In praise of Christina Lindberg, goddess of Swedish sexploitation

It all started with Exposed. I’m not sure what brought this 1971 Swedish sexploitation film to the suggestion portion of my Netflix account (presumably the roster of Jess Franco films recently added), but after reading the description, I figured it was worth a shot: “A pretty young teen finds her innocence lost when an unguarded night of revelry yields shameful secrets, and a stack of nude pictures that could ruin her life. But to get her hands on the negatives, she’ll have to expose herself even further.” That is indeed the basic plot of the film, which plays out exactly as one would expect for such fare. But what was unexpected while watching Exposed (also known as the much less enticing Diary of a Rape), was the 21-year-old star of the film. Her name is Christina Lindberg.

Exposed, for lack of a better phrase, is what it is. It delivers on everything its suggestive promotional material promises, namely nudity. While not exactly enraptured by its narrative (though I have certainly seen many a more flimsy premise), I nevertheless came away absolutely infatuated. Not by the story, not by the genre, not by the era or country in which the film was made. It was this Christina Lindberg. Now of course, I must confess she is a knockout, a stunning beauty who combines the most erotic of allure with the most innocent of charms. Yet there is something more. Those who are familiar with Lindberg only in passing may dismiss this, knowing her simply as the often-nude sexpot—looking back on these films, she said she had a “natural way to cope with no clothes”—but there is genuinely something captivating in her performance. Her presence frequently gave even the most sub-standard film a surprising degree of watchablity.

Lindberg was born Dec. 6 1950 in Gothenburg, Sweden. She began modeling in the late 1960s, while still in high school, first in publications relatively innocuous, then in the more scandalous likes of Playboy, Penthouse, and others. This led to her first acting role in Maid in Sweden (1971), also while she was still in school (though she was 18), followed by Rötmånad (AKA Dog Days and What Are You Doing After the Orgy?, 1970), which was actually released prior to her debut. About two dozen films followed, 17 just in the 1970s, and six released in 1973 alone. While some of the movies were barely better than atrocious, when Christina Lindberg appears, all is forgiven.

As a whole, Maid in Sweden isn’t bad. It’s a standard coming of age tale (a premise that figured into many similar sexploitation movies), and as such, it gives Lindberg a chance to play up her expressive naiveté. Anyone familiar with Lindberg and her film or modeling work would probably find it amusing that she plays a chaste young girl unwise in the ways of sex, but that was, of course, the point: all the better to make her sexual awakening that much more, well, sexual. In one of several English-speaking roles, the pig-tailed Lindberg plays bewildered timidity extremely well. Ironically, though befitting the youthful lark’s titillating aspiration, Maid in Sweden takes her innocence and packages it in the most suggestive of apparel, as when on a date she wears a white dress that is comically revealing given her supposed purity (the evening ends with a sexual assault that strangely leads to mini-romance).

Maid in Sweden has several similar scenes that display the dual nature of Lindberg’s recurring screen persona. One prolonged sequence, for example, has her Inga character masturbating to the sounds of her sister and her boyfriend having sex (played by real life husband and wife Krister and Monica Ekman). The next scene then has the trio merrily ice skating, with Lindberg looking like a wounded puppy when she is tripped up. This back-to-back balance of blatant sexuality and childlike disorientation is an exemplary Lindberg trait. Off screen, she herself embodied this juxtaposition of being withdrawn and flamboyant. “I was very shy,” she has stated. “I was very shy and it seems a little bit odd when I take off my clothes and such, but I was very shy.”

Just after Maid in Sweden, Lindberg worked with the (in)famous American director Joseph Sarno on two films. She hardly appears in Swedish Wildcats (1972), but she is far more prominent in Young Playthings (1972), where she hardly appears clothed. In this rather odd film, her character, Gunilla, is unknowingly being primed for a threesome consisting of her, her boyfriend, and her best friend (the latter two of whom have already been having an affair). Gunilla, however, becomes far more intrigued by a woman who collects and repairs old toys. This woman, as Gunilla soon finds out, also hosts elaborate costume parties where attendees don make-up and various outfits then act out a variety of erotic folk tales…or something to that effect. Either way, while it takes some work to coerce Gunilla into the ménage à trois, her initial reticence toward that, and the sexually charged routines, is quickly lessened. Echoing the above point about thematic virtue in order to stress the sexuality, at one point she bashfully states, “I’m much too self-conscious.” This despite the fact she is frequently and unashamedly nude throughout the film.

While not the star of the show, Lindberg has a supremely notable role in Sex and Fury (1973), where she plays opposite the first-billed Reiko Ike, quite the sexploitation icon herself. Overall, this might be the best film to feature Lindberg. Some may make a case for the cult classic Thriller (more on that later), but if one looks strictly for an interesting story, decent action, stylistic dynamism, better than average production values, and yes, sex, this hits more high notes than most. Even with Lindberg in a secondary role, her appearance is intoxicating. The film has one of her best entrances, as she descends a lavish staircase under spotlight, her face partly concealed by a mask, which she then removes to dramatic effect.

Sex and Fury is a wildly entertaining conglomeration of glorious bloodletting, a decently engaging revenge plot, political corruption and social upheaval, knife-wielding nuns, Lindberg dressed like Pocahontas whipping Reiko (seriously), fighting, nakedness, and nakedness while fighting. Lindberg’s character, an English woman fluent in Japanese—played by a Swede—is likewise a multifaceted individual. She is a sharp-shooting, ace gambler who has taken on the occupation of British secret agent in order to see her Japanese boyfriend. And of course, she often has to sleep with both men and women in order to sustain her cover. Still, while hers is not the primary story of the film, her romantic subplot is actually quite touching, a rarity in her work.

Making the most of her Japanese stopover, Lindberg followed Sex and Fury with The Kyoto Connection (1973). Like Dog Days, this is a Lindberg film I have so far only been able to view sans subtitles. Unlike Dog Days, the story here is pretty straightforward, negating any need for explanatory dialogue anyway. Lindberg’s character arrives in Japan and is abruptly kidnapped, raped, and held hostage. Through her sexual wiles, which need no translation, she eventually manages to break fee. That’s about it.

Though her films by no means count as “roughies,” certainly not in the pornographic sense, Lindberg, for whatever reason, often found herself on the brutal end of various physical encounters. Even in Maid in Sweden, her very first film, Lindberg’s character suffers the fate of degradation, there at the hands of her sister’s boyfriend, who mocks her backwardness but nevertheless pounces on her in the bathtub before the film’s conclusion. Lindberg acknowledges this as something of a theme in her work—the beautiful innocent girl abused in one way or another. Not really looking Swedish, the small, dark-haired Lindberg had an international appeal, so as for the recurrence of this harsh scenario, she attributes the frequency to the intercontinental financing of her films. Similar themes and characters were desired as producers from around the world put up money on the basis of a specific type of repeated character in a specific situation, however brutal it may be.

And speaking of brutal. In 1973 came Thriller: A Cruel Picture, probably Lindberg’s most famous film, the one film of hers most people are at least somewhat aware of even if they don’t know who she is, and one of the most controversial films ever made. It is also somewhat complicated in terms of Lindberg’s filmography. On the one hand, the film is, as its title states, quite the cruel picture. The inserted shots of graphic sex surely stand out, as does some of the violence, the most cringe-worthy example being the on-screen piercing and off-screen removal of Lindberg’s character’s eye (the filmmakers actually used the real eye of a corpse). It should be pointed out, however, that the hard-core shots do not involve Lindberg. Contributing to her move away from acting toward the end of the 1970s was her rather admirable refusal to partake in straight pornography. Full frontal nudity was one thing, explicit sex was another, so stand-ins were used for the close-ups (and they are close up).

Thriller really stands alone in Lindberg’s body of work. If one can get by the unnecessary explicitness of these pornographic inserts, this is a classic 1970s revenge film, one of the best. Part of the reason it is so memorable is that Lindberg’s Frigga is horribly brutalized in just about every way imaginable, so by the time she does enact her sweet retribution, a lot of people have a lot coming to them. Frigga is first raped as a child, the trauma of which leaves her mute. She is then drugged, given heroin to the point of dependency, held hostage, forced into sex-slave labor, physically abused, and emotionally tormented. When she is eventually able to leave for a few hours, she secretly trains in hand-to-hand combat, firearms, and race car driving (Lindberg really did learn karate for the role, and as she did not have a driver’s license, she had to learn how to do that, too). Finally, the time comes. Frigga assembles a stockpile of weaponry, dresses in black from head to toe (including eye-patch), and embarks on a rigorous, blood-spattered rampage. The low angle shot of this angelic beauty turned kill-crazy vehicle for vengeance—adorned in a flowing black trench coat, guns in hand, leaves falling around her—is one of the greatest single images in all of Lindberg’s work. Hell, in all of cinema.

Thriller was actually the first Christina Lindberg film I had ever seen, about 10 years ago. I had no idea at the time who she was and only watched the film because of its reputation and because Lindberg’s patched eye was an inspiration for Daryl Hannah’s character in Kill Bill. Seeing it now as a showcase for one of Lindberg’s most complex performances, and one of her most enjoyable, all those other elements fade away. Its Tarantino-approved popularity is partly why it is also hands-down the Lindberg film in the best condition. No other DVD of her movies looks or sounds this good.

In films like Schoolgirl Report Vol. 4 and Secrets of Sweet Sixteen (1973), Lindberg had relatively smaller roles in multi-part compendium features, which told a variety of sexy stories usually dealing with promiscuous young nubiles. Full disclaimer, I have not watched any of the segments of any of these films if they did not contain Lindberg, and therefore can’t judge any of these titles as a whole. In terms of what I look for and enjoy in a Chistina Lindberg movie, however, Secrets of Sweet Sixteen is just so-so (Lindberg is there, looking great, but the film and her specific character aren’t terribly interesting), but Schoolgirl Report certainly has its moments. There she looks even better, and while the story of her character’s incestuous relationship with her brother may be a bit off-putting, it’s a reasonably entertaining segment. Besides, if nothing else, as the DVD proclaims, it also has “psychedelic dreams with bloody naked nuns and a firing squad.” So, there’s that.

Lindberg’s last great featured role was in Anita: Swedish Nymphet (1973). Not quite to the violent degree of Thriller, Anita still has one of her darker characterizations. Interesting about this film is that it is one where her sexuality figures into the essential plot of the film; rather than just being a film that features a lot of sex, this film is actually about sex. Lindberg plays, as the title suggests, a 17-year-old nymphomaniac. Her insatiable sexual quest leads her down a dark road of despair where she is ostracized and tormented by a lack of self-worth. Somewhat in opposition to those films where Lindberg is the submissive, mistreated girl, here she has an aggressive sexuality that leaves her on the comparatively forceful end of her amorous meetings. Yet through it all, she remains pathetic and psychologically weak, chiefly because she is burdened by an inner turmoil that does not, in most cases, make the sex pleasurable. It is more a stolid routine that corresponds to the nature of addiction.

Certainly, Anita’s sexual promiscuity is exploited in the film, but only to a degree (like when she performs a striptease in front of her parents and their dignified houseguests, many of whom encourage the routine—“It’s not as bad as it looks,” her father assures her stunned mother). As often as not, the affliction is actually treated with a reasonable seriousness, especially as Anita’s sole friend, Erik (a young Stellan Skarsgård), tries to explain and “cure” her illness, approaching her with sympathy and understanding. As far as Lindberg’s performance is concerned, her expressed nymphomania, as dismissive as one might be to the malady, gives her some psychological complexity to work with, further proving there is genuine talent behind the doe-eyed beauty. She quite capably conveys Anita’s desperation with a pitiable quality reflected by the film itself, which is gloomy and generally joyless. Anita, like the movie, has the look of a cold morning after. What this does, and one sees this is several Lindberg films, especially those where she is treated poorly, is it creates a sense of viewer engagement beyond the frivolity of the film’s nature. One sees this poor girl, this small, cute, seemingly helpless individual, and one can’t help but want to comfort her.

Of everything that came after this for Lindberg, I have only seen Around the World with Fanny Hill and Sängkamrater (Wide Open), both released in 1974. There isn’t a whole lot to say about these two films, as Lindberg does not have much of a presence in the former and only first appears 20 minutes into the latter, popping up infrequently and marginally thereafter (though her first big scene is definitely striking, by which I mean she gets very naked). In any case, for the last two major films of Lindberg’s career, both are unfortunately rather unremarkable.

Christina Lindberg was the perfect actress at the right time for a certain kind of movie. While this helped give her a briefly noteworthy career in the 1970s and she is something of a cult figure today, I can’t help but feel her status in her respective field was and remains a hindrance. In most sexploitation fare, the actors are there to do what they do and to do little else, which is fine. Those movies and those performers have their place in cinema history and this isn’t to belittle the work. But many of these actors are seldom able to rise above the common filmic territory (save for someone like Skarsgård). When watching Lindberg, there appears to be a sincerity running counter to the triviality of the films, and a talent, or at least the potential for talent, that has been left underexplored and underrated because of the type of movies in which she appeared. Her films are not “great” by any means, and I definitely would not suggest her acting range was in any way overwhelming. But if qualifications for being a memorable and enjoyable star include leaving a strong impression no matter the size of the role and making even a lesser movie better, she more than fits the bill.

Still, her acting isn’t terrible, especially for what she has to do and what she had to work with. One of the defining traits of Lindberg’s work is the impression that even she knows she is better than what she’s dealing with. While most everyone else in these films seem to be phoning in their performances, not trying too hard, perhaps knowing what type of movie they’re making after all, Lindberg acts with an earnestness that transcends her role and the material. This even seems to be the case with her bigger-name co-stars, like Ulla Sjöblom, who in 1958 starred in Ingmar Bergman’s The Magician, and Heinz Hopf, who had quite the television career before starring as villainous characters in Exposed and Thriller (and later also working with Bergman on Fanny and Alexander). “When I worked I was very serious,” Lindberg said. “I tried to do my best.”

For all intents and purposes, Lindberg’s short-lived acting career was nearing its end before she was 30 years old (an even shorter singing career yielded just two songs). She started studying journalism soon thereafter, wrote a number of articles for several publications, and began working for her soon-to-be fiancé Bo Sehlberg at his aviation magazine Flygrevyn, which she took over as owner and editor-in-chief following his death in 2004. As her IMDb biography sums up, she is today “a keen mushroom picker… an animal rights activist, an environmentalist, and a vegetarian.”

During a few glorious years in the 1970s, though, Christina Lindberg was really something else.

Constancy and Variation: An Autumn Afternoon as Ozu’s Final Testament

An Autumn Afternoon was director Yasujirô Ozu’s final film. He passed away a year after its release, on his 60th birthday, Dec. 12, 1963. Knowing that the film is indeed his last, it’s easy to look at it in terms of being a sort of grand summation of his work, a concluding statement on themes and aesthetic tendencies he had steadily formulated and perfected since his first feature, Blade of Penitence, in 1927. But an overview like that doesn’t always work with Ozu. While his films may have matured in many respects, they also remained astonishingly consistent, some even to the point of being nearly the same movie, on the surface anyway (he did remake one of his own films—1934’s A Story of Floating Weeds into 1959’s Floating Weeds). Or, at the very least, they are easily confused with one another (similar seasonal titles don’t help). So why then is An Autumn Afternoon special, and where does it fit into the Ozu opus?

To begin with, one must acknowledge the dependability of Ozu’s stalwart collaborators, such as co-writer Kôgo Noda, cinematographer Yûharu Atsuta, and editor Yoshiyasu Hamamura, all of whom contribute to An Autumn Afternoon, and all of whom had worked with the director on numerous prior films, most certainly playing a part in the likeness of each movie’s style and respective narrative threads.In terms of this narrative, An Autumn Afternoon revisits familiar Ozu territory from the preceding decade or so. Starting with Late Spring (1949), Ozu would return time and again to a key thematic crux: struggles within a family and, more specifically, the marrying off of a daughter. In addition to Late Spring, The Munekata Sisters (1950), Early Summer (1951), Equinox Flower (1958), and Late Autumn (1960) are all concerned with diverse and divergent marital plans for one or more young women. As Geoff Andrew has pointed out, just before his passing Ozu had made notes for another project, Radishes and Carrots, and once again, it was to be the story of a daughter about to marry and leave her father.

An Autumn Afternoon begins as Shuhei Hirayama unashamedly questions his secretary about her being married, stressing its importance, even its necessity. Played by Chishû Ryû (speaking of stalwart collaborator: 52 films with Ozu), Hirayama is quick to change the subject when the question comes to his own 24-year-old daughter, Michiko (Shima Iwashita), and the possibility of her potential union. This he’s not so keen on, for as a widower, he has grown dependent on her domestic assistance. Nevertheless, this gets the narrative moving, and An Autumn Afternoon’s primary focus is on Michiko’s eventual matrimonial decision and how that, in turn, affects those around her, particularly her father. It also reveals a recurring plot point of everyone making decisions except for those most directly involved. When Hirayama eventually decides with great satisfaction that it’s probably best to let Michiko marry the man she prefers, rather than one imposed on her, his declaration is most ironic given all that had just transpired. After debate with others, matchmaking without her consent, and selfish contemplation on where it would leave him, it’s awfully big of him to decide that she knows what she’s doing.

While the emphasis on women and their somewhat demeaning domestic roles may be seen as an antiquated patriarchal organization, the same perceived responsibilities also point to the utter helplessness and immaturity of the men. Michiko has to constantly chide Hirayama for his drinking, greeting him almost every night with questions of how much he has had. Hirayama’s eldest son, Koichi (Keiji Sada), seemingly the most dependable child, judging solely by appearances and the fact that he has some sort of professional occupation, borrows money for a refrigerator but exaggerates the sum needed so he’ll have money left over to purchase second-hand golf clubs. He is seen as a “meek husband,” kowtowing to his wife, Akiko (Mariko Okada), but that’s only because it’s up to her to responsibly keep track of their expenses. And the younger son, Kazuo (Shin’ichirô Mikami), who also lives with Michiko and Hirayama, repeatedly barks orders at his older sister/maternal stand-in, demanding food as soon as he gets home. Though Kazuo hasn’t quite perhaps caught on to the precarious nature of the family dynamics affecting everyone else (he’s just a kid who can’t or doesn’t want to make his own meals), by the end of the film, he too has grown to realize the helplessness of others, even other males, assuring Hirayama that he will make him breakfast in the morning. Given that these men are so reliant on the women in their lives, it’s little wonder Hirayama grows concerned about Michiko moving out. It’s a sad and surprisingly cruel comment, though a telling one, when Hirayama returns from Michiko’s wedding and is asked if he just came from a funeral. “Something like that,” he responds. Hirayama’s paternal concern doesn’t stop with Michiko’s marriage. As soon as that much is settled, he quickly turns his attention to Koichi and starts to prod him about having children. This cycle of parent versus child needs and wants will never end, nor is it isolated to the Hirayama family (nor is it isolated to An Autumn Afternoon).

A subplot of An Autumn Afternoon concerns a reunion of Hirayama and some classmates as they gather to reminisce with an old teacher, Sakuma (Eijirô Tôno), also known as “The Gourd,” a nickname bestowed on the former middle school sensei. (Others instructors included “The Badger,” “The Emperor,” and “The Lion.”) During a drunken dinner, where Sakuma is especially inebriated, the men wonder what it’s like for his daughter to take care of him when he’s in such a state, as he too is a widower and she never married. In a mother’s absence, it’s another case where the maternal duties fall to the daughters/sisters, whereby they are assigned the responsibility of supervising their male relations. When they later walk the old man to his home, which also doubles as a run-down noodle shop, they find out exactly what it’s like for daughter Tomoko (Haruko Sugimura). She is filled with frustration, regret, and despair, for having never married, she is therefore left to routinely tend to her drunken father. Hirayama is shocked to discover the condition of the teacher, a man who once held a position of respectability. Could this be him one day? Could Tomoko be Michiko if he doesn’t let her wed and lead her own life?

About an hour after the film’s beginning, Ozu repeats the same shot pattern that started the film as we again enter Hirayama’s office and again the subject of his daughter marrying comes up. Only this time, he has reconsidered his position, especially in light of The Gourd’s situation. “Be careful you don’t end up like that,” friend and former classmate Shuzo Kawai (Nobuo Nakamura) warned him. Now he is indeed heeding that disclaimer. As much as he has ever done before, in An Autumn Afternoon, Ozu explores the fluctuating roles in a family: who is in charge, who is subservient, who is the breadwinner, who is the dependent, and what is the proper, or the best, familial arrangement?

Another former classmate, Shin Horie (Ryûji Kita), challenges these conventions with his own living arrangement and his relationship with a much younger woman, just three years older than his daughter. Hirayama and Kawai jokingly question whether or not he needs pills to maintain this romantic situation, but at the same time, they’re quick to call him a “lucky bastard.” The joking between these three men is just one instance of levity in An Autumn Afternoon. Despite several comedies to his credit, one doesn’t tend to associate Ozu with laughs, perhaps because his humor is so natural, so genuine, and oftentimes so subtle (aside from the defecation jokes in Good Morning [1959]). Here there are several examples of quiet, understated comedy, as when Hirayama and a wartime comrade salute and drunkenly bob up and down to a military march while a hostess demurely joins in, grinning like an idiot, albeit a charming one. In their picking on one another, Hirayama and his friends also retain aspects of their youth, continuing their jocular pranks and taunts. In an Ozu movie, where death is an ever present concern or cause of dramatic pressure, there’s even no hesitation to joke about dying: “Don’t go dying on me,” Kazuo tells Hirayama near the end, seeing how intoxicated his father is. Everyone maintains a good humor about the inevitable, even when it might not be that far off.

At the same time, An Autumn Afternoon contains moments of somber reflection relating to World War II, the subject arising here more than in most of Ozu’s work. “How come we lost the war?” Hirayama is asked. “Good question,” is all he can answer. Further allusions to the fighting and its effects include everything from the devastating (bombed out houses and evacuations), to the social (a coldness between people that developed in the immediate post-war years), to the more trivial repercussions of Western pop culture seeping into Japanese life (kids shaking their rumps to American records). Just as these and other narrative and thematic features from An Autumn Afternoon are similar to, or distinguished from, prior Ozu work, the film is also representative of the director’s visual approach, much of which had been in place for years.

There is, as per the norm, little to no camera movement, as well as a commonly adopted vantage point from a lower angle, stressing visual stability and compositional balance. An Autumn Afternoon also makes the most of Ozu’s penchant for frontal exchanges between characters, where those speaking are shot straight on, as if addressing the viewer, a paradoxically disorienting and absorbing position. Ozu also establishes scenes unlike any other filmmaker, with close-ups of inanimate objects gradually shown from a further distance and another angle, and only on the third or fourth cut extending to a wider shot of the area (and even then often followed by closer shots moving back in on the specific location within the general setting). It’s a fascinating spatial arrangement that pinpoints details within any one given sequence, broadening the scope, subsequently giving us a full sense of space, then again putting the focus on smaller features to set the scene to come.

Ozu also frequently denies us moments of action and drama, favoring instead passages of triviality. He will keep the camera outside a baseball stadium, only showing the game on television, or skip over the courtship (such as it probably was) between Michiko and her new husband, but he will stay on after scenes have essentially ended, holding on characters as they quietly sit alone or inconsequently shuffle through some papers. One also sees in An Autumn Afternoon that people have a presence in an Ozu film even when they’re not in the frame. Doors open and close without the active person immediately appearing, or we will hear their entrance, either through dialogue or through other noise, long before we actually see them enter. Similarly, Ozu emphasizes items like slippers placed outside a room, discarded beer bottles lined up, empty stools awaiting customers: he is as much interested in people as he is where they are, where they’ve been, where they may go, and what they leave behind.

Having first worked in color on Equinox Flower, Ozu’s palette here is generally populated with primary colors: red, yellow, and blue. The color is not decorative, though it certainly gives these films an aesthetic appeal that his black and white films obviously do not possess, but in most cases, the color is used to locate a certain setting or to tie scenes together. When Hirayama and Kawai are shown walking the drunken Sakuma down an alleyway, we know where they’re heading (his home/noodle shop) because we had previously seen the surrounding yellow barrels that, against the otherwise blacked backdrop, stand out and signal our sense of location. The same holds for Hirayama’s office, in the beginning and, as mentioned, at about the halfway point. The red of the exterior smokestacks transition to the red of a hallway fire hose door, then to a red object near Hirayama’s desk. Even before we enter an interior proper, the setting is cued to be familiar due to its identical, repeated, and associative color arrangements.

According to Andrew, An Autumn Afternoon, like so many other Ozu films, “is both typical and unique.” It is, for example, another “gentle domestic drama about middle-class family life, a shomin-geki characteristic of his home studio, Shochiku.” Yet, at the same time, it is also “a very distinct variation, following beautifully from its predecessors.” Ultimately, An Autumn Afternoon is exemplary and exceptional as a film that overflows with perhaps Ozu’s most predominant and affecting concentration: the quiet resignation of life, the good and the bad. “That’s fate for you,” says Horie. He’s bragging about his newfound love life, but the observation applies to all. Ozu’s characters play the cards they’re dealt, making the most of what they have and have to face with an admirable acceptance. In this, Ozu’s films are the ultimate in slice of life banality, everyday dramas both big and small, none of which are ever boring because they are so true. In the end, Hirayama faces the consequences of his actions. He was quick to marry Michiko off, but now the dread of the loneliness sets in. There is no winning with Ozu. This is just how life is, and this is how it will continue. It’s a worldview best summarized in an exchange from his most famous film, Tokyo Story (1953)—Kyoko: “Isn’t life disappointing?” Noriko (smiling): “Yes, it is.”

The final shot of An Autumn Afternoon—the final Ozu image—has Hirayama with his back to the camera, seen from a distance. He is drunk, feels he’s alone, and is stricken with equal parts melancholy and nostalgia. It is a melancholy and nostalgia that mirrors the way one who loves Ozu’s cinema feels when realizing that this is the last the Japanese master had to offer. It is sad, yes, but one accepts it and appreciates all he left behind.

Media Matters: David Cronenberg’s ‘Videodrome’

It’s not uncommon for a science fiction film to prophesy the future, in terms of technology, the social state of humanity, or even certain global scenarios. It is, however, relatively rare for a film to have as its basic premise particular subject matter that, while relevant in its year of production, grows increasingly pertinent and frighteningly accurate as years go on. This is the case with Videodrome, David Cronenberg’s extraordinary 1983 film starring James Woods as Max Renn, a sleazy television programmer who has grown sensorially flaccid by the stale material he peddles on air.

The shows that run on his Civic TV Channel 83 just aren’t cutting it. Max is not content with straight porn, not even niche markets that cater to particular fetishes. Samurai Dreams, which we see a few seconds of, is just too soft. Yes, as Max puts it, “Oriental sex is a natural,” but is it tacky enough? After all, “Too much class is bad for sex.” Viewing these films with his associates, all of them paralyzed in their detached bottom line stress on commodity, Max seeks out something new, something different, something that will “break through” … “something tough.”

Meanwhile, Harlan (Peter Dvorsky), a partner of Max’s, trolls the high seas of pirate satellite transmissions. He happily shows Max a program he recently stumbled upon: “Videodrome.” Initially thought to be from somewhere exotic (like Malaysia), “Videodrome” turns out to be more regionally based (Pittsburgh). Max is transfixed and enlists a producer friend, Masha (Lynne Gorman), to track down the makers of the show. When she returns, she quickly and vehemently warns Max to stay away from the series, as well as those behind it.

Of course, he doesn’t, and the duration of Videodrome follows his pursuit and his ultimate destruction, all at the hands of this twisted, dangerous, and mind-altering program. This being a David Cronenberg film, there is much going on throughout the picture, at various narrative and stylistic levels, with his trademark incorporation of pitch black humor, a sense of paranoia, and absolutely stunning special effects. But what is perhaps most interesting, and what gives Videodrome its keen futuristic forecast, derives from its themes of media manipulation, saturation, and dependency.



What constitutes “Videodrome” is nothing more than nudity, torture, and murder: no plot, no characters. It is, according to Max, in his best promotional salesman’s pitch, what’s next. It’s something viewers can’t get anywhere else, though Masha cautions him that it may very well not be for public consumption at all.

Seeing Videodrome today, in particular those figures who in the show within the movie perform the torture and murder, one can’t help but think of the hooded figures of ISIS, and their own shockingly graphic videos of beheadings, burnings, and mass executions. Similarly, twenty-four hour news cycles keep viewers abreast of the situation—always “breaking news”—with round-the-clock footage of riots, protests, and standoffs. Like with Max and the others who have poured over the “Videodrome” content, part of the draw is the safety and the perverse thrill, or at least acceptance, of a voyeuristic violence: it’s OK to watch as long as we’re only just watching.

As rare and bizarre and “Videodrome” is in fictional 1983, today, in the real 2015, when even the underground has gone viral, the Internet has made it possible for anyone to see almost anything, and accessible quality technology has made it possible for anyone to make almost anything. If the era of the film was an over stimulated time, as radio show host Nicki Brand (Deborah Harry) contends, where are we now? Max’s blind passion toward the potential of something he has never seen, something that affects the viewer on a profound level, mirrors today’s more implicit insatiable quest for provocative content: more and more and more, more extreme, more violence, more sex—more.



Early on in the film, Max is a guest on the Rena King show, along with Nicki and the mysterious Brian O’Blivion (Jack Creley), who is joining the panel by a presumed satellite transmission. Rena (Lally Cadeau) poses questions concerning “television and social responsibility.” She asks Max if the shows he puts on the air “contribute to a social climate of violence and sexual malaise.” Max argues that it’s a harmless outlet, but when Professor O’Blivion is asked about erotic and violent TV shows leading to desensitization, his response is to make the parallel between real life and the media, and where the overlaps falls. O’Blivion stresses the importance and potency of media (in this case television) and its impact on the general populace. “The battle for the mind of North America will be fought in the video arena: the ‘Videodrome,'” he states. “The television screen is the retina of the mind’s eye. Therefore, the television screen is part of the physical structure of the brain. Therefore, whatever appears on the television screen emerges as raw experience for those who watch it. Therefore, television is reality, and reality is less than television.” Part of Max’s skepticism when he first sees “Videodrome” comes from this validity, whether the show is real or fake. But if the effect is the same, does it matter?

As a relationship develops between Max and Nicki, he discovers complicity on her part far beyond his profit-driven interests. Not knowing if “Videodrome” is genuine or not (and not really caring), Nicki wants to audition and be a “contestant.” Her words suggesting that the program is in some way a game or mere entertainment goes a long way to stress her unorthodox drives that in some ways seem to alarm even Max. It’s also a curious foreshadowing of today’s reality TV, where interested parties go through the rigors of the varying trial processes all in order to land a coveted spot on a show where they will then be subjected to humiliation, disgusting challenges, physical agony, and maybe even a Kardashian.



To draw a further contemporary parallel, like today’s TV talking heads, O’Blivion seems to exist only in his given media, as a (pre)recorded personality. He sits behind his remote, televised pulpit and espouses his proclamations and condemnations. He has his legion of followers and a legacy maintained by disconnected reproductions, catchphrases and recurring points of easily profitable concern, and his own sense of self-propagation. Rush, Bill, I’m looking at you.

Another connection between Videodrome and our modern world comes with the reveal that Spectacular Optical is not only the manufacturer of “Videodrome,” but is also behind “inexpensive glasses for the Third World and missile guidance systems for NATO.” That a company could clandestinely produce the good and the bad, the helpful and the deadly, the personal and the governmental, is an astute commentary on the blurred lines between wartime politics and capitalistic, corporate production. Without getting too politically contentious here, think of Halliburton and its alleged and actual role in the Middle East and the various conflicts that were born from the region. In the end, it’s all about following the profit and playing into—while also manipulating or ignoring—the “optics” of the arrangement.

In the Sci-Fi realm of Videodrome, and within the design of Cronenberg’s fertile imagination, the technologies at the heart of the film are so much more than mere devices. Tapes and television sets become breathing beings, creatures with a life of their own: their own will, their own desires. There are moments when the physical presence of the formats mesh with those of the consumer, in a way that—and this may be a stretch—isn’t far off from our own body/world boundary breakdown with Google Glasses, Apple Watches, Bluetooth accessibility, and even the assorted digital devices that oftentimes appear to be obsessively melded with one’s palm. In Videodrome, these absorptive mediums are literally so, and what they convey produces subliminal and occasionally downright terrifying psychological/physiological outcomes.



But ultimately, the film’s narrative emphasis, if not its thematic one, is primarily on the effects of said imagery. It’s not necessarily its format or technology (those could be easily adaptable and updated), but its social construction and impact. Max’s steady exposure to “Videodrome” leads to a complete mental and physical transformation. The debate about violence in the media and the subsequent effect on the viewer is manifest to the extreme here. At various points, Max has videotapes forcefully trust into his body, but later, he reaches into his stomach and when he pulls his hand out he is holding a gun: in goes the media, out comes the weapon. And with that, he embodies a curious cyclical example of media informing behavior, which in turn counters the media itself. With his revolutionary pronouncement, “Death to ‘Videodrome!’ Long live the new flesh!'” he seeks to abolish the very form that gave birth to his newfound capabilities. It’s a final statement that, again, mirrors a similar contradictory relationship today. Certain forms of media may manipulate us, harm us, and even distort our conception of the world and our selves, but their significance and, at this point, their almost necessity, is profound.


REVIEW  from SOUND ON SIGHT

It’s my body and I’ll ‘Fly’ if I want to: Cronenberg’s scientific cautionary tale

As diverse as his career has been, there is arguably one key feature that best defines a David Cronenberg film. There are, of course, exceptions (in some cases, great exceptions: A History of Violence [2005]), but from Rabid (1977) to A Dangerous Method (2011), the relationship between science and the human body and mind has been a prevalent and powerfully expressive theme in much of the great Canadian filmmaker’s work. Of his films that deal with the repercussions of this relationship, and their unique, often disturbing manifestations, The Fly (1986) may be his finest achievement.

In this horror/sci-fi classic, Jeff Goldblum plays Seth Brundle, a brilliant if socially awkward and rather eccentric scientific mind. His newest invention, a teleportation device that can move inanimate objects from one pod to another, seems innocuous enough, in theory anyway. And at least as he tells it, he seems to have genuinely developed the machine with the best of intentions, touting the mobility benefits of the world-changing technology. Somewhat intoxicated, and more than a little smitten, he is eager to show off his creation to journalist Veronica Quaife (Geena Davis). Brundle lets his guard down and divulges more than he wishes he had about the contraption. Though he is initially angered by the compromising situation, he and Veronica reach a stalemate and, more than that, begin a romantic relationship. With all going well on that front, Brundle is further enthused when he discovers how to transport a living being—in this case, a chimp who unfortunately had his brother become the initial, and eventually mangled, guinea pig.



When Veronica suddenly leaves one evening (in reality to stop her editor and former lover from running a story about Brundle’s work), Brundle assumes she is still involved with the sleazy ex. In a drunken stupor, he transports himself from pod to pod, and though that in itself is successful, a fly inadvertently landed inside the starting container and subsequently has its genetic makeup merged with Brundle’s, the result being a single being the scientist later dryly dubs “Brundlefly.” Through the duration of the film, Brundle’s body and, to varying degrees, his mental state, begin to go through progressively more disturbing and destructive alterations.

As he begins to lose his humanity and identity, so too does his external being start to increasingly dissipate. While Brundle’s personality is undeniably altered, becoming hostile and aggressive though never without fully escaping a sense of his true self, it’s his physical transformation that is most prominent and most drastically disastrous. At first, the manipulations prove to be favorable, with increased strength and stamina, but the ostensible positives are short lived and he is soon falling apart—literally so, as chunks of his flesh, fingernails, and teeth detach from his body with darkly comic ease and regularity. As his body begins to deteriorate and evolve, with each new passing ability comes a horrific abandonment of his human form, often shown in graphic detail by Cronenberg via some truly extraordinary make-up and special effects. The pain of these changes, and the extent to which each passing phase takes him further and further from being human, is agonizing to behold.



One could read easily into The Fly a cautionary tale about taking science too far. Certainly, it paints a vivid picture of what can happen when science is used to alter mankind in unnatural ways. But that Brundle’s modification happens in this film is, in the grand scheme of things, largely incidental. His physical transformation is accidental, and that such a thing could have happened was never part of the plan. If anything, the warning comes as Brundle begins to take for granted the physical perks that are initially produced by the genetic merging. He enjoys the newfound sexual vigor and his superhuman strength, and he playfully revels in the fly-related abilities—crawling on walls and hanging from ceilings—but with each new and exciting endowment comes those unavoidable, though perfectly natural (for a fly) shortcomings: bodily contortions, gruesome digestion, and structural disfigurement. The good and the bad balance out for a time, but eventually, the corruptive and fatal metamorphosis begins to outweigh any superficial benefits.



In depicting the changes that sweep over Brundle, Cronenberg ventures into his trademark body horror, with an oftentimes gruesomely detailed and prolonged depiction of the corporeal alterations. Undeniably apropos given this film’s emphasis on the transformation of one being into another, it similarly returns to a bodily emphasis that the director has explored in a number of venues. Brundle voices the vivid power and potential of flesh and blood— in terms of cinematic presentation and natural function—as he chides Veronica for not wanting to “dive into the plasma pool.” Seeing what is obviously happening to Brundle, she refuses to likewise teleport, which he takes as a personal affront and cowardice. “You’re afraid to be destroyed and recreated, aren’t you?” he angrily asks her. “I’ll bet you think that you woke me up about the flesh, don’t you? But you only know society’s straight line about the flesh. You can’t penetrate beyond society’s sick, gray, fear of the flesh.” More than just the ramblings of a madman, these comments get to the heart of The Fly’s own repulsive imagery. To see this film with an audience, one truly gets a sense of how collectively repulsive Brundle’s transformation is. As body parts mutate and orifices open to oozy fluids, it is indeed a ghastly sight. But it’s not only because how extraordinary the transformation is (from man into fly), and in that sense how out of the realm of reality it is, but it’s also how relatable the disfigurement actually is. We may not be able to wrap our heads around the reality of turning into an insect, but we can definitely emphasize with teeth falling out, fingernails falling off, and pores of puss bursting on our faces.



This is why David Cronenberg’s particular brand of body horror works so well, and it’s also a primary reason why The Fly is so memorable. Through a brilliance of creative conception and technical execution, the effects created and rendered on screen are utterly disgusting, yet are also wholly believable. What is more, if standing back and seen from the vantage point of “it’s only a movie,” one also marvels at the design and construction. Cronenberg’s body horror, and The Fly may indeed be the best case in point, rides a fine line between aesthetic admiration and psychological and physiological identification. We may never see a Brundlefly, but thanks to David Cronenberg, we can easily appreciate what it takes to make one—both in the fictional story of The Fly and in the film’s actual production.

REVIEW  from SOUND ON SIGHT

Warner Brothers Musicals Collection

The Musicals Collection Blu-ray set from Warner Home Video contains four Hollywood classics of the genre, at least two of them among the greatest of all time: Kiss Me Kate, Calamity Jane, The Band Wagon, and Singin’ in the Rain. And all except for Singin’ in the Rain are making their Blu-ray debut. While the films may not rank equal in terms of quality—those latter two titles are the all-time greats—each of the transfers are outstanding, the movies themselves are still nevertheless enjoyable, and the set is a terrific bargain.

Kiss Me, Kate is offered in 2-D and 3-D versions. Though the 3-D is certainly not the best to grace a Blu-ray, it’s still the version to watch, even with the clichéd, though occasionally amusing gimmick of characters throwing things at the camera. However, it’s the color cinematography by the legendary Charles Rosher—this, his penultimate picture—that really pops. We get a sense of just how vibrant the color is going to be during the early “Too Darn Hot” performance by Ann Miller, who, more than the leading lady Kathryn Grayson, is the most interesting actress and female protagonist of the film. Her pink dress explodes off the screen as she shimmies seductively around the room, and for the first time it’s made lavishly clear just how astounding this film is going to look. For much of the picture’s basic plot, the colors are relatively subdued, but when the focus turns to the dance numbers that later make up the performance within the film, the results are likewise dazzling.



The storyline of Kiss Me, Kate runs along familiar backstage lines, with its show business setting, the drama in front of and behind the curtain, blending in some cases, and the anxiety caused by comical misunderstandings. Howard Keel is Fred, an actor who convinces his ex, Lilly (Grayson), to appear in a musical version of “The Taming of the Shrew,” written by Cole Porter, who appears as himself. Jealousy (this is when Miller’s Lois Lane comes in) and some confusion about an unpaid debt result in the relatively inauspicious narrative motivation. Once the play within the film begins, there are four musical numbers by the movie’s intermission, and these performances take up about 20 minutes of screen time, while the film’s off-stage story essentially stops dead. The halves of the film are subsequently uneven, with the first part providing the necessary setting of the scene only to give way to the theatrical performance, slowing down the plot until they begin to merge in the end.

To director George Sidney’s credit, he does a good deal to open up the restricted spaces through camera placement and set design, as well as some creative uses of the 3-D. Somewhat unique to 3-D films are repeated appearances of mirrors. On occasion, this creates an interesting composition (reminiscent of Sirk’s melodramas), but Sidney doesn’t utilize the reflections to manipulate the depth perception as much as he could have, with a flattening out of space via the mirror shown in depth by the 3-D.

Of only minor genre and technical interest, Kiss Me, Kate is still one of the more visually appealing films of this set, but compared to the other three films, it doesn’t stack up in any other regard.



Aside from the singing cowboy films of yesteryear, musical Westerns are few and far between. For the most part, that’s probably a good thing, as the two genres don’t always mix well. One exception—arguably the greatest exception—is Calamity Jane, a pleasantly surprising film.

Doris Day in the title role is delightfully infectious from start to finish. She performs everything with great exuberance and humor, with lots of comic mugging, an impressive physicality—particularly during the extended take dance numbers—a rootin’ tootin’ rowdiness, and a surly adoption of rough and tumble Western slang. Calamity is well liked and apparently quite a skilled shot (though she does seem prone to embellishment; tall tales, of course, in the best Western tradition), but due to her tucked away hair and buckskin attire, she’s commonly mistaken for a man. With various statements suggested or noted explicitly concerning masculine and feminine Western tropes, Calamity Jane is an unexpectedly provocative look at sexual identity, certainly in ways other Westerns wouldn’t dream. There’s gender lopsidedness in the film’s Deadwood town—”Gentlemen and, uh, gentlemen,” says Henry Miller (Paul Harvey) as he announces performances—and as such, the film points to the same deficiency in the Western genre as a whole.



When Francis (not Frances) shows up to entertain the citizenry, he is forced to perform in drag, as the men of the town expected a female entertainer. Calamity aims to help Henry, the beleaguered inn/theater owner, and so travels to Chicago to employ star Adelaid Adams. A fish out of water in the big city (where she assumes a wig shop is displaying scalps), Calamity instead brings back Katie Brown (Allyn Ann McLerie), under the assumption that Katie is Adams. Thus, we have another musical with its basic premise born from misunderstanding, and another musical with entertainment itself as a key part of its narrative (see also the remaining two films of this set).

Back in town, the truth is revealed, but all is forgiven when Katie turns out to be quiet the girl herself. Unforeseen contention, however, comes when Calamity, apparently having been the only white woman in town, suddenly has some competition when it comes to male companionship. Though she had never expressed much romantic interest in a man, her gradually more ladylike transformation at the hands of Katie gets her emotions reeling and her (perhaps now outdated) feminine instincts kick in, or at least do so on occasion. But the transformation is a false one, and so is doomed to fail. Authenticity of character is crucial to Calamity Jane, just as it is in most Westerns. But in a male-dominated genre like the Western, this musical variation with such a prominent and endearing female focus is certainly something unique.



The versatile and vastly underrated Vincente Minnelli directs the third film in the set, The Band Wagon. Shot in gorgeous Technicolor and produced by the famed Arthur Freed unit at MGM, the film follows fading—no, faded—movie star Tony Hunter (Fred Astaire) as he makes the shaky transition from screen to stage. Joining him are the husband and wife writing team of Lester and Lily Martin (Oscar Levant and Nanette Fabray), who are first seen as Hunter’s two-person fan club, famed ballet star Gabrielle Gerard (Cyd Charisse), and producer/director Jeffrey Cordova (Jack Buchanan). The alliance isn’t always a sturdy one, but once everyone gets on the same track, it exemplifies the “no business like show business” adage. Like Kiss Me, Kate and so many other musicals, The Band Wagon is set primarily behind the scenes of a theatrical production as it goes from initial inspiration to opening night, with all the creative differences along the way—so many, in this case, it’s a wonder the show comes off at all. But even in this tried and tested set-up, Minnelli and company create something special.



Primary reasons for the film’s excellence are the extraordinary dance numbers and the music and lyrics by Arthur Schwartz and Howard Dietz. Form the early “Penny Arcade” sequence, with Astaire’s ode to a shoeshine, to the grand finale, the genre-bending noir-tinged “Girl Hunt,” the film’s most iconic number and its most brilliantly designed, all involved do flawless work. The only exception is the “Triplets” number, which is truly bizarre. Astaire and Charisse make a dynamic duo, even if at first seeming to be personally and physically mismatched (IMDB claims they were actually the exact same height and weight). Astaire in particular displays a stunning range of movement in his straightforward dancing, his casual shuffles, and his mannerisms—in everything he does really.

The second key feature of The Band Wagon is its recurring thematic discrepancy between light, box office fun and serious, classic productions. When the film begins, Cordova’s current work is the gloomy and somber “Oedipus Rex.” Hunter wonders if he is really the right man for the job when it comes to a musical. Indeed, as it turns out, Cordova does envision a modern day “Faust,” not what anyone else had in mind, and, as we see, not what audiences want. Things get turned around and all is well, but the theme pervades. The “That’s Entertainment” sequence, which Cordova actually instigates, gets to the heart of the film and its artistic conflict. The artificial barrier between high and low art, typically designated by critics and subsequently influencing product accessibility and audience perception, more often than not hinders both categorizations. As The Band Wagon shows, there may be differences in subject matter and tone, but entertainment is entertainment, be it ballet and Sophocles or tap dance and a gangster movie. Just put on a good show.



Finally, there is Singin’ in the Rain, arguably the best musical ever made (it certainly is for my money). Stanley Donen and star Gene Kelly direct this American movie essential about the transition from silent pictures to the talkie. With Kelly’s Don Lockwood are musician Cosmo Brown (Donald O’Connor) and chorus girl/wannabe actress Kathy Selden (Debbie Reynolds), as well as Lockwood’s perpetual co-star, Lina Lamont (Jean Hagen), who, like so many real silent stars, struggles to make the transition into talking pictures.



The music of Singin’ in the Rain is famously fantastic and the dance numbers are inventive and enjoyable. The performances are amusing (Selden is particularly funny) and the look of the film is dazzling (thanks largely to the cinematography of five-time Oscar nominee and one-time winner Harold Rosson). But why the film holds up best has to do with the fact that it’s a great movie about movies. As is evidenced by just the three other films in this set, so many great musicals have Broadway or similarly theatrical scenarios as their backdrop. Rare is the movie musical about a movie musical. Behind the scenes musicals about what it takes to put on a stage performance can obviously be entertaining and even enlightening, but they can also do a discredit to what it takes to make such a film itself. Singin’ in the Rain not only takes that as its primary concern, but does so in a time period setting just at the dawn of the musical genre. Subsequently, it’s a fascinating movie that bears historical significance beyond its own standing as one of Hollywood’s finest achievements.


REVIEW  from SOUND ON SIGHT

'Adieu au langage' and 'Film Socialisme': Godard’s Latest, Among His Greatest

Jean-Luc Godard, and more specifically his 1965 film Pierrot le Fou, literally changed my life, and set me on a path toward intense and everlasting cinephilia. Since the first time I saw that film, it has remained my favorite movie of all time and Godard my favorite director. So when I finally had the chance to see Film socialisme in 2010, his first feature film in six years, I had high hopes that the old master was going to yet again bring something new to the table. Those hopes were assuredly met. I considered the film the best of that year and still believe it is an astonishing movie, rife with so much of what defines Godard in this is fourth(?), fifth(?), in any case, current, phase of his career.

The first words of Film socialisme, at least according to the “Navajo English” subtitles, are “money – public – water.” Literally, this refers to the key elements of the film’s first third, which revolves ostensibly around the quest for, or at least an inquest regarding, some Spanish gold long since missing. There is also the varied depiction of diverse individuals as they go about their leisurely routine aboard a cruise ship (oddly enough, the ill-fated Costa Concordia). And finally, the gold and the people were and are, of course, on the water. Now, this may seem like an obvious choice to include here (of course they’re on water; it’s a boat), but I think the purpose the water serves is crucial. It necessitates the requisite mode of transport (for the wealth and the public) and it is the container that assembles, and forces a sort of commingling of, its constricted temporary residents. The water is also the surface on which one travels to the diverse stops covered by the film, all of which bear political and historical significance.



This opening third, lasting about 45 minutes, is a barrage of camera angles, color, and sound. The images range from an internet video of cats purring to stock footage of wartime atrocities, from grainy neon footage of people dancing to poetic snapshots of scenic splendor; these are all cultural artifacts according to Godard. This, for better or worse, is representative of who we are and where we exist in the world. Consistently demonstrated in terms of visuals is a naturally occurring florescence juxtaposed with unnatural bursts of hyper real illumination and supplemental color. Equally eclectic are the sounds Godard chooses to focus on, ranging from pop music (Madonna’s “Material Girl” at one point), to the strains of Beethoven, a spontaneous song by Patti Smith, and a young woman mimicking the cat’s meow from the aforementioned cat clip.

The second segment of the film is where Godard, more than he usually does, takes a bit of a breath and gives us a fairly uncomplicated picture of one family. That’s not to say anything about the section is “typical,” but in honing in on the Martin family, their gas station and garage (and llama?), and the political ambitions that seem to put the whole house into a frenzy, Godard is painting a comparably stable domestic picture. The mother first has the desire to run for political office, but by the section’s end, it is the children who have thrown their hat in the ring. Covering the family and their political decisions, as well as the general difficulties of balancing family with work, is a local news crew. In the course of their election profile, the TV crew surveys the domestic strain and the domestic banality that is inherent in almost any family portrait.



“Our humanities” is the title that signifies the start of Film socialisme’s third and final chapter, a further discordant blend of images and sounds covering wars, violence, death, religion, and cinema. The collage of various civilizations wrought in moments of strife showcase most of the very regions traversed by the cruise ship: Egypt, Naples, Barcelona, Palestine.

As with much of Godard’s work, language is an ongoing and increasingly complex area of concern. In Film socialisme, we see written text appearing in everything from French to English to Hebrew, Arabic, and even in the form of hieroglyphics. Spoken language comes across in, at least as far as I can tell, French, German, English, and possibly some Russian. With language, history emerges, as it usually does, as a key component of Godard’s cinema, particularly World War II. The influence of controversial currency on the macro-global and micro-social scene is frequently alluded to, as are the cultural influences that have informed the multifaceted histories of the ship’s occupants.

Famously obtuse Godardian wordplay is playfully and frustratingly inserted throughout. For example: “They always say that you can only compare what is comparable. In fact, we can only compare what is incomparable, not comparable” and, “As the whole of these parts, where the sum of these parts, at a given moment, denies — as each contains the whole — the parts we are considering; as much as this part denies them, as the sum of the parts, again becoming the whole becomes the whole of the linked parts.” Say what?

Godard also brings in Hollywood history and film as a public entertainment as only he can, noting the Jewish founders of the industry while comparing the act of moviegoing (a group of people facing the same direction) to Muslim prayers toward Mecca. This must be the “dialectical thinking” referenced by one character.



“NO COMMENT” are the final printed words of Film socialisme, but Godard would most certainly have something more to say.

This brings me to Goodbye to Language, Godard’s latest, a film even more hyped and critically lauded than Film socialisme. In this case, not only did the film again meet my expectations, but it exceeded them. Goodbye to Language is so much more than I thought it would be.

The struggle to communicate remains, and perhaps this is what Godard is saying “adieu” to. “Do something so I have something to say,” demands Josette (Héloise Godet), who at one point also suggests that people need a translator; not necessarily to understand what others are saying, but to translate and explain themselves. This difficulty with language (ironic given Godard’s mastery and perplexing use of it), falls in line with the “metaphor” category, one of two dividing intertitles that appear throughout the film. Metaphor as in words that take on other meanings, words that rely on other words to work, words that represent other words. All words that, in the end, fail.

If Godard is condemning this verbal complexity, or at least seeking a departure from it, to do so he takes us to the second category heading: “nature.” Here, by comparison, is simplicity. Nature is less complicated; it needs no words. Roxy the dog (apparently the screen name of Godard’s pet dog, Mieville, which is the last name of his long-time collaborator and partner Anne-Marie Miéville), is said not to be naked because a dog is naked. In other words, the defining characteristic we’ve created as “naked” does not apply in the world of nature and animals, where such a word is irrelevant. This, like all language, is something artificially constructed and misconstrued by people, to our benefit and detriment. A side note on Roxy/Mieville: he was the winner of the Palm Dog – Jury Prize at this year’s Cannes Film Festival. So there’s that.



This preference for the naturally simplistic and escape from the intellectually conceived also arises when Josette’s boyfriend Gédéon (Kamel Abdeli) posits that infinity and zero are the two of man’s greatest discoveries (or, depending on the translation, “inventions,” which make the whole exchange even more profound). These are abstract concepts that have a basis in reality but are more widely regarded as ideas theoretically applied. By contrast, Josette contends the greatest discoveries are sex and death: primordial, natural, necessary, and biologically fundamental. Yet, were they discovered (as in mankind gradually or suddenly realizing the scientific truths of sex and death) or were they invented (as in mankind knew these facts of life existed but had to assign the words to them)? What then was discovered or invented? The acts of death and sex or the terms coined to signify them? This evolution of language and its uses and conflicts is ever-present in much of Godard’s work, but as Goodbye to Language’s title suggests, it’s a primary concern here.

By this same token, and they are sequences that certainly stand out and even garner a chuckle from Godard’s staple high-brow audience, look at the scenes of Gédéon in the bathroom. Or rather, listen. Yes, it’s crude and disgusting, but it’s perfectly natural, perfectly ordinary, perfectly unmediated by manmade divisions or linguistic barriers. There may be a multitude of words for it, but to quote Tarō Gomi’s strangely popular text, “everyone poops.” Such an act therefore becomes a sort of common denominator beyond any constraints of language. Gédéon and Josette recurrently bicker about equality. Well, this is it.

All of the above regarding Goodbye to Language is undeniably up for debate. As per his tendency, Godard compiles a dense layer upon layer of narrative strands, character significance, and thematic concerns, very few of which are explicitly stated and depicted in any conventional sense. Subsequently, there is going to be considerable confusion about the plot, such as it is to begin with. But to me, this is secondary, and has been in many of Godard’s films, especially his more essayistic features (or as in the first and last portions of Film socialisme). More than any sort of storyteller, Godard is recently a visual artist first and foremost, with cinematic philosopher coming in second.

Save for that philosopher bit, this is similar to how I feel about Michael Bay. Yes, I’m comparing Jean-Luc Godard to Michael Bay, but hear me out. There is no denying that as a storyteller Bay lacks, shall we say, subtly and originality. Fine. Now to be sure, that part isn’t the same as Godard, but where they do both excel in similar ways is in their sheer devotion to imagining new images, to creating breathtaking or innovative pictures, reveling in the motion and aesthetic forms that are principal elements of motion pictures. This is, in a way, getting back to the earliest of films, those turn of the century movies that just wanted to present something that people hadn’t seen before: the “Cinema of Attractions,” as Tom Gunning dubs it.



Bay’s attractions might be explosions and CGI robots, but in many cases, they look spectacular, as do his camera maneuvers, camera placement, and his use of light and color. It’s all about the visually spectacular. The same goes for Godard, though with obviously different intentions, techniques, and effects. With Goodbye to Language, Godard creates some of his most captivating images yet: the bursts of blown out digital color (the shot of the children walking through a field peppered with flowers); the blood (or color red, as he might contend) against the white tub; a hand reaching down through water littered with leaves; trees, lots of trees; and fascinating angles that obscure part of a shot’s primary focus, provocatively leaving one to wonder if that point of focus was really the focus after all — where else, perhaps, should we be looking?

Such a visual tactic of foiling the viewer’s expectations is tantamount to Goodbye to Language, particularly in regards to Godard’s use of 3D, which is, as it has been noted by critics the world over, quite unlike anything done before. To start with some of the more understated examples, keeping in mind the inherent shift in depth when working in 3D, and simultaneously disregarding the need to properly adjust that depth of field, Godard frequently composes a 3D image where a small, not immediately perceptible point of the screen is in focus. Through the blurred rest of the image, we search for this focal point, which, once found, produces a notable effect of fuller visual context where, as alluded to above, we must alter our conception of where Godard is directing our vision.

When the camera is moving, such as a low angle track toward the end of the film, the impact is even more noticeable. This specific shot glides by table and chair legs as most of the image is a scattershot blur of lines close to the camera. Where should we be looking? It’s certainly not the foreground. It’s only once we’ve passed the table that we realize just how far in the background the focus is, but once that is established, the wider image comes into view.

Even more profound is the separation of a 3D image into two distinct 2D images via a single camera pan. This particular decision on Godard’s part, which I believe happens twice, has been commented upon by other critics, but for me, and admitting some slight hyperbole, this technique in it contemporary context is as groundbreaking as Godard’s jump cuts were in 1960. This represents not only a drastic alteration of preconceived notions concerning what 3D should or should not do (and many would contend this is something that definitely should not be done), but it is a further evolution in Godard’s continued exploration of multiple images and cinematic screens.



As far as I can remember, a normal split screen is relatively rare in Godard’s work, but starting around the mid-1970s, with Numéro deux most notably, Godard began to incorporate multiple images via superimposition and the compilation of multiple screens in one image. In this 1975 film, for example, on screen at certain moments is Godard himself surrounded by up to three television monitors, each playing a different image, in effect creating a fusion of three or more screens within the standard viewing screen itself. With this 3D dual screen technique, Godard is again presenting distinct screens simultaneously, but now, not only are they both shown at the same time, but with the blink of an eye, the audience has the power to single out and alternate their chosen focus. It’s a remarkable experiment in cinematic technique and spectator interaction.

Detractors of Goodbye to Language (and no doubt there are many reasons why people would not like the film) are quick to point out the “amateurish” quality of Godard’s technique, or they will argue that they could have shot simple scenes of their dog and it wouldn’t be considered art like this film is. I understand this argument, but I fail to see what that actually takes away from Goodbye to Language. Sure, it is occasionally rough around the edges, and in his attempt to illustrate the inherent flaws of 3D, Godard creates some difficult viewing that genuinely does at times hurt the eyes, but I would contend that he turns even this into a positive aesthetic experience. Forget if it looks proper (which, who cares) or seamless (which, it doesn’t), Godard is exploring the bounds of 3D imagery, calling attention to the format in the process, as much deconstructing the format as he is the linguistic concepts noted earlier. With 3D, a format he considers to have no set rules as of yet, the parameters of possibility are even more spacious.

This is not unlike his frequent implementation of direct to camera character dialogue, his now famous editing disruptions, his switching to the negative in A Married Woman, or when he had cinematographer Raoul Coutard point the camera right at the audience in Contempt. It’s all a matter or exploiting and exposing the various artistic tools of filmmaking and the employed cinematic apparatuses: cameras, lights, tracks, even actors. This is paralleled by the shots of others taking pictures in Film socialisme, where a recording device is, in effect, recording devices in use; a self-reflexive portrait of art in and of itself. Godard’s emphasis is on the process of one capturing images and thus capturing reality or a memory. It’s a way of singling out methods for recording, manipulating, arranging, and disseminating images.

As consistent as the images are in Film socialisme, at least as far as their visual prominence and appeal, there is still a degree of technical variability. The digital devices used to capture and render certain shots are implemented with a varying degree of quality, some with a resolution as sharp as a tack, some as pixelated and as muddled as a bootleg copy of a poor VHS copy, but that’s how those instruments work. The sound of the wind outside and the beats of the dance music send reverberations crackling through the soundtrack, while on the visual field, focus is often murky to the point of being nonexistent. Godard was never one to adamantly insist on absolute technical perfection (dialogue misspoken or repeated, mismatched cutting, etc.), and here, these are technical faults that add to the sense of unstructured recording and to the idea that any of the contributing devices are imperfect modes of recording and transmission, just as language may be an imperfect mode of expression.



Why then would anyone be surprised by the fact that for a moment you see the crane’s shadow during one particular shot in Goodbye to Language? Godard has never tried to hide the fact that his movies were movies. 3D, he has argued, is something of a lie to start with, insofar as it is a flat screen that would have audiences believe it is not. The way Godard incorporates the format here, he is at once calling 3D’s bluff while also recognizing that in that false sense of perspective, one can still approach the illusory depth in an interesting way. It may not really be three dimensions, but what can be done with that illusion, to emphasize, criticize, and distort it?

Couched in the credits with the list of actors, the texts quoted, and the composers whose diverse music audibly accentuates Goodbye to Language’s imagery, is a list of equipment used. This isn’t uncommon with Godard, but it does, I think, stress the value of the technology. To Godard, the camera equipment used is just as integral as the performers or the dialogue. This film, arguably more than any of his others, is in large part actually about this technology. It would, of course, be watchable in 2D, but many of its artistic arguments would be lost. As fellow Sound on Sighter Kyle Turner noted in his review of the film, unlike Gravity and others, Goodbye to Language truly redefines 3D in film, and in so doing, I would say its makes 3D viewing a more than a necessity (not something that can be said for previous movies in the format); indeed, the film would be unthinkable and ineffective without it.

If the story (if it can even be called that) of Goodbye to Language seems muddled, this should be par for the course when it comes to recent Godard. In an interview around the time of the film’s screening at Cannes, Godard noted the unnecessity of a screenplay, even pointing out that it would only be needed after shooting, perhaps after editing. With this in mind, to approach Goodbye to Language as a normal narrative work is futile and bound to frustrate. If there is a plot here, a moral, a message, Godard suggests it is a “message in everyday life,” or the “absence of message.”

Finally, to return to the supposed “goodbye” or “farewell” that the French title of the film translates to, Godard has put forth the idea, in a characteristically linguistic turn of phrase, that in Vaud, Switzerland, where he resides, “adieu,” depending on the time of day and tone of voice, can also be a greeting. Godard is as ambiguous as ever when it comes to expounding on this potentially dual meaning of the film’s title, but with this in mind, perhaps the film is not a fond farewell to language after all. Perhaps it is a welcome, a recognition, or an arrival at a new approach toward communication, with whatever form or format possible. With Goodbye to Language, Godard has said he was seeking “to escape from ideas,” though I’m not sure how well he succeeded there. Yet at the same time, he sought to explore a certain kind of language that cinema still allows: “A mixture of words and images.” To that aim, I would say mission accomplished.

REVIEW  from SOUND ON SIGHT