Hey all. Remember that feature I mentioned in the last post? Well, things have changed in the past week and a half and I just might be shooting it in July. Since I'm going to be spending the next month(s) prepping for it, in addition to summer coursework and an internship, there's no feasible way I can regularly manage this thing, but considering how infrequently updated it has been anyway, maybe things won't especially change. I don't know. I probably won't have time to watch much except perhaps, say, the occasional first-tier Rohmer, because I can't think of a better way to flex my filmmaking intuition. I'm approaching the busiest summer of my life, no doubt, and it'd be nice to just get everything I've written recently out there.
PRO:
La Collectionneuse (Eric Rohmer, 1967)
The Champ (King Vidor, 1931)
I’m beginning to get the hang of Vidor’s various good points: pulling the camera back from a group or even having a character turn away from the camera when things get emotional; flat delivery of dialogue written to indicate trust, used here to create one of cinema’s most ambiguous father-son relationships; a character (Linda here, Dora in The Wedding Night) whose affection is undesirable only so far as it’s out of sync with the beloved’s conflicted nature.
The Threepenny Opera (G.W. Pabst, 1931)
One envies the rich set design and array of extras, which allow Pabst to delicately emphasize shadowy peripheral business over the menace of the story. There’s heavily wrought satire about, rendered in really interesting ways: witness, for instance, how Polly sounds most sinister when she talks about transcending petty crime, or when she’s being victimized by her family.
pro:
Gift From Above (Dover Koshashvili, 2003)
An ensemble piece, steeped in cultural traditions I don’t entirely understand, but vibrant, funny and fearless enough to rival Late Marriage. Actually, Koshashvili’s implementation of nudity can feel borderline gratuitous: there’s no special reason, for example, to show budding perv Zaza’s genitalia sightings. But the film is blessedly casual about it.
The Scout’s Exploit (Boris Barnet, 1947)
Platinum Blonde (Frank Capra, 1931)
See entry on The Wedding Night: this device sticks out like a sore thumb when you’re exposed to it multiple times within the course of a week. Romance with Gallagher goes from tenderly repressed to tediously obvious; same with disdain for rich lifestyle. Stew’s self-aggrandizing speech foretells of a later, less restrained Capra. But the elite, armed with both dignity and snappy one-liners, occasionally show Stew up for the cruelty of his wit.
Kameradschaft (G.W. Pabst, 1931)
This looks like propaganda in retrospect, but without turning a blind eye to the dangerous appeal of sentiment. A precursor to today’s correctives (cf. Lost) to war-time xenophobia: Germans come off worse, unduly resenting the French, who are either beautiful or pitiable, and at worst sentimental. Ideologically tedious but very well constructed, often enough that the construction interferes with the tedium.
Bountiful Summer (Boris Barnet, 1950)
Not major Barnet, but never less than pleasant, this musical comedy offers ample drama without once straying from its socialist leanings.
Girls About Town (George Cukor, 1931)
Joel McCrea’s Jim skirts the line between complexity and having it both ways: he’s boring and shy, but also clever and charming. Somehow, although the film never beats you over the head with one quality or the other, the mixture is more muddled than penetrating. Likewise, the Wanda-Marie friendship bears some liking to Gentlemen Prefer Blondes—materialism vs. romance = codependence—but in execution, it’s a tad blandly agreeable.
mixed:
Boat People (Ann Hui, 1982)
Utterly conventional, except that Akutagawa is a brutal, sleazy hero, and Hui (just barely) gets some mileage out of emphasizing this when the script doesn’t exactly call for it. The To Minh subplot, on the other hand, is hopeless sensationalism.
Literature:
pro:
The Last Post (Ford Madox Ford, 1928)
Sheer collapse, of Tietjen’s propriety, Sylvia’s mania, Mark’s arrogance. Everyone must concede to Fate. But things feel anything but thematically blunt. Why does Ford turn his back on the core of the series? Audacious but puzzling. It’s hard not to genuflect before Ford’s erudite, tightly woven prose, even when it puzzles me.
Divisadero (Michael Ondaatje, 2007)
No One Belongs Here More Than You (Miranda July, 2007)
Monday, May 25, 2009
Saturday, May 16, 2009
The Zen Master
I shot and edited this short video yesterday. Couldn't have done it without the help of my former roommate Frank Agrama, an accomplished filmmaker in his own right, whose camera was used. (Frank also plays the drummer.) With the project so fresh in my mind, any kind of distance on my part is pretty much impossible, but I basically consider this a quick warm-up before I start to think seriously about making a feature. So, with that in mind, here it is:
Friday, May 8, 2009
Wish fulfilled, I suppose.
PRO:
Tange Sazen and the Pot Worth a Million Ryo (Sadao Yamanaka, 1934)
Yamanaka’s genius is in presenting the comedy and pathos of this story in the same contemplative vein. Without seeing it, I can easily imagine a remake stripping Tange’s struggle to tell Yasu his father has died of dark humor, for example, or overplaying the hilarity of Genzaburo’s deal made with Tange during a raucous swordfight. In fact, sans its few sops to convention—e.g. Tange refusing to walk an archer home, followed by—screen wipe—Tange walking him home—this would be every bit the masterpiece that Humanity and Paper Balloons is.
The Last 15 (Antonio Campos, 2007)
In a crappy mood prior to viewing, which never bodes well for filmmakers whose work I’m unfamiliar with; claustrophobic compositions cloying; sound design overemphatic. Somehow I loved it anyway: tonally and conceptually, Campos is a stunner, deriving a great deal of restraint from subtly varying acting styles, and totally willing to let material trickle in that undermines big ideas. Now I’m excited to see Afterschool.
The Wedding Night (King Vidor, 1935)
I don’t know if the device of characters using fiction to talk about real life can ever work for me. I suspect it’s because I was weaned on sit-coms, which use the “subtext” of the device as free reign for blunt exaggeration. Nevertheless, Helen Vinson, the actress assigned to do it, is amazing as a woman forced to talk about her own impending devastation from the distance of an outsider. And the ending of the film is amazing, suggesting that Vidor’s intelligence is visual above all else.
pro:
Reckless (Victor Fleming, 1935)
Good—never jaw-droppingly distinctive but Fleming certainly grasps the better material here. (Which feels a bit weird, like a screwball comedy that’s been hijacked by a self-loathing philosopher. And indeed, a character stops telling a joke to say, “I’m just philosophizing…”) William Powell’s confession scene is memorable, as is his restrained portrait of heartbreak.
Okuni to Gohei (Mikio Naruse, 1952)
Somewhere between very good and exceptional in the Naruse canon, with two appealingly subdued lead performances. (It’s hard to imagine any other sort, given the material, which requires that Okuni and Gohei be indebted and opposed to each other in a bevy of ways.) I was sort of put off by Tomonojo’s creepy persistence at first, but it makes sense considering Okuni is never quite on the level with the men in her life.
Better Things (Duane Hopkins, 2008)
Lots of people dislike this film, and I guess I can see why. Its visuals—mostly up-close, with a barrage of angles—are both elegant and kind of indefensible. Hopkins aestheticizes its dead and dying subjects, but he isn’t abrasive about it. I was tempted to call his sensibility Bresson meets Seidl before realizing those directors’ devout might scowl at a style so lacking in rigor. But Hopkins’s actors feel Bressonian to me, and the range of human interest smacks of Seidl. I’m almost certain Hopkins would have garnered more attention from the auteurist crowd if he had trimmed his shot list by about two-thirds, which is a shame, because it’s a pretty good film anyway. Whether looking at beautiful people with ugly parts or ugly people doing beautiful things, at least Hopkins is consistent.
Il Divo (Paolo Sorrentino, 2008)
I thought of Hunger a bit, here: not only because, as abrasive stylists, Sorrentino and Steve McQueen are anomalies in the art-film world, but also because they both take care to settle the hell down, mid-film, for an extended pro-Bazin moment. I didn’t care for McQueen’s movie at all, including that moment: the loud material begs for a quiet eye, and the Bobby-priest scene reveals a director to whom actors are little more than monotonously impassioned mouthpieces. But frenetic as Sorrentino is, he’s also sensitive to personality. I don’t know whether to attribute the success of Il Divo to Sorrentino or Toni Servillo, whose performance—pathetic yet dignified, mannered in the most effective way—deflates Hunger-esque problems because it renders Andreotti’s convictions inextricable from his weirdness.
Gross Misconduct (Atom Egoyan, 1993)
One of the ultimate examples of direction-over-writing, Egoyan’s biopic succeeds almost fully neither on performances, which are wooden, nor on dialogue, which is often hopelessly bad, but by emphases created by editing and camera movements. Egoyan’s camera is like the more consumer-friendly version of Zhang’s (see below), punctuating a dramatic moment by lingering on vast planes of empty space or a violent outburst with a quizzical pause.
mixed:
Desert Dream (Zhang Lu, 2007)
“Tough sit” characterized much of my first Zhang experience, even though individual shots were very striking. My fave: the one in which a mother heads coolly into a tent to remove her child, exits with the reluctant child, who begs the environmentalist tent-owner to let him stay, which causes the mother to sullenly head back into the tent. I also liked when the slave-owner asked the environmentalist to buy the mother and child, after which the environmentalist’s response actually appears harsh. If only this kind of marvelously complex power play were present into the majority of other takes, many of which are stunted in their alignment with the action for no apparent reason.
Nô (Robert Lepage, 1998)
Lepage is the sort of director one treasures for emphasizing things nobody else would bother with: the way the Patricia forces a smile and lowers her voice at the same time, for example, when she tries to convince Sophie she liked her play. And then there’s the lovely final take, in which Lepage is momentarily possessed by the spirit of Rohmer. But the visuals are generally too haphazard and the throughline too vague to make much of an impact.
Iri (Zhang Lu, 2008)
Based on the gorgeously nuanced opening, in which the significance of the Iri explosion is denied and confirmed in the same breath, I thought I’d have an easier time with this than Desert Dream. Alas, aside from several post-Dumont outbursts of sexual violence waiting in the wings, there’s little to imbue Zhang’s compositions—which often feel like a subdued version of Tsai—with substance. One commonality, I suppose, between this and the earlier film, is that Zhang wants us to carefully regard not only the connections between shots A and B but between, say, shots A and R. It’s easy to notice the camera sitting in the same corner of the same restaurant during different scenes placed an hour apart, and perhaps harder to divine why its placement is so important… to which I can merely shrug and admit I’d rather not watch films as if I’m preparing for a research paper.
Literature:
PRO:
No More Parades (Ford Madox Ford, 1925)
While Some Do Not… is written in a precisely observational mode reminiscent of the stoic way the series’ hero Tietjens presents himself—thus making Tietjens’s inner life, as well as the effects of his perverse discipline, tantalizingly enigmatic—the second novel in the series gets progressively manic, mirroring Tietjens’s war-time anxieties. But Ford has perfected the art of turning neurotic meandering into a game, deriving the most possible pleasure from thoughts bordering on indistinct. It also offers more supporting material than the first novel—thank god, if you happen to be saddled with a Vietnam-vet professor who identifies with the character and clings to his sentiments—to refute readings of Tietjens as the last honorable man in a corrupt world, e.g., during the long conversation with the general in which Tietjens’s practicality is directly and articulately challenged.
A Man Could Stand Up – (Ford Madox Ford, 1926)
Weird stuff going on: deadpan wit used to lionize a serious man; Valentine becoming, via the delirious loneliness of war, Tietjens’s great love, a sentimental refuge more than a person; Tietjens writing a sonnet in the midst of battle, and the soldier who loses an eye for him appreciating it. These novels elude shape, or perhaps I can’t grasp it.
pro:
Blind Willow, Sleeping Woman (Haruki Murakami, 2006)
I actually find Murakami more troublesome in short story form than in novels, because one of the great pleasures of the latter is the way incidents pile inexorably on one another, perplexing reader and characters alike. His tone is much more impressive than his worldview—often deliberately reductive—but the right tone goes a long way.
Tange Sazen and the Pot Worth a Million Ryo (Sadao Yamanaka, 1934)
Yamanaka’s genius is in presenting the comedy and pathos of this story in the same contemplative vein. Without seeing it, I can easily imagine a remake stripping Tange’s struggle to tell Yasu his father has died of dark humor, for example, or overplaying the hilarity of Genzaburo’s deal made with Tange during a raucous swordfight. In fact, sans its few sops to convention—e.g. Tange refusing to walk an archer home, followed by—screen wipe—Tange walking him home—this would be every bit the masterpiece that Humanity and Paper Balloons is.
The Last 15 (Antonio Campos, 2007)
In a crappy mood prior to viewing, which never bodes well for filmmakers whose work I’m unfamiliar with; claustrophobic compositions cloying; sound design overemphatic. Somehow I loved it anyway: tonally and conceptually, Campos is a stunner, deriving a great deal of restraint from subtly varying acting styles, and totally willing to let material trickle in that undermines big ideas. Now I’m excited to see Afterschool.
The Wedding Night (King Vidor, 1935)
I don’t know if the device of characters using fiction to talk about real life can ever work for me. I suspect it’s because I was weaned on sit-coms, which use the “subtext” of the device as free reign for blunt exaggeration. Nevertheless, Helen Vinson, the actress assigned to do it, is amazing as a woman forced to talk about her own impending devastation from the distance of an outsider. And the ending of the film is amazing, suggesting that Vidor’s intelligence is visual above all else.
pro:
Reckless (Victor Fleming, 1935)
Good—never jaw-droppingly distinctive but Fleming certainly grasps the better material here. (Which feels a bit weird, like a screwball comedy that’s been hijacked by a self-loathing philosopher. And indeed, a character stops telling a joke to say, “I’m just philosophizing…”) William Powell’s confession scene is memorable, as is his restrained portrait of heartbreak.
Okuni to Gohei (Mikio Naruse, 1952)
Somewhere between very good and exceptional in the Naruse canon, with two appealingly subdued lead performances. (It’s hard to imagine any other sort, given the material, which requires that Okuni and Gohei be indebted and opposed to each other in a bevy of ways.) I was sort of put off by Tomonojo’s creepy persistence at first, but it makes sense considering Okuni is never quite on the level with the men in her life.
Better Things (Duane Hopkins, 2008)
Lots of people dislike this film, and I guess I can see why. Its visuals—mostly up-close, with a barrage of angles—are both elegant and kind of indefensible. Hopkins aestheticizes its dead and dying subjects, but he isn’t abrasive about it. I was tempted to call his sensibility Bresson meets Seidl before realizing those directors’ devout might scowl at a style so lacking in rigor. But Hopkins’s actors feel Bressonian to me, and the range of human interest smacks of Seidl. I’m almost certain Hopkins would have garnered more attention from the auteurist crowd if he had trimmed his shot list by about two-thirds, which is a shame, because it’s a pretty good film anyway. Whether looking at beautiful people with ugly parts or ugly people doing beautiful things, at least Hopkins is consistent.
Il Divo (Paolo Sorrentino, 2008)
I thought of Hunger a bit, here: not only because, as abrasive stylists, Sorrentino and Steve McQueen are anomalies in the art-film world, but also because they both take care to settle the hell down, mid-film, for an extended pro-Bazin moment. I didn’t care for McQueen’s movie at all, including that moment: the loud material begs for a quiet eye, and the Bobby-priest scene reveals a director to whom actors are little more than monotonously impassioned mouthpieces. But frenetic as Sorrentino is, he’s also sensitive to personality. I don’t know whether to attribute the success of Il Divo to Sorrentino or Toni Servillo, whose performance—pathetic yet dignified, mannered in the most effective way—deflates Hunger-esque problems because it renders Andreotti’s convictions inextricable from his weirdness.
Gross Misconduct (Atom Egoyan, 1993)
One of the ultimate examples of direction-over-writing, Egoyan’s biopic succeeds almost fully neither on performances, which are wooden, nor on dialogue, which is often hopelessly bad, but by emphases created by editing and camera movements. Egoyan’s camera is like the more consumer-friendly version of Zhang’s (see below), punctuating a dramatic moment by lingering on vast planes of empty space or a violent outburst with a quizzical pause.
mixed:
Desert Dream (Zhang Lu, 2007)
“Tough sit” characterized much of my first Zhang experience, even though individual shots were very striking. My fave: the one in which a mother heads coolly into a tent to remove her child, exits with the reluctant child, who begs the environmentalist tent-owner to let him stay, which causes the mother to sullenly head back into the tent. I also liked when the slave-owner asked the environmentalist to buy the mother and child, after which the environmentalist’s response actually appears harsh. If only this kind of marvelously complex power play were present into the majority of other takes, many of which are stunted in their alignment with the action for no apparent reason.
Nô (Robert Lepage, 1998)
Lepage is the sort of director one treasures for emphasizing things nobody else would bother with: the way the Patricia forces a smile and lowers her voice at the same time, for example, when she tries to convince Sophie she liked her play. And then there’s the lovely final take, in which Lepage is momentarily possessed by the spirit of Rohmer. But the visuals are generally too haphazard and the throughline too vague to make much of an impact.
Iri (Zhang Lu, 2008)
Based on the gorgeously nuanced opening, in which the significance of the Iri explosion is denied and confirmed in the same breath, I thought I’d have an easier time with this than Desert Dream. Alas, aside from several post-Dumont outbursts of sexual violence waiting in the wings, there’s little to imbue Zhang’s compositions—which often feel like a subdued version of Tsai—with substance. One commonality, I suppose, between this and the earlier film, is that Zhang wants us to carefully regard not only the connections between shots A and B but between, say, shots A and R. It’s easy to notice the camera sitting in the same corner of the same restaurant during different scenes placed an hour apart, and perhaps harder to divine why its placement is so important… to which I can merely shrug and admit I’d rather not watch films as if I’m preparing for a research paper.
Literature:
PRO:
No More Parades (Ford Madox Ford, 1925)
While Some Do Not… is written in a precisely observational mode reminiscent of the stoic way the series’ hero Tietjens presents himself—thus making Tietjens’s inner life, as well as the effects of his perverse discipline, tantalizingly enigmatic—the second novel in the series gets progressively manic, mirroring Tietjens’s war-time anxieties. But Ford has perfected the art of turning neurotic meandering into a game, deriving the most possible pleasure from thoughts bordering on indistinct. It also offers more supporting material than the first novel—thank god, if you happen to be saddled with a Vietnam-vet professor who identifies with the character and clings to his sentiments—to refute readings of Tietjens as the last honorable man in a corrupt world, e.g., during the long conversation with the general in which Tietjens’s practicality is directly and articulately challenged.
A Man Could Stand Up – (Ford Madox Ford, 1926)
Weird stuff going on: deadpan wit used to lionize a serious man; Valentine becoming, via the delirious loneliness of war, Tietjens’s great love, a sentimental refuge more than a person; Tietjens writing a sonnet in the midst of battle, and the soldier who loses an eye for him appreciating it. These novels elude shape, or perhaps I can’t grasp it.
pro:
Blind Willow, Sleeping Woman (Haruki Murakami, 2006)
I actually find Murakami more troublesome in short story form than in novels, because one of the great pleasures of the latter is the way incidents pile inexorably on one another, perplexing reader and characters alike. His tone is much more impressive than his worldview—often deliberately reductive—but the right tone goes a long way.
Tuesday, April 28, 2009
I really need to update this more often.
PRO:
The Girl With the Golden Eyes (Jean-Gabriel Albicocco, 1961)
Remember My Name (Alan Rudolph, 1978)
The Class (Laurent Cantet, 2008)
pro:
Mes petites amoureuses (Jean Eustache, 1974)
Somehow I connect entirely with the emotions Eustache communicates—few filmmakers employ the dissolve as persuasively—but not his episodic structure: as the ending makes clear, Daniel barely progresses in any discernible way, and any lessons that clumsy amorous encounters teach him remain rather obscure. And yet, reading what I’ve just written, I’m not sure what the problem is, because youth doesn’t necessarily wear minute advances on its sleeve. I suspect if the film were spliced into several shorts, I’d prefer almost all of them to the feature. The narration—sometimes redundant, sometimes unnecessary—could use some work, but maybe I should just stop mentally comparing it to Diary of a Country Priest. (God help those using latter-day Malick as a standard.)
Beeswax (Andrew Bujalski, 2009)
Charly (Isild Le Besco, 2007)
Late Autumn (Yasujiro Ozu, 1990)
Ozu directs a Gilmore Girls episode. I’m not sure why the mother-daughter trials and tribulations feel so banal here—Naruse mined similar territory for great effect in Lightning. Setsuko Hara’s resolute solitude, as opposed to mysterious, seems kinda random.
Welcome to L.A. (Alan Rudolph, 1976)
mixed:
Green Fish (Lee Chang-Dong, 1997)
What Is She To You? (Alden Thompson Burgess, 2009)
con:
A Streetcar Named Desire (Elia Kazan, 1951)
A great play (see below) semi-destroyed by a bunch of overly literal performances and a disengaged one (Brando).
CON:
The Cinema of Ozu According to Kiju Yoshida (Kiju Yoshida, 1994)
Yoshida’s Ozu theses range from acceptably accurate, to rather pretentious, to shockingly feeble. (Most egregious is his claim that Ozu’s direction of actors was such that no two lines were delivered the same way, whereas Ozu’s directorial presence is all about flattening drama with a calm, contented manner that in fact is quite repetitive.) Then again, I’m pretty sure if a piece of my own criticism was laboriously extended to feature-length and righteously intoned over some of my favorite moments in cinema, no sane person would want to view the result. Somehow I sense that, given rumors of Ozu-Yoshida enmity, Yoshida made this film to prove to himself he still liked the man first, and make a meaningful contribution to film history second.
Literature:
PRO:
The End of the Affair (Graham Greene, 1951)
Aside from a brief foray into smug lit-crit bashing, this is a fascinating crack at 1st-person for Greene that, unlike FMF’s The Good Soldier (apparently a big inspiration), resists tapping insecurity as a source for comedy, and instead dives into the workings of jealousy with Musilian fervor.
The Violent Bear It Away (Flannery O’Connor, 1960)
A Confederacy of Dunces (John Kennedy Toole, 1980)
A Streetcar Named Desire (Tennessee Williams, 1951)
pro:
Outer Dark (Cormac McCarthy, 1968)
Cheating at Canasta (William Trevor, 2007)
con:
Flaubert’s Parrot (Julian Barnes, 1984)
An anti-novel whose status as an anti-novel is almost completely superfluous. Maybe the problem here is that Barnes himself is too contemptuous to achieve any distance from his contemptuous narrator, whom I suspect he means to criticize or something.
DNF:
Rushing to Paradise (J.G. Ballard, 1994)
Good when Ballard’s activist characters are relative innocents, and he subtly mines their crusades for smugness and hypocrisy; bad when they descend into dystopia, and his simplistic grasp of psychology shines through.
The Girl With the Golden Eyes (Jean-Gabriel Albicocco, 1961)
Remember My Name (Alan Rudolph, 1978)
The Class (Laurent Cantet, 2008)
pro:
Mes petites amoureuses (Jean Eustache, 1974)
Somehow I connect entirely with the emotions Eustache communicates—few filmmakers employ the dissolve as persuasively—but not his episodic structure: as the ending makes clear, Daniel barely progresses in any discernible way, and any lessons that clumsy amorous encounters teach him remain rather obscure. And yet, reading what I’ve just written, I’m not sure what the problem is, because youth doesn’t necessarily wear minute advances on its sleeve. I suspect if the film were spliced into several shorts, I’d prefer almost all of them to the feature. The narration—sometimes redundant, sometimes unnecessary—could use some work, but maybe I should just stop mentally comparing it to Diary of a Country Priest. (God help those using latter-day Malick as a standard.)
Beeswax (Andrew Bujalski, 2009)
Charly (Isild Le Besco, 2007)
Late Autumn (Yasujiro Ozu, 1990)
Ozu directs a Gilmore Girls episode. I’m not sure why the mother-daughter trials and tribulations feel so banal here—Naruse mined similar territory for great effect in Lightning. Setsuko Hara’s resolute solitude, as opposed to mysterious, seems kinda random.
Welcome to L.A. (Alan Rudolph, 1976)
mixed:
Green Fish (Lee Chang-Dong, 1997)
What Is She To You? (Alden Thompson Burgess, 2009)
con:
A Streetcar Named Desire (Elia Kazan, 1951)
A great play (see below) semi-destroyed by a bunch of overly literal performances and a disengaged one (Brando).
CON:
The Cinema of Ozu According to Kiju Yoshida (Kiju Yoshida, 1994)
Yoshida’s Ozu theses range from acceptably accurate, to rather pretentious, to shockingly feeble. (Most egregious is his claim that Ozu’s direction of actors was such that no two lines were delivered the same way, whereas Ozu’s directorial presence is all about flattening drama with a calm, contented manner that in fact is quite repetitive.) Then again, I’m pretty sure if a piece of my own criticism was laboriously extended to feature-length and righteously intoned over some of my favorite moments in cinema, no sane person would want to view the result. Somehow I sense that, given rumors of Ozu-Yoshida enmity, Yoshida made this film to prove to himself he still liked the man first, and make a meaningful contribution to film history second.
Literature:
PRO:
The End of the Affair (Graham Greene, 1951)
Aside from a brief foray into smug lit-crit bashing, this is a fascinating crack at 1st-person for Greene that, unlike FMF’s The Good Soldier (apparently a big inspiration), resists tapping insecurity as a source for comedy, and instead dives into the workings of jealousy with Musilian fervor.
The Violent Bear It Away (Flannery O’Connor, 1960)
A Confederacy of Dunces (John Kennedy Toole, 1980)
A Streetcar Named Desire (Tennessee Williams, 1951)
pro:
Outer Dark (Cormac McCarthy, 1968)
Cheating at Canasta (William Trevor, 2007)
con:
Flaubert’s Parrot (Julian Barnes, 1984)
An anti-novel whose status as an anti-novel is almost completely superfluous. Maybe the problem here is that Barnes himself is too contemptuous to achieve any distance from his contemptuous narrator, whom I suspect he means to criticize or something.
DNF:
Rushing to Paradise (J.G. Ballard, 1994)
Good when Ballard’s activist characters are relative innocents, and he subtly mines their crusades for smugness and hypocrisy; bad when they descend into dystopia, and his simplistic grasp of psychology shines through.
Sunday, March 22, 2009
Half of February and Most of March
PRO:
Day of the Outlaw (Andre de Toth, 1959)
Edouard et Caroline (Jacques Becker, 1950)
Return of the Living Dead (Dan O’Bannon, 1985)
The Crying Woman (Jacques Doillon, 1978)
Choose Me (Alan Rudolph, 1984)
Lightning (Mikio Naruse, 1952)
Dottie Gets Spanked (Todd Haynes, 1993)
La Chienne (Jean Renoir, 1931)
Duplicity (Tony Gilroy, 2009)
One adjusts to Gilroy’s visual anonymity, save bits like the final shot, which is every bit as good as Michael Clayton’s. Can’t say I cared for the beloved opening credits sequence. I did, however, enjoy the Ray-Claire repartee without fail, Roberts especially striking the right note of dignified coldness again and again.
Catastrophe (David Mamet, 2000)
Two Lovers (James Gray, 2008)
I yearned for a movie more expressive of Leonard’s bipolar disorder–here intrusive, there a non-issue, and the two sides distributed without particular attention to emphasis. The unusualness of feeling suicidal one hour and laughing at work the next doesn’t seem like part of this movie’s game plan, but I eventually reconciled myself with it anyway. Michelle and Vinessa are like a more strictly dichotomous Mother and the Whore, and well-balanced, and pieces like the encounter with Michelle’s lover are mercifully throwaway.
Rendezvous at Bray (Andre Delvaux, 1971)
The Days (Wang Xiaoshuai, 1993)
Wesh Wesh, qu’est-ce qui se passé? (Rabah Ameur-Zaimeche, 2001)
RAZ’s first movie has rocky production values, but the nuances of his later work are fully intact: he never lacks an eye for the transparency of his characters’ resolutions: the way a vow to quit dealing drugs easily collapses, for example, or how his own character’s brutal, unsympathetic nature reflects a sensible desire for papers of residence, in the middle of a fairly anti-government (and anti-cop) movie.
pro:
Wee Willie Winkie (John Ford, 1937)
Graham Greene’s essay about this movie, and the sexualization of Shirley Temple, surely has a point regarding her bizarrely intense relationship with Victor McLaglen’s character, who goes as far as asking to see her at his deathbed. Her friendship with coolly unapologetic villain Khoda Khan, however, is striking because she has such naïve, simple affection for an unrepentant savage, not for any libidinous undertones.
The Tuner (Kira Muratova, 2004)
Alice in the Cities (Wim Wenders, 1974)
Who’ll Stop the Rain (Karel Reisz, 1978)
Contact (Alan Clarke, 1985)
mixed:
Dillinger Is Dead (Marco Ferreri, 1969)
Whisky Galore (Alexander Mackendrick, 1949)
Iles flottantes (Nanouk Leopold, 2001)
A routine art movie with some really subversive bits—a pointedly blasé ambivalence towards domestic violence—that suggest why Leopold is an art movie director in the first place. Interesting career trajectory: the arty tropes were always there, but she gets a lot more unabashedly chilly, as well as more interesting, once Guernsey comes along.
con:
Vodka Lemon (Hiner Saleem, 2003)
I feel weird saying this about such an ostensibly remote filmmaker, but Saleem’s problem might actually be an excess of heart. He’ll precisely outline the contradictions of a woman’s pride in one scene, and yet fully relents to sentiment and slapstick by the film’s end.
Literature:
PRO:
Some Do Not… (Ford Madox Ford, 1924)
pro:
The Heart Is a Lonely Hunter (Carson McCullers, 1940)
mixed:
Delta Wedding (Eudora Welty, 1946)
Somehow reductive in its omnivorous brand of texture-over-content, apparently finding a world of interest in every raindrop, like a lesser Hou Hsiao-Hsien film. Also, sometimes ravishing, like a lesser Hou Hsiao-hsien film.
Day of the Outlaw (Andre de Toth, 1959)
Edouard et Caroline (Jacques Becker, 1950)
Return of the Living Dead (Dan O’Bannon, 1985)
The Crying Woman (Jacques Doillon, 1978)
Choose Me (Alan Rudolph, 1984)
Lightning (Mikio Naruse, 1952)
Dottie Gets Spanked (Todd Haynes, 1993)
La Chienne (Jean Renoir, 1931)
Duplicity (Tony Gilroy, 2009)
One adjusts to Gilroy’s visual anonymity, save bits like the final shot, which is every bit as good as Michael Clayton’s. Can’t say I cared for the beloved opening credits sequence. I did, however, enjoy the Ray-Claire repartee without fail, Roberts especially striking the right note of dignified coldness again and again.
Catastrophe (David Mamet, 2000)
Two Lovers (James Gray, 2008)
I yearned for a movie more expressive of Leonard’s bipolar disorder–here intrusive, there a non-issue, and the two sides distributed without particular attention to emphasis. The unusualness of feeling suicidal one hour and laughing at work the next doesn’t seem like part of this movie’s game plan, but I eventually reconciled myself with it anyway. Michelle and Vinessa are like a more strictly dichotomous Mother and the Whore, and well-balanced, and pieces like the encounter with Michelle’s lover are mercifully throwaway.
Rendezvous at Bray (Andre Delvaux, 1971)
The Days (Wang Xiaoshuai, 1993)
Wesh Wesh, qu’est-ce qui se passé? (Rabah Ameur-Zaimeche, 2001)
RAZ’s first movie has rocky production values, but the nuances of his later work are fully intact: he never lacks an eye for the transparency of his characters’ resolutions: the way a vow to quit dealing drugs easily collapses, for example, or how his own character’s brutal, unsympathetic nature reflects a sensible desire for papers of residence, in the middle of a fairly anti-government (and anti-cop) movie.
pro:
Wee Willie Winkie (John Ford, 1937)
Graham Greene’s essay about this movie, and the sexualization of Shirley Temple, surely has a point regarding her bizarrely intense relationship with Victor McLaglen’s character, who goes as far as asking to see her at his deathbed. Her friendship with coolly unapologetic villain Khoda Khan, however, is striking because she has such naïve, simple affection for an unrepentant savage, not for any libidinous undertones.
The Tuner (Kira Muratova, 2004)
Alice in the Cities (Wim Wenders, 1974)
Who’ll Stop the Rain (Karel Reisz, 1978)
Contact (Alan Clarke, 1985)
mixed:
Dillinger Is Dead (Marco Ferreri, 1969)
Whisky Galore (Alexander Mackendrick, 1949)
Iles flottantes (Nanouk Leopold, 2001)
A routine art movie with some really subversive bits—a pointedly blasé ambivalence towards domestic violence—that suggest why Leopold is an art movie director in the first place. Interesting career trajectory: the arty tropes were always there, but she gets a lot more unabashedly chilly, as well as more interesting, once Guernsey comes along.
con:
Vodka Lemon (Hiner Saleem, 2003)
I feel weird saying this about such an ostensibly remote filmmaker, but Saleem’s problem might actually be an excess of heart. He’ll precisely outline the contradictions of a woman’s pride in one scene, and yet fully relents to sentiment and slapstick by the film’s end.
Literature:
PRO:
Some Do Not… (Ford Madox Ford, 1924)
pro:
The Heart Is a Lonely Hunter (Carson McCullers, 1940)
mixed:
Delta Wedding (Eudora Welty, 1946)
Somehow reductive in its omnivorous brand of texture-over-content, apparently finding a world of interest in every raindrop, like a lesser Hou Hsiao-Hsien film. Also, sometimes ravishing, like a lesser Hou Hsiao-hsien film.
Sunday, February 15, 2009
February, Pt. 1
PRO:
The Testament of Dr. Mabuse (Fritz Lang, 1933)
Best opening scene ever?
An Unforgettable Summer (Lucian Pintilie, 1994)
The first 40 minutes or so would have you believe Pintilie is the unsung cinematic heir to Tolstoy, with a Levin-esque husband whose self-defeating instincts drive him to say stupid crap like “Don’t regret marrying me,” as his wife wittily rejects the advances of another man and changes the subject when he gets insecure. But Pintilie considers the politics of compassion with a reserved cynicism all his own. On the one hand, politics are motivated by petty squabbles at home; on the other, these squabbles have a touch of the humanitarian otherwise alien to wartime tactics. Love the moment when Scott Thomas lovingly tells a servant, “don’t cry,” before screaming the same.
They Were Expendable (John Ford, 1945)
Ford had been using Wayne the same way from the beginning: here he represents an outlet for frustration brewing amidst the whole company, but his toughness e.g. almost leads him to an amputation. But then he weirdly adjusts his petulance to accommodate the romantic subplot, demanding that a conference between generals end so he can chat with his lady. Other interesting bits: Ford cuts to a stoic Asian woman as the Pearl Harbor is announced; the stupid jokes of young up-and-comers are met with convincingly awkward laughter; exchanges on the paucity of supplies, simmering with indignation underneath, are played with civility. I have to admit that Ford’s battle scenes, which prioritize special integrity over much human interest, tend to bore me.
pro:
The Hitchhiker (Ida Lupino, 1953)
The Wrestler and the Clown (Boris Barnet, 1959)
Good Dick (Marianna Palka, 2008)
Everything kind of works here, although not in a tight or connected way. Lots of contradictions abound—Ritter is a well-adjusted stalker, Palka gets off to porn but objects to use of the word “cock”—but they don’t seem interrogated so much as poked at. Ritter should’ve been more Leaud-in-Mother and the Whore, following through on his grand acts rather than proving such an obvious non-match for the heroine. Palka glosses over disbelief-suspending turns like her growing tolerance for the dude with a dead, placid slickness. Her character is kind of vital in some ways: the way acts of genuine sympathy repulse her rings distantly true. But I can’t get over the impression that this woman represents a fantastically stunted, primal version of herself.
Time of Favor (Joseph Cedar, 2000)
The love triangle stuff is good, sometimes better than good: only a serious-intentioned director would cut from a heartbroken man fainting to casually reassessing heartbreak as an intellectual challenge. Michal is an extraordinarily unsympathetic, albeit independent-minded love interest, whose cruelty mars her without dimming her attractiveness. The film totally skids out of control when the focus is shifted to the explosives subplot.
mixed:
The Secret Agent (Christopher Hampton, 1996)
Not bad, with a moment or two of beauty, and an opening fraught with hushed performances and well-considered compositions. Things get one-note towards the extended Winnie-Verloc confrontation and never quite recover. It struck me that, although Hitchcock’s adaptation is fine and this one is serviceable, the ideal director for this material might have been Alan Clarke, whose Beloved Enemy traffics in long, elegant conversations between powerful men, with latent unease all but swept under the carpet.
CON:
The Merchant of Venice (Michael Radford, 2004) [second viewing]
DNF:
Time Between Dog and Wolf (Jeon Soo-il, 2006)
As beautifully shot as any Hong movie; shame about the thin wisp of a narrative. Jeon likes to make everyone passive-aggressive towards his protag, which usually has a chillier and less nuanced effect than he’d probably like given the art-film posturing.
Hard, Fast and Beautiful (Ida Lupino, 1951)
Four Nights With Anna (Jerzy Skolimowski, 2008)
Literature:
PRO:
Howard’s End (E.M. Forster, 1910)
Forster comes dangerously close to idealizing Margaret, even though her near-perfect inner nature is sometimes misinterpreted as passivity. All she really has is an awareness of how thornily incompatible the worlds around her are, but Forster does relatively little to downplay the lovability of this worldview. Nevertheless, the Wilcoxes’ class condescension has its virtues—indeed, sometimes the Wilcox ideology and Forster’s narrating voice get almost offensively intermingled. I guess Forster needs a character like Margaret to defend himself against the lower classes, whom he has serious trouble identifying with.
As I Lay Dying (William Faulkner, 1930) [second reading]
Much Ado About Nothing (William Shakespeare, 1598-9)
These comedies just progressively get better, in my opinion. The Beatrice-Benedick sparring is like an apology for the extremes of Katharina and Petruchio; Don John may be Shakespeare’s least charismatic villain and is all the more fascinating for it.
A Midsummer Night’s Dream (William Shakespeare, 1594-6)
Great means are taken to preserve psychological plausibility in the midst of transformations even more sudden than e.g. Katherina’s. The silliness of Demetrius’s newfound love for Helena is interpreted in a bevy of ways.
The Secret Agent (Joseph Conrad, 1907)
There’s an emotional directness one has to deal with in Conrad’s exploration of madness. Reading Heart of Darkness, I couldn’t: abstraction seemed to err towards exaggeration. But my reaction to this novel was so different I’m tempted to give that one another look. The inner depths of a singular personality still concern Conrad more than, say, physical gestures. But something about the rhythm of this really worked for me: oftentimes a seemingly weighty exploration of internal turmoil will be matched by quiet, inadequate expression. (E.g., Winnie’s incoherent grief, or the Professor’s small, miserable stature.)
pro:
The Adventures of Huckleberry Finn (Mark Twain, 1884)
The Merchant of Venice (William Shakespeare, 1596-8)
Dunno if Shylock’s commingling of rousing series of rhetorical questions, itself a wrench in the play’s prescribed anti-Semitism, is enough to defuse the pleasure Christian couples unabashedly take in his downfall.
The Testament of Dr. Mabuse (Fritz Lang, 1933)
Best opening scene ever?
An Unforgettable Summer (Lucian Pintilie, 1994)
The first 40 minutes or so would have you believe Pintilie is the unsung cinematic heir to Tolstoy, with a Levin-esque husband whose self-defeating instincts drive him to say stupid crap like “Don’t regret marrying me,” as his wife wittily rejects the advances of another man and changes the subject when he gets insecure. But Pintilie considers the politics of compassion with a reserved cynicism all his own. On the one hand, politics are motivated by petty squabbles at home; on the other, these squabbles have a touch of the humanitarian otherwise alien to wartime tactics. Love the moment when Scott Thomas lovingly tells a servant, “don’t cry,” before screaming the same.
They Were Expendable (John Ford, 1945)
Ford had been using Wayne the same way from the beginning: here he represents an outlet for frustration brewing amidst the whole company, but his toughness e.g. almost leads him to an amputation. But then he weirdly adjusts his petulance to accommodate the romantic subplot, demanding that a conference between generals end so he can chat with his lady. Other interesting bits: Ford cuts to a stoic Asian woman as the Pearl Harbor is announced; the stupid jokes of young up-and-comers are met with convincingly awkward laughter; exchanges on the paucity of supplies, simmering with indignation underneath, are played with civility. I have to admit that Ford’s battle scenes, which prioritize special integrity over much human interest, tend to bore me.
pro:
The Hitchhiker (Ida Lupino, 1953)
The Wrestler and the Clown (Boris Barnet, 1959)
Good Dick (Marianna Palka, 2008)
Everything kind of works here, although not in a tight or connected way. Lots of contradictions abound—Ritter is a well-adjusted stalker, Palka gets off to porn but objects to use of the word “cock”—but they don’t seem interrogated so much as poked at. Ritter should’ve been more Leaud-in-Mother and the Whore, following through on his grand acts rather than proving such an obvious non-match for the heroine. Palka glosses over disbelief-suspending turns like her growing tolerance for the dude with a dead, placid slickness. Her character is kind of vital in some ways: the way acts of genuine sympathy repulse her rings distantly true. But I can’t get over the impression that this woman represents a fantastically stunted, primal version of herself.
Time of Favor (Joseph Cedar, 2000)
The love triangle stuff is good, sometimes better than good: only a serious-intentioned director would cut from a heartbroken man fainting to casually reassessing heartbreak as an intellectual challenge. Michal is an extraordinarily unsympathetic, albeit independent-minded love interest, whose cruelty mars her without dimming her attractiveness. The film totally skids out of control when the focus is shifted to the explosives subplot.
mixed:
The Secret Agent (Christopher Hampton, 1996)
Not bad, with a moment or two of beauty, and an opening fraught with hushed performances and well-considered compositions. Things get one-note towards the extended Winnie-Verloc confrontation and never quite recover. It struck me that, although Hitchcock’s adaptation is fine and this one is serviceable, the ideal director for this material might have been Alan Clarke, whose Beloved Enemy traffics in long, elegant conversations between powerful men, with latent unease all but swept under the carpet.
CON:
The Merchant of Venice (Michael Radford, 2004) [second viewing]
DNF:
Time Between Dog and Wolf (Jeon Soo-il, 2006)
As beautifully shot as any Hong movie; shame about the thin wisp of a narrative. Jeon likes to make everyone passive-aggressive towards his protag, which usually has a chillier and less nuanced effect than he’d probably like given the art-film posturing.
Hard, Fast and Beautiful (Ida Lupino, 1951)
Four Nights With Anna (Jerzy Skolimowski, 2008)
Literature:
PRO:
Howard’s End (E.M. Forster, 1910)
Forster comes dangerously close to idealizing Margaret, even though her near-perfect inner nature is sometimes misinterpreted as passivity. All she really has is an awareness of how thornily incompatible the worlds around her are, but Forster does relatively little to downplay the lovability of this worldview. Nevertheless, the Wilcoxes’ class condescension has its virtues—indeed, sometimes the Wilcox ideology and Forster’s narrating voice get almost offensively intermingled. I guess Forster needs a character like Margaret to defend himself against the lower classes, whom he has serious trouble identifying with.
As I Lay Dying (William Faulkner, 1930) [second reading]
Much Ado About Nothing (William Shakespeare, 1598-9)
These comedies just progressively get better, in my opinion. The Beatrice-Benedick sparring is like an apology for the extremes of Katharina and Petruchio; Don John may be Shakespeare’s least charismatic villain and is all the more fascinating for it.
A Midsummer Night’s Dream (William Shakespeare, 1594-6)
Great means are taken to preserve psychological plausibility in the midst of transformations even more sudden than e.g. Katherina’s. The silliness of Demetrius’s newfound love for Helena is interpreted in a bevy of ways.
The Secret Agent (Joseph Conrad, 1907)
There’s an emotional directness one has to deal with in Conrad’s exploration of madness. Reading Heart of Darkness, I couldn’t: abstraction seemed to err towards exaggeration. But my reaction to this novel was so different I’m tempted to give that one another look. The inner depths of a singular personality still concern Conrad more than, say, physical gestures. But something about the rhythm of this really worked for me: oftentimes a seemingly weighty exploration of internal turmoil will be matched by quiet, inadequate expression. (E.g., Winnie’s incoherent grief, or the Professor’s small, miserable stature.)
pro:
The Adventures of Huckleberry Finn (Mark Twain, 1884)
The Merchant of Venice (William Shakespeare, 1596-8)
Dunno if Shylock’s commingling of rousing series of rhetorical questions, itself a wrench in the play’s prescribed anti-Semitism, is enough to defuse the pleasure Christian couples unabashedly take in his downfall.
Friday, January 30, 2009
Better late than never.
A month after the close of 2008, I feel at least vaguely qualified to do top tens for two media. Before the task gets any more embarrassingly belated, here they are.
Films:
1. Lorna’s Silence (Jean-Pierre and Luc Dardenne)
2. Ballast (Lance Hammer)
3. Revanche (Gotz Spielmann)
4. Happy-Go-Lucky (Mike Leigh)
5. Sarabande (Nathaniel Dorsky)
6. Boogie (Radu Muntean)
7. Synecdoche, New York (Charlie Kaufman)
8. Burn After Reading (Joel and Ethan Coen)
9. Gomorrah (Matteo Garrone)
10. Treeless Mountain (So Yong Kim)
Songs (I'm afraid my album list looks too sorry):
1. Broadfield Marchers – “When Cowards Stall” (The Inevitable Continuing)
2. Someone Still Loves You Boris Yeltsin – “Think I Wanna Die” (Pershing)
3. The Mommyheads – “Stupid Guy” (You’re Not a Dream)
4. Broadfield Marchers – “Mondo From Growth” (The Inevitable Continuing)
5. In Elvis Garage – “Residue” (Winning By Cheating)
6. Winterpills – “Burning Hearts” (Central Chambers)
7. Broadfield Marchers – “Sailing Fortune” (The Inevitable Continuing)
8. Bob Mould – “Who Needs to Dream?” (District Line)
9. Times New Viking – “Drop-Out” (Rip It Off)
10. Robert Forster – “Demon Days” (The Evangelist)
Films:
1. Lorna’s Silence (Jean-Pierre and Luc Dardenne)
2. Ballast (Lance Hammer)
3. Revanche (Gotz Spielmann)
4. Happy-Go-Lucky (Mike Leigh)
5. Sarabande (Nathaniel Dorsky)
6. Boogie (Radu Muntean)
7. Synecdoche, New York (Charlie Kaufman)
8. Burn After Reading (Joel and Ethan Coen)
9. Gomorrah (Matteo Garrone)
10. Treeless Mountain (So Yong Kim)
Songs (I'm afraid my album list looks too sorry):
1. Broadfield Marchers – “When Cowards Stall” (The Inevitable Continuing)
2. Someone Still Loves You Boris Yeltsin – “Think I Wanna Die” (Pershing)
3. The Mommyheads – “Stupid Guy” (You’re Not a Dream)
4. Broadfield Marchers – “Mondo From Growth” (The Inevitable Continuing)
5. In Elvis Garage – “Residue” (Winning By Cheating)
6. Winterpills – “Burning Hearts” (Central Chambers)
7. Broadfield Marchers – “Sailing Fortune” (The Inevitable Continuing)
8. Bob Mould – “Who Needs to Dream?” (District Line)
9. Times New Viking – “Drop-Out” (Rip It Off)
10. Robert Forster – “Demon Days” (The Evangelist)
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