Two Old-Fashioneds, For Two Old-Fashioned People: Make Way For Tomorrow (1937)

I realized as today rolled in that I had all but failed to blog this month, which I am constantly apologizing for during this semester.  It might get better in the upcoming weeks, but as it looks there is hardly any end in sight.  I even had big plans to do a Zatoichi marathon this month and that has managed to fall to the wayside.  My busy status is wholly revolving around things that I enjoy thoroughly though so it is far from a complaint and merely a reality, so for me to report back on the movies I am encountering necessitates two things to work simultaneously.  First, I have to be deeply moved in a way by such an encounter as to be determined to set aside time to write a blog about the film in question.  Second, this being profoundly moved by a film also has to occur at a time when I could still manage to set down for more than a few minutes and compose valid thoughts on the subject.  Since writing nearly half a month ago about Lilies of the Field I have seen some great stuff (Nanook of the North, Stalker and Love Jones) and I also saw some atrocities (Arcade and Broken Arrow).  I wanted to write at great length, but alas time did not allow.  In fact, Broken Arrow took me four miserable late nights to finish.  What I come to write about today is something so off the radar that had I not been fortunate to be a member of The POV Cineclub, I would likely have never encountered the work.  The film in question is Leo McCrary's Make Way For Tomorrow, a little film from 1937 that just happens to fit so delicately in the cracks between the classics of the silent era and the wonderful works of World War II America.  Were the movements altered in even the slightest of ways, this film would be completely overlooked.  While the subject matter is hardly related, I would not hesitate to assert that this has the same sort of rediscovered classic status that is afforded to The Night of the Hunter, here, however, the sentimentality runs thick only to dry up by the end and the narrative is not something that causes a viewer heart to begin racing, but, instead; to wrench in the most jarring of manners.  The open acknowledgement on the part of Yasujiro Ozu that this film was one of his major influences is no surprise, particularly given the staging and angles incorporated in this shot, never mind it possessing what might be one of the most curious breakings of the fourth wall ever committed to celluloid.

Make Way For Tomorrow centers around the Cooper family, more specifically the parents of the children who are now grown and living on their own at various locations within the United States.  The father George Cooper (Thomas Mitchell) is facing a reality wherein his old age and failing vision have led to his being less successful at bookkeeping and subsequently retiring.  Alongside George is his loving wife Lucy (Beulah Bondi) who is also dealing with aging and the inability to take care of major chores in their home, one that in the past had housed their four children, centering specifically on their oldest son Barkley (Victor Moore).  With the impending mortgage on their house becoming due George and Lucy are threatened with eviction, calling all of their children home to deliver the rather unfortunate news.  When it becomes clear that staying in the home is not an option, the two parents ask for help from their children, minus one who cannot extract herself from life in California.  While the children all attempt to save face, while also side stepping the burden of taking care of their children, Lucy ends up moving in with Barkley and his wife and daughter, while George moves in with the considerably disgruntled but nonetheless accepting daughter Anita (Fay Bainter).  While the two parents prove to throw off the tense infrastructure of the various spaces they occupy, they seem to want nothing more than to live under the same roof again, George hoping to find a job and have Lucy move in with him again, whereas Lucy attempts to be as amiable as possible to Barkley, even going so far as to help her granddaughter Rhoda (Barbara Reed) hide a burgeoning romance from her mother.  Yet, when these tense structures fall apart, it is the parents who are deemed the problem and Berkley succumbs to the reality wherein he must send his mother to a nursing home, while the family agrees that it is best for George to head to California.  Given then only a few hours of time together before what will likely be their last time together, George and Lucy spend the evening as thought it were their honeymoon all over again, completely overlooking the dinner they had planned with their children.  In the closing moments, the aged couple share a kiss and a goodbye that could give Casablanca or Brief Encounters a run for their money in melodramatic despair.

One might be a bit curious as to how a seemingly innocuous and overlooked romance/drama film from the 1930's could even begin to reflect the ideal film for this genre, but I will gladly put this in the same framework as Brokeback Mountain or Her, wherein it requires viewers to renavigate their understandings on how love works in film and who is allowed to be depicted in such engagements cinematically.  Indeed, if their is a more heartfelt couple in cinema than this, it is only in gradations, because where other romantic films are wrought with melodramatic sacrifice or one-sided desire, this is as intense a shared love as any and one that is delivered with such earnestness from Mitchell and Bondi respectively.  A 1930's romantic film is usually signified by its over-the-top performative elements, but the subtlety and simplicity at play here work wonders for the narrative arch as a whole.  The struggle here is not one of unseen forces (sickness, war or Shakespearean rivalries) which create an insurmountable barrier, but a unwillingness on the part of a few children to return the care and love their parents directed at them, assuming this entitlement to go on forever.  Indeed, as George carefully observes, it is at after the age in which it is alright to tuck them into bed that things get complicated, because while they still expect that sort of guidance, care and aid, their gratefulness will have either manifested itself or completely gone to the wayside, and in the case of the Cooper children it is decidedly the latter.  Even Rhoda who is capable of exploring the world of romance, is only able to do so out of the kindness of her grandmother, who is later exploited and blamed when Rhoda attempts to elope with an older man.  As such, when the two elderly parents are finally able to enjoy their last day together, the romance swells and the world suddenly seems wholly in their favor, between car rides and free cocktails the two receive more than they had hoped for and certainly everything the viewers had desired for the couple, making the fourth wall moment all the more curious, because it is as though the viewer is willing that kiss and George and Lucy break the fourth wall to remind viewers that it is their story.  It takes Linda Williams's notion of genre, gender and excess to its most...excessive, all the while blowing the lid off of presumptions about cinema of the particular era.

Key Scene:  The almost kiss and the turn to camera is so unusual that it takes the best scene, although Lucy on the phone during the bridge game is also quite good.

The Criterion disc looks about as well as a film from 1937 could hope to and frankly it is so overlooked that any love directed towards it could only aid a better transfer in the future.  Buy it accordingly.

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.

In Heaven, Everything Is Fine: Eraserhead (1977)

What can one possibly hope to understand when writing about a film as complex and openly enigmatic as David Lynch's art house masterpiece Eraserhead.  Admittedly, the first time I viewed this film it was on quite a small screen one that did not aid to the possibility of understanding the layered symbolism at play nor was I able to truly appreciate the ways in which Lynch creates a mise-en-scene so incredibly evocative and absolutely surreals as to serve as a standard for many a filmmaker to follow.  Surely he is borrowing from the likes of Carnival of Souls and other B-movies of years gone by, but Eraserhead is also a precursor to so much of what would occur within body horror and phenomenological horror for decades to follow.  I would never have considered a film like Eraserhead to be an "ideal" big screen viewing, however, I had the great fortune of encountering it is such a way and came to immediately realize that it is precisely what one could hope to gain from seeing something in such a setting.  It is a moving and stirring picture that while far more unsettling than what Tom Gunning probably has in mind, still proves to be a work that exists within the notion of "cinema of attractions," here almost becoming knowingly aware of the ways in which viewers engage with cinema, using jump scares and non-linear narrative in a way that would not come into its most fruitful for at least five more years and in most of those instances by pure accident.  Usually, when I encounter or more recently reencounter early works I am able to pick up on some of their flaws, although always finding myself erring on the side of forgiveness, a fact attributed to my love for Jarmusch's sloppy but endearing Permanent Vacation or Kubick's sporadic yet scathingly focused indictment of war that is Fear and Desire.  It is a rare feat however for a filmmaker to approach their initial works with such fervor and focus, an attribute I would be more apt to direct towards the New Wave Directors, or someone like Wes Anderson whose Bottle Rocket is still the highest achievement of his critically and popularly well-received career.  Eraserhead is cinematic expression at its most intimate, proving that such a focused and personal narrative can translate beautifully (if abjectly so) without really meaning anything of certainty to those not personally attached to the director.  Eraserhead is a glimpse into the mind's eye of one of cinema's most evocative and provocative directors and those who have the chance to see it in a large scale setting should do so without hesitation.

Eraserhead focuses rather specifically on the experiences of Henry (Jack Nance) a wandering young man whose life appears to lead him around what is simultaneously a warehouse and his place of residence.   Henry who is apparently a graphic designer, is subject to bouts of paranoid encounters and visions of haunting surreal formats, whether it be an unusual longing and fear for the neighbor across the hall from his apartment, one whose stares and constant providing of information cause Henry to feel incredibly unsafe.  When Henry is informed that his girlfriend Mary (Charlotte Stewart) wants him to come to her family's house for dinner, the degrees of paranoia grow in Henry's mind, leading to the bizarre encounter at the household when Henry meets Mary's parents Mrs. X (Jeanne Bates) and the smiling, oaf of a man Mr. X (Allen Joseph).  The enraged Mrs. X pulls Henry into a side room and demands that Henry admit to engaging in intercourse with Mary, because she has recently given birth to a child and believes him to be the father.  Henry suddenly transports himself to a world where he is living with Mary and their "infant child" the disturbingly deformed bodiless being the whines incessantly, leading to the already mentally unstable Mary to leave Henry to take care of the child all on his own.  This immediately spirals out of control as the infant becomes sick the moment Mary leaves, possessing rashes all over his face and spewing out various fluids uncontrollably. All the while, Henry's connection with reality breaks as he begins to see visions of The Lady in the Radiator (Laurel Near) singing to him and as well as watching her trample what appear to be less developed versions of his and Mary's already deformed child.  In the wildest section of Henry's visions he imagines his head exploding off and falling into the street only to have a child grab his head and take it to a factory where the cerebral cortex of his brain serves as a stem of eraser for men.  Awaking from all of this the maddened Henry takes a blade to the child in frustration assumedly destroying it for good, although it is uncertain as his reality is far too convoluted at this point to be certain of anything, instead, we only know that the disturbed Henry continues to seek solace in the presence of The Lady in the Radiator.

When one searches for theoretical scholarship on Eraserhead, it is most commonly tied to phenomenology in that it is suggested to be a film influenced by personal politics and individualistic endeavors.  As such, Eraserhead can be read as a variety of things, but considering the amount of information provided by Lynch on the film it is worth wholly considering the metaphors within his own admittance of it resulting from his fears of fatherhood.  Indeed while the film does consider Mary's own issues with the child, it is a responsibility thrust upon Henry who is clearly not only inept at dealing with the newly brought about child, but also manages to accidentally make it sick and eventually kill it in a decidedly more active manner.  Henry is assumedly a manifestation of Lynch's own fears ones that are both a suggestion of his own fears of ineptitude with a child, as well as a clear commentary on his burgeoning loss of freedom that invariably emerges when one is faced with adding a life into the world that is purely dependent on another for help.  Of course much more of this exists in a surreal space for Lynch and all is not to be taken literally for to do so would be to stifle things like The Lady in the Radiator as extending to multiple forms of meaning and theoretical possibilities.  I mean thinking about the fact that she is assumedly a small figure living in the radiator of Henry's (and possibly Mary's) apartment that is a projection and point of looking for Henry is incredibly complex and fascinating, although she extends well beyond this issue.  Indeed, her stylized look and Cold War dress sharply contrast her swollen face in an incredibly stirring and decidedly perplexing way.  Furthermore, as phenomenological as the film may be it is easy to see other narratives emerging within the film, indeed my post screening discussion with a few friends resulted in readings ranging from a positing that the film is a Catholic slanted understanding of pro-life issues (I would say a larger statement on abortion anxiety, although problematic in its masculine issues) while others found it to be a burgeoning post-modern text on shifting notions of masculine identity.  All this is plausible and no less possible, even in the phenomenology ideal placed upon this film, because when considering fatherhood and identity these other issues and a lot more come to the forefront, Lynch just proves with Eraserhead to be a pioneer.

Key Scene: In Heaven, everything is fine...

I am waiting with baited breath for the alleged Criterion release of this film, it has HD prints available, but only in the non-region one context. As such patience is of the essence with this viewing, unless, of course, you are afforded a chance to see it on the big screen.

You've Read Too Much Trash. You're A Dreamer: Vagabond (1985)

If the old biblical adage holds any truth, the meek shall indeed inherit the earth.  However, what happens when the earth has nothing left on it within which to give those without?  In the stunning, moving and, ultimately, disconcerting Agnes Varda film Vagabond it would seem that she is suggesting that the meek in such a setup can only become that which refuels the earth.  As such, it is not the meek that inherit the earth, but the exact opposite.  This surprisingly religious reading on my part is not completely ungrounded, because as a filmmaker Varda constantly reminds me that not only is she worth taking seriously on every account, but that she is also worth considering alongside, if not above, the likes of her New Wave compatriots, often making similar films with a far greater success.  Vagabond, while not her masterpiece, I reserve that appropriation for the stirring and visually evocative Cleo from 5 to 7, nonetheless, reflects what can be possible within the language of filmmaking while also constantly reconsidering how to use said language to constantly revive a lulling medium.  The narrative of the film is not wholly non-linear, however, it is also not nauseatingly straightforward.  One can read into the variety of factors affecting how a person deals with making a film and what personal experiences one pulls from and incorporates into their films, but I know I have said this previously when I discussed another moving film by Varda, One Sings The Other Doesn't, there is a lot to be said about how beneficial Varda's obvious and open feminist politics come into how she composes her film, whether it be the obvious elements of using a female in the protagonist role, or focusing the narrative on divergent voices, a few that are usually mocked or made to be silenced, even working on these very acknowledgements within the process.  The diagetic merges with the non, the other merges with the self, in fact, Varda is obsessed with confronting dichotomies and it is perhaps most blatant here in Vagabond a work that considers the most most problematic of all divides, at least philosophically speaking, humanity versus the natural world.

Vagabond begins where it ends depicting a woman laying dead in a ditch, at this point unnamed, although she is later revealed to be known simply as Mona (Sandrine Bonnaire).  Considering her clear, as the title suggest, vagabond status, an unseen narrator explains that it is her desire to recreate the moments that led up to Mona's death which begins the narratives winding recreation of Mona's experiences both through the documentary style narration of those Mona encountered, as well as the presumedly real experiences of Mona.  Along the way Mona meets a variety of people, whether they be brief, chain necklace wearing lovers, or well-meaning prostitutes, always seeming sure of her constant movement whilst avoiding settling down, particularly for engagements  that involve a romantic element.  Occasionally individuals, such as a goat herding family attempt to over exert their assumptions about her place in the world by forcing a home and job upon Mona, only to have the rebellious young woman reject the labels in favor of a pursuit, to use her words, of "music and grass."  Yet, Mona is not incapable of finding friendship, this occurs most clearly in two occasions, the first with Madame Lanier (Macha Méril) whose academic pursuits and desire to save trees somehow intersect into a bizarre attempt to shelter Mona, who takes up her lengthy car ride as a pseudo-bonding experience that also affords her the luxuries of high end food associated with the various conferences and events academic affords Lanier, however, the reality of Lanier's world cannot intersect with Mona's carefree style and the two must part ways.  Other instances wherein Mona meets people, as is the case with Tunisian migrant work Assoun (Yahiou Assouna) the customs of culture cause a divide, wherein Mona does want to stay but prescribed gender assumptions make it impossible.  Perhaps the most fascinating of engagements in the film come in the way of Mona's point of admiration through the eyes of Yolande (Yolande Moreau) who sees Mona's vagabond life as a form of romanticism and unbridled freedom.  Yet even this is destroyed when Mona's carefree attitude directly conflicts Yolande's financial safety.  In the end, Mona is left to fend for herself and in a moment when all things are against her, even in a disturbingly bizarre sense, and it is in this ultimate form of lack that her body can no longer survive.

I began this review with a biblical reference which was more of a passing thought in its initial inception, however, as I begin to consider the ways in which the film works it reminds me of two more travelogue  films with far more religious implications.  The first is Robert Bresson's heart wrenching Au Hasard Balthazar, wherein a donkey comes to represent what is easily the greatest Christ reference in the history of cinema.  The second is the hyper-provacative and wildly irreverent reconsideration of Catholic dogma that is Luis Buñuel's The Milky Way.  The latter existing in a state of complete temporal and spatial non-linear composition, while the former is about as linear a film as one could ever encounter.  In between these two is Varda's Vagabond and deservedly so because it is about where it could stand in terms of its spiritual considerations.  Far more philosophical in its endeavors, Vagabond asks very earnest questions about what role freedom and groundedness play in a persons mobility.  I have a tough time thinking of a more morally free character in the history of cinema than Mona, excluding the anti-rule abiding individuals of existential film noir films, however, these are always in opposition to a corrupt world of crime.  Here, the corruption of the world comes through their attempts to enforce societal understanding upon Mona, often at the expense of gendering her and her presumed domesticity, so much so that Mona herself longs to work in a space as a caretaker, even excelling beautifully when given the opportunity.  The act of care, however, is contingent upon social assumptions that to do so means to follow very strict rules.  Indeed when she gets an aging aunt drunk on brandy, it is deemed morally corruptible, despite it being clear that the Aunt is the happiest she has been in ages.  To be free is to have no burden, but it is also a point wherein a person can offer anything because in doing so they have nothing to lose.  Indeed, this takes on a degree of spiritual consideration as one looks at notions of homelessness, charity and expectations.  There are individuals throughout the film who attempt to help Mona, but often their actions are contingent on their own expected reward.  It is no accident that one of Mona's most earnest encounters comes through a passing engagement with a prostitute, making her far more a Christ figure than anybody might want to openly admit.

Key Scene:  The scene in which Mona drinks brandy with the aging aunt is sweet and pure cinema in its most realized sense.

Criterion box set.  Buy this, it is one of their best offering, despite not having the adoration some of the other collections seem to possess.

Informers Inform, Burglars Burgle, Murderers Murder, Lovers Love: Breathless (1960)

I am once again in the throes of a blogathon, this time hosted by the excellent blogs Once upon a screen... and Classic Movie Hub Blog.  The topic: "Dynamic Duos in Classic Film."  I was a bit late to the sign-up for this blogathon, so missed the chance to jump on some of the real classic duos, both in terms of romance and comedy, which is fine, because I have read the work of many of the bloggers involved and I am certain that they will more than do justice to the topics.  As such, I decided a bit of creativity could not hurt in the endeavor and I began to think of a dynamic duo within the context of classic film, pre-1970, that managed to hearken back to an earlier period, while still remaining within the confines of "classic."  I realize that this may have seemed like an absurd endeavor, but considering that the collective of the sixties were a watershed moment in history, it by extension assumes that the same rings true for movies as well.  With that in mind, I realized that I had the perfect offering for this blogathon with what may well be the most important work to come out of the 1960's in Jean-Luc Godard's Breathless.  The now well-established classic was by many accounts, the premier film in the French New Wave movement and invariably changed the language one uses to describe cinema.  This masterwork in European filmmaking, is a rare treasure that offers many varied and legitimate critical levels, while also proving and fresh and unique viewing experience.  Trust me, I have seen the film countless times and it only proves more engaging, the more my cinematic language and consumption matures.  In fact, the current Criterion bluray available only helps to add layers to the film's conceptual framework.  I say all this to set up how it is very much a work that exists within the important film's involving dynamic duos.  Part romantic comedy, part crime thriller there is, excluding Tarantino, perhaps not a more cinematically referential work than Godard's 1960 breakout hit and one of its many points of reference come in the duos of classic noir thrillers, wherein Godard borrows the dynamism of the genre and its gendered duos, using its tropes to push his hip, wild and fast-paced narrative, while also completely calling attention to the frailty of the structure of such an assumedly dynamic pairing.  If some of the other works mentioned during this blogathon embrace the lasting nature of the romantic dynamic duo, it is fair to say that Breathless makes viewers aware of both the performance involved in such duality, while also suggesting that at some point the differences in the duo will result in a collision of fatal proportions.

While the film is about a romantic coupling to a degree, it does begin focusing primarily on the film's "protagonist" Michel (Jean-Paul Belmondo) a part-time thief and full-time woman admirer, who is constantly on a quest to make money, while spouting his own frustrations and problems with the opposite sex.  Indeed, Michel makes it quite clear that women, in his eyes, are incapable of functioning on any legitimate societal level, taking particular disdain in their always being broke and their being terrible drivers, never mind that he himself is constantly without money and certainly is not the most sane or logical of automobile operators.  When an auto theft goes awry and Michel murders a cop to save his own life, he moves into a constant state of paranoia and flight from authorities, which seems to be fine, until he runs into Patricia (Jean Seberg) an American living in Paris while working as a correspondent/salesperson for the European branch of The New York Herald-Tribune.  While the narrative does not outright express it as fact, it is assumed that Patricia and Michel have had some intimate past together, indeed, Michel admits to returning to visit her, almost entirely on a desire to have sex.  Patricia who is initially dismissive of Michel due to his one-track mind and his flippant attitude towards her and most women, nonetheless, agrees to spend time with him, when he seeks shelter from the authorities in her apartment.  At this point the two spend an entire afternoon, evening and morning discussing the ethics of love, lust and humanity, while engaging in intercourse.  In the process, the two become more romantically entwined than before, admitting their deep affection for one another and while they would enjoy the possibility of staying in the moment, Patricia must return to work, while Michel must accrue the necessary funds to flee from his imminent arrest.  It is while Patricia is at work that French police approach her with information regarding Michel, threatening her livelihood and visa status should she not help their investigation.  At first, Patricia is committed to her affections for Michel and stays by his side, yet when it becomes clear that he is still occupied with his criminal life, Patricia breaks down and reports his location to the police, an act she clearly regrets immediately.  Irony arises when the two are driving and the police finally catch up with Michel, only moments after he obtains the money he as been seeking since the onset of the film.  Realizing the futility of the entire endeavor he flees down the street, only to be gunned down by officers.  Patricia distraught runs to Michel's aide and stares at him as he slowly fades into death.  Michel simply dismisses her and her foolishness, claiming that her betrayal makes him want to puke, although a language barrier causes Patricia, in the closing moments of the film, to wonder exactly what "puke" means.

It is precisely this closing moment of Patricia being "lost in translation" as it were, that speaks to the particular dynamism of the duo of Michel and Patricia.  Language being the first obvious difference between the two, lays out a duality of difference that is often challenged, ignored and undermined in the hopes that the two can create some degree of a lasting and meaningful romance together.  Many of the classic Hollywood comedic duos play upon this difference, while, ultimately, noting that the pair can overcome adversity and find a powerful force in love, and Breathless, certainly borrows from that tradition.  However, Godard has over the years been very expressive of the major influence the genre of film noir had on his works, particularly this and Alphaville.  In as much, Michel and Patricia are as much a hapless hero and femme fatale, as they are a romantic comedic pairing.  However, even this is revisionist to a heavy degree, because Michel, while misogynist and a criminal, does not exude the same hardboiled chiseled nature of his idol Humphrey Bogart, in fact, when his absurdly effeminate mugshot appears in the papers, one cannot help but laugh at how non-threatening he looks, despite having committed a murder earlier in the film.  He is not the traditional masculine figure of the genre, just as Patricia is not truly a femme fatale.  Sure it is her betrayal that causes his downfall, but there is not the sense of remorselessness that comes with a Barbara Stanwyck in Double Indemnity.  The duo is not a pair of drifting individuals who come together for a fleeting moment, but instead to opposing forces, that find themselves so magnetically drawn to each other that their cohesion factors heavily into the film.  The hotel room scene, where they consummate their love for one another, lasts roughly thirty plus minutes, nearly constituting half of the film, which is deservedly so, because what happens prior is their movement at a high speed towards one another, while the post-apartment moments represent the aftermath of their collision, which has a very fatal result for Michel.  The ignorance of Patricia at the films closing could be read as demeaning to her character, but I think it simply speaks to a larger issue of duality in love, where ideologies never truly mesh and because of such inherent miscommunication one partner is always far less aware of the damage done to the other, so while it is literal in the film, it plays into a much larger metaphorical statement.  In the end, Godard is clearly claiming that love can arise between even the most unusual of duos, and while it can certainly burst through barriers of language, ideology and personal desire, doing so also runs the risk of one or both of the people involved being trampled in the process, or in the case of this film being shot in the streets of Paris.

Key Scene:  While it is quite an extended bit to consider a scene, I do thing the entirety of the dialogue and interactions occurring within the apartment, might be the single greatest moment in modern cinema.

Criterion Bluray.  Buy it...for your health.

See You Later, Comrade: Army of Shadows (1969)

I am beginning to realizes from a personal and very internalized view of the world, I am most struck by the cinematic stylings of Jean-Pierre Melville.  While the subjects of his films may not always prove the most ideal of characters, the visually unique world with which Melville creates for his characters to inhabit is something I find highly relatable.  The cinematic world of Melville is one that is both crisp and visually evocative, while also managing to be washed out and dreary, reflecting the alientation and detachment of Camus in filmic form.  While many would find the color palette of a Melville film ugly and lacking in serenity, I would strongly contest that the alienation which results from such bleak mis-en-scenes is quite honest and very realized, evidenced both in his work Army of Shadows, as well as his more hip and well-received works like the infinitely cool Le Samourai.  Army of Shadows is a particularly noteworthy film in the well-established canon of Melville films not because it is his best per se, but because for nearly half a century, it went unwatched and dismissed as a severe misstep in the director's career, almost entirely the result of a bad review from the then highly influential Cahiers Du Cinema.  The critics found the highly political nature of the film to be far too overbearing and, more importantly, against their own political stances, which always wound their way into the reviews of this particular group of critics.  Yet, when the same journal revisited the film decades later they instantly realized their own mistake, holding it up as an unacknowledged masterpiece of its own time, as well as being one of the most poignant and well-executed commentaries on the nature of the human psyche during wartime both within and outside the confines of the prisons of warfare.  Melville fills the film with everything that one demands from a work with such gravitas: great actors, highly symmetrical cinematography and a noticeable degree of the stylized to make it transcend the inevitable political leanings that such a controversial subject is bound to pursue.  The result of the care for his cinematic offering is nothing short of marvelous and the fact that this film not only remains highly relevant, but rose from the grave to a second life speaks to the power of both Melville as a filmmaker, as well as the life that cinema with a real message obtains well after its initial arrival.

Army of Shadows with its subtly epic narrative manages to focus on the experiences of one highly influential man during the German occupation of France in 1942, right at the heart of World War II.  The man is Philippe Gerbier (Lino Ventura) a leading member of he resistance who has recently been arrested by SS troops occupying French Vichy and is to be sent to the Nazi headquarters from heavy handed interrogation.  Using his guile and quick wits, Gerbier is able to escape from imprisonment and get right back to work on his work pushing the resistance forwards, wherein his first task is to kill of one of the resistance members who has become a German informant.  Gerbier recruits a set of his best men to undertake the task at one of their safe houses, only to discover that none of his men have the audacity to kill their own men, even if it is known that they have betrayed them, this results in Gerbier undertaking a strangling himself, setting into motion a very clear vision on his part to push forward the resistance by any means necessary.  Gerbier, though a chance encounter at a bar, recruits new members to his cause in the debonaire young pilot Jean-Francoise Jardie (Jean-Pierre Cassel), as well as the devilishly cunning housewife Mathilde (Simone Signoret).  Jardie, specifically, becomes one of the main network members for Gerber, meeting with his own brother Luc (Paul Meurisse) who is also heavily involved in the resistance himself, forming a relationship with Gerbier in the process.  The film then takes viewers on a set of missions and attempted prison breaks, most of which fail.  It is not until Gerbier breaks into prison with the intent to break out resistance members that things begin to look up, particularly when a seemingly impossible escape planned during an execution takes effect and the members are freed.  The farther into the war the members get, the more difficult it is to keep their activities secretive and when it becomes a realization that the groups members are betraying one another for the safety of their respective families, Gerbier undertakes a purging of the resistance to return it to its ultimate focus.  Many of these killings go over without a hitch, but it is not until he demands that they kill Mathilde who has betrayed them for the safety of her daughter that things become murky, eventually having to undertake the task himself.  After shooting Mathilde in the street, the film cuts to close-up shots of the remaining members of the resistance and, subsequently, explains how they each ultimately died.

War movies often handle death in a very real manner, showing its excesses and inconceivable repetition, particularly in works like Saving Private Ryan and Platoon.  However, even when this death is shown in great detail and with earnest concern, a certain degree of glorification and celebration comes with it, because viewers are reminded that the ultimate goal was achieved, even at the cost of thousands of sacrifices.  In Army of Shadows the same sort of entrenched comfort is far from available. From the very first death of the film, one that comes from assumedly natural causes, viewers are provided stark shots, none of the glorification of death that comes from other war movies, a distancing that is only doubled by the awareness that this loss could have been prevented were the guards willing to help the dying man, and while this is a serene death, the later stabbing of a Nazi soldier in the throat by Gerbier to assure his escape is so jarring and out of place that it strikes a viewer as unnecessary, even though it is well-established that any one of these soldiers would have easily killed Gerbier if he were to run away.  It becomes then a larger commentary on the very "kill-or-be-killed" nature of war itself, so much so that the members of the resistance realize that the passing of their allies, in some cases, means their future safety.  Take for example the bruised and beaten men with whom Gerbier is trying to save.  One is beaten to such a pulp (by the way the makeup for these moments is excellent, if not disturbing) that the other offers him a cyanide pill to firstly take him out of his suffering, but offering the second benefit of no longer having to worry for his transport should a chance for escape come about.  It is killing with mercy and self-concern simultaneously and Melville shines his muted light upon all its hypocrisy with such a keen eye that one realizes why any viewer of the era would have been hesitant to praise its narrative, a fact that is certainly driven home by Gerbier who is easily one of the most problematic and troubling characters in all of cinema history.  While he is primarily to be understood for his concern for the movement and for an unoccupied France, it is made clear throughout that he is also, ultimately, concerned with his own survival.  Moments like him hesitating to jump out of  a plane, or failing to stand stoically as a Nazi officer makes a moving target out of him, suggest that all the idealism Gerbier spouts is fine and well, but in essence, it betrays the fact that during war he is just as prone to human flaws as any other person.  In Melville's world there is no right and wrong side to war, especially one that takes such an indifferent stance on human life.

Key Scene: The initial escape from interrogation to hiding in a barber shop by Gerbier sets up the films pace and sort of seedy navigation through deception and is only one of the many perfect moments in the film.

This is a Criterion disc that has, unfortunately, gone out of print.  However, it was relatively recently so the bluray is not terribly expensive.  I would suggest grabbing a copy if only for investment purposes.

Nobody Learns Without Help: Jubal (1956)

The melodrama and the western exist as a sort of sibling pair which I will avoid gendering, because that would be a bit heteronormative and unnecessary, but, regardless, it is impossible to ignore the sort of relationship the two have cinematically and historically, one that is often overlooked due to the subtle nature of their shared methodologies.  Of course, when it becomes noticeable it is often quite excellent, as is certainly the case with Johnny Guitar, but also holds true for my recent viewing of Delmer Daves' Jubal a film that is beautifully shot in technicolor, focuses on the very genre subject of cattle life and also happens to be a masterful bit of melodrama, at times on a level close to that of Douglas Sirk.  I assumed based on the vague images I had seen upon the initial announce of its release via Criterion that it would be an all out action film, one more in line with the original 3:10 To Yuma another film by Daves, yet aside from perhaps a handful of gun firing scenes, this is easily the most dialogue heavy film I have engaged with thus far, and I certainly lend that to its decided reliance on the melodramatic tradition.  Early on in my movement towards cinephilia I would have dismissed such a stylized and classicist composition, still blinded by the showiness of of Tarantino and Fincher film, which while excellent, do owe their very extravagance to the aforementioned elements of melodrama.  I ramble about this to say that Jubal manages to be both a sleeper classic within terms of the western genre, as well as one of the melodramas that I am quite surprised is only now making it onto my docket, especially since I spent a couple weeks earlier this year purposefully seeking out the classics of melodrama.  Jubal is a textbook classic that has a cult following and is only now making its reputation well-known.  I am thrilled that it is getting a second wind via Criterion and while I know I am not the most read blog on the internet I hope that my adoration for its perfect structure will, in some small way, help to extend its voice to a couple more viewers, because in its classicist simplicity it manages to hold a wait equal to that of a Leone or Ford film with little effort whatsoever.

Jubal centers on the title character, played by Glenn Ford, a wandering cattle hand who has inexplicably found himself passed out in the land which belongs to rancher Shep Horgan (Ernest Borgnine) a likable and well meaning man who takes Jubal on as an employee without question.  Appreciative of the opportunity, Jubal works diligently to pay off his debt and quickly earns the admiration of Shep who makes him a ranch hand, much to the frustration and anger of the lecherous Pinky (Rod Steiger) who immediately goes about trying to destroy Jubal for no other reason than he just hates his presence.  While it is impossible to immediately find fault with Jubal, Pinky realizes that the new ranch hand, much like the other members of the crew, has taken a liking to Shep's wife Mae (Valerie French) who seems as equally interested in running away with the suave and stoic Jubal.  Pinky is immediately aware of this development and uses it as a means to plant a seed within Shep's head as to Jubal being a person lacking in trust, despite Shep making it quite clear that he is fond of the man and his work ethic.  Furthermore, it is revealed that Pinky and Mae have shared a previous relationship together adding a layer of jealousy to Pinky's seemingly inexplicable actions.  Yet, it takes a heavy amount of arm pulling for Pinky to make Shep suspicious continually prodding at him until the paranoia seeps in and he rides in a fury of ungrounded jealousy back to his ranch thinking he might catch the two in the act and confront his cuckolding.  While Jubal has already denied Mae's advances out of respect for Shep, not to mention the burgeoning of his own relationship with another woman, Mae betrays him by calling out his name when Shep enters the house, leading to what Shep assumes to be verification of their past relations.  This leads to Shep going out in search of revenge upon Jubal finding him unarmed in a bar.  Jubal hoping to avoid confrontation, tries to stand down, but when Shep fires multiple shots at him, he has no choice but to fire back and then take flight to avoid the death that a foolishly self-rightous Pinky wants to exact.  Of course, Jubal is far more clever than Pinky and leads him on a winding chase before returning to the ranch, where he manages to get Mae to admit to the misunderstandings and problems, although Pinky violently attacks her resulting in her death moments later, however, with the information cleared up in is Pinky who goes on trial and Jubal is allowed to leave with a degree of his dignity intact.  Unfortunately, he is left to continue wandering the world, yet this time he has a companion to make the journey far less dreary.

While I wanted to avoid gendering either genre, I can say that in terms of Classic Hollywood rhetoric, one often associates the western with masculinity, as has been well established this month on the blog, and I have certainly written about "women's films" in the past, in which melodrama was deemed a filmic tradition with a decided push towards the femininity.  What makes Jubal so exceptional is that it manages to pull these assumed gender traditions within each and mash them forcefully together, instead becoming a film about ethical decisions as opposed to one of gendered presumptions.  In some of the more traditional set-ups men would be unquestionably rational and concerned with justice, while women would be inclined to fits of "hysteria" and illogical behavior.  In this context, viewers are still allowed these images, but they are no longer specifically gendered, sure Mae acts a bit irrationally in her feelings to Jubal, but it is made clear that she is frustrated by her own being seen, literally, as cattle to the well-meaning but inextricably misogynist Shep.  Furthermore, Shep's own moral turpitude is not a result of anything aside from his inherently bad nature, detracting it from the melodramatic assumptions that he is somehow a scorned man, if anything, he is a person perpetually engaged in the scorning of others.  The heightened emotional scenes in this film do not film viewers minds with a hope and longing that two characters who are "destined" to be together will be afforded the opportunity, even if fleeting.  Jubal is not An Affair to Remember, Brief Encounters or even All That Heaven Allows, because it is also a western, which means that loss and failed desire very much factor in, which could be blamed on the lack of law in the western setting, almost entirely personified through Pinky, but it could also reflect upon Jubal's own entrenched sense of justice and respect which is one of the tropes this film seems most comfortable with relying upon, almost to the point of banging it upon viewers' heads.  Again, this is a melodrama as well as a western so repetition and overstatement are merely customary.  While these two genres make for a beautiful hybrid, Daves does not stop there and even goes into a bit of expressionist zeal with Jubal's recounting of a traumatic childhood experience that has a level of Freudian implications that have hardly been shown thus far in my marathon.

Key Scene:  I mean as evil as a character as Pinky proves to be, he is played wonderfully by Rod Steiger and when he engages in a scene he manages to outshine all those involved by miles.

This was just released by Criterion and while I watched it On Demand, the aspect ratio was off, therefore I would suggest the 4K bluray that is now available, I can only imagine how wonderfully it pops off the screen.

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.

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.

Never Look Into My Eyes: Beauty And The Beast (1946)

I had the fortune, all be it for some rather unfortunate circumstances, of finally getting a new slightly bigger television.  Along with this acquisition came the realization that I had moved from living in a 720p world, to one in the 1080p world and boy is the difference spectacular.  While I decided to break-in the new cinematic machine with a revisiting of "The Trolley Song" from Meet Me In St. Louis a recent bluray upgrade, this was quickly followed up with popping in the long overdue viewing of Jean Cocteau's French surreal masterpiece Beauty and the Beast, which is often present on various top ten films of all-time lists.  I have often held the Disney film in high esteem, mostly for nostalgic reasons, but also because it does have some moments of legitimate cinematic mastery, however, to be rather blunt about it the animated film does not have shit on this black and white, oneiric film.  Incorporating a variety of simple yet powerful filmic tricks, a stellar cast and what may well be the single greatest make-up job in the history of special effects. Beauty and the Beast jumps out of the screen, regardless of what aspect ratio or pixelation you may be viewing it in.  While I certainly suggest watching this in the biggest and brightest format possible it is such a magical film that it would not lose its charm even on a small screen in a low-fidelity setting.  Cocteau who is also known for his maddeningly experimental Orphic Trilogy, understands the perfect balance between a traditional and accessible narrative and the true artistic expression available by working within the unconscious framework and this easily comes across within Beauty and the Beast, so much so that, as one random review on Netflix suggests, it manages to capture the interests of both grown adults and very young children, more so than the previously mentioned Disney movie.  If the pure visual nature of the film were not enough to demand it moving up in relevance in discussions of film, it also manages to make a far less problematic commentary on burgeoning love and what role patriarchy plays in Belle's oppression than the latter Disney film.  I go on this tirade not to discredit the animated version, but because I truly am riding the waves of adoration well over twenty four hours after an initial viewing.

This version of Beauty and the Beast begins with the provincial setting, but Belle (Josette Day) is not a single daughter, but actually the daughter forced into servitude to her father, partially out of genuine love, but also because of an outright refusal by her two sisters to do anything that would undermine their feminine ideals or vain attempts at perfected beauty.  Their father, a man who deals in problematic money transactions is informed that a certain amount of his recent acquisitions have been taken as a means to pay off his debts, ultimately, forcing him to travel through the dangerous woods of the forest outside his town at night.  During this trip he decides to pluck a rose to return to Belle who requested it as a gesture of simplicity.  Not realizing that the roses belong to The Beast (Jean Marais), Belle's fater is informed that he is to stay imprisoned to the Beast, unless, he is willing to sacrifice his daughter to him in his place.  When Belle's father returns to tell the tale, Belle throws herself into the sacrificial ring, primarily because she believes herself guilty for her father's troubles, but yet again, also a result of her sisters and their lack of concern for anything outside their comfort zones.  Despite the contesting of her love interest Avenant (Jean Marais), Belle goes to the forest and lives with the Beast who continually makes gestures of kindness and romance towards Belle, for whom he becomes instantly infatuated, even proposing to her nightly, despite her continued refusal.  Belle, despite her lack of desire for marriage, learns to love the Beast as a friend and seems content to live in his world, until she learns of her father's sickness and begs to return home to check on him, a wish the Beast grants on the grounds that she return in a week.  Belle agrees happily, but is tricked by her family into saying, much to the mental strain of the Beast.  Avenant and Belle's brother manage to return to the Beast's house and attempt to break in and steal his riches.  Belle learns of the plans and finds her way back just as Avenant climbs into a forbidden room housing the goddess Diana who shoots Avenant with an arrow, ultimately, transferring the curse of the Beast upon him and allowing for Belle to fall for the Beast who is now human and just so happens to be a prince as well.

I made visual notes of the difference between this absolutely cinematic surrealist masterpiece and its grandiose and also cinematic animated counterpart.  It was not until a recent discussion about the Disney version of Beauty and the Beast that I realized that the film, at the very least, passively supports women existing in verbally violent relationships, simply because they know the male figure's temper is a result of other forces, when, in fact, these assumptions, in no way make his demeaning and spiteful actions any less terrible.  In Cocteau's world, the Beast is just the opposite and is actually quite caring, loving and egalitarian, essentially allowing Belle to move freely through his housing, and remember her entrapment is not the result of his doing ultimately, but instead; her father who allowed her to go in his place.  This also ties back to the notion that were it not for Belle's father and his obvious monetary issues, for which he places the onus on Belle because the family simply treats her as a doormat to be walked upon.  Hell, even the charming Avenant clearly possesses ulterior motives for his romantic gestures towards Belle, most of which seem to have a devious sexual desire about them.  The Beast's difference becomes not a thing of physicality, but morality, he seems to navigate world void of capitalist desires or the false notion that one will find understanding and unprecedented happiness through continual gains monetarily.  An otherness narrative also emerges within this narrative text, because, unlike the Disney version, viewers are led to assume that this transformation is irreversible and it is not until the closing moments of the film that we realize that love and distance from the greed of the rest of the world can help the Beast return to normal from his disaffirmed self.  Even his own disfigurement is suggested to be a result of the terrible actions of his others, in this case their wrongdoings with a witch who curses the Prince, since his parents refuse to believe in its possibility.  When Angela Lansbury sang "A Tale as Old as Time" it is quite possible that this cinematic treasure sat in the back of her mind.

Key Scene:  The moment when Belle first walks into the Beast's castle in slow-motion with the candelabra held by human arms is certifiably one of the highlights of surrealist filmmaking on the whole.

Buy this bluray, it is a staple of the Criterion Collection and was clearly made with much time and dedication.

Experiments In Film: Daisies (1966)

It is a rare thing for me to become entirely invested in a film from the opening scene all the way to its closing moments, as die hard as a cinephile as I am, I will fully admit that I am guilty of occasional waining and checking of the phone during a film.  It is truly a feat for a film to have my vested interest for its entirety, particularly in regards to anything with a heavily experimental or avant-garde lean, considering that these films take a considerable amount of time to unfold and become clear in their meaning.  Yet, Vera Chytilova provides just that in her experimental feature film Daisies a film so decidedly its own that I found myself completely glued to its offerings, even when repetition was the means for said offering.  Chytilova's film is clearly a work of realized art, each frame cleverly matching or juxtaposing its predecessor, ultimately, lacing together a mesmerizing, psychedelic consideration of what it meant to be a woman tapping into her own individualized feminine identity as it would be in the mid-sixties Czech Republic.  I have seen many a failed experimental cinematic endeavors which banked heavily on their abilities to use colorization and tinting to capture the viewers on at least a visceral level, however, it is rather clear that, like the silent filmmakers of days gone by, of which the director takes a clear influence, each tint job and color variation serves as a consideration of the moment or a larger commentary on the collective situation.  With that being said many of the rainbow filled scenes would undoubtedly play well with a drug toking individual.  Even if the film has a decidedly trippy element about its existence, that does little to dissuade the astute viewer form its multifaceted consideration of the ideals of feminist and the politics surrounding the acts and notion of destruction, especially those occurring within and towards the bourgeois state of mind.  Oppression is not a thing to be overlooked within Chytilova's film, however, as a earnest filmmaker, in line with the mentality of Godard, Daisies is careful to condemn its characters for living within a world of disillusion and lies, showing them in perilous situations and reminding viewers that it was the only possible and plausible outcome.

Daisies both directly and loosely considers the movement through consumption oriented spaces by two young, what viewers can assume to be, Czech girls.  These girls go about quoting various cultural, philosophical and political figures, all the while undermining the authoritative figures in their path.  Food, as a few of the films I have reviewed here of late for a project, plays an integral role in the narrative.  In the case of Daises, it is particularly pro-feminist in that the two characters use it as a means to contend with patriarchal oppression, both in the rejection of social norms, as well as their own decisions to possess their own bodies, via consuming what they please, when they please.  However, much has been made of the director's choice to place the main characters in a dire situation during one of the closing scenes of the film, in fact, some have suggested that this moment is a clear discrediting of the feminist movement on the part of Chytilova, which I find to be completely absurd and somewhat ungrounded.  Firstly, considering that the film was released in 1966, any image of a woman, or in this case women, rejecting the domestic sphere outright would have proven somewhat revolutionary in its being new and fresh.  The Czech New Wave, while running somewhat parallel to the second wave of feminism, nonetheless, appears to pre-date it a few years in its commentary on the serious issue of spheres.  Secondly, the choice of the director to place these women in peril is not an artistic metaphor as much as it was a real case for women in the time, many, like the main protagonists, found themselves floundering, all be it not in water per se, hoping to be rescued by those with skills and power, in the case of the era men, and while this certainly occurs, even if indirectly, the narrative seems to suggest an overall initiative for women to seek self-reliance and forward momentum, even if that means a continued exploitation of powerful, rich men.

To find out more information about the film Daisies, or its director, click either of the images below:

The Truth Is, We're All Fighting For Salvation: George Washington (2000)

My recent review of Beasts of the Southern Wild heralded it as something so uniquely its own that I praised it incessantly suggesting that it was indicative of something new in filmmaking.  While I still thoroughly enjoyed that work and still think it reflects a grand change in independent cinema, I had never had the great pleasure of viewing George Washington, a directorial debut by David Gordon Green, whose, unfortunate, movement into stoner comedies has led me to never look into his ouevre.  However, George Washington sat as one of the early works I desired from the Criterion Collection and thanks to a recent subscription to HuluPlus I was able to watch this poetic film.  As for critical opinions there seem to be two fields of thought towards this film, the first suggests that it is a prententious exploitative film that borrows far to heavily from the playbook of Terrence Malick to be considered artistic and a second group who finds the cinematography, storyline and sheer atmospheric magic of this film to be indicative of rural southern life during its movement into a new millennium.  I am firmly within the latter grouping and found George Washington to be an exceptionally beautiful film about coming-of-age in a world of absurdisms, one that causes an individual to have a magical realist outlook towards the world, while also dealing with some intensely real issues.  The images in this film melt off the screen, at times literally peeling away and flow so smoothly despite changing subject matter that the comparisons to Malick are obvious, yet to suggest that this film rips his work off is to both discredit Malick and to misunderstand Green's film.  There are things such as the breaking on the filmic space by causing the image to distort that do not fit within the stylings of Malick, while the poetics and free floating narration of the film are clearly similar.  Yet, where Malick seems to go further into pondering, Green finds answers in the present, all be it ones equally ambiguous.  Furthermore, there exists an underlying humor to George Washington that is currently extinct within the work of Malick, but from what I understand he is to be making a comedy in the coming year...so that could all change.  Regardless, George Washington is a thing of beauty and incredibly visceral, yet understated.  You may have seen moments of this film elsewhere, but its collective offering is purely its own.

George Washington centers around everything but the first president of The United States, and while the main characters name is indeed George (Donald Holden) nothing else about him is presidential, of course this is 2000 well before the election of Barack Obama.  George is a young African-American boy who lives with his fiery-tempered uncle and subdued mother, and voyages around his rural Southern town wearing a football helmet, because of a rare skull condition that makes heavy contact and wetness detrimental to his survival.  His friends include the wise-cracking Buddy (Curtis Cotton III), who has an unusual penchant for wearing a velociraptor mask, Buddy's off and on girlfriend Nasia (Candace Evanofski) and Vernon (Damian Jewan Lee) a large boy who uses his authoritative figure in very few situations.  Aside from the young groups explorations and pontifications we are also provide a semi-regular glimpse into the some of the lives of working class young adults in the community, focusing specifically on Rico (Paul Schneider) who is often seen engaging in conversations with the youth.  The life they young people lead is not particularly easy and constant references to their lower-class living pop up throughout the film and, as such, their adventures often lead them to unusual places whether it be conversations in the pews of churches or the recitation of Shakespeare in a dilapidated community recreational hall.  One of these unusual encounters occurs in a bathroom, in which, George furious at Buddy for knocking him into the wall, pushes Buddy back, ultimately, causing him to slip on some water and bust his head open, an accident that proves fatal.  Panicking the group attempts to hide the body of Buddy in an abandoned house outside of town, only for George to feel guilty and eventually place the body in the river to be later discovered.  While the group never confess to their accidental murder, Vernon, along with a young girl named Sonya (Rachael Handy), who was also present at Buddy's death attempt to steal a car and escape from the city, with terrible results.  On the other hand, George attempts to counter his actions by going out of his way to save lives, donning a wrestling leotard, cape and his helmet he becomes a super hero in his mind.

George Washington manages to catch so many social reflections and philosophical inquiries within what appears to be a rather limited narrative net.  We as viewers are asked to ponder both the state of social equity as it relates to class, race, gender and even regional difference, but most importantly what role one's age has on their ability to confront the tragedies of the world, both affecting them and their loved ones.  George's room is by no accident adorned with a photograph of a smiling George H.W. Bush who appears to linger over his every reflection and action.  As is now well known, Bush, and his successor, failed to properly provide concern for the southern rural poor, despite playing heavily on this identity to earn votes.  By extension, however, George learns of these oppressions by not experience them himself, but seeing them through the pain and suffering of his psychologically troubled uncle, brilliantly named Damascus (Eddie Rouse).  Even George's interactions with Rico problematize notions of oppression, because while Rico is certainly quite open-minded in his race relations, even dating a black girl during the film, his progressive ideals do not necessarily reflect that of his entire town.  When George saves the life of a young white boy, the mother comes to thank George personally, and it is impossible to ignore her trepidation as she approaches the house that to her clearly houses the other.  Yet these elements of the film are entrenched within the eyes of the youth who are its subject, death, poverty and racism are not facts to them, but moments of uncertainty that are better explained by notions of fantasy and humor than grounded reason.  It is perhaps Nasia's professing on challenging god or Buddy's brilliant dinosaur Shakespeare monologue that manage to show that not all their ignorance is unintentional, instead; they choose when to ignore tragedy in life, as some awful things simply must not be acknowledged because no amount of explanation and maturity can justify their existence.

Key Scene:  The film has many, but I will constantly remember the one of Buddy quoting Shakespeare in a velociraptor mask.  It is forever burned into my memory, quite welcomely I do admit.

I watched this on Hulu and while it was a great introduction I cannot wait to purchase a copy and neither should you.