Only This Much Shadow Left: The Day I Became A Woman (2000)

I am going on the record as saying that were I afforded an unlimited amount of time, brain power and ability to master an understanding of cultural mores and language that I would wholly spill my time into understanding all things related to Iranian cinema.  While it is not my primary focus or even one of my sub-research interests as I become more invested in my academic endeavors I am quite certain in my assertion that it has produced some of the best films in the past two decades, hovering almost entirely around the wonderful offerings of Abbas Kiarostami.  However, he is far from the only director working in the country and others have produced keenly meta-cinematic works that manage to consider the state of identity in Iran both on a literal and metaphorical level, all lending in some degree to the impossible, yet perfect, blending of the realist and allegorical tradition of this countries cinematic output.  I adore these works, A Moment of Innocence and Close-Up being two notable works, however, upon the discovery that there existed a film by an Iranian woman that had achieved equal status demanded its being sought out, or more accurately introduced to me by a professor, and the result was nothing short of an evocation on art and the nature of the self when it is in contrast to competing notions of what one should do in a society whose history is a maddening conflation of contradictions as well as rich and proud history.  The Day I Became a Woman is the poetic and magical work by Marzieh Meshkini and it is nothing short of pure cinematic perfection.  Told in a tripartite narrative, this film manages to cleverly navigate tenuous boundaries of temporal and spatial existence to show that perhaps not everything is as idyllic in a country whose global exoticization, paired with a particularly tense relationship with the "western" world has resulted in a cinematic experience so inherently unique that to place another layer of non-normative identity upon it causes it to take on an ethereal and outright moving quality.  If cinema truly has the ability to move beyond the real into another layer of understanding, The Day I Became a Woman is the backbone to such an aesthetic argument.

Clearly divided between three stories, The Day I Became a Woman begins with the experiences of Haveh (Fatemah Cherag Akhar) a girl on the island of Kish who has just turned nine years old, therefore making her subject to the wearing of traditional chador (Islamic headdress for Iran).  Confused by this demand, enforced by her grandmother and own mother, Haveh simply wants to spend the day playing with her friend Hassan (Hassan Nebah).  While she cannot put off her becoming woman she is able to bargain for an extra hour of play with Hassan that is limited by his having to complete homework, thus resulting in her having only time to share an exchange of a lollipop with Hassan before being placed in the chador and carted off by her mother.  The second story centers on Ahoo (Shabnam Toloui) a young woman who is shown competing in a bicycle race with other woman on the island and while she seems content with simply riding with the pack when a her husband approaches on horseback demanding that she give up racing and return home, the panicked Ahoo continues to ride forward never stopping or appearing to consider giving up.  Indeed, as her husband and other men from her tribe approach demanding that she stop, Ahoo drives forward blowing past all the other women in her race, however, when the tribe gets their leaders involved, including some of Ahoo's brothers, their blocking of the road prevent her from moving forward, becoming a thing in the background of another riders line of sight.  The third portion of the story focuses on Hoora, or Houra (Azizeh Sedighi) an elderly woman landing in Kish in hopes of doing some extensive duty free shopping.  Houra, complete with a series of strings on her fingers to remind her of the items she needs, begins accruing furniture and appliances at an alarming rate, her source of money is confusing to all involved.  Yet when she completes her list, save for one item on her finger which she cannot recollect, she is not quite ready to leave, therefore she sets up her wares on the beach in a sort of house without walls much to the elation of the boys she has hired as help and the confusion of two women who have approached on bicycle, purportedly having just finished the race involving Ahoo.  Regardless, Houra has the boys build her a raft that allows her to float her goods onto a ship in the distance skyline, all the while the newly chador donning Haveh looking on with an enigmatic look that suggests both despondence and curiosity.

Time, space and identity are all clear themes within Meshkini's stunning film.  However, to some degree, these are also central issues in pretty much every film, although uniquely so to Iranian cinema and its bizarre world of hyper-censorship.  I, however, am fascinated with the ways in which Meshkini uses movement to suggest something transitory, if not constantly liminal.  The figures in her film seem to be caught in an impossible space between the world of representation and the reality the viewers are living.  Take for example, the innocent, yet highly sexualized sharing of a lollipop between Haveh and Hassan.  The continuity in this shot is off, but it would appear to be a choice on the part of Meshkini, as the two are now split off from the world, the cutting of the scene never showing the two children (or new adults?) in the same frame, it would break censorship, yet through a stroke of delightful precociousness, the two share in an intimate encounter, overlaid by suckling sounds on the overdub soundtrack that moves between the diagetic and non-diagetic simultaneously.  The two move in impossible ways because to depict them in a normal encounter would be to face off against strict censorship.  Incidentally, even in its cut off manner, censors still suggested that Meshkini remove the scene altogether.  Ahoo's movement is perhaps most evocative, because the constant shots from the forefront of her biking towards the screen invoke the same sense of terror that occurred in Arrival at the Train Station or the Klans ride in Birth of a Nation.  However, what is impending and fear inducing, is instead a shared encounter between Ahoo fleeing an oppressive past and the viewers, assumedly the women encountering the film.  The intercuts of Ahoo's peddling feet and the clomping of horses chasing the rebellious Ahoo suggest a movement both transitionally, but also metaphorically as she becomes animalistic in her flight from illogical oppression, but more importantly, an unseen predator.  Finally, it is worth quickly noting Houra's own movement which is decidedly more aided by the mechanical, whether it be her landing in the space on a plane or the aid of her extended wheelchair/pushcart, Houra represents a figure whose movement is figuratively disembodied and requires the help of others.  Her female identity overlaid by this and a desire to consume all that she never had speaks to immobility of women in the space of cinema and culture in wild and transgressive ways.  Again it is worth noting that the film was made within censorship restrictions, but manages to knowingly contradict them at every opportunity.

Key Scene:  The lollipop scene is seriously one of the most complex of cinematic encounters I have ever witnessed and this is in a film full of visually transgressive commentary.

The DVD transfer is not great, but aside from a Korean region 3 DVD it is the only option and it looks phenomenal regardless.  As such buying a copy is a MUST.

I'm Good, We Gonna Be Good: Fruitvale Station (2013)

It is no small task to release a film about a controversial shooting against the backdrop of a heated debate of racial attacks in America, particularly one where justice became murky quite quickly and an sour taste was left in the mouth of those both directly and indirectly involved in the incidents.  It is even more challenging to release a film against the existence of very real footage surrounding an event, one whose violence is factually chronicled, yet still wildly inexplicable.  That is precisely what occurs within the context of Ryan Coogler's cinematic and poignant directorial debut Fruitvale Station.  A film that possessed such an evocative theme and decided force from its very inception, Fruitvale Station was already on my radar well before its release and the closer to its release date it came, the more it seemed as though it was on the tails of the Trayvon Martin case, whose presence invariably exists all over this film.  Fortunately, the film does manage to navigate the tenuous and troubling issues with a degree of awareness about the layers of representation, suggesting that even the most seemingly understood of individuals can prove to have a set of motives and challenges that invariably come to challenge any notion of changing or starting over.  There have been many films like Fruitvale Station prior and there will, undoubtedly, be many films like it to follow, what they all lack is an understanding that they invariably exist outside the frame of the reality, attempting to posit a layer of credibility to a set of events that can only be certain in the previously reality, thus making the film a statement about what can and should occur in the aftermath of a tragedy.  Whereas, Spike Lee's Do the Right Thing, from which Fruitvale Station inevitably pulls, is afforded a pre-9/11 space to create a narrative against an assumed outcome, Fruitvale Station cannot create quite the same sense of a simulacra of events.  Coogler understanding that his work is occurring after the events of Rodney King, as well as in a post-9/11 framework chooses to audaciously bookend his film with images of the real, making each fabrication and directorial choice that much more purposefully and precisely heavy-handed.  It is a profusely audacious decision, but one that pays off in incalculable ways.

Fruitvale station, begins with actual cell phone footage that depicts the arresting of Oscar Grant III, which leads to an assumedly accidental shooting, before cutting to the fictionalized version of the events leading up to the real incident.  Oscar (Michael B. Jordan) is shown talking with his girlfriend Sophina (Melanie Diaz) about their respective New Year's Resolutions, while also caring for the couple's daughter Tatiana (Ariana Neal).  Hoping to get his feet back on the ground after a stint in jail, Oscar returns to his old job begging to be forgiven for his continual tardiness, which has direct ties to his selling of drugs, an endeavor that assumedly caused his jailing, which is also dealt within in the narrative.  Despite his inability to attain a legal job, Oscar vows to end a life in the world of selling drugs both for his daughter and girlfriend, as well as for his mother Wanda (Octavia Spencer) who seems to serve as the only guiding presence in Oscar's desultory life, especially considering his notable devotion to assuring that she has an enjoyable birthday.  After attending his mothers birthday party, Oscar and Sophina plan to meet up with various friends and attend New Year's fireworks in San Francisco.  The group meets up and despite the general drunkenness of those on the subway train they are traveling, nonetheless, seem to get along with little or no trouble, the general glee of New Year's celebrations momentarily transcending race, class and gender divides.  At one point, Oscar even appears to meet up with a man whose work in web design could prove a ticket to a respectable job and step in the right direction.  Tired from the events the group returns home  on an even more crowded train, at which point Oscar by a wicked twist of fate runs into an enemy he made while in prison leading to a minor incident on the train.  Nonetheless, the scuffle results in subway authorities entering the train and forcefully removing Oscar and his friends.  The two leading officers become incredibly aggressive in their methods, pushing Oscar's face into the ground and eventually shooting him through the back.  Realizing their mistake the officers quickly rush Oscar to the hospital, but it proves too fatal a wound to save and he is left on life support until it proves futile to keep him alive, the film closing with Sophina showering a confused Tatiana who simply asks where her father has gone, and in an even more sobering closing moment, the film cuts to a 2013 vigil for Oscar and a match cut of the real Tatiana crying closes the film, reminding viewers of the reality of the event and the contemporary presence of such inexplicable loss through acts of violence.

I know when I have reviewed a film like Red Eye, I praised its for its self-aware existence in a post-9/11 framework, where they understand that the ebb and flow of their narrative is entirely contingent upon an understanding that the majority if not the entirety of the audience is aware of the tragic inexplicable act of violence that occurred at the World Trade Center.  Red Eye kowtows into the absurd as a clear juxtaposition to the real violence, but also accepts that its tension is derived from that acknowledgement, particularly given its plane-in-flight setting.  Of course, the major example of post-9/11 cinema will always be United 93 poignantly directed by Paul Greengrass, but Fruitvale Station may well exist as the clear second in line to this work, in that, like United 93 it accepts that it is a fictional consideration of a very devastating and very real occurrence, one whose images are easily accessible and for many viscerally and permanently burned into their memory.  The moment of the planes hitting in United 93 is not recreated, because to do so would be to compete with a collective memory of the reality, a fabrication would seem ill-conceived and to many offensive.  With this in mind, reading Fruitvale Station as a film working within the space of the post-9/11 filmmaking framework is particularly fascinating, because like Greengrass does in United 93, Coogler accepts that his narrative is existing within the space of real images, ones available and catalogued heavily on the internet, an example of viral video becoming a powerful tool for justice and political action.  As such, Fruitvale Station is a poetic realist fabrication of the events leading up to the shooting, beginning the film with the real events as a means to assure that at no point will this film attempt to extend or challenge the reality, because it has been captured and to contest it, or undermine it would be to nobody's credit, particularly not that of Oscar who was very much a victim, as the cell phone footage affirms.  In so much, as it instead becomes a tribute to the ethereal memory of the lost Oscar, the film is post-9/11 instead celebrating moments of a remembered character, both in their ups and downs, hoping to show a scale of humanity that is discussed in the aftermath of such tragedy, while never suggesting itself as anything more than a film.  Indeed, as the closing shot of Fruitvale Station attests, no amount of glorified cinematic composition can help to deal with the tragic loss that affects those in the reality, but in an ideal world something like Fruitvale Station can at the very least afford people a space to consider their emotions and frustrations of such events, without hostility and violence becoming the immediate answer.

Key Scene:  Tatiana chasing Oscar after he picks her up from day care will break your heart, and again, this is because the film sets up from the beginning the certainty of his death and Coogler manages to make the fictionalized version of Oscar stand in for an emotive replacement nearly immediately, a challenging task made much easier by the stellar, Oscar-worthy, performance by Michael B. Jordan.

Go to a theater and see this, it is what should ideally be shown for 10+ screenings a day, as opposed to The Man of Steel.

Vanity. Vanity. All Is Vanity: Babette's Feast (1987)

The period piece is a genre that I always approach with a considerable amount of hesitance, which is a surprise considering that I absolutely adore everything about Downton Abbey and would probably come around on most any other Masterpiece theater production I undertook.  I am rather certain that a lot of my uncertainty is grounded within the very theatrical, costumed and rigid nature of the style.  My review of Anna Karenina made careful note of the manner in which the narrative styling and cinematic set-up counters the tradition of the period piece.  The Scandinavian classic Babette’s Feast is, undoubtedly, entrenched within the tradition of the period piece and is heavily influenced by a commentary on the nature of religion, making it quite similar to one of my favorite directors Carl Theodor Dreyer.  I will admit that I would never have undertaken a viewing of this movie, were it not for my research surrounding food in film, but I am more than glad to have engaged with this work, because not only is it beautifully composed, poetically written and simply cinematic, but it has opened me up to the world of period pieces done correctly and I cannot wait to engage with the genre full scale in the upcoming months.  Babette’s Feast is both an incredibly intense consideration of the role selfishness and vanity play into an individuals existence, as well as a reminder that even in the most distinct of philosophies and national barriers things like good music and beautiful music can help to unify any group.  It is also noteworthy that the film deeply considers the nature of femininity as it relates to a variety of oppressions and the rather creative manner in which many women navigated such issues and obstacles.  Yet, one of the major elements that seems to create a visually striking and unconventional film with Gabriele Axel's particular period piece, is that it is so dismissive of temporal and spatial constraints as to almost be experimental in its grandiosity, matching beautifully with its questions of religion and self-identity in a way truly and unequivocally transcendent.  Suffice to say, Babette's Feast is a cinematic revelation and yet again a remind that not all films from the 80's find themselves shrouded by the showiness of the era.

Babette's Feast, does indeed have a character named Babette (Stephane Audran) and while she certainly plays considerably into the plot, especially in its back half, she is rather irrelevant to the front portion of the narrative.  The film focuses primarily on two sisters, Martine (Birgitte Fiederspiel) and Phillippa (Bodil Kjer) whohave lived into old age within the same provincial village in Denmark.  Viewers are led to believe that they have spent much of their life locked on the island as a direct result of their father possessing them as his own, mostly as a result of his religious believes, but seemingly out of a sense of protection, especially since it appears as though their mother has long been forgotten.  The  knowledge that the father refuses to allow either to marry does not go unacknowledged, in fact, many townsfolk attempt to ignore this provocation and ask, always with failed results.  Two figures attempts factor in prominently, firstly in the haphazard and a bit goofy soldier General Lowenhielm (Jarl Kulle) who makes an offer for one of the daughters, only to be rejected leading him to spill his life into his work in the military, using his learned "piety" from the time with the daughters and their father to his advantage, even securing and economically viable, as much as it is political marriage.  The second suitor Achille Papin (Jean-Phillip LaFont) stumbles upon the family after hearing Phillipa sing at church, instantly becoming infatuated with the diva like quality of her voice.  He asks for permission of her father to train her in singing, something she initially agrees to although, when he realizes the sexual implications of such requests, he demands that Papin remove his services and return to Paris.  The narrative then flashes forward considerably and the much older Phillipa and Martine receive Babette at their doorstep, with a note explaining that she is Papin's daughter and wishes nothing more than to serve as a cook to the elderly women.  Although the women explain that they can offer no money, Babette agrees to work for free, eventually bringing the old ladies more money than before, which is, ultimately, topped off by her winning the lottery.  Babette as a gift, wishes nothing more than to cook a dinner for the parish in celebration of their late father, begging to cook a great French meal.  The sisters are hesitant, but agree to let Babette have this one wish, and she blows all of her winnings on the lavish meal, even inviting General Lowenhielm to return.  The dinner complete with rich food and drink serves as a unifier and a breaking of enforced conformity over decades of silence.  The silence is broken though, not through words, but through subtle expressions and actions.  Babette reveals that she was once a cook at a lavish French restaurant and that the sister's allowing her to enjoy her artistic past was greater than any gift imaginable and all those involved seem quick to agree.

Babette's Feast won the Oscar for Best Foreign Language Film the year it was entered and deservedly so, considering that if an American based society is to identify a singular film to represent the entirety of foreign cinema, Babette's Feast is certainly a deserved candidate in its transnational nature.  In fact, Babette's Feast, while very much a film about the beauty of a singular shared experience, via a feast, is also a consideration of border crossing.  This, of course, happens in very literal terms with the heavy amount of traveling done throughout the film, but can also find itself manifesting in a variety of different manners.  For example, the notion of a spiritual being crossing even invisible borders is a though professed by the sisters' father and a theme that seems prescient throughout the film.  While the characters seem to share distinctly different views of the world, they, nonetheless, seem similarly affected by a large entity, we can call it God in the context of this film, but its essence in some instances moves the villagers to sublime internal remembrance, while in other cases it causes characters to consider their entire existence, as Lowenhielm existentially considers his own vain life, perhaps serving as the main factor in his decision to return for the dinner.  Borders are also crossed in a gendered sense, although not in the performative element of somebody like Judith Butler.  Instead, gender identities are a very fixed thing, however, the roles they can perform in society seem less strict.  For example, both the sisters manage to take the place of their father as spiritual advisors for their community, and while they do not don the dress of a religious figure their status is, nonetheless, tantamount to such associations.  In a similar context, Babette's role as a cook may seem heavily domesticated and, exists in such a state up until the final feast, but with her willingness to throw caution to the wind in the French oriented menu and the revelation that she has been in charge of a restaurant certainly makes a viewer reconceptualize each gendered performance in the film, even by male figures like Papin and Lowenhielm, which become far less "masculine" in a sense.

Key Scene:  Sure the feast takes up a better third of the movie, but it is both grand and simple and serves as an extended and poetic scene and one of the best uses of food as metaphor I have seen to date.

This is a Hulu offering via the folks at Criterion.  I can only hope for a future bluray release, but until then this should work perfectly.

I Saw Your Name In Huge Letters: A Simple Life (2012)

As I may have mentioned at some point on the blog, I am currently attending graduate school for library and information sciences, with a special focus in digital preservation.  As such, I am afforded the very welcomed opportunity to volunteer at the Moving Images Research Collection in South Carolina where I primarily work on viewing and cataloguing police training videos.  However, one of the side project I have had the pleasure of engaging in focuses on Chinese film, particularly helping  with a conference on topics relating to Chinese film.  This weekend, as many may know, marked the beginning of the Chinese New Year, in which MIRC, as well as University of South Carolina's Confucius Institute put on a Chinese Film Festival at the local independent theater, in which they showed a variety of different films from the past few years in Chinese film, most notably A Simple Life a film of great stature in China, as well as one directed by Ann Hui a prominent Chinese filmmaker who also happens to be a woman.  I came into this film only being aware that Ann Hui was a bit of an art house icon in China and was only beginning to make her name on a global market, however, I had been assured by many fans and experts in Chinese film that she was a big deal and that her films were well worth exploring.  Going into A Simple Life, I assumed that the film would be quite cinematic and terribly heart-wrenching considering the films narrative thread, however, what I did not expect was for the film to be a perfected lesson in poetic realism.  Hui's film moves through a narrative space with equal parts serenity and solemnity providing what could easily be described as the perfect hybridization of the stylistic methods of the late Japanese master Yasujiro Ozu and prominent Chinese director Wong Kar-Wai.  A Simple Life clearly went under the radar in 2011/2012, competing with a decidedly political set of foreign films, many of which considered the nature and effects of war.  While A Simple Life certainly incorporates a heavy amount of comedy in its execution, one would be a fool to miss the very serious commentaries existing within the narrative, as well as one of the most envisioned non-traditional family narratives ever considered.


A Simple Life centers on Ah Tao (Deanie Ip) an aging maid for the wealthy director Roger (Andy Lau) whose bachelor lifestyle has never really come undone, particularly considering that Tao clearly exists as a maternal figure to the not-so-young man.  When Tao suffers an unexpected stroke Roger is left to reconsider his role as a caregiver to an individual who has provided him so much love over the entirety of his life, in fact, Tao has been the servant to his family for some sixty odd years, in what apparently began as a political revolution.  Despite his considerably busy schedule as a director, Roger attempts to care hand and foot for Tao, who is bothered by this and demands that she be placed into a retirement home, even against Roger's concerns, knowing fully the sleazy nature of such establishments.  Fortunately, Roger is able to place Tao into a home ran by a former stuntman and assures that she is taken care of financially and emotionally.  No amount of careful oversight on the part of Roger manages to block Tao from experiencing the rather dreadful state of being elderly in contemporary China, whether it be encounters with half-assed charity outreach groups, or with frustrated caretakers who become physically aggressive with problematic patients.  Tao serves as sort of angel of the retirement home in her gentle demeanor sharing her food and money with any and everyone, even in instances when the money goes to sinful behavior, or is greatly under underappreciated.  The realization that she will slowly die lies in the back of Tao's mind and is only reaffirmed by witnessing other members of the home pass along, even one of its youngest members Mui (So-yin Hui) whose inability to afford proper dialysis technology leads to her demise.  Knowing that the time Tao has remaining is fleeting, Roger takes her on many trips outside of the retirement home, even bringing her as a date to a big film premiere, as well as along to a Chinese New Year celebration, in which she is able to see her only grandchild who is Chinese-Korean.  Of course, sickness gets the best of Tao and she passes on, but not without having a clear impact on even the most troubled of persons.  In the films closing moments, one is led to believe that her kind spirit lingers on well beyond her passing.

I am not an expert in Chinese culture, nor do I know much about their films beyond being aware of some of the mainland works that were huge in the 90's and being a die hard fan of John Woo's Hardboiled.  Yet, I am rather aware of the issue of aging as it relates to China, one in which the elderly community is pushed aside and nearly forgotten in the face of modernity.  The fact, that many of the characters depicted in the film are elderly folks who are pushed aside does not just ring true for contemporary China, but is, in fact, the case for most of the world, making the universality of A Simple Life land almost immediately.  It is quite easy to relate to Roger who clearly longs to be a close person to his maternal maid, but is also forced away from her in order to fulfill works requirements, most people have a family member for with whom they are close but a variety of factors block their unity.  Another element of the film that stands out its the way in which Tao is clearly far to aware and capable to be placed in the bizarre world of retirements homes where bodies are pushed aside and disability is loathed.  The nurturing nature of Tao kicks into gear immediately and she essentially becomes another nurse, helping persons eat their food or sew a button back onto a coat.  Tao desired to go to the home to  avoid being a burden to Roger, however, the same acts that caused her sickness in the first place seem to occupy her time within the retirement home, much to the disdain of Roger, but to the welcome embrace of the weary employees of the home.  Of course, this story is rather unusual in that Roger does often visit Tao, much more than perhaps she thinks he should, yet no amount of unity and bonding can provide Tao an escape from the drudgery and despondent world of the home and much of this come to fruition during a particularly lonely night at the home.  It demands viewers to consider the very real effects of loneliness, even in a temporary state, although Hui makes it clear that for most persons the loneliness is a long forming experience.  Perhaps it is much more an advocation for create family where possible than a condemning of retirement home culture, but both narratives exist and deserve equal consideration.

Key Scene:  Tao and Roger talking after his movie preview party will go down as one of the sweetest moments I will ever encounter in a film and is guaranteed to yank at your heartstrings.

While it will be near impossible to see in theaters, an impending bluray release is certainly the way to go.  It is a film more than well worth owning.

Life Has A Gap In It...It Just Does: Take This Waltz (2012)

Take This Waltz can be an initially deceptive film, because if a viewer is to only take the first five or so minutes of the film as a signifier of its larger concept, it could easily be dismissed as pretentious hipster filmmaking in which the filmmaker seems more intent on showing how great their vision is cinematically than what their story offers, however, once a person makes it through this initial bump the  story explodes into something tragically real and soberingly poetic, never slowing down and constantly adding both ethereal and jarring imagery to study life in its most plain existence.  It is no small task to make Michelle Williams look like a complete mess, yet a combination of realist techniques on the part of director Sarah Polley, as well as a commitment to a disheveled appearance both physically and emotionally on the part of Williams makes for one of her most honest and gut-wrenching performances since Blue Valentine.  Like Blue Valentine, Take This Waltz does not attempt to offer an idyllic vision of human existence, although it certainly offers a considerably larger amount of moments in which life proves to be beautiful even if for a few fleeting seconds, almost always brought back to the jarring despair of reality.  While I have not seen Polley's earlier work Away From Her, I hear many good things about it and cannot wait to investigate it in relation to this work.  Take This Waltz demands its viewers to consider what sacrifice as an action truly means, allowing for this to serve both as a issue faced by characters within the narrative as well as the actors, who engage in actions in front of the camera that would not have been imaginable only a few years earlier, particularly some of the things pulled off by Sarah Silverman who delivers an excellent performance.  As I come closer to watching enough movies to justify formulating my top ten list of 2012, I am quite certain that this film will make the list, in fact, as I look over some of the films I still have to view it seems quite impossible that this will be topped, although to be fair, I had no idea what I was going into with this work and that could prove similar for some films I have yet to watch.  Also I am a sucker for well-executed cinematic references and the one tip of the hat to The 400 Blows is incredible.

Take This Waltz focuses almost entirely on the experiences of aspiring writer Margot (Michelle Williams) who is introduced to viewers as she is returning from a vacation to her hometown of Toronto, on the trip she meets a man named Daniel (Luke Kirby) whose agressive demeanor and cool attitude prove intriguing to Margot, so much so that a clear romance begins to emerge.  Yet upon arrival home, even after the revelation that Kirby is her neighbor, Margot pushes Daniel away because she is married.  It is only then that viewers are introduced to Margot's loving and stalwart husband the chicken chef Lou (Seth Rogen).  Lou clearly loves Margot and wants the best for them both, although the ability of his recovering alcoholic sister Geraldine (Sarah Silverman) to have a child with no trouble clearly looms over him and affects the communication between himself and Margot.  Matters are only made worse when Margot begins to secretly plan meetings with Daniel, who is receptive and actively attempts to get her to be unfaithful.  Margot clearly desires to be with Daniel, but cannot stand the thought of betraying Lou who has been more than loving and not deserving of Margot's infidelity, as such Margot plans to meet Daniel in thirty years, in which case she believes that she will have been faithful long enough to earn a kiss.  However, life does not prove that simple and due to part purpose and part chance Daniel keeps emerging into Margot's daily life, whether it be an accidental encounter that leads to both Margot and Lou riding in Daniel's rickshaw, or Daniel being invited to a house party by Lou who is oblivious to the entire ordeal.  Racked with guilt, Margot finally admits to her feelings and leaves a defeated Lou to be with Daniel, yet as the narrative suggests even the newness and passion of her life with Daniel fades and repetition and normalcy emerge.  In a sobering scene, both literally and metaphorically, Geraldine condemns Margot for her selfish actions and demands that she stop running away from her choices, leading to a closing scene of Margot enveloped in isolation, all of which is paired with the best use of "Video Killed The Radio Star" in a film ever.

Polley's film approaches the idea of infidelity, faithfulness and betrayal in one of the most honest and acceptable manners I have seen in a film to date, where as The Bridges of Madison County approached the problem of a woman questioning her unappreciated place in life, Take This Waltz does not afford the main character the outlet.  She has no justification in her infidelity, because aside from simply marrying to early and falling out of love, her husband has done nothing to deserve her unfaithfullness, in fact, he is almost too aware of her desires and needs.  The only serious argument they seem to have prior to her leaving is when he dismisses her advances while busy at work testing recipes, although viewers are quite aware that her sexual desires are likely an outlet from her tensely sexual conversation with Daniel only moments earlier.  Margot cannot be condemned too heavily for her eventual leaving, because she is honest about her feelings towards Daniel and aside from spending time with him in a platonic way never actually acts upon them in a physical way, nonetheless, Lou is justified in his feelings of betrayal because while she has not cheated on him she has undermined and tossed away an unspoken agreement to stay together for as long as time allows, emphasized with a heightened sense of tragedy in the final water tossing scene.  All of this blurring of viewers' notions of relationships makes it quite difficult to conceptualize the victim within the film, because while Lou is certainly getting a raw deal he cannot expect to force someone to stay with him that simply does not have their heart in the game, nor can Daniel or Margot be blamed for their desires because they emerge naturally and are not intended to be vindictive to Lou in any way.  Polly, I would argue, seems to suggest that life makes victims of us when we cannot properly address situations the moment they emerge, especially when the consequences have dire effects on both individuals hearts and the relationships of those around them.

Key Scene:  The initial amusement park ride scene is filmed with such cinematic beauty that when it comes to a jarring stop I felt my heart jump a bit, something I am far more used to experience during a scary movie, yet it is so tragic in this context that I could not help but react emotively.

This is yet another great film from last year going under the radar and it deserves all the love it can get, buy the bluray, or watch it on Netflix while you still can.

A Whole World Realized On A Single Boat: The Bow (2005)

If I define a film as being poetic realism one could certainly assume it to be Italian or French, if I add that it is set on a boat with noticeably sparse dialogue one might narrow the field down to a Scandinavian offering.  If I add that it deals with some heavy issues of patriarchal oppression and problematic ties to the womb, it might be situated within the Spanish filmmaking tradition.  However, if I include all of these factors and mention that the film climaxes in a moment of violence that has an inherent tie to sexual awakening then it is highly likely that the film is probably comfortably residing within the New Korean tradition.  Ki-duk Kim, who has been reviewed multiple times on this blog manages to create such a film in The Bow, something so surreally poetic that I felt moved in a way emotionally more indicative of melodrama.  I have not encountered a soundtrack so perfect for a film in quite awhile, both in is serene almost ethereal quality, as well as its constant intersections within the diegetic world of the film.  The acting in this movie, for being a somewhat absurdist plot, is well-executed and quite believable.  It manages to take a narrative space that is quite condensed and spread out a message about humanity, or at least the South Korean notion of humanity, throughout the film.  I am coming to realize that when one discusses the work of Ki-duk Kim one must necessarily consider a multitude of narrative possibilities, as well as an incredible intersection of identities.  While it is not as diverse in The Bow as it is in some of his earlier works, one must nonetheless contest a variety of class, gender and race identities before truly configuring the message promoted by the popular and controversial filmmaker.  I have been dabbling in finding specific Korean directors to write lengthier research pieces on an realize that Chan-wook Park is far to mainstream, while Chang-dong Lee proves to obscure.  Perhaps with a few more films by Ki-duk Kim under my belt I could go with his oeuvre, because it is equal parts problematic and revolutionary, a great trove of research to any burgeoning scholar.

The Bow focuses on life as it occurs on a small fishing boat, somewhere in the non-descript waters surrounding Korea.  The young girl (Yeo-reum Han) finds herself a member of a crew that aside from her only consists of an old man, played magnificently by Seong-hwang Jeon, who appears to be keeping a schedule of her aging, with the intent of marrying her upon her seventeenth birthday.  Viewers are provided with little context as to why she resides on this boat, aside from her initial arrival some ten years earlier.  What is made quite clear is the old mans severe protection of the girl from the lecherous advances of other fishers, going so far as to ward of their lingering touches with warning shots from a steady and precise bow and arrow.  Furthermore, the old man provides fortunes via firing the arrow as they young girl swings back and forth, narrowly dodging the missiles as they whiz by.  It seems as though the old man will receive his reward for stalwart patience, until the emergence of a particularly dashing young man sends the young girl into a infatuated tizzy, one which is clearly shared by the man who provides the young girl with some of her first glimpses into the technological world outside the boat, via a walkman and cell phone.  Of course, the old man contests this and makes certain that she is distanced from him, only to be threatened that he will return with the girls parents to save her from the boat.  When the man does return with news that her parents are indeed seeking her out, the young girl becomes confused and grows weary of her place on the boat, pushing the old man away despite his best efforts.  Agreeing to have his fortune read, the young man discovers that he is not the rightful owner of the young girls heart, but, nonetheless, demands that she be allowed to leave her prison.  Reluctantly agreeing to this the old man attempts suicide only for the young girl to return and marry him and act that is never consummated sexually, at least in the traditional sense, a carefully placed arrow might say otherwise.  The film then ends with the boat sinking into a bottomless darkness, the girl waving all the while.

The criticisms run deep for this film, not unlike the ocean which the boat floats ever so stagnantly on throughout the narrative.  Specifically, as they relate to notions of oppression, all of which are enacted upon the body of the young girl.  Firstly, as a female body she is a point of objectification to the various males throughout the film, firstly, the old man who has sexual intentions for, problematically, guised in earnest care.  However, the various men who come and go from the boat seem to desire conquest or sexual satisfaction, undertaking acts that range from innocent snuggling to foul placement of fish bait.  No protection is provided for the girl that is not predicated on another's own sexual desires.  She is clearly the othered body in the narrative, as far as sexuality is concerned.  Beyond this, she is also oppressed in terms of class presence, as a surrogate daughter to a fisher she lacks wealth and is invariably unable to expand her worldview, this is reaffirmed when she is given headphones as a gift, only to use them without realizing that they provide no sound when not attached to an output.  Furthermore, one can find points of oppresion that emerge from the young girls lack of education or apparent muteness as a handicap.  These forms of restraint are eventually broken in the closing moments of the film as she explodes in a near orgasmic manner in her troublesome sexual awakening scene, yet what her minds opens up to is likely far more than purely sexual notions.

Key Scene:  Pretty much any of the moments involving the bow violin music are aurally and visually pleasing.

This is a solid Korean film and perhaps the most arthouse of any seen to date, with the exception of some of Ki-duk Kim's earlier work and is well worth owning.  A new copy of the DVD is not terribly expensive either.

Are You Sure You Know When I'm Happy?: Voyage To Italy (1954)

Regardless of what translation you prefer, whether it be Journey to Italy or Voyage in Italy, it is quite clear that Roberto Rossellini's some what unknown film is centered on commenting upon a failing marriage.  Now this is certainly not a topic that has been ignored by cinema and has manifested itself quite nicely in films of multiple genres, as well as countries of origin.  What many of these films fail to do though is truly capture the earnestly of a fracturing marriage, as well as the trouble in trying to fix those often insurmountable problems.  Where many films will attempt to use metaphor or heavy-handed symbolism to drive a point across, Rossellini instead focuses on his neo-realist roots and simply lays out a story so believable and plausible that when he does incorporate very clear moments of symbolist leanings, they seem so relevant and realized that it makes for that much greater a film.  Not to mention the acting, all be it dubbed, is quite astonishing and certainly worth praise.  I have not been shy by any means about my misgivings regarding Italian cinema, citing a very minimal amount of films that I enjoyed, well it just grew by one with the addition of this film, a long sought after film that I desired greatly to consume.

Voyage To Italy centers on a trip undertook by a married couple the opinionated and decidedly misogynist Alexander (George Sanders) and his wife, the intellectually inclined, yet troublesomely sheepish Katherine (Ingrid Bergman).  The two are engaging in this trip to the Italian country with clear hopes of fixing their flailing marriage, one that they both know is headed for divorce, but neither wants to acknowledge.  Once to their place of  stay near Naples the two have decidedly different plans on how to spend their time in the town. Alexander wants to go bar hopping and meet people, most of which are women, while Katherine simply wants to take in the museums and historical landmarks of the area, taking a particularly keen interest in the aftermath of Vesuvius.  As the two go through their separate vacations their feelings further disintegrate, Alexander meets a local woman and falls for her only to discover that she is on the cusp of a marriage, while Katherine seeks solitude in a museum only to realize that humans had struggled with similar situations thousands of years earlier.  The two reunite on the closing day of their trip and while Katherine seems committed to fixing their problems, all Alexander can consider is the act of divorce.  Yet when the two are separated forcefully at a church procession the two realize that they in fact love one another and realize the loss imminent in such a separation.  The two affirm their love in the closing scenes and reconnect in a sweetly simple moment of passion.

I mentioned that this film does have its share of symbolism, but that it does not manifest itself in obnoxious ways as so many contemporary films seem to do, perhaps this could be accredited to something Francois Truffaut said about the work.  Defending Voyage to Italy from a slew of harsh criticism, Truffaut praised the film as being the first truly modern film.  Perhaps Truffaut was right in such an assertion and as such it makes the symbolism seem fresh, in that the film is clearly old, yet incorporates metaphor and symbolism in a manner one has come to expect with somebody like Paul Thomas Anderson or David Fincher.  The most pertinent and permeating image of the couples marriage throughout the film is the constant image of Mount Vesuvius in the background, which while obviously dormant implies the possibility of eruption, in this case the marriage of Katherine and Alex.  Furthermore, Katherine's trip through a museum leads her to become wary of her relationship to the past, particularly when the statues painted eyes seem to gaze upon her, and the viewer, in eerie condemnation.  Finally, the moment in which Katherine and Alexander view the excavation of two bodies from the ash of Vesuvius serves as the most on the nose metaphor of the entire film, particularly considering that the dead bodies are interlocked, suggesting a partnership.  Meant as a reminder of love to the struggling couple it manages to seem perfect within the film and far from preachy.  Perhaps it is the notion that Rossellini was one of the first to incorporate such imagery or that the images are location based, but one cannot help but adore their incorporation into this brilliant bit of cinema.

Key Scene: The museum scene is a bit of existential beauty.

Criterion has a HuluPlus page for some of you that may not know, I had yet to watch anything but the free version of Grey Gardens, yet when I read that they had released this film I jumped on the chance to view it and so should you because it is criminally under-appreciated.

Forming Love from Le Havre to Paris: L'Atalante (1934)

Arguably, L'Atalante is a film you hear about when people talk about pivotal works of cinema.  It is often mentioned alongside Citizen Kane, The Seventh Seal and Seven Samurai as the masterpieces of cinema.  However, unlike, the previously mentioned films, L'Atalante has been difficult to come by and often a film a person could only see at film school or an art house theater in urban areas.   Fortunately, Criterion, in a labor of love, has brought us the complete works of Jean Vigo, which includes his seminal work L'Atalante.  Upon watching the film, I feared from the get go that it would let me down as it is an incredibly loved movie and I was concerned the hype would be too much to justify the film.  Aside from some absolutely spectacular cinematography, this appeared to be the case.  Then as if by some force of magic, the movie instantly became perfect in a harmonious way.  The characters struggles, the allure of Paris and the simplicity of a voyage narrative all came together and I was hooked.  I am hear to testify the the perfection of L'Atalante and serve as yet another advocate to its place in film history.

L'Atalante is a surprisingly simple movie in regards to plot.  The film follows the captain of the ship L'Atalante Jean (Jean Daste) as he introduces his newly wedded wife Juliette (Dita Parlo) to ship live.  This lifestyle includes close contact with the veteran seamen and cat lover Jules (Michel Simon) and a wide-eyed young boy named Camelot (Gilles Margeritis).  Together the group is voyaging from Le Havre to Paris on some undefined business.  All seems content in the world of L'Atalante, particularly the relationship between Jean and Juliette, until Jean discovers Juliette having a rather informal and close conversation with Jules in his quarters.  This discovery leads Jean into a frenzied fit of jealousy as he distances himself from Juliette and assumes her to be cuckolding him at every opportunity she gets.  This tension reaches its highest point when Juliette and Jean visit a music club when Juliette is incessantly hit on by a street peddler.  Infuriated Juliette and Jean part ways, leaving Juliette broke and lost to roam the streets of Paris.  Distraught and disorganized she unsuccessfully attempts to find work.  Jean attends to things on the ship unsuccessfully, constantly longing for Juliette and seeing visions of her as he sinks down in the water of the river.  Jules realizes the dilemma occurring and attempts to soothe Jean's longing by playing music, however, this only exacerbates his desire for Juliette.  Finally, in an act of loyalty and friendship to Jean, Jules searches and finds Juliette in a music store and brings her back to Jean.  The film ends simply and poetically with the couple reunited.


The plot is short and the film is relatively realistic.  This makes sense given that L'Atalante is on the back end of the poetic realism movement in France; however, the film is anything but a exercise in poetic realism.  In fact, I could find little to do in regards to social criticism, minus passing class commentary.  Instead, the film felt like a transitory film between poetic realism and French New Wave cinema.  This may seem irrelevant, but in cases of transitory filmmaking, it is often lackluster or sloppily done.  L'Atalante executes its transactions perfectly and beautifully.  Examples of this occur throughout the film in pieces, whether it be the lengthy shot of Juliette walking across the ship dock or random jump cuts to kittens climbing about a phonograph.  To a casual viewer these moments will seem out of place, and justifiably so, because they are unconventional to the traditional narrative structure of the film.  To a cinephile, it makes one quickly realize the films influence of Truffaut and Godard, both who claim inspiration from the film.  However, this hybrid of poetic realism and New Wave hits its biggest stride when Jean is swimming through the river and longing for Juliette.  The film continually cuts to images of Juliette smiling as her visage fades in and out of the water in an oneiric illusion.  This dream sequence of sorts is neither the actuality of poetic realism nor the brash irrationality of New Wave.  It is, as stated before, a combination of the both, something that had never happened before in film and rarely has occurred since.  To me this transitory filming style  makes L'Atalante so brilliant, and if it is not this, then the story is so true and realized that it is still a brilliant landmark in movies.

This is certainly one of the highlights of Criterion's 2011 releases.  There is absolutely no reason why you should not own a copy of this on bluray.  It is the French equivalent of Citizen Kane and a corner stone in the history of film.

Everyone Has A Song They Listen To On The Sly: Still Walking (2008)

I know I have made this statement on multiple occasions on my blog when I discuss Japanese films post 1960, but I cannot shy away from reemphasizing this now, the parallels between genre films of Japan and The United States are uncanny.  This is certainly the case with the 2008 family drama Still Walking, particularly in its study of the decaying of middle class traditions and the evaporation of the nuclear family ideal.  Arguably though, what separates Still Walking, and many other Japanese works of contemporary filmmaking, from its Western friends, is its attachment to the styling of the late Japanese masters, most notably Yasujiro Ozu.  It was only moments into this film before I realized the blatant similarities in mise-en-scene to Ozu, particularly in director Hirokazu Koreeda's staging the family as a public performance, as opposed to a private spectacle.  The conversations in this film, while dynamic, are undeniably deliberate and have the feeling of theatrics, which is understandable given that many of the films characters find themselves performing actions they believe "appropriate" as opposed to acting in the way they truly desire.  Yet, similar to Chinese director Wong Kar-Wai, Koreeda's film has an impermeable layer of reality that captures viewers into relating to the characters, even if they have little to nothing in common.  So, while I may say that the similarities to American cinema are uncanny, I would not hesitate to suggest that American independent cinema take a much needed cue from their Eastern contemporaries.

Still Walking, as noted above, is a film about family, particularly the distanced Yokoyama family that is still adjusting to the sting of a lost family member.  This family is led, unwillingly, by the aging doctor Kyohei (Yosio Harada) who is more concerned with clutching to his diminishing masculine identity than being hospitable to his children and wife Toshiko (Kirin Kichi) who often provides unwanted opinions about her childern's life decisions.  The remaining children consist of  daughter Chinami (You) and her seemingly mute husband Nobuo (Kazuya Takahashi) and son Ryota (Hirosha Abe) and his newly married wife Yukari (Yui Natsukawa).  Despite convening over the loss of a family member Chinami is preoccupied with claiming the house to herself in the face of her parents inevitable aging, while Ryota fights for his family to accept him as a son that is respectable compared to his deceased brother, while also trying to gain the family's approval of his wife who is a widowed mother.  This entire convoluted and ignored contention, like the food in the movie, is at the point of boiling over, until the family members begin to confess their issues with one another.  Slowly, with large amounts of patience and forgiveness, the family begins to realize the err in their ways and provide both acceptance and forgiveness to one another realizing that their own self-loathing and pain was not comparable to the acidic divisions it created amongst the whole.  In the end the family, including the extremely conservative Kyohei, realize that their lives are fleeting and to do anything but continue walking would be to live their lives and their lost family members life in vain.

This film is about the unspoken bonds of family, even those bonds that have become corroded by the divisions of failed communication.  The film is also very much about the power and problem of misappropriated tradition.  Still Walking is also very much about food.  It is a film about the power of performing family tradition as a focal point for unity, it is clear from the films opening scenes, to conversations about lunch and dinner, that even in the most dire of situations a group can meet and coalesce happily over a plate of food.  I am not terribly keen on food studies, or how they relate to film analysis, but I am aware that this field of study is becoming considerably prominent in academia.  I am not fully prepared to make an intense discussion about food studies as they relate to this film, but I am absolutely certain that it could be done, along with many of the films that made my Thanksgiving day Top Ten list.  Fortunately for me, I have a girlfriend who has taken a handful of classes in this subject and I plan to hound her about what family, food and performance really means.  Hopefully I can draw something deeper and more profound in the future on the subject, but for the time being I just find it intriguing that such a seemingly simple act like cooking, proves to be so necessary in assuring familial cohesion throughout Still Walking.  It is worth discussion, if only for how delicious all the food looks.

This is easily one of the best releases by Criterion in 2010 and a film I would never have watched were it not for its inclusion in the collection.  There are two reasons to pick up this amazing movie from the people over at Criterion: The first is for the brilliant film, and the second is for the recipes that are included in the supplemental book.

Magicians Do Not Exist: The Illusionist (2010)

I stumbled upon The Triplets of Belleville by accident upon purchasing a copy at one of the many rental stores that has went out of business in the past few years.  Not knowing what to expect, I was taken back by the surreal beauty and existential ennui that engulfed Sylvain Chomet's cinematic world.  So when I heard that he was adapting a Jacques Tati play into an animated film, I was elated.  I expected a brilliant piece of animation that would have me gasping with delight at its grandiose composition and zany subtleties.  The Illusionist gave me those expectations full force, however, what I was not expecting was an achingly tragic movie.  I assumed without reading any synopsis that The Illusionist would be completely comic and slapstick and from the beginning this proved true, yet by the films closing the viewer is left in such a state of existential despair that would have the most stalwart of people questioning their purpose in life.  The Illusionist is a masterpiece of animation that captures an idea and identity magnificently, and Chomet stands beside Miyazaki as one of the few animators whose work truly transcends the world of children's movies into a much more mature and darkly tinted place.

The Illusionist opens with black and white imagery of a magician executing tricks masterfully implying a man whose days of popularity are antiquated, this notion is quickly affirmed by cutting to present day imagery in color displaying the magician performing to a much smaller crowd and having little success with his act.  His inability to attract audiences and perform efficiently leads to his dismissal from the theater and his subsequent traveling to perform at various venues throughout Europe.  Performing in the face of an ever changing audience, which is exemplified by a rock group whose lead singer does nothing more than grunt into a microphone and roll around on the ground, the magician seeks an audience at a party.  Despite having very few people pay attention to his tricks, the magician is able to impress a drunken Scotsman who invites him to perform at a pub in his hometown.  The town the magician visits is very rural and is celebrating the introduction of electricity on the same night as the magician's performance.  Given their rather mundane lives, the townsfolk become captivated with the magicians performance, particularly a bar girl named Alice, who sees the magician as a procurer of valuable items.  Infatuated with the magician, Alice sneaks onto the ferry with the magician who takes her under his wing out of what appears to be guilt.  Viewers are now introduced to the rather sad life of the magician who lives in a small one-bedroom apartment whose other tenants are also performers.  Alice, assuming that the magician can create items out of nothing, hints at desiring various clothing pieces, to which the magician abides out of fear of failing the girl's imagination.  Eventually Alice's demands become larger than the magicians ability to produce and he must sell himself to corporate exploitation in order to gain money.  Despite continuing to provide her with gifts, Alice decides to pursue a romance with a young man across the street.  Discovering their relationship, the magician leaves in despair and simply offers Alice a note that states, "magicians do not exist."  The magician, Alice, and even the viewers have come to realize that the small magic of the world to which they hold dear is simply an illusion and that once this is discovered they can do little but live a jaded life.

The Illusionist did a very interesting thing to me.  It caused me to question what constitutes comedy.  Prior to The Illusionist I found it quite simple to divide comedies into either slapstick low key comedy and philosophical high art dark comedy.  The Illusionist, however, is both of these comedy styles from beginning to end, never failing to cause the viewer to laugh and suffer simultaneously.  At first, I wanted to place the blame for this comedic gesture on French sensibility, but I found The Illusionist to exist as something far different from even Godard's most politically fueled comedy.  It seems as though Chomet, and to the same extent Tati, wanted viewers to laugh at the tragedy of human nature.  The film posits that reality sucks really really bad, but if you cannot laugh at it then living in the tragedy becomes unbearable.  This unbearable nature is shown through the clown character who attempts to commit suicide only to be stopped when Alice offers him a bowl of soup.  The clown, as the film implies, had lost his ability to laugh and it was in that moment that he almost lost his ability to live.  In fact, it is only the Scotsman whose character remains happy at the films closing, yet even his jovial nature is a direct result of alcohol.  I guess this is all really my personal ranting, but the film works for contemporary society, because economically speaking the world is terrible and Chomet is reminding us that laughing is the only way to deal with it, because if we cannot do that the crisis becomes unbearable.

I found The Illusionist to be far superior to Triplets of Belleville and I cannot recommend it enough.  I was fortunate enough to see it projected on film, but I am sure the blu-ray will garner a similar experience.

I Loathe Tragedy, Such An Inferior Genre: Children of Paradise (1945)

A film that is poetic realism realized, Children of Paradise incandescently studies the world of a struggling theater troupe through its moments of success all the way to its moments of abject failure.  The masterpiece of French director Michael Carne, Children of Paradise is a brutally honest look at love, lust and the troubling links of romance, ultimately, positing the failures of true romance in the face of bourgeois oppression.  The film is uniquely its own work, incorporating tight and claustrophobic cinematography that still manages to flow with grace, as well as acting that is theatrically excessive, yet manages to be achingly real.  The film clocks in at an epic three plus hours, yet the viewing experience seems all too short and ends abruptly, all be it appropriately, leaving those witnessing the magnificent work yearning for something more, but like the films characters viewers are left with a fading flicker of something soulful that has forever escaped their grasp.   
 

As noted the film follows the interconnected narratives of a theater troupe located on the appropriately named Boulevard of Crime.  The films central character is certainly the aging beauty Garance (Arletty) whose illustrious beauty proves irresistible to the men living on and around the crowded boulevard.  The first to approach Garance with interest is the aspiring actor Frederick (Pierre Brasseur) who at first sees the gorgeous woman as a conquest, but quickly finds himself in a state of perpetual infatuation with Garance.  Not soon after Frederick’s advances, Garance is accused of thievery, however, she is saved by a mime named Baptiste (Jean-Louis Barrault) who explains that it was in fact a conman named Laceneire (Pierre Renoir) who stole the watch, while also expressing his own interests in Garance.  Garance thanks Baptiste for taking her side and offers him a flower in gratitude.  Baptiste, like Frederick, is quickly infatuated by Garance, however, it appears as though she actually shares similar feelings.  All appears set for Baptiste and Garance to fall madly in love, until Count Edouard  (Louis Salou) enters the picture.  Described in the film as a dandy, Edouard is an extravagant man who uses his monetary extensions to get what he wants, proving successful even with Garance.  Garance is shown choosing Edouard over the other gentlemen at the end of the first act, and we are brought back in a few years later showing both Frederick and Baptiste as successful actors, although Baptiste appears to be in a state of constant depression over his loss of Garance.  These issues are only made more severe by the constant meddling of Laceneire who believes he can use guile to win over Garance.  Ultimately, the four men roguishly trick one another into winning over Garance, who is obviously lost in thoughts of Baptiste.  Tragically it is their relationship that is never rekindled as they fail to cross paths and Baptiste is left chasing after Garance in the crowded Boulevard of Crime, only to be consumed by the mass of people.  In this moment, Garance dismisses Baptiste as nothing more than a face in the crowd, literally becoming a faceless man behind the makeup of a mime.

The film is stunning and absolutely enthralling, yet in the back of my mind I fell bothered by the overarching assumption that all masculine camaraderie is somehow ruined by the interference of a female.  All the men act in a ludicrous manner over their desire for Garance and at times the film suggest that it leads to their disconnection.  In fact, a rather endearing scene between Baptiste and Frederick over their mutual respect for each others craft, is quickly dismissed when Frederick sleeps with Garance, despite knowing that Baptiste is only a room away.  This assumption is only made worse as it is assumed that Garance is entirely incapable of truly choosing her own mate.  Garance only settles with Edoaurd in order to avoid a serious prison sentence, however, once she chooses to settle with the count it is mutually believed between viewer and characters that she is inextricably tied to him, despite her continuing longing for Baptiste.  Incidentally, a male character must even assure her of her love for Baptiste, specifically when Baptiste’s son states that she cannot have his father, because he is happy with his own family.  It is patriarchy working at its most destructive level, one in which even a male child proves to have more authority than an aging woman.  I consider most of the problems to be indicative of forties Europe, yet I could not praise this film, without also making note of these glaring gender issues.

Sadly, Criterion has yet to release this gem on Bluray, however, that should not deter you from getting a copy, because it is one of the rather moving pieces in the collection and a definitive example of French Poetic Realism.