The Knack To See White When It Is Black: The Tales Of Hoffman (1951)

I am constantly amazed by certain directors when each time I unpack a work of theirs for the first time I find myself captivated and moved in new ways, showing that their cinematic abilities transcend singular feats or ideas, able to appropriate various genres, stylistic choices and ideas into deeply moving and wholly encompassing films.  When I think of directors that this statement holds true for, although they are not given equal credit to Kubrick or the Welles, my mind immediately wanders to the work of Agnes Varda and Paul Thomas Anderson.  Each time I find one of their films anew, or sit down and earnestly revisit their works it is as engaging, if not more moving than the first time, and, fortunately, for the both of them there are still films in their respective oeuvres that have yet to be viewed.  I am adding the directing team of Powell and Pressburger to this list, because they could very well prove the dynamic duo that are in possession of two films in my top ten film discoveries of the last year when I compose such a list on Letterboxd in the upcoming months.  While quite familiar with them years ago, I have only started to chip away at much of their collective works in the past year, one being the absolutely perfect The Red Shoes.  However, it is not this film that moved me in a new cinematic way, but was instead A Matter of Life and Death (aka Stairway to Heaven) which helped me to understand new cinematic conventions and exactly how powerful a shift one can evoke simply by moving between color and black and white.  As such, stepping into their 1951 film The Tales of Hoffman was initially more of a checklist activity that happened to coincide with my month of musicals than an actual desire, thinking that it would not even come close to A Matter of Life and Death.  While this is true, because the former is traipsing around in top ten films of all time territory for me, The Tales of Hoffman is still an absolutely exception and realized work of art.  I found myself yelling expletives at the screen not out of disdain, but out of earnest confusion as to how such magic could be achieved and how even two directors could deliver such consistency for a two hour film.  This is the magic of the moviegoing experience so many speak of and wax poetic about in interviews and text.  This film was ahead of its time and frankly is still quite ahead of its time.  Nothing works on the visceral viewer quite like the lavish, lush landscapes of a Powell and Pressburger musical.  Nothing.

The Tales of Hoffman is a pseudo-omnibus film in that it is a collection of short narratives all centering around the literary figure of Hoffman (Robert Rounseville).  This man, a poet of sorts navigates the spaces of various tales as a poet and observer to some rather curious occurrences, the first taking place in the laboratory of scientist and engineer of sorts.  In this laboratory the scientist is noted for his ability to create automatons that replicate human movement and behavior, having particular success with the Olympia (Moira Sheerer) whose lifelike movements become a thing of longing for various persons.  Indeed, when donning a special pair of glasses the person looking at the various automatons, including Olympia come to realize that they replicate human behavior on far more than a marionette level.  The second story centers on the travels of Hoffman through Venice where he meats a sultry courtesan named Giulietta (Ludmilla Tchérina).  The bejeweled woman while incredibly attractive and clearly curious about Hoffman, becomes indifferent to his ways when she comes to understand him as nothing more than a trickster, emphasized by his attempts to fabricate various jewels out of colored candle wax.  The final and perhaps most evocative of the three stories centers on the relationship between Antonia Crespel (Ann Ayars) a sickly opera singer who simply wants to be with her partner who is once again Hoffman.  However, the love is made to be stifled by Antonia's father and stickler for formalities and class separation Spalanzi (Léonide Massine) thus making their relationship an impossibility.  These stories are, of course, all woven together by the narration of Hoffman who explains to those listening to, or rather attending, the ballet that the stories are all intended to represent aspects of a ballet dancer named Stella (Moira Sheerer) who is decidedly his muse.  Yet when, one of Hoffman's advisors and confidants explains that this is problematic, doubled by Stella's own refusal of his advances, Hoffman is left with nothing more to do than to sulk at a bar that fills with young patrons.

Meta.  It is a thing that I will admit to throwing around rather hap hazardously, if not outwardly ironically here on the blog, suggesting that films often take on a meta level that is, if anything, purely incidental.  In regards to The Tales of Hoffman, however, this is meta-narrative, meta-cinema and probably other forms of meta that I could not even begin to unpack.  Tales of Hoffman, is already setting itself up as an adaptation, borrowing form Jacques Offenbach's opera of the same name, however, it becomes fascinating when one considers that the story is about a group of people attending an opera, wherein Hoffman is the focus of the story, yet within the very focus of the story, it is Hoffman telling a further series of stories.  The viewer of this film is asked to watch a film about a group of people watching a play about a man telling stories.  That might be as deep a layer of metafiction as I have encountered and one would assume that such structures would be stacked in such a way as to cause the narrative to implode within itself.  Not in the world of Powell and Pressburger, however, this sort of narrative richness is their expertise and one becomes so aware of the sense of scale both in its grandness, emphasized during the Antonia sequence, when the two lovers are attempting to unite and an image of theatre seating is layered to appear as though it is celestial in composition, only to be double by a kaleidoscopic image of the scowling Spalanzi.  Yet the sense of grandiosity is not the real fascination here, as it is a thing that is often achieved to great ends within cinema.  The real curiosity her comes in the way of Powell and Pressburger devoting an equal level of attention to the most minor of spaces. Indeed, the already expansive narrative delves into the microscopic by allowing the etchings on the side of beer steins to take on their own dance number, moving into the space of art in such a simple way as to show and interconnectedness that New Age thinkers could only hope to express in their faux-intellecutal sermons.  Few films move through space in such a moving way, but even fewer do so with such exuberance.

Key Scene:  For all the real ballet going on in this film, the marionette sequence is absolutely stunning.

This film is sadly OOP and while I have been lucky enough to attain a Criterion disc copy, I would suggest finding a means with which to rent it as its price tag is steadily rising.

Pay No Attention To The Man Behind The Curtain: The Wizard Of Oz (1939)

I have on occasion tackled some of the grander works in cinema, hoping to shed some semblance of light upon their established state as classics.  Usually, I flail to come up with anything profound or new to offer to the equation or spend much of my time convincing those who read this blog that revisiting this work is well worth their time, particularly since things like King Kong and Singin' In The Rain are often overlook primarily because both moderate film fans and cinephiles alike think they know the film and do not bother to engage with it in any way.  Other works like Citizen Kane or 2001: A Space Odyssey are constantly reproached because while you do know how great the film if, it always manages to be considerably better upon the second, third or tenth encounter.  These are the films that grow as one grows in their ability to understand and consume film.  I would not suggest that this is impossible for the other films already mentioned but it works on a different layer.  I would absolutely place The Wizard of Oz with the likes of Citizen Kane or 2001: A Space Odyssey, particularly since I knew going in that it was already a phenomenal work one that captivated me as a young child and at that point in time the film was only 60 years old or so.  Now reaching its 75th anniversary, the stunning bluray upgrade I was able to watch affords it a new layer of interpretation, engagement and genuinely equal cinematic escapism as the work, undoubtedly, did when first in theaters.  Like Citizen Kane the narrative here is so precise and honed that even in its surprising brevity it manages to sweep viewers into the real and the fantastical simultaneously and much like 2001, the cinematic achievements both in scope and execution lead even an expert in cinematic trickery to wonder exactly how such shots were attained.  It is a concoction of perfection that exists in a space of maybe ten or twenty films to date, thus helping to explain its wide influence and adoration from noted cult directors to art house cinephiles with pretentious palettes.  Simply put to not love The Wizard of Oz is by its very extension to not love cinema itself.

The Wizard of Oz centers on the young wide-eyed Dorothy (Judy Garland) who wants nothing more than to assure the safety of her dog Toto from the animosity and outrage of a local woman who blames it for the entire downfall of society.  Despite having the love of her Auntie Em (Clara Blandick) and Uncle Henry (Charlie Grapewin) and the adoration of the local farmers, Dorothy is distraught at the possibility that one person could lead to her losing her beloved dog and flees to the outskirts of town to avoid such occurrence, there meeting Professor Marvel (Frank Morgan) a trickster who helps Dorothy to believe in the future that she will avoid such troubles.  Yet on the way home, Dorothy is caught in a tornado, one that knocks her unconscious and leads her on a trip via her house to a magical land full of color, munchkins and a variety of witches both good and evil, most notably The Good Witch Glinda (Billie Burke) and her counterpart The Wicked Witch of the West (Margaret Hamilton) who takes a striking resemblance to the same woman who attempted to rid Dorothy of Toto.  Informed that Dorothy might be able to return home if she follows a yellow brick road to Emerald City wherein she will find The Wizard of Oz who will be capable of helping her to return to Kansas where she belongs.  Along the way, Dorothy makes a few friends in The Scarecrow (Ray Bolger) who hopes to find himself some brains, The Tin Man (Jack Haley) looking for a heart and The Cowardly Lion (Bert Lahr) who only hopes to attain courage.  Together the group hopes to collectively find help from The Wizard.  Upon arrival they are given the spa treatment, before meeting The Wizard, a floating head projection that explains he will gladly help if the group is capable of taking down The Wicked Witch of the West and returning with her broom.  Meeting up with flying monkeys, and a variety of other trickeries at the hands of the Wicked Witch, the group is eventually successful if only by accident.  Upon returning they are initially denied aid by The Wizard, but when they discover his projection to be a false extension and merely an operation via mechanics they demand his end of the bargain.  Giving the group items that signify their desires, while offering Dorothy a ride home in his hot air balloon all seems ideal.  Although Dorothy misses the ride, only to be told by Glinda of an alternative means home via her earlier attained ruby slippers.  Upon performing the suggested task, Dorothy is able to return to Kansas where she recollects her wild experiences to a some what skeptical group, save for the seemingly knowing Professor Marvel.

There are tons of ways to talk about this film, some from purely historical approaches, while others could solely stand this up against its literary inspiration.  However, I am going to go in the same direction I always go when talking about Judy Garland films while also extending it outward to consider the whole film, and that is the notion of performed bodies.  Take for example, Dorothy herself whose femininity comes at odds with the other witches upon arrival in Oz.  Here her prettiness is a thing to be admired by the munchkins while also being vilified by the Wicked Witch who sees it in contrast to her wickedness, verified in the classic scene of her melting.  Of course, the other bodies in question include the Scarecrow who is a literal manifestation of the straw man argument of philosophy, one that is built up but really contains no tangible  or logical grounding.  The body of the scarecrow is lacking in brains, or more accurately a means with which to verify such knowledge, whereas the Tin Man wants a heart, his performance of "maleness" in that he is allegedly a man made of tin is one of hard exterior that is so lacking in the emotive as to become frozen in immobility, only made to move again by oil, which must be applied by others.  However, the most interesting character becomes The Cowardly Lion whose organic composition suggests him to be similar to human, although his cowardliness is somehow more tied to a performance of his lionesque identity.  He is expected to be brutish and mean, although he is far more demure and passive.  The certain accentuation Lahr adds to the character goes along way in suggesting the Cowardly Lion to not be cowardly per se, but non-normative in his performance of masculinity, or to go a step further one of gayness.  It is fascinating that the means with which the three bodies become reinscribed with their desires is through signifiers, one receiving a diploma and another a badge.  These are additions to their performed selves that are externalized, but not internal.  As is the case for the tin man receive a heart pendant that is also a clock, the implications this carries for what represents emotion as being temporal are astounding and fascinating, a statement that speaks to the confounding but engaging nature of the film overall.

Key Scene:  It is all good, but the actual moving onto the yellow brick road musical number has such an audacious scope and grandeur that when it succeeds, I actually felt myself gasping in amazement.  Mind you I have seen this film before, but never truly appreciated the impossibility at play.

Bluray. Get it.  NOW.

Don't Touch It, It's Just Some Accounting: Office Killer (1997)

It is quite near impossible to find works directed by women in media, let alone a film that is decided entrenched within genre.  Having just read the highly informative and critical essays "Woman With a Camera" and "Woman With a Camera: Redux" I decided to slightly shift my plans for the month and remove an anthology horror film in favor of Office Killer, a horror/slasher directed by a woman.  What makes Office Killer particularly worth consideration is that it is not only a work within the horror genre that is indeed female directed, but the director is none other than Cindy Sherman the prolific and quite fascinating feminist photographer whose series Film Stills, already play upon the conventions of filmmaking at what it means to be a woman both in front of and behind the camera.  Indeed, the set up of the film is very much something that exists in narrative comparison to her earlier photography, using the camera to record events in a very personal way, while also being hyper-aware of the manner in which the camera also serves as a tool of voyeuristic looking, even when in the hands of a female director.  One could look at the IMDB rating for this film and think that it is a film far short of enjoyable or rather bad, but I would mount much of the rejection of this film to its losing out financially by being directed by a woman, something that is inexplicably still off-putting to cinema goers who seem intent on still wholly supporting the male-oriented framework of directorship.  While Kathryn Bigelow is far from the ideal signifier of feminist filmmaking, actually quite far from it, she still serves as an example of the issue, in that despite winning an Oscar and being afforded her own degree of auteur status, she is still less sought out by moviegoers, even considering how profound and well-executed Zero Dark Thirty is a piece of cinema.  There is also another issue at play with Office Killer in that it does not subtly subvert the horror genre, but outright rejects it allowing its protagonist to also be the point of threat in the film, suggesting a wild degree of radical feminism within the context of the film, never once branching into a point of pity and curiosity instead representing the individuals in questions break from sanity to be an understandable action, merely a rebellion against a barrage of socially oppressive forces.

Office Killer is rather straightforward in its title and quite indicative in regards to what occurs, however, the story does have a few layers allowing for it to flow comfortably and succinctly.  The film centers on an office that produces a monthly magazine, facing yet another downsizing, this time leading to employees not being fired, but considerably cut down on hours.  The workers, excluding the big wigs like accountant Norah Reed (Jeanne Tripplehorn) and head editor Kim Poole (Molly Ringwald) seem comforted even in the dire times, Norah engaging in small scale embezzlement with company money, while Kim engages in romantic acts with a higher up member of the company expecting it to assure her safety.  In contrast is Dorine Douglas (Carol Kane) a slightly above middle age woman who has spent sixteen years of her life at the company without an ounce of respect or advancement.  During a night of late work, expected to finish an editorial, despite being cut back on days allowed to work, Dorine and and coworker Gary (David Thorton) attempt to complete the task, despite some awkward sexual advances on Gary's part, yet when an issue arises with some of the computers and Gary gets fatally electrocuted, Dorine hesitates in calling in medical help, instead choosing to drag Gary's corpse back to her home, where she hides him in the basement from her cats and invalid mother.  The narrative then reveals that this is far from Dorine's first experience with a violent death, suggesting that she witnessed, an directly led to what resulted in, her father drive his car into a power line.  This act of passive murder was in revolt, viewers are led to believe, to her father's sexual advances on his daughter.  Regardless, this reawakening of death leads to Dorine systematically planning a means to take out her competition in the office, primarily Kim who constantly berates Dorine, as well as Norah when she eventually realizes that it is her thieving of the company that has led to her underemployment.  Also, mastering the use of email, Dorine is able to pass as various members of the office, tricking higher ups into believing that she is solely responsible for the success of the recent issue.  Accruing a considerable amount of corpses in her basement, Dorine creates an idyllic space in her basement, clearly intended to return to a simpler time in her youth, complete with her mother now dead eating cookies and friends watching TV late into the night.  Given the non-threatening nature of Dorine, the narrative closes with her looking for a new job and a narration warning that she might be emerging at an office near any one of the people viewing the film.

It is this confrontation with the viewer without directly subverting the gaze that makes Cindy Sherman's involvement with Office Killer particularly intriguing.  Indeed, the opening of the film notes that the gaze is a thing well-established, blocking the cameras ability to completely objectify bodies by placing props in the line of view, or by using such wild angles, which constantly, change as to never provide viewers with time to situate their gaze. However, this is only a minimal element to the film, instead, Sherman whose visual ability is undeniable also excels here at drawing out the narrative forms of oppression and Dorine's breaking away from this internalized identity as lesser.  This emerges first in her moving from a woman who constantly keeps her head down, literally focused on her work, ignoring the negative views directed at her by coworkers, yet when she is made aware of the lesser status she is viewed under when receiving the cutback letter she becomes cognizant of the bodies in her office responsible for her exploitation, whether it be the unwarranted sexual advances of Gary or the matriarchal bargaining with patriarchy to achieve a degree of exploitative power, occurring on the part of Virginia Wingate (Barbara Sukowa).  It is a literal destruction of the hegemonic power structures, one could argue that Dorine realizes that her assumption that by playing into patriarchal gender roles and established norms she would eventually make it to be illogical.  At this point the film becomes violent in the sense that it undermines patriarchy in a very visceral manner, at times by accident, while at other very purposeful, but is also worth noting that not all of the rejection occurs within the space of violent engagements, indeed, Dorine is able to appropriate technology, a thing traditionally deemed masculine, and use it to undermine her oppressors.  She accrues the bodies, not incapable of objectifying her and making them part of her new post-patriarchal world, although there is something to be said about having the group watch white snow on the screen.  In this reading the only thing that could be deemed remotely problematic would be the murder of the Girl Scouts, which while troublesome play into ideas of infanticide, not out of spite but out of fear for the girls' future in a world of oppression, not justifiable, but certainly understandable coming from Dorine's framework of the world.

Key Scene:  There are a couple of segments where Sherman just lets Carol Kane perform for the camera in strokes of genius, two being her sharpening of pencils, as well as the hand tapping scene, which is only understood when seen.

This is a hidden gem on Netflix right now and it could use some love and a bit more word of mouth, for it is a rather brilliant piece of feminist filmmaking.

I See Dead People: The Sixth Sense (1999)

The name M. Night Shyamalan has become quite the running joke in contemporary Hollywood, indeed a name that once carried weight in the thriller community has been relegated to mocking and outright avoidance, in so much as his most recent film Another Earth went quite out of its way to assure avoid noting that it was directed by Shyamanlan, wherein during his height as a filmmaker he could earn viewers purely by attaching his name to a project, even as just a producer.  This may seem almost impossible now given the string of terrible movies from the director, but when one revisits Unbreakable, or even Signs they can see an auteur at work who has been allowed free reigns in making directorial choices, even if some of them were less evocative than others.  However, there was a decided phenomenon surrounding his 1999 work The Sixth Sense, one that became so evasive in popular culture that everybody was aware of the spoiler well before encountering the film.  Admittedly I had never encountered the film in its entirety until yesterday when I finally, with a degree of hesitation, popped it into my Bluray player.  Initially, a little hesitant to embrace the cinematic elements of the film, I realized that there was something wonderful, in a completely eerie sense, at work.  This realization, would, however, not have come were I not completely aware of the reveal at the end of the film, which is made somewhat nauseatingly clear throughout the film.  It is not the on-the-nose ways in which I find the film particularly well-executed, but more so in regards to the more subtle elements.  For example, there are some notable choices with the cinematography and mise-en-scene that pay off in major ways by the end of the film, and much to my surprise Bruce Willis delivers a rather nuanced performance that calls attention to the major issue his character is facing throughout the film.  Of course, an argument could be made that these moments are far from the credit of Shyamalan and this might well prove true, but it is precisely this combination of factors that make for a somewhat timeless thriller, which might be ripe for rediscovery in about twenty years, who knows maybe Shyamalan will have found his footing again, or he will have made so many missteps as to become completely irrelevant.

The Sixth Sense begins with Dr. Malcolm Crowe (Bruce Willis) indifferently celebrating the receiving of an award for his work in child psychology alongside his wife Anna (Olivia Williams).  When they return to their room after talking, they are stunned to find one of Malcolm's former patients half-clothed in their bathroom, blaming Malcolm for his societal issues.  Frustrated the young man shoots Malcolm before killing himself.  The narrative then jumps forward a year to show Malcolm undertaking a new case with a young boy named Cole (Haley Joel Osment), who suffers from incredibly intense social anxiety and depression issues following the divorce of his parents.  Malcolm, hoping to use this a point of redemption after what he deems a failure with his former suicidal patient dumps everything into his helping Cole, much to the frustration of Anna, with whom Malcolm is continually growing distant.  Yet, when Malcolm makes a breakthrough with Cole, who has been previously incapable of help from other psychiatrists he feels obligated to go above and beyond his duty as a psychiatrist, particularly since it is revealed that Cole believes that he can see dead people wandering about the world, in his mind unable to realize that they are dead and thus going through routines to fix wrongs.  Malcolm is decidedly suspicious of this claim, but, nonetheless, follows Cole through his visions, particularly brutal ones involving images of hanging bodies and violent gun accidents.  When, Cole begins describing in great detail individuals' most repressed secrets, Malcolm begins to take his claims seriously, even agreeing to drive Cole to a some what far off funeral to help a young girl correct her wrongful death, one she managed to videotape.  This endeavor causes suspicion in Anna who has become involved with her shop hand, as well as Cole's mother Lynn (Toni Colette) who has become frustrated by ungrounded claims that she is partaking in child abuse, as well as fear for Cole and his, in her eyes, unhealthy attachment to his dead grandmother.  When Cole finally explains in great detail what he sees, a series of events paired together make Malcolm realize that not only is his attachment to Cole a unique one, but his growing distance from his wife, might be predicated not upon this attachment to his patient, but a very tangible removal from the physical world.

I want to note that there are some problems of dated choices in the film, but one could make that claim for most every "great" movie from 1999, perhaps the most important year in film since 1976.  A few moments of slow motion filmmaking and sickeningly heteronormative narrative aside, The Sixth Sense manages to create an ambiance of otherworldliness without ever making it frustratingly clear.  Again, I came at this film already aware of the reveal, so my ability to pick up some of these directorial choices was indeed predicated upon this and I could not speak for a completely blind viewing of this film, although I would be quite intrigued to see a legitimate cinephile go into this film blind as to its narrative and reveal, although that is probably impossible.  However, I digress, I want to hype the cinematography of this film above anything else, particularly the way in which Tak Fujimoto makes the "non-human" entities of the film pop out against the mildly gritty posh urban backdrop that is downtown Philadelphia.  The film lights Willis in such a way that his eyes become piercing black orbs, indeed quite spectral in their essence and the use of the now iconic Willis scowl draws even more attention to this idea.  Never one to layer on the performance, what Willis brings to Malcolm's character through a barebones performance is an individual who has lost the ability to express himself physically to another person, which is indeed true of a narrative where he is dead and incapable of communicating in any way beyond changing the temperature of the room or through influences of memories.  Also, the manner with which the film is edited allows for a very, very subtle breaking of the linear narrative, at times even the most minimal of jump zooms noting the difference between the space of the human figures and those of the ghosts, undoubtedly, a purposeful choice on the part of Shyamalan who has never failed at creating suspense.  Of course, this film is also quite scary, although it does lull viewers into its intensity, much like Signs much of the film is spent anticipating the presence of a scare and while there are really only one or two examples of this in The Sixth Sense when they do occur they prove to be almost too intense to handle, an execution of horror that has only really occurred with perfection in The Exorcist

Key Scene:  The ghost reveal in Cole's tent will scare you, if it does not then you have a nervous system made of iron.

I cannot defend this film enough and considering that it is pennied out on DVD, grabbing a copy is a given.  If not from Amazon it is readily available at pretty much any place that sells media in its various forms.

So...How About Some Coffee: Ninja 3: The Domination (1984)

The kung fu marathon, in its inception, included me glancing at my seemingly unending pile of "to be watched eventually" films which are usually things that I have a mild interest in or figure, I might need to be aware of for future projects.  It also includes things that are passed my ways as gifts, recommendations, or in a very recent case a benefit of providing some research for a documentary.  As such, getting around to these films can seem like a chore, often times proving to be middle of the road films that do not fall in a particular way, while in other instances, as was the case recently with The Woodsman and Finding Forrester, proving to be cinematic gems that would never have come into my radar were they not in the pile I just mentioned.  Ninja III is such a film, in so much, as I had never seen  its prequels, nor as I aware of its existence, until it was passed along to me as a partial payment for some work I did for a friend.  As such, it was one of the first things I sat aside for this marathon, because I knew that its prominent featuring of ninjas, at least in the plot description and title, would be more than enough to suffice for inclusion in a month devoted to the martial arts genre.  Shout Factory is clearly marketing Ninja III as a bad-movie that happens to be embraced for its absurdity and in this aspect it is hard to deny, particularly considering some of the narrative choices, as well as some grade A terrible acting choices.  I, however, assume that given its non-studio status that Ninja III did not possess a very high production budget.  This is an aspect where the film really shines, particularly, since the cinematography is often composed in a manner that gives scenes a pictorial nature, playing heavily with shadowing to add ambiance.  Mind you, this is a film about a dead ninja possessing a woman's body and making her into a killer, one would not really expect anything in the way of soundtrack, editing and filmmaking to matter, instead all reflecting the same issues as those shown in the bad writing and acting.  Ninja III is a well-made movie, that just happens to be really ill-conceived in the elements that least reflect the "architects" of the frame.  Had the director given a second thought to demanding more out of his performers and had those same performers questioned their character's motives even slightly, Ninja III could have move from terrible to slightly above average.  Of course, this is not all bad because in its existing as a terrible film it has obtained a new life that is often not afforded to better films that are decidedly middle-of-the-road.

Ninja III begins with a ninja entering a cave and grabbing an assortment of what one would assume to be the assassin's tools, ranging from katanas to the most extensive variety of shuriken imaginable.  One would assume with such a setup that the ninja will be the film's protagonist, but this proves to be far from the case when only moments later the ninja shows up during a round of golf, quickly killing his guards, the women with him and the man, only to result in his being chased down by the police.  The police with their various cars and even a helicopter prove no match for this ninja, as he destroys all in his path.  Even after being repeatedly gunned down by a set of police, the ninja manages to escape, at which point he runs into Christie (Lucinda Dickie) a woman who works as a telecommunications engineer.  Realizing he is wounded Christie attempts to help, only to have the ninja flail about in an attempt to attack her, yet in his last words he appears to cast something upon her in desperation before finally keeling over and dying.  Thrown off by the entire endeavor, Christie heads to the police station after reporting the dead body, where one cop, Billy Secord (Jordan Bennett) moves out of his job as a officer and immediately begins hitting on Christie.  Initially, Christie is dismissive of his advances, yet when she has a bizarre vision of him being involved in the shooting of the ninja she agrees to begin dating him.  After some unusual misuse of tomato juice and a lot of body hair, the two become a couple, despite Christie continuing to have visions of the various officers involved in the killing of the ninja, many of whom seem to smoke cigars while on the job.  Concerned for Christie and worried as the members of his police force begin disappearing, Billy takes Christie to a spiritual advisor in the Asian area of their town, who explains that she has indeed been possessed by the dead ninja, thus explaining her quest for revenge, offering to perform a sort of exorcism of the spirit, although warning that it is an incredibly dangerous.  Furthermore, considering the dangerous nature of ninjas, a warrior named Yamada (Sho Kosugi) arrives, aiding Billy and Christie in the endeavor and fighting off the nina's resurrected spirit.  However, given that it primarily occupied Christie, her involvement in the slaying of the spirt is much more hands on than Yamada might have expected.

I could do a critical reading of the film, but it would almost become flippant and mocking of the work and its clearly misguided attempts at being a cool film in terms of characters and narrative, which in most cases fails miserably.  Furthermore, while it does bend gender assumptions a bit throughout, it almost seems coincidental as opposed to well reasoned and revolutionary.  Instead, I want to consider a few of the cinematic choices that make the film sound from a production aspect, since it will likely never receive mention in contrast to the film's terrible elements.  Firstly, the opening shot of Ninja III depicts the villain stepping into a cave and cinematographer Hanania Baer situates the camera inside the shadows of the cave, thus allowing the figure to exist in a cloud of dusty light as he moves into the darkness of the space, nicely juxtaposing his movement from a suit and assumed simplicity, to the villainy of his black ninja suit.  This was clearly a production choice that looks absolutely stunning, almost as though it could have fit into one of The Dark Knight films, perhaps the third of the franchise which could have benefitted greatly from the addition.  The second element that is worth considering is the scene in which Christie becomes fully possessed.  The scene shows her playing a video game, which appears to consist of breaking up bar fights, nonetheless, when she steps away and returns moments later, the arcade begins smoking and the screen explodes releasing a series of laser in alternating patterns.  The lasers wash over Christie's face as she stands frozen, making for a visually stunning moment that could have been played up to a lot more absurdity, as is the case with her exorcism scene later.  I would posit that the difference between the two, undoubtedly, comes in writing.  Perhaps the possession scene was left open to the art director, while the exorcism involved dialogue and therefore described action.  There are great composition and editing tricks throughout whether it be the surprisingly well-done helicopter explosion early on, or the addition of action occurring in the background that are also worth considering.  I only call attention to them in this case, because they stand to be lost in the shadow of tomato juice-stained leotards.

Key Scene:  The best scene is easily the arcade possession, however, the wildest scene has to be either the hot tub assassination or the tomato juice seduction.

I mean, this movie is well made...really well made, but it is also not good in terms of story and dialogue.  If you want b-movie ninjas in an 80's setting go for Miami Connection...that is a certified gem.  Also, fun fact: Breakin' and Breakin' 2: Electric Boogaloo, both of which star Lucinda Dickie were released in the same year as this, leotards and dancing were at their height in 1984

Get Up Lazarus, You're Resurrected: Tigerland (2000)

I am on a constant search for excellent war movies, particularly since given their heightened states of tension and leaning towards the epic narrative, usually means that the product will at the very least be engaging and even entertaining.  Of course, when I discover particularly enjoyable films within the genre they are usually the ones that take a huge stride in deconstructing some element of war, or in the case of Joel Schumacher's 2000 film completely rejecting the idea of filming war altogether.  In fact, what makes Tigerland a bit distinct from its counterparts is that it never makes it beyond the training fields, yet manages to still include many of the elements of loss and confusion that are prevalent within a warfare riddled nation, particularly the politically fueled and ethically murky engagement that was Vietnam in America.  While this film does rely on Colin Farrell for much of its performance and narrative, it is a bit varying from other war films in that it is occupied by established characters, who are, nonetheless, not the household names their masterful performances might suggest, this is very obvious in the work delivered by both Clifton Collins Jr. and one of my favorite working actors Michael Shannon, whose cameo is beyond awesome, although calling it such would suggest that the man has accrued a heavy degree of star power.  I digress in my adoration for Shannon, but his scene paints a larger picture for the film which looks at the very debasing nature of training for war, one that is hinged loosely on an agreed upon following the rules, although everyone is aware of their absurdity, especially in the face of absolutely certain death in a foreign country.  Shot with a grainy digital handheld camera and edited disjointedly, one wonders if Schumacher's film would not fit perfectly within the canon of Dogme 95, or at the very least borrows heavily from its push for realism, which results in images that either poetic or horrific, even becoming both in rare occasions.  I am aware of people who will discount this as a war film because it does not have the sort of sweeping grandiose elements of the classics, but where those movies lavish in spectacle, Tigerland counters with a very real consideration of war and humanity.

Tigerland is set at the back end of Vietnam, at a moment when it was quite obvious that success was impossible and that the continual training of soldiers would result in more unnecessary deaths on both sides.  Realizing this one soldier Private Bozz (Colin Farrell) takes it upon himself to become the guy who knows all the tricks and legal means with which to get out of the army, serving as a sort of boatman on the river of Thames who takes people from the hell of training back to their lives which by contrast seem angelic.  These acts are of course heavily condemned by his superiors thus leading to his being constantly berated and demoted in hopes that he will eventually just succumb to the reality that he will end up in Vietnam.  Bozz adamantly refuses this fact and takes to undermining his superiors while also picking out soldiers who he knows are better suited at home.  One of Bozz's first undertakings allows him to help a young southern man return his wife and children on the grounds of hardship.  His helpful actions earn him the respect and trust of another member of the war Jim Paxton (Matthew Davis) who has joined the war after a fallout with a woman during college.  Bozz makes matters worse by constantly contradicting his appointed squad leader Miter (Clifton Collins, Jr.) who becomes the victim of insults and condemnation by drill sergeants who blame him for the insubordination of Bozz, even though it is made quite clear that they are displacing their own frustration upon the helpless Miter. Eventually, Bozz explains to Miter his purpose and through this explanation allows for Miter to obtain a discharge on basis of psychological issues.  While enemies in the higher ranks are obvious, Bozz also makes enemies with the racist and violent Wilson (Shea Whigham) who due to his own psychological breakdown attempts to pull a gun on Bozz and Paxton, an act for which they attempt to get him court marshaled.  While Bozz has done his best to avoid going to Vietnam he inevitably takes the next step and begins training, along with Paxton, in Tigerland, which is describe as the home front equivalent of Vietnam.  It is there that the two realize Wilson has indeed been allowed to stay in the army despite his psychosis, leading to one final shootout, where Bozz takes the opportunity to wound Paxton just enough to not hurt him, but allow for him to avoid being sent overseas.  Bozz himself is sent to Vietnam, and seems quite calm about his fate, only demanding that Paxton never write about him and forget about his presence altogether, although the closing voice over suggest that Bozz's reputation takes on almost mythic qualities.

It begs to be asked whether it is even possible to describe a film that never leaves the foot of a training camp as a proper war film.  Of course, the training flick is a staple of war, whether it be the comedic films of World War II or something more recent like Stripes.  However, these films often have a noticeable degree of comedy and light-heartedness about them since the characters shown are never really experience war.  Tigerland takes its style more from the world of Kubrick's Full Metal Jacket or Ridley Scott's G.I. Jane and argues that in a time of warfare, the haunting experience and psychological breakdown occurs far before stepping foot in the war zone, however, those two films do indeed extend beyond to consider the actual war, therefore adding the layer of reality to the fear and rage that had manifested itself up until that point.  While it is acknowledged that Bozz does eventually step foot in Vietnam this occurrence is never visually verified and at the point in which this is explained the narrative has become Paxton's who also never steps foot in Vietnam.  I would posit that the reason this works with such fluidity and narrative cohesion is almost entirely a result of the particularly infamous nature of Vietnam, then and now.  The soldiers in the film are all aware of how terrible the situation is in Vietnam and were, for the most part, drafted involuntarily.  Their respective anger and paranoia is not so much of having to fight for their country, but, more so, a result of knowing they will be doing so with assured futility.  Where this film then extends beyond just claiming that Vietnam was a lost cause, is the post-Vietnam awareness of how terribly veterans were treated by the country who viewed them as child murders and rapists, completely ignoring that their engagements were forced.  While characters like Wilson and the various drill instructors serve as the antagonists within the narrative, viewers cannot help but remember that nobody wants to be in the situation and any sort of reminder of its absurdity is only a reminder of their imminent demise.  This realization helps to explain why Bozz is such a threat, because unlike Bozz who is attempting to destroy all things in a mindless rage, Bozz manages to get all to think about how complacent they are within their own down fall.  Bozz rejects the war, he rejects the training for war, and attempts to hide it in indifference, when in fact he seems to care far more than any other person in the film, both about the sanity of hope, as well as about ending war both physically and metaphorically.

Key Scene:  Michael Shannon explaining the benefits of battery shock torture is next-level acting.

This is one of the greater war films of this still burgeoning century and is cheap to get obtain.  I highly recommend that you get a copy.

I Write On Water What I Dare Not Say: To The Wonder (2013)

It was nearly a month ago when I first watched Terrence Malick's most recent offering to the world of cinema, running out of my way to view what I knew would be an extraordinary work.  Sure it does not stand close to his giant works like The Tree of Life or The Thin Red Line, but even a lesser Malick films proves invigorating, challenging and deeply moving on a level most filmmakers can only obtain once in their careers, which span a set of films that are ten times the size of this art house favorite.  Again, I watched it nearly a month ago and put a review on the back burner in light of the western marathon that I just completed.  Usually there is a week or so window in which my waiting to write a review will prove detrimental to being able to provide anything close to a legitimate reflection and, it should be no surprise, that To the Wonder proved to be the major exception.  Far more condensed than earlier Malick works, this film still manages to tackle some of the deepest questions of humanity, particularly focusing on the way one seeks meaning in a world that is noticeably and, to some degree, purposefully destructive.  I was quite hesitant to get excited about this film because of the heavy backlash it seemed to be receiving from well-established critics who referred to it as being "Malick making a film that another person would make as an homage to Malick," and while I do agree that it gets much more introspective and wandering in its visual composition, one should remember that it has the very purposeful name of To the Wonder, suggesting a very real quest for something beyond and the Malick camera manages to really focus on this journey this time around, even making a decrepit building and a Sonic Drive-In take on ethereal and transcendental qualities.  I would boldly posit that a lot of the hesitation and dismissal of this newest Malick film has something to do with its decidedly Christian narrative, which led to some self-imposed alienation by the generally liberal minded film critic.  I myself am nothing close to Christian, indeed identifying with atheism as a worldview.  Of course, that does not mean that I should dismiss something with such an earnest message and engagement.  After all The Passion of Joan of Arc is a awe-inducing experience and it is about as Christian based as things come.  Malick's To the Wonder is a work concerned with Christian Existentialism and one well worth encountering regardless of the religious framework with which one identifies, because well done cinema transcends all presuppositions.

As is the case with many Malick films there is no one central figure, but, instead; a group of individuals who sort of interact between one another, at times in the same literal space, but always in the same metaphysical one.  The first major characters are the romantically involved couple of Neil (Ben Affleck) whose recent trip to Europe has afforded him an opportunity to meet Marina (Olga Kurylenko) a recent divorcee who is worried about how her falling in love with Neil will affect her ability to raise her daughter Tatiana (Tatiana Chiline).  Even though this is a factor, the two fall wildly for each other on the stormy hills and rocky beaches of Normandy only to move back to rural America, where both Marina and Tatiana experience decided culture shock.  This change of scenery is only heightened by the diminishing feelings of romance between Marina and Neil leading to Marina seeking help from a local Catholic priest named Father Quintana (Javier Bardem) who himself is going through a particular crisis of faith, admitting through the classic Malick voice over that he is uncertain about the feeling of God's presence.  When Marina and Neil end things, she returns to France while Neil, after losing his job due to an environmental controversy, rekindles a relationship with a old fling named Jane (Rachel McAdams) and helps her rebuild her failing farm only to realize that the relationship will not work, proving a fortunate change as Marina returns to Oklahoma where she and Neil get married in a civil union.  Meanwhile, Father Quintana fruitlessly continues his quest to find God's presence even navigating the most dire and troublesome of communities hoping to find beauty only to be told by others that it is real, most noticeably in a conversation he has with a church janitor about warmth of light and the presence of God's love.  It is suggested that Quintana never truly finds what he is looking for much to his disappointment.  Meanwhile, Marina takes her turn becoming indifferent in her relationship with Neil leading to her infidelity with a carpenter (Charles Baker) an engagement that Neil eventually discovers and is enraged by, initially leaving her on the side of the road, only to pick her up moments later.  Neil seeks his own solace in Father Quintana who takes him on his trip to visit with the sick and poor, leading to Neil providing his own forgiveness towards Marina.  Yet the two still separate and Marina is last shown returning to the grounds of Normandy as she catches a flickering light in the distance, perhaps that of the presence each character seems so desperately to seek.

I am not wholly familiar with the tenants of Christian existentialism, although I am aware that it is almost entirely credited to the work of Søren Kierkegaard and essentially argues that humans as creatures live a vacant and lacking life that is inherently meaningless until they are able to find a purpose, which to Christian existentialists must necessarily exist within the framework of a Christian ideology, one that is also very much hearkening back to an older, almost antiquated version of Christianity, that is not concerned with proselytizing, nor is it as derisive and condemning of those whose actions go against biblical decree.  Instead it simply existed as a means to help people deal with their questions of suffering, loss and injustice as it relates to personal worth, as well as a larger societal picture.  Malick's To the Wonder is very much a film about this Christian existentialist issue and I think it very much has its hand on the pulse of some of the issues that still exist within the philosophical framework.  The clear example of the issue arises with Father Quintana who is ostensibly as respectable of an individual as a person can find, going out of his way to preach to those with nothing, while also engaging with people in a manner that suggests genuine human concern.  Of course, he has committed to the ideas of Christianity, but his interpersonal feelings still seem to struggle with the larger questions of the presence of a figure.  Ultimately, it asks the question about whether or not commitment to an ideal will prove enough to mellow the burning quest for certainty and verification of a higher purpose and meaning.  Furthermore, the narrative extends beyond simply suggesting that understanding can come through a direct embracing of the Christian ideal, instead, arguing that an embracing of love in its most positive sense could also result in an outright transcendence of suffering, one that is based on forgiveness and compassion, or in actions that would be Christlike, without simultaneously being Christian.  This furthers the issues of Christian existentialism by positing that the same sort of happiness could be obtained with a humanist worldview detached from God per se.  Yet the most unusual moment in regards to Christian existentialism seems to come through Marina who is never actively seeking its presence, but, nonetheless, seems to find it in the closing moments of the film, arguably adding the very real possibility that the very higher power which Christian existentialism is grounded, transcends even its lofty expectations.

Key Scene:  The last two shots of this film will likely stand as my favorite of the year.  I was not fully moved by the film until that instant and everything came together perfectly and poetically.

I saw this in theaters and it may well prove to be less captivating on a smaller screen.  Nonetheless, I highly suggest you seek it out upon release.

Maybe You'd Be Better Off If They Caught You: Lonely Are The Brave (1962)

It was not long before the inception of my entire month of westerns that I was made aware of Lonely Are The Brave, which was sold to me as being about "a cowboy trying to live in the modern world," and when I inquired whether or not it was in the same vein as Midnight Cowboy I was told that it was not a urban flick that just happened to have a guy wearing cowboy clothing, but was indeed a western that just happened to exist in the space of modern America.  It is quite coincidental on my viewing order, but terribly pertinent that Lonely Are The Brave was released in the same year as How The West Was Won, because one could make a very grounded argument as to why the former does everything in its power to reject the sort of idyllic, historical longing for the past whereas the latter, while maintaining an equal degree of cinematic scope completely dismisses and literally destroys the possibility.  Directed by David Miller, Lonely Are The Brave is a vision to behold, with its fantastic use of black and white cinematography every image constructed by Philip H. Lathrob could stand as its own singular lesson in frame composition, only made the more captivating by the jagged and chiseled figure that is Kirk Douglas.  Every person involved in this film is clearly going at it with a level of commitment and compassion that is seemingly lost, much like the figure of this narrative, in a milieu of indifference and half-assed attempts to get through whatever task they are faced with.  Despite it breaking out of one of the rather obvious constraints of the genre, Lonely Are The Brave is very much a film that adheres to Western traditionalism where a man's word is his life and the value of a horse is often higher than that of a human life, it is inconceivable to me how this film has not managed to attain a higher cultural status and be placed with the likes of its contemporaries, although it does at its very core defy a genre categorization and much like Charles Laughton's single work masterpiece Night of the Hunter spent a great length of time in obscurity only to reemerge as a one of the most important achievements in the history of cinema.  Lonely Are The Brave has that degree of power and possibility, if only it can continue to be pushed outward from the throughs of the forgotten.

Lonely Are The Brave focuses on Jack Burns (Kirk Douglass) a wandering and roaming work-for-hire ranch hand whose living off the land and travelling by horse is proving from the get go to be incongruous with modern life, evidenced by an early scene when he and his horse, Whiskey, are almost side-swiped by an oncoming car when they unsuccessfully attempt to cross the road.  It is revealed that the only reason Burns has ventured into the modern world is to visit his a friend's wife named Jerry (Gena Rowlands) as well as her son, who is at school upon his arrival.  It is while he is there that Jerry informs Burns that her husband, and his friend, Paul (Michael Kane) has been arrested for aiding illegal immigrants crossing the border, leading to a diatribe on Burns part about the absurdity of blocking people from free movement in every sense.  It is at that point that Burns vows to break into jail in order to help Paul break out a task he undertakes by going to the local bar and hoping to get booked for being drunk, however, after being forced to fight a one-armed man Burns is booked for drunken disorderly conduct, yet his apologetic ways lead the officer on duty to suggest he get a free pass.  Burns knowing that he needs to get into the jail proceeds to attack the officers until he is finally thrown in jail, where he finds Paul, as well as a particularly oppressive guard named Gutierrez (George Kennedy).  After a bout with Gutierrez, Burn and Paul, as well as other inmates proceed to file down a bar and break out, although in the last moments Paul decides to remain jailed, and ride out his sentence, as opposed to forever being a vigilante.  Frustrated, Burns still leaves and after meeting up with Jerry to confess his love takes to the hills to flee to Mexico, which leads to a pursuit by the wily and wit-filled Sheriff Johnson (Walter Matthau) who takes great pride in creating a unstoppable tracking force including cars and helicopters.  Burns, however, continually proves an evasive subject, even using his skills to shoot the helicopter out of the sky and trick Gutierrez with a distraction while he sneaks up behind him and knocks him unconscious.  In the end, after nearly being caught, Burns escapes into the woods and is close to the Mexican border and freedom, only needing to cross a road to make it there, yet this task proves his downfall as an oncoming truck knocks both him and Whiskey off the road.

Lonely Are The Brave by some sort of tribal magic manages to be both incredibly Western as well as decidedly anti-western.  Much of this is directly a result of the figure of Burns who viewers are quickly drawn to with his sort of endearing idealism and defined presence.  He is a figure who would win out in the most intense of classic western shootouts and would have, aside from his jail breaking actions, proved to be an excellent marshall.  Viewers assume this for that small moment when he is in the natural world and void of any threat to modernity.  The moment he steps into a world with technology however, he becomes a foolish figure, one whose idealism is deemed ignorant and misguided, especially his foolish belief that he can break a friend out of prison with little concern for its underlying problem's to both his and his friend's futures.  Similarly, he is foolish enough to assume that some code of gentleman's honor still exists that allows for him to simply ask the instigating one-armed man to stop pestering him and all will be fine, or in the same scene that since he has agreed to fight the man that he should do so with only one hand to assure it is a fair encounter, never mind, that he was not the person who started the bout.  This also emerges in the way he deals with his fleeing to Mexico, which is where the image of Burns becomes convoluted, because on one hand it is worth praising his expertise and ability to move about rocky landscape without little hesitation, even taking an expensive and impending helicopter out of the sky with a set of well place rifle shots.  In a traditional western, or a contemporary action film these acts would be praised as skillful and indicative of adept individual, although figures like this, mostly in an espionage sense, aim to kill.  This is where it becomes anti-western to a degree, because when Burns is given a clear opportunity to end the life of Gutierrez who has already been established as a threat to Burns's life and well beign, he choses to afford him a chance to live partially because of his begging to survive, as well as Burns knowing it would be against an unspoken set of rules to shoot a man from behind the back.  As it stands Lonely Are The Brave depicts the absurdity of attempting to exist between two spaces, while also reminding viewers that a person attempting to live in a liminal median will eventually meet their demise, in some cases by a literal oncoming truck.

Key Scene:  I was a sucker for the closing shot...it was a good one and made me wonder if Lonely Are The Brave was not essentially the same thing for westerns as Chinatown was for the film noir genre.

This DVD looks fantastic and is a reasonable price.  Trust me when I say grab a copy, it is worth viewing and sharing with friends.

I Don't Think I Like Being In Love. It Puts A Bit In My Mouth: The Furies (1950)

Anthony Mann's The Furies is easily the most richly shot films I have encountered in this marathon.  Somewhere between between the deep grays and blacks and the way shadows explode and evaporate in his wide shots it is hard not to fall in love with the seeming sumptuousness of the film.  Of course Anthony Mann who I first encountered, fittingly enough in a Film Noir course for his work Border Incident, creates a landscape in his films that while beautiful, represents a decaying and fractured society and extends to reflect the psyche of those individuals existing in the space.  In fact, just like the previously mentioned Border Incident I would be inclined to call this film something of a film noir text, although it is also a woman's melodrama, in that Barbara Stanwyck whose presence alone is almost its own film noir trope, is playing a character who falls foolishly and blindly in love, an act that proves unusual for the actress who made a career as a femme fatale.  In its modernist blending of genres to create something spectacular, The Furies is a piece that is as captivating and it is jarring, the unusual soundtrack is more reminiscent of an Igor Stravinsky number than the swelling and sweeping violins of the traditional melodrama.  Everything about The Furies begs to be heavily considered and analyzed, no character throughout the film is purely of one mind frame or ethical framing, often contradicting their previous actions or betraying the very elements of respectablity which the western genre so heavily hinges itself.  The films possesses pseudo-villians, anti-heroes and even a reconsideration of who can occupy the space of such a good and evil dichotomy.  Sure the narrative gets a bit convoluted at the end and sloppily ties itself back together, but it is a work that wants to embellish its own fractured style, at times the slightest of alterations to the focus of the frame makes the scene blurry in the most inconspicuous of manners, nonetheless, suggesting a frame of reference that is, like the characters of The Furies, melting and sweating under its own heated paranoia.  Were this film not to be so heavily invested in the use of natural sets, one could easily place this among the greatest of expressionist masterworks.

The Furies, focuses on the farm and land for which the title borrows its name.  The land is located in the New Mexico territory and is compared to being a feudal ran area, which is fitting because the patron of the land T.C. Jeffords (Walter Huston) navigates the world as though he had a certain degree of regal authority about himself.  T.C., as the narrative establishes, is far from in control of his situation and indeed owes a considerable amount of money to various lenders, while also struggling to keep a group of previous residents turned squatters from occupying his land.  All these issues come to the forefront while T.C.'s own daughter Vance (Barbara Stanwyck) attempts to assert her own presence on The Furies, hoping one day to own the entire land for herself, without the societally assumed ties of another male figure, preferably a husband.  To make matters slightly more convaluted Vance also has a strong relationship with one of the squatters named Juan Herrera (Gilbert Roland) for whom her father does not approve, nor does the larger extent of society.  In enters Rip Darrow (Wendell Corey) a wealthy banker and loan shark, who has a considerable grudge with T.C. over name calling and wrongs in the past.  Yet, Rip is a powerful man and could free T.C. from his economic woes by marrying Vance, who takes an instant liking to debonaire gentleman.  Of course, Rip is far from Vance's ideal man because he is neither submissive nor interested in marrying her, even taking a bribe gladly not to mary her from T.C.  During her struggle to obtain the reigns of The Furies, Vance is blocked by T.C.'s mistress of sorts Flo (Judith Anderson) who has her own vision of what the ranch will become, a notion so infuriating to Vance that she violently attacks Flo with a pair of scissors.  After a final dispute over land, T.C. kills Juan and his men, pushing Vance to the edge, allowing her to remove all barriers from her desire to overtake her disillusioned father, using his blind economic ambitions against him and eventually tricking him into submission, an act that results in T.C. congratulating his daughter and allowing her control over the land.  Yet T.C.'s previous egregious behavior inevitably leads to him being gunned down by the remaining members of the Herrera family and act that leads Vance and her now fiancé Rip to plan on naming their first child after her late father.

It is no mystery that Westerns often borrow their narratives from other well established literary or filmic works, in many cases films borrow directly from Wagnerian operas or from classic samurai flicks.  Anthony Mann, on the other hand, had a very well-documented and feverish desire to create the perfect King Lear adaptation.  To a degree The Furies is almost a King Lear adaptation, in the blind patriarchal ambition and it is in this particular devotion to Shakespearian figures that one can find western tropes within The Furies being embrace and rejected, at times, simultaneously.  The King Lear figure is decidedly a masculine one, and those he is attempting to pass his land along to are decidedly male as well.  Mann in his quest for the appropriate replacement for the figure, creates an absurdly blinded vision of Lear that is highly metaphorical and not the literal "let him smell his way to Dover" one of the play.  The absurdity is no less present though, particularly in his refusal to allow his daughter to run The Furies despite a clear and established ability to do so successfully, it is this very issue of gender that both bends the idea of domestic roles, as well as the figures within the classical text.  Shakespeare who was no denier of gender bending, think The Twelfth Night or A Midsummer Night's Dream, and it would not be unreasonable to consider a version of Lear where the son's are replaced by daughters, or in this case at least one daughter who is attempting to assert herself as a masculine figure.  Stanwyck performs this role masterfully, moving through spaces in an erect and assertive manner, however, the narrative falters when she meets Rip who knocks down any assumptions she has about her ability to be a patriarchal figure and assert her authority.  This is perhaps where Mann loses his ability to commit to a real possibility for a new consideration of Lear.  What could have been a revolutionary statement of domesticity and classic adaptations flails in the end to tie up lose ends in a traditionalist notion, one that would allow for audiences to embrace the film without the confusion of a somewhat familiar story ending in a new way.  Ultimately, Mann succeeds more than he fails in his particular adaptation, it should just be noted that his reliance, even if minimal, on western genre tropes result in a failure to grasp the final rung of perfection in the films closing moments.

Key Scene:  The shootout between T.C. and the Herrera family is wonderful and really speaks to the psychological divisions of the film, as well as showing the wonderful way a world was filmed under Mann's direction.

This is a must grab, almost solely because Criterion puts more effort into a transfer and supplements than is remotely necessary.  The article provided is especially excellent, not to mention the inclusion of the book for which this film was based.

Don't You Ever Call Them Tattoos: The Illustrated Man (1969)

I am beginning to think that Ray Bradbury may well be the ideal author to have his works adapted for the screen, considering my apprehension regarding Truffaut's adaptation of Fahrenheit 451, a book I am very fond of, it was a pleasant surprise to find a film that completely embraces and properly appropriates the world and themes of Bradbury's seminal novel.  Of course, I have only read this singular novel by the sci-fi giant, but when I discovered that The Illustrated Man was an adaptation of a Bradbury short story I had considerable degree of excitement, only furthered by the excellent cover work on the DVD copy I obtained.  It is difficult to fully break down what is excellent about this film because it is not necessarily linear and has layers of stories intersecting and is certainly not a perfect film.  However, considering that it was made in 1969, it adheres to a certain stylistic construct to which I am quite fond, one of heavy lighting in a natural setting and experimental match and jump cuts that help capture the viewer within a dreary and dreamlike trance.  While I would never suggest that The Illustrated Man exists on the same plane of brilliance as, say, 2001: A Space Odyssey, it does seem to commit to the same degree of grand introspection and evocative imagery.  What The Illustrated Man does brilliantly is take a set of themes, most of which center around notions of unity, authority and a sense of loss and disconnectedness in an increasingly modern world, much the same as Bradbury's collective works.  However, where his novel and adaptation by Truffaut entrench themselves within the optimistic, The Illustrated Man is a highly pessimistic piece, taking careful strides to note that somewhere in the near future people will simply wander about seeking their own sense of self worth, and while doing so they will constantly run the risk of encountering people who sensibilities favor the highly violent and are completely willing to destroy in the name of self-understanding.  Of course, there  is the more blatant level of the narrative, emphasized in the obvious visual elements of the film that reminds viewers that to truly where your past on your skin, is a jarring and disconcerting thing to encounter, even for the most progressive and idealized of individual.

The Illustrated Man technically falls within the narrative space of a single valley, assumedly somewhere in the Midwest of a futuristic America.  While this world is covered in dirt, brush and a bit of water, the evasive cinematography and generally stark state of nature suggest a dystopic future scape.  It is in this world that we are first introduced to Willie (Robert Drivas) a young man who has taken it upon himself to wander about America in a quest to find himself before meeting up with a family member to get a job.  During a moment of rest he is approached by a hefty man named Carl (Rod Steiger) whose intrusive nature is bizarre on its own, yet when he becomes increasingly evasive and inquisitive, Willie accepts that his presence will not go away soon.  As they begin to talk, Carl shows off his "illustrated" body, which he makes sure Willie knows are not tattoos.  A bit confused as to its relevance, Willie is quickly told that the illustrations were acquired from a elusive woman, while Carl was working as a carnie, each tattoo having a story, such as the one with a rose, which he obtained from the as reminder to carry her in his hand.  These illustrations are more than simple body art, as Willie quickly realizes when he discovers that simply staring into any of them will result in the world of the artwork literally unfolding before his eyes.  One story focuses on a futuristic child's playroom that allows them to play in various dangerous worlds whether they be medieval castles or African savannahs, while another considers the plight of astronauts who have crashed on a planet that is in a constant state of torrential rain.  The final story considers the ethical issues of two parents who have been informed of an impending natural disaster and the choice regarding whether to poison their children in their sleep to avoid suffering.  It is this sense of loss and death that seem to tie the narratives together, both within the illustrations, as well as in regards to Carl's own story as he recollects the tattooing woman and how she inexplicably disappeared when he awoke after receiving the illustrations.  Willie, now being witness to the various stories, envisions his own death as taking up a patch on Carl's unpainted body, leading to him attempting to kill Carl to no success, thus fleeing in fear.  However, Carl, seemingly immune to physical pain, arises and begins a slow chase of Willie.

The film is chocked full of varied and detailed social critiques, which is not really a surprise considering that it is lifted from a Bradbury short story.  However, the one that seems to be the highest concern, at least in regards to the adaptation, is the idea of the sensory experience of the present being ignored in the futile quest to understand the future.  While I am not sure if this is entrenched within issues of drug use, or simply a consideration of technology as evolving to placate the human body and its ability to experience events, it is rather clear that at no point does a sensory experience seem to be an enjoyable thing.  The most blatant case of this comes in the way of the astronauts whose entrapment on a planet that continually rains is not so much an issue of health regards to catching a cold, as much as it is a result of their psychological breakdown as a result of being harmed by the dampness of the rain, or going deaf and eventually insane from the constant pattering of rain drops inside of a cave.  The closing moments of this particular vision witness the captain of the ship finding shelter in a "sun dome," which is a lavishly designed modernist house where sensory pleasure is placated by a sterile environment.  In this case it appears as though the film suggest that modernity has led to man's complete disconnect with the natural, so much so that to step outside of their technological shell is to assure their slippage into insanity, or worse death, which given the wired-in nature of our society at the moment, I would suggest that Bradbury made a rather astute observation.  However, Carl seems to be the exception to sensory suffering in his relationship with the illustrator, one needs to know very little about tattooing to be aware of its truly painful nature, and as Carl openly notes he has been tattooed everywhere from head to toe, suggesting that some incredibly sensitive portions of his body were marked.  It would seem as though he is callous to such sensory pain, in which case the drug element of the film seems to emerge, particularly since for all intents and purposes the work simply manifests itself upon his body, perhaps in the form of a non-physical vision, as opposed to an actual tangible piece of artwork.  If one is to read the extension of the sensory to the non-physical state, it helps to explain Willie's vision of his own death at the films closing moments, as the imagined entering into the real in a very intense and destructive manner, perhaps, again, as the result of some psychotropic experimentation.

Key Scene:  I want to note the overall degree of experimental cinematography in this film, it was what helped push this film from simply being excellent, to being brilliant and worth heavy consideration, there are moments that could rival Welles in their composition.

This is a magnificent film, but it is also one that has suffered from distribution rights issues.  As such, I would suggest renting it until a cheap copy becomes available, although the twenty plus dollar price tag on this film is well worth the investment.

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.