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

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

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

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

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

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

For Your Awareness: Mother (1926)

For this month of women in film, I decided to dig pretty deep into the film canon and find some rather obscure gems, not to mention a film that is directly tied to some research I am currently doing for a class, it is the veritable two birds with one stone way of executing things on this blog when possible.  As such, I decided to go with the 1926 Soviet montage film Mother, which, much like its contemporaries, exists in a succinct and envisioned manner that pops off the screen capturing viewers intrigue by its near surrealist use of juxtaposition and high level cinematic to draw in viewers.  In the fashion of so many films from the Soviet Union of this era, the narrative is very much centered in a Marxist state of mind, where in, the proletariat (working class) is living in insufferable conditions and attempts to make advances through revolutions, which are seemingly always suppressed by the powerful and emotionless bourgeois (upper class) who seem far more content on making profits and keeping within their ivory towers than concerning themselves with the suffering of the common man.   If the Soviets were making movies circa 2011 it would be a 99% vs 1% rhetoric, although the revolutionary zeal and artistic output that emerges in his context is far greater than anything which emerged in relation to a bunch of people occupying parks.  Of course, I did not necessarily pick Mother for this month in film, because of its relationship to Marxist politics, although oppression and finding voices against that is certainly something that has emerged in the previous blogs for the month, no, I picked this because I wanted to start mapping a trend I have witnessed, particularly in class fueled narratives of revolt, wherein mother is an image used in a sort of sacrificial exploitation manner, a fact, which is clear in Battleship Potemkin, as well as less obviously in a handful of other films of the era.  I draw upon this film not to critique it stylistically because it is a masterful piece of cinema that is as indicative of the Soviet montage as any of its contemporaries, but, instead; to ask why in a film so concerned with oppression that it makes no qualms about exploiting a female figure for its narrative benefit.

Mother focuses rather loosely on the Russian Revolution of 1905, primarily as it relates to a metallurgy plant set on gaining better wages for their families.  The Mother (Vera Baranovska) is broken down by her lack of food and ability to take care of her family, all of who are equally distraught, the worst of all being her drunkard of a husband who fails to do anything productive.  Yet when he is convinced to help with the revolution efforts he and his son become key figures in the fight, and it is when the father looses his life, that the mother attempts to protect her son from the inquiries of military officers.  Realizing that the mother is protecting secrets she is jailed for a length of time, during which the revolution escalades and her son becomes inextricably tied to the movement, upon release the mother and eventual son who receives his own jailing time, the two are now heavily invested in the movement.  During their final confrontation with their enemies, the son dies and the mother takes up arms as a very real symbol of loss and anger, only to be trampled in an intense scene moments later.  The mother makes for a powerful symbol of sacrifice and one that is from a propaganda standpoint flawless.  Yet, one must remember that as a woman this cause does not allow her to move outside of the domestic space, nor does it afford her any sort of right to correct, say an alcoholic husband, yet her image as a signifier of sacrifice is embraced and pushed to the revolutionary forefront.  One only needs to consider that Russia is often referred to, at least in this era, as the "motherland," yet, mothers, as this film, shows, likely without intention, are the most relegated and othered group within Soviet Russia and their involvement within the revolution was quite exploitative, at once a thing of symbolic empowerment, as well as something to be ignored in the face of the masculine drives of war.

This is, as I already noted not a critique, but simply a consideration.  The mother is a key figure in culture, and in the example of propaganda they exist as a point of problematic exploitation.  I still highly recommend viewing Mother because it is a thing of cinematic perfection, although getting ahold of a quality copy might be a bit expensive.

I'll Be Your Sheep And Follow You Where Ever You Go: Lonesome (1928)

I have had the very great fortune of being able to begin volunteering at the Moving Images Research Center at the University of South Carolina.  While it is still only basic work I am doing, I have instantly come to realize how necessary preservation is to assuring the place in films lasting for generations to come, furthermore, I understand the true benefit of restoration.  While the items housed at this archive are mainly news reels, many have considerable historical value and have been saved from destruction.  Archives like the MIRC are saving cinematic treasures, as well as rediscovering works long forgotten.  Recently, Criterion released a relatively unknown silent/talkie hybrid called Lonesome and proved just how great archives can prove in the restoration and returning of classics to public access.  Lonesome, a largely experimental work, is a magnificent combination of soundtrack work, colorization and surprisingly well-tuned acting all resulting in an endearing little romance film that clocks in just over an hour.  While it does not fit into the definition of timeless, Lonesome is clearly a film that transcends its era and reaches out to touch even contemporary audiences as myself and my girlfriend can attest.  We both thoroughly enjoyed the film, for its cinematic expression and earnest simplicity.  The narrative is broken up occasionally by moments of sound dialogue, but given the build before each scene the moments seem like almost oneiric treats that pass through almost poetically through the work.  In a very brief amount of time Pal Fejos manages to undermine everything thought traditional about silent era filmmaking and his success is unprecedented.

Lonesome, follows a day of experiences for one lonesome guy named Jim (Glenn Tryon) and a lonesome girl named Mary (Barbara Kent) who live in the bustling city of New York and seem lost and hopeless of ever finding a partner to grow old with.  The two by pure chance end up going to Coney Island for a daycation (as my girlfriend aptly calls them), only to run into each other.  Jim, in one of the most swag monologues in film history, compares himself to a sheep who is adored with Mary and would follow her anywhere to be with her and he seems to succeed at doing so, up until they are separated after entering changing stations.  Fortunately, the two reconnect at a carnival later that night, in which they share in a variety of fun and games that range from spinning rooms, to photo booth opportunities, and even throwing balls at mechanical cats, to win Mary a doll.  Things between the sweet couple are going stellar and they both admit to their working class identities, only to love each other more for it, and we can assume all will be perfect for the duo.  Tragically, during a roller coaster ride the couple is split up and due to a fire scare Mary faints and Jim is attained by police while attempting to come to her aid.  Jim is able to get released after explaining his situation to an understanding lieutenant, only to return to the carnival a bit too late and get caught in a storm that continually severs the two.  Jim returns home distraught and puts a record on of a song that the two danced to while at the fair.  We are then shown Mary returning home to hear the record playing in the background.  It is at this moment that we realize Jim and Mary are actually neighbors, as do they, the two are united once again in a loving embrace, prepared to live in a joyous future together.

I will sound a bit pretentious when I say this, considering I was not alive then, but they simply do not make romance films like this anymore.  Placed aside Jean Vigo's L'Atalante, this is a classic love story, shot unconventionally and with many twists, yet incredibly accessible.  Yet where Vigo creates a need to form love, Fejos suggests a bit of magic to falling in love, particularly with the dreamlike and seemingly otherworldy nature of cinematic effects and the addition of talking scenes.  I could not help but recall La Jatee, particularly when the movie briefly cuts to a scene of moving imagery, in between still frames.  The talking scenes function as a means to make fate, chance and perseverance combine together to a moment of sheer perfection.  It is perhaps this moment of inexplainable success at attaining a desire moment that makes this film so good.  Jim and Mary clearly want to be together, but the exacting of fate upon them makes the two engage in a variety of obstacles to prove their desire.  It is an earnest love film because it is not at any point taken for granted and as viewers one finds themselves rooting for their success, even if the storyline is a bit predictable, I would imagine in 1928 it was a bit of a revelation.

Key Scene: Pretty much anything that happens at the carnival is brilliant.

Lonesome is one of those films that came out of nowhere and that I knew nothing about before purchasing.  With that being said it is easily one of my new favorite silent films and well worth getting for your personal collection.  The CC bluray is stunning and includes Fejos other films to boot!