The
tragically brief filmmaking career of Rainer Werner Fassbinder consists
of great quantities, varying qualities, and an insatiable artistic
vigor. With more than 40 completed works in less than 20 years,
Fassbinder was a dynamo of creativity. He fluctuated in and out of any
number of generic constructs, experimented with a variety of formal
devices, and told an eclectic assortment of stories. With so many great
films to his credit, it’s hard for any one movie to lay claim as his
finest achievement. Ali: Fear Eats the Soul, his second of four
films released in 1974, is one that puts up a good fight though. At the
very least, it certainly ranks among Fassbinder’s most purely charming
and emotionally effectual.
“Happiness is not always fun” declares an opening title, and as Ali
progresses from there, the path of this most unlikely of love stories
is blemished by a xenophobia and bigotry that transcends decades,
cultures, and countries. Emmi (Brigitte Mira, in her first and finest
performance for Fassbinder) is an elderly cleaning woman who happens by
an immigrant bar. She steps in to get out of the rain and casually
orders a drink. The regulars decide to have some fun with this old lady.
They tell Ali, one of the foreign laborers who frequent the
establishment, to ask her to dance. Ali is played by El Hedi ben Salem,
himself a Moroccan whose eight of nine acting credits were all in
Fassbinder films and who, at the time, was also in a relationship with
the filmmaker. Born in 1935, he would pass away just two years after Ali‘s release. By contrast, the veteran Mira was born in 1910. She lived until 2005.
Balled
up, shrunken, and shunned, Emmi is as out of place in this bar as Ali
will soon be in a conventional domestic setting. Asking her to dance is a
simple gesture, even if it has roots in condescension, but it quickly
turns into something more. As the two dance, the others mockingly survey
the disparity of the duo. But then Ali goes back and sits with Emmi.
That wasn’t supposed to happen. Then he pays for her drink. Then he
walks her home. This definitely wasn’t supposed to happen.
In
this opening sequence, Fassbinder shoots Emmi as a solitary figure or
has Emmi and Ali together in one frame and the onlookers together in
another. This basic pattern continues throughout the picture. Rare is
the arrangement that has Emmi and Ali together with (that is, welcomed
or embraced by) others. There is, then, an immediate visualization of
the film’s “us versus them” theme of alienating conflict. Ali owes a great deal to the Douglas Sirk masterpiece All That Heaven Allows,
but whereas age and class were the barriers in that 1955 classic, here
there is age, class, race, nationality, probably religion; to say these
two have the odds stacked against them would be quite the
understatement.
A
neighbor sees Emmi enter her apartment with Ali, and the accusatory
condemnation in her circle promptly begins. Of the foreigner, one
shocked neighbor proclaims to another that he’s “a black man.” “Real
black?” eagerly—but not too eagerly—wonders the other. “Well, not that
black, but pretty dark,” says the first.
Emmi
reveals that her Nazi father hated foreigners and her husband was
Polish. She knows what intolerance is like, but she sees past such
prejudices. Rather, she recognizes the instant bond she and Ali tenderly
share. They are modest, simple, and nonjudgmental. They are, in their
own ways, alone, always working, and marred by sadness. Together they
have something special though, something that is beyond the scope of
what the gossiping, gawking, busybody neighbors can appreciate.
The
neighbors aren’t the only ones to contend with. Emmi’s children don’t
respond well to her declarations of love toward Ali either, and they
respond even worse when they first meet the man himself. Daughter Krista
(Irm Hermann, another of Fassbinder’s stock company) and her husband
Eugen (Fassbinder) have their own domestic issues. But they can turn a
blind eye to their relationship troubles by honing in on what they
perceive to be their mother’s. Eugen especially has a deep-seeded hatred
of foreign workers, so as far as he’s concerned, there’s one strike
against Ali already. Emmi noted earlier that her family only really gets
together for special occasions, but despite that implied familial
distance, they are all suddenly now very troubled by this new
development. The compressed disgust and hate that registers on the faces
of Emmi’s children as the camera pans to each in close-up is one of
Fassbinder’s most subtle and powerful touches in the film. The stunned
silence is broken when son Bruno (Peter Gauhe) throws a tantrum and
kicks through the television set (most certainly a reference to All That Heaven Allows).
No
matter. Ali and Emmi are in love. There may be some naiveté on her
part, or perhaps just innocent optimism, but she refuses to let the
scorn get her down. One rainy day, the two marry at the local registry
and they’re on their way as man and wife. First stop after the wedding:
an Italian restaurant, where Hitler used to eat.
The
reactions to the new couple grow increasingly ugly. The nasty and
bitter coworkers and neighbors slam all immigrant works as uncivilized,
barbaric, dumb, dirty, and money hungry (the women also don’t approve of
policemen with long hair). When they’re not being so openly callous,
they attempt understatement, telling Emmi euphemistically that there’s
“dirt in the house.” Eventually, it gets to the point where they won’t
even speak to her or sit next to her at lunch. Though El Hedi ben Salem
is generally inexpressive (as he usually is, so it may not be the Ali
character), Brigitte Mira has never been better, and she is especially
good in these sequences. As she stares isolated in the frame, Fassbinder
holds the camera on her weary face to maximum effect, giving us a
chance to take in her dejected expressions of sadness, envy, and
confusion.
Not
everyone is so cruel, however. The landlord’s son, for example, sees
nothing indecent about the relationship. But it’s too late. At an
outdoor café where Ali and Emmi are almost comically deserted as
strangers look on, she ironically professes her wish to be all alone
with him, with no one around them. Then she breaks down. The recent
treatment has gotten to her. She doesn’t like feeling ostracized.
Not
long after this, everyone grows more cordial. But there’s a catch. It’s
only the desire for personal gain that changes their tune. When it’s
for their own benefit, they don’t have as much trouble with the
newlyweds as they used to. The neighbors now like Ali’s muscles, and
Emmi’s children no longer think their mother is a whore, especially not
when they need something from her. Yet simultaneously, things starting
falling apart at home. Emmi overcomes her disheartened state by joining
in the gossip when there’s a new target and Ali, disenchanted with some
of Emmi’s established ways, seeks the illicit company of a trampy
bartender, going to her for couscous and “couscous.”
What’s
Fassbinder saying with all this? Is the relationship indeed doomed to
begin with, or is it just that it takes more work and sacrifice than
either Emmi or Ali are willing to put forth? Ultimately, they reach a
degree of understanding. They have tried to deny the societal influence
that affects their lives, but by the film’s end, honestly sheds light on
their hypocrisy. As in so much of Fasssbinder’s work, nobody here is
wholly innocent or entirely wicked.
Todd Haynes, whose Far from Heaven (2002) is another take on All That Heaven Allows and, by extension, Ali,
provides an introduction to the movie as one of the bonus features on
the Criterion Collection release of the film. He gives a thorough
background of Fassbinder’s politics, his career, and he discusses their
shared influences and preferences. Among those preferences is an
appreciation for light and color. Haynes’ decorative flair in his film
is a more obvious mimicry of Sirk’s work, but Fassbinder too imbues Ali with an excellent use of color. It’s less overtly expressive than Haynes or Sirk (or even than in some of his own later films— Lola (1981) most notably), but it’s nonetheless a key part of Ali and a crucial nod to one of Fassbinder’s greatest heroes. As much as anything else, Ali: Fear Eats the Soul
is just that: a tribute to a style of filmmaking very much admired by
this prolific and provocative German director. But because it is a
Fassbinder film, Ali stands more than securely on its own merits, with its own ideology, its own unique form, and its own social intent.
Always
inventive, never repetitive, Rainer Werner Fassbinder was among the
world’s most fascinating filmmaking figures, responsible for several
masterworks. Among them, Ali may be the best of the best.
REVIEW from SOUND ON SIGHT
Following the success of Rosemary’s Baby in 1968, and prior to what is arguably still his greatest film, Chinatown (1974), Roman Polanski made three curious filmmaking choices. One was the international coproduction and rarely discussed What? (1972), one was the racing documentary Weekend of a Champion (1972), and the third, which actually came before these two, was Macbeth
(1971). It is obviously not that a Shakespearean adaptation in itself
is unusual, but rather that it so seemingly diverted from the films that
were garnering the young Polanski his worldwide acclaim: taut thrillers
like The Knife in the Water (1962), Repulsion (1965), Cul-De-Sac (1966), and Rosemary’s Baby. Yet in Macbeth,
there are a number of characteristic Polanski touches — in story and
style — harkening back to these previous works and in many ways pointing
toward those to come.
Don’t be fooled by the Playboy Production/Hugh M. Hefner as executive producer credits, this is no Penthouse Caligula
(1979). This is a somber, sorrowful, generally faithful, and visually
satisfying version of one of Shakespeare’s most cinematic works. It’s
probably unnecessary to recount the entire plot of such a well-known
tale, but suffice it to say, working with some truly gifted
collaborators (production designer Wilfred Shingleton and
cinematographer Gil Taylor especially), Polanski does great justice to
this story of blind ambition, brutal murder, and erratic madness. When
Macbeth (Jon Finch) first has the seeds of a lofty reign planted in his
mind by the three weird sisters, his transformation from innocent
curiosity at their declaration to the resolute drive that preoccupies
his soul is a slow but steady development. Exacerbated by the devious
Lady Macbeth (Francesca Annis), Macbeth begins to contemplate how to
achieve the predicted role of King, who stands in his way, and who will
obediently follow.
As
Finch does an exceptional job conveying the brooding Macbeth, in all of
his anguish and indecision, Annis is superb as his shockingly two-faced
wife, who abandons her conniving ways, puts on her required mask of
respectability, and reverts back again with frightening ease. Though
Finch does a good deal to show Macbeth’s doubt, it soon becomes clear
that there is indeed no doubt whatsoever. His path is clear; he is to
give in to his “vaulting ambition,” he is to, as Lady Macbeth suggests,
“look like the innocent flower but be the serpent under it.” The first
step is to kill King Duncan (Nicholas Selby).
Once
the deed is done, an unceasing snowball of violence begins to roll, as
Macbeth grows anxious and paranoid and he and Lady Macbeth both begin to
mentally unravel. While Lennox speaks of “strange screams of death” the
unruly night of Duncan’s murder, nothing could prepare the region for
the conspiratorial turmoil that follows. Macbeth aggressively does all
he deems necessary to secure his position, wiping out any and all
potential adversaries, not the least of which is friend and fellow
general Banquo (Martin Shaw).
Even
before he goes on the warpath to his own destruction, Macbeth is shown
to be prone to visions, seeing the dagger that directs him to enact
Duncan’s demise, but as he descends into grief-stricken and murderous
madness, his visions intensify. Haunted by Banquo’s death, he falls
victim to delirious dream states of surreal panic. And as his breakdown
progresses, he becomes more and more insular and suspicious, seeking
refuge within the confines of his castle. In these sequences, we see
prominent elements from many of Polanski’s finest films. The depiction
of one’s progressive mental instability, intensified by paranoia and a
sense of claustrophobia, revealed in Macbeth’s delirium and accompany
delusions, and in the restrictive setting. Macbeth’s isolated castle is
itself perched high on narrow mountaintop and within that, Polanski
stages the drama to be even more withdrawn and visually tightening.
In
contrast to this, there is the beautifully melancholic exterior
photography, its lushness and natural splendor a precursor to Polanski’s
Tess (1979). The windswept English location, shot under the
effect of perpetual dampness and cloud cover, is scenery that strongly
reflects the foreboding tragedy that unfolds. What the setting lacks in
bold vibrancy, it makes up for with rich texture and stunning and subtle
natural light, both of which become markedly apparent in the newly
released Criterion Collection Blu-ray. If the exteriors point toward
Polanski’s own later work, inside the castle walls, the interior design
is reminiscent of Roberto Rossellini’s historical pictures from the late
1960s and early ’70s. In films like The Rise of Louis XIV (1966) or Blaise Pascal
(1972), Rossellini similarly depicted largely unglamorous time periods
in a realistic fashion, with acute attention to detail. A key difference
here though, is that Polanski imbues the stark reality of his
recreation with more expressive camera placement, movement, and editing.
The brutality of Polanski’s Macbeth
is commonly remarked upon, and while there are occasionally quite
graphic moments, the bloodshed isn’t that extraordinary, certainly not
by 2014 standards. And even if it were, bearing in mind the tragic
events of Polanski’s personal life just two years prior, it should come
as no surprise that violence weighed heavy on the filmmaker and
undoubtedly was in need of an outlet. This much of the film’s backstory
is largely glossed over in the Criterion disc’s bonus features, which is
perhaps for the better, as the Tate-LaBianca murders at the behest of
Charles Manson are an unwieldy topic, one that can (and did) easily lead
to distraction from Macbeth itself.
What
is given considerable attention in these additions is a comprehensive
account of the film’s tumultuous making (over budget, Polanski rumored
for replacement) and its generally poor critical and commercial
reception and meager release (the connotations of the Playboy name
somewhat of a hindrance for “serious” filmgoers). There were, however,
many positives, and that much of the production is discussed in a Dick
Cavett interview with coscreenwriter Kenneth Tynan and in “Two
Macbeths,” a 1972 TV episode with Polanski and theater director Peter
Coe. The Polanski Meets Macbeth documentary contains some
fascinating and revealing behind the scenes footage, including of the
superbly realized movement of Birnam Wood. And Toil and Trouble: Making “Macbeth,”
a documentary featuring interviews with Polanski, producer Andrew
Braunsberg, assistant executive producer Victor Lownes, and Annis and
Shaw, neatly covers the film’s gestation from beginning to end.
Though
I’m by no means a Shakespeare film aficionado (or even a big fan), on
the whole, Martin Shaw’s declaration in this latter documentary is
reasonable. Given Macbeth’s visual accomplishments, the
first-rate performances from all players, the excellent use of setting,
and the overall production design, it very well may be the “best
Shakespeare film that’s ever been made.”
Now a legendary horror film, The Texas Chain Saw Massacre, or The Texas Chainsaw Massacre as it seems to be called just as often (hereafter TCSM
either way), was at the time of its release a most unusual feature. Why
the movie still resonates today though, why it still has such a strong
cult following, and why it remains one of the genre’s greatest entries,
is for many of the same reasons it was so groundbreaking in 1974. The
Vietnam-era angst has since dissipated (or has perhaps been replaced by a
new sort of battle fatigue) and the notion of a post-Night of the Living Dead horror film renaissance has certainly gone by the wayside, but TCSM remains just as expressive and as masterfully effective it ever was.
The
opening scroll touts a film that is both “mad and macabre,” and goes on
to give the picture a (false) true story mythos, suggesting with a tone
of journalistic actuality that on August 18, 1973 the events we are
about to behold actually occurred (production on the film started July
15, 1973, so there’s that). As flashbulbs illuminate mangled and rotting
corpses, a piercing grinding or sanding sound cuts through the muffled
noises and the voices of disembodied men. These are more than just
corpses strewn about. These physically mutilated bodies are situated in
bizarre arrangements in a graveyard. Something very wrong has been
happening in this remote Texas region. A sickly feeling of impending,
ghastly dread is heightened by hues of saturated oranges, yellows, and
red, a color-coding that will reappear throughout the film. Over the
radio, we hear news accounts of other horrific events in the area. Death
is in the air it seems.
The
story that follows is admittedly slight, with little in the way of
narrative exposition or elaborate characterization, neither of which
prove to be especially necessary for this film that functions far more
successfully in its emphasis on atmosphere and visuals. Such as they
are, there are five main characters though: Kirk, Pam, Jerry, Sally, and
her brother, the wheelchair bound Franklin, the only character with a
memorable presence, for better or worse. In these roles are William
Vail, Teri McMinn, Allen Danziger, Marilyn Burns, and Paul A. Partain,
respectively.
“Things
happen here about,” says a drunkard rather cryptically in the beginning
of the picture, and while the group’s intention of visiting an old
family home seems innocent enough, it soon becomes obvious that things
will not go as planned. Along the way, they pick up a bloodied and
scarred hitchhiker who laughs hysterically, notes that his family has
“always been in meat,” carries snapshots of cow carcasses, and proceeds
to cut his palm with a pocketknife. What could go wrong here?
So
much of what is now a tried and true horror cliché is present to this
point—the eccentric drifter, the group of teenagers, a cemetery, an
isolated setting, etc.—but when the hitchhiker is removed from the van
and proceeds to smear his blood on the side, the initial mild weirdness
takes a sharp yet subtle turn to imminent danger.
The
quintet arrives at their destination and begins to survey the area,
including a visit to a nearby farmhouse with inhabitants who, we find,
have a very peculiar sense of dysfunctional family values. Again, this
begins the now common, though then comparatively novel, scenario of
picking off one by one each of the young people, ultimately concluding
with the “final girl,” arguably the first incarnation of this similarly
modern generic device.
Early
on in the van, there is mention of the zodiac and planetary alignments
suggesting some sort of otherworldly evil, but such a foreign
stimulation for the terror that transpires is not to be. The evil here
is not from the beyond. The evil here is very human, very real. From the
first time we see the famous Leatherface (Gunnar Hansen), it becomes
clear that TCSM is operating on a whole other plane that its
horror predecessors. The picture eschews the typical, but by no means
mandatory, malevolent back-story assigned to the villains. This
wickedness is an inexplicable one. There is no solace in an explanation,
no comfort in reasoning. Those who reside in this house of horrors
operate on an unknown and perhaps unknowable wavelength. They simply are
who they are and director Tobe Hooper appears to be not the least bit
concerned with establishing their motivations or their rationale. And
the film is all the better for it.
There
is surprisingly little bloodshed in the film, but there is certainly
violence—painful and sudden violence—starting with the dynamic first
kill, a brutally realistic and spastic takedown. In place of excessive
gore, there is a palpable sensory experience. Stifling Texas heat and
the concurrent dirt and grime that appear bonded to every individual and
surface produce a texture of uncomfortable grit and roughness. Add to
this the stated stench of the local slaughterhouses and the sweaty
confinement of the van and you get a highly evocative sense of
displeasure. TCSM utilizes abject features to amplify its
unpleasantly potent picture of the horrific: spiders scurrying in the
corner, peeling wallpaper, bones, hair, fur, teeth, and skulls. These
naturally repellent or at least unsettling elements placed in these
abhorrent sites set a truly horrific scene.
Related
to this are the anatomical constructions that decorate the interior of
the farmhouse. The gruesome set design created from these revolting
props is an ornamentation built on the objectionable. While TCSM is a fictional film, part of its inspiration came from the ghastly exploits of Ed Gein (also a basis for Norman Bates in Psycho and Buffalo Bill in The Silence of the Lambs).
Here, his fleshy furniture and corporeal costuming are ever-present and
act as a sort of primitive precursor to the body horror subgenre that
would develop years later, the pinnacle of achievement to come in the
works of David Cronenberg. TCSM is particularly focused on
physical deformity and disability (see, for example, Franklin, his
crippled condition conveying a weakness that will contrast against the
power of Leatherface) and, on the other hand, the strength of the
physical and mental will that allows for the gruesome bodily
modifications and the generally repugnant living conditions of this most
uncanny family.
For
a film that otherwise looks down and dirty and clearly on the lower end
of the budget spectrum ($83,532 according to an IMDB estimate –
yielding a $30,859,000 gross), credit goes to Hooper and director of
photography Daniel Pearl for keeping the film punctuated by unexpected
bits of stylish skill. Odd and interesting angles and smooth,
occasionally quite intricate camera maneuvers do a good deal to offset
any apparent budgetary restrictions. Yet one of the reasons TCSM
is so impressive is its generally unappealing look. This has nothing to
do with poor cinematography (though cheap 16 mm stock no doubt
contributed), but it is a feature common to a great many horror films
from the period. Take any number of the cannibal films of the 1970s, the
average Video Nasty, or the early Wes Craven features; these films look
unpleasant, and they work extremely well because of it. There is no
gloss, no sheen, no consistently crystal clear imagery. They are grainy,
murky, and soiled. The settings are filthy and ugly. The people, or at
least the bad people, are unattractive and peculiar. Forget their
narrative content, these films look like horror films. One of the last really great movies to effectively capitalize on this visual distinction was Henry: Portrait of a Serial Killer
(1986), which arguably falls more into the drama category anyway,
already signaling a stylistic shift in the form. In any case, such an
objectionable quality and association is relatively rare now, which is a
shame, for as TCSM shows as well as any, it makes for a profoundly visceral viewing experience.
For those who agree with any of the above assessment and likewise find TCSM
to be a strikingly impressive horror film, the newly released 40th
Anniversary Collector’s Edition 2 Blu-ray/2 DVD combo pack is a gold
mine of fascinating featurettes, commentaries, and behind the scenes
miscellanea. On the disc with the feature are no less than four distinct
commentary tracks (two unique to this set), bringing in everyone from
Tobe Hooper and a majority of the cast to production designer Robert
Burns (perhaps the most unsung and integral contributor to the film) and
editor J. Larry Carroll. The 72 minute The Texas Chain Saw Massacre: The Shocking Truth
is probably the most informative special feature, but inclusions like a
2000 tour of the farmhouse-turned-restaurant with Hansen and an episode
of Horror’s Hallowed Grounds will stoke the fan boy’s interest
in the film’s contemporary state (I for one would gladly take a trip to
Kingsland, Texas in order to dine at the Grand Central Café). Deleted
scenes, outtakes, more interviews, even a blooper reel; the bonus disc
sheds light on nearly every facet of this classic motion picture.
Accounts
vary regarding Fritz Lang’s departure from his native Germany in 1933.
His own tale of a hasty and secretive escape in the dark of night has
been met with scrutiny, and documentation from the period seems to
confirm a considerable amount of embellishment on Lang’s part. In any
case, the bottom line is that Lang got out while the getting was good,
first stopping over in France, where he directed Liliom (1934), then making his way to America, where his first Hollywood feature, Fury,
was released in 1936. Lang never fully left his Germanic sensibilities
though, nor did he deviate much from his established cinematic style,
already so marvelously displayed in the earliest of his German films. It
stands to reason, then, that when World War II began in full force,
Lang felt compelled to delve into war-related films. His personal
connection to his European homeland and his feelings about what had
became of it found an outlet in his Hollywood moviemaking, first with Man Hunt (1941) then with Hangmen Also Die
(1943), an excellent wartime thriller that exhibits a number of Lang’s
defining narrative and formal characteristics, and clearly indicates
where he stood politically and socially.
After
the Czechoslovakian resistance fighter Dr. Franticek Svoboda, AKA Karel
Vanek (Brian Donlevy) shoots Nazi officer Reinhard Heydrich, AKA “The
Hangman” (Hans Heinrich von Twardowski), he attempts to flee from the
scene, which he does thanks to Nasha Novotny (Anna Lee). Nasha is a
young Czech woman who lives in the area and quite innocently directs the
Gestapo away from Svoboda. Such a seemingly innocuous decision,
however, brings forth tragic and wide-ranging ramifications. Nasha’s
father, Prof. Stephen Novotny (Walter Brennan), knows who Svoboda is
when he comes to thank Nasha, and he is wise to what the stranger has
done. The rest of her family, however, remains in the dark, as does her
fiancé. Eventually, the Nazis round up anyone who may know the
whereabouts of Heydrich’s assassin (including Prof. Novotny), planning
to execute these hostages until the assailant reveals himself.
The
suspenseful pursuit that transpires gives Lang ample time and varying
scenarios to convey the threatening reign of terror that envelops this
Czechoslovakian region. Reminders of intimidation tactics and promises
of punishment constantly haunt the townspeople. Yet their destitution
and surface meekness conceal a rebellion that boils underneath. The
shooting of “The Hangman” lights the spark, and no matter that
restrictions are tightened and hostages are taken, the bottled up
defiance is steadily brought to eruption. Is Hangmen Also Die a
propaganda piece? Of course, in the best possible sense. Adamantly
pro-Nazi, the film in turn must undoubtedly favor the other side, as it
should. It is a testament to the resilience of the resistance.
But
there is also a very human drama acted out against this backdrop.
Svoboda’s attack of conscience as he struggles between his own survival
and that of the hostages is a powerful predicament. When the Nazis begin
their community assault, all in the name of seeking the assassin,
Svoboda wonders if it’s all worth it. He is reassured that the
underground needs him, that he, or more specifically, his actions, are
representative of the whole of the opposing population. “Czech people
have executed the hangman,” he is told. It’s more than just him. But the
guilt of the punishment extended to the innocent weighs heavily. At the
same time, Nasha knows who Svoboda is and what he did. Drop the dime
and her father will possibly be returned, but at what cost to the
resistance? Like in so many Lang films, from M (1931) to Fury to Beyond a Reasonable Doubt
(1956), moral dilemmas abound, all questioning simplistic divisions
between the personal and the communal, between what is good for all and
what is good for one.
Lang
expertly shoots the tension with a stark, noirish treatment, where
every word or suggestion potentially puts someone new in danger.
Suspicion and impending betrayal sway actions and thoughts, and the
hazards of traitorously playing both sides are shown to be quite dire.
As in M, Lang’s interrogation scenes are taciturn and hostile,
with little in the way of decorative visual or aural adornment to divert
attention from the accusatory aggression. The questioning is cold,
detached, and menacing. Likewise, as also in M or Fury
for example, Lang’s depiction of a mob mentality, for better or worse,
is powerful. When Nasha is questioned by her own people about her
reasons for wanting to go to the Gestapo, the threat of their violently
turning even on her becomes very real.
There
are times when the overriding message of the film gets somewhat
pedantic, but the intentions are admirable and the emotion is strong.
And though the film gets slightly sluggish toward the end, with some
needlessly prolonged digressions, these same scenes occasionally boast
moments of brilliance (the way in which the traitor is revealed, for
instance).
With cinematography by the renowned James Wong Howe, Hangmen Also Die looks great, even if it’s not quite as ornamental as his work on Yankee Doodle Dandy (1942) before, or Sweet Smell of Success
(1957) years later. Donlevy gives a decent performance, though it’s
largely a one-note turn. Lee’s frightful Nasha fluctuates more notably,
between timidity and stubborn strength. Brennan, not at all as most
people know the actor, is generally responsible for the film’s didactic
speeches, as given by the endearingly wise Prof. Novotny. They are brief
appearances, but the performances of Lionel Stander as a pivotal
everyman cab driver and Hans Heinrich von Twardowski as the creepy
“Hangman,” an embodiment of pure evil, are also memorable.
(Interestingly, the German von Twardowski’s credits range from work on
the seminal The Cabinet of Dr. Caligari (1920) to a string of almost comically typecast roles in films such as Hitler’s Madman (1943), The Strange Death of Adolf Hiter (1943), The Hitler Gang (1944) — you get the idea.)
That Hangmen Also Die
came together as well as it did and holds up as well as it does is
something of a surprise given its tumultuous road to production and
release. Accompanying the newly released Cohen Film Collection Blu-ray
is a commentary by Richard Peña, a featurette with historian Robert
Gerwarth, and an essay by Prof. Peter Ellenbruch, all of which detail
the film’s complex backstory and its true-life source. Bertolt Brecht
and Lang were friendly, and Lang did a good deal to secure the author’s
arrival in America and his subsequent Hollywood employment, but each
approached storytelling from drastically different methodologies, and
their ultimate aims for the film were not always in sync. What followed
also included contested screenwriting credit (hence John Wexley’s name),
issues with studio requirements (more romance) and, years later, a
“subversive” label at the hand of the HUAC. Whatever it took though, Hangmen Also Die works. With M,
it is a film Lang considered among his most important.Coming out in
1943, it also must have been frighteningly dramatic for contemporary
audiences, and it remains a chilling and captivating window into the
personalities and emotions of WW II’s victims, their struggles, their
small victories, and the sweeping human toll of the whole era.
REVIEW from SOUND ON SIGHT
If Alejandro Jodorowsky’s name has been in the news as of late, it’s largely thanks to Frank Pavich’s excellent documentary Jodorowsky’s Dune.
While this is a fascinating and tantalizing examination of what might
have been a stunning feature in the filmmaker’s rather limited body of
work, it should not distract from the films Jodorowsky actually made
since the Dune debacle. This includes the 85-year-old’s latest feature (which is teased at the end of the documentary), the autobiographical The Dance of Reality,
out now on blu-ray. This Felliniesque chronicle of occasionally
inflated childhood reminisces and the sociopolitical factors that form
one’s identity is a beautiful film, lovingly crafted, episodic though at
times meandering, and certainly a passion project for its director.
We
first see Jodorowsky himself in the present day, directly addressing
the camera and speaking somewhat cryptically about the perils of money
(obviously for those who saw the Dune documentary, financial
backing was a frequent struggle for Jodorowsky). From there, the real
Jodorowsky occasionally reappears, inserted into the narrative,
providing words of comfort and wisdom to his fictional childhood self,
played by Jeremias Herskovits. Joining young Alejandro is his mother,
Sara (Pamela Flores), a pleasant and quite curvaceous woman who
operatically sings her dialogue (Jodorowsky’s mother always wanted to be
an opera singer), and his father, Jaime (Brontis Jodorowsky, Alejandro
Jodorowsky’s oldest son), an obnoxious, Stalin-loving brute. Jaime is
frequently condemning his timid boy, with accusations of everything from
being too quiet, to being too effeminate (especially with his locks of
golden hair), to being a homosexual. For Jaime, his crude notions of
assertive masculinity depend on his son’s ability to tolerate pain.
Adding to the child’s bewildered upbringing is the fact that his mother
refers to the boy as her father, apparently because she was (still is?)
under the impression that he is her dad reincarnated.
Once this much is established, The Dance of Reality
has no real driving narrative path to speak of. The early portions of
the film follow young Alejandro as he goes about his daily business in
the small seaside town of Tocopilla, Chile, circa the late 1930s.
Whether or not it truly was this way, Jodorowsky’s recreation of his
hometown is one of vibrancy and vitality, in the literal color of its
buildings and houses and in its colorful cast of frequently exaggerated
characters. The strongest moments of The Dance of Reality come
in these early sequences, where we steadily see the factors that shape
the man Jodorowsky would become, with elements of new age spiritualism
and reactions to politics, art, family, religion, sex, money, and death.
It is not all gloom though. We also see the joys of young Jodorowsky:
new red shoes (which he quickly gives away) and his role of mascot for
the local fire brigade (a position he assumes once the old mascot, a
dog, dies). But there are the bad times, the times when he is verbally
and physically mistreated by his father or ostracized by other children
for being a circumcised Jew.
For
much of the film’s latter half, the focus shifts to Jaime and his
conflicted and complicated political ideology. His initial disdain for
dictator Carlos Ibáñez gives way to a resentment that turns Jaime the
lingerie salesman into a would-be assassin. Through this portion of the
film, The Dance of Reality, while hitting on more substantial
political themes, nevertheless loses some of it amusing charm.
Ultimately though, this section is itself redeemed by redemption as the
initially bellicose Jaime endures a number of trials and tribulations,
including some extremely unpleasant torture, only to wind up a
comparatively weak and humbled figure. His trajectory is tragic yet
finally constructive.
Every
film should be judged on its own merits, not necessarily on what came
before it. But given Jodorowsky’s stunning surrealism of the late 1960s
and early ’70s, and given the intensely personal nature of The Dance of Reality,
one can’t help but draw comparisons to his prior works. In this regard,
while this latest feature may not have the wall-to-wall brilliant
weirdness of El Topo or The Holy Mountain, there are
still more than a few moments of classic Jodorowsky imagery, albeit less
shocking and provocative: hundreds of sardines washed ashore, Jaime
pissing on the radio, a small army of scarred amputees. And there are
multiple scenarios and single images of metaphoric significance; like in
the works of the late great Hungarian Miklós Jancsó and Greek Theodoros
Angelopoulos, however, many of the regional and historical references
will likely go missed by those not familiar with the material.
Nevertheless, also like in the films of these other two directors, this
lack of knowledge does not in any way diminish the impact of the film at
hand.
On
the technical side of things, the new ABKCO blu-ray is a stunning
release, with extremely sharp picture and a few brief, though
insightful, interviews. Some have decried Jodorowsky’s decision to shoot
on digital rather than film, and while the budgetary benefits were
likely imperative, the results, in any case, are superb. Some of the
special effects falter and some of the interiors have a noticeable
hollow, soap opera-like quality, but by and large, this is a great
looking movie.
Jodorowsky calls The Dance of Reality
“A picture made with soul. My soul.” And he was not alone. Accompanying
him in the creation of this special work was his wife, Pascale, who did
the costumes, and his two other sons, Adan and Axel, appear in the film
as well; Adan also worked on the score. For anyone who has seen
Jodorowsky speak passionately (like in Jodorowsky’s Dune), it is clear that when he has great enthusiasm for something the results can be extraordinary. The Dance of Reality
may not exactly be extraordinary, but for a filmmaker like Alejandro
Jodorowsky, even a less than perfect movie is going to be unique and
always at least worth watching.
Director
Jacques Tourneur knew how to make the most out of a little,
particularly when he was working in collaboration with producer Val
Lewton (see Cat People, 1942, I Walked with a Zombie, 1943, and The Leopard Man,
1943). So when RKO gave this master of the low-budget picture a
comparatively larger budget and a top-notch screenplay (by Daniel
Mainwaring—as Geoffrey Homes—based on his own novel, “Build My Gallows
High”) the result was one of the finest of all film noir.
Starring Robert Mitchum as Jeff and Jane Greer as Kathie, Out of the Past
is built on a premise that is one of the defining characteristics of
noir: the inevitability of an inescapable past. Such a device was often
integral, with the repercussions of one’s recent deeds coming back to
haunt them, but relatively rare was the film that was built purely
around this convention, and even more unusual was the gap in time
between one’s transgressions and their current life.
When
Jeff Bailey is first seen, he is an unassuming gas station owner with a
mysterious background that doesn’t at all concern Ann Miller (Virginia
Huston), the pleasant small-town girl he loves. The town is Bridgeport,
California, a quiet, peaceful place, an ideal place to be and never
leave, an ideal place to go when you don’t want to be found. Such are
Jeff’s motivations. But when former acquaintance Joe (Paul Valentine)
shows up, Jeff’s state of calm is upended. Bailey is revealed to be
Markham and Jeff’s dark past comes to light.
Jeff
is instructed to travel to Lake Tahoe to meet criminal boss Whit
Sterling (Kirk Douglas). With Ann in tow, Jeff finally tells her who is
he, where he came from, where they’re heading, and why it might not be a
good thing. “You sure are a secretive man,” Ann tells Jeff earlier (she
has no idea), but now he’s going to come clean. Ominously he warns her,
“Some of it’s gonna hurt you,” and he proceeds.
Via
voice-over and flashback (noir through and through), Jeff goes back
three years prior, to when Whit hired him to find Kathie, Whit’s girl
who made off with 40 grand of his money only after plugging him in the
chest. Jeff is competent, so of course, he finds her, but he is also a
man, and this is noir, and she is a quintessential femme fatale. They
fall for each other and Jeff quickly disregards his obligation to Whit,
knowing full well what will probably happen to Kathie if she is
returned. Predictably, this brief liaison doesn’t end happily and the
now murderous Kathie disappears. Cut to present day and Jeff is back
with Whit at his Tahoe mansion. And so is Kathie. Whit again employs
Jeff, but this time, Jeff is wiser and knows the game, and the name of
the game is frame. Jeff knows he is being set up, but by playing dumb,
he emerges smarter than everyone thinks, and he attempts to use
incessant double crossing and dirty dealing to his favor. The past may
have caught up with Jeff—his past partner, past deals, the past of his
former associates—but he is convinced a future remains in reach.
There are multiple reasons why Out of the Past
is such an exemplary work in the world of noir, and part has to do with
just how faithfully and inventively it adheres to the form. Ambiguous
motives leave nearly everyone under suspicion, and when someone’s
personal faults don’t trip them up, chance usually does. Mainwaring’s
screenplay (with uncredited assistance from James M. Cain and Frank
Fenton) has some of the snappiest quips of any noir, where everyone is
witty and cracks wise at an unbelievable rate. For his part, Tourneur
keeps Out of the Past visually appealing with imaginative
camera angles and lighting that is deep and dark in the best noir
tradition. Diverse settings in New York, Mexico, and California
illustrate that no matter where one goes, the seamy and threatening look
of noir, just like one’s past, is sure to follow. Locations also serve
the purpose of reflecting Jeff’s dual nature and his conflicted desires,
with Kathie and Ann personifying their respective backdrops of shadowy
urban peril and secure rural tranquility; in other words, who Jeff was
and what he hopes to be.
Robert Mitchum owns Out of the Past.
After bit parts throughout the early 1940s, Mitchum paid his dues to
earn more substantial roles, including his first and only Oscar
nomination for Story of G.I. Joe (1945) and his turn in the excellent Crossfire,
also from 1947. But here, we see the fleshing out of his characteristic
cool, calm, seemingly detached bad-boy sensuality, just barely
shrouding a capacity for wicked violence. This film would then serve as
the catalyst for a career full of memorable performances: The Lusty Men (1952), River of No Return (1954), The Night of the Hunter (1955), Cape Fear (1962), El Dorado (1966), and so on, all the way up to Dead Man
in 1995. Such a legendary acting career cannot, however, be applied to
Huston or Greer, though Greer would amusingly appear in Taylor
Hackford’s 1984 Out of the Past remake, Against All Odds.
As for Kirk Douglas, this being only his second film role, it’s
obviously safe to say he had much more ahead of him, including his first
Oscar nomination for Champion just two years later.
No
matter if his protagonists are deranged or distraught, happy or sad, or
if his stories are light or dark, comedic or tragic, the films of Pedro
Almodóvar are usually at the very least enjoyable. Even at their most
disturbing, there is something inescapably jubilant about his lavish use
of color, his vibrant characters, and his unceasing passion for life
and filmmaking. And when he aims to make something purely amusing, the
results can be astonishing. It is for all of these reasons that Tie Me Up! Tie Me Down!, surprisingly the first Almodóvar film released by the Criterion Collection, is such a treat.
In this 1989 feature, made just after Almodóvar’s award-winning breakthrough Women on the Verge of a Nervous Breakdown,
Victoria Abril stars as junkie porn star turned respectable leading
lady Marina Osorio, the object of affection and obsession for Antonio
Banderas’ Ricki, a newly released mental patient. Prior to Ricki’s
discharge, the institution director tells him he is “not a normal
person,” something that should be obvious, and certainly is to the
audience, but he is nevertheless set free. Meanwhile, Marina is on the
set of a rather unassuming horror movie where she is under the watchful
eye of her sister Lola (Loles León)—wary of her sister’s potentially
returning drug habit—and the voyeuristic eye of the film’s lustful
director, Máximo Espejo (Francisco Rabal), who is partially paralyzed
due to a stroke and is confined to his mobile “electric chair.”
Once Ricki arrives on the set of the fictional film, Tie Me Up! Tie Me Down!
begins to mirror the goofy horror picture in production. After he dons a
ridiculous long hair wig, Ricki wanders in the background with his eye
on Marina, but when he finally gets her attention, she brushes him off.
More drastic measures will be necessary. While these sequences and those
when Ricki first arrives at Marina’s apartment are played like a horror
film, with his stalking around and the suspenseful score by Ennio
Morricone, the tonal fluctuations of the film betray any perceived
terror. It’s hard to take any threat too seriously when Almodóvar is
clearly having so much fun with it.
Apparently
assuming the way to a woman’s heart is through home invasion and
kidnapping, Ricki forces himself through Marina’s door, headbutts her,
and proceeds to tie her up. He does this, he says, so that they will get
to know each other; he’s quite sure she will love him. Though he is
clearly not of sound mind and has an evident capacity for violence, he
is quickly apologetic and remains certain that she will, eventually,
succumb to his charms and they will live happily ever after. He has even
given her a heart-shaped box of candy (“Nice touch, huh?” he proudly
asks), so come on, how bad can he be? At one point, the editor of the
film within the film says of her work, “It’s more a love story than a
horror story,” and ultimately, Tie Me Up! Tie Me Down! itself ends up being one unconventional love story.
So
much of what defines Almodóvar’s cinema is on display in this film. To
begin with, nearly every character is charged with a sexual current,
their physical needs and mental preoccupations constantly striving
toward carnal gratification. And as is typical with Almodóvar, this is
more often than not played for laughs, particularly as the individuals
struggle to balance appropriate looking and suggestive dialogue with
actual contact. The instant sexual connection between Ricki and Marina
gives their particular situation a precarious tension conveyed by their
fluctuating positions in frame and their evolving active/reactive
behaviors as they progressively grow more at ease with each other.
Almodóvar frequently holds a single shot in order to witness their
budding yet awkwardly promising relationship of comfort and familiarity.
With characteristically little camera movement, save for occasional and
generally innocuous track or dolly, and with relatively limited
editing, Almodóvar’s greatest stylistic touch are his carefully arranged
compositions, unique angles, and his orchestration of characters in
relation to each other and their setting.
It
is stated that Rabal’s filmmaker character is known as an actresses’
director, and the same could easily be applied to Almodóvar. From Carmen
Maura to Penélope Cruz, he has worked with some exceptional women, and
the roles he creates allow them to prosper to their fullest potential;
Abril and León are no exception here. Banderas considers his role in
this film a sort of culmination of his prior work with Almodóvar, and
though he is dangerously kooky and this movie as much as any helped put
him on the international map, it is the ladies who turn in the most
engaging and multifaceted performances.
Those
who work with Almodóvar are quick to acknowledge his influence and his
importance in their careers. Among the special features on the Criterion
disc is an extended documentary on the making of Tie Me Up! Tie Me Down! and
on it,Banderas, Abril, León, and Rossy de Palma, among others, all
speak glowingly of Almodóvar and his impact. The features also include a
conversation between Almodóvar and Banderas, delightful footage from
the film’s 1990 premiere party in Madrid, and an interview with Sony
Pictures Classics copresident Michael Barker. The accompanying booklet
features a piece about the film by Almodóvar, a conversation between
Kent Jones and Wes Anderson, and an interview with Almodóvar.
With a pleasant late ’80s flair — in clothes, set design, and character accessories — Tie Me Up! Tie Me Down!
is an excellent middle period Almodóvar feature, emblematic of so much
of what brought him to international prominence: the dark comedy, the
campy melodrama, the sexuality, the quirkiness. Save for the final shot
though, it hasn’t quite attained the subtle emotional quality that some
of his more recent films achieve (Volver, Broken Embraces).
At this point in his career, Almodóvar had also not yet fully
developed the “new humanism,” as Barker puts it, that marked later films
like Talk to Her and All About My Mother. The film
does maintain, however, the crucial liberal minded lack of judgment that
makes much of Almodóvar’s work so personable.
In any event, Tie Me Up! Tie Me Down!
is a testament to the frequently strange path love takes to bring its
companions together, and though more orthodox methods are suggested, it
is utterly fantastic to watch this couple connect by whatever means
necessary.
REVIEW from SOUND ON SIGHT
A House of Nightmares: Douglas Sirk’s Sleep, My Love
Sleep, My Love
begins with a nightmarish state of panic as Alison Courtland (Claudette
Colbert) wakes to find herself inexplicably on a Boston-bound train.
She doesn’t remember boarding the train. In fact, the last thing she
recalls is going to sleep in her New York City home. But here she is,
and other passengers say they saw her at the station. In her purse, she
finds a gun. As trains barrel down the tracks, blinding lights and
piercing horns accentuate Alison’s sudden, bewildering, and terrifying
situation. Back at her house, Detective Sgt. Strake (Raymond Burr)
follows up on Richard W. Courtland’s call about his missing wife.
Richard (Don Ameche) concurs that the last he saw his wife she was in
her bed. He tells Strake he’s worried this time … This time?
Alison calls to reassure Richard with her whereabouts, just after Strake
notices that Richard is hurt. It’s only a superficial wound, he
explains, an accident while cleaning his gun.
The
above has all taken place in the first ten minutes of this 1948 film,
directed by Douglas Sirk. It’s a gripping opening that dramatically sets
the scene for what is a very solid film noir. As the picture
progresses, it’s revealed that the woman who helped Alison in Boston,
Grace Vernay (Queenie Smith), gave a false name. Back in New York, she
joins Daphne (Hazel Brooks), who is introduced in slinky, black
lingerie; the vampish beauty, clearly up to no good, is something else,
and frankly, there’s not enough of her as the film goes on. She and
Grace are also with Charles Vernay (George Coulouris), a photographer
and co-conspirator who soon shows up at the Courtland house telling
Alison he is Dr. Rhinehart, there to help her with whatever it is that
ails her. Sleep walking? Some sort of mental illness? Something,
perhaps, not so natural? We also meet Bruce Elcott (Robert Cummings).
Far more than the others, he seems decent, maybe even one of the good
guys.
One of Sleep, My Love’s
strongest attributes is its initial ambiguity. So much has been brought
up and left out in the open, unexplained and primed for imminent
ramifications, that the possibility of everyone having an angle seems
perfectly plausible. All we know for sure is that a scheming group of
deceitful, fallacious individuals is manipulating poor Alison. The
motive is unclear, until, that is, we discover that this group also
includes Richard, who is romantically linked with Daphne. When Bruce
takes Alison out for an evening, the film pulls back. The night of
revelry gives her just what she needs. And we needed it to. A frivolous
trip to a wedding provides Alison and the audience a brief respite, a
chance to catch our breath and put everything together before jumping
back into the plot.
It would be ideal if Sleep, My Love
could sustain this level of breathless energy and suspense, but perhaps
inevitably, as more is exposed the less creatively mysterious it all
becomes. And once it’s clear that Bruce begins to suspect something and
starts his own investigation, we realize Alison will be safe and some of
the suspense diminishes, or at least it transfers to his inquiry rather
than her wellbeing. To the credit of the screenwriters — St. Clair
McKelway and Leo Rosten, working off his own novel — the film hits the
ground running and even when it loses steam it’s still never anything
less than interesting. Even when it establishes the relatively
commonplace device of a husband slowly poisoning his wife, the film is
original enough to throw hypnosis into the mix, resulting in an
additional level of potential danger for the female protagonist. The
drugging is bad enough, but with the psychological torment, Sleep, My Love
surprisingly strays from a standard thriller and enters into a
territory that borders on horror. This is particularly the case when
Charles, in the guise of Dr. Rhinehart, repeatedly shows up to toy with
Alison, appearing as a frightening vision to this unstable, fragile
woman.
Most
famously, and understandably, known for his extraordinary melodramas,
these films nevertheless make up only a portion of Douglas Sirk’s
output. But if one draws parallels between these films and a film like Sleep, My Love,
there are some interesting connections. First and foremost is the use
of a residence as the domestic arena against which the drama unfolds.
The home here serves part of the same function as in these melodramas,
insofar as it’s a realm of externally perceived stability but, behind
those doors, as so many Sirk films have shown, lays a far more troubling
reality. Working within the conventions of noir, Sirk simultaneously
makes the interior of the house itself a vibrantly duplicitous setting,
one that fluctuates as darkness falls. By day, all is typically bright
and right; for the most part, it’s welcoming, well lit, and secure. By
night, however, these same locations, crucially never fully lit once in
the dark, bring out the hidden cruelty. (Even in the daytime, note how
the atmosphere changes when Charles/Dr. Rhinehart closes the blinds,
turning light into darkness in more ways than one.) During the
wonderfully staged conclusion, illumination, or the lack thereof, plays a
crucial role as lights are first out, then turned on, shot out, turned
on, etc. As the tension mounts, the characters try to light the home as a
way of ascertaining protection, but in this genre, that in itself is a
key obstacle. And by the very end, one of the key characters declares,
“In a little while, we’ll be out of this house forever,” as if the house
itself were the catalyst for what had ensued. Sirk’s homes frequently
play an integral role in his narratives and formal designs, but rarely
do houses as dynamic structures take on the qualities this one does.
Again,
Sirk’s stunning use of color in his later melodramas is probably what
he is most lauded for, and, again, rightly so. But here with this black
and white feature, his images need no such embellishment. A comparison
with Hitchcock is to be expected with a film like this, so let it be
said, as Hitchcock did so well, Sirk too utilizes an array of camera
maneuvers and angles to provide a visual association with the frenzied,
anxious tone of the film. (Having Joseph A. Valentine as his
cinematographer certainly helped.) This works especially well in the
interior sequences, not only because that’s where the tension mounts,
but it breaks up the enclosed spaces and freshly presents the recurring
ones, avoiding the potential outcome of bound, tedious familiarity.
Claudette
Colbert, obviously a more than capable actress (with an Oscar and two
nominations by this point), does not, unfortunately, get much to work
with here. She essentially starts the picture in a state of fretful
hysteria and pretty much remains that way, save for perhaps the night
out with Cummings, where she’s then in a state of drunken
hysteria. On the other hand, Ameche is delightfully sinister. He plays
Richard as a competent, slick manipulator, sharply covering all his
bases. He’s no von Stroheim, but he is fun to hate.
Sleep, My Love
was distributed on Blu-ray by Olive Films in April. This Chicago-based
company may not have the name recognition of, say, the Criterion
Collection, but with recent releases such as Men in War, Caught, Stranger on the Prowl, and The Pawnbroker,
to say nothing of its total output in the past year, it has established
itself as a fine source for lesser-know but still exceptional works by
major filmmakers. Sleep, My Love is one such film.
This REVIEW was originally published by FILM INTERNATIONAL
You
really can’t go wrong with any of the 16 titles included in Herzog: The
Collection, the recently released limited edition Blu-ray set. This
stunning compendium features several of the incomparable Werner Herzog’s
finest fiction and documentary films (including many that fall
somewhere between those categories), most available for the first time
on Blu-ray. Though the strongest cases could be made for Aguirre, the Wrath of God and Fitzcarraldo,
it would be difficult to necessarily pick the “best” film included
here, but one movie that has always stood out as being among Herzog’s
most unusual is Stroszek, from 1977. Well received upon its release, and now recognized as one of the German filmmaker’s finest films, Stroszek is something of an enigma in Herzog’s career full of enigmatic works.
The
picture follows three Berliners as they flee their homeland for the
safe haven that is Wisconsin. There is the prostitute Eva, played by Eva
Mattes, primarily known for her collaborations with Herzog’s fellow
German New Waver, Rainer Werner Fassbinder (The Bitter Tears of Petra von Kant, Effi Briest, and Mother Küsters Goes to Heaven,
among others). Then there is Bruno Stroszek, played by the inscrutable
Bruno S., primarily known for, well, being the abused, trouble-making,
mentally unstable son of a prostitute. Dubbed by Herzog the “unknown
soldier of German cinema,” Bruno had worked with the director on The Enigma of Kaspar Hauser
three years prior, also in the title role. Lastly, there is Scheitz,
played by Clemens Scheitz, another amateur and rather odd fellow with a
total of six credits to his name, four of them with Herzog.
Stroszek
begins as Bruno is released from prison (the real Bruno was also in
frequent trouble with the law). Toting some luggage, his accordion, and a
bugle, the music-loving Bruno proclaims he is “entering freedom,” but
his delight at this is sadly ironic, for no sooner is he out than he
begins to see just how harsh, demanding, and restricting the outside
world can be. The disheveled and wild-eyed Bruno is warned to stay away
from alcohol (apparently a key factor in his incarceration), so of
course the first thing he does is grab a beer at the bar. There he meets
up with Eva, a low-class prostitute under the thumb of an abusive pimp.
With pimps, a prostitute, and a pub, this film, in the beginning
anyway, looks more like a Fassbinder feature than one by Herzog, but it
doesn’t take long for that to change.
Simple
minded though he may be, Bruno is a stark contrast to this criminal
thug. He is compassionate, gentle, and seems to truly care for Eva. The
exact extent of his feelings is difficult to discern, however, for Bruno
— the actor and the character — is frequently shown to be utterly
bewildered by his surroundings, physically and mentally strained to
comprehend others and express himself. It might seem at first perhaps
cruel for Herzog to have such a clearly uneasy individual in front of
the camera, but quite quickly, the touching humanity conveyed by this
nonprofessional is extraordinary.
Bruno
joins Scheitz back at his apartment. The old man has been looking over
Bruno’s belongings while he was away, and he tells Bruno he will soon be
leaving for America where he will join his nephew. He’ll be traveling
by boat, he says, because planes are “built the wrong way.” Eva
repeatedly tries to escape the clutches of her pimp, but he is
relentless and belligerent. Finally, after he trashes their apartment,
brutally assaults Eva, and humiliates Bruno, the trio decides to leave
once and for all (after Eva “works” to get enough money).
Following
a brief sightseeing stopover in New York City, the group purchases a
car for $495 and they’re on their way to America’s Dairyland. Already
Bruno struggles to come to terms with this strange new land: “What kind
of a country would confiscate Bruno’s mynah bird?” he wonders aloud.
Once in Railroad Flats, Wisconsin (actually Plainfield), Scheitz’s
nephew greets the group with a “welcome” sign, colorful streamers, his
Indian coworker waves an American flag, and, for some reason, they give
the visitors Hawaiian leis. On a tour around town, the nephew also
informs them that there have been not four, but possibly five murders in
the area; he regularly checks for evidence with his metal detector.
Bruno gets a job working with the nephew in a garage while Eva begins
waitressing at a truck stop. Bruno dons a cowboy hat, they get a mobile
home, and Scheitz studies animal magnetism. Joy and hope surface for the
first time in the film, and after the hardships of Berlin, the three
can begin anew. “Now we’ve made it,” declares Scheitz.
But
such optimism doesn’t last. Before long, the barren wintery landscape
reflects the breakdown of Bruno’s American dream. “Everyone can make
money in America,” argues Eva, but Bruno soon becomes disenchanted and
tension grows between him and Eva. The bills add up, the language
barrier makes potential solutions next to impossible, and the bank
eventually repossesses their home. Eva tries to earn more money (guess
how), but it’s not enough. She leaves with some hillbilly truckers while
Scheitz and Bruno embark on a drastically ill-conceived retaliatory
endeavor that gets the former arrested and sends the latter on his way
alone to the film’s stunning conclusion.
From the uncomfortable early scene with a premature baby to the film’s dancing chicken denouement, Stroszek
is marked by one strange moment after another. Never quite disturbing,
but frequently unsettling, certain sequences have a naturally occurring
oddness. Perhaps because Werner Herzog was a stranger to this part of
America (or perhaps simply because he is Werner Herzog), he manages to
hone in on some distinctly regional characteristics that, on the surface
and seen in their everyday banality, are relatively innocuous. However,
when he trains his objective, observational camera on these features,
and places them in the context of this unorthodox movie, they resonate
with a remarkable weirdness. With corpses of broken down vehicles
scattered in fields, dead deer strapped to the back of cars, tags left
on furniture and plastic on mattresses, and an impromptu and
surprisingly well-attended auction (the sound of an auctioneer’s
rapid-paced calling being one of the strangest damned things I’ve ever
seen or heard in real life or in the movies), this is the world of Stroszek.
There are neither exotic locales nor individuals of incredible disposition in this film, so in the Werner Herzog canon Stroszek
is something of an anomaly. Due to this normality and the lack of
fantastic characters or environmental attributes, it basically stands
alone in Herzog’s oeuvre. But this is Werner Herzog, and under this
facade of ordinariness he reveals the everyday mysteries and
peculiarities that make a rather mundane Wisconsin town in the late
1970s as alien as the Peruvian jungle and as contemporarily incongruous
as 18th century Bavaria. And our heroes, this motley trio of pleasant
outcasts, emerge to be as fascinating and as emotionally engaging as any
of the mesmerizing individuals Herzog has filmed.
It
seems redundant to say that Werner Herzog’s movies are unlike anyone
else’s, and more often than not, each of his own films are markedly
unique from what he did prior or following. But for all of the above
reasons and more, Stroszek is truly an exceptional work, with
one of cinema’s most bizarre, hilarious, and rather unnerving endings,
as is suggested by the film’s final lines of dialogue: “We have a 10-80
out here, a truck on fire, we have a man on the lift. We are unable to
find the switch to turn the lift off and we can’t stop the dancing
chicken. Send an electrician. We’re standing by…”
Love Streams,
John Cassavetes’ final film as an actor and penultimate film as
director, is also one of his most unusual features. While his
distinctive work can oftentimes be divisive, it’s easy to see how this
film more than most others could be rather off-putting to those not
appreciative of, or even accustomed to, his filmmaking technique.
Cassavetes
adapted the film with Ted Allan, based on the latter’s play, and the
film’s structure is one of the more vexing of its attributes. Dropped
into two parallel lives, with little to no backstory, only gradually are
we able to piece together certain details. First, there is Robert
Harmon (a worn and weary Cassavetes, his failing health evident). Harmon
is a writer, a drunk, and a womanizer, and he is supposedly working on a
book about nightlife, though that seems to be a mere pretense for him
to frequent clubs and pick up girls. And this he most certainly does.
His house is abuzz with a bevy of young women coming and going at
random, with no established relationship to Robert. It’s mentioned that
his writing focuses on loneliness, and though he is perpetually
surrounded by others, it quickly becomes clear that emotionally and
spiritually he is indeed a solitary figure.
The
other story in the film follows the bitter divorce and ensuing custody
battle between Sarah (Gena Rowlands) and Jack Lawson (Seymour Cassel).
She is mentally unbalanced, previously institutionalized, and apparently
makes a living entertaining sick people, an occupation their young
daughter, Debbie, cares little for. Sarah says she and Debbie are well
liked because they are cheerful; Debbie says the sick people smell bad.
Generally, Jack is the more fit parent, and he has a touching affection
for the young girl, but it is Sarah who emerges the more tragic figure.
She is a wreck, but she remains optimistic, arguing that love is a
stream, it’s continuous, it doesn’t stop, and this keeps her going. When
she travels to Europe with an inordinate amount of luggage, the
symbolism of the baggage she carries with her is obvious.
It’s
not apparent from the start, but Robert and Sarah are brother and
sister, and their eventual reunion comes as they are both confronting
individual lives in shambles. It’s no surprise that they are related,
and when the association is made, the separate chaos begins to make
sense. Their eccentricities, though differing, nevertheless mirror each
other in terms of slow but steady paths toward self-destruction and
self-imposed alienation. He is an irresponsible drunk who acts with
heedless abandon, and with her, it’s never certain when and how she will
act out; she assures Jack, “I’m almost not crazy now,” but she still
fantasizes about killing he and Debbie. They lead unconventional lives,
there’s no doubt about it, but the film seems primarily concerned with
how well they’re doing it, are they, in fact, doing the best they can.
“Actually,” Sarah says to Robert, fully prepared to accept it, “we’re
both pretty screwed up.” This is where Cassavetes works better than
almost anyone, honing narrowly in on people and their problems.
Save for some extraordinary lighting in the past (Minnie and Moskowitz),
Cassavetes usually places little emphasis on technique, and though it
contains a brief slow-motion car crash and a rather striking overhead
traveling shot — both stylistic touches atypical for the director — Love Streams
is a largely unadorned work, with even an occasional camera bump and
mismatched cut here and there. It also seems in many ways to be
exceptionally overblown, even in terms of Cassavetes’ usual penchant for
unrestrained acting. There’s plenty of sincerity to the performances,
as one would expect, particularly when he holds a shot and simply lets
individuals talk and interact, without too much action to addle them.
And there’s plenty of arguing and yelling, adding to that candid
Cassavetes trademark. But with fits of hysterical laughter and
characters falling over themselves, coupled with the film’s piecemeal
narrative explication and the characters’ frequent recklessness, the
generally admirable emotional rawness doesn’t always produce the
requisite emotional resonance.
The new Criterion Collection release of Love Streams
contains the expected bounty of special features (Criterion was, after
all, responsible for the invaluable box set of Cassavetes’ greatest
films). Along with the new digital restoration and commentary track by
writer Michael Ventura, there is a video essay about Rowlands and
interviews with executive producer and director of photography Al Ruban,
actor Diahnne Abbott, and Cassel, as well as “I’m Almost Not Crazy . . .”—John Cassavetes: The Man and His Work (1984), a sixty-minute documentary on the making of Love Streams.
The release also includes a booklet featuring an essay by critic Dennis
Lim and a 1984 New York Times piece on the film by Cassavetes.
In Lim’s essay, he contends that, “More than a culmination of Cassavetes’s obsessions, Love Streams
… is a palimpsest through which many of his other movies are visible,”
and he goes on to cite astute similarities with such movies as Minnie and Moskowitz, Shadows, Faces, A Woman Under the Influence, Opening Night, The Killing of a Chinese Bookie, and Husbands,
in other words, just about every film Cassavetes ever directed. While
the comparisons are accurate, and it’s not an unusual tendency to search
for allusions to past films in a great director’s final work (we’ll
forget Big Trouble for a moment, just like Cassavetes tried to), this reminiscence is partly why Love Streams
isn’t always as effective as it perhaps should be or as these other
films are. To a large degree, we’ve seen these troubled individuals
before, with their personality quirks and erratic behaviors (Robert
spontaneously hauling his neglected eight-year-old son off to Vegas,
Sarah bringing home a cab full of animals, including miniature horses),
but there can be a time when too much is just too much and the whole
thing doesn’t really ring true.
Cassavetes
always excelled at creating deeply emotional connections to his
everyday characters. They are people just like us, with our problems and
our concerns, leading lives that are commonly ordinary yet nonetheless
fascinating. His narratives, like Love Streams, which Lim
states is, “less in a flow than as a series of small jolts, guided by
the unruly impulses of characters who lurch and fumble their way from
one emotional extreme to another,” are often delightfully madcap.
Personal crises, familial drama, relationship trouble: this is
Cassavetes’ bread and butter, and his intimate, improvisational form of
filmmaking perfectly fits his rambunctious stories. So yes, Love Streams
is like these other films in this regard, as Lim demonstrates, but
Cassavetes set his own bar quite high, and similar to does not
necessarily equal as good as.
