Octopus Cinema.

2010 Year End List

2011-02-18T17:21:00.000-08:00

I really can't put this off any longer, can I? Top ten films of 2010, here we go.

2010 was a rough year, but we endured, didn't we? So here's Joshua's top ten, the most notably absent film being Film Socialisme which I haven't gotten a chance to see yet. So sorry Kurt, Adam, I have no doubt it deserves to be on there.

10. Youth in Revolt
I know a lot of people didn't really like this movie as much as I did, but it really was the funniest thing I saw all year. Playing off of his stereotype with a confidence we'd yet to see in him, Cera took this movie over and just made it... really, really fun to watch. Well made, well acted, decent soundtrack and an amusing script.
9. The Illusionist
Faced with the inevitable obsolescence of what was once a profitable occupation, the protagonist of the Tati-scripted Illusionist is one of the most morose yet compelling animated characters of the last few years, and that is (what with Pixar and the like) quite the achievement. From moments wherein he searches for his missing rabbit with hideously gruesome implications to his neighbour, a clown, sitting alone in a dark room drinking and listening to circus music, Chomet hits all the right notes, especially at critical junctures such as --I don't know-- the heartbreaking conclusion where even feelingless blocks of meat's hearts are stirred.

8. My Son My Son What Have Ye Done?
Michael Shannon being my favorite American actor working today, this was bound to be on my list after he showed such poise in his few moments on screen in Bad Lieutenant: Port of Call New Orleans. But just because it was an almost foregone conclusion that this would be a great movie doesn't mean that it's an easy movie to watch, or anything like what you'd expect. Herzog produces one of the oddest, most confused and disjointed narratives of the last few years, and simultaneously provides us with simplistic iconography that proves shockingly enduring. For whatever reason, that basketball left in the tree haunts my memory despite it not having much of an immediate impact at the time. Odd all around.

7. Psychohydrography
There's not that much to say about this incredibly nuanced experimental documentary about that would convey just how special a viewing of it can be. Tracing the water flow from the mountain down to the Pacific Ocean, Psychohydrography is aesthetically astounding, and first time director Peter Bo Rappmund really carves out his own niche under the guidance of genre giant James Benning.

6. Heartbeats
Though Dolan's influences are worn on his sleeve for most of this production, Heartbeats is about as sophisticated a feature as you could hope for from this young upstart. Complicated, well drawn and emotionally involving, Heartbeats is not only well-written, but it is exceptionally well directed. From the stop-start nature of Dolan's frequent slow motion sequences to the expressionistic dance scene set to "Pass This On" by The Knife, Heartbeats is a remarkable little film.

5. Survival of the Dead
How could a year go by and not have at least one zombie movie make my top five? Romero's Survival of the Dead is easily the best of his post-80s work as he turns out an engaging zombie western that delves into themes unfamiliar to most zombie features. No longer concerned with frightening the audience, Romero is content to provide us with iconic image after iconic image, all the while keeping us invested in the relatively concise but elusive plot. The dominating feature of Romero's newest work is that it proves his great courage, his unique vision which he refuses to compromise despite the constant criticism of his newer work.

4. Indian Boundary Line
Indian Boundary Line is the best of the experimental documentaries I saw this year, a combination of 8mm, super 8, and 16mm footage marking the transformation of the relatively obscure 'Indian Boundary Line' in Chicago. Director Thomas Comerford makes his case gently and with great ease, utilizing first person narration to its utmost potential.

3. Curling
An anecdote in the interest of full disclosure: during a screening of an infinitely inferior film called Sandcastle, the director of Curling, Denis Cote, sat down next to me. I'm just saying, I totally could have grabbed his thigh if I had thought it appropriate. So me and Denis are pretty close, yet I still feel that I can be objective in saying that I really thought Curling was going to be the best movie showing at the Vancouver Film Festival this year, bar none. From the idiosyncratic use of pop music to move from the ridiculous to the sinister to Cote's adept photographing of a snow storm as the father/daughter pairing stomp off home, Curling is a triumph of infinite awkwardness and occasional melancholy.

2. Trigger
This was the most difficult decision I've had to make yet on these year end lists, picking between Trigger and the number one spot. It was fucking brutal. Trigger is one of the best examples of Canadian filmmaking I've seen since... well, to be honest, since last year with McDonald's similarly effective yet vastly different Pontypool. McDonald has become somewhat of a Billy Wilder figure, dabbling in genre after genre without sacrificing quality. Trigger features two phenomenal performances from Molly Parker and the inimitable (and sadly departed) Tracy Wright, along with nods to the great work both had done with McDonald (and the wonderfully utilized Don McKellar and Callum Keith Rennie) on the vastly underrated and underwatched Twitch City. A fascinating example of the incredible emotions McDonald can evoke when working with an excellent script and actors like Wright and Parker who are capable of such versatility. Conveying great humor and great sadness from scene to scene, Trigger just misses the top spot by a hair.

1. How I Ended This Summer
What can I say, I'm a sucker for wide open vistas, radioactive beacons and isolated curmudgeons. How I Ended This Summer is an incredibly effective drama that pits common sense against fear and man against nature. With every frame expertly composed using the now ubiquitous Red camera, the power of this film's theatrical release was damn near palpable. At one point a bear suddenly appears on screen and a lady in the theater gasped with surprise. Terse and economical with its dialogue, the film features the two lead actors (Grigory Dobrygin and Sergei Puskepalis) almost exclusively save for the welcome interjections of the voice of Igor Chernevich and it is to their credit that the film is as enduring as it is. The film develops its characters to such a primal extent that the film's climactic confrontation is a passive, reluctant admission of subterfuge rather than the violent, chaotic conflict promised by earlier bursts of explosive tension.

Honourable mentions: True Grit, Ruhr, Thomas Mao.

Turin Horse & Take Shelter

2011-01-20T14:36:00.000-08:00

I am so excited, it's ridiculous. Bela Tarr's new film is premiering at the Berlin Film Festival, and Jeff Nichols (of Shotgun Stories fame) reunites with Michael Shannon with Take Shelter and that's hitting Sundance. Look at these two! These are reasons to exist, right here.

Comment Card

2010-11-17T14:22:00.001-08:00

"I hated your fucking film."
-Comment Card after screening of Videodrome

VIFF, Day Six: I Wish I Knew

2010-10-07T14:56:00.000-07:00

Day six was unproductive in terms of movie-watching, I worked late which prevented me from seeing any more than Jia Zhangke's new film, I Wish I Knew.

I Wish I Knew - 2010 - 125 minutes - Directed by Jia Zhangke
Few people (to my limited knowledge, anyways) have tackled the Chinese Cultural Revolution with as much tact and wit, candor and honesty, as Jia Zhangke. This two hour documentary features a variety of interviews spliced together with clips from other films, footage from around the city of Shanghai from several different time periods, as well as a plethora of other appropriate details he sees fit to include. Zhangke's humor is as important to the film as his unrelenting approach to revealing the myriad of definitions the 'Shanghainese' have for freedom.

The interviews range from directors like Hou Hsiao Hsien and actresses like Han Han to political figures, gangsters, and ordinary citizens. Jia Zhangke exhibits his talent for finding the beauty in the mundane, the ordinary little moments in their lives which his interviewees so profoundly vocalize. Though the screening went well, I can't help but mention a little bit about the bizarre happenstance which occurred in the seat next to me. A young, caucasian male with bright blonde hair and a slight build sat down, and as soon as Jia Zhangke approached the microphone, he began to practice martial arts moves in his seat. At first his movements were slow and contained, so I thought it would be something I could ignore, but as soon as the film started he began moaning as his gestures became more outlandish. When I finally asked him to stop, he got up, bowed deeply and left the theater. I had no idea what just happened, but even this distracting event could not prevent me from enjoying all of Zhangke's masterful documentary.

VIFF, Day Five: Ruhr, The White Meadows, How I Ended this Summer

2010-10-07T13:14:00.000-07:00

Day five was the best so far. I woke up, got some breakfast, convinced a friend to join me for all three films, then headed off.

Ruhr - 2010 - 120 minutes - Directed by James Benning
What a way to start your day. Two hours of hypnotic, awe-inspiring experimental filmmaking that amounts to seven (or possibly eight?) shots of different scenes around the Ruhr Valley in Germany, where director James Benning's parents were originally from. From the incredibly powerful moments in the steel factory where we watch molten poles of steel being shuffled along gargantuan machinery to the increasingly violent means of graffiti removal, Ruhr is probably the most enjoyable long take experimental film to be projected anytime recently, anyways. Though some viewers may find it incredibly difficult (note, in the theater in which myself and a dozen others sat, four walked out and one fell asleep) Ruhr also proves itself remarkably rewarding.

The challenges presented within each shot teach you how to watch it, the takes held for so long so as to allow you complete freedom for interaction with the image. The amount of information contained in each shot actually proves staggering, and Ruhr is actually able to keep the mind engaged enough to provoke reflection upon other films of quicker pace; namely, that every film has the same amount of information in each frame, yet few ever give you the opportunity to truly absorb everything on screen. Ruhr is worth watching especially for the exceptional final shot, running almost an hour, of the exterior of a coke factory; smoke billowing out of it evoking a strong comparison to 9/11.

The White Meadows - 2010 - 92 minutes - Directed by Mohammad Rasoulof
The White Meadows is an incredibly well-constructed film about a boatman, Rahmat (Hassan Poushirazi), who travels to different islands to collect the tears of all those in heartache. The tragedies Rahmat witnesses are offset by the goodness he attempts to bring to those he communicates with, but his character is clearly not without fault. In fact, one of the first scenes shows Rahmat letting curiosity get the better of him so that he peeks beneath a sheet at what he supposes to be a beautiful deceased woman. That the woman is actually a boy, stowing away on his boat, bears much impact on the film's narrative as the boy accompanies him on his journey to several different locations.

An impressive, dramatic film, The White Meadows deserves some recognition for its exquisite photography and location shooting. The contrasts of the actors' clothing with the bright white salted land makes for striking images that settle in the mind for hours afterward. That the mystery of the film, what exactly Rahmat does with his collected tears, at times seems overwhelmingly important and at others seems downright peripheral is due in part to the very intelligently constructed script by director/writer Mohammad Rasoulof.

How I Ended this Summer - 2010 - 124 minutes - Directed by Aleksei Popogrebsky
Normally I wouldn't lead off with a trailer, but I wanted to give you some sort of glimpse into just how awesome this Russian film is. My favorite of the festival and a good bet for best of the year, How I Ended This Summer is a methodical meditation on isolation, camaraderie, duty and vengeance. The film features only two characters, the youthful and exuberant Pavel (Grigoriy Dobrygin) and the old and weathered Sergei (Sergei Puskepalis), both working at a weather station in the remote arctic. Each one takes turns making meticulous calculations and documenting minute changes in recording equipment, the film paying equally meticulous attention to the minutiae of their daily existence.

As the two become fonder of one another, Sergei goes off to fish and entrusts the daily recording and communications to Pavel, who takes this responsibility as evidence of Sergei's faith in his abilities. The crux of the film's conflict is an internal one, wherein Pavel is faced with the contradictory impulses imposed upon him by a radio message he receives informing him of Sergei's family's accidental deaths. The remainder of the film is poisoned with deception, radiation (!), polar bears and mounting tension, the climax of which is so well developed and satisfying it begs to be recognized for its nonchalant poignancy. Sprawling vistas, brilliant cinematography, a terse, economical script and comfortable pacing make How I Ended This Summer a frontrunner for best film of the year. Seriously, mark my words: Popogrebsky is a force to be reckoned with.

Cameron on Piranha 3D

2010-10-06T18:32:00.000-07:00

"I tend almost never to throw other films under the bus, but [Piranha 3D] is exactly an example of what we should not be doing in 3D. Because it just cheapens the medium and reminds you of the bad 3D horror films from the '70s and '80s,"
-James Cameron on Piranha 3D

VIFF, Day Four: Indian Boundary Line, Get Out of the Car, Sandcastle, A Silk Letter, Apichatpong and Hirabayashi

2010-10-05T10:05:00.000-07:00

Today was dominated by short films.

Indian Boundary Line - 2010 - 42 minutes - Directed by Thomas Comerford
The film of the day, watching Indian Boundary Line is inspiring. It's a film about a seemingly small and insignificant issue, the renaming of a street from Indian Boundary to Rogers Ave. The Film is an extremely well shot, almost nostalgic but still incredibly effective. Timeless, even, although continually comforting in its warmth and intelligent use of voiceover narration. Excellent stuff.

Get Out of the Car - 2010 - 34 minutes - Directed by Thom Andersen
Referred to as a 'city symphony' project, I'm not sure I agree with that hefty praise (real city symphonies: Berlin, The Man with the Movie Camera, My Winnipeg), Get Out of the Car is a clever curiosity, a series of short shots of fading advertisements along the L.A. skyline cut together with snippets of conversation and music. Pretty great stuff, especially on 16mm. Pretty.

Sandcastle - 2010 - 96 minutes - Directed by Boo Junfeng
I know this has nothing to do with the movie, but the director of Curling, Denis Cote, totally sat next to me during the film. I didn't say anything to him because I'm not one of those guys, but still. Oh yeah, the movie. Sandcastle is a fairly assured first feature from a young, Singaporean director, and it is sophisticated in its illustration of some complex themes surrounding the murky communist history of the protagonist's father. Though the film lacks something in the way of innovation, still a worthwhile effort and absolutely deserving of its place on the program.

A Silk Letter - 2010 - 50 minutes - Directed by Kang Sangwoo
Though the circumstances surrounding A Silk Letter are tragic, director Kang Sangwoo being threatened with prison, the film just doesn't hold up. The first half hour is a touching meditation on duty, companionship and fear, and the last twenty minutes is a kind of inappropriately impressionistic sequence about his cat. Though you get the sense that Kang is working to draw parallels between the protagonist's lover and the cat, it really doesn't pan out very well. That the camerawork loses its finesse during these final moments provides an assist in erasing any good will the first half of the film had built up.

The following five short films were part of a program called Apichatpong and Hirabayashi, and was to represent the two masters' excellent work in the short medium.

The Anthem - 2010 - 5 minutes - Directed by Apichatpong Weerasethakul
After the mess that was A Silk Letter, The Anthem was just the kind of vital, immediate, fun and energetic short to lift your spirits. Really really great.

Aramaki - 2010 - 26 minutes - Directed by Hirabayashi Isamu
My favorite short in the Apichatpong and Hirabayashi program, this is an elongated shot of a man preparing for something we don't really comprehend until a few minutes from the end. He splashes meat on his bandaged body after ridding himself of almost all clothing. The cartoon finish is a nice touch that works to transition the protagonist from life to death in a stylistically choice fashion.

A Letter to Uncle Boonmee - 2010 - 18 minutes - Directed by Apichatpong Weerasethakul
A prequel of sorts of the feature length Uncle Boonmee who can Recall his Past Lives, Apichatpong is at his best here, his camera drifting across an almost serene yet inescapably violent setting, lingering on details as the voiceover works to suck us into the drama of the house.

Luminous People - 2010 - 15 minutes - Directed by Apichatpong Weerasethakul
A journey to scatter a relative's ashes shot on Super 8mm with a voiceover detailing a dream. Evocative and powerful, Apichatpong makes this kind of work seem effortless.

Shikasha - 2010 - 10 minutes - Directed by Hirabayashi Isamu
Pretty much terrible. Boring, pedantic, everything that Aramaki was not.

VIFF, Day Three: Curling and The Drunkard

2010-10-04T01:06:00.000-07:00

Day three saw the best of the festival with the worst of the festival so far. Advancing my knowledge of Canadian cinema any way I can, the Quebecois feature Curling proved so far beyond my expectations it may just be the surprise zenith of the festival. Similarly surprising was the lack of interest generated by The Drunkard, with subject matter I supposed would be easily effective.

Curling - 2010 - 92 minutes - Denis Cote
First off, Denis Cote is an awesome orator despite the language barrier. His opening remarks were modest and charming, "Mark here makes it seem like I invented the wheel" and his cutting wit was so precise and effective he actually had me cracking up during the final Q&A. This is surprising considering the film's relatively dark and oppressive atmosphere, a delicate portrait of a father and daughter who live in isolation far from any semblance of civilization, or at least off the beaten track. The father, Jean-Francois (Emmanuel Bilodeau), works at a bowling alley as a general maintenance employee as well as at a small hotel as a maid of sorts, keeping his daughter, Julyvonne (Philomène Bilodeau) from interacting from anyone outside of his supervision. He remarks early on in the film that he doesn't allow her to go to school in order to prevent her from hanging out with "all sorts of types getting up to all sorts of no good." The rigidity of Jean-Francois' rule is called into question as Julyvonne's stunted mental growth is made obvious through her reactions to the several strange, almost fantastical situations which arise.

Curling is probably going to be the best film of the festival, it's an indication of just how powerful Canadian cinema can be, and it goes against the trend of quick-paced, flashy photography and action-packed scripts. The film trusts in its slow, deliberate movements and its pacing is damn near impeccable. Though quoted as Cote's most accessible work, Curling is an evasive film, leaving ambiguous a great many questions some would define as pressing. One quick note: the second scene of the film, when Jean-Francois and Julyvonne are walking along a windswept side road on the way back from the eye doctor's, is fucking phenomenal. It's so thrilling to witness such a confident, painterly composition, especially on the big screen and on 35mm. So, if you get the chance: see Curling in theaters.

The Drunkard - 2010 - 106 minutes - Directed by Freddie Wong
Pretty lackluster film that I don't really want to dwell on, to be honest. I mean seriously, how hard is it to make a film set in 1960s Hong Kong that is about an alcoholic writer that appeals to me? This was kind of a gimme, I felt like I was picking it because it would be easy and fun, but it wasn't. It was not good. Bad, even.

VIFF, Day Two: Pinoy Sunday and Monsters

2010-10-02T09:46:00.000-07:00

If day one was a little on the weak side for selection, day two 'my cup runneth over' so to speak. There were a few films I'd figured on seeing, but after much deliberation I settled on Pinoy Sunday, a comic film about Filipino migrant workers in Taiwan, and Monsters, a British 'horror' film about Mexico as an infected zone. The theaters both featured their fair share of mouth-breathers, but it's an expected inconvenience at Granville 7.

Pinoy Sunday - 2010 - 100 minutes - Directed by Wi Ding Ho

A poignant, clever comedy about a pair of migrant workers who are faced with a city much bigger and more imposing than their hometown in the Phillipines, Pinoy Sunday spends much of its runtime with the two central characters Dado (Bayani Agbayani) and Manuel (Jeffrey Quizon) as they daydream about their respective love lives and the comfort they both are striving for. This comfort is symbolized by Manuel's obsession with getting a couch for their factory dormitory, and when a large, well kept red one is abandoned on the side of the road, Manuel takes it as a charge from God to traverse Taipei and make it all the way back home, couch intact.

The film features some extremely amusing comic set pieces, and the chemistry between the two leads is impeccable. Though the film is outwardly very lighthearted and amusing, its undertones are concerned with the prejudice the two protagonists are faced with and the repulsive actions of some of the Taipei residents. That the two never take these actions to heart is evidence less of the lack of severity of these actions, and more of their adjustment to harsh and cruel circumstances. The film reaches a logical, optimistic conclusion on a river bank with an extraordinarily bizarre musical sequence, but then pushes further and shows the hangover, so to speak, of their final submission to their own natures. A solid, good-natured film that continued my streak of seeing cute, pleasant films with very little danger in them.

Monsters - 2010 - 94 minutes - Directed by Gareth Edwards
The rest of the fest will have to be pretty striking to keep this one off my top ten list. Breaking from my trend of seeing feelgood movies, I braved the terrors of a genre-film at the biggest theater in the festival because, well, Monsters looked pretty bad ass. And y'know what? I may be the only person in the theater that wasn't disappointed with it. Monsters was compared to Apocalypse Now in the festival program, and while it doesn't quite deserve that lofty praise, the comparisons do make some sense when you focus on the lengthy riverboat sequence and the tone they attempt to establish during the protagonists hike through the jungle. The trailers for the film do it no justice, and actively prepare your expectations for something completely different. This actually worked out pretty well for me, as I love hearing people who were texting through the movie complain about how boring it was. If I have to deal with their little flashing lights, they better be having a pretty awful time.

Set six years after NASA sends space probes to collect alien life forms, Monsters' central conceit is that the probes crash landed in Mexico and now the whole crash site is an 'infected zone', where oddly shaped bulbous growths are attached to trees and giant octopus (!!!) monsters roam the land. The film centers on a photographer for a metropolitan newspaper, Kaulder (Scoot McNairy), who is told by his boss to go and hunt down the CEO's daughter, Sam (Whitney Able) and bring her safely back to the United States. The only problem is that Kaulder is a bit of a fuck up, and on his way loses both of their passports after a drinking binge anticipated by Sam's denial of his amusing but charmless advances. The two are then unable to go back to America by way of ferry, so they hire guards and guides and set off down the river towards the Wall which keeps the infected zone separated from America proper. The film is slow-paced and surprisingly light on the monsters, but that's what sets it apart from others of its ilk; this is not District 9, this is not a video game, it's a well made, suspenseful picture that is actually about the inability of the majority to truly suffer. Constantly on the outside looking in, the two white, well off protagonists wander through the decimated areas of Mexico unable to comprehend the gravity of the situation, fully aware that they will be safe in their suburban homes in a matter of days and they will never really feel the consequences that those they've come into contact with.

VIFF, Day One: Vespa and Hahaha

2010-10-01T11:15:00.000-07:00

VIFF is a confluence of bizarre happenings. I go downtown to see Vespa at 7, grabbing some pizza beforehand. I run into one of my best friends who is going to see Norberto's Deadline. I leave the pizza place, run into two friends who are waiting around for HaHaHa to start. I invite them to Vespa, they join me. VIFF is where good things happen, it's a peek at a universe that doesn't exist. Where there are huge lineups for foreign films, arthouse films, tiny budgeted experiments made in somebody's basement. It's a good thing.

The first day was weak on selection so I took my time and picked out two films, one being Vespa, chosen because of my affection for Hungary's cinema and my hopes that it would be similar to last year's standout entry, Jermal. The other was HaHaHa, chosen because I like films about drunken camaraderie, and it had won the Un Certain Regard Award at Cannes, not to mention that Sang-Soo's other film in the festival, Oki's Movie, got a favorable write up in Cinemascope that piqued my interest and HaHaHa would provide me with a reference point.

Vespa - 2010 - 85 minutes - Directed by Diana Groo

A Hungarian film from director Diana Groo, Vespa is a gentle drama about a 12 year old boy named Lali (Sándor Tóth) who wins a chocolate bar in a card game, and, in turn, wins a Vespa by unwrapping the chocolate bar. The crux of the drama comes from the fact that the Vespa has to be picked up from Budapest, a significant distance from his poor hometown. Never having set foot outside of his home town, the boy experiences some trepidation in leaving, but nevertheless goes off on his own to pick up the Vespa. The film is incredibly well structured and designed, each character provoking interest as well as suiting a specific purpose as required by the plot (some people consider this coincidence, I consider it narrative) without becoming overly-expositional. The cinematography ranges from masterful (a scene where Lali crosses a bridge is particularly well-shot) to uninspired (the opening sequence which had the potential to be incredibly striking).

What I was hoping for from this film was this year's Jermal, and instead (not to be reductive) I got a relatively pleasant, agreeable version of the moment in The Wire when Bodie is first leaving Baltimore. Sitting in the truck as he tries to find Baltimore radio stations, Bodie is faced with a larger world and makes the observation that there is no reason to leave Baltimore, no matter how narrow that makes his world view. Lali faces the same sort of decision, except he never really makes a choice. He just sort of drifts along and witnesses atrocities of varying severity, never really taking charge. Not that that's a criticism of the film itself, only of his viability as a protagonist. The film has a relatively critical and courageous conclusion, if only that the obvious ending is so broadly avoided it's remarkable.

Hahaha - 2010 - 115 minutes - Directed by Hong Sang-Soo

Winner of Un Certain Regard Award at Cannes, Hong Sang-Soo's drunken romantic comedy HaHaHa is both amusing and kind of touching. Boasting an infuriatingly terrible name, the film is remarkably relaxed for the most part and features some excellent acting from leads Sang-kyung Kim, Yoo Joon-sang, and Moon So-ri. But while the acting is top-notch and the story is engaging, the direction has some rough spots (which others seem to take for aesthetic pleasures) that I would rather be smoothed over; namely, the constant slipshod zooming. An associate of mine defended the haphazard employing of the zoom function as a "reminder that [Hong's] camera was still there, even if its not doing anything." Call me a formalist, but in my opinion every camera move should be meaningful and active, if the effect you are going for is to disconnect the viewer from the movie, then your subject matter/script should reflect that. In the case of HaHaHa, it is clearly not the overall striven for result, but this lousy trick achieves it nonetheless.

Besides that one gripe and a mise-en-scene which oscillates between utilitarian functionality and one-note "anti-composition" which I read as a lazy or misguided attempt at naturalism, HaHaHa is remarkably effective. It's funny and clever, making great use of the awkward nature of relationships and meetings, and the disconnect between one's expectations and reality. The film's standout character, Jo Munkyung (Sang-kyung Kim), is endearing precisely because he is absolutely ignorant of just how mistaken and ill-advised his every action is. This is a person who honestly doesn't understand why following a girl home after work and later breaking into her apartment to pet her dog would be considered weird. His continual misunderstandings with the girl he is attempting to court provide the film with its emotional core which actively involves the viewer whenever it's able to rise above the aesthetic missteps previously mentioned.

Arthur Penn

2010-09-29T13:59:00.000-07:00

Arthur Penn, director of Bonnie & Clyde, Mickey One as well as the massively underrated and phenomenal Gene Hackman vehicle Night Moves, died yesterday of congestive heart failure.

You have no idea how much I love Night Moves, and Penn's death only serves to further illuminate just how far American cinema has fallen since the golden age of the seventies.

Cinema is Dead

2010-09-28T15:56:00.001-07:00

Umm... Yeah. So like an action retelling of Citizen Kane with Michelle Rodriguez. How bout that.

VIFF starts up at the end of the week, so I'll actually be posting stuff on this other than trailers and clips. I think.

Tracking Shot

2010-07-24T15:05:00.001-07:00

This is perhaps one of the most incredible and evocative camera moves in film history. From Fassbinder's Martha.

Jean Luc Godard on the History of Cinema

2010-07-06T15:56:00.001-07:00

“The history of cinema is boys photographing girls.”
-Jean Luc Godard

Solaris (1972)

2010-06-19T10:44:00.000-07:00

Solaris - 1972 - 165 minutes - Directed by Andrei Tarkovsky
Starring Donatas Banionis, Natalya Bondarchuk, Jüri Järvet, Vladislav Dvorzhetsky, Nikolai Grinko, Anatoli Solonitsyn, Sos Sargsyan

Tarkovsky's vision of existence as it stands in Solaris is one of fragility and vulnerability, a world where the ground is always damp, the cold steel clinically clean, the weather a warning against the storm to come. Sterility is the rule despite the lived in conditions, and while the station in which the action takes place appears solid and holds a particular weight it also appears vulnerable and easily swayed; a door, previously thought to be impenetrable (in the way only futuristic materials can appear) bends under the pressure applied by the hardly imposing Hari (Natalya Bondarchuk) from the inside before it shatters, revealing its thin and flimsy construction. Here, in Tarkovsky's adaptation of Stadyslaw Lem's Solaris, exists people and objects and environments which are relentlessly impacted upon, where characters have unforeseen effects on each other, where settings are established as cold and still places before their contents and physics are shifted.

Tarkovsky was known for having said, "The film needs to be slower and duller at the start so that the viewers who walked into the wrong theatre have time to leave before the main action starts." And as evidence of that included a notoriously lengthy sequence of the protagonist, Kris Kelvin (Donatas Banionis), driving down highways and through tunnels, the camera drifting along behind him patiently, inevitably. While Solaris' first part is undeniably slower than most films of the period, it can hardly be classified as 'dull'. Tarkovsky takes great care in establishing the gentle atmospherics of Kris' parents' cabin, and the ever-present serenity of the environment becomes almost overwhelming at points as the camera dwells on what other directors would consider insignificant details; ripples in a lake, untouched grass, moist shrubbery. This stillness is in direct contrast to the stillness aboard the station where the lion's share of the action takes place, whereas the cabin's fragility is something to be admired, attaining a kind of sacred tone, the station's is to be exploited; there is calm so that something shattered will have a more dramatic effect. Indeed, things are always shattering near Solaris.
As all great science fiction which deals with foreign forces (be they extraterrestrial, mechanical construction, astral projection) must, Solaris concerns itself with what it means to be human, but more importantly it deals with the pressing quandary of the illogical, emotionally ecstatic nature of love. Famously a point of contention between Tarkovsky's adaptation and the source material's author, (Lem was quoted as saying, "As Solaris' author ... I only wanted to create a vision of a human encounter with something that certainly exists... but cannot be reduced to human concepts, ideas or images. This is why the book was entitled Solaris and not Love in Outer Space.") Tarkovsky strips the narrative of some of the more abstract scientific concepts and instead focuses on the human relationship at the center of the film, and by that we mean the love Kris feels for the arguably human Hari. This love begins as a mere shadow of his affection for his previously deceased wife, but quickly evolves as Hari and Kris interact all the more readily.

Soon, the Hari who exists only aboard the station (as she is being projected by the sentient ocean that makes up Solaris' surface) has become the more real, the more important Hari to Kris. He forsakes his memories of a mercurial relationship which saddled him with guilt for the real Hari's eventual suicide in favor of the construction of a new relationship, built over the foundation of his marriage brick by brick. In effect, she replaces the old, original Hari through sheer appeal; a Hari projected from within Kris himself without conflict (internal love) is preferable to him to the harsher dynamics of a Hari existing on her own terms, i.e. external --and therefore unpredictable-- love. The newly discovered Hari's singular enduring feature is her unending, unconditional love of Kris, a love which is explained only due to her existence in his mind, his fantasy woman being hopelessly intertwined with memories of the similarly unending, unconditional love which his mother showers him with during a feverish dream sequence. The mother/lover dichotomy is exploited throughout the film as Hari appears as a maternal nurse figure to him and then as a subject of his own protective nature as evidenced by her numerous moments of self-destruction.

Solaris as a whole paints a harsh picture of man's selfishness and his need for total validation; raising the question of whether or not love even requires a second party or whether man can be utterly consumed by the approximation of understanding and absolute tolerance. It is fitting then that while the set design is sleek and intimidating in its boldness (so much so that even the great Kurosawa was impressed during a visit to the set), the human beings who inhabit this station are constantly dirty, bloody, sweaty or a combination of the three. The human world is a messy, unpredictable place which forces even those things we assume are constant (e.g. inanimate objects) into conflict with our disastrous endeavors. The film's conclusion in which Kris has to choose between a life in reality on Earth and his total submission to Solaris' will, and therefore the hope of being reunited with Hari, is as bleak a picture of the human condition as could be imagined. Kris selfishly turns his back on all that was tangible and important to him in favor of a less substantial, fraudulent existence where he can exist on his own terms and to his own benefit.Tarkovsky's skill as a director is displayed here in all of its brilliance, his crippling ability to build emotional resonance through long takes and a slow, burning pace is as paramount to the film's success as is his ear for provocative yet evasive dialogue (in one of the film's best moments, one of the station's doctors proclaims, "I can never get used to all these resurrections.") Solaris' triumph, above all, is its atmosphere; never has a science fiction film evoked such a tangible sense of time and place. We feel that we are in the future, but so far from the computer generated worlds of the Matrixes and Star Wars that a modern day viewer has no choice but to stand in awe of the precise vision Tarkovsky possessed of the future and his execution of it. That the film may have dramatically disparate effects on viewers attests to Tarkovsky's commitment to his unique conception of Lem's source material-- in this instance his deliberation pays off, slowly pulling us into the film's diegesis until we are as concerned with the narrative's outcome as any of the characters depicted.
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Solaris at Amazon.

Andrei Tarkovsky on Educational Art

2010-06-17T15:06:00.000-07:00

"It is obvious that art cannot teach anyone anything, since in four thousand years humanity has learnt nothing at all."
-Andrei Tarkovsky

Survival of the Dead

2010-06-05T08:51:00.000-07:00

Survival of the Dead - 2010 - 90 minutes - Directed by George Romero
Starring Alan Van Sprang, Kenneth Welsh, Kathleen Munroe, Devon Bostick, Richard Fitzpatrick

Survival of the Dead is the newest entry in that most famous and celebrated (well, at least the original trilogy) series of zombie movies, Romero's Of the Dead work. Spanning from the genre defining Night of the Living Dead through the commercially disappointing but notably underrated Diary of the Dead, Romero's skills have been called into question after every film since 1978's Dawn of the Dead and though some would dispute it, he has never lost his narrative thrust or ability to construct fascinating films, frequently without the benefit of decent acting or studio backing. This time around he's crafted a remarkably effective foundation upon which to showcase the traditionally western elements he's superimposed onto an island off the coast of Delaware.

The film is split into two distinctly disparate sections, one concerning the tensions between the O'Flynns and the Muldoons, two families existing as simply as possible on post-zombie apocalypse Plum island, and the other following a group of rogue National Guards (briefly featured in Survival's predecessor, Diary of the Dead) as they attempt to make their way through the ravaged landscape. The families are feuding due to conflicting ideologies; the O'Flynns believe in destroying the walking dead, while the Muldoons believe in keeping them "alive" in the hopes that they will one day be cured.The two storylines intertwine, of course, when the patriarch of the O'Flynns, Patrick O'Flynn (Kenneth Walsh), is exiled from the island and his family members are either assimilated or destroyed. He begins offering to take survivors to Plum as a means of stealing their food and goods but is forced into leading the group of guards and newcomer Boy (Devon Bostick) there to stage an invasion.

As no Romero film would be complete without its own set of enduring images (Bub's tests in Day of the Dead, the daughter eating her mother in Night of the Living Dead, the entire layout and concept of Fiddler's Green in Land of the Dead, etc), Survival may have the most haunting one of all. A woman, the lead female character's twin for that matter (a device that seems superfluous and cowardly until Romero proves his willingness to be completely unconventional in a third act 180), is bitten by a zombie and takes to her horse. It is but a fact of life on Plum island that you will continually witness the undead Jane O'Flynn (Kathleen Monroe) riding her horse determinedly over the lush hills and forestry with a ghostly expression adorning her face.

While Romero has never had a great talent for coaxing better than alright performances from mediocre talents, Survival of the Dead boasts some incredibly nuanced acting for a Living Dead flick, especially in the presence of Devon Bostick. Bostick, having already cut his teeth on the excellent Atom Egoyan film Adoration, comes into his own here as a seriously plausible character beset on all sides by extraordinary forces and events. Monroe and Van Sprang both perform admirably as well, and if they are not of the same impact of Bostick it is less their fault and more their function as Romero's tools for social commentary.The primary criticism that faces Romero these days is that he has lost his ability to scare people, that his horror is no longer sudden and jarring but simply heavy handed social criticism with little interest in living up to the standards of modern horror. For me this is not a burden but a boon, Survival of the Dead may not be of the "face in the mirror" tradition, but it is a perfect evocation of the kind of haunting, eerie atmosphere that makes Romero's worlds so much more fascinating than other directors'. That Romero goes to great lengths to craft sequences which would normally depend on horror conventions to provide predictable scares, but instead subverts the situations and gives us the entire picture without resorting to cheap tricks or soundtrack cues.

Survival of the Dead is further evidence (along with each entry in his Dead series which has proven to be one of the most reliably excellent series in horror) of Romero's evolution, still mapping out the unknowns and the unconventional for those too fearful to tread a similar path. Sure the film is not as subversive as his earlier work, but it is a testament to his capabilities that he is able to keep producing high quality work in a field so few find the imagination to build upon. Even the final image, one which I won't spoil for you as it is one of the most rewarding, is so over-the-top but so fitting that it depends on as capable hand as Romero's to make it fit in with the cumulative effect of the film. Say what you will, but if you aren't a staunch supporter of Romero's latest efforts then Romero hasn't been left behind; he's left you behind.
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Survival of the Dead at IMDB.

While the Pigs Eat My Brother

2010-05-28T15:53:00.001-07:00

After months and months of not blogging anything personal, I'm bringing back While the Pigs Eat for vitriolic reasons.

Francois Truffaut on Film Lovers

2010-05-27T12:13:00.000-07:00

"Film lovers are sick people."
-Francois Truffaut

The Man Who Shot Liberty Valance

2010-05-11T14:16:00.000-07:00

The Man Who Shot Liberty Valance - 1962 - 123 minutes - Directed by John Ford
Starring John Wayne, James Stewart, Lee Marvin, Edmond O'Brien, Vera Miles

The greatest westerns are those which seek to capture not only the so-called spirit of the west, the chaos and glory of a land without law and order, but those which attempt to portray the transition from this period into what we know now as civilized society. More often than not these portraits become elegiac in tone, mourning a lost morality and a lost freedom while simultaneously ruing society's over-complication and perpetual bureaucracy. Films like Peckinpah's Ride the High Country, The Ballad of Cable Hogue and The Wild Bunch fit neatly beside Eastwood's Unforgiven, Siegel's The Shootist (although in this instance the higher intent does little to improve the quality of the film) and George Roy Hill's Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid, yet few are capable of the kind of transcendent filmmaking that makes The Man Who Shot Liberty Valance the greatest western of all time.

The Man Who Shot Liberty Valance has an odd structure for a western, a genre of conventionally straightforward narratives, the bulk of the picture taking place in flashback as Senator Ransom Stoddard (James Stewart) and his wife Hallie (Vera Miles) return to the town of Shinbone, somberly remarking on the drastic changes the town has undergone since they departed. The Senator's arrival being News with a capital N, a young journalist coaxes the importance of the man who's funeral they are attending, one Thomas Doniphon.The reverence the Senator displays towards the unseen corpse is eerily touching, he demands that his boots be returned and that his gun-belt be fixed upon him, yet the constantly weeping Pompey (Woody Strode) assures him that Tom hadn't worn a gun in years. With such a tiny, deceivingly significant scene Ford establishes the shadow Doniphon casts on the rest of the characters throughout the film, and in a smoothly executed flashback we are introduced to Ransom Stoddard as a young hopeful 'tenderfoot' who is beaten near death upon his arrival by unknown bandits with sinister motives and gravelly voices. Stoddard is carried to town injured, and with this we are introduced to the very much alive Doniphon as played by John Wayne, a figure of old-minded justice, traditionally heroic.

Once rested well enough to speak, Stoddard informs Doniphon as well as his host and caretaker, Hallie, that the man who beat him carried a silver handled whip. This seemingly innocuous observation reveals that the villain is none other than the notorious bandit Liberty Valance, a man who believes, with Tom, that "might makes right." With the pedigree of talent involved, there really was only one choice for Valance (well, maybe Mitchum could've done it...)-- Lee Marvin. In order for him to completely dominate James Stewart and to openly defy John Wayne there needed to be that unpredictability which only Marvin could bring to the role, that chaotic element that seems to inform his every gesture, as if he really is about to explode. While he's not as tense or as intimidating as he would later be in Boorman's masterpiece Point Blank, his brazen demeanor is reminiscent of a younger Toshiro Mifune, contemptuous of everyone and every thing that stands in the way of how he chooses to represent himself.

The crux of the film lies within the relationships between the three leading men, between Valance and Doniphon there is mutual hatred but respect, they are men playing by the old rules of brute strength and absolute determination, whereas Stoddard's relationship with both men is strained by mutual misunderstanding. Stoddard believes in law and order, that with a system of government comes a sense of equality within which he is as formidable an opponent as either of his two rivals. For Ford's part, he spends much of the film revealing Doniphon's admirable traits while simultaneously recognizing that his way is no longer sustainable, something he addresses by opening with Doniphon's funeral.

Written by James Warner Bellah (known for his work on the Cavalry trilogy), The Man Who Shot Liberty Valance's intentions are much deeper than it initially appears. Though the film contains a harsh but vital look at the mindset which Ford is so often identified with, it also contains criticism of his own earlier work which sought to simplify the western existence. In the film's most famous and oft-quoted line, "When the legend becomes fact, print the legend," we are given a rueful dismissal of the kind of mythmaking that so many filmmakers were so eagerly engaged in. Seeing as how The Man Who Shot Liberty Valance dealt with such drastically different subject matter, it is to Ford's credit that he shot in black and white (in 1962, no less) and on a sound stage; a stark contrast to the open vistas and imposing rock formations of Monument Valley.Despite the mournful take on the traditions and history that Doniphon represents, he is willing to depart from simple admiration into a myriad of complexities that pepper Wayne's characterization. Take, for instance, the film's most powerful sequence; Doniphon has just discovered Hallie's affections toward Stoddard and has been (in his mind) humiliated. Dejected, Doniphon makes his way to the nearest bar where he demands they allow Pompey, his African-American farmhand, to drink with him. He proceeds to get increasingly drunk and belligerent before retiring to his homestead, a house he'd renovated in preparation for his expected future with Hallie-- and promptly burns it to the ground.

Doniphon is confronted by a situation where his boldness and his idealized masculinity are no longer assets but burdens, where he can't fight his way out, where Stoddard's intelligence and warmth takes privilege over his frontier mentality. Unable to deal with this or to approach it from the opposite perspective, Doniphon is forced to react explosively in the only way he is able; in a display of his exhausted bullishness. This sequence is one of the most moving in all of Ford's filmography and it is exemplary of the kind of complex marriage of criticism and empathy which makes The Man Who Shot Liberty Valance an enduring classic.
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The Man Who Shot Liberty Valance at Amazon.

Orson Welles' Birthday

2010-05-06T10:44:00.000-07:00

Orson Welles was a cinematic genius, a tragic figure who had everything stripped from him for the sake of his art. Welles made Citizen Kane, The Magnificent Ambersons, The Lady from Shanghai, The Stranger, Touch of Evil and Chimes at Midnight, and yet he spent most of his latter career in the public eye being humiliated on talk shows for being obese and pompous.

The man who made what I will contend as the greatest Shakespearean adaptation of all time was reduced to doing cheap wine commercials, struggling to find the funds to adapt Cervantes and a half dozen other projects no studio would have a part in including what is rumored to be his final masterpiece, The Other Side of the Wind. That this all may have contributed to his reputation as an unfocused anti-studio presence of mercurial temperament is as depressing as the fact that some twenty five years after its completion, The Other Side of the Wind remains unedited and unreleased.

I hope that the legal disputes are resolved, I hope that the film's as brilliant as some of the clips available lead me to suspect, but most of all I hope that Bogdanovich finishes whatever work he has to do on the print this year or next and we get a release.

I think that'd be a nice birthday present -- Maybe next year.

Orson Welles
May 6, 1915 – October 10, 1985
"Oh how they'll love me when I'm dead."

Ingmar Bergman

2010-05-03T23:17:00.000-07:00

"I'm planning, you see, to try to confine myself to the truth. That's hard for an old, inveterate fantasy martyr and liar who has never hesitated to give truth the form he felt the occasion demanded."
-Ingmar Bergman

Notable Poster 10

2010-04-30T19:10:00.000-07:00

The Hitch-Hiker is notable not only for being an incredible film, but also for being the first (and some would say only) film noir directed by a woman, in this case the incredibly talented Ida Lupino. That the film now primarily haunts "50 film noir collections" and TCM, it's easy to forget just how immediate the film is. And with that thought in mind, I bring you this poster. It's simple, effective, gives you an idea of the plot and best of all it's red. What more could you ask for?

Addendum: I can't get enough of that tagline. It's ridiculous.

Made in USA

2010-04-28T17:09:00.000-07:00

Made in USA – 1966 – 85 minutes – Directed by Jean-Luc Godard
Starring Anna Karina, Marianne Faithfull, Jean-Pierre Leaud, Laszlo Szabo

Made in USA is a rarity in that it creates its primary dramatic tension not from the narrative or the dialogue, but from the deliberate antagonism of a director content in both absurdity and a quixotic desire to expose and criticize the Americanization (and therefore the perceived homogenization) of French culture. Throughout the picture, characters’ dialogue will be lost among the cacophony of urban sprawl, the airplanes flying too close overhead, the cars honking their horns at just the wrong/right moment. Building on this foundation of frustrating interruptions is the introduction of one of the more brazen cinematic techniques in Godard’s repertoire; the blatant omission. Later perfected in imbuing ordinary scenes with meaning by the great Michael Haneke (most notably in Benny’s Video, but also in Cache), this technique serves more of an abstract, playful purpose here.

Famously adapted from the novel ‘The Jugger’ by Richard Stark (AKA Donald Westlake), Made in USA puts the delicate Anna Karina into play as one of the earliest (and loosest) incarnations of Westlake’s notoriously badass Parker protagonist (also played to varying degrees of success by Lee Marvin in Point Blank, Jim Brown in The Split, Robert Duvall in The Outfit and Mel Gibson in Payback). This go-around, however, sees Karina as the equally confident and self-assured Paula Nelson, a mysterious investigator hot on the heels on a “murky case” of political intrigue, with none of the ferocity of Marvin or the arrogance of Gibson.Using this loose framework as an opportunity to expound upon various political philosophies and cause celebrès as well as openly criticize capitalism/consumerist culture, Godard proves himself remarkably adept at harvesting interest where there ought to be none. As a whole, the film is a nigh-incomprehensible, half-digested mish mash of pop art and bubblegum theorizing with a healthy dose of Karina-worship (somewhere in there a mournful rendition of ‘As Tears Go By’ by Marianne Faithfull is included), yet there is an undeniable magnetism to its pieces. This appeal certainly originates with the intimate performance from Anna Karina, but beyond that there is the constant yet charming allusions to Hawks’ The Big Sleep, the chunks of pulp dialogue, the saturation of the photography to the point of cartoonish fantasy, and the self-reflexive nature of Godard’s disjointed and hardly functional script.

Visually, Godard, as well as his companion Raoul Coutard, opts to eschew any sense of subtlety in favor of a loud, abrasive palette which makes great use of Karina’s colorful wardrobe; offsetting any neutral tones which may find their way onscreen in the background. This approach is well-suited to the subject matter, at least as far as Godard takes it, turning murder into a nonchalant fashion statement and the weary glare of an overbearing police officer into an evocation of isolation amidst a society still struggling with the implications of communism. It becomes evident upon consideration that this set of aesthetics was necessary to compliment the script’s ‘content’; with names like Richard Nixon, Paul Widmark, Robert McNamara, and David Goodis being bandied about, who could expect any sense of visual ambiguity?This being Karina’s final performance for Godard, the film takes on that uncomfortable status of being a spokesman for their relationship, and yet it survives this impossible pigeonhole and the comparisons it promotes thanks to the fascinating evolution of their storytelling capabilities and the emotional fallout from the demolition of one of cinema’s most rewarding collaborations. Godard’s first real foray into oblique political commentary is fittingly Karina’s (a figure of great personal, intimate importance) departure from Godard’s oeuvre, an exit which allows him the distance and neutrality required for his later ventures into obscure films of political interest and diminishing cinematic intertextuality.

When all is said and done, Made in USA is hardly one of Godard’s better films, yet it maintains a certain level of quality out of its joviality, its unconventionality, the lengths to which Godard will go to reach his pulpy vision which is simultaneously a throwback to the days of Hammett & Chandler and a glance towards the future, a world transformed by the wants of the few. That its plot is of such a ridiculous and confusing nature is both the feature’s failing and the crux of its appeal, it is a garbled mess of references and criticism but it is so endearing you are willing to forgive its shortcomings, of which there are many.
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Made in U.S.A. at Amazon.

The Merry Gentleman

2010-03-01T23:44:00.000-08:00

The Merry Gentleman - 2008 - 110 minutes - Directed by Michael Keaton
Starring Michael Keaton, Kelly Macdonald, Tom Bastounes, Mike Bradecich, Debbi Burns

Michael Keaton has been out of the spotlight for long enough to have crystallized in the public consciousness as a kind of harmless non-entity, a non-threatening actor that will perform admirably in otherwise worthless dreck. And while his leading performance in the clusterfuck that was White Noise was all that kept that debacle above water, it has been a long time since he'd been a major player in an above average film. Now, this late in the game, comes Keaton's directorial debut with The Merry Gentleman, a remarkably adept exploration of loneliness and isolation which happens to showcase some of Keaton's finest acting ever in a performance that completely distorts the persona he has accrued over the years. While the subject matter may seem to be fairly familiar territory, the script provided by Ron Lazzeretti is wary of the cliches that accompany so many of these gritty character studies. Instead of strip-mining the more usual route of 'beautiful yet chaotic' depressive isolation, Keaton keeps the film grounded in reality, instead presenting the distance the twin protagonists feel towards society in a very still, calm manner, depicting their worlds as very sure and mannered.

The film is primarily concerned with the lovely Kate Frazier (Kelly Macdonald), a young woman fleeing the vague menace of a past lived with a violent husband, a past which accounts for the black eye she possesses for the lion's share of the picture. After garnering employment as a receptionist, she spends her first few weeks establishing a distance from her coworkers and employers, avoiding conversations concerning her private life while still maintaining a friendly veneer, an approach which manages to attract quite a bit of male attention throughout the film. One night, upon exiting the building she looks up without reason, catching a glimpse of a silhouette standing on the ledge of the building across the street. Kate lets out a yelp, drawing his attention and sending him fleeing into the night. Later she is to find out that the man on the ledge may have participated in the execution of a businessman on one of the upper floors of her building, and to her surprise she responds with the moral quandary of whether or not the world would be better off if the hitman had killed himself.The figure is revealed to be the enigmatic Frank Logan (Michael Keaton), a hitman plagued by an undefined internal conflict which prompts him first to the ledge, and at one point to place a gun determinedly beneath his chin. His dialogue punctuated by a persistent cough, Logan is the embodiment of what was once considered idealized masculinity, strong and defiant yet quiet and private, Frank is menacing only in his poise and his ever-present will. He speaks only as much as he has to, and his movements are as calculated as his impromptu meeting with Frazier where he strides to her rescue, freeing her from beneath a large Christmas tree which has tipped over in her hallway. The two begin to meet as friends after Logan appears at her doorstep --his purpose unclear-- and collapses; shuttled to the hospital at her urging, Frazier develops a fondness for Logan and he for her.

While Logan's occupation is extraordinary, Keaton has the hubris to present it as evenly as he does Frazier's receptionist work, his steady hand gaining a resonance with each repetitive action, each killing he participates in is shown in as little detail as possible to greater and greater effect. The Merry Gentleman's central conflict comes into view as a lovestruck detective named Murcheson (Tom Bastounes) becomes increasingly interested in Frazier, and despite her several attempts to brush him off, he manages to harangue her into two incomplete and incredibly awkward dinners. When her abusive husband, Michael (Bobby Cannavale), surfaces proclaiming himself a Christian and a saved man in a very violent and psychotically confessional fashion, Kate stands petrified in the kitchen brandishing a knife, paralyzed until Michael exits.

Murcheson comes by and takes her report, meanwhile making Frank's acquaintance in the apartment, then stops by the hotel Michael was staying at. Upon entering the hotel Murcheson is greeted by a freshly murdered corpse, made up to look like a suicide. The detective, whether by luck or by skill, comes under the impression that Logan is the perpetrator of not only this most recent death, but also the earlier one, and so sets in motion what in most traditional Hollywood blockbusters would be a collision course, but in this more eloquent and refined picture amounts to an elegantly filmed and ultimately satisfying conclusion wherein Kate discovers Logan's identity and he adamantly informs her that he would never cause her harm.As a cohesive whole the film has a very subtle cumulative effect, mostly the evocation of an eerie calm, a stillness that aches to be broken. Keaton as an actor is at the top of his game, his is an honest portrayal of a soul diseased with calculated savagery, an unwelcome brutality that comes with the casual acceptance of such an extraordinary profession. For her part, Kelly Macdonald is more than up to the task of matching wits with Keaton, yet they are never appearing as rivals, never showing each other up, instead they co-operate within each scene to build the narrative, and it is to that incredible chemistry that we owe the film's success. The Merry Gentleman is a worthwhile picture which, taken on its own terms, provides us with a unique perspective on material some would consider perilously strip-mined; the film attracts attention but never scrutiny, it invites us to witness its events and never gives us cause to question them.
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The Merry Gentlemanat Amazon.

Cinema 21: Guy Maddin

2010-02-17T23:01:00.000-08:00

Guy Maddin was born in Winnipeg, in 1956, to Charlie and Herdis Maddin, the former who died while Guy was merely 21 years old and the latter who would go on to act in small roles in Maddin's Tales from the Gimli Hospital, Archangel, and Cowards Bend the Knee. But before Maddin would cast his mother in his first feature length film, he was a student studying economics. After that, he was simply a banker. Upon his thirtieth year, however, he set down a long and remarkably esoteric road beginning with the creation of the ambitious and incredibly cohesive 26 minute short film, The Dead Father. While a marked difference from most student films in its drive and its even measure, The Dead Father is most notable for how it informs the rest of Maddin's oeuvre.

Francois Truffaut once remarked in a review of Louis Malle's Le feu follet (The Fire Within) that a filmmaker's first film (he was referring to Malle's Ascenseur pour l'Echafaud or 'Elevator to the Gallows') contains "all his good qualities and faults," contending that a filmmaker's entire filmography can be found within that first seminal project. This contention may not be as solid a statement as Truffaut intended, but with regards to Maddin, at least so far, it has been proven time and time again. The Dead Father is obscure, enjoyable, stylistically adventurous, forcibly acted and experimental in its narrative, as all of his later features have been to one degree or another.

Maddin's feature length debut shot on black and white 16mm in 1988, Tales from the Gimli Hospital, is one of the triumphs of Canadian cinema. A young, enthusiastic director cooperating with an exceptionally talented screenwriter and mentor by the name of George Toles, experiments with the kind of aesthetics formerly employed by filmmakers of the early Talkie period. On display here is both Maddin's biting sense of humor and his indomitable feel for pacing, a slowburn plot quietly setting ablaze a small Icelandic settlement's sanitarium in which two diametrically opposed patients, Einar the Lonely and Gunnar, compete for the love of the affectionately shot nurses.

Guy has stated (in Kino Delirum: The Films of Guy Maddin) that during the production of Tales from the Gimli Hospital "the banner beneath which I worked on that picture was 'Annoy My Family.' It's a simple one, and I think a good one to make your first feature with." That the film begins at an old woman's death bed as she lays motionless next to a large slurpee cup is no coincidental or thoughtless visual; this opening image works to many different effects aside from the obvious satirical value, in particular enhancing the poignancy of --Maddin's latest work-- My Winnipeg's conclusion with Maddin's very own 'Mother' laying in the snow, freezee wrapper stuck to her long white hair as she cradles his long dead brother's stand-in.

Despite being refused entry into the Toronto Film Festival, Tales from the Gimli Hospital began to gather some momentum and critical acclaim after a lengthy stint at late night theaters in New York. Capitalizing on this good will, Maddin quickly made another picture which acts as a kind of throwback to the past, this time right to the depths of the silent films. Archangel is both an amnesiac's love story and a slyly developed propaganda effort, Maddin utilizing the enlarged budget and ideal shooting circumstances to put forth one of the least troublesome efforts of his career. Visually the film is stunning, Maddin and Toles' love of repetitive acts feeding the film's almost hypnotic, impossibly nostalgic narrative as characters repeat the same mistakes, actions, and even lines.

Drawing on the German Expressionist mountain films of the 1920s, Maddin's next feature was his most ambitious to date. A pro-incest, pro-repression film about the dangers of acting out in a small mountain community, Careful is about as visually arresting as a film can be without losing its ability to tell a story. Mimicking the two-strip technicolor of Maddin's childhood favorites, the beautifully artificial atmosphere of Careful is as constructed and as evocative as any other since its conception. Careful is as heavy-handed a film as could be expected from Maddin in this stage of his career, but its subject matter refuses to be dealt with subtly. The film is an attack on the stagnation of contemporary cinema, an obliteration of the New and a grotesque rejuvenation of the Old, and for the 100 minutes it is on screen, the dead cinemas walk again, replete with life.

Careful was received with great welcome and appreciation, giving Maddin and Toles the encouragement to throw their weight behind something Maddin would describe as (in Kino Delirium, the Films of Guy Maddin) filled with "more artifice, more decadence." This was to be the infamous Dykemaster's Daughter, a project which had half of its funding pulled out from under it once the film's producers, Telefilm, declared the film a 'lateral move' for Guy. Maddin's follow-up to Careful ended up being a brief, five minute short film funded by the BBC titled 'Odilon Redon or The Eye Like a Strange Balloon Mounts Toward Infinity' and it is as accomplished a short as I have ever come across. With the visual dexterity of Renoir's early work (The Little Match Girl comes to mind), Odilon Redon is a surreal treatise on the French Symbolist painter Bertrand-Jean "Odilon" Redon taking influence from Abel Gance's 1923 silent film La roue. This was followed by the unremarkable tv half-hour special, The Hands of Ida, a bit piece Maddin eagerly dismisses as made strictly for the money.

Regaining confidence in his filmmaking abilities, Maddin went on to produce what is generally regarded as the least of his feature length efforts, the beautiful if ill-conceived Twilight of the Ice Nymphs, his first film shot on 35mm. While the color palate is a step up technically from the two-strip technicolor of Careful, it never quite serves the story as effectively, instead appearing as an argument that Maddin would be an appropriate director to take on A Midsummer Night's Dream, but little else. Even in the glimpses we catch of Maddin during the making of this film, (glimpses to be caught in Noam Gonick's documentary Waiting for Twilight) we are only made privy to a frustrated man who is clearly ready to give up, a readiness which expressed itself in his declaration that he "didn't want to make films anymore."

Fortunately, this declaration was for naught, and Maddin soon had entered what is now renowned as one of the greatest short films of all time, The Heart of the World, in 2000's Toronto Film Festival. The film itself was more frenzied and enthusiastic than he had ever allowed himself to be, all the content and context of a full length feature frantically edited into a five minute piece. Maddin later would mention that it was the only film he'd ever been completely satisfied with, and it is to his great credit that the film is as effective and energetic as it is, seeing as how it relates closely to the rather stiff Soviet propaganda pictures. Structured around a woman's self-sacrifice and the two brothers competing for her love, The Heart of the World explores several of Maddin's favored themes, yet in a wholly original fashion.

Invited by Vonnie Von Helmolt to adapt Mark Godden and the Royal Winnipeg Ballet's Dracula for the big screen, Guy Maddin set about transforming what was understood to be an exceptionally entertaining and sensationalist interpretation of Bram Stoker's masterwork into the flurry of grace and megalomania that his finished feature, Dracula: Pages from a Virgin's Diary, stands as today. There is something brashly heroic about this particular endeavor, Maddin's undertaking such a populist tale and, with Toles by his side, encouraging its metamorphosis into an eerie exploration of fear and humiliation, the paranoia of sexuality and the rejection of immigration. If Dracula: Pages from a Virgin's Diary is not as manic as Heart of the World led his audience to believe he was becoming, it is due to his recognition of the source's inherent glory and the respect it had earned through eloquence. Thusly, Dracula: Pages from a Virgin's Diary may be Maddin's most conventional picture to date, despite filmed ballet's lack of popularity amongst mainstream cinema.

Cowards Bend the Knee stands as his most cohesive and compelling feature, a brilliantly executed 60 minute feature originally shot for an art installation in Rotterdam to be viewed through ten separate peepholes. However, edited together Cowards Bend the Knee becomes an extremely sordid silent film supersaturated with depravity. Maddin's most openly and perhaps defiantly sexual feature, Cowards Bend the Knee is like the opening of a wound, masochistic and visceral, and so visually stunning that it defies understanding. The film combines the notable iconography of the film noir era (most impressively quoting Don Siegel's The Line-Up during the final sequence) with an atmosphere of distrust, of delirium, of phantasmagoric ecstasy that erodes all that is good and normal during its brief runtime by way of a clouded, voyeuristic eroticism as if these are episodes of Guy's life were not meant to see.

While Dracula: Pages from a Virgin's Diary could be argued as his most conventional film, The Saddest Music in the World became his best known work at the time, namely because of the presence of international film star Isabella Rosselini. The film is his first direct love letter to Winnipeg, the locale becoming so incredibly important to the plot and to the visual consistency as opposed to its earlier use as a kind of place holder (not withstanding Tales from the Gimli Hospital).

Using Rosselini's credibility to anchor the film, Maddin unveils an increasingly odd depression-era Winnipeg where beer baronesses command the respect and paycheques of the masses by simple whim and where a fractured family comes to represent three separate nations in a musical competition. That the film is abrasively critical towards America's commercialist slant as well as Canada's perceived superiority is a great asset to The Saddest Music in the World's end result, appearing much more openly political than Maddin's previous works. Building upon the film noir foundation initiated in Cowards Bend the Knee, The Saddest Music in the World uses this black and white expressionist lighting and cinematography to contrast with the more colorful sequences of joy and of mania.

Working again with Rosselini on a script of her writing, Maddin's next film became one of his more well-respected shorts. My Dad is 100 Years Old combines Rosselini's nostalgic memories of her parents with Maddin's unconventional stylistic choices, evoking all manner of cinematic events with the inaccuracy and affection of true believers. Rosselini's famous father, Roberto Rosselini, is played as a large pillowy belly by his daughter as she acts out dialogues addressed to herself as well as to other major film directors, each played by Isabella as well. Hitchcock himself makes a memorable appearance as a silhouette while Chaplin saunters up to the camera in an outlandish but surprisingly accurate impression, offering carefully selected moments of kindness as we witness cinema's titans engaging in heated debate. My Dad is 100 Years Old doesn't feel like a typical Maddin film mostly due to its intertextual nature.

Made as a companion piece to Cowards Bend the Knee, Brand Upon the Brain! was the first of Maddin's films to be inducted into the debatably prestigious Criterion Collection and the first to heavily feature exterior shooting. A kaleidoscopic effort dealing with duplicitous orphans, smothering mothers and careless workaholic fathers, Brand Upon the Brain! is quite simply a breathtaking fever-dream, an emotional rollercoaster with elements of Greek tragedy, science fiction and incestuous worship. It is also Maddin's most aurally primal feature, the mother's shrieking means of communication striking a constant fear into the hearts of not only the characters but also the viewers.

Finally we come to Maddin's most recent film and the conclusion to the autobiographical trilogy formed by Cowards Bend the Knee, Brand Upon the Brain and itself, is the elegiac My Winnipeg, a mournful yet humorous fantasy/documentary dedicated to the little known mythos surrounding the heart of the heart of the continent. Bringing film noir icon Ann Savage (of Detour fame) into the mix as the ubiquitous and omniscient Mother, Maddin's My Winnipeg is a family affair in which he attempts to document all of the feelings, emotions, tall tales and characteristics which make Winnipeg such an important place to him. From the real facts surrounding his Aunt Lil's beauty shop (which figures heavily into Cowards Bend the Knee's abortion sequences) to a make-believe re-enactment of several family dramatics, My Winnipeg is as personal a film as we are ever to see, not only personal in perspective but also in tone. Even Winnipeg's history is colored to Maddin's liking and so it is that such a specific film could have such a universal twin effect; one is the urge to go and to visit Winnipeg, and the other is the engagement of our own hometown memories.

Maddin's filmography is as dynamic and diverse as one would expect from a know-it-all Winnipeger with a deep and abiding love for cinematic history, but the ambiguous tension which pervades all of his films is a testament to the kind of powerhouse director he is. He not only directs, he conceives and he executes. Working alongside his partner in crime, Mr. George Toles, Maddin is capable of evoking all manners of response, from laughter to tears, from joy to pain, from worship to denial. For a man who so openly admits to operating out of cowardice, it is sometimes shocking that he displays so much bravery in accepting his vulnerabilities and compelling such drastically disparate reactions.

Author's note: There are several short films I skipped over for brevity's sake, but please note their inclusion in the following filmography (transcribed from the back of My Winnipeg's accompanying softcover) in order to provide sufficient context.

1. The Dead Father (1986)
2. Tales from the Gimli Hospital (1988)
3. Archangel (1990)
4. Careful (1992)
5. Odilon Redon or The Eye like a Strange Balloon Mounts Towards Infinity (1995)
6. Twilight of the Ice Nymphs (1997)
7. Chimney Workbook (1997)
8. Zookeeper Workbook (1997)
9. Rooster Workbook (1997)
10. Hospital Fragment (1999)
11. The Heart of the World (2000)
12. It's a Wonderful Life (2001)
13. Dracula - Pages from a Virgin's Diary (2002)
14. Fancy, Fancy Being Rich (2002)
15. Cowards Bend the Knee (2003)
16. The Saddest Music in the World (2003)
17. A Trip to the Orphanage (2004)
18. Sissy Boy Slap Party (2004)
19. Sombra Dolorosa (2004)
20. FuseBoy (2005)
21. My Dad is 100 Years Old (2005)
22. Brand Upon the Brain! (2006)
23. Nude Caboose (2006)
24. Odin's Shield Maiden (2006)
25. My Winnipeg (2007)
26. Spanky - To the Pier and Back (2008)
27. Berlin (2008)
28. It's My Mother's Birthday Today (2008)
29. Collage Party (2008)
30. Footsteps (2008)
31. Glorious (2008)
32. 'Lectric Chair (2009)
33. Night Mayor (2009)

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This post was for The Auteurs' Garage project Cinema 21, wherein we encourage discussion on important filmmakers of the last 21 years. The post can be found here.

High Fidelity

2010-02-01T15:30:00.000-08:00

High Fidelity - 2000 - 113 minutes - Directed by Stephen Frears
Starring John Cusack, Iben Hjejle, Jack Black, Tim Robbins, Todd Louiso, Catherine Zeta Jones, Joan Cusack, Lisa Bonet

The monologue which serves to open Stephen Frears' 2000 adaptation of Nick Hornby's High Fidelity is a sly declaration of intent, a wallowing requiem for a comfortable relationship set to the driven psychedelia of The Thirteenth Floor Elevators' You're Gonna Miss Me. The monologue's author is Rob Gordon (John Cusack), a character who frequently expresses his internal turmoil and unending discontent directly to the audience, bypassing the need for awkward expository dialogue and providing an outlet for amusing observations about his day-to-day existence without any external reactions. From the outset High Fidelity provides us with a perspective, giving Rob opportunities at every turn to justify the choices or mistakes he has made and to color certain characters (Ian, in particular) in an unflattering light. This monologue opens up Rob's world to us before shifting gears and easing us into the real world, where Rob has suffered a devastating break up which he underestimates at every turn.

The catalyst for this break up is the lovely Laura (Iben Hjejle), a lawyer who has become fed up with Rob's complacency and his inability to be happy. She's continually portrayed in a sympathetic light and it is to the film's great credit (and the book's) that although her new boyfriend, the dreadful Ian (Tim Robbins), is an unendurable terror of a human being, he has no part in the attempted reconciliation of Rob & Laura that provides the film with its overarching structure. Within this broader set of developments lies the infrastructure which makes up the majority of the film's narrative, Rob's journey through his romantic failures one by one, from the lifeboat relationship of Sarah Kendrew (Lili Taylor) to the cool, ideal but uncomfortable Charlie Nicholson, Rob introduces us to the ladies of his life before he tracks them down and confronts them with his messy, convoluted view of his continual rejections. This foundation lets Rob navigate us through the specifics of a series of very different types of relationships, all of which ring true to anyone with relationship experience. Moments like the one with Rob standing outside in the pouring rain shouting "CHARLIE, YOU FUCKING BITCH, LET'S WORK IT OUT!" up to a half-dressed Charlie in her apartment ring true not so much naturalistically, but emotionally.

High Fidelity as a whole is expert at examining the anguish and the glory that goes with the defeats and victories of twenty-something romance, meanwhile combining it with the nuances of the collector's culture that goes along with hanging around a record store. The film works as a kind of companion piece to Alan Zweig's potent documentary/confessional Vinyl, both films seek to explain the comfort provided by collections of objects, preferably organized esoterically and their contents kept intimately familiar. While High Fidelity is a glamorous depiction of this affliction, portraying the more tedious existences of record store employees Dick (Todd Louiso) and Barry (Jack Black) as still of some worth and value, from Dick's coy romance with Anna to Barry's explosively compelling cover version of Marvin Gaye's Let's Get it On which closes the film, and pitting these moments against the witty, self-aware and self-deprecating humor of Rob, Vinyl is a more raw, visceral experiment in disclosing just what music geeks care about if we go with the presumption that it is not, in fact, music. This would make Vinyl the superior film on the subject if it were High Fidelity's sole concern, but luckily for the viewer the film is simply couched in musical knowledge, allowing us to garner many of the uncomfortable truths about male existence in this time period.

What makes High Fidelity such a superior example of a romantic comedy, and therefore a superior example of mainstream film in general, is its refusal to fall into the usual genre tropes. It eschews the usual reconciliation scene with fireworks and orchestral swoons, instead opting for the more realistic approach of a kind of gentle, unromantic and exhaustive embrace after Laura's severe emotional trauma. This take on the subject matter is evidence of a much more restrained hand behind the camera, even more so than in Frears' earlier effort The Grifters. If Frears shows a more even-handed interest in the material of High Fidelity, the credit must be given to the source novel's rich and compelling text, a book which divulges far too many minute details of the inner workings of the twenty-something pop culture enthusiast to have been a fluke.

Although I've established that the film has an emotional weight to it much more powerful than most romantic comedies of its era, I have to emphasize just how much High Fidelity depends on the casual camaraderie of the three male leads, Cusack, Louiso and Black. These three function in a highly entertaining and true-to-life fashion, using culturally acceptable discourse to provide insight into their characters. Take for instance the scene where they all discuss the songs they want played at their funeral. Rob's choices are saccharine, cheesy and a bit on-the-nose, but he's a sucker for that kind of thing and it illuminates how romantically driven his character is. Barry, on the other hand, picks Madness' One Step Beyond, a completely inappropriate and goofy choice; much like Barry himself. These character traits might seem at odds with the personalities they are beholden to at times, but thanks to the phenomenal acting of Cusack, Louiso and Black we are lulled into complete understanding of their multi-dimensional personas. Add an infectious soundtrack to the already excellent end product, and High Fidelity stands as an awesome example of pop culture romance with more than a little truth in the mix.
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High Fidelity at Amazon.

2009 Year End List

2010-01-19T23:52:00.000-08:00

2009 was a shitty year, but that's okay. Movie-wise it was great. I discovered an unending love for esoteric Canadian cinema, a love nurtured by my premature appreciation of Guy Maddin's manifestations of the retro-fantastic and Cronenberg's perilous melding of the physical and the technological, both gateways which led me in drastically different directions in a single nation's bizarrely encompassing cinema. Go Canada, I suppose. Beyond Canada, I saw some Hungarian films which weren't Bela Tarr's (the big name being Miklos Jancso), I read a book on Brazillian film which I can't really apply to my viewing as I've only seen about three examples up to this point.

Theatrically 2009 was a huge step up from the previous year, although there was no clear cut, dominating film like My Winnipeg, this year instead brought us excellent additions to the oeuvres of many an established master (Wajda, Herzog, Haneke), and debuts from more than a few extremely talented filmmakers. Without further adieu, I give you what I consider to be the top fifteen (!) 2009 releases, of which more than a few were released in their native country as far back as 2006, but only recently received Vancouver premieres.

(Addendum: I'll be ranking these from bottom to top this time around, as last year's post was a little anti-climactic)

15. The Forbidden Door
Starting off the list is one of the more visually sumptuous films I've seen in quite a while, with cinematography aping the suburban utopia of Lynch and the cold, clinical grand scope of Suchitzky-era Cronenberg. A horror film that earns its every wince, The Forbidden Door is seeped in menace from its opening frames. Although a misguided postscript nearly derails all that came before it, the film's pre-conclusion conclusion (henceforth referred to as the point in the film I turn the DVD off) is as shockingly gruesome and effective as any I'd seen this year.

14. Sweetgrass
Sweetgrass is one of those rare documentaries that truly embraces that which makes the form separate from traditional filmmaking, eschewing a conventional narrative for a more informative, sweeping exploration of the expanses of Sweet Grass county. The film follows a group of shepherds on their final journey through the Beartooth Mountains of Montana, a lonely trail which delivers the kind of iconography deserving of a Ford western. That the film's only semblance of a plot concerns the disappearance of several of the sheep only serves to enhance the moment when the mystery is solved in an unassuming, brilliantly edited sequence. If some iffy composition betrays the film's overall effect it is to no great detriment as Sweetgrass (with the help of first-time filmmakers and Harvard professors Ilisa Barbash and Lucien Castaing Taylor) has already established itself as a force to be reckoned with, a simple but elegant piece of cinema.

13. The Sound of Insects
There are few films that offer as harrowing an experience as The Sound of Insects, subtitled Record of a Mummy, the brutal combination of Masahiko Shimada's Until I am a Mummy and the actual story of a perfectly preserved anonymous decedent. Director Peter Liechti utilizes the measured voice of Peter Mettler as narrator, describing the minute details the 'protagonist' (if you can call him that) comes to acknowledge through his impending death, along with a phantasmagoric approach to the death itself. Black and white footage of figures in the distance, city folk wandering the streets, the inside of a tent being hammered by rain, all bleed together to form a strangely cohesive vision of voluntary submission, the awesome power of simply giving up. Here the protagonist ventures into the forest to find death, bringing nothing with him to eat, simply drinking water and reading as his time slowly evaporates. A hopeless and ultimately very bleak picture, The Sound of Insects is as brazen a film as is necessary to tell such a disparaging story and it benefits from its own boldness.

12. The Road
John Hillcoat is a powerful director who consistently produces quality filmmaking that is both entertaining and relentless in its adherence to his vision. With Ghosts... of the Civil Dead he presented prison life as it rarely had been before, as a lonely, desperate existence heightened only by pornography, violence and insanity. Nearly twenty years after Ghosts... of the Civil Dead he unleashed the awe-inspiring tour-de-force that was The Proposition, easily the greatest western since Unforgiven. While in the process of making his first truly mainstream picture, if you can call it that, he took on the task of adapting a beloved bestseller by one of the masters of sparsity and evocative prose, Cormac McCarthy. Faithfully adhering to The Road's undeniably compelling narrative while adding several controversial flourishes of his own --flourishes which happen to make the film, in my opinion-- Hillcoat proved that he's certainly not a one-note director, and while The Road may not be a masterpiece it is an impressive adaptation and one which will only grow in stature as the years pass.

11. Moon
Sam Rockwell is a revelation in Duncan Jones' brilliantly executed debut, Moon, inhabiting a character of remarkable depth whom I would have considered far beyond his reach before seeing him in the role. The film is a throwback to the thoughtful, progressive sci-fi of the seventies, completely obliterating the mindless action and predatory aliens that has dominated the last decade's cinematic explorations of outer space. Visually, Moon is utterly triumphant, from the space station models to the advanced twinning effects (eerily reminiscent of Dead Ringers), we feel as submersed in Moon as we have in all of the greatest sci-fi films. If Moon fails to truly earn a spot in the pantheon of the greatest sci-fi films to which it aspires to, we cannot blame its modest scope or its excellently realized setting, but rather the peers to which it seeks comparison. Paranoia, identity, morality, corporate greed and natural resources, all get a good going over here, but what makes Moon such a blast to watch is its aesthetic complexity, a complexity earned by imitating the masters. Though no innovation can be found here, Moon provides a helpful reminder that good story-telling is the catalyst for all great films, no matter what the budget.

10. Katyn
Exiting the theater after watching Katyn I experienced a peculiar sensation, that of a mysterious dread, particularly related to being shot in the back of the head. Wajda's film is an expose on the realities of the Katyn massacre, proving the morally repugnant tactics used by the Soviet Union during the war. Katyn is mostly structured around the female characters as they are affected by their husbands'/fathers'/brothers' disappearances, but it is so much more than just a traditional narrative. Here, Wajda chooses to attack our senses with incomputable sorrow, super-saturating us with the kind of depressing emotional manipulation that Lars Von Trier traffics in but without the melodrama. Wajda makes us feel every gunshot wound, every surge of adrenaline as a stand is made, every disgusting remark spat at the unfortunate. Katyn is an incredibly empathetic film and it is for this reason that it impresses upon us the desire to recoil, even physically, from its subject matter. With such an ability to demand reaction, it is no surprise that Katyn begins Octopus Cinema's top ten.

9. As the Shadow
As the Shadow's Vancouver premiere went unremarked upon as it appeared in the European Union Film Festival at the Pacific Cinematheque, but for no good reason. Formidable Italian director Marina Spada touches upon territory previously explored by Haneke in Cache and Sluizer in The Vanishing, first the irrelevance and unlikeliness of a mystery's neat and tidy conclusion, second the unbearable dread and surprise of a sudden disappearance. As the Shadow follows Claudia, a travel agent swept up in the ennui of adulthood, despairing at the thought of facing the rest of her life alone, but offered excitement through her Russian teacher, Boris, who arranges to have his cousin Olga live at her house for a few days. Days turn to weeks, but Boris does not return for Olga, and though the protagonists of Spada's film only know eachother a short while, we believe not only in their amicable friendship, but also in the lurid implications of Olga's abrupt exit from the film. As the Shadow demonstrates the poise and followthrough necessary to deliver an incredibly effective thriller in a new and rather sublime fashion.

8. Polytechnique
Named the best Canadian feature of the year by the Toronto Film Critics Association, Polytechnique is a brutal depiction of the infamous events which occurred at Ecole Polytechnique in early December 1989 with little emphasis on the explanation or any real examination of the massacre, but more on the results. Three remarkable young actors turn in subtle and nuanced performances as the students whom director Denis Villeneuve chooses to follow around for the film's scant 77 minute runtime, one of them slowly building his will and his aggravation to the point of explosion, the others cluelessly ambushed by the antagonist's actions. Compared to Gus Van Sant's vastly inferior Elephant, Polytechnique is exemplary in its use of black and white photography as well as its minimalist approach to incredibly complex and emotional subject matter.

7. Public Enemies
Decried by some as a digital failure of epic proportions, to me Public Enemies represented the best Michael Mann film since The Insider, and that is high praise indeed. Johnny Depp turns in his most powerful performance to date as charismatic gangster John Dillinger, in this version a man who is drawn to Billie Frusciante (Marion Cotillard) not only for her extravagant beauty and charm, but also in the obstacles she erects between him and his goals. Life is more difficult with Billie to worry about, but Dillinger is unable to abandon her physically or mentally, instead he is sabotaged by her constant presence in his thoughts. This approach to Dillinger is a fascinating one, and while I wouldn't call it as masterful as the Warren Oates vehicle of the seventies, Dillinger, it is certainly an excellent addition to an already expansive legacy. That Christian Bale appears without his usual cringe-worthy gritted teeth and exasperated demeanor speaks volumes to Mann's abilities, and the entire film benefits from this restraint and precision not only in its performances but also in its pacing. Public Enemies may be an understandably divisive film, but it is without a doubt a worthwhile effort, even if it only succeeds in breeding discussion.

6. Adoration
Elliptical, multi-layered and sparsely told, Adoration is a return to form for the structurally experimental Egoyan, this time using roundabout methods to examine prejudice in a post-9/11 world, meanwhile tackling technology in a way that borders on didacticism but completely without pretense. Technology is such an obstacle for contemporary film that the universally accepted approach appears to be ignoring it in total, but here Egoyan follows Scorsese's route (who, with The Departed, made great progress in the usage of cellular technology in film) and presents technology as something of worth cinematically, something valued and interesting and too integral in our lives to ignore. That he partners this so economically with the thematic implications of the story's central prejudices provides us evidence that Egoyan is at the top of his game and those who feel he's fallen from the top are simply falling behind.

5. Bad Lieutenant: Port of Call New Orleans
The most ludicrous film on the list, Werner Herzog's pseudo-remake of Abel Ferrara's Bad Lieutenant is a masterpiece of feverish intensity, a hilarious character study of a sociopathic, drug-obsessed sexual deviant who happens to be a newly promoted lieutenant on the New Orleans police force. Nicholas Cage --channeling someone much more devious and much less wacky than his usual persona-- imbues the character with a heretofore unacknowledged charisma, often bursting into fits of laughter for reasons just beyond the veil of the logical. Cage oscillates between moments of poignancy and moments of utter ridiculousness, but Herzog ensures that he never touches a false note. Even a late in the game sequence in which everything seems to go a little too right for the titular lieutenant feels emotionally resonant, and incredibly unpredictable at the same time. Spontaneous, miraculous and at times fucking brilliant, Herzog's spin on the crime thriller is a worthy detour for a man so unique he is unable to filter his personality, even when filming lizards.

4. The White Ribbon
Winner of the palme d'or at Cannes 2009, The White Ribbon is the incredibly accomplished period drama from the indomitable Michael Haneke, melding his off-kilter cinema of separation with a warmer, more approachable kind of filmmaking than he has ever ventured into. Here Haneke downplays his usual isolating camera techniques, no longer separating limbs from their bodies, instead he seems to approach the material with a much more open view of the totality of events, choosing instead to implicate his characters with the negativity of their surroundings. Concerned primarily with a group of schoolchildren in a small town in prewar Germany, The White Ribbon is as Bergmanesque as Haneke gets, taking on that Swedish master's favorite twin subjects; religion and shame. Through extensive testing Haneke also proved himself adept at finding the exact right actor for demanding roles, from the weakened position of the narrating schoolteacher to the extraordinary figure of authority in the Pastor, Haneke produces brilliant performances from unassuming actors, especially when considering the children who all appear 'of-the-period' as well as rigidly disciplined yet childish.

3. The Man from London
Tarr being my favorite living director, The Man from London's presence on this list was kind of a no-brainer. Though the film is not as devastating as some of his other works, it is as visually immersive as any, and much more accessible than Tarr had ever allowed himself to be. Though the traditional story structure of this crime drama may weaken its more subversive qualities, Tarr is still a filmmaker of the highest caliber, able to transcend the normative in order to express the abject, communicating in methods completely at odds with traditional filmmaking. The Man from London showcases none of Tarr's usual interest in the sublime everydayness of lower class living, instead focusing on the rotten relationships the protagonist has established prior to the film's beginning and which continue to erode even after he has retrieved a large sum of money from the water near his work at the port. There is little relief even in moments of supposed levity, and Tarr continues unabated with his bleak worldview whether we are prepared or not. Death is of incredible importance to Tarr and even now he refuses to let us off the hook for even one moment of violent excitement, holding us accountable by way of seemingly unendurable tension.

2. Jermal
Jermal blindsided me. What I expected to be a run-of-the-mill father reunites with son story in an exotic locale offered so much more depth and unsettling beauty that I found myself speechless by the end of the screening at the Vancouver International Film Festival. Featuring excellent performances by a cast of unknowns, Jermal is one of the most believable, emotionally true films that examine the relationship between father and son I've seen in years. The trio of directors behind this incredibly poignant behemoth (Ravi L. Bharwani, Rayya Makarim and Orlow Seunke) show such poise and discretion its impressive just how formidable Jermal becomes. Beautifully shot in a setting that is simply to die for, Bharwani, Makarim and Seunke are all aware of the story's importance, especially the boy's maturing into a young adult, and so place that at the center of every scene. This cohesion works to great effect, strengthening the film's core to the point of excellence.

1. Pontypool
Who would have thought that the standout for me in 2009 would be a low-budget Canadian zombie movie? Well, those who know me, for one. Bruce McDonald's early work is among my favorite Canadian films of all time (Roadkill and Highway 61 in particular) and here he returns to his low budget roots after a foray into more teenage and uncontroversial fare with The Tracey Fragments. But even when given the easy equation of low budget + zombies, McDonald chooses to push the envelope, completely obliterating all the zombie rules, instead taking us on an odyssey through the dangers of language, of communication in general. While some zombie fanatics may cry foul on McDonald's take on zombie cinema (provided for him by novelist Tony Burgess) here I see nothing to dislike, including a lead performance that is so charismatic and enduring I believe it will be a hallmark in both McDonald and Stephen McHattie's careers (both of which I hope continue for a long, long time uninterrupted). Excellent filmmaking structured around a fascinating and innovative idea, Pontypool is the best kind of thoughtful horror film, using both the power of suggestion and the power of complete divulgence to incredible dual effect.

Ghosts... of the Civil Dead

2009-12-22T00:16:00.000-08:00

Ghosts... of the Civil Dead - 1988 - 93 minutes - Directed by John Hillcoat
Starring David Field, Mike Bishop, Chris DeRose, Kevin Mackey, Dave Mason, Nick Cave

Ghosts... of the Civil Dead is a dark, harrowing pre-cursor to Hillcoat's later work, utilizing documentary style techniques to illustrate the devastation wrought by and against prisoners in an Australian maximum security prison. The film is unwavering in its depiction of such brutal events that the audience is stunned by both Hillcoat's willingness to bring us into this filthy, unsympathetic world of disgust and exploitation, as well as his ability to bring beauty to its cold and menacing exteriors. The prison itself is a monument to progress, at least to the 1980s' idea of progress, the only thing more commonly shown than clunky digital read outs is the rampant pornography, the constant need for sexual release abated by continuous stimulation. The prisoners are drunk on what is one of their few remaining outlets, and as the powers that be remove their possessions, their access to media, and their drugs, they become startlingly sober and aware of a world that has been crafted specifically against their better interests.The system's intentions have been corroded so deeply and so thoroughly that it now instigates violence through a combination of deprivation and aggravation, mixing the general population of the prison with the psychotics, no better exemplified than by Nick Cave's Maynard, a sickening racist psychopath whose singular trait is an abrasive need for attention, exercised so repeatedly that he drives other inmates into a frantic state of paranoia. While the film has no traditional protagonist, we can feel Hillcoat's sympathy is blatantly on the side of the prisoners and the guards, the pawns in a power struggle occurring far from the film's setting. Manipulation is evident in every frame of the film, from the system's outrageous demands which applies enough pressure as to force the general population to fragment, forming assassination squads and carrying out various misdeeds.

Hillcoat's take on the prison system is a remarkable one for its breadth, he (along with co-writers Cave, Gene Conkie, Evan English and Hugo Race) approaches the inherent corruption of authority with an understandably bleak perspective, one which refuses to allow any wiggle room for the difficulty of the prevailing political climate. In Ghosts... of the Civil Dead, he submits to the belief that the political machinations behind all systems of government are selfish, morally bankrupt institutions which are more malicious than the worst criminals Australian society has to offer (Australia here working quite well as a stand-in for every nation where justice is tied in with profit). As the film progresses this vision becomes increasingly harrowing and those elements which begin the film as untrustworthy or as unstable are soon out of control, chaotic representatives of a damaged whole.

The film's mise-en-scene is particularly striking, Hillcoat striving for singular images which stick out in the mind as opposed to completely naturalistic sequences. His usage of surveillance footage combined with documentary style close ups combine to advance his thematic concerns, and while this style can put quite a strain on the narrative, Hillcoat side-steps this obstacle by developing an almost intuitive rhythmic balance, alternating between the visibly artificial and the wholly realistic. Where the film fails, however, is in its approach to the more climactic sequences where tension is amplified considerably with the threat of violence, violence which largely appears explosive. Although we get a sense in at least two sequences of the kind of vulnerability those who are confined are subject to, this vulnerability is never combined with the more frantic scenes, nullifying what could've been a powerful effect on certain centerpiece action scenes.For a first feature Ghosts... of the Civil Dead is exemplary of the kind of innovative cinema which I relish, the perfect usage of the kind of freedom few filmmakers have once establishing their reputation. While not as stunning or as cohesive as The Proposition, nor as relentless and eloquent as The Road, Ghosts... of the Civil Dead is powerful filmmaking from a very confident, sure-footed young director. At no point does the film seem indecisive, or even remotely cautious. Hillcoat refuses to play it safe, and when dealing with such a divisive issue this is often the best approach. Ghosts... of the Civil Dead works for several reasons, from Hillcoat's strong composition to the universally excellent acting (accentuated by the multitude of performances from real ex-convicts, prison guards and the like), from the exhaustive dialogue to the mish-mash of visual styles. An eclectic mix but one which is more than effective.
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Ghosts of the Civil Dead at Amazon.

Michael Shannon on My Son, My Son What Have Ye Done

2009-12-12T12:49:00.000-08:00

"This is not a guy who would have a very sophisticated point of view. I mean, he ran a sword through his mother’s chest."
-Michael Shannon

The Road

2009-11-29T05:21:00.000-08:00

The Road - 2009 - 112 minutes - Directed by John Hillcoat
Starring Viggo Mortensen, Kodi Smit-McPhee, Charlize Theron, Michael K. Williams, Robert Duvall, Garret Dillahunt, Guy Pearce

John Hillcoat's adaptation of Cormac McCarthy's award winning novel The Road is about as excellent a film as that equation suggests. What is lost of McCarthy's sparse, almost indifferent prose is something which lies between the narrative and the dialogue, something more abstract and immaterial than could be transferred to the screen. Luckily, Hillcoat recognizes the loss of the poetics and compensates the viewer with his own visual take on the source material, never really deviating in structure from the book thanks to its already strong plotting, but delving into the extremely bleak and disheartening material with no hesitation. While Hillcoat's reliance on flashbacks have been questioned by some, I found the contrast between The Man (Viggo Mortensen) and The Boy's (Kodi Smit-McPhee) existence before their Wife/Mother (Charlize Theron) left to be vastly different comparatively and ultimately the flashbacks serve to illuminate the crux of The Man's personality; he is dead without The Boy. The flashbacks are often presented as dreams, cutting to and fro between reality and memory with a dramatic opening of The Man's eyes, and once the Boy admits to having bad dreams The Man encourages this, saying that he only has to worry when he begins to dream of good things, such as their life prior to his wife's abrupt departure.Much had been made during the months leading up to the film's production of the abundance of wonderful actors who would be joining the cast, from the protagonist of Hillcoat's previous film The Proposition (and one of the most underrated films of the 00s), Guy Pearce, to the charismatic Robin Hood figure from The Wire, Michael K. Williams, all the way through to the masterful character actor Robert Duvall. Speculation was rampant that the characters that they played would have enlarged role, at least one of them taking on co-star status. These reports are proven false by the film's wise and carefully designed adherence to the novel, keeping each character who drifts into the father and son's lives as a minor one, easily left behind with no attention paid to their stature or abilities. Hillcoat's ability to disengage from the star power of his actors is an incredibly important one, and it pays off thanks to the commendable efforts of the cast. Michael K. Williams in particular stands out as a lonely thief haunting the beach on which the pair settle on, eventually left naked on the side of the road weeping for his lost belongings.

Although the film is utterly post-apocalyptic and steeps itself in the imagery of a world as foreign to us as any we could imagine, a primal universe where the only remaining morality lives in the hearts of children and old men, we are -as McCarthy intended- never given reasons behind the grim fate which has taken hold of the Earth. While the novel hints at environmental concerns, the film eschews some of the more aesthetically pleasing gestures (such as the breathing masks) which the book contained in order to heighten the mystery and the bleakness. Thus The Man and The Boy are left wandering the road after an unnameable and unidentifiable catastrophe has struck the Earth, heading for the sea with nothing but the hope that they remain 'the good guys' and the fire they carry inside of them. This lonesome situation leaves room for endless iconography which Hillcoat supplies in the most creative fashion possible under the circumstances. Whether as silhouettes on the horizon or huddled together in close up, the two central characters provide awkward but strangely graceful movements for the camera to capture.Approaching the morose, harrowing and unforgiving plot of The Road with none of the cheap sentimentality that usually accompanies Hollywood adaptations is a feat of much gravitas, but it ultimately makes for a much more effective and striking picture. Of course this atmosphere of oppression and survivalism would be nothing without superb acting from Viggo and Kodi, the two carry the picture with great ease making it look painful and exhausting as they trek through the devastated wasteland. In one of the film's most touching sequences, the two explore a house until The Boy shrieks with fright. The Man rushes over to his side to find a mirror, the Boy having been startled by his own reflection. "We look skinny." The Boy says. "We are skinny." The Man replies. This diagnosis is confirmed by a scene where the two bathe, Mortensen's vertebrae protruding like knuckles along with Smit-McPhee's ribs.

One of the most interesting aspects of the film is its fluidity despite a series of severe changes in action, from long lulls where the two walk alone through fields and discuss minor differences between them to the feral charge of their encounter with several survivors' captives. In a world populated by cannibals and the amoral, it is difficult to find hope anywhere, yet Hillcoat manages to maneuver the protagonists through danger and back to safety, only to be so vicious as to plunge them back into the darkness almost immediately. Like a drowning victim popping up for air less and less frequently, The Road is harrowing in its persistence, the more muffled screams and gasps we hear the less we hope for the best. Though the film is a frantically dark one, it is an eventful one, emotionally if not in plot.The Road accomplishes something that few Hollywood epics ever do, especially ones that are so large in scope; it appears unglamorous and lived in. The pair's clothing looks old and rotten, their faces are marked with dirt and weariness, their gestures are slow as if weighted. The environment is drab and ugly, and the few products peppering the film's cold landscape appear dusty and ugly but irreplaceable; as the book referenced Coca Cola, we would hardly be as affected by these scenes of hope in products were they to be unfamiliar to us; to ignore one of the plagues of our times would be to ignore the reality of what our civilization would leave behind were it to be destroyed; a whole lot of brand names. Hillcoat and McCarthy make an unlikely great pairing, and thanks to the former's brilliant source material and the latter's unrelenting control (not to mention his eye for casting and his ear for scoring) we are left with an unrelenting film which will divide audiences and critics alike.
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The Road at Amazon.

Holiday Quiz

2009-11-28T01:13:00.000-08:00

I don't really do quizzes all that much, much less on my movie blog, but I saw this on Only the Cinema and decided to give it a go. It's a holiday quiz from the fellas behind Sergio Leone and the Infield Fly Rule.

1) Second-favorite Coen Brothers movie.
I'm not the Coen Brothers fan that most of my peers are but I do like Miller's Crossing and The Big Lebowski, so I guess I'll go with the latter.

2) Movie seen only on home format that you would pay to see on the biggest movie screen possible? (Question submitted by Peter Nellhaus)
Damnation.

3) Japan or France? (Question submitted by Bob Westal)
Japan, if only for Kurosawa. Sorry, Renoir.

4) Favorite moment/line from a western.
The moment went John Wayne burns down his house in The Man Who Shot Liberty Valance.

5) Of all the arts the movies draw upon to become what they are, which is the most important, or the one you value most?
Composition. Poor composition sinks ships.

6) Most misunderstood movie of the 2000s (The Naughties?).
Spider (2002, Cronenberg) should've been a massive hit or at least a beloved cult film. Now most people consider it the beginning of Cronenberg's (nonexistent) downward spiral.

7) Name a filmmaker/actor/actress/film you once unashamedly loved who has fallen furthest in your esteem.
George Lucas. When I was a kid, Star Wars was the be all and end all. Now I don't even own a copy.

8) Herbert Lom or Patrick Magee?
Herbert Lom!

9) Which is your least favorite David Lynch film (Submitted by Tony Dayoub)
Dune

10) Gordon Willis or Conrad Hall? (Submitted by Peet Gelderblom)
Willis' work, even in Godfather III, is pretty amazing. Hall is much less consistent.

11) Second favorite Don Siegel movie.
The Killers by a hair.

12) Last movie you saw on DVD/Blu-ray? In theaters?
On DVD: Waydowntown, In theathers: The Road.

13) Which DVD in your private collection screams hardest to be replaced by a Blu-ray? (Submitted by Peet Gelderblom)
Well I always think I should get a blu-ray player to watch The Searchers on.

14) Eddie Deezen or Christopher Mintz-Plasse?
Have to give it to Eugene!

15) Actor/actress who you feel automatically elevates whatever project they are in, or whom you would watch in virtually anything.
Michael Shannon. I'd watch the dude in anything.

16) Fight Club -- yes or no?
No.

17) Teresa Wright or Olivia De Havilland?
Teresa Wright, if only for Shadow of a Doubt.

18) Favorite moment/line from a film noir.
"He was some kind of a man... What does it matter what you say about people?"

19) Best (or worst) death scene involving an obvious dummy substituting for a human or any other unsuccessful special effect(s)—see the wonderful blog Destructible Man for inspiration.
I have a soft spot for the weirdly artificial body that explodes with cancer in Videodrome.

20) What's the least you've spent on a film and still regretted it? (Submitted by Lucas McNelly)
4 bucks on The Strangers was pretty pitiful.

21) Van Johnson or Van Heflin?
Van Heflin.

22) Favorite Alan Rudolph film.
Pass.

23) Name a documentary that you believe more people should see.
I, Curmudgeon by Alan Zweig. Nothing like seeing a whole lot of people try to figure out their own negativity in variable levels of articulation.

24) In deference to this quiz’s professor, name a favorite film which revolves around someone becoming stranded.
Hell in the Pacific.

25) Is there a moment when your knowledge of film, or lack thereof, caused you an unusual degree of embarrassment and/or humiliation? If so, please share.
Every time someone asks me about Boondock Saints II and I have to explain why I don't like the first one.

26) Ann Sheridan or Geraldine Fitzgerald? (Submitted by Larry Aydlette)
Geraldine Fitzgerald. I love Dark Victory, I love The Pawnbroker.

27) Do you or any of your family members physically resemble movie actors or other notable figures in the film world? If so, who?
No, not really. Maybe Oliver Platt.

28) Is there a movie you have purposely avoided seeing? If so, why?
Twilight. Vampires don't glitter in the daytime, I'm sorry, they just don't.

29) Movie with the most palpable or otherwise effective wintry atmosphere or ambience.
Careful!

30) Gerrit Graham or Jeffrey Jones?
Jeffrey Jones has his moments now and again.

31) The best cinematic antidote to a cultural stereotype (sexual, political, regional, whatever).
Ikiru counteracts the stereotype that life after a certain point is hardly worth living. *sigh*

32) Second favorite John Wayne movie.
Oh dear God that's tough. If Liberty Valance is number one, then... I guess Rio Grande. Or maybe Rio Bravo. Ugh, that's difficult.

33) Favorite movie car chase.
French Connection set the bar, and no one has ever surpassed it.

34) In the spirit of His Girl Friday, propose a gender-switched remake of a classic or not-so-classic film. (Submitted by Patrick Robbins)
In terms of upsetting the balance (and theme) of a film, consider a remake of The Wages of Fear where Mario (Yves Montand) was played by a woman and Jo (Charles Vanel) remained the same.

35) Barbara Rhoades or Barbara Feldon?
Pass.

36) Favorite Andre De Toth movie.
Crime Wave.

37) If you could take one filmmaker's entire body of work and erase it from all time and memory, as if it had never happened, whose oeuvre would it be? (Submitted by Tom Sutpen)
I may dislike a whole lot of directors, but that doesn't mean I want other people to stop enjoying them. I'll just continue to be confused why they like them.

38) Name a film you actively hated when you first encountered it, only to see it again later in life and fall in love with it.
Mulholland Drive. When I was 16 I thought it was college "art" that someone made to prove they were smart. Then I grew up, saw Blue Velvet, and re-evaluated.

39) Max Ophuls or Marcel Ophuls? (Submitted by Tom Sutpen)
Max, I suppose.

40) In which club would you most want an active membership, the Delta Tau Chi fraternity, the Cutters or the Warriors? And which member would you most resemble, either physically or in personality?
I guess the Delta Tau Chi, I still have a fondness for John Belushi. And pass on the resemblance.

41) Your favorite movie cliché.
The horror cliche of the old man warning the younger folks of the doom they've stumbled into.

42) Vincente Minnelli or Stanley Donen? (Submitted by Bob Westal)
Donen, easy.

43) Favorite Christmas-themed horror movie or sequence.
There's that one sequence in Scrooged with the huge creepy Ghost Christmas Future that oddly resembles death. That was vaguely horrifying, and I still love it.

44) Favorite moment of self- or selfless sacrifice in a movie.
When Doctor Bock sacrifices his future with Barbara Drummond for the sake of his hospital in The Hospital.

45) If you were the cinematic Spanish Inquisition, which movie cult (or cult movie) would you decimate? (Submitted by Bob Westal)
Probably the Saw franchise.

46) Caroline Munro or Veronica Carlson?
Veronica Carlson.

47) Favorite eye-patch wearing director. (Submitted by Patty Cozzalio)
JOHN FORD, easy.

48) Favorite ambiguous movie ending. (Original somewhat ambiguous submission---“Something about ambiguous movie endings!”-- by Jim Emerson, who may have some inspiration of his own to offer you.)
Cache.

49) In giving thanks for the movies this year, what are you most thankful for?
Tarr. Always Tarr.

50) George Kennedy or Alan North? (Submitted by Peet Gelderblom)
George Kennedy.

The Return

2009-11-24T22:03:00.000-08:00

The Return - 2003 - 105 minutes - Directed by Andrei Zvyagintsev
Starring Vladimir Garin, Ivan Dobronravov, Konstantin Lavronenko, Natalia Vdovina

Andrei Zvyagintsev's 2003 debut feature, The Return (alternatively known as Vozvrashcheniye), is about as painterly a film as has been produced in the last ten years, the director's affection for the environment bleeding through into every frame. This compelling and consistently striking imagery is made great use of thanks to the director's courageous fluidity with which he uses the camera, long sweeping shots melt into quick shaky ones, but we never get the sense that Zvyagintsev is afraid to try anything unconventional. On what has been reported as a shoestring budget (less than $500,000) Zvyagintsev released a haunting portrait of adulthood in Russia which is as effective as it might have been were its budget three times the size. The Return seems to be proud of its ability to become almost uncomfortably intimate, intruding on its protagonists' universe with ease and nonchalance, whether displaying an insignificant moment of childhood weakness or a seminal turning point in the movement towards adulthood, Zvyagintsev is willing to approach the subject matter from head on, never shying away from what may have been ignored in another --less intuitive-- director's hands.Ivan (Ivan Dobronravov) and Andrey (Vladimir Garin) are brothers who have suffered from a lack of discipline for as long as they can remember, the only patriarchal figure in their life is a dusty photograph of their father they keep hidden in a book in the attic. After a playful sequence in which Zvyagintsev allows us entry into the bond the two have constructed in place of a father, we watch as the younger brother Ivan is overcome by cowardice and finds himself unable to leap from a tower into the water causing his older brother Andrey to taunt him as a chicken. Ivan quickly stands up for himself, contending that he is hardly a coward for disliking heights, but his brother continues and so the two begin a physical altercation which ends with the pair racing for their mother, attempting to twist the fight to their own benefit. Upon arrival they realize that their father (Konstantin Lavronenko) has returned home after 12 years away. While their dad's mysterious past is a motivating factor for much of the conversation between the two children, it is proven irrelevant by the events of the following week.

After their first supper with their long lost relative, Dad offers to take them on a fishing trip. Their mother acquiesces to this request and the three set out promptly, their relationships almost immediately solidifying; Ivan is dismissive and hateful of his father, Andrey is openly submissive while their father clearly has some sort of alternative motive for taking them on the trip. Ivan's defiance becomes more and more prevalent and their father continually reacts poorly to it, leaving him behind on a small bridge for several hours when he complains about the lack of fishing on their trip. As the journey continues and the boys become more and more attached to their father, the dad becomes more demanding and irritated as the boys disobey what he deems to be easily understood orders. The long gap in which the father's absence became a more dominant figure than his presence ever could be is soon understood to be insurmountable as Andrey appears to latch onto the father, agreeing with almost everything he says and attempting to make him proud. Ivan, on the other hand, becomes more and more wary that the father will soon be on his way and that they are being exploited for unknown purposes, eventually threatening that if the father were to become violent he would happily commit murder.The Return is light on drama but well paced, the plot slowly emerging from the murky depths of oedipal impulses, contradictory emotions and hidden agendas as the boys attempt to understand the meaning of their father's reappearance. With slow, methodical and thoughtful cinematography from Mikhail Krichman, a man capable of making singular images both iconic and enigmatic, masterfully revealing inner conflict with little indication of external drama. Krichman is Zvyagintsev's most useful asset in the film, continually proving his worth by evoking the painterly landscapes we came to expect from the great Andrei Tarkovsky, albeit without the impressive patience that master constantly displayed. The combined strength of the cinematography and the direction is enough to push this film into the pantheon of contemplative cinema, slowly evoking the kind of simmering emotions that are ever-present yet never over the top.

Staggering at points, and at others quietly meditative, The Return is exactly the kind of film that Russia is renowned for producing. Audiences can expect to be impressed not only by the knowledgeable camerawork and the rigidly structured narrative, but also by the standout performance from Ivan Dobronravov as the youngest member of the family, his tortured psyche evident at all points but in a believable and childlike fashion. That his counterpart Vladimir Garin remains restrained in terms of the kind of provocative displays of emotion that Ivan often expresses is both an testament to Garin's abilities as a selfless actor, but also to Zvyagintsev's intuition in keeping their relationship lop-sided, making the film's violent climax that much more poignant and emotional. That, in the end, Ivan is the one who is really left in need of his father is revelatory, stripping his reserved facade and replacing it with the immediacy of an injured childhood.
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The Return at Amazon.

Bad Lieutenant: Port of Call New Orleans

2009-11-21T22:56:00.000-08:00

Bad Lieutenant: Port of Call New Orleans - 2009 - 121 minutes - Directed by Werner Herzog
Starring Nicholas Cage, Eva Mendes, Val Kilmer, Xzibit, Fairuza Balk, Michael Shannon, Brad Dourif, Jennifer Coolidge

Herzog is one of the most unlikely choices for director for the type of film Bad Lieutenant: Port of Call New Orleans was originally positioned to be. His anachronistic style of filmmaking, coupled with his knack for getting uniquely disturbing performances from his actors has never been considered a perfect fit for a traditional crime thriller, especially one which was initially envisioned as a remake of the Catholic guilt fest that was the original Bad Lieutenant. But when Herzog is given free reign, even on something as ostensibly traditional as Bad Lieutenant, the results will almost always be compelling and original. In this case, the film turned out interesting on every possible level, from the powerhouse centerpiece performance from the bizarrely effective Nicholas Cage to the shocking narrative interruptions that Herzog indulges in, wherein he delves into a reptilian motif so thoroughly he sees fit to actually film a scene from a lizard's point of view. This diversion might seem haughty and pretentious in another director's film, but here it seems to fit because Herzog, well, he seems to actually just be interested in the reptiles.At the core of the film is a set of partnerships, each involving newly promoted Lieutenant Terence McDonagh (Nicholas Cage) in one way or another. The first is his partnership with fellow police officer and all around vicious human being Stevie Pruit (Val Kilmer), whose utterly sober and vicious side is so much more out of control and dangerous than the drugged out, selfish and motivated McDonagh's survival based violence. McDonagh, a man so wholly self-obsessed that his only interest in other people is what they can give him (or, primarily, what he can take from them), seems almost altruistic when juxtaposed against someone as primal and sadistic as Pruit. His relationship with Pruit is a relatively simple one in which both men attempt to do evil, but McDonagh holds back on the unmotivated, blind sadism of ruthless murder or lazy negligence. As he takes the position of figurehead within his partnership, so he does in his leadership of his family. His father, an admitted alcoholic who struggles from day to day to drag himself to AA meetings, gives off no real sense of power, but rather emits a kind of odd impotence, unable to maintain his dog's health during his transition to sobriety.

McDonagh's relationship with his prostitute/girlfriend Frankie (Eva Mendes) is the most fascinating of the movie, and it is the kind of push-pull dynamic that occurs in most, if not all, unhealthy relationships. They are both drug addicts, using eachother for drugs/protection and sex/a sense of responsibility respectively. Frankie's first words upon meeting with McDonagh are often related to his procuring of drugs, but this never sours him as he is an openly manipulative person, utilizing her occupation as a prostitute to supply him with a seemingly endless line of criminal low-lives on which to prey upon. When one of these events turns ugly and ends up with a powerful enemy demanding $50,000 from McDonagh, he quickly deposits Frankie with his father and his live-in girlfriend, a drunken hypocrite named Genevieve (Jennifer Coolidge). This intrusion of his current lifestyle, one where he openly does drugs, engages in ugly, harsh and exploitative sex on the street, and commonly blackmails people he respects, upon his childhood home where he admits he imagined entire worlds of utopian piracy, worlds where treasure was everywhere, even deep in the dirt in his backyard, where he finds a sterling silver spoon. This spoon is later discovered to not be silver, but to be old and rusted, in an effective portrait of lost innocence and the inherent corruption of the criminal.

Herzog's view of this rather pathetic abuser of power is one of empathy and indulgence, he is overjoyed when Terence threatens a gangster (Xzibit) and his bodyguard with death and then cackles loudly before intoning "Til the break of dawn, baby." These endearing touches enrich McDonagh's character and do much to explain his odd charisma despite his abusive nature. The fact that the film ends in a fashion which does little to resolve McDonagh's inner conflict but goes to great lengths to dispel his external ones, especially in a phantasmagoric sequence of events where every little thing seems to go McDonagh's way, alludes to a world where crime does pay, a twisted world where the criminals are systemically integral, and that the hallucinatory cowboy streak of McDonagh's is nothing compared to the sober exploitation of Pruit. This is an oppressively dark but funnily realized vision of contemporary society, seen through the eyes of one of cinema's most distinguished and notorious outsiders.As a cohesive whole, Bad Lieutenant: Port of Call New Orleans is a well-oiled machine, each scene working towards the same ends even though it may be doing so in a thoughtful but erratic manner. The film is brilliant at times and simply entertaining in others, but Herzog never condescends to believe one is more important than the other. Herzog knows the power of entertainment, being a man who openly admits to watching wrestling, and his latest effort is another excellent entry in a devastating body of work. Featuring two small appearances from Fairuze Balk and Michael Shannon that are almost worth the price of admission alone, Bad Lieutenant: Port of Call New Orleans does well on every level large and thematic or small and experimental. In particular, the minuscule but nevertheless affecting performance by Michael Shannon as Mundt may be indicative of the quality of their next collaboration, the much anticipated My Son, My Son What Have Ye Done? but for now it serves to enhance an already intriguing and powerful film.
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Bad Lieutenant: Port of Call New Orleans at IMDB.

I, Curmudgeon

2009-11-03T22:29:00.000-08:00

I, Curmudgeon - 2004 - 94 minutes - Directed by Alan Zweig
Starring Alan Zweig, Harvey Pekar, Bruce La Bruce, Fran Lebowitz, Andrew Currie, Joe Queenan

I, Curmudgeon is structurally similar to the majority of partisan documentaries, from the floating heads passionately informing the masses on their point of view to the close ups of aged photographs while speaking of days gone by, its surface is hardly subversive in any manner. Apart from its presentation, however, the film is remarkably unique in content, as it takes an unfamiliar subject and approaches it through a mixture of humorous anecdotes, seemingly endless rants, and poignantly sad revelations. The topic is the negativity of the filmmaker Alan Zweig, and it is the second part of what he calls his 'mirror' trilogy, in which we frequently witness Zweig talking to the camera through his reflection in the mirror, camera and all. I, Curmudgeon tracks his journey to becoming a (slightly) more positive person, meanwhile exposing the convoluted existences of several other notable curmudgeons including the likes of comic icon Harvey Pekar, author and sardonic commentator Fran Lebowitz, movie critic Joe Queenan, filmmaker Andrew Currie and homosexual columnist, filmmaker, and porn star Bruce LaBruce. >The film is centered around a singular event in Zweig's social life in which he found himself at a party where a Nike commercial featuring William Burroughs was being discussed and regarded as 'cool', a reaction which he responded to with vitriol. This approximation's hyperbolic reaction caused several of the partygoers to comment on Zweig, expressing the opinion that "it's just a commercial." an idea that Zweig took to heart, perhaps too much so, while the interviewees tend to ridicule it. The Nike commercial is a fractured reflection of an earlier event in Zweig's life when he witnessed Bob Hope's old, lifeless material being delivered to the troops of Vietnam and Zweig came to realize that he was actually more upset at Hope's lack of originality or importance than at the war in general. "Though the big bad things in the world fuel my negativity here and there, the little bad things in the world are the true engine."

The film seems to be of some cathartic use for Zweig, but he is unable to pass on this therapeutic lesson to the others he speaks with, most of them having trapped themselves in their existences long ago. Alan never passes judgment on them, even the ones who refuse to exercise, watch their weight, watch their health, or even leave their homes due to an unfocused and unbridled disgust with almost all things man has encountered thus far. Most of these characters come off as both charismatic as well as lonely, separated from humanity due to their own uncompromising willingness to isolate themselves for the good of their well-being. And we come to see that those who are comfortable in their own microcosms appear healthy, unique, engaging individuals whose negativity is held at a distance, keeping them from truly being eaten away at by their philosophy. Others are miserable and unable to escape because of their utter remoteness, their complete separation from the joys of human existence. These are the people whose energy is focused on the minor inconveniences they suffer at the hands of other people, as one bemoans the use of jet skis and others pick apart commonly used phrases with no real meaning.Zweig, for the most part, is both compassionate and understanding towards his subjects, mostly because we can see the kinship he feels with them. Although he views his life as passing into the final of his transitory stages, one removed from negativity or at least from an obsession with the aforementioned negativity, we glean that the truth may be that this may not be a viable desire for a man of his vitriolic wit and candor. And worse yet, he enjoys the miserable comments and the snide remarks that make him stand out as an individual both for being bold and upfront but also for being clever and witty. His wit is matched throughout the film with several others' remarkable wits (Bruce LaBruce) while at least three of the remaining interviewees are more inclined to try and devalue everything that Zweig is attempting to hold onto (Harvey Pekar). In this way we are introduced to the dedication the curmudgeon feels for his obsessively pessimistic views and mannerisms, and we learn that this can be channelled in a plethora of different fashions.

The film itself is a joy to watch, sometimes excruciating as the loneliness of central figures comes through their speech and their helpless, dire gestures of almost complete and total submission. These moments of utter despair are contrasted with the generally upbeat tone of the film, and despite the subject matter Zweig has managed to produce a fairly positive, optimistic picture that neither sugarcoats existence nor shies away from the larger issues at hand. I, Curmudgeon acknowledges the predominant factors which lead to a curmudgeonly existence, but also includes the positive features of this lifestyle, refusing to kowtow to the general public's preconceptions about these loud-mouthed figures. The director's colloquial, friendly tone and open-ended questions make for great conversation starters and it seems he is able to keep every interviewee at ease throughout, questioning them gently and without rancor, yet still cutting to the bone of the issues he wants to deal with. Considering one of his earliest questions we can see how insightful a simple lead-in can be, the response being both comic and abrupt; "I don't mean this as like psycho analysis just how far back do you remember..."
"Hating everything?"Detailing the immense scale and "awfulness" of loneliness and "the godless universe", I, Curmudgeon makes a point of refusing to revel in misery for too long, allowing speakers to have moments of truth, humor, and insight without ever becoming preachy or dry. While dissecting entertainment in general one speaker mentions 'the fundamental human need to zone out,' and its responsibility for the way the general populace live their lives without passion. Unable to find a place amongst this majority, those who subscribe to this negative and questionable lifestyle sustain themselves through an unfaltering need to be individuals, decrying the hypocrisies and failings of our social order, even if they make no motion or effort to alter them. The consensus appears halfway through the film where it is revealed that the average human being is just 'waiting to die', and that therefore the human race is 'simply waiting to die.' This conclusion is in part arrived at by the documenting of those people who run solely on ambition, lives without purpose beyond pushing forward, and that the real difficulty of life is to lure humans away from their nature, out of their comfort zone. The analysis may seem pessimistic, and in a way it is, but Zweig's ingenious presenting of the material makes for an extraordinarily entertaining documentary, even if it is a tad on the conventional side in terms of aesthetics.
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I, Curmudgeon at IMDB.

The Man from London

2009-10-13T19:04:00.000-07:00

The Man From London - 2007 - 133 minutes - Directed by Bela Tarr
Starring Miroslav Krobot, Tilda Swinton, Agi Szirtes, Janos Derzsi, Erika Bok, István Lénárt

Not since my beloved Damnation has Bela Tarr been able to make a film into such a brooding slow burn as he does here in The Man From London, his 2007 effort which returns to the obsessions and fascinations he first presented so eloquently in the aforementioned Damnation. Dwelling on subject matter he has previously dealt with such as the fragility of man and the effect criminal activity can have on the average citizen, The Man From London is unique in his purposeful extension of its narrative. Whereas in Damnation Tarr does well to leave the minimal plot as banal and simplistic as possible, here he ventures into a more complicated and traditional narrative. While this would harken a downward spiral for most directors, Tarr is able to balance the more conventional elements of his storytelling with the indefinable beauty of his previous, more experimental works.The Man From London is also one of Tarr's most visually dense efforts, its combination of chiaroscuro lighting and brutal if expansive settings making for a unique and inimitable backdrop for the compelling human drama he so effortlessly creates. The looming darkness of the absolute shadows Tarr utilizes so brilliantly alludes to a fatalistic turn of events, an oppressively dark and brooding chaos that invades the characters' routines and day-to-day rituals. Exhibiting the visceral and raw depiction of a relationship in decline as he had in The Prefab People, Tarr contrasts painful moments of shrill arguments with slow, calming scenes with little to no dialogue. Tarr's skillset runs the gamut of filmmaking and he makes use of every tool at hand to make for an entertaining but abrasive work of staggering conflict.

After witnessing a particularly violent if awkward altercation which leads to a murder at the dock where he works, Maloin (Miroslav Krobot) goes down to the water with a pole to drag the area. He retrieves a satchel of British Sterling currency which he promptly dries out and hides away. Seeing the money as an escape from a dreary and uneventful existence, Maloin is given cause to pull his daughter, Henriette (Erika Bok) from her job which he considers akin to slavery, where she cleans up like a servant and where any man can 'gawk at her arse.' Although this is an understandable choice and a justifiable one, his wife (Tilda Swinton) takes offense and protests his sudden decision to spend what she perceives to be all of their money and simultaneously ruin Henriette's chances at any other gainful employment by immediately and somewhat violently removing her from her occupation.Nerve wracking but never in a self aware way, The Man from London is completely antithetical to the thrills typical of Hitchcock and his ilk, never drawing attention to the tension, the fright, the anticipation of his rather cerebral exploration of the tempestuous events Maloin is a witness to and takes part of. Tarr is a master of achieving powerful results with minimal plotting, so while you find yourself drawn into the story it is difficult to pinpoint exactly why or what is keeping our interest so intently focused on the screen. Although Tarr's films hardly ever lend themselves to the selfish drama which accompanies most movie stars and their performances, The Man From London sees Tilda Swinton assimilated into his usual cast of peripheral characters quite nicely. While her reputation may draw our attention to her, she never appears to be encouraging this focus, instead choosing to rise with the material into a more universal, less transitory level of cinema. However, even amongst the star caliber of Swinton, the real standout here is lead actor Miroslav Krobot who paints a dreary portrait of a man exhausted with life, particularly with his living conditions. Krobot is able to give those slow, mournful moments in which Tarr maneuvers around his characters by tiny increments an added depth, one which is at times both striking and courageous. Krobot seems to be bearing his soul for us to see as he viciously argues with his wife, the threat of violence becoming more and more apparent as the conversations develop.

While Tarr may allow his characters and the situations they find themselves in to become frantic and chaotic, his camera never ventures into the same territory. With a skill unmatched in contemporary cinema, Tarr is able to steadily move the film along with little notice of the conventions which plague modern day film. This effect, which adds to Tarr's singularity as a filmmaker, is accentuated by the marked pacing and frequent close ups Tarr indulges in. Weather spattered satchels and faces are juxtaposed against their starkly lit and isolated environments to great effect which is beautifully shot by Tarr's astounding cinematographer Fred Kelemen. Often shooting in profile and in close up, Kelemen does excellent work with the characters who are so often communicating through gestures or expressions as opposed to action and dialogue. This is due to the lion's share of the actors playing resigned, weak willed and frightened people who are under the thumb of the sole aggressive character, the titular man from london, Morrison (István Lénárt) who uses his status as an English police inspector to influence all those he comes in contact with.Although the plot is, as is often the case with Tarr's work, deceptively simple, The Man from London is a remarkably dense and riveting film. We view so much of it through windows, filters and from great distances that we come to acknowledge the established distance between the criminals, Maloin, and the invading inspector not only in plot but also in aesthetic. This is such a well developed, plotted and composed film that it proves the power of silence, the power of minimalism, and the power of texture. The Man from London may not be Tarr's best film yet, but it is certainly worthy of its few accolades and a great many more. Never as personal nor as heartbreakingly poignant as Damnation or Werckmeister Harmonies, The Man from London is as visually sophisticated as any he has ever made, and is much more rooted in characters than in psychoses or townships. A beautiful film that is as inspiring as it is stunning, Tarr continues to impress upon us the values he holds in the highest esteem, and does so in an entertaining as well as layered fashion.———————————————————————————————-
The Man from London at Amazon.

Jennifer's Body

2009-10-12T19:33:00.000-07:00

Jennifer's Body - 2009 - 102 minutes - Directed by Karyn Kusama
Starring Megan Fox, Amanda Seyfried, Johnny Simmons, Adam Brody, Kyle Gallner, J.K. Simmons

As indulgent as it is unremarkable, Jennifer's Body is yet another example of why blatant pandering is never a suitable option in cinema, especially early on in a career when a filmmaker hasn't quite found their style, so to speak. The film may have been filmed by the talented upstart Karyn Kusama, but it is consistently dogged by Cody's penchant for witticisms that are equal parts precious and self-consciously hip, and it is at her feet the lion's share of the blame falls. Like Juno, Jennifer's Body suffers from a glut of wankery, mind numbingly cute moments where people talk inorganically to one another as if they were computers designed to mention pop culture and breasts every 7-10 seconds. Being a vehicle for the as-yet-unproven Megan Fox, the film's blatant disregard for good taste can be easily mistaken as a treatise on femininity and sexuality, but I'm afraid those who are seeing this are reading far too much into a shallow and altogether trite little picture.

The film's saving grace is the undeniably decent performance from Amanda Seyfried, a youth unafraid to 'ugly herself up' and play square to the much more sexual and desirable Fox. While it is not entirely rare to have a female antagonist in a horror film --hell, horror films have been setting the bar pretty high for lady leads for a long time-- Jennifer's Body is unique in its situating its story entirely around strong female characters, which in turn introduces the premise that boys are helpless, thoughtless and untrustworthy. While this central conflict has immediate potential for subversion, this potential is left unrealized and throughout the film we are left with a false, artificial world where wit equates with crude references, and peripheral characters are left undeveloped not because of some conscious decision on the part of the filmmakers, but because it seems that Cody is completely unable to create realistic or even slightly believable characters.The high school setting clashes immediately with the tone which Cody and Kusama establish during the first portion of the film, what with the overt sexuality and single teacher/principal (played amusingly by J.K. Simmons) who presides over the classes with a blindly sympathetic approach. We are introduced to 'Needy' (Seyfried) through a hip, irreverent but strained voiceover that tries a little too hard to be ominous. Needy is a tough girl, violent and institutionalized for reasons that are about to become clear to us. Through flashback we're told that Needy's problems have something to do with the sexually active and extremely confident Jennifer (Fox), and that that something may have had to do with a terrible band called Low Shoulder that comes into town to play a gig. Jennifer drags Needy out of the arms of her clingy, sweet but dopey boyfriend Chip (Johnny Simmons) to the show only to have the bar burst into flames halfway through one of the most painful sets I've ever heard given the OK to be put on film.

It turns out that the fire was simply a ruse, a ruse that caused a whole bunch of people to die and all of that, but a ruse nonetheless in order to lure Jennifer out to the band's van, which they do by suggesting "Hey, do you want to check out our sweet van? It's safe, it's a safe place." It's at this point that Cody's hand begins to show, and wouldn't you know it? She doesn't even have a high card. The entire scene is awkward, poorly shot and overly elaborate for a straight-up kidnapping, especially when it's revealed that the purpose for this kidnapping is that the lead singer Nikolai (Adam Brody) is convinced that Jennifer is a virgin. This is simply because she's slutty looking and therefore can't be sexually active, another choice example of the male psyche as exhibited by Ms. Cody. So the band takes her out, and comically sacrifices her to Satan while singing together, in what amounts to the worst sacrifice scene ever.Fox has gotten quite the beating critically as of late, and I can't say that I find fault with her performance here. While it is less-than-stellar to say the least, she ultimately is about as personable as this awful, awful character could be. Seyfried plays her character with much more depth but even she has to struggle against the anchor that is the horrendous dialogue. The film does have its high points, most notably the sometimes stunning cinematography by M. David Mullen which can at times achieve what the poorly thought out script and hapless direction fail to do; involve you in the story. This ability of Mullen's is particularly up front during the film's climax, where Kusama clearly is trying to make a delicate, obnoxiously anti-climactic final showdown, but Mullen is able to get the most out of the environment. He is so effective, in fact, that I found myself focusing on the smoothness and excellent shot composition instead of what amounted to an awkward, meddling picture. Jennifer's Body therefore does not succeed as horror, a genre which is at its best when it is a raw, visceral experience, but also fails as comedy for lack of effective jokes. The jokes are cut from the same cloth as Juno's, namely they are irritating and formulaic, much like the film itself. A pity.
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Jennifer's Body at IMDB.

Crash

2009-10-10T01:09:00.000-07:00

Crash - 1996 - 100 minutes - Directed by David Cronenberg
Starring James Spader, Deborah Kara Unger, Elias Koteas, Rosanna Arquette, Holly Hunter

Writing about David Cronenberg's 1996 film Crash is a labor of love for me; laborious because it is a complicated film, its surface a minefield of amorous confusion and sexual conflict which eludes simplification. It is also a worthwhile endeavor because it lends itself to different critical readings, it possesses several ambiguous qualities which allow for discussion as well as personal interpretation. This openness to interpretation has also led to a ferocity in critical opinion that has gone unmatched for the past decade, such as Christopher Tooley's famous prediction that "a few unstable individuals-particularly if it became available on video, where it could be studied obsessively," would be tempted to echo the film's message which he read as one championing "[the] eroticising [of] sado-masochism and orthopaedic fetishism for people previously unaware of being turned on by acts of mutilation." While Tooley received quite the backlash for his article and has subsequently never moved beyond his reputation as a 'halfwit', his points are worth consideration despite their misguided nature. Crash acts as a mirror, if you are or could be turned on by disabilities and wounds, then you will know by the end of this film. However, if you are not and are not interested in car crashes as sexually transformative events, then you will find not only a distinct lack of erotic material, but also the sly condemnation of this lifestyle. Indeed, the film ends on a note which implies that the end of this spiral is undoubtedly total destruction and --ultimately-- death.Tonally Crash is fascinating for its sterility, few films have touched upon the utter hopelessness of being alive and of trying to connect with someone so completely. The protagonists, James and Catherine Ballard (James Spader and Deborah Kara Unger), begin the film in the arms of other people, exploring their sexualities in unfamiliar environments. For Catherine it is in the open expanse of a private aircraft hangar, where she leans against the cold machinery and exposes herself, her face betraying an attempt to provoke arousal in herself. For James it is in the camera room on his own set with a small woman he admits he could not make orgasm. Catherine comforts James as he tells her this by whispering, "Maybe the next one. Maybe the next one." This is the most engaging intercourse in the film, and Cronenberg does well to begin the film with it as the sex slowly deteriorates in attraction. At first it is filmed almost as pornography, explicit eroticism which is torn apart and by the end of the film the intercourse has become utterly mechanical in function, parts sliding in and out of place before completing their set tasks. Also transformed are the automobile scenes; the first being James wheeling off the side of the road and into oncoming traffic, an average piece of action cinema. By the end of the film the car crashes are much more sexual in nature, the push-pull dynamic of the vehicles is exploited thanks to the sensuous photography of the brilliant Peter Suschitzky who films cars as if they were sexual beings subject to the same whims and desires as the rest of the cast.

Once James has recovered from his injuries he awakens in the hospital to find the victim of his poor driving being helped through the hallways. She is Dr. Helen Remington (Holly Hunter), and although she is at first off put by James' efforts to connect, she warms to him during a conversation among the husks of previously wrecked vehicles. Soon they are having sex, and we discover that Helen's sexual encounters have almost exclusively been limited to the interiors of automobiles. This gives her the added dimension of being a seductress into the world of car crashes, a world which James is only introduced to through his own accidental example. The figurehead of this previously unknown and separate existence is the mysterious Vaughan (Elias Koteas), a convincing character who is capable of submitting completely to his chaotic desires on a level so unique that he acts as a magnet to those who have similar inklings. Vaughan meets James after recreating the crash that killed James Dean, Vaughan escapes from the police into the forest carrying his injured partner Colin Seagrave (Peter MacNeill) with the help of James and Helen. Once they return to Vaughan's workshop James is shown an entryway into a philosophy that believes that "the car crash is a fertilizing rather than a destructive event. A liberation of sexual energy. Mediating the sexuality of those who have died with an intensity that's impossible in any other form."While Vaughan initially misrepresents his position as the reshaping of the human body through the introduction of modern technology, he dismisses this as a science fiction element through which he hides thanks to its harmlessness. This is revelatory in terms of Vaughan's character as he is representing an idea which is clearly incredibly dangerous, the idea that the transformation a body undergoes during a car crash is an evolution of sorts, is a safe one, while the idea that continually living on the margin between life and death is much more attractive and substantive. While this revelation is casually ignored by James, it is worth identifying as it reveals exactly what Crash is all about. Crash works as an indictment of modern society, a society that no longer can function within the borders and boundaries of normality, where people are forced to push themselves to the extremes to feel anything. It is to this end that Cronenberg saps the emotion from the characters, all of them adopting an almost Bressonian melancholy that seems to pollute their every decision, reaction, emotion. The manifestation of the transformed melancholy takes the form of the quiet though seemingly satisfied disabled woman Gabrielle, her body mangled by a car wreck. She acts as the medium between the main characters and the metaphysical event that is the car crash, as she is a constant reminder of the consequences as she is both disabled but also is a much happier person, a person more engaged with life. In the most controversial scene in which James penetrates a deep wound on her leg, it is not about a connection between these people as sex has already been rendered almost obsolete. It is about getting as close as possible to the idea of the car crash, literally fucking what has been left behind. In this instance other orifices are useless as they are part of Gabrielle since birth, however this other hole, this wound, is a direct product of the wreck.

In one of the most interesting and provocative scenes, Gabrielle sits on a couch with James and Helen, with Seagrave and Vaughan in the same room. They watch videos of car crashes repeatedly and Helen soon becomes visibly aroused, grasping at the crotches of both Gabrielle and James, suggesting a completely unifying experience. Right before the climax of the video the TV pauses and Vaughan begins to speak. Helen becomes upset, declaring that she is certain that "we see this again in slow motion. Closer I mean. In detail." These half dozen characters (including Catherine) are faced with their inability to feel anything in the usual fashion, and as they experiment on the margins of society they become more and more comfortable until each transgression is only a gateway to another. These are people brought together by their love of recreating singular events, the individual car crash which is an impossible event to recreate. Thus they are victims of a fatalistic philosophy, destined to fail despite their every effort as no crash could ever be replicated. Vaughan, being the figurehead, is the only one who truly is bound to this philosophy, paving the way for the others through his use of video, recreation and poetic rallying. Vaughan is, in essence, looking for someone as transgressive as he is and in his failure he is left hopeless, forced to actualize his own belief that the only real vital experiences exist in the moments before death, before the end is written in stone.As James, Catherine, Helen and Gabrielle all subscribe to this fatalistic philosophy for one reason or another the film's conclusion alludes to their mutual annihilation. With James and Catherine we see them visibly distraught by Vaughan's realization of his dreams and his ascent into "immortality", but then they attempt to replicate it. In a sense Vaughan has become the same kind of celebrity he worships, because it's never about the fame of the driver that Vaughan is interested in, but the fame of the crash. The glory of the destruction. And in acting out his own destruction he transcends the trappings of his own philosophizing and limited experiences and becomes a legend worthy of his aspirations. These aspirations are passed on to James and Catherine and after they claim his wreck they act out a similar situation in which James, as a stand-in for Vaughan, terrorizes Catherine in the most sensually shot episode in the film. He eventually drives her off the road and into the grass, a result they are both dismayed by. Yet once James pulls Catherine from the car and lays with her next to the wreckage, affectionately caressing her bruised body, he whispers the same words she had earlier used to comfort him. "Maybe the next one, darling. Maybe the next one."

Crash is rooted in Cronenberg's filmography, the techniques he'd learned through previous efforts being used to stellar effect here. While a commonly touted perspective is that things are more terrifying if you see little of them, ala Jaws, Cronenberg has always taken the more courageous route of dragging the monster into the sunlight and allowing the viewer to explore its visage. It is this approach that Crash benefits from so greatly, Cronenberg shows the viewer all aspects of his characters' sexuality and forces us to make a decision. We can either ignore their sexual impulses and decry them as base, unforgivable transgressions against human nature, or we can allow Cronenberg's narrative to guide us on a tour of these hopeless and fractured individuals.This latter option is only possible thanks to the superb acting from an astounding cast. Spader, Koteas, and Arquette all give quiet, reserved performances that are perfectly suited to their characters. Unger is the standout, as she often is, and works as the infrastructure that links Spader's need for exploratory experiences with Vaughan's masochistic tendencies and for that she needs to be able to match talents against everyone in the film. Luckily, she is able to do so with great conviction, taking over every scene she's in by utilizing her inherent sexuality and her throaty voice. Suschitzky seems to be enamored with her, the camera dwelling on individual crevices and folds with the intimacy of a lover scorned, for it is not a sexual charge that she brings but an obsessive one. Suschitzky is similarly enamored with the sites of the car crashes, explosive environments which Cronenberg has us walk through step by step, fetishizing the broken glass and twisted steel. Cronenberg shows more audacity in Crash than any other filmmaker of his time, and it exudes confidence in that there is little evidence of any sort of compromise, from its brilliantly understated score by Howard Shore to the coolly fluid cinematography. And that really is the film's defining characteristic; it is uncompromising.
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Crash at Amazon.

In the Meantime...

2009-09-30T00:42:00.000-07:00

These Improbable Movie Trading Cards brought to you by Row Three are pretty great. I especially enjoy the Schindler's List one above.

Artistic Hiatus

2009-09-28T22:31:00.000-07:00

Just dropping in to mention that I'm using a Mac now, and until I can figure out how to use the plethora of shitty less than intuitive paint programs on this godforsaken machine, I'm going to be on hiatus. This quagmire combined with the whole getting adjusted to working, and working with dead bodies I might add, has forced me to take a little break. Hopefully I'll be back very soon. In the meantime, anyone know any paint clones I can grab for the Mac? The lack of an immediate resize button is driving me loco. How am I supposed to make those neat little headers?

Werckmeister Harmonies

2009-09-10T17:39:00.000-07:00

Werckmeister Harmonies - 2000 - 145 minutes - Directed by Béla Tarr
Starring Lars Rudolph, Peter Fitz, Hanna Schygulla, Ferenc Kállai, Alfréd Járai, Irén Szajki

Béla Tarr is not a director who tells stories lightly, working with frequent collaborator László Krasznahorkai Tarr prefers to invite the viewer into a world, at once foreign and complex. He is a stalwart defender of the old cinema, a cinema of austerity, patience and cumulative mystery, and it is to great effect that his films have the slow burn pacing that they do. Stylistically Tarr could be considered to have a superficial resemblance to the great Andrei Tarkovsky as well as a more justified parallel between himself and fellow Hungarian Miklos Jancso. But where Jancso uses the long take to capture long fits of action and complicated movements, Tarr invests each motion with a certain gravitas, often allowing the camera to dwell on simple repetitive actions for unusual lengths of time. However, while the long take is still intact here in Werckmeister Harmonies, Tarr uses it often to different effect than in his previous films, especially Damnation. Here Tarr is more inclined to follow figures in the fog, having characters enter into frame and then trace their path as they make their way in the small provincial town in Hungary, whereas in Damnation he would often focus on the textures of buildings and settings and then move the camera to find the character. These separate techniques, though similar in practice, speak to a difference in intent, from Damnation's finding meaning in the banal to Werckmeister Harmonies' bringing something of greater importance down to a slighter scale.While Werckmeister Harmonies is not his most haunting work, it is one of his least oppressive in tone. The opening sequence is particularly striking, as powerful a scene as Tarr has ever committed to film, introducing us to the protagonist János Valuska (Lars Rudolph) as he enters a pub and begins to explain the workings of a solar eclipse, getting several patrons to enact the phenomenon to the melancholy chords of a distant piano. Tarr has always used music in a meaningful, inspired fashion and here it is no different. Though the scene is filled with hope and a kind of strained optimism, Tarr counter balances this with the morose score, forcing the scene onto a middle ground somewhere between the tone of the action and the tone of the score. This eerie imbalance pervades most of the film, even in the aesthetic approach Tarr chooses to play with the contradictions of opposites, of reality and the fantastic. This concept really comes to the forefront once a small circus appears in town with the enormous husk of a whale in tow, we bear witness to the utterly realistic coming into contact with the brilliantly theatrical, the bright eyed protagonist gaining admission to the obviously artificial whale prop in the dark, gloomy trailer in which it rests.

The film primarily deals with the effect this traveling circus has on the small, provincial Hungarian setting the townsfolk inhabit, from the religious fervor the so-called Prince inspires to the fear and degradation of the high-society. János is remarkable as his sole response is one of awe, awe in the face of what he deems to be evidence of God's omnipotence, his ability to create such a vast and complicated creature as the whale. His appearance at the trailer is one of the first admittances, and his eagerness to explore the many traits of the beast is contrasted with his Uncle György (Peter Fitz) and his explanation that the creature will be just as awe-inspiring tomorrow. This revelation is prompted by the return of György's wife, the brittle and insistent Tünde, who demands that György assist her in the creation of a committee dedicated to the cleaning up of the town. If he fails to comply she threatens to move back into his house, suffocating his need for creative and artistic output via the piano.János returns to the whale once society begins to crumble, seeking more of its revelations after being sent to the town square by Tünde in order to ascertain the damage that has been done. Once inside the trailer he overhears the director of the circus speaking to the prince, begging him to cease the destruction he has set in motion. But the prince, one of the great unseen characters of the last twenty years, merely cackles and mocks the townsfolk, declaring that his followers' destruction is its own reward for his eerily powerful presence. The director then sets the prince and his translator free, seeking to separate from them in order to distance himself from the pain they are liable to inflict on the town. In this speech, wherein the director declares that 'From this moment you are free," János overhears this and is instead tied to his fate, set into a fatalistic spiral in which he is forced to return to the site of the destruction ostensibly to help.

The scenes of chaos are some of the most powerful in the film, as people are torn from their beds and beaten the chiaroscuro lighting is amped up until all that is left is pure white and deep black, the stark contrast between the helpless and the predators ever more apparent. The demolition continues until two men enter a room where a solitary senior stands nude in the shower, his frail body twisted into such a pathetic pose the men are forced to turn and walk from the scene, the impotence of their rebellion fully exposed. The film's conclusion, while not as hopeless and oppressive as Damnation's, is still a mighty pessimistic one, with no one spared from the unending response to the destruction. Fleeing from one's destiny is shown to be fruitless, not only in János' fate but also in the inevitable appearance of Tünde at György's home, and so Tarr paints an existentially desperate and fatalistic picture of Hungary.Werckmeister Harmonies as a whole is a powerful exploration of the interaction of realism and fantasy as well as an exercise in the more horrific aspects of society, from the threatening offscreen appearance of The Prince to the menacing nature of several of the townsfolk. Thanks to the magnificent performances Tarr is able to lull us into a state of security, our belief in these characters and their safety is not solid but it is at least enough to shock us when one of the characters dies, and another is caught and imprisoned. Lead actor Lars Rudolph has the kind of crazed charisma that Herzog muse Klaus Kinski once possessed, and it is his awkward momentum that keeps the film on track. The powerful, artistically forceful but altogether graceful Peter Fitz gives a great turn as György, but while these are excellent performances the film ultimately owes its greatness to the brilliance of its director. This may not be the best of Béla Tarr's work, but Werckmeister Harmonies deserves the accolades it receives and more, for it is yet another valued addition to an oeuvre that is as formidable as anyone who is alive today.
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Werckmeister Harmonies at Amazon.

Robert Wise Blog-A-Thon

2009-09-07T23:00:00.000-07:00

As most of you know, for the next seven days Octopus Cinema will be dedicated to reviewing and analyzing the work of one of the great Hollywood craftsmen, the inimitable Robert Wise. From his work with Val Lewton in the RKO B-Unit to his well received musicals and his rather subversive work in the science fiction genre, I'm hoping that with a little help from my fellow bloggers we can cover the gamut of his innovative and entertaining career. Whether positive or negative, I look forward to seeing what kind of response The Robert Wise Blog-A-Thon generates. For a list of Wise's work see here.

PRE-READING:
The Set-Up at The Movie Projector
Born to Kill at The Movie Projector
The Curse of the Cat People at Only the Cinema
The Body Snatcher at Only the Cinema
The Day the Earth Stood Still at Only the Cinema
Selected Wise Films at Jim's Film Website
Star Trek: The Motion Picture at Combustible Celluloid
The Andromeda Strain at Combustible Celluloid
West Side Story at SBCC Film Reviews
The Day the Earth Stood Still at Divers and Sundry
The Andromeda Strain at Divers and Sundry

TUESDAY, SEPTEMBER FIRST:
The Haunting at The Movie Projector
Run Silent Run Deep at Octopus Cinema
Star Trek: The Motion Picture at Cinema Viewfinder
Born to Kill at 2882
The Executive Suite Set Up Is So Big, I Want to Live in a House on Telegraph Hill Until They Sail at Boiling Sand

WEDNESDAY, SEPTEMBER SECOND:
The Set-Up at Octopus Cinema
The Haunting at Divers and Sundry

THURSDAY, SEPTEMBER THIRD:
The Set-Up at Only the Cinema
Born to Kill at Octopus Cinema
The Day the Earth Stood Still at Octopus Cinema
The Body Snatcher at Divers and Sundry

FRIDAY, SEPTEMBER FOURTH:
Mademoiselle Fifi at Only the Cinema
Blood on the Moon at Octopus Cinema

SATURDAY, SEPTEMBER FIFTH:
West Side Story at Encore Entertainment
Sound of Music at Encore Entertainment
House on Telegraph Hill at Octopus Cinema
Somebody Up There Likes Me at Movie Classics

SUNDAY, SEPTEMBER SIXTH:
Helen of Troy at Octopus Cinema
The Hinderburg at Divers and Sundry

MONDAY, SEPTEMBER SEVENTH:
Tribute to a Bad Man at Movie Classics
Final Thoughts at Octopus Cinema

Robert Wise Blog-a-thon Final Thoughts

2009-09-07T22:30:00.000-07:00

So, the time has come for the Robert Wise blog-a-thon to end, and what a blog-a-thon it was. I saw a lot of great posts from a spectrum of blogs, friends and strangers, and I think it did a little good for Robert Wise's reputation, at least on the internet. Getting so many varied takes on his admittedly varied and (at times) controversial career did me a wealth of good, and also gave me a better understanding of Wise's place in the grand scheme of cinema. I'll still be watching a few Robert Wise movies over the next month or so if you haven't quite had your fill, so stick around.

Thanks for all the great contributions!

Helen of Troy

2009-09-06T06:43:00.000-07:00

Helen of Troy - 1956 - 118 minutes - Directed by Robert Wise
Starring Rossana Podestà, Jacques Sernas, Cedric Hardwicke, Stanley Baker, Niall MacGinnis, Brigitte Bardot

A defining characteristic of Robert Wise's work as a director has always been the fluidity of his editing, his ability to fluctuate pacing without disrupting the narrative flow is both individual and almost undetectable. He is one of the few directors who can utilize rapid-fire editing while keeping the viewer engaged and aware of the gravity of his situations. In no film is this more easily demonstrated than in Helen of Troy, where Wise draws on his editing background to build tension in very simple ways, quick shots of the Trojans readying for war are juxtaposed with the concerned faces of the royal family, furrowed brows and all. It's a simplistic technique, as noted, but an incredibly effective one. Oftentimes Wise will allow a lengthy medium shot to continue on for longer than would be expected, such as in an early fight between Paris (Jacques Sernas) and one of his Spartan enemies, and then intercut reaction shots with close ups to accentuate the importance of the duel.Paris' initial consult with his family forms the opening sequence, and it is a bland one at that, but it does well in setting up his insatiable lust for peace, a passion that translates easily onto other ideas. Paris demands a chance to compel the Greeks into allowing for a peaceful alliance between countries, and although his brothers dismiss the notion as unbelievable, his father allows him to venture forth to Sparta. Wise's talents for editing and composition begin to show on the journey over, where Paris discusses the weather with the Captain of a ship before a storm strikes, sending him out into the water. Presumed dead, the Trojans begin to lose hope in the idea of their prince ever returning. However, Paris soon wakes up on a beach in the hands of a young slave girl whom we are informed is actually Queen Helen of Troy (Rossana Podestà). The girl hides him with the help of her slave Andraste (a small and insignificant turn by the much more feminine and fitting Brigitte Bardot), but when he wakes up he decides to head straight to the King where his identity will be doubted to his lack of gifts and proper garments.

It is a shame that the film suffers when characters interact too long, as they are wont to do in historical dramas, and with such a stiff lead actress in Rossana Podestà as Helen, Wise is forced to do a kind of juggling act. He attempts to edit around her as much as possible, but as she is to represent 'the face that launched a thousand ships' she is unavoidably central to the narrative's push. Afflicted with Podestà's atonal delivery is Sernas, who finds himself constantly struggling to imbue his many scenes with her with a vitality that never really gets off the ground. We hear the promises they make to each other and the wishes for happiness, but we can't quite buy into it because of Podestà's inability to visually erode Sernas' dedication to peace. Instead we get the impression that these are not characters in love, but characters on a page that cannot manage to make the translation into life. It's tragic that Sernas' fair performance is anchored to mediocrity due to Podestà's alacrity in sinking, but thankfully Wise has more in store for us.Perhaps recognizing the cardboard characteristics of his leads, Wise smoothly transitions the story to the brooding, charismatic presence of Helen's husband, King Menelaus (Niall MacGinnis). Menelaus is thunderous and Wise places him at the center of the conflict --that involving Paris' escape with Helen back to Troy-- his initial greed quickly sabotaged by his need for the return of Helen and the reinstatement of his dignity. He is one of the film's two most compelling characters along with Achilles (Stanley Baker), but unlike Achilles he is not saddled with the awkwardness of an ill-fitting weakness. While our sympathies may well be drawn to his lumbering figure, it is to Wise's credit that he is able to imbue some much-needed vitality into the royal family of Troy despite their nondescript presences. We watch in wonder as the two armies arrange to clash, and some of the film's best scenes include those in which the preparation begins, an endless line of soldiers assembling catapults, bludgeoning weapons, bows and towers.

The most effective sequence in the film, however, occurs midway through the war when Paris leaves to fight and Helen decides to return to Menelaus in order to stop the battle. Slowly she ascends the hill as Paris races after her, and wordlessly she goes to Menelaus who grasps her violently and greedily, only to deny her the satisfaction of having assisted in the halting of the war. Shots of Menelaus reveal him to be less motivated once his need for Helen has been satiated, but he appears injured by Paris' impudence. His pride pushes him to refuse the Trojans their ceasefire, and so when Paris rescues Helen and returns her to the castle there is no longer an uproar surrounding her presence in Troy.It is notable that the best sequence in the film is sparse and quiet, as the majority of the dialogue is stilted and lacking potency. We hear the words and understand what they are conveying, but we get no sense of urgency, no motivation, from all but the better actors. Wise seems less interested in the dramatic elements of Helen, Paris, and the Royal Family, and more interested in the dynamics of large-scale battles and composition. It appears as if Helen of Troy was a dry run for his more epic films, establishing a very unique sense of visual power without following through with the story. What should have been focused on the military aspects of the Trojan war instead is forced to include the more romantic elements of the Helen story and so the two disparate tones sit jarringly atop one another.

Although some of the backdrops strike a false chord, the set design in general by Elso Valentini and Italo Tomassi is consistently inspired. This ties into the beautiful cinematography provided by Harry Stradling who manufactures striking images that work in tandem with Wise's powerful composition. The more visual sequences especially benefit greatly from his approach, some are almost awe-inspiring in the ingenuity Wise displays in drawing our attention to single figures among masses. As a piece, however, Helen of Troy stands as a lavish production that pushes the boundaries of good taste (or at least those which existed at the time) but lacks the gravitas and personal touch of some of Wise's better films. It's visually arresting and a brave film, especially in its allusion to the utter depravity of the Trojans despite their questionably sympathetic plight, but it falls flat at too many points to be considered one of the more excellent historical dramas.———————————————————————————————-
Helen of Troy at Amazon.

This was written for the Robert Wise Blog-a-thon hosted right here, at Octopus Cinema.

House on Telegraph Hill

2009-09-05T07:32:00.000-07:00

House on Telegraph Hill - 1951 - 93 minutes - Directed by Robert Wise
Starring Richard Basehart, Valentina Cortese, William Lundigan, Fay Baker, Gordon Gebert, Steven Geray, Herbert Butterfield

The broad strokes that make up House on Telegraph Hill have been seen before, probably more times than I'd care to remember. Murderous husbands in gloomy, ominous mansions are par for the course when you consider Hollywood cinema of the forties and fifties, so some of the looser elements of House on Telegraph Hill feel a bit disingenuous, especially now that so much time has passed. What makes the film a success, albeit a minor one, are the specifics which director Robert Wise along with writers Dana Lyon, Elick Moll and Frank Partos fills into the gaps in structure. Rather than utilizing the go-to formula for this kind of film, namely that of introducing the male lead as a charismatic fellow who really loves the female heiress both characters readily established, House on Telegraph Hill begins with a harrowing sequence in Belsen, the Nazi concentration camp. Taken from her home in Poland we are introduced to the malnourished Victoria Kowelska (Valentina Cortese), a strong, independent woman who continually puts her life on the line to assist her best friend, Karin Dernakova (Natasha Lytess), get the food and medical supplies she needs.Despite Victoria's best efforts she is unable to save Karin, instead watching her die from mistreatment at the hands of the Nazis just days before the Allies rescue them. Since Victoria's home had been destroyed during the war, her husband having been killed as well, Victoria sets about taking over Karin's life in America. She goes to great lengths to be sent to San Francisco, where Karin's child and relative reside. Having opened with such a somber, depressing event, it is only fitting then that Wise ensures that the next portion of the film is filled with levity, Victoria finding her place in the mansion at Telegraph Hill fairly easily among the relics of Karin's late Aunt Sophie's life. She is met here by the charming and seemingly benevolent Alan Spender (Richard Basehart) who welcomes her into the family and comforts her as she begins to adjust to life outside Belsen. This is followed by a quick wedding which occurs off screen, and the introduction to the two remaining lead characters. The menacing governess, Margaret (Fay Baker), and the easy-going Major Marc Bennett (William Lundigan), a man who has a considerable grudge against Alan.

At first America is portrayed as a dream, a fantasy in which nothing can go wrong. Victoria tours San Francisco with nary a care, shopping for dresses, living the life she dreamed of while trapped in Belsen. This image of the ideal America benefits greatly from a plentitude of location shoots, vintage footage from San Francisco is mixed in with the studio shots to lend the city a very vibrant, lively atmosphere. But soon this fairy tale America begins to erode at the edges, something disturbing lurking around every corner. Victoria happens upon a play house where Karin's son, Chris, used to play only to discover that a large chunk of the foundation has been destroyed. From her vantage point she can see far down into the streets below, and though this is explained as a simple accident concerning the child's chemistry set, Wise brings us to understand that all is not right within the Spender house.Much is made in House on Telegraph Hill of a large painting of Aunt Sophie, hung high up on the wall and filmed as though she is looking down on the proceedings with great disdain. This is contrasted with earlier footage of Victoria's destroyed home in Poland, the only surviving relic of which is a photograph of Victoria and her deceased husband which Wise dwells on for several moments before detailing Victoria's time in Belsen. These static images are ones of serenity, sterile times in the lives of the people portrayed, and it is of no comfort to Victoria that as her life begins to unwind the painting on the wall remains in the exact condition it was when she arrived. Yet Aunt Sophie's serene existence was not as pristine as we expect, and it soon comes to light that her death was neither accidental nor natural. This adds much drama to the central conflict of the picture, the suspicion that Alan is in fact a murderer dead set on keeping the family fortune for himself. This suspicion is solidified once the brakes in Victoria's car stop functioning and she careens off the road almost killing herself.

The idea that Alan may be the murderer is almost peripheral to the drama for the first half of the movie which concerns itself more with Victoria's integration into high society. There is a genuine suspense to House on Telegraph Hill which at first comes from the need for Victoria to hide her true identity, only to transform once Alan's threatening behavior becomes apparent. This is an incredibly wise turn for the narrative to take as it is impossible not to empathize with Victoria, having been in Belsen as well as losing her husband, and so it is much better that she has to face the drama already inherent in the family. Yet this specific conflict between Alan and Victoria is so familiar that it acts as an anchor to the film, whenever the narrative returns to develop Alan's menace we can't help but find it uninspired in comparison to the other, more fascinating sections. It does, however, lead up to a tense climax which is incredibly suspenseful and well executed save for one minuscule slip up when Victoria gives an exposition-heavy speech.While the acting is fair, especially on behalf of the female characters, the film's sound design is the true stand out here. Whether it's simply the sound of a glass of orange juice touching down on a table or the sound of tree branches striking a window, the sound design is the perfect combination of the real and the expressionist giving it a unique rhythm all its own which Wise never allows to falter. Valentina Cortese gives a powerhouse performance as Victoria which is at the center of the film and serves to drive the action, her panic is palpable but more impressive is her quiet, undecided romance with Alan. She admits to not knowing whether she is in love with him, and it is this mental state that shows through in their passionate kisses, loving embraces. House on Telegraph Hill is far from Wise's masterpiece, but it is a sturdy picture which simultaneously entertains and informs, playing heavily on Wise's background in suspense-driven drama.———————————————————————————————-
House on Telegraph Hill at Amazon.

This was written for the Robert Wise Blog-a-thon hosted right here, at Octopus Cinema.

Blood on the Moon

2009-09-04T08:21:00.000-07:00

Blood on the Moon - 1948 - 88 minutes - Directed by Robert Wise
Starring Robert Mitchum, Barbara Bel Geddes, Robert Preston, Walter Brennan, Phyllis Thaxter, Frank Faylen, Tom Tully, Charles McGraw

If ever there was a western that captured the film noir aesthetic and attitude, Blood on the Moon is it. The film takes into account the kind of rampant corruption that had served its urban contemporaries so well, and transports it into the old west. It is morally complex, each of its characters pulled by seemingly paradoxical influences, and this is incorporated into the visuals by way of the evocative noir lighting and cinematography from the great Nicholas Musuraca, who goes above and beyond what is expected by plunging almost every scene into darkness. This works extraordinarily well thanks to the snowy background of the film's final portion, the thick and dark trees casting absolute blackness over the pure white of the snow. Wise handles the material exceptionally well, illustrating the contradictory impulses of the protagonist in a terse, taut manner. He keeps the camera primarily focused on Jim Garry (Robert Mitchum), the tried and tough stranger imported for a job of some questionable ethical value by the conniving and convincing Tate Riling (Robert Preston). Blood on the Moon is structured around Garry's moral dilemma, his empty pockets providing the impetus to join Riling's gang until he can no longer stomach their unconscionable deeds.Riling acts as the catalyst for the film's central conflict, having convinced a group of homesteaders to help fight off a rancher's attempts to find grazing land for his cattle. What the homesteaders do not know is that the rancher, John Lufton (Tom Tully), has been ousted from his land on the Reservation by Riling's goon, the government agent Jake Pindalest (Frank Faylen) and that Riling is at the head of an elaborate plot to force Lufton into selling his cattle for cheap. Riling lets Garry in on his plan, counting on his long-time friend's support in the battle, but after Garry tags along on a raid forcing Lufton's herd back into the Reservation his conscience is awakened. This initial jolt is provided by watching Fred Barden (George Cooper) being shot, but is further compounded by two of Rilings' henchmen attempting to murder Lufton in cold blood.

Mitchum has never been better than he is here, his "Baby, I don't care" attitude being put to the test by a supporting cast who obviously do care, from the greedy anticipation of Riling to the hapless homesteader Kris Barden's (Walter Brennan) protective nature. That's the crux of the issue for Garry, surrounded by people who all have a stake in the central conflict he is forced to decide between picking sides and heading back home to Texas. In the most powerful and viscerally exciting scene in the film, Garry makes his choice known to Riling while seated across from him in a saloon. Riling expresses confusion at Garry's resistance to the deal, but Garry explains the sickening corruption he's witnessed and how his morals will no longer let him abide it, especially after having delivered the news of Fred's death to Kris. He ends this speech with one of the great all-time one liners in film noir, spitting out the syllables as if simply saying Riling's name gives him a bad taste in his mouth. "I've seen dogs that wouldn't claim you for a son, Tate." This prefaces a brutal drag-out brawl between the two, a constantly escalating fist fight that's tense and evocative. Wise is at his best during this scene, composing it almost entirely in darkness as Mitchum and Preston brutalize each other, the violence less iconic than realistic. If these two characters were to fight, we imagine what transpires on screen is exactly how it would occur, with all of the power and gracelessness the actors can possibly convey.A remarkable element of Blood on the Moon, one rarely shared by others in its genre, is the stock it puts in its minor characters. Each death, although there are only a few, has great meaning. In fact it is Fred Barden's death, a seemingly insignificant supporting character, that sets Garry's internal conflict in motion and therefore has the greatest impact on the film. Plenty of emphasis is also placed on Garry's mercy in the face of great evil, from his refusal to finish off Riling after their fist fight to his knocking unconscious the sinister Pindalest. These choices would paint Garry as a more conventionally moral protagonist than he is if it weren't for his development, beginning the film willing to commit whatever atrocities for money ("I've never been hired for my gun." "Can you afford to be choosy?" "I guess not.") until witnessing the fruit of his labor and being forced to come to terms with what his conscience will allow him to do.

The film's tone is taut, almost suffocating the characters as they get closer and closer to the inevitably violent climax. This is most evident in the tormented performance of Walter Brennan, a man best known for his cantankerous drunks with good hearts, who here is simultaneously melancholy and authoritative. Brennan and Mitchum play off of each other to great effect, their chemistry and mutual respect paying off big in terms of believability. Both men inhabit their characters so completely that it no longer occurs to us that these may not be the feelings and emotions that the actors themselves are emoting. Similarly effective is the amorous Barbara Bel Geddes as Lufton's daughter Amy, a determined little lady who trusts in Garry's morality more than he does. Their mutual attraction is subtle and understated at first, developing in the guise of kind words and respectful comments but it erupts in the final sequence once Garry and Amy are trapped in Barden's house. They reveal their protectiveness over one another in emotionally charged lines like Garry's "Why do you think I sent her away?" or Amy's "Don't you see talk is useless, I'm here and I'm staying." It may be cleverly written, excellent dialogue thanks to Lillie Hayward and Harold Shumate's script, but it is only imbued with the meaning and power required when spoken by the vulnerable Mitchum and Geddes.Blood on the Moon is among my favorite westerns of all time for its assured unconventionality, its noir aesthetics, fascinating lead performances and its striking technical brilliance. Wise's hands are all over the material here, especially in the pacing and editing which both exhibit the kind of prowess that really make a narrative work. Wise wastes not even a minute of screen time and just when you think the film has ground to a halt and is simply killing time it shifts focus, developing the plot or characters in a way previously unnoticed. With the combined talents of Mitchum, Geddes, Brennan, Wise, Musuraca and the aforementioned script by Hayward and Shumate based off of a Luke Short novel, Blood on the Moon adds up to more than the sum of its parts. It benefits from everyone involved being at the top of their game, including Wise who masterfully paces the film in order to make it snowball towards the explosive finish, a climax which can be considered amongst the best of all time. Blood on the Moon may not be as well known as its contemporaries but its rediscovery is inevitable and on that day it will be known that the best westerns were not only made by Ford, Hawks and Mann, but also by a terribly underrated director previously dismissed as a simple craftsman, the great Robert Wise.———————————————————————————————-
Blood on the Moon at Amazon.

This was written for the Robert Wise Blog-a-thon hosted right here, at Octopus Cinema.

The Day the Earth Stood Still

2009-09-03T16:52:00.000-07:00

The Day the Earth Stood Still - 1951 - 92 minutes - Directed by Robert Wise
Starring Michael Rennie, Patricia Neal, Sam Jaffe, and Hugh Marlowe

There are those who would criticize Robert Wise for not being a personal filmmaker, for being a studio hack who did what was asked with little thought or concern for consistency or style. It is those people that The Day the Earth Stood Still stands in direct defiance of, for if you're familiar with Wise's work then it is impossible to ignore the personal touches and through lines that are present in The Day the Earth Stood Still, as well as the majority of his other work. The film differs from the usual sci-fi fare of the time in that it is remarkably dignified, it takes its subject matter seriously and refuses to lower its standards or consider its material 'inferior' because of the fantastical elements. In this way Wise approaches the film with the same dedication and personal vision that he had in his more realistic projects. What is singular about this film is the way he deals with its message, the thematic concerns. Wise himself points out the distinction, "I always want my films to have a comment to make. However, the comment should be made by the story itself, the development of the plot and the interplay of the characters, without having the actors say it in so many words. The Day the Earth Stood Still is an exception to that. The whole purpose of it was for Klaatu to deliver that warning at the end."The film begins with the arrival of a strange, unidentified flying object making its way towards the Earth. It first appears over Washington before touching down in a baseball field nearby causing all manner of panic and controversy as reporters and politicians repeat a mantra of ignorance, that they know nothing about what has occurred. After several hours of no news, the spaceship opens up and from within its depths emerges two figures, the humanoid Klaatu (Michael Rennie) and the monstrous robot Gort. Klaatu declares that Earth has nothing to fear from him, but as soon as he descends from the platform extending to the ground an over-eager soldier shoots and wounds him, sending him off his feet. The object he held in his hands which was misconstrued by the soldier as a weapon was in fact a present for the president, a tool to be used to study other life forms.

With this uneasy beginning Wise quickly accustoms us to his perspective of the majority of Earth's populace. Like the grotesque caricatures in the boxing arena of The Set-Up, Wise uses reaction shots as well as snippets of dialogue to illustrate the hostility inherent in most human beings. We are seen as an inferior race, not for our lack of medical technology or for our inability to build credible space ships, but for our unbridled aggression. As the film was produced during the height of Cold War paranoia, Wise plays on people's distrust of all things foreign to them within the film, going so far as to show one elderly woman who is certain that the alien is in fact a communist, from "you know where." With so much evidence that Klaatu's journey is one of peace, from the simple destruction of the soldier's weapons by Gort to the many ignored opportunities for attack, it is a hard indictment of our species that hardly anyone is willing to accept Klaatu's presence as harmless, even helpful. The fact that the welcoming committee engaged to stand guard over the spaceship is made up of soldiers and tanks speaks to the hostility with which the citizens view anything out of the ordinary.This paranoia is given reason once Klaatu is rejuvenated in the military complex which he is to be kept in, the assistant to the president Mr. Harley (Frank Conroy) musing that the representatives of all of the nations on Earth would be impossible to gather due to the petty squabbles they are engaged in. In one of the film's most poignant moments Klaatu mentions that he is "impatient with stupidity. (His) people have learned to live without it." Mr. Harley responds regretfully, "I'm afraid my people haven't." His melancholy tone hints at a much more multi-dimensional character than would be expected, but is followed with the authoritative declaration that Klaatu is not to be allowed off the premises. Klaatu smirks at the implication that human beings have constructed anything capable of containing him, and as soon as the nurse returns to give him food it is discovered he has escaped.

Where he escapes is the catalyst for the rest of the film's action. Calling himself "Mr. Carpenter" after the clothes he steals, Klaatu disguises himself among the tenants of a boarding house. One of the tenants, Bobby Benson (Billy Gray), takes to Mr. Carpenter and begins showing him around town, explaining to him the nature of life on Earth. Though Klaatu never reveals his alien nature, Bobby senses something odd about his behavior, constantly having to have simple things explained to him. This simplistic attitude is contrasted with the vast and complex mathematical equations he is able to do with great ease in order to catch the attention of the brilliant scientist Dr. Barnhardt (Sam Jaffe), a man who agrees to gather all of the great minds from around the world in order to hear Klaatu's warning. Meanwhile Bobby's mother, Mrs. Helen Benson (Patricia Neal), intervenes in their budding friendship and tries to stop them from being so close, but when Carpenter borrows a flashlight though his room is well lit, Bobby is made suspicious enough to follow him. In a whirlwind sequence we watch as Klaatu enters the spaceship and Bobby dashes off home to convince his mother. While he is unable to do this, Klaatu confronts her to explain his mission at her office building. Robert Wise's theory that dramatic sequences are most tense in confined spaces, proven by his later efforts in Run Silent Run Deep, is tested here in the moment in the elevator where Klaatu reveals his identity to Mrs. Benson. The claustrophobic setting combined with the absence of all light makes for a very tense and oppressive environment for the scene to take place.Wise's skill in recognizing the perfect way to deliver a film's thematic content comes across eloquently in The Day the Earth Stood Still's finale, with all of the world representatives gathered around the spacecraft. Though the final message is a bleak, depressing one when related to reality, it is a hopeful one for the characters in the film. It is our choice whether or not to take Klaatu's ultimatum, either to become a peaceful society or to be destroyed, that draws parallels between Klaatu and the Christian religion, in particular Jesus. The comparison between Klaatu and Christ is a rampant one, from his taking the name 'Carpenter' to his death and subsequent rebirth. This interpretation gives added depth to Klaatu's selfless persistence but also has the effect of nullifying one of the film's more unexplainable lines, in which Klaatu himself references 'the almighty spirit.' This line was apparently forced upon the production by the producers, and it sticks out like a sore thumb when compared to Klaatu's logical, measured way of speaking.

The performances in The Day the Earth Stood Still are uniformly strong, especially in the case of Michael Rennie. Whereas most actors would go for a kind of clueless, monotonous performance, Rennie holds back that element and appears instead as an eerie, but curious figure with an otherworldly quality to him. His most important scenes are played against the child actor Billy Gray who is actually quite good under the circumstances, circumstances which most directors are unable to surpass. Visually the film resembles Wise's noirish features, dealing in heavy blacks and absolute whites which results in a rather stunning approximation of Washington under panic. The Day the Earth Stood Still has a remarkable documentary motif that Wise goes to great lengths to establish, only letting it lapse for the film's extraordinary finale. This excellent choice in realistic aesthetics is elevated through the brilliant use of Wise's trademark sound design, particularly in the scene with Klaatu wandering the streets as the radio announcements play in the background. All of The Day the Earth Stood Still's elements work in unison to great effect, and although there are hiccups along the way the film is ultimately an awe-inspiring meditation on peace and the leaps of faith we must take to achieve it.
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The Day the Earth Stood Still at Amazon.

This was written for the Robert Wise Blog-a-thon hosted right here, at Octopus Cinema.

Born to Kill

2009-09-03T07:06:00.000-07:00

Born to Kill - 1947 - 92 minutes - Directed by Robert Wise
Starring Lawrence Tierney, Claire Trevor, Walter Slezak, Elisha Cook Jr., Phillip Terry, Audrey Long, Esther Howard

Robert Wise's first memorable film noir, Born to Kill, is a showcase for the kind of technical rigidity he was famous for and the blunt, hard-hitting performance of leading man Lawrence Tierney. Eschewing the self-aware artistry that his contemporaries had often put to poor use within film noir, Wise's exercise in technique is a taut, thrilling drama that hinges on the impeccable cast and the ominous tone which Wise builds to a crescendo expertly by the final act. Yet despite the film's frenetic conclusion in which the lead characters butt heads for the final time, its most powerful sequence is its opening, the gripping introduction to the lead players. Esther Howard is a delight here as the beer-guzzling Mrs. Kraft, a maternal figure living vicariously through the sexual exploits of the young and all-too-available Laurie Palmer (Isabel Jewell). From one of her boarding rooms comes the tall, exceedingly formal Helen Brent (Claire Trevor) who reveals the finalization of her divorce before leaving directly. Helen appears at the very same casino Laurie goes to and the two converse as Laurie's boyfriend Sam Wilde (Tierney) watches in envious rage as she flaunts her new date. Possibly the most effective scene in the film, we watch as Sam and Helen wordlessly express their mutual interest, only to have it dashed by Laurie's appearance and Sam's uncontrollable anger. This bodes poorly for Laurie and Sam abruptly intrudes on the date once they return home, murdering the boy in a vicious and feverish fit of violence only to be followed by the direct and senseless killing of Laurie as she happens upon the corpse. Helen has the unfortunate luck of finding the two bodies, but she refuses to get in the middle of a police investigation and so promptly heads back to San Francisco where her sister and fiance live.Sam is urged to leave town by his only friend and companion Marty (the great and extremely vacant looking Elisha Cook Jr.) and so he similarly finds his way to San Francisco on a boat where they happen to meet. Sam comes on fairly strong but Helen is resistant to his charms, at least to the point where she refuses to give him her number. Sam is hardly put out by this as he has earlier been described by Laurie as the kind of guy "that if you stepped out of line he'd kick your teeth down your throat." This simultaneous repulsion and attraction works directly in Sam's favor, his brooding brow sitting atop what is considered a very desirable figure, and once he gets his hooks in Helen he finds it easy to use her to cover up his trail despite his quick marriage to her sister, Georgia (Audrey Long). Helen possesses a subtle yet dominating presence, her even tones disguising the manipulation at work as Sam moves in and she deliberates over their attraction.

Helen is a fascinating character, driven by her need of independence and the jealousy she harbors for her sister's money, but inside of her is a very base instinct that Sam similarly holds. She is a sociopath, uncaring and calculating to the nth degree, viewing people as pawns unworthy of her attention or affection. It is this superiority that gives her cause to be so attracted to Sam, Wilde being the perfect example of the kind of reckless, chaotic that she could never control and thus is just the type of man who could hope to excite her. Given her being accustomed to the finer things in life it is unlikely that she'd ever be willing to give up her riches in exchange for the debauchery that lies within her relationship with Sam, it is fitting then that her sister, the very source of her income, should fall victim to his will. Sam's needs are the same as Helen's, and while his ferocity and utter disregard for Georgia's love is apparent, Helen's is far more concealed and better protected. That her facade shatters during the finale is unsurprising given the lengths she is willing to go to in order to protect Sam from the detective trailing him.Born to Kill is still a shock today not only for its stylistic cohesion but also its frank amorality. There is no character contained within that is truly sympathetic, from the weak and mindless Georgia Staples to the sleazy detective Matthew Arnett (Walter Slezak) who --at first-- doesn't appear crooked, from the hot tempered, virile and obsessive Wilde to the cold, emotionless Helen. These are characters unable to fight their nature, people who give in only to what they are compelled to do by instinct or want, never by any kind of morality or ethic. While this makes for dark and exciting entertainment it is nevertheless a harrowing experience, watching the evil deeds each character puts the others through, the evil that flashes across Wilde's face far too often is constantly possessing the others, though they are loathe to admit it.

An excellent example of the kind of disconcerting cinema that Wise was often capable of directing (as showcased in The Set-Up), Born to Kill is worthy of much more critical acclaim than it currently receives. Tierney and Trevor's chemistry is often devastating, with his violent temperament playing well against her cold sneer. The two seem vile and repulsive yet we are attracted to them for their misdeeds, the honesty the two share when alone is visceral and necessary, for the only true refuge for a criminal is another guilty soul. That Tierney is able to convey the physical menace as well as the brutality of his character is easily figured thanks to his tempestuous personal life, but Trevor was never so effective as in this.Particularly striking is the cold, hardened stare that Tierney's features continually tighten into, the constant reminder of Tierney's violent capabilities. Set against the renowned Chiaroscuro lighting of cinematographer Robert de Grasse, these undeniably convincing characters play out their doomed romance with the slow burning persistence of a metronome, their story given weight by the uniquely brisk editing done by Les Millbrook, no doubt under the guidance of Wise himself. Born to Kill is a nightmarish drama of the darkest kind, a noir in every sense of the word, and its brilliant execution is but one of the many great achievements director Wise would accomplish throughout his career.———————————————————————————————-
Born to Kill at Amazon.

This was written for the Robert Wise Blog-a-thon hosted right here, at Octopus Cinema.

The Set-Up

2009-09-02T08:37:00.000-07:00

The Set-Up - 1949 - 83 minutes - Directed by Robert Wise
Starring Robert Ryan, Audrey Totter, George Tobias, Alan Baxter, Wallace Ford, Percy Helton

Stoker Thompson (Robert Ryan) is one of the quintessential noir protagonists, a man who epitomizes the term 'down on his luck' but is still holding onto a pipe dream that may or may not be disintegrating along with his aging body. Stoker is a boxer, and not a very good one at that. He's getting old and even those closest to him have given up hope that he may one day scramble his way back on top of the boxing game. His managers, Tiny (George Tobias) and Red (Percy Helton), are so convinced that Stoker will never be able to really perform again that they agree to a gangster named Little Boy's (Alan Baxter) proposition that Stoker take a dive. The crux of the narrative is that they never tell Stoker this, instead believing that he'll fall to the heavily favored Tiger Nelson (Hal Baylor) without any prompting, therefore allowing them to eschew his payment in favor of hording the money themselves. Unfolding in real time, The Set-Up is one of the great films noir, those pictures which portray humanity in such a harsh light that at times it seems hopeless and oppressive.Director Robert Wise brings this dark and brutal story to street level, introducing us to a sadistic world where no one is passive, where everyone has a vested interest in the violence they choose to witness. The only person who truly cares for Stoker is his faithful wife, Julie (Audrey Totter), and it is because of her undying devotion that she finds herself unable to attend the fight. During the first scene in which we meet Stoker and Julie she demands that he stop boxing, declaring that she wants "a man, not a punching bag." Stoker pays lip service to some vague hopes that he'll escape the boxing racket and start a business, but we can tell as soon as Stoker enters the dressing room that this is where he feels most at home. Among the other boxers there are many a friendly face, and all are in the same predicament Stoker is, to one degree or another. These are a people who suffer not only from the pains they inflict on one another physically, but by the hopes and wishes they express, the long shots they have faith in. A sluggish brute of a man, Gunboat Johnson (David Clarke), finds himself constantly repeating the story of Frankie Manilla, a boxer who'd lost 21 times in a row before becoming the middle weight champion of the world. This intention is expressed by most of the boxers in the dressing room in one way or another, and we can see it in Stoker's eyes that he puts plenty of stock in the idea himself.

Outside the dressing room, sitting among the gangsters are all the depraved, debauched characters from the lower rungs of society. A woman, previously stating that she can hardly keep her eyes open during violence, calls for the death of the boxers, screams for more action and for blood to be spilled. An obese man continually eats while watching, chuckling heartily as the men in the ring batter each other. A blind man sits with his friend who describes the match to him, his gray and functionless eyes singularly interested in the disfigurement of the boxers whom he cannot see. A young man imitates the boxers, excitedly punching the air and dodging invisible attacks. These grotesque caricatures lend the boxing arena a sadistic air, the blood thirsty crowd continually panting at the sight of an open wound. In the arena no one is passive, those who look on all have agendas, from the gangster Little Boy who is invested in the fight, to the shrill woman who only wants someone to be injured. Wise is painting a portrait of a depraved society, no different from those who would gather to witness hangings, or to watch Christians be fed to the lions. For Wise the boxing culture is hardly a sporting one, and he depicts it as being a haven for sickening violence and immoral pleasures. Crime is inseparable from boxing as both feed the same animalistic instincts, the thrill of observing hurt and gaining either monetarily or emotionally from the experience.The fight is a brutal one, as tense a sequence as ever would be committed to film. Wise breaks up the tension with cuts to the lonely Julie wandering the streets, wordlessly deciding on what course of action to take. She decides against appearing at the arena, and while she watches the trains and buses go by Wise gives her one of the most beautiful moments in the film. She holds the ticket in both hands, her eyes watering as she thinks of the horror of sitting through another of Stoker's beatings. She gathers her wits, tears the ticket apart and remains perfectly still, a striking image which runs counter to the frantic motion of the boxing match. Inside the arena, Wise gives no quarter, the fight is never slowed down for emphasis nor is it a dramatic defeat. In the end, Stoker is given a chance to decide his course of action, he is informed of the set-up and the consequences of welching on Little Boy. From here the film takes a decided turn from the fatalistic tone it has hereto forth established, allowing Stoker to choose between his dignity and his livelihood. Having been tempted by this last shot at glory, Stoker continues fighting his hardest and in the end he is victorious.

Once the feeding frenzy is over, there is no celebration for Stoker, no cheer, not even the simple pleasure of having Julie by his side, instead the crowd disperses quickly and he is left with the immediate consequences of his actions. For this was never an important fight for anyone but him, it was after the main event, after the radio broadcast had ceased and once the crowd had had their bloodlust satiated they had no interest in the funny little men in the ring. Stoker's managers quickly evacuate the building, playing up the idea that although Stoker's actions are commendable, morally justified and worthy of pride rather than shame, he has isolated himself from the world which he depends on. That he is clueless to this isolation is a large factor in his final moments in the arena, where he is threatened by Little Boy and comes to the realization that there is no one that can help him. He makes a fruitless attempt to escape from his fate, but as this is a film about accepting consequences for our actions, the gangsters have little trouble catching up to him.The Set-Up's climax may be one of the most touching and eloquent scenes in any film noir, similar in poignancy to Fred Macmurray's lovely final moments in Pushover, and for this alone Wise should be revered. From the bright, wide open space of the boxing arena, Wise transitions us to a markedly different place, the narrow, incredibly dark regions of the alley. It's here that the film's aesthetic triumph takes place, in the setting of Stoker's nadir, we are reminded of the similarly atmospheric areas through which Julie had wandered, thus uniting the two visually if not spatially. In the alley Stoker remains admirably resistant to the gangsters' threats, even daring to fight off the men though exhausted from his previous bout. Of course the villains outnumber him four to one and so he is quickly incapacitated, but his efforts are given meaning by the quick glances he makes towards the hotel room he and Julie share. We sense that under such duress Stoker's other concerns have all faded away, and that he is left preoccupied solely by Julie and their relationship.

The Set-Up relies on Robert Ryan to push it through to greatness and he does not disappoint. In a performance praised by the likes of Cary Grant, Robert Ryan delivers an endlessly sympathetic character filled with the kind of pathos scarcely available in films of the 1940s. Contrary to his usual typecasting Ryan makes for an extremely likable protagonist and Ryan makes us truly believe in his charisma, his power and his ability. The camaraderie he shows to his fellow boxers, from the hopeful Gunboat to the confident Luther Hawkins (James Edwards), is palpable and we believe in the friendliness because they make it look so easy. This is doubly true for the longing and deep appreciation he has for Audrey Totter, the couple have the kind of endless chemistry that is evident even when they're apart, the scenes where Ryan looks up to the window of their hotel room require no further explanation, and the same goes for Totter's glum expression as she tirelessly walks the city streets. Totter's hauntingly sorrowful performance is utterly fascinating in its complexity, with hardly any exposition Totter communicates with every tiny gesture her concern for Ryan. Totter's turn as Julie is so powerful, in fact, that there are shades of it present in Jeanne Moreau's touching portrayal of Florence Carala in Elevator to the Gallows.The Set-Up is a subtle tragedy about the contradictory nature of all human beings, the impulses we subject ourselves to and the needs we are compelled by. Wise is critiquing the raw, disgusting interiority that we disguise with lip service to vague ideals like decency and morality, and he does it in an entertaining and powerful manner. He places much emphasis on the passage of time, the minutes ticking away, several different clocks he cuts away to and from, and it's this obsession with our mortality, with the limitations set on the human body, that make this film such a tense and effective picture. The characters in The Set-Up are struggling against their own nature and they are always losing, unable to adapt to changing situations unless forced to. The final moments serve to illuminate the only circumstances which could reroute Stoker's impulses to fight, and though his fateful meeting with the gangsters may have been his saving grace, by the end of the film we are conscious of those people (Gunboat, Little Boy, Tiny) who are unable to change, unable to better themselves. The Set-Up is about the fight for change people lose everyday, and although it is a harrowing story it is not a hopeless one. If there is a single exception to this endless cycle we fight within ourselves, then there is an undeniable possibility for evolution.———————————————————————————————-
The Set-Up at Amazon.

This was written for the Robert Wise Blog-a-thon hosted right here, at Octopus Cinema.

Run Silent Run Deep

2009-09-01T00:17:00.000-07:00

Run Silent Run Deep - 1958 - 93 minutes - Directed by Robert Wise
Starring Clark Gable, Burt Lancaster, Don Rickles, Jack Warden, Brad Dexter, Nick Cravat

Run Silent Run Deep embodies the kind of tense, economical storytelling that Robert Wise does best. Utilizing models, real footage of the USS Redfish, and a great amount of support from real submarine crew members who ran the cast through drills and testing in order to prepare them for the kind of confident yet counter-intuitive actions they would be expected to make on set, Run Silent Run Deep represents the zenith of the technologically accurate war film. The film features frequent explosions, torpedo firings, esoteric coordinates and commands, and an attention to the minutiae of submarine existence, none of which feels like a false move. Wise is in command of his cast and they all shed their more gentlemanly affectations for a warm sense of camaraderie and machismo, giving off the vibe that they are as close to a naval crew as will ever be put on screen outside of documentary footage. While the effects are steeped in the technology of the time, they are both understated and convincing in their simplicity, especially when compared to their CGI counterparts.Adapted by John Gay from the best selling novel by Edward L. Beach, Jr., the film is essentially a hatchet job on Beach's source material, a hatchet job so complete that Beach would later remark that Hollywood merely 'purchased the title'. The novel which Run Silent Run Deep truly takes its cues from is the epic tome Moby Dick by Herman Melville, casting a Japanese Akikaze Destroyer in the role of the white whale and Commander P.J. Richardson (Clark Gable) as Ahab. The film begins with Richardson's first encounter with the Akikaze in which his submarine is destroyed and most of his crew is wiped out. With revenge on his mind he watches from a desk as three other submarines are taken apart in the same place, Area 7 in a section colloquially known as 'The Graveyard' but named The Bungo Straits. Richardson hears of a newly opened Captain's position aboard the USS Nerka, on which Lieutenant Jim Bledsoe (Burt Lancaster) is the executive officer. Richardson pulls strings and is appointed Captain much to Bledsoe's dismay, but Richardson is able to ease Bledsoe's concerns enough to have him accompany him.

Aboard the ship life becomes very regimented and difficult for the crew members as Richardson pushes them to do drill after drill after drill, emphasizing the need for quick firing. Richardson announces that their patrol will take place in the surrounding area of the Bungo Straits, but specifically excludes the Straits themselves. However, after Richardson passes up the opportunity to attack a Japanese target in favor of continuing a course straight towards the Straits Bledsoe begins to doubt Richardson's adherence to orders. The crew brand Richardson a coward until he uses the same bow shot they've been practicing during their drills to demolish a Japanese destroyer with "two (torpedoes) down its throat!" The tension between the crew members and the Captain eases but Bledsoe remains wary of Richardson's fervor to avenge his previous crew.The power struggle between Bledsoe and Richardson is the most fascinating aspect of a very compelling and multi-dimensional war drama. Run Silent Run Deep contrasts what appears to be Richardson's blind obsession with the destruction of the Akikaze with Bledsoe's rulebook mentality and his protective nature for all those on board. At first the two seem directly at odds, what with Richardson appearing as if he has discarded all hope for a safe return, but after the Nerka is nearly sunk and Bledsoe has the option to take command and return home due to Richardson falling ill, Bledsoe instead spurs the Nerka back to the Straits comfortable in the knowledge that the Japanese believe them to be dead and therefore will be left unawares for a surprise attack. Richardson approves of the plan but notes its similarities to his original, drawing a parallel between the once cautious Bledsoe and his own reckless behavior.

While the film's emphasis is clearly on the narrative tension between the two officers, Wise does well to include a vast amount of seemingly superfluous scenes which add to the authenticity by exposing us to the esoterica of life on board a submarine. There is no point in the film where our belief in the material is suspended, no false moves which drag us from the story, instead Run Silent Run Deep is noticeably smooth in its delivery. It structures the film around the two men and keeps the composition intrusive and claustrophobic, the men's quarters often crammed full of exhausted crew members, and the isolation of the upper decks exploited for maximum drama. It's easy to believe in the tension brewing between Richardson, Bledsoe, the easily offended Yeoman 1st Class Mueller (Jack Warden) and the rest of the crew because they are so often forced into tiny spaces together for long periods of time.Thanks to the captivating performances of the two leads, Run Silent Run Deep takes an authoritative grip on its audience and never lets us go. It exerts great effort to submerse us in the intense Navy routine and plays off of the tedious regularity of Richardson's drills in order to throw us head first into the dramatic excitement of battle. This effect is aided by the phenomenal sound design which Wise had recognized the importance of very early in his career when he worked as a sound effects editor for The Informer and later when he worked up close with the great Orson Welles when editing Citizen Kane. Very often in Run Silent Run Deep Wise will allow a simple repeating sound effect, like the beeping of the radar, to ring out as the sole audible noise in order to amplify the tension. The best example of how easily Wise can manipulate the audience using only sound is when Richardson's drills are becoming nauseating in frequency; he uses quick, elusive editing to illustrate the repetitive nature of the drills but also the booming voice of Richardson himself yelling "Dive! Dive!" over the loudspeaker becomes the soundtrack to the crew's exhaustion.

Run Silent Run Deep is extraordinarily tense for a submarine drama and Wise proves more than capable at extracting brilliant performances from Lancaster and the almost elderly Gable as well as breathing some life into what could've been a lackluster procedural. It exemplifies the kind of elliptical pacing he was best at, cutting back and forth with a natural rhythm that goes well beyond what should have been expected of him. Also notable is the even-handedness with which Wise deals with the Japanese Navy. We see them aboard their ships, startlingly similar to the American crews and we are given a sense of the incompleteness of the picture, that this is not a one-sided story and that the politics of the situations contained within are complex and elusive. With nary a flaw in sight, Run Silent Run Deep is about as exciting as a war film can get, and thanks to the excellent cast, Russell Harlan's evocative cinematography, and the adept hand of Robert Wise, it stands with the vanguard of military cinema.———————————————————————————————-
Run Silent, Run Deep at Amazon.

This was written for the Robert Wise Blog-a-thon hosted right here, at Octopus Cinema.

Ingmar Bergman on Writing

2009-08-28T10:26:00.001-07:00

“I write scripts to serve as skeletons awaiting the flesh and sinew of images”
-Ingmar Bergman

Inglourious Basterds

2009-08-25T04:42:00.000-07:00

Inglourious Basterds - 2009 - 153 minutes - Directed by Quentin Tarantino
Starring Brad Pitt, Mélanie Laurent, Christoph Waltz, Michael Fassbender, Eli Roth, Diane Kruger, Daniel Brühl, Til Schweiger

Not being the staunch Quentin Tarantino supporter that some of my colleagues are, I didn't have particularly high expectations for his newest release, quite a statement considering the subject matter seemed right up my alley. However, while the film is a far sight from Tarantino's first and most accomplished film, Reservoir Dogs, Inglourious Basterds does represent a return to form after the horror (and not in genre) that was Death Proof. As was the case with Kill Bill, Tarantino seems to have grown comfortable in the skin that he's wearing, kind of like Buffalo Bill in Silence of the Lambs, as he's been copping other people's styles for so long it seems he has finally begun to get comfortable and has found a way to make them his own. This wasn't an issue for the aforementioned Reservoir Dogs, which hardly cannibalized the crime drama as it amped up the colloquialisms and the personalities of the typical caper participants, but it began to be infuriating around the time of Pulp Fiction as he greedily stole straight from the pockets of his idols. With Kill Bill Tarantino really appeared to break out of his shell, moving from wholesale theft to hyperbolic homage, and it is to this territory that he returns to with Inglourious Basterds.The film itself is split unevenly into three primary plots, the first being the sordid tale of the titular 'Basterds' a group of Jewish-American soldiers led by Lieutenant Aldo Raine (Brad Pitt), a violent Southerner with a touch of Apache in his blood. The Basterds have been sent by the OSS to Nazi-Occupied France in order to terrorize and annihilate all Nazi forces, and with great enthusiasm they set about their mission. This section is tonally brutal and intense, but is offset by the tale of the film's central protagonist, Shosanna Dreyfus (Mélanie Laurent), a French-Jew who flees from the grasp of the 'Jew-Hunter', the blood-curdlingly evil Hans Landa (Cristolph Waltz), only to end up in possession of a small cinema where a dramatization of the obnoxious Private Zoller (Daniel Brühl) and his military exploits is set to have a premiere. The preparation for the premiere is intertwined with the third plot which focuses on Landa's exploits as he is made head of security for the event, despite being preoccupied by the constant damage inflicted by the Basterds.

Transitioning between the often times completely disparate sections proves difficult for Tarantino, but while there are a plentitude of rough patches he is generally capable of juggling the three stories. What is irreperable, however, is just how disparate the plots are, the sickeningly pleasurable violence of The Basterds, the heart wrenching and melodramatic Shoshanna, and the gleeful, awkward Hans Landa. As the film progresses the narrative draws the separate stories in together, but Tarantino is never quite able to make them fit. While this doesn't quite spell doom for the entire production, it does prevent it from being the tremendous effort it had the potential to be. The film as a whole suffers from inconsistencies galore, but surprisingly transcends some of the more glaring ones and becomes an entertaining and altogether welcome addition to Tarantino's filmography.While the reception to the scenes of actual Nazi killing has been mixed at best, most critics considering it gluttonous and deplorable, I have to note that I was a little disappointed. When there was violence and gore it was well done, not quite pornographic but evocative nonetheless, but it came up so intermittently and was over so quickly that I found myself wanting more. It is a rare film that acknowledges but never questions the lack of empathy the viewing public has for the National Socialists, and Inglourious Basterds is excellent for allowing us to revel in the Nazis demise without beating us over the head with the Germans' humanity. While this is an admirable trait in something as even-handed and poignant as Au Revoir, Les Enfants, it is a waste of sentiment when thrown in haphazardly to spice up an already enjoyable war film. This portion of Inglourious Basterds is remarkably cohesive with Tarantino knowing full well exactly what he was creating.

From the introduction of The Basterds' with Aldo Raine explaining the mission to the overjoyed expressions of his men to the final carving of the swastika into a fresh forehead, we are cognitive of Tarantino's sadistic streak and we can see that he is going to saturate this story with it. And so he does, as the Basterds trek across France to meet with popular German actress and double agent Bridget von Hammersmark, pulverizing the brains of the Nazis along their way, we get a sense of their singlemindedness and their willingness to sacrifice themselves to the cause. These are Allied soldiers willing to sink to the Nazis' level, and who can deny the pleasure of watching them get their just deserts?As for the Landa sequences, I have less to say. While Waltz's acting is unique, vulnerable but confident, Landa is little more than a one-dimensional villain whose exploits are detailed expressly for the purpose of giving us someone to root against. We want Landa to die and Tarantino makes damn sure that we enjoy whatever punishment may befall him. His story often contains bits of revelatory information or exposition related to the other two, and so the sequences strictly following Landa, especially the one in which he discovers a devastated bar where Hammersmark met the Basterds, feel superficial and somewhat over-explanatory. This is not to say they have no appeal, the scenes do have their amusing and aesthetically interesting moments, but that they feel superfluous, that this time could have been better used exploring the unknown variables of either The Basterds of Shoshanna.

Speaking of Shoshanna, it is her plot which is the strongest, the most effective. Tarantino introduces her through the film's most dramatic and emotional sequence (one which I believe should have been excised almost completely), wherein she is discovered under the floorboards of a dairy farmer's house. This is also our introduction to Officer Landa, and while he has a comical moment or two, this scene is a far cry from the kind of levity Tarantino establishes immediately after. This may have something to do with the three years that pass between it and the following sequences, but nevertheless it is jarring to witness the abrupt change in atmosphere. From the oppressively dramatic Shoshanna's story takes a vengeful turn when we see her years later, now owner of a cinema and pursued by one of the Nazis' young war "heroes", Private Zoller. Zoller is obnoxious and persistant but in his insufferable affection he gives Shoshanna the chance of a lifetime, the chance to get revenge on all of the high-ranking German officers responsible for the death of her loved ones.

She accepts the idea of Zoller's film, Nation's Pride, having its premiere at her cinema and goes about planning an elaborate set up during which she records a message to be spliced into the film as she burns the cinema down. While things don't go entirely to plan, the showing of her film is my favorite scene in the entirety of Inglourious Basterds. As the fire from her massive amount of nitrate film spreads across the screen, Shoshanna's face fills the cinema and announces that she is a Jew, and that she is responsible for their death before finally there is only the cackling soundtrack.Inglourious Basterds is not a film about people, it is not realistic, but this is not the pitfall some critics pretend it is. Adhering to realism is not intrinsic to quality, what is important is that a film establishes its own reality, and while Inglourious Basterds does have some tonal issues as I mentioned, Tarantino does a great job of giving his characters similar vitality and hyperbolic personalities. Unlike his previous effort Death Proof it no longer seems as if he's breaking up monologues amongst three or four different characters, he has remembered how to write dialogue, two or more characters with completely different wants and needs expressing themselves in completely different ways. It is this point that we should most value Tarantino when he is capable of it, and his film's become endlessly irritating when he is not. Luckily, Inglourious Basterds rarely suffers from this particular inconsistency, and so it remains a good film by a good but inconsistent director.
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Inglourious Basterds at IMDB.

Au Revoir, Les Enfants

2009-08-18T08:32:00.000-07:00

Au Revoir, Les Enfants - 1987 - 104 minutes - Directed by Louis Malle
Starring Gaspard Manesse, Raphaël Fejtö, Francine Racette, Stanislas Carré de Malberg, Philippe Morier-Genoud, François Berléand, François Négret, Peter Fitz

Au Revoir, Les Enfants is the story Louis Malle had waited over forty years to tell, and he did well in biding his time. This is not the type of film that could have been made during the period of Malle's provocative debut, a time when he was still asserting himself as a filmmaker. Au Revoir, Les Enfants requires the kind of effortless direction that comes with being a practiced hand, leaving the majority of the focus to remain on the simple power of the narrative. Although clearly a raw, visceral memory for Malle, the film is remarkably unsentimental, never straying into the kind of saccharine storytelling that plagues most films which deal with World War 2. The children of Au Revoir, Les Enfants are not innocents merely waiting to be victimized, nor are they deviants acting out in the face of oppression. They are simply kids who have been forced to grow up much too fast, and it is this awkward transition from boyhood which the film title's double meaning references. Yes, there are children who are physically being bidden farewell, but there is also the actualization of adulthood that occurs during the film's 104 minute runtime. It is this actualization that provides the most interesting and touching moments in the film, watching the children aping the adults and then coming to truly understand the seriousness of the political climate, and its effect on them.Acting as a stand-in for Malle is Julien Quentin (Gaspard Manesse), a young boy a little too intent on his mother's love and faced with the departure from Paris to a Catholic boarding school. Although much is made of the difficulty of the adjustment, Quentin is allowed a rather smooth transition as he is well liked and even respected amongst his classmates. Life in a boarding school proves dull, and Malle accentuates this by draining the color palette leaving it faded, as if the life had been sucked right out of it. We watch as Quentin adapts to posturing for his friends, dismissing a naked picture of a lady because the woman 'has no tits', though he clearly has very little grasp of the attraction between men and women. This is an easy shift until the principal of the school, Father Jean (Philippe Morier-Genoud), introduces several new students including Jean Bonnet (Raphaël Fejtö), an intellectual type who the children quickly take to teasing. Upset by Bonnet's tendency to outshine the other children, Quentin is more than happy to meld into the crowd in despising Bonnet. But during a treasure hunt where the two are isolated for a lengthy period of time, Quentin begins to realize that Bonnet is too alike to despise. Their friendship solidifies once they are picked up by German soldiers and Bonnet happily allows Quentin to hyperbolize the encounter, until Quentin reveals that he knows Bonnet's secret; that Bonnet is a Jew.

This revelation prompts Quentin to begin an investigation into what it is about Jews that people don't like, a question which his brother answers with "They don't eat pork," and are "smarter than us." This frustration is further compounded by an incident in a restaurant when Quentin's mother comes to visit and takes her two sons and Bonnet out to dinner. They watch as the Milice arrive to roust a Jewish gentleman from his supper, attempting to force him out of the restaurant. A Wehrmacht officer stops the demonstration and forces the Milice to leave, an act which gives Quentin's mother cause to admit that not all German soldiers are bad. It is to Malle's great credit that he plays this scene (and several others) completely straight, never seeming like he is just paying lip service to the notion that not all Germans were pure evil, it truly comes across as a belief despite a slight ambiguity regarding the soldier's intentions.Aesthetically, Au Revoir, Les Enfants is fairly standard and it is through Malle's simple and almost invisible approach that it is so startlingly effective. It is emotional without being saccharine, never over-the-top or melodramatic it gives the feeling that Malle is simply remembering as best he can, the good and the bad, the moments which made him proud and the ones which brought him shame. His admiration is evident in the film's dealings with Father Jean (a stand in for the great Lucien Bunuel), but his true strength lies in his ability to completely surround us in the children's existence. It seems that the events contained within Au Revoir, Les Enfants are etched into Malle's memory in perfectly cohesive form, without need for filler or shaping. Instead he is able to submerge us in the belief that we are witnessing the child's world as a child would, with little explanation given to the esoteric, and plenty of attention paid to the thrill of bending the rules.

On a more philosophical note, Malle seems fascinated by the attitudes that were adopted by those on either side of the class divide. From the reckless, selfish assistant to the cook who declares once stricken with poverty that the children taken away by the Germans are "just Jews" to the rich who refuse to risk their fortunes. Malle questions this philosophy, especially as it relates to the rich's charity, during a wonderful sequence in the church where Father Jean pleads with the rich to lend help to those in need. He is so vigilant about the idea that a man is even moved to leave the church, upset by the ferocity of Father Jean's attacks upon the rich. Malle's interest in the subject is reiterated during the restaurant scene, but only as a way to underline that which he has already noted; those who were able did not do enough to help. This extends to the film's climax in which Quentin finds himself unable to assist his friend.Once the Germans arrive at school, the film takes a drastic turn towards the melancholy. They burst into Quentin's classroom and demand to know which one of the children is 'Jean Kippelstein', the real name of Bonnet. Quentin betrays Bonnet accidentally by shooting him a quick glance which the Germans pick up and follow through on, but we never get a sense that he is plagued by guilt, necessarily. More likely Quentin simply struggles to comprehend what is happening to his friend, and it is this narrative simplicity that once again comes to the film's aid. The thrust of the film is centered around Quentin and Bonnet's relationship, and to watch it fracture in such a quiet and deliberately shot scene is a painful experience. Although he is clearly not condemning the boy's actions, he does use this event to return to the notion of the rich's lack of assistance to those in need. Having lived through the tragedy once before, Malle is better off not dwelling on the tragic, instead using the abruptness to emphasize just how fragile our mortality is. Gone is the melodrama, the removal of the personal and the heightened artifice that often appears in World War 2 films. Instead, Au Revoir, Les Enfants is a sobering look into wartime occupied France, one which required the distance and subjectivity that director Malle brings to it in order to be as personal a picture as possible.
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Au Revoir, Les Enfants at Amazon.

This was written for The Cineastes, August hosted over at Allan Gray's Imagination by Edouard.