"Deeply wounds the religious sentiments of believers." – Pope John Paul II
With
the appointment of a new pope, the beginning of Holy Week and President
Obama's recent trip to the Holy Land, Christianity seems rather topical
these days. So with that in mind, I wanted to look at one of the most
fascinating, profound and controversial films ever made to deal with the
Christian faith.
When Jean-Luc Godard's 1985 film Hail Mary (Je vous salue, Marie)
was initially released, it set off a firestorm of protest. According to
an article in a contemporary issue of Film Quarterly, the film was met
with everything from "the Pope's Vatican Radio denunciations and Italian
magazine covers depicting barebreasted blondes on crucifixes, to
Catholics lighting candles and shaking rosaries outside offending
theaters." The film was banned and the subject of boycotts, and
religious leaders worldwide deemed it blasphemous (the above quote,
which the DVD displays almost as a badge of honor on its cover, is just
one example). But what was at the heart of the controversy? Why all this
fuss? First and foremost, there was the plot.
Godard's
film is a modern day retelling of the virgin birth. Here, Mary (Myriem
Roussel) is a basketball-playing high school student who works at her
father's gas station. Her boyfriend, Joseph (Thierry Rode), is a school
drop-out who drives a cab. Mary suddenly becomes pregnant. But she's a
virgin. How can this be? Predictably, Joseph is not exactly thrilled by
this news. Rather, as would be expected, he is confused, suspicious and,
at times, angry. The angel Gabriel (Philippe Lacoste), arriving via
airplane, tries to provide some reassurance, but the situation is not an
easy one for Mary, Joseph and their friends and family. How does a
young girl like this cope with such a thing, and how does this sudden
revelation affect her life, her worldview and her relationships?
These are the more reflective issues explored by Hail Mary.
But to some, these ideas—indeed this very story—are not to be tampered
with. Instead of seeing the film as a unique way in which to examine
what such an occurrence would mean for those involved, instead of seeing
the evolution of young Mary from average teenager to sacred vessel as
one of deep religious transformation, many saw it easier to dismiss the
film immediately, often sight unseen.
Adding
to the objections was the considerable amount of nudity in the film.
Roussel was well into her twenties by this point, so she wasn't really a
teenager, thus her age shouldn't have been a factor. But perhaps the
idea of seeing this present-day virgin mother naked was too much for
some. However, in all reality, the nudity makes perfect sense. Here you
have a young, chaste girl inexplicably with child. Doesn't it stand to
reason that her body would be of the utmost importance? Wouldn't it be
natural for her to therefore appear naked when she questions and
examines her predicament? Or, take it from Joseph's angle. He hasn't
touched her. Has someone else? Is she lying? ("I'm pregnant but still a
virgin" would be a pretty tough declaration to go along with.) Obviously
her body is now sacred, but Joseph is after all a young man. He
probably has desires as would any other. Maybe he could at least see her
naked?
In any event, Hail Mary
was met with its fair share of detractors. And as such, many people
have not seen the picture. Most have probably never even heard of it.
But it's a worthwhile film, one that, if nothing else, should elicit
some discussion and consideration. If one can step back from the
sacredness of the Biblical text and just look at the film for what it is
and what it presents there are moments of tremendous power to be
discovered, even for nonbelievers or those of another belief. Hail Mary
speculates on a great number of issues pertaining to the nature of
faith, of human interaction and of how potential or actual holiness can
situate itself in a contemporary world. This being a Godard film, none
of this is simplistically spelled out, but it is there.
Hail Mary
could be placed roughly in the middle of Godard's third phase of
filmmaking. This is nearly two decades after his "French New Wave" days
and years after his overtly political video experimentations and his
Dziga Vertov period of filmmaking in the 1970s. By this point in his
career, Godard was in the midst of a return of sorts to more narrative
but nonetheless radically inventive productions. Such blatant
religiousness was rare though. There was occasional religious imagery in
his films, and the irregular quote alluding provocatively to religion
would pop up (from Weekend
(1967): "Didn't you hear what he said? Marx says we're all brothers!"
"Marx didn't say that. Some other communist said that. Jesus said
that."), but there was nothing like this. Later though, in his
multi-part Histoire(s) du Cinéma
(1988-98) this passage stands out: "Cinema, like Christianity, isn’t
grounded in historical truth. It tells a story and says, 'Now, believe.'
Not 'Have faith in this story as you do in history,' but 'Believe,
whatever happens.'"
Godard
himself was raised Protestant, but at the time of Hail Mary he no
longer practiced. However, as he said in the aforementioned Film
Quarterly, "I'm very interested in Catholicism. I think there's
something so strong in the way the Bible was written, how it speaks of
events that are happening today, how it contains statements about things
which have happened in the past. I think, well – it's a great book!" He
continues, "And somehow I think we need faith, or I need faith, or I'm
lacking faith. Therefore maybe I needed a story which is bigger than
myself."
Hardly the words of one who is seeking to wound the religious sentiments of believers.
Ultimately, Hail Mary joins the ranks of films like the groundbreaking The Miracle (1948) made in years previous and such works as The Last Temptation of Christ (1988), The Passion of the Christ (2004) and even Dogma
(1999) made since; it is a film of significant meaning and remarkable
artistry, but one that tends to get obscured by a controversy that, in
all reality, was relatively isolated and, in time, proved to be rather
reactionary.
If you're looking for something different to watch this time of year, Hail Mary
would certainly be a bold selection, but a worthy one. As a side note
though, if you're seeking a more conventionally religious film, one
still presented in an innovative fashion by a most unlikely of
filmmakers, Pier Paolo Pasolini's The Gospel According to St. Matthew (1964), which I've written on before, would be another recommendation.
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There’s no doubt that G.W. Pabst was a more than competent director (his The Threepenny Opera is an exceptional film), but Pandora’s Box (1929), perhaps his most famous feature, begins and ends with the fantastic Louise Brooks. After the first time I saw this picture, I immediately searched for more of her films; Prix de beauté and Diary of a Lost Girl
(the latter also directed by Pabst) were two stand-outs. Still, even
after these other films, I kept coming back to her Lulu. This is a
great, iconic performance, certainly one of the best in all of silent
cinema, and it makes Pandora's Box an extraordinary movie.
It’s fitting that Marlene Dietrich
was also considered for the role. She and Brooks, particularly in this
film, both exert a strong and daring sensuality, a fusion of self-aware
and confident (bi?)sexuality and yet also a adolescent naiveté. This is
the case in some of Dietrich’s earliest American roles: Morocco, The Devil Is a Woman, and Blonde Venus among others. Both actresses were masters at expressing assured, commanding and magnetic female attitudes and behaviors.
Another comparison that kept coming to mind while re-watching Pandora’s Box were some of the female characters created by Jean-Luc Godard and Anna Karina in the 1960s, especially (with somewhat similar hair and all) Vivre sa vie.
There’s a playfulness and charm that comes potently across with some of
the roles. The way Lulu bounces about early on, in the offices, her
home and backstage, recalls Karina’s exuberant, fancy-free behavior in Pierrot le fou, Bande à part, and Une femme est une femme.
Godard, being the homage-loving cinephile that he is, must have
certainly turned to Brooks for inspiration here. And speaking of
Godard’s female characters, a comparison could be drawn also with Jean Seberg’s Patricia in À bout de soufflé;
both women have a flirtatious quality, coupled with a disturbing
ability to wreck havoc. This comparison is additionally apt as Seberg
was also an American actress who found her most memorable and prominent
role only after being sought after and hired by a foreign filmmaker.
More than anything though, Brook’s Lulu stands as an exemplarily characterization of the neue frau
blossoming in Germany during the 1920s; this was sexually liberated
“new woman” emerging out of a modern, urban society where women were
gaining social stature and cultural importance, where they were becoming
more independent, and where they were (as was society as a whole)
becoming more and more concerned with surface values, of consumerism and
material possession. Lulu embodies this, particularly the latter
traits, perfectly. She is all about artifice. Much of what drives her
character is a selfish devotion to ownership (of power, objects and
people). She wants it all. There is, at the most extreme, a hedonistic
amorality, but Pabst present Lulu rather objectively. She is a product
of the time and place she lives, which was teetering between prosperity
and stability on the one hand and vice and destruction on the other.
Lulu is sort of like a mesh of the two Marias from Fritz Lang’s Metropolis, also of the period.
All
of that noted though, I am admittedly biased when it comes to watching
Brooks in this film. There’s no denying that she is a destructive and
troubling women—“Lulu leaves a trail of broken bodies and souls in her
wake as she moves through society, not because she does not care for the
individuals she meets, but because she doesn’t think at all,” writes
Ian Roberts. Yet for me anyway, she is quite attractive. It’s hard to
fault her as she functions in this world where (1) she doesn’t know any
better and (2) she is continually pandered to. She doesn’t know “no.” It
takes and apparent Jack the Ripper character to adequately deny her
anything. That’s what makes this character, and thus Brooks’
performance, so rich—this complexity. She’s a very physically and
mentally multifaceted woman, with layers of motivation and desire. She
is like a drug, an addiction for some of the other characters. She is
irresistible when she puts her wiles to work. She’s got that killer
smile. Two great instances are when she and Dr. Schön are caught in
their intimacy by his son and fiancé; she just looks up at their shocked
faces, smiles a bit, hops up and goes on with the show. Then later,
after Dr. Schön’s death, the prosecution is demanding the death
sentence. She looks at the lawyer and goes from fear to the most cunning
grin. Her traits, in terms of shrewdness, enticement and deceit, make
her an excellent early example of the femme fatal.
I
could go on and on about Louise Brooks in this film, but simply put, I
can’t imagine any other actress in this role. She is a force of nature
in this film. In every way she is a knockout.
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There is much that is fascinating about the life and work of Sergei M. Eisenstein.
While critics turning to directing is not unheard of—the “Cahiers du
cinema” writers of the French nouvelle vague, Paul Schrader and Peter
Bogdonovich here in America, British critics like Lindsay Anderson—it is
relatively rare for theoreticians to take their ideas and transfer them
to actual filmic work, to practice what they preach, if you will. To
the best of my knowledge, Eisenstein is unparalleled here. While his
writings, some of which are collected in “Film Sense” and “Film Form”
(two great, though dense, texts), delve into areas he never had the
chance to experiment practically with—he was a proponent of 3-D, for
example—the way his theoretical considerations manifested themselves in
his regrettably few completed films is remarkable. Most famous of these
pictures, and rightfully so, is Battleship Potemkin
(1925). Here we find many of his ideas working themselves out in the
arena of a film about revolution, class struggle, and politics, favorite
themes of many Soviet directors of this era.
With
ideas based around notions of psychological association, dialectical
(see Marxist) concepts of collision, paths to synaethesia, conflicts of
aesthetic attractions forming modes of montage (here a distinct idea
from what we normally think of as editing), and even taken from concepts
derived from haiku poetry and kabuki theater, Eisenstein’s theories,
and therefore his films, Potemkin being the prime example, are richly and complexly layered.
Eisenstein
felt, initially anyway, that in many ways the shot was the “raw
material” of the cinema; it was an image with signifying features
already firmly in place, the juxtaposition of which, against another
shot, would result in a third shot producing a new idea unattainable
from either previous shot alone—“two film pieces of any kind, placed
together, inevitably combine into a new concept, a new quality, arising
out of that juxtaposition,” he writes in his essay “Word and Image.”
That being said, many single shots, single frames, of Potemkin
are strikingly constructed and meaningful by themselves. Take, for
example, early on when we see the sailors lying in the hammocks. They
are intersecting, with diagonal and horizontal planes emphasized, and
depth and solidarity clearly in focus. Contrast this to when the revolt
begins and these same sailors are shot standing upright, in line. They
are still together, keeping the unity of the previous image, but now
they are no longer at rest, they are engaged, and the contrast
highlights this sense of action. Though not right next to each other,
these two examples of shot construction in this film show how Eisenstein
creates major significance with his mise-en-scéne.
His
is a cinema too of bold faces and gestures (his actors hired based
predominantly on their look, “typage,” somewhat like the Italian
neorealists would later do). The close-ups of animated expressions of
discontent and anger are quite powerful. We also see compositions such
as the higher angle above the ship where symmetry is key, and within
that the conflict is clearly expressed in the black and white opposition
between the worker sailors and the officers. The sea of white hats
mingling recalls later in Potemkin when the masses gather
around the murdered Vakulinchuk. Memorable single frames also include
when Vakulinchuk is thrown overboard and is left dangling above the sea;
and also later, in the famous Odessa steps sequence when the mother,
carrying her child in her arms, stands in the foreground while in the
background the lower-halves of the bombarding soldiers make their way
down the stairs, and in between these two unwavering forces are
scattered bodies strewn across the steps—it’s an amazing image.
Off-center framing and canted angles all add to independent frames of
colossal dynamism.
But
of course the combining through editing of single images is where
Eisenstein is most famous, and where many of his ideas were concerned.
Right off, and repeated later, we get images of the machinery of the
ship. The mechanics of the impersonality of this vessel are at once
isolated as repetitive and automatic, and yet through its sexual
connotations we see a human side; this is representative of the duality
of film in general, which, to use two of Eisenstein’s common and
conflicting terms, can form either the “art machine” or the “art
organism.”
The
comparisons drawn when Eisenstein focuses on, first, the priest hitting
the crucifix into his palm, followed by, second, an officer stroking
his knife, again not only recalls some obvious sexual notions but also
forms an idea invoking forms of aggression and actions, of a belief
system and its application in a revolution. We get a great sort of
flashback/forward associative montage when the doctor has been flung
overboard and Eisenstein inserts a shot of the maggots on the meat
(recalling his evaluation earlier) and then a shot of his glasses
hanging (how he examined the meat earlier, and also pointing towards the
graphic shot of the women getting shot in the face later in Odessa).
Then, through two simple shots of sailors and their guns, Eisenstein
conveys so much—when the firing squad is about to shoot the unruly
sailors, Vakulinchuk pleads with them. We get a shot of their guns,
perfectly straight, rigidly drawn; an intertitle comes in noting that
the “rifles wavered”; then there is a shot of the guns shaking and
coming down. The sense of accomplishment and solidarity established is
explicit.
While the Odessa steps sequence has been much-discussed and justly-lauded (as well as frequently referenced—De Palma with The Untouchables and Scorsese with Gangs of New York
are just two examples), while watching the film again I noticed
particularly how well Eisenstein utilized the graphic conflict of the
static camera placement with a mobile, even subjective camera operation
(reminiscent of F.W. Murnau).
Additionally,
if ever there was a film to be watched without the sound playing it
would be this one. The rhythm of Eisenstein’s editing is extraordinary
in the way it builds up to an action, shows that action, and decreases
in impact.
There
is so much to say about this masterpiece of the cinema and about
Eisenstein as a filmmaker. It’s always extraordinary to look at the work
of a filmmaker who, like Griffith, Welles, Godard, Hitchcock, and very
few others, actually developed and altered the language of the cinema.
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Top Ten Films of 2012
This Is Not a Film (dirs. Mojtaba Mirtahmasb, Jafar Panahi) - #10
In 2010, the acclaimed Iranian filmmaker Jafar Panahi
was arrested by his country’s government. The essential “crime” was
committing acts of supposed propaganda against Iran through his movies.
In addition to house arrest, he was banned for 20 years from writing and
directing films, giving interviews, and from leaving the country.
This
is where we come in, in this, his latest effort. While he’s awaiting an
appeals court verdict, he decides to challenge his restrictions and
calls over friend and fellow filmmaker Mojtaba Mirtahmasb. Mirtahmasb
records Panahi as the director describes and performs sections of a
recently written film (the script is already done, so he’s safe there,
and nobody said anything about acting).
This
he does for a while, setting up the basic scenario and characters,
mapping out the location in his living room, and going through the
motions of certain scenes. Eventually though, this isn’t enough. Why
make a film if you can just tell it, he asks. Try as he might,
something’s missing. He needs to direct.
Following this daylong endeavor, This Is Not a Film
takes shape as a poignant statement on an artist’s need and on the role
and meaning of a filmmaker. It also calls powerful attention to the
state of contemporary Iran, as we hear Panahi’s phone calls and see him
watch the news, both revealing much about this controversial nation.
An
altogether innovative approach to documentary (and fiction) filmmaking,
this provocative movie was initially even shown in distinctive fashion:
it was smuggled out of the country on a flash drive hidden inside a
cake, on its way to premiering at the 2011 Cannes Film Festival. Today,
Panahi’s fate remains uncertain, though he has somehow made a new film, Parde, and it showed at this year’s Berlin International Film Festival. Ah, the triumph of cinema.
Cosmopolis (dir. David Cronenberg) - #9
How could a David Cronenberg film based on a novel by Don DeLillo be anything but atypical? And while Cosmopolis is certainly that, it is also absorbing and intellectually stimulating (not dirty words for a movie).
Here,
we’re in a limousine; in fact, we’re here for most of the film, riding
along with billionaire asset manager Eric Packer (Robert Pattinson) as
he simply tries to get across town for a haircut. As ostensibly banal as
this endeavor may appear though, it becomes anything but. External
forces continually overwhelm and bombard Packer: professional
predicaments, ongoing, citywide riots, threats on his life, and even a
prostate exam.
As
Packer is driven along, mystery abounds, as do statements on society,
consumerism, capitalism, sex, and violence. Various people come in and
out of his life (and often in and out of his limo), many played by great
supporting performers such as Paul Giamatti, Juliette Binoche and
Samantha Morton. As Cosmopolis builds in tension, Packer’s life grows more and more chaotic, eventually reaching a startling breaking point.
Cronenberg is nothing if not consistently innovative, in terms of form and content. With Cosmopolis, we get him at his best in both.
Oscar, played by Denis Lavant,
has an unusual job. At least, it seems to be his job. Through the
course of his day and into the night, he transforms himself, via
elaborate and convincing make-up and costume, applied in the back of his
white, stretch limo, into a number of individuals. In Holy Motors,
we see him do this about nine times. He exits the vehicle, steps into
the position of said “character” and goes about the respective business.
He’s a monstrous, underground-dwelling deviant one minute, a performer
in a motion-capture film the next. There’s a musical interlude; there’s a
scene of graphic violence; there’s a scene of graphic (and bizarre)
nudity; there’s a scene of immense tenderness.
Where
does his real life begin, and where does it end? How, despite moments
of obvious artificiality, does he maintain this charade? What, exactly,
is the goal of this vocation? I won’t pretend that Holy Motors
answers any of this. That such a peculiar movie could be so thoroughly
engaging and amusing despite these ambiguities is a testament to
Lavant’s performance and Carax’s confident direction. It takes
confidence to craft a film like this, and it takes some degree of
confidence to watch Holy Motors. One has to be comfortable
enough with the surreal. Like with the films of Luis Bunuel, an
acceptance of idiosyncrasy is mandatory, as should be the viewing of
this extraordinary movie.
How’s this for a plot? Aging former
rock star Cheyenne, disaffected and melancholy, a goth living in
Ireland, visits his dying father in New York, and upon his dad’s passing
he picks up his father’s mission to track down and possibly kill a Nazi
war criminal hiding in America.
As unusual as that may sound, This Must Be the Place,
named after the Talking Heads song - which is essential to the film and
used brilliantly - is nonetheless relatively reasoned and thoroughly
compelling. It’s also one of the most amusing films of the year, thanks
in no small part to Sean Penn’s
bizarre and strangely charming portrayal in the lead role. On the
outside, he’s still the bombastic rocker of old, hair in a torrent,
makeup pronounced, but inside he’s subdued, his voice barely above a
mumbled whisper. He embodies the sort of anxious potential inherent in
the film itself, where one gets the sense that the story could go any
number of ways, and then frequently finds those expectations defied. This Must Be the Place, directed by Paolo Sorrentino (Il divo,
2008), moves along a strange path, with pleasant and sometimes random
stops, but it ultimately arrives at an extraordinary destination.
This is a film for our times. Set in 2008, just around the time of the Wall Street collapse and President Obama’s election, Killing Them Softly looks at how financial burdens and a jaded nation can also affect the world of hit men. Brad Pitt
stars alongside James Gandolfini, Richard Jenkins and Ray Liotta as
criminals and killers who are feeling the pinch of an economy in crisis.
After a card game heist, Pitt is brought in to help get to the bottom
of things and to begin (violently) restoring order. In the depiction of
this, the film looks at how unstable and poor fiscal conditions can
hinder quality and compensation, even for hired guns.
The
standard salary isn’t quite what it used to be; for example, you can
now get someone to kill someone else at a lower fee … you know, because
of the economy. These guys barter and treat their business just like any
other working man.They struggle to survive in America, to make a go of
it, even if it isn't exactly honest or legal. As Pitt's character says
in the film's best line, "I'm living in America, and in America you're
on your own. America's not a country. It's just a business."
While
Pitt may headline the picture, it’s director Andrew Dominik who stands
out, bringing a strong visual flair to the film and capturing much of
the tone and dialogue of George V. Higgins source material. This film
doesn’t have the ethereal, poeticism of Dominik’s The Assassination of Jesse James by the Coward Robert Ford
(2007 - my pick for the best film of that year, also with Pitt); now
the images are damp and dirty, with sporadic bursts of cinematic
flourish — one shooting sequence in particular.
An arresting film with something to say, Killing Them Softly will hopefully find the audience it missed (or I should say the audience that missed it) once available on DVD/Blu-ray.
The most wide-ranging emotional film of the year, Rust and Bone
is a multilayered story of two people who come from lives of broken
dreams and despair to find purpose and love with each other. As the film
plays out, this seemingly melodramatic storyline develops into
something much, much more. Led by a stunning performance from Marion Cotillard, Rust and Bone
covers the gamut of expressive resonance. There are moments of great
joy and terrible sadness, scenes fraught with tension placed right next
to moments of compassion.
Director Jacques Audiard, whose previous work, A Prophet
(2009), was one of the most lauded films of that particular year,
manages to balance this assortment of sentiment superbly. The film is
also notable for having what I feel to be the greatest single sequence
of any film last year, as Stéphanie, Cotillard’s disabled whale trainer,
comes to terms with her condition and begins to move on by going back,
remembering what she loves and acting on it, all to her signature song.
Amour (dir. Michael Haneke) - #4
For Amour, German filmmaker Michael Haneke
took home last year’s Palme d’Or for best picture at the Cannes Film
Festival (his second such honor; sixth time nominated) and it now has
the distinction of being nominated for five Academy Awards: best
picture, foreign language film, director, original screenplay, and lead
actress. Several organizations worldwide have already chosen it as the
best film of the year.
That said, I’m noting nothing new when I also proclaim Amour
to be an amazing, heartbreaking and powerful movie. It may also be one
of the greatest films I am in no big hurry to watch again, as it is
truly a demanding (yet highly rewarding) experience. Jean-Louis
Trintignant and Emmanuelle Riva star as an eighty-something husband and
wife who struggle to deal with the latter’s recent stroke and her
subsequent deterioration and death.
Haneke has never made films that were always easy to watch, and Amour
is no exception. Here, he maintains an observational distance, but it
is an unflinching one. We are simultaneously drawn to and troubled by
the level of intimacy granted. The discomfort while watching Amour
doesn’t derive - like some Haneke’s past work - from overtly disturbing
content. Instead, the tragic normality is most affecting.
Giorgos Lanthimos’ Dogtooth (2009), one of the most extraordinary films in recent memory, was a tough act to follow. Nevertheless, Alps, just the Greek director’s third solo feature, comes pretty close to matching that film for daring and originality.
Like Dogtooth, Alps
is notable first and foremost for its unusual plot: A group of
individuals, each code-named for a mountain in the Alps, take on a side
job of impersonating someone recently deceased. Friends and family hire
them to fill that vacant spot until the grieving process is over.
Typically, despite the obvious, all goes well and this seems to help.
Inevitably though, the charade goes too far and the professional
distance is broken down.
Filled with the absurd, the comic and the tragic, Alps
can be as bizarrely disquieting as it is hilariously amusing. We can’t
believe what we’re seeing at times, but it’s all so mesmerizing and
distinctive - stylistically and substantively - that we’re enthralled
all the same. This approach, while typifying Lanthimos’ work, also seems
to be spreading throughout his homeland, as Attenberg (2010), a
good film in its own right (and one in which Lanthimos actually stars),
seems to attest to. It has some glaring similarities, but lacks
something of the visual appeal and wit of Dogtooth and Alps.
The Turin Horse (dir. Béla Tarr) - #2
The great Hungarian filmmaker Béla Tarr, one of the most distinctive and astonishing directors of the past few decades, has declared The Turin Horse to be his final film. If that is indeed the case, he chose an excellent conclusion to a remarkable career.
In
many ways, this is Tarr’s most intimate film, and his most narrowly
focused. Several of his features contain just a handful of characters,
but here we’re essentially dealing only with the farmer Ohlsdorfer and
his daughter for the entire film, most of which takes place in and
around their small, isolated house existing in a wind- and rain-swept
rural expanse of land, typical of Tarr’s scenic preferences.
Friedrich
Nietzsche, in Turin, had apparently at one point protected the titular
horse from abuse. Now, this father and daughter use the horse to cart
items in and out of town. However, the horse is growing old and weak,
and with that realization also comes the awareness that these two
farmers will not be able to sustain their current existence.
As
with much of Tarr’s work, the plot is sparse and the images are
immaculate. The long takes, some going on for several minutes at a time,
are hauntingly beautiful in their black and white composition. Minute
details are deliberately lingered upon until they take on surprising
resonance. The Turin Horse, done in collaboration with
long-time associates Ágnes Hranitzky and László Krasznahorkai, is one of
Tarr’s best … hopefully it won’t be his last.
Paul Thomas Anderson’s latest film continues his trend of making extraordinary and wholly original movies. The Master
is also his most complex and baffling feature. A film like this can
easily frustrate, but for those willing to step outside of the norm, it
can also be immensely satisfying.
The
story revolves around a naval officer Freddie Quell, played remarkably
by Joaquin Phoenix, who finds himself adrift in his post-World War II
life. Through the course of his meandering travels, he encounters
Lancaster Dodd (Philip Seymour Hoffman), the leader of The Cause, a sort
of religion that is in many ways a not-too-thinly-veiled take-off on
Scientology. Quell’s involvement with Dodd and his parishioners grows
ever more tense and complicated as he struggles with his own
eccentricities.
Gorgeously shot (but rarely shown) in near-defunct 70 mm, The Master
is as visually arresting as it is engaging in its plot construction.
Quell’s actions and his thoughts (many rendered subjectively by
Anderson) are frequently inexplicable, and the film follows this erratic
form more than it necessarily strives for overt continuity. There is no
simplistic narrative thread running through The Master; like
Quell, the audience has to find its own meanings and reasons. Also like
for Quell, the journey here is paramount, even if we’re not quite sure
where we end up.
2012 - Runners up
End of Watch (dir. David Ayer)
The Kid With A Bike (dirs. Jean-Pierre Dardenne, Luc Dardenne)
Twixt (dir. Francis Ford Coppola)
Django Unchained (dir. Quentin Tarantino)
Argo (dir. Ben Affleck)
The Loneliest Planet (dir. Julia Loktev)
The Dark Knight Rises (dir. Christopher Nolan)
A Royal Affair (dir. Nikolaj Arcel)
Once Upon a Time in Anatolia (dir. Nuri Bilge Ceylan)
The Paperboy (dir. Lee Daniels)
