Twelve Monkeys (1995)

 ☆ ☆ ☆ ☆

Twelve Monkeys (1995) – T. Gilliam

After watching a few dud films in a row, I returned to Terry Gilliam’s classic time travel thriller as a sort of palette cleanser, rejuvenating balm – and it did not disappoint.  Using Chris Marker’s La Jetée as a launching pad, Gilliam and writers David and Janet Peoples, flesh out the narrative, which sees a man, James Cole (Bruce Willis), sent from a post-apocalyptic future (where a purposefully released virus has killed most of humanity, sending survivors underground for decades) back to the 1990s to uncover clues that scientists can use to create a vaccine and reclaim the world above.  Of course, no one believes him and he is immediately committed to a mental hospital where he meets psychiatrist Madeleine Stowe and patient Brad Pitt (who become important to the plot later on).  One undercurrent in the film focuses on whether Cole is really from the future or possibly just really mentally ill – and in true Gilliam-fashion, leads us to ponder our own understanding of reality, truth, and the myth of mental illness.  But the real action follows Cole as he bounces back and forth from the future to the present, perhaps accidentally changing the course of events (if that is actually possible), and slowly piecing together clues that reveal the involvement of the Army of the Twelve Monkeys in the events leading up to the virus’s release across the world.  The scientists of the future need this information but Cole is also driven to understand a memory that he had as a small boy (in the time just before the virus hit), of seeing people die in an airport, a memory that returns to him in a recurring dream and which is growing in familiarity the longer he stays in the 1990s.  Director Chris Marker spent his career pondering memory’s emotional sway over us, with Hitchcock’s Vertigo a particular touchstone (so it comes as no surprise that we see a clip here, when the protagonists escape into a movie theatre). Ultimately, even with all of the Hollywood baggage that could have dragged the film down, Gilliam manages to capture the same feelings, the pull of nostalgia, the pangs of lost times, and he does it while still stamping his own style on the proceedings.  Worth another look (and no, I haven’t seen the subsequent TV series).

 

La Cérémonie (1995)

 ☆ ☆ ☆ ☆ ½

La Cérémonie (1995) – C. Chabrol

At their best, Claude Chabrol’s movies can be very Hitchcockian – after all, the man wrote a classic book about Hitch (with Eric Rohmer). He knows how to set up situations in which even simple actions seem to create suspense – it just takes a few unusual (and unexplained) decisions by a central character to get one’s brain turning. Here, the set-up is straightforward: a bourgeois family in rural Brittany, the Lelievres (Jacqueline Bisset and Jean-Pierre Cassel with respective stepchildren, Virginie Ledoyen and Valentin Merlet), hire a maid, Sophie (Sandrine Bonnaire). We are immediately encouraged to think about the social class divide between these characters but there are also signs that the family is respectful and concerned about Sophie’s well-being (they discuss whether helping her to get a driver’s licence is patronising or not). Yet, soon Sophie starts to act in ways that suggest that she is not as subservient and docile as she seems. She falls under the influence of the chaotic local post office clerk, Jeanne (Isabelle Huppert), who clearly has a chip on her shoulder about the Lelievres. We also learn that Jeanne was previously charged with the death of her own 3-year-old daughter, which naturally adds some suspense. Other secrets emerge as the film progresses. However, it is the shocking ending that really ties the picture together, moving it beyond a simple (although engaging) thriller and into something more complex, a film that tries to understand how class differences may feel from multiple perspectives, each with their own undeniable logic.  

 

Ghost in the Shell (1995)

 ☆ ☆ ☆ ☆

Ghost in the Shell (1995) – M. Oshii

Landmark anime film (based on the manga by Masamune Shirow) directed by Mamoru Oshii (and yes, this was recently remade live-action style with Scarlett Johannsen). I never watched the original 25 years ago but surprisingly, its sci-fi plot does not feel out-of-date (as far as I understand it – somewhat complex!).  Major Motoko Kusanagi is a (frequently nude) cyborg working for Section 6, presumably government special agents, although she does have some natural biological brain cells which may make her different from the film’s bad “guy”, the Puppetmaster, later revealed to be Project 2501 (who may have no biological origin at all).  When Section 6 has finally captured the cyborg body of the Puppetmaster, Section 9 turns up to bargain for it – but soon the cyborg is out of the building and a big chase ensues. I don’t think the plot is the real reason to watch this (although there are some interesting philosophical questions about souls – “ghosts” -- within artificially intelligent bodies). Instead, it is the melancholy tone and the cinematic direction of the animation – sometimes just pictures of computer screens (that green font foreshadowing The Matrix, 1999), sometimes sad cityscapes. There’s something reminiscent of Blade Runner, 1981, too, in that you’d expect a private detective to walk these grey futuristic (2029) streets.

The White Balloon (1995)

☆ ☆ ☆ ☆

The White Balloon (1995) – J. Panahi

Jafar Panahi’s first film (after serving as Assistant Director to Abbas Kiarostami, who is credited with this film’s script) is another one of the now long list of Iranian masterworks (from Panahi, Kiarostami, Farhadi, Makhmalbaf and others) -- a real New Wave, if it hadn’t been going on for decades now.  These films manage to interact directly with viewers’ subjectivity (our consciousness) even while seemingly portraying almost trivial events.  Knowing (or controlling) exactly what the audience is thinking allows the director to playfully tease us, to create suspense, to give pleasure by following or contravening the normal rules of a narrative.  Hitchcock also had this skill.  I’m not entirely sure how the effect is created – careful use of editing, but also sound design, subjective point-of-view shots, and scripts that narrow our scope to one or two characters carrying out actions, step by step with clear expectations or goals.  I don’t think there is anything specific about Iranian culture that leads to such a technique (I could be wrong), but for Westerners there is another layer to be enjoyed when one sees that culture in all of its day-to-day mundanity. Here, Panahi has us follow a 7-year-old girl in Tehran on New Year’s Eve who wishes to buy a goldfish (part of the celebration).  When she is given a 500 tomans note by her mother, more money than is needed, we feel nervous as she rushes off with the note shoved into the goldfish bowl.  Will it get lost? Yes, it does (but not until after some fun is had by the director showing two snake-charmers pilfer the money and tease the girl before returning it).  Most of the film is spent watching the girl try to get the money back after she subsequently loses it down a drain.  Since we don’t know what will or can happen, we are completely absorbed by the task and the people who get involved, trying to help.  The title of the film itself, doesn’t make any sense until the final minutes (out of only 85) – and even then, it feels more like a wink from Panahi than a meaningful symbol.  In the end, the film seems like nothing more than a light comedy about kids and their way of seeing the world – but through some mysterious alchemy, it turns out to be more.

Dead Man (1995)

☆ ☆ ☆ ☆ ☆

Dead Man (1995) – J. Jarmusch

Immensely satisfying, Dead Man is a masterpiece from independent maverick Jim Jarmusch, an historically accurate rendering of the American West that follows the spiritual journey of Wiliam Blake (Johnny Depp) from life to death. Not _that_ William Blake, of course, but the misperception does allow Jarmusch to quote a lot of Blake’s poetry, delivered sometimes as faux Native American idioms by Gary Farmer, playing Nobody, Blake’s guide on the journey.  For this is really a road movie, terrain that cinematographer Robby Muller has visited before with Wim Wenders (friend and mentor to Jarmusch); his black and white footage of the serene wilderness contrasts with the stark views of the ugly white man’s town of Machine – both are spectacular.  Neil Young’s solo guitar score is haunting, ruminative, evocative, sacred – the film would not have reached such heights without it.  Most road movies are episodic, as the characters meet other players along the road and have adventures of various kinds and Dead Man is no different;  Blake runs afoul of Iggy Pop, Billy Bob Thornton, & Jared Harris who might kill him and Alfred Molina who wants to sell Nobody an infected blanket.  The white men are portrayed as flawed and violent here (beginning with Robert Mitchum in his final role), at least as compared to the Native Americans (who are not necessarily idealized).  As Blake/Depp travels half-dying (or already dead) from urban decay through pure natural environs to the sea, I am reminded of James Mason’s spiritual journey in Carol Reed’s Odd Man Out (1947), as an IRA leader who is shot and eventually leaves worldly things.  Mason is followed by the cops but Depp is followed by three bounty hunters who meet various untoward ends, allowing Jarmusch to employ some gallows humor.  And, although the movie does have some idiosyncratic anecdotes and Jarmuschian moments, mainly it is a majestic, poetic, astonishing meditation on the rape of the land and indigenous peoples, transmuted into William Blake’s experience and his writing by fire.  At his point in our history, we may all be dead already.

Nico Icon (1995)

☆ ☆ ☆ ☆

Nico Icon (1995) – S. Ofteringer

Successful in creating a mood (of total nihilistic depression) through a portrait of the German fashion model turned Warhol Factory denizen and Velvet Underground singer turned goth junkie gypsy.  And how could director Ofteringer not be successful with Nico’s spooky droning chanteuse music as her soundtrack.  Talking heads vie with 1960s and 1970s footage to tell her story, which makes you wonder whether she became hollowed out by the early objectification she experienced and/or whether it was the drugs that brought her down so low.  You get the idea that to come into contact with her would be like feeling the icy fingers of your own death.  I’ll have to pull out her records now (and remember that art is something to live for).