Beginning with Jaroslava Schallerová’s glance directly into the camera,Valerie and Her Week of Wonders instantly
and insistently unravels in playful nods of incongruous and
intentionally self-conscious stylization. Directed by Jaromil Jireš,
this 1970 feature, in classic art film tradition, takes a basic
narrative with reasonably standard character types and turns the whole
thing topsy-turvy via stunning imagery, a proliferation of ambiguous
symbolism, and a structure that leads to places quite unexpected, if
certain sequences lead anywhere at all. It certainly is a wondrous week
for young Valerie, and the film itself is equally astounding.
After
Eaglet (Petr Kopriva) steals Valerie’s (Schallerová) magical earrings,
apparently at the behest of the Constable (Jirí Prýmek), otherwise
referred to/existing as the malicious Polecat, a vampire-type monster
who terrorizes a small Czech town, an opaque quest to retain ownership
of the crucial jewelry is initiated. And thus begins a fantastic journey
as Valerie delves deeper into the rabbit hole of her own existence. The
film picks up as the 13-year-old girl enters a confusing and
evocative phase of dramatic personal revelation and change—physical
change (her first period) and spiritual change (the nature of
mortality)—as well as a time rife with external conflicts and incidents
far beyond her control and initial understanding. Valerie’s vivid
awakening leads to discoveries regarding her town, her home, and even
the composition of her family.
With
some degree of regret, Eaglet returns the earrings to Valerie and the
two fall in love. As the film progresses, details emerge involving the
girl’s supposedly deceased parents, the dubious past and currently
suspicious intentions of her grandmother (Helena Anyžová), and the true
nature of the Polecat. None of this is as it seems, at least not for
long, at least not as far as we can gather. As Valerie’s grandmother
relates the story of the girl’s late parents, the ghastly woman
expresses a foreboding anxiousness, hinting at the fallibility of her
recounting. Was Valerie’s father really a bishop? Is the grandmother’s
former lover the evil Constable? Is Eaglet Valerie’s brother? How does
one explain Anyžová’s appearance as not only the grandmother but also
Valerie’s cousin and mother?
Given the film’s recurrent fairy tale iconography, how much of what happens in Valerie is therefore magic put into practice or pure adolescent fantasy is up for debate. In her essay, “Valerie and Her Week of Wonders:
Grandmother, What Big Fangs You Have!”, included with the new Criterion
Collection release of the film, Jana Prikryl accurately states: “Valerie jolts
along with the logic of a hallucination, its more conventional vampire
plot intercut with odd visions and heightened by a soundtrack of choral
chants and disembodied dialogue. Sometimes these dislocations bring us
intimately close to Valerie herself, from various appealing angles, and
on a second or third viewing you see how these shots often punctuate
moments of conflict, as if Valerie’s inner equanimity were guiding the
course of events.” Symbolism runs rampant, and as the suggestive imagery
collides with the disjunctive narrative, the film becomes an allegory
of contrasting dark and light, black and white, life and death, youth
and old age. “Is all this but a dream?” Valerie ponders toward the end
of film. Indeed, that may also be a possibility.
Schallerová,
selected for the title role from about 1,500 young girls, gives a
captivating performance with a compelling mixture of wide-eyed youthful
wonder and surprisingly redolent sensuality. As this is a time of great
change for pubescent Valerie, in terms of her own sexuality and her
perception of related issues affecting those who surround her, the
symbolism in the film forms along strong feminine themes. The impression
of virginal female purity is suggested through the whiteness that
adorns and envelops Valerie—her clothes and her stark white bedroom—and
in the various incarnations of floral imagery and similarly associated
signifiers, as well as in the more literal depictions of budding young
maidens innocently splashing about in the water. Against the religious
and moral rigor of the town, such provocative sexuality is made all the
more pronounced, and Jan Curík’s corresponding cinematography has the
gauzy luster that one would commonly see throughout the 1970s,
particularly in soft-core European explorations of sexuality and
womanhood. Along these lines, it’s worth acknowledging the production
design by Ester Krumbachová, who also helped create the extraordinary
world of Vera Chytilová’s Daisies (1966), another fantastic
Czech film about women coming to terms with their own identity and
social placement. While Krumbachová’s specific contributions alone may
not explicitly influence the feminine themes in the two films, the
parallels are nonetheless noteworthy.
Complementing
the naturally picturesque surroundings, Jireš films from high and low
canted angles, incorporates an array of ethereal color, and composes
singular still images that heighten the movie’s surreal beauty. As
Jonathan Rosenbaum recently wrote of the film, “Virtually every shot is a
knockout.” Of the three Jireš shorts included on the Criterion disc — Uncle (1959),Footprints (1960), and The Hall of Lost Footsteps (1960) — only the latter really comes close to approximating the avant-garde style and structure of Valerie. The Hall of Lost Footsteps is
also simply the most interesting of the trio, with its powerfully
disturbing political content (covering the Holocaust and the atomic
bomb) and its striking formal experimentation, which also makes it
undeniably akin to Valerie.
In an informative and concise interview, film scholar Peter Hames notes the mutability of Valerie’s categorization:
is it soft porn (definitely not), fantasy, horror, art film, or all or
none of the above? As he points out, it is, in any case, continually
surprising; nothing at any time goes quite as one expects. With an
equally surreal novel as its source, Valerie and Her Week of Wonders combines
gothic and fairy tale conventions with Lubos Fiser’s whimsical score
into what Hames says is a “montage film,” visually and aurally. It
certainly is a fascinating confluence of spectacular, disconnected
images and sounds, oftentimes exaggerated performance, and symbolism
primed for diverse interpretation, all coalescing into one extraordinary
motion picture. If this was indeed the last film of the Czech New Wave
(roughly 1963-69), as Hames argues it is, at least the movement went out
on a high note.
Five Easy Pieces follows along an existential strain of American cinema that began with films like The Graduate (1967) and Easy Rider (1969),
where, in the latter example, two men went looking for America and, as
its tagline states, couldn’t find it anywhere, and continued through the
vehement introspection that emerged from the tormented minds of Martin
Scorsese’s anti-heroes, like Travis Bickle (Taxi Driver [1976]) and Jake La Motta (Raging Bull [1980]).
Somewhere in between these two manifestations of anguish is Jack
Nicholson’s Robert Eroica Dupea, the main character of Bob Rafelson’s
1970 feature. Disenchanted with life and the people who surround him,
and utterly aimless in his restless, insatiable quest for
self-contentment, Bobby is continually disheartened by the realization
that his ideals of happiness and unhappiness don’t apply to everyone
else, and may not even be applicable to himself.
In a 2010 essay that accompanied the Criterion Collection’s America Lost and Found: The BBS Story box-set, of which Five Easy Pieces was
a part (it’s out now as a solo edition), Kent Jones writes that those
like Bobby were, “discontented with the choices offered to them. They
were acutely aware of their discontent, and they were trying to find a
way to act on that awareness.” Five Easy Pieces is and was a
great film, he continues, “because it gives us such a clear and
unobstructed view of this particular type of American existence, brought
into being at a certain interval in our history when the expectations
of class and family carried more weight than they do now…” So despite
his artistic, upper middle class background, classically-trained
musician Bobby has drifted—intentionally or as a matter of
happenstance—to a life far less outwardly glamorous. He toils away on a
California oil field and resides with his girlfriend, Rayette Dipesto
(Karen Black), a waitress with dreams of country music stardom. His free
time is spent carousing with friend and co-worker Elton (Billy Green
Bush): drinking, playing cards, bowling, having flings with other women.
Rayette, on the opposite end of the personality spectrum, is a dutiful
companion, naively obedient, patient, and forgiving. She embodies the
rather antiquated lyrics of Tammy Wynette’s “Stand by Your Man,” one of
several songs by the singer featured in the film.
While
Bobby has a physically demanding occupation, it’s also a job where one
easily becomes an anonymous cog in the wheel of industry. This could be
just as well for Bobby, whose loss of identity in such a position seems
more than a little deliberate—it’s something he can do where he doesn’t
stand out nor does he really need to. Repeatedly frustrated by one thing
or another (and there will always be another for Bobby), he quits the
job anyway, leaves Rayette, whom he was just told is pregnant, and
visits his pianist sister, Partita (Lois Smith), in Los Angeles. There
he learns of his estranged father’s severe illness and so, with a
reconciled Rayette later in tow, he travels to Washington State to
reunite with his family. This familial gathering is the last thing Bobby
needs in terms of external pressures, but the dose of reality, of real
suffering in particular, breaks down, if only temporarily, his veneer of
cynicism.
Bobby
Dupea is an exceptional figure, one of great contrasts and quirks.
According to Partita, the piano she plays has “no objectionable
idiosyncrasies,” which makes it the opposite of everyone in the film,
Bobby not the least. He’s a difficult character to identify with, even
though his concerns are universal and easily relatable. Giving one of
his finest performances, Nicholson helps with the understanding. With
his trademark madman expressions and wildly animated behavior, he shifts
from deviousness to despair in the blink of an eye. He’s explosive and
temperamental, and when he clears the diner table during the famous
chicken salad sandwich scene, acting out against life’s little
absurdities and frustrations, we can’t help but get behind the bastard.
Otherwise
though, he’s crass and cruel and regards Rayette with an attitude that
hovers between utter disdain and embarrassment. Still she keeps on
coming back; what’s more, her love seems to grow with each affront.
Bobby can’t make up his mind either though: One minute he’s calling
Elton a “cracker asshole,” the next minute he’s running to his defense. Five Easy Piecesis
full of such oscillations between conflicting emotions, ideas, and
desires, and the music in the film further sets the tone for this
recurrent theme of contrast, especially between “low” and “high”
culture, with Wynette’s greatest hits playing opposite Chopin, Bach and
Mozart. Throughout the film, Bobby inhabits both sides of this cultural
division, apparently unhappy wherever he is. He looks down on his life
with Rayette, as if activities such as bowling were somehow beneath him,
but at the same time, he gets angry when she doesn’t play well enough.
On the other hand, when a pretentious intellectual later drones on and
mocks Rayette for her perceived simplicity, Bobby slams the “pompous
celibate” for her derisive manner. But Bobby himself is also prone to
mocking the ambitions and sentiments of others. When he and Rayette pick
up some hitchhikers going to Alaska, where they say it is cleaner,
Bobby questions condescendingly, “Cleaner than what?” Or, even while
Bobby flirts with his brother’s fiancé, Catherine (Susan Anspach), he
defies her sincerity when she is moved by his piano playing, ridiculing
her reaction by stating, “I faked a little Chopin, you faked a big
response.”
Aided
by László Kovács’ photography (Kovács who composed so many vivid
cinematic portraits from the period), director Bob Rafelson delivers a
textured realism in any setting. Again to quote Jones: “In order for
such a narrative to work, every character and setting needs to be
pungent and acutely drawn. So the oil fields and bars and bowling alleys
and tiny houses in Bakersfield are as lovingly attended as the Pacific
Northwestern Dupea compound.” There is no explicitly overriding style
from Rafelson, save for the occasional use of hand-held camera, just
enough to mirror and barely contain the vitality and volatility of
Nicholson, but his ability to present a detailed and authentic
atmosphere no matter the milieu is exceptional. Carole Eastman’s
pitch-perfect screenplay further adds to the accuracy, as does Toby
Rafelson’s interior design. Clothing, furniture, paintings and pictures
on the wall, knick-knacks, etc.—it’s all just as it should be.
Five Easy Pieces is
a film of big scenes. The chicken salad sandwich outburst is probably
its most famous sequence, and understandably so (even if Rafelson
remains disappointed that this one section of the film is more
remembered than others). But when Bobby exits his car during a morning
traffic jam, hops aboard the back of a truck and begins playing piano as
it drives away, one gets the first real sense of just how unpredictable
and dramatic this guy can be—and with the horns blaring over the
classical music, we also get a further example of aural contrast. It is
scenes like these two, where Bobby flaunts acceptable behavior and
stolid social dictates, that make Five Easy Pieces as equally rebellious in its own way as Easy Rider was.
Five Easy Pieces is
also a film of small moments and small performances. Certainly,
Nicholson leaves a thundering impression, but credit should also go to
Black, who is fantastic as the tragic, earnest, and sympathetic Rayette.
Few actors can steal a scene from Jack Nicholson, or even just a
two-shot for that matter, but here she does so repeatedly. Her sitting
contently in the car singing Wynette’s “When There’s a Fire in Your
Heart” is simply a thing of beauty. A quick survey of the film’s awards
show that she, indeed, received more accolades that Nicholson, though
neither won their respective Oscars (nor did the film take best picture
or screenplay, for which it was also nominated). And then there’s Lois
Smith. Five Easy Pieces is
a film that rewards multiple viewings. As much as this has to do with
its tonal subtitles and the maturity of the themes and character
concerns, it also has to do with performers who, at first glance, are
somewhat overshadowed by Nicholson. Such is the case when rewatching the
film and paying particular attention to the brilliantly natural and
understated Smith.
Having not seen Five Easy Pieces for some time, while viewing it again I was reminded of the Coen brothers’Inside Llewyn Davis (2013), in particular a comment written about that film being an ode to giving up. Ultimately, this is what Five Easy Pieces is
as well, and Bobby voices as much when he admits a penchant for getting
out of bad situations and moving on instead of facing or fixing the
problems at hand. One of the defining features of these character-driven
studies is that character development isn’t always a given. These are
vibrant and multifaceted characters, but they aren’t necessary going to
grow or evolve as human beings. As a result, the open ending of Five Easy Pieces is
really the only ending possible, for when it comes to Bobby Dupea,
there is no reasonably absolute conclusion or resolution, except,
perhaps, death (as, incidentally, the original screenplay had it).
It’s easy to see why Ninotchka works
as well as it does, and why it’s one of the best films from Hollywood’s
golden age and of arguably Hollywood’s greatest year. Just look at the
talent involved. Charles Brackett, Billy Wilder, and Walter Reisch were
all seasoned writers, though with their best work admittedly still to
come. Ernst Lubitsch had directed a number of excellent silent films in
Germany, had hit the ground running once in Hollywood, making his first
American film with no less a star than Mary Pickford (Rosita [1923]),
and after a series of charming musical comedies, many with Maurice
Chevalier, directed the more sublime and sophisticated comedies for
which he now best known, films like Trouble in Paradise (1932) and Design for Living (1933).
While this was happening, Greta Garbo was working her way through
Swedish cinema under the tutelage of director Mauritz Stiller. Her first
American feature,Torrent (1926), was followed by a variety of films, each garnering her a steady degree of admiration that would culminate with Anna Christie (1930),
her first sound film and one of two films that year for which she would
be nominated for her first Academy Awards (the other was Romance).
And then there’s Melvyn Douglas, who had by this point more than 30
films to his credit…and he had only just started acting eight years
prior. In his future lay Emmy, Tony, Golden Globe, and Oscar wins.
Suffice it to say, Ninotchka had a lot going for it.
Just as Anna Christie was
sold as the film where Garbo, the enigmatic Scandinavian beauty,
finally talked, and bearing in mind the generally somber pictures she
seemed to be drawn to, it was brilliantly decided to market Ninotchka as
not the film where Garbo talks, but the film where she finally laughs.
Apparently, even the idea of the film was built from this very
promotion. Of course, there were several Garbo films prior to this that
had their fair share of comedy (certainly Queen Christina [1933]
is amusing for much of its duration), but the gimmick was effective and
worked well to not only tout Garbo the performer, but to also mirror
the narrative of Ninotchka itself.
The romantic comedy of Ninotchka somewhat
overshadows its driving narrative, which though significant in terms of
subject matter and though a vital catalyst for said romantic comedy,
becomes nevertheless secondary. But to get everything rolling, three
hapless Russians arrive in Paris to sell the jewels of an ousted grand
duchess. These men are comrades Iranoff (Sig Ruman), Kopalski (Alexander
Granach), and Buljanoff (Felix Bressart, looking reminiscent of Marx,
but more Groucho than Karl). The Grand Duchess Swana (Ina Claire) learns
that her jewels are in town and so sends her lover, the slick Count
Leon d’Algout (Douglas), to distract the Russians just long enough to
take legal action and reclaim pre-revolutionary ownership of the
property. After the prolonged delay becomes more than those in Mother
Russia can allow, a stern envoy, Nina “Ninotchka” Ivanovna Yakushova
(Garbo), is sent to get the arrangement back on track. At first unaware
that they are on ostensibly opposing sides, Leon and Ninotchka fall in
love and are soon left with conflicts of personal passion and
professional duty.
Everyone
involved—from Iranoff, Buljanoff, and Kopalski to Ninotchka and
Leon—enters with a job to do; there is a scheme to hatch, an order to
follow, a responsibility to uphold. “We’re here to work, all of us,”
states Ninotchka at the start (that’s what she thinks). Something
inevitably gets in the way of the best-laid plans, namely, love, which
thwarts the goals of all. The relationship between Ninotchka and Leon
takes a little effort by the charismatic count, who is equipped with an
arsenal of romantic repartee, but he is as smooth as smooth can be and
is able to sweet talk his way into anything, with anybody. Ninotchka, on
the other hand, could use some work in the romance department, going
from saying Leon might be an interesting object of study, to concluding
that his “general appearance is not distasteful,” to admiring his
corneas. This comically strained courtship is fantastic under Lubitsch’s
direction. He was a master at sly, subtle sexual tension, but things
are even better when both parties aren’t entirely enthusiastic, at least
not at first. So often in his films, there is something of a mutual
flirtatiousness between the male and female leads, even if the odds are
against them for one reason or another. Here, it’s entirely one-sided in
the beginning, and the comedy is inherent in her resolute reluctance
and his natural, perpetual flirtatiousness.
While
Ninotchka is on the straight and narrow at the start of the film, Leon
is perfectly happy to have as much fun as possible, whenever possible,
as are his three newfound associates; that is, once they’re under his
influence. They’re never quite besotted by overpowering communist
devotion, making with little effort excuses to stay in the royal suite
of a luxurious hotel, for instance. Less apt to change, or so it would
seem, is Ninotchka, who is steadfast in her determination and her
ideology.
Douglas appears throughout Ninotchka as
the one making most of the jokes, or at least the one looking like he’s
constantly in on a joke. Garbo, however, plays the early sequences with
such an exaggerated deadpan seriousness that her blank, emotionless
expression becomes an essential part of the evolving humor. It’s a
comedy of embellished contrast, and so once the façade is broken, it’s a
welcome and hilarious release for the characters and the audience. What
does it, what gets Ninotchka to give Leon a chance and to finally
laugh, is ironically not the jokes that Leon tells—that is, it’s not the
verbal comedy, which is what predominantly makes Ninotchka such
a funny movie—rather, it’s a basic display of physical slapstick, the
primitive, not at all sophisticated sight of someone falling down and
looking like a fool.
If the political comedy of Ninotchka plays
a secondary role to its more romantic moments, one still can’t deny the
existence of this more prescient humor. The amusing scrawl at the start
of the film alludes toNinotchka’s pre- and post-war placement:
“This picture takes place in Paris in those wonderful days when a siren
was a brunette and not an alarm – and if a Frenchman turned out the
light it was not on account of an air raid!” Released in America just
after the start of World War II, but two years before US involvement,
therefore in between the conflicts as far as Hollywood was concerned,
Lubitsch, Wilder, et al had some relative leniency in terms of what they could get away with. Ninotchka is therefore a film equal parts romantic comedy, on the surface, and biting political satire, at its core.
In this, Ninotchka is
quite unexpected in its audaciousness (though perhaps it shouldn’t be
all that surprising when one considers those controversially provocative
figures behind the film). What strikes one most now, looking at the
picture with decades worth of retrospect, are the conflict related
jokes, as when Iranoff, Buljanoff, and Kopalski conclude that a man
looks like a comrade, only to see him greet a woman with a hearty Heil
Hitler! Or when, not long after, Ninotchka delivers one of the best
lines in the film as she reflects on the recently successful mass
trials, which have resulted in “fewer but better Russians.” We’re
somewhat stunned: 1) by the fact that someone back then dared make jokes
about such things, and 2) that we’re still laughing at them today.
Without downplaying or debating the actual calamities one associates with capitalism or communism, Ninotchka does
manage to poke some fun at the defining foibles of each social system.
True, communism undeniably bares the brunt of the jokes, with quips that
ridicule the rigors of such an organization, as well as its apparently
apathetic, oppressive, and bland mindset embodied by the initial
Ninotchka, but there are more than a few laughs to be had at the expense
of capitalist frivolity. The primary difference between the two, as is
personified by the Leon/Ninotchka disparity at the start of the picture,
is that while one group of individuals may have the high-minded ideals,
one group seems to be having more fun. Melchior Lengyel, who came up
with the original story of the film, summarizes the picture like this:
“Russian girl saturated with Bolshevist ideals goes to fearful,
Capitalistic, monopolistic Paris. She meets romance and has an
uproarious good time. Capitalism not so bad after all.”
As much as the dialogue in Ninotchka is
unmistakably the work of the like-minded collaborators Brackett and
Wilder—probably less so the Vienna-born Reisch—so too are many of the
visual touches clear signifiers of the cinema of Ernst Lubitsch (who
also contributed, uncredited, to the screenplay). From the sequence with
the cute cigarette girls entering the room of Iranoff, Buljanoff, and
Kopalski to incrementally more boisterous approval, humorously and
teasingly shot from the hallway, to the subtle transition of ragged and
worn caps dissolving into top hats and bowlers, Lubitsch enjoys the
steady breakdown of supposedly stalwart standards in the face of sex,
class transition, and basic pleasure. Ninotchka is also a
perfect example of why Hollywood endings are still so satisfying, as
cliché as they may sometimes seem in our jaded age. We know with a
general certainty that Ninotchka and Leon will end up together; for a
classic romantic comedy like this, it’s a rule with few exceptions. So
in knowing this, we’re content to play the game, to go along for the
ride, remaining happily confident and comfortable in the conventional.
At the 1940 Academy Awards,Ninotchka received
nominations for Best Picture, Best Actress in a Leading Role, Best
Writing, Original Story, and Best Writing, Screenplay. Of course, the
big winner that year was Gone with the Wind (on which, interestingly enough, Ninotchka’s original
director, George Cukor, briefly worked, before being replaced by Victor
Fleming, who would win Best Director). In any event,Ninotchka was
a widely enjoyed success. Not at all surprisingly though, one place
where the film did not go over well was in the Soviet Union, where it
was promptly banned.
While all the above may contribute to the quality and enjoyment ofNinotchka,
for many, the film is all about Greta Garbo. One of the best and most
accurate quotes about a movie star, and movie star allure in general, is
Kenneth Tynan’s 1954 comment that, “What, when drunk, one sees in other
women, one sees in Garbo sober.” The essence of Greta Garbo’s screen
presence is truly something magical: a mysterious, unidentifiable
attraction, a breathtaking persona of utter captivation. Garbo was more
than just looks though. She was a great performer with a powerful
command of every frame she occupied. Her follow-up to Ninotchka was the 1941 feature, Two-Faced Woman,
again with Melvyn Douglas. Though she lived to the ripe old age of 84,
passing away April 15, 1990, it would sadly be her final film.
REVIEW from SOUND ON SIGHT
Olive
Films recently released several Blaxploitation titles on Blu-ray for
the first time, all on the same day. This included the Fred
Williamson-starring Hammer, from 1972, as well as three Pam Grier films: Coffy (1973), Foxy Brown (1974), and Friday Foster (1975). Hammer isn’t a particular favorite, but these latter three were most welcome, especially Coffy, which is quite possibly the greatest of all Blaxploitation features, even better than the more popular Shaft (1971) and Super Fly (1972).
As much as anything, these three releases are notable for showcasing
Grier at her finest during a period of immensely enjoyable work and
exceptional productivity—15 films from her minor debut in Beyond the Valley of the Dolls (1970) to Friday Foster. Around these films, she also starred in several other classics of 1970s exploitation cinema: Black Mama White Mama (1973), Scream Blacula Scream (1973), The Arena (1974), Sheba, Baby (1975), and Bucktown (1975).
“If I say she’s something special, she’s something special.” So declares a young hood at the start of Coffy,
enticing a drug kingpin to check out Pam Grier’s titular character as
she waits for him in a car. She’s pretending to be a junkie in need of a
fix, hoping the ruse will get her closer to finding out who has been
selling heroin to, among other people, her pre-teen sister. Before Grier
appears on screen though, she is built up to be one phenomenal woman,
one this man has to see to believe. It’s not quite the entrance of Orson
Welles in The Third Man or John Wayne in Stagecoach,
but when Grier does make her first appearance, the hype is justified.
This Coffy is something else, and as the film progresses, she becomes
something even better.
Coffy
is a nurse by trade, but she’s a nurse who doesn’t hesitate to blow a
man’s head off with a shotgun. During her off hours, she is a determined
vigilante, out to punish the drug-dealers and gangsters who have been
plaguing her city and her own family. Coffy has vengeance on her mind,
and seeing the conflict of interest between the police and local
politicians, she knows there’s more to the shady goings on than just the
usual criminal exploits. Carter (William Elliott), Coffy’s old flame
and seemingly the one cop who refuses to play ball with the generally
corrupt police force, pays for his decency and winds up in the hospital.
So with her only hope of collaboration out of commission, it’s an
uphill battle for Coffy. Her vengeful side doesn’t always come easy—she
knows it’s not good, or at any rate, it’s not legal—but what she has
seen, like her sister LuBelle’s tragic condition and Carter’s injuries,
continue to haunt her and keep her moving forward.
Originally intended as a sequel to Coffy, revenge figures into Foxy Brown’s narrative
as well. This time, Grier’s title character is after those who killed
her boyfriend, Michael Anderson (Terry Carter), an undercover narcotics
agent who fakes his death, undergoes plastic surgery to alter his
appearance, and attempts to start anew with Foxy. To make matters worse,
her brother, an irresponsible coke dealer whom Foxy kindly takes in
when he needs help, is the one who drops the dime about Michael’s true
identity. Though she has a gun on her bedside table—at the suggestion of
Michael—her capacity for violence is initially less pronounced than
Coffy’s. But make no mistake, she can most certainly be violent. And
while Michael has his doubts about vigilante justice, Foxy contends it’s
“as American as apple pie.”
This
time, in charge of the whole operation, and the final boss to take
down, is another woman, making the progressive notion of strong female
leaders (even if they’re a criminal) all the more prevalent. The
explicit female empowerment of Coffyand Foxy Brown is
clear and present throughout, and no doubt helped give these types of
films a broader audience across the gender aisle. Someone in Foxy Brownasks
just who Foxy thinks she is. As her brother responds, “That’s my sister
… and she’s a whole lotta woman.” Or later in the film, when one
character inquires as to whether or not Foxy is crazy, and another
counters with, “She’s just all woman.” A woman being not only powerful,
but innately powerful because of her sex, is part of what makes
Grier’s characters so memorable and so stirring. Yet as tough and
aggressive as she often is, Grier in these films is still a women after
all. In Coffy, for example, she yearns for romantic getaways
and enjoys passionate activities like sipping wine, naked, by the fire.
That’s another thing Grier does very well: balancing the woman as action
hero with the woman as sensitive individual, proving that they need not
be mutually exclusive.
Jack Hill directed Coffy and Foxy Brown, as well as The Big Doll House (1971) andThe Big Bird Cage (1972),
two pillars of the surprisingly entertaining “women in prison” movie
cycle from the 1970s, both of which also featured Grier. With Coffy in
particular, Hill basks in the conventions of Blaxploitation. It has
great music courtesy of Roy Ayers—maybe the best from any Blaxploitation
film, save for Curtis Mayfield’s excellent work on Super Fly and possibly Earth, Wind & Fire’s music from Sweet Sweetback’s Baadasssss Song (1971).
And in the best unabashed exploitation style, Hill throws in plenty of
sex and violence, punctuating it all with big, bold colors and
characters who are equally audacious, like the requisite pimp with his
own theme song, King George (Robert DoQui).
Having worked with Hill and Grier on The Big Doll House and The Big Bird Cage, Sid Haig, an icon of the era and of these exploitation films in particular, pops up in both Coffy and Foxy Brown. He’s a pretty typical thug in Coffy, but in Foxy Brown,
he briefly appears as one of his classic characterizations: goofy,
humorous, almost charismatic in a way, and happily residing on the wrong
side of the law without necessarily being a “bad guy.”
Foxy Brown contains
many Blaxploitation staples and is one of the most famous films of the
genre, if for no other reason than Quentin Tarantino’s riff on the title
with the Pam Grier-starring Jackie Brown (1997), which, incidentally, also references Hill, features Haig in a cameo, contains music from Coffy,
has a song by rap artist Foxy Brown, and includes the track “Long Time
Woman,” which Grier sings during the opening credits of The Big Doll House—all of this par for the film reference course when it comes to Tarantino (and there’s even more at that). In any case, Foxy Brown is considerably less flashy than Coffy, in its visuals and its more restrained characters, but it’s still got everything a fan of these films could want.
Arthur Marks directs Friday Foster,
and the film’s roster of stars boast more recognizable names than these
prior two entries, among them Eartha Kitt, Carl Weathers, and Scatman
Crothers, who plays a preacher, just like he did in the Detroit 9000 (1973),
another very good title from the period also directed by Marks. Based
on a comic strip character of the same name, Friday Foster is a
photojournalist who witnesses an apparent assassination attempt and is
promptly and unwittingly in over her head. A friend of Friday’s is also
eventually killed, and that serves as part of her motivation for
investigating the incident, but Friday Fosterisn’t necessarily a revenge film per se.
Though to be quite honest, the somewhat convoluted plot of intrigue and
multi-leveled manipulation really doesn’t make much difference anyway.
Like
Coffy and Foxy, Friday gets frustrated with the lack of support from
law enforcement, a fairly common theme in Blaxploitation films, except
when, as in the case of Shaft for example, the heroes are
themselves cops or detectives (even then though, said individuals often
have to buck an incompetent system to get the job done). In any case,
Friday confidently uses her investigative instincts and takes initiative
herself. Unlike Coffy and Foxy, though, Friday isn’t entirely on her
own. Yaphet Kotto plays Colt Hawkins, a good-natured private
investigator who emerges as Friday’s somewhat reluctant partner in crime
fighting. Their flirtatious, amusing interaction is probably the best
part of the film.
Friday
may have had some contact with the underworld as part of her work, but
as opposed to Coffy or Foxy, she has no direct prior experience with
such disreputable lifestyles; we sense that Friday is more comfortable
moving in high-class circles, at least more so than these earlier Grier
characters. Though she used to be a model, Friday also doesn’t possess
anywhere near the blatant physical exhibitionism of Coffy and Friday.
That’s not to say she isn’t a smooth operator—Friday knows what works
and what’s going to get her where she wants to go. But more than her
attractiveness, it’s her journalistic savvy and intrepid spirit that
gets her the scoop of her career, even if it just might cost her life.
Friday Foster itself
definitely isn’t as sordid as the other two features, and it actually
comes across as more of a detective film than a straightforward
Blaxploitation movie; there’s undeniably less of an exploitation flair,
with no gratuitous nudity or graphic violence, as well as fewer “types”,
rather than developed “characters.”
Both Coffy and Foxy Brown are
adamantly anti-drug, in their verbal condemnation and in their
depiction of the types of people who deal in illicit substances. The
more overt social commentary, however, is noted in Foxy Brown,
both from Foxy’s brother, who passionately states the struggles for
black opportunity, and a prostitute, who comments on her inability to
emancipate herself from such a lifestyle. Though in a different way than
the grittier Coffy, this gives Foxy Brown something
of an increased realism, or at least a real-world grounding. Other
topical subjects are peppered throughout these films: the presence of
armed black militants in Foxy Brown; Friday’s young brother
stealing her gifts with the intent of selling them off himself—”black
capitalism” he calls his makeshift enterprise; and police and political
corruption running rampant. Some may decry these films as silly, or even
racist to a certain extent, but few American movies playing to wide
audiences were broaching these issues as they affected the African
American community in particular, and they certainly weren’t doing so
this frequently.
In
all three of these films, Grier uses what she has in terms of sexual
prowess and feminine wiles, but she has more than just looks. She’s
caring, competent, independent, strong, and driven. She’s inventive too.
See Coffy, for example, when prior to fighting a handful of
prostitutes, she embeds razor blades in her curly locks, apparently
anticipating the cliché female fight response to pull hair (and she has a
gun stashed away in her afro in Foxy Brown!). Also in Coffy,
she cleverly starts infighting amongst the various factions, so while
she pursues her own goals, the opposing groups begin taking each other
down as well. One additional trait that Coffy and Foxy share is a
fondness for adopting undercover personalities; curiously, the names of
these pretend characterizations are strikingly similar: the Jamaican
“Mystique” in Coffy and “Misty” in Foxy Brown.
Coffy, Foxy Brown, and Friday Foster are
all perfect vehicles for Grier, especially during this time. While one
may argue her acting isn’t the best thing in the world, and the
characters in these movies aren’t quite as politically correct as some
would prefer today, Pam Grier is excellent playing these parts. Even in
just the three titles here, one sees a steady development of
personality, from an instrument of badass retribution to serious,
efficient pro. Standing up for the weak, taking down the corrupt, and
seeking justice for all, Pam Grier in these films is the ultimate lone
hero, fighting the good fight and looking great while doing it.
REVIEW from SOUND ON SIGHT
Rainer
Werner Fassbinder had a true talent for probing insights into the deep
despair and disenchantment of the human condition. His characters were
doomed people, ones fellow German New Waver Wim Wenders speaks of as
helpless and hopeless. Such descriptions perfectly suit those in
Fassbinder’s 1971 film,The Merchant of Four Seasons, which is
out now on a new Criterion Collection Blu-ray. Here, Hans Epp (Hans
Hirschmüller) has just returned from duty with the French Foreign
Legion. Home in Munich after being gone about a year, he is first
greeted with a less than enthusiastic reception from his mother (Gusti
Kreissl). As he tells of friends lost in the fighting, she counters
with, “The best are left behind while people like you come home.” This
is just the tip of the iceberg for what Wenders says is a “lack of love
and warmth” that surrounds and afflicts Hans, and it’s what leads to his
downfall. The Merchant of Four Seasons thus immediately starts to chart Hans’ steady disintegration, as his world emotionally and psychologically assaults him.
In
flashbacks and in the present-day, positive moments are fleeting for
Hans. We find out he was at one point a police officer, but was ousted
when caught in the midst of some licentious interactions while on the
job, in his office no less. Now he peddles produce under the supervision
of his wife, Irmgard (Irm Hermann). Our first impressions of her are
that she is domineering and prone to jealously, but her character
changes a good deal. First of all, she cares far less for Hans than her
apparent jealously would suggest, and she’s not quite as overbearing as
Fassbinder would have us believe, particularly when we’re confronted by
Hans’ own flaws. He is a little hard to handle himself. Early on, he
takes his frustrations straight to the bar, with alcohol becoming a
recurrent remedy for his depression and anger, ultimately to his fatal
detriment. Our hero, Hans, is no saint, but who ever is in a Fassbinder
film?
There
is, as time goes on and premature judgments and assumptions subside, a
mutual defiance in this most unhappy marriage. Irmgard is also
unfaithful. As initially taken aback by sexual advancement as she
sometimes appears, like when she’s accosted by a man who assumes her to
be a prostitute, she, too, is apparently after everyone, making enticing
eyes at nearly every male she meets. After Hans drunkenly abuses her in
full view of their young daughter, Renate (Andrea Schober), his family,
if not fully defending his behavior, generally attempts to understand
his actions. Yet make no mistake, they never hide their distain for this
black sheep. Only his sister, Anna (Hanna Schygulla), possesses what
could be genuine sympathy, though it, too, is unreliable. Following this
episode, Hans is hospitalized and is left unable to work in the same
physically demanding capacity. He and Irmgard bring on an employee
(which doesn’t end well), and for a time, as their business
collaboration is revitalized, the two genuinely seem content and happy
with one another. Business is booming, and during a family dinner where
Hans’ success is touted, he is granted an approving acknowledgement from
his mother as now having a “proper enterprise.”
Seldom
is anything this sweet in a Fassbinder film not followed by the sour
soon thereafter. An inexplicable and profound depression sets in on
Hans, just as things are starting to go right. Judging from the
flashbacks interspersed throughout the film, Hans seems almost destined
to be sad. Perhaps it’s that a lifetime of struggle leaves him inept
when faced with sudden success. With
the severe anguish is an accompanying anxiety. Hans is clearly at a
turning point, and Hirschmüller, whose performance becomes anesthetized
and stoic, expresses the shift in behavior perfectly. Out drinking with
his buddies, Hans holds court as he’s seated at the head of the table,
rambling incessantly. It calls to mind a quote by Ferdinand (Jean-Paul
Belmondo) in Jean-Luc Godard’s Pierrot le Fou (1965): “A man alone always talks too much.”
Only
when Hans runs into a former comrade in arms does he find an
acquaintance who seems, for the most part, dependable. Harry Radek
(Klaus Löwitsch) is brought on to work for, and live with, the family, a
most certain recipe for disaster.
Hans’
path toward self-destruction moves forward at full-speed, finally
concluding with a gathering where he literally drinks himself to death
in real-time. “You’re going to die, Hans,” Irmgard says with tears in
her eyes. Yet she is unmoving, her apparent emotion is paradoxically
impassive. Similarly, as Hans downs shot after shot, each liquid nail in
the coffin assigned the name of someone who has wronged him, even his
friends simply look on, shockingly with no interference. It is an utter
helplessness, in that Hans can’t help himself at this point, and that no
one else seems willing or able to step in. Irmgard and several of Hans’
fiends are seated at the table, and in wide shot we see their
proximity. But when Fassbinder cuts in close to any one of them, their
immobility and lack of action make them a million miles away.
In the audio commentary he provides for The Merchant of Four Seasons,
Wim Wenders says this is the Fassbinder film he likes best. It’s also
the movie where he says he started to understand Fassbinder’s films
better, noting that it situates itself at a point when the director’s
style and themes started to change. In this “film of transition,” as
Wenders puts it, Fassbinder simultaneously incorporates, leaves behind,
and evolves his penchant for performances that are postured, static, and
wooden, to use some of Wenders’ terms, and which are now intersecting
with elements of Douglas Sirk-inspired melodrama. It’s an unusual
mixture of theatrically operatic overacting—with hysterical tears and
screams, overly dramatic fainting, and almost hackneyed expressions of
lustful yearning—and an organic, sometimes fierce emotion. In other
words, it’s a strange combination that scholar Eric Rentschler, who is
interviewed for the Criterion disc, calls both artificial and
expressive.
Wenders,
Rentschler, Hermann and Hirschmüller all discuss Sirk’s intense
influence on Fassbinder. And as Thomas Elsaesser also writes in a
brilliant essay on the film, “Inspired by Sirk, Fassbinder conceived a
cycle of films centered on the impossibility of love or trust within
(homo- and heterosexual) couples, or of finding happiness in family
bonds. Transferred to very diverse but nonetheless typically West German
milieus, Sirkian melodrama proved a winning formula for Fassbinder,
informing some of his best-known films. … The most astonishing, however,
because possibly the most sharply etched, remains the first of these, The Merchant of Four Seasons.” Such idolatry has been well documented and is clearly evident in much of Fassbinder’s work. In many ways, The Merchant of Four Seasons is
a prime example. But the degree in which the influence is manifest in
this particular picture is perhaps less than these individuals contend.
To
begin with, Sirk was never this abrasive (of course, he couldn’t be
when and where he was making his best movies), but compare this film to
even Ali: Fear Eats the Soul (1974), arguably Fassbinder’s most direct homage to Sirk, and it’s obvious thatThe Merchant of Four Seasons is
a film far more raw than anything Sirk would have dared. Fassbinder,
during the disturbing scene of Hans’ attack on Irmgard, sustains an
exhausting long take of the assault, and in some of the less violent
though nonetheless troubling scenes, he shoots from a direct, frontal
angle, in a painfully stunning refusal to flinch or look away. In this
film, with frequent cinematographer Dietrich Lohmann, Fassbinder’s style
is generally straightforward. There are only occasionally showy camera
angles or movements (some tracks and pans), but he basically maintains a
static focus on rigid composition. Even the moments of sexual intimacy
are awkward at best, shot as they are in tight, abstract close-ups, with
little motion or sense of eroticism.
Irm,
who touchingly says Fassbinder is the magic word in her life, speaks of
the Sirk-inspired Hollywood close-ups with which Fassbinder shot her in
this film. True, they are intense framings, and Irm’s face is striking,
but there is no Hollywood glamour here. This is a closeness that almost
seems to drain the characters’ faces, taking out the emotion and
replacing it with some sort of unflappable, unknown contemplation. In
his commentary, Wenders spends a good deal of time praising Irm,
Schygulla, and Hirschmüller, all of whom do turn in great performances,
as they would often do for Fassbinder, yet one can’t help but note the
occasionally impassive quality of their presentation.
Likewise, the domestic settings of The Merchant of Four Seasons are
never stylized as in Sirk’s pictures, nor are they in any way
suggestive of a larger sociocultural meaning: suburban banality, empty
spiritual fulfillment, the excesses of the wealth, etc. Here, the homes
are just dwellings, or containers, cages even. The apartments are not
unlike the sparse enclosed courtyards where Hans sells his fruit. They
simply form an area where the drama unfolds without background
interference.
Wenders does bring up one Sirk connection that seems more appropriate and apparent, especially with regards to The Merchant of Four Seasons. That
is in the way both he and Fassbinder convey a sympathetic and objective
consideration of their troubled characters. As Elsaesser further notes,
“Sirk’s work also taught Fassbinder how to carry an audience into the
more mixed emotional responses that these characters, who seem so
unlikable, are able to elicit.” Even in this, though, Fassbinder’s
depiction of suffering individuals is more acerbic and brutal, and our
capacity for empathy is therefore more drastically challenged.
So
in many respects, here and elsewhere, and again, it does admittedly
come down to what could be done in the 1950s versus the 1970s, Rainer
Werner Fassbinder is indeed like Douglas Sirk, but like Douglas Sirk
turned up to 11.
REVIEW from SOUND ON SIGHT
Sold
with fantastic taglines like “Today—the pond. Tomorrow—the world,”
“Cold green skin against soft warm flesh…a croak…a scream,” and “A tidal
wave of slithering, slimy horror devouring, destroying all in its
path!,” the horror/sci-fi film Frogs, from 1972, is among the
best of the “when-nature-attacks” movies released from that decade or
any other. And it’s out now with another of the sub-genre, The Food of the Gods (1976), part of a Blu-ray double feature from Shout Factory.
When Frogs starts,
the hero of the film, Pickett Smith (Sam Elliott, in his first leading
role), is floating on a Florida river in his canoe, serenely taking
pictures under the opening credits. He’s in the area to do a pollution
layout for an ecology publication, and with each shutter click, the
image freezes on assorted animals like mug shots of future offenders. He
also photographs trash by the riverbank and some sort of foamy brown
contamination pouring into the water. Put the two together, and we
understand why these creatures look so pissed.
Our
introduction to Clint Crockett (Adam Roarke), out on a motor boat with
his sister, Karen (Joan Van Ark), is a less tranquil debut. He is
recklessly speeding along as he downs a can of beer. Apparently wanting
just to mess with Pickett, he cruises the boat too close to the
photographer, tipping over his canoe and sending him into the drink.
It’s an aggressive meeting, and certainly Pickett isn’t happy, but Clint
and, more earnestly, Karen, do apologize and bring Pickett back to
their family’s large estate for dry clothes and food.
There
we meet Jason Crockett (Ray Milland), the classically southern
patriarch of the family, overseeing all and barking orders from his
wheelchair. If he seems exasperated, we soon see why. Gathered as they
do every year for a joint birthday party and Fourth of July celebration
is a house full of family, friends, and servants, and most of them are a
little maddening, especially to the aged and annoyed grandfather. In
general, though, despite some relatively trivial family squabbles,
everyone here is friendly enough, with no major antagonist. Clint might
be a drunken idiot, his wife, Jenny (Lynn Borden), is a bit of a drama
queen, and Jason is an angry, crotchety old man, but even among “the
ugly rich,” as Jason dubs the group, everyone is essentially hospitable.
Instantly
at the start, frogs already seem to be everywhere—it sure sounds like
they are anyway (their incessant croaking is keeping Jenny up at night,
as she frequently complains). And quite quickly, more than mere ribbits
are infringing on the residence. To the credit of writers Robert
Hutchison and Robert Blees, and director George McCowan, we efficiently
get a thorough lay of the land and all major characters are introduced
by about 15 minutes in. Keeping the film moving along at an exceptional
tempo, things turn deadly by the 22-minute mark and the creatures have
taken on the house at 30. Jason is quick to dismiss the implications of
the animal-related incidents, but Pickett sees everything for just what
it is: nature is getting back at us. Only in passing is it revealed that
the Crockett family’s paper mill has been spewing forth pollution and
is thus at least partly responsible for the vengeful destruction to
come. Pickett even suggests that Jason and his family have contributed
to the calamity more directly, overdoing it with pesticides and poison
on their property.
There’s
an undeniably high quantity of animals around the house, especially the
frogs, but Jason states—in a prophetic horror film declaration if ever
there was one — “it’s not the end of the world.” Nevertheless, it
doesn’t take long before all elements are in place for an accelerated,
well paced, and entertaining third act. As hysterics spread amongst the
guests, the pandemonium only adds to the terror. While others are keen
to make a break for it and get out while the getting is good, Jason is
stubbornly set in his ways and refuses to have this carnage ruin his
annual festivities, however pathetic they may be (before the full
devastation, everyone is basically just sitting around or milling
aimlessly about, with Jason stoically positioned by a record player as
it pumps out patriotic tunes).
Interestingly,
compared to the leeches, scorpions, spiders, and rattlesnakes, the
frogs themselves, while plentiful, appear rather docile, though some
shots do imply it is they who are in charge, as if they’re the ones
leading the crusade, surveying the attack approvingly. Of course,
McCowan et al are playing on the inherent creepiness of the
slimy, slithering, stalking creatures. But at the same time, in many of
the shots, these creatures aren’t really doing anything. More often than
not, McCowan simply shoots close-ups of the various species as they sit
still or go about their business (though every now and then, we do get
what is presumably a distorted point of view shot taken from the vantage
of one of the these animals). It’s almost like an exercise in Soviet
montage theory, whereby the impact of a given shot is only achieved
within the context formulated by the spectator. The terror, in other
words, is often only perceived as such when it’s based on adjacent
images and the suggestions of the narrative. Isolated from this context,
these critters are mostly just hanging around.
The
animals, it seems, are also apt to make not so subtle statements.
There’s the snake entwined on the chandelier, clearly suggesting the
class-consciousness of the creatures and their desire to violate upper
crust society. Then there’s the frog that plops down on the American
flag cake, trampling over the stars and stripes and obviously
demonstrating their anti-American political agenda. Yes, I’m sure the
filmmakers intended all of this, and no, of course, I’m not being
serious. The animals are creative and resourceful, too. One lizard
snuffs out a character by knocking over jars of poison (apparently
smiling as it does so?), gradually asphyxiating the man. And they’re not
without a sense of irony either: a gator kills an uncle in the very oil
the character had previously dumped.
Though Frogs was
produced on a miniscule budget, the cinematography by Mario Tosi is
lush, textured, and layered, taking full advantage of the natural
environment of Florida’s Eden Gardens State Park. Similarly, McCowan has
certain compositions frequently framed (perhaps unavoidably so) by
enveloping foliage, a persistent reminder that nature, now suddenly
hazardous, spawning a steady barrage of hostile animals, is a pervasive
and surrounding force.
Frogs is
pretty ridiculous—there’s no doubt about that. But for 91 minutes, it’s
a cheesy, amusing, sometimes squirm-inducing, and generally enjoyable
entry in the natural horror film cycle of the 1970s.
REVIEW from SOUND ON SIGHT
An Autumn Afternoon was director Yasujirô Ozu’s final film.
He passed away a year after its release, on his 60th birthday, Dec. 12,
1963. Knowing that the film is indeed his last, it’s easy to look at it
in terms of being a sort of grand summation of his work, a concluding
statement on themes and aesthetic tendencies he had steadily formulated
and perfected since his first feature, Blade of Penitence, in
1927. But an overview like that doesn’t always work with Ozu. While his
films may have matured in many respects, they also remained
astonishingly consistent, some even to the point of being nearly the
same movie, on the surface anyway (he did remake one of his own
films—1934’s A Story of Floating Weeds into 1959’s Floating Weeds). Or, at the very least, they are easily confused with one another (similar seasonal titles don’t help). So why then is An Autumn Afternoon special, and where does it fit into the Ozu opus?
To begin with, one must acknowledge the dependability of Ozu’s
stalwart collaborators, such as co-writer Kôgo Noda, cinematographer
Yûharu Atsuta, and editor Yoshiyasu Hamamura, all of whom contribute to An Autumn Afternoon,
and all of whom had worked with the director on numerous prior films,
most certainly playing a part in the likeness of each movie’s style and
respective narrative threads.In terms of this narrative, An Autumn Afternoon revisits familiar Ozu territory from the preceding decade or so. Starting with Late Spring
(1949), Ozu would return time and again to a key thematic crux:
struggles within a family and, more specifically, the marrying off of a
daughter. In addition to Late Spring, The Munekata Sisters (1950), Early Summer (1951), Equinox Flower (1958), and Late Autumn
(1960) are all concerned with diverse and divergent marital plans for
one or more young women. As Geoff Andrew has pointed out, just before
his passing Ozu had made notes for another project, Radishes and Carrots, and once again, it was to be the story of a daughter about to marry and leave her father.
An Autumn Afternoon
begins as Shuhei Hirayama unashamedly questions his secretary about her
being married, stressing its importance, even its necessity. Played by
Chishû Ryû (speaking of stalwart collaborator: 52 films with Ozu),
Hirayama is quick to change the subject when the question comes to his
own 24-year-old daughter, Michiko (Shima Iwashita), and the possibility
of her potential union. This he’s not so keen on, for as a widower, he
has grown dependent on her domestic assistance. Nevertheless, this gets
the narrative moving, and An Autumn Afternoon’s primary focus
is on Michiko’s eventual matrimonial decision and how that, in turn,
affects those around her, particularly her father. It also reveals a
recurring plot point of everyone making decisions except for those most
directly involved. When Hirayama eventually decides with great
satisfaction that it’s probably best to let Michiko marry the man she
prefers, rather than one imposed on her, his declaration is most ironic
given all that had just transpired. After debate with others,
matchmaking without her consent, and selfish contemplation on where it
would leave him, it’s awfully big of him to decide that she knows what
she’s doing.
While the emphasis on women and their somewhat demeaning domestic
roles may be seen as an antiquated patriarchal organization, the same
perceived responsibilities also point to the utter helplessness and
immaturity of the men. Michiko has to constantly chide Hirayama for his
drinking, greeting him almost every night with questions of how much he
has had. Hirayama’s eldest son, Koichi (Keiji Sada), seemingly the most
dependable child, judging solely by appearances and the fact that he has
some sort of professional occupation, borrows money for a refrigerator
but exaggerates the sum needed so he’ll have money left over to purchase
second-hand golf clubs. He is seen as a “meek husband,” kowtowing to
his wife, Akiko (Mariko Okada), but that’s only because it’s up to her
to responsibly keep track of their expenses. And the younger son, Kazuo
(Shin’ichirô Mikami), who also lives with Michiko and Hirayama,
repeatedly barks orders at his older sister/maternal stand-in, demanding
food as soon as he gets home. Though Kazuo hasn’t quite perhaps caught
on to the precarious nature of the family dynamics affecting everyone
else (he’s just a kid who can’t or doesn’t want to make his own meals),
by the end of the film, he too has grown to realize the helplessness of
others, even other males, assuring Hirayama that he will make him
breakfast in the morning. Given that these men are so reliant on the
women in their lives, it’s little wonder Hirayama grows concerned about
Michiko moving out. It’s a sad and surprisingly cruel comment, though a
telling one, when Hirayama returns from Michiko’s wedding and is asked
if he just came from a funeral. “Something like that,” he responds.
Hirayama’s paternal concern doesn’t stop with Michiko’s marriage. As
soon as that much is settled, he quickly turns his attention to Koichi
and starts to prod him about having children. This cycle of parent
versus child needs and wants will never end, nor is it isolated to the
Hirayama family (nor is it isolated to An Autumn Afternoon).
A subplot of An Autumn Afternoon concerns a reunion of
Hirayama and some classmates as they gather to reminisce with an old
teacher, Sakuma (Eijirô Tôno), also known as “The Gourd,” a nickname
bestowed on the former middle school sensei. (Others
instructors included “The Badger,” “The Emperor,” and “The Lion.”)
During a drunken dinner, where Sakuma is especially inebriated, the men
wonder what it’s like for his daughter to take care of him when he’s in
such a state, as he too is a widower and she never married. In a
mother’s absence, it’s another case where the maternal duties fall to
the daughters/sisters, whereby they are assigned the responsibility of
supervising their male relations. When they later walk the old man to
his home, which also doubles as a run-down noodle shop, they find out
exactly what it’s like for daughter Tomoko (Haruko Sugimura). She is
filled with frustration, regret, and despair, for having never married,
she is therefore left to routinely tend to her drunken father. Hirayama
is shocked to discover the condition of the teacher, a man who once held
a position of respectability. Could this be him one day? Could Tomoko
be Michiko if he doesn’t let her wed and lead her own life?
About
an hour after the film’s beginning, Ozu repeats the same shot pattern
that started the film as we again enter Hirayama’s office and again the
subject of his daughter marrying comes up. Only this time, he has
reconsidered his position, especially in light of The Gourd’s situation.
“Be careful you don’t end up like that,” friend and former classmate
Shuzo Kawai (Nobuo Nakamura) warned him. Now he is indeed heeding that
disclaimer. As much as he has ever done before, in An Autumn Afternoon,
Ozu explores the fluctuating roles in a family: who is in charge, who
is subservient, who is the breadwinner, who is the dependent, and what
is the proper, or the best, familial arrangement?
Another former classmate, Shin Horie (Ryûji Kita), challenges these
conventions with his own living arrangement and his relationship with a
much younger woman, just three years older than his daughter. Hirayama
and Kawai jokingly question whether or not he needs pills to maintain
this romantic situation, but at the same time, they’re quick to call him
a “lucky bastard.” The joking between these three men is just one
instance of levity in An Autumn Afternoon. Despite several
comedies to his credit, one doesn’t tend to associate Ozu with laughs,
perhaps because his humor is so natural, so genuine, and oftentimes so
subtle (aside from the defecation jokes in Good Morning
[1959]). Here there are several examples of quiet, understated comedy,
as when Hirayama and a wartime comrade salute and drunkenly bob up and
down to a military march while a hostess demurely joins in, grinning
like an idiot, albeit a charming one. In their picking on one another,
Hirayama and his friends also retain aspects of their youth, continuing
their jocular pranks and taunts. In an Ozu movie, where death is an ever
present concern or cause of dramatic pressure, there’s even no
hesitation to joke about dying: “Don’t go dying on me,” Kazuo tells
Hirayama near the end, seeing how intoxicated his father is. Everyone
maintains a good humor about the inevitable, even when it might not be
that far off.
At the same time, An Autumn Afternoon contains moments of
somber reflection relating to World War II, the subject arising here
more than in most of Ozu’s work. “How come we lost the war?” Hirayama is
asked. “Good question,” is all he can answer. Further allusions to the
fighting and its effects include everything from the devastating (bombed
out houses and evacuations), to the social (a coldness between people
that developed in the immediate post-war years), to the more trivial
repercussions of Western pop culture seeping into Japanese life (kids
shaking their rumps to American records). Just as these and other
narrative and thematic features from An Autumn Afternoon are
similar to, or distinguished from, prior Ozu work, the film is also
representative of the director’s visual approach, much of which had been
in place for years.
There
is, as per the norm, little to no camera movement, as well as a
commonly adopted vantage point from a lower angle, stressing visual
stability and compositional balance. An Autumn Afternoon also
makes the most of Ozu’s penchant for frontal exchanges between
characters, where those speaking are shot straight on, as if addressing
the viewer, a paradoxically disorienting and absorbing position. Ozu
also establishes scenes unlike any other filmmaker, with close-ups of
inanimate objects gradually shown from a further distance and another
angle, and only on the third or fourth cut extending to a wider shot of
the area (and even then often followed by closer shots moving back in on
the specific location within the general setting). It’s a fascinating
spatial arrangement that pinpoints details within any one given
sequence, broadening the scope, subsequently giving us a full sense of
space, then again putting the focus on smaller features to set the scene
to come.
Ozu also frequently denies us moments of action and drama, favoring
instead passages of triviality. He will keep the camera outside a
baseball stadium, only showing the game on television, or skip over the
courtship (such as it probably was) between Michiko and her new husband,
but he will stay on after scenes have essentially ended, holding on
characters as they quietly sit alone or inconsequently shuffle through
some papers. One also sees in An Autumn Afternoon that people
have a presence in an Ozu film even when they’re not in the frame. Doors
open and close without the active person immediately appearing, or we
will hear their entrance, either through dialogue or through other
noise, long before we actually see them enter. Similarly, Ozu emphasizes
items like slippers placed outside a room, discarded beer bottles lined
up, empty stools awaiting customers: he is as much interested in people
as he is where they are, where they’ve been, where they may go, and
what they leave behind.
Having first worked in color on Equinox Flower, Ozu’s
palette here is generally populated with primary colors: red, yellow,
and blue. The color is not decorative, though it certainly gives these
films an aesthetic appeal that his black and white films obviously do
not possess, but in most cases, the color is used to locate a certain
setting or to tie scenes together. When Hirayama and Kawai are shown
walking the drunken Sakuma down an alleyway, we know where they’re
heading (his home/noodle shop) because we had previously seen the
surrounding yellow barrels that, against the otherwise blacked backdrop,
stand out and signal our sense of location. The same holds for
Hirayama’s office, in the beginning and, as mentioned, at about the
halfway point. The red of the exterior smokestacks transition to the red
of a hallway fire hose door, then to a red object near Hirayama’s desk.
Even before we enter an interior proper, the setting is cued to be
familiar due to its identical, repeated, and associative color
arrangements.
According to Andrew, An Autumn Afternoon,
like so many other Ozu films, “is both typical and unique.” It is, for
example, another “gentle domestic drama about middle-class family life, a
shomin-geki characteristic of his home studio, Shochiku.” Yet,
at the same time, it is also “a very distinct variation, following
beautifully from its predecessors.” Ultimately, An Autumn Afternoon
is exemplary and exceptional as a film that overflows with perhaps
Ozu’s most predominant and affecting concentration: the quiet
resignation of life, the good and the bad. “That’s fate for you,” says
Horie. He’s bragging about his newfound love life, but the observation
applies to all. Ozu’s characters play the cards they’re dealt, making
the most of what they have and have to face with an admirable
acceptance. In this, Ozu’s films are the ultimate in slice of life
banality, everyday dramas both big and small, none of which are ever
boring because they are so true. In the end, Hirayama faces the
consequences of his actions. He was quick to marry Michiko off, but now
the dread of the loneliness sets in. There is no winning with Ozu. This
is just how life is, and this is how it will continue. It’s a worldview
best summarized in an exchange from his most famous film, Tokyo Story (1953)—Kyoko: “Isn’t life disappointing?” Noriko (smiling): “Yes, it is.”
The final shot of An Autumn Afternoon—the final Ozu
image—has Hirayama with his back to the camera, seen from a distance. He
is drunk, feels he’s alone, and is stricken with equal parts melancholy
and nostalgia. It is a melancholy and nostalgia that mirrors the way
one who loves Ozu’s cinema feels when realizing that this is the last
the Japanese master had to offer. It is sad, yes, but one accepts it and
appreciates all he left behind.
