“Sometimes
the class struggle is also the struggle of one image against another
image, of one sound against another sound. In a film, this struggle is
against images and sounds.”
- British Sounds
There
was something in the air when Jean-Luc Godard took up the political
banner of the late 1960s and shifted his filmmaking focus in terms of
storytelling style and stories told, and in a general sense of formal
reevaluation and reinvention. Always considered something of the enfant terrible of the French Nouvelle Vague,
Godard was keen from the start to experiment with the conventional
norms of cinematic aesthetics, from the jarring jump cuts of Breathless (1960), to the self-conscious playfulness of A Woman is a Woman (1961), to the genre deviations of Band of Outsiders (1964) and Made in USA
(1966). But Godard was still, at a most basic level, operating along a
fairly conventional plane of fictional cinema, one with relatively
typical characters and generally progressive narratives of beginnings,
middles, and ends (“but not necessarily in that order,” as he would
clarify).
But
then something happened. Not so much eschewing narrative, rather
reformatting it, Godard’s work began to change, to more blatantly
challenge and provoke; challenging and provoking those looking at his
films as films, but also those looking at his films as declarative
cultural statements. With this shift in his work, signaled by
sociopolitical features like Two or Three Things I Know About Her (1966) and confirmed by Weekend
(1967), which put the nail in the coffin of this first phase in his
filmmaking career, Godard’s output grew ever more experimental and
deliberately provocative and esoteric, alienating certai+n factions of
his previous audience along the way.
So
be it. As Godard stated, to make political films, one must make films
politically, and with that, bridges would be burnt and expectations
would be thwarted. But this was Godard the activist and provocateur as
well as the filmmaker. There was a sweeping sense of revolution all over
the world, and Godard was in it, of it, manipulating it, and filming
it.
If
one takes a general survey of Godard’s most memorable filmic moments
from 1958 to 1967, it’s safe to say that the vast majority of those
moments would be visually based. In other words, it is in many cases the
images, or Godard’s treatment of the images, that stand out: those jump
cuts; his use of color in Pierrot le fou (1965); the stark, wintery black and white photography of My Life to Live (1962); Anna Karina’s tearstained face as she watches Maria Falconetti act in Dreyer’s The Passion of Joan of Arc
(1928); and our band of outsiders doing an impromptu Charleston. Of
course, sound (or the lack thereof) is every bit as vital in these films
(even in these sequences) but by and large, the auditory usually played
second fiddle to Godard’s camera placement, movement, editing,
cinematography, etc. This too would change in post-’68 Godard. Now, if
not of a possibly greater importance, sound was on an even-keel with his
sights.
With
these elements in mind—the forging of new politically motivated paths,
the continual exploration of bold formal approaches, and a filmic
discourse that relied heavily on sound over, or at least in equal
accompaniment to, the images—Godard was making revolutionary films in a
revolutionary way.
First
stop: England. Though initially considering The Beatles (the project
fell through after several meetings and besides, according to Colin
MacCabe, John Lennon was suspicious of Godard), The Rolling Stones
entered the picture. Godard had early on expressed an appreciative
interest in the group, particularly their 1967 psychedelic album “Their
Satanic Majesties Request.” Cut to a year later and the Stones are
working on “Beggar’s Banquet,” which, aside from containing songs of the
moment like “Street Fighting Man” and “Salt of the Earth,” starts with
the controversial and brilliantly written antagonistic anthem “Sympathy
for the Devil.”
One Plus One, as Sympathy for the Devil
was originally titled, is often now subtitled, and is still considered
by Godard purists, captures the gradual orchestration of this opening
track, shot over the course of three days, beginning with rough strains
of improvisatory inspiration as they meld into a more fully formed
creation. As Godard’s camera dollies, pans, and tilts its way through
the recording studio, we see the entire Stones crew at work: Mick
Jagger, clearly in charge; Keith Richards, too cool for school and
erroneously billed as “Keith Richard”; Bill Wyman, hovering around the
margins; Charlie Watts, who never looks entirely thrilled to be there;
and Brian Jones, who at just 27 would be dead within eight months of the
album’s release.
The sequences of Sympathy for the Devil
that focus on the Stones, roughly about half the film, which are
intercut with those sequences that will soon be discussed, contain the
false starts, slip ups, frustrations, struggles, and achievements that
inevitably go into most artistic endeavors. Aside from sound being
obviously key in the development of a rock song, Godard incorporates an
audio editorializing by having the sound randomly focus on specific
elements of the song: Keith’s guitar, Mick’s vocals, Charlie’s drums,
etc. There isn’t necessarily a rhyme or reason to what gets the
attention when, nor is there always a correlation between who happens to
be on camera and what sound in heard. This is Godard manipulating the
sounds of the Stones as he had with other sounds before and continues to
do today, amplifying certain fragments then and others now, often with
little to no obvious justification.
The other half of Sympathy or the Devil
is the more explicitly political and formally demanding portion and was
shot a few weeks after these studio sequences. This assortment of
segments features an eclectic and uneven mix of episodic vignettes. Anne
Wiazemsky sprays discordant graffiti on city surfaces and turns up in
the woods as Eve Democracy, the film’s producer, Iain Quarrier, whom
Godard would later punch in the face following disputes about the film’s
title and its conclusion, is a “fascist porno book seller,” and Black
Power militant Frankie Dymon, as himself, is joined in a junk yard by
likeminded comrades in arms. Over some of this, or dropped in as the
scenes transition, we hear Sean Lynch providing commentary by way of a
text that includes political, sexual, and violent references to Richard
Nixon, Che Guevara, Ben Barka, Trotskyites, Lolita, Francisco Franco,
General Walt Disney, and others.
The
audio/visual assemblage of these sequences is fascinating if not always
coherent or interesting. The first primary chapter features Dymon and
other heavily armed black revolutionaries as they roam amongst, on, and
even in the broken down shells of dilapidated vehicles behind a garage.
In this junk yard, a Godardian set piece if ever there was one, several
of the men recite from texts by Eldridge Cleaver, Amiri Baraka, and
Stokely Carmichael, either simply aloud or repeated into a tape
recorder, preaching and preserving the respective sentiments. This
includes passages proclaiming a need to “concentrate on the main enemy”
to others touting the smooth skin and softness of white women.
Alongside
these extracts, Godard’s additional audio or visual accompaniment is
often ironic or upsetting to the perceived verbal focus. As we hear the
call to militant arms, the men’s voices are frequently drowned out by
the real world sounds of nearby car horns, passing ships, or planes
flying overhead; there are additionally times when Lynch’s voiceover
also interrupts the recitations. As these slogans of revolution are
proclaimed or usurped, we are urged to assume one of two things: first,
when a passage is clearly audible, by that fact we should presume its
importance (why else would Godard make it so comparatively
comprehensible?); and second, when the sounds of the everyday world
going about its business come in over the readings, we then question the
text’s significance (it must not have been too important to hear).
Taken together, Godard seems to be providing a contradictory commentary
about the meaning and potency of these black power passages as they are
highlighted and confronted.
No
less aurally distinctive is the sequence with Wiazemsky as Eve
Democracy. This segment follows a film crew as they ask Eve an
assortment of questions about culture, drug use, sexuality, and
politics. To each question, Eve answers only “yes” or “no,” a simplistic
response to these dense and complex questions, again an ironic verbal
contrast on Godard’s part: “A man of culture is as far from an artist as
a historian is from a man of action.” “Yes.” “There is only one way to
be an intellectual revolutionary and that is to give up being an
intellectual.” “Yes.” (Richard Brody points out that Wiazemsky spoke no
English, so Godard just cued her “yes” or “no.”) And like in the junk
yard scene, amongst the beautiful green foliage of the forest even these
sounds of social proclamation are occasionally compromised by the
aurally overpowering natural songs of birds chirping.
The
third key non-Rolling Stones sequence takes place in a bookstore with
an amusingly diverse inventory that includes everything from “Playboy”
and “Penthouse” to “Justice League America” comic books, “Wrestling
Illustrated,” “Motorcycle Mechanic,” “Complete Man,” and assorted
sexually suggestive novels. Amidst magazine covers touting bawdy tales
and crime stories, Quarrier reads from Hitler’s “Mein Kampf.” As the
black power readings earlier leave one less than convinced of their
polemic power due to Godard’s constant aural interruptions, the sections
from “Mein Kampf” are similarly diminished in their influence by, on
the one hand, Quarrier’s rambling presentation, and, on the other, the
more dominant visual incorporation of tantalizing, comical, and tawdry
magazines, which Godard’s camera continually hovers over.
The
final segment of the film brings us back amongst the broken down cars
as two African American women are interviewing the ostensible leaders of
this revolutionary group. Spoken topics covered span the link between
communism and Black Power, the oppression of the black populace in urban
ghettos, and how Black Power will lead to political and economic gains.
Most prescient in terms of this analysis is the stated hindrance of the
communication barrier between classes and races: “Although we speak the
same words, we are speaking completely different languages.” This then
is something of a rarely overt proclamation of Godard’s own verbal
preoccupations, especially as this film is concerned.
Through
all of this, Lynch’s text and the Rolling Stones’ music come in and out
of the soundtrack. But by the film’s end, “Sympathy for the Devil” as
an organized song begins to take shape. When we return to the Stones
during the final stages of the song’s completion, there is an evident
cohesion of the tune’s disparate elements. Contrast this with the
incongruous juxtaposition of political verbiage and ambiguous imagery in
the film’s political segments. A little more than an hour into the
picture, some of the political narration comes in over the Stones, but
it seems to have trouble competing with the band as they hit their
groove. Also as the song nears completion, we hear the isolation of
vocals, drums, etc., all prior to the final mix. Here the similarity to
the political vignettes is also obvious, as through the incorporation
and dissemination of disparate sounds, Godard makes clear that context
is everything, that any sound out of its unifying whole is perceived to
be odd or incomplete, just as the reoccurring spoken texts are more or
less vital given their surrounding accompaniments.
Though
we do hear the completed version of “Sympathy for the Devil” at the end
of the movie, this was not by Godard’s design and was done very much
against his will. To Godard, the completed song signified a conclusion
to the film’s political commentary as well, something he insisted was
still a work in progress. “Sympathy for the Devil” should remain
unfinished, just as the plight of the socially and economically
repressed remains unresolved. Still, during this concluding scene, which
has a general disarray of action, the multiple tracks of sound seem
appropriate given the rest of the film’s complex nature. And as Richard
Roud summarizes, “One knew how important the soundtrack was to Godard’s
films, but One Plus One proves it is primordial.”
Two years after Sympathy for the Devil,
Godard, now fully ensconced in the political climate of the era,
returned to England to make an even more revolutionary and formally
audacious film. Shot on 16mm at the behest of London Weekend Television
(which turned down and later disowned the film) British Sounds, or See You at Mao
(1970), is also divided into distinct segments, beginning with a
tracking shot that spans a considerable length of a MG assembly line at
the British Motor Car Factory in Oxford. In shooting this, Godard
retains the realistic surrounding sounds of the industrial force.
Aurally alongside the grinding, grating, pounding machinery is a voice
reciting passages from “The Communist Manifesto.” The inclusion of the
ear-splitting factory sounds was done, according to Godard, to stress
his point that while audiences decry the harsh noise for its 10 minutes
of screen time, the workers who toil away in such a factory are exposed
to the unremitting cacophony for eight hours a day. Point well taken.
The inclusion of the Marx/Engels text, which preaches against economic
disparities, suggests the working class is slave to machines and
overseers, and warns against the exploitation of wage labor, is clearly
the more obvious auditory message. Taken together, these two sounds work
in an odd unison where we actually see a type of labor discussed in the
“Manifesto” put into practice as a sort of illustrated thesis. During
this opening portion, we are also introduced to another audio theme that
will last through the entire film. An older man (later a woman) reads a
history of authoritarian abuse and worker difficulties to a young girl,
who then repeats the text.
The second part of British Sounds
takes leave from a broad appeal for working class rights and hones in
on the concerns of women. A feminist text by Sheila Rowbotham rails
against the exploitation of women, who when also workers are amongst the
“exploited of the exploited,” while we see a totally nude young lady
walk up and down stairs and enter in and out of two rooms. Here is a
most perplexing form of audio/visual contrast or conflict on Godard’s
part. While the text condemns blanket stereotypes and the
objectification of women, we see the nonchalant objectification of
women, the camera even at one point lingering on her pubic region
(“Conceal your sex!” sounds out a male voice). Of course, every serious
Godard scholar is quick to point out the non-titillating fashion with
which the nudity is shown, but it’s still a curious decision. And when
we see the woman on the phone, echoing the voiceover narration, the
impression is that she is merely parroting the lines, repeating what she
is told, not necessarily thinking for herself, which seems to go
against the point of the segment.
Godard
next includes black and white footage of a man spouting out statements
in sharp contrast to the sentiments of the film so far. As an obvious
counterpoint to the leftist proclamations in the first two sections,
this astonishingly crass individual spews his extreme points of view
regarding youth needing to “play their part in industry,” criticisms of
students and worker ideology, and grumbling about “communist rabble” and
Vietnam detractors. Most shocking are statements like, “Sometimes it’s
necessary to burn women and children” and “We don’t like colored people,
and I’ll tell you why.” Such profoundly offensive declarations are
visually paired with either the man himself or insertions of printed
text, everyday workers, or families.
The
constrictive fourth segment of the film has a group of men sitting in
close proximity around a table discussing business strategy and
effective modes of production, while also recognizing the physical and
mental toil that factory labor has on the workers. Though these men
speak like management, they also note the need for a “political party
committed to Marxism and capitalism” and they are quick to profess the
need of both millionaires and those in poverty in order for capitalism
to exist. This least interesting (visually) of the chapters appears to
try to have it both ways (aurally), with little success in either case.
Following a poster with the words “students sound,” the next part of British Sounds
has a group of university students listening to, and then
revolutionarily rewriting, songs by The Beatles: “Hello, Goodbye” (“You
say US, I say Mao”), “Revolution” (is rewriting really necessary?) and
“Honey Pie” (“Money Pie”). These members of the Peoples Poster Brigade,
as one poster indicates they are, are the youthful alarm of the coming
revolution. Though their use of pop music to make their case is another
ironic audio choice, they seem earnest in their attempts to take a
commodity of popular entertainment and turn it into something
politically active. In other words, to quote two of the printed texts
that appear in this film, this is the amalgamation of “capital sounds”
and “militant sounds.”
British Sounds
concludes with two short scenes. The first features a bloodied arm
making its way through the snow-covered ground toward a red flag, the
second a barrage of voices and songs played over a montage of fists
bursting through the Union Jack with appeals for solidarity. Throughout
the film, the overlap of words makes for some challenging listening,
with, like in Sympathy for the Devil, the assumption is that
what is heard most audibly must by that fact carry some weight. To this
effect, we get calls for the “abolition of the wage system” and
statements that tie in nicely to this analysis, like “speech is the
expression of power.” “It was the sound,” argues Richard Brody, “not the
image, that mattered, because the sound carried the lecture, the
doctrine, or rather, the indoctrination.”
In
their conglomeration of multiple voices sounding off on everything from
communism to orgasm, from Kennedy to Vietnam, Jean-Luc Godard’s Sympathy for the Devil, or One Plus One, and British Sounds, or See You at Mao,
are prime examples of the filmmaker’s ever expanding use of sound in
film, as an artistic tool and as a propagandist instrument. According to
Penelope Gilliatt, Godard wanted to “pound people with language.” “Even
these raw first works of a new stage that is now tough going seem
likely in the end to reach the ears of people out of sympathy with
[Godard's] radical politics,” she writes, “not because of the yelling
powers of polemics but because of the carrying powers of a poet’s
voice.”
That
poet’s voice continues to be heard, and over the course of the 40-plus
years since these two films, it has been heard in ever-varying modes of
expression. It is little wonder that when Godard and Anne-Marie Miéville
started a video production and distribution company in 1972 they dubbed
the enterprise “Sonimage,” and it’s no surprise that some of his more
recent films of astonishing visual flourish bare the aurally evocative
titles For Ever Mozart (1996), Our Music (2004), and Farewell to Language
(2014). Godard remains as adamant as ever to explore the integration
and juxtaposition of the visual and the aural, getting down to the most
fundamental features of motion picture art, commerce, entertainment, and
politics.
ARTICLE from SOUND ON SIGHT
Widely
and justly heralded for his trendsetting Spaghetti Westerns, Sergio
Leone’s final and arguably most ambitious work was in another staple
American genre. Like these Westerns though, this film was as much of its
respective variety as it was about it. Once Upon a Time in America, with its name obviously derived from Leone’s previous Once Upon a Time in the West,
is a gangster film of the highest order, and, at the same time, it
recalls so many of its predecessors, from the Warner Brothers classics
of the 1930s to The Godfather. This was by design. As Leone himself notes, “My film was to be an homage to the American films I love, and to America itself.”
Out now on a newly restored and extended director’s cut Blu-ray, America
stars Robert De Niro as David “Noodles” Aaronson. Probably the
quintessential gangster movie actor of the modern era, De Niro was by
this point firmly established as one of the preeminent performers of his
generation, with two Oscar wins already to his credit. He is joined
here by James Woods, fresh off his excellent turn in Videodrome
but still a few years away from his first Oscar nomination and about a
decade from becoming a household name, as partner in crime Maximilian
“Max” Bercovicz. Rounding out their gang are Patrick “Patsy” Goldberg
(James Hayden) and Philip “Cockeye” Stein (William Forsythe). There is
also “Fat” Moe Gelly (Larry Rapp), their loyal friend, and his sister,
Deborah Gelly (Elizabeth McGovern), Noodles’ perpetual love interest. As
the names of these characters indicate, America is somewhat
distinct as far as contemporary gangster films are concerned in that it
is primarily populated with Jews rather than Italians. This doesn’t so
much add or take away anything from the plot, but it does give the
characters and the film in general a distinctively illustrated cultural
background.
In smaller roles are Joe Pesci (just
his eighth credited feature film) as Frankie Manoldi, and Jennifer
Connelly in her big screen debut as the young Deborah. Key Leone
collaborators Ennio Morricone (music), Tonino Delli Colli
(cinematography), and Nino Baragli (editing) were also involved, and as
with most of their work for Leone or elsewhere, America is all the better for their exceptional contributions.
Part of what gives America its ambitious quality is its scope. Post-Goodfellas,
it’s perhaps not that uncommon to have such a life-spanning chronicle
of one man’s venture in gangsterdom, but even that pillar of the
gangster picture doesn’t touch America as far its lingering on minute details and crucial moments. Of course, America‘s now restored four-plus hour runtime allows for considerable temporal luxury as well.
Based on Harry Grey’s novel “The Hoods,” America
follows the journey of four young men as they ascend the ranks of New
York’s ruling criminal class, with all the loves and losses and
friendships and fights in between. The story is indeed a sprawling one
(little wonder there are six screenwriters credited) and it has the
familiar rise and fall structure that befits the gangster film so well,
for while it is always enjoyable to see the young hood make good, we
know that peak success is short lived, and the downfall must soon come.
As the film begins and we see Noodles in his older age, we are aware
that he obviously survives, so the question then becomes what exactly is
it he has survived? After leaving the city 35 years earlier, Noodles is
called back, but by whom, and why?
As part of the film’s complex
flashback structure, we instantly see that a younger Noodles is on the
lam, to the ultimate detriment of his friends, and it’s made clear that
the million dollars he has presumably stashed away is missing, but these
various loose ends of narrative have yet to be tied together. It’s
about 39 minutes into the film before Leone takes us to the very
beginning of these young men, where the then adolescent crew does odd
street jobs and shows off some criminally enterprising ingenuity.
Friendships are forged, sexuality is explored, and while a grand drama
unfolds when the boys are older, for now, in their youth, we witness a
series of vignettes that shape the men they would become.
It is about half way into America‘s
second hour when we leave their childhood and with them enter a more
dangerous, amusing, and dramatic adult existence. When Noodles is
released from prison (to keep this spoiler free, I’ll skip over the
actions that put him there), things have changed. He was absent through
the group’s more substantial formation and its emergence in stature and
respectability, and thus he returns and remains something of an
outsider, even though the others have done everything they could to
maintain his involvement, going so far as to retain his cut of their
profits. But now, conflicts of business and pleasure develop (Noodles
has been away from both) and there are struggles between the
individual—Noodles attempting to recapture a portion of life he was
denied—and the group. It doesn’t help that Noodles is fairly
antagonistic, continually provoking those around him, especially Max,
with whom he has always had a complicated relationship.
The street kids have grown up and
away from their low-level escapades and are now fully entrenched in the
professions of bootlegging and prostitution, and they’re very successful
at both. They are now also associated with crooks of a different color,
namely politicians. Add to this their involvement with union leaders
and their hostility toward corrupt law enforcement and you have most of
the key ingredients to any great gangster film.
There is no denying America‘s
indebtedness to gangster pictures of years past, and as shown in many
of the genre’s archetypal titles, the gangster has always been the
preeminent cinematic antihero. These men are lawbreakers and wrongdoers,
but more often than not, we’re in their corner, frequently cheering
them on along the way. America takes this tendency, intensifies
it, and aggressively confronts it. Yes, Noodles, Max and the others are
for all intents and purposes our heroes, and there’s no question they
can be charming and quite appealing, darkly funny even (the
baby-swapping), but they can be dastardly. They are, after all,
murderers and rapists. “We have enough enemies without being gangsters,”
says Noodles’ Jewish driver in a newly added scene, and this is
something of an implied reoccurring theme throughout the film. These
men, Noodles especially, have the ways and means to live an honorable
life, but they are constantly reverting to their criminal ways. “Why go
looking for trouble?” you can almost hear his Jewish mother ask. Even
after Noodles finally has his romantic evening with Deborah, which is
preceded by the heartfelt line when she asks if he has been waiting long
and he responds, “All my life,” the beautiful sequence culminates with
arguably his most barbaric action.
As a coming of age fable, America
is very much about myth making, not unlike Leone’s Western film
preoccupations (once upon a time…). He depicts moments as if in a
memory, a dream, or as if captured via a Polaroid picture that has long
since been tucked away in some forgotten and suddenly discovered
shoebox. This gives the film a touching poignancy, an appreciable
atmosphere of nostalgia, and a rendering of a very specific time and
place. There are the loves had and those lost, the schemes and feuds,
the sex and violence, the rites of petty crime and surprisingly harsh
consequences. Leone’s color and lighting choices reflect this subdued
wistful tone. He trades in his previous penchant for expressive and
exaggerated imagery and sound for a more classically subtle and
melancholic style (though we do get moments of lasting amplified noise
for dramatic effect, such as the opening phone ringing—recalling the
creaking windmill that begins Once Upon a Time in the West—or Noodles provocatively stirring his coffee).
This is also a wholly unusual
landscape for Leone. Gone are the scorching, open western vistas; the
sands of the desert have blown away and been replaced by cold, wet
asphalt. Towering skyscrapers and bridges now surround this new breed of
outlaw. Yet even in this foreign territory, Leone’s early 20th century
Manhattan streets, with all of their bustling liveliness, have clearly
been crafted by one who has a fondness for the era, or at least an
exceptional knowledge of it. The art direction by Carlo Simi (also known
for great work on numerous Spaghetti Westerns) contributes to an
authentic recreation down to the smallest facet. By the end of the film,
one truly feels as if having been through something and having
experienced a world. Sure, a lot of this has to do with the film’s
length, allowing for ample time to take it all in, but more than that,
it’s this level of detail and the subsequent absorption into the milieu.
Where Once Upon a Time in America
stands apart from nearly every other gangster film is in its strongly
emotional conveyance of regret, of missed opportunities, opportunities
lost, and of a somber reflection. And this isn’t only noticeable at the
film’s conclusion. Throughout the entire picture, the characters appear
to live as if they can see their own demise right before their eyes.
“You can always tell the winners at the starting gate,” says Noodles,
adding, “and the losers.” They seem to be aware that there is likely no
permanence to what they’re doing, that their end, probably tragic, is in
some ways inevitable.
Once Upon a Time in America
is not a perfect film. No question it has more than enough greatness,
but the “big reveal” conclusion in particular has never been totally
satisfying. The reasons for Noodles’ return, the intricate revenge plot
behind it, and the incorporation of political intrigue feel like they
belong in another film. Nevertheless, the film was a true passion
project for the 55-year-old Sergio Leone. (He supposedly turned down a
chance to direct The Godfather in order to work on this
picture.) Tragically, though, he would pass away a mere six years later.
While it is undeniably sad to see such a great director die so
early, and to think of what else he could have accomplished, as final
films go, this is about as good as it gets.
REVIEW from SOUND ON SIGHT
The
tragically brief filmmaking career of Rainer Werner Fassbinder consists
of great quantities, varying qualities, and an insatiable artistic
vigor. With more than 40 completed works in less than 20 years,
Fassbinder was a dynamo of creativity. He fluctuated in and out of any
number of generic constructs, experimented with a variety of formal
devices, and told an eclectic assortment of stories. With so many great
films to his credit, it’s hard for any one movie to lay claim as his
finest achievement. Ali: Fear Eats the Soul, his second of four
films released in 1974, is one that puts up a good fight though. At the
very least, it certainly ranks among Fassbinder’s most purely charming
and emotionally effectual.
“Happiness is not always fun” declares an opening title, and as Ali
progresses from there, the path of this most unlikely of love stories
is blemished by a xenophobia and bigotry that transcends decades,
cultures, and countries. Emmi (Brigitte Mira, in her first and finest
performance for Fassbinder) is an elderly cleaning woman who happens by
an immigrant bar. She steps in to get out of the rain and casually
orders a drink. The regulars decide to have some fun with this old lady.
They tell Ali, one of the foreign laborers who frequent the
establishment, to ask her to dance. Ali is played by El Hedi ben Salem,
himself a Moroccan whose eight of nine acting credits were all in
Fassbinder films and who, at the time, was also in a relationship with
the filmmaker. Born in 1935, he would pass away just two years after Ali‘s release. By contrast, the veteran Mira was born in 1910. She lived until 2005.
Balled
up, shrunken, and shunned, Emmi is as out of place in this bar as Ali
will soon be in a conventional domestic setting. Asking her to dance is a
simple gesture, even if it has roots in condescension, but it quickly
turns into something more. As the two dance, the others mockingly survey
the disparity of the duo. But then Ali goes back and sits with Emmi.
That wasn’t supposed to happen. Then he pays for her drink. Then he
walks her home. This definitely wasn’t supposed to happen.
In
this opening sequence, Fassbinder shoots Emmi as a solitary figure or
has Emmi and Ali together in one frame and the onlookers together in
another. This basic pattern continues throughout the picture. Rare is
the arrangement that has Emmi and Ali together with (that is, welcomed
or embraced by) others. There is, then, an immediate visualization of
the film’s “us versus them” theme of alienating conflict. Ali owes a great deal to the Douglas Sirk masterpiece All That Heaven Allows,
but whereas age and class were the barriers in that 1955 classic, here
there is age, class, race, nationality, probably religion; to say these
two have the odds stacked against them would be quite the
understatement.
A
neighbor sees Emmi enter her apartment with Ali, and the accusatory
condemnation in her circle promptly begins. Of the foreigner, one
shocked neighbor proclaims to another that he’s “a black man.” “Real
black?” eagerly—but not too eagerly—wonders the other. “Well, not that
black, but pretty dark,” says the first.
Emmi
reveals that her Nazi father hated foreigners and her husband was
Polish. She knows what intolerance is like, but she sees past such
prejudices. Rather, she recognizes the instant bond she and Ali tenderly
share. They are modest, simple, and nonjudgmental. They are, in their
own ways, alone, always working, and marred by sadness. Together they
have something special though, something that is beyond the scope of
what the gossiping, gawking, busybody neighbors can appreciate.
The
neighbors aren’t the only ones to contend with. Emmi’s children don’t
respond well to her declarations of love toward Ali either, and they
respond even worse when they first meet the man himself. Daughter Krista
(Irm Hermann, another of Fassbinder’s stock company) and her husband
Eugen (Fassbinder) have their own domestic issues. But they can turn a
blind eye to their relationship troubles by honing in on what they
perceive to be their mother’s. Eugen especially has a deep-seeded hatred
of foreign workers, so as far as he’s concerned, there’s one strike
against Ali already. Emmi noted earlier that her family only really gets
together for special occasions, but despite that implied familial
distance, they are all suddenly now very troubled by this new
development. The compressed disgust and hate that registers on the faces
of Emmi’s children as the camera pans to each in close-up is one of
Fassbinder’s most subtle and powerful touches in the film. The stunned
silence is broken when son Bruno (Peter Gauhe) throws a tantrum and
kicks through the television set (most certainly a reference to All That Heaven Allows).
No
matter. Ali and Emmi are in love. There may be some naiveté on her
part, or perhaps just innocent optimism, but she refuses to let the
scorn get her down. One rainy day, the two marry at the local registry
and they’re on their way as man and wife. First stop after the wedding:
an Italian restaurant, where Hitler used to eat.
The
reactions to the new couple grow increasingly ugly. The nasty and
bitter coworkers and neighbors slam all immigrant works as uncivilized,
barbaric, dumb, dirty, and money hungry (the women also don’t approve of
policemen with long hair). When they’re not being so openly callous,
they attempt understatement, telling Emmi euphemistically that there’s
“dirt in the house.” Eventually, it gets to the point where they won’t
even speak to her or sit next to her at lunch. Though El Hedi ben Salem
is generally inexpressive (as he usually is, so it may not be the Ali
character), Brigitte Mira has never been better, and she is especially
good in these sequences. As she stares isolated in the frame, Fassbinder
holds the camera on her weary face to maximum effect, giving us a
chance to take in her dejected expressions of sadness, envy, and
confusion.
Not
everyone is so cruel, however. The landlord’s son, for example, sees
nothing indecent about the relationship. But it’s too late. At an
outdoor café where Ali and Emmi are almost comically deserted as
strangers look on, she ironically professes her wish to be all alone
with him, with no one around them. Then she breaks down. The recent
treatment has gotten to her. She doesn’t like feeling ostracized.
Not
long after this, everyone grows more cordial. But there’s a catch. It’s
only the desire for personal gain that changes their tune. When it’s
for their own benefit, they don’t have as much trouble with the
newlyweds as they used to. The neighbors now like Ali’s muscles, and
Emmi’s children no longer think their mother is a whore, especially not
when they need something from her. Yet simultaneously, things starting
falling apart at home. Emmi overcomes her disheartened state by joining
in the gossip when there’s a new target and Ali, disenchanted with some
of Emmi’s established ways, seeks the illicit company of a trampy
bartender, going to her for couscous and “couscous.”
What’s
Fassbinder saying with all this? Is the relationship indeed doomed to
begin with, or is it just that it takes more work and sacrifice than
either Emmi or Ali are willing to put forth? Ultimately, they reach a
degree of understanding. They have tried to deny the societal influence
that affects their lives, but by the film’s end, honestly sheds light on
their hypocrisy. As in so much of Fasssbinder’s work, nobody here is
wholly innocent or entirely wicked.
Todd Haynes, whose Far from Heaven (2002) is another take on All That Heaven Allows and, by extension, Ali,
provides an introduction to the movie as one of the bonus features on
the Criterion Collection release of the film. He gives a thorough
background of Fassbinder’s politics, his career, and he discusses their
shared influences and preferences. Among those preferences is an
appreciation for light and color. Haynes’ decorative flair in his film
is a more obvious mimicry of Sirk’s work, but Fassbinder too imbues Ali with an excellent use of color. It’s less overtly expressive than Haynes or Sirk (or even than in some of his own later films— Lola (1981) most notably), but it’s nonetheless a key part of Ali and a crucial nod to one of Fassbinder’s greatest heroes. As much as anything else, Ali: Fear Eats the Soul
is just that: a tribute to a style of filmmaking very much admired by
this prolific and provocative German director. But because it is a
Fassbinder film, Ali stands more than securely on its own merits, with its own ideology, its own unique form, and its own social intent.
Always
inventive, never repetitive, Rainer Werner Fassbinder was among the
world’s most fascinating filmmaking figures, responsible for several
masterworks. Among them, Ali may be the best of the best.
REVIEW from SOUND ON SIGHT
Following the success of Rosemary’s Baby in 1968, and prior to what is arguably still his greatest film, Chinatown (1974), Roman Polanski made three curious filmmaking choices. One was the international coproduction and rarely discussed What? (1972), one was the racing documentary Weekend of a Champion (1972), and the third, which actually came before these two, was Macbeth
(1971). It is obviously not that a Shakespearean adaptation in itself
is unusual, but rather that it so seemingly diverted from the films that
were garnering the young Polanski his worldwide acclaim: taut thrillers
like The Knife in the Water (1962), Repulsion (1965), Cul-De-Sac (1966), and Rosemary’s Baby. Yet in Macbeth,
there are a number of characteristic Polanski touches — in story and
style — harkening back to these previous works and in many ways pointing
toward those to come.
Don’t be fooled by the Playboy Production/Hugh M. Hefner as executive producer credits, this is no Penthouse Caligula
(1979). This is a somber, sorrowful, generally faithful, and visually
satisfying version of one of Shakespeare’s most cinematic works. It’s
probably unnecessary to recount the entire plot of such a well-known
tale, but suffice it to say, working with some truly gifted
collaborators (production designer Wilfred Shingleton and
cinematographer Gil Taylor especially), Polanski does great justice to
this story of blind ambition, brutal murder, and erratic madness. When
Macbeth (Jon Finch) first has the seeds of a lofty reign planted in his
mind by the three weird sisters, his transformation from innocent
curiosity at their declaration to the resolute drive that preoccupies
his soul is a slow but steady development. Exacerbated by the devious
Lady Macbeth (Francesca Annis), Macbeth begins to contemplate how to
achieve the predicted role of King, who stands in his way, and who will
obediently follow.
As
Finch does an exceptional job conveying the brooding Macbeth, in all of
his anguish and indecision, Annis is superb as his shockingly two-faced
wife, who abandons her conniving ways, puts on her required mask of
respectability, and reverts back again with frightening ease. Though
Finch does a good deal to show Macbeth’s doubt, it soon becomes clear
that there is indeed no doubt whatsoever. His path is clear; he is to
give in to his “vaulting ambition,” he is to, as Lady Macbeth suggests,
“look like the innocent flower but be the serpent under it.” The first
step is to kill King Duncan (Nicholas Selby).
Once
the deed is done, an unceasing snowball of violence begins to roll, as
Macbeth grows anxious and paranoid and he and Lady Macbeth both begin to
mentally unravel. While Lennox speaks of “strange screams of death” the
unruly night of Duncan’s murder, nothing could prepare the region for
the conspiratorial turmoil that follows. Macbeth aggressively does all
he deems necessary to secure his position, wiping out any and all
potential adversaries, not the least of which is friend and fellow
general Banquo (Martin Shaw).
Even
before he goes on the warpath to his own destruction, Macbeth is shown
to be prone to visions, seeing the dagger that directs him to enact
Duncan’s demise, but as he descends into grief-stricken and murderous
madness, his visions intensify. Haunted by Banquo’s death, he falls
victim to delirious dream states of surreal panic. And as his breakdown
progresses, he becomes more and more insular and suspicious, seeking
refuge within the confines of his castle. In these sequences, we see
prominent elements from many of Polanski’s finest films. The depiction
of one’s progressive mental instability, intensified by paranoia and a
sense of claustrophobia, revealed in Macbeth’s delirium and accompany
delusions, and in the restrictive setting. Macbeth’s isolated castle is
itself perched high on narrow mountaintop and within that, Polanski
stages the drama to be even more withdrawn and visually tightening.
In
contrast to this, there is the beautifully melancholic exterior
photography, its lushness and natural splendor a precursor to Polanski’s
Tess (1979). The windswept English location, shot under the
effect of perpetual dampness and cloud cover, is scenery that strongly
reflects the foreboding tragedy that unfolds. What the setting lacks in
bold vibrancy, it makes up for with rich texture and stunning and subtle
natural light, both of which become markedly apparent in the newly
released Criterion Collection Blu-ray. If the exteriors point toward
Polanski’s own later work, inside the castle walls, the interior design
is reminiscent of Roberto Rossellini’s historical pictures from the late
1960s and early ’70s. In films like The Rise of Louis XIV (1966) or Blaise Pascal
(1972), Rossellini similarly depicted largely unglamorous time periods
in a realistic fashion, with acute attention to detail. A key difference
here though, is that Polanski imbues the stark reality of his
recreation with more expressive camera placement, movement, and editing.
The brutality of Polanski’s Macbeth
is commonly remarked upon, and while there are occasionally quite
graphic moments, the bloodshed isn’t that extraordinary, certainly not
by 2014 standards. And even if it were, bearing in mind the tragic
events of Polanski’s personal life just two years prior, it should come
as no surprise that violence weighed heavy on the filmmaker and
undoubtedly was in need of an outlet. This much of the film’s backstory
is largely glossed over in the Criterion disc’s bonus features, which is
perhaps for the better, as the Tate-LaBianca murders at the behest of
Charles Manson are an unwieldy topic, one that can (and did) easily lead
to distraction from Macbeth itself.
What
is given considerable attention in these additions is a comprehensive
account of the film’s tumultuous making (over budget, Polanski rumored
for replacement) and its generally poor critical and commercial
reception and meager release (the connotations of the Playboy name
somewhat of a hindrance for “serious” filmgoers). There were, however,
many positives, and that much of the production is discussed in a Dick
Cavett interview with coscreenwriter Kenneth Tynan and in “Two
Macbeths,” a 1972 TV episode with Polanski and theater director Peter
Coe. The Polanski Meets Macbeth documentary contains some
fascinating and revealing behind the scenes footage, including of the
superbly realized movement of Birnam Wood. And Toil and Trouble: Making “Macbeth,”
a documentary featuring interviews with Polanski, producer Andrew
Braunsberg, assistant executive producer Victor Lownes, and Annis and
Shaw, neatly covers the film’s gestation from beginning to end.
Though
I’m by no means a Shakespeare film aficionado (or even a big fan), on
the whole, Martin Shaw’s declaration in this latter documentary is
reasonable. Given Macbeth’s visual accomplishments, the
first-rate performances from all players, the excellent use of setting,
and the overall production design, it very well may be the “best
Shakespeare film that’s ever been made.”
Now a legendary horror film, The Texas Chain Saw Massacre, or The Texas Chainsaw Massacre as it seems to be called just as often (hereafter TCSM
either way), was at the time of its release a most unusual feature. Why
the movie still resonates today though, why it still has such a strong
cult following, and why it remains one of the genre’s greatest entries,
is for many of the same reasons it was so groundbreaking in 1974. The
Vietnam-era angst has since dissipated (or has perhaps been replaced by a
new sort of battle fatigue) and the notion of a post-Night of the Living Dead horror film renaissance has certainly gone by the wayside, but TCSM remains just as expressive and as masterfully effective it ever was.
The
opening scroll touts a film that is both “mad and macabre,” and goes on
to give the picture a (false) true story mythos, suggesting with a tone
of journalistic actuality that on August 18, 1973 the events we are
about to behold actually occurred (production on the film started July
15, 1973, so there’s that). As flashbulbs illuminate mangled and rotting
corpses, a piercing grinding or sanding sound cuts through the muffled
noises and the voices of disembodied men. These are more than just
corpses strewn about. These physically mutilated bodies are situated in
bizarre arrangements in a graveyard. Something very wrong has been
happening in this remote Texas region. A sickly feeling of impending,
ghastly dread is heightened by hues of saturated oranges, yellows, and
red, a color-coding that will reappear throughout the film. Over the
radio, we hear news accounts of other horrific events in the area. Death
is in the air it seems.
The
story that follows is admittedly slight, with little in the way of
narrative exposition or elaborate characterization, neither of which
prove to be especially necessary for this film that functions far more
successfully in its emphasis on atmosphere and visuals. Such as they
are, there are five main characters though: Kirk, Pam, Jerry, Sally, and
her brother, the wheelchair bound Franklin, the only character with a
memorable presence, for better or worse. In these roles are William
Vail, Teri McMinn, Allen Danziger, Marilyn Burns, and Paul A. Partain,
respectively.
“Things
happen here about,” says a drunkard rather cryptically in the beginning
of the picture, and while the group’s intention of visiting an old
family home seems innocent enough, it soon becomes obvious that things
will not go as planned. Along the way, they pick up a bloodied and
scarred hitchhiker who laughs hysterically, notes that his family has
“always been in meat,” carries snapshots of cow carcasses, and proceeds
to cut his palm with a pocketknife. What could go wrong here?
So
much of what is now a tried and true horror cliché is present to this
point—the eccentric drifter, the group of teenagers, a cemetery, an
isolated setting, etc.—but when the hitchhiker is removed from the van
and proceeds to smear his blood on the side, the initial mild weirdness
takes a sharp yet subtle turn to imminent danger.
The
quintet arrives at their destination and begins to survey the area,
including a visit to a nearby farmhouse with inhabitants who, we find,
have a very peculiar sense of dysfunctional family values. Again, this
begins the now common, though then comparatively novel, scenario of
picking off one by one each of the young people, ultimately concluding
with the “final girl,” arguably the first incarnation of this similarly
modern generic device.
Early
on in the van, there is mention of the zodiac and planetary alignments
suggesting some sort of otherworldly evil, but such a foreign
stimulation for the terror that transpires is not to be. The evil here
is not from the beyond. The evil here is very human, very real. From the
first time we see the famous Leatherface (Gunnar Hansen), it becomes
clear that TCSM is operating on a whole other plane that its
horror predecessors. The picture eschews the typical, but by no means
mandatory, malevolent back-story assigned to the villains. This
wickedness is an inexplicable one. There is no solace in an explanation,
no comfort in reasoning. Those who reside in this house of horrors
operate on an unknown and perhaps unknowable wavelength. They simply are
who they are and director Tobe Hooper appears to be not the least bit
concerned with establishing their motivations or their rationale. And
the film is all the better for it.
There
is surprisingly little bloodshed in the film, but there is certainly
violence—painful and sudden violence—starting with the dynamic first
kill, a brutally realistic and spastic takedown. In place of excessive
gore, there is a palpable sensory experience. Stifling Texas heat and
the concurrent dirt and grime that appear bonded to every individual and
surface produce a texture of uncomfortable grit and roughness. Add to
this the stated stench of the local slaughterhouses and the sweaty
confinement of the van and you get a highly evocative sense of
displeasure. TCSM utilizes abject features to amplify its
unpleasantly potent picture of the horrific: spiders scurrying in the
corner, peeling wallpaper, bones, hair, fur, teeth, and skulls. These
naturally repellent or at least unsettling elements placed in these
abhorrent sites set a truly horrific scene.
Related
to this are the anatomical constructions that decorate the interior of
the farmhouse. The gruesome set design created from these revolting
props is an ornamentation built on the objectionable. While TCSM is a fictional film, part of its inspiration came from the ghastly exploits of Ed Gein (also a basis for Norman Bates in Psycho and Buffalo Bill in The Silence of the Lambs).
Here, his fleshy furniture and corporeal costuming are ever-present and
act as a sort of primitive precursor to the body horror subgenre that
would develop years later, the pinnacle of achievement to come in the
works of David Cronenberg. TCSM is particularly focused on
physical deformity and disability (see, for example, Franklin, his
crippled condition conveying a weakness that will contrast against the
power of Leatherface) and, on the other hand, the strength of the
physical and mental will that allows for the gruesome bodily
modifications and the generally repugnant living conditions of this most
uncanny family.
For
a film that otherwise looks down and dirty and clearly on the lower end
of the budget spectrum ($83,532 according to an IMDB estimate –
yielding a $30,859,000 gross), credit goes to Hooper and director of
photography Daniel Pearl for keeping the film punctuated by unexpected
bits of stylish skill. Odd and interesting angles and smooth,
occasionally quite intricate camera maneuvers do a good deal to offset
any apparent budgetary restrictions. Yet one of the reasons TCSM
is so impressive is its generally unappealing look. This has nothing to
do with poor cinematography (though cheap 16 mm stock no doubt
contributed), but it is a feature common to a great many horror films
from the period. Take any number of the cannibal films of the 1970s, the
average Video Nasty, or the early Wes Craven features; these films look
unpleasant, and they work extremely well because of it. There is no
gloss, no sheen, no consistently crystal clear imagery. They are grainy,
murky, and soiled. The settings are filthy and ugly. The people, or at
least the bad people, are unattractive and peculiar. Forget their
narrative content, these films look like horror films. One of the last really great movies to effectively capitalize on this visual distinction was Henry: Portrait of a Serial Killer
(1986), which arguably falls more into the drama category anyway,
already signaling a stylistic shift in the form. In any case, such an
objectionable quality and association is relatively rare now, which is a
shame, for as TCSM shows as well as any, it makes for a profoundly visceral viewing experience.
For those who agree with any of the above assessment and likewise find TCSM
to be a strikingly impressive horror film, the newly released 40th
Anniversary Collector’s Edition 2 Blu-ray/2 DVD combo pack is a gold
mine of fascinating featurettes, commentaries, and behind the scenes
miscellanea. On the disc with the feature are no less than four distinct
commentary tracks (two unique to this set), bringing in everyone from
Tobe Hooper and a majority of the cast to production designer Robert
Burns (perhaps the most unsung and integral contributor to the film) and
editor J. Larry Carroll. The 72 minute The Texas Chain Saw Massacre: The Shocking Truth
is probably the most informative special feature, but inclusions like a
2000 tour of the farmhouse-turned-restaurant with Hansen and an episode
of Horror’s Hallowed Grounds will stoke the fan boy’s interest
in the film’s contemporary state (I for one would gladly take a trip to
Kingsland, Texas in order to dine at the Grand Central Café). Deleted
scenes, outtakes, more interviews, even a blooper reel; the bonus disc
sheds light on nearly every facet of this classic motion picture.
Accounts
vary regarding Fritz Lang’s departure from his native Germany in 1933.
His own tale of a hasty and secretive escape in the dark of night has
been met with scrutiny, and documentation from the period seems to
confirm a considerable amount of embellishment on Lang’s part. In any
case, the bottom line is that Lang got out while the getting was good,
first stopping over in France, where he directed Liliom (1934), then making his way to America, where his first Hollywood feature, Fury,
was released in 1936. Lang never fully left his Germanic sensibilities
though, nor did he deviate much from his established cinematic style,
already so marvelously displayed in the earliest of his German films. It
stands to reason, then, that when World War II began in full force,
Lang felt compelled to delve into war-related films. His personal
connection to his European homeland and his feelings about what had
became of it found an outlet in his Hollywood moviemaking, first with Man Hunt (1941) then with Hangmen Also Die
(1943), an excellent wartime thriller that exhibits a number of Lang’s
defining narrative and formal characteristics, and clearly indicates
where he stood politically and socially.
After
the Czechoslovakian resistance fighter Dr. Franticek Svoboda, AKA Karel
Vanek (Brian Donlevy) shoots Nazi officer Reinhard Heydrich, AKA “The
Hangman” (Hans Heinrich von Twardowski), he attempts to flee from the
scene, which he does thanks to Nasha Novotny (Anna Lee). Nasha is a
young Czech woman who lives in the area and quite innocently directs the
Gestapo away from Svoboda. Such a seemingly innocuous decision,
however, brings forth tragic and wide-ranging ramifications. Nasha’s
father, Prof. Stephen Novotny (Walter Brennan), knows who Svoboda is
when he comes to thank Nasha, and he is wise to what the stranger has
done. The rest of her family, however, remains in the dark, as does her
fiancé. Eventually, the Nazis round up anyone who may know the
whereabouts of Heydrich’s assassin (including Prof. Novotny), planning
to execute these hostages until the assailant reveals himself.
The
suspenseful pursuit that transpires gives Lang ample time and varying
scenarios to convey the threatening reign of terror that envelops this
Czechoslovakian region. Reminders of intimidation tactics and promises
of punishment constantly haunt the townspeople. Yet their destitution
and surface meekness conceal a rebellion that boils underneath. The
shooting of “The Hangman” lights the spark, and no matter that
restrictions are tightened and hostages are taken, the bottled up
defiance is steadily brought to eruption. Is Hangmen Also Die a
propaganda piece? Of course, in the best possible sense. Adamantly
pro-Nazi, the film in turn must undoubtedly favor the other side, as it
should. It is a testament to the resilience of the resistance.
But
there is also a very human drama acted out against this backdrop.
Svoboda’s attack of conscience as he struggles between his own survival
and that of the hostages is a powerful predicament. When the Nazis begin
their community assault, all in the name of seeking the assassin,
Svoboda wonders if it’s all worth it. He is reassured that the
underground needs him, that he, or more specifically, his actions, are
representative of the whole of the opposing population. “Czech people
have executed the hangman,” he is told. It’s more than just him. But the
guilt of the punishment extended to the innocent weighs heavily. At the
same time, Nasha knows who Svoboda is and what he did. Drop the dime
and her father will possibly be returned, but at what cost to the
resistance? Like in so many Lang films, from M (1931) to Fury to Beyond a Reasonable Doubt
(1956), moral dilemmas abound, all questioning simplistic divisions
between the personal and the communal, between what is good for all and
what is good for one.
Lang
expertly shoots the tension with a stark, noirish treatment, where
every word or suggestion potentially puts someone new in danger.
Suspicion and impending betrayal sway actions and thoughts, and the
hazards of traitorously playing both sides are shown to be quite dire.
As in M, Lang’s interrogation scenes are taciturn and hostile,
with little in the way of decorative visual or aural adornment to divert
attention from the accusatory aggression. The questioning is cold,
detached, and menacing. Likewise, as also in M or Fury
for example, Lang’s depiction of a mob mentality, for better or worse,
is powerful. When Nasha is questioned by her own people about her
reasons for wanting to go to the Gestapo, the threat of their violently
turning even on her becomes very real.
There
are times when the overriding message of the film gets somewhat
pedantic, but the intentions are admirable and the emotion is strong.
And though the film gets slightly sluggish toward the end, with some
needlessly prolonged digressions, these same scenes occasionally boast
moments of brilliance (the way in which the traitor is revealed, for
instance).
With cinematography by the renowned James Wong Howe, Hangmen Also Die looks great, even if it’s not quite as ornamental as his work on Yankee Doodle Dandy (1942) before, or Sweet Smell of Success
(1957) years later. Donlevy gives a decent performance, though it’s
largely a one-note turn. Lee’s frightful Nasha fluctuates more notably,
between timidity and stubborn strength. Brennan, not at all as most
people know the actor, is generally responsible for the film’s didactic
speeches, as given by the endearingly wise Prof. Novotny. They are brief
appearances, but the performances of Lionel Stander as a pivotal
everyman cab driver and Hans Heinrich von Twardowski as the creepy
“Hangman,” an embodiment of pure evil, are also memorable.
(Interestingly, the German von Twardowski’s credits range from work on
the seminal The Cabinet of Dr. Caligari (1920) to a string of almost comically typecast roles in films such as Hitler’s Madman (1943), The Strange Death of Adolf Hiter (1943), The Hitler Gang (1944) — you get the idea.)
That Hangmen Also Die
came together as well as it did and holds up as well as it does is
something of a surprise given its tumultuous road to production and
release. Accompanying the newly released Cohen Film Collection Blu-ray
is a commentary by Richard Peña, a featurette with historian Robert
Gerwarth, and an essay by Prof. Peter Ellenbruch, all of which detail
the film’s complex backstory and its true-life source. Bertolt Brecht
and Lang were friendly, and Lang did a good deal to secure the author’s
arrival in America and his subsequent Hollywood employment, but each
approached storytelling from drastically different methodologies, and
their ultimate aims for the film were not always in sync. What followed
also included contested screenwriting credit (hence John Wexley’s name),
issues with studio requirements (more romance) and, years later, a
“subversive” label at the hand of the HUAC. Whatever it took though, Hangmen Also Die works. With M,
it is a film Lang considered among his most important.Coming out in
1943, it also must have been frighteningly dramatic for contemporary
audiences, and it remains a chilling and captivating window into the
personalities and emotions of WW II’s victims, their struggles, their
small victories, and the sweeping human toll of the whole era.
REVIEW from SOUND ON SIGHT
If Alejandro Jodorowsky’s name has been in the news as of late, it’s largely thanks to Frank Pavich’s excellent documentary Jodorowsky’s Dune.
While this is a fascinating and tantalizing examination of what might
have been a stunning feature in the filmmaker’s rather limited body of
work, it should not distract from the films Jodorowsky actually made
since the Dune debacle. This includes the 85-year-old’s latest feature (which is teased at the end of the documentary), the autobiographical The Dance of Reality,
out now on blu-ray. This Felliniesque chronicle of occasionally
inflated childhood reminisces and the sociopolitical factors that form
one’s identity is a beautiful film, lovingly crafted, episodic though at
times meandering, and certainly a passion project for its director.
We
first see Jodorowsky himself in the present day, directly addressing
the camera and speaking somewhat cryptically about the perils of money
(obviously for those who saw the Dune documentary, financial
backing was a frequent struggle for Jodorowsky). From there, the real
Jodorowsky occasionally reappears, inserted into the narrative,
providing words of comfort and wisdom to his fictional childhood self,
played by Jeremias Herskovits. Joining young Alejandro is his mother,
Sara (Pamela Flores), a pleasant and quite curvaceous woman who
operatically sings her dialogue (Jodorowsky’s mother always wanted to be
an opera singer), and his father, Jaime (Brontis Jodorowsky, Alejandro
Jodorowsky’s oldest son), an obnoxious, Stalin-loving brute. Jaime is
frequently condemning his timid boy, with accusations of everything from
being too quiet, to being too effeminate (especially with his locks of
golden hair), to being a homosexual. For Jaime, his crude notions of
assertive masculinity depend on his son’s ability to tolerate pain.
Adding to the child’s bewildered upbringing is the fact that his mother
refers to the boy as her father, apparently because she was (still is?)
under the impression that he is her dad reincarnated.
Once this much is established, The Dance of Reality
has no real driving narrative path to speak of. The early portions of
the film follow young Alejandro as he goes about his daily business in
the small seaside town of Tocopilla, Chile, circa the late 1930s.
Whether or not it truly was this way, Jodorowsky’s recreation of his
hometown is one of vibrancy and vitality, in the literal color of its
buildings and houses and in its colorful cast of frequently exaggerated
characters. The strongest moments of The Dance of Reality come
in these early sequences, where we steadily see the factors that shape
the man Jodorowsky would become, with elements of new age spiritualism
and reactions to politics, art, family, religion, sex, money, and death.
It is not all gloom though. We also see the joys of young Jodorowsky:
new red shoes (which he quickly gives away) and his role of mascot for
the local fire brigade (a position he assumes once the old mascot, a
dog, dies). But there are the bad times, the times when he is verbally
and physically mistreated by his father or ostracized by other children
for being a circumcised Jew.
For
much of the film’s latter half, the focus shifts to Jaime and his
conflicted and complicated political ideology. His initial disdain for
dictator Carlos Ibáñez gives way to a resentment that turns Jaime the
lingerie salesman into a would-be assassin. Through this portion of the
film, The Dance of Reality, while hitting on more substantial
political themes, nevertheless loses some of it amusing charm.
Ultimately though, this section is itself redeemed by redemption as the
initially bellicose Jaime endures a number of trials and tribulations,
including some extremely unpleasant torture, only to wind up a
comparatively weak and humbled figure. His trajectory is tragic yet
finally constructive.
Every
film should be judged on its own merits, not necessarily on what came
before it. But given Jodorowsky’s stunning surrealism of the late 1960s
and early ’70s, and given the intensely personal nature of The Dance of Reality,
one can’t help but draw comparisons to his prior works. In this regard,
while this latest feature may not have the wall-to-wall brilliant
weirdness of El Topo or The Holy Mountain, there are
still more than a few moments of classic Jodorowsky imagery, albeit less
shocking and provocative: hundreds of sardines washed ashore, Jaime
pissing on the radio, a small army of scarred amputees. And there are
multiple scenarios and single images of metaphoric significance; like in
the works of the late great Hungarian Miklós Jancsó and Greek Theodoros
Angelopoulos, however, many of the regional and historical references
will likely go missed by those not familiar with the material.
Nevertheless, also like in the films of these other two directors, this
lack of knowledge does not in any way diminish the impact of the film at
hand.
On
the technical side of things, the new ABKCO blu-ray is a stunning
release, with extremely sharp picture and a few brief, though
insightful, interviews. Some have decried Jodorowsky’s decision to shoot
on digital rather than film, and while the budgetary benefits were
likely imperative, the results, in any case, are superb. Some of the
special effects falter and some of the interiors have a noticeable
hollow, soap opera-like quality, but by and large, this is a great
looking movie.
Jodorowsky calls The Dance of Reality
“A picture made with soul. My soul.” And he was not alone. Accompanying
him in the creation of this special work was his wife, Pascale, who did
the costumes, and his two other sons, Adan and Axel, appear in the film
as well; Adan also worked on the score. For anyone who has seen
Jodorowsky speak passionately (like in Jodorowsky’s Dune), it is clear that when he has great enthusiasm for something the results can be extraordinary. The Dance of Reality
may not exactly be extraordinary, but for a filmmaker like Alejandro
Jodorowsky, even a less than perfect movie is going to be unique and
always at least worth watching.
Director
Jacques Tourneur knew how to make the most out of a little,
particularly when he was working in collaboration with producer Val
Lewton (see Cat People, 1942, I Walked with a Zombie, 1943, and The Leopard Man,
1943). So when RKO gave this master of the low-budget picture a
comparatively larger budget and a top-notch screenplay (by Daniel
Mainwaring—as Geoffrey Homes—based on his own novel, “Build My Gallows
High”) the result was one of the finest of all film noir.
Starring Robert Mitchum as Jeff and Jane Greer as Kathie, Out of the Past
is built on a premise that is one of the defining characteristics of
noir: the inevitability of an inescapable past. Such a device was often
integral, with the repercussions of one’s recent deeds coming back to
haunt them, but relatively rare was the film that was built purely
around this convention, and even more unusual was the gap in time
between one’s transgressions and their current life.
When
Jeff Bailey is first seen, he is an unassuming gas station owner with a
mysterious background that doesn’t at all concern Ann Miller (Virginia
Huston), the pleasant small-town girl he loves. The town is Bridgeport,
California, a quiet, peaceful place, an ideal place to be and never
leave, an ideal place to go when you don’t want to be found. Such are
Jeff’s motivations. But when former acquaintance Joe (Paul Valentine)
shows up, Jeff’s state of calm is upended. Bailey is revealed to be
Markham and Jeff’s dark past comes to light.
Jeff
is instructed to travel to Lake Tahoe to meet criminal boss Whit
Sterling (Kirk Douglas). With Ann in tow, Jeff finally tells her who is
he, where he came from, where they’re heading, and why it might not be a
good thing. “You sure are a secretive man,” Ann tells Jeff earlier (she
has no idea), but now he’s going to come clean. Ominously he warns her,
“Some of it’s gonna hurt you,” and he proceeds.
Via
voice-over and flashback (noir through and through), Jeff goes back
three years prior, to when Whit hired him to find Kathie, Whit’s girl
who made off with 40 grand of his money only after plugging him in the
chest. Jeff is competent, so of course, he finds her, but he is also a
man, and this is noir, and she is a quintessential femme fatale. They
fall for each other and Jeff quickly disregards his obligation to Whit,
knowing full well what will probably happen to Kathie if she is
returned. Predictably, this brief liaison doesn’t end happily and the
now murderous Kathie disappears. Cut to present day and Jeff is back
with Whit at his Tahoe mansion. And so is Kathie. Whit again employs
Jeff, but this time, Jeff is wiser and knows the game, and the name of
the game is frame. Jeff knows he is being set up, but by playing dumb,
he emerges smarter than everyone thinks, and he attempts to use
incessant double crossing and dirty dealing to his favor. The past may
have caught up with Jeff—his past partner, past deals, the past of his
former associates—but he is convinced a future remains in reach.
There are multiple reasons why Out of the Past
is such an exemplary work in the world of noir, and part has to do with
just how faithfully and inventively it adheres to the form. Ambiguous
motives leave nearly everyone under suspicion, and when someone’s
personal faults don’t trip them up, chance usually does. Mainwaring’s
screenplay (with uncredited assistance from James M. Cain and Frank
Fenton) has some of the snappiest quips of any noir, where everyone is
witty and cracks wise at an unbelievable rate. For his part, Tourneur
keeps Out of the Past visually appealing with imaginative
camera angles and lighting that is deep and dark in the best noir
tradition. Diverse settings in New York, Mexico, and California
illustrate that no matter where one goes, the seamy and threatening look
of noir, just like one’s past, is sure to follow. Locations also serve
the purpose of reflecting Jeff’s dual nature and his conflicted desires,
with Kathie and Ann personifying their respective backdrops of shadowy
urban peril and secure rural tranquility; in other words, who Jeff was
and what he hopes to be.
Robert Mitchum owns Out of the Past.
After bit parts throughout the early 1940s, Mitchum paid his dues to
earn more substantial roles, including his first and only Oscar
nomination for Story of G.I. Joe (1945) and his turn in the excellent Crossfire,
also from 1947. But here, we see the fleshing out of his characteristic
cool, calm, seemingly detached bad-boy sensuality, just barely
shrouding a capacity for wicked violence. This film would then serve as
the catalyst for a career full of memorable performances: The Lusty Men (1952), River of No Return (1954), The Night of the Hunter (1955), Cape Fear (1962), El Dorado (1966), and so on, all the way up to Dead Man
in 1995. Such a legendary acting career cannot, however, be applied to
Huston or Greer, though Greer would amusingly appear in Taylor
Hackford’s 1984 Out of the Past remake, Against All Odds.
As for Kirk Douglas, this being only his second film role, it’s
obviously safe to say he had much more ahead of him, including his first
Oscar nomination for Champion just two years later.
