Aparajito (1956, India, Satyajit Ray)

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)

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)

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)

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)

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)

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)

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