thirtyframesasecond

Moving on

2008-10-08T15:45:00.001-07:00

I have decided to move the blog to Wordpress, a more contemporary and sophisticated form of blogging. As it's unlikely I will move these reviews to Wordpress, the blog will remain active, but not added to.

You can find the new blog at the following address:

http://thirtyframesasecond.wordpress.com/

The new blog will feature a more professional writing style, adhering to Sight and Sound's guidelines. Since I have started a postgraduate course in film journalism, co-established by Sight and Sound, I thought it would be appropriate.

I hope you all visit the new blog as much as this one. Many thanks.

Yol (1982, Turkey/Switzerland, Serif Goren/Yilmaz Guney)

2008-10-05T12:30:00.000-07:00

Winner of the Palme D'Or in 1982, it's frankly a miracle that 'Yol' was made at all. Co-director Yilmaz Guney was formerly one of Turkey's most prominent and popular actors. Imprisoned in 1961 for publishing a Communist novel, his relationship with the state continued to deteriorate and he was imprisoned on a murder charge in 1974. During this period of imprisonment, he remained creative, writing screenplays which were directed by colleagues upon his advice. Though the film was directed by Goren, Guney later escaped from prison and fled to Switzerland where the film was edited. The film was banned in Turkey until recent years. One shouldn't think though that the film was rewarded with several prizes at Cannes because of its remarkable history. It's truly an exceptional film on its own merit.

Made in the immediate aftermath of the 1980 coup by the army, which led to a state of emergency and the suspension of human rights, Guney's film is a realistic portait of Turkey at the time. The army remains active in all elements of public life. Curfews exist, roadblocks are everywhere and fear reigns given the arbitrary behaviour of the army. In this context, five prisoners from an open prison on the island of Imrali are given a week's leave. These are men from every corner of Turkey, all of whom seem to have unfinished business at home. One is Mehmet (Halil Ergun), who abandoned his brother in law during a botched robbery. His wife's family have now disowned him, and his wife is torn between her family and her husband. If she joins her husband, she will be cursed and no longer part of her family. Seyit (Tarik Akan) discovers that his wife prostituted herself in his absence. He is charged with deciding whether to commit the honour killing her family believes she deserves or whether to leave it to her. Seyit is torn between pity and hatred and must wrestle with his conscience on this matter. Another prisoner returns to his village in Kurdistan which is regularly attacked by the army, whilst another loses his papers and spends his entire leave in army custody, unable to see his family. Cutting between each prisoner's story, Guney weaves a tale of men who must deal with events that lead to their imprisonment and events that have taken place in their absence, with every possible emotion felt along the way.

Guney's indictment of contemporary Turkish society is powerful. This is a country that is politically volatile, taking an uneasy route towards democracy, where the power of the army during this period extends of every aspect of daily life. This is a country which is trying to modernise in many ways, but still a hostage to traditions, and each prisoner must deal with this natural conflict. Though Seyit is not as vengeful as his wife's family, he agrees to commit the honour kill because it is he who has been dishonoured above all. Mehmet is torn by the guilt of the death of his brother in law, which he admits to his wife, who still loves him and is willing to risk losing her family to be with him. Guney's portrait of his country is not a sympathetic one, and as he makes clear over the final credits, it was a film made under the hardest possible conditions. Whilst Turkey has now firmly been established on the cinema map thanks to the films of Nuri Bilge Ceylan and Fatih Akin, 'Yol' is arguably the strongest and most powerful film to come from this country, at least in regards to what has been seen in the West. 4.5/5

The Tragedy of a Switchboard Operator (1967, Yugoslavia, Dusan Makavejev)

2008-10-05T10:18:00.000-07:00

Until the emergence of Emir Kusturica in the 1980s, the sole Yugoslavian director of any international reputation was Dusan Makavejev, best known for his 1971 film 'W.R.: Mysteries of the Organism', which was included on Derek Malcolm's Century of Film list. I've yet to see this, but understand it's typical of Makavejev's style, combining satire with sexual anarchy, as well as references to sexuality from an academic perspective, with its title based on Wilhelm Reich, the Austrian psychiatrist and psychoanalyst. 'The Tragedy of a Switchboard Operator' similarly uses the study of sexuality as its foundations, with an opening lecture from an academic, who believes that sexuality is "more whispered than spoken about". Makavejev then uses images of sexuality throughout the ages over the lecture, with plenty of pornography from yesteryear.

Using editing between the past and present, Makavejev documents the ill-fated relationship between Izabela (Eva Ras), a switchboard operator and Ahmed (Slobodan Aligrudic), a sanitary inspector. Intriguingly, both Izabela and Ahmed are of minority descent; she's Hungarian, and he's Bosnian. What this shows is the ethnic and racial melting pot that Yugoslavia was, and this diversity and its historical conflict was only contained through totalitarianism. As soon as Communist fell, these historical conflicts spectacularly exploded. Perhaps their unstable union reflects the unstable union of the entire nation. Under the influence of early Godard, this relationship is shown in a breezy and whimsical fashion initially, with their trivial conversations in bed reflecting those of 'Breathless'. Contrasting these scenes are clips of Communist propaganda, which might initially seem non sequiturs, but perhaps make sense upon consideration. In a highly politicised society, Makavejev's films reject politics entirely. By showing the domestic and not the political world, he's perhaps more subversive than he would be by making a film that directly responds to the current political landscape. Sex is the best reaction to politics.

The relationship turns tragic when Izabela has a one night stand with the switchboard centre's resident skirt-chaser, Mica (Miodrag Andric) who she'd previously rejected numerous times after becoming dissatisfied with Ahmed's seriousness ("Damn this for a life!" she exclaims at one moment) and the overbearing domesticity in their relationship. The scene in an early part of the film when a body is found in a well, and a criminologist lectures us about the act and psychology of murder, now makes sense to us. Though in a moment of tremendous irony, the whole incident turns out to be an unfortunate accident. And that's probably how we should consider this film; as a blackly comic and ironic film. The use of sexuality is indeed subversive. Both this and 'WR...' were offered to sex theatres by the director as a means of getting distribution abroad. However, I should add that I wasn't overly enamoured by this film. Some of the documentary footage used didn't really seem to fit with the rest of the film, e.g. the footage regarding the rat problem in Belgrade, unless its meaning goes over my head, but makes for a fairly disjointed film overall. It's clearly the work of a fertile imagination, but I'm not sure that creativity makes a coherent product. 3/5

Red Sorghum (1987, China, Zhang Yimou)

2008-10-02T12:47:00.000-07:00

It's probably now hard to imagine that Zhang Yimou, artistic director of the opening ceremony of the 2008 Olympic Games and preferred film maker of the Chinese Communist establishment, was once its film industry's enfant terrible. He started as the DoP on Chen Kaige's debut feature 'Yellow Earth', considered the first modern Chinese film or at least the first prominent film to emerge from the Beijing Film Academy which reopened in the late 1970s. Zhang Yimou then progressed to directing his own features, and his debut 'Red Sorghum' sets the benchmark for the fine films he made in the early 1990s. His masterpieces 'Ju Dou' and 'Raise The Red Lantern' would soon follow 'Red Sorghum' and in many ways explore similar themes. Each of the three films features Zhang Yimou's muse, Gong Li, as a young woman coerced into marriage to an older man. Each film is set in the pre-Communist past, usually the 1920s/1930s. These two factors are important if we want to consider this trilogy as acting as allegories on the Chinese present. Some critics have read these films, with their portrayal of a patriarchal and repressive society, as a reflection of the modern China, but obviously Zhang Yimou could not be too overtly critical of the present regime, hence setting these films in the past. Not that he didn't fall foul of the authorities, who banned his films. This makes his rehabilitation at the hands of the same authorities all the more intriguing.

'Red Sorghum' uses a narrative tool that Zhang Yimou would also use in 1999's 'The Road Home'; an unseen narrator tells the story of his grandparents. As mentioned, Jiu'er (Gong Li) is a young woman sold into marriage to an old, leprous winery owner in exchange for a mule. The opening scenes which explain her misery and confusion at these set of events is stunningly done. On her way to her wedding, she is carried in a sedan chair. Zhang Yimou uses extreme close-ups on her face, showing her intense sadness, but uses colour in an exceptionally spellbinding fashion. The chair is covered in red fabric, thus the interior is consumed by a bright and suffocating deep red. The use of such colour recurs in this film frequently, reflecting the colour of the wine Jiu'er produces. This isn't the sole use of colour; using expansive long shots and the natural environment, Zhang Yimou captures the gorgeous yellow and orange backdrops.

Jiu'er's marriage is ominously cut short when her husband is murdered. Although we don't know exactly by whom, the narrator suspects it's his grandfather (Wen Jiang), a hired hand who aided Jiu'er when she was attacked en route to her wedding. He later rapes her in a field, though Jiu'er's reaction seems rather submissive. Between them, they revive the ailing winery, much as Gong Li and her lover do in 'Ju Dou'. Until this point, 'Red Sorghum' is something of a fable but enters much more gruesome and graphic territory with the Japanese invasion of China, and Zhang Yimou doesn't shy away from highlighting the atrocities that occurred, which claims Jiu'er and her lover as its victims. This narrative twist comes so far out of nowhere that the film seems rather disjointed when viewing its second half, like it belongs to another film entirely. And that's probably why 'Red Sorghum' doesn't satisfy as much as Zhang Yimou's next two films with similar themes, although of course as debuts go, 'Red Sorghum' is exceptionally impressive and laid the groundwork for the following masterpieces. It's incredibly moving and aesthetically breathtaking (just look at that final eclipse scene). Although 'Hero' and 'House of Flying Daggers' were perfectly good, one wonders whether Zhang Yimou's current place in the bosom of the Communist establishment will prevent him from making films of this quality again. 4/5

L'Avventura (1960, Italy/France, Michelangelo Antonioni)

2008-09-29T11:35:00.000-07:00

One should be careful about making judgements upon the first impressions of an Antonioni film. If ever a film maker requires a second, if not several, viewings of his films, then it's Antonioni. My first experience of Antonioni was approximately a year ago, when I saw a double bill of 'L'Eclisse' and 'Il Deserto Rosso'. These are two of Antonioni's best known and most acclaimed studies of alienation. But his films have always divided audiences, with some critics bemoaning the slow pacing and the cynical portrayals of a jaded Italian middle class. The first screening of 'L'Avventura' at Cannes in 1960 is arguably the most famous first screening of any film ever, with much of the audience booing the film, forcing Antonioni and star Monica Vitti to flee the screening. In response, the films' supporters issued a statement declaring 'L'Avventura' one of the most important films not just in recent cinematic history, but the entire history of cinema. Indeed only two years later, the film ranked second in Sight and Sound's poll of the greatest films of all time behind perennial favourite 'Citizen Kane'. To this day the film remains notoriously divisive, and it's well accepted that Antonioni's films require numerous viewings to fully comprehend, so as I said in my opening, it's perhaps best not to rush in with a definitive statement.

The film starts with the three principal characters, Anna (Lea Massari), her on-off boyfriend Sandro (Gabriele Ferzetti) and Claudia (Vitti) embarking on a cruise around the Sicilian islands. At this point, we consider the main emphasis of the film to be about the relationship between Anna and Sandro, which is uncertain. Anna could be in love with him, but then she might not. Their sex is indifferent and they barely communicate. As Sandro explains "words are becoming less and less necessary. They create misunderstandings". In Antonioni's universe, shown in subsequent films also, his characters never have fulfilling relationships, and Anna and Sandro perhaps represent the archetypal Antonioni couple. Much like the most famous film from this year, 'Psycho', 'L'Avventura' then pulls the rug from under our feet with an incredible narrative twist - the disappearance of its most central character to this point, Anna. Intriguingly, Anna mentioned spying a shark earlier in the film, which she confessed to Claudia was a lie. However before she disappears, we ominously see something swimming in the water, but there's no doubt that this is a Macguffin, much like the money that Marion steals in 'Psycho'.

After the initial search, life seems to return to normal and Anna is seemingly forgotten. It's as if seismic events such as a disappearance cannot affect or change the entrenched sense of alienation amongst this bourgeois class. Claudia and Sandro's growing closeness, albeit frustrated and uncertain in nature, begins to resemble the previous relationship between him and Anna. Perhaps all bourgeois relationships are doomed to this sense of unease and anxiety. Claudia is unable to commit one way or the way, and it's evident that she feels guilt about Anna's disappearance, even if it goes unsaid. Sandro, who later takes up with a call girl, perhaps represents the jaded playboy that Alain Delon did in 'L'Eclisse'. Antonioni was always far more sympathetic towards his female characters in this series of films focusing on alienation. With Vitti as his muse, she was always unable to commit to love (when asked "why not?" she replies "I don't know why", whereas the men who desired her were not equally in tune with their emotions, although the final scene in which Sandro breaks down might represent a final acknowledgement of guilt. It should be noted here that this scene, like the final scene of 'L'Eclisse' is a superb demonstration of the use of settings and environment to reflect the inner emotions of the characters. Here, Sandro is flanked by Claudia, with Mount Etna in the background, threatening to erupt. Much like their emotions perhaps.

I have only seen four Antonioni films to date; this, 'L'Eclisse', 'Il Deserto Rosso' and 'Professione: Reporter', and each film I have only seen once. As I mentioned, the critical consensus suggests that you must see these films more than once for them to reveal their magic and meanings. At the moment, my reactions have been a combination of admiration and bewilderment. I daresay that sits in the middle between Antonioni's supporters and his critics; a kind of neutral, sitting on the fence position that fails to commit one way or the other. Like his characters. 4/5

The Liar (1981, West Germany/Finland, Mika Kaurismaki) and Zombie and the Ghost Train (1991, Finland, Mika Kaurismaki)

2008-09-22T13:31:00.000-07:00

Whilst his brother Aki is quite a respected name on the arthouse circuit, it's easy to forget that his brother Mika was the first sibling to release a feature; 1981's 'The Liar'. Scripted by and starring Aki, it's an amusing homage to the French New Wave, most notably the early black and white Godard features. Whilst one scene in a cinema features clips from Bande á Part, the film it's closest to in tone is 'Breathless'. Ville Alfi is a hyperactive and articulate drifter who spends his time chain smoking, chatting up women and borrowing money from those he knows using numerous different excuses. He also reminds me of Johnny in the Mike Leigh film 'Naked'. Although not quite as bitter or corrosive, Ville Alfi is a man who escapes all situations, who's full of big words but small thoughts, and doesn't do anything because there's nothing worth doing. He's proud of his lack of accomplishments and in a sense of deadpan irony well associated with the Kaurismaki's finds his comeuppance in a fashion one never expected.

Zombie (Silu Seppala), the eponymous character in the second Kaurismaki feature, could be Ville Alfi ten years later. We first find him homeless in Istanbul, pale and ghost-like in appearance. In true flashback fashion, Kaurismaki shows Zombie six months previously, much healthier, and then charts his decline. Another drifter who can't stick to one thing, his musical talents are his only possible route out of his rut. However he has a self-destructive streak a mile long, scuppering his chances of enjoying a career with Harry and the Mulefukkers, a US-influenced rockabilly band that might as well be The Leningrad Cowboys (a film that featured Seppala). Seemingly followed and influenced by The Ghost Train, a much cooler leather clad trio who might as well be the devils to Harry and the Mulefukkers guardian angels (their effect is vampiric - sucking the life out of Zombie), Zombie turns to alcohol and his whole life falls apart when his girlfriend and mother leave him. Only Harry offers a chance of redemption.

There are obvious similarities between the two Kaurismaki films. Both feature protagonists who are drifters, without purpose and prone to self-destruction. The tone of the two films though couldn't be more different. Ville Alfi's a charming liar - you can understand how he manages to convince people to believe his stories. He's an articulate and thoughtful guy whose inability to get anything done is born out of some existential belief. Zombie however is a man whose soul is a bottomless abyss, whose alcoholic decline can't be arrested. Perhaps the fate of Zombie is a warning to Ville Alfi. This is what he might become. This is part of the issue I have with 'Zombie and the Ghost Train'. If this is true deadpan humour of the Kaurismaki trademark, then it's positively six feet under. The film is so unremittingly grim that each self-destructive episode of Zombie's life becomes more difficult to bear. Ville Alfi's scrapes seem slightly more harmless and the humour in his concocted lies is more apparent. Zombie cannot accept the help of others, throwing goodwill back in the face of those who offer it. Kaurismaki's career is rather idiosyncratic, making films in the US and Brazil, but Finland seems the natural home for these brothers, where their deadpan humour seems to work best.

The Liar: 3/5
Zombie and the Ghost Train: 2.5/5

Both films are released by Bluebell Films on 22 September.

Shadows of Our Forgotten Ancestors (1964, Soviet Union, Sergei Parajanov)

2008-09-17T15:45:00.000-07:00

An incredibly rare screening of Parajanov's film, part of the 'Today is the Tomorrow of Yesterday' season at the BFI Southbank, which focuses on erasure. In this case, the erasure of love, culture and ultimately life. Until this point, Parajanov had made a number of pro-Soviet propaganda films and was considered a safe director. This reputation changed for good with 'Shadows of Our Forgotten Ancestors', a film that was commissioned as nothing more than a love story in the Romeo and Juliet style, but ultimately became a celebration of Ukranian culture, specifically that of the Hutsul culture in the Carpathian mountains. This culture had been practically destroyed by the time the film was made, so reviving it obviously was something the authorities were going to take issue with given the promotion of a homogeneous Soviet identity. Parajanov's difficulties with the authorities would increase when he made 'The Colour of Pomegranates' four years later, a film I recently reviewed. In many ways 'Shadows of Our Forgotten Ancestors' can be seen as something of a dty run, where his interest in looking into minority cultures and aesthetic radicalism would take greater shape.

Set during the 1860s (the first was partly made to commemorate the centenary of Mykhailo Mykhailovych Kotsiubynsky's birth), Parajanov starts with an absolutely breathtaking scene of a tree falling, killing a man. Starting with an overhead shot, the camera then follows the point of view of the falling tree. And this is one crucial difference between this film and 'The Colour of Pomegranates'. This film favours very athletic camerawork, also seen in a 360 degree shot circling two lovers later - all thanks to the efforts of DoP Yuri Illienko. This contrasts with the long takes and lack of camera movement in 'The Colour of Pomegranates'. What follows is a tale of warring families. Ivan's father is killed by Marichka's father in another superbly shot scene - as the fatal blow is struck, the blood literally spills onto the lens, and the two children (played by Ivan Mikolajchuk and Larisa Kadochnikova as adults) soon fall in love. Set to marry, tragedy strikes when Marichka accidentally drowns. Grief-stricken, Ivan becomes a hermit, but later marries Palagna (Tatyana Bestayeva), though this is an uneasy union since Ivan is evidently haunted by and in love with Marichka, and is inevitably destined for a tragic end.

Aspects of 'Shadows of Our Forgotten Ancestors' seem to be filmed as if Parajanov was showing the customs and traditions of this community in documentary fashion. It certainly would come as no surprise to learn that non-professionals were used as Parajanov meticulously documents these customs. The spiritual values of the Hutsul community seem to be a careful mish-mash of Christian and Pagan rituals. Just look at Ivan and Palagna's wedding, which is performed in traditional Hutsul fashion, with the bride and groom blindfolded and yoked together. Every festival has its own rituals, and as well as this, there's the local sorcerer, whom everyone allegedly has a need for. Palagna herself practices black magic in order to fall pregnant. This black magic at work is another of Parajanov's technical flourishes; there's an evident change in the elements (storms, winds), flashes and freeze frames, as well as a tree spontaneously combusting. Although the film has a more conventional narrative than 'The Colour of Pomegranates' as well as great aesthetic imagination, it doesn't have the same mind-blowing effect that the latter has. An artist incredibly singular in his vision, Parajanov's films have impressed me on certain levels but I've not been totally won over just yet. 3.5/5

Mother and Son (1997, Russia/Germany, Alexander Sokurov)

2008-09-17T05:30:00.000-07:00

Given that Sokurov's 'Alexandra' has finally received a UK release, a full year after I saw it at the London Film Festival, it's perhaps useful to look at one of Sokurov's previous films about family bonds. Where 'Alexandra' looked at the love between a grandmother and her grandson, set during the Chechen conflict, 'Mother and Son' is a more dreamlike affair, featuring just two actors, the mother (Gudrun Geyer) and her son (Aleksei Ananishnov). What's interesting is how Sokurov dispenses with any personal information. Both the mother and son are nameless. We discover she was a teacher, but that's all we know of her. We know even less of the son, except that the mother suggests he's had a hard life and that she feels sorry for him. We learn nothing about where he lives, what he does or anything about his father. All Sokurov is interested in is the here and now - the tender and mutual love between the mother and her son.

What narrative exists is merely the son caring for his mother in her final hours before her inevitable death. Her death is not unexpected. She's clearly ill and both the mother and son know it's going to happen imminently. The son makes her final hours as comfortable as possible - one scene in which he combs her hair predates the scene in 'Alexandra' in which the grandson braids his grandmother's hair. Taking her for a walk, Sokurov transforms the world outside into a hazy and dreamlike setting with unnatural camera angles and the use of different filters and lenses. It's probable that Sokurov was inspired by the art of Caspar David Friedrich, the German artist whose work is striking similar - allegorical landscapes that evoke religious mysticism. Each scene resembles a Friedrich painting, with the use of mists, expansive skies, storms etc. Sokurov also films the mother and son in long shots to absorb the backdrop. There are few close ups during the exterior scenes; these are only used in the interior scenes. Sokurov makes no attempt at realism, creating a fantastic and illusory environment where death is just around the corner.

Clocking in at only 71 minutes, it might appear slight but Sokurov doesn't extend the film longer than is necessary. The amount of dialogue in the film is sparse. The mother and son only speak as much as they have to. Given that 'Mother and Son' is unconventional in dispensing with narrative, concentrating on its unique visual style and reliance on mood instead, it might be difficult for some. With patience though, it becomes rewarding. It's as moving an example of family love as I've seen, up there with Karoly Makk's 'Szerelem' (1971). Nick Cave once said that when he saw 'Mother and Son', he wept from start to finish. It's a film that can certainly have that effect. 4/5

Ashes of Time Redux (2008, Hong Kong/China, Wong Kar Wai)

2008-09-16T13:00:00.000-07:00

First, I have not seen the 1994 release of 'Ashes of Time' so I won't be able to make direct comparisons between the two versions to explain what changes Wong Kar Wai has made. But then it seems that very few people have seen it. Wong Kar Wai explained that now was the right time to re-release for the film for various reasons. One was that the film existed in numerous versions; some authorised, some unauthorised. This release should now be considered the definitive version. Wong Kar Wai is notorious for struggling with his final cuts of films. When 2046 was presented at Cannes in 2004, it was reported that it was unfinished and rushed specifically for that festival. Another was that the technology now existed to make various technical changes. Indeed, Wong Kar Wai regrets that he could not make the film now, believing it would be better with the technology now available. The cynical amongst us might suggest that Wong Kar Wai had one eye on the commercial success of recent wuxia films ('Crouching Tiger, Hidden Dragon', 'Hero', 'House of Flying Daggers') and wanted to cash in on it. Whatever the reasons for good or ill, it's great news that an important film by one of the greatest contemporary film makers can now be seen by a wider audience.

If one is expecting a wuxia film in the Zhang Yimou form, then expect to be disappointed. 'Ashes of Time' couldn't be any more different. Essentially, it's a regular Wong Kar Wai film, exploring the usual themes, but it has a historical setting and uses the wuxia novels of Louis Cha as its context. I should add though that all Wong Kar Wai uses is the characters, completely discarding the plot of the novels. The film's central character is Ouyang Feng (Leslie Cheung), a middleman that one goes to if one needs someone killed. He lives alone in the desert having abandoned his hometown for reasons we only discover later. His only interaction is with those requiring his services and it becomes apparent that all those who seek his services are all inextricably linked in some way. Although this gives the impression that this is a film about revenge, 'Ashes of Time' is more a treatise on love. The characters have all suffered because of love and their hurt encourages their feelings of vengeance. The constant voiceover of Ouyang Feng gives him scope to ruminate on love, as does his interaction with his clients, dispensing such advice as "the best way to avoid rejection is to reject others". His advice is born from his own suffering, which we later discover. Born under a total eclipse, for Ouyang Feng love is destined to be out of reach - look how he enviously looks upon the swordsman with the nagging wife. These themes could have emerged from any Wong Kar Wai film. The cast includes Tony Leung Ka Fai, Maggie Cheung, Jacky Cheung, Carina Lau, who all starred in Wong Kar Wai's previous film 'Days of Being Wild', and I'm sure certain parallels can be drawn between the two films as well as any of Wong Kar Wai's subsequent films.

It almost becomes a cliché when looking at films where Christopher Doyle is the DoP to admire the cinematography, but naturally I do. 'Chungking Express' was made the same year, and despite the complete differences between the films, it's intriguing to note the similarities in the ways the films have been shot. Both films favour a blurry and jerky visual style. The action scenes in 'Ashes of Time' just whizz by in a matter of seconds in a very frantic and frenetic fashion. Note too how Doyle captures the impending blindness of Tony Leung Ka Fai's swordsman. If you compare Doyle's work here with his work on 'Hero', superficially similar films, there's a vast difference in how the action is shot. In ways though, it does look like a dry run for 'Hero' - the emphasis on colour coding for each character's outfits, the often brilliant colour photography for the locations (look how scorching the desert is - a bright yellow) etc. Apparently one change of the film is cleaning up the narrative so that it's less confusing than the original version was, placing more emphasis on the Ouyang Feng character, though perhaps this undersells the talents of the rest of the cast. That said, even now it's still somewhat hard to follow. But then Wong Kar Wai's films have always been character driven rather than plot driven. 'Ashes of Time' is a fascinating film with an excellent cast, considered Wong Kar Wai's most under-appreciated film and that idea has much merit. Thankfully we now have a widely available definitive version. 4/5

Ugetsu Monogatari (1953, Japan, Kenzo Mizoguchi)

2008-09-15T10:04:00.000-07:00

Along with Rashomon (1950), 'Ugetsu...' is one of the films that put Japanese cinema on the international map, winning prizes at international film festivals (the Silver Lion at Venice). Of course Japanese national cinema was as old as cinema itself globally but this was the first time in which the West had taken an interest in Japanese cinema. Mizoguchi himself had been making films for thirty years by the time he'd made 'Ugetsu...' and even his first widely considered masterpiece 'Tale of the Last Chrysanthemums' (1939) predates this film by some fourteen years. This era in Japanese cinema is arguably its finest - Kurosawa, Ozu, Naruse and Mizoguchi (the last three had all started their careers in the silent era and had spent numerous decades making films) were all at their peak, with their films arguably united by a humanist agenda. Mizoguchi's film examines themes such as human weakness and moral decline, which was neither new to him nor his contemporaries - what is perhaps unique to Mizoguchi (though Naruse's films often do this) is consider the weakness of men and the inevitable consequence of the physical and emotional damage done to women.

Set in a divided Japan in the 16th century - a world of mystery and illusion, but also violence and lawlessness, warlords vied for domination. In this context, we are introduced to the film's two male protagonists, Genjuro (Masayuki Mori) and Tobei (Eitaro Ozawa). These two mens are peasant potters with families but not happy with their lot in life. Genjuro believes his talents are capable of achieving great wealth, whereas Tobei dreams of becoming a samurai. Tobei's wife tells him "know your place or you'll regret it", whilst Genjuro's wife also suggests caution. Whilst Tobei is clearly a figure to be laughed at, as the samurai do at his futile dreaming, it's perhaps more Genjuro whose ambitions are potentially more dangerous, even though he's presented to us as a clearly talented and level-headed father and husband who wants the best for his family. Claiming there's nothing but pain and despair in poverty, he's certain he'll make a fine profit in time even though the permanent state of war makes life precarious. Indeed, once the village is looted by bandits, Genjuro refuses to flee thinking he'll lose everything, even though he's placing the life of him and his family in danger.

Both families have to start afresh and it's the ambition of both men which makes them abandon their families to make good on their ambition. Genjuro sends his wife to safety, promising to return once he has made enough wealth, but Tobei leaves his wife as soon as he gets the chance, fed up at her constant discouraging of him samurai dreams. The immediate effects of this are clear - Tobei's wife is raped by soldiers and Genjuro's wife is murdered for not handing over the food she possessed for her son. At the same time, both men achieve their dreams, reinforcing the idea that has been used by Mizoguchi before, especially in 'Tale of the Late Chrysanthemums' that a man's success is achieved at the expense of women.

The ghostly and ethereal aspect of the journey the men took from their home villages to where they are now based, on a misty river passing a man on the way who claimed he wasn't from a ghost ship, seemed innocuous at the time, but now takes on a more ominous dimension. Genjuro's talents are appreciated by Lady Wasaka (Machiko Kyo), the only surviving member of a noble family. Drunk on this appreciation, he begins a torrid affair with her, but there are enough clues even before Genjuro's meeting with a priest to suggest that all is not right here. Our awareness of this is apparent far sooner than for Genjuro, suggesting that he's truly and deliriously blinded by his ambitions. Despite coming across as a devoted father and husband before, when it comes to choosing between them and his dreams, he'll choose the latter every time, completely forgetting about his family because he's achieved the success he always yearned for. Tobei on the other hand is forced to confront his misdeeds, meeting his wife once more, only now she is a prostitute, forever ruined by his abandonment of her. As I said before, by this point our impressions of the two men have completely turned on their head from the opening scenes. Genjuro, once level headed has caused the greatest hurt and pain from chasing his dreams rather than Tobei, whom we had written off as feckless and prime for ridicule. It's absolutely brilliant of Mizoguchi to completely invert the circumstances of these two men.

A superb parable about greed and ambition, 'Ugetsu...' also acts as a startling commentary on gender relationships. The actions of the men in trying to achieve success has important consequences for their wives and the men are completely oblivious to their suffering. Even when Genjuro realises the truth about Lady Wasaka and refuses to go with her "to her world", she replies "A man may not care but a woman does", suggesting that the cruelty of men is entirely selfish with no thought whatsoever to the emotional effects of this. Thematically, it's a truly intelligent and perceptive film. Although Mizoguchi opens with a typical "scrolling shot" with the camera panning from right to left, for most of the film, Mizoguchi relies on long takes with a largely static camera, similar to his peers, Ozu and Naruse. Technical gimmicks aren't required when you have a film so confidently directed and so certain of its themes and significance. 'Ugetsu...' makes a case as the greatest Japanese film of all time and it's certainly no surprise that it ranks so highly on critics' lists. 5/5

Yi Yi (2000, Taiwan/Japan, Edward Yang)

2008-09-13T03:52:00.000-07:00

Edward Yang's epic is a subtle and quietly affecting exploration of the emotional crises faced by a middle class Taipei family. The three hour running time might seem overlong, but it gives its characters time to breathe and doesn't restrict them and also allows Yang to seamlessly weave between the issues each member of the family faces. Compare this to a similar film that was made at around the same time; Sam Mendes' 'American Beauty'. This explores many of the themes that Yang's film does (dissatisfaction, adultery, emotional breakdown) but without any of the subtlety, relying on more sensationalist plot developments to try to make its point. I've always considered Mendes' film, despite its commercial and critical success, to be overrated and trying too hard to make its point. Seeing 'Yi Yi', this has only reinforced my position. There's no question which is the better and more emotionally affecting film.

NJ (Nien-Jen Wu) is a businessman whose electronics company is facing financial difficulties, seeking a deal with a Japanese games maker in a bid to save the company. At the wedding of his wife's brother, he meets an old girlfriend, Sherry (Su-Yun Ko). Having not seen her in nearly thirty years since he abandoned her, this chance meeting throws his life into chaos, forcing him to ask questions about his comfortable life as it current exists and also to wonder whether it's too late to start again and what if he'd stayed with Sherry. NJ's wife, Min Min (Elaine Jin) is experiencing an emotional breakdown and visits a mountain retreat of dubious nature. Their children, Ting Ting (Kelly Lee) is having her first lessons in love, and Yang Yang (Jonathan Chang) is constantly teased by classmates and finds himself in trouble at school. The family grandmother has a stroke which leaves her in a coma, which confuses and worries the children.

Starting with a wedding and ending with a funeral, Yang packs in every aspect of human life in between. Although it doesn't satirise the entire bourgeois lifestyle like 'American Beauty' (which was heavy-handed in any case), it does focus on dissatisfaction. At the start of her breakdown, Min Min realises "my life is a blank" and "what am I doing every day?". She feels she has little to show for her life and is desperately unhappy. We don't see that much tenderness between her and NJ. Whether this is a marriage that has been having problems for a while, we can only speculate. That might explain NJ's readiness to seek out the possibilities with Sherry. However, as the Japanese software designer whom NJ meets, explains "we never live the same day twice", and as Ting Ting's boyfriend suggests "life is a mixture of happy and sad things". 'Yi Yi' is not just a downbeat look at middle class life. It also considers the richness and possibilities of life and contains much humour - the tricks Yang Yang and his friends play, the scene caused between the wife of Min Min's brother and his ex-lover at a class reunion, etc. Yang doesn't settle for lazy resolutions and too much sentiment. 'Yi Yi' is a balanced and confident look at life at the turn of the millennium and unfortunately was to be the final film he made before succumbing to cancer. Most of Yang's films are unavailable on DVD, which hopefully might be addressed soon. 4/5

Brief Encounter (1945, UK, David Lean)

2008-09-09T09:56:00.000-07:00

To commemorate the centenary of Lean's birth, the BFI Southbank and Film Four are running seasons showcasing his entire directorial career. His early films are amongst the best of British cinema. 'Great Expectations', the definitive Dickens adaptation would arguably be up there as a contender for the finest British film of all time. I'd argue that 'Brief Encounter' is every bit its equal. It's probably the one film of Lean's whose reputation has suffered more than any other in the last few decades (Lean's style of cinema was very much the kind that the new wave of the 1960s was supposed to discredit and overthrow). Many see it as too restrained, too polite, too middle class in its approach at adultery. On the other hand, I would see this approach as very much to the film's advantage. The fact that the adultery remains chaste and unconsummated adds greatly to the pain and suffering it causes.

'Brief Encounter', scripted by Noel Coward, Lean's chief collaborator at this time is indeed set in a typical Coward environment - the middle classes of the South Eastern suburbs. As Laura (Celia Johnson) suggests she's an ordinary woman with an ordinary life and family, though this is a facade; her marriage is nothing more than a polite arrangement. Her husband barely listens to her when she reveals she met Alec (Trevor Howard) for lunch. This partial confession goes unnoticed as if he wouldn't even react to being told the complete truth. Typically repressed and emotional sterile, the violence of falling in love with Alec comes as a shock. This doesn't happen to ordinary people. They meet after he assists her when she gets some grit in her eye at Milford Junction train station, and although nothing out of the ordinary seems likely, they meet every Thursday over the course of five or six weeks and find that they have fallen in love with each other, perhaps partially a reaction to their emotionally unfulfilling domestic circumstances.

Lean shows their relationship in its euphoric moments. When they reveal that they're in love with each other, Laura loses her inhibitions, becomes less concerned about being discovered and doesn't feel so ashamed. But what Lean also shows, and this is what makes the film even more moving and brilliant, is the guilt and pain of such an adulterous relationship, even one with few moments of genuine intimacy. For instance, on one Thursday when meeting Alec, she returns home to discover that one of her sons was hit by a car. Though not serious, she feels such extreme sorrow as if it was the direct result of her adultery. In her typical middle class way, Laura wants to be sensible and in control of her emotions, but finds it increasingly difficult to. The fact that Alec and Laura can never miss their trains, that even despite their love, they must return to their spouses at the correct time, is even more in keeping with their commitment to their suburban mores but also more emotionally devastating for us, as we are in full sympathy with an adulterous couple.

Lean begins and ends with the scene in which Alec and Laura part, but crucially he films it front different perspectives. At first, we have no emotional attachment and no knowledge of how we arrived at this point. It's filmed purely from a neutral angle, as a friend of Laura's interrupts Laura and Alec's poignant parting. The second time we see this scene, it's much more personal as we're now aware of the relationship that existed and how a parting that is so tragic and so difficult is halted by an unwanted gossip. Such is the cruelty of fate. There are few more devastating but romantic images in cinema that the moment Alec places his hand tenderly and sympathetically on Laura's shoulder as he finally leaves. As I mentioned, 'Brief Encounter' has become a film that's easy to criticise; its detractors question why the couple can't consummate their affair and question the restrained and polite bourgeois nature of it all. Sure, it's manipulative and pulls at your heartstrings, but that doesn't matter when it's done so well and so believably. Considered a landmark of British cinema and rightly so. 4.5/5

Time and Winds (2006, Turkey, Reha Erdem)

2008-09-08T07:50:00.000-07:00

The likes of Nuri Bilge Ceylan and Faith Akin have placed Turkish cinema on the map since the turn of the century. The likes of 'The Edge of Heaven' and 'Climates' have won prizes at major international film festivals and secured releases in the UK. 'Time and Winds' may have won two main prizes at the 2006 Istanbul Film Festival but that wouldn't normally be enough to gain a film recognition outside of its own borders. For two years, the film has received terrific word of mouth, never more so apparent than in the September issue of Sight and Sound. Where Erdem's film differs from the work of Ceylan and Akin is that it concentrates on the rural experience of Turkey as opposed to the modern Istanbul, but like the other films mentioned, 'Time and Winds' captures a Turkey torn between tradition and modernity and between religion and secularism.

Set in a poor village close to Izmir on the Western coast of Turkey, three children experience the plight of growing up - Omer (Ozkan Ozen), the son of the local Imam who harbours parricidal thoughts towards him, Yakup (Ali Bey Kayali), who has a crush on his teacher and is acutely aware of his father's humiliation by his grandfather, and Yildiz (Elit Iscan), who raises her younger sister much more than her mother ever does. These are children on the verge of becoming teenagers, thus they're experiencing the kind of emotional pressures that anyone at this age does. However this is a typical patriarchal community that exists in Muslim societies and respecting one's elders is an important feature of this community, even in adulthood (not that this is always implied to be a negative - the whole community works together to assist an elderly grandmother). Just look at how Yakup's father accepts his humiliation without complaint when his own father destroys a wall that he has built, a humiliation made worse by the fact that Yakup witnesses it and feels his own sense of pain. One theme that Erdem explores is that sons ultimately become like their fathers and despite Omer and Yakup's youthful defiance, it's easy to imagine that given the setup of the community they live in, that they might do so.

Utilising some gorgeous locations and scenery, Erdem creates a contemplative environment, where the three children spend their time pondering the community they live in and what they perceive the injustice of it. This rural beauty contrasts with the painful and difficult experiences of growing up, where there's always an impending sense of tragedy. Erdem's camera tracks and follows the children's movements to give an indication of their carefree lives outside the family home, but remains a static observer of life inside. Whilst I don't think it's the masterpiece that Sight and Sound's review and feature suggested, it is a fairly fascinating account of a part of Turkish society that doesn't feature so much in the cinema that reaches the West - the Muslim, patriarchal communities that exist outside of large cities. This to an extent reflects the contradiction modern Turkey faces. 3.5/5

Temptress Moon (1996, China/Hong Kong, Chen Kaige)

2008-09-01T09:52:00.000-07:00

Chen Kaige's follow up to his Palme D'Or winning 'Farewell, My Concubine' has received a pretty muted critical reception in the decade since its release. Since seeing it for the first time a couple of years ago, I've always found this a little unfair. Although it's a film with certain shortcomings, I've never considered it the poor cousin to 'Farewell....' - instead I've always thought it just as enthralling but what's more has more visual and technical prowess as well as offering just as much ambivalence towards the modern China with it's allegorical narrative that examines the current era through that of the 1911-1920s period. Kaige also has a reputation for making overwrought and overdone films, but in the case of 'Temptress Moon', there's a school of thought that suggests this is a very knowing and self-referential film that dissects the very notions of melodrama. That is, by being so over the top, it comments on the genre itself. Silbergeld's "China Into Film" (http://www.amazon.com/China-into-Film-Contemporary-Envisioning/dp/1861890508) has a chapter on 'Temptress Moon' which discusses the film in this context.

Set during a period of social and political transition, 'Temptress Moon' starts in 1911 before the fall of the Qing dynasty and the resignation of Emporer Pu Yi (an event that is soon mentioned). The wealthy and important Pang family is fated for a similar decline - it's downfall to be caused by opium, the drug which all it's heads become addicted to (there's an ominous opening scene where Ruyi, as a child, smiles upon inhaling in). This corrupt family - witness Zhengda's demands of Zhongliang to kiss his own sister in an incestuous fashion, destined towards self-destruction and tragedy sows the seeds of its own fall, and has been argued to reflect the corruption of Communist China, echoing the ambiguous nature of Chen Kaige's previous films. At this point in 1911, the three children in the house, Ru Yi (the master's sister), Duanwu (her cousin) and Zhongliang (her cousin through marriage) will determine the family's fate - note the knowing scene where all three meet and look into the camera as if to declare their importance to the viewer.

At this point, when the film rushes into the 1920s and the three are now adults, the film lurches into more melodramatic terrain with tragedy never far from the horizon. Zhongliang (Leslie Cheung), now a blackmailer and gigolo working for a local crime syndicate has constructed a cool and emotionless persona after the trauma of his forced incest as a boy - he can never love again. Under the pseudonym Xiao Xie, he seduces rich women whilst his cohorts extort money through contrived kidnappings. When one woman is told Xiao Xie is dead, maybe that's a reflection on the changing identity of Zhongliang; that his identity isn't real, that he's not who he really is. Ru Yi (Gong Li) on the other hand has ascended to the leadership of the family after Zhengda was poisoned (no guesses by whom), a move which has caused internal strife within a family still bound by the traditions of a patriarchal society. Duanwu (Kevin Lin) is used by the family elders to keep an eye on her because he has no ambitions of his own, but this superficially dim-witted young man is smarter than he looks. Their fates are all destined to be entwined and because of such, the inevitable tragedy ensues after Zhongliang returns to the estate with the intention of seducing Ru Yi - the masks and personas these people wear begin to slip and the dynamics in the relationships between them begin to shift in ways you hadn't expected. As the film reaches its climax, it becomes more over-elaborate and melodramatic but you suspect (and Silbergeld agrees) that this is precisely the point - that it acts as a commentary on melodrama generally as much as it does itself.

Thanks to the photography of Christopher Doyle, 'Temptress Moon' is a visual feast with brilliant use of lighting - it seems very old fashioned but of course precisely of its own time (1920s) to focus an intense strip of light in the eyes of the actor. Chen Kaige uses a number of close ups on the faces of his actors generally, possibly to reflect the possible slip in their facades. Doyle's camera follows his protagonists wherever they go with a great amount of urgency; it's rarely still. More visual brilliance is shown in the sex scenes which are choreographed in a very dreamlike light. But 'Temptress Moon' is a film of substance too. Much like 'Raise The Red Lantern' and other films of the Fifth Generation era, it uses the past as a means of critiquing the present - the Pang family is a rigid and patriarchal society which is resistant to change but also quite vulnerable at the same time. The rise of Duanwu from nowhere to the head of the Pang dynasty has been said to echo the unexpected ascendancy of many Communist officials, Jiang Zemin specifically. Many critics remain ambivalent about the film probably because of its confusing narrative - when Miramax released the film, they added prologues to "help" the viewer. I've not seen a version distributed by Miramax and I don't think they're necessary anyway. Chen Kaige has not remotely approached these heights since, which is a shame because his opening run of films are wonderful. Now he's been co-opted into the Chinese film establishment, who knows whether he will again? 4.5/5

The Spirit of the Beehive (1973, Spain, Victor Erice)

2008-08-25T04:56:00.001-07:00

Erice's breathtaking film was set during the initial years of the Franco regime, but was made during its final years. Needless to say, it's unlikely that it could have been made when the regime was at its strongest. Despite it not being overtly too critical of the regime, its sufficiently subtle in its approach - is the theme of loss of childhood innocence a reflection on the loss of innocence after a bloody civil war that had deposed a legitimate government?

Set in a village in Castile, a Francoist stronghold, a screening of James Whale's 1931 horror classic 'Frankenstein' becomes a community event. Whilst other children are frightened by the film, Ana (Ana Torrent), a young girl, is touched by the more poignant moments in the film, such as when Frankenstein's monster meets a young girl by a pond and plays with her. When her sister Isabel (Isabel Telleria) explains that the spirit of the monster lives in an abandoned outhouse in the village as a joke, Ana wants to befriend this spirit. A Republican soldier is now hiding there, and Ana tends to his injuries and brings him food, believing him to be the monster's spirit and their relationship to be similar to that between the monster and the young girl Ana identified with. However, is Ana helping the soldier or making his discovery more likely?

Ana's retreat into fantasy and identification with the film is possibly the consequence of a disintegrating family unit. Her father, a scientist is obsessed with bee-keeping and related experiments and there's barely any kind of relationship with his younger wife, who writes letters to her loved ones. In fact, you notice that there are no scenes at all with all family members in the frame at the same time. The only instance they're all together, at the dinner table, no two family members are in the same frame. Ana herself abandons her family temporarily - having given the soldier her father's watch, we know that the soldier is then discovered and murdered by the gunfire in the night. Ana doesn't know this, and only discovers then when her father deliberately and cruelly pulls out the watch at the dinner table. This completely shocks her since in the film, she could not understand why the community turned on and killed the monster - to her, this murder of the soldier just echoes that. This society is still divided and will turn on its "enemies". This is a disjointed family, perhaps reflective of Spain as a whole during Franco or at least certainly in its initial years when the entire nation was polarised by war. Is the imagery of the community of bees and windows in beehive shapes reflective of community under Fascism - ordered, organised, but devoid of individuality or imagination? Is Ana the only hope, the only individual in a homogeneous society?

Driven by the superb performance of Ana Torrent (who would later appear in Alejandro Amenabar's debut film 'Tesis') - which is surely one of the finest ever delivered by a child actor; believe me, she'll break your heart, 'The Spirit of the Beehive' is one of the most poignant films ever about childhood and the loss of innocence. This scenario acts as an allegory if you like for the wider society under Franco; a society that is still divided but has hope in Ana. The constant reference to bees and beehives might reflect an increasingly organised society under Fascism; one that is ordered and controlled, where individuality is suppressed in the name of homogeneity. Featuring breathtaking cinematography from a near blind Luis Cuadrado, where the yellows dominate each shot, and a correct lack of dialogue - Erice never allows his characters to speak more than they need to, and a sense of isolation and lack of communication is precisely what is needed, 'The Spirit of the Beehive' is a moving and heartfelt account of life under Fascism. 4.5/5

Summer Palace (2006, China, Lou Ye)

2008-08-24T08:28:00.000-07:00

Showing as part of the 21st Century Chinese Cinema season at the BFI Southbank (London), 'Summer Palace' is an ambitious but ultimately flawed account of the turbulent love lives of a group of Beijing students, which mirror the social, economic and political changes in China between 1987-2001. Certain elements of the film, including full frontal nudity and footage of the student demonstrations at Tiananmen Square led to the film being banned in China and also a five year ban from film making for director Lou Ye, though the official word was that the film was banned for "technical reasons". It wasn't the first time he fell foul of the Chinese authorities - his 2000 film 'Suzhou River' remains banned in China, and Lou Ye was banned from film making for two years. Fellow Sixth Generation directors, Jia Zhang Ke and Wang Xiaoshuai have managed to escape formal disapproval of their films as of yet whilst remaining equally ambivalent as Lou Ye of China's modernisation in recent decades - perhaps their approach is a bit more subtle than Lou Ye's.

'Summer Palace' begins in Tumen, a border city between China and North Korea, where Yu Hong (Lei Hao), a young student receives notification of her acceptance to study at university in Beijing. Life in Beijing offers more choices, opportunities and freedom than she has been used to - she falls in love with Zhou Wei (Xiaodong Guo), who begins to get involved in the student demonstrations which are developing at the time (1988-89). Somewhat immature and impatient, and perhaps unable to cope with these feelings, their relationship is turbulent and remains on-off. It's a relationship which exists beyond university and its difficulties reflect those China faced in the path it took to reach where it is today.

Lou Ye shows the student demonstrations with a combination of dramatic action and TV footage of the time. By using this footage, Lou Ye is arguably increasing the power and impact of the events - we know we are witnessing the truth rather than a recreation of what happened. What he doesn't show (and maybe we shouldn't be too surprised) is the aftermath of these events. We see the army trying to maintain order, but the massacres that followed the demonstrations are never shown, nor inferred. Even by the most understated of figures, there was a harsh crackdown on dissenters after these demonstrations, but the film doesn't even remotely reflect what took place. A shame, since Lou Ye was clearly brave enough to make a film about these events - maybe he should have gone further, though one could hardly blame him I guess given what the consequences might be for him.

After Tiananmen Square, Lou Ye shows us the rapid changes in both China and internationally - the collapse of the Berlin Wall and the Soviet Union for instance - Lou Ye offers documentary footage of each of these events, which also includes the return of Hong Kong to China, further evidence of the growing success of China and its emergence as a global superpower. At each global event, we dip into the personal circumstances of Yu Hong, Zhou Wei and the assorted other main characters, all of whom seem to have messy and chaotic romantic lives every time. As a group of people, they're difficult to care about or sympathise with, and that's partly where the film suffers because you start to tire of them failing to maintain relationships with each other, notably Yu Hong's self-destructive approach to romance. There's certainly things to admire here - the cinematography for instance, where a jerky camera and rapid cutting reflects the turbulence of both events and personal circumstances and Lou Ye's ambition is to be praised. However, there's enough flaws - the uneasy balance between being critical of Chinese modernisation and the need to appease the censors, as well as difficulty to engage with any of the characters to make it a bit of a mess overall, though it's certainly a brave and interesting one. 3/5

The Colour of Pomegranates (1968, Soviet Union, Sergei Parajanov)

2008-08-24T05:07:00.000-07:00

A loose biopic of the Armenian ashug (troubadour) and poet Sayat Nova, Parajanov's film is a beguiling, if sometimes frustrating film. It's defiantly unique in its scope and vision, which accounts for the difficulties Parajanov faced from the Soviet authorities, who not only banned the film in its original incarnation but also heavily re-edited it - no doubt for its supposed nationalist content and also the fact that Soviet audiences just wouldn't understand it. Parajanov himself was persecuted by the authorities, and was later imprisoned in a labour camp for four years on charges of rape and homosexuality.

'The Colour of Pomegranates' certainly requires the viewer's patience. Dispensing with formal cinematic narrative, Parajanov recreates the life of Sayat Nova by displaying his inner world. It's essentially visual poetry; the narrative driven by the scenes of abstract imagery and the native Armenian music. There is no dialogue, just voiceover (this and any titles are usually lines from Nova's poetry) and Parajanov uses a still camera which never moves. Parajanov makes no attempt at realism, but uses Armenian folklore to revive a national culture which was undermined and suppressed by the authorities.

Parajanov seems to portray Nova as an androgynous and mystical figure, using Sofia Chiaureli, a Georgian actress who was Parajanov's muse, plays Sayat Nova across five stages of his adult life, in contrast to using a boy and man to play Nova as a child and older man. Parajanov also obliquely accounts Nova's rise from humble carpet weaver to diplomat and King of Songs, and then his fall from favour at court, becoming a monk - it's only really reading up on Nova's biography that this all becomes apparent though. Parajanov has no interest in recreating Nova's world in a conventional fashion - by using elaborate music and dance, costumes and choreography, as well as a series of beautiful and enthralling images, 'The Colour of Pomegranates' is a justly acclaimed film, albeit one that really tests one's tolerance for art of the avante-garde kind. 4/5

Red Angel (1966, Japan, Yasuzo Masumura)

2008-08-20T06:06:00.000-07:00

Upon reviewing Masumura's 'Blind Beast' recently, I remarked upon how versatile a director he is, able to turn his hand at almost any genre and seemingly hop between them with ease, whether it be the lesbian melodrama of 'Manji' or the S&M infused amour fou of 'Blind Beast'. Between these films comes 'Red Angel', a strange black and white war film. One problem with being so versatile is that you spread yourself to thinly, don't always play to your strengths and fail to carve out your own niche or voice. My problem with the Masumura films I've seen, and I've enjoyed them on the whole is that I never feel sufficiently engaged. There's something unconsciously (for me at least) alienating about them and I never feel totally immersed in them. I wonder whether that's related to Masumura's desire to try his hand at various genres.

Starting with sounds of war (gunfire, bombing) over photographs of conflict, Masumura creates a powerful statement about the physical and psychological effects of war, specifically the Sino-Japanese war of 1937-1945. Masumura doesn't hold back in showing these horrors; soldiers are injured and in gruesome scenes which remind me of the surgery scenes in 'Eyes Without A Face', amputations without anaesthetic are the norm for those "lucky" enough to survive. This is a recurring issue here; whether these men would be better off dead than being amputees for the rest of their lives, isolated from mainstream society. Many of them long to be put out of their misery. Then there's the moral anguish of the medical staff who are responsible for these life and death decisions. Against this backdrop, Sakura Nishi (Ayako Wakao) is sexually assaulted by a group of soldiers. It emerges this isn't the first time that has happened, that all nurses are subjected to similar treatment and that behaviour of this kind is pretty much accepted and forgiven by the authorities. War is an unnatural state where social conventions and norms are rejected perhaps and in a world where death or severe injury is likely and human life has no sense of value, humanity falls by the wayside. I doubt this is any kind of excuse for this act, but might act as a sense of explanation for it.

Nishi's commitment to her cause forces her to make serious self-sacrifices - seeing a doctor's compassion but also his erratic behaviour, caused by his reliance on morphine to allow him to endure the horrors of the frontline, Nishi falls in love. At the same time, she tends to one severely injured patient in the most unconventional of means. Unable to relieve his own tensions (his arms were amputated - there's no doubt what he means), they start a short lived affair. These men are the desperate and the dying and Nishi considers it her duty to try to save them. When her lover dies, she blames herself and cannot forget, despite all the contrary advice she receives to think only of herself in this state of war. But the psychological scars don't heal. Proof that this conflict is too horrendous for anyone to possible bear is the outbreak of cholera that coincides with the massacre of the Japanese forces.

'Red Angel' is quite a struggle to get through; it's subject matter of amputation, drug addiction and gruesome conflict was probably just as groundbreaking and taboo-busting as much of Masumura's work at the time, but it also supersedes most other war films in that sense. Very few that I can recall have treated war in such an honest and depressing fashion, nor have they quite approached the subject of war in quite such a bizarre and peculiar way. It's beautiful and gruesome in equal measure with a dash of the erotic at the same time. Certainly unique, it's further proof of Masumura's talent, though I'm not convinced I've seen a truly great film of his yet. 3.5/5

Seconds (1966, US, John Frankenheimer)

2008-08-17T12:45:00.000-07:00

The third part of an unofficial 'paranoia' trilogy (which also comprised 'The Manchurian Candidate' and 'Seven Days of May'), 'Seconds' might well be one of the most downbeat films you're ever likely to see, but shows a remarkable insight into contemporary America through the eyes of a director that cinema history tends to ignore the achievements of; perhaps because he was never auteur material, perhaps also because of the poor films he was making at the end of his career. In my opinion, it's more satisfying and thrilling than 'The Manchurian Candidate' and is easily one of the most stunning films of its decade.

Utilising the immeasurable gifts of cinematographer James Wong Howe, who made 'The Sweet Smell of Success' look so bleak, Frankenheimer's masterpiece is dizzying and disorientating for the viewer - the constant use of fish eye lenses to create an impression of a world out its natural order, where nothing is as it seems, as well as extreme point of view filming methods, following individuals with intense close ups. The ominous use of these techniques in the film's opening scenes indicate straight away that we're being shown events where nothing will be normal and the tension never once lets up from this point.

Arthur Hamilton (John Randolph) seemingly has the middle class American dream - a successful job, a wife and children, and a prestigious house in the suburbs. But at the same time, there are obvious cracks in the facade. His marriage is loveless and he barely communicates still with his wife, and his children have long since moved out and started out on their own adult lives. A peculiar incident in which he's given a piece of paper with an address piques his interest; it's for a company which can offer him what every middle aged American male wants - "real freedom". Hamilton is offered a chance to start over again - the company can fake his death, offer cosmetic surgery and set him up with a new life, the life he always wanted. And so he becomes Tony Wilson (Rock Hudson), a bohemian painter. However the cost of such a change is not just financial, but also psychological and emotional, as he struggles to adjust to his new life. Despite this freedom, Hamilton maybe starts to wonder whether it's all it's cracked up to be, and the consequences of not living this new lifestyle as it was intended are potentially dangerous.

Perhaps some aspects of 'Seconds' seem a bit quaint and dated nowadays - the party in which revellers dance around naked as if it were some cliched Summer of Love nonsense (but even this seems quite daring for a mainstream film of the mid-1960s), but that doesn't remotely undermine a stunning film that examines the frustrations and emotional lack in the white American middle class in such a frank and open fashion, certainly more insightfully than any other film of the age was prepared to do. The core values of this social class; achievement, prestige, success, the good life - these are all seen as not being enough for the individuals who reject this for the new life of freedom offered by "the company", though this freedom itself has conditions that are more than Hamilton can bear. A thriller that puts the viewer through the emotional wringer and which is constantly technically inventive, 'Seconds' is incomparable. 5/5

La Ronde (1950, France, Max Ophuls)

2008-08-05T02:41:00.000-07:00

As alluded to in the previous piece, Ophuls' brief Hollywood career was completed after making 'Caught' and 'The Reckless Moment', but still at his creative peak, he resumed work in France, with 'La Ronde' being the first example of this. Based on 'Reigen', the play for Arthur Schnitzler which was banned for obscenity, a fate the film faced in certain countries, Ophuls weaves a mesmerising tale of a daisy chain of ten sexual partners (e.g. A sleeps with B, B sleeps with C, etc before returning back to A). Although Ophuls remains faithful to the original setting of the play, turn of the 20th century Vienna and scrutinises the sexual mores of society as well as its class differences, the crucial theme of the transmission of syphilis seems if not omitted, then underplayed, although this doesn't really undermine the satire too much.

One of Ophuls' masterstrokes is using the handsome and charismatic Anton Walbrook (most famous for 'The Red Shoes') as the film's narrator and master of ceremonies. An omnipotent presence over the events that unfolds, as well as influencing events to ensure the circle of lovers remains intact, he is the incarnation of our desire to know and dispenses romantic advice; "all are led the same merry dance, when love chooses its victims of chance". He initially sets up the whore with the soldier, then aids the pairing off of each subsequent set of lovers, all to keep the carousel going.

Ophuls shows how sexual impropriety crosses class boundaries; notice how the whore pairs off with both the soldier and the aristocrat, representing two arms of high society. The sole married couple both have affairs - as the husband says "marriage is a perplexing mystery" and perhaps the young gentleman who sleeps with his maid represents a sense of economic exploitation. Using typically elaborate camerawork, never more evident that the opening scene, unbroken for several minutes as it follows Walbrook's introduction and summation of the events at hand, Ophuls pans the camera in circular directions as if to denote the circular nature of the waltz of love. Good natured and whimsical, though no less specific in its observation of sexual attitudes of the time, 'La Ronde' is an enchanting cinematic experience by a film maker clearly on the crest of a wave. 4/5

'La Ronde' is released on DVD on 8th September from Second Sight.

Caught (1949, US, Max Ophuls)

2008-08-04T09:20:00.000-07:00

Recently, I reviewed 'Letter From An Unknown Woman', a superior melodrama which remains probably the best of the four Ophuls films that I have seen. Made just a year after, 'Caught' was Ophuls' first attempt at making a contemporary American film. This too is another melodrama, but one that also acts as a scathing attack on certain American values of the era (materialism, ambition, success). Leonora Eames (Barbara Bel Geddes), Caught's heroine starts as a rather shallow young woman about to enter charm/finishing school, with the sole intention of developing the refined habits and behaviour that will snare her a rich, successful husband. She reads fashion magazines, and romantically yearns for the good life. Naturally, her dreams becomes more of a nightmare.

Leonora meets and falls in love with Smith Ohlrig (Robert Ryan), a ruthless businessman with emotional and physical health issues. He's not so keen, but just to spite his psychoanalyst, he marries her regardless. Marriage isn't what Leonora expected it to be. Her charm school education is no use to her now. A man used to winning (who has heart palpitations when his superiority is threatened), Smith humiliates her in front of their friends/colleagues and wants to do his best to ruin her, ruling over her like a tyrant.

Escaping his clutches, she takes a job as a receptionist for the kind and self-sacrificing Dr Quinada (James Mason), and their attraction is mutual. However, when Smith finds her and wants her back (he can't accept losing her), Leonora is torn between the two men. Her yearning for a good life, for wealth, security and status take priority over love, though the crucial aspect is the fact she's pregnant with Smith's child and that Smith threatens a divorce citing adultery, giving him custody of their child, so perhaps Leonora is learning that her shallow ideals aren't what they're cracked up to be. Her eventual freedom is obtained in the most ironic of fashions, though not without a huge degree of tragedy, and what there is resembling a "happy ending" is incredibly subdued.

Like his fellow German, Douglas Sirk, Ophuls utilises the melodrama genre to raise significant and salient points about typically American values, increasingly held by many during a period of economic prosperity. Smith, unrestrained capitalism in human form is a cruel and merciless creature, who can't accept defeat and who must master others. Leonora's desire of Smith's world and her idealised notions of success and wealth display a sense of ambition that becomes her downfall. Only with the compassionate Quinada does Leonora find happiness, which refutes every ideal she previously held, although she struggles to let go of Smith's world. One wonders though, whether like Sirk's films, the satirical angle of 'Caught' was obviously noticed by its audience or whether it was just treated as a domestic nightmare and nothing more. Ophuls, who uses camera movement better and more interestingly than most, uses his technical gifts to show Leonora's world of peril - look at his use of lighting too when Leonora is faced with the moral dilemma of saving Smith's life when he has a heart attack. It would be so easy to let him die so she can be free and the contempt on her face is obvious, but Ophuls rejects such simple plot developments. 'The Reckless Moment' was made the same year, and should be considered together as incredibly pertinent dissections of contemporary American mores. 4/5

'Caught' is released on DVD on 8th September from Second Sight.

Day of Wrath (1943, Denmark, Carl Theodor Dreyer)

2008-07-28T06:11:00.001-07:00

Made during the Nazi occupation of his native Denmark, Dreyer's film uses the concept of persecution and witch-hunting during the 17th century as an allegory for the situation his country found itself in at the time the film was made. Who knows whether the Nazis were aware of Dreyer's intentions; you'd think the production would have been closed down if it was that obvious, but such is Dreyer's subtlety that perhaps those for whom the film was an attack upon failed to notice the point. Set around 1623, where a strict Lutheran orthodoxy led to the persecution of Catholics and other non-Lutherans in Denmark, Dreyer shows a community that is paranoid and distrustful of others, always quick to point the finger and accuse those who act outside of the norm as witches - a crime of course punishable by torture and death.

An elderly woman is accused of being a witch, a crime she vehemently denies. In what is assumed to be a reference to the Nazis, brutal methods are used against suspected criminals; in order to force a confession, torture is used, and even this isn't enough - the authorities want the woman to denounce others. Of course, she knows of one witch and the confession of which would cause shock waves throughout the pious community. An elderly pastor, Absolon (Thorkild Roose) has recently taken a young second wife, Anne (Lisbeth Movin), much to the disapproval of his mother (Sigrid Neiiendam), and it was suspected that Anne's mother was a witch, only saved from the flames by Absolon's testimony, though one suspects whether she was saved solely to win Anne's heart. Therein lies at heart the hypocrisy of the community, where the power that resides in a small religious few can be manipulated and exploited for cynical purposes.

When Martin (Preben Lerdorff Rye), Absolon's son from his first marriage returns to his family home, the focus shifts from interrogating suspected witches to the actual existence of a witch in the community. Martin and Anne begin to fall in love, their idyllic happiness at their love blossoming (shown in rural scenes of walks and boat journeys) contrasting sharply with the world of paranoia and persecution that Absolon inhabits. Martin is more sombre and distant by his betrayal, acknowledging his sin, but the affair makes Anne more assertive. Even Absolon and his mother notice the change. Note how she wears her hair loose now, opposed to tied back in an austere fashion. Such is Anne's desire to be with Martin that she wishes her husband dead, a wish that indeed comes to pass. Whether this is an absolute statement on Anne's power or whether it's ambivalent due to his age, it's a statement later used against her when Anne is accused, like her mother, of witchcraft.

Dreyer uses the concept of religious dogma run amok to create a haunting and atmospheric world, filmed where those with power can manipulate and persecute others for their own ends. The obvious reference to the Nazi occupation of Denmark has subsequently been made – little wonder therefore that Dreyer fled to Sweden not long after the film was made. Much like in Dreyer's 'The Passion of Joan of Arc', Dreyer has a trademark of close ups on faces to show anguish and emotion - just watch how close he gets to the elderly lady denounced as a witch during her suffering, as well as Anne's face during her growing love for Martin. Dreyer learned his trade during the years of silent cinema when an actor's face could convey just as much as dialogue, so it's no surprise that he uses this form of expression so convincingly. The film's climax is as ambiguous as much of what we've seen before - whether Anne is a witch or not, despite her confessions is probably open to debate, but this shouldn't distract us from Dreyer's true aim perhaps - depicting an austere world of terror and fear. 4.5/5

La Antena (2007, Argentina, Esteban Sapir)

2008-07-26T04:22:00.000-07:00

Argentinian cinema is appearing more and more on the world stage at the moment. Pablo Trapero's 'Leonera' and Lucrecia Martel's 'La Mujer Sin Cabeza' were both in competition at Cannes for the Palme D'Or, and Lucia Puenzo's 'XXY', a sensitive portrayal of the life of a teenage hermaphrodite secured a British cinema release earlier in 2008 (a film I had quite a lot of time for too). 'La Antena', a throwback to the days of silent cinema and more accurately German expressionism was too released in May in cinemas. It's an intriguing commercial decision certainly, because it's essentially a silent film in black and white which shuns modern cinematic conventions, uses hand made effects rather than CGI and would sit comfortably with more the surreal films of the 1920s - just see how the film begins with fingers hovering over a typewriter, with piano sounds being heard. It's certainly the kind of film that won't be sought out by multiplex audiences.

The narrative itself plays second fiddle to an extent to Sapir's technical brilliance because it really doesn't hold the imagination that much. This is a city where no-one has a voice, where life is controlled by the hypnotic draw of television, and where some plucky central characters try to break this spell and liberate the inhabitants of the city. It's the kind of set up that has been done before, mostly in the world of science fiction, and to an extent in the films that Sapir seeks to draw inspiration from - there's a homage to 'Metropolis' in one scene, a film which has a similar plot to this one. Whether Sapir seeks to make any pertinent points about television as a tool that makes people docile and is used as a means of suppression in contemporary society, I don't know or maybe it's just a convenient enough basis for him to explore his imaginative visual ideas. Also, there's the significance of people literally having no voice - does this refer in any way to Argentinian history, where democracy has often been precariously placed and replaced by military rule/dictatorships in the past? Again, allegorical interpretations of 'La Antena' can be made, but such is the emphasis on the aesthetics of the film that you'd be forgiven for wondering this was Sapir's intentions.

I've no idea what kind of budget Sapir had to work with on this film, but as I assume it was minimal, he certainly stretches it a long way. We're used to watching modern films with gigantic budgets and you think to yourself "where did the money go"? Not so with 'La Antena', where you think completely the opposite, how did Sapir manage to achieve this with barely any financial assistance. Sapir clearly has an active imagination, a rich sense of film history (see his tribute to 'A Trip To The Moon') and a willingness to put his ideas on celluloid without any doubts. His use of subtitles for instance are different - I suppose they're aiming to be like intertitles from silent cinema, but they completely reflect every word that's said, rather than just the gist of a conversation, but they also leap from the screen. Sapir's world is also completely artificial, deliberately so. See how his distance shots of the city are clearly made from paper, but constructed to look effective as well as how such things would have been filmed in yesteryear.

Sapir is certainly a film maker of some promise and it will be interesting to see which projects he works on next. 'La Antena' is a feast for the eyes for sure and an imaginative piece of work. I'm not sure however that the narrative is much more than a slight premise for Sapir to get his ideas on screen, and that's fine - he clearly had to work with limited resources and 'La Antena' is more than the sum of its parts. Sapir's film has been likened to the work of early Tim Burton, but if we're thinking contemporary kindred spirits, then Guy Maddin is perhaps a more natural comparison and who knows whether his work has been an influence as he draws direct inspiration from surreal and expressionist cinema. 3.5/5

'La Antena' will be released on DVD on 18 August from Dogwoof Pictures.

Ikiru (1952, Japan, Akira Kurosawa)

2008-07-22T02:59:00.000-07:00

Although much of Kurosawa's reputation rests with his samurai films and Shakespeare adaptations, it's easy to forget that before he concentrated on these genres, he was quite an adept director of contemporary films with a human conscience ('Drunken Angel', 'Stray Dog'). The finest example of such films is 'Ikiru', which in my opinion is his most complete masterpiece along with 'Ran'. If you take the basic set up; a mid ranking civil servant who has achieved nothing in his life discovers he's dying and wants to undertake one task of communal benefit, with modern eyes it seems a bit contrived, with the potential to finish the wrong side of sentimental. However such is Kurosawa's sincerity and empathy with his subject that the film emerges as a genuine triumph of human endeavour and an affirmation of life.

Acted by Takashi Shimura (one of Kurosawa's most frequent collaborators), Kenji Watanabe is a "mummy", someone who's been more or less dead for thirty decades, living for the minor achievements he's managed to accomplish, namely never taking a day off sick. It's a powerful performance, rarely relying on speech for Watanabe communicates purely in mumbles - it's all in the facial expressions. And that's part of the joy of 'Ikiru', how human faces drive the film as if it could be a throwback to silent cinema. Note how a drinking companion of Watanabe himself barely talks, just throwing quizzical looks in his direction.

Kurosawa doesn't keep us in suspense about Watanabe's health, explaining through voice over before the man himself knows, that he's dying from stomach cancer. Maybe this fact is laced with irony given that he never sought medical assistance for any illnesses in the past because he was too concerned that taking time off work would somehow be a dereliction of duty. Kurosawa then shows how Watanabe has got to the stage he has with flashbacks to his past - his wife died moderately young, leaving Watanabe to raise his son alone as he never remarried. These memories are what first springs to mind upon finding out about his impending death when he embarks on a period of soul searching (which includes copious drinking and skipping work), which then finally gives way to a moment of self-realisation - that life is short and he has to rescue the abandoned plans to build a children's playground in a poor part of the city.

Watanabe is just one part of the bureaucratic minefield though. When the local citizens first petition the council for the playground, there's an amusing scenario in which they are passed from one council department to the next before finally ending up back where they started (Public Liaison, which Watanabe heads) several hours later. Even when the playground has been completed, council departments all claim responsibility, sidelining Watanabe's efforts, especially the cynical and unscrupulous deputy mayor who has one eye on his forthcoming election. At his wake, prompted by the local citizens who mourn him, comes an acceptance that Watanabe was chiefly responsible for the playground's construction, and inspired by his zeal, his colleagues vow to follow his lead. Of course nothing changes - people are shown being passed from one department to the next in the very next scene.

Much like in the later work of Ozu, tensions between parents and children in post-WW2 Japan are apparent. In 'Tokyo Story', when the elderly parents from the countryside visited their city dwelling children, they had no time for them and regretted this when they passed on. The same occurs here, where Watanabe's selfish son and daughter in law are interested solely in Watanabe as a source of money - he overhears them discussing his retirement bonus and he subsequently neglects to tell them he's dying. Respect amongst the younger generation for their parents and elders appears to be lacking in both films and continued to be an issue in the works of Ozu for instance.

As typified in the iconic scene of Watanabe sitting on the swing in the playground in the snow, cooing a 20s love song as he awaits death, 'Ikiru' is one of the most profound and moving films anyone is ever likely to see. Thanks to Shimura, Watanabe convincingly transforms from a man whose entire life had been meaningless and unfulfilled to a man whose death-inspired zeal and determination was able to achieve something positive for the common good. Kurosawa's empathy for the man is evident and its this which allows the film to remain honest and not feel forced or manipulative, as well as offer substantive insights into the human condition. 5/5

The Red Shoes (1948, UK, Michael Powell/Emeric Pressburger)

2008-07-21T14:04:00.000-07:00

Justifiably selected as one of the ten best British films of all time in a recent BFI poll, 'The Red Shoes' is a dazzling reminder of the golden age of British cinema and perhaps the most famous example of the brilliance of The Archers production team (Powell and Pressburger). It's a film that works superbly on both a narrative and visual level - on one hand it's a moving melodrama about a dancer torn between her love for her art and her love for her partner, whilst on the other it was like nothing British audiences would have seen at the time, a dizzying explosion of colour and expressionism. Little wonder therefore that Martin Scorsese cites it as one of the most influential films upon his career.

Victoria Page (Moira Shearer), a humble dancer in the Lermontov ballet troupe is discovered by the driven yet charismatic Boris Lermontov (Anton Walbrook) and made a star of, whilst simultaneously falling for the composer Julian Craster (Marius Goring). However in true melodramatic fashion, one can't have what one both loves, and Victoria has to make a choice - to marry the love of her life, or become a slave to her art. Add into the mix the ballet of The Red Shoes itself, based on the Hans Christian Andersen tale about the girl whose shoes would not allow her to stop dancing until tragedy struck. Victoria's life ultimately is fated to echo hers. Whilst this has the potential to sound a little contrived and unoriginal - the love triangle dimension has been done before (though this is love between a man and one's art), it's handled so confidently by film makers at the peak of their powers, it's always convincing.

Most discussion about the film rightly rests with its visual brilliance. Consider that the norm for British made films was to use black and white stock; very few films had been filmed in colour by the late 1940s. 'The Red Shoes' was something different, something new. The eye-popping use of colour would have been a revelation. The ballet sequences are a masterful example of expressionism, with Victoria's fragile psychological state laid bare for us to see. As she takes off in 'The Red Shoes' ballet, the theatrical setting transforms into something much more dreamlike and artificial, with Victoria floating in space whilst seemingly hysterical and traumatised by the prospect of being torn between Craster (love) and Lermontov (art). This sequence exists as a microcosm of the film's visual artistry; an assault on the viewer's senses, but the film is much more than that. It's a demonstration of British cinematic confidence during its peak by arguably it's finest film makers. A masterpiece. 5/5

Blind Beast (1969, Japan, Yasuzo Masumura)

2008-07-21T10:16:00.000-07:00

Diverting exploitation fare from the versatile Japanese director Masumura (who made the Frank Tashlin-esque 'Giants and Toys' and the lesbian melodrama 'Manji' amongst other films), which must have seemed pretty out there to late 60s Japanese audiences, though it fits into quite suitably amongst the new wave of films during that period. Coming over as a precursor in many ways to Nagisa Oshima's 'In The Realm of the Senses', which followed a few years later, 'Blind Beast' focuses on an equally sordid affair based upon seemingly S&M ideals.

Aki (Mako Midori), a spunky young model, poses for some fairly kinky "artistic" photographs which are shown in an exhibition alongside a life sized clay model of her body. When she visits this exhibition, she sees a young blind man caressing this model in a way that doesn't seem natural. Of course this concerns her as the man's hands running up and down the clay model are practically felt by her, as if it is her body that is being fondled. The same man, Michio (Eiji Funakoshi), turns up later as her masseur, kidnapping her with the help of his mother. Thus begins a perverse episode as Michio first forces Aki to act as his model for his new artistic endeavour, though their growing closeness causes a rift between Michio and his domineering mother.

Although the narrative and drive of 'Blind Beast' barely stays together, Masumura's handling of this slight material is enough to make it more than watchable. The film's real success is in its set design. Michio's studio is a terrific recreation of his sensory capacity; with walls adorned with body parts and sensory functions - eyes, noses, breasts, arms (like those in Cocteau's 'La Belle et Le Bete' or Polanski's 'Replusion', though motionless). It's so elaborately designed, you can't help but watch with wide eyed wonder. There's amusement to be gained from Aki and Michio's initial cat and mouse games through large nude models. Michio explains his motivations for his studio's design and kidnapping of Aki - that he has senses other than sight, that touch is the only sense that means anything to him.

The kidnapping also reveals Michio and Aki's nascent interest in power games and sexual quirks - his sadism, her masochism ("I only like it when it hurts"). Michio's sexuality had been repressed before, with a creepy Oedipal complex apparent, but he's now liberated by not only his mother's death, but Aki's acquiescence towards his sexual desires. When she loses her sight from the near darkness in which she resides, they share the ecstasy of caresses, of achieving sexual gratification through touch only. As the violence inflicted upon each other increases to achieve enjoyment or "exquisite pain", there's not much territory to explore, and explore they do, with the final sexual ecstasy achieved through cutting of limbs, symbolically shown through the falling of a clay statue.

In many ways, 'Blind Beast' is rather ridiculous; a kinky little film that's actually quite chaste in what you see, but the exploration of more intense sexual adventures was rather groundbreaking and laid the path for the more notorious 'In The Realm of the Senses' as mentioned above. I guess if anything, the S&M infused affair is related to the sensory (lack of) capacities of Michio and Aki, that by lacking certain senses, they have something to make up for, which manifests itself in the methods they use. Not that it should be taken too seriously though, and it might easily be forgettable if not for the fact that Masumura knows what he's doing and the use of an elaborately designed set to highlight Michio and Aki's sensory and sexual issues. 3.5/5

Close Up (1990, Iran, Abbas Kiarostami)

2008-07-14T10:08:00.000-07:00

One of the earliest features that brought Kiarostami to the attention of Western critics (indeed this was one of Cahiers du Cinema's top five films of 1991), 'Close Up' is a curious film that is based on a real life incident where a man named Hossain Sabzian was initially mistaken for the Iranian director, Mohsen Makhmalbaf, but then assumed his identity to immerse himself in a middle class Iranian family's house and lives for no obvious reason. The stylistic conceit here is that Kiarostami films partly in documentary style and also partly as a standard re-enactment of events with the real individuals involved (thus you have Sabzian repeating his fraud over again and so on). Kiarostami himself films the trial of Sabzian (which apparently isn't standard practice - even the judge wonders why he's filming such a trivial case given the standing of him as a film maker) and a journalist (Hossain Farazmand) who wants to understand the whole incident.

Thus what Kiarostami presents us with is a world where nothing is quite as it appears. The lines between fact and fiction become blurred, especially in the mind of Sabzian who maintains the pretence that he is Makhmalbaf. Kiarostami has always shown an interest in "cinema" in his films - his later 'Through the Olive Trees' was about the making of an actual Kiarostami film in many ways. Is Kiarostami suggesting cinema is a chronicler of real life (hence the pseudo-documentary nature of them) or that they're distinctive entities? The media are partly shown to be culpable for the fraud of Sabzian too. Their constant reporting on Makhmalbaf surely made his life appear glamorous to Sabzian and therefore encouraged his deception when the opportunity arose.

Sabzian's motivations though aren't nefarious - he is a poor and humble man whose wife has left him and he lives with his mother. He has no hopes and ambitions and contemporary Iranian society has no obvious place for him. He has no job and self-esteem and admits that the fraud gave him the only chance in his life to feel important and to be respected - people actually listened to him and his opinions. Sabzian (as Makhmalbaf) explains that he is visiting a family because directors should show humility and live closely with those people he wishes to film. Sabzian is a man who would live a normal life if given the chance. His fraud was born out of desperation. Kiarostami's ultimate display of sympathy is one of the final shots of the film, as he rides with Sabzian on a motorcycle before visiting the man he impersonated. 'Close Up' is a shining example of Kiarostami's humanism and another superb demonstration of his interests in the distinction/convergence between cinema and life. 4.5/5

Days of Heaven (1978, US, Terence Malick)

2008-07-14T09:42:00.000-07:00

Terence Malick is one of the very few great contemporary American film makers. I know it's easy to suggest a director has never made a creative mis-step when his entire career only exists of four films, but it's still the case that all of Malick's films to date could be described as masterpieces by any yardstick. 'Days of Heaven' is in my opinion though, the finest of all. It's odd that for all the talk of a new Hollywood generation in the 70s, Malick often goes unnoticed and seldom mentioned in the same breath as his much more highly regarded contemporaries such as Scorsese and Coppola - time to set the record straight, I think. 'Days of Heaven' is easily the match of their greatest works ('Raging Bull' or 'Apocalypse Now' say).

Set in 1916, Malick traces the tale of three itinerant workers (Bill - Richard Gere, Abby - Brooke Adams, Linda - Linda Manz) who escape to Texas after Bill murders a co-worker. They end up working for a farmer (Sam Shephard), who Bill learns is dying. Knowing that the farmer is in love with Abby, they hatch a foolproof scheme - if Abby marries the farmer, then when he dies, the three of them will be set up for life. Of course in cinema, the best laid plans never succeed, and so it goes. The plan is jeopardised on two fronts; the farmer shows no sign of becoming more ill and that Abby begins to fall in love with the farmer. Bill and Abby had been passing themselves off as siblings, when of course they're more intimate than that, and whether the farmer suspects or not (his foreman does though the farmer fires him when he raises his concerns), what results is a tumultuous jealousy from both men as they are unable to wholly love the woman they are in love with, which naturally results in tragedy.

Most critics praise 'Days of Heaven' for its visual rush, and it's certainly true that the Oscar-winning cinematography of a near-blind Nestor Almendros (known for his work for Francois Truffaut) and Haskell Wexler paints an evocative image of the rural South. It's one of the best looking films you'll ever see, up there with 'The Red Shoes' or 'Barry Lyndon'. The film is much more than a superb demonstration of visual style though, as the moral implications of Bill, Abby and Linda's plan unfold in a jealousy-soaked climax of literally Biblical proportions. Two prominent references to the Bible are used in the film - Bill and Abby passing themselves off as siblings reflect the same circumstances of Abraham and Sarah, and also the Plague of Locusts from Exodus is used as the farmer's wheat fields are ravaged; the trauma of which directly drives the tragic stand-off between Bill and the farmer. Malick disappeared from film for two decades after the post-production of 'Days of Heaven', which reportedly itself took two years to complete. We should be fortunate he returned to film making. 5/5

The Damned (1969. Italy/West Germany, Luchino Visconti)

2008-07-14T04:21:00.001-07:00

'The Leopard', widely regarded as Visconti's finest film charted the decline of an aristocratic family during the rise of Garibaldi and Italian nationalism. It was sympathetic towards its main characters who were swept up by events and the inevitable course of history. 'The Damned' is thematically fairly similar. A German industrialist family, the von Essenbecks (rumoured to be based on the Krupp family) align themselves with the rising force of Nazism and find their own existence torn apart by family friction and divisions as Nazism takes control of German society. This is one dysfunctional family where you feel absolutely no sympathy with anyone as each jockeys for position and favour with the Nazi elite, each tries to set the other up, and where sexual abuse and immorality is the norm. It's now common for Nazism to be related to sexual dysfunction in cinema, but 'The Damned' is one of the original films that developed this concept - note how Dirk Bogarde and Charlotte Rampling, two of the actors in Visconti's film, were reunited for Cavani's 'The Night Porter' - surely no coincidence.

The film begins in 1933 when Hitler recently became Chancellor but his position was still fairly unstable, although this changes with the Reichstag fire, which is mentioned in the opening family dinner. The patriarch of the family has his reservations about the new regime, and one son is ideologically opposed to it, predicting the danger to come. Conveniently, the former is murdered and the latter flees Germany after the SA charge him with the murder, though clearly this is just a set up. The company then passes down to the widow (Ingrid Thulin) of the deceased eldest son, who marries a social climbing executive (Bogarde) to secure their control, which naturally upsets the rest of the family who have seen their birthright pass over to an outsider, and each attempts to undermine the other and cosy up with the Nazi regime (seen in that the ultimate victor is indeed the Nazis who control the company by the film's conclusion, even though it's headed by one family member), which threatens the stability and position of the entire company. In the best melodramatic tradition, we know what the outcome will be but relish the excessive loathing and decadence that brings the family down.

The neo-realist roots of Visconti's work were long since past, as Visconti uses an explosion of lurid colour (reds, blues, greens) for metaphorical purposes, highlighting the depravity of a family in which incest and abuse of minors is commonplace. Perhaps it goes too far in that respect, coming over as too farcical and exploitative to work as a truly impressive account of a family's decline, and the pan-European acting talent ensures that much of the acting in one language comes over as a bit stilted. Still, for those looking for slightly campy and kitsch entertainment, this works fine (including one drag tribute to Dietrich in 'The Blue Angel') - it's just a little uneven overall. 3.5/5

Eyes Wide Shut (1999, UK/US, Stanley Kubrick)

2008-07-04T04:06:00.000-07:00

Possibly the most divisive film of Kubrick's entire career, 'Eyes Wide Shut' opened to fervent admiration in some critical circles and utter bewilderment in others. My opinion is that it's certainly a masterpiece, albeit it a flawed one, and comparable with many of his most acclaimed films. Even though I'm a huge admirer of Kubrick's work, I'd like to think I'm pretty objective about it at the same time. For instance, I'm not that keen on the two films that preceded it; 'The Shining' and 'Full Metal Jacket'. To use a cliched and well worn phrase, 'Eyes Wide Shut' was a return to form for the director who passed away almost as soon as the final cut was completed.

Using 'Traumnovelle' by Arthur Schnitzler as his template, Kubrick and fellow screenwriter Frederic Raphael, create a hypnotic and dizzying account of a marriage threatened by jealousy and insecurity. Bill (Tom Cruise) and Alice (Nicole Kidman) are a married couple with a young daughter with superficially the perfect lifestyle - he's a successful GP, they live in an expensive apartment, attend swanky parties hosted by Bill's clients. One such party starts a chain of events that force the couple to explore their marriage with great insight. They flirt with others, though avoid actually infidelity itself. This is the crucial moment in the film. The following night, Alice, whilst stoned and angry at what she perceived was Bill's attempts to commit infidelity with two young models, reveals her own imagined infidelity and confesses her own desires for other men in the past.

Bill then retreats into a sexual odyssey of his own where temptation and attraction awaits at every turn, which culminates in the infamous orgy sequence at an out of town mansion. It's this scene which is perhaps the source of contention of those critics who reviewed the film negatively - it's incredibly unerotic despite all the nudity and sexual acts being performed and written off as the work of a lecherous old man. Still, what was one to expect from Kubrick whose films always defined human relationships in such as cold and clinical way? I think that sequence actually works given that the film as a whole is so artificial, existing in a world between dreams and consciousness, where one more or less cannot tell what is real and what isn't. The whole setting of the film is totally false - a turn of the 20th century Vienna set novel is updated to what looks like 1970s New York but was filmed in various locations in London and the Home Counties. 'Eyes Wide Shut' is a film that exists outside of time and place. If one wants realism from films, try something else! Then there's the use of colour to increase the dreamlike status of the film - rooms painted out in deep, rich reds, whilst the lighting through windows is always a cool blue.

The perverse marketing of the film is another triumph for me. It was certainly a long shoot, and because of such, rumours circulated about the film and what it comprised. The trailer featured Cruise and Kidman naked in each other's embrace, which was pretty much the only moments we see the couple undressed or intimate. Kubrick always cherished the idea of making an "adult" film with famous actors and this example provides that to an extent though is quite misleading (in a good sense) about what it wants to achieve, though that brings us back to the cold and clinical orgy sequence that the films detractors loathe.

Now the dust has settled and the hype of the film's release has long since passed, 'Eyes Wide Shut' demands critical rehabilitation. The best Kubrick film since 'Barry Lyndon', a quarter of a century before it (though to be fair, there's only two films between them), it shows the late director at least on a technical perspective on top of his game, with meticulous attention to detail and superb tracking shots, such as during the first party. Whether the film was in part responsible for end of the Cruise-Kidman marriage, who can say, though it must have taken its toll - Kubrick manages to get better performances out of them than you'd expect, and Kubrick hardly has the reputation of being an actors' director. And to those who often accuse Kubrick's films of lacking emotional impact, then it's not true here, as 'Eyes Wide Shut' is a thorough examination of marriage, desires and emotions, and whilst one has to acknowledge a few faults (some varying performances from supporting actors and so on), it's more or less perfect. 4.5/5

Naked (1993, UK, Mike Leigh)

2008-07-02T07:52:00.000-07:00

A corrosive view of London in the early 90s, reflecting the effects of Thatcherism, 'Naked' won two awards at Venice for both Leigh's direction and for David Thewlis in his role as Johnny, a misanthropic and existentialist drifter. Previously known for his more light hearted comedy dramas with a social and political agenda of their own, 'Naked' is Leigh in truly darker terrain where any comedy that exists is of the blackest kind. Leigh opens with a completely ambiguous scene in a Manchester alleyway where Johnny has brutal sex with a woman which either is consented to or not - it's hard to tell, and this sets the tone for the entire film. Fleeing Manchester, Johnny heads for London to meet with an ex-girlfriend Louise (Lesley Sharp) and completely turns the worlds of everyone he meets upside down. It brings to mind the Devil/Christ figure of both 'Theorem' by Pasolini or 'Brimstone and Treacle' by Dennis Potter - Johnny similarly arrives from nowhere, leaves everyone's world in upheaval and vanishes.

Full of bile and self-loathing, he speaks to anyone and everyone on the London streets with a rapid fire delivery, which either bamboozles them or provokes violence, or in the case of Louise's flatmate Sophie (the late Katrin Cartlidge), she falls in love with him. What does Johnny represent? A Britain torn apart by the policies of Thatcher? A Britain that has lost hope, that has lost its place in the world? Despite his moral ambiguity, there is at least a sense of sympathy about him, even though he lies, cheats and betrays. Maybe it's his fierce intellect - he's a slightly more dangerous Jimmy Porter using the power of language to assert himself. Contrast this with Louise and Sophie's landlord Jeremy (Gregg Crutwell), the prime example of Thatcher's policies run amok. A vulgar, nasty yuppie who spits people up and chews them out, who wants nothing more than to assert his control over others, Jeremy's existence makes Johnny seem a salvageable cause. It's another Leigh cliché about the vulgarity of the upwardly mobile middle class, albeit a far more contemptible and violent stereotype than we're used to.

'Naked' presents contemporary London is a raw and macabre light, a world away from the cosiness of Richard Curtis's London, with more in common with say Stephen Frears' 'Dirty Pretty Things' - certainly that's the only film I recall since than shows London in such a tourist unfriendly fashion. This is a film about lives on the edge, lived dangerously, with a true sense of something near apocalyptic about to occur. Johnny's self-destructive behaviour is all he has in a world that has cut him adrift; perhaps his sole means of revenge upon the world. 4/5

City Lights (1931, US, Charles Chaplin)

2008-07-02T02:03:00.000-07:00

Silent comedy has always been a genre I know very little about - only seen the odd Chaplin film but never a Harold Lloyd or Buster Keaton. 'City Lights' was the first film Chaplin made during the sound era, and whilst he was under pressure to make 'City Lights' as a talkie, he had enough clout to film it as a silent though inventively compromised by inserting sounds, rather than speech. The "speech" in the film's opening scenes as a statue is being unveiled (which Chaplin's tramp is sleeping on) was recorded by Chaplin through a comb.

Described in the first titles as a "comedy romance in pantomime", the film is all this and more, both sentimental and funny. Chaplin's tramp, a clumsy and comical figure who constantly contrives to find himself in farcical circumstances meets a blind girl selling flowers in the street, and she mistakes him for a millionaire (she heard the door of an expensive door slam as he walked by), and that's pretty much the entire narrative. Saving an actual millionaire from drowning (which involves Chaplin almost drowning himself trying to save him), he gets access to that lifestyle, thus making his pursuit of the blind girl a bit more credible - he borrows the millionaires car and gives her a ride. Hilariously though, the millionaire only befriends Chaplin when drunk; when sober he remembers nothing.

Upon discovering that the girl's family is about to be evicted and also that she could have her sight restored with the right amount of money, Chaplin seems to address both these issues - the millionaire gives him the money but of course when he's sober forgets and assumes Chaplin has robbed him. Although the girl now anonymously has both her problems resolved, Chaplin went to jail. Upon release, he then seeks to find her in a conclusion that is remarkably sentimental by modern standards but is exceptionally moving with a killer final line that would have even the toughest and most cynical amongst us in bits. 'City Lights' is a staggering one man achievement, rightly considered one of the best comedies of all time because it balances the light hearted humour with emotional resonance. The pratfalls and humiliations Chaplin endures have a genuine romantic purpose to them, and the film isn't without it's darker moments, notably when Chaplin is arrested for theft and sent to jail. Plus there's also the issue whether the blind girl who now has her sight will fall in love with a tramp who's not what he appeared/claimed/was assumed to be. 'City Lights' is a comic masterpiece. Superb. 5/5

Matewan (1987, US, John Sayles)

2008-07-02T01:35:00.000-07:00

John Sayles is a very unique film maker, operating both within and outside the Hollywood system. By working as a script doctor on large budget films such as 'The Spiderwick Chronicles' or sole script writer on many early Joe Dante films, he's been able to quietly pursue a directorial career with a distinctive left-wing agenda. 'Matewan' is one such film, a celebration of organised labour in the 1920s in the face of hostile big business. The miners of the small town of Matewan want to become unionised, which is strongly opposed by their employers. These employers use force, introduce black and Italian workers into the community to create tensions between these different ethnicities and nationalities - a divide and rule policy if you like. Naturally it works as the miners consider each other enemies rather than their exploitative management.

Then Joe (Chris Cooper) arrives in town, looking for work. Giving an impassioned speech at a union meeting, he explains how management divides their workers, creating conflict and tensions to ensure they don't organise and mobilise. Joe seeks to unite the different sets of workers, introducing the black and Italian workers into the union and the community. Naturally as his methods succeed, the employers exert more pressure - infiltrating the union, attempting to evict families, labelling Joe a Communist (which he accepts with pride) and using violence indiscriminately. Note how the church, an integral part of the community, seeks to uphold the status quo (to protect their own interests). A preacher played by Sayles proclaims socialism to be the new form of the Devil, though this contrasts with the preaching of the young miner Danny (a wonderful Will Oldham - now more widely known as the singer/songwriter Bonnie Prince Billy) which calls for unity and integration. Of course as the management and labour become more steadfast in their positions, a tragic and violent climax is inevitable.

Sayles' film is impassioned and optimistic, if completely biased in its tone and characterisation. That's fine; he has his agenda and it's a welcome contrast to the times during which he made the film - Reagan's America where organised labour and socialism were dirty words. I was constantly reminded of Paul Thomas Anderson's 'There Will Be Blood' when I saw 'Matewan' - I wonder if Anderson has ever cited it as an influence upon his own film. The dark, dirty and claustrophobic conditions in which coal was retrieved mirror those in which Daniel Day Lewis's character struck oil in the opening scenes of TWBB. There's the use of religion in both films with child preachers becoming increasingly influential over a community, and also how religion is entwined with the current consensus of opinion or indeed instigates it. These are intriguing parallels, and though I think Anderson's film is a much richer and ambitious piece of work; far more morally ambiguous as well, 'Matewan' makes a worthy accompanying piece and makes the most of its modest origins with stunning performances and cinematography (from an Oscar nominated Haskell Wexler) as well as Sayles tight script. 3.5/5

Flanders (2006, Bruno Dumont, France)

2008-06-19T14:07:00.000-07:00

Along with the Dardenne brothers, Bruno Dumont is the current darling of the Cannes crowd. L'Humanité (1999) took three prizes, although it missed out on the Golden Palm, and his latest, Flanders, also picked up the Grand Prize of the Jury. Much like the Dardennes, Dumont specialises in slow paced tales of trivial, mundane lives using non-professional actors. These are the kind of films likely to divide audiences and critics alike, and I have to admit myself that I wasn't totally convinced by the first Dumont film I've seen.

The main basis of the film concerns the barely-existant relationship between Demester (Samuel Boidin), a young farmhand, and Barbe (Adelaide Leroux), the local girl of loose morals, let's say. It's tentative, uncommunicative, and their sex that usually occurs in damp fields is silent, quick, unerotic and apparently devoid of any pleasure whatsoever. There's no affection or tenderness, and their mutual ambivalence about their relationship - characterised when Demester publicly denies that he and Barbe are involved, encourages her promiscuity with another local man, Blondel (Henri Cretel). The three then maintain a fairly uneasy relationship thereafter.

Everything changes when both Demester and Blondel are conscripted and sent to fight a war that isn't named, though is undoubtedly Iraq. What Dumont then pursues is a juxtaposition of images and mood between the hell of war and the relative idyll of their rural village. Dumont focuses on the psychological effects of war, especially in an environment where women are absent. Attacked by child snipers, they exact revenge, killing both. Civilian women are raped, and the entire regiment embark on a barbaric crusade of senseless violence against those they've been sent to fight, though mostly against the innocent. Not that the violence is quite so one-sided of course. Dumont shows exactly what revenge is extracted against them by their enemies - men are tied and dragged whilst naked or killed in the most brutal of fashions. All the while at home, Barbe continues to sleep around and has a complete mental breakdown. There's clearly supposed to be a correlation between these events, and when both are reunited, there is a sense of normality returning, though both have been scarred by events. Tellingly, Demester is now able to tell Barbe that he loves her.

I'm sure some might describe Dumont's work as Bressonian in its sparseness and naturalism, though I don't think it's comparable on any level of quality. Bresson shows humanity at work and that there is hope. Dumont shows no hope and seems intent on giving his audience a complete downbeat experience. 'Flanders' wants to be insightful and shows that indeed "war is hell", but for what purpose? People in Dumont's universe are barren and without hope, and his dispassionate focus upon these lives of nothingness become tiring after too long and this film barely clocks in at 90 minutes. I'm not sure whether it wants to be a film about war or a film about rural hopelessness. Either way, I didn't find it overly convincing. 2.5/5

Reflections on Eisenstein

2008-06-11T02:53:00.000-07:00

Last weekend, I watched three of Eisenstein's earliest and most well known films; 'Strike' (1924), 'The Battleship Potemkin' (1925) and 'October' (1927). Commissioned as propaganda pieces, Eisenstein used these opportunities to reinvent the language of the infant cinema, and these three films remain amongst the most important and influential films of all time. I'm taking these films together rather than individually to avoid overlap and duplication of arguments and issues. All three films indicate examples of Eisenstein's talents and ideas about cinema, specifically the montage theory, and how these ideas came to predominate the three films on an increasing level, which resulted in 'October' for instance falling foul of the Communist Party as Eisenstein neglected pure propaganda for an exploration of cinematic techniques.

'Strike' was Eisenstein's first proper feature and meets the criteria of Communist propaganda more so than any of the following two features. It's narrative is that of a struggle at a factory between workers and management. Both classes are one dimensional as you would expect - the management are upper class exploiters and the workers are downtrodden and honest, forced to strike because they have no other options, because their exploitation has reached crisis point. Inspired by the suicide of a colleague who was falsely accused of theft, the workers communally agree to demands for fair treatment, which are dismissed out of hand by the management, represented by a scene in a gentlemen's club, where they arrogantly smoke cigars whilst dressed impeccably. The workers strike peacefully, but the police are typically heavy handed with their response. To catch the ring leaders, the police increase their brutality - in one devastating scene, a baby is thrown from an apartment, which then cuts to the laughter of the management. In one scene that metaphorically summarises this brutality, Eisenstein cuts between the slaughter of cattle and the dead bodies of dozens of workers, which is more powerful (especially considering the audience it was intended to reach) by relying on metaphor rather than showing the actual massacre.

Even at the point, it was possible to see Eisenstein's ambitions as a film maker, using visual techniques to propel a narrative. During the initial unrest at the factory, he shows workers having a conversation in the reflection of a puddle, possibly to indicate that all is not right. Animal metaphors are not just used at the film's climax; there is an ominous scene showing two cats hanging. Eisenstein was developing his montage theory when making 'Strike' - using a linkage of related images to carry the narrative forward but also to manipulate the response of the audience. See how he usually contrasts the distress of the workers with the arrogance of the management. It's not subtle but then it wasn't supposed to be. Only after the success of 'Strike' was Eisenstein able to follow his creative ambitions more.

'The Battleship Potemkin' remains Eisenstein's best known film and the film that most remains in the collective consciousness. It matters not whether it's been widely seen or not because the most famous sequence, the massacre on the Odessa steps, has been borrowed in a number of films, notably Brian de Palma's 'The Untouchables'. Like 'Strike', it's another twist on the class struggle between workers and management; this time set on the eponymous ship of the title. The regular sailors react against poor conditions, notably their diet of rotten meat, which they claim isn't even fit for dogs. Eisenstein then cuts to an extreme close up (seen through the glasses of the ship's doctor) of the meat, which is infested with maggots - though the doctor dismisses the sailor's complaints, suggesting washing the meat with brine and it'll be edible. The sailors mutiny against their poor treatment, summarised in one scene in which the 'leader' of the workers smashes a plate which features a design with the line from the Lord's Prayer "give us this day our daily bread" as if to signify the very basic diet these workers ought to expect.

Typically, this peaceful mutiny receives a heavy handed response from the ship's officials, who ask the petty officers to "string them up", showing the quite obvious class distinctions and animosities. At this point, there's a very startling shot, in which the ship's officials look up the mast and imagine two sailors hanging from there for a brief second. It's an impeccably handled insight into the mindset of the officials, which shows far more than if Eisenstein just showed what happened and ended the scene with their request to the petty officers. The officials then want the mutinous soldiers shot, which results in a scuffle in which Vaklunchuk, the "leader" of the sailors is killed. His death is avenged by the workers seizing control of the ship, with a symbolic shift of power (not just for the ship, but for the future?) with the white Tsarist flag being replaced with a red Communist flag. The locals of Odessa who join in with the public mourning, completely sympathising with the sailor, and uniting in a revolutionary cause. Does this indicate that revolution is incendiary; that it's spreading and can't be tamed and can only be addressed with force? The famous Odessa Steps sequence shows that violence is the only way the bourgeoisie can try to stop revolution; that they have already lost the political argument, and this violence is especially brutal. The army shoot at will, regardless of at whom. A child is shot and then crushed by people trying to escape from the army - almost making him a symbol of Tsarist oppression. Even those locals trying to stop the violence are shot. And then there's the famous pram sequence that was used to great effect in de Palma's 'The Untouchables'.

Whilst 'The Battleship Potemkin' can be seen superficially as a revolutionary propaganda film, reinforcing to its audience that revolution against the oppressive Tsarist regime was necessary, Eisenstein was using the film as a base for his montage theory, just as he did on 'Strike' and would continue to do so in 'October'. The editing is deliberately used to invoke the audience's sympathy on the side of the rebellious sailors, contrasting their virtue with the bloodlust of their officers and the army. Whilst it remains impersonal, devoid of characterisation and relying on symbolic, one dimensional characters, perhaps that's the point - the workers are one being, so injecting a personal element to the film might be to its detriment, 'The Battleship Potemkin' meets the objective Eisenstein set the film - to act as both propaganda and art. The film emotively gets across its message and narrative and allowed Eisenstein to revise the language of cinema.

'October' was commissioned to commemorate the tenth anniversary of the Russian Revolution of October 1917. The experimental nature of the film, in which Eisenstein explored his theories of montage to an unprecedented level, led to disapproval from the authorities who expected a film that was pure propaganda. The abstract nature of the film made what narrative existed incohesive amd difficult to follow, which was clearly a problem since the film was devised to reiterate to its audience that the revolution was necessary and successful.

Eisenstein depicts a pre-revolution Russia which is characterised by snow, poverty and people starving. Quoting Lenin, one of the intertitles states "it's the same old story, hunger and war" (Russia was especially suffering from World War One at the time). Lenin's presence in the film was reportedly not as widespread as the authorities wanted, though when he is involved, he's shown to be a man of the people who can engage wide support, as well as a gifted and convincing orator who can win people around to his way of thinking. Whether he's shown as heroic or the great leader of the revolution is another question entirely though.

Whilst Tsarist Russia is shown for its worst features, the Kerensky-led government that ruled Russia after the decline of the Russian Empire and the abdication of Nicholas II is shown as being no better, achieving no peace, no bread and no land. It was just another corrupt bourgeois government that didn't have the people's interests at heart. These counter-revolutionary are bourgeois stereotypes, shown disposing of Communist pamphlets (including its newspaper, Pravda) into the river, to prevent the dispersion of revolutionary literature. Abstract images are used by Eisenstein to particularly depict Kerensky, with associations to Napoleon (short man syndrome?) and a large mechanical peacock, which might relate to vanity or cocksureness. A startling montage of images that seem unrelated but were used by Eisenstein to draw comparisons between them (known as intellectual montage) feature to describe "God and country". The Christian God is associated with deities of other religions, such as Buddhism, Hinduism and Paganism, whilst 'country' is linked to military regalia and medals. The effect is achieved by the rapid cutting between these images and seems to undermine the entire principle of "God and country" where religion and patriotism were used to keep the masses down and prevent them from contemplating revolution.

Working on a larger scope and budget than ever before, Eisenstein was able to recreate the storming of the Winter Palace. This was apparently achieved more easily than the film suggests but for dramatic purposes, it's shown as a victory against the odds with the use of 11,000 extras. Whether it lacks historical accuracy or not is hardly the point as the film was a myth-making exercise designed to serve as propaganda. Interestingly, the film concludes with Lenin's proclamations and decrees on land and peace rather than showing the success of the revolution and its aftermath. Whether this is deliberately ambiguous or not, I'm not sure, but Eisenstein doesn't reflect on post-revolutionary Russia despite offering hope for the future.

The three films in question show a natural development by Eisenstein in revise the visual and technical language of cinema. Where 'Strike' was simple propaganda with hints at montage theory, 'October' almost abandons conventional narrative in favour of full-on experimentalism. In that respect then, 'The Battleship Potemkin' probably acts as the best balance between Eisenstein's twin instincts between narrative and innovation. It's easy to take Eisenstein for granted since his techniques have now become part of mainstream film making, but watching these films and seeing his montage theory develop and reach full effect, it's impossible not to admire how he rapidly cuts between images to drive the narrative. I've still yet to see the likes of 'Alexander Nevsky' and his two films of Ivan The Terrible. He made these films whilst somewhat compromised by the demands of the authorities who had grown to distrust his methods, but these films are still feted by critics nevertheless.

'Strike': 4/5
'The Battleship Potemkin': 4.5/5
'October': 3.5/5

Letter From An Unknown Woman (1948, Max Ophuls, USA)

2008-06-08T09:59:00.000-07:00

Max Ophuls' brief sojourn into Hollywood film making provided three undeniably terrific films. As well as 'Letter From An Unknown Woman', 'Caught', in which a woman marries a millionaire who reveals himself to be sadistic and controlling and 'The Reckless Moment', in which a mother tries to protect her daughter but becomes vulnerable to two blackmailers. Both films examined and scrutinised American values, but from an outsider's perspective for Ophuls was German, much like his contemporaries such as Sirk and Wilder who used melodrama and noir respectively for the same purposes. Both films were preceded by 'Letter From An Unknown Woman', whose source novel had been filmed before, but this remains the definitive and best known cinematic version. A superior melodrama, it's up there with the likes of 'Mildred Pierce' if we're looking at the better "women's pictures" of the time.

Set in Vienna at the turn of the twentieth century, it's the tale of a love affair that has existed over decades and ultimately ruined the lives of both participants; Stefan (Louis Jourdan), a gifted concert pianist and Lisa (Joan Fontaine), who loved him from afar and eventually has two ill-fated romantic dalliances with him. Ophuls begins with a glorious opening scene, one of the finest I recall, as Stefan receives a letter that stops him in his tracks - "By the time you read this, I may be dead". Until now Stefan has been a carefree playboy who thought nothing of moving from woman to woman. Now he has to face up to the responsibility of his actions. How Stefan got to this point is now revealed to us through flashbacks. He moved into Lisa's apartment block when she was a teenager and she developed an unrequited crush on him that unfortunately for them both never ceased, even after she left Vienna for Linz.

Over the next two decades or so, they meet now and again as she pursues Stefan and her dream of them having a life together. He never recognises her, she does of course. His intentions every time seem honourable enough - it's not as if he treats her as a one night stand, but we realise that Stefan is incapable of settling down with any one woman. His and Lisa's motivations are always completely different, and whilst their fates are inextricably linked forever, they can never have what either of them want. He says to her during their first affair; "promise me you won't vanish", to which she responds "I won't be the one who vanishes". It's as if she knows what his behaviour is like and how he treats women and that his promises are hollow, but this doesn't dissuade her at all. Her attraction and feelings overwhelm any common sense.

Lisa fell pregnant after their first fling, and she had since managed to achieve respectability by marrying a man with wealth and status, yet she jeapordises this by conducting another affair with him. The consequences of this were not only her husband's rejection but also her son's death as he contracted typhus when she was with Stefan and he did not reach the doctors in time. This might not directly be a moral judgement on her behaviour and rejection of respectability, but it's interesting how one's sympathies don't directly lie with Lisa and make us totally condemn the irresponsible Stefan. In many ways, they are equally weak-willed and motivated by hopeless dreams. However, their mutual attraction proves ultimately fatal and the final irony is the fact that Stefan's mute servant was aware all along that the girl who Stefan conducted two brief affairs with were in fact the same woman.

Ophuls would further develop his interest in romances determined by fate in 'La Ronde' and 'Madame de...'. His two following Hollywood films both featured scenarios in which love could be poisonous and that self-sacrifice and self-destruction were potential consequences of this. 'Letter From An Unknown Woman' probably remains the most enduring and impressive of the three films Hollywood films mentioned, certainly one of the defining melodramas of the age, with two excellent central performances and assured direction from Ophuls. 4.5/5

Le Mépris (1963, France/Italy, Jean-Luc Godard)

2008-05-26T13:44:00.000-07:00

Godard's sixth feature was very much a departure for him. He previously made low budget films on the run. With international producers Joseph Levine and Carlo Ponti on board, Godard was able to utilise much larger budgets than he was used to in order to create a defining film about cinema, but so much more. As is always the case with Godard, there is far more going on than meets the eye. On one level, it's a film about the balance between art and commerce, whilst on another level, it's a film about a marriage breaking down. It might ultimately be read as Godard's own marriage breaking down or perhaps a film that very much is about itself - where the difficulties depicted onscreen reflected very much the difficulties that the film ran into whilst in production.

The opening scene of 'Le Mépris' reflects the arguments Godard had with his producers. Having finally cast Brigitte Bardot in one of the leads, the director and producers had different ideas about how she should be used. Ponti and Levine insisted on featuring Bardot nude - a demand Godard finally acceded to, but what he actually gave them was a distinctly unerotic image of a nude Bardot. Lying on the bed front down, Camille asks her husband Paul (Michel Piccoli) about her body; what he likes about it and so on. So nudity is discussed rather than shown, and what's more, it's a scene more about insecurity rather than a celebration of Bardot's figure. The scene completely subverts her public persona as the sex kitten of 'And God Created Woman' and other films. So the arguments within 'Le Mépris' between the producer Prokosch (Jack Palance) and Fritz Lang (himself) might reflect those between the producers and Godard himself. When Prokosch tells Lang "you've cheated me", should we interpret this as the general feeling about the actual film itself?

The narrative mainly focuses on an adaptation of Homer's 'Odyssey' at the Cinecitta studios in Rome, with Lang as the film's director who wants to make a faithful version of the poem, and Prokosch a crass American producer who wants more semi-nude mermaids to make the film more commercially appealing. Prokosch hires Paul, a playwright who worked on such terrific films as 'Toto versus Hercules' (which refers to Levine's producing past), to rework the script to his liking. Whilst deliberating over whether to accept the commission, Paul finds himself increasingly estranged from Camille, who has caught the eye of Prokosch and who makes his intentions pretty clear. It's a marital breakdown that is never really explained. Their arguments are evasive, and whilst it's hinted that Paul has been violent in the past, this never seems the likely explanation. Perhaps it's Paul's lack of integrity - the way in which he compromised his principles and the way he complies with Prokosch's wishes to see Camille which more or less encourages her infidelity.

This love triangle echoes that of the film they are making, with Paul as Odysseus, Camille as Penelope and Prokosch as Posideon. During moments of estrangement or argument between the couple, there are cuts to the statues of the Roman Gods, which reiterates this idea. Another interpretation is that of Paul as Godard and Camille as Anna Karina, which is emphasised by the instances of Camille wearing a black wig like Karina. The richness of Godard's films is that they're seldom as simple as they appear, offering a multitude of insights or understandings. The cinematic references also underpin the themes, with the likes of 'Voyage in Italy' also focusing on a marital breakdown. Filmed in Technicolour by Raoul Coutard and featuring a breathtaking score by George Delerue, two of Godard's most able collaborators across his career, 'Le Mépris' is one of Godard's finest; a masterpiece for certain, with only 'Pierrot Le Fou' matching it, in my opinion. 5/5

Veronika Voss (1982, West Germany, Rainer Werner Fassbinder)

2008-05-26T10:29:00.000-07:00

"I have nothing to give you but my dream".

'Veronika Voss' was Fassbinder's penultimate film and concluded the loose BRD trilogy that also included 'The Marriage of Maria von Braun' and 'Lola'. These films examined the German economic miracle and political recovery during the 1950s under the Adenauer government. Fassbinder suggested that this rehabilitation and success was achieved due to corruption and compromise, as well as the cultural and economic imperialism of the United States. In each film, the main character is a woman who either succeeds or falls during the era. Whereas Maria von Braun and Lola were upwardly mobile women who sought a better life for themselves during these boom years, Veronika Voss is a woman whose successes were during the Nazi era and she finds herself unable to adjust to the new West Germany - she's a victim of the country's recovery.

'Veronika Voss' starts with a remarkably prescient scene that predicts events to come. Veronika (Rosel Zech) watches a film from her UFA past; a silent melodrama about a woman addicted to morphine who becomes exploited by her doctor, literally signing her life over to her. This is intercut with scenes with Veronika's memories of making the film, complete with depictions of life behind the scenes. This was clearly an act, though Veronika's actual dependency on morphine is very much real. A jittery mess, she is rescued during a rainstorm by a journalist, Robert Krohn (Hilmar Thate). She has delusions about her own fame, whilst he doesn't recognise her. Smitten, he examines her past to discover what happened to the actress who was feted during the 30s but fell out of public view. It was rumoured that she was a lover of Goebbels and relied on the patronage of the Nazis. In post-war Germany, Veronika struggles to find roles. Fassbinder perhaps contrasts with the fact that public officials during the Nazi era were still accepted after the war and were responsible for Germany's recovery. Denazification was a policy that some fell foul of but some did not.

Krohn discovers Veronika's "illness" through observing her withdrawal symptoms. Her doctor, Katz (Annemarie Duringer) is a superficially kindly doctor with a veneer of respectability, although below the surface something much more sinister is taking place. Again, should we see this as an allegory of contemporary Germany? Katz regulates the morphine she provides to her clients, increasing their dependency and desperation for more drugs, allowing her to exploit the wealth of her clients, ultimately ready to allow them to overdose for their wealth. Krohn's attempts to rescue Veronika are at her expense however, reflecting Fassbinder's perception of empathy as essentially a self-serving act motivated by self-interest rather than the good of the other. Krohn's help puts Veronika in more danger and also results in the death of his girlfriend. Only when it's too late does he accept the futility of what he sought to achieve - that he was unable to help her or stop Katz's schemes, and returns to his sports journalist position rather than undermine Katz.

Many of Fassbinder's preceding films were influenced by Sirk's melodramas. 'Fear Eats The Soul' was a direct remake of 'All That Heaven Allows' and other Fassbinder works were influenced by Sirk's use of colour and expressionism. 'Veronika Voss' is very much inspired by one of Hollywood's most corrosive examinations of itself; Billy Wilder's 'Sunset Boulevard' as well as the real life story of UFA actress Sybille Schmitz, who also died of a drug overdose in 1955, which is pretty much when the film was set, given the reference to West Germany joining NATO. Like with Norma Desmond, Veronika makes an abortive comeback, which demonstrates how the art of film making has changed. The opening scene showed Veronika as a silent actress who could weep on cue, but now finds the multitasking of doing this and reciting lines a problem (though this is probably also due to her morphine addiction considering she "breaks down" on set). It's a sign of an inability to adjust, not just perhaps to making films but life itself. Veronika's not used to no longer being recognised or famous and she cannot accept obscurity.

With cinematographer Xavier Scwarzenberger, Fassbinder recreates the aesthetic of many of the UFA productions that Veronika Voss might have starred in, with crisp black and white cinematography and typical methods of cutting between scenes. The reflection upon the Nazi era is important because Fassbinder believed there were attempts towards a collective amnesia about the entire duration of the Third Reich; that it was better not being discussed. He thought that West Germany would only genuinely recover and deal with its past through discussion and reflection. 'Veronika Voss' doesn't just reflect the past though; it carefully considers West Germany's contemporary success, suggesting it wasn't as honestly achieved as many would like to think. 4.5/5

In A Year Of Thirteen Moons (1978, West Germany, Rainer Werner Fassbinder)

2008-05-22T01:35:00.000-07:00

'In A Year Of Thirteen Moons' was the film that saved Fassbinder's life. At least temporarily. Devastated after the suicide of his lover Armin Meier, who'd appeared in a few of his previous films, Fassbinder threw his energy into this hugely cathartic and personal project. It's been suggested that had he not made the film, it's highly likely he also would have committed suicide, yet Fassbinder was able to positively use his volatile emotional state to create an incredibly moving and sympathetic account of the last days in the life of a character on the edge.

The film starts with an extended set of titles on the screen, a prologue so to speak to account for the actions and behaviour of the main protagonist. Every seventh year is a Moon year and those who are strongly influenced by their emotions suffer more intensely from depression during these years. This is also the case in a year with thirteen Moons, where inescapable personal tragedies may occur. This was the case of Elvira, formerly Erwin (Volker Spengler), a woman who recently had a sex change operation in Casablanca, whose torrid romantic life is her downfall. Initially beaten by a man during a cruising incident for not having a penis, she is then mistreated and abandoned by her cruel lover, who offers the parting shots that she's fat and repulsive. Elvira is over-emotional and hysterical, but we realise that this isn't the first incident of the couple splitting up. Their rocky relationship seems to have ended before, but whilst he can walk away, Elvira cannot cope with rejection.

The reasons for Elvira's sex change become apparent. It was not for the benefit of her present lover, but for a co-worker at her previous place of work - a slaughterhouse. Fassbinder then reveals an incredibly bloody and brutal scene showing the slaughterhouse in great detail, which requires a strong stomach to endure. Elvira when as Erwin once declared his love for Anton (Gottfried John), who remarked "it's a shame you're not a woman", a throwaway remark which Erwin then took to heart, and hence Erwin became Elvira. Believing than Anton would now want her, Elvira now seeks to find Anton, who is now a powerful businessman on the back of apparently dubious business practices (another indictment of the West German economic miracle?). However, life and love in Fassbinder's universe is cruel and so it must be that Elvira is humiliated once more by a man who no longer remembers Erwin from before, and what's more seduces Elvira's prostitute friend more or less in her presence. As fate has determined, this film does not have a happy ending for Elvira, with the cruelty and humiliation of those she loves/loved finally shattering her resolve.

Featuring a dynamite lead performance by Volker Spengler (who was the sexually ambiguous son of the housekeeper in 'Chinese Roulette'), Elvira is one of Fassbinder's greatest characters. It's a performance full of compassion and sympathy, and never pity. It transcends the film by some distance, which is often a bit erratic and struggles with certain elements midway through the film, but because of the personal angle and the fact that Fassbinder simply had to make the film for his own sanity, it's still more than worthwhile. It truly is heartbreaking too; not just the emotionally tiring scenes of Elvira rejected by lovers, but also Elvira rejecting her recent femininity after Anton humiliates her - she cuts her hair and wears a man's suit to reclaim her former masculinity, as if she's asserting that life was better or less difficult as a man. The sole reason for her changing her gender doesn't want to know after all. There's also a taped monologue which overlaps scenes in which her body is found, improvised by Spengler, which are just devastating. Typically for Fassbinder, he reveals love to be nothing more self-deception and a tool for others to manipulate. Whilst it's a theme much used by him previously, it never feels like repetition. 4/5

Profondo Rosso (1975, Italy, Dario Argento)

2008-05-19T10:19:00.001-07:00

Upon discovering that the Fashion in Film season (http://www.fashioninfilm.com/) contained a number of giallos by Argento and Bava, I was inspired to revisit one of the most prominent and regarded films of the genre; 'Profondo Rosso', where all the aspects of Argento's work combined to dizzying effect. The last decade or so of Argento's career seems to have been characterised by a number of poor films; so much so he has even returned complete the trilogy that 'Suspiria' and 'Inferno' were part of, in a bid to restore his fortunes. Not that 'Mother of Tears' has enjoyed particularly great press thus far. 'Terror at the Opera' probably remains the last good Argento film, but that shouldn't impair our judgement on one of his finest films.

'Profondo Rosso' starts his a dazzling dream or memory sequence, scored by a nagging nursery rhyme that is used significantly and often throughout the film. With the use of low level camerawork, Argento indicates he is showing us a child's eye view of an event. What's happening isn't certain though. All we see is a dropped knife and the legs of a child entering the scene. I was reminded of the scene in Hitchcock's 'Marnie', when she remembers the death of the sailor at her hands as a child. Whether this is direct homage, I don't know, though Argento is obviously inspired by Hitchcock. It sets the tone for the film, giving us an impression of what we think we perceive, but in true Argento style, the narrative is never straightforward.

Then at a conference for the paranormal, a psychic identifies a murderer, who then of course is herself killed by the person she addressed (don't ask how she didn't know she was going to be killed - it's probably Argento's sense of humour at work) - a murder witnessed by Marcus Daly, a British pianist. The casting of David Hemmings is an obvious nod to Antonioni's 'Blow Up', in which an unwitting individual witnesses a murder but where there's more than meets the eye and what one thinks one sees isn't often the truth. Faced with a skeptical police force, he collaborates with a tenacious reporter, Gianna (Daria Nicolodi) to investigate the crime, though the murderer always manages to stay one step ahead of them, as well as eliminating all those who might identify him/her or assist the investigation.

So the narrative's a bit loose and holes can be picked quite easily, but plotting has never been Argento's interest. Instead, he's mostly concerned with style and image; dazzling the viewer, whilst offering them violence and death in abundance, in ever more gruesome fashions. There's a terrific set piece at the start, during the paranormal conference. The camera moves elaborately, roaming, and even the curtains literally open for the camera. This is typical of Argento; the camera is seldom still, always frantically in motion, capturing a dizzying and disorientating effect. Themes of childhood are prominent, but always given a dash of disturbance about them; dolls are decapitated and hung, a sinister life-like doll (like something out of 'Dead of Night') emerges through the door of the professor's study just before he is killed. Whilst the increasing brutality of the deaths are enough to shock, the non-violent episodes are likely to be considered just as strange. One has to suspend logic when watching an Argento film. Not everything makes sense and the films often lack any kind of substance. Never mind though. The sheer style and confidence of 'Profondo Rosso', as well as 'Suspiria' for instance, were enough. 3.5/5

The Bride Wore Black (1968, France/Italy. Francois Truffaut)

2008-05-14T01:45:00.000-07:00

'The Bride Wore Black' was Truffaut's first adaptation of a Cornell Woolrich novel, preceding the very mediocre 'The Mississippi Mermaid' by a year or so. It's similarities with the latter continue; another tribute to both Hitchcock and Renoir, but falling considerably short of the standards of both directors. Both feature a femme fatale for whom murder is natural and men are simple pawns to be manipulated, and change identities and looks at the drop of a hat. 'The Bride Wore Black' even features a Bernard Hermann score that was obviously commissioned to sound like something he'd compose for Hitchcock, as well as referencing a number of Hitchcock's films; 'Foreign Correspondent', 'Notorious' and 'Rear Window' and perhaps 'Marnie' too, with the female protagonist changing name and hair colour as she moves from one identity to the next.

Since it's so slavishly indebted to the work of Hitchcock, it's really hard to judge the film on its own merits. Perhaps we should be able to overlook that as critics but it feels like a cut and paste job of other Hitchcock films, minus any substance of its own. We start with a young woman (Jeanne Moreau) attempting suicide, but stopped by her mother. We don't know why yet; Truffaut just presents this episode and then fills in the reasons later. Reinventing herself, she is looking for a man. Again, we don't know who he is, why she's visiting him, whether she knows him, whether he's involved in her suicide attempt - nothing! When he's not home, she tries again, arriving at his wedding. She's beautiful and enigmatic, and he's drawn to her (all the men in this film are stupid and blinded by her looks incidentally). She convinces him she knows him, but he doesn't know how. As she throws her scarf from a balcony and is stuck in an overhanging branch, she asks him to retrieve it. Revealing herself as Julie Kohler, she pushes the man over the balcony to his death, which neatly mirrors the aborted suicide attempt at the start of the film when she tried to jump from a window.

And so Julie continues her mission of murder; her reasons become apparent upon the increasing number and depths of flashbacks. Her husband was murdered on the steps of the church at which they were married, and these are the men she believes were responsible. There's a great degree of black humour at work here as Truffaut makes each murder more ingenious and well planned out than the last. She poisons one man and suffocates the next, having already meticulously assumed a role in each man's lives. She makes them fall in love with her, spots their weaknesses and goes for the kill. I've heard it mentioned how these deaths actually contrast to the death of her husband. He was killed by rifle from distance. These men are killed in a far more personal and well executed way. These are deaths inspired by pure revenge and hatred. Interestingly though, Truffaut never reveals why Julie's husband is killed, and towards the film's climax, he eventually sows the seeds of doubt in our mind as to whether these men were responsible for the death of Julie's husband and whether it was just something Julie believed in her fractured mental state rather than fact.

'The Bride Wore Black' is a more interesting and well thought out exercise than Truffaut's next Woolrich adaptation and Hitchcock tribute 'The Mississippi Mermaid'. The film clearly has a sense of (black) humour that the latter in my opinion lacked and Truffaut obviously understood that this was a prominent feature of many of Hitchcock's films. The problem of making such an accurate tribute is that it just becomes a pastiche or facsimile if the film has little ideas or substance of its own and that's where I think the two Woolrich adaptations have failed. As I said in the previous review, Truffaut was a gifted film maker but after the first three classics never recovered that sense of creativity, spontaneity or spirit. Many of his films were perfectly fine or competent, but I don't personally afford him the same respect as many of his contemporaries; Godard of course, but neither Resnais nor Chabrol. It seems so odd that he was the French New Wave director that influenced Hollywood the most. But then perhaps not. 3/5

The Mississippi Mermaid (1969, France/Italy, Francois Truffaut)

2008-05-13T02:36:00.000-07:00

'The Mississippi Mermaid' is an unconvincing attempt at marrying the styles and traditions of the two film makers most beloved of Truffaut's; Alfred Hitchcock and Jean Renoir, to whom the film is a tribute to. Made during his mid-period, considerably after the opening run of terrific films that included 'The 400 Blows', 'Shoot The Pianist' and 'Jules et Jim', the film has the feel of a director who has lost his way and his creativity. Despite being one of the most widely known and influential directors of the French New Wave, Truffaut has been accused by many of this and certainly by the mid 70s was stuck in a rut with the Antoine Doinel cycle, which he never seemed to escape from.

'The Mississippi Mermaid' is based on the Cornell Woolrich short story 'Waltz Into Darkness'. The Hitchcock association is enhanced by the fact that 'Rear Window' was written by Woolrich. The film obviously has noirish aspirations, which is contrasted by the bright colours and location shooting in Reunion, an French colonial island just off Madagascar in the Indian Ocean (amended from Woolrich's original American setting). A plantation owner, Louis Mahe (Jean Paul Belmondo) advertises for a mail order bride and the woman he's been courting and has offered to marry arrives on the boat which the film's title is named after. Julie Roussell (Catherine Deneuve) is a beautiful woman whom any man would fall in love with, but her story doesn't add up. She doesn't resemble the photo she sent (she says it was her sister), the ring doesn't fit (Julie tied string around her finger to indicate the size of the wedding ring) and she drinks coffee, when she originally stated in her letters that she only drank tea.

In spite of these lies which completely destroy her credibility, and it's surely clear that Louis is aware of these lies and accepts them, they marry. The marriage is of course a scam, as Julie clears his bank account and returns to France, pursued not only by Louis, but a private detective hired by Louis and the real Julie's sister. When they are reunited, she explains that her gangster love devised the scheme for her to impersonate Julie (hints of 'Vertigo' perhaps) but that he took the money. Given Marion (as her real name is) has lied before, why should we (and Louis) believe her? Whether he does or not, he's so hopelessly in love with her that he'll forgive anything and do anything for her, even commit murder.

Not only does the film hint at 'Vertigo', but also 'Marnie' perhaps; we have two emotionally damaged protagonists engaged in a perverse love affair that's dangerous to them and a female lead who changes identities. As a tribute to Hitchcock, it doesn't really work, lacking any depth or subtlety. The narrative itself is pretty flimsy and the motivations of Louis and Julie/Marion are too contrived. Where 'Vertigo' explored love as self-delusion and obsession convincingly and traumatically, this just seems like a poor tribute to that and seems completely half-hearted. The other later period Truffaut films I've seen; 'Two English Girls', 'The Woman Next Door' and 'Finally Sunday' were also quite frustrating. They were clearly well made and competent films by a gifted film maker but lacked spark and finesse, and were obviously flawed. The same accusation could easily be levelled at 'The Mississippi Mermaid'. 2.5/5

Man of Marble (1977, Poland, Andrzej Wajda)

2008-05-11T05:55:00.000-07:00

Although Wajda is most celebrated for his early war trilogy, which included 'A Generation', 'Kanal' (which I recently reviewed) and 'Ashes and Diamonds', equally acclaimed are his twin films that look simultaneously at Poland's Stalinist past ('Man of Marble) and examine Poland's present issues with organised labour and eventual political decline ('Man of Iron'). This screening of 'Man of Marble' was at the BFI Southbank, with 'Man of Iron' to be screened in a fortnight. Once I have seen both, I will be able to offer more lucid comparisons upon these two adjoining films.

'Man of Marble' examines the myth-making of Poland during the Stalinist regime during the 1950s, demonstrated in the use of "shock workers" or Stakhanovites as propaganda stooges and representations of the potential and achievements of Polish labourers. One such "shock worker" was Mateusz Birkut (Jerzy Radziwilowicz), a bricklayer who oversaw the completion of Nowa Huta, a new Socialist town outside of Krakow. Having disappeared into obscurity, he is now the subject of interest of Agnieszka (Krystyna Janda), a young film maker who is making her diploma film. She's a steely and determined young woman, considered the strongest female character in Wajda's films, who finds resistance in her attempts to extract the truth about Birkut from her academic professors (he is considered ambiguous subject material) as well as those who knew Birkut well.

Wajda then repeatedly alternates between Agnieszka's attempts to find out about Birkut as well as Birkut's own past, in both documentary footage and conventional reconstructions of events. Wajda's own recreation of 50s style propaganda is remarkably effective and I assume based exactly on the propaganda of the era. Wajda examines the trustworthiness and truth of the footage we see on screen; how it presents a version of the truth and how it is used to manipulate facts and its audience. This might not just apply to the propaganda footage that is shown. The recreations of Birkut's past are based on the interviews that Agnieszka holds with those who knew him, who may not necessarily be reliable in their memories of him. In the case of the event that ended his career as a bricklayer, when a scolding brick burned his hands, we cannot be entirely sure what took place. A friend, Witek (Michal Tarkowski) was officially blamed and latter arrested for treason, but the sabotage is not shown as such therefore we don't know what to believe.

Agnieszka is able to research Birkut successfully whilst he is a national celebrity but his decline is less well documented. He was discredited after an unapproved union address in which he claims that Witek was unjustly accused of treason, and therefore his portrait and statue, the representations of Birkut as an exemplary worker were removed. After which, Birkut fell into an alcoholic decline, abandoned by his wife, and thus obscurity. Perhaps aware of the potential political implications of the film, Agnieszka is thwarted by her superiors; she is refused access to film or camera and the work done so far is impounded (although it's suggested that films are only ever banned on technical grounds, whatever this means). Wajda concludes the film on an ominuous note, as Agnieszka finds Birkut's son, Maciej (also Radziwilowicz) working at Gdansk shipyards, a couple of years before the labour disputes that would have far reaching effects upon the eventual decline of Communist rule in Poland, and the same shipyards where it is implied that Birkut was killed by the authorities.

At it's simplest, 'Man of Marble' has been described as Poland's own 'Citizen Kane', and it's fair that the narrative is largely similar, as a journalist examines the rise and fall of a national hero/celebrity. However, Wajda adds a political dimension of his film and considers how propaganda, through national icons, was used to present a false impression of Polish success and how these national icons were removed and disappeared into obscurity when they fell foul of the authorities, although this information was not widely available of course. The faux-documentary footage that shows Birkut as a "shock worker" contrasts with the contemporary Poland in which Agnieszka is making her film. Witek, once imprisoned for treason, now runs Katowice steelworks, whilst Michalak (Piotr Cieslak), who observed Birkut's decline but seemed to have been on the level, now runs a strip club. It's as if Wajda suggested that contemporary Poland was a politically and morally compromised country and that individuals' standings with the authorities could easily change depending on which way the political wind was blowing. 4.5/5

XXY (2007, Argentina, Lucia Puenzo)

2008-05-07T05:07:00.000-07:00

'XXY' was Argentina's official entry for the Best Foreign Language Film category at this year's Academy Awards and also represented Argentina at the Spanish Goya Awards for the category of Best Foreign Film in Spanish. The first time feature by the daughter of the Oscar-nominated Luis, 'XXY' is an impressive and sensitively handled debut and shows great promise as Puenzo tackles the issues facing an intersex teen with an appropriate and non-judgemental tone.

Alex (Ines Efron) is a typical teenager, exploring sex and sexuality and confused by it all; only she is different to other teenagers in one crucial way - she is an intersex, that is to say she has both male and female organs. It's a secret her family have tried hard to maintain, frequently moving schools and homes to protect Alex who obviously doesn't need the community singling her out as a freak (which eventually happens in a very difficult scene to watch where Alex is molested by some curious locals). She's fallen out with her best friend, Vando (Luciano Nobile), presumably because she told him the truth and betrayed her confidence. On the surface, Alex seems a girl but this is because she has undergone operations and drugs since birth to prevent her masculinising. However, her father (Ricardo Darin) vowed to allow her to decide which gender she wants to be, rather than make that decision for her.

A surgeon who deals with 'deformities' as his son puts it, is invited to the family's home on the coast to discuss with Alex want she wants to do. However this never really develops because Alex and Alvaro (Martin Piroyansky), the son of the surgeon, develop a relationship which explores their mutual curiosity with sex. One scene in which they make in love is quite humourously subverted as Alex, who to this point had shown all the indications she was a girl suddenly allows her masculine side to control this lovemaking. This scene is pivotal also in the context of the relationship the surgeon has with his son. Their relations are cold and this is discussed between them. The surgeon congratulates his son on making love to Alex because he was concerned his son was gay, hence his aloofness. Clearly the surgeon thought that Alex was the male role in male-female sex, rather than the male-male sex that occured. The impression I got was that this experience made Alvaro consider his own sexuality, especially given his liking of their encounter and his desire to try it again. Alex's confusion had unforeseen consequences - the surgeon was there to try to help but she in fact has impacted the relationship between the surgeon and his son, as well as helped Alvaro examine his own sexuality, which might not strictly be beneficial for the family.

To her credit, Puenzo doesn't force a decision upon Alex about her own gender, which would be the easy way out. She admits to being sick of operations and drugs and that she wants things to remain as they are, therefore the future is undetermined. 'XXY' could easily have been too melodramatic or too manipulative, but it's actually subtle and understated and crucially is just as humorous and is it serious and tragic. Perhaps it feels like it's more at home on television than the cinema, but it's a minor quibble really. Efron is terrific in the lead role, which requires the kind of complexity and mixed emotions that actors of her age shouldn't have by any rights. It's a film of potential for the director and lead actor rather than straining for greatness but who's to say it's beyond them. 3.5/5

Ran (1985, Japan, Akira Kurosawa)

2008-05-07T01:37:00.000-07:00

'Ran' is the last great Kurosawa film, made three decades after his golden era whilst in his mid-seventies. Loosely influenced by King Lear (as well as Japanese samurai legends), the film reminds us that Kurosawa was one of the great cinematic interpreters of Shakespeare - his 'Throne of Blood' was a version of Macbeth. One might think of Olivier or the RSC as the definitive adaptations of Shakespeare though arguably their equals are the works of Kurosawa and the Soviet director Grigori Kozintsev.

Those familiar with King Lear will know the general plot but to briefly recap; Hidetora (Tatsuya Nakadi), an elderly lord who has amassed a great empire after decades of war and conquest abdicates and bequeathes it to his three sons. This sparks a rivalry between the three sons that will ultimately result in tragedy and the end of the empire. Saburo (Daisuke Ryu) is disowned and banished for being disrespectful and ungrateful when he questions the decision, mindful of the consequences perhaps. Taro (Akira Terao), the eldest son who controls most of the empire and Jiro (Jinpachi Nezu), the second eldest who was somewhat overlooked by his father then commence war for control over the entire domain.

The controlling influence here is Taro's wife, Lady Kaede (Mikeo Harade), a Lady Macbeth type figure who encourages his ambitions and rules her weak husband. When Taro dies in battle, she transfers her loyalties towards Jiro, encouraging him to have his wife killed in return for her sexual favours. Lady Kaede's motives are plain to see to everyone; her father had been killed by Hidetora and her family stripped of its land and position and revenge is on her mind. She knows full well Jiro had her husband killed but she's out for herself and wants to keep the realm together (to ultimately destroy, but also the castle she lives in was her father's). The fact that she is the dominant influence upon the unravelling of the empire just reinforces how ineffective the two eldest brothers are and how unsuitable they are to sustain a vast empire. Saburo, the younger son who re-restablishes a relationship with his father when he has been cut off by his other sons and was the most astute in the sense that he predicted the tragedies to follow was clearly the wisest, but it's the two eldest sons' ability to be manipulated and lust for power that proved their downfall, as well as the father's sense of pride.

'Ran' boasts incredible colours and costumes - it really is a feast for the eyes. The acting stles borrow from Noh and Kabuki theatre; Hidetora's madness is demonstrated by his ghost-like appearance; his face painted white and dressed in full white. Battle scenes are elaborately staged; castles were built and burned down, thousands of extras and hundreds of horses were used and the whole film is more or less filmed in long shot. Unsurprisingly this was the largest budget Kurosawa had ever dealt with and it certainly shows. 'Ran' is a masterpiece with style and substance. 5/5

Funeral Parade of Roses (1969, Japan, Toshio Matsumoto)

2008-05-04T13:29:00.000-07:00

This film was screened as part of the 1968 season, which is running between April-June in a series of London venues and not just incorporating film but other art forms. During the 1960s and as in Western Europe, a new wave of Japanese cinema emerged, which broke with the classical film making tradition as exemplified by the likes of Kurosawa, Mizoguchi and Ozu. Young film makers like Teshigahara and Oshima appeared on the scene and themes such as youth, sexuality and protagonists as outsiders on the fringes of society were explored with increasing frequency. One of the finest examples of these themes being addressed simultaneously, against the backdrop of revolution in the Western world, was 'Funeral Parade of Roses'.

On one level, this film inverts the Oedipus myth, giving in a distinctly homosexual twist. Eddie (Peter) is a young cross-dressing male involved in an affair with his boss but haunted by recurring memories of having murdered his mother in flagrante with another man, as well as the absence of his father who is represented by a photograph in which his face is burned through by a cigarette. Eddie is representative of a young subculture in Tokyo; that of drag queens - men who have chosen to live as women but are not transsexuals. Eddie's rival for their boss's attentions is Leda, who sets herself up as Eddie's opposite. Where Eddie is always rude, late and flirtatious, Leda almost believes herself to be a traditional geisha with refined manners and behavioral codes.

Matsumoto's roots were in documentaries and this is very much evident here. There are many "interviews" with the drag queens themselves, with questions about why they've chosen to live this way, whether they like men or women etc, and often the narrative blurs that distinction between what part of the film and what is part of a documentary in itself. Eddie is making love to an American GI she met at the bar (Genet) she works at and then suddenly we cut to them being filmed by a documentary film maker. And then there is the political element with uses of other media. Student riots in Japan are shown on television, which are also filmed from the television. This puts the film in a degree of context for the era. There had been protests regarding the use of Japanese air bases by the Americans and also security treaties between the two countries. Although this film is not ostensibly about these issues, they're hard to ignore within the film.

Matsumoto shows himself to be a remarkably astute visual artist. There are many memorable visual gimmicks in this film which proved to be influential in years to come. Much has been made of the influence this film has on Kubrick's 'A Clockwork Orange', most notably the fast motion scenes with electronically treated classical music used when Eddie and two friends have a street fight with three girls (just after eating the sexually suggestive ice creams that also feature in the record shop scene in 'A Clockwork Orange') and also a catfight between Eddie and Leda. The latter scene is also memorable for starting almost as a comic strip with the insults represented as speech bubbles. It's a stunning numbers of ways of rewriting the language of cinema and the influence of these visual tricks lives on, which is especially fascinating since this is such a little viewed film.

As it must, the climax reflects that of the myth itself and is suitably shocking and violent (to re-emphasis the myth as the basis for the film, Eddie at one stage stands in front of a poster for the Pasolini film of Oedipus Rex) as Eddie wanders blinded amongst a crowd of bystanders who reportedly had no idea they were being filmed. Having committed suicide, Leda poked two pins through the eyes of the voodoo doll supposed to represent Eddie, which also reinforces the fact that these events are pre-ordained by fate.

Matsumoto only made four features but has a wealth of documentaries and shorts available. 'Funeral Parade of Roses' is a stunning example of blending both schools of film making, whilst incorporating a number of contemporary themes effortlessly. 4.5/5

Kanal (1957, Poland, Andrzej Wajda)

2008-05-02T09:50:00.000-07:00

Throughout May, the BFI Southbank is showing a retrospective of the great Polish director, who was recently nominated for an Academy Award for his latest film, 'Katyn', which is opening shortly. I'm hoping to attend as many screenings as I can, but in the meantime I'll look at 'Kanal', which was the film that made Wajda's reputation in the West and forms the second part of the 'war' trilogy, preceded by 'A Generation' and followed by 'Ashes and Diamonds'.

'Kanal' opens with shots of the devastation of Poland during World War Two; a country in ruins during the German occupation and the human and economic cost of war is apparant. Wajda focuses on events in Warsaw specifically and the ill-fated 1944 uprising by remaining partisans against their oppressors. One company of soldiers have held out against the Germans but are trapped and cut off from their comrades, and their capture is surely a matter of course. These men are brave; as one says it's the Polish way to fight to the death, but also desperate. The uprising is on the verge of collapse and survival is only possible through one means - escaping through the sewer systems.

What follows is one of the most claustrophobic and clammy cinematic experiences, as the company trudge through the dark sewers with only the odd flashes of torchlight providing any respite. They must remain silent to evade capture and deal with the filthy and grimy conditions. Below ground it's hard to stay disciplined; some members of the company are left behind, one ducks out of the sewers at the wrong moment and is shot by German soldiers. Filled with fear and dread, these men and women are not portrayed as heroic or valiant - they are just patriots defending their freedom but nothing more than this. Their Hell is summed up by one soldier who quotes Dante (referring to 'Inferno') - "there in the depths of the pit as we stand....".

Wajda informs us immediately that this journey will not succeed and that there will be no contrived denouement. The fatalistic commentary reminds us that these are the last hours of these men and women's lives. The journey through the sewers might be a journey through Hell but there is no safety at the other end. Once Jacek and his girlfriend reach the end, they are captured by Germans and nearly the entire company are shown to be rounded up and imprisoned. Remaining soldiers are forced out by the Germans with explosives.

'Kanal' reminds me of 'The Wages of Fear' in its presentation of men under pressure in a claustrophobic environment. Nothing can prepare you for watching the agonising journey through the dark and dirty sewers with the bare glimmer of hope at the other end. We are shown the company as ordinary men and women, living their normal lives the day before the journey through the sewers - Jacek makes love to his girlfriend, they all sing collectively in a bar and so on. It's a modest film but laid the foundations for a career that continues and will be justly celebrated this month. 3.5/5

Happy Go Lucky (2008, UK, Mike Leigh)

2008-04-27T06:08:00.000-07:00

Critics have been surprised by Leigh making a comedy as if that wasn't his normal routine. One might point to the fact that Leigh usually blends comedy and tragedy in equal measure, but Happy Go Lucky has just as much darkness and social insight as many of his previous films, despite the superficial optimism and lightness of touch. Leigh films contemporary London through the eyes of Poppy (Sally Hawkins), a primary school teacher who observes the world around her with wide eyed wonder. Dedicated to helping others, Poppy tries to make everyone else as happy as she is but discovers that you can't make everyone happy.

Leigh first shows Poppy cycling around London, completely carefree but her world is turned upside down when her bicycle goes missing (a reference to de Sica's 'The Bicycle Thief'' perhaps?), which encourages her to take driving lessons from Scott (Eddie Marsan). Leigh then explores the differences between the two teachers. Poppy encourages creativity, spontaneity and personal fulfilment whilst Scott encourages order, taking instructions and doing as one is told. The complete opposite of Poppy, Scott is obviously troubled and angry (as well as displaying racist tendencies). Poppy tries to reach out to him but can't; her sunny disposition might work for her flatmate, sister and colleagues but this only makes Scott more frustrated and angrier, culminating in a vicious final driving lesson.

Leigh throws in social commentary about parenting issues, bullying and upward mobility, which rings true to varying extents. Poppy and her colleagues discuss problems that children face; lack of green space, past times that go no further than playing video games or the Internet as well as parents juggling many responsibilities. These are all very relevant, however I found the next two sets of social commentary a bit too contrived. The bullying angle serves solely as a means for Poppy to meet a handsome social worker with whom she begins a budding relationship by the end of the film. After the first meeting with him at the school, the whole issue disappears - we never see the children again. Leigh concedes though that bullying itself is usually caused by some trauma of sorts and that's handled sensitively enough but it just feels a secondary issue. Satirising upward mobility is something Leigh seems to add to every film of his and by now it's starting to get a little tiresome. Poppy's pregnant sister lives in the Essex suburbs with her husband and seems to have no interests outside her garden and flat pack furniture, contrasting with Poppy's hectic and energetic life. It's not very subtle and just feels like it's been done before.

'Happy Go Lucky' has been roundly praised and has already won the Best Actress award at Berlin. I don't know whether there's an innate tendency for British critics to shower half decent domestic films with more praise than they deserve because I really don't see this as the masterpiece some would have you believe. I found it incredibly uneven; very funny in places but not very subtle in many respects. The success of the film rests with Poppy and whether you like her as a person. She's sparky and lively but when you hear Scott tear into her near the end of the film with everything he despairs about her, you can't help but agree with some of what he says, even though the whole diatribe is supposed to reflect upon him and his personality. She just gets a little tiresome, not with her optimism as such but the lack of roundness of her personality. It's a good film but never a great film. 3/5

La Grande Illusion (1937, France, Jean Renoir)

2008-04-12T04:04:00.000-07:00

The first foreign language film to be nominated for the Best Picture award at the Oscars, 'La Grande Illusion' is a war film that is barely concerned with the practical matters of war or the reasons behind them (we see now actual fighting), but uses war as a reason to look at the changing social orders in the Western world at the time. The First World War was that watershed moment in which the relationships between the social orders; the aristocracy, the bourgeoisie and the proletariat was ever shifting and resisting the natural order of things. After the war, the position of the working classes in the countries most involved; France, United Kingdom and Germany was better than ever before; greater chances of employment, voting rights and so on, which mirrored the relative decline of the aristocracy who had been surpassed as a political and economic force byb the more dynamic middle classes.

Renoir highlights the class differences amongst the ranks of the French army, with two soldiers, the working class Marechal (Jean Gabin) and the aristocratic de Boeldieu (Pierre Fresnay) captured on a spying mission by the Germans. There are also minorities; black soldiers and Jews, notably Rosenthal, from a nouveau-riche family (the one social class really on the move), yet de Boeldieu seems unable to interact with his social inferiors. Despite being a prisoner, he also rebukes the manners of his German captors. However, the class issue is explored more deeply within the relationship between de Boeldieu and von Rauffenstein (Erich von Stroheim), with Renoir suggesting that class loyalties transcend national loyalties. These are two men with very much in common; shared acquaintances, shared codes of ethics and behaviour, they speak to each other in English so other soldiers cannot understand the conversation etc, and who would very much be likely to be friends in other circumstances. What's very evident is the solidarity of the upper classes across national borders.

Both are however aware of the changing world, which is being accelerated by this war. The social orders are in upheaval and they do not belong in the new world that's been constructed. The defining moment in the film which typifies this is the escape that the French have been developing. Knowing that only two of them can escape, de Boeldieu allows Rosenthal and Marechal to do so, leaving him behind, symbolising the shift in the social orders. By causing a distraction, von Rauffenstein is forced to shoot with equal, as unwilling as he is to do so. In a poignant exchange as de Boeldieu is dying, the latter explains "I would have done the same. France or Germany, duty is duty". He also states he should not be pitied because of the two, von Rauffenstein is the one who must live in a world where their education, behaviour and privilege is no longer acknowledged as important.

At this point, Renoir becomes concerned with the growing brotherhood between Rosenthal and Marechal, despite an initial mutual loathing, as if he is denoting that these men offer the hope for the future. As they flee, they are taken in by a German widow. Despite not sharing her language, Marechal falls in love with her, and though they have to return to France (via Switzerland), he promises to return. As they cross the Swiss border, pursued by German soldiers, they refrain from shooting in what is almost a last hurrah to the old world code of ethics.

Throughout 'La Grande Illusion', Renoir uses war as a device to explore class and racial themes. It's an anti-war film in the sense that the French soldiers of the lower classes become disillusioned about being pawns in the games of politicians, and his acceptance of it as a futile exercise, which is reflected in the title which references an essay by Norman Angell, a British historian. However, the prevailing feeling in my mind is biased towards the analysis of race and class; of looking towards a new world. At the time the film was made though, the Second World War was close at hand and Hitler's plans for German expansion were evident. Though this had been a futile war, the war to end all wars no less, history was about to repeat itself. 5/5

Teorema (1968, Italy, Pier Paolo Pasolini)

2008-04-06T15:20:00.000-07:00

"No matter what the bourgeoisie does, it's wrong".

Pasolini's parable is one of his most complex and moving films. Terence Stamp visits a Milanese bourgeois family, arriving as if from nowhere; none of the family personally know him but there he is all the same at a party that is being held. This episode is preceded by several incidents that increase the significance of his arrival; first, a journalist commenting on a factory boss giving his factory to his workers, in which the above quote is used to refer to his actions. Then we have a direct quote from Ezekiel 20:35, narrated, "and I will bring you into the wilderness" over the recurring motif of a scorched desert. We also witness the bourgeois family is question going aboutb their business, though this is filmed in black and white, with the Morricone score muting any dialogue. Of course both colour and sound return with the first glimpse of Stamp. But who is he and what does he represent? Some have stated that this visitor may be interpreted as either God or the Devil, but either way the impact he has upon the family is immeasurable.

After making love to each of the family in turn, they all experience separate revelations or epiphanies and they subsequently feel the need to confess and talk about this experience with him. It changes each person too for better or worse. The young son, an aspiring artist rejects his studies after succumbing to self doubt. The mother in a moment of self-awareness acknowledges the emptiness of her life and lack of interest in anything. The father's entire identity and self-image is called into question, whilst the daughter finds that his arrival has cured her fear of men.

And then like that, the visitor leaves, which creates a void in each of their lives; an emotional and spiritual bankruptcy. The daughter becomes catatonic, an illness that the doctors fail to comprehend. The son's artistic pursuits become more abstract and radical. The mother has a series of sexual affairs with young men who bear a resemblance to the visitor. The father strips himself naked in a Milanese train station, which has a metaphorical as well as physical significance. The maid, who too had slept with the visitor, achieves sainthood, curing a disfigured childhood in a low-key miracle. That the proletariat are the sole social class capable of doing so reflects both Pasolini's own radical politics and the above quotation.

Though I've never seen it mentioned before, I can't help but feel as if Pasolini's film influenced two further pieces of work at least; Harold Pinter's 'Brimstone and Treacle', in which a Christ or Devil figure upsets the balance of a middle class family, and Francois Ozon's 'Sitcom', in which a mysterious stranger, e.g. a rat throws a middle class family into chaos though with more farcical results. Though the latter perhaps maintains the theme of sexual repression that is present in 'Teorema' (in that Stamp's visitor helps the family overcome their comformist and repressive behaviour), it doesn't have Pasolini's overt political intentions. Some have alluded to the quasi-Freudian aspect too, which would reflect the Freudian angle of Pasolini's retelling of the Oedipus myth, in that the family members' sexual lust for the visitor displaces and reflects their own incestuous desires. 'Teorema' uses a theme that wasn't unique to start with; the repressiveness of bourgeois respectability, but Pasolini gives it a philosophical and sexual dimension which ultimately results in one of his finest films. 4/5

Chinese Roulette (1976, West Germany/France, Rainer Werner Fassbinder)

2008-04-02T07:40:00.000-07:00

Relatively minor Fassbinder, but no less effective than many of his more prominent features in its satire upon middle class conventions, notably marriage, and the manipulative relationships between individuals. Gerhard (Alexander Allerson) and Ariane (Margit Cartensen) are a typical Fassbinder married couple; where superficially everything seems together, but there is always something going on beneath the surface which is far more sinister. They are both about to travel on business; he's going to Oslo, she's going to Milan. Of course this is just a ruse to deceive each other as both are about the meet up with their lovers. Gerhard collects Irene (Anna Karina) at the airport and whisks her off to their country retreat, where of course they stumble upon Ariane and her lover, Kolbe (Ulli Lommel), a business associate of Gerhard's.

There are no arguments, no histrionics, no violence. What follows is very much in the bourgeois tradition of holding one's own and maintaining one's grace. All four are embarrassed and unsure how to react. They laugh and shake hands, and Gerhard's response is very measured and sensible, explaining that he should ask the housekeeper, Kast (Bridgitte Mira) to cook more food. They can't fathom how this misunderstanding occurred; how both sets of lovers managed to commit their infidelity in the same place at the same time. It all becomes clear with the arrival of Gerhard and Ariane's daughter, Angela (Andrea Schober), a young girl on crutches. She evidently set this entire situation up and clearly has some issues to resolve with her parents. She mentions to the housekeeper's son that her illness coincided with her father's affair, and that her mother started her affair when Angela was told she would never walk again. She thinks they both hate her for ruining their lives. Is this set up Angela's revenge?

The light-heartedness of the lovers' exposure takes on a darker, more sinister twist, initiated by Angela. She wants to play Chinese Roulette, a game in which there are two teams and one team asks questions along the lines "what would you be if you were a coin?" or "what kind of animal would you be?" whilst the other answers. The answers each provides is no doubt supposed to revelatory. Even in these simple questions, Angela's guardian Traunitz (Macha Meril) provides answers with unsettle. The questions that become more disturbing, culminating in one asking "who would you have been during the Third Reich?", which Angela answers as the commander of Belsen. At this point the film takes a more tragic turn albeit with a fairly unresolved climax.

As is always the case with Fassbinder, one of the main plus points is the camerawork of Michael Ballhaus, later the DoP of Martin Scorsese. The 360 degree rotations of the camera that were very evident in the likes of 'Martha' (1974) are used frequently. Used in Hollywood melodrama usually to symbolise moments of great romance, Fassbinder subverts this notion, utilising this technique for moments where romance takes a darker or more uncertain twist. Always elaborate and roaming, the camera follows the protagonists and often captures them in close up during moments of great shock or crisis. Ballhaus and Fassbinder use the camera to propel the narrative as much as dialogue or plot does. By placing marriage vows on the screen at the film's climax, Fassbinder reiterates his position of marriage as an emotionally restricting and unfulfilling institution which the bourgeoisie desperately seeks to hold together despite undermining it at every opportunity. That Gerhard and Ariane don't know how to react when caught out by the other shows their mutual emotional stuntedness and inability to deal with emotional crises. Fassbinder had tackled these type of relationships before, so it was hardly new ground for him, but one can never deny how successful he was more often than not doing so, which is more notable considering his ridiculous productivity as a film maker. 4/5

Rocco and his Brothers (1960, Italy/France, Luchino Visconti)

2008-04-01T07:06:00.000-07:00

Visconti's epic film about family, loyalty and the forces of economics is a perfect combination of the neo-realist traditions of his past ('Ossessione') and the more conventional melodramatics of the future ('Death in Venice'). In many senses, it's a film of two halves - the first half is Visconti in full-on neo-realist mode as he traces the journey of the Parondi family from a poor Southern village to the industrialised, more prosperous Milan in the North. The second half is infused with melodrama though, reflecting the director's interest in theatre and opera, as events take a more exaggerated and extravagant turn. Still, it's a fascinating balancing act from Visconti, and one can only suggest that he passes with flying colours in terms of keeping the film together.

The Parondi family, led by a widowed matriarch (Katina Paxinou), and four of her sons travel to Milan to join up with the oldest son Vincenzo (Spiros Facos), who is expected to take care of them until they're able to make their own way. However, they arrive during his engagement party to his fiancee (Claudia Cardinale in a small role), which causes a great degree of friction with her family. Ever proud, the mother leaves with her sons not before reminding Vincenzo of his responsibilities since his father died, and whilst he wants to take care of his family, he is naturally torn, and we sympathise with him for this. Thereafter, the family find life a struggle, and the optimism that was felt upon their arrival; their fascination in the shops, the lights, the city as a contrast to their village, now turns to sober realism. Work is hard to come by and the family share a small and cramped apartment. Surely this was not the future they expected?

Their fortunes take a turn for the worse with the arrival of Nadia (Annie Girardot), a prostitute both admired and desired by the almost saintly Rocco (Alain Delon) and the brutish Simone (Renato Salvatori). It's a simplistic polarisation in some ways, not especially subtle and not much complexity about characterisation, but it's necessary. Their infatuation with Nadia is what ultimately threatens to tear the family apart and causes tragedy in the long run. Simone, a promising boxer becomes something of a local success, encouraged by Nadia, but he is ultimately too reckless to make the grade at a higher level. Always borrowing money from Rocco, he abuses his trust to keep hold of Nadia, a girl of expensive habits. In one telling scene, he seduces Rocco's manager, symbolically caressing her expensive brooch; a sign perhaps of the desire for wealth and the good things in life. When Rocco starts seeing Nadia, Simone goes off the rails completely, lashing out at both her and his own brother. In one act of supreme jealousy and contempt, one of the most famous scenes in the film nonetheless, he forces himself on her in front of Rocco. This is the ultimate act of revenge, even more so knowing that Rocco is helpless to do anything to prevent it.

Ever the saint though, Rocco still tries to help his brother despite his hatred for him. He is aware of the poisoning effect Milan has had upon the family, confident that had they remained in their village, they would have all stayed together despite the poverty they were trapped by. But there is no helping Simone. His downfall coincides with Rocco's success, which includes fighting for Italy at the Olympic Games; an event that brings the entire neighbourhood together, including Vincenzo's fiancees family. This is the moment at which the entire family's dreams have come true, that they have succeeded in making lives for themselves. However one moment of recklessness by Simone jeopardises this.

Visconti's expansive epic raises issues about the North-South divide in a country that had been united for about a century at this point. Simone is harassed by members of the crowd during a boxing match for being Southern, and these prejudices seem to run throughout the film. Was there resentment towards migration to the North, leading to competition for jobs and so on in what was already a difficult economic climate? The rural-urban divide is shown by just how difficult a transition the family makes from one way of life to another. Whilst Rocco is undoubtedly the film's 'hero', you wouldn't say he achieves this. He dreams of returning one day to the village, the entire family intact and even he is compromised by Simone's recklessness. Instead, one of the younger brothers. Ciro, is perhaps the best example of this transition being made. He is the most pragmatic, the most self-assured, the most responsible - aware of the changing world and able to cope with it too. He gives hope for the future for the family.

Though his masterpiece 'The Leopard' was soon to follow, 'Rocco and his Brothers' doesn't fall far short of this, and remains a rare beast - a neo-realist epic. The lack of subtlety in the characterisations of the two main characters is perhaps the only flaw, as well as the disinterest in the lives and perspectives of the other siblings. On the other hand, this is the work of a film maker totally hitting his stride, and reflecting upon an Italy that was both economically and culturally divided with confidence and astuteness. 4.5/5

Apur Sansar (1959, India, Satyajit Ray)

2008-03-30T15:48:00.000-07:00

Concluding the trilogy to perfection, 'Apur Sansar' shows Apu (Soumitra Chatterjee) as a grown man but still experiencing the same ambitions, sense of responsibility and struggles as before. Apu is now an unemployed graduate in Calcutta, feckless as always as he avoids paying the rent and like his father before him using his education and dreams to distract from the realities of working for a living. An aspiring writer, Apu works on a story that is largely autobiographical and has the odd short story published but otherwise Apu rather drfits through life, though this all changes through a chance meeting with an old friend Pulu, who invites him to the wedding of a cousin. It emerges that the bridegroom has a deep mental illness and the bride's mother refuses her daughter to marry him, though the bride's father is concerned about the shame it will bring upon the family to call off the wedding, which would inevitably leave his daughter unable to marry in the future.

This is the pivotal moment in Apu's adult life; the moment in which he accepts responsibility and decides to put another first. He agrees to marry Pulu's cousin Apama (Sharmilla Tagore). As they return to Calcutta, the initial months of their marriage is shown through a combination of confusion, lack of communication and an incrasing awareness of what they both agreed to do. Apu is now aware of his inability to cope with the responsibilities of being a husband, warning Apama that he has no means, no job, no kind of future - that he has nothing to offer her. Against these odds however, their marriage blossoms and becomes increasingly blissful. An obvious love develops between them, told more so in their letters when they are apart than in their conversations. However, as has been the case in the trilogy thus far, any chance of happiness is usually taken away, and this is so when Apama dies in childbirth. Much like his mother before him, Apu is now placed in the position of being a lone parent, and Apu's mindset really couldn't be more different to his mother's. Whereas she took this burden on, Apu goes to pieces, rejecting the son that was responsible for the death of his wife and the end of his happiness, and admits that he doesn't love him and can't care for him. Of course there has to be a period of self-recognition and self-awareness for Apu, for him to finally accept his responsibilities. This duly occurs, but is not conducted in a trite or simplistic fashion. It seems natural, never forced.

Ray concludes his trilogy perfectly and maintains the breathtaking quality of the two films which preceded it. The final scene precisely captures the essence of the trilogy; an uncertain acceptance of responsibility, as Apu tries to learn to become the father to the son he barely knew until now before carrying his son into the distance on his shoulders. Although we see the world through Apu's eyes throughout and learn to sympathise with him, that's not to mean that we don't see every facet of his personality. We fully recognise his fecklessness, his apathy and his tendency towards being irresponsible - it's rare that a main character is so fully rounded, but that's the luxury of devoting three films across a period of twenty or so years allows. In each film, Apu loses a loved one and experiences but finds the strength and capacity to move on; he's a resilient hero whom we come to identify with. It's pitch perfect throughout; flawless film making. Ray was always considered one of the most humane film makers, and you couldn't disagree, such is the warmth and empathy that is at the heart of this justly renowned series of films. 5/5

Aparajito (1956, India, Satyajit Ray)

2008-03-30T08:32:00.000-07:00

The second part of Ray's celebrated trilogy follows the life of Apu from the death of his sister until his arrival at university. 'Pather Panchali' ended with the family facing an uncertain future as they left their village in search of a better life. Now living in Benares, a city situated on the River Ganges, the family seem to be just as impoverished and disadvantaged in the more prosperous urban regions as they were in the comparatively backward countryside. The family live in a crowded apartment area with shared amenities and Harihar, Apu's father struggles to make ends meet with his occupation as a priest. What's interesting here is how religion was of little importance in 'Pather Panchali'. Although we knew that Harihar was a priest, we saw very little demonstration of this. Benares is a noted holy city of Hinduism in Northern India attracting millions of pilgrims each year and the Ganges itself is worshipped. Ray shows us the elaborate celebrations that occur during religious festivals. It's an intriguing contrast and it's possible that the family moved here because of Harihar's vocation, in that it would be easier to find work, but maybe Ray is suggesting something about the urban/rural divide in terms of religion.

The fortunes of the family change when Harihar falls ill. Though he claims to be better and returns to work, he fatally collapsing ascending the steps from the river as Shankar's score becomes more rapid and dissonant, informing us of what is about to take place, and Ray films this through a narrow archway from distance. His death is also symbolically represented by flocked birds suddenly flying away with coincides with the first time we saw Harihar preaching with birds flying in the sky amongst him. Even though Apu's mother, Sarbojaya finds work as a maid and cook for a wealthy family, staying in Benares is no longer an option; relatives want her to return to her village, whilst her employers wish for her to join them when they move. This typifies the intense burden that has been placed on her after a series of tragedies which saw her not ony lose her daughter and become a widow, but also the sole parent to a young boy. Ray uses both close up and then zooming out to illustrate the significance of her dilemma, and how the decision she makes will affect both her and Apu's life forever.

Returning home, Apu decides he wants to attend school. As a promising student he is offered a scholarship to study in Calcutta. In his adolescence, Apu is shown as somewhat ungrateful and unappreciative of the sacrifices his mother has made for him and the fact she is the sole parent having to bring up a child without a second thought for her own needs. Sarbojaya has no-one to support her, she is now alone, so naturally has misgivings about allowing Apu to study in Calcutta, despite her intenses pride in his achievements. Her ultimate sacrifice is not only agreeing to him leaving but also giving him her savings to encourage him to make the best of himself. Not that Apu strictly rewards her gratitude. He seldom comes home, admits he feels out of place there. One scene in which Sarbojaya reads a letter is truly heartbreaking as you can see just how distraught she is by news that he won't be coming home. She feels more alone than ever. No doubt this contributes to her illness which she conceals from Apu, fearing the effect it would have on his studies. When he eventually finds out and rushes home to see her, she has already died and in a moment of self-recognition, he realises his mistake.

'Aparajito' is a seamless transition from its predecessor. The success of 'Pather Panchali' allowed Ray to make this film with greater scope and ambition and was rewarded as such with the Golden Lion at the 1957 Venice Film Festival, confirming Ray's staggering promise as a film maker. As before, there is much significance of the use of trains, as the bridge between two words; that of the countryside and the city. Where Harihar and Sarbojaya's generation and those before were content to remain in the countryside, Apu's generation want more and are aware of the opportunities in the city, which Apu chases to the detriment of his mother. This is also demonstrated by the request upon him to perform the last rites of his mother in the village though he declines, explaining he can do this in Calcutta, confirming that this is no longer a place for him. Apu is caught up between his ambitions and his responsibilities and this perhaps is the overwhelming theme of the trilogy overall. 5/5

Pather Panchali (1955, India, Satyajit Ray)

2008-03-25T16:10:00.000-07:00

The work of the great Indian director, perhaps the first director to put Indian cinema on the world map, is something of a notable gap in my knowledge and experience of film. I'd watched a double bill of the excellent 'Days and Nights in the Forest' and 'Devi' last year, but what's considered his crowning achievement, the Apu Trilogy had so far eluded my attention. Across the next three evenings, time permitting, I'll watch the trilogy in full, starting with 'Pather Panchali', which is every bit as great as the reputation of the film suggests. Bearing the influence of the Italian neo-realists and Renoir, whom Ray assisted on 'The River' (which had been filmed a few years earlier in India), it truly is one of the most staggering debuts that I can think of. It's even more incredible to think that the entire personnel working on the film were complete amateurs and that the film was made over four or five years because funds kept running out (eventually financial assistance from the West Bengal government facilitated its completion). Despite these setbacks, and possibly because of them, Ray was able to create a film that can only be defined as a masterpiece.

Set in a rural Bengal village in the 1920s, Ray shows us the hardships and tragedies faced by one family over the course of several years. This starts with the birth of Apu (Subir Bannerjee), who would go on to become the central character of the trilogy, and the film ends with his naive innocence giving way to a degree of experience and reality hitting home. The family is poor, held together solely by the resilience and strength of the mother (Karuna Bannerjee). The father (Kanu Bannerjee) is a feckless dreamer whose education gives him greater aspirations than he is perhaps entitled to. He wants to be a scholar and a writer but struggles to feed and provide for his family and worries that by harassing his employer for his wages on time he'll lose his job - his naive optimism contrasts sharply with that of his wife who is constantly frustrated by him. Their struggles increase when he leaves the village to find work, leaving his wife alone to cope and care for the family. In the father's absence though, tragedy strikes twice with the deaths of the grandmother (Chunibala Devi) and also the daughter Durga (Uma Das Gupta).

A recurring theme within the film is that of respect and social standing; something that seems to have permeated Indian society from the days of colonialism. Durga is caught stealing fruit and accused of stealing her friends' beads, which brings shame upon the family. Neighbours suggest Durga hasn't been brought up well (exacerbated by her absent father) and that she's an accomplished thief. Such is the disgrace this brings upon the family that her mother disciplines her with a sense of cruelty. This scene includes an instance of Ray relying on Ravi Shankar's percussive score taking the place of dialogue - it happens during the scene in which the mother explains to the returning father that their daughter has died. It's as if words aren't necessary; we can judge the mood and situation from mere images and reactions. Furthermore, the father speaks of his education and realising his dreams of becoming a writer which would achieve a sense of respect for them and secure a good marriage for Durga in the process. However this quest for self-respect, built on the naive idealism of the father is responsible for the tragic episodes within the film.

For a director making his first film, Ray is remarkably assured in terms of his handling of images to propel the narrative. The film contains a number of memorable images and scenes which linger in the memory. Reflections in ponds or rain falling into ponds show a keen interest in the elements as symbolism. The film's most celebrated scene contrasts the tradition and backwardness of village life with technology and modernity. Whilst exploring, Apu and Durga see power lines, clearly something they'd never noticed before living in a village where electricity isn't available. Running from one set to the next, they are confronted by the symbol of the increasingly modern age; a steam train, which shows them that there is life outside the village, a life that offers more possibilities and opportunities, a life that ironically Durga's death pushes the family towards (the final scene shows them heartbroken and leaving for the city).

In its evocation of childhood, Ray's film is unsurpassed and comparable with Truffaut's 'Les Quatre Cents Coups' which would follow a few years later. It's scope runs much further than this however, reflecting rural village life with great accuracy and sympathy. Despite its implications of the father being responsible in part for Durga's death - his lack of repairs for the house lead to her pneumonia worsening, and his general carelessness, he is never condemned and eventually shown as doing what he can to support the family. An astonishing achievement - there is no other way to describe it - I hope the two remaining parts of the trilogy maintain this level of quality. 5/5

The Gospel According to Saint Matthew (1964, Italy/France, Pier Paolo Pasolini)

2008-03-24T11:17:00.000-07:00

You'd think directing a film about the life of Jesus Christ would be a strange choice for a Marxist and atheist film maker, but Pasolini's treatment of the gospel in question seems so natural. That said, it was surely controversial at the time. His debut feature 'Accattone' had caused a significant degree of scandal, and this was followed by his segment for the 'RoGoPaG' collective film, 'La Ricotta', which was censored, and earned Pasolini a four month suspended prison sentence for blasphemy. However, after the Vatican opened up dialogue with non-Catholic artists, Pasolini embarked on his own unique account of the life of Christ, which offers an interpretation of Jesus as a social revolutionary and political radical, rather than the typical portrayal of him as the divine Son of God. This would later influence Scorsese's own 'The Last Temptation of Christ' and the director has been very keen to cite Pasolini's film as a serious inspiration upon his own directorial career.

Pasolini's modest take on events involves casting non-professionals in all roles. Enrique Irazoqui, a Spanish student who wrote a thesis on Pasolini's novel 'Boys of Life' was cast in the central role. Pasolini's own mother appears as the older Mary. Filmed in Matera, Italy, where Mel Gibson would film his own 'Passion of the Christ', locals comprised the other roles. This was typical of his approach to film making as a rule; eschewing big name actors for the more natural acting style of non-professionals. This pays dividends. Irazoqui is wholly convincing as Jesus, offering us a subdued and understated performance. Pasolini is reverential towards the character, but never sensationalises or glorifies him. Even his miracles; healing a disfigured man, healing a lame man, walking on water and so on are presented in reserved and simple fashion. But more important, Pasolini's Jesus is a political animal; driven and humble, but leading his believers towards enlightement and aware of the hypocrisy and machinations of those in power and those who preach.

Also interesting is Pasolini's use of music. Odetta's 'Sometimes I Feel Like A Motherless Child', a traditional folk song identified with slavery features heavily, as does Billie Holiday, which contrasts with the classical soundtrack of Bach and Mozart. Despite seeming somewhat anachronistic, it works and increases the spiritual fervour of the film. That Pasolini films the gospel from the perspective of a non-believer, this makes it more affecting and moving for atheists and agnostics. Pasolini almost removes the entirely religious apparatus entirely, making it a secular and humane account. Other accounts of the life of Jesus are almost certainly going to be overly reverential; this is detached and views from a distance, which is one of the film's great positives. Considered Pasolini's great masterpiece, it's possibly the case because it has an emotional resonance that his other films probably don't possess, which entwines with the political sensibilities of those films. 4.5/5

Marnie (1964, USA, Alfred Hitchcock)

2008-03-23T13:11:00.000-07:00

A commercial and critical failure upon release, 'Marnie' is now seen by many, myself included, as one of Hitchcock's masterpieces, and probably his last great film in fact (whilst 'Frenzy' was an admirable return to film making in the UK, it doesn't really compare too favourably with the films one identifies with Hitchcock). It's also one of his most psychologically daring films; in many ways re-exploring the themes of 'Vertigo' of warped romantic intentions and obsessions. It also coincided with Hitchcock acting as "star maker" to novice actress 'Tippi' Hedren, a former model who was cast in 'The Birds' off the back of a shampoo commercial and groomed as a substitute for Grace Kelly, who had retired from film after marrying into the Monaco royal family. It is alleged that Hitchcock's intentions with Hedren were as obsessive as Scottie Ferguson's in 'Vertigo' and one might suggest the same in terms of the central male protagonist, Mark, towards Hedren's Marnie. It would not be the first instance of the male protagonist being a substitute for the actor himself. Cary Grant was often said to be cast as the man Hitchcock would like to be, but James Stewart's more flawed and neurotic 'hero' pursuing an unattainable woman was always the more realistic persona. Whatever occured during filming, this spelt the end of the Hitchcock-Hedren relationship, and arguably the director never recovered.

The opening scene is typical Hitchcock. His roots in silent films made him the archetypal visual director; a close up shot on a handbag which is then revealed to be carried by a woman leaving a train. Then he cuts to the details of a robbery at Strutts being reported. The thief of course is Marnie (Hedren), and when she dyes her hair blonde and replaces the social security card in her purse, we know she's a career criminal - a kleptomaniac who steals from one employer to the next before vanishing and changing identity. Her luck runs out though when she starts work at the company of Mark Rutland (Sean Connery), who recalls her from Strutts (she is given the job at his request, eager to find out about the enigmatic Marnie). Naturally she steals from Rutlands, achieved in a precise and breathtaking scene - thinking a cleaning lady will hear, she tiptoes from the building but her shoes fall from her pocket seemingly ruining her carefully laid plans. The cleaning lady of course is deaf.

Mark, having taken an interest so far, realises what has happened and finds her. Then he embarks on a strange form of revenge - he marries Marnie. Until this point Hitchcock hinted at Marnie's psychological problems; her fractured relationship with her mother, her dramatic responses to the colour red and thunder and lightning, as well as dreams that hint at a childhood trauma. Hitchcock then reveals Mark to be equally psychologically and emotionally damaged. His fixation with Marnie goes beyond seeking to understand her - he wants to possess her; in her own words "You don't love me. I'm just something you've caught! You think I'm some sort of animal you've trapped!" Their honeymoon features the film's most contentious scene, which cost Hitchcock more than one screenwriter and has been discussed ever since; Mark's rape of Marnie. If you believe the reports of some, Hitchcock was unrelenting in his desire to keep this scene. His aborted 'No Bail For The Judge' was intended to include a scene of the rape of Audrey Hepburn. This does nothing to contradict the accusations of misogyny that has plagued Hitchcock. It's disconcerting to watch for sure, and whilst it might cost Mark the sympathy of the audience, it's somewhat in keeping with his dark and threatning sexuality. Viewing it in context of the director's obsession with his actress, it becomes all the more disturbing.

'Marnie' remains one of Hitchcock's most controversial and polarising films, infused with the degree of psychological depth that many films of this period (such as 'The Birds', 'Psycho' and 'Vertigo') featured. Marnie's frigidity and kleptomania are born out of a childhood incident that she cannot remember, that her mother has concealed, but gradually becomes apparent and explains her fears of various images and sounds. Hitchcock's most forgiving critics might look at the obviously fake backdrops and explain them as devices which highlight Marnie's alienation and detachment, though more likely is the fact that Hitchcock was one of the most studio-bound of directors filming during the end of the studio system, unable to change with the times. Accordingly, his fortunes would decrease after 'Marnie'; a combination of age and changes to methods of film making that would make directors like him less relevant, though as mentioned before, I believe this to be Hitchcock's final masterpiece and the most overlooked and unfairly neglected film in his entire ouevre. 5/5

Redacted (2007, USA/Canada, Brian De Palma)

2008-03-19T14:54:00.000-07:00

Easily the most controversial of the current wave of Iraq-focused films, 'Redacted' goes where war films seldom go and breaks that unofficial condition that directors adhere to; by all means criticise the decision makers who send our men and women off to war, but do not criticise the soldiers themselves. De Palma is not interested in the war on a national or global level - you never see politicians or people at home discussing, justifying or opposing war. Instead, his focus is on the ground at the very basic level; primarily showing the action from the perspective of one troop and how they try to maintain whatever passes as peace, order and stability, and also how they (mis)conduct themselves in an alien country.

Perspective, in the sense of situations as seen by numerous different people has been a common feature of De Palma's work. Rashomon, perhaps cinema's finest example of this has been a long term influence, most notably evident in his 1998 thriller 'Snake Eyes'. Here, De Palma uses perspective to show the war from the viewpoint of several individuals or institutions, intriguingly using different media forms. There's the aspiring film student Angel Salazar (Izzy Diaz) who keeps a video diary, the Iraqi domestic television stations, French documentary teams, fundamentalist Islamic websites amongst others, all reporting on the war, and on specific event in particular - the murder of a family by American troops, which included the rape of the fifteen year old daughter. One point that I think De Palma makes is that despite all these media forms being available, the "truth" is still no more apparent or available. Officially, the incident is hushed up as a Shi'ite/Sunni dispute, with the Iraqi/Islamic media outlets suggesting otherwise. The film's tagline is "truth is the first casualty of war"; a comment on the official line on the "success" of the war in Iraq. 'Redacted' shows American (we can't really say Allied, as you see troops of no other nationality) troops hardly in control of the region.

The incident referred to is an obvious reprise of the main focus of De Palma's previous war film 'Casualties of War' (1989). Set in Vietnam, this showed the kidnap and rape of a Vietnamese girl. Here, after arresting the father of a family on spurious suspicions of being an insurgent, a group of soldiers take out their frustrations on the family, as outlined above. The death of their sargeant, the unhealthy close contact of men together deprived of women (their discussions are usually very lurid; pornography is everywhere), their casualness about killing civilians, their overt racism - these all create those conditions and circumstances in which soldiers could commit such atrocities at random. This incident also pulls the rug from under our feet in a different sense. Until now we assumed that Salazar was the troop's moral compass, reporting the truth of the war, seemingly at odds with his more extreme colleagues. However he is involved in the rape and murder, not perpetrating the acts themselves but willing to go along with it. The moral compass now belongs to Lawyer McCoy (Rob Devaney), who tries to convince his colleagues not to commit the atrocities they had planned, and becomes guilt-stricken from his inability to prevent it and the Army's large indifference to his testimony. There is a telling final scene when having returned home, he is asked at his celebration dinner for some stories. His friends and family no doubt expect something glamorous, but he reveals the truth. As he finishes, whooping and applause begins, as if he had said nothing of the sort - a reflection of the fact that people don't want to hear precisely what is going on, that they're willing to self-censor the truth that might be too harrowing to contemplate.

'Redacted' has no conventional narrative; it's essentially fragments of events. Hence, it's a bit incoherent and wayward, shifting from an entry on a video diary to an Iraqi TV broadcast or segment from a French documentary at a moment's notice. Much has been mentioned about the general poor acting, which is a reasonable enough complaint, I suppose. It must be said though that most of the cast are novices, and furthermore, it's not really the point or intention. 'Redacted' seeks to bring together several perspectives of the war, and whilst its critics will claim it's not balanced and has a distinctly pious anti-war outlook, it should be considered of course that the media at large in the US show no balance. The right, notably Fox's Bill O'Reilly, have responded to the film with typical outrage and protest, suggesting that it plays into the hands of our "enemies". De Palma argues that it is a realistic presentation of the troops, rather than the whitewashed portrait the right-wing media offer.

Whilst I admire the film and consider it an important film, it's hard for me to genuinely recommend it. The reason for this is that it is exceptionally upsetting and distressing to watch. The rape and murder if difficult enough to sit through but the means in which a group of fundamentalist Muslims exact revenge for this (beheading Salazar live in the internet) is equally grim. It's a gruelling ordeal and you'd leave the cinema feeling far far worse than when you entered. Let alone the political controversy, the film's content would be enough to make it a difficult film to market, though it's only likely to really reach the already converted. A shame, because it's a highly intriguing, if highly flawed film. 3.5/5

Le Boucher (1970, France/Italy, Claude Chabrol)

2008-03-16T16:10:00.000-07:00

Made during his exceptionally fertile late 1960s period, which also produced 'La Femme Infidele' and 'Les Biches', Chabrol's most overt Hitchcockian film is a perfect example of the suspense genre, and contains at least two homages (from 'Strangers On A Train' and 'Foreign Correspondent') to the films of the director so admired by Chabrol and his Nouvelle Vague contemporaries. Chabrol sets the scene; an idyllic French rural village, a tight-knit community all in attendance at the wedding reception of a schoolteacher and his wife. At this reception, two strangers meet for the first time; Helene (Stephane Audran), a headmistress and Popaul (Jean Yanne), a butcher who has just completed a fifteen year spell in the army. They start by making small talk - this is the start of a friendship blossoming.

Then Chabrol pulls the rug from under our feet. In this perfect setting there is danger lurking below the surface. Dead bodies have been found locally and the police suspect that a serial killer is on the loose. They have no leads, no clues, but one person in the community has suspicions. In one memorable scene, Helene is taking her class on a trip to some caves. Eating lunch outside, a girl finds blood (with the appearance of ketchup perhaps) in the sandwich. It has fallen from a body on a cliff face above. Investigating, she finds a lighter (the reference to 'Strangers On A Train') belonging to Popaul. Is he the murderer at large or does the fact that he still retains the lighter proof of his innocence? Significantly, Helene never informs the police of this fact. But why? Does she see him as a kindred spirit? They are both lonely - though she doesn't strictly have romantic feelings for him, it is obvious they have a bond. Does she not want to lose this? Much is made in analysis of Hitchcock in that his film oftens had a recurring motif known as "exchange of guilt", which is prominent in 'Strangers On A Train'. Here, Helene is complicit in Popaul's suggested crimes. She is drawn to him, unwilling to voice her suspicions.

Chabrol handles Popaul's guilt/innocence very ambiguously. The lighter found at the scene of one crime is never confirmation of Helene's suspicions either way. Chabrol uses this to increase the tension to unbearable limits. As Helene distances herself from Popaul, rejecting his advances, she locks herself inside the school frantically, turning off lights. As she notices Popaul has left by his disappearance outside, we know of course than he has found his way inside. Chabrol's characterisation of Popaul is also vague. He's an accomplished butcher of course, who speaks constantly of the best way to cut meat. His experiences in the army; in Indo-China and Algeria, have left him mentally scarred. When some locals discuss the discovery of a body, he explains of the horrors that he has seen, though one local's retort it that "this was war, murders like these are savagery". Popaul hardly has any obvious characteristics that might suggest he is capable of these crimes either. It's the contradictions within his personality that allows Chabrol to maintain the tension and the credibility of the entire film.

'Le Boucher' is a tight and concise thriller, expertly handled and able to maintain its suspense for the entire duration until its tragic climax. This is a film about people who've suffered emotional damage; Popaul has seen the worst things imaginable in the army, Helene has had a love affair turn sour in the past, making her unable to commit herself to Popaul. Chabrol is both fair and sympathetic to these two people, demonstrating their need for connection and to overcome their demons. Whether he is guilty or not of the crimes that Helene suspects him of is perhaps, much like the Hitchcock Macguffin, largely secondary to the more overwhelming theme at hand. 4/5

The Round Up (1966, Hungary, Miklós Jancsó)

2008-03-15T07:33:00.000-07:00

To coincide with the DVD release of the film by the excellent Second Run Films (who have also previously released Jancsó's 'My Way Home' and 'The Red and The White'), the Curzon Mayfair cinema broadcast a special screening of 'The Round Up' on Friday 14 March, with Jancsó in attendance and participating in a Q&A with renowned critic/commentator Tony Rayns afterwards.

A little context. In 1848, the Habsburg Austrian Empire faced several revolutions from nationalist movements within its borders. One such revolution occured in Hungary, which was quickly and brutally supressed. 'The Round Up' concentrates on the authorities' attempts to track down the leaders of the rebellion; namely to find Sandor Rozsa and his men. Supported by the middle classes, the entire rural community were considered criminals and outlaws. This was a pitiless regime as Jancsó shows in the opening iconic scene that provides the film's title. A group of peasants are indiscriminately herded together; none directly suspected of being associates of Rozsa, but through applying psychological and physical pressure, it is hoped that the group will either expose itself or be exposed by others.

The tension and horror of the film resides in this approach. What disturbs us is just how "fair" the authorities are. Indiscriminate slaughter of the prisoners would be simple, but the more effective approach is interrogation, encouraging prisoners to inform on each other, and forcing them to watch other prisoners being psychologically or physically abused. It is a dehumanising and depersonalising process - these are less rounded human characters than mere symbols of oppression. One scene in which a naked young woman is repeatedly whipped by soldiers results in several prisoners jumping to their deaths as if they could take no more. One recurring image of psychological abuse is forcing prisoners to wear hoods. Seen now, it can only make one think of the famous image of the prisoner at Abu Ghraib. An inadvertent coincidence of course, but gives the film a frightening contemporary significance; that the means of undermining and abusing prisoners seldom changes through the ages.

The technical prowess which Jancsó was to become famous for was being well developed in 'The Round Up'. His stylistic trademark of long takes in deep focus are used frequently, as well as overhead shots as he observes the ritual dehumanisation of the prisoners. The camera is in perpetual movement, as are the actors within each scene. For instance, when two prisoners attack each other, as one accuses the other of betrayal, the camera swirls in a 360 degree motion as the actors do the same. Jancsó doesn't strike us as a director overly interested in the processes or psychology of acting. The prisoners are just pawns or props for his greater interest of choreographing the movements of human beings. Derek Malcolm's review of this film suggested that watching a Jancsó film was akin to watching ballet, and you see his point. Jancsó's framing of each scene is phenomenal.

It's possible to draw parallels between this film and events in Hungary just a decade before -the revolution of 1956, which was also supressed brutally. Jancsó was fairly cagey in terms of making a comparison. However, if the allegorical aspect of 'The Round Up' is apparent to us then would it not be apparent to the state authorities which allowed this film to be made? Jancsó was also fairly bemused by the fact that he was able to make films without state interference since they hardly conformed to Socialist orthodoxy. 'The Round Up' is a fascinating but clinical account of oppression and imprisonment; a directorial tour de force from Jancsó, though one needs to appreciate his intentions in making such a dehumanised piece of work. 4/5

Irma Vep (1996, France, Olivier Assayas)

2008-03-11T13:00:00.000-07:00

The process of film-making is an often used concept in film; just think of Truffaut's 'Day For Night' and Godard's 'Le Mepris' for the definitive examples of this. Not that it's just a French preoccupation of course, but Olivier Assayas follows in the footsteps of the aforementioned New Wave film makers with 'Irma Vep', which like their films, traces the hazards and pitfalls of making films, in this case a remake of Feuillade's 'Les Vampires'.

The start lets us know we're in dangerous territory; frantic discussions about finance and locations, arguments amongst the crew, a missing director - scenes and conversations which all overlap but relate to each other. At the centre of this intended film is Maggie Cheung (herself), the Hong Kong actress who was specifically cast by Vidal the director (Truffaut veteran and alter-ego Jean-Pierre Leaud) for the part of the title character. Here she gently spoofs herself; an actress who for years was cast in action films as little more than the heroine playing second fiddle to her male star but managed to break out of this stereotype thanks to directors like Wong-Kar Wai and Stanley Kwan. Discussing the film she has just completed, she cites a rather ridiculous and contrived plot, almost a parody of the action films she was once cast in. We see scenes of 'The Heroic Trio' (1993) later, which appears ludicrous, yet Vidal cast her on the basis of this film, though we suspect he just likes the idea if her as a slinky heroine in latex. Of course when journalists interview her about her career, all they are interested in is working with the likes of Jackie Chan on such films. 'Irma Vep' shows Cheung to be an accomplished comic actress with a nice line in self-deprecation.

We then witness event after event that shows the incompetence behind the film, even putting the entire production at risk at times, such as struggling to buy a PVC catsuit in a sex shop, early rushes from the film meeting unanimous dissatisfaction, and Vidal's nervous breakdown. All the while, Cheung has to deal with the romantic intentions of a female crew member, as well as take a slightly sinister interest in her part, almost living the role for real, as she walks the roofs of Paris on wet nights. The entire narrative more or less exists within the film production besides one dinner party. Assayas shows the intimacy of the film making processes, and whilst he shows the production of a fairly lousy looking film made by an over the hill director, it's never nasty in tone. It has the right satirical edge to it, and says plenty about contemporary film in both France and the United States. French journalists criticise the kind of films Vidal makes; dull, intellectual films that represent an older French cinematic tradition, whilst remaining enthusiastic about popular and mainstream films, as well as the action films of Hong Kong and the United States. It's thr triumph of commercialism over art, which is a pretty apt summation of the times in which we live.

It's a neat gimmick, even if it seems a bit disposable. I know the likes of Jonathan Rosenbaum have described this as a masterpiece in the past, and I can kind of see his point. It makes a number of salient points about contemporary film making but ceases before it really gets going. That said, it was written and shot on the hop. Rosenbaum also criticised the interpretation of many critics of 'Irma Vep' existing as a self-examination of French cinema. It does, but also much more. This is a film that examines cinema globally. 4/5

Masculin Feminin (1966, France/Sweden, Jean-Luc Godard)

2008-03-09T17:57:00.000-07:00

'Masculin Feminin', a film in fifteen chapters, is not so much a film about youth, but in Godard's own words a film about "the idea of youth" and as one of the chapter titles suggests"the children of Marx and Coca-Cola". This is a generation which is both political but reared on pop culture, and Godard captures it at a very specific time, nominally expressed through the awkward courtship between Paul (Jean-Pierre Leaud) and Madeleine (Chantal Goya).

He's just completed his national service and works as a journalist; she's an aspiring pop singer (Goya was a real life ye ye singer). They meet, discuss politics and culture, though they barely have a thing in common. He seems a lot more interested in her than she does him and therein lies much of the comedy, such as his terrible attempts to flip his cigarette into his mouth as if he's Jean-Paul Belmondo in 'Breathless'.

Typically radical with narrative and structure, Godard throws in numerous random and bizarre events - a couple arguing behind Paul and Madeleine in a cafe, then the wife shoots the husband as they leave, a man intimidating Paul inexplicably sticks a blade into his chest, a woman shoots two black men on the Metro, a man borrows matches and then sets himself alight - all of these are random acts of violence which have no real impact on the film whatsoever, but remain anarchic and spontaneous, in keeping with not only this film but much of Godard's work to date. As befitting the increasing influence of Godard's leftist politics into his films, the spectre of Vietnam and US involvement is everywhere. The self-immolating man performs this act in protest, whilst Paul participates in the vandalism of US vehicles, daubing anti-American slogans on them - 'Peace in Vietnam' etc. France at that point was politically to the right with the re-election of De Gaulle as president. Godard had always been critical of the de Gaulle regime, describing the upheaval in Paris in 1968 as the direct result of the authoritarianism of the republic.

There are the usual pop culture references (Bob Dylan, Sandie Shaw) and film intertextuality (Bridgette Bardot, star of 'Le Mepris' rehearses lines, Paul and Madeleine watch a parody of Bergman's 'The Silence', Madeleine mentions Godard's own 'Pierrot le Fou'). However the disconnected structure feels a bit too alienating, though maybe that's the point. Godard favoured Brechtian methods of distancing audiences from his films, removing them from any natural and realistic context. Godard's weaker films are usually more interesting than most directors better films, and 'Masculin Feminin' certainly is not short of ideas. It just didn't engage as much as Godard's classics of the era; the likes of 'Pierrot le Fou' and 'Le Mepris. 3.5/5

The Leopard (1963, Italy/France, Luchino Visconti)

2008-03-09T13:30:00.001-07:00

Visconti's 1963 Palme D'Or winner is epic film making in the best sense, recording the consequences of revolution and social change upon an aristocratic family, headed by Prince Don Fabrizio Salina (Burt Lancaster). Their Sicilian paradise is threatened by the rise of the Risorgimento, the political movement which included Garibaldi, which set out to unite the states of Italy and instigate a new social order - that of democracy and the rise of the bourgeoisie at the expense of the aristocracy. Visconti had personal reasons to make this film. He was from aristocratic stock himself, but also considered himself a Communist. This conflict between his background and his political thinking is apparent in this film, and also explains why he is able to handle the material so sensitively, sympathetically and without judgement.

The film's opening scenes are a masterclass in cinematography as Giuseppe Rotunno's (who worked on several Fellini films) camera roams around the sprawling country estate of the Salina family. Their communal prayers are then interrupted by news of rioting in the city (a dead soldier is found in the garden) and the fleeing of several similarly aristocratic families. This is one of several superb set pieces that Visconti choreographs. The battle scenes between Garibaldi's Red Shirts and loyalist forces which inspired Scorsese's 'Gangs of New York' (Scorsese is a fervent admirer of this film) and the astounding 45 minute ballroom sequences which concludes the film are amongst the most memorables scenes you will ever see in the cinema.

As the momentum towards Italian unification is in full flow, Don Prince Fabrizio tries to remain as pragmatic as he can despite the impending replacement of his social class by another (the aspiring middle classes). He accepts it's just the substitution of political groups; that the middle classes just want to replace the upper classes, not destroy them. In a conversation with a Father, he notes that in a world of radical change, the church has immortality, social classes do not. The church manages to co-exist with the new ruling class rather well. Further evidence of how much the Salina family's world is in flux is shown in the marriage of Prince Don Fabrizio's nephew Tancredi Falconeri (Alain Delon) to Angelica (Claudia Cardinale), the daughter of a wealthy merchant and politician. Whilst not a marriage of convenience, it is mentioned that her family has considerable wealth, even if she lacks the manners and values of aristocratic birth. Don Prince Fabrizio defends the union, that they must move with the times and it is best for the survival of the family, even though the rest of his family largely disapprove, stating that it is tantamount to surrendering to their enemies.

Visconti also shows that even during periods of great upheaval, normality is restored very quickly. As said, all the revolutionaries genuinely believed in was substituting one ruling class with another. The church was restored and respected. Aristocrats were invited to sit in the Senate (which Don Prince Fabrizio rejects). Garibaldi's unruly rebels just morphed into a respectable army under the command of King Emmanuel the Second. As Tancredi, who is more adept at changing with the times than anyone else explains; "If we want things to stay as they are, things will have to change", whilst his uncle remains far more rueful about what has been lost.

'The Leopard' is a stunning achievement. Three hours long but without any padding - every minute of this film matters. Visconti documents a snapshot of Italian history with such meticulous detail and insight. Watch the effort that goes into the ballroom sequence, with hundreds of extras and elaborate costumes. Whilst the plaudits will naturally be the director's, the cast are all superb and Visconti's co-writers collaborate on a perfect script. Virtually flawless. 5/5

Lift To The Scaffold (1958, France, Louis Malle)

2008-03-09T06:21:00.000-07:00

Though the advent of the Nouvelle Vague is usually credited to the first features of its most prominent film makers (Godard, Truffaut, Chabrol), it might be said that its roots existed in certain early features by Jean-Pierre Melville, and also 'Lift To The Scaffold' which preceded the likes of 'Breathless' by a year or two. They were not part of the movement perhaps, but they shared several things in common with the early Nouvelle Vague films - outdoor location shoots, natural acting and dialogue, low budgets; essentially rejecting the traditional production and shooting methods of conventional French film making, which the Cahiers du Cinema collective denounced as too literary and classical.

'Lift To The Scaffold' unfolds in typical noir fashion. Two lovers speak on the telephone, both repeating "I love you" over and over. We can sense they are not married, and when we see Julien (Maurice Ronet) with a gun in his possession, we sense murder is on his mind. The pair have been plotting the perfect crime, to kill Florence's (Jeanne Moreau) husband, a wealthy arms dealer, so that they might be together. Of course we know what they say about the best laid plans. What Malle does though is show the preparation involved in committing the crime in painstaking detail, though refrains from actually showing us, or letting us hear the actual act being carried out (he cuts to Julien's secretary sharpening pencils, which would also block out the sound). Malle then shows the aftermath, as Julien tries to make Florence's husbands death look like suicide.

The irony here is that the crime has been conducted so well that police assume it was suicide. However, Julien's attempt to retrieve evidence he left at the scene sets in motion a chain of events that would have greater consequences for him than being charged with the murder he actually committed. His car is stolen by a young couple who then kill two German tourists, and everything points to Julien having committed the crime, whilst he unknowingly is trapped in a lift back at his place of work. All the while, Florence searches the streets of Paris for him as he failed to meet her at their designated time and place. Picked up by the police for having no ID, she inadvertently increases the suspicion against Julien by jealously suggesting he was cavorting with another woman (the murder of the Germans was carried out by a couple).

'Lift To The Scaffold' also features an excellent Miles Davis score which has been rightly considered famous in its own right, capturing the sounds and atmosphere of Parisienne nights and the loneliness of Florence as she wanders in the wet early hours, wondering what became of Julien. Malle's debut is a film whose strengths reside in its economy. Though the plot twists and turns, he doesn't try to overcomplicate things; he keeps it natural and simple. The set up is familiar from dozens of films before it and after, but retains a sense of freshness and vigour that sets it apart from films you could compare it to. It's the film that introduced the wonderful actress Jeanne Moreau to the world and which started Malle's long and successful career both in France and latterly the US. 4/5

Ivan's Childhood (1962, Soviet Union, Andrei Tarkovsky)

2008-03-05T15:01:00.000-08:00

'Ivan's Childhood' was the debut feature of the great Soviet director Andrei Tarkovsky. It was one of a number of films made during the Krushchev Thaw which focused on the Second World War in a human context rather than pure political propaganda extolling the heroics of the Great Patriotic War. 'The Cranes Are Flying', a sublimely poetic account of lovers separated by war is perhaps the peak of these such films, but 'Ivan's Childhood' is no less effective, and Tarkovsky works wonders from deceptively slight material.

Ivan, a twelve year old boy is seen looking through a cobweb, running through the forest and then levitating. It is a dream which ends with the boy calling for his mother. The reality is then shown; Ivan wading through muddy waters to reach a group of Soviet troops, arriving in a shivering and half dead state. It emerges that he has been on spying missions for the Soviet high command, something he has been able to achieve due to his small and slight stature.

Ivan is a boy in an extraordinary situation, and Tarkovsky shows how he deals with this through contrasting reality and dreams. Where reality is manifested by dark and claustrophobic environments where troops await the advance of the Nazis, Ivan's dreams are of happier times with his mother and sister, on sunlit beaches. Are these dreams a reflection of a past reality or just Ivan's imagination at work? We later discover just why Ivan is so determined to put himself at risk on dangerous missions; he vowed to avenge the death of his family at the hands of the Nazis - in his dreams, Ivan's mother asks him to avenge them. Even when Soviet officers attempt to send him to military school, he threatens to leave and join the partisans. Despite this maturity and dedication, Tarkovsky does not over-emphasise Ivan's heroism, making it an emotive decision that risks his own life.

Nearly twenty five years later, 'Come and See', directed by Elem Klimov followed similar themes - an orphaned boy thrown into the horrors of war and the psychological effects of this, so they make pretty useful companion pieces in that respect. Even at this stage though, the poetic and artistic dimension of Tarkovsky's film making approach is evident; recurring motifs of the elements (dripping water) etc, but the effectiveness of this film lies in its simplicity, which contrasts with the greater depth and ambition of Tarkovsky's subsequent films. A film that has been considered an inspiration by no less than Bergman, Paradjanov and Kieslowski, there are surely few better debut features. 4/5

The Conformist (1970, Italy/France/West Germany, Bernardo Bertolucci)

2008-03-04T13:43:00.000-08:00

Having been on something of a creative slump over the last two decades, it's quite easy to overlook Bertolucci's achievements as a film maker. The Last Emporer was the last film of his that genuinely could be described as anywhere near greatness. Everything since seems to be less than fully realised and disappointing in comparison to his greatest films. Of course when you attain so much so young (Bertolucci was just 30 when he made this film), that creativity can be difficult to sustain long term. Still, this is nothing short of astonishing considering the youth of the director. It seems the work of someone far more mature.

A huge inspiration on New Hollywood, primarily Scorsese and Coppola, who paid tribute to one scene from this film in The Godfather Part Two. Such was the effect that it had on the latter that he hired Bertolucci's DoP Vittorio Storaro to work on Apocalypse Now. It's easy to see why because Storaro's work on The Conformist seriously is amongst the greatest cinematography you will ever see. Exceptionally innovative; shooting Trintignant's character (Clerici) from strange angles, using an incredibly fluid camera that seldom stays still (for instance, when Trintignant visits the Minister and the camera zooms out as he walks in the opposite direction), and capturing such iconic scenes, such as the opening scene with Trintignant's face coloured a shade of red from the neon lights outside his hotel room, and the leaves blowing in the wind in his mother's garden that Coppola would later reference.

The Conformist works so well because there are numerous remarkably talented individuals involved - the source material is derived from Alberto Moravia, who wrote the novel on which Godard's 'Le Mepris' was based (which is one of my favourite films). Georges Delerue, who scored 'Le Mepris', 'Jules et Jim' and 'Shoot The Pianist' was the film's composer, and then you have Jean-Louis Trintignant who was so great in Kieslowski's 'Three Colours Red' and the stunning Dominique Sanda in lead roles.

Trintignant is a mid-level civil servant in 1930s Italy who throws his lot in with the Fascists, not solely to enhance his career prospects, but mainly to achieve normality. He wants nothing to be anonymous and blend in with the crowd - he takes a wife he doesn't really love (he explains that normality is marriage, children, having a family), joins the Catholic faith, etc. But why this obsession? Does it go back to a nightmarish incident he experienced as a child, which Bertolucci shows us in flashback? Or the issues with his parents - his father is now in an asylum and his mother is drunk and seemingly having a fling with the chauffeur. The repeated emphasis on normality arguably reflects Bertolucci's thoughts about the nature of Fascism; that it can be achieved through mere compliance and acceptance.

The ultimate act of fitting in becomes accepting an order to assassinate his former university professor, now a dissident living in Paris with his young wife, and considered dangerous and provocative by the authorities. However, the feelings that he starts to develop for the man's wife complicating matters. Professor Quadri and his wife immediately suspect Clerici and question his motives to reacquainting himself with them, although this never dissuades them from meeting, or Quadri's wife having a short-lived affair with Clerici. After the inevitable, Bertolucci shows the aftermath of defeat in war; scenes of Mussolini's statue stolen and dragged through the streets, of young Italians celebrating freedom from dictatorship, and former Fascists turning on each other. Clerici is shown as a political chameleon in that sense, changing his political stance according to the status quo, according to what would help him achieve "normality".

I'm reminded of the phrase attributed to Edmund Burke; "the only thing necessary for the triumph of evil is for good men to do nothing" when watching The Conformist. For Bertolucci, Fascism is the desire not to act, to accept and to remain passive. 4.5/5

The Discreet Charm of the Bourgeoisie (1972, France/Italy/Spain, Luis Bunuel)

2008-03-04T12:55:00.000-08:00

The winner of the 1972 Academy Award for Best Film in a Foreign Language, The Discreet Charm of the Bourgeoisie is a typical surrealist satire from Luis Bunuel. Whilst it's targets are just the same as they always were - the middle classes, the army, the church, politicians and so on, the approach of the satire is more subtle though no less effective.

A number of guests arrive at a dinner party. They discover that they were expected the next day. This is the first of a chain of events in which the guests find themselves unable to eat dinner anywhere. In many ways, this is an inverted version of Bunuel's earlier 'The Exterminating Angel' (1962), in which a number of dinner party guests find themselves unable to actually leave (which in itself had parallels with the Czech film of the time - 'The Party and the Guests'). The dinner party and its social significance is clearly of interest to Bunuel. It provides him with the scope to skewer the values and aspirations of middle class society.

The circumstances in which the guests fail to eat become increasingly absurd, starting from a mix up over the day they agreed to meet, to the guests being gunned down by terrorists or finding themselves on stage in the performance of a play. Bunuel dispenses with logic and conventional rules concerning narrative. Scenarios are revealed as dreams by individual protagonists, therefore they are always unpredictable and anything is in the realms of possibility.

As mentioned, it's not just the middle classes and their vanity adultery, social pretences and shallowness that is being satirised. There's also the clergy as represented by the priest who dons gardener's clothing and is shown shooting the man who apparently killed his parents after giving him absolution. You have Don Rafael, one of the guests who is ambassador of a fictional South American country named Miranda, which is suggested to be a corrupt and repressive country with a widening gap between rich and poor, which also home to ex-Nazis, who Don Rafel describe as "perfect gentlemen".

Made during what might be seen as his most productive period in the ten years or so in which he made 'The Exterminating Angel', 'Belle du Jour', 'Viridiana' and 'Tristiana', this is a biting and wicked satire that is very much effective because of its surrealism and absurdity rather than relying on heavy handed sermonising. 4/5

Oedipus Rex (1967, Italy, Pier Paolo Pasolini)

2008-02-27T09:08:00.000-08:00

Pasolini was a director who was a mass of contradictions, attempting to reconcile his Marxist beliefs with the role and participation of his family in Fascist society (his father was in the Army and had once saved Mussolini's life), as well as his homosexuality and Catholicism. Most known at this point for his neo-realist 'The Gospel of St Matthew', 'Oedipus Rex' began the phase in Pasolini's career when he began to film classic myths and literature, which would include 'The Canterbury Tales' and 'Decameron' subsequently.

Pasolini's film is a largely faithful retelling of the Oedipus myth, although it is significantly bookended by contemporary scenes which have been considered autobiographical to some extent. This myth appealed to Pasolini on a person level, and the film offers a perspective on his own relations to his parents. The prologue to the tale, set in Fascist Italy clearly shows the mutual jealousy between the child Oedipus (Pasolini? - with more evidence provided later by Franco Citti, Pasolini's alter ego in the adult role) and his father, a soldier. Pasolini freely admitted that he was narrating his own life in this prologue, mythologised of course. Upon the child's banishment in the contemporary setting, it then cuts to the original setting that the myth; 428 BC.

The myth is familar to most so it doesn't really require repeating. What is interesting is how Pasolini subverts the Oedipus character itself though. Originally a man of wit and quick thinking, Pasolini shows him as an opportunist and a cheat. In the myth, he defeats the Sphinx through answering her riddle correctly; instead he overpowers an all too human sphinx by brute force. Though a victim of fate whose destiny is decreed by the Gods and cannot be changed, this is an earthy and less than heroic Oedipus, particularly brutal in the death of his father and less than benevolent as a ruler. Pasolini also disregards tradition be filming the entire myth, not as Sophocles play starts, several years after Oedipus has assumed the throne of Thebes with Jocasta (his mother) as his wife.

Filmed in deserted and sparse landscapes in Morocco, with locals filling in as extras and with native costumes and music, it is typically sumptuous visually as the more exotic Pasolini films were. Pasolini's interest in Greek tragedy would continue with 'Medea' (1969), which could be seen as a companion piece to this film. This is cinema as both poetry and psychology. 4/5

The Boss Of It All (2006, Denmark/Sweden/Iceland/Italy/France/Norway/Finland/Germany, Lars von Trier)

2008-02-26T15:00:00.000-08:00

Lars von Trier, the enfant terrible of European cinema, a director who is loved and loathed in equal measure and wants nothing else other than to wrong foot audiences who attempt to second guess his intentions, has done exactly that with 'The Boss Of It All', a comedy about office and corporate politics. This is a typically smart move having spent the past decade making films about female suffering ('Breaking The Waves', 'Dancer in the Dark') and satirising American values ('Dogville', 'Manderlay').

An actor, Kristoffer (Jens Albinus) is hired to pretend to be the director of a Danish IT company that is to be sold to an Icelandic corporation. The real boss is apparently "inaccessible", so the success of this takeover rests in his hands. Kristoffer is a perfectionist who prepares with great care, even though he is told to stick to the script and keep it simple. His staff, a collection of eccentrics, initially doubt his credibility. They have never met their boss, but what they know of him, through their email "conversations" with him eventually land him in over his head. Kristoffer then has to maintain the facade as best he can whilst negotiating with the Icelandic buyers, as well as not revealing who the real "boss" is. This is naturally not as easy as he thinks.

von Trier always had a blackly comic streak - think of The Kingdom and The Idiots, but here the comedy is less cruel and more lightweight - Kristoffer's awkwardness at playing the role is in the current vogue of embarrassment as comedy, but it's never mean. Kristoffer's meetings with the "boss" take place in ridiculous places; a cinema, a garden centre and so on, and he finds himself unwittingly engaged to one member of staff, and then there's the cultural issues between Danes and Icelandics (Iceland had been ruled by Denmark for 400 years), as well as Kristoffer's preciousness as an actor.

von Trier has always been a director with a knack for using technical gimmicks, and this is no different. Here, he used technology named Automavision, in which shots are framed by the director but then computers choose when to tilt, pan or zoom, which dispenses with the cameraman altogether. Certain framings and cuts do not conventionally work as a result. It's an interesting method of filming.

For a film with such a short running time, the film's climax seems a bit too drawn out, which gives the impression that the central conceit of the film is perhaps a bit flimsy and had to be fleshed out to make it feature length. Regardless of this, 'The Boss Of It All' is very funny, and though it makes a few general satirical points, it never feels as if von Trier is being heavy handed or weighed down by them. A diverting interlude before the third instalment of the Land of Opportunities Trilogy ('Wasington' being the third part). 3.5/5

My Blueberry Nights (2007, Hong Kong/China/France, Wong Kar-Wai)

2008-02-25T09:52:00.000-08:00

The first English language film from the great Hong Kong director is an exceptionally frustrating experience. It would be natural to have reservations upon hearing of this project being produced, but despite all that could go wrong, there was the hope that Wong Kar-Wai would still deliver the goods. Alas, it's pretty disastrous, and deserves the critical kicking it took upon its UK release. Don't be fooled by its pretty reasonable average score on IMDB which highly inflates the quality of this film.

As you would expect from a Wong Kar-Wai film, it looks gorgeous. Darius Khondji, the Iranian born cinematographer who provided 'Seven' and the early Jean Pierre-Jeunet films ('Delicatessen', 'City of Lost Children') with their distinctive look, proves an able substitute for Wong's usual collaborator Christopher Doyle. He particular excels at the night scenes, where garish neon lights prevail. But we knew what to expect aesthetically. Few contemporary film makers can match Wong Kar-Wai in this respect, so there's no real surprise here. And that in all honesty amounts to any positive discussion of 'My Blueberry Nights' because practically everything else is rather substandard.

Watching the film, you get the sense in many ways that Wong Kar-Wai is producing a contemporary American spin on one of his masterpieces, 'Chungking Express' (1994). He uses the same visual trick that was prevalent in that film, which is very out of focus and rapid camerawork in faster than natural motion, as if the characters are in a sense of change or soul searching. Yes, it looks neat for the first time, and maybe that's part of the problem. Those not familiar might be rather impressed, but those familiar with Wong's work might feel as if they have seen it all before. 'My Blueberry Nights' also features loosely connected tales, which are in this case experienced by the same one character, Elizabeth (Norah Jones - surprisingly OK), who embarks on a journey of self-discovery after discovering her boyfriend has cheated on her.

She first gets talking to Jeremy (Jude Law - terrible), a cafÃ© owner from Manchester, who is also heartbroken, and it's all quite cute; you know full well they are meant for each other by the way they have conversations that are composed of pretty ludicrous metaphors (nobody eating blueberry pie to denote loneliness perhaps?). Law's accent is shocking, and sets the tone for a film featuring several poor efforts in that sense. And why is he even from Manchester? He mentions this once and never again. He doesn't even need to be British - this makes absolutely no difference to the film whatsoever. Anyway, Elizabeth leaves for Memphis, works in a diner by day and bar by night, observing the destructive relationship between alcoholic cop Arnie (David Strathairn - reasonable) and Sue Lynn (Rachel Weisz - accent a slight improvement on Law's perhaps), which all ends tragically. Then reaching Las Vegas, she hooks up with a gambler, Leslie (Natalie Portman - similarly poor like Weisz) who has an estranged relationship with her father. And on the way, she learns lessons about life, love and so on before you can reasonably write the ending for yourself.

Early Wong Kar-Wai films like 'Chungking Express' and 'Fallen Angels' featured a sense of triviality that was easy to admire; much like the throwaway and playful centres of early Godard films. If Wong is trying to repeat this formula for this film, it really doesn't work. These episodes are so trivial, so uninvolving, it's hard to care. Does the marital breakdown of Arnie and Sue Lynn feel genuinely affecting? What about Leslie's reaction to news her father is dying? Not really. It's difficult to invest anything emotionally in these characters; probably because they're talking in such clichÃ©-ridden nonsense for the entire film. I'm not sure whether this film is more scripted than other Wong efforts. I assume the fact he has an established co-writer, then perhaps, but the actors are not being given much to work with at all.

'My Blueberry Nights' doesn't know what it wants to be. An art film? A mainstream romantic comedy/drama? It strives to be both and succeeds as neither. So many of the aspects of a great Wong Kar Wai film are here in ultra-diluted form, and that is what disappoints. This could, and perhaps should have been a very good film. Unfortunately it isn't, and I'm afraid it's necessary to be brutal because it's the work of a great film maker, not some hack for hire. I appreciate that Wong had probably gone as far as he could in his home land, and that Hollywood will offer a chance to work with bigger budgets and different actors. His next film appears to be a remake of sorts of my favourite Welles film 'The Lady of Shanghai'. It has to be an improvement on this mess. 2/5

The Ascent (1976, Soviet Union, Larisa Shepitko)

2008-02-24T08:13:00.000-08:00

The Ascent is yet to be released in DVD format, and even obtaining a VHS copy is near impossible. A few years ago, I was fortunate enough to do so, but obviously had to pay quite a lot to do so. Regrettably, this means that very few people will have had the opportunity to see this film - it has marginally over 200 votes on IMDB. I can only hope that it is not long before it emerges on DVD, but even that might be complicated by who holds the rights and so on.

Whilst there are undoubtedly a number of Soviet films that approach World War Two in a typically one handed way, offering no more than simple propaganda, it is telling that the most famous Soviet films in the West are more sophisticated than this, and I'm thinking of Ivan's Childhood, Come and See, The Cranes Are Flying and so on. What these films have in common is a lack of glorifying the war effort, a recognition that heroism didn't come naturally, that some collaborated with the Nazis and so on, and The Ascent is no different to these aforementioned films.

Two soldiers, Sotnikov (Boris Plotnikov) and Rybak (Vladmir Gostyukhin) become stranded from their group (which is shown as being under-prepared and starving). Searching for shelter and food, they rearch a farm where they discover that the elder has collaborated with the Nazis. They condemn him for dishonouring their son, who is fighting, but his wife pleads that they did not do so willingly; that they were forced to. On the run, they then hide in a village which is also occupied by the Nazis. When discovered, the family they were hiding with, are also arrested.

Shepitko then focuses on the interrogation of the two men, who show distinctly different personality traits; Sotnikov is unwilling to talk and betray others, but Rybak is more weak-willed and talks more easily. The Christian imagery that had infused the film to this point becomes far more obvious now, with the soldiers representing Christ and Judas respectively; with Sotnikov becoming a martyr and Rybak offering his services to the Nazis and betraying his own people. Rybak also is shown being directly responsible for Sotnikov's death, though much like Judas, he finds this difficult to live with.

The nearest comparison to The Ascent is possibly Come and See, directed by Shepitko's husband, Elim Klimov. Both show not only the horror of war but also the level of collaboration of ordinary Soviet citizens with the Nazis. Both films are set in Belarus, which was occupied from 1941, and it is acknowledged that numerous native citizens were involved in massacres of towns and villages. The Ascent does not show all collaborators are treacherous or evil - the elder from the farm is the complete opposite of Portnov, the interrogator.

This was unfortunately the last film Shepitko made; she died in a car accident shortly after. The Ascent is a phenomenal war film - the black and white photography is superb, and as much of the film is set against a backdrop of snow, it almost looks like a blank canvass. Much like what the characters endure, the film takes a physical and emotional toll. Not a simple film to watch by any means but infinitely rewarding. 4.5/5

Rouge (1987, Hong Kong, Stanley Kwan)

2008-02-21T15:43:00.000-08:00

Hong Kong melodrama from 1987 directed by Stanley Kwan, who would receive international acclaim with his following feature 'Actress'. This was based on the life of Ruan Lingyu, the Chinese Garbo, who was most famous for Goddess (an exceptional film from the 1930s), and her life story shares so many aspects of Rouge - the 1930s, suicide, social pressure, forbidden romances, so it's almost as if in many ways that Rouge is a training ground for what is Kwan's most acclaimed and famous film.

Rouge has to be judged on its own merits though. It reminds me of Chen Kaige's 'Temptress Moon' in many respects, which also starred Leslie Cheung. Both are incredibly self-aware melodramas. This angle is deliberately played up and exploited - maybe because in the case of Rouge, the heroine belongs in the 1930s, the peak period for Chinese melodramas, which also throws her into a bit of a "fish out of water" situation in late 1980s Hong Kong.

Fleur, a courtesan (perfectly played by Anita Mui) and Chan Chen-Pang (Leslie Cheung), heir to a wealthy family fall in love despite the disapproval of his family, who have decided that he should marry his cousin for the benefit of his family's name and future. Such is their love for each other that they agree on a suicide pact, though it doesn't quite go to plan. Fleur, who died, searches for her beloved in a modern Hong Kong some fifty years after her death.

Whilst Fleur searchs, she engages the help and sympathy of a two journalists, Yuen (Alex Man) and Ah Chor (Emily Chu), a couple who are going through the motions and seem not too serious. Fleur's story makes them re-evaluate their own relationship, perhaps envying Fleur's passion, but also demonstrates how love has changed throughout the ages - they admire the sacrifices Fleur made and the lengths she went to in order to be with the one she loved. They concede they aren't that romantic.

With the film's self-awareness goes a wicked sense of humour too - see the scenes where Ah Chor, who thinks Yuen has brought a woman (Fleur) home, doesn't believe she is a ghost and then finds out comically. Add much technical prowess; the 360 degree turn of the camera as Fleur and Chen's eyes meet for the first time at the brothel she works at, the way the camera glides as Yuen notices Fleur appearing and vanishing when she first visits him at the newspaper office asking to place an ad for a missing person. Fleur might be a ghost but she is shown as a real person; there's no effects, she has emotions, thoughts, a purpose. It's a superbly fleshed out central character for what is a stunning film both visually and emotionally. 4.5/5

When Father Was Away On Business (1985, Yugoslavia, Emir Kusturica)

2008-02-18T10:25:00.001-08:00

Emir Kusturica belongs in the select group of film makers who have won the Palme D'Or twice (for both this film and 1995's Underground), a feat which only the likes of Francis Ford Coppola and the Dardenne brothers have matched. I haven't seen any Kusturica films prior to this, but one gets the impression he's quite a frustrating film maker, albeit a remarkably creative one.

'When Father Was Away On Business' is set in 1948 just after the Tito-Stalin split which arose from Yugoslavia's supposed disloyalty towards the Soviet Union and the clash of personalities between the two leaders.Mesa, a womaniser, drunk, but also husband and father is arrested for pro-Soviet sympathies after a casual remark about an anti-Soviet cartoon. His brother in law, who is relatively disapproving and hostile towards Mesa, works for the police and is involved in his arrest.Whilst Mesa is in labour camps for the next two years, life goes on, and Sena struggles to raise her family, whilst also maintaining the lie about what has happened to Mesa - she tells her children that he is away on business.

The narrative is told mainly from the perspective of Malik, one of Mesa and Sena's children, who observes the world of adults from an innocent and naive angle, unaware of the implications of events and what he sees. Malik, an overweight boy has his own problems to deal with growing up, such as sleepwalking and falling in love, which contrast with the dangerous games that adults play.One artistic device Kusturica employs is using commentary of football matches involving the Yugoslavian team to drown out conversations or action made during moments of crisis involving the adults, as if from the children's perspective football is more important or more affecting to them than what is going on around them. Also, Kusturica shows a communist Yugoslavia which is united and comprises all ethnic and racial backgrounds, which contrasts with the explosion of ethnic and racial tension which would explode just a matter of years after this film.

'When Father Was Away on Business' combines whimsical humour with serious drama, though overruns a little and didn't always engage with me. Still, it's a pretty remarkable achievement as it was made in a country that had no cinema history to speak of. Whilst the rest of Eastern Europe was fairly productive cinematically throughout the communist era, Kusturica was the sole Yugoslav director of any note, and this was the first film to attract any real attention in the West. 3.5/5

The Diving Bell and the Butterfly (2007, France/US, Julian Schnabel)

2008-02-17T15:57:00.000-08:00

The remarkable story of Jean Dominique Bauby (Mathieu Almaric), who was able to dictate a biography comprised of his memories and imagination, through blinks after suffering a stroke, has been made into a remarkable film by Julian Schnabel, who won the best Director at Cannes for his efforts. Also nominated at this year's Academy Awards, I wouldn't be surprised at all if he won the award because on a technical level, this film is magnificent.

Mostly filmed from Bauby's point of view, with the camera literally feeling as if it is inside Bauby's eyes, observing the world as he wakes from his coma, Schnabel begins by filming totally out of focus to represent Bauby's disorientation after waking - the camerwork is fuzzy and blurred, superbly handled by Janusz Kaminski, who is best known as Steven Spielberg's DoP for the last decade or more.

Aided by his the mother of his children, his orthodontist and his physiotherapist (all of whom initially frustrate him because they're all incredibly beautiful), Bauby switches from self-pity and defeat to a resourceful and determined hero who refuses to let his condition overcome his life. This might sound like TV movie of the week material, but as those who have read the book know, it's incredibly affecting stuff.

It's to Schnabel and Ronald Harwood's credit that they don't alter Bauby's character to make him more sympathetic than he should be. We know he abandoned his family to embark on a series of affairs. He initially refuses help, wanting to die rather than remain alive for those who love him. But the book contract he had signed before his stroke provides him the opportunity to express himself through imagination and memory, the only working parts of his body besides his right eye. This gives him a zeal and reason to live. Despite the morose subject matter, this is one of the most life affirming films in recent memory. It's almost unbelievable to think this was almost made in Hollywood with Johnny Depp. You just can't picture it. 4/5

La Bete (1975, France, Walerian Borowczyk)

2008-02-17T15:52:00.000-08:00

The notorious La Bete caused a sensation upon release and was swiftly banned in the UK on the grounds of depictions of bestiality. The origins of the film were in Borowczyk's previous film, Immoral Tales, which I have not seen, but appears to be an anthology of tales about sexuality through the ages, though not quite as effectively done as Pasolini and Fellini were accomplishing at the time when marrying the traditions of arthouse cinema and more adult content were in fashion. That said, if one reconsiders Cocteau's 'La Belle et la Bete' for a second, you might recall the subtle allusions to Belle's sexual attraction to the Beast - I recall one scene where she caresses a knife in a suggestive manner. Borowczyk is perhaps just making this more overt.

It had been filmed as one segment of this film but perhaps aware of the stir it might cause, Borowczyk made it into a full feature, framing a supposedly satirical narrative around the 18 minute short to put it into context. In short, the plot involves the arranged marriage between a British heiress and the son of a French aristocrat, who may have a dark secret that could put the impending marriage at risk. It really doesn't make a genius to work out what it might be.

Right, you know what you're in for immediately with the rather extended scene of two horses mating, watched with unnatural keenness by Mathurin, the son. Everyone in this house has some sort of perverted sexual preference, whether it's the visiting parish priest with the two altar boys at his side, or the daughter who's carrying on with the black servant (and then humps the bedknob when he is called into during the act). Some kinder critics have described this anti-clerical and anti-borgeois satirical elements as in the style of Bunuel, though this depends on whether you think Borowczyk cares enough about the narrative he has framed around the infamous dream sequence, and I am not totally sure he does.

The dream sequence (dreamed by Lucy during a moment of sexual delirium) clearly got the BBFC in a tizz, but watching it now, it's really hard to keep a straight face. You wonder whether this film generally is trying to be serious or comic. It really is difficult to tell. Anyway, the scenes of bestiality are pretty ludicrous - a man in a wolf suit, with a rather large fake phallus chases an aristocratic woman around, removing her clothes, before finally having his way with her. What might have been a problem was the fact she obviously starts to enjoy the attack and what's more turns the tables, becoming the more aggressive partner in this act. How anyone could find this offensive really is beyond me. I know it's the implications of these events, but they're filmed so ludicrously, you couldn't possibly take it seriously. And that's the film in a nutshell. Still, if you overlook the awful acting and dialogue, there's still plenty of interesting if half-baked ideas on show. Films of notorious reputation should often be seen out of experience, but if the BBFC really wanted to ruin or undermine this film, it would have been better off leaving it unbanned, where it clearly would have been forgotten and not had the reputation it enjoys now. 2.5/5

Taste of Cherry (1997, Iran/France, Abbas Kiarostami)

2008-02-16T01:47:00.000-08:00

Taste of Cherry was a co-winner of the Palme D'Or at Cannes in 1997. Like most of Kiarostami's films, this has attracted as much derision as it has plaudits. There are few film makers in world cinema as divisive. But why? Is it because his films lack explanations or answers? Is it their sheer simplicity, in which plot barely exists and dialogue is improvised? Is it that Kiarotami is a seemingly apolitical film maker in one of the most repressive countries in the world? Speaking of that, Iran has a very healthy film industry indeed, and for all the debate about the repression of women in Iran, there are comparatively many female directors, who tackle contemporary issues.

Taste of Cherry is the tale of Mr Badii, a man who wants to commit suicide. He gives no reasons or justification for this decision. He just wants someone to bury him after the act. Meeting several possible accomplices, he engages in conversation with them about the desperation of their own lives, the circumstances in which they find themselves. He cannot convince anyone to assist him - they all have reasons not to help. He then meets a Turk who too once considered suicide, who then agrees to help him.

Set in the hills of Tehran, Kiarostami shows lives on the periphery of mainstream Iranian society; desperate, difficult, but worth living - a contrast to the seemingly bourgeois Mr Baddi. Baddi underestimates the significance of what he asks, trivialising the burial of a man to merely twenty spadefuls of earth. It is not that simple. Baddi does not contemplate the moral consequences of what he asks - the man who agrees to help is a religious man, who believes God has entrusted each of us with our body, and that only he can give and take life.

Much like Ten, which followed a few years afer this, transport, specifically cars, are an important aspect of the narrative. It is here where conversation occurs. It is a device that 'drives' the plot. Interesting to note too how Kiarostami films the in-car conversations in close up but films the car externally in long distance.

Much is made of the film's denouement, which gives ammunition to its detractors and confirmation to its supporters. It sparks debate, it has been left open to interpretation; either you think it has nothing to do with what has transpired previously or it seems entirely natural.

Taste of Cherry is philosophical examination of life - I'm unsure we're supposed to sympathise with Mr Baddi, but more so relate to the Turkish man who assist him, who was saved by the taste of a mulberry which convincd him of the beauty of the world. Don't look for simple explanations - the film demands patience to fully appreciate its merits. Kiarostami has been considered one of the finest directors of the 1990s by a number of worldwide critics. It's hard to disagree. Only Kieslowski and Hou Hsiao-Hsien probably matched him. 4/5

Platform (2000, China/France/Hong Kong/Japan, Jia Zhang Ke)

2008-02-12T11:34:00.001-08:00

Although considered by many critics to be Jia Zhang Ke's masterpiece and indeed one of the finest films of the decade so far, it never quite resonated with me to that extent, though I don't think one viewing is quite enough to appreciate it's depth and detail.

Platform weaves an allegorical tale of the fate of a state subsidised theatre troupe named The Peasant Culture Group from the late 1970s to the late 1980s, which mirrors the changes that were taking place in China throughout this period. In 1979, this troupe is touring villages across the country, educating the masses with Maoist propaganda and slogans. It's all very orthodox and disciplined - the authorities don't take too kindly to a traditional song performed backstage about having many wives and children - the performers are rebuked and reminded of the policy of monogamy and birth control. Indeed, the very next scene shows the troupe singing about China's one child policy in a rural village.

As the economic and social reforms embarked upon by Deng Xiaoping take shape, the troupe find their subsidies cut and privatisation a natural consequence. Pop music, inspired by sounds emanating from Hong Kong and Taiwan become the group's repetoire, culminating in the rather embarrassing All Stars Rock and Breakdance Electronic Band, which tours the provinces to satiate the desire for China's youth for musical entertainment. But it's a long long way from their roots.

Throughout this journey, Jia Zhang Ke shows the artistic and personal differences that occur within the group; relationships and friendships start and end, members have to earn salaries in "proper" jobs - unsafe mines which pay a meagre wage, whilst opposing the traditions and values of their parents who still try to arrange their children's lives and potential marriages, although the final scenes indicate how the dreams these performers once had have to be put on hold.

Epic in scope and length, it's not an easy watch by any means, though patience and persistence should bring greater rewards. Typically shot in long takes with no close ups, Jia keeps a distance from the events taking place on screen, observing the social, economic and cultural changes that have taken place in this rapidly modernising country, acknowledging that progress can cut many people adrift. 'Platform' needs to be seen in the wider context of Jia's career as a film maker who has challenged conventions and examined the past, present and future of China for a decade now. 3.5/5 (potentially increasing upon subsequent viewings)

There Will Be Blood (2007, US, Paul Thomas Anderson)

2008-02-10T11:52:00.000-08:00

I had never really been overly impressed by Paul Thomas Anderson's previous features. The likes of 'Boogie Nights' and 'Magnolia' were perfectly fine, clearly the work of a prodigious film maker who was perhaps too respectful to the films and techniques of Robert Altman to have found his own voice, but had the potential to make something interesting. 'There Will Be Blood' is the moment at which that potential is fulfilled; a mature and classy film that might not be the masterpiece some critics claim it to be, but it really doesn't fall much short. It's the most impressive mainstream American film in recent memory, and deserves the praise and accolades it has been rewarded with.

An epic set in four eras from 1898 to 1927, this is the account of the rise and potential fall of Daniel Plainview (a typically intense Daniel Day Lewis - a staggering performance), a silver miner striking out by himself, who becomes one of the most successful and wealthy oil prospectors in the West coast of the United States, but a man consumed by greed, corruption, hatred and megalomania. The genesis of this monstrous behaviour can be identified immediately when a search for silver goes wrong and Plainview falls, breaking his leg. Through sheer will and determination, he climbs from the metres deep hole in the ground and makes his way to sell his silver. This first scene, which takes over the ten minutes in pure silence is completely radical in American film making. This is the kind of scene you see in a Tsai Ming Liang film, not a film with a $30 million budget.

Plainview's success over the next three decades is rapacious, though this comes at the expense of disregarding all those around him and his very soul and humanity. Plainview is a man who sees nothing but the worst in people and who sees nothing to like in people, a man who wants no-one else to succeed and who has an unhealthy sense of competition. The challenge to his authority and place comes when drilling in the town of Little Boston, where a young preacher/healer, Eli Sunday (a terrific Paul Dano, who shouldn't be overlooked because of the attention paid to DDL's performance) starts a church with the money Plainview spent on buying the drilling rights to the town. So begins the rivalry for the two men for the hearts and minds of the community, and these two men have the potential to destroy each other and as well as themselves.

Anderson used Upton Sinclair's 'Oil' as the basis for 'There Will Be Blood', though it isn't an exact adaptation. It lacks Sinclair's overt political agenda (his Socialist beliefs were the driving force of his works), though one wonders whether the rush for oil of a century ago mirrors than of contemporary America. I don't know about that though; it's a fairly spurious assertion to make. I'm not sure Anderson is interested in making a political film beyond holding typically American values up to the mirror (ambition, success, capitalism) and revealing the negative sides to them. His main interest is creating a portrait of a man capable of love and self destruction, who is monstrous, but able to attain our sympathy every now then, although Anderson then shows Plainview behaving in a despicable way to stop us doing so.

Three films spring to mind upon watching 'There Will Be Blood' - 'Citizen Kane' (the rise and fall of a paranoid megalomaniac), 'Days of Heaven' (the Biblical references, the wide open spaces of the American landscape) and 'The Treasure of the Sierra Madre' (where greed and corruption turn man against man). All classic Hollywood films, and 'There Will Be Blood' arguably sits comfortably amongst them and warrants comparison. It really is that good. 4.5/5

Still Life (2006, China/Hong Kong, Jia Zhang Ke)

2008-02-09T03:01:00.000-08:00

'Still Life' is the centrepiece of the current Jia Zhang Ke retrospective at the BFI Southbank, which also coincides with the wider China in London festival which runs from February to April. A late entry to the Venice Film Festival, the film was considered an unexpected winner of the Golden Lion prize, but it's difficult to deny that 'Still Life' is an accomplished piece of work by a very exciting film maker. Chinese cinema was once defined by the Fifth Generation directors such as Zhang Yimou and Chen Kaige, who made some of the best films of the late 80s and early 90s, but have lost their artistic way somewhat as they have been embraced by the Communist establishment. Directors like Jia Zhang Ke exist on the periphery of Chinese film making; their films seldom seen in their homeland, but received with great interest in the West. These directors speak for contemporary China more than Chen Kaige and Zhang Yimou ever could now.

Set in Fengjie, a town about to be demolished because of the construction of the Three Gorges Dam (millions have been displaced and subsequently relocated because of this project), Jia Zhang Ke films parallel stories about individuals searching for families and loved ones before the town completely disappears. Han (Samming Han) is looking for his wife who left him sixteen years ago, taking his daughter with him, who he has never seen. Shen (Tao Zhao) is looking for her husband who left for Fengkie two years ago and hasn't returned. He's a successful bureaucrat who she suspects of having other women - she wants a divorce.

Within these personal stories, Jia Zhang Ke shows the human cost of rampant capitalism and the rapid modernisation of China. Towns, families and communities are uprooted and destroyed, and traditions and values are lost in the name of progress. He captures the changing landscape of China exceptionally well; its ambition as a global economic force with ostentatious displays of success - the bridge lit at nigt to hallucinatory effect for instance, and also how capitalism creates a black market or barely legal economy where people have to fight and do what they can to survive. It's not always a flattering portrait of Chinese success in recent years.

Typically filmed in long, slow takes - there are many point of view shots of the leads looking in to the distance, surveying the progress that's in front of them, 'Still Life' is always absorbing and involving, contemplative rather than soporific, and you really feel for these characters. It's not without humour too - witness the young men Han befriends who models himself on Chow Yun Fat from 'Hard Boiled', imitating his mannerisms and language. There's moments of surrealism too. The two tales are linked by the sight of a UFO crossing the Yangtze River, seen only by two leads. What is the metaphorical significance of this, and also a centuries old temple suddenly flying into space as if it were a rocket? The speed of change and progress perhaps? The jettisoning of traditions? And what of the man walking a tightrope in the final scene? Does this represent the fine balance that China is currently treading - between success and failure? 4/5

The Silence (1963, Sweden, Ingmar Bergman)

2008-02-03T13:53:00.000-08:00

I don't think I've quite connected with the Bergman films I've seen so far, besides Persona, which is one of the most devastating and accomplished films I can think of. That said, I have only seen the more minor works, rather than the more renowned ones like Wild Strawberries or The Seventh Seal.

The Silence is part of the chamber piece trilogy, which included Through A Glass Darkly and Winter Light, which deal with the silence of God. The Silence charts the relationship between two sisters; Ester (Ingrid Thulin) and Anna (Gunddel Lindblom), partly observed through the eyes of Anna's son Johan (Jorgen Lindstrom), whilst set in an unknown country, presumed to be in Eastern Europe on the brink of war. Ester is dying, whilst Anna neglects her sister and her son to pick up strangers. As in the later Cries and Whispers, family is an institution built on mutual obligations which cause resentment, lack of communcation and harmony, and mistrust. Anna and Ester have been considered as two parts of one person; reflecting the physical vs the spiritual and the body vs the soul. These themes would be explored again in Persona as well.

Taboo breaking at the time for scenes of masturbation and intercourse, let alone allusions to incest (the son scrubbing his mother's back in the bath, watching his mother having sex with a stranger), complete with excellent cinematography as always by Sven Nykvist, The Silence is a masterfully made film about the lack of understanding and compassion and disconnection, which ironically I found tough to connect with. Having seen the themes from this film used in Bergman's later masterpieces, it doesn't quite have the impact it might have done had I seen this first. 3.5/5

On The Silver Globe (1987, Poland, Andrzej Zulawski)

2008-01-22T16:02:00.000-08:00

I really liked the two previous Zulawski films I'd seen; 'The Third Part of Night' (1971) and 'Possession' (1981). Both are incredibly radical and interesting films with a great deal of psychological depth and just that ounce of lunacy about them. But this can't prepare one for watching Zulawski's most ambitious film; 'On The Silver Globe', which you watch puzzled and dumbfounded for much of the time, but always hooked. The film famously had a problematic production, starting in the mid 1970s, then filming was halted by the Polish Ministry of Culture. The film was only completed some ten years after. Originally 80% or so complete, Zulawski was unable to use the same sets, costumes or actors, so the viewer has to forgive the odd continuity issue. Where gaps in the narrative exist, Zulawski narrates the lost 'action', interspersing it with what almost seems to be contemporary footage of normal life.

Based on a series of science fiction novels by Zulawski's grandfather, 'On The Silver Globe' starts with a group of astronauts leaving Earth for freedom and to create a new civilisation. They land on what appears to be the dark side of the Moon. The group then procreate (though there's only one female, so let's overlook the iffy gender politics which reduces her to baby making machine then) before dying. The generations of children they have spawned become primitive tribes, placing great importance on strange ceremonies and rituals, worshipping fire, turning to violence even. Their 'religion' places these astronauts as Gods; the sole survivor is revered, and there is a prophecy which suggests this Old Man will one day be reincarnated, which they believe is the case when another astronaut arrives alone after the Old Man has died. This 'reincarnated' figure is supposed to free them from the winged monsters who have enslaved them (yeah, I know), before meeting his own destiny.

So far, so nuts. Even by Zulawski's standards, this is a total "what the hell?" experience. The technical dimension though is flawless, as much as the film exists as planned. There's the typical mobile camerawork for the director; swooping from great heights, most notably when focusing on a number of men being sacrificed (?), impaled by long wooden poles up their anuses dozens of feet in the air. There's the muted colours too. The whole film seems to be shot in a grey-blue palette, giving a washed out effect. There's the elaborate constume design and make up as well. Given the hardships the film faced, it's to Zulawski's credit that he's managed to looks so technically and visually accomplished.

Nowadays, science fiction relies on an emphasis on special effects, but not here. 'On The Silver Globe' is all about psychological depth and religious parallels. It's a shame we never got to see the version that Zulawski intended. It does feel as if you're watching an uncompleted film. It's certainly disjointed and inconsistent, and even taking into account all the strangeness of proceedings, it's never off-putting. 'On The Silver Globe' needs to be seen to be believed; it has much in common with Jodorowsky at his most demented, I'd say. It's never short of ideas but given the shape it's in, might be reduced to cult viewing or considered a film oddity. 3.5/5

Interrogation (1982, Poland, Ryszard Bugajski)

2008-01-20T15:03:00.000-08:00

Set in early 1950s Poland, this account of the ruthlessness and barbarism of the Polish secret police was famously banned upon production, which coincided with the introduction of martial law. Whilst it may have been set in the past, a number of parallels would become obvious. Despite being suppressed, the director was able to smuggle the film out of the country, and it was even shown domestically on video. It's been said that the authorities simply overlooked the political content of the film by mistake - it's certainly unthinkable that anything so unflinchingly critical of the Communist regime at any period might have been permitted.

Tonia (Krystyna Janda), a cabaret singer goes drinking with two 'admirers' to spite her husband after she suspects him of cheating with her best friend. These men are of course part of the secret police, who then imprison. When she learns where she is, she assumes it is a bureaucratic mistake - that they simply have the wrong person and that the error will be rectified. She has no idea why she has been arrested or what she is supposed to have done. As one of her fellow prisoners says "they don't make mistakes" and she encourages her to plead guilty to whatever she is accused of to make life easier. Refusing to, the authorities try to break her, forcing Tonia undergoes a systematically brutal series of interrogations. She has coffee thrown at her, forced to strip, given cold baths (that is sprayed with cold water until she collapses), and sees a man shot dead in front of her as a threat of what might happen should she not co-operate. Despite both physically and mentally disintegrating, Tonia maintains an innder strength and refuses to tell them what they want to hear. She knows it involves General Olcha, a man she had an affair with, who has been spying for the West, but she maintains she has no involvement.

Interrogation is an incredibly difficult film to watch - to get through it you need to be able to withstand a series of increasingly brutal methods of torture. The success of the film rests on the staggering central performance of Janda, who was recognised with the best actress award at Cannes in 1990, when the first was finally released. Appearing before us originally as a flighty woman of simple pleasures, she acquires a steely resolve in the face of all that is thrown at her - a staggering transformation. Interrogation fits in well with the work of the movement known as "the films of moral anxiety", which includes work like Man of Marble and Man of Iron (Andrzej Wajda - exectuive producer here) and the early work of Krzysztof Kieslowski, which also coincided with the rise of Solidarity, which sought to awaken social consciousness and represent the truth of life in Poland under Communism. Unflinching, but important, another superb release by Second Run. 4/5

High Fidelity (2000, UK/USA, Stephen Frears)

2008-01-20T09:50:00.000-08:00

OK so I've seen it like a million times already but.....howls of derision accompanied news that Hornby's chick-lit for men novel was going to be updated to Chicago turn of the century. I don't know, it's hardly the same as giving Dickens or Austen a contemporary twist, and music snobs who know nothing about love and romance are hardly unique to Islington, are they? No doubt the success of this Americanisation of Hornby's material encouraged the remake of 'Fever Pitch' also known as 'The Perfect Catch'. I've not seen this, but you have to understand that romantic comedies starring Jimmy Fallon are hardly going to jump out at me as a "must see" film.

It's not often do you get romantic comedies aimed squarely at men as much as women. 'High Fidelity' follows Rob Gordon (John Cusack), who breaks up with his latest girlfriend Laura (Iben Hjejle) and then reminisces over his entire love life in what is described as a "what does it all mean?" phase, whilst running a record store that's not doing so well at present. Are you supposed to sympathise with Rob - he's certainly portrayed as a pretty decent guy if you overlook the reasons why his latest girlfriend left him in the first place. Maybe when he listens to cool-as-fuck music like Belle and Sebastian, Stereolab and Ann Peebles (hand picked by Cusack and the other producers - certainly only the latter warrants a mention in the original novel), you like him a little more. And he appears as normal as it is possible to be compared to the other male characters; Barry and Dick (Jack Black and Todd Louiso), his exceptionally polar opposite employees and Ian/Ray (Tim Robbins), whom Laura left him for, but is clearly a creep of the highest order.

But nevermind, because Rob does learn a lot across the duration of the film about himself. It's pretty flimsy and superficial stuff, I guess, maybe no more perceptive than the kind of guff peddled in whatever the latest novel for twenty or thirtysomething middle class women is, some might say, but this is seriously funny; whether it's Jack Black berating some guy for not owning 'Psychocandy' by Jesus and Mary Chain, or John Cusack dreaming about beating the shit out of Tim Robbins. You wonder why these great and glamorous women dig him (he even sleeps with Lisa Bonet's singer-songwriter), but you know, it never aims for realism with it's talk-to-the-camera approach inspired by 'Alfie' and it's aforementioned dream sequences. Whilst I realise the novel and the film have their flaws, namely a degree of shallowness and simplification, but I can kind of identify (more with the music nerd side of things at least) and a modern romantic comedy that makes you laugh rather than groan at it's sheer ineptness is a godsend. 4/5

The Shop on Main Street (1965, Czechoslovakia, Jan Kadar)

2008-01-12T05:28:00.000-08:00

The Prague Spring allowed Czech film makers to discuss the issues and ask the questions they would never have been permitted to at any other time. Much like The Cremator (previously reviewed), The Shop on Main Street considers the Nazi occupation of Czechoslovakia and how the passivity and complicity of the population maintained it. Kadar explains just how simple it would have been to just go along with the momentum of things, to remain a bystander, but not everyone can remain impassive; sometimes you have to make a stand.

The first half of the film works almost as a farce. Antonin Brtko (Josef Kroner) is a poor carpenter, who just wants a simple and easy life - walking his dog and remaining apolitical and free from the growing horror around him of the Nazi occupation. His wife harasses him for never earning enough and for not sharing the ambition of his brother who has thrown his lot in with the Nazis and forms part of the Fascist guard that is running things. His brother changes Antonin's fortunes, by arranging for him to become "Aryan controller" for a textile shop run by a frail and senile Jewish woman, Mrs Lautmann (Ida Kaminska). Much humour derives from their misunderstandings - she is unaware of the war or the Nazi occupation. Soon though, events take a much darker, and ultimately tragic turn.

The second half of the film charts Antonin's change from apolitical bystander to someone who has to make a stand. Though weak willed, he resists Nazism, and risks becoming the "Jew lover" his brother warns him is a worse crime than being a Jew itself. He does all he can to ensure Mrs Lautmann is not caught up in trouble, even when other Jews in the community are beaten and arrested. He opens the shop on Saturdays, and ultimately attempts to hide her when the Nazis ominously call names of Jews being deported to labour camps.

Filmed and set in Slovakia, which aligned itself pretty comfortably with the Nazis, The Shop on Main Street considers just how easy it is for people to become complicit with totalitarian regimes. Antonin's wife is happy because he is earning more money, yet only he considers the moral implications of this, and only he has the backbone to try to do something about it. If one considers it an allegory that might be applied to ANY dictatorship, then this film could only have been made during the Prague Spring, the few years of artistic freedom in the 60s. The film was banned shortly after the Soviets installed order again.

Wonderfully acted by the two leads and posing many ethical questions, The Shop on Main Street is needless to say, another unqualified masterpiece from the Czech New Wave. 4.5/5

The Cremator (1968, Czechoslovakia, Juraj Herz)

2008-01-09T17:19:00.000-08:00

In 1968, Alexander Dubcek became party secretary of the Communist Party of Czechoslovakia, and announced "We shall have to remove everything that strangles artistic and scientific creativeness." The Prague Spring ushered in a period of artistic freedom, which coincided with an exceptionally fertile period of film making in Czechoslovakia. The Cremator is one such film, and one of the best of that era, easily the equal of The Ear or The Party and the Guests. Like these films, it has a political dimension, although it's critique of the abuse of political power is aimed at the Nazis rather than Communists, unless Herz also allows for an allegorical interpretation that regards any totalitarian regime as bad as another.

Kopfrkingel (Rudolf Hrusinsky - imagine a creepier Peter Lorre if you can) runs a successful crematorium. It's obvious something is amiss by how he regards his work; using Buddhist philosophy to wax lyrical about reincarnation, he considers death as an end to suffering and unhappiness and the afterlife one's transformation into something better. A man proud of his work, he boasts that he can burn a body to ashes in just 75 minutes. He gradually becomes swept along by the rise of Nazism, which is gaining a foothold in Czechoslovakia, which is about to be invaded prior to the outbreak of war. He considers Germany a huminitarian state with excellent laws on cremation. He obviously thinks he could perform his job more efficiently under the Germans; a horrifying thought. His seduction by Nazism takes on a shocking dimension, for his wife is half-Jewish, thus his children are one quarter Jewish, and believing Jews to be unhappy and in need of having their souls saved, he embarks on a gruesome means of doing so.

Herz's background was in puppetry, and he was a contemporary and friend of the great Jan Svankmajer (they were born just days apart). The influence of this form of art on the film is immeasurable. Take the carnival scene, which amuses because Kopfrkingel takes his family along, doesn't enjoy it, until he finds a waxwork exhibit which is incredibly gruesome. His family are disgusted, whilst he relishes it. The surreal opening credit sequence too bears all the hallmarks of his origins - the title caption is in between where Kopfrkingel's head is split in two. Black humour is very much at the heart of the film, not that this detracts in any way from the horror you witness. Herz also throws in a number of inventive tricks - distorting Kopfrkingel's voice, adding echo, using an eerie and disorientating soundtrack and unique camera angles - all to symbolise the madness which the cremator has succumbed to.

Released by Second Run, who can never be praised enough for the sterling work they do distributing cinema from neglected regions of the world (they have released numerous Eastern European new wave masterpieces), The Cremator is a chilling and shocking account of one man tipping over the edge into insanity, when seduced by a totalitarian regime which would use his talents for their nefarious ends. Herz, clearly a gifted film maker, gives The Cremator the right visual stlye to create the mood he's going for. An essential film from an astoundingly creative era. 4.5/5

Paranoid Park (2007, USA/France, Gus van Sant)

2008-01-07T10:51:00.000-08:00

Now that he's signed onto direct 'Milk', the story of California's first openly gay public official, it appears that Gus van Sant has completed his loose quartet of minimalist 'death' films (which included 'Gerry', the Palme D'Or winning 'Elephant' and 'Last Days'), which marked possibly the most creatively period of his career. Van Sant's mainstream films have alternated between the very good and the very poor; one might argue his low-budget efforts are what he excels at, and 'Paranoid Park' is certainly one of the better Van Sant films to date. Alex (Gabe Nevins) is a teenage skateboarder, who is inadvertently involved in the death of a security guard, but what interests Van Sant is the fallout from the death and he concentrates on the unravelling of Alex's life thereafter.

Much of 'Paranoid Park' is familiar from the previous 'death' films, most notably 'Elephant'. There is a preference towards non-linear narratives, use of non-professional actors ('Paranoid Park' advertised for castings on Myspace), sparse and seemingly improvised dialogue, and little explanation of events. Van Sant clearly understands the teenage milieu he films; their fashions, their language, the whole awkwardness of their flirtatons with romance (witness the amusing scene where Alex has sex with his girlfriend for the first time, who then calls her friends from the toilet boasting), and his approach to this is so understated. What 'Paranoid Park' also shares with 'Elephant' is an extended shower scene of a naked teenage boy, with the camera lingering on the boy's torso for several minutes, which can only make you think that Van Sant has something of a fetish in that area.

Van Sant is also reunited with ace cinematographer Christopher Doyle (who also has a small cameo as Alex's uncle), with whom he collaborated on the unfairly maligned remake of Psycho (1998), and he provides a suitably dreamlike and hallucinatory look to the film to accompany Alex's state of numbness and denial after the tragedy he is involved in. Much like the previous films in this cycle, 'Paranoid Park' is certain to alienate some viewers; it really has the same appeal as the other films that have been alluded to. This is cinema without answers or resolutions. 3.5/5

The Wayward Cloud (2005, Taiwan/France, Tsai Ming-Liang)

2008-01-07T09:55:00.000-08:00

Showing as part of the Tsai Ming-Liang season at BFI Southbank, 'The Wayward Cloud' is a semi-reprise of his 1998 film 'The Hole', which I've reviewed in the past on this blog. Much as in 'The Hole', two characters attempt to connect during a dystopian Taipei, though rather than incessant rain, the weather phenomenon which Taipei finds itself in, is a drought, which makes the price of watermelons skyrocket. Watermelons are used as sexual props as well, including the incredibly bizarre opening scene of a porn actress with a watermelon half between her legs, which is then "aroused" and penetrated by Hsiao-Kang (TML regular Kang-Sheng Lee).

Hsiao-Kang and Shiang-Chyi (Shiang-Chyi Chen) are the two protagonists, who much like their counterparts in 'The Hole', struggle with issues of intimacy and the need to make a connection. Their frustrated emotions convey themselves in elaborate and giddy song and dance sequences, like in 'The Hole' but much more frequently, which are in stark contrast to the sombre tone of most of the time. You won't see a merman emerging from a rooftop pool of water or wearing a pink dress with a umbrella designed with a watermelon in any other film.

'The Wayward Cloud' has received a degree of notoreity for the extreme sexual content, most notably during the film's climax, where Hsiao-Kang, a part-time porn actor, has sex with a semi-comatose Japanese actress, watched by Shiang-Chyi from a distance. Much has been written about this final scene, with an excellent commentary on the Rouge journal (http://www.rouge.com.au/rougerouge/wayward.html). Hsiao-Kang and Shiang-Chyi finally connect during this sexual scene in a way that's actually pretty difficult to watch, literally leaving a bad taste in the mouth (sorry). The article at Rouge offers a more eloquent interpretation of this final scene than I ever could.

Though I've mentioned how closely 'The Wayward Cloud' parallels his earlier film 'The Hole', it doesn't feel that Tsai Ming-Liang is repeating himself. Sure he usually explores similar themes in all his films; lack of human contact/connection, furtive sexual encounters, social outsiders, he does so so inventively from film to film. Combining humour, explicit sexual activity and emotional impact, 'The Wayward Cloud' is a unique cinematic experience. 4/5

The Edge of Heaven (2007, Germany/Turkey, Fatih Akin)

2008-01-07T09:04:00.000-08:00

One of the most promising young European directors, Fatih Akin made his name with 2004's 'Head On', one of the most prominent examples of the renaissance of German cinema this decade. What separated it from the likes of 'Downfall' and 'The Lives of Others' was not just that it looked at Germany from a contemporary angle, but that it considered Germany as a multicultural and multiracial perspective, most notably the relationship between Germany and Turkey. They share close historical, political and economic ties, and 2.5 million people of Turkish descent live in Germany, but 'Head On' was one of the first films to genuinely explore this relationship. Akin examines this relationship once more in 'The Edge of Heaven', which traces two very different storylines across both countries, but are inextricably linked.

Ali (Tunsel Kurtiz) is a lonely widow who offers a prostitute named Yeter (Nursel Kose) a relationship of convenience when she is intimidated by two Turkish men who inform her she is bringing shame upon her people and religion, much to the disapproval of Ali's son Nejat (Baki Davrak). Upon learning of Yeter's daughter, Ayten, in Istanbul, Nejat travels there to look for her, not knowing that she is fleeing to Germany herself after she is involved in a riot with the police. He uses this search to consider his own existence as a university professor and also to reconnect with his Turkish heritage. Ayten (Nurgul Yesilcay) meanwhile meets a student in Hamburg, Lotte (Patrycia Ziolkowska) and they become lovers, much to the digust of her protective mother Susanne (played by Fassbinder veteran Hannah Schygulla). The narrative then criss-crosses between the two storylines, which include a couple of desperate near misses between Ayten and Nejat, who of course do not know exactly who each other is.

'The Edge of Heaven' is a remarkably assured film, certainly one of the best of 2007, with political bite aplenty, considering the frustrating asylum policy of the German government and the heavy handed internal security of Turkey. One might suggest that aspects of the narrative are somewhat contrived in order to keep the central conceit of the film intact, but it ultimately works. The performances are universally terrific, the cultural differences and similarities are well handled by a director who obviously understands both cultures, and the Best Screenplay award the film received at Cannes is testament to Akin's ability to flesh out fully rounded characters and keep the dense narrative together. Akin will surely be considered one of his generation's finest directors. 4/5

Silent Light (2007, Mexico/France/Netherlands/Germany, Carlos Reygadas)

2008-01-07T07:46:00.000-08:00

Much like 'The Banishment' (reviewed below), infidelity is the main theme of the latest Carlos Reygadas film, and much like the former, the acts of infidelity as less important (though they are shown here) than the implications of them, and the reactions of those involved. 'Silent Light' is set in a Mennonite community in North Mexico, a rather old fashioned and simple group of Christian Anabaptists, who speak a language known as Plautdietsch, a hybrid of German and Dutch (as this was where they emerged from). Reygadas focusses on the fallout one family faces when the father, Johan, commits adultery, and is torn between his family, to whom he is fiercely devoted, and his mistress, Marianne.

Whilst those he confides in consider it to be the devil's work, Johan realises that it is he who is weak, but he cannot help himself. The pain is too much either way, whether he tries to stay away from Marianne or whether he gives into temptation. Their relationship is equally shown to be sad as it is ecstatic, as if they are always aware of the implications of their adultery. Whilst Johan is open with his wife, Esther about everything, he probably doesn't understand that she won't accept it. Privately, we see her desperately upset, even though she keeps up appearances in public. The consequences of this relationship take a distinctly tragic turn eventually.

Though I've not seen Reygadas' two previous films, Japon and Battle in Heaven, much is made of the director's open and explicit attitude towards filming sex and nudity, and he doesn't shy way from things here, though I suspect it is filmed far less sensationally as the sexual scenes of his previous films reportedly are. When he films them making love, his camera is always held on Marianne's face to discover her reactions, and never Johan's. Reygadas also is a master of the long take, starting and ending with extended shots which run for several minutes, firstly of dusk turning to a pitch black night against the countryside backdrop, and secondly of this in reverse, of night turning to dawn. Contemplative and slow in pace, 'Silent Light' encourages patience, an stick with it because the film's denouement is literally miraculous (though it requires a massive suspension of disbelief). 3.5/5