To Do Good Work, You Gotta Have Good Tools: Lilies Of The Field (1963)

Popping in to post a blog as it is yet another snow day here in Columbia, South Carolina.  Apparently these things are rather rare in a decade, but we have somehow managed to have two in the same month.  I knew last night that I would sit some time aside to throw together a blog, but was rather uncertain as to what film I would discuss, as my viewing has still been predominantly directed at all things related to Godzilla.  Indeed, I watched the marvelous Point Blank last night and was rather certain that it would prove the point of discussion, but earlier this morning, amidst my inability to justify being productive despite being given a full day to myself, I finally caught up with Lilies of the Field, a classic in cinema that I had long been meaning to view.  While I expected a few things going into the film, particularly a great performance by Sidney Poitier and some heavy handedness in terms of religious allegories, what I did not expect was to discover a deeply engaging and outright evocative look into the nature of humanity, when social connections and a desire to prove communal worth take on transcendent levels.  Indeed, if read at a very face value level, Lilies of the Field will come across as an idyllic look at persons from non-hegemonic groups coming together in the name of a collective vision and this reading is not of base at all, because that is what the narrative emphasizes.  I would tough contest that it is this and so much more, looking specifically at how individuals are willing to reappropriate and rationalize their own world views either in grand or simple ways to fit with a larger idea, one that might at first seem wholly abstract or completely built on faith, but if the work of anthropologist Anne Fadiman is any indication, eventually in these spaces the spirit will catch you, and you will fall down, although in a far less violent or physical way.  Here the falling down is more of a social realization, one that notes diversity and barriers as things that can and should be transgressed and perhaps the most frustrating blockades to unity are those we build around ourselves.  If all this can occur within the space of a rather succinct modernization of the Tower of Babel tale, I would call Lilies of the Field a rousing success.

Lilies of the Field begins with the arrival of Homer Smith (Sidney Poitier) to an unmarked nunnery, wherein he hopes to merely borrow water from the women there, in order to jumpstart his overheated engine and be on his way traveling.  This simple plan is quickly altered when the nunnery's head sister Mother Maria (Lilia Skala) asserts that the arrival of Homer is an answer to her prayers.  While Homer is noticeably and verbally reluctant to help, the insistence of Maria and the other nun's lead to him agreeing to fix a hole in the roof of the nunnery.  Assuming that this will suffice his duty and allow him to leave, Maria ends up convincing Homer that he must stay for dinner, a task that expands in to her blatant refusal to acknowledge his requests to be on his way.  Bizarrely intrigued by the constant insistence of Maria that he should stay, Homer decides to keep in residence at the nunnery, while also beginning work laying road for a local contractor.  During Sunday's Homer also serves as a chauffeur for the nun's to a local truck based Catholic church, run by the well-meaning but constantly intoxicated Father Murphy (Dan Frazer).  Refusing to be involved with the mass, as he identifies as a Baptist, Homer spends the time in a local tavern eating large amounts of food to make up for the minimalist breakfasts and dinners at the nunnery.  When Homer yet again attempts to leave, he is ignored the request by Maria, somehow becoming, instead, roped into working on building a church for the people of the area, including immigrants with little or no English skills.  Taking this task as a building of his own self-character, Homer pours his heart and soul into the endeavor, only to become roadblocked when he runs out of materials.  However, the desire of the community to see the church into fruitions results in communal donations of the materials required, a process that causes the group to learn to talk in a collective language and navigate their own understandings of spiritual endeavors. While Homer is offered a steady job in the process, upon completion of the church, he decides he must leave, although the town and the nunnery he has stayed with will be changed in noted ways, but clearly it is Homer who has advanced in the most considerable manner.

Building structures and creating faith are two endeavors that seem to involve similar rhetoric and it is little to no surprise that the filmmaker and the author of the original text are fixated on overlaying the themes within this film.  However, while this is key to the text, I am far more intrigued by the manner in which this film focuses on the troubles and benefits that emerge from creating semiotic understandings, or, more in-line with the previous sentence, language structures.  Lilies of the Field seems to be a film about the constant navigation of similarities and differences as they relate to talking and positively working in a collective manner.  Indeed, this is most telling in the initial engagement between Homer and the women of the nunnery at which he stays.  Whilst trying to teach the women proper English composition, he starts with a series of labeling of very subjective ideas, noting items in the room such as a phonograph and a record and suggesting them to be singularly of an item.  Yet when he moves out to explain the difference between his skin color as black and their whiteness, things become more complex as they repeat his statement, claiming themselves to be white.  In this rather humorous exchange, one begins to understand that the idea of blackness, or "schwarz"ness as it were to the nuns, only holds value when the language agrees upon a social ascribed implication.  Essentially, Homer's blackness holds no value in terms of language, when the women do not understand its societal implications and even when they do realize what he is suggesting it does lack a layer of societal problems that would emerge in other situations.  As fascinating as this exchange does prove to be, it seems a bit curious that the filmmaker does not navigate a similar language issue in regards to gender, but that already seems well established in the segregated space of the nunnery from the onset.  This language issue becomes even more intriguing when the building of the church becomes communal and the pictorial and gestural elements of communication take precedence over verbal suggestions, particularly ones of ideas, as the immigrant works listen to not Mother Maria, but Homer and his use of drawings and motions to complete the task.  Intriguingly, this reworking of language allows the group to build the space without the necessity of capitalist endeavors, denying the use of high quality bricks in favor of the adobe that had sufficed up until this point. Money holds far less value because their language in the space is barter and trade based, the bricks becoming removed from the term 'valuable' thus only being seen as fodder for a gravel walkway.

Key Scene:  The Amen song that becomes the point of bonding between the nuns and Homer is something I was aware of prior to viewing this film, however, it was far more engaging and delightful than I could have imagined.

I lucked out and obtained this as part of a large collection of DVD's.  It is currently rather pricy on Amazon and considering this I would suggesting renting it before making a commitment to dropping that much money on it, although it is certainly worth its price.

Sin Can Be Caught As Easily As The Plague: The Devils (1971)

I had real trouble picking out a quote for this particular film, because as is the case with this and Altered States, ashamedly the only other film by Ken Russell I have viewed, every bit of dialogue is delivered with a sense of the literary grandiose, made all the more so by it narratively existing in 17th century france, a place rife with religious issues that extend outward to include intense problems in regards to repression of sexuality and a variety of diseases spreading through the country, Ken Russell who taps into such excesses and oppressions with surgeon-like precision excels with the material here.  I am aware that one could certainly read The Devils as being antithetical to all things horror, the theme of the blog this month, and to a certain degree I would tend to agree, however, I am also of the split opinion that The Devils is wholly a work of horror filmmaking, existing in the genre more so than many of the films I have viewed this month that have purported themselves to be fully genre, particularly the atrociously misguided and ill-conceived Hostel.  Russell, who makes it a method of his to question the limitations of human nature in both physical terms and sensorial, managing to extend this movement through spatial and temporal awareness to include the very means by which cinema records such non-linear trips.  A work like The Devils is horrific, in the same way the work of Kubrick, Hitchcock or Jodorowsky are intensely so, never backing down from imagery that is confrontational and though notably surreal, never inconsequential.  I will admit that I was not fully involved with this film, at least in the same sense as I was with Altered States, but that is primarily due to the somewhat lackluster prints of the film currently made available, whose graininess and general lack of cleanliness for a release print can be somewhat off-putting, especially considering that this film is decidedly cinematic, relying on detailed compositions wherein depth of field factor heavily into the interpretations of characters acts and emotions in real and quantifiable ways.  The Devils is a cinematic experiences in the same vein as Salo, becoming a point of reference for later exploitation films, most notably School of the Holy Beast, but in the hands of Russell it manages to extend to its own discordant cinematic world.

The Devils focuses on a religious town in 17th century France overseen by Cardinal Richelieu (Christopher Logue) a leader hoping to convince a flamboyant Louis XIII (Graham Armitage) to change the fortifications of France as a means to destroy a Protestant power move while also assuring his own advance in power.  Louis agrees to these demands but makes special provisions for the town of Loudon, for which he promised protection to its late governor.  The town is now overseen by the well-respected, albeit sexually voracious priest Urbain Grandieur (Oliver Reed) who is the object of affection for woman both in the community and behind the convent walls longing to consummate a relationship with the priest.  Grandieur, undoubtedly aware of his sway, moves through Loudon using his power as a priest to seek confession with various women, eventually settling on marrying a woman named Madeleine (Gemma Jones), much to the frustration of Grandieur's former lover Sister Jeanne (Vanessa Redgrave) who mounts a religious uprising against Madeleine, wholly a result of her feelings as a scorned lover.  Meanwhile, indifferent to the demands on the part of Louis XIII to spare the city of Loudon, one of Richelieu's men arrives in the city of Loudon intent of overtaking its population.  In the wildness of all this, Grandieur's debauchery is brought to the attention of a higher ranking priest, who mounts an inquisition on the town of Loudon, specifically on the convent in which Sister Jeanne and others reside.  The head inquisitor Pierre Barre (Michael Gothard) arrives at the convent only to discover it in a state of absolute lunacy, complete with naked nuns, who are having sexual experiences atop a giant crucifix, while suggestively stroking sacramental candles.  In a false attempt at exorcism, Barre and the others reveal the false state of the possession, but also show the entire act of an exorcism to be equally performative leading to a divide within the groups resulting in the ability of the town to be overcome by Richelieu's men that much easier.  When Grandieur returns to the town, he is called up for heresy and put on trial, alleged to be in league with Satan and despite his refusal to confess to his sins, he is burned at the stake, leaving a lovelorn Madeleine to leave the space of the city, entering onto a literal long and winding road with only the company of skeletons hanging on pikes outside the city.

Russell, as a filmmaker, perhaps most closely associates with the work of Alejandro Jodorowsky, in so much as their films, while linear, are only so in very tangential cohesions. Take, for example, the relationship between the experiences of of Richelieu and Louis XIII in relation to Grandieur and the town of Loudon, to a degree they could exist outside of each other, both in a temporal and spatial sense, only really relating because the film denotes itself as a historically-based period piece.  Aside from this distinction, Russell takes as many liberties as he sees fit, moving between showing the most abject of experiences available from the time, whether it be the very real plagues facing the space of France in the 17th century, or the disturbingly oppressive ways in which gender was relegated within patriarchal constructs of the time.  Russell is not attempting to make a wholly disturbing and unwatchable critique of religious wars, but instead; clearly intends to play up the absurdity and frivolity of the entire occurrence, at times overlaying his film with zany music to give even a exorcism a layer of Felliniesque absurdity.  Perhaps the best element of Russell's approach to the period piece, is to accept that a blanket recreation would not drive home the theme of unchecked authority and gendered privilege, thus making a degree of his set and visuals indicative of something within a science-fiction framework, giving the high walls and evasive angles of buildings a certain feeling that Loudon is a microcosm of a large dystopia, decidedly true of this point in history.  At times the film feels as though it could be lifted right out of an Orwell novel, while in other instances one could imagine its visuals fitting nicely inside of Michel Foucault's discussions of panopticism.  Russell is a filmmaker aware of the craft of filmmaking as an inherently fallible craft, wherein other period pieces push and strive for authenticity, without accepting that their very existence rejects a truth of the past, Russell instead uses the space to directly comment upon how past events can draw parallels to current problems, whether it be the on-the-nose references to religious power and the Ku Klux Klan or a more clever suggestion that exoticization and desire thrust upon those in a space of religious piety are far from contemporary issues, everything is working in a constant state of dialogue. Russell, wants his film to be a historical reconsideration, after all most period pieces emerge at a time when their narratives are decidedly relational to contemporary issues, The Devils was such a case, although in a nearly prophetic manner it still proves equally pertinent almost fifty years later.

Key Scene:  The exorcism obviously, whether it be for its pulling from Dreyer or from Fellini, it still manages to be a decidedly unique vision from the world of Russell.

I would rent this film, not because it is bad, but because the print is not ideal.  Hopefully, it will be salvaged by BFI or Criterion into a cleaner print than what is currently made available.

Sometimes Truth Defies Reason: Frailty (2001)

Whenever I take upon a viewing marathon, particularly one that involves me watching a ton of films of a specific genre I attempt to do a bit of research and find some examples of criminally underrated films that for a variety of reasons were overlooked and written off, yet prove to be the highlights of that particular year in filmmaking and even stand on their own against the giants of the genre.  While 2001's Frailty is not a perfect film, nor could it compete with the likes of The Exorcist or its contemporary masterpieces in the same ambiance and from the same year, particularly Mulholland Drive, it does manage to allow the important influence of these respective works wash over the narrative and make it become a visually engaging work with a narrative that could only work with the right levels of earnest dedication from all those involved.  Flowing in a simulacra of saturated filmic space, created by the mesmerizing cinematography of Bill Butler, Frailty manages to possess precisely this degree of direction and certainty, only benefitted by the always rewarding, if not initially realized, acting of Matthew McConaughey.  The fact that this is the feature length directorial debut of Bill Paxton, perhaps better known for his role on Big Love, makes the discovery of something like Frailty that much more rewarding.  Essentially, there is no quantifiable reason as to why a person would like Frailty on paper, nor is there an explanation as to how people would have sought it ought upon release, because it would appears to be a derivative and contrived piece of filmmaking with little to offer to the genre.  Derivative it is not, perfectly seasoned with a blend of horror classics and an understanding of a changing landscape in narrative filmmaking, Frailty manages to step up and compete with the other great puzzle films emerging around the time, such as Memento, The Machinist and in small ways the masterwork Zodiac.  To have been the person who rediscovered this film must have really been quite the revelation, not because it is has now become a much adored contemporary classic, but because it clearly appears to be remerging in the most word of mouth way possible.  I certainly know it will receive a healthy dose of acknowledgement on my part, right beside a few of my contemporary overlooked horror films in Session 9 and the science-fiction survival nightmare that is The Cube.

Frailty begins at the FBI headquarters in Dallas, Texas wherein a man introducing himself as Fenton Meeks (Matthew McConaughey) explains to Agent Wesley Doyle (Powers Boothe) that he is rather certain about the whereabouts of the God's Hand Killer, suspecting it to be his mentally unstable brother, who has recently committed suicide.  Suspicious for obvious reasons, Agent Doyle demands that Fenton provide some substantial evidence to such bold acquisitions, leading to Fenton telling a rather lengthy back story about his childhood growing up with his brother Adam (Jeremy Sumpter) in a single parent household with their father, played by Bill Paxton.  Things, while tough financially, are relatively easy going until in the middle of the night their father claims to have seen a vision of angels explaining that it is the job of not only himself, but Fenton and Adam to become slayers of demons in the name of God.  Thinking that it is simply a wild delusion of grandeur, Fenton, and to a degree Adam, write off the entire incident and continue on with their daily lives, even going so far as to overlook their fathers repeated returning home with items related to the killing of demons, the most disturbing being the various weapons he purports to be key to the act of slaying.  Yet, even this does not truly cause the children to step back and critique the situation, but when the father does indeed bring home a woman, bound and kills her with an axe, claiming that her sins had resulted in her becoming demonic, both the children appear to be initially hesitant, particularly Fenton who immediately questions the behaviors of his father and their larger implications on society.  This questioning on the pat of Fenton, leads to a divide between himself and Adam who sides with their father and betrays Fenton's desire to run away.  This leads to Fenton being locked in a cellar until, as his father says he is able to see God, at which point he will be released.  Through eventual dehydration and becoming stir crazy, Fenton claims to have seen God and then begins joining in the killings, as though it were something forever engrained in his psyche.  These actions carry the narrative back into the present where Agent Doyle and Fenton arrive at the alleged place of the burials.  It is at this point, where it becomes convoluted as to whether the narrative told was indeed through the yes of Fenton, or through those of Adam, perhaps even existing as a bizarre and troubling version of both.

Frailty could be interpreted as many different narratives, all having to pull from a decidedly complex narrative, that masks itself in a deceptively obvious form of linearity.  One could certainly make a case for it being a narrative of split-personality disorder, wherein one character is, in fact, extending his former reflections into multiple characters to help rationalize the terrible actions he committed, a reading that is further suggested by the general synthetic look of the film, one where glossy shine makes each action seem impossibly fabricated.  Another could simply be a study of the nature of evil and whether or not ridding the world of such entities should be deemed murder, the Texas setting for this reading making the narrative that much more complex.  I, however, am rather convinced that it is actually a metaphor, albeit obvious at times, about a troubling past with child abuse that was exacted upon children by a father figure.  Indeed, the narrative suggests that the family is void of a maternal figure, but the ways in which food magically appears in scenes and domestic chores happen to always be complete, would suggest that the memories spouted by Fenton are missing an element purposefully, perhaps an abused wife so minimized at the hands of an angry father that she has become literally non-existant in the narrative.  I know that the film suggest she has passed away, but considering its willingness to alter and shift factual understanding at a moments notice make such assumptions quite tenuous.  The reading of it as such a film is reinforced by particular images of Fenton possessing bleeding hands from working all day digging an impossibly large ditch.  Sure these could be callouses, but considering the father's reaction and awkward willingness to help heal the damage it could equally be read as one such act of abuse.  The fact that Denton is also depicted falling asleep during class, reflect his worry of the visions of God trouble facing his family, but again, it also could indicate an individual so emotionally distraught in the space of his home that he can no longer rest without severe anxiety and distress.  Add these images and subtle narratives to the notion that Adam and Fenton have considerably altering views on the nature of their father's goodness, and such a narrative begins to become rather blatant.  Indeed, should nothing else sound plausible, turning ones attention to the nailing the hatch shut on the shed scene, pretty much makes it a fact.

Key Scene:  The vision of the first weapon sequence is rather basic trick cinematography and special effects, but it occurs with such a degree of realized execution as to completely change the pace of the film, and is only one time when which this occurs in the stellar film.

This DVD and bluray is cheap, I would recommend the latter as it is a decidedly cinematic film and well worth a blind buy.

It Was A Gold Doubloon, Minted In Spain: The Fog (1980)

I know in the years that I have been writing this blog, I have endlessly bemoaned the notion of the "seminal classic" one that has gained a unquestioned reputation and has become hailed as the be all and end all of a certain type of film, this often holds most true in the realm of the horror film, wherein works like The Exorcist and Psycho remain standards, the veritable Beatles or Rolling Stones of the genre.  Indeed, these works deserve such praise for their continual ability to captivate and challenge cinema goes despite being decades old.  Indeed, I would even argue that these works, much like King Kong or Singin' in the Rain suffer from over-hyping to the point where people thing they have already seen a film through some cultural referencing.  However, for todays film I am not particularly interested in these films, but instead ones that were quite evocative for their time, either for reconstituting the genre or for adding a fresh perspective to its possibilities.  Indeed, John Carpenter did just this when he released Halloween in two years prior to The Fog.  Halloween, a film I reviewed last year during this same marathon, stands up and indeed offers itself as a textbook on how to make a proper thriller heavy slasher film.  So when two years later the now well-regarded director offered The Fog it seems as though people consumed it gladly almost as though it were inseparable from its predecessor.  This is all not to say that The Fog is a terrible movie, indeed, it has some quite moody moments and the special effects are beyond stellar.   However, the film is undeniably dated, particularly in its dry sense of comedy a thing still attempting to navigate itself from the seventies minimalism to the overly done style of the eighties.  The tragedy of this film is that it seems to play it same on certain themes or stylistic choices, perhaps signs of budgeting choices, or s simple fact that producers, and probably Carpenter felt more safe going with methodologies that already proved successful.  There is a trajectory about Carpenter's films, at least this is clearly the case in Halloween and The Thing, wherein things start a bit weird and end up in a state of absolute insanity, this same methodology is at work in The Fog, but the attempt and resolution and, subsequent, undermining of this sense of safety is so wrought with heavy-handed nonsensical elements as to make the movie fall short of its assumed cult status.

The Fog focuses on the town of Antonio Bay in California, who are on the precipice of celebrating their towns centennial, despite a night of bizarre events in the town including objects moving about inexplicably and glass shattering.  The towns folk react in various manners, whether it be Stevie Wayne (Adrienne Barbeau) a late night radio disc jockey whose only concern is the safety of her son, or hitchhiker Elizabeth (Jamie Lee Curtis) whose happenstance wandering into Antonio Bay seems to be far from lucky.  It is not, however, until a local clipper ship goes off the radar for an entire night and is rediscovered in a state that would suggest it had been underwater for months that people begin to get truly suspicious, particularly local politician Kathy Williams (Janet Leigh) and her assistant Sandy (Nancy Kyes) who take it upon themselves to track down the local priest Father Malone (Hal Holbrook) whose has gone into hiding upon a discovery of a journal from a century ago that explains the manner with which the early settlers of Antonio Bay purposefully banished a group of lepers from their community for their disease, completely ignoring the willingness of the lepers to live on the outskirts of the town in the first place.  Paired with this history of oppression and a constantly moving fog through the town, it is revealed that this glowing spectral fog entity carries with it a group of undead killers, who strike during the witching hour.  The town afforded this information, or a degree of it at least, manages to spend a day undertaking preventative measures to deny a larger attack, whether it be Stevie moving her son away from a piece of possessed wood he found while walking about the shore, or for Father Malone to attempt and quell the understandably disgruntled spirits of years gone by.  Needless to say, the preparation, while beneficial still does not stifle an attack completely and the various skeptics remaining in the town fall victim to the ghost attacks, most notably Stevie's romantic love interest a local meteorologist, thus leading to a near fulfillment of the late leper's prophecy that six individuals must die to make the initial loss complete.  However, those with a passion for living and a purpose manage to survive accordingly, although in the closing moments of the film it is made rather clear that not all who thought themselves save actually find this to be true.

As I write the somewhat vague synopsis, I am realizing one of the other elements of this particular Carpenter film that made it one of my less exciting viewing experiences.  Having seen Halloween, Dark Star and The Thing, I recall them all centering their narratives either in specifically personal or decidedly confined spaces.  For example, what makes Halloween work so well is that it is almost entirely a confrontation between Michael Myers and Laurie, who is the primary focus of the film.  Sure this film does branch out and show other characters meeting their demise and includes shots of what viewers presume to be Myers following her, but the narrative always returns to her experiences.  In a slightly similar sense, the narratives of Dark Star and The Thing work because they happen in a very small, almost claustrophobic space.  The former, existing in a state of paranoia predicated upon a spaceship that is both a source of constant protection, while also threatening to fall part (indeed as it does) at any moment.  The Thing is scary, precisely because it takes place in the confines of the Arctic, proving, yet again confining, and the horror of every person involved becoming a point of paranoia due to a quickly spreading only adds to this inescapability.  Sure, The Fog is situated within a singular community, but the manner with which Carpenter brings outsiders into this space, or branches out to the very limits of this space become somewhat frustrating to a film that possesses a feeling of frustrating disjointed narratives.  I would posit that to a considerable degree The Fog is at least three different films that were forced together around the premise of one idea of horror, making the impending fog mean different things for the persons involved, none of which carry enough weigh to make the larger film work.  If I did, however, have to chose one for which I wished Carpenter had solely pursued, it would, undoubtedly, be that of Stevie and her son, particularly the sort of anxiety surrounding the discovery of the plank of wood.  Without the excessive narratives of the clipper ship and Father Malone, the impending fog as being solely attached to this wood and thus extending as a metaphor to Stevie's anxiety as a single mother would become brilliant.  Indeed, it would even help to explain some of her dialogue throughout the film.  Unfortunately, this is not the film made available and as such it lacks a high degree of cohesion.

Key Scene:  There are some shots of the fog approaching that work on a great special effects level visually, even for the outdated technology at play.  The soundtrack is also quite nice.

I would watch this purely in terms of becoming a horror classics completist, hopefully, it will prove a far less disappointing experience than I had.

It's A Hard World For Little Things: The Night Of The Hunter (1955)

Every time I hear Robert Mitchum move into the swelling and baritone singing of "Lean on Jesus" I literally get goosebumps.  I watched this film early in the morning, perhaps the exact opposite of the ideal time to view this film and found myself still feeling the anxiety, dread and frankly adoration I initially felt upon discovering this film years ago.  What do I have to thank for this revisiting of a fear-inducing classic, none other than the brilliant Movies, Silently and her recent Gish Sisters Blogathon.  Admittedly, I jumped on the chance to revisit this film, because it is, undoubtedly, one of my favorite films of all-time, if only for it being the rare example of a perfect piece of cinema, one that was the single directorial work of Charles Laughton no less.  Furthermore, by choosing to specifically focus on this film, I was able to truly look at the role Gish offers, which shines both narratively and emotionally compared to the seething corrupt figure made a cult icon by Mitchum.  I went into this viewing anxiously awaiting all my favorite scenes, between the Love/Hate hand story and the image of Shelley Winters body at the bottom of the lake, I had my notion of what this recent viewing of the experience might prove to become, what I did not expect was to be rewarded with a far more clever film than I had recalled previously, both in terms of some devilishly subversive writing, as well as in the many cinematic choices inside and outside the diagetic space of the film that allow for it to seem like something that exists entirely in a world all its own, one where crane shots can sweep into sequences, maniacal preachers can instantaneously transport themselves from town to town and where small girls can begin singing with the voice of a grown woman.  In a lesser film all of this would seem like poor editing choice or over-the-top elements intended to draw in mild interest in the viewers, however, in the eyes of Laughton and through the very nature of the narrative, these seemingly arbitrary acting choices are evocative, engaging and, at times, cinematically engaging, much in the same vein as a work by Stanley Kubrick.  The Night of the Hunter is many things, a noir, a crime thriller, a family drama, a kids film and a work of melodrama, however, it is certainly and undeniably a masterpiece that should be viewed by all many a time.

The Night of the Hunter, begins, after an eerie floating head narration involving a then unidentified woman talking within children, with a murder.  This murder, is suggested to be exacted at the hands of one Harry Powell (Robert Mitchum) a preacher whose communique with God leads him to confess to having a unhealthy attachment to women, wherein he constantly asks forgiveness and provides thanks to the religious figure for providing him with a constant flow of money, of which he draws from recently widowed women.  Meanwhile, two children John Harper (Billy Chapin) and his sister Pearl (Sally Jane Bruce) witness their father Ben Harper (Peter Graves) return from a recent robbery, only to quickly stuff his money in Pearl's doll, before being hauled off to jail, where he is found guilty of murder and sentenced to execution.  It is in jail that he meets Harry Powell, who becomes curious when Ben begins vaguely quoting scripture and mentioning the whereabouts of his money.  After Harper's execution, Powell feigns being a dear friend to Harper returning to his hometown and tracking down his widowed wife Willa (Shelley Winters) who is hesitant to welcome the slick-talking preacher, particularly when she suspects that he is only after the money which her late husband had hid.  John is even more suspicious leaning on the promise he made to his father not to betray the location of the money, constantly assuring that the less intelligent Pearl does the same.  Harry uses a variety of forms of trickery and smooth words to try and attain the whereabouts of the money, even resorting to murdering Willa when she comes to suspect that her new husband really only cares to find the money, made all the more a betrayal after she has given herself up to his religious ways, blindly spouting scripture.  The murder of their mother leads the children on an exodus down river in a rowboat, where they eventually land in the backyard of self-run foster mom and general good samaritan Rachel Cooper (Lillian Gish).  Realizing that John and Pearl are clearly running from a dire situation, when Harry comes knocking at her door she quickly banishes him with the threat of a shotgun, an action she goes through with when the slimy Harry returns later that night.  After a successful arrest of Harry, John frustratingly tosses the money at the handcuffed preacher explaining that he can no longer stand the burden of carrying such a secret.  AFter doing so the two join their fellow orphans and Rachel for Christmas celebration, one that affords John the very watch he has had his eye on since the films opening moments.

It might seem like the best move for analyzing a film such as The Night of the Hunter would be to go at it from the "what is the nature of religion" route and while this is certainly a theme that emerges specifically in the contrasting characters of Harry and Rachel, one could extend this argument on to consider the larger idea of authority and whose given the power to say what is right or wrong in the face of figures who are culturally afforded an unquestioned amount of respect.  The Night of the Hunter appears to suggest that only two things stand to be undeniably authoritative, the rule of law and time.  Yet even law within the narrative becomes rather murky when a man is stealing money to make living in a moment of depression a bit easier, or when the same law enforcement spends its time hunting psychotic serial killing preachers while completely brushing by lines of starving children.  Justice, in the context of The Night of the Hunter then becomes tied almost solely to the notion that if one is able to understand time, not control it, but merely work in its favor they can assure that justice will work in their favor, particularly if they are working in a fair and reasonable way.  Indeed, the reason that Harry is eventually is not because he gave himself up or was actively pursued by the police, but because he attempted to cheat time and kill children to attain money from them, his similar actions in previous situations are also his own act to avoid the effort and patience of attaining money, something he thinks he can merely get by working within his bizarre relationship with God.  The other notion of authority comes then in signifiers of power, for Harry it is always tied to his phallic knife something that takes on blatant sexual allusions throughout the film and remains his point of privilege until challenged by Rachel's much larger and more powerful shotgun, the subversive gender politics even more interesting. Indeed, this leaves John as a figure to be swayed by the time and signifiers of authority in the films closing, as Rachel accepts that her stories from The Bible only serve a cursory function to instill authority.  It is indeed not until she hands John the watch that he becomes an arbitrator of authority because he can now tell the time, that thing that rules over all within the film, as well as those outside of the diagetic space, verified when Lilian Gish breaks the fourth wall in the closing moments of the film.

Key Scene: The scene involving the joint singing of Lean on Jesus by Gish and Mitchum is absolutely one of the premier moments in all of cinema.  Furthermore, one could also make the case that the images of Willa's body laying at the bottom of the lake are also some of the most haunting ever committed to film.

At Least Let Me Help You Start Your Motorcycle: Ong-Bak: The Thai Warrior (2003)

I will admit that part of my reason for doing the kung fu marathon was to help piece together a blind spot in Bruce Lee and Jackie Chan films, because both of the stars are rather well known and necessary to a better understanding of global cinema.  Picking films like Enter the Dragon, or the upcoming Drunk Master were obvious choices and were obvious.  Another reason for doing this marathon was to undertake another film that I was ashamed to have yet to view, in the 2003 Thai martial arts film Ong-Bak.  Aside from the yet unviewed My Neighbor Totoro, this film, directed by Prachya Pinkaew stood in as one of my big shame spots when people ask me about big films that I have yet to see.  I know it is a relatively recent film compared to others and certainly does not have the status of a ton of other classics, but it is a work whose name often gets mentioned in cinephile circles as one of the masterpieces of the 21st century.  This claim is quite appropriate, because what Pinkaew offers in this is nothing short of a visceral, wild and highly post-modern martial arts film.  Indeed, when people claim that a director like Quentin Tarantino is the only one working in a referential methodology, needs to refer to this film, because it has all the tips of the hat to notable auteurs both distinguished and cult (Tati, Spielberg, and Bay come to mind), while also maintaining a distinguishable fresh and unique narrative. Ong-Bak looks and feels like a martial arts flick that is directed by somebody who clearly spent time in film school.  With a composition that, at times, taps into the serenity of a Satyajit Ray drama only to juxtapose it with a feverish editing style indicative of Fincher, Pinkaew makes a clear statement of a style and look of the martial arts film as it exists in the 2000's.  While I had sought Ong-Bak out for a considerable amount of time, it was actually not my first experience with the director, instead being fortunate enough to view Chocolate, which is certainly great, but does not manage the master stroke of this work.  The wild thing about everything I have said so far is that it only concerns how excellent the director is, I could speak at length about the wonder of lead actor Tony Jaa, who is, undoubtedly, the closest figure moviegoers can ever hope for to that of the late Bruce Lee.

Ong-Bak begins in the rural Thai village Ban Nong Pradu, where the villagers are undertaking an annual festival, one that includes a feat of athleticism where young men climb a tree to obtain a scarf, proving themselves the most skilled athlete.  This surprisingly dangerous and brutal endeavor allows for  the young Muay Thai expert Ting (Tony Jaa) to emerge as a winner, much to the elation of the village priests, although they warn him that his skills are meant to be a point of meditation and not a thing to be used in violence.  Meanwhile, a Bangkok crime henchmen named Don (Wannakit Siroput) attempts to purchase a jade buddha figurine from a local, hoping to return the piece, which is highly valued on the art market to his boss.  Yet, prizing the figurine for religious purposes, the villager refuses to sell the item, leading to Don and his men stealing the head of Ong-Bak, the villages prized buddha statue.  The removal of this head, causes the town to fall into panic assuming that the gods will thus be mad at them and punish them for allowing such atrocities to occur.  Realizing the seriousness of such issues, Ting volunteers to travel to Bangkok and return Ong-Bak, much to the elated hopes of the village.  Sent with money and gifts intended to help on his journey, Ting enters the wild and seedy world of crime that is Bangkok, immediately encountering a former member of his village who now calls himself George (Petchtai Wongkamlao) and his young friend Muay (Pumwaree Yodkamol) who are themselves hustlers within the underground fighting rings of Bangkok.  Initially dismissive of Ting, George realizes that Ting possesses considerable skills as a Muay Thai boxer and exploits it to pay off debts, with the promise of helping him find the Ong-Bak statue head he seeks.  What unfolds after this encounter is a movement through both the local and international levels of crime occurring in Thailand, whether it be directly related to the highly violent brawls that feed into gambling rings, or the heavy drug trafficking occurring in Bangkok.  Eventually, George turns a new leaf when he is inspired by the religious zeal of Ting and helps him to take on the highest boss in the Bangkok crime circles.  All the while Ting is required to prove his skill as a fighter, in engagements that become more brutal and damaging to his body.  In the end the two confront and defeat the boss, but this does not occur without a bit of divine intervention and loss, however, Ting is successful in his endeavor and returns home, to a celebration and what appears to be his anointing as a monk.

Ong-Bak, for being a film that is decidedly situated within the spaces of Thailand, is an expressly transnational work.  What makes it different from other works focused upon in this marathon so far, is that it is transnational both on a diagetic and non-diagetic level.  I mean to say that the landscape of Thailand, and Bangkok specifically, is one that is highly affected by a global culture, specifically a Westernized view of such.  Take for example George, who has appropriated a very Anglo name to lend credibility to his non-rural lifestyle, almost as though to suggest that he is Westerner by merely appropriating a name, however, he too changes hair color and clothing to better assert such a claim.  Still wearing a Buddhist prayer bracelet does, however, problematize the figure of George.  This transnationalism, however, is not most obvious in George, but is instead so in the fighting ring where Ting faces of against various fighters, some of who are Thai, but ones that are British, Japanese and apparently some form of Persian drunken pirate.  The spectators in this space are even more varied, including many Western bodies, as well as what appear to be African and Latin American bodies as well.  Thailand in the space of Ong-Bak has become a point of global spectacle, however, it is not for ideal reasons.  In Bangkok, according to Pinkaew's film, all is brutal, and all is tied to vice.  Yet, afforded the opportunity to speak to the global gaze that exacts itself upon Thailand, Pinkaew also uses the film to create a dialogue with other global filmmakers, whether it be the clear tips of the hat to the aforementioned filmmakers like Tati and Ray, or more subtle inclusions of posters for classic Hollywood faces like Robert Redford and Dustin Hoffman.  It is clear through these references and moments of miss-en-scene that Pinkaew wants to make viewers aware that the cultural consumption goes both ways, and that for as much as Bangkok might seem like a place of violence and vice, it is lifted almost entirely from Western culture.  A decided big-dreamer, Pinkaew makes a bold assertion, when including a piece of graffiti in the background of one chase scene that reads "Hi Spielberg, Let's Do It Together."  In this minor moment, the filmmaker demands that global cinema could, and should, be a global engagement.  One could only imagine the wonder possessed in such a dynamic collaboration.

Key Scene:  The fight between Ting and a bad guy who I am dubbing Alex Rodriguez, considering his substance abuse problem, is an example of all the thrill and magic that makes the editing of Ong-Bak great, but his is only one moment of many where things work brilliantly.

Ong-Bak was made for high-defintion and a bluray is a must.

Want To Play A Game Of Hide And Clap?: The Conjuring (2013)

A legitimate question arises when asked what the future of the horror genre will look like cinematically.  A case could be made for two extremes, the first being a completely deconstructionist and visceral cinematic form influenced by the anthology style films of the past few years or the particular rebirth of the found footage genre (which I have gone on record as adoring).  The second possibility is a complete return to the classic style, at least in namesakes, evidence by gorier and less-campy remakes of cult classics like Evil Dead or the impending Carrie remake, whose trailer gives the entire plot away in its quickly paced trailer.  While I am a fan of the former, I would bet that the most likely result will be a hybrid of the two, at times resting more heavily on the visceral post-modern style and in other scenarios going for the classicist approach.  The truly great films of the next couple of decades will be the ones that perfectly mesh the two together to provide a movie going experience that can prove favorable to both the traditionalist horror fan and the young moviegoer who favors a barrage of intense and challenging imagery.  While I am still hesitant to give it my full support, what James Wan's recent The Conjuring does manage to do is create the perfect hybrid of the two possibilities.  By first situating his film within the era of the seventies, a high point for horror films, it becomes clear that Wan demands his offering be taken seriously cinematically, yet his continual breaking of the cinematic barrier to turn the camera upside down or move to digital handheld to keep a sense of the point of view action so necessary to newer horror films, show a sense of the new and unseen within the genre prior.  In fact, if I were to focus on this film from a purely cinematic structuralist frame of reference I would unapologetically call  it the most important work of horror in the 2010's so far, however, it is not entirely a work of structuralism, wherein both V/H/S and Cabin in the Wood are, therefore, things like narrative and character performance come into play and, tragically, it is precisely these elements that prevent The Conjuring from being great, but it appears as though I am somewhat alone in this criticism, because as it currently stands it has an IMDB rating that would place it at 188 on the sites top 250 movie list.  Admittedly it is a fresh vision of horror that could evolve in the upcoming years into something brilliant, I just wonder if it will not lose some of its appeal once people step back and realize that narratively it is far from revolutionary.

The Conjuring sets itself decidedly in the past, focusing first on the emergence of two paranormal experts Ed (Patrick Wilson) and Lorraine Warren (Vera Farmiga) whose work with exorcisms and demonology have afforded them clout within the Catholic church, as well as considerable press from skeptics and believers alike.  The film focuses on the allegedly real life couples encounter with a particularly nasty demon of whose story they had refused to tell until recently.  At this point the narrative shifts to focus on the Perron family of Roger (Ron Livingston) and Carolyn (Lili Taylor) who along with their five daughters have moved to a rural home in hopes of getting a fresh start on life.  However, within a day of moving into their new place it becomes clear that their new house is anything but ideal, and is indeed a place susceptible to what is later referred to as a paranormal infestation.  Initially hesitant to acknowledge it as anything threatening Roger and Carolyn attempt to go about their daily lives and hope for a promising future.  Yet, when their children and eventually Roger and Carolyn are directly confronted by ghosts, Carolyn reaches out to the Warren's in a last minute act of desperation.  It is during this moment that Lorraine senses the depth of Carolyn's troubles and agrees to immediately meet the family where she instantly discovers the grim presence overseeing their home.  Upon further research, the Warrens find out that the Perron's new home is a breeding ground for a particularly nasty demon that is the result of a vengeful witch that takes it upon herself to make mother's kill their children.  Hoping to prove the presence of demonic spirits and obtain permission for an exorcism to be performed, the Warrens set up surveillance in the Perrons' home and begin camping out to confront the demons, or at the very least prove their presence.  What unfolds over the next few nights defies all explanation, even for the season veterans in Ed and Lorraine, as the notions of spatial presence are completely deconstructed when the demon moves not only through the house but seemingly transferring itself long distances without any explanation.  Realizing the impending harm that could come from continued demonic infiltration, Ed eventually takes matters into his own hands and performs the exorcism himself, despite not being a man of the cloth proper.  The results while favorable for all involved, seem to suggests a temporary fix as the demons linger, awaiting to infiltrate another susceptible being at a moments notice.

This film does so many things right and I really understand the praise it is receive for such choices, I myself am completely on board with its praise visually.  The choice to use digital to add the layer of fabricated blackness to the films really made me lean forward, or more often backwards, wondering what was just beyond the veneer of absolute darkness, only to be shown not a creature jumping out but one that is present through a jump cut or something of a non-tradtional reveal.  In fact, one could almost say by lingering on the darkness and at times not ending in a jump scare, the film forces viewers to will the demonic presence into the work.  Indeed, it is in this stylistic choice that The Conjuring is most similar to its clear inspiration The Exorcist.  A film that has ghastly images infiltrate the screen, or superimpose themselves into unlikely situations, The Conjuring, at times does the same, cutting to white noise or revealing a sheet thats composition is quite similar to that of a dangling corpse not as a means to blatantly scare viewers, but to subtly reinforce the constant presence of the non-human entity something almost ordained by the film itself, more so than the diagetic world.  This decided fabrication is doubled through the degree of metacinema that runs throughout.  I would argue that there are at least three layers going on within the film, the first being the documentary-like establishment of the Warren's, the second being the narrative proper focusing on the Perron family haunting and the third being the filming of the paranormal activity occurring in the house.  Indeed then, a fourth possible layer exists wherein the film viewed is its own presence, again like The Exorcist willing its presence into the narrative at times, in moments of POV shots and bizarre angles.  All of this is absolutely astounding and visually challenging and would be flawless if it had a narrative to match, but what I can only assume to be a result of studio executives concerns, leads to a cookie cutter narrative whose strings are seen throughout, whether it be a vague (on at least one occasion glaringly direct) suggestion of Lorraine's previous loss of a child or the forced relationship between a white cop and an Asian paranormal investigator it seems sickeningly forced, much like moments of acting.  I guess this is to be expected in boundary pushing genre films though.  I am sure if I were to revisit the major game changers in horror, I would find similar occurrences.  Nonetheless, this is a solid work and understandably worth checking out.

Key Scene:  There is a scene where a demonic attack occurs in a house that is not that of the Perron's.  It is the most intense moment in the film and clearly owes its existence to The Exorcist, however, it adds a freshness to it that has been long needed in the genre.

Go to a movie theater and see this, while I was initially hesitant about adoring it, just writing this blog made me affirm my adoration of it fully.

After All, What Is Time? A Mere Tyranny: A Matter Of Life And Death (1946)

The idea of melodrama is something that has its grounding solidly within the romance genre and tends to branch out in minimal ways to other genres.  This is a pretty consistent thought about the stylistic choice, unless, of course, one is referring to the works of the beloved and highly influential masters of Technicolor Michael Powell and Emeric Pressburger, whose works are no stranger to this blog.  As I imagine most people did, I came to this duo via The Criterion Collection who have done an excellent job of bring many of their films to homes of cinephiles seeking out the most mesmerizing and stellar of movie experiences.  Yet, the film I had the joy of catching up with recently, their 1946 pseudo-war film A Matter of Life and Death, also known as Stairway to Heaven, has yet to receive the illustrious Criterion touch.  As such it went off of my radar for quite some time, but when I heard its mention first on an episode of Filmspotting regarding "romantic gestures in film" only to be followed by its inclusion as one of the hundreds of clips in the all-encompassing Story of Film miniseries, I knew that both its unique narrative and its visual style were something that I needed to witness.  Imagine, if you will, a film that has some of the grandly woven romantic offerings of the best World War II romance stories, but with the surrealist eye of Cocteau.  Moving perfectly between black and white and the Technicolor cinematography which made the duo famous, A Matter of Life and Death is serene, fantastical and easily one of the most artistic moments in all of cinema.  It is clear where other directors would draw heavy influence, whether it be the obvious borrowing by Wim Wenders for Wings of Desire or in more subtle ways for a variety of East Asian romance film.  A Matter of Life and Death, however, does not simply stop at looking amazing, it continues on to be a perfectly pitched story of sacrifice and acceptance of loss that is so masterfully acted it is really a surprise it has not received a larger awareness, because in some ways it is a better film than The Red Shoes or Black Narcissus, both of which are definitive masterpieces.  I have allowed myself almost a week to let the film wash over me to before I was certain, but I know definitively that this is my new favorite work within the romance genre.

A Matter of Life and Death begins in the midst of a sky fight between Axis planes and a handful of British pilots, most notably Peter Carter (David Niven) whose realization that he will inevitably be gunned down and die leads him to seek solace in the radio assistance of American woman June (Kim Hunter).  While he is initially playful with her reciting poetry and telling her she has a wonderful voice, the imminence of death lead to the two confessing their shared hopes for love.  Tragedy is not avoidable, however, and Peter's plane does crash.  This event is followed by a transferring of the narrative to the black and white world of what is assumedly the afterlife, where a variety of deceased figures deal with the incoming deaths, many of which are soldiers.  The bookkeeper, as well as one of Peter's fellow pilots note his absence, despite it being clear that he could not have survived the crash.  At this point Peter's assigned aide to the afterlife Conductor 71 (Marius Goring) admits to having missed grabbing him due to the thick British fog.  This realization then leads viewers back to Earth where a Peter who has survived his crash navigates the land, only to instantly run into, of all people, June.  The two seize the inconceivable occurrence as a sign to pursue their love, realizing quickly that their feelings are quite real.  Yet when Peter begins seeing visions of Conductor 71 and smelling fried onions, the concerned Doctor Reeves (Roger Livesey) steps in to help diagnose Peter's visions.  Reeves comes to the conclusion that Peter has suffered from serious head trauma that, if not treated, will result in his death.  This narrative in reality begins paralleling Peter's own experiences with Conductor 71 who says that he can be afforded a trial to justify his staying on Earth, one that allows him to pull from any person in the history of time to serve as his defendant, but it must happen in the upcoming hours, coincidentally at the exact same time as his surgery.  Finding it difficult to choose a counsel, Peter is hesitant, but when a motorcycle accident takes the life of Doctor Reeves he appears in the afterlife and reluctantly agrees to help Peter.  What unfolds after is a trial between Peter and the laws of the afterlife that transcends space and time, where he is to convince those in attendance that he should be allowed to pursue love that was allowed to blossom as a result of the miscalculation on the part of the conductor.  Heated and heavily semantical, Peter, along with the help of a brief dream induced visitation by June, convinces the jury of his deserved chance and the two are given their lives on Earth, where he survives his tricky surgery and the two are assumedly to live a long and love-filled life.

What makes A Matter of Life and Death both a great romance and an important moment in cinema is that it manages to take its subject matter and extend it to a large scope, considering not only what grounds a persons notions of love, but what causes a person in a different setting to have feelings of animosity.  We are shown the relationship between June and Peter as one entirely of adoration, that goes against the societal norms of British folks marrying one another and Americans staying within the states, although as history certainly showed, that was far from the case.  Similarly, the film analyzes the, then, deeply seeded resentment between some loyalist British and Americans as to their relationship to one another, despite fighting on the same side of a larger war that questioned the value of human life on a scale larger than mere nationality.  Powell and Pressburger manage to deal with the questions with a precise combination of levity and seriousness that shows how entrenched distrust can cause for sadness to more than a single person and, further, how the seeming simplicity of two persons and their shared love can extend well beyond their rather personal experiences.  By pulling from a wide net of historical narratives and centering it with the era of World War II, where combat casualties were high, the film becomes both a reflection and expose on the nature of how love forms quickly or slowly depending on time allotments and how in its most enriching experiences it can take on an otherworldly feeling of importance.  I claim to be no scholar on the ethics/philosophy of love, nor fully aware of its biological process, but having lived long enough to know that it is a real feeling and one that ebbs and flows according to the aforementioned factors, I can affirm that, for me personally, this film really gets the beauty entrenched within true love and passion paints the film both narratively and visually, making it first about a love between characters and secondly about the very love of using cinema to share a worldview.  A Matter of Life and Death, much like its story, extends between at least two worlds of thinking and manages to combine them into a shared moment of wonder.

Key Scene:  The film, as noted earlier, was also called Stairway to Heaven.  There is a scene in the film that makes this name obvious and boy is it a feat of movie technology.

This film is hard to come by, I would suggest seeking it out by alternative methods or patiently await a Criterion release, it should only be a matter of time before it makes their prestigious list.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Lust Awakens The Desire To Possess: Spring, Summer, Fall, Winter...and Spring (2003)

It has been a bit of time since I watched a Korean film, let alone reviewed one within the context of the blog and I felt that an injustice since it is the country within which I place my primary focus academically, particularly in regards to the Korean New Cinema movement.  With this in mind it was a high possibility that if I were to pick a film completely by chance that it would fall within the directorial scope of Kim Ki-duk, whose works are wide ranging and nearly all controversial.  In fact, I have to my recollection reviewed at least four of his films on this blog already, which may well be the highest for anyone yet.  I would be hesitant to call him the Takishi Miike of South Korea considering that it suggests a heightened state of shock value, but Ki-duk's films are certainly not for the easy going or those seeking a visually light film.  Even in the case of Spring, Summer, Fall, Winter...and Spring, one can realize that underneath the veneer of beautiful cinematography and a poetic reflection on the nature of adoration and sacrifice lays a highly graphic and terribly abrasive consideration of the nature of sexual awakening, violence against those things without power and the general issues of growing up and learning to navigate a curious and ever changing world.  I would pair this particular film with Ki-duck's The Bow, although wherein that film the director seems terribly preoccupied with the idea of entrapment and its justifications in the name of "protection," Spring, Summer, Fall, Winter...and Spring is near wholly concerned with the ability of beings to move through the world with complete lack of hindrances.  One can see the notion of burden throughout the film, but the metaphors are layered and near impossible to read as any singular statement.  Furthermore, the episodic nature of this particular work, divided into seasons, as the title implies, help contest even the possibility of forming or obtaining burdens as something that is seen as fleeting and capable of appearing and reappearing at a moments notice.  This film, like other Ki-duk works is not suggesting a single possible answer or degree of oppression, but is constantly aware that as things they are subject to repeated change, especially in their decidedly intangible nature.


Spring, Summer, Fall, Winter...and Spring focuses on the "closed off" world of an aging monk and his student a very young boy.  I put closed off in quotations because the world is entered through two doors via a point of view shot, yet nothing seems to be restricting this world aside from a doorway.  Segmented as noted before the first section follows the young monk about the natural world of the expansive monastery, where he finds humor in tying rocks to various creatures and watching them struggle to move.  Enraged by his behavior the elderly monk forces the young boy to carry a rock on his back while he goes about attempting to amend his wrongs.  Some of the animals, however, have died as a result of his cruel experiment, leading to a deep sadness in the boy.  The narrative then moves forward a few years and witnesses the arrival of a mother with her sick teenage daughter, roughly the same age as the boy who is now a teenager himself, despite the outset desire to heal the girl, the young man becomes infatuated with the woman and the two begin a sex heavy relationship, only to be discovered by the old monk who demands that she leave at once.  Angry, the teenage boy follows behind and leaves the monk alone, thus leading to the next section of the film, where the young monk returns somewhat older, heartbroken and bitter for placing his faith in a woman who eventually cheated on him.  Upon return, the old monk makes the man carve words into the dock of the pier of the monastery until his anger is minimized, during which cops appear to seize the man for what one can assume to be either assault or murder.  This moves then into the next section of the film, where the previously young man returns to the monastery to take up residence, during which time he is visited by a veiled woman and her child, one can assume this to be his former lover, although it is never outright shown.  During a night of panic, the woman runs outside onto a frozen lake only to slip into an exposed portion and die from drowning, leaving the man to take care of the child, which, of course, leads to the final section of the film, which depicts the former student now serving as an aged monk to a younger generation.

The cycles of this film are clear, what is less clear is the tangible, spatial elements of the film.  One can easily argue that the film finds its grounding in a sort of chronological structure, which is partially true, however, given that the moments between each episode do not represent a flat out seasonal change, and appear to extend beyond simply a temporal space suggest something much grander at work, a notion only made all the more obtuse when one realizes that the actors playing the assumedly same parts change, therefore, adding a surreal and almost mythological element to the film.  I would even make a case that Spring, Summer, Fall, Winter...and Spring is very much concerned with what occurs in the liminal spaces of not only the world of the narrative, but the relationship between viewers and the screen.  It is no accident that the doors always open up into the world essentially telling those who are watching to engage with the work, or to step into its realm, for to not do so would be to disregard the intimate, yet always changing world of this secluded monastery.  In fact, everything is always on the move, much like in his film The Isle, Ki-duk's world is placed on water, which can obviously be read as a variety of things, however, in the spiritual regard of this work, and the other previously mentioned Ki-duk works, it only seems to add to the lack of grounding as a suggestion that any plans or attempts to anchor down to a place are futile, and in the particular location likely to result in death.  These "weights" which metaphorically appear in the form of the young boy tying rocks to animals, extend to the narrative, whether it be sexual desire, the dream of escapism or perhaps even notions of spiritual answers themselves.  The climb up hill carrying the burden of a stone in the next to final act seems to best sum up the entire narrative, in that, climbing the hill is already problematic, but one must only carry the burdens that they have brought upon themselves, and nothing more, every individual is given a chance to chose their outcomes, even in the most seclusive of situations.

Key Scene:  The rocks on the animals metaphor is so on the nose, but considering how inherently violent it is, I felt it to be an audacious and well-executed portion of the film.

This is another cheap Korean film that stands out as well-worth owning.  Not only is it an exceptional Korean film, but it is also a great art house work on a global scale.