Gilda
Written by Jo Eisinger (adaptation), Marion Parsonnet (screenplay)
Directed by Charles Vidor
USA, 1946

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There are a number of memorable moments in the 1946 classic Gilda, a post-war noir hybrid of gangster film and romance and one of finest showcases for a female star to ever emerge from the studio system. In looking at the movie again, this time in the form of a gorgeous new restoration courtesy of the UCLA Film and Television Archive and now available on Blu-ray from the Criterion Collection, there is undeniably a great deal to appreciate in these singular scenes and shots, particularly in terms of visuals and performances. While the ultimate composite of the picture may not coalesce into a clearly practical resolution, with much left unanswered and uncertain, the whole of these individual parts certainly makes up for the lack of a solidified sum. Set amidst the paradoxically down and dirty yet high class milieu of Argentina’s illegal gambling trade, Gilda is a curious film to come out of Hollywood at the time. As film noir historian Eddie Muller notes in his Criterion interview, the movie is a complex work boiling over with a perverse strangeness and audacious psychosexual insinuations.

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Glenn Ford is Johnny Farrell, a low-rent gambler—he is smart, smooth, and skilled. He surfaces from the seedy Argentine underbelly shooting craps in the shadows and smoke of the societal fringe. He is saved from an attack one evening by the wealthy Ballin Mundson (George Macready)—he is stern, cruel, and likely dangerous, and about to become Farrell’s employer, and possibly more. Aware of Johnny’s gambling, in particular his proficient knack for cheating, Ballin invites the stranger to a casino, but warns him against using any of his dishonest trickery. Lo and behold, Johnny shows up, does indeed cheat, and is sure enough confronted by the owner of the venue, who is, of course, Ballin. Though an oddly roundabout way to become associates, an association nevertheless begins.

Both men take pride in their capacity for making their own luck, though via differing methods, for differing reasons, and with differing results. Johnny has his (warranted) doubts about this strange new benefactor (why was he roaming around that evening anyway?), but as both share this penchant for making sure the odds are always in their favor, there is much to be gained from a mutually beneficial collaboration. Even dressed to the nines as Ballin’s casino manager, Farrell does not convincingly fit the part, at least not at first; it is clear he is out of his element, that this is not the type of gambling establishment he is used to, and he soon discovers Ballin’s shady dealings roam into a realm beyond the blackjack tables and roulette wheels. As unusual a scheme as it sounds, he is conspiring with an international cartel to monopolize tungsten stock. A few sinister German fellows, presumably leftover Nazis, pop in and out of the picture lending Ballin’s organization global implications, which, quite frankly, do not much matter in terms of the film’s primary focus anyway.

Regardless, all is going rather well until Ballin introduces his new bride, Gilda (Rita Hayworth)—she is sly, knowing, and seductive, and as enchanting to those in the movie as she is to those watching it. She and Johnny flinch at a barely concealed prior relationship, and its upsetting existence takes the form of a scorned love masquerading as newly acquainted animosity. Though Ballin is quickly wise to their past, he does not seem to grasp the extent of their acrimonious separation, which is fitting, for neither do we have a full and firm understanding on what their life was like together and what caused it to so bitterly dissipate.

So here they are, all three “with no pasts,” as Ballin says at one point. But if there is one thing as dangerous in a film noir as someone with a checkered past it is someone who claims to have no past whatsoever.

There is a persistently intentional antagonism between Johnny, Ballin, and Gilda, with each putting the others to the test at every turn. Even when there is the suggestion of earnest conviction—as when Ballin entrusts Johnny with the combination to his safe—such are the pervasive themes of double dealing and secrets and lies that one cannot help but wonder why, and how is it really going to work against, rather than for, all involved. It becomes no secret that Ballin essentially purchased Johnny and Gilda, something he proudly admits and something they likewise seem to accept, so the film sits anxiously on the unsteady three-way allegiance and the deceitful perception of protection and respect.

Adding to the notion that neither of the three are wholly sincere in their ambitions is the repeated refrain of hate. In a Turner Classic Movies essay by Felicia Feaster and John Miller, Gilda is even described as a “hate story.” Indeed, the word “hate” is bandied about by each of the three on numerous occasions: “Hate can be an exciting emotion. Haven’t you noticed that? There is a heat in it one can feel … Hate is the only thing that has ever warmed me.”; “I hated her so, I couldn’t get her out of my mind.”; “Would it interest you to know how much I hate you, Johnny?”; and so on. Motivations are also questionable—who does Johnny really care about, for example, Ballin or Gilda, and who really cares for him?

Not surprisingly then, this charade can only go on for so long. Ballin, for one, sees a way out, the result of which takes things from bad to worse for a time, then seemingly better; and even that is debatable. If there’s any redemptive theme running throughout the film, it’s the unexpected loyalty in the strangest of places, acted out at the strangest of ways, from Johnny and his own curious commitment to Ballin, to the butler, Uncle Pio (Steven Geray), who is always around, seems to know the score better than anyone, and stalwartly appears at just the right time.

Fresh off a four-year stint in the military, Ford may be playing the protagonist of Gilda, as evidenced by his authoritatively reflexive noir voiceover and his greater screen time, but as soon as those legendary lines are heard—”Gilda, are you decent?” Then, with her stunning face and magnificent head of hair whipping into the frame, “Me?”—the film quickly and permanently becomes Hayworth’s movie. As Martin Scorsese notes in an interview included on the Criterion Blu-ray (Baz Luhrmann also appears, giving his passionate take on the film), Gilda is a provocative mixture of “innocence and experience, power and vulnerability.” Her progressive defiance and impudence makes a striking impression, no matter how frustrating it may be to those who hopelessly try to constrict her; and with her in the picture, the already muddied moral waters are clouded ever more. At the same time, she sparkles, not just in what she wears (celebrated Jean Louis gowns), but dazzling from the neck up. It’s little wonder this is Hayworth’s most iconic role, even if it did adversely affect her love life: “Every man I’ve known has fallen in love with Gilda,” she once pointed out, “and awakened with me.”

From its fabulous low angle opening shot to Hayworth’s famous introduction to her equally memorable “Put the Blame on Mame” number (actually sung by Anita Ellis),Gilda is a visual delight, which is a plus given that most of the action takes place in one of two primary settings, Ballin’s large mansion or his casino. While both locations are elaborate enough, particularly the casino with the sights and sounds of its hustle and bustle, there is rarely much camera movement or room to breathe. Instead, the restrictive locations yield a strong sense of confinement, appropriately so as all three main characters seem to be stuck in their present predicament, inevitably bumping into one another in hostile confrontations. With much of the film set indoors, there is an abundance of artificial light. But when things need to get dark—for visual, tonal, or narrative purposes—certain shots can get plenty dark. See, for instance, the scene in Gilda’s bedroom when Ballin divulges his awareness of her past with Johnny, or when Johnny begins to leave the Mundson residence one evening and Ballin is entirely darkened in a sinister silhouette. Directed by Charles Vidor, whose films are more famous than he is, Gilda emanates the deep blacks and rich whites of exemplary film noir photography, here by five-time Oscar nominee Rudolph Maté, who had just helmed the camera on Cover Girl in 1944, also directed by Vidor and also starring Hayworth (and also written by Gilda producer Virginia Van Upp).

With its vaguely indistinct locale, rife with exoticism and danger, as well as its suggestive plot points and visual signifiers, Gilda is a remarkably subversive film, one where the characters and their behaviors don’t tidy up nicely into an entirely satisfying conclusion, at least by any emotionally uplifting standpoint. The ending, writes Sheila O’Malley in her essay accompanying the disc, “leaves an uneasy impression, similar to the final scene in Notorious. In neither ending does it feel like ‘love has triumphed.’ It’s more like a criminal getaway.” That confusion, she states, “so rich, so tormented, so surreal and true, is a huge part of Gilda’sfascination, its enduring draw.”

Bitter Rice
Written by Giuseppe De Santis, Carlo Lizzani, Gianni Puccini
Directed by Giuseppe De Santis
Italy, 1949

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The opening credits of Bitter Rice parade an array of Italian film industry luminaries, figures who would help redefine the country’s national cinema, picking up where neorealism left off and setting the stage for the remarkable work that would emerge in the decades to come. Screenwriters Carlo Lizzani and Giuseppe De Santis (who also directed) were two of eight individuals contributing in one way or another to the script, though they were the two who would share an Academy Award nomination for its story. Cinematographer Otello Martelli had nearly 50 films under his belt by the time of Bitter Rice, but in the years that followed he would most memorably man the camera for Federico Fellini’s finest films. And producing the movie was the venerable Dino De Laurentiis, really just at the start of his legendary career. Starring in the picture are Vittorio Gassman, who had his best work still to come, and Silvana Mangano and Raf Vallone, both relative newcomers who, like Gassman, would star in a number of excellent features down the road, collaborating with the likes of Pier Paolo Pasolini, Luchino Visconti, and Vittorio De Sica. All these individuals lent Bitter Rice an exceptional degree of talent, and their varying backgrounds and approaches unified to create a complex film of surprising eroticism, thoughtful realism, vivid melodrama, and wildly fluctuating tone.

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Bitter Rice is set largely amidst the open agrarian vista of Vercelli, where every year a congregation of women of all ages, sizes, social origins, and intentions are essentially hauled in to do 40 days’ worth of work, corresponding to the duration of the rice picking season. That the workers are all women is key. As a radio show announcer states at the beginning of the film, only women can do this type of job. It requires small, fast hands, the “same hands that thread a needle and cradle an infant.” Now of course, to today’s ears such a simplistic (some would say sexist) declaration rings with the echo of days thankfully gone by. But in the context of this film, the existence of predominantly female characters is integral to the drama that develops and, it must be said, to the sex-based luridness of the movie. There are men present, but they mostly just take their effortless cut in the profits and lustily take in the sights of the women, pants and skirts hiked high, bent over with full-figured rumps protruding into the air. However accurate it may be, images like this physical position, which is at times blatantly exploited by camera placement, add considerably to the tawdry nature of the film and its occasionally rampant sensuality.

It’s into this world that jewel thief on the run Walter (Gassman) enters with his naively devoted girlfriend Francesca (Hollywood beauty Doris Dowling). They are attempting to evade the authorities and catch a ride out of town. As the two strike an awkwardly artificial pose gazing off into the distance from a train car, the elevated camera glides away and sweeps to a spread near the tracks where Silvana (Mangano) is seductively dancing. She immediately secures the attention of Walter, who to his own detriment hops off the train and heads her way. This is a fantastic introduction to the teenage Mangano’s character, one that underscores her ensuing importance as a major player in the film and one that sets up the love triangle (later quartet) that will be the ruin of more than one life. Police briefly track down the careless Walter, just long enough to draw their guns and just long enough for him to promptly—and tellingly—hide behind Francesca; this is the type of man we’re dealing with here. Nevertheless, he manages to escape and runs off as Francesca, stolen goods in hand, is left to fend for herself, leaping aboard a rice field bound train that also carries Silvana.

With the obvious impression that she knows more than her fair share about illicit activity, Silvana is quickly wise to the theft and witnesses Francesca stashing the pilfered necklace. Suffice it to say, before long the jewelry is soon adorning her own neck, intensifying the already established animosity between the two women. Adding the final ingredient of tension is the generally decent Marco (Vallone), one of several displaced soldiers idling nearby. He takes an amiable interest in the girls, but once Walter reemerges with plans to make a move on the enticing Silvana and steal a shipment of the procured rice in the process, the conniving crook rapidly raises the ire of the jealous sergeant. The romantic and criminal scheming begins. And grows and grows.

As this heated drama plays out in the foreground, Bitter Rice is perhaps at its best when it pulls back to highlight the methodology of the rice picking and the lives of those who undertake this clearly exhausting work. Just as powerfully expressive as the primary characters are in their more intimate moments, so too are the wider shots impressive in their scope of the endeavor. Gone in this 1949 production may be the urban hallmarks of World War II and its ravages, but De Santis and his team retain the neorealist knack for grittiness and legitimacy, with an edifying emphasis on the laborious procedure of the harvest and an effective use of marvelously authentic set pieces to serve as documentary backdrops for the fictional tragedies. Like its immediately post-war predecessors, there is a markedly rich texture to Bitter Rice, one that uncovers in captivating detail the environment, the annual industry, and the people who toil in the fields.

Being a film that therefore functions as a document of the faces and features populating this landscape,Bitter Rice gives due attention to the aforementioned female workers and their individual traits. Some of these women, most prominently Silvana in terms of the primary story, have been around this block a time or two; they know the routine with a seasoned, emotionally detached degree of familiarity. Others convey anxiousness (the newcomers) and downright weariness (those who are forced to commence the work year after year). In a sad testament to their desperate condition and their lack of resources, some even arrive with infant children in tow. The women are quick-witted, too; they’re not allowed to talk while working so they (rather obviously) sing their comments and complaints. Ultimately, most are simply driven by the job’s essential monetary incentive, and this creates a degree of work-related acrimony as illegal workers vie for the chance to labor alongside those with official contracts (fittingly, Francesca, who had no intention of being there in the first place, sits on opposite sides of this division than Silvana). Though this type of feud has its roots in a serious social condition, it leads to sequences of livid female infighting that sometimes tend to take the film away from any considerate examination. When one scrap breaks out in the saturated fields, for example, the women drop to the ground and begin to tussle in the water, tugging at each other and ripping soaked clothes as if they’re in an Italian version of a 1970s women in prison film.

Purely as a result of its date of production, World War II never seems to be far away from a film like this, either as something implied or something voiced outright. But Bitter Rice develops along other thematic and generic strands as well. When Francesca recalls her troubled relationship with Walter, as jazz music plays along in the background, the film suddenly takes on the tenor of a remorseful noir. Yet later, one particularly overblown death scene reaches the level of fever pitched melodrama. And more than once the film’s passionate interests resemble a sensational potboiler, not unlike Luchino Visconti’s Ossessione (1943), on which De Santis worked as a writer. Finally, at the conclusion of the picture, Francesca has a touching change of heart when she refuses to go along with the rice-stealing plot, contending that those Walter now plans to rip off are honest, hardworking people. It’s hardly enough to turn the film around as a full-fledged vehicle for moral messaging, but the point is clear: to steal from those living a leisurely life is far different than to steal from those who know no such luxury.

In his essay on Bitter Rice, which is included with the newly released Criterion Collection disc of the film alongside a documentary about De Santis and an interview with Lizzani, Italian film scholar Pasquale Iannone points out the film was a success when first released, and part of its reception included debate about its sociopolitical content. “For some on the left,” writes Iannone, “the film’s focus on romantic and sexual intrigue obfuscated, even sullied, its social message, a criticism that the director rejected.” Be that as it may, this web of form and content is what makes Bitter Rice such an interesting watch. Whether or not each of its characteristics are given equal and sufficient attention, the sheer brashness of its commitment to mix and mingle seemingly disparate themes, images, and concentrations is a laudable effort in itself.

Lady Snowblood/Lady Snowblood 2: Love Song of Vengeance
Written by Norio Osada
Directed by Toshiya Fujita
Japan, 1973/1974

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Even the Criterion Collection’s own synopsis can’t help but mention that Lady Snowblood was a major influence on Kill Bill. Chances are, many who have seen this 1973 Japanese film within the past ten year or so, including myself, have done so only after having heard of its connection to Quentin Tarantino’s 2003-04 dual-volume feature. Make no mistake, though, released by Criterion along with its 1974 sequel, Lady Snowblood 2: Love Song of Vengeance, a lesser film in many regards, this is an exceptional movie in its own right, and a pleasant surprise from the estimable distribution company.

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Beginning in a Tokyo prison circa 1874, a baby girl, Yuki, is born. Against the dazzling backdrop of a pelting snowstorm, she is delivered into a life of violence and unpleasantness, and is urged by her mother, even at this extremely early age, to carry out a long-gestating vendetta. Following a brutal attack, which started with the murder of her husband and son and ended with her gang rape, Yuki’s mother managed to kill one of the assailants, but was imprisoned soon thereafter. While incarcerated, she promiscuously bedded man after man in hopes of birthing a male heir who could inherit her vengeance. Instead, the remaining culprits are left to die by the sword of a daughter. Thick, pillowy white snowflakes turn red—the retaliation begins.

Dubbed an Asura—a demigod—and described at one point as a diabolical being from another realm, Yuki inhabits a world marred by corruption, debauchery, and greed. Against these surroundings, she is a singular figure righting the symbolic and literal wrongs for the weak and the incapable, and along the way, she is to finish what her mother started. Since the age of eight, she has trained to become silent, stoic, stealthy, and most of all, deadly: “Feel like a beast! Become a beast!” emboldens her instructor. As a woman possessed, there is no stopping the adult Yuki’s (Meiko Kaji) quest.

But all does not go as planned, at least not psychologically. Yuki’s first of three targets is a pathetic drunk, it is said that the second has died already, and the final confrontation likewise concludes with a disappointing termination (though that still doesn’t stop Yuki from enacting a degree of self-satisfying viciousness). This spirited crusade proves to be more emotionally taxing than she anticipated, and even as the revenge theme is carried along swiftly and efficiently, one senses that the motive is, in itself, unfulfilling.

To compound the apparent inadequacies of revenge, or at least to further challenge the suggestion that her mission is a distinct one, that a past of suffering is unique to her alone, Yuki meets an intrepid reporter and novelist, Ryûrei Ashio (Toshio Kurosawa), who takes an interest in her plight. Unbeknownst to her and the audience for a time, he too has his own agenda, albeit a seemingly sincere one. Yet a surprising connection emerges, one that causes Yuki to carry on her fight, and eventually a new cause for retribution simultaneously develops. What ultimately becomes clear is that vengeance goes around and around, becoming a complicated circle of familial conflict and reckoning. Though the sword-play is repeatedly thrilling for the viewer, if “revenge is a dish best served cold,” as Tarantino’s film quotes, then here the platter is bittersweet for Yuki, and perhaps not as palatable as its description once suggested.

With her dogged determinism and lifelong single-mindedness, Yuki appears to have missed out on much of what the world (granted, a hostile one) has to offer. Everything and everyone around her has moved on while she clings to a violent past. This is particularly the case in the Lady Snowblood sequel, which picks up in 1906, during an era of post-war upheaval. Yuki now roams an almost entirely dilapidated environment plagued by devastation and the wretched poverty-stricken. The film opens as she wanders within a derelict structure, partially falling down, adorned by cobwebs. It’s a sign of the times, but having now satisfied her avenging thirst, it also reflects her own lack of stability and optimistic perception. Yuki exits the building and walks straight ahead, the camera retreating in her path. Even as a swarm of attackers surround her, she deftly and defiantly moves forward, unflappably pushing on without a hint of apprehension. Such an assault has become routine and she dispatches the men with a casual precision. Unlike the fierce intensity of her reddened eyes piercing beyond the pastiness of her defiant face in Lady Snowblood, in Love Song of Vengeance, Yuki simply looks exhausted, though still certainly capable. The state of her weariness is evident under the title credits when, now sought for the murder of 37 individuals, she shockingly gives up the fight and is promptly arrested.

This is a great opening sequence, but Lady Snowblood 2 does not successfully sustain the momentum of its action-packed start. This time, Yuki, “a child of destiny, bearer of a vendetta,” is hired by the secret police to infiltrate the house of an anarchist and obtain politically damning secret documents in his possession. Though it is revealed this rebel knows who she is and even appreciates her plight— “Sometimes murder is justice and is done for a reason,” he says—the whole charade is indicative of the film in general, which, unlike the first Lady Snowblood, has Yuki taking on assignments, or acting on behalf of others, rather than having her action derived solely from her own personal passions. And while Yuki remains a wanted woman, Love Song of Vengeance is far more concerned with the governmental intrigue of the period, the social commentary, and even the trappings of a love triangle; for several sequences, Yuki slips off to the side of the narrative altogether as the film follows other characters and their respective plots.

Lady Snowblood 2 is still an entertaining film, but as its more convoluted story plods along, it pales in comparison to the first movie’s vitality. Lady Snowblood has a fantastic narrative kept stimulating by titillating chapter breakdowns (“Chapter 1: A vow of vengeance. A thread of blood connecting love and hate,” “Chapter 2: Bamboo wives and tears of wrath.”) as well as the use of flashbacks, voiceover narration, and diverse illustrations providing backstory and historical context. Some of this is carried over to the sequel, but to a far lesser degree, and not near as prevalent in the second film are the numerous painterly compositions. Toshiya Fujita may have directed both films, and apparently both are rather atypical of his filmography otherwise (with which I’m admittedly unfamiliar), but the first is a more visually stirring work, with freeze-frames, zooms, colorful filters, and some of the best uses of primary reds, yellows, and blues east of Jean-Luc Godard. The artificial backdrops and exaggerated action sequences may be theatrically staged and enacted, but there is a dynamism to the unabashed artiness of the film’s production. And though both films were adapted from the same famous manga, it is the first that most adheres to the aesthetic designs of the source format.

By contrast, Lady Snowblood 2 is a more subdued film, in terms of pictorial intensity and tonal drive; even the setting is less lively, with grey skies, destitute locales, and a somber wind blowing frequently over the soundtrack. Compared to a scene like the first film’s masquerade ball finale, the second often appears washed out with less visual boldness (though it must be acknowledged that the new restoration of both movies still looks fantastic). The opening and closing fights of Lady Snowblood 2 are notable, containing choreographed sequences of single-take action in wide-shot, and there remain audible geysers of blood erupting in a stylish jet of arterial spray, but nothing in the second film compares to the vivid red splashing against the snow’s pristine whiteness, for example, just one example of the first movie’s spectacular contrast of synthetic, though nonetheless beautiful, color.

Concluding with the Kill Bill correlation, this type of Tarantino endorsement-by-way-of-allusion can often be a mixed bag; as good as his films are, not everything they nod to is equally worthwhile. Fortunately, and especially when taken together, the two Lady Snowblood films most assuredly live up to the associative reputation, and more at that.

Triumph of the WillWritten by Leni Riefenstahl, Walter Ruttmann, Eberhard Taubert
Directed by Leni Riefenstahl
Germany, 1935

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It is never easy to look at Leni Riefenstahl’s Triumph of the Will as anything other than what Dr. Anthony Santoro quite rightly calls a “supreme propaganda film.” As that, it is nearly unparalleled in the dubious annals of film history. Contributing to its difficulty in terms of analysis, however, is the fact that it is, at the same time, more than simply a notorious document of evil in bloom. For all the troublesome features that recurrently arise through the course of this film—the domineering presence of Adolf Hitler being just one obvious example—this is one remarkably well-crafted motion picture. Its status as the ultimate work of cinematic propaganda is, indeed, a direct result of just how superbly powerful, sadly persuasive, and expertly realized the documentary is, for better or worse.

As opening titles state, Triumph of the Will is the “historical document of the 1934 Congress of the National Socialist German Workers Party,” an annual event lasting Sept. 4-10 in Nuremberg. The project itself was “commissioned by the order of the Führer,” which, of course, helps explain its stress on Hitler’s own superiority and perceived magnificence. Over the span of this recorded jubilee, Hitler travels from place to place giving a variety of oftentimes themed speeches; he promotes Germany’s current transitory state, moving past the suffering of World War I and the resulting devastation toward an ongoing national rebirth, and he touts the country’s economic, industrial, agricultural, and popular accomplishments. Hitler, who was named chancellor just the year prior, clearly saw the film as an ideal introduction of sorts, and subsequently, the film has the tenor of shamelessly effective self-promotion.

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While much of Triumph of the Will revolves around Hitler’s beliefs, policies, and his mere existence, the film is not preoccupied by him alone. A wide swath of the German populace is likewise given attention by Riefenstahl and her crew. Women are shown greeting Hitler with a bounty of produce, for example. They appear happy, healthy, and, like so many others, are nearly giddy in their admiration of this new, charismatic leader. They are depicted as maternal figures, caretakers reaping the agricultural products of the fatherland for the benefit of the nation. As Hitler continues to be greeted by throngs of admirers, most of whom scarcely conceal a visible sense of awe, children are also frequently seen, from toddlers looking on in wide-eyed wonder to the exuberant Hitler Youth. This latter group of young men are set up in an encampment on the outskirts of the city. They busy themselves by rough-housing and meticulously preparing for the festivities at hand: exercising, grooming themselves, dressing the part of dutiful native sons. This inclusion of women and children is a slyly manipulative maneuver on the part of Riefenstahl and the powers that be. Unsuspecting audiences at the time surely saw this and shrugged off any dormant wickedness—how could there be with such approving innocence?

No matter the populace at the center of attention, there is a repeated accent on faces, motions and gestures, and the celebratory display of energetic bodies enacting a sense of togetherness and camaraderie. As Hitler’s magnetism comes through during moments of one-on-one interaction, during which time he intimately greets certain individuals, no doubt leaving inedible impressions on their lives to come, there is nevertheless that which Triumph of the Willis aiming to so prominently endorse, and that which Hitler himself continually emphasizes: the notion of being part of something larger than a singular entity—the 700,000 strong are here as part of a communal unit.

Contrasting the lively, essentially good-natured enthusiasm of the youth is the formal rigidity of the authoritative figures. As we see a who’s who of Nazi officials—Martin Bormann, Otto Dietrich, Joseph Goebbels, Hermann Göring, Rudolf Hess, Heinrich Himmler, et al—they pose and salute and are commonly surrounded by a monumental regimentation of citizen-soldiers. Triumph of the Will is at its most extravagant and, again, frightfully convincing, when Riefenstahl turns her cameras (she employed more than 30) on the pomp and circumstance of the storm troopers and other factions of the National Socialist Party: the costumes/uniforms, the regalia and ornamentation, and the flags and standards all lit and framed to precise effect. Everything these men do and convey is militaristic in nature, from the formations of the youth to the labor force standing at attention with spades in hand like rifles at the ready. For all of this type of soldierly bluster, though, Santoro notes that the Party was not in itself a military institution, but rather an ideological social construct composed military style, with a stress on “quasi-military training.” In any case, the prominent composite of symbolic insignia and the physicality of the people points toward a visual association that would soon be inseparable from Nazism and its devotion to iconography, in its structures, outfitting, and in the idyllic concept of strength, uniformity, and bodily perfection.

The aforementioned interactions and the swaying words of Hitler may give historical and thematic weight to what occurs in Triumph of the Will, but where Riefenstahl really reveals herself as, it must be admitted, a truly talented filmmaker, is in the pure visualization of the sets and actions. Starting with scenic aerial footage of Hitler flying into Nuremberg, what follows is a multitude of inventive camera angles and movements, exquisite lighting effects (silhouettes, striking compositions aided by fog machines, ominous torchlight nighttime processions, sun-sprinkled faces of naive optimism), and a profoundly efficient montage of close-ups and wider group shots; the juxtaposition of row upon row of the masses and the singling out of specific individuals is a perfect representation of the thematic value of one becoming part of a stronger whole. Through her competent editing, Riefenstahl also constructs Hitler’s glances and the crowd’s reactions to have the suggestion of eye-line matching, creating the provocative prospect of personal, even if unspoken, communication. Couple all this with the German music and its chorus of voices in unison and the result is what Santoro says is an “audio-visual assault on the senses.”

In his instructive commentary track for the newly released Synapse Films Blu-ray of Triumph of the Will, Santoro regularly acknowledges the phenomenal cinematography of the film. Essentially given creative carte blanche and a wealth of equipment, Riefenstahl’s direction calls for camera placement towering above on elevator-like contraptions, sweeping on cranes, traveling amidst the crowd on vehicular mounts, and low and high angles that emphasize not only the literal size and scope of the congress, but the symbolic stature and significance of Hitler and the occasion in general. As much as the film and the ceremonies might have been staged, in that Hitler and his crew, with Riefenstahl, orchestrated the happenings to optimum effect, Triumph of the Will is a remarkable achievement in set construction, organization, and technical capability. There are some sequences, such as the “sea of flags,” that attain an astonishing level of abstraction, where the seemingly authentic nature of the documentary melds into the realm of hallucinogenic imagery. Though color stock was available, both Hitler and Riefenstahl preferred black and white, and for its contemporary purposes, to say nothing of its current historical relevance, this was a wise choice. In the tradition of cinematic Germanic masterworks like Metropolis (1927) and Faust (1926), it is as if everything Riefenstahl records could only have been fabricated as in a work of extravagant fictional filmmaking, and maybe to a certain extent it all is a work of contrived manipulation. But amazingly, what we see really did happen.

Though this week-long ceremony may have been designed for the benefit of, and as a testament to, the German people, it is quickly evident that what transpires is more accurately an ode to only one man. We may see diverse passionate spectators, but when they are looking up with that fervent sense of admiration and marvel, it is directed at Hitler and Hitler alone. As Santoro puts it, Riefenstahl gave the “cult of Hitler” form. Fortunately, as he also points out, for all of its expenditure in terms of production, Triumph of the Will suffered from relatively meager marketing, thus limiting the distribution of the film and subsequently lessening the international spread of its rhetoric. Though the tone of the language here is predictably political and generally innocuous (without the beneficial knowledge of hindsight, that is), it would soon become explicitly, intoxicatingly toxic.

Once Riefenstahl was able to whittle down Triumph of the Will to a manageable length, using a very small percentage of what was actually shot, the film went on to win a documentary award at the 1935 Venice Film Festival and was there nominated for the “Mussolini Cup” for Best Foreign Film. Yet in viewing this film today, there is no way around the fact that everything about it is immensely disturbing. As much as possible, though, it does deserve attention for its artistic merit, apart from its disconcerting content. Riefenstahl was an unquestionable talent, as a captivating actress and imaginative director, and though a project like Triumph of the Will is problematic at best, there can be no denying that what this film sets out to do it does very well—frighteningly well—and much of that derives from its characteristics as a technically accomplished, albeit extremely challenging, work of the cinema