If you haven’t
seen a Roy Andersson film, you are really missing something – no one else makes
movies like he does. Each shot is a set-piece, an anecdote (if you will) or
simply a moment drawn from existence. His previous film was called A Pigeon Sat
on a Branch Reflecting on Existence (2014); if this sounds like a Far Side
cartoon, then you are not far wrong -- Andersson’s sense of humour is ironic
too. These shots are immaculately presented in perfectly designed environments
using only muted pastel colours (this film is all white with greys, tans,
blues, and greens). The camera is static, taking in the scene, which could be a
panoramic landscape or just a room. I think of Jeff Wall’s photographs but
Andersson adds movement (within the shot), dialogue, and music (and this time,
a narrator who offers a single comment on each scene). The effect of each
shot-scene is akin to the detonation of a “thought-bomb” with rippling waves of
implications. This film may be about things that never end (such as the emotional
states of grief or hurt) or perhaps about endings soon to come (death as the
most obvious). This does give the film a dark tone but there are also joyous
moments – Andersson is nothing if not an existentialist who wants us to really
experience the moments in our lives, the downs as well as the ups, for these
are the only things that matter. This film has one key recurring character: a
priest who has lost his faith (Andersson is Swedish like Bergman). The priest
visits a psychiatrist who tells him that maybe God really doesn’t exist and it
would be better just to enjoy his life. This, then, is Andersson’s modus
operandi in a nutshell: he offers us the opportunity to observe the poignant,
gently ironic, telling, and simply mundane scenes of our shared existence and
to reflect on them. And perhaps there is no better time than today, on New Year’s
Eve during a pandemic, to contemplate our common humanity, our mutual capacity
to experience joy and sorrow, and the perpetual events that cause them to be.
Kelly Reichardt’s
latest film is a mesmerising masterpiece.
Set in early 19th century Oregon, she’s managed an authentic
feel for the time and place (not unlike Jim Jarmusch’s Dead Man, 1995 – and whoa!
Gary Farmer has a cameo here, speaking only in an Indigenous tongue) which
really transported me. An opening quote suggests that the film will be about
friendship and indeed we soon witness the first meeting of Cookie Figowitz
(John Magaro) from Maryland and King-Lu (Orion Lee) from northern China; Cookie’s
just arrived with a party of trappers (who seem to hate his guts) and King-Lu
is naked, on the run from his enemies.
Together, they decide to strike up a business selling “oily cakes” using
Cookie’s baking skill and King-Lu’s business acumen – however, their cakes rely
on milk which needs to be illegally procured from the one cow in the territory,
brought up by raft by Chief Factor (Toby Jones), a wealthy British local with
pretentious airs. And thus, Reichardt’s film also turns out to be about
capitalism and the difficulty that those without capital might have in getting
a leg up. It isn’t a surprise that they try to leech off the wealthy and
powerful nor that the wealthy and powerful might eventually decide to squash
them (foreshadowed by the film’s very first sequence). The film is filled with
delicious little moments (by an extended cast) and the gentle soundtrack is by
William Tyler (with Stephen Malkmus showing up briefly as a busking fiddler). Highly
recommended!
I guess I am an
old softie because tears still well up in my eyes when I watch this old classic.
Something about the disappointment that George Bailey (Jimmy Stewart) feels when
he sacrifices his own desires in favour of helping the community (again and
again) combined with everything coming horribly unstuck when the old Building
and Loan is finally going to be destroyed by evil old man Potter (Lionel
Barrymore) that then sets the stage for that incredible ending when that same
community comes together to save the day.
They are happy tears or perhaps something similar but different (seems
as though there could/should be research on this). Of course, as a film noir
fan, I’m always impressed that the scenes where George’s guardian angel
Clarence (Henry Travers) shows him what Bedford Falls would be like if George
had never been born are as dark as many noirs (although Amon pointed out that some
of the plot seems stolen from Dickens’ A Christmas Carol – a person has a sort
of awakening after a spirit shows him an alternate reality). Of course, there’s
also a heavy dose of sentimentality (a Frank Capra speciality) and perhaps more
time than is necessary spent on George’s romance with Mary (Donna Reed) even if
we never do get to know their kids. Yet,
the film somehow never seems to descend into true sappiness -- at least not for
me (and the millions of other people who watch this at Christmas) – and I feel
more optimistic about life having watched it.
A history lesson
masquerading as a bio-pic masquerading as a political thriller, Shaka King
teaches us about the Black Panthers’ role in the civil rights movement via the
short incendiary life of Fred Hampton (Daniel Kaluuya) and the car thief
(LaKeith Stanfield) blackmailed by the feds into betraying him. (Thus, that
title is a bit too “on the nose”). Not being as familiar as I should be with
these events, I found the plot turns hard to predict (a good thing) and the re-creation
of late ‘60s Chicago felt about right. Although Kaluuya is persuasive as
Hampton (a community-focused collaborative leader calling for revolution), the
real center of the film sits with Stanfield who needed to portray the guilt and
fear that Bill O’Neal must have felt as he became more and more entrenched in
the Panthers’ hierarchy even while he was meeting regularly with his handler
(Jesse Plemons) who himself seems sometimes more sympathetic to the movement
than to his nefarious bosses, including J. Edgar Hoover (Martin Sheen). Real
footage of O’Neal and Hampton and Hampton’s girlfriend Deborah Johnson bring
home the reality of the events – knowing that she sued the federal government
for his murder and won means this story can’t be brooked. Of course, there’s a
reason this film appeared now, as the number of Black Americans dying at the hands
of the police has not decreased and a revolution may be all that turns the tide.
Black lives (and stories) matter indeed.
Similar to The
Gold Rush (1925), Chaplin’s Modern Times is really a hodgepodge of bits that only
vaguely connect to a larger plot. Some of these bits are plenty funny (Amon and
I both laughed out loud). I wrote a review earlier (15/8/11), saying: “A series
of sketches loosely focused on the trials and tribulations of the tramp in the
industrial age (in the role of a factory worker), including the iconic scene
where he is sucked into the gears of the machinery. Some hilarious stuff and
fresher than you would think from 1936. The depiction of desperation (stealing
for bread, shantytowns) and the role of unions and communist thought in the
lives of workers make this more than just slapstick.” I might add that Paulette
Godard is smashing as a vagabond gamin/love interest. Also, given that the silent
era was over, Modern Times is a bit of a holdover, using inter-titles and music
with only occasional sound effects and small amounts of dialogue and singing
and for that reason it was not a success at the time.
When this series
captures the uncanny or the full-blown weird, evocative of the pulp tales of
Lovecraft or others toiling in the genre in the 1920s & 30s, it really hits
the spot. But integrating this weirdness
into immediately pre-Civil Rights era America is the masterstroke that allows
creator Misha Green not only to address Lovecraft’s racism but to forcefully depict
and denounce the true horrors facing African-Americans (expect a lot of anachronistic
intertextuality, including speeches, music, etc.). Each episode adopts a
different genre or multiple genres (haunted house, science fiction, adventure,
etc.) that we know and love from pulp but invest them with extra layers for the
sociologically minded. The most interesting from that angle is probably the one
where Ruby takes the potion that allows her to appear white for a short time,
seeing the world through the eyes of the privileged – and then molting this new
skin in the gory and grotesque way of the modern horror film. This combination of
genre and politics is reminiscent of Jordan Peele’s work (esp. Get Out) and he
served as producer on the series (as did J. J. Abrams). There’s enough violence and sex and
gruesomeness here to attract viewers who desire those things but at its heart,
this is a family drama with Jonathan Majors, Jurnee Smollett, Michael K.
Williams, and Aunjanue Ellis (among others) uniting to fight off the evil
sorcerers of the secret society who seek immortality at the expense of our heroes.
In truth, across the 10 episodes, not everything works, but it’s a noble effort,
particularly if you are inclined to these genres.
Although I doubt I
would have given this 4 stars even thirty years ago when it was new, there’s
something about seeing it on the big screen and through the eyes of 9 year-old
Amon that added extra value. Sure, the characters are still only schematic nods
in a certain direction rather than fleshed out living and breathing humans but
they serve the purpose of advancing the plot and creating concern/anxiety where
it needs to be created (kids in peril!). Spielberg was always a master
manipulator of the audience and his goal here seems purely to thrill -- with
any message from Michael Crichton’s source novel about the dangers/risks of
using science to interfere with natural processes only noted in passing. The
fact that we aren’t fully attached to the characters probably makes it easy for
us to stomach their untimely passing when, of course, the genetically re-engineered
dinosaurs get loose and wreak havoc (so long Samuel L. Jackson). I had
forgotten that Wayne Knight (“Newman!”) is the central bad guy here although
his money-grubbing motives seem to pale in comparison to the grand
moral failing of David Attenborough, the impresario who set the entire theme
park in motion, inviting the cascading negatives events (predicted by Jeff
Goldblum’s chaos theoretician) that bring about the premature end of his dream.
Sam Neill and Laura Dern play paleontologists/audience surrogates who learn
about the park, see the creatures with wonder and then terror. But of course,
the whole movie itself is really a theme park ride, filled with animatronic and
CGI monsters that provide the jump scares and evil glares that send kids
screaming. Now Amon is asking about the sequels but I don’t think so…
Kurosawa filmed
his version of MacBeth as a horror movie, shrouded in fog, with Toshiro Mifune
haunted by his own demons – as well as a Japanese-styled evil spirit who offers
the prophecy that leads both Washizu/MacBeth and Miki/Banquo (Minoru Chiaki) to
their doom. Transferring the Scottish play to Shogun-era Japan works well, even
if (or especially because) Kurosawa’s rendering is more visual than verbal. The
quickly-cut shots of the leads galloping through the woods around the castle
are splendid and reminiscent of similar shots in Seven Samurai, whereas the scenes
with armies riding and marching in procession foreshadow Ran’s grander tapestry.
As in Ran, the horror here is personal, drawn from Shakespeare’s insight into
human weakness and, although the famous lines are absent, the twisted effects
of the lust for power are just as palpable in the fates of Washizu and Lady Washizu
(Isuzu Yamada). Dark and noirish but oh so Japanese in its flavour.
Roberto Rossellini
shot this film in 1947 in the ruins of Berlin (but with interior shots in an
Italian studio) which gives it a lot of its power. We follow a 13-year-old boy,
Edmund, who has to cope with the aftermath of war – conditions that are
detailed rather didactically through the dialogue spoken by the boy and his
father and siblings and members of other families (all living in the same apartment
due to housing shortages). So, despite adhering to the genre known as Italian Neo-Realism,
it is very apparent how scripted the film is. Rossellini shows the despair of
the German people – whether they followed Hitler or not – and, if not exactly excusing
anyone’s actions, he still documents the tragedy of the situation in a way that
evokes pathos. This is especially the case for Edmund, young enough not to
deserve any blame and scrappy enough to adapt to his conditions: learning about
the Black Market and ways to get food, illegally or not (and there is a strong
implication that women, girls, and even boys are/were exploited sexually as a
result of their plight). Unfortunately, Edmund may not be mature enough to
fully grasp the way adults respond to such terrible events, taking his father’s
cry that he wishes he were dead all too literally. As a result, the film turns
to horror, as it should, and I suspect the audience of the time felt helpless
to undo the trauma of the war even as the current audience must surely leave
feeling more strongly anti-war.
Thoroughly
enthralling and ultimately uplifting tale of midlife burnout and how to rejuvenate
it. I don’t think the answer is really
alcohol – although that is a hypothesis that the film investigates and (mostly)
rejects. Mads Mikkelsen plays Martin, a high school history teacher, who has
lost his mojo – so much so that the kids in his class stage an intervention
(with their parents) demanding some improvements. This comes up as a topic for
discussion at a 40th birthday night out with a few of his mates (other
teachers at the school) and one proposes that Martin needs to loosen up. He quotes a philosopher who apparently argued
that humans would be happier and more successful if they kept their blood-alcohol
content at .05%. The teachers decide to
try this out and begin swigging spirits before class in the morning and
throughout the day. The classes do seem
to get better, looser, more fun. The
teachers progress to different variations of the experiment with often funny
results. The film itself feels
intoxicated! But, of course, given the
nature of this particular substance, all the fun cannot last. And if this is a
Dogme 95 film (which it may not be), from Thomas Vinterberg, an original member
of that group, some degree of realism may have been required. And yet, the ridiculous experiment turns out
to be the way the guy got his life back – but probably not recommended for
everyone. Winner of the Best Foreign/International
Film Oscar.
This is
essentially a two-hander for John Cassavetes and Peter Falk with the
improvisational style of the former’s work but directed by Elaine May (heretofore
known for comedy, although not without poignancy). The duo are two low-level
mobsters who have been friends for years but also may not entirely trust each
other. Cassavetes believes that there is a contract out on his life, from his
own mob boss (potentially after a betrayal) -- the facts of the story are far
from clear and come out mostly in passing, while the relationship between the
two men is the main focus. (We eventually come to realise that Cassavetes may
be right, when we see hitman Ned Beatty driving around looking for him). Falk and Cassavetes are old hands at this style
of naturalistic acting (see them together in the latter’s Husbands, 1970) and
they carry it off with aplomb. In May’s hands, the portrayals take on a more determined
form than in some of Cassavetes oeuvre – there is a caustic feeling to this
analysis of male behaviour that disembowels a friendship in favour of
competition. The ending seals the deal and may be more planned than anything else
in the film (edited together from hours and hours of footage) allowing some
reverb after the credits roll. A masterful
demonstration of this technique.
The key to understanding
Claude Lanzmann’s 9-hour documentary about the Holocaust (Shoah means “annihilation”)
may be to know, not only that the director was a French Jew who joined the
Resistance at age 18, but that he was an Existentialist who worked with Jean-Paul
Sartre and Simone de Beauvoir. Although the eyewitness testimonies from the
Jewish men (and occasional women) who were brought to concentration camps such
as Treblinka and Auschwitz and worked there, seeing their friends and family
systematically murdered, are the most heart-wrenching and despairing to watch, Lanzmann’s
interviews of German and Polish bureaucrats clearly exemplify the Existentialist
concept of “bad faith”. Here, we see men denying that they could ever have known
about the systematic extermination of 6 million Jews, men who are demonstrated
by other testimony and documents to have had the facts in front of them, to be
in the midst of a swirl of rumours impossible to reject – and yet, they tell
the camera (sometimes a hidden camera) that they did not know. This denial of
responsibility, the use of the mind’s devious ways of justifying itself, is the
essence of “bad faith” and what the Existentialists suggest is the sure path to
losing one’s humanity. One can surely
add the residents of the towns around Treblinka to the roster of those
demonstrating the concept, as they maintain that the screams from the nearby
camps were highly troubling to them – but yet they did nothing. Perhaps they were afraid of the consequences
of speaking out from the Germans – but I fear that is too generous an
assumption; Lanzmann lets the interviewees indict themselves (and demonstrate a
distressing residual anti-Semitism even in the late 70s/early 80s when filming
took place). Indeed, Lanzmann’s strategy is to let the powerful words of the
eyewitnesses speak for themselves – there is no voiceover, no authorial voice,
no music; instead, we hear interviewee after interviewee recount a list of atrocities
that is too much to listen to, let alone to have experienced. Lanzmann calmly asks for specific details,
such as the measurements of the gas chambers, the composition of the corpses and
how high they were piled, the disposition and behaviour of people crammed into
the railway cars, but also details of a much more mundane variety (for example,
about the haircuts that were given to women before they were exterminated).
These little details pile up and make the scenes vivid in an absolutely
horrifying way but also serve Lanzmann’s purpose of offering an historical
document for future generations (so that we are not doomed to repeat it). The hundreds of hours of interviews (in
Yiddish, Hebrew, Polish, French, and English) took 5 years to edit down to 9
hours – curiously Lanzmann and his team allow the witnesses to speak in their
own language unsubtitled and only the interpreters’ translation into French is
later translated into English. This allows the camera to study the faces of the
men and women while they are speaking and later waiting, allowing viewers to observe
and let it sink in. The film is not chronological but moves back and forth,
letting the mammoth logistical undertaking of the Final Solution gradually
emerge, but wisely ending with a look at the Warsaw Ghetto and the active
resistance of the people there, showing that Jews fought back as best they could,
even as their neighbours turned their backs. Between and during the interviews, Lanzmann
shows us the current locations where events took place (replicating that famous
shot of Auschwitz from Night and Fog, 1955) but he never shows us the archival
footage that we already have burned into our nightmares anyway. These quiet
places and modern towns and cities look different, harbouring their awful
secrets, recounted by these old men with sadness and pain in their eyes. Again,
it’s the Existentialist’s philosophy to capture only the present moment, to ask
how are you choosing to act now in your current existence? (This is not to deny
the past but to learn from it). Are you, we, making the right choices today, in
how we treat each other and in our support for those who are not treated right?
This early ‘60s Czech
Sci-Fi movie about a mission to Alpha Centauri’s solar system is a clear
forerunner to Kubrick’s 2001: A Space Odyssey (1968). The screenplay was adapted from a novel by
Stanislaw Lem, who also wrote Solaris (filmed by Tarkovsky, 1972) and I had
high hopes that the film would broach some of the same metaphysical concerns as
those two masterpieces. It doesn’t quite -- but there is still an air of mystery
which resonates here and elevates the film beyond other space films of the era.
The story begins in 2163 with the spaceship (a virtual city with 40 astronauts)
in peril as it approaches its destination but soon we are in an extended
flashback to the beginning of the mission, allowing us to learn about the cause
of events as we move forward to the crisis and beyond. Similar to 2001/Solaris,
there is a special emphasis on human relationships – for example, one of the
crew discovers his wife is pregnant while saying goodbye (15 years of Earth
time but only 28 months for the astronauts) and learns at the same time that
another pregnant crew member has been allowed on the mission as an
experiment. This adds both tension and “human
interest” to the plot. We also see a romance blossom among two other crew
members (and a strangely long scene of dancing). Later, the Ikarie finds a
derelict vessel (shades of Alien?) and also encounters a “dark star” emitting
dangerous radiation. On top of this, there is some great Sixties design
happening – so retro (including a Robby the Robot styled companion who even the
characters in the film think is out-dated). Worth a look if you can track it
down.
Perhaps knowing
that the mystery at the centre will remain a mystery removes some of the
tension from Peter Weir’s otherwise seductive film on subsequent viewings. Why these Victorian schoolgirls (Victorian
era and State of Victoria) on day’s outing vanish (and where to) is open to
speculation. Perhaps conflating this film with the director’s subsequent The
Last Wave (1978), with its much more overt focus on Indigenous people’s
different ways of knowing, made me suspect that the girls had entered a sort of
Dreamtime state, fixated on the strange volcanic outgrowth called Hanging
Rock. I can’t profess to
understand. The combination of ominous
shots of the rocks (and native fauna and flora), Zamfir’s pan flute, and a very
gauzy sometimes sun-dappled cinematography by Russell Boyd might also lend
itself to this interpretation. But there is also another force here, that of awakening
sexuality, which seems to burn in some of the girls (for each other?) and
perhaps in two boys who see the girls on their way to disappearing. Weir
juxtaposes the young people in nature and in their more “civilised” environment
– a girl’s school ruled with a heavy hand by principal Rachel Roberts – where repression
is the norm (and urges must be controlled).
A subplot finds Roberts unable to deal with the rebellious Sara who
feels intensely toward Miranda one of the vanished girls, leading to a more
decided tragedy. One would hope that the missing girls (and their maths teacher)
find themselves in a better freer place (but perhaps not abducted by UFOs as
original author Joan Lindsay apparently later speculated). Weir’s (and Lindsay’s)
gambit that the story has a true origin may be more symbolic than literal,
allowing viewers to invest in the mystery of their own existence.
This was the movie
meant to bring us back to cinemas after the pandemic-related lockdowns were
over – director Christopher Nolan shot it on actual film (with IMAX cameras) and
used only minimal computer-generated effects, preferring to go to locations and
do actual stunts or to use physical models and “in camera” (rather than
post-production) effects. The model for
this film was apparently James Bond, with the exotic locales and exciting
action sequences that this implies – but Tenet is clearly Nolan’s work with a
script infused with a similar complexity to his earlier hits like Inception
(2010) or Memento (2000). I mean it’s positively confusing at times (in a good
way)! Mild spoilers ahead. John David
Washington plays The Protagonist, the secret agent recruited to stop evil
mastermind Sator (Kenneth Branagh) from destroying the world. The gimmick here
is that Sator has learned how to travel through time in reverse and he has been
letting time unfold and then going back in time to "the present" in
order to better plan his diabolical acts (but always with an eye to the
future). Of course, The Protagonist and
his team (including Robert Pattinson) on this mission called “Tenet” (names
taken from the palindromic Sator Square) also learn how to reverse time and
they persuade Sator’s estranged wife Kat (Elizabeth Debicki) to help them foil
his plans. Soon, everyone is moving forward and backwards in time … at the same
time. I have to assume that the plot holds up to scrutiny because, to be
honest, I can’t really be sure that all the actions really line up. So, similarly to Memento and Inception, this
would likely reward a second viewing. Beyond
this delirium, the action sequences are well choreographed (the opening
set-piece really got my heart racing) and Washington makes a charismatic hero. They
really filmed everything both frontwards and backwards, apparently. Worth a
look if you’ve enjoyed being befuddled by Nolan’s other films in this vein.
This is clearly a
provocation but one that is absolutely grounded in reality. No one can deny
that women’s maltreatment at the hands of men is a constant in human history
and continues to this day. Fortunately, there appears to be a growing awareness
of this problem and public resistance to its continuance. (I’m talking not only of sexual assault but
of a range of behaviours that perpetuate gender inequality). Emerald Fennell’s
film is pitched as a very black comedy, although one would be forgiven for not
finding any reason to laugh. I guess there might be spoilers below (but I won’t
reveal the ending). Carey Mulligan plays Cassandra Thomas, who has taken on the
role of “avenging angel” to seek revenge on men for the abuse of her best
friend years earlier; she pretends to be drunk, gets picked up by men, and then
confronts them to give them a scare. This is pitched as a reaction to trauma
and seems accompanied by depression – her life is stalled, she’s dropped out of
medical school, works at a coffee shop and still lives with her parents at age
30. Yet some hope for Cassie seems
possible when she meets Ryan (Bo Burnham), a funny and sensitive doctor
(formerly in her med school class). However,
through him, she learns that her friend’s rapist has returned from England and
is about to get married – this intensifies her quest for revenge on the
specific perpetrator(s) of the outrage against her friend. So, is it funny? The banter between Thomas
and Burnham is witty and Fennell keeps things upbeat, particularly with the use
of (extremely well selected) pop songs.
But there is no warding off the darkness here – and I’ve read that the
current ending was originally omitted completely which would have sharpened the
impact even more – you won’t be able to shake off the grim feeling that
results. Of course, if this sort of film
can be a cause (and not just a consequence) of changing attitudes toward women,
then we need more like this, no matter how difficult.
Forbrydelsen (The
Killing; Season 1, 2007) – S. Sveistrup
On a whim, I
decided to check out this Danish police procedural, streaming on our local
public broadcaster SBS. Little did I know that I was about to be sucked into a “binge
watch”! I don’t actually find
binge-watching all that pleasant – it is a huge time commitment (this was twenty
50-minute episodes) and the fact that each viewing ends with a melodramatic
cliff-hanger means there is a constant distraction and some emotional
wear-and-tear throughout the day (and perhaps even while asleep). But I got through it all in about two weeks –
being locked down due to the pandemic probably helped. I have to hand it to series creator Søren Sveistrup
and his writers, however, for creating a gripping drama that ramps up the
intrigue and tension on the usual “hunt for the killer” front as well as the
less common political campaign front. Indeed, a lot of the novelty here had to
do with the behind-the-scenes look at the battle to be mayor of Copenhagen. I understand that the writers kept the killer’s
identity secret from all of the actors (except lead Sofie Gråbøl as obsessive Detective
Sarah Lund) and there are so many characters and suspicion falls on so many of
them across the series that you can see how they wouldn’t know. I only figured things out quite close to the
end. Even with so many involved, over that
many hours you really do get familiar with (and attached to) the lead
characters, particularly Gråbøl but also Søren Malling as her partner Jan Meyer
and Lars Mikkelsen as mayoral candidate (and suspect!) Troels Hartmann. I guess there are two more series after this
one (in 2009 and 2012) and perhaps even a final voyage happening later this
year. I’m not ready for more just now
(too many heart-stopping twists!) but I might check in again later.
I have mostly skipped
the comic book fare of the last decade (or two) but, at the insistence of Amon
(aged 8), I re-watched Superman (1978) and this sequel, which is perhaps a
better film. (I’m not even going to tell him about Superman III with Richard Pryor
which I still remember with horror). As
foreshadowed at the start of the first film, Superman has to fight three
supervillains led by General Zod (Terence Stamp) after they are freed (by a
nuclear explosion in space) from the “Phantom Zone” jail created by the leaders
of the planet Krypton to lock them away forever. Of course, they arrive on Earth (via the
Moon) and start to wreak havoc.
Meanwhile, Clark Kent has finally let Lois Lane (Margot Kidder) know his
secret identity and has given up his super-powers to become mortal – just at
exactly the wrong time! Even more than
in the first film, Superman II (directed by Richard Lester, best known for his
work with The Beatles; e.g., Help!) has its tongue firmly in its cheek and Christopher
Reeve carries it off. The old-school
action sequences are so much better than the CGI explosions of today, even if
the citizens of Metropolis are seen to be laughing as the villains and Superman
throw each other through buildings and cars get blown across the city streets
(by Zod’s bad breath). Of course, it all ends well (and Clark even gives
Lois a magic kiss to wipe her memory). This
is what larger than life comic-book style is all about. Amon gave it a big
thumbs up.
A complicated film
that can be enjoyed on a number of levels (which is probably something that could
be said about much of Ingmar Bergman’s oeuvre), The Magician is at once a
beguiling horror movie, a naughty sex comedy, a meditation on the relationship between
the artist and the audience or patron, another querying of faith in the unknown
by empiricists, and finally a cheeky riposte to Bergman’s critics. A travelling group of performers, who may be
healers (using Franz Mesmer’s theories of animal magnetism), witches, or simply
show-people practiced in the art of deception ready to create an entertainment,
is hauled in front of the leading citizens (including the police chief and
medical examiner) of an unnamed capital city. They are interrogated about their
true selves/abilities/purposes and forced to reveal the secrets of their arts. Their
leader is Vogler (von Sydow) who is declared to be mute and wears a
Jesus/Mephistopheles beard – he will later rise from the dead, perhaps to do
harm or perhaps as testament to the divine power of his art. Meanwhile
downstairs, the other members of his troupe fraternise with the help, offering
them love potions and prophecies. Everyone seems to have a different relationship
with these artists, representing how artists are treated by different
cross-sections of society. The artists themselves may be full of doubt and despair
about their motives for performing, their abilities, and their message. One
could write a treatise here but suffice it to say the film looks gorgeous and
is thoroughly watchable even if one doesn’t seek to analyse it – these artists
hope to entertain as well as communicate something deeper.
I had fond
memories of this one from childhood and, fortunately, I still found it funny
when I revisited it last night – and not too many movies actually make me
laugh. Here, uptight dentist Alan
Arkin’s reactions to the preposterous situations that “global businessman”
Peter Falk gets him into are priceless.
Falk himself is no slouch in his portrayal either – especially when you
discover that he was improvising some of his dialogue (probably adding to
Arkin’s incredulous responses). The plot
is as follows: Arkin’s daughter is
engaged to marry Falk’s son and the big wedding is coming up. They finally meet, amidst some problems for
Falk involving the theft of US$ engraving plates, angry gangsters, and a
Central American dictator. Things quickly
spiral out of control and Arkin finds himself in many ridiculous (and
dangerous) positions – and ends up bonding with Falk (who may really know what
he is doing – or not!). I chortled along
throughout the film and I recommend it to you!
(I’m not interested in seeing the remake).
Director Paul
Schrader once wrote a book about transcendental cinema that focused on Bresson,
Ozu, and Dreyer – and he echoes those masters in this film. Ethan Hawke plays a Protestant minister
struggling with his faith, so you could point more specifically to Bresson’s
Diary of a Country Priest or Bergman’s Winter Light as forerunners. We hear
Hawke’s own tormented diary entries in voiceover, as in the former film. But Hawke’s
Reverend Toller has his faith shaken by a more modern concern: the fact that
humans are destroying the Earth via our inability to avert climate change (plus
toxic waste, etc.). “Will God Forgive Us?” becomes his catchphrase. As if this
wasn’t enough to worry about, Schrader digs deeper, also burdening Toller with
an adult son who has died (in the Iraq war), a broken marriage, a drinking
problem, an affair that ended poorly, and possibly stomach cancer. His boss (Cedric the Entertainer) from the nearby
mega-church is starting to have concerns about Toller’s fitness for duty (at
the small historic church that is more tourist destination than real place of
worship). Hawke does a solid job at playing the stoic, but we can see from his
internet searches that he is quietly plotting something. At the same time, he befriends
a young pregnant widow (Amanda Seyfried) who shares his worries about the
environment (and also some trippy moments where Schrader lets his freak flag
fly). And then, and then, and then, the movie rushes to a sudden surprise
conclusion that I am still puzzling over.
Was it all just selfish pride, now diverted? Or are we seeing joy and
relief at the discovery of communion of purpose and the end to loneliness?
Where does God figure in this? Schrader does not give us any easy answers but a
lot to mull over.
Notable as a key
influence on Star Wars (1977), this is Kurosawa’s fantastically fun adventure film. I introduced Amon (aged 8 ½) to this last
night and it didn’t disappoint. The film
follows two bumbling and greedy peasants (played comically by Minoru Chiaki and
Kamatari Fujiwara) who escape from being accidental prisoners of war in the
battle between the Yamana (bad guys) and the Akizuki (good guys) to find
themselves involved with vanquished Princess Yuki (Misa Uehara) and her loyal
general Rokurota Makabe (Toshirô Mifune). They are convinced to help these
fleeing Akizuki leaders because they believe they will get a share of the clan’s
gold that needs to be smuggled (along with the Princess, the only heir to the
throne) across enemy territory to the safe lands of the Hayakawa. What follows is an episodic journey that
allows Mifune to scowl and grimace and tease the bumblers, even as he guides
them all through difficult circumstances. One pivotal scene, reminiscent of
Renoir’s honour between combatants in La Grande Illusion, sees Mifune duel one-on-one
with his Yamana counterpart, buying time for the fleeing group; another focuses
on a Fire Festival that highlights the film’s existential themes. Throughout it all, Kurosawa keeps the
excitement and sense of adventure going. Highly recommended.
Not just another
boxing noir, but one that uses the sport as a vehicle (or metaphor even) to
attack capitalism and its ill effects on individuals and society. (It might come as no surprise that star John
Garfield, writer Abraham Polonsky, and director Robert Rossen and many more
from the cast and crew had trouble with blacklisting via HUAC – but Rossen
named names and escaped their fate). Charley Davis (Garfield) is from a poor
background and, after his father dies, the only way that he can see to bring
money into the house is by boxing; in other words, the only way to get ahead is
to beat up somebody else. Of course, it
is even worse because the fight game is corrupt; to secure a chance at the
title he needs to make a deal with a gangster who then arranges for his
opponent (a poor black fighter with a blood clot in the brain) to take a dive
in the final round. As soon as he reaches
the top, Davis is surrounded by people addicted to money – and soon he is also
hooked into spending big, taking cash advances against his next purse, and constantly
needing more. His idealistic artist girlfriend
Peg (Lilli Palmer) eventually tells him that it is boxing or her – and he
leaves her for a gold-digging floozy. Of course, the moment finally comes when Davis
himself is asked to throw a fight so that the gangsters can bet against him
(the sure favourite) and make a killing.
Suddenly, Davis has some moral qualms (supported by Peg and his mother,
played sternly by Anne Revere) – the final fight, shot intensely by James Wong
Howe, doesn’t disappoint. I’m not sure the metaphor holds up completely (“everybody
dies” seems to be another way of saying that capitalism has no mercy) but we
know that the rich get richer and the gangsters are not going to sit quietly at
film’s end.
Actually, director
Rob Reiner does a much better Hitchcock impression than I would have expected
(and yes, this is my first viewing of this Stephen King adaptation). You can
actually see where he borrowed some of Hitch’s montage style to increase the
suspense (i.e., shot of James Caan looking, shot of bobby pin on the floor,
shot of Caan, shot of door lock; then when he is out of the locked room, shot
of Kathy Bates’ car returning, etc.). But let me back up. The plot involves
famous author (and King surrogate) Paul Sheldon having a car accident during a
blizzard and being rescued by psycho “Number One Fan” Annie Wilkes (Kathy
Bates, who won the Oscar for this role). She pretends that the phone line is
out and that she has to nurse him back to health herself (she is a nurse by training
after all) – but obviously he is her prisoner and she wants him to write a new
book about her favourite character from his works. Things get fairly gruesome
when he rebels but, in fact, the film often veers into black comedy (again not unlike
Hitchcock) perhaps to release all the built up tension from Wilkes’ behaviour.
Folksy Richard Farnsworth as the persistent local sheriff is a nice touch. I
suppose the only thing I might quibble with is the over-the-top finale (not the
coda); I tried to imagine how Hitch would have handled the conclusion
differently (without so much overt violence) but I could not. Perhaps, as in
Psycho, he would have kept these violent moments for their shock value. Kudos
to William Goldman for his screenplay which kept the simple premise going far
longer than I thought he could.
This time through,
I watched Antonioni’s The Eclipse (third film in his famed trilogy) with
Richard Pena’s commentary and it shed more light on this notoriously abstract
film (he positions it somewhere between traditional narrative cinema and the
more purely experimental films of the day – but much closer to narrative, it
should be said). As the film opens, Vittoria (Monica Vitti) is splitting up
with her boyfriend, Riccardo (Francisco Rabal) who wishes she wouldn’t. She leaves
on foot past the EUR tower (another architectural landmark which Antonioni
loves to film) in a gentrified area of Rome and heads to the local stock market
where her mother is a small-time investor. Little do we know at this point that
Piero (Alain Delon), her mother’s broker, will become her next love interest. Although
Antonioni sticks with Vittoria long enough to see her visit a friend from Kenya
(allowing the director to elicit viewers’ reactions to European colonialism), soon
the film shifts gears to observe Piero who likes fast cars and call girls. It
is hard to see how he will connect with Vittoria who seems disconnected from
people but after some awkward scenes at his parents’ house, the film cuts
forward in time, where they seem to be a happy couple. We see them in certain locations in Rome and
then they part, planning to meet the next day.
Instead, Antonioni shows us these same locations without Vittoria or Piero,
as if they haven’t bothered to show up (for a full seven minutes). We are left
to ponder the meaning of this jarring finale. Has their relationship ended? Are
all relationships transient then? Or are we meant think about how the places
around us will continue to exist after we’re gone, really gone? Are our actions
really just devoid of meaning? Or perhaps the actions of the new bourgeoisie,
cut off from the moral foundations of the past, lost or finding themselves only
in materialism, are Antonioni’s target, as in the previous films of the
trilogy. The digression about the drunken man who steals Piero’s sports car and
dies in an accident may tell us as much. In any case, this is one to ponder.
