When writer/director Terrence Malick released The Tree of Life in 2011 it was his first film since The New World,
in 2005. It was also just his fifth feature since 1973. Then all of a
sudden this reclusive, mysterious and profound if not prolific filmmaker
had a follow-up in production for release the very next year. To the Wonder,
which had its premiere in 2012 and has just recently received a wider
distribution, is, to say the least, a complex picture, as with all of
Malick's work, and it may be his most abstract film to date.
Essentially,
the film follows Neil (Ben Affleck, in a nearly mute performance) as he
struggles to maintain a relationship with, first, Marina (Olga
Kurylenko), a French woman with a young daughter whom he brings back to
Oklahoma, then Jane (Rachel McAdams), a former lover who reenters his
life once Marina leaves. Neither relationship runs smooth, and as with The Tree of Life,
Malick intercuts the domestic strife with reflections on the world, on
God (Javier Bardem as Father Quintana gives voice to these issues), on
family and, most prominently here, on love. There's no real story to
speak of. We're simply following these individuals as they go about
their life, from setting to setting in one situation after another; some
locations figure into the (loose) narrative, some seem to serve merely
illustrative purposes.
"Merely"
doesn't really do the imagery justice though. Just as he's become known
for his oblique structural devices and his incomparable use of the
voice-over, Malick is also a preeminent visual stylist. His compositions
and camera maneuvers are breathtaking. One wonders how he captures such
moments of splendor and transcendence, or how he even thought to film
such imagery to begin with. To the Wonder has less of a conventional story than anything he's done before, but it is a sight to behold, and in most cases that's enough.
To the Wonder
has had its fair share of detractors. It has not been largely well
reviewed to this point (notably, one of the most positive pieces on the
film came from the late Roger Ebert – it was his last review). I can't
help but feel this negative reaction isn't really a result of the film
itself though. Had this been his first film in six years, perhaps it too
would have received some of the laudatory praise that The Tree of Life
did. I'll admit that the 2011 film is a better picture (it was my
favorite movie from that year), but with a Malick film it almost seems
as if too much of his distinctive and challenging style is a drawback
for some. In small doses, they're able to accept his atypical
narratives, theoretical divergences and formal boldness, but two films
in two years...that might be pushing things (I think not). Given that
two of its main characters also speak in foreign languages (and another
minor character speaks in a third), it's also possible that the film may
feel too much like a foreign film; certainly, portions of dialogue
sound reminiscent of something by Godard, Resnais or Antonioni. This
blending could prove troublesome for those used to a clear dividing line
between American films and those from another country, and the
cinematic attributes that go along with each.
For me personally, I don't think To the Wonder will hold as high a ranking as The Tree of Life
did by year's end. Frankly, I hope it's not the best film I see this
year. But it's a worthwhile movie, an impressive work of art, and one
that's going to be unlike anything else released anytime soon, or at
least until the next Terrence Malick film. Amazingly, he does have three
other projects currently in post-production, two with a 2013 projected
release date. Too much Malick? Certainly not for me.
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The first striking feature of Crime Wave,
an excellent, low-budget 1954 release from Warner Brothers, is the
sound. For a Film Noir, a type of film typically identified by its
visual designs, this may seem unusual, but in many cases the aural
attributes of these movies added an extra ingredient of formal quality
and interest. This is what we have here. Crime Wave has all of
the imagery one associates with Film Noir – the high contrast lighting,
dark shadows, canted angles, etc. – but the sound is something unique.
Many scenes are void of a complementary score or background music.
Instead, we're presented sequences as if we were there, or at the very
least as if the direct recording has simply been taken and immediately
played back without any sort of technical manipulation. It gives the
film an almost hollow quality, like we're in these unadorned rooms and
offices, with no amplification, resulting in a bare, simple and
extremely realistic atmosphere.
In terms of story, Crime Wave
is Film Noir through and through. Ex-con Steve Lacey (Gene Nelson) is
trying to make a legit go of his new life. He's got a wife, Ellen
(Phyllis Kirk), a decent job, and he's doing all he can to stay the
course and avoid all reminders of his past criminal existence. But this
is Film Noir, and fate frequently steps in to make sure that the best
laid plans seldom meet expectations. For Lacey, everything starts when
he gets a phone call, apparently from a former prison acquaintance. The
blast from the past upsets Steve and Ellen (in Film Noir, the past is
always ready for a reemergence and that usually means trouble), so when
the phone rings again, he doesn't answer. This is unfortunate for Steve
because as chance, luck or fate would have it, at the same time three
men who just so happen to know Steve are robbing a gas station, shooting
a police officer and assaulting an attendant. Steve's proximity to the
area and his troubled history make him a possible suspect. If he's home,
he probably didn't commit the crimes, but he may still board the
crooks. Det. Lt. Sims (Sterling Hayden) has one of his men put in a call
to the Lacey house, and that's when no one answers, and that's when
Steve becomes a hunted and wanted man. This sets off a string of events
where the true criminals are sought and Steve seeks to maintain his
innocence and keep his distance from those seeking his illegal
assistance.
Crime Wave was directed by André De Toth,
a Hungarian immigrant who came to Hollywood in the early 1940s and made
feature films and worked in television through the 1960s. Some projects
were uneven, but he excelled in several high quality genre pictures,
usually of the "B" variety – Westerns, crime films, thrillers, and
horror (his most famous movie was probably the 3-D House of Wax, from 1953, a technical achievement all the more impressive when you know that De Toth only had one eye). Though made in 1952, Crime Wave
would be the fourth film to carry his director credit released in 1954.
With Hayden, the most famous performer in the film is Charles Bronson,
acting as one of the hoods. Listed by his real name Charles Buchinsky
he's barely recognizable at first.
Crime Wave
is a remarkable little movie. It's a great example of the quickly
crafted and artistically competent films Hollywood could produce in this
period. Shot in just 13 days and with a running time of 73 minutes,
it's a taut, sharp and entertaining picture; for the eyes and ears it's
an arresting film, impressive from start to finish.
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"What, when drunk, one sees in other women, one sees in Garbo sober."
So
said critic Kenneth Tynan in 1954. Not only is this one of the most
incisive quotes about movie star allure, it seems to truly capture the
essence that was and still is Greta Garbo.
There is indeed something about this cinematic beauty, something that
goes beyond her mere presence on the screen. There is something magical
in watching Garbo: a mystery, an unidentifiable association, a
breathtaking persona of utter captivation. Make no mistake though, and
this is crucial, Garbo the actress was more than just looks. She was a
fine performer and she had a powerful command of each and every frame
she occupied.
Much of what made Greta Garbo such a prominent figure in cinema history is on display in her 1933 film Queen Christina. This was several years after her first American feature, Torrent,
in 1926. Garbo is such a fixture in Hollywood iconography that it's
sometimes easy, despite her accent, to forget that she worked to
considerable acclaim in Sweden before this; her debut screen role was in
a short called How Not to Dress in 1920. But it was after the one-two punch of Gösta Berlings saga (1924) and The Joyless Street (1925) that Garbo was promptly lured to Hollywood in an MGM deal that also brought with her Mauritz Stiller, the director of the former film.
Garbo
benefitted from her exotic quality in these early American features,
and her lack of English speaking didn't matter in silent film, so her
star rose quickly. Then came Anna Christie
in 1930, her first sound effort. How would she transition? So many
stars of the silent screen had failed in the conversion, and some of
them spoke the language just fine. The result … "Garbo Talks!" That's
how Anna Christie was sold and it was a success. Her accented,
husky, even somewhat masculine voice was fascinating and seductive. She
ended up with a Best Actress Oscar nomination for her performance.
What's more, she was also nominated the same year, in the same category,
for Romance (1930). Welcome to Hollywood.
What followed were significant turns in classics like Grand Hotel (1932), Camille (1936 - Best Actress nomination #3) and Ninotchka (1939 - nomination #4). Her last film was Two-Faced Woman in 1941.
Coming back to Queen Christina though, this was Garbo at her most sexually ambiguous and daring (like Marlene Dietrich in Morocco,
made three years previous, she too cross dresses and kisses another
woman). Garbo stars in the titular role as the popular ruler of 17th
century Sweden, a position she inherited from her equally admired
father. All seems to be going well, but she soon begins to ruffle some
feathers when she first opposes the incessant drive to conquer
continuously and, second, when she refuses to show interest in her
assumed would-be suitor Prince Charles Gustavus (Reginald Owen), a
lauded war hero. Christina flees the throne for a while, just to get
away from it all. Her hair reasonably short for a woman's, and dressed
in innocuous attire, she is somehow presumed to be a man (!). In this
guise, she ends up sharing a room with the Spanish emissary Antonio,
played by John Gilbert
in what was basically his last major role; after one more film he died
of a heart attack in 1936. As they begin to disrobe for the evening, the
jig is quickly up. Subsequently, of course, they fall in love. (Didn't
he just think she was a man? No matter.) Christina does not, however,
let Antonio know that she is the queen he is on his way to meet. That
surprise comes later in the midst of a royal ceremony. When her love for
Antonio is seen by some as a distraction, maybe even a disloyal fancy,
things get complicated for Christina and she is essentially forced to
choose between love and country.
Queen Christina
is a richly romantic film, full of grand emoting and lush close-ups,
carefully lit to accentuate Garbo's striking face. This is Hollywood's
style in the golden age at its best. At the helm of the picture was
director Rouben Mamoulian, a neglected figure in American film history. Applause
(1929), his first film as director, was a pioneering work in early
sound film production, where he contested the common notion that the
camera couldn't move as effortlessly with the new, cumbersome sound
equipment as it could in the silent days. His Becky Sharp (1935) was the first three-color Technicolor movie. In Queen Christina,
he keeps the mobile camera and uses it to great effect throughout. He
also crafts a notably textured backdrop for the film, its settings
detailed and elaborate.
In
the end, in a testament to her cinematic impact, it is Garbo that
captivates more than anything else. This isn't a knock on actors and
actresses of equal or greater skill, but there is simply a notable
impression made by performers who seem especially suited for the screen.
Does it help that the star be attractive? Sure, there's that, but
that's really only part of it. The camera likes them, and they radiate a
force that is pronounced but oftentimes indescribable. And this is
Greta Garbo. No matter the role, the quality of filmmaking, the setting
or the costars, when Garbo is seen all else fades.
I
get the sense there's a good deal of Garbo in Queen Christina. She too
felt hounded by those around her, by the pressures and expectations of
her profession. She seemed torn between work and a personal life and
struggled to perhaps rise above a superficial obligation. A reputation
for isolation would be misapplied to Garbo, and yet it only added to her
mystique. As she noted, "I never said, 'I want to be alone.' I only
said, 'I want to be left alone.' There is all the difference."
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The masterful Jean Renior, the great humanist of the cinema, created not only his masterpiece with La règle du jeu, but also one of the few films to rival Citizen Kane
as the greatest movie ever made. This film is just astounding.
Everything about it is pitch-perfect. While it certainly wasn’t greeted
with such praise, looking back now, had Renior not made any other films
this picture would have alone secured his place in the annals of film
history. To think that he did, indeed, make many more films, including
the excellent La grande illusion, Les bas-fonds, Partie de campagne, The River, Elena et les homes, French Cancan, and La bête humaine—to name just some of my personal favorites—marks him as a seminal figure of the cinema.
La règle du jeu
thrives on a culmination of all that the cinema had developed by 1939.
The acting was first-rate, emotional and restrained, characters were
individual and yet universal. The camera was now able to effortlessly
glide from room to room, down corridors and mingling between people—we
feel sometimes as if we are guests at the château location, simply
happening upon the incidents shown. Editing was controlled, heightened
only when necessary. And lighting reached a point of outstanding impact,
adding to Renoir’s exceptional and influential use of depth of field.
A
great instance of Renior’s superb ability to control a scene, to
envision an ultimate design, comes near the end as, beginning first in
one room, Lisette is trying to stop Schumacher from going after Marceau.
Next, the camera follows them through a doorway, then to another room.
They remain struggling stationary, the camera pulls back, racks focus,
and then, quickly from frame right, Robert and André come bursting in,
also fighting. It’s just a fantastic example of Renoir’s keen use of the
long take, the mobile camera, and deep space. Many of his scenes, shot
frequently down halls and through doorways, are also arranged in depth
so that, within a single area, the camera is across the room while the
action takes place at the far, other end. Early on we see this quite
well as Octave is convincing Robert to invite André. The camera is
placed away from the action, on the distant side of the room, and so in
between we’ve got this frame of empty space, only irregularly filled
with furniture and decoration; but aside from all of these material
possessions, the room, like most of the characters, is empty. It’s
additionally important to note the lack of close-ups in the film. They
are few and far between and I’ve always looked at this as Renoir, while
no doubt presenting some engaging characters, also wanting us to keep
our emotions in check, to not connect too much with these petty
bourgeois individuals.
Renoir
with this film also presents some remarkable physical comedy, clearly
harkening back to one of his biggest idols, Chaplin. Look at Octave, the
way he bumbles about (in a bear costume no less!) and Marceau, crawling
around on the floor under tables, getting chased by Schumacher—it’s
just great stuff. The dialogue too is chock full of some great lines:
Robert: “Corneille put an end to this farce.”
Corneille: “Which one?”
That sort of says it all.
Or,
there’s the scene where Geneviève and Christine discuss Robert’s
infidelities, which rather quickly turns to talk regarding evening wear.
It’s a very smooth path Renoir takes to a cynical comedy. I also love
the scene in the kitchen when the peanut gallery of cooks and servants
mock the diets and indiscretions of the guests; little do they know at
that point, however, just how close they are to be intertwined with
them.
This
brings me to the questions of the rules of this game. What are they?
What is the game? To me, this game is obviously a frivolous one, one
with clearly two sides (classes), a game that is based on manners and
socioeconomic regulations (Speaking of Christine, “She is a society
woman,” says Octave, “and society has strict rules”). But who can win?
Can anyone win? Both sides seem incapable of separating themselves
enough from the ideas or behaviors of their governing group to make a
clear break. The upper class, especially, is so contained, so locked
within their own world, that they are incapable of division. Take
Christine. Only at the very end does she break from her class to accept
Octave as her true love. But what does he do? He gives her up. They are
both back to where they started. They are stuck. They don’t act
progressively; they act out in other ways. Look at the film’s two main
activities: a show, a masquerade (lest they have to face reality) and a
hunt (a way of expressing the violence that they suppress, with
innocence as the victim).
Renoir, perhaps particularly with this film, reminds me a lot of Jacques Tati.
Both filmmakers, notably both French, were masters at being tender
critics. They were pointed to human foibles and faults, to odd and
irrational behavior, but they never belittled nor scathingly chastised.
They took what life offered, for better or worse, presented it, and let
it go, often with a smile, a sigh, and a “C'est la vie.” Even in his
war-related films (La marseillaise, Le caporal épinglé, and of course La grande illusion
are three good ones) Renoir presents many of the characters and their
actions with a cultivated and sensitive fashion. The great and telling
quote from La règle du jeu, crucially uttered by Renoir’s own Octave,
says it perfectly: “Everybody has their reasons.” Even a nuisance like
Boudu in Boudu sauvé des eaux is shown not totally void of sympathy. Renoir intended La règle du jeu
to be, “A pleasant movie that would at the same time function as a
critique of a society I condemned rotten to the core.” And certainly
this comes across, but yet, as Renoir also noted, “The portrait of this
society makes us love it … because this society has at least one
advantage: It wears no masks.” The film is in many ways too clever to be
nastily abrasive. While there is, to be sure, a clear agenda with this
film, it doesn’t approach any sort of viciousness, most of Renoir’s work
never does (La chienne,
as the translation of the title sort of suggests, can be occasionally
and frankly unpleasant, but even it has considerable comedy). But in the
end, La règle du jeu is, as Amy Taubin writes, a “social
satire that is devoid of cynicism and its companion, sentimentality, and
that evokes compassion rather than contempt.”
No
less a filmmaker than Orson Welles called Renoir the “best director
ever,” and Bernardo Bertolucci quite rightly remarked that Renoir’s
films are “So close to life [yet] completely cinema.” Renoir is a great
storyteller and a great creator of ingenious characters (“[I am] trying
to discover human beings,” he once said), and at the same time his
cinema is so totally enamored with the art form itself. Renoir’s films
are the absolute most brilliant combination of pure narrative and
technical virtuosity.
"Deeply wounds the religious sentiments of believers." – Pope John Paul II
With
the appointment of a new pope, the beginning of Holy Week and President
Obama's recent trip to the Holy Land, Christianity seems rather topical
these days. So with that in mind, I wanted to look at one of the most
fascinating, profound and controversial films ever made to deal with the
Christian faith.
When Jean-Luc Godard's 1985 film Hail Mary (Je vous salue, Marie)
was initially released, it set off a firestorm of protest. According to
an article in a contemporary issue of Film Quarterly, the film was met
with everything from "the Pope's Vatican Radio denunciations and Italian
magazine covers depicting barebreasted blondes on crucifixes, to
Catholics lighting candles and shaking rosaries outside offending
theaters." The film was banned and the subject of boycotts, and
religious leaders worldwide deemed it blasphemous (the above quote,
which the DVD displays almost as a badge of honor on its cover, is just
one example). But what was at the heart of the controversy? Why all this
fuss? First and foremost, there was the plot.
Godard's
film is a modern day retelling of the virgin birth. Here, Mary (Myriem
Roussel) is a basketball-playing high school student who works at her
father's gas station. Her boyfriend, Joseph (Thierry Rode), is a school
drop-out who drives a cab. Mary suddenly becomes pregnant. But she's a
virgin. How can this be? Predictably, Joseph is not exactly thrilled by
this news. Rather, as would be expected, he is confused, suspicious and,
at times, angry. The angel Gabriel (Philippe Lacoste), arriving via
airplane, tries to provide some reassurance, but the situation is not an
easy one for Mary, Joseph and their friends and family. How does a
young girl like this cope with such a thing, and how does this sudden
revelation affect her life, her worldview and her relationships?
These are the more reflective issues explored by Hail Mary.
But to some, these ideas—indeed this very story—are not to be tampered
with. Instead of seeing the film as a unique way in which to examine
what such an occurrence would mean for those involved, instead of seeing
the evolution of young Mary from average teenager to sacred vessel as
one of deep religious transformation, many saw it easier to dismiss the
film immediately, often sight unseen.
Adding
to the objections was the considerable amount of nudity in the film.
Roussel was well into her twenties by this point, so she wasn't really a
teenager, thus her age shouldn't have been a factor. But perhaps the
idea of seeing this present-day virgin mother naked was too much for
some. However, in all reality, the nudity makes perfect sense. Here you
have a young, chaste girl inexplicably with child. Doesn't it stand to
reason that her body would be of the utmost importance? Wouldn't it be
natural for her to therefore appear naked when she questions and
examines her predicament? Or, take it from Joseph's angle. He hasn't
touched her. Has someone else? Is she lying? ("I'm pregnant but still a
virgin" would be a pretty tough declaration to go along with.) Obviously
her body is now sacred, but Joseph is after all a young man. He
probably has desires as would any other. Maybe he could at least see her
naked?
In any event, Hail Mary
was met with its fair share of detractors. And as such, many people
have not seen the picture. Most have probably never even heard of it.
But it's a worthwhile film, one that, if nothing else, should elicit
some discussion and consideration. If one can step back from the
sacredness of the Biblical text and just look at the film for what it is
and what it presents there are moments of tremendous power to be
discovered, even for nonbelievers or those of another belief. Hail Mary
speculates on a great number of issues pertaining to the nature of
faith, of human interaction and of how potential or actual holiness can
situate itself in a contemporary world. This being a Godard film, none
of this is simplistically spelled out, but it is there.
Hail Mary
could be placed roughly in the middle of Godard's third phase of
filmmaking. This is nearly two decades after his "French New Wave" days
and years after his overtly political video experimentations and his
Dziga Vertov period of filmmaking in the 1970s. By this point in his
career, Godard was in the midst of a return of sorts to more narrative
but nonetheless radically inventive productions. Such blatant
religiousness was rare though. There was occasional religious imagery in
his films, and the irregular quote alluding provocatively to religion
would pop up (from Weekend
(1967): "Didn't you hear what he said? Marx says we're all brothers!"
"Marx didn't say that. Some other communist said that. Jesus said
that."), but there was nothing like this. Later though, in his
multi-part Histoire(s) du Cinéma
(1988-98) this passage stands out: "Cinema, like Christianity, isn’t
grounded in historical truth. It tells a story and says, 'Now, believe.'
Not 'Have faith in this story as you do in history,' but 'Believe,
whatever happens.'"
Godard
himself was raised Protestant, but at the time of Hail Mary he no
longer practiced. However, as he said in the aforementioned Film
Quarterly, "I'm very interested in Catholicism. I think there's
something so strong in the way the Bible was written, how it speaks of
events that are happening today, how it contains statements about things
which have happened in the past. I think, well – it's a great book!" He
continues, "And somehow I think we need faith, or I need faith, or I'm
lacking faith. Therefore maybe I needed a story which is bigger than
myself."
Hardly the words of one who is seeking to wound the religious sentiments of believers.
Ultimately, Hail Mary joins the ranks of films like the groundbreaking The Miracle (1948) made in years previous and such works as The Last Temptation of Christ (1988), The Passion of the Christ (2004) and even Dogma
(1999) made since; it is a film of significant meaning and remarkable
artistry, but one that tends to get obscured by a controversy that, in
all reality, was relatively isolated and, in time, proved to be rather
reactionary.
If you're looking for something different to watch this time of year, Hail Mary
would certainly be a bold selection, but a worthy one. As a side note
though, if you're seeking a more conventionally religious film, one
still presented in an innovative fashion by a most unlikely of
filmmakers, Pier Paolo Pasolini's The Gospel According to St. Matthew (1964), which I've written on before, would be another recommendation.
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There’s no doubt that G.W. Pabst was a more than competent director (his The Threepenny Opera is an exceptional film), but Pandora’s Box (1929), perhaps his most famous feature, begins and ends with the fantastic Louise Brooks. After the first time I saw this picture, I immediately searched for more of her films; Prix de beauté and Diary of a Lost Girl
(the latter also directed by Pabst) were two stand-outs. Still, even
after these other films, I kept coming back to her Lulu. This is a
great, iconic performance, certainly one of the best in all of silent
cinema, and it makes Pandora's Box an extraordinary movie.
It’s fitting that Marlene Dietrich
was also considered for the role. She and Brooks, particularly in this
film, both exert a strong and daring sensuality, a fusion of self-aware
and confident (bi?)sexuality and yet also a adolescent naiveté. This is
the case in some of Dietrich’s earliest American roles: Morocco, The Devil Is a Woman, and Blonde Venus among others. Both actresses were masters at expressing assured, commanding and magnetic female attitudes and behaviors.
Another comparison that kept coming to mind while re-watching Pandora’s Box were some of the female characters created by Jean-Luc Godard and Anna Karina in the 1960s, especially (with somewhat similar hair and all) Vivre sa vie.
There’s a playfulness and charm that comes potently across with some of
the roles. The way Lulu bounces about early on, in the offices, her
home and backstage, recalls Karina’s exuberant, fancy-free behavior in Pierrot le fou, Bande à part, and Une femme est une femme.
Godard, being the homage-loving cinephile that he is, must have
certainly turned to Brooks for inspiration here. And speaking of
Godard’s female characters, a comparison could be drawn also with Jean Seberg’s Patricia in À bout de soufflé;
both women have a flirtatious quality, coupled with a disturbing
ability to wreck havoc. This comparison is additionally apt as Seberg
was also an American actress who found her most memorable and prominent
role only after being sought after and hired by a foreign filmmaker.
More than anything though, Brook’s Lulu stands as an exemplarily characterization of the neue frau
blossoming in Germany during the 1920s; this was sexually liberated
“new woman” emerging out of a modern, urban society where women were
gaining social stature and cultural importance, where they were becoming
more independent, and where they were (as was society as a whole)
becoming more and more concerned with surface values, of consumerism and
material possession. Lulu embodies this, particularly the latter
traits, perfectly. She is all about artifice. Much of what drives her
character is a selfish devotion to ownership (of power, objects and
people). She wants it all. There is, at the most extreme, a hedonistic
amorality, but Pabst present Lulu rather objectively. She is a product
of the time and place she lives, which was teetering between prosperity
and stability on the one hand and vice and destruction on the other.
Lulu is sort of like a mesh of the two Marias from Fritz Lang’s Metropolis, also of the period.
All
of that noted though, I am admittedly biased when it comes to watching
Brooks in this film. There’s no denying that she is a destructive and
troubling women—“Lulu leaves a trail of broken bodies and souls in her
wake as she moves through society, not because she does not care for the
individuals she meets, but because she doesn’t think at all,” writes
Ian Roberts. Yet for me anyway, she is quite attractive. It’s hard to
fault her as she functions in this world where (1) she doesn’t know any
better and (2) she is continually pandered to. She doesn’t know “no.” It
takes and apparent Jack the Ripper character to adequately deny her
anything. That’s what makes this character, and thus Brooks’
performance, so rich—this complexity. She’s a very physically and
mentally multifaceted woman, with layers of motivation and desire. She
is like a drug, an addiction for some of the other characters. She is
irresistible when she puts her wiles to work. She’s got that killer
smile. Two great instances are when she and Dr. Schön are caught in
their intimacy by his son and fiancé; she just looks up at their shocked
faces, smiles a bit, hops up and goes on with the show. Then later,
after Dr. Schön’s death, the prosecution is demanding the death
sentence. She looks at the lawyer and goes from fear to the most cunning
grin. Her traits, in terms of shrewdness, enticement and deceit, make
her an excellent early example of the femme fatal.
I
could go on and on about Louise Brooks in this film, but simply put, I
can’t imagine any other actress in this role. She is a force of nature
in this film. In every way she is a knockout.
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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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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)
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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