Experiments In Film: Manhatta (1921)

I have decided in the past few weeks that since I am in graduate school and have become fairly certain of my intentions to continue on with my education in film studies that expanding my research interests to exist outside of the rather limiting window of South Korean cinema was of the necessity.  While this has manifested itself in various formats, whether it be more work with archival footage and orphan media or an expansion to include previously unforeseen genre films, my secondary place of rest seems to have landed squarely within the frame of cyberpunk cinema, primarily because it is something that already has ties to contemporary South Korean films, but also because it manages to exist as an amalgam of some of my favorite elements from other works of genre, whether it be the cold, calculated, but ultimately indifferent way of the world that is clearly in line with the film noir of eras gone by, or the ability to transgress and readdress boundary issues by way of also possessing a decided heir of the science fiction film.  Given the diversity at play within the cyberpunk film, I have even implemented weekly screenings of works within the broad genre as a means to expand my horizons.  Of course, it is a somewhat expansive frame for a nondescript genre, so I manage to pull things like the short film Manhatta as a way to approach some of the more integral issues to the cyberpunk films, while also continuing to expand my understanding of urban spaces and social integrity.  Manhatta, exists in this space because for all of its intentions to exist as a documentary, it is clearly far too invested in reflecting the mechanized labor at display that makes not only the film much more experimental in its composition, but also proves to be a rather evocative statement on the proletariat implications of an expanding cityscape, one that carries with it Babel like implications as the various bridges, towers and skyscrapers in the short  films narrative burst through the sky unapologetically.  Here the human figures neither exist comfortably in the real world, nor do they exist safely in a past or future space.  Manhatta, while it may be an earnest look at a day in the life of a blue-collar worker in America, it also proves a forceful and poignant warning as to what can happen should humans becomes too invested in their machine, one of the major components of genre.

How then do the workings of dual filmmakers Charles Sheeler and Paul Strand evoke the idea that the mechanical and the human have somehow become inextricably intertwined in the modern setting.  Well, considering that it is an experimental film from 1921 there is a heavy investment in methods of editing and juxtaposition that allow for a paralleling between the movement of the rows and clusters of people through New York with the various machinery of construction and destruction.  The very human who desires to make the space of Manhatta(n) into something spectacular and grand, too fails to connect their own reliance on these beastial machines as a means to enact this expansion that is both outward and upward.  Indeed, Manhatta takes on issues of hyper-technolization and, to a degree, industrialization much in the same way Fritz Lang's Metropolis would do the same, but where the latter is very much rooted in the workings of science-fiction, Manhatta still remains a documentary.  In its emphasis on reality and the depictions of the city from a near-omniscient presence it seems more inclined to evoke an idea of the monotony and repetition of the cityscape and its various mechanized industries as being synonymous with the hustle and bustle of the daily commute.  While it is far less violent, but no less surreal, one could make a comfortable comparison between Sheeler and Strand's work and that of Testuo, Iron Man wherein the metal and oil of the machine comes colliding together with the human to create some simple version of the cinematic cyborg, although in this short film one must accept it as a rather broad metaphor.  What is far more clear in this short documentary are the concerns of the filmmakers.  The film ends with a deeply rousing image of the sky cracking open to reveal large beams of light washing over the city, as though the very presence of God has bursted over the metropolis to look down on its own fusion in a 20th century Babel Revisited.  The judgement or joy of the heavenly presence is left uncertain, a reality is only marked and the natural/spiritual is left merely to accept this existence.  In Manhatta, man has matched the gods, the result is to this day still to be determined.

For more information on the filmmakers, or to watch Manhatta, click on either of the images below:

2013 Summer Reading Classic Film Book Challenge (Book 5) Mining The Home Movie: Excavations In Histories And Memories

When one considers a notion of classic film they often find themselves looking back with great fondness upon Humphrey Bogart and Ingrid Bergman sharing an ill-fated kiss in Casablanca or a maniacal Charles Foster Kane uttering the seemingly incoherent phrase Rosebud.  These are sentimental favorites for cinephiles the world over, yet movies, or more specifically their function in our daily lives, at one time took on a layer of the personal through the home movie.  The home movie, often shot by a father hoping with great aspiration to capture the fleeting memories of his children and wife at Christmas, during the first day of school or moments of sheer wonder which occur during a first snowfall, are equally cinematic, to the previously mentioned attachment to an loaded phrase that turns out to be nothing more than a sled.  Home movies, much like Kane's Rosebud represent something lost that can never truly be reclaimed, or so it would appear.  The anthology, which discusses the nature of home movies, as well as where the major collections of such film are held within The United States and a handful of European countries that is Mining the Home Movie is nothing short of a revelation.  Edited by Karen Ishizuka and Patricia Zimmerman, Mining the Home Movie takes one one of the more enigmatic pieces in the catchall world of "orphan" films (all those cinematic works that fall outside of traditional realm of commercial filmmaking.  Indeed, as the editors and the many contributors to this text point out, the home movie takes on a very important cultural level in an era prior to the movement towards digitization, wherein anyone with an Iphone could become a chronicler of events, the recent inception of Vine making that a much more condensed and non-engaging endeavor.  Indeed, the home movie in all its personal appeal to the original recorder of the events, nonetheless, transcends the private space and often serves as a larger commentary for a social setting, images of gender during eras or as a few of the articles suggest detailed and rarefied considerations of what a racial minority might have experienced during an era of heightened segregation in various settings.  Mining the Home Movie is a wonderful text, because it takes something that has become almost antiquated in popular culture and breathes new life into its existence, suggesting that these decade old pieces of amateur documentary filmmaking are more pertinent than ever both in a artistic and social sense, demanding that the works, may of which have fallen into ill-repair receive equal if not greater attention than their commercial counterparts, because while it is amazing that Metropolis continues to obtain new sections of film when discovered in South American film warehouses, it is also worth noting that an entire filmed documentation of one families experiences in a Japanese internment camp continue to go unseen by large audiences.

As noted, Mining the Home Movie makes certain to draw upon both the artistic and social relevance of the home movie, first noting that as a frame of cultural production, the home movie does exist in a rather problematic state.  First off, as multiple authors note, the home movie exists in a state of hyper-fabrication.  Despite the amateur filmmakers intending to capture their family at their most intimate, the movie image in this context is quite similar to the photograph in that those filming sought to create an idyllic version of family life, only allowing the camera to roll when all parties involved were smiling and willing to engage with camera.  As such, many a home movie take on an ethereal state of impossibility, wherein domesticity seems far too perfect and children always in a state of perfect behavior.  Nonetheless, it is in this performance of reality that the collective of the book suggests that our understanding of a social reality is best drawn, not because it is true, but because it was the expectation.  Authors like Ishizuka, however, take this idea a step further and suggest that the reuse of this footage can help artists to challenge the establishment or canonical understanding of history by reconfiguring the images and narratives of home movies to draw out previously silenced voices and rework misunderstandings in the historical narrative. This is perhaps most true with the footage captured by one family during their time in a Japanese internment camp, which might seem quite arbitrary were one not given the context of the film.  Aside from one passing shot of a guard tower the footage, Ishizuka discusses takes on no level more than a family enjoying one another's company, however, not that it has been verified that it was captured during their time in the camp, when projected with this preface each work takes on a layer of meaning that was previously invisible.  To a degree this can only happen in the non-fiction film, although I will admit their are fictive exceptions and with each home movie that is uncovered one cannot help but hope that a cloud of uncertainty floats over the work, perhaps waiting to be uncovered and pieced together to reconsider the entire understanding of a moment in history.  In an era of over saturated documentation, things have lost a degree of sincerity and meaning that may never return and a work like Mining the Home Movie demands that we look back to what is being tossed to the way side in hopes that it will helps us not only reflect on the past, but also carefully navigate our future before it becomes far too detached to ever narratively reassemble.

Best Film Discovery of the Book:  I currently intern in a film archive and had been reluctant to get behind working with the home movie collections available, this work single-handedly made me reconsider how I should and could engage with such works.  It does not have a single filmic discovery, but exists as a call to look for a "new" type of film to discuss by reflecting on things considered extremely outdated.  This text is a necessity for any cinephile, even those strictly attached to the world of commercial narrative film.

Time Heals Everything -- Except Wounds: Sans Soleil (1983)

There are only a handful of films that one could argue certifiably changed the language, idea or very nature of film both in its cultural and theoretical context.  The obvious examples rarely receive anything but glowing praise and are, as I have noted on many occasions, works like Breathless, Citizen Kane and 2001: A Space Odyssey.  In other instances, it is far more likely to be works that are so very deconstructionist or philosophical as to be more artistic manifesto than necessarily a piece of film, some would indeed label these entirely as works of art, often removing their filmic element in some bizarre act of shaming, think of the discussions that center around works like Un Chien Andalou or Dog Star Man...the canine connection being something I only now noticed.  What is even less prevalent is the work that manages to navigate between these two stratospheres, as though to be perfectly pulled by both sides in a gravitational free floating  space, where everything is predicated on the understanding that the perfect serenity evoked by its presence, could just as easily shatter into the chaotic with the faintest of alterations.  I can only think of three works to which this applies, the first being Maya Deren's Meshes of the Afternoon, and the other two being by jack-of-all artistic trades Chris Marker.  La Jetee is a film I have frequently viewed and could catch myself waxing poetic about at a moments notice, whereas the other is his lesser known, but profoundly more prolific Sans Soleil.  From the onset of this visionary movie, viewers are informed about it being a quest for the idea of memory in every sensorial possibility, but Marker does not simply allow words to speak to his curiosity, but, necessarily, demands that the work have a visual element as well, one that always relates to the subject matter being discussed, even if the images are purposefully a point of juxtaposition, or exact simulacra of the memory being recollected.  Marker is, of course, no fool and realizes that even a filmic notion of memory has a fleeting temporality and extends his film into the otherworldly, often blowing the images into contrast or freezing the frame to suggest that like personal reflection all is up for fabrication, or mechanical failure, yet, as the opening shot of the film suggest, perhaps there is something as real, or dare I say reel, as the perfect moment of beauty.

Sans Soleil could be called a documentary of sorts, in that it is very much in the vein of a travelogue focusing on the writings of a man named Sandor Krasna about his travels between Japan and Africa.  The letters are then read by a female narrator, voiced by Alexandra Stewart in the English version, as they are overlaid upon this experiences between the two spaces specifically, whether it be the recollection of talking with an elderly Japanese couple as they say a prayer for their lost cat at a local shrine, or with a group of rebels in Africa as they reflect upon a past ousted rebel fighter turned leader.  Yet, even as the film clearly sets up the space of the narrative between the experiences in both rural and urban Japan, as well as multiple locations within Africa, it is not the only point of reference heavily considered.  In fact, images are shown from multiple Scandinavian countries, as well as an extended scene in San Francisco as Krasna speaks of his fondness for Alfred Hitchcock's Vertigo, which he argues shares similarities with what he hopes these images will express as well as a fourth wall tip-of-the-hat to this previous work in La Jetee, where he denotes the similarities to it and Vertigo involving a sequoia tree and location in space and time.  These images all intersect together, rarely taking anything remotely close to a cohesive linear narrative, but even with that considered, Krasna's letters begin to focus on found images he has encountered during his travels, making for particularly interesting moments when the screen is filled with meta-cinematic images, including slides from Japanese horror films, as well as colonial era newsreel footage.  Yet even this is extended to its most logical plausibilities when Krasna makes deep considerations about the nature of video game imagery and video alteration, or the creation of what he refers to, in an open homage to Tarkovsky as "the zone."  In a quest that takes the disembodied narrator through multiple spaces it is, ultimately, suggested that he/she cannot say for certain the tangibility of all memories shown, but seems to suggest that when all collide together in perfect harmony a person can capture a moment of perfected transcendence in 1/24th of a frame, and to do so is to possess all understanding of past, present and future.

Tangibility and ephemerality are central to the idea of Sans Soleil, much as they are to all discussions of the metaphysical and in many senses Marker seems to argue that at once both are achievable, while it is also quite possible that neither can ever coexist.  Nonetheless, he endeavors to find out the answer, by employing a reconsideration of montage, taking the rapid juxtaposition of the Soviet style and playing into the serenity and paced American style, the resulting often breaking into, as noted earlier, moments of cinematic distress, whether it be contrasting or freeze frames.  To the untrained eye, and even to many season cinephiles, this might seem like bad filmmaking, but Marker, who proved with La Jetee that an image need not necessarily move to prove poignant, nor must it exist within the positive to prove captivating or within the same cinematic space, other examples of this occurring in film, include Godard's use of the negative image in Alphaville, or the freeze frame that iconically closes Truffaut's The 400 Blows.  These moments, like all of Sans Soleil consider temporality as something that only cinema could hope to discuss, but not entirely make certain.  The other element to Marker's vision involves the elements of imagery that require completely emotional responses, indeed as Krasna argues in one narration movie images have power to make visceral responses, just as Japanese horror films, to Krasna, evoke the sense of seeing a "corpse."  The images can be serene as is the case with Icelandic children walking in a field, or absolutely sickening as when the camera rests unapologetically an the gunning down of a giraffe by a hunter, which is immediately followed by its being taken out of its misery by a shot to the head.  Even in this quest for emotive highs, Marker seems to suggest that these feelings can switch instantly, the absolute point of joy can only be followed by an immediate moment that leads back to despair, but it is worth considering that the opposite remains true.  Yet, the question still remains as to whether or not an absolute memory of despair or joy can, ultimately, exist beyond its initial encounter.  Marker seems to say yes in the closing moments of the film, but to encounter it necessarily requires the viewer to step outside of not only their understanding of experience, but a reconsideration of how one is physically affected, or to borrow a term from the film "wounded" by memory.

Key Scene:  Um....it is one sweeping scene, every bit of it is perfect.

Criterion has a bluray, I am upgrading within the next few weeks.  You are more than welcome to buy my DVD copy when I post it on Amazon.

Together, We Can Turn This World To Fucking Rust: Testuo, The Iron Man (1989)

I should begin by explaining why I have been a bit less consistent in blog posts over the past two weeks or so.  Firstly, I decided to do the 100 films for June challenge which has meant keeping a pretty consistent viewing schedule going, one that has taken up much more time than I expected, particularly since I included a considerable amount of films that were on the lengthier side.  I would think about posting and then get distracted by a back-to-back feature of some daunting two hour works.  This, of course, is only half the reason, since I still find myself allotted with a good bit of time in between.  Aside from my regular summer job I have also been given the incredibly fortunate opportunity to be part of a upcoming book, in which I will have an academic article published in and it has meant doing some heavy duty research and the like, again taking up more time than planned.  I am being vague with it until it is a certainty, but once that is official you better believe I will be posting in regards to it her on the blog.  All that out of the way I have come with a film so intensely its own and indicative of the possibilities of post-modern cinema as to assure it would be a great cinematic experience for me, made all the more excellent by it being one of the classics of post-sixtes Japanese cinema, while also existing before the big push towards J-horror in recent years.  The film I am referring to is the maddening and demented, industrially fueled Tetsuo, the Iron Man, directed by Shinya Tsukamoto and had been a film that was long on my shame list for films that I had yet to encounter.  I knew I needed to see it upon it also receiving mention on The Story of Film documentary and boy am I glad I finally made it around to this work.  It is parts David Lynch paranoia in human interaction, part Cronenbergian sexual/bodily violence nightmare and even pulls heavily from Teshigahara, for some of its more oeneric, ghastly elements that are heavily influenced by its Japanese cultural milieu.  While I can begin to draw these deserved comparisons, Tetsuo still very much stands as its own work, one with such a fevered editing pace and visually jarring schizophrenic nature that it is really a surprise the film has not been championed as a horror classic all its own.

Tetsuo, the Iron Man begins with images of a man known only through the reveal of the closing credits to be The Metal Fetishist.  Played by the director, The Metal Fetishist is shown running pieces of metal ocrros his teeth and jabbing pieces of steel into his exposed flesh, until he realizes that these actions have allowed for maggots to invade his wounds.  Disgusted the fetishist runs out into the street and is immediately rundown by a driver and his girlfriend, simply known as The Man (Tomorowo Taguchi) and The Woman (Kei Fujiwara).  Fearing for his well-being and the trouble that could be caused by the vehicular manslaughter they dump the fetishist's body into a ravine and go on with their life as though it did not occur, however, when The Man begins to notice tiny pieces of metal protruding through his face, as though it were beard stubble, it becomes clear that the fetishist has moved beyond the grave to exact a physical revenge upon his murderer.  The man, who is then shown attempting, unsuccessfully, to retain some normalcy at his life in business, as well as with his relationship to his girlfriend, begins to have his body taken even more over by the metal, which grows out through intravenous means and even begins to reproduce itself in the form of sexual organs, all to the dismay of the few onlookers throughout the film, as well as the viewers.  Eventually, after a frightening nightmare in which The Man's girlfriend takes on her own metal form, his evolving body reacts by destroying the theoretical threat of The Woman in a violently sexual manner, followed almost immediately by the emergence of the fetishist from the newly laid corpse.  The Man, now completely formed into The Iron Man begins a battle with the fetishist over the industrial and urban spaces of Japan eventually merging into one collective bodily form that agrees to undertake the task of destroying the entire world by turning it into rust.  The new form more insane and layered in various extremities takes to the streets of Japan at a frenetic pace as the term GAME OVER appropriately flashes upon the screen.

The body transformed and mutated is certainly something that is not unfamiliar to this blog, particularly as it is tied to deeply troubling psychological aspects, as is the case in a beloved film of mine I'm A Cyborg But That's OK (also of which I plan to juxtapose with Tetsuo for a presentation), nor is it entirely new to the world of cinema itself, stretching at least back to the themes of Fritz Lang's Metropolis which looks at the possibilities of alteration and simulacra when considering the human body.  Of course, what makes Tetsuo so particularly engaging is that it takes this theme and these images which are decidedly entrenched within the realm of science fiction and appropriates them to be both within their original genre framework, while also reflecting upon what spaces of the horrific and grotesque, one might even say carnivalesque that a cyborg body could inhabit.  Furthermore, when extending this idea of cyborg, one must remember that it is often the case, narratively speaking, that these human-like robots are made entirely of synthetic materials which are metals and the like altered to appear to be the anatomy of a human body.  A case could certainly be made that in Tetsuo the exact opposite is occurring, wherein The Man's body is taking its fleshy human parts and altering them to achieve a degree of metallic perfection, or a fetishistic ideal, helping to explain the decidedly sexual nature of many of the encounters, or more aptly put confrontations in this film.  Much like the aforementioned Cronenberg films this invasion comes at the aftermath of some sort of high-level guilt experienced by a character, whether it be the failure to protect something or a forced and unsuccessful repression of natural desires, in the case of Tetsuo it appears to be some bizarre combination of the two.  The Iron Man transformation occurs as a result of the paranoia and guilt that emerges after committing a murder, even if accidental and this troubling occurrence, allows for other walls to be let down, particularly tumultuous and tense relations with those close, ones that can lead to violent and penetrating actions that range from emotionally harmful to physically violent.  Tetsuo is as much a metaphor as it is experimental art, moving, much like the title character between the emotive concerns for a simple existence and the industrialized demand for constant growth and upward expansion at the cost of nothing.

Key Scene:  The rust and stainless steel monologue is powerful stuff.

The DVD's available are both out of print, therefore they catch a lofty price, however, one is available on Netflix and is definitely worth renting.

Too Much Perfection Is A Mistake: El Topo (1970)

When I discovered during my initial research that there was a sub-genre of revisionist westerns referred to as acid westerns, I knew that at least one of these works would need to be included in my blog this month.  At first I was unsure which direction to go with this as many of the "acclaimed" acid westerns seemed to merely be a film that blows the lid of the styling of the spaghetti western, while providing a critique of the sixties, so to a degree films like Easy Rider and Sam Peckinpah's works would make the cut.  However, I by chance alone glanced at my Alejandro Jodorowsky box set which was collecting dust on my DVD shelf and remembered that he had made a film called El Topo, for which I had managed yet to catch up with at any point.  Upon brief research I realized that in some circles El Topo is considered the greatest moment in the acid western, a completely fresh appropriation of the spaghetti western excess, paired with a hero's quest for identity.  In one full and wild stroke, Jodorowsky manages to make a work that is a harsh reflection of the problematic nature of authority within the context of sixties Mexico, while creating a film that aside from being a western, is also a passion play, a coming of age tale, a spirit quest and even a horror film to varying degrees.  I have often considered that no director could pickup the revolutionary narrative workings and trenchantly surrealist film making style of the great Luis Bunuel, without it appearing contrived or pretentious.  I am now fully willing to afford an exception to Jodorowsky.  Prior to seeing El Topo I was only familiar with his works Fando Y Lis, and what is considered his master work Santa Sangre.  About fifteen minutes into El Topo I realized that I had discovered my new favorite work by the director, and a new found faith in the possibilities of truly surrealist film making. There are a lot of moments with El Topo that are visually challenging and baffling, which at first glance appear to be completely incoherent and detached from one another, yet something happens in the films "second" act that makes the absurdity become poetically realized.  Between bouts of uncontrollable laughter and moments of truly cringe inducing visual offerings, I wish every filmmaker cared about their work with as much compassion as Jodorowsky proves to, even if it all seems tied to some terribly troubled parental figures.  To Jodorowsky the western, and all of cinema, only serve as a brief respite from reality, and even in that moment of escapism, reality must be acknowledged in all its glorious brutality.

As noted the film is decidedly divided into two sections, although the title cards lifted from biblical references such as Genesis and Psalms, do little to clearly delineate the separation, an even more so induced by clear setting shifts.  Nonetheless, the first half focuses on the travels of El Topo (Alejandro Jodorowsky) as he takes his naked son through the Mexican deserts in the search of four accomplished gunmen, along the way meeting a group of bandits who have recently taken it upon themselves to pillage a Franciscan monastery with the hopes bedding a girl with whom their leader is currently sleeping.  El Topo emerges to destroy these various members, as well as the general with the intent of taking the woman and leaving his son to live with the remaining monks.  After this abandonment, El Topo takes on the four gunmen, each having their respective eccentricities and quirks, like one man believing that he has perfected a way for his body to prepare for any incoming bullet, while another believes his raising of rabbits and handcrafted gun have led to his own perfection that assures each bullet will be a fatal blow.  The last one, indeed, refuses to fight El Topo, but in a moment of genius El Topo convinces him to take his own life, thus affirming him as the master gunslinger of the area, yet, his reign is cut short, when he returns to the woman he has taken, only to be gunned down by another female lover she has undertaken in El Topo's repeated absence.  All of this, of course, only captures the first half of the film, the second considers the experiences of El Topo, now awaken in an underground cave with paled skin and whitened hair, only to discover himself the demigod of a group of deformed persons living in the cave, completely castaway from a wealthy and decadent village living above the ground.  Recruiting the help of a dwarf woman, for whom he adores, El Topo begins a plan of digging out a tunnel, while begging for supplies to expedite the process, with the hopes that upon escape the crippled and deformed individuals can simply integrate into the city.  Meanwhile, the city is visited by a traveling monk who instantly dismisses their life of cultist excess, hoping, instead; seeing a possibility in helping the underground colony, yet when he realizes that El Topo is his father, it is drawn to attention that the monk is indeed his abandoned son, who vows to kill him upon the completion of the tunnel.  Yet when the tunnel is completed, El Topo flees with his followers to the city, only to be gunned down in the moment, while his dwarf lover gives birth to a child.  El Topo's son the monk now rides off with the new child, and a near duplication of the film's opening shot occurs, suggesting an absurd and futile cycle.

El Topo is so many amazing things wrapped into a surprisingly taut two hours.  One could walk away from this film and debate it as a psychoanalytic nightmare of abandonment, or as one of the most introspective considerations of Jesus Christ's last days and to a heavy degree be correct.  What Jodorowsky does within El Topo is take the very lose strictures of the revisionist western and use them to set into motion a deeply focused critique on any form of oppression humanly imaginable.  This is key, because one of the biggest issues I find myself struggling with as I go through this marathon is the decided denial of otherness with the western genre, sure, women, persons of color and native populations receive screen time within the genre, but it is quite often purely for narrative continuity and done so with forced subservience on their part.  El Topo rejects all authoritative figures within this text, whether it be a general who dons his costume much in the same way that a drag performer would don their wig and makeup.  In this moment it is quite possible that Jodorowsky wants to suggest that the only difference between a person in power and a peasant is the garb worn, the authoritative signifiers such as a medal or plumed hat becoming useless once removed.  The same could certainly hold true for the foolish looking sheriffs in the town of the second act, whose badges, while felt, nonetheless, represent the law, therefore, allowing them to exact law as they see fit, even in their incredibly violent and prejudiced manner.  Other examples of this occur in regards to religious figures, bourgeois women and even in the character of El Topo, who must struggle with his gender privilege while traveling with the woman in the first act, just as he repeatedly fails to reject his demigod status throughout the second act.  All of this expands nicely to consider the eye within the triangle cult symbol that seems to exact ultimate authority over the narrative.  The panoptic gaze of this eye causes even those in the most oppressed of situations to accept their role, out of a fear that this ever present element of surveillance will capture their slightest divergence from preordained roles.  Indeed, it is only the underground community who is unaware of this cult-like fear, yet when they emerge from their cage to the light of realization, unlike Plato's allegory where enlightentment is achieved, here in the disparate world of El Topo death comes synonymous with "seeing the light."

Key Scene:  While there are easily tons to go with, I was partial to the sand and sex scene, it is cinematically profound and challenging both on a compositional and theoretical level.

This boxset is a wonderful item, unfortunately, in the recent bluray upgrade it managed not to obtain all the films.  As such, for expense reasons I would suggest going with the single disc bluray, although the DVD boxset does include soundtracks.

No One Loves The Man Who He Fears: I Shot Jesse James (1949)

Where Howard Hawks would step in to completely perfect a genre, tapping into its varied tropes and ideas to extend them to their fullest possibilities, a filmmaker like Samuel Fuller would, instead; find the exact same tropes and undertake the task of twisting and stretching them to their greatest lengths only to watch them snap and disintegrate into maddening, fleeting moments of cinematic insanity.  One needs only to recall what is perhaps his most evocative work Shock Corridor to see this unfold, but it certainly holds true for his later works, even including White Dog, which may well hold the record for the most obvious metaphor in a film to date.  When compiling my list for the month of viewing I was elated to discover that the ever unusual Fuller had offered a film to the genre.  I Shot Jesse James, while an early work in the Samuel Fuller cannon, nonetheless, exudes all the intensity and fractured psychosis of the director's works, while also managing to create sympathetic and highly likable characters.  Wherein Andrew Dominik's evocative 2007 film The Assassination of Jesse James By the Coward Robert Ford would paint and dark and dismal picture of the famous outlaw's killer, this much earlier work manages to humanize "Bob" Ford, while also reminding viewers that he was clearly far from being sane or put together, and Fuller paints this picture with such exuberance and zeal that it is hard not to fall into the noticeably melodramatic trappings of this film and stay there well after its closing.  With its excellent visual opening credits and a performance by John Ireland, who was recently mentioned in my review of Red River, and some wonderful cinematography, I Shot Jesse James, much like the legend of the outlaw himself seems to take on mythological, almost implausible, proportions.  Indeed, the film was assumed impossible to find for quite some time and the few copies available proved quite desired, so when Criterion released a print it has moments where the film deteriorates and is covered with black spots.  In most any other film this would just be a sign of its age, yet in the world of this film and Fuller's continual concern with the slippage from sanity, these imperfections in the film almost seem preordained and nicely parallel the character of Bob Ford as he deals with his own internal fracturing.

For a film that is called I Shot Jesse James, the film is considerably preoccupied with not concerning the experiences of Jesse James, however, this is indeed where the film begins by focusing on a recent unsuccessful robbery attempt on the part of Jesse James (Reed Hadley) and his notorious gang of outlaws.  The heist is a failure in part because after being shot Bob Ford (John Ireland) drops the money in their escape.  Bob is quite apologetic about the failure, yet, Jesse is more than understanding knowing that it was purely and accident and a result of the wound.  In fact, Jesse is a rather simple man, who lives under an alias in a small Kansas town with his wife, only hoping to cash in a comfortable sum of money in order to rest, it is his gang who have far more complex problems, particularly Bob who desperately desires the adoration of Cynthy (Barbara Britton) a local saloon girl who is also being pursued by the wealthy silver miner John Kelley (Preston Foster).  Bob is fully aware that his financial failings will deter him from success with Cynthy and seeks an alternative means to make money.  When word spreads that any man who kills Jesse James will be afforded a governor's pardon and fame, Bob takes it upon himself to murder the outlaw, an act he does by shooting him in the back, much to the disdain of his gang members and every respectable man in the midwest.  Nonetheless, his pardon allows him to move freely and continue to pursue Cynthy, even attempting to make fame on his infamy.  Of course, this does little for Bob's financial success and he ends up seeking friendship with John, who also desires Cynthy.  When a chance opportunity affords Bob a great reward in silver mining he takes it upon himself to learn the trade and make money, again with the hope of winning the heart of his love.  Cynthy, at this point, is falling for John and is only amiable to Bob out of fear, and when Bob is informed of this information, he takes it upon himself to fight for the girl he loves, drawing guns against John in the street, claiming that he is the only one willing to kill out of love, a fact that is refuted when John guns him down first.  In these dying moments, Bob admits to a crippling guilt for what he had done to Jesse, suggesting a degree of misguided love in that action as well.

I Shot Jesse James adds such layers of complexity to the trope of the outlaw in the western that it is rather amazing that Fuller was not skyrocketed to the same status as Leone or Hawks in regards to making westerns specifically.  I would contest that there is really no other director who manages to subvert the methods of melodrama to heighten the moods of characters with whom the viewers are really not supposed to sympathize.  One could almost read I Shot Jesse James as a film noir work set within the confines of the wild west, although I plan to include an Anthony Mann film this month so it might be best to hold off that analysis until I get to that work.  Melodramatic elements are certainly present within the western, although one would not initially sense them, for example, the use of music to evoke a mood is much credited and even contemporarily parodied within film and is certainly used within I Shot Jesse James, think of the ways in which Aaron Copeland stylistic music is used in something like Red River and then compare that to the violins and swelling of traditional music within I Shot Jesse James, while it involves folk ballads they are a far cry from what exists within the traditional western, again, Fuller is merely using the setting of the western and its tropes to tell a story, he clearly has no concern with it properly fitting the genre format, indeed any other filmmaker would likely have given Jesse James a larger role, but it is not his film, it is about the emotional state of Bob Ford, therefore, Jesse's death some twenty minutes into the film is appropriate and absolutely underplayed.  What is heightened is Bob's reactions and preparation for the assassination, think of the bathtub scene and his intense gaze at the exposed back of Jesse.  This scene involves again heavy use of music, as well as a heightened camera movement that provides close-ups of Bob's face, whereas Leone would use these closeups in an extreme manner, Fuller only goes close enough to Bob to capture his curling desirous grins and beady eyes a clear trope of melodrama that is being subverted and reappropriated to the western genre, to subsequently subvert its elements.  Elements like these are no surprise considering that they came from Fuller he was a man who somehow managed to work within the studio system while rejecting everything it stood for in the process.  I Shot Jesse James is definitively a western while also managing to be anything but a genre piece.

Key Scene:  The bath scene is a master class in scene composition and allows viewers to truly understand the insanity latent in Bob's mind.

This is part of a wonderful box set released by Fuller that includes two of his other early works, I would strongly encourage getting a copy for this film specifically, the other inclusions are jut extra benefits.

My Head Is Made Of The Same Material As The Sun: Upstream Color (2013)

It seems as though calling a film transcendentalist would be a bit of an oxymoron considering the philosophical movements decided rejection of all things institutional, yet when one considers Shane Carruth's most recent work Upstream Color, one can find few proper terms to describe its unique, cinematic and absolutely mesmerizing quality and considering that it was written, directed, and, more importantly, produced by Carruth therefore allowing to exist about as outside of the institutional elements of filmmaking as possible, much as was the case with this now cult classic sic-fi enigma Primer.  If it were not enough alone that the film were outside of the system, as one would put it, thematically it draws upon a push from the absolute heights of technology and indoctrination back towards something in the natural world, almost bestial and intangible.  Of course, the film also makes heavy use of Henry David Thoreu's Walden which, undoubtedly, helps my case, although it is not in the "on the nose" pretentious manner that seems far more indicative of a terrible mumblecorp than the absolutely realized and visually haunting Upstream Color.  I would comfortably compare this film to the work of Terrence Malick with far less whispering and considerably higher amount of rejection regarding humanity as being inherently good.  One could also easily draw some connections to the work of Brian Eno, wherein he takes the most basic of musical elements and extends them to their grandest and most realized potential, finding the ambient enjoyment in minimalism.  While Upstream Color certainly uses visual elements in varied and intense manners, it still seems to have an ambient element about it, nonetheless, one that moves through itself and beyond itself, occasionally tapping into the most basic of human desires and experiences, only to make grand statements about the universe moments later.  Upstream Color is an early 2013 release and will likely become forgotten by the time awards season rolls around, however, it is such an engaging and challenging cinematic experience that I am convinced that it will do very well come the end of the year when I reflect on my favorite film experiences of the year.

Upstream Color certainly has a narrative, however, much like Primer it is so intertwined, cyclical and non-linear as to make navigating it with any degree of certainty, nearly impossible.  What does exist is a series of characters and ideas which seem to result in some identifiable narrative moments.  The main character of the narrative appears to be Kris (Amy Seimetz) a graphic designer whose run in with a drug dealer known only as The Thief (Thiago Martins) results in her losing all her assets, and her job, when the drug, created by some hybrid of plant, liquid and insect causes her to be hypnotized into following every order of The Thief.  This portion, however, is followed by Kris, now possessing much shorter hair and her attempts to rekindle a relationship with her estranged husband Jeff (Shane Carruth) whose own illicit behavior as an off the books broker for a set of motels leads to a certain degree of paranoia.  These interactions, as well as brief other occurences, are monitored by The Sampler (Andrew Sensenig) who appears to be an experimental musician with an expressed interest in capturing and altering the noises of nature into ambient, polyphonic musicscapes.  However, considering the location of much of The Sampler's work it is also quite possible that he is a pig farmer, who has music as a very secondary hobby.  When the traumas of the past and Jeff's own problematic present state lead to a falling out the couple almost split ways, only to decide to give their relationship one more shot, this time with a greater degree of success, although there arises on issue as to their shared understanding of past events,  particularly Jeff's assurance that what Kris assumes to be her past is indeed his own.  However, their memories seem to collide together in poetic certainty when the two arrive at The Sampler's pig farm and find themselves magnetically drawn to the animals, an act that has a certain degree of connection based on Kris and her previous run-in with The Thief, however, the involvement of other previously unidentified bodies makes the experience both incredibly personal to Kris and seemingly universal to all those involved, including Jeff and The Sampler, and, indirectly, The Thief.

It is the very indistinguishable line between the personal and the universal that seems to draw the narrative ideas of the movie together.  It is no accident that the film borrowed heavily from Thoreau's Walden exists in a similar thematic space, although to be fair that is very much the nature of transcendentalism.  It first involves a person finding themselves in relation to the institutionalized state they live in, then rejecting it and in the process of rediscovery finding a larger meaning.  One of the best moments of this within Walden involves Thoreau innocently looking into a frozen like at the habitat below leading to his own personal identity crisis, followed by a profound reflection on his relationship with a higher entity, in his case God.  Upstream Color is not so much oriented towards the higher deity aspect, although Kris and her vision of a sun-headed man, could certainly glean such a response, instead; it seems concerned with a push towards a healthy non-institutionalized way of living.  In fact, even the very drugs that exist within the narrative are completely detached from an sort of chemical-pharmeaceutical hands.  They appear to come from the earth, eerily manifesting themselves out of nothingness.  Interestingly enough, while Kris is going through the process of rejecting all her "earthly possession" as it were, her diet consists solely of water and ice, a veritable cleansing that goes along with her move towards a transcendent lifestyle.  One could certainly argue that the tension in her relationship with Jeff is a result of his continued attachment to the institutionalized world, even though his existence is entirely detached on paper.  Furthermore, the irony of them moving through hotels is not lost, in so much as not only is it not a home they built on their own, much as Thoreau did, it is further a space that even as it is intended to be a place of safe space and rest is not one of possession.  As such they must return to the dirt of the earth for the answers, and Carruth is clever to make it the most disgusting of places, a pigsty, perhaps suggesting that life is eternally attached to the most grotesque and it is in this realization that others can begin to share in the beauty of the world, at least the closing montages suggest such a possibility.

Key Scene:  The sun-head scene involving Kris and The Thief is cinematic magic.  I am almost scared as to look up how it was done, as it would inevitably spoil some of its awe.

This is a stellar work, it is well worth obtaining on bluray to view once, twice or even three times.  I imagine it even exists as a wonderful sort of backdrop when muted.

Experiments In Film: Fires In The Mirror (1993)

Dealing with a narrative that pits perhaps two of the most oppressed minorities in history against one another in the face of an inexplicable death and subsequently blaming for its occurrence is a nearly impossible thing to put into visual form, considering that it requires a person to acknowledge the multiple voices and interactions and engagements that surround its most heightened moments, not to mention the seemingly irrelevant moments that, nonetheless, factor heavily into the rhetoric surrounding an event well before its initial inception.  All of this is damn near impossible to do with success, and it is certainly only worsened when one attempts to perform all of these identities on their own.  However, for a considerable portion of the early nineties, Anna Deavere Smith found herself attacking issues of race riots, specifically looking at a problematic and fiery riot which occurred in Crown Heights in 1991 following death of a young black boy and a later a young Hassidic Jewish man, in what was allegedly retaliation agains the elderly Jewish man who ran the boy over.  Of course, while much of the film, although to be more accurate it is a video recording of a one person show Smith had put on, seems intent on considering the odds and angers between Jewish and African-American groups uncomfortably navigating the same condensed and oppressive spaces, it is certainly not the only element of the ideology being spouted and countered throughout the film.  Smith constantly moves between race, gender and identity to look at the ways in which political leaders such as Al Sharpton affected the movement, as well as the way in which theories about race and religion undermine the possibility of successfully understanding the misunderstanding that led to unnecessary bloodshed and an equally frustrating riot in a urban subdivision of New York.  Fires in the Mirror manages to be about as bias as possible in its consideration of who really suffers loss in such a situation, while making bold and expansive considerations of the way identity changes and molds itself to fit a moment or idea, much as Smith does within the context of the one person show.

The film seems to embrace Judith Butler's notion of performing gender as being just that, a performance.  Particularly, Butler seemed to suggest that a person could use and remove certain gendered signifiers to help those they interact with better understand their gender in the moment, although even this is rather fluid and subject to change in the matter of seconds.  Smith takes this idea and more than runs with it within Fires in the Mirror, in once scene playing a white statistician, while in another Angela Davis, she even embodies the unconventional role of a Australian Hassidic Jew, all the while creating a narrative of the possible layers to the death of two young people and the dueling riots of two groups who felt they had been victims of an injustice.  One could certainly argue that Smith wants to extend Butler's notion of the performative to add elements of race, class, nationality and even more unusual religious identity, reminding viewers that in most instances common ideals win out and rationality emerges, however, when one finds trouble navigating the liminal space between respect and understanding things can truly become complicated and the moments hesitation when commenting on a disruptive topic can prove fatal, it certainly did in the case of Crown Heights circa 1991.  Of course if this were entirely dramatization one would be hesitant to embrace its masterful quality.  However, Smith does not simply adapt her own play by gleaning from accounts to create an ideal fictional appropriation, instead; she actually embodies the persons she interviewed, going so far as to use their exact words in her play and nothing more.  This seems to occur most successfully with the maternal figures, however, her portrayals of elderly Jewish rabbis and reluctant eyewitnesses are equally powerful and no less captivating  Finally, if this direct approach is not enough, the viewers is also provided with the repetition of images and film from the riots affirming its reality, even if they are watching a beautifully executed simulacrum of the original events.  In the films closing shot, prior to a montage of images, one cannot help but understand that at the root of all the political rage and racial hatred, very real loss occurred and to not give that a voice, even through a simple shot at close would be to do a terrible injustice.

This is a gripping and masterful work and I am ashamed to have gone this long without seeing it, and cannot urge you enough to watch it immediately, to do so, or to find out more information about Anna Deavere Smith, click on either of the images below:

I'd Throw You Into The Ocean...Shock Therapy: Run Lola Run (1998)

Fueled almost entirely by the MTV generation of a deluge of imagery and noise, it is impossible to pinpoint exactly everything that occurs within the vast narrative framework of the taut and intense Run Lola Run, a German film by the stellar director Tom Tykwer, whose recent involvement in Cloud Atlas has made me come to appreciate his presence in cinema.  In its seemingly ecstasy filled narrative, Run Lola Run manages to expertly consider gender expectations within Germany as it moved into the twentieth century, providing both positive and negative images of such, while, simultaneously, completely disregarding any sort of semblance of cinematic linearity or formality.  To call Run Lola Run a structuralists nightmare is an apt description, yet in its decidedly deconstructionist nature, it, nonetheless, speaks volumes to the manner with which a generation of technologically enhanced youth engage with the world, both virally and virulently.  It is always a surprise to me to consider that this film was made in 1998, because, aside from its clearly dated fashion choices, the considerations of youth, money and the ability to navigate at capitalist oriented social landscape blow the lid off any of its contemporaries.  In fact, I would even say that this film stands miles above Fight Club in its satirical consideration of a thrill seeking, adrenaline fueled culture, and, as seems to be the case with many films of similar themes to David Fincher's now well-established classic, predates it.  I am also aware that the film exists within the constraints of the era, with its techno/house music inspired soundtrack and mixing of filmic forms, but damn if it does not do so with such a seamless fusion and direction that it is essentially visual LSD.  As noted earlier Run Lola Run clearly finds its influence in a Y2K fearing group of youth that sought out visual overload as a distraction from the real woes of growing up, in the matter of a succinct eighty minutes, Tykwer's film focuses on all the social issues present in such a state of fear, both with a detached sense of satire and a noticeable degree of earnest concern.

Run Lola Run, is a non-linear film, but not in the manner one might initially assume.  In fact, the plot is somewhat straightforward.  First, there is Lola (Franka Potente) a young, red haired woman who begins her day by answering a phone call from her distraught boyfriend Manni (Moritz Bleibtreu) whose ties to criminal activity has led to his losing a large sum of money, which he was to deliver to his boss, known for his hot temper and willingness to snap over the most minor problems.  Manni had the money prepared to deliver, but in a panic left it on a subway train to avoid suspicious police officers, leading to its being grabbed by a homeless man with an affinity for bags.  Frantic to correct this wrong, Manni begins to consider robbing a nearby grocery store, news that leads to Lola running, as fast as she can, in order, to both obtain the money and, hopefully, stop Manni from making a huge mistake.  This is where the films linearity breaks down, into various versions of the events, each separated by a discussion between Manni and Lola in bed, the topic concerning love and death.  The first scenario finds Lola running to meet with her father Vater (Herbert Knaup) only to be told that she was adopted and not deserved of his money, which leads to her failing to meet Manni prior to the robbery and she in turn becomes an accomplice and is shot during the police suppression.  The second scenario finds Lola choosing to rob her fathers bank, as opposed to asking for the money, which, in turn, leads to Manni being hit by a work van, when the two are having a conversation.  Finally, it is during the third scenario that things finally begin to work in the favor of Lola, and she, instead; chooses to gamble a small bit of money with the hopes of winning enough to save Manni.  However, in this scenario, Manni finds the homeless man and gets his money back and the two reunite without the woes of a financial fear, or Manni's death for that matter.  While this scenario is certainly idyllic, it is not void of death, which is made only minor note of, since viewers are assumed to be siding with the success of Lola and Manni anyways.

I was a little hesitant to embrace this as a film worth including in the month of women in film, which is winding down nicely, with a flow of solid film, particularly since it does have a focus on a couples issues.  However, the title does not deceive, for it is truly about Lola's relation to the events.  Even when we are shown Manni dying, it is within a framework of actions undertaken by Lola, whose movement through the world seems to magically and metaphysically affect every person she talks with or touches, sometimes for the better, at other times for the worse.  Perhaps, the most powerful statement in the film comes from the suggestion that Lola's own frustration with how a situation ends can be verifiably changed should she will it to be so, particularly when it relates to the death of herself or her lover.  The physicality, athleticism and brains Lola possesses within the film also suggest a rejection of gender norms that reject women in any sort of authoritative role, in fact, it is in the first scenario where Lola dies that she is the least authoritative, and, as a result, is killed for not possessing a grounded voice and identity.  In a bit of genius, however, the second scenario rejects her use of violence as a challenge to her oppressor, particularly since it leads to the deaths of people she cares for, and for whom she was protecting.  The third scenario, ironically, is the one in which she embraces capitalism, while simultaneously exploiting it, and it is this scenario that she is able to assure her desired outcome, doubly so, one could argue, and if there were any question as to whether or not Lola's father was a problematic figure, with his philandering and desire to create more offsprings was problematic, his demise in the final scenario certainly provides a clear and deliberate answer.   Run Lola Run depicts the possibilities of a woman with a purpose and demands that viewers accept this emerging reality, something that would drastically change in cinema as it moved into a new millennia, wherein many women possessed similar roles and the assured place of patriarchy and traditionalism in cinema disintegrated.

Key Scene:  For a film whose shots last an average of 2.7 seconds it is hard to pick a scene, but I am partial to the casino section, because it exist both within and outside of the narrative framework created up until that point in the film.

I rented this initially, but ordered a copy of the bluray immediately after the credits moved up the screen.  I strongly suggest you do the same.

I Added Less Water Than Last Week: Jeanne Dielman, 23, Quai Du Commerce, 1080 Bruxelles (1975)

Mesmerizing, jarring, introspective, evasive and meticulous are words that could and probably have been used to describe Chantal Akerman's 1975 character study Jeanne Dielman, 23, Quai du Commerce, 1080 Bruxelles.  The lengthy title lends itself to the rather lengthy film and while I will admit I found myself distracted throughout, it was not a result of the film being bad in the slightest, but more of my own personal state of mind and general tiredness.  I am quite aware, and have read some of the articles, about the divisive nature surrounding this film.  Many find it to be an excellent consideration of the female body as it occupies space in a very real and quantifiable way, while others find its deliberate staging within the domestic household and eventual twist to be somewhat exploitative and undermining of the feminist leanings it clearly takes.  One thing is for certain when you consider this masterpiece by Akerman, and that is its importance to cinema both in its style and in its subject manner.  Firstly, it is a film entirely dedicated to one individuals experience, and the camera rarely shies away from capturing even the most seemingly minute of details in the process.  Second, it chooses its subject to wholly be that of a woman, never allowing the males who occupy her space to completely take over the scene or the space which she has created.  It is as though Akerman has made a decided stand against all that is definably traditional in masculine filmmaking, while still managing to make a piece of engaging and entice film.  Every drawn out shot and deep focus encounter is structurally sound and eerily symmetrical, making the moments when the character leaves home that much more unusual.  The film is deserved of its continual emergence of lists of the most important films ever made and requires a heavy understanding of cinematic language and theory to truly engage within, yet, the images and story are so simplistically accessible that I would venture to say it simply playing at any major television retailer would prove to capture any passerby, it is simply that gripping and of its own existence that it is impossible to ignore.

The films intense focus is on that of Jeanne Dielman (Delphine Seyrig) whose name viewers can only draw from a letter she receives, and that the title of the film suggest it to be such. Jeanne is a single woman who lives alone, spending much of her day washing clothing, preparing food and drinking coffee.  She clearly focuses a heavy amount of her energy into preparing meals for her son who comes home in the evenings, only to completely avoid conversation with her in order to further reading his books and engage in his studies.  Of course, Jeanne plays ignorant to his indifference and attempts to create small talk with him about his aunt in Canada or questions about thoughts on a sweater she is knitting for him.  All seems mundane, if not a bit tragic, were it not for the revelation, at the opening of the film that Jeanne works as a prostitute during the day, seemingly servicing repeat customers ever week.  Yet, this very real occurrence factors in rather minimally to the film, as much more time seems to be spent on considering Jeanne as she is shown taking care of the baby of an unseen woman dropping off her child, or waiting in lack drawn out shots for the elevator to arrive and subsequently reach the floor on which she resides.  In fact, the most heavily focuses plot point of the narrative emerges when Jeanne is depicted trying to find a replacement button for a jacket she has received from her sister, whose living in Canada has meant a time difference in fashion trends and, therefore, a button that was neither in style or out of style within her Brussels neighborhood.  This event is followed by yet more monotony, particularly Jeanne engaging in a extended sequence of her slowly drinking coffee.  It is during one of her visits from a customer that her engagement in intercourse is finally shown, with a top down shot Jeanne's indifferent face turns frustrated as a man simply lays upon her.  After the act is over, it is then cut to her dressing in the mirror as the man lays satisfied with his act, only to be stabbed, inexplicably, by Jeanne in the throat.  His dead body writhes in pain and the film then goes to its closing shot of Jeanne simply sitting in the dark of her house, perhaps contemplating her actions or considering the future.

This has been aptly described as the "first masterpiece of the feminist history of cinema," and deservedly so because in its daunting runtime it manages to tackle essentially every major issue within the feminist movement of the era, mind you it is 1975, so issues of race and class certainly do not exist prominently within the feminist discourse.  It does take Laura Mulvey's consideration of the "male gaze," which has been discussed already this month and many times in the past on the blog, and completely reconsiders its existence.  The film, directly challenges its viewers, regardless of sex, to engage with the images in an unflinching manner, much like the way in which the events are depicted, never drawing any sort of pleasure or gratification from the experience, but instead a second by second cataloguing of Jeanne's experiences.  In fact, the one scene in which she is nude, is done in such a stark and sterile manner that even this arguably objectifying moment is anything but, and instead, draws upon reality and nothing in the realm of idealism.  The next major factor is the manner in which Akerman through her drawn out shots and stagnant deep-focus camera manages to show the layers of burden associated with domestic work, particularly in regards to its consumption of time and money.  Jeanne spends perhaps two thirds of the film preparing or cooking food and in many instances it is not solely for her enjoyment and her son, detached in his reading, is never appreciative of the efforts his mother has undertaken, but only seems to see her as a source of money, of which, he never inquires to how she obtained, surely his discovery would lead to condemnation.  Finally, if there is any question about the message of feminist empowerment and deconstruction of masculine privilege and space, the closing act by Jeanne ends such inquiries with its decided killing of the oppressive male figure, which surprisingly seems to be the least radical moment in the entire film.

Key Scene:  The coffee scene is particularly stagnant, yet mesmerizing, but the film runs so smoothly together that to pick anything out is quite impossible.

This is a major moment in the history of film and well worth owning, while I would hope that Criterion would release a bluray in the future, I think it unlikely, therefore, a DVD copy will have to suffice in the meanwhile.

Experiments In Film: Meshes In The Afternoon (1943)

I knew that for this month of women in film that I wanted to include at least one female experimental filmmaker, and while I certainly considered using Su Friedrich, amongst others, I decided it was perhaps best to show some more adoration for Maya Deren, whose experimental films proved quite important in my ultimate understanding of the power and possibility of cinema.  While I am still slightly more in favor of Stan Brakhage's work, with each revisitation of Deren's catalogue I begin to realize that she may well be the superior filmmaker, especially, if one is to consider her most well known piece Meshes in the Afternoon.  Created with her then husband Alex Hammind, the film is very much concerned with the image and spatial movement of woman, perhaps heavily influenced by Deren's own hand in the making, although much contention has arisen regarding who of the couple should receive credit.  Meshes of the Afternoon manages to exist within multiple styles of experimental filmmaking, whether it be they heavy influences of Dadaism and surrealism that allow for the film to create doppelgängers and a non-linear narrative clearly influenced by the unconscious, yet, it is also a film with evasive visual imagery relying of refractions of light and shadow that are reminiscent of Chris Marker's La Jetée.  It is quite fun to watch people attempt to break down the symbolism within something like Meshes of the Afternoon, because it is a film where every scene and image, does indeed appear to be heavily contemplative and a clear decision on the part of the directors.  Whether it be a key that turns into a knife or a shattered mirror, the film seems to layer its meaning within itself, suggesting an engagement with its textual commentary that is entirely contingent upon each viewers emotional and mental attitude upon initially engaging with the material.  It is really difficult not to leap at over explaining and, subsequently, over selling something like Meshes in the Afternoon, because it is both a constantly baffling film, as well as something that a viewer will find themselves completely engrossed with for the thirteen odd minutes of run time.

After claiming that deconstructing the film is overly exhausted and to some degree counterintuitive, I will, nonetheless, attempt to add some context to my interpretation of the the multilayered and expansive narrative that is Meshes of the Afternoon.  Yet, I will attempt to only pull what would be pertinent to a feminist analysis, considering the theme of this month on my blog, and even in doing so I am not claiming it to be a certainty in any reading, but merely one of a wide set of possibilities.  Firstly, the manner with which the unnamed main character, played, of course, by Deren herself, moves through the space of the film, often extending arms, from the top of the screen downward, or being half shot in a reflection of a window, could speak to issues of disembodiment that many women face, specifically after being victim to sexual violence, something the film indirectly suggests has occurred.  Secondly, the key, perhaps the films most recurring image, could mean a variety of things relating to femininity, whether it be her own identity, or more abstractly her "way of being female" a key that, not accidentally, can turn to a knife without a moments notice.  Of course, these previous mentioned images and stylistic choices are key, but the films most jarring and enigmatic image has to be the mirror-faced grim reaper who moves through the space of the film, much to the awareness of the the main woman in the film, but at the same time completely detached.  If it were not for the presence, of the mirror, I would simply call it a rather normal relation to sex and death that often emerges in surrealist filmmaking, think of the moth from Un Chien Andalou for a classic example.  Yet the mirror for a face on the figure of death, is perhaps in a Lacanian kind of way, a suggestion to the woman's own othering and lack, there for visualizing her silence and inevitable death as a result.  Of course, I have no clue what to make of the phone that the grim reaper carries, but it only drives me to visit this film many more times in the future.

To view Meshes in the Afternoon online, or to get more information about Maya Deren, click on either of the images below:

Death Is Good, But There Is No Love: Holy Motors (2012)

Holy Motors is most certainly the one film that I longed to see for a better part of 2012 after hearing mentions of it on a few of my favorite blogs and podcasts, not to mention as it began receiving awards by various critics associations.  Until viewing it last night, I had only heard descriptions about it, or seen very brief clips at one point or another, always more than enough to pique my interests and seek it out as soon as possible, fortunately, a friend had a copy that they passed along to me and I was able to digest the visual feast that is this film beyond simply looking at the poster, which is its own work of art. I am somewhat on board with the guys at Battleship Pretension when they claim that the film is far from a perfect film, but manages to go about its visual stylings with such audacity and vision that it cannot, and should not, be overlooked, even going so far as to make one of the top ten lists of two critics who I find to have some of the most refined and specific taste in the realm of film criticism.  Holy Motors is as much a sobering reflection on the state of performance in film, as it is a pondering of human existence on a larger scale.  It is a rare thing for a film to engage with the magnitude of 2001: A Space Odyssey philosophically, even more unusual that it manages to engage with the dialogue with any degree of success or validity, in the same vein as Irreversible, Holy Motors, from director Leos Carax, is yet another film from 2012 to make viewers really consider the way in which they consume movies, as well as the larger concept of truth and its tenuous relationship with what we have come to assume to be reality.  I found many of the episodes, as it is really the only way to describe how this film unfolds, to be absolutely mesmerizing, and even the weaker moments of the film exist on a plain so far above much of its competition that it exists as a bit of cinematic magic.  If it were not enough to simply praise the movie for being a visual experience, the performances in this film are more than perfect and Denis Lavant, in particular, brings one of his best delivered set of characters, since first coming to my attention as a delusional Charlie Chaplin impersonator in Harmony Korine's most "normal" film Mister Lonely.

Holy Motors has a plot, all be it a very vague and nearly incomprehensible one, but I assure you it exists some where in the nearly two hour time frame.  Needless to say the film mainly focuses on a man known as Oscar (Denis Lavant) who dons various make-up and wardrobe styles and travels around Paris, on assignments, yet the film chooses to open with an individual known as Le Demour (Leos Carax) who enters a theater only to view a crowd watching, what I have been led to believe is King Vidor's The Crowd, instantly, and magnificently making the film exist within the metacinematic, something that is extended when the narrative begins to follow Oscar in more depth as he engages in his various assignments, all of which apparently hearken back to moments in the history of cinema, whether they be the intensely intimate portrayal of him pretending to be a homeless elderly woman, clearly an evocation Soviet cinema of the early 20th century, or the shock political cinema of Passolini, which occurs when Oscar is assigned to play a grotesque man that kidnaps a model, played rather stoically by Eva Mendes, only to take her into a cave and strip naked, not to have sex, but, instead; to eat her hair.  The film also takes on less artistically embraced elements of cinema, having a sequence pulled directly out of a gangster film, or one which results in a CGI-feuled sexual nightmare.  In one of the films most bizarre moments, Oscar reunites with what appears to be a former lover named Eva (Kylie Minogue) thus thrusting the film into the musical realm, only to return to the darkly dramatic within moments.  The various stories entwine as Oscar moves through Paris in a white limousine and it becomes considerably unclear as to what moments are indicative of his personal life and which depict his "job."  The narrative then takes a leap into the decidedly absurd when Oscar's final job places him at his own home, with his family, who for no explicable reason are a set of monkeys.  The narrative then focuses on Oscar's chauffeur Celine (Edith Scob) who returns the limo to a garage named after the film, and as she leaves the limo with other similar vehicles, the cars begin talking to one another, waxing philosophic about moss on stones, thus ending the film rather abruptly considering all the combined aspects.

I am not even going to proclaim to remotely comprehend exactly what Holy Motors is about, because like the previously mentioned 2001: A Space Odyssey, any singular proclamation about the film is to only focus on aspects and often fails to consider the filmic text as a whole.  Fortunately, Holy Motors in its episodic stylings affords a viewer the ability to pick singular moments as a point of reference, thus leading me to believe that it is a film about filmmaking, much in the same way as 8 1/2 or Stardust Memories, which arguably uses similar techniques, but in a far less dark manner.  I say this because Oscar constantly bemoans his performances, not because he does not appreciate the notion of acting, but because he seems utterly convinced that the often draining performances he delivers are falling on deaf ears, particularly as a result of a technological landscape that embraces minimalism.  In one of the films most poetic scenes, Oscar reflects on an era when filmmakers were distracted only by the heaviness of their camera, a masterful existentially absurdist statement, which proves to be the grounding for the entire film.  It is hard to call Holy Motors a welcoming film, but this previously mentioned scene seems to be Carax's way of saying that society is equally dark and for any film to suggest otherwise would be to betray the power of the medium and its ability to reflect reality to some degree, even if in the highly stylized nature of this film.  It makes me consider its relationship to some of  my other favorites of the year, particularly The Master, Take This Waltz and The Loneliest Planet, all of which use cinema to show the stark betrayals of humanity, as well as their ever so brief moments of triumph, never once allowing the viewer to assure comfort and self-fulfillment.  I find Holy Motors to be in the same vein as the highly introspective, but decidedly distancing cinema of Andrei Tarkovsky, in so much that it allows viewers just enough familiarity to become invested, but reminds them that even in familiarity the senses can, and will, be quickly betrayed.

Key Scene:  The intermission scene is decidedly awesome and serves as an awesome mid-point for an excellent film.

Bluray, Bluray, Bluray...

Simplicity Can Only Be Achieved By Great Agony Of Body And Spirit: The Red Shoes (1948)

A viewing of The Red Shoes has been a long time in the making, it was probably the biggest gap in my film viewing catalogue and was always a point of shame when I would have to admit to having never seen it when talking with fellow cinephile.  Finally, on Friday I had yet another individual with excellent taste in film mention it to me and I decided then and there that I would go home and watch it without hesitation.  Going into it I expected nothing short of perfection and I can say with every degree of certainty that the film still overwhelmed me with its magic, its madness and its sheer cinematic mastery.  The Red Shoes, has made a very welcomed come back thanks to the diligent work of some film preservationists at UCLA, the tireless efforts of the gang over at Criterion and a surprise advocation for the film coming from Martin Scorsese whose filmmaking oeuvre certainly does not reflect this ballet heavy, musical influenced film from the masters of Technicolor Michael Powell and Emeric Pressburger.  There is not a moment within The Red Shoes that is not entirely entrenched within the cinematic spectacle, much like Singin' In The Rain the film exists as a work of grandiosity so artistic that to profess to disliking it would essentially be admitting that you hate living.  As pretentious as that may sound, The Red Shoes seriously is an impeccable film and aside from a few moments of wry British humor there is nothing about this film not to completely love, in fact, it manages to the cross the seemingly divergent lines of classicist filmmaking styles and highly expressionistic experimental filmmaking with such fervor that it has the feeling of being a colorful rendition of an early Busby Berkeley dance number.  Furthermore, like the aforementioned Singin' In The Rain you can easily go into this film assuming you know the plot to the film, yet it will very much unfold in front of you with such expertise and layers that when the close finally does come in its climactic intensity you will realize that you may well have stopped breathing for a few minutes.  It is still baffling that this highly realized film is essentially just an adaptation of a children's fairy tale, all be it a dark one.

The Red Shoes begins with a crew of students rushing an auditorium to witness the performance of an acclaimed ballet piece from Boris Lermontov (Anton Walbrook) whose prestige has led to all group regardless of class to view his work, including Julian Craster (Marius Goring) an aspiring conductor who is immediately baffled to realize that his own pieces are being lifted for the performance.  Also in attendance is Victoria Page (Moira Shearer) an aspiring dancer whose ties to high places afford her an opportunity to meet the elusive Lermontov post performance, using her charm to assure a chance to audition.  Craster via letter confronts Lermontov about his theft, only to regret his decision, in the process meeting Lermontov who hires him on the spot.  Both Craster and Page become witness to the insanity and deception latent within the world of ballet performance, and begin to fathom how much power Lermontov truly wields.  Each, nonetheless, takes their turn in making an identity for themselves, Page by dancing wildly at a minor performance for the company, where as Craster jumps at the opportunity to rewrite a ballet adaptation of The Red Shoes, which he does brilliantly leading to Lermontov choosing it as the company's next pieces.  It is within this performance of The Red Shoes that harmony comes together beautifully as Craster and Page unleash a chemistry undeniable in a ballet performance that literally transcends the space and time of the theater.  The show of course receives rave reviews and the names of Page and Craster become well known, yet they fall for one another, much to the disapproval of Lermontov who sees it as a risk to his newly found cash cow.  He demands that they split leading to a deep depression in the two and the subsequent falling apart of the company.  Lermontov, nonetheless, manages to convince Page to return to the performance, which leads to a falling out between her and Craster who leaves dejected.  Realizing her mistake Page attempts to return to Craster, only to encounter her demise in what is easily one of cinema's most harrowing moments.  Of course, The Red Shoes is danced on, although the lack of Page is a very real thing when the troupe decides to perform without the presence of their leading lady, or any person in her place.

I once attended a conference where I saw a presentation comparing The Red Shoes to the then recently released Black Swan.  A majority of the discussion grounded the comparison in a use of Jacques Lacan's mirror theory which at the time was something I was unfamiliar with making for a rather difficult to understand talk, although I certainly think, upon seeing The Red Shoes that something is to be said about the notion of identity, sanity and the affects of performance demands on the individual.  Both films feature female performers whose quest for perfection and acknowledgement lead them to spiral into a degree of madness, although in Aronofsky's film the madness is tied to sexual inexperience and clear mental distress.  In the case of The Red Shoes it is a desire for success and a clear passion for the art of ballet, which by all accounts is probably the most labor intensive art one could choose.  Furthermore, where as Black Swan is about a singular individual, The Red Shoes focuses on a group of peoples' experiences, viewers have just come to associate the film with Moria Shearer, because it is her image the dominates the most magical and cinematic portion of the film.  The Red Shoes is much more a film about navigating the world of art, which has inherent ties to prestige and bourgeois power moves.  We see this in Page's complete disconnect from the fact that she is able to attend and leave practice in a chauffeured car, where as her fellow dancers must walk everywhere.  In sharp contrast is Craster whose identity as a student means he has little wealth or power to navigate, making his being robbed of his musical identity the exact thing to push him into impassioned action, which has relative success, up until the films closing moments of course.  Where The Red Shoes and Black Swan seem to come back together is in the closing moments of both main female characters, each arguably perform their last leap of perfection with dire results, but both also raise the question as to where one can go but down after achieving perfection.

Key Scene:  This is a no brainer, the entire dance sequence in the middle of the film could play on repeat on televisions and I know I would watch it countless times.

The Criterion bluray really is something to be amazed by and well worth owning.