories of similar acts of brutality that have been quietly whitewashed by authorities in modern Chinese history. Little wonder then, that the film was banned upon release in Yimou’s homeland.

Raise the Red Lantern is as visually striking as it is intellectually invigorating, but one couldn’t truly love it unless it struck an emotional chord – and that it does, to haunting effect. Whilst the film brilliantly critiques the oppressor, it also finds fault in the oppressed as it’s the lack of empathy between the characters that affects us the most. The general inability to forge human connections of substance is almost countered by the mutual understanding between Songlian and Meishan – but Yimou repudiates even this faint glimmer of hope, by holding the former responsible for the latter’s tragic end. It’s as if the mechanical hand of the patriarchy not only subjugates the women, but additionally erodes their humanity thus rendering them incapable of uniting against it. It’s this lack of compassion in Lantern’s enclosed world that makes for such riveting yet painful viewing, and one can’t help but wonder: could Songlian’s descent into insanity be a refuge from all the madness of reality? The way in which the latter is presented suggests that such an idea may not be totally implausible, and surely that’s the most devastating indictment of all?