Sergei Eisenstein & "Battleship Potemkin"

There is much that is fascinating about the life and work of Sergei M. Eisenstein. While critics turning to directing is not unheard of—the “Cahiers du cinema” writers of the French nouvelle vague, Paul Schrader and Peter Bogdonovich here in America, British critics like Lindsay Anderson—it is relatively rare for theoreticians to take their ideas and transfer them to actual filmic work, to practice what they preach, if you will. To the best of my knowledge, Eisenstein is unparalleled here. While his writings, some of which are collected in “Film Sense” and “Film Form” (two great, though dense, texts), delve into areas he never had the chance to experiment practically with—he was a proponent of 3-D, for example—the way his theoretical considerations manifested themselves in his regrettably few completed films is remarkable. Most famous of these pictures, and rightfully so, is Battleship Potemkin (1925). Here we find many of his ideas working themselves out in the arena of a film about revolution, class struggle, and politics, favorite themes of many Soviet directors of this era.

With ideas based around notions of psychological association, dialectical (see Marxist) concepts of collision, paths to synaethesia, conflicts of aesthetic attractions forming modes of montage (here a distinct idea from what we normally think of as editing), and even taken from concepts derived from haiku poetry and kabuki theater, Eisenstein’s theories, and therefore his films, Potemkin being the prime example, are richly and complexly layered.

Eisenstein felt, initially anyway, that in many ways the shot was the “raw material” of the cinema; it was an image with signifying features already firmly in place, the juxtaposition of which, against another shot, would result in a third shot producing a new idea unattainable from either previous shot alone—“two film pieces of any kind, placed together, inevitably combine into a new concept, a new quality, arising out of that juxtaposition,” he writes in his essay “Word and Image.”




That being said, many single shots, single frames, of Potemkin are strikingly constructed and meaningful by themselves. Take, for example, early on when we see the sailors lying in the hammocks. They are intersecting, with diagonal and horizontal planes emphasized, and depth and solidarity clearly in focus. Contrast this to when the revolt begins and these same sailors are shot standing upright, in line. They are still together, keeping the unity of the previous image, but now they are no longer at rest, they are engaged, and the contrast highlights this sense of action. Though not right next to each other, these two examples of shot construction in this film show how Eisenstein creates major significance with his mise-en-scéne.

His is a cinema too of bold faces and gestures (his actors hired based predominantly on their look, “typage,” somewhat like the Italian neorealists would later do). The close-ups of animated expressions of discontent and anger are quite powerful. We also see compositions such as the higher angle above the ship where symmetry is key, and within that the conflict is clearly expressed in the black and white opposition between the worker sailors and the officers. The sea of white hats mingling recalls later in Potemkin when the masses gather around the murdered Vakulinchuk. Memorable single frames also include when Vakulinchuk is thrown overboard and is left dangling above the sea; and also later, in the famous Odessa steps sequence when the mother, carrying her child in her arms, stands in the foreground while in the background the lower-halves of the bombarding soldiers make their way down the stairs, and in between these two unwavering forces are scattered bodies strewn across the steps—it’s an amazing image. Off-center framing and canted angles all add to independent frames of colossal dynamism.

But of course the combining through editing of single images is where Eisenstein is most famous, and where many of his ideas were concerned. Right off, and repeated later, we get images of the machinery of the ship. The mechanics of the impersonality of this vessel are at once isolated as repetitive and automatic, and yet through its sexual connotations we see a human side; this is representative of the duality of film in general, which, to use two of Eisenstein’s common and conflicting terms, can form either the “art machine” or the “art organism.”

The comparisons drawn when Eisenstein focuses on, first, the priest hitting the crucifix into his palm, followed by, second, an officer stroking his knife, again not only recalls some obvious sexual notions but also forms an idea invoking forms of aggression and actions, of a belief system and its application in a revolution. We get a great sort of flashback/forward associative montage when the doctor has been flung overboard and Eisenstein inserts a shot of the maggots on the meat (recalling his evaluation earlier) and then a shot of his glasses hanging (how he examined the meat earlier, and also pointing towards the graphic shot of the women getting shot in the face later in Odessa). Then, through two simple shots of sailors and their guns, Eisenstein conveys so much—when the firing squad is about to shoot the unruly sailors, Vakulinchuk pleads with them. We get a shot of their guns, perfectly straight, rigidly drawn; an intertitle comes in noting that the “rifles wavered”; then there is a shot of the guns shaking and coming down. The sense of accomplishment and solidarity established is explicit.

While the Odessa steps sequence has been much-discussed and justly-lauded (as well as frequently referenced—De Palma with The Untouchables and Scorsese with Gangs of New York are just two examples), while watching the film again I noticed particularly how well Eisenstein utilized the graphic conflict of the static camera placement with a mobile, even subjective camera operation (reminiscent of F.W. Murnau).    



Additionally, if ever there was a film to be watched without the sound playing it would be this one. The rhythm of Eisenstein’s editing is extraordinary in the way it builds up to an action, shows that action, and decreases in impact.  

There is so much to say about this masterpiece of the cinema and about Eisenstein as a filmmaker. It’s always extraordinary to look at the work of a filmmaker who, like Griffith, Welles, Godard, Hitchcock, and very few others, actually developed and altered the language of the cinema.

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Top Ten Films of 2012

This Is Not a Film (dirs. Mojtaba Mirtahmasb, Jafar Panahi) - #10

In 2010, the acclaimed Iranian filmmaker Jafar Panahi was arrested by his country’s government. The essential “crime” was committing acts of supposed propaganda against Iran through his movies. In addition to house arrest, he was banned for 20 years from writing and directing films, giving interviews, and from leaving the country.

This is where we come in, in this, his latest effort. While he’s awaiting an appeals court verdict, he decides to challenge his restrictions and calls over friend and fellow filmmaker Mojtaba Mirtahmasb. Mirtahmasb records Panahi as the director describes and performs sections of a recently written film (the script is already done, so he’s safe there, and nobody said anything about acting).

This he does for a while, setting up the basic scenario and characters, mapping out the location in his living room, and going through the motions of certain scenes. Eventually though, this isn’t enough. Why make a film if you can just tell it, he asks. Try as he might, something’s missing. He needs to direct.
Following this daylong endeavor, This Is Not a Film takes shape as a poignant statement on an artist’s need and on the role and meaning of a filmmaker. It also calls powerful attention to the state of contemporary Iran, as we hear Panahi’s phone calls and see him watch the news, both revealing much about this controversial nation.

An altogether innovative approach to documentary (and fiction) filmmaking, this provocative movie was initially even shown in distinctive fashion: it was smuggled out of the country on a flash drive hidden inside a cake, on its way to premiering at the 2011 Cannes Film Festival. Today, Panahi’s fate remains uncertain, though he has somehow made a new film, Parde, and it showed at this year’s Berlin International Film Festival. Ah, the triumph of cinema.

Cosmopolis (dir. David Cronenberg) - #9

How could a David Cronenberg film based on a novel by Don DeLillo be anything but atypical? And while Cosmopolis is certainly that, it is also absorbing and intellectually stimulating (not dirty words for a movie).

Here, we’re in a limousine; in fact, we’re here for most of the film, riding along with billionaire asset manager Eric Packer (Robert Pattinson) as he simply tries to get across town for a haircut. As ostensibly banal as this endeavor may appear though, it becomes anything but. External forces continually overwhelm and bombard Packer: professional predicaments, ongoing, citywide riots, threats on his life, and even a prostate exam.

As Packer is driven along, mystery abounds, as do statements on society, consumerism, capitalism, sex, and violence. Various people come in and out of his life (and often in and out of his limo), many played by great supporting performers such as Paul Giamatti, Juliette Binoche and Samantha Morton. As Cosmopolis builds in tension, Packer’s life grows more and more chaotic, eventually reaching a startling breaking point.

Cronenberg is nothing if not consistently innovative, in terms of form and content. With Cosmopolis, we get him at his best in both.

 

Holy Motors (dir. Leos Carax) - #8

Oscar, played by Denis Lavant, has an unusual job. At least, it seems to be his job. Through the course of his day and into the night, he transforms himself, via elaborate and convincing make-up and costume, applied in the back of his white, stretch limo, into a number of individuals. In Holy Motors, we see him do this about nine times. He exits the vehicle, steps into the position of said “character” and goes about the respective business. He’s a monstrous, underground-dwelling deviant one minute, a performer in a motion-capture film the next. There’s a musical interlude; there’s a scene of graphic violence; there’s a scene of graphic (and bizarre) nudity; there’s a scene of immense tenderness.

Where does his real life begin, and where does it end? How, despite moments of obvious artificiality, does he maintain this charade? What, exactly, is the goal of this vocation? I won’t pretend that Holy Motors answers any of this. That such a peculiar movie could be so thoroughly engaging and amusing despite these ambiguities is a testament to Lavant’s performance and Carax’s confident direction. It takes confidence to craft a film like this, and it takes some degree of confidence to watch Holy Motors. One has to be comfortable enough with the surreal. Like with the films of Luis Bunuel, an acceptance of idiosyncrasy is mandatory, as should be the viewing of this extraordinary movie. 

This Must Be the Place (dir. Paolo Sorrentino) - #7

How’s this for a plot? Aging former rock star Cheyenne, disaffected and melancholy, a goth living in Ireland, visits his dying father in New York, and upon his dad’s passing he picks up his father’s mission to track down and possibly kill a Nazi war criminal hiding in America.

As unusual as that may sound, This Must Be the Place, named after the Talking Heads song - which is essential to the film and used brilliantly - is nonetheless relatively reasoned and thoroughly compelling. It’s also one of the most amusing films of the year, thanks in no small part to Sean Penn’s bizarre and strangely charming portrayal in the lead role. On the outside, he’s still the bombastic rocker of old, hair in a torrent, makeup pronounced, but inside he’s subdued, his voice barely above a mumbled whisper. He embodies the sort of anxious potential inherent in the film itself, where one gets the sense that the story could go any number of ways, and then frequently finds those expectations defied. This Must Be the Place, directed by Paolo Sorrentino (Il divo, 2008), moves along a strange path, with pleasant and sometimes random stops, but it ultimately arrives at an extraordinary destination.

 

Killing Them Softly (dir. Andrew Dominik) - #6

This is a film for our times. Set in 2008, just around the time of the Wall Street collapse and President Obama’s election, Killing Them Softly looks at how financial burdens and a jaded nation can also affect the world of hit men. Brad Pitt stars alongside James Gandolfini, Richard Jenkins and Ray Liotta as criminals and killers who are feeling the pinch of an economy in crisis. After a card game heist, Pitt is brought in to help get to the bottom of things and to begin (violently) restoring order. In the depiction of this, the film looks at how unstable and poor fiscal conditions can hinder quality and compensation, even for hired guns.

The standard salary isn’t quite what it used to be; for example, you can now get someone to kill someone else at a lower fee … you know, because of the economy. These guys barter and treat their business just like any other working man.They struggle to survive in America, to make a go of it, even if it isn't exactly honest or legal. As Pitt's character says in the film's best line, "I'm living in America, and in America you're on your own. America's not a country. It's just a business."

While Pitt may headline the picture, it’s director Andrew Dominik who stands out, bringing a strong visual flair to the film and capturing much of the tone and dialogue of George V. Higgins source material. This film doesn’t have the ethereal, poeticism of Dominik’s The Assassination of Jesse James by the Coward Robert Ford (2007 - my pick for the best film of that year, also with Pitt); now the images are damp and dirty, with sporadic bursts of cinematic flourish — one shooting sequence in particular.

An arresting film with something to say, Killing Them Softly will hopefully find the audience it missed (or I should say the audience that missed it) once available on DVD/Blu-ray.   

Rust and Bone (dir. Jacques Audiard) - #5

The most wide-ranging emotional film of the year, Rust and Bone is a multilayered story of two people who come from lives of broken dreams and despair to find purpose and love with each other. As the film plays out, this seemingly melodramatic storyline develops into something much, much more. Led by a stunning performance from Marion Cotillard, Rust and Bone covers the gamut of expressive resonance. There are moments of great joy and terrible sadness, scenes fraught with tension placed right next to moments of compassion.

Director Jacques Audiard, whose previous work, A Prophet (2009), was one of the most lauded films of that particular year, manages to balance this assortment of sentiment superbly. The film is also notable for having what I feel to be the greatest single sequence of any film last year, as Stéphanie, Cotillard’s disabled whale trainer, comes to terms with her condition and begins to move on by going back, remembering what she loves and acting on it, all to her signature song.

                                            

Amour (dir. Michael Haneke) - #4

For Amour, German filmmaker Michael Haneke took home last year’s Palme d’Or for best picture at the Cannes Film Festival (his second such honor; sixth time nominated) and it now has the distinction of being nominated for five Academy Awards: best picture, foreign language film, director, original screenplay, and lead actress. Several organizations worldwide have already chosen it as the best film of the year.

That said, I’m noting nothing new when I also proclaim Amour to be an amazing, heartbreaking and powerful movie. It may also be one of the greatest films I am in no big hurry to watch again, as it is truly a demanding (yet highly rewarding) experience. Jean-Louis Trintignant and Emmanuelle Riva star as an eighty-something husband and wife who struggle to deal with the latter’s recent stroke and her subsequent deterioration and death.

Haneke has never made films that were always easy to watch, and Amour is no exception. Here, he maintains an observational distance, but it is an unflinching one. We are simultaneously drawn to and troubled by the level of intimacy granted. The discomfort while watching Amour doesn’t derive - like some Haneke’s past work - from overtly disturbing content. Instead, the tragic normality is most affecting.

Alps (dir. Giorgos Lanthimos) - #3

Giorgos Lanthimos’ Dogtooth (2009), one of the most extraordinary films in recent memory, was a tough act to follow. Nevertheless, Alps, just the Greek director’s third solo feature, comes pretty close to matching that film for daring and originality.

Like Dogtooth, Alps is notable first and foremost for its unusual plot: A group of individuals, each code-named for a mountain in the Alps, take on a side job of impersonating someone recently deceased. Friends and family hire them to fill that vacant spot until the grieving process is over. Typically, despite the obvious, all goes well and this seems to help. Inevitably though, the charade goes too far and the professional distance is broken down.

Filled with the absurd, the comic and the tragic, Alps can be as bizarrely disquieting as it is hilariously amusing. We can’t believe what we’re seeing at times, but it’s all so mesmerizing and distinctive - stylistically and substantively - that we’re enthralled all the same. This approach, while typifying Lanthimos’ work, also seems to be spreading throughout his homeland, as Attenberg (2010), a good film in its own right (and one in which Lanthimos actually stars), seems to attest to. It has some glaring similarities, but lacks something of the visual appeal and wit of Dogtooth and Alps. 

The Turin Horse (dir. Béla Tarr) - #2

The great Hungarian filmmaker Béla Tarr, one of the most distinctive and astonishing directors of the past few decades, has declared The Turin Horse to be his final film. If that is indeed the case, he chose an excellent conclusion to a remarkable career.

In many ways, this is Tarr’s most intimate film, and his most narrowly focused. Several of his features contain just a handful of characters, but here we’re essentially dealing only with the farmer Ohlsdorfer and his daughter for the entire film, most of which takes place in and around their small, isolated house existing in a wind- and rain-swept rural expanse of land, typical of Tarr’s scenic preferences.

Friedrich Nietzsche, in Turin, had apparently at one point protected the titular horse from abuse. Now, this father and daughter use the horse to cart items in and out of town. However, the horse is growing old and weak, and with that realization also comes the awareness that these two farmers will not be able to sustain their current existence.

As with much of Tarr’s work, the plot is sparse and the images are immaculate. The long takes, some going on for several minutes at a time, are hauntingly beautiful in their black and white composition. Minute details are deliberately lingered upon until they take on surprising resonance. The Turin Horse, done in collaboration with long-time associates Ágnes Hranitzky and László Krasznahorkai, is one of Tarr’s best … hopefully it won’t be his last.

The Master (dir. Paul Thomas Anderson) - #1

Paul Thomas Anderson’s latest film continues his trend of making extraordinary and wholly original movies. The Master is also his most complex and baffling feature. A film like this can easily frustrate, but for those willing to step outside of the norm, it can also be immensely satisfying.

The story revolves around a naval officer Freddie Quell, played remarkably by Joaquin Phoenix, who finds himself adrift in his post-World War II life. Through the course of his meandering travels, he encounters Lancaster Dodd (Philip Seymour Hoffman), the leader of The Cause, a sort of religion that is in many ways a not-too-thinly-veiled take-off on Scientology. Quell’s involvement with Dodd and his parishioners grows ever more tense and complicated as he struggles with his own eccentricities.

Gorgeously shot (but rarely shown) in near-defunct 70 mm, The Master is as visually arresting as it is engaging in its plot construction. Quell’s actions and his thoughts (many rendered subjectively by Anderson) are frequently inexplicable, and the film follows this erratic form more than it necessarily strives for overt continuity. There is no simplistic narrative thread running through The Master; like Quell, the audience has to find its own meanings and reasons. Also like for Quell, the journey here is paramount, even if we’re not quite sure where we end up.



2012 - Runners up

 
End of Watch (dir. David Ayer)
The Kid With A Bike (dirs. Jean-Pierre Dardenne, Luc Dardenne)
Twixt (dir. Francis Ford Coppola)
Django Unchained (dir. Quentin Tarantino)
Argo (dir. Ben Affleck)
The Loneliest Planet (dir. Julia Loktev)
The Dark Knight Rises (dir. Christopher Nolan)
A Royal Affair (dir. Nikolaj Arcel)
Once Upon a Time in Anatolia (dir. Nuri Bilge Ceylan)
The Paperboy (dir. Lee Daniels)

Still Life

    
Jia Zhangke’s Still Life (2006) stands somewhat at the intersection of the director’s earlier, more distinctly fictional, narrative films, and with his more recent, documentary style releases. While there is a plot and characters, this picture also captures a specific moment in time and records a pronounced and profound shift in the Chinese landscape and the culture around the Three Gorges town Fengjie. In so doing, Jia crafts what remains his greatest work, and indeed, it is one of the best films of the last 25 years.

The film follows, first, Sanming (played by Sanming Han, a relation of the director’s), a character who first appeared in Jia’s Platform (2000). He travels to Fengjie in search of his wife, Missy Ma, who, with their daughter, left him 16 years ago. The reason for the delay in tracking down his family is unclear. He’s told by her brother that she is away, working elsewhere. It’s best if he just waits, which he does, getting a demolition job in the meantime. Apparently around this same period, in a nearby section of the destruction- and construction-ridden region, Shen Hong (played by Tao Zhao, another frequent Jia collaborator), arrives in search of her husband, whom she has not heard from in roughly two years. With the assistance of one of her husband’s coworkers, she manages to track him down. Neither of these stories end entirely happily, though there is a sense of contentment being reached.

While these domestic dramas are unfolding though, the film’s other main thread begins to unspool. As much as anything else, Still Life is about this national project, the Three Gorges Dam, a hydroelectric dam that spans the Yangtze River. It’s about the harsh conditions of its devoted workers, some sacrificing — literally — life and limb. It’s also about how this endeavor is presented. Governmental publicity touts the project as a grand effort supported by Chinese leaders like Chiang Kai-shek and Mao Zedong. This is something for the people to be proud of; and in fact, there has been success with the enterprise. 



Yet, while this is being perpetuated, we also see how the flooding of the region will adversely affect its inhabitants. (To be sure, the engineering feat has also had its fair share of drawbacks). Marks on rocks and walls indicate the future water level. In detached and powerful views, we notice just how much lies below those markings: homes, businesses, human existence. This will all be destroyed. These people will have to find a life elsewhere. And while this tragic juxtaposition is being presented, Jia also shows how the river area has been developed into a tourist attraction. The result is bitterly comic.

An occasionally critical view of Chinese politics and society has not always made it easy for Jia, though as noted in a New York Times article, Still Life was approved by the Chinese Film Bureau and was co-produced by the state-operated Shanghai Film Studio. A reason for this, according to Jia: “The impact of the Three Gorges project is phenomenal. It’s not something the government can cover up.”

The title of this film goes two ways. On the one hand, it does seem to describe the form of the picture — typical of much of Jia’s work — as well as the temporarily idle life of its two main characters. In the case of the former, many shots in the film are held for a considerable length, a pace unusual compared to the quick cutting style of most American releases. Slow pans of the landscape and its inhabitants going about their business and static, observational shots of the same dominate much of the picture. In the case of the latter, both Sanming and Shen spend a substantial portion of their time immobile, waiting, watching, wondering.

On the other hand, Still Life seems ironic, as this area, and the lives of its people, in a broad and quickly dire sense, is becoming more disturbed and uncertain by the day. There is nothing sedentary about what is transpiring around them. Buildings are being demolished from all sides, boats and trucks are constantly moving, hauling sand bags and people up and down the river and the roads. Still Life is actually in many ways a depiction of lives frequently in flux.

As with other films by Jia Zhangke (some of the best include Platform, The World (2004), and 24 City (2008)), there are moments of “art film” whimsey. Chinese characters and their English translation — for cigarettes, liquor, toffee, and tea — appear on screen. Are these singling out precious commodities? Do they carry a deeper meaning? About 40 minutes in, a UFO of sorts soars across the sky and seems to divide the two stories of the film. And later, a rather bizarre looking structure lifts off like a spaceship (perhaps it’s the UFO?). 




Upon release, Still Life was widely heralded, ending up on many “ten best” lists for the year. The influential French film journal "Cahiers du cinéma" chose it as the second best film of the year, the Los Angeles Film Critics Association named it the best foreign film, and it took home the top prize Golden Lion at the Venice Film Festival.

At the end of the decade, "Film Comment" contributors placed it at number 27 on its list of the best films from 2000-2010. Platform came in at 11, The World at 24, and 24 City at 98. Four films in the top 100 — That should say something about Jia Zhangke’s place in contemporary world cinema. 

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Rio Bravo

             

When people speak of films made in the past, sometimes lamenting that “they don’t make them like they used to,” they are in many cases recalling not just the quality of these movies, but also the apparent effortlessness, the appealing nature of the stars, the style, and the story — in other words, what classical Hollywood cinema did best.

Howard Hawks’ Rio Bravo, from 1959, is one of those films. This picture, one of the greatest Westerns ever made, is a flawless and immensely enjoyable work. It’s a movie that in tone, plot, and form is noteworthy.

They just don’t make movies like this anymore.

Howard Hawks was well established (if not properly lauded) as one of America’s most talented and consistent filmmakers. He had made superb pictures in a variety of genres, including the screwball comedy classic, Bringing Up Baby (1938). But in 1955 he decided to try his hand at the big budget epic spectacular. The result was Land of the Pharaohs. The result of that was a flop.

After this debacle, Hawks spent some time in Europe, where he was more highly regarded as a cinematic auteur. Four years later, he returned to America, and his first film would be in the characteristically American genre of the Western.

Hawks had excelled here before, with 1948’s Red River, starring John Wayne and Montgomery Clift. In was in fact Wayne’s performance in this picture that led John Ford to later cast the actor in The Searchers (1956), possibly his greatest role. Ford had worked with Wayne several times before, but only after seeing the Hawks picture did Ford realize that Wayne “could act.”

For Rio Bravo, Hawks and Wayne had more than just another Western collaboration in mind. They were also thinking politics. Fred Zinnemann’s High Noon had been released seven years prior, and Hawks and Wayne didn’t think much of its more liberal take on society. Made as a rather overt analogy for the Communist witch-hunts that were plaguing the nation, and Hollywood in particular, High Noon starred Gary Cooper as a sheriff who, after the threat of imminent danger, is deserted by the community he had worked to protect. He spends the film alone, trying to get help, but none comes, save for the final intervention of his wife, played by Grace Kelly.

Hawks and Wayne saw this and did not approve. If a sheriff was a true professional, which in any good Western he should be, he wouldn’t need help. He should be able to go it alone. (They were also decidedly more conservative in their political leanings).

And this is where Wayne’s Sheriff John T. Chance comes in.

After arresting Joe Burdette for murder, Chance finds that his town is besieged. Joe’s brother, Nathan, has sent a horde of men to watch over the town, over Chance, and over the jail. Wayne though is not totally alone in his efforts to safeguard Joe and keep him locked up. He has the assistance of a surly old man, Stumpy, played with typically amusing goofiness by Walter Brennan, and he’s got the ex-sharpshooter, now recovering alcoholic, Dude, played by Dean Martin, a year after his stellar turn in Vincente Minnelli's excellent Some Came Running. And eventually, he gets the eager and earnest Colorado, played by Ricky Nelson, giving the film some youth appeal, a conscious decision as the Western was steadily loosing its luster, especially among young people.

But the difference with Wayne’s sheriff and Cooper’s is that Wayne’s is constantly down-playing his need for help; he doesn’t want others to get involved. He even struggles to avoid a relationship with Angie Dickinson’s charming yet possibly shady lady Feathers, and that takes a considerable devotion to solitude.

Nevertheless, as the film progresses, Wayne’s motley crew assembles and stands their ground. At one point, Chance is asked about this team. Someone wonders if that’s all he’s got. “It’s what I’ve got,” he responds.

For a Western, Rio Bravo is remarkably insular. In this genre of wide open spaces and natural vistas, Hawks goes in the opposite direction. This film takes place largely indoors, in hotel rooms, bars, the jail. When we are outside, it’s primarily along the main street of town, which is itself surrounded by buildings (the location is a good example of Old Tucson Studios as a movie set).

The pace is unusual too. Clocking in at almost 2 1/2 hours, Rio Bravo takes its time. A case in point: With the action heating up, with tension building, and with only about 20 minutes left in the picture, one would think that the film would be progressing steadily toward its conclusion. But instead, Hawks gathers his four main characters and puts them in the jail, just waiting. And when you’ve got Dean Martin and Ricky Nelson in a film, if you’re going to have them wait, you might as well have them sing. So that’s what Hawks does. For a couple minutes, the film essentially takes a break while the men belt out a few numbers (Even Brennan sings along. Wayne does not). And that’s all. Then it’s back to the movie.

In the end, what stands out most about this film is its casual greatness. Everyone involved seems to be having a great time. They’re in no hurry. They seem to enjoy each other. They, like the characters in so many Hawks films, are professionals, fully in command of their performances. In many scenes, they’re just hanging out. But every minute of it is remarkably engaging. Sometimes the basic narrative is secondary. You just want to be with these people. And Hawks has never been better himself. He lets the film play out like an old master would. To quote Chance when talking about Colorado, “I’d say he’s so good, he doesn’t feel he has to prove it.”

There’s much to take away from Rio Bravo: its endearing characters, its humor, and its daring opening — essentially, we’re watching a silent film, with no dialogue, for about the first five minutes.

Wayne and Hawks would work together twice more following this collaboration, in two additional Westerns: El Dorado (1966) and Rio Lobo (1970), the former basically a reworking of the Rio Bravo plot, and the latter Hawks’ final film.   

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Eraserhead

   

It’s undeniably one of the most bizarre films ever made, and it has always been one of my favorites. David Lynch’s debut, Eraserhead, released in 1977 but made intermittently for five years prior, defies categorization. It’s haunting and troubling enough to be a horror film. It has enough scenes of the peculiar and irrational to fall into the fantasy genre. There are the prevailing themes of marital strife and the burdens of parenthood, elements of any number of dramatic features. And there are plenty of moments yielding laughter, albeit a rather awkward and distressed kind of laughter, to make it a comedy of sorts. (As much as anything though, any laughing during this film may also serve as a defense mechanism, where the audience may try to brush off the disturbing and strange as comical so as to be less unsettling.)

So, what’s the film about. Henry has a girlfriend named Mary. She becomes pregnant - though, as she notes, the doctors aren’t even sure it is a baby. Forced to marry by her parents, the two unhappily assume the role of man and wife and mom and dad, taking care of the ... well, let’s just say “different” child. Mary can’t take the insistent crying of the baby and goes back home. Henry, meanwhile, does his best to tend to the child, who becomes visibly — and gruesomely — sick. What happens next is a barrage of the incongrous and engrossing. There are many elements of the film that give it its admittedly minimal narrative, but let’s be real, nobody watches this film for its plot.

Eraserhead is simply a just plain weird movie. It has a mood and tone unlike anything else. It looks and sounds truly amazing. It gets under your skin. You become uncomfortable at times, falling somewhere between a dream state and a place of higher consciousness. Sounds hyperbolic for a movie? Watch it and see.

David Lynch has made a career out of directing odd, unique and, more often than not, excellent movies. Eraserhead is certainly on the extreme end of odd, but there’s much more to this great filmmaker. Take a few steps back from the surrealism of Eraserhead (but not many) and you get to Blue Velvet, from 1986, one of the greatest American films ever made, a provocative examination of small town secrets. Then there’s Wild at Heart and Lost Highway (1990, 1997), two of his most inventive films, both fiercely eccentric in sound and image. His last two features, Mulholland Drive and Inland Empire (2001, 2006), are also both brilliant in a typically unusual way, the former earning Lynch his third Oscar nomination for Best Director (Blue Velvet and The Elephant Man, 1980, were the previous two). These movies are all comprised to varying degrees of bizarre characters and absurd situations, though in them there’s perhaps more to latch on to than in Eraserhead. On the other hand, Lynch did also made The Elephant Man (bizarre subject yes, but not bizarre in form like other Lynch pictures) and The Straight Story, in 1999 (again, an unusual — but true — plot, but not style). And then there’s the pop culture phenomenon that was Twin Peaks, where he brought his unique thematic and stylistic sensibilities to America’s living rooms.

Still, Eraserhead is the high water mark in the cannon of cult classic cinema. In an era of the midnight movie when something abnormal and flamboyant was expected (see also Rocky Horror and Pink Flamingos), Lynch’s film managed to be exceptional and noteworthy even amongst this most savvy movie-going crowd. It’s a film that has to be seen to be believed.





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The 39 Steps

        Despite having made such Hollywood films as Rear Window (1954), Vertigo (1958), and Psycho (1960) — to name just a few of his many great movies — there are some who make the case that Alfred Hitchcock actually did his finest work in England, prior to his move across the Atlantic (his first American film, Rebecca, in 1940, would be his only to ever win a Best Picture Academy Award).

In this view, 1935's The 39 Steps, just released on a new Criterion Collection Blu-ray, is a picture typically cited as one of his British best. It’s not difficult to see why. The 39 Steps, aside from featuring much of what we would come to associate with Hitchcock’s unique style, is simply a hugely entertaining film. It’s brisk, funny, suspenseful, and, given its construction, where scenes are acted out in rigidly established set pieces, it is remarkably economical in terms of aesthetic and narrative.


While making films in England, Hitchcock was not known exclusively as a director of thrillers. He dabbled in a variety of genres. He was not yet the Master of Suspense. But from his silent masterpiece The Lodger (1927) to The Lady Vanishes (1938) he no doubt excelled in the form. The 39 Steps, which refers to an ambiguous code name for an ambiguous group of spies, is a prime example.


Shots ring out at a music hall and Hannay (Robert Donat) ends up fleeing with a "Miss Smith" (Lucie Mannheim). The shots, it turns out, were from her gun. She was trying to stop a group of spies from receiving secrets detrimental to England. She fears the spies are now on her trail and, subsequently, also after Hannay. Back in his apartment, a glimpse out his window confirms this. Over night, the spies somehow make their way into his flat and kill the girl. Hannay manages to escape and becomes, in archetypal Hitchcock fashion, the wrong man in over his head in a situation he doesn't fully understand. This is a theme Hitch would revisit time and time again. In The 39 Steps we also see the emergence of another famously frequent Hitchcock component: the blonde. After some initial and prolonged reluctance to side with Hannay, Pamela (Madeleine Carroll) becomes stuck with the fugitive. Though not buying his story at first, she gets the proof she needs and their relationship becomes solidified. But can they discontinue their bickering long enough to figure out who is after Hannay, and why, what do they want, and why does he continue to hum that strange tune?


Pamela doesn't quite have the icy composure that would characterize many of Hitchcock's later leading ladies, but Hannay is certainly one of the filmmaker's most interesting and compelling male figures. Donat performs in a perfectly understated, very wry, very British manner. Mostly he's calm, cool, and collected, and frequently very funny.


A third element at work in The 39 Steps, another that would remain in Hitchcock's later films, is the MacGuffin. This is basically a plot device ostensibly driving the film, one quickly becoming inconsequential to the audience. These features are merely a pretense for the action, the drama, and the romance. This goes along with Hitchcock's penchant for blatantly disregarding logistical issues, parts of the plot that perhaps defy reasonable explanation. Why do the spies not kill Hannay when they're in his apartment? What information are the spies after? What exactly are the 39 steps? Who cares.


Now I have to admit, I am certainly not in the camp that prefers Hitchcock's British films to those he made in America. As good as The 39 Steps is, and it is very good, it still represents to me more of a preview of what's to come. Visually and thematically, many of the Hitchcock hallmarks are there, as they were in several of his better English pictures, but for whatever reason the director was most profoundly able to flourish in the Hollywood system. Still, if you want to see some wonderful Hitchcock films made before the filmmaker was an icon of the cinema, The 39 Steps is an excellent selection to start with; I would also suggest The Lodger, Blackmail (1929 - Hitch's pioneering first sound film), The Man Who Knew Too Much (1934), Secret Agent and Sabotage (both 1936).

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The Gospel According to St. Matthew

As an avowed Marxist, homosexual, and, frequently, atheist, Italian director Pier Paolo Pasolini may seem to some a dubious choice to have made one of the most realistic, faithful, and, more than anything else, best films about the life and death of Jesus Christ. But, with The Gospel According to St. Matthew, from 1964, that's exactly what the acclaimed filmmaker, poet, novelist, and theorist did.

This gritty, unpolished depiction of the life of Christ contains many of the narrative hallmarks featured in other film versions of the same topic: the virgin birth, the early miracles, the apostles, Christ's persecution and, ultimately, the crucifixion. No other cinematic depiction of this story looks, sounds, or feels quite like this one though. 

Before making this film, Pasolini had directed his first feature, Accattone!, in 1961, followed by Mamma Roma, starring the astonishing and incomparable Anna Magnani, in 1962. He next directed the short segment, "La ricotta," for the 1963 compilation film Ro.Go.Pa.G. "La ricotta" was about a film crew, led by its director (played by Orson Welles), who are making a film about Christ. One of the members takes a position on a cross set up for the crucifixion scene, where, due to all of the food he just ate (including large quantities of cheese - hence the title), he unbeknownst to everyone else dies, from apparent indigestion. This short film, coupled with some of his past writings - much of which was heavily condemnatory of the Catholic church - led to charges of blasphemy and defamation of religion against Pasolini.



Nevertheless, one day Pasolini was preparing to leave Rome. As it so happened, the Pope was in town as well and was also departing. Roads were closed and traffic was at a stand-still. Pasolini wasn't going anywhere, at least not until the Pope made his exit. With nothing else to do to kill time, Pasolini found his hotel room bible. He began reading and was inspired. He found his next film subject - however unlikely. It was, as he would jokingly tell his Christian friends, part of their "delightful and diabolical calculation."

It took much convincing, but eventually Pasolini received the blessing and the assistance of the church. He argued that, aside from being well-versed in Catholicism, as much of Italy at the time certainly was, he also had a profound compassion for marginal figures, those neglected, those on the fringes of society, those, in other words, whom Christ would have embraced. Having spent considerable time in the poor slums of Italy, Pasolini said he saw scavengers and hustlers literally as "fourteen-year old Christs." He also understood, due to his political, sexual, and ideological inclinations, what it was like to face persecution. It's little wonder then that his Christ would be strongly shown as a revolutionary figure. He was, as Pasolini saw him, "an intellectual in a world of the poor, available for revolution." There was also the issue of maternal relations. The Mary and Christ relationship is obviously well-known, but Pasolini too had a notable bond with his mother, and she would always play a crucial role in his life. It's probably no coincidence that his own mother would portray the older Mary at the end of the film.

With economics student Enrique Irazoqui cast in the lead, Pasolini's aim was to "follow, point for point, the gospel according to Saint Matthew, without making any script and without any reduction." He added, "I will faithfully translate images, without omissions to or deletions from the story. Even the dialogue must be strictly that of Saint Matthew, without even a line of explanation or feeder lines: because no images or words inserted can ever be of the poetic height of the text.…  I want to make a work of poetry. Not a religious work in the current sense of the term nor a work of ideology. In words both simple and poor: I do not believe that Christ was the Son of God, because I am not a believer – at least not consciously. But I believe Christ to be divine and I believe there was in him a humanity so great, rigorous and ideal as to go beyond the common terms of humanity.”

The film premiered Sept. 4, 1964 at the 25th Venice Film Festival, where it was awarded the Special Jury Prize. It would go on to also receive the Catholic Film Office Grand Prize. Critical reception, as one would expect with this subject matter, and with this filmmaker, ran the gamut. It was called, "A religious film and religious propaganda beneath the facade of a faithful transcription of the Gospel made by a Marxist..."; it was "A fine film, a Christian film that produces a profound impression." "The author - without renouncing his own ideology - has faithfully translated, with a simplicity and a human density sometimes moving, the social message of the Gospel - in particular the love for the poor and oppressed - sufficiently respecting the divine dimension of Christ," wrote one critic. "The fact is that this film is an authentic preaching of Communism, using the words of Matthew maliciously interpreted ... to have given this work a prize, and even in the presence of Fathers [of the church] was a humiliating concession to error ... to confusion," wrote another.



It's hard to imagine that today this film could stir the sort of contentious reaction of Hail Mary (1985), The Last Temptation of Christ (1988), or even The Passion of the Christ (2004) - make no mistake though, King of Kings (1961) it is not. As with many movies dealing with religious topics, views on the film are going to be heavily swayed by personal belief, usually before quality of filmmaking can be assessed. But if one is able to wipe aside spiritual sensibilities and focus on craft, The Gospel According to St. Matthew surely stands as one of the best films to undertake this sensitive subject. Indeed, it is simply one of the great works of world cinema. Pasolini's distinct style, a modern, art-film blend of neorealism and documentary, is rugged and unadorned. The performers, though competent enough here, particularly the engaging Irazoqui, are all nonprofessionals; and the settings (in Italy) and costumes are remarkably authentic, yet notably peculiar.

Pasolini would continue to make films throughout the 1960s and into the '70s. This would include three extraordinary trilogies: those of his "mythic" period - Oedipus Rex (1967), Teorema (1968), and Medea (1969), and those of his "third path," the films that comprise his "Trilogy of Life" - The Decameron (1971), The Canterbury Tales (1972), and Arabian Nights (1974). His last film, the brilliant Salò, or the 120 Days of Sodom (1975), based on the Marquis de Sade's infamous work, would not be his final film by design. After completing this immensely powerful and extremely unsettling movie (maybe the most disturbing I've ever seen), Pasolini was found brutally murdered, under what are still mysterious circumstances. Pasolini, one of the greatest of all filmmakers, died November 2, 1975, at the age of 53.

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The Gold Rush

“A sort of Adam from whom we are all descended.” – Federico Fellini on Charlie Chaplin

With The Artist and Hugo both released last year, it appeared that there may be a sudden return of interest in cinema's silent era. But, now that the novelty of these new releases has worn off, it seems we're back where we were with a vast majority of audiences placing little to no significance on films made prior to 1927 (if not prior to 1970!). However, there has always been somewhat of an exception to this. There is one holdover from the silent period that still warrants attention, admiration, and unadulterated joy, and one that undoubtedly still stands the test of time. That is the work of Charlie Chaplin.

There's still something about Chaplin's endearing and enduring little Tramp that maintains a special place in the hearts and minds of movie lovers of all ages. Taking a walk down Hollywood Boulevard, there are people dressed as superheroes, as Johnny Depp's Jack Sparrow character, as Marilyn Monroe, and as Darth Vader; but there amongst these popular, rather contemporary movie figures is another, the lone representative of the silent era – it's Charlie … and everyone still knows who he is.

What better way to celebrate this legendary film comedian than to watch one of his best, The Gold Rush, from 1925? On the heels of their recent releases of The Great Dictator (1940) and Modern Times (1936), the Criterion Collection's remastered Blu-ray edition of The Gold Rush hits shelves June 12.



With the possible exception of The Kid (1921), one could easily make the case for The Gold Rush as being Chaplin's best film until the 1930s, and this counts his shorts (he has more than 50 to his credit, the first of which were released in 1914). It also stands as a sort of preview of what was to be an enormously accomplished string of films to follow: City Lights (1931), Modern Times, The Great Dictator, and, later, Limelight (1952), where he shared the screen with fellow cinematic legend Buster Keaton.

Chaplin conceived of the idea for The Gold Rush based, in part, on some streoscopic slides he viewed at "Pickfair," the home of Mary Pickford and Douglas Fairbanks. These were images of the Klondike and of lines of hopeful prospectors anxiously seeking to stake their claim. The other part of Chaplin's inspiration came from a more unlikely source: the tragic Donner party and its gruesome conclusion.

The Gold Rush, certainly by comparison to the films Chaplin made previously, was a massive undertaking, with hundreds of extras and its fair share of behind the scenes drama, namely the relationship trouble Charlie had with his original leading lady in the film, Lita Grey. Just as filming was underway, the 16-year-old Grey got pregnant … by Chaplin. Much to Chaplin's chagrin, the two were forced to marry. Grey would be replaced by Georgia Hale, with whom, so it has been reported, Chaplin subsequently began having an affair with. (In a tantalizing Hollywood case of what could have been, the stunning Carole Lombard tested for the temporarily vacant role).

Scandalous anecdotes aside, there can be no denying the comic genius at play in The Gold Rush. It is a veritable clip-show in and of itself of classic silent comedy. There's the stalking bear that won't leave the hapless Tramp alone; there's Charlie dangling from the cabin as it too teeters on the edges of a cliff; there's Big Jim McKay, played by Mack Swain, hungrily imagining Chaplin to be a man-sized chicken, and Chaplin consequently donning a chicken suit strutting and flapping about; and then there are the two most famous dining scenes: In one, Charlie, after having cooked his shoe, twirls the laces as if they were spaghetti, then he delicately licks the nails of his shoes clean, as if they were bones. Later, there is the hilarious, if not totally original, dance of the rolls, a bit so popular that some exhibitors, at the request of the audience, would actually run the reel again just so they could see this sequence a second time.



In the film, The Tramp treks off to the Yukon to test his luck and stamina during the Klondike gold rush. His efforts are thwarted by harsh weather conditions and his life threatened by the burly and surly Big Jim, a perfect physical contrast to the meek Chaplin. In a neighboring town, The Tramp meets and falls for a dancehall girl, who does not (at first, of course) share his adoration. Eventually, he joins back up the Big Jim, who, due to amnesia, has forgotten where he had hidden away his riches. The Tramp and Big Jim finally retrieve the gold and, in the end, become wealthy men. All that’s left is for Charlie to get the girl…. 
   
The Gold Rush, one of Chaplin's rare productions planned with a fully developed script, would be the film he himself hoped to be most remembered for. It was successful enough upon its initial release, but Chaplin chose to re-release the picture in 1942, now with sound effects and a new musical score, which Chaplin helped to compose, and a narration, which was spoken by Chaplin. In what must be a singular instance, the re-release would actually be nominated for two Oscars for its sound work.

Chaplin’s life was chock full of fascinating personal stories and artistic endeavors, some not always successful. There was his troubled childhood, his miraculously successful start with Keystone and Essanay, his achievement of phenomenal global stardom, and his reluctance to make the transition to sound. And then there were his politics. Perhaps the saddest chapter in Chaplin’s story was when, in 1952, he was returning from England and his reentry permit was revoked by the FBI, a result of his supposed “un-American activities.” Eventually, all was seemingly forgiven and he was allowed to return to America in 1972 to accept an honorary Academy Award. He passed away five years later.

Today, Chaplin is one of the preeminent figures of motion picture history. He’s an icon for the movies themselves. It’s arguable that The Gold Rush is his finest achievement, and that’s saying something.

“The only genius to come out of the movie industry.” - George Bernard Shaw on Charlie Chaplin

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Mean Streets & The Taking of Pelham One Two Three

Following the Ingmar Bergman double feature previously discussed, for this entry we'll stick with another combination of two movies, but this time with the theme of New York City in the 1970s.


From 1969's Best Picture winning (and at the time X rated) Midnight Cowboy, through films like The French Connection (1971), The Godfather (1972), Serpico (1973), Dog Day Afternoon (1975), Annie Hall (1977), and Manhattan (1979), and including movies of the so-called Blaxploitation cycle like Shaft (1971) and Super Fly (1972), the Big Apple was well represented in the 1970s, arguably one of the greatest decades for American cinema. And two films, Martin Scorsese's Mean Streets (1973), and The Taking of Pelham One Two Three (1974), starring Walter Matthau, are classic examples of the period's predilection for urban drama and depictions of unrefined authenticity.


The former, Scorsese's look at violence, religion, relationships, and redemption inside a group of the city's lower echelon hoods, and the latter, about a group of gunmen who hold a subway train and its passengers hostage, convey the best and worst of the city in the decade. There was the rough nature of the city streets, the grime and garbage, the insular, isolated melancholy of some of the inhabitants, and the vibe of the bustling conglomeration within the city's melting pot society. In addition, it being the 1970s, there was the distinctive clothing, the hair, the unique cars and language, the music, and the aesthetic of the cinematography, a gritty, unpolished realism that went as far away as possible from the Hollywood gloss of decades previous. There's no mistaking where and when these films were made.





Mean Streets, just Scorsese's third feature, after the student film Who's That Knocking At My Door? (1967) and the Roger Corman produced exploitation picture Boxcar Bertha (1972), not only heralded the emergence of one of America's best rising young filmmakers (this would be further certified with Taxi Driver three years later, itself another '70s New York essential), but it also brought further attention to two actors who would become among the world's greatest: Harvey Keitel and Robert De Niro. In the role of Charlie, Scorsese's autobiographical stand-in, Keitel plays a man torn between his ambition, his love for a girl he cares for but tends to feel ambivalent about, and his obligations to his dangerously erratic friend Johnny Boy, played with gusto by De Niro. Throw in Charlie's Catholicism and all the guilt and sense of moral responsibility that that entails, and you have a film of immense power. Then add to it Scorsese's penchant for sudden, realistic violence, rock and roll music in just the right style played at just the right moment, as well as his keen sense of cinematic technique, and you have a masterpiece.





The Taking of Pelham One Two Three, on the other hand, is not so much a personal work of auteurist art (its director, Joseph Sargent, would mostly stick with television movies from here on out, many, however, widely acclaimed), but it is a prefect example of a tension filled, wonderfully constructed, and extremely entertaining thriller. It's just another day for Lt. Zachary Garber of the New York City Transit Police, when suddenly he is forced to deal with a group of armed criminals who have taken control of a subway car and threaten its entire board of passengers. Garber, played with delightful cynicism and weariness by Matthau, contends with the bureaucracy of city management while doing his everyday, working man's best to negotiate with the hijackers, attempting to determine how they intend to reach their ultimate desired outcome. The film was recently remade with Denzel Washington and John Travolta, but this original is by far the superior picture. You can count among its biggest admirers Quentin Tarantino, who borrowed the color-coded nicknames of the villains in the film for his band of thieves in Reservoir Dogs (1992).


Mean Streets will be released for the first time on Blu-ray July 17 and The Taking of Pelham One Two Three will air June 11 on Turner Classic Movies (set your DVRs though – it plays at 2 a.m. Arizona time). Taken together, these two New York City gems are shining examples of the type of superb movies made during the 1970s. They're imbued with a strong sense of naturalism and earnestness of emotion and character that was unique to this period of America cinema. The directness of their storytelling and the unadorned quality of the performances make them both touchstones of the era.

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Summer Interlude & Summer with Monika

With summer fast approaching, The Criterion Collection is apparently marking the season with the release of two of Ingmar Bergman’s early features, Summer Interlude (1951) and Summer with Monika (1953), both out now on DVD and Blu-ray. 

This was Bergman before he was the internationally acclaimed filmmaker of such classics as The Seventh Seal (1957), Persona (1966), and Fanny and Alexander (1982). Indeed, this was even the Bergman before Smiles of a Sumer Night, the film that in 1955 catapulted him to global cinematic stardom. Here, Bergman is somewhat lighter, and somewhat – but not much! – less profound. However, these two films are still notable for their seriousness, especially when you consider the frivolity that youth-oriented pictures are treated with today. They are introspective and realistic works that dispel the myths of youthful innocence while also reveling in the images and dreamlike nature of these moments of fleeting bliss.

Summer Interlude stars Maj-Britt Nilsson as a ballet dancer, and Summer with Monika features Harriet Andersson as the precarious titular character. Both were Bergman regulars, and both films, as the posters below indicate, were widely touted as exhibitions of young love and – especially the latter film – of scandalous eroticism. To be sure, the two actresses, particularly Andersson, were seductively alluring young women. But far from the sex romp these images seem to publicize, the two films are actually quite somber in their general tone. There are certainly moments of great joy and exuberance - these are the scenes associated with summer, a season of immense happiness in Bergman’s work (see the fond recollections of the elderly Dr. Isak Borg (Victor Sjöström) in Wild Strawberries from 1957). The purity and pleasure of the characters is a charming spectacle, if slightly archaic in this cynical age. But the films gain their emotional impact when summer gives way to the literal and metaphoric fall. This is when the idyllic hopes and dreams and illusions of the carefree confront the realities of adolescent angst. This isn’t some mumblecore melodrama though; it’s not even Rebel Without a Cause (1955). Despite their early placement in Bergman’s oeuvre, Summer Interlude and Summer with Monika are all the same still imbued with a notable melancholy, a crisis bordering on the spiritual that would be a trademark of the director’s later films.  



Summer Interlude is told in flashback as Marie (Nilsson) looks back on an event from her youth – an ephemeral flirtation with student Henrik (Birger Malmsten). Over the course of one fateful summer, their foray into young love becomes shattered by a freak accident and the misfortune affects her in ways she only seems to realize in the present day. As she recalls the tragic incident that transpired, and the magical summer that surrounded it, she is haunted by the recollection.



Summer with Monika features Harry, played by Lars Ekborg, as the eager partner of the film’s free-wheeling and mischievous heroine. Bored with their provincial and tedious life, and naively sensing that a better world exists elsewhere, they leave their jobs and family and set off on a whirlwind romance, oblivious to any negative repercussions. Reality is quick to set in for Harry though, and when the two head back home, get married, and attempt a life of domesticity, they are struck by the incongruous nature of their relationship.    

While each of these films have more than their fair share of merits, they really only hint at what was to come for Ingmar Bergman. If they were made by any other director, Summer Interlude and Summer with Monika would probably stand as unquestioned masterpieces; arguably the latter still ranks as one of the filmmaker’s best, most loved features. Now released in stellar transfers (par for the course when it comes to Criterion), both are nevertheless wondrous achievements that deserve their distinguished place in film history.

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Certified Copy

Having presented his latest offering, Like Someone in Love, at this year's Cannes Film Festival, which just wrapped up Sunday, Abbas Kiarostami is again in the cinematic news. This makes it a good time to take a look at the Iranian filmmaker's 2010 film, Certified Copy, which itself was nominated for the Cannes Palme d'Or and deservedly won the best actress prize there for its star, Juliette Binoche.

Kiarostami's films are not known for their simplistic narratives. For example, his ground-breaking Close-Up from 1990, still arguably his best film, is a sort of documentary/fiction hybrid about real-life movie fan Ali Sabzian, who pretends to be real-life filmmaker Mohsen Makhmalbaf so that he can gain admittance into the home of a family who is under the impression that he is there to film part of his next movie in their house. His ruse is discovered and he is arrested. Through the course of the film, the actual people involved in the incident re-enact the events that transpired, we see footage of the trial, and ultimately, the real Makhmalbaf meets Sabzian and they ride off together - and that's just the most basic description of what happens in this film!



Certified Copy similarly takes storytelling expectations and, along with normal notions of character development, throws them out the window. Here, Binoche plays Elle, an admirer of writer James Miller, played by William Shimell. Miller is promoting his latest work, about the pluses and minuses of a copy versus its original. It's basically a question of worth; is something fake, in some way, as valuable as something authentic? Elle expresses her admiration for the author and the two meet. They set off on a car ride and end up in a small Italian town. Along the way, as they discuss his work and its implications, their association changes. But does it really? They appear to be strangers, in the beginning at least. But, prompted by a waitress's apparently mistaken assumption, they start to role play as if they were a married couple, though they're not … right? They carry on like this, talking about the status of their relationship and their (fictional?) family. Eventually, this facade becomes more and more authentic, yet also more fragile. They genuinely appear to be a married couple, and their marriage is on the rocks. But they just met. How could this be? Is their relationship a fake? Or is it an original? These are questions brilliantly left open by the film.

What we end up with are two engaging characters and a narrative labyrinth that forces us to go back to the beginning and speculate about what we may have missed, if anything. Certified Copy is a mysterious film, one that doubles back on itself and prods the audience into second guessing its usual pattern of film reception and its practice of blindly accepting what is put forth. It's a typical art film device: a self-consciously provocative narrative, a story of intrigue told in an intriguing way.  

Having been directing since the early 1970s, Kiarostami has made some remarkable movies (some, unfortunately, still unavailable in America). His best include the back-to-back Taste of Cherry (1997) and The Wind Will Carry Us (1999), two outstanding films by anyone's standards. Subsequently, he's become an international film sensation, if not always one well-received in his home country. He's a director who's every new film yields something exciting and unexpected. He has worked in documentary – his 2001 film ABC Africa is extraordinary – and he's went even further than the films so far mentioned when it comes to daring film structure: Ten, from 2002, follows an Iranian woman as she drives various passengers around Tehran, the camera never leaving its vantage point of inside the car, looking at either her or the passenger; Shirin (2008) is comprised solely of close-ups of 114 famous actresses' faces as they watch and react to a performance of the epic poem "Khosrow and Shirin."



In an era of the formulaic and predictable, Kiarostami brings continual freshness and vitality to the world cinema scene. Now, thanks to a recently released Criterion Collection DVD/Blu-ray, which also features his 1977 film The Report, an interview with the filmmaker, and an Italian documentary on the making of Certified Copy, even more film lovers can explore the marvels this director has to offer.

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