We never get to know the characters by
name and it is often difficult to discern who is a Bolshevik (Red) and who is
loyal to the Tsar (White). This is Jancsó’s
point. War crimes are committed by those
in power on either side. The film is
largely episodic but the characters that we follow in each episode soon
die. So, this makes war seem futile and
tragic. The use of long shots in
sprawling landscapes further emphasizes the trivial importance of each
life. Yet, the movie can just flow over
you and in 87 minutes it is over. Vaguely,
the role of Hungarians in the conflict (they supported the Communists) can be
noted – but their contribution is even more trivial and they are often told
that they are irrelevant and should leave.
Since this is Jancsó’s putative national affiliation, the pointlessness
of it all is that much greater.
It is a terrible shame that Andrei
Tarkovsky died of lung cancer at 56 (in 1986) because he surely would have made
more magnificent films (beyond the seven features he did make, including
Solaris, The Mirror, and Andrei Rublev).
Stalker is a great example – mysterious, portentous, spiritual, yet
somehow linked to a generic form (sci-fi) that allows viewers entry into his
world. However, this is not an
effects-laden picture but instead Tarkovsky works with his low budget to make simple
actions carry great weight; we are basically treated only to three individuals
(the Writer, the Professor, and the Stalker) crossing through The Zone, an
overgrown meadow filled with decaying structures, fetid water, and apparently a
lot of invisible traps and an ever-changing force that chooses who will live
and who will die. At the center of The
Zone is a room that, when reached, allows a person to have their innermost wish
granted. So, Tarkovsky has created the
opportunity for himself to question, philosophically, the goals of art,
science, and then faith -- represented by The Stalker who sees a need for the
room, as a way to generate hope (it seems).
Of course, Tarkovsky was a famous Christian, not well appreciated by the
Soviet authorities, and eventually he defected to the West and made his final
films there. His films are famous for showing
all four elements (earth, air, fire, and water) in a single shot and the screen
in Stalker has an incredible tactile quality that is aided by sepia tones
outside The Zone and lush greens and spoiled browns inside The Zone. In the end, there are no answers provided by
the film or by Tarkvosky – his films succeed because they are open to interpretation
and because they often remain inscrutable, even after numerous viewings. As such, this is a journey I’m happy to take
more than once, even though my quest may ultimately be quixotic (although
Kierkegaard thinks not).
At first, I thought this was just
another John Ford-esque tale of small town American life in the inner West, but
gradually its folksy charms and dark realities won me over. Joel McCrea is the Parson who comes to
Walsburg after the Civil War to build community; he takes a wife (Ellen Drew)
and together they raise a young orphan (Dean Stockwell) who narrates the
tale. We are treated to numerous
anecdotes from the town’s life but the major plot threads involve 1) the gruff
young doctor who conflicts with the Parson over how to treat the typhoid
epidemic that attacks the town; and 2) the old sharecropper whose property
stands in the way of the town’s mining interests and who is confronted one dark
night by the KKK. Mostly though, this is
a gentle, affectionate picture with human characters who may or may not believe
in God but do believe in having a strong sense of community. Whether or not the world was ever like this,
it does seem a shame when it’s gone.
Although it lacks the intense
socio-political message(s) that director Sam Fuller crammed into his earlier
war picture The Steel Helmet (1951), the Big Red One instead succeeds on the
basis of its sheer epic nature (at least in this 160 minute reconstruction). Across a number of different theatres of
WWII, Lee Marvin and his squad try to stay alive while Germans try to kill
them. Robert Carradine stands in for
Fuller himself (these are his personal anecdotes), a cigar chomping fledgling
author. Mostly the film feels alive
rather than grim or horrifying (although there is that) – maybe we become numb
to all the dead bodies because the characters themselves are numb? Marvin is tough but also warm and the
affection Fuller feels/felt for this sergeant comes through loud and
clear. The rest of the characters
(including Mark Hamil) are somewhat less defined (and all a bit juvenile, as
they probably were). Relentlessly, the
war keeps coming and coming and coming, yet somehow the movie never feels
long. We are alive and focused on the
moment of action.
Imamura’s true crime film is
extrapolated from a book based on authentic transcripts from the case of a
serial killer in 1960s Japan. Yet, it
seems to occupy some other private and personal space that transcripts would
not describe. Not that we get any
insights into the motives of the killer – although a few possibilities are
tossed around: his family’s Catholicism with its strict moral codes and
minority/outcast status in Japan; his father’s inability to stand up to wartime
military transgressions and suspected further hypocrisies; and/or the cultural
void left in Japan after the war, surrender, and imported dominance of
American-styled capitalism. However, these hints are far from clear. Mostly, we see Ken Ogata as the amoral lead
character, both in the present, being interrogated by police, and in the past, travelling
Japan as a con-man who occasionally and inexplicably murders. He also has an insatiable appetite for sex. At one point, he seems to form a bond with a
woman (Mayumi Ogawa) who runs an inn whose mother had been in prison for murder
– maybe they both feel disillusioned with parents/family life. However, it doesn’t end well for her…or
him. Any vengeance is reserved for the
State or God.
Star
Wars: The Force Awakens (2015) – J. J. Abrams
I saw the first Star Wars in the theatre
in 1977 with my dad. Now, 38 years
later, I thought I’d see the new one in the theatre (in 3D) on a whim on the
hottest day of the summer so far. I’m
not a zealous fan, particularly after all of the disappointments and I didn’t
even watch the 6th/3rd film. So, it is a very pleasant surprise to say
that J. J. Abrams and his team have pulled it off and recreated the magic of
the very first Star Wars. They have done
this by essentially making this new film a remake of the first, with enough
plot similarities to cause anyone to raise an eyebrow and, of course, to
delight those fans who know the films inside and out. Let’s call it an emotional remake, if not an
exact replica – the music of John Williams helps on this score. However, the real key to success, I think, is
a generous helping of Harrison Ford; it is great to be back in the presence of
the wisecracking but sentimental Han Solo.
Of course, there is lots more nostalgia to be had, but the new cast,
particularly Daisy Ridley and John Boyega, more than hold their own. That’s another after-image from 1977 – the
feel that a cast of unknowns has been thrust into a blockbuster. Naturally, not everything works perfectly –
the relationship between Han and Leia and their son feels forced (I kept
thinking who is this guy and what part of the story did I miss?). But the schematic plot, the dazzling action,
and the giddy fun of returning to one’s childhood memories make this highly
recommended – if you are in the tribe (more or less).
Here we have brave feats of derring-do
by Robin Hood (Errol Flynn) and his band of merry men (including Alan Hale as
Little John and Eugene Pallette as Friar Tuck).
Their bravery is for a good cause: protecting the poor Saxons from
wicked Prince John (Claude Rains) and Sir Guy of Gisborne (Basil
Rathbone). And even though eyes are
being poked out and ears cut off by the bad guys, this is still exhilarating
and fun, as Robin’s rebelliousness is charismatic and cheeky rather than angry. Of course, the good guys do not always come
out on top, but Maid Marian (played by Flynn’s usual love interest, Olivia de
Havilland) is on hand inside the castle to help them escape. Director Michael Curtiz (stepping in after
William Keighley was let go) keeps things moving at a good clip, such that one
fabled episode after another comes rollicking through. Both the Technicolor and the frequent
swordplay are eye-popping as well and you really cannot go wrong if you are
looking adventuresome thrills. Hollywood
at its best.
It seems almost camp at the start and
one could easily imagine Divine as nurse turned serial killer Martha Beck
(played bluntly by Shirley Stoler). Tony Lo Bianco is smarmy, sleazy, naïve,
and more-or-less perfect as Ray Fernandez, the con man who preys on
“lonelyhearts” for their money. As shot
by Leonard Kastle (after Martin Scorsese was fired), this “true crime” film is purposefully
unpolished, shot in cinema verite styled black and white, not beautiful to look
at, but in ordinary locations (like a grandmother’s cheaply furnished
apartment). So, this viewer was quite
taken aback at the first brutal murder, which unfolds clumsily and naturally,
as you suspect it really may have, with the interpersonal dynamics between the
two killers and the victim embarrassingly personal. The second murder is even more brutal and
suddenly nothing is funny anymore. This
is horror of truly unsettling proportions.
One remembers the film was made in 1969 and not the late ‘40s (when it
took place). Criterion’s DVD offers
pictures of the real protagonists and the electric chair at Sing Sing where
they were ultimately executed.
Emotionally raw look at workers and youth
in a residential treatment facility that is a total downer because the focus is
on the aftermath of abuse they’ve suffered at the hands of their parents.
However, like many downer movies, this is also uplifting in that it highlights
people’s ability to cope with extreme situations. The acting is naturalistic and these people
felt real – only occasionally does the script lead them to be a bit more overt
about their feelings/problems than you might expect. That said, people hurting this bad might
actually cross that line into awkward self-exposure as a cry for help. Brie Larson is the backbone of the film, as
the lead line worker who has a similar background to many of the kids in the
facility and struggles to keep her balance as life keeps happening to her. Not the kind of film I would normally choose
for escapism but I’m glad I did.
With a rhythm all its own, this largely
anecdotal film gathers together human moments, strange and moving, but somehow
real – or real from this alternate universe where the film has occurred. There is a plot of sorts – we follow the
lives of some young kids in North Carolina (probably) and see how they cope
with a tragedy that occurs -- or how they don’t cope. The minimalist music track gets you on its
wavelength and slows down your need for anything other than character
development and empathic feelings. The
kids are great, providing line readings that are naturalistic but not. The adults provide comic relief or alien
behaviour. I haven’t seen anything else by director David Gordon Green (um,
Pineapple Express?) but here, in his debut feature, he showed a poetic sense
and an eye for alternately rusted out and lush landscapes. Worth seeking out.
When Joel McCrea’s Wyatt Earp decides to
ban all guns from Wichita after the accidental shooting of a 5-year old boy,
the resonances with current events in the USA were impossible to ignore. But, despite the ban, the gun-toting ruffians
kept on coming, gunning for Earp because they couldn’t stand being
controlled. Moreover, the town’s
self-appointed chamber of commerce also thinks guns are good for business and
that a little violence is a necessary side effect of a healthy economy. Another random shooting, a contract for
murder, and some shootings in the street (often by Earp, prosecuting the law
his own way) are necessary before the town begins to feel that law and order
are the way to go. How many more deaths
will it take in the US before guns get banned?
True, we might not be able to trust some of those allowed to carry guns
(such as Earp – although McCrea plays him as squeaky clean, if a little too ready
to back up his words with bullets) but the alternative seems to be gunfights in
schools, movie theatres, colleges, and every other damn public place. In Cinemascope with excellent direction by
Jacques Tourneur.
I might be tempted to call this
exhilarating Senegalese film “psychedelic” (because of all the non-diegetic
sound and eclectic music) but probably it is really taking its cues from the
French New Wave. Djibril Diop Mambety
(who wrote and directed) is very free-spirited with the narrative, which sees
two lovers aspiring to escape Dakar for their idealized version of Paris, often
pausing to show us the African backdrop of people, shantytowns, and ocean
vistas. Most likely, there is symbolism
here that I’m missing (the early slaughter of the cow that is related somehow
to the horns on the motorbike that serves ultimately to distract Mory from his
journey to France, for example). But you
do get a feeling that this is what Dakar really was like in 1973 and perhaps
the film makes it seem exotic enough that you wonder why Mory and Anta would
want to leave (except of course for the way they are treated as
outcasts/misfits and the general poverty all around) – but so it goes even
today. Yet somehow the film feels
uplifting.
A dogged policeman (Louis Jouvet)
investigates a married music hall couple after a repugnant film producer and pornographer
turns up dead in Clouzot’s first post-war film (prior to well-known thrillers
Les Diaboliques and The Wages of Fear).
Not exactly noir and not exactly police procedural but blending elements
from these genres with the backstage musical (albeit the particularly French
kind). Bernard Blier (the husband and
accompanist) is spurred to passionate jealousy by Suzy Delair’s (the wife and
singer) willingness to flirt with producers to advance her career. Thus, he is suspect number one when she gets
mixed up with the soon-dead producer – or perhaps she is suspect number one –
or perhaps their lesbian friend downstairs is suspect number one? With Jouvet on the trail, the clues start to
fall into place in a satisfying way – although Clouzot is much more interested
in l’affaire de coeur than in any diddly-squat murder investigation. Top notch.
The
Salt of the Earth (2014) – W. Wenders & J. R. Salgado
The still photographs by Sebastiao
Salgado at the heart of this documentary are worth the price of admission
alone. As Wenders intones at the start
of the film, they are paintings made of light.
But these photos are also so rich in their complexity (or alternately
their simplicity), that they are almost psychedelic in the way they heighten
your experience, your understanding of the photographer’s experience of the
subject…and something of the subject’s experience as well. Around these images, other stories are told,
mostly about Salgado and his life: he escaped from dictatorial Brazil to Paris
and then ventured all around the world, witnessing great suffering in Africa in
particular, and then later the serenity of nature. Although Wenders is but a partner in this
enterprise (with Salgado’s son), it is hard not to think about his career and
its latest resurgence in documentary films – his vision and worldview are still
as rewarding as they once were. Yet, one
can’t help also to think about his contemporary Werner Herzog and what wonders
he might have extracted from these images and the complicated ethics of the
observer cum participant. Of course,
then the film would have been about Herzog above all else; Wenders wisely stays
mostly in the margins, allowing Salgado and his poetic and heartbreaking images
to stay in focus.
Kobayashi’s film feels like a horror
film or at the very least a potently grim fable. Told mostly in flashback by Tatsuya Nakadai,
a masterless samurai, who has turned up at the castle of the Ii clan, asking
permission to commit ritual suicide to end his miserable life. The stark black and white serves only to
highlight the stark coldness of the feudal system and its unfeeling code of
honour (that may be really just a front for authoritarians who take pleasure in
sadistic treatment of underlings, or so Kobayashi seems to be implying). As his story progresses, Nakadai’s samurai
gradually reveals his hand, undermining the moral rectitude of the clan that
has put on such airs of superiority. Of
course, the film crescendos with violence and ends very bleakly. In 2012, Miike Takashi remade the film in
colour and 3D but that version seems almost pointless in its close
transcription of the powerful and gripping original. Unbearably tense.
The images are sometimes too much to
bear, inside this leper colony in Iran.
Yet, they are somehow hauntingly beautiful and horrific at the same
time. Your heart goes out to these
outcasts, as you imagine the rejection they must have felt from the rest of
humanity. However, the people here
retain their dignity…through religion, through play, by the force of their
spirit. They thank their god for having
eyes to see and ears to hear, even if we as viewers dwell on their sores, their
deformities, their exile. The editing
here is fast (for the time) and we are besieged with images – some difficult to
take, some uplifting, all humane. The
voiceover is lyrical and poetic (not descriptive) and this elevates the film to
something more than a stark look at a difficult situation.
To a vegetarian, this is essentially a
snuff film. Animals die in a
slaughterhouse. However, director
Georges Franju treats the topic in a way that is not too far afield from David
Lynch’s Blue Velvet. That is, we see
Paris and its tranquil daily life and then we go behind the façade to find out
how meat is made available. Of course,
in 1949, the killing is done by hand, by trained professionals (who
nevertheless get cysts and other injuries in the course of their work). The film (only 20 minutes) is sometimes
referred to as surreal and perhaps a pile of calves heads (after they are
slaughtered to make veal) is an unusual image – but it is all too real, not
surreal. Franju went on to make Eyes
Without a Face, which is definitely surreal and horrific. In that film, a
surgeon preys on young women in order to find a new face for his daughter
(after a car accident). Perhaps the same
moral coldness underscores both films.
This time through Bergman's Persona left
me a little cold. Perhaps I wasn't quite in the mood for its experimental
approach to analyzing human relationships and needs that depicts a steadfast
denial of verbal communication from one party. That said, I fully appreciate
the magnitude of Bergman's achievement here. I found an old review (circa
1990s) and I include an edited excerpt here:
“The film opens with a montage of images
(a bare lightbulb, various cinematography equipment, corpses in a morgue, a
young boy reading and then reaching up to touch a giant image of Liv
Ullman/Bibi Andersson) that clearly evokes the idea that we are about to watch
a "film"--there is even a a portion of the "leader" before
a film begins. Then, the movie turns to traditional narrative structure. A
young nurse (Andersson) is assigned to the case of an actress who has decided
to become mute. I say decided because it is made explicit that there is no
clear psychological or physical ailment that has caused the muteness.
Nevertheless, the nurse is assigned to care for the actress (Ullman). Even from
the start, the nurse is worried that she might not have the psychological
strength/stamina to handle this odd case--she should have listened to her inner
voices. After a short time, the head of the sanatorium decides that the nurse
and the patient should remove themselves to a country house to improve the
treatment. Once there, the nurse becomes incredibly voluble--as anyone would
when faced with a silent companion. She begins to reveal intimate details of
her life, and although I perceived her to be a pleasant and un-self-analytical
person at first, she begins to express doubts and anxieties. Since these are
met with resounding silence, she becomes flustered. When she reads an unsealed
letter by Ullman that mocks her and defines her as an object for study, she
begins to get resentful. Throughout all this, Ullman gives a masterful
performance of reserved observation and occasional emotion. The focus is upon
Andersson and the changes she must go through because of her contact with this
willful mute. Much has been made of the "reversal of personality"
that takes place. Andersson becomes much more cynical and alienated but, for me, there is not too much
evidence that Ullman is significantly altered by her contact with Andersson. We
do learn, after they part, that Ullman returned to her stage career--and she
does seem more connected to life and the real world, but she fails to speak
more than a word (when forced) throughout thefilm. Needless to say, Andersson breaks down as a result of this
"silent treatment" and Bergman evokes this by having the film itself
break in the middle and the images become much more experimental and bizarre
toward the end of the movie.
Several themes became apparent to me
during my watching of this film. For example, "life as theater". Many
images and much of the dialogue in the film reveals Bergman's conception that
life is predominantly acting. First of all, Ullman is an actress herself and
she is plainly "studying" Andersson, perhaps for use in a future
role. The fact that the film is obvious about the fact that it IS a film makes
us aware that these self-presentations have been designed for us ( much like
everyday self-presentations?). A documentary style (in which one person is
never shown during a conversation) makes an appearance early in the film,
making our spectator status even more obvious. Later when the style switches to
intensely personal, we are unable to shake this conception of the
"objective" portrayal of reality--although clearly many images are
parts of dreams (but even Andersson is unsure of their status as
reality/unreality). Regardless, the film portrays human motives for behavior as
largely designed to create a certain impression/identity. Ullman is accused of
having a child to counteract a general perception of her as unmotherly, but
Andersson, too, seems to be fighting the desire to maintain a helpful
"persona" required of a nurse despite resenting her patient. This
forces us to ponder from whence our desired identities come from--from within?
from others' impressions of us (the looking glass self)? an interaction of the
two? One scene even features a camera which exemplifies this construction of impressions
theme. In the same way, the nurse's seeming intense need for feedback from
Ullman provides clues as to just how important other people's responses are for
our own identities.
But it gets much more complicated than
that. If life is merely shadows played out on a stage, then what is the role of
honesty or sincerity? This evokes Sartre's concept of bad faith, basically the
state of acting as though you have a certain motive or certain types of
knowledge when in fact you have very different motives or knowledge that might
call such action into question or at least complicate it. Sartre uses the
(sexist) example of the woman who allows her hand to be held, pretending that
all is innocent and declaiming such when asked, despite really knowing that her
male escort will take it as a sign that affection is assured. Bergman plays on
this theme by having the nurse explicitly ask whether there can be two selves:
one that does certain things and another that is one's general impression of
oneself that does not allow for such actions (the nurse has engaged in an orgy
spontaneously but still thinks of herself as faithful to her lover who was not
involved). What is to be done and thought when "ideas don't tally with
acts"? This is a state we all must be in if we treat life as theatre and
those who are actors even more so. Thus, Ullman's retreat into reticence is
framed as an escape from the continual lying of her career (and our existence).
If we are all constantly in bad faith, how must this be dealt with? When Ullman
realizes it, she becomes mute. When Andersson begins to realize it, she becomes
somewhat insane. To what standard must we hold ourselves? When are we allowed
to be inconsistent?
On top of all this, the film is laced
with horror film type imagery that evokes a constant forboding--lots of eerie
closeups and dreamlike black and white cinematography ( I should mention Sven
Nykvist). Overall, an intense and thought provoking picture."
Once
Upon a Time in Anatolia (2011) – N. B. Ceylan
This is the third film I’ve seen from
the Turkish master who has a way of getting inside his characters’ heads, so
that you know what they must be thinking even though they don’t voice their
thoughts. (The others were Distant and
Winter Sleep). This time, in the context of a perfunctory police investigation
(finding the corpse after the killers have confessed to where it is), we are
privileged to an on-again, off-again conversation between The Prosecutor and
The Doctor that rather accidentally leads one to discover an unpleasant and
personal truth. This bit (which might be
the “point” of the otherwise discursive script) has been adapted from Chekhov (apparently)
but Ceylan takes it one step further (into the autopsy room). Despite this glorious nugget buried at the
end (or in addition to it), the film is still a beautifully shot panorama (in
night colors) of the Turkish foothills with what must be a conscious nod to
Kiarostami (the Wind Will Carry Us, Close-Up, others), who has a similar way of
inserting thoughts in the viewer, as if by prestidigitation. Somehow the way the film is shot (those slow
zooms?) has the ability to concentrate your attention on its details (relevant
or not) and this can carry viewers through the epic length.
Snappy British Hitchcock film made
between Sabotage and The Lady Vanishes – that is, right in the middle of a
string of exceptional thrillers (that also included The 39 Steps, The Man Who
Knew Too Much, and Secret Agent). One reason why this might be less well known
is that the killer is finally discovered playing drums in a band…in
blackface. Setting aside this particular
awfulness (if you can) does reveal a playful film with Hitch’s
characteristically smart-ass use of sound, perfectly timed cuts and montages,
and romantic banter between the leads (Nova Pilbeam and Derrick De
Marney). The MacGuffin is a missing belt
from a trenchcoat which may or may not have been the murder weapon. Of course, poor Tisdall (De Marney) can’t
find his coat or the belt and thus is held on suspicion of murder…until he
escapes…with the Chief Constable’s daughter (Pilbeam). Rather a merry romp, all things considered
with a great tracking shot near the end (only to be rivalled by Notorious’s
later track from great heights into Bergman’s hand). On some days, I like the
British Hitchcocks even more than the American ones.
Anthony Asquith’s adaptation of Terrence
Rattigan’s play (from the playwright’s own screenplay) is a case study of one
man’s failure and self-loathing. The
trick that Asquith pulls off is to wring a measure of sympathy and feeling from
viewers for a man who has clearly let himself and those who depended on him
down. The fact that the man is a teacher
(at a British public boarding school) makes his failure that much more
impactful and public. Although it is
never addressed directly, one has to wonder how Crocker-Harris moved from point
A (a brilliant scholar of the classics with a bright future in front of him) to
Point B (a hollowed-out disciplinarian who has ceased to inspire students nor
to care). Fortunately, there are no
flashbacks here but just Michael Redgrave in torment, as he slowly withdraws
from his state of denial and allows himself a full dose of self-realization
and, yes, self-loathing, upon the occasion of his retirement due to
illness. Perhaps the most poignant
moments in the film come about when we are made privy to Crocker-Harris’s
marriage and his wife’s total and utter disregard for his emotions (she openly
cheats on him and viciously and cruelly denies him dignity). We may feel pity but also a sense of grieving
for his loss (of everything). Only a
glimmer of hope remains that self-realization can lead to some sort of
resurrection --but Asquith wisely keeps that out of the frame.
Sublime ridiculousness. The vessel with the pestle indeed. Danny Kaye hams it up in this swashbuckling
medieval farce, thrust center stage as part of a Robin Hood (Black Fox) band
determined to get rid of the usurping evil king (and sinister sidekick Basil
Rathbone) and put the royal baby (with the purple pimpernel) on the
throne. As luck would have it (and/or a
very clever script), Kaye is able to take the place of Giacomo the King of
Jesters and gain access to the king in order to find the key to the secret
passage and, well, um the plot doesn’t actually matter. There is a lot of really funny business
(particularly with regard to a magic spell that changes Kaye’s personality when
someone snaps) and the whole thing rolls merrily along, so quickly that there
is really nothing that anyone watching can do but submit. The witty song over the opening credits sets
the tone and foreshadows the wordplay. A
gem.
It’s rather ghoulish in the end, but
Claude Chabrol’s film maintains suspense all the way through – despite the fact
that we know that Michel Bouquet is the murderer from the first moments. Bouquet and Stephane Audran also starred as
husband and wife in Chabrol’s earlier, excellent The Unfaithful Wife, and this
is something of a reprise or rejoinder.
Audran was Chabrol’s wife at the time and this period of his career saw
a lot of exceptional thrillers in the Hitchcockian mode. Chabrol and Eric Rohmer had earlier written a
famous book about Hitch, focusing on his Catholic interest in guilt – and guilt
also takes center stage in Just Before Nightfall. You see, despite no suspicion falling on him,
Bouquet just can’t live with himself after the possibly accidental death of his
friend’s wife during S&M play. He just wants to blurt out that he’s the
killer – this leads to a great deal of suspense. Somehow, though, you just can’t see that
ending coming. But it is entirely consistent with Chabrol’s wicked sense of
humor.
Antonioni goes “no holds barred” and
“pulls out all the stops” to create a color film of such crazy artistic intensity
that every shot is a perfect composition.
I provided my own voiceover commentary, a commentary of continual
astonishment (which still did not take away from the electronic psychotronic
noise soundtrack). Let’s put it this
way: not only are the costumes, props,
and sets perfectly selected (or painted) to have the ideal complementary
colors, but there is often motion in the shot (such as a billowing cloud of
steam that expands above two characters who are made tiny at the bottom of the
screen, apparently oppressed and inconsequential as the frame is taken
over). Geometric shapes abound (squares,
triangles, circles), often as part of giant still life shots focused on
industrial landscapes, into which a character’s head will sometimes protrude
moments later. In other words, this is
an event picture where incredible set-ups are the norm. At the time, Red Desert was criticized for
having a negligible plot and truly it is easy to lose track, as the characters
basically do nothing for most of the film (Monica Vitti has post-traumatic
stress from an auto accident and feels detached from her husband and child and
life itself but may be open to advances from dubbed Richard Harris). You could make the case that the visuals help
to enhance the themes of alienation and insignificance. The environment can easily overwhelm the
characters and this is even more problematic due to the industrial waste and
pollution that poisons it – in color. Another
masterpiece from Antonioni.
One of the touchstones for Jean Gabin’s
mystique – cool, yes, but also violent and doomed. Of course, in 1939, all of France felt
doomed, so this image resonated.
Director Marcel Carne (who was later maligned, possibly injustly, as a
collaborator) brings poetic realist touches to an otherwise straightforward
boy-meets-girl-who-is-infatuated-with-a-sleazy-older-guy narrative. The flashback structure, wherein Gabin
remembers the events that led him to murder Jules Berry (remembering while
holed up in his apartment with the police at the door), is handled well, more
like a dream than reality. Arletty is
excellent as Berry’s ex-lover and Gabin’s fling (but not the object of his
amour): cynical and jaded and
disappointed. The ending (doom arrives) caught me by surprise somehow – this is
one that I will look forward to watching again to better perceive its true
arc.
Classic film noir from Orson Welles,
famous for its nearly incomprehensible plot, but rife with stunning set-pieces
(the aquarium, the funhouse, the hall of mirrors, Acapulco, San Francisco’s
Chinatown) and odd characters (Everett Sloane as Arthur Bannister, Glenn Anders
as George Grisby). Welles stars as
Michael “Black Irish” O’Hara, sporting a not quite passable brogue, who falls
for Rita Hayworth (as Mrs. Arthur Bannister), his soon-to-be ex-wife in real
life, and ends up on trial for murder (in the film), defended by Bannister
himself, a famous trial lawyer (and trickster).
O’Hara’s narration seems trustworthy but no one he meets on the yacht
trip from NYC through the Panama Canal and on up to San Francisco possibly
could be. He tells us himself that he
was a fool for chasing Mrs. Bannister who may or may not really love him but
when Grisby hires him to kill Grisby, he really should have walked away. Nearly every scene contains a flourish of
some sort or another, lending a degree of ostentatiousness that feels different
from the more integrated stylishness of Citizen Kane; here, the backgrounds are
busy and details might be thrown in on a lark (because Welles likes Chinese
opera perhaps) and the whole thing starts to feel crazy and cock-eyed and not
nearly as serious as noir would later get. But Hayworth in her blonde makeover
is unfathomable as the archetypal femme fatale, getting done over by her own
husband, on screen and off. Not to be
missed.
Looking for a brighter economic future
for her family after her husband dies, Rosaria Parondi moves herself and her
five sons to Milan from rural southern Italy.
There, they face difficulties finding and keeping work, some
discrimination, and the different social opportunities and temptations of the
city. Director Luchino Visconti begins
in neo-realist mode (more or less) but the drama soon shifts into a more
literary novelistic style, with tension between the bad son (Renato Salvatori)
and the good son (Alain Delon).
Salvatori starts out on a boxing career but soon falls in with the wrong
crowd, including a prostitute (Annie Girardot) who leads him further astray
into petty crime and debauchery. Delon
keeps his nose clean, gets drafted into the military and returns to find his
bad brother abandoned by his fling, kicked out of boxing, and deep in debt – he
subsequently seeks to reform the prostitute, becomes a boxing champion himself,
and tries to hold his family together.
The other brothers play more minor roles but the escalating melodrama
envelops them as well. Indeed, things
get very extreme and take this family drama into much darker territory. As Rocco (Delon) suggests, it might have been
better if they’d stayed put and not moved to Milan at all. Thus, the film is a lament for the passing of
community, family, and tradition in favour of more alienated, individualistic,
and industrialized pursuits, although Visconti keeps the story on a small
scale.
The second film in Kinji Fukasaku’s
yakuza series is just as good as the first (Battles without Honor and
Humanity), although it takes place on a smaller scale and with fewer central
characters. Bunta Sugawara is back from
the first film but he stays on the sidelines here, present apparently only to
lend some continuity to the proceedings.
In prison, Shozo Hirono (Bunta) meets small time hood Shoji Yamanaka
(Kin’ya Kitaoji) who then takes center stage when he becomes a gun man for the
Muraoka family and falls in love with the boss’s niece. All seems to be going well until a rival gang
led by insane Katsutoshi Otomo (played intensely by Sonny Chiba in one of his
last films before international stardom as The Streetfighter) declares war on
Muraoka. Yamanaka is a pawn in the
proceedings and willingly goes to jail for the family…but then the betrayals
begin. Bloody, chaotic, and with a
hyperventilating lead performance from Kitaoji, the film keeps the tension
cranked (but it is consequently less Shakespearean than its predecessor). Not
for the squeamish.
Swashbucklin’ adventure at its best!
Robert Donat plays Edmund Dantes, a poor sailor vilely and wrongly imprisoned
in an island jail by corrupt French officials.
Indeed, the key is metaphorically thrown away when his phony death
certificate is signed by wicked Louis Calhern – thus, his fate is sealed
without a trial even (at least not yet).
In prison for a decade or more, he finally meets up with another
long-bearded mentor (who has tunnelled for 8 years to reach him) who then
schools him in science and all other arts until finally….a clever escape! But I shan’t tell Alexandre Dumas’s entire
story here. Suffice it to say, with the
assistance of a buried treasure on another lonely isle, Dantes emerges as the
newly titled Count of Monte Cristo and slowly seeks justice and revenge on
those who imprisoned him. Each episode
is rousingly triumphant (as the score cues us to cheer) and Donat’s performance
is impeccably classy and full of honour throughout. Although the supporting cast isn’t all up to
his standard, there are a few standout familiar faces (for example, what’s
Preston Sturges fave Raymond Walburn doing here as an enjoyably pompous
villain?). Yet things are so wonderfully
surging that viewers young and old can’t help but be swept along to the exciting
conclusion. Touché!
