Bigger Than Life (N. Ray, 1956)

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)

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)

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)

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)

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)

(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

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

1. Syndromes and a Century (Weerasethakul)
2. 4 Months, 3 Weeks and 2 Days (Mungiu)
3. No Country for Old Men (Coen Bros.)
4. The Assassination of Jesse James by the Coward Robert Ford (Dominik)
5. Control (Corbijn)
6. Private Fears in Public Places (Resnais)
7. Bamako (Sissako)
8. Golden Door (Crialese)
9. Eastern Promises (Cronenberg)
10. 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

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

BEST ACTOR

1. Casey Affleck, The Assassination of Jesse James by the Coward Robert Ford
2. Sam Riley, Control
3. Viggo Mortensen, Eastern Promises
4. Daniel Day-Lewis, There Will Be Blood
5. Brad Pitt, The Assassination of Jesse James by the Coward Robert Ford
   
   
   BEST ACTRESS

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

BEST SUPPORTING ACTOR

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

BEST SUPPORTING ACTRESS

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

BEST ENSEMBLE

1. Private Fears in Public Places
   (Laura Morante, André Dussollier, Sabine Azèma, Pierre Arditi, Lambert Wilson, Isabelle Carré, Claude Rich)
   
2. 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)
   
3. No Country for Old Men
   (Javier Bardem, Tommy Lee Jones, Josh Brolin, Kelly MacDonald, Woody Harrelson)
   
4. Eastern Promises
   (Viggo Mortensen, Naomi Watts, Armin Mueller-Stahl, Vincent Cassel, Jerzy Skolimowski, Sinéad Cusack)
   
5. I'm Not There
   (Charlotte Gainsbourg, Marcus Carl Franklin, Cate Blanchett, Heath Ledger, Richard Gere, Ben Whishaw, Julianne Moore)

BEST ORIGINAL SCREENPLAY

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

BEST ADAPTED SCREENPLAY

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

BEST CINEMATOGRAPHY

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

TECHNICAL GRAND PRIZE

1. I'm Not There
2. Lust, Caution
3. Sweeney Todd: The Demon Barber of Fleet Street
   
4. There Will Be Blood
5. Black Book

BEST ORIGINAL SCORE

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

Lancelot du lac (Bresson, 1974)

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)

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:

Marketa Lazarová (Vláčil, 1967)

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)

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)

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)

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)

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)

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?