Viewing Journal - May 2016 #4

Breathless (Jean-Luc Godard, France, 1960)

Someone like Jean-Luc Godard is for me intellectual counterfeit money when compared to a good kung fu film. -Werner Herzog

There's no argument against Breathless being a trendsetter. Its fourth wall breaks, sporadic cuts, and meandering approach to a crime narrative - spending more time on digressive conversations and mundane moments than suspense or melodrama - showed the film world of 1960 that not all films need to be made the same way. Film could break free of adherence to classical literary or theatrical storytelling. Breathless was a phenomenon among critics and movie lovers. It has inspired many subsequent classics, among them Penn's Bonnie and Clyde, Malick's Badlands, Kar-wai's Chungking Express, and Tarantino's Pulp Fiction.

But trends fade, and stylistic innovations cease to be shocking if not built on a solid foundation. Once the initial buzz of its 60s chic-cool wears off, Breathless is a massive bore. Michel is among the most obnoxious protagonists I can think of. He's a try-hard poser and petty thief who whines when women don't immediately give him sex. Of course, great films can have unlikable main characters if they offer insight or hard-earned compassion, but I suspect I was supposed to be dazzled by Michel and his cynical affectations. I was not. Breathless flaunts its male chauvinism like a badge of honor. Women are persistently objectified, and Michel's sort-of girlfriend, Patricia, is a spineless "unfaithful woman" and a nonsensically written character.

I could forgive a lot if Breathless was fun, but despite all its spontaneous stylistic flourishes I found it insufferably tedious. Dialogue rotates between passive aggressive flirtations and inane philosophical non-sequiturs. The unconventional editing obliterates many rules about how to edit a film, but without much purpose beyond breaking the rules. Its random jump cuts and narrative elisions have little beauty or meaning in themselves. Indeed, Breathless as a whole seems intentionally devoid of meaning except when compared in a critical framework to other, more conventional films. I am uninterested in that approach to art. I would take a well-crafted generic film over this any day - or a non-generic film that actually has intrinsic meaning.

Regardless, I would never discourage a cinephile from watching Breathless. It is an important film for its place in the history of the medium, and my irritation seems to be the minority response. Jean-Luc Godard and I just don't get along. As far as French New Wave filmmakers go, I'll stick with Truffaut, Varda and Melville. Their films are every bit as clever as Godard's, but have real soul.

Carol (Todd Haynes, United States, 2015)

Todd Haynes strikes me as unique among contemporary filmmakers, in that his films are often just as influenced by artworks of different mediums as by other films. Carol, his latest, is set in the 1950s, but aesthetically shows less in common with melodramatic and romantic films made during the decade than it does with photography and paintings. Todd Haynes has cited 50s New York photographers such as Saul Leiter and Vivan Maier as inspirations, and even though I know next to nothing about photography, their influence on Carol's cinematography is apparent.

Many shots in Carol also reminded me of the paintings of Edward Hopper.

The influence of great photographers and painters of mid-century America gives Carol a unique visual appeal. There is little nostalgic sheen in its portrayal of 1950s New York, which looks grimy and grey, though enlivened by brightly colored women's fashions of the era. But Haynes and cinematographer Edward Lachman's borrowing of other artists' visual motifs is for more than just style. In both Saul Leiter's photography and Carol, people are often photographed behind reflective windows. These images show both the private world - individuals alone with their thoughts - and a bustling public world, separate but existing in the same place. And like in Edward Hopper's paintings, Carol often shoots characters from afar in public spaces, making us voyeuristic observers of people in moments of reflection. Through its cinematography, Carol shows private worlds existing within a public sphere; it also makes us aware that these individuals are always being watched by society at large, and must be cautious lest they reveal too much.

Carol is an adaptation of The Price of Salt, a 1952 novel by Patricia Highsmith. Highsmith was best known for her thrillers about sociopaths, such as Strangers on a Train and the Tom Ripley books. The Price of Salt is unique among her work because the thriller elements are minimized, and unique among 1950s literature because it is a forthright lesbian romance with a hopeful ending. Lesbian fiction did exist at the time, but usually was coded in its language and ended in tragedy, punishing the characters for their transgression and restoring moral order (or just appeasing censors). Highsmith published the novel under a pseudonym - she did not want to be labeled as a lesbian author, but she was gay and much of the story was veiled autobiography. Though I have not read The Price of Salt, it is clear that Carol's characters and insights are derived from lived experience.

Carol is a love story about Therese, a shopgirl, and the titular Carol. They meet at the department store and Therese is immediately drawn to this striking, intelligent woman, though it takes a while before she realizes why. Carol is among the most moving on-screen love stories of recent years for a variety of reasons, not least of all how well-drawn the two women are. The disparities between them are vast. Therese is younger, middle-class, inexperienced and uncertain of herself. Carol is middle-aged, wealthy, experienced and confident. One is hesitantly engaged, one is undergoing a divorce and custody battle of a beloved daughter. The initial stages of their romance are more of a one-sided seduction, the elegant and wily Carol drawing in the awestruck Therese with ease. But Carol's society lady manners hide vulnerabilities that slowly reveal themselves - and as Therese grows in confidence and discovers inner strength, it becomes apparent that Carol is the one with everything to lose. Carol beautifully captures the danger of falling in love - giving your self to another, for them to accept or reject. This is especially perilous in Therese and Carol's case, where they must keep a low profile within society or else their relationship will incur dangers other than heartbreak. It culminates in a lovely series of last shots, where they are finally on equal footing as their eyes meet.

Cate Blanchett and Rooney Mara are wonderful. Mara communicates so much with only her eyes and gestures. I would say "Blanchett has never been better!", except she's been this perfect before - as Galadriel, as Bob Dylan, as Queen Elizabeth. What an insanely talented woman! Their performances, along with Todd Hayne's beautiful and sensitive direction and Phyllis Nagy's excellent script, made Carol one of the truly great films of last year.

Viewing Journal - May 2016 #3

The Saragossa Manuscript (Wojciech Has, Poland, 1965)

Two soldiers in the Napoleonic Wars stumble into an old abandoned inn as battle rages around them. There they discover a huge ancient book, filled with enigmatic pictures. It's the tale of a Captain of the Walloon Guard (a title he pompously brings up whenever possible) traveling across the mountains of Spain to Madrid. He gets lost in a rocky wasteland and stops at another old abandoned inn. Staying at the inn are two Tunisian princesses, who claim to have never seen a man before and beg the flabbergasted Captain to marry them both. The princesses force him to drink from a chalice made of a human skull; he awakes the next morning under a gallows where two convicted thieves are hanging. The poor Captain then wanders unwillingly through some kind of purgatory, one where everyone he meets wants to either kill him or tell him stories. Yet no matter how many stories he hears, the Captain always ends up back at the gallows, underneath the corpses of the thieving Zoto brothers.

I've often heard The Saragossa Manuscript compared to a Russian nesting doll, which is as good a description as any. Like a Matryoshka doll, The Saragossa Manuscript is made of stories within stories within stories. "Let me tell you my story," is how it always begins, but within the story that one character is narrating, a different character they meet will start telling their own tale. There are monks and sheiks, noblemen and women, bandits and phantoms, cabalists and Inquisitors; their stories involve duels, affairs, hauntings and supernatural trials. Getting lost within The Saragossa Manuscript is the point. Over a runtime of three hours, it dives deeper into layers upon layers of digressions, then unexpectedly will work backwards and re-emerge into a story begun an hour earlier in the film. There are many subterranean connections between the stories, as occurrences in one story will impact another, characters reappear in different guises, and similar events reoccur in a circuitous fashion. The Saragossa Manuscript has a similar impact on the viewer as the befuddled Captain - it is dizzying and disorienting, and though already lengthy it feels as if it could spin on for an eternity, ever weaving tales that are both new and always the same.

Thankfully, it's not as difficult as it sounds. Despite all its macabre imagery, The Saragossa Manuscript is playful and knowingly absurd. It fluidly dances between horror and melodrama and slapstick, always with a sense of delight at the infinite possibilities of storytelling. Though its rambling structure requires patience, The Saragossa Manuscript always pays it off with satisfying "a-ha!" moments of sudden clarity - only to pull the rug out from under your feet again with a wink. And I was thrilled to get lost in the rich world it created. Every image is busy - packed with bones and skulls, animals and people, talismans and esoteric knick-knacks, each suggesting stories of their own. At the end of its wild three hours, I was dazed but delighted.

Pride & Prejudice (Joe Wright, United Kingdom, 2005)

Period piece adaptations of British literature are often the stiffest and stuffiest movies around. Even many good ones feel theatrical instead of cinematic, with great actors in dress-up, their period-appropriate dresses and suits looking like they've just been taken out of shrink wrapping. From its first shot, this 2005 adaptation of Jane Austen's classic is notable for its liveliness and its immersive, detailed sense of a certain place and time. The dresses look worn, the houses look lived-in. People talk over and around each other like in real life, not like actors waiting for their cue. Joe Wright's camera is always on the move, circling through the rooms of the Bennett household, weaving through dancing and gossiping crowds in ballrooms. Stunning long takes are an earthier successor to the fluid camerawork of Max Ophuls's films.

As an adaptation of Austen's masterpiece it's quite good. Joe Wright is a very romantic and sensual filmmaker, and his Pride & Prejudice is more swooningly romantic than the book, or at least my reading of it. His Elizabeth Bennett and Mr. Darcy seem destined to be together from the start, despite their misunderstandings. In one fantastic flourish, as they dance together everyone else in the ballroom fades away. Mr. Darcy's disastrous first proposal is re-envisioned in the pouring rain, where the romantic longing and sexual tension are just as vivid as the angry, haughty words spoken. In the novel, the proposal scene is hilariously pathetic and sad; it never feels guaranteed that Elizabeth and Darcy will grow to love each other, let alone tolerate each other. This makes it all the more delightfully surprising when Elizabeth's tender feelings grow against her will, and all the funnier when these two very intelligent, very decent people are rudely awakened to how stubbornly wrong they can be.

But I don't mean to sound negative. Joe Wright's more romanticized vision is still a valid interpretation of the book, and it works well in the context of the movie. Partially because of how beautiful it is. The cinematography and Jean-Yves Thibaudet's score are exceedingly lovely, and the images of the English countryside are breathtaking. A well-cast ensemble brings life to Austen's characters - I think this is Keira Knightley's finest moment as an actress, she embodies Elizabeth Bennett's fierce intelligence, and her quietly passionate, decent sensibility. Pride & Prejudice is also director Joe Wright's best film by a significant margin, and among the finest Austen adaptations I've seen.

Viewing Journal - May 2016 #2

To Live (Zhang Yimou, China, 1994)

Three decades in the life of a Chinese family, spanning the Chinese Civil War, the Communist takeover, and Mao Zedong's Cultural Revolution. Fugui, Jiazhen and their children are not exceptionally heroic or important figures, they are entirely ordinary Chinese citizens. They're just trying to survive the tumultuous events of mid-20th century China, to raise a family and live quietly together, as happily as they can. It's all there in the title, they just want to live and nothing more. But even that was a dangerous, sometimes impossible task in their time. To Live shows bluntly how fearful and perilous a place Communist China could be, and how the people of China were misled by its utopian promises. The propagandistic language and groupthink insidiously sneaks into the private lives of families. The dictates of the Cultural Revolution destroys much of ancient Chinese culture - like Fugui being told to burn his beautiful, ornate puppets because they symbolize old feudal excesses, even though we have seen them bring so much joy to the community in his shadow puppetry shows. Mao claimed to be bringing about a true communal society, yet his rule weakened and outright destroyed the pillars of community, family and culture.

Unsurprisingly, the modern PRC government was not fond of To Live. It was banned in China and director Zhang Yimou, who had already gotten in trouble with censors for his earlier masterpiece Raise the Red Lantern, was banned from filmmaking for two years. Yimou protested this decision, saying that To Live was not necessarily anti-Communist. Indeed, To Live is not explicit in its criticisms or a political screed, it just portrays an era with honesty. But the PRC does not seem to encourage honesty about its country's history.

It's a shame, as Zhang Yimou no doubt made To Live primarily for Chinese audiences. It's an old-fashioned melodrama, and an exceptionally good one. The characters are relatable, likable and multi-faceted. And for all the tragedies and heartbreaks it contains, To Live is not at all hopeless or fatalistic. It's really a tribute to the everyday courage and resilience of one family, who find small but priceless measures of joy and happiness within the difficult situations they've been dealt. I hope that Chinese people have found ways to watch To Live regardless of its ban, it rightfully should be considered a national treasure.

The Brainiac (Chano Urueta, Mexico, 1962)

1661, New Spain. The Spanish Inquisition condemns Baron Vitrelius of Estara to be burned at the stake as a heretic and necromancer. While engulfed in flames, a bright comet passes overhead. The Baron cries out that, in 300 years when that comet passes by again, he will return and take his vengeance by killing the ancestors of those who have sentenced him to death. We flash forward to 1961 Mexico City. Astronomers are eagerly anticipating a rare sighting of a comet, but they are mystified when it appears then mysteriously disappears. In the desert a passerby notices a huge rock fall from the sky. A hideous, hairy alien beast steps out of the comet and sucks the poor guy's brains out with his giant forked tongue. He then transforms into none other than the Baron, back to enact his revenge! It will come as a surprise to no-one that the pretty lady astronomer is one of his intended victims.

The whole thing is too absurd to not be enjoyable. The Baron's alien form is hysterical. It's obviously a guy wearing a rubber mask. The death scenes show the monster licking the back of a victim's head with his big fake tongue while they shriek. My favorite detail - the Baron keeps his victim's brains in a goblet stashed in his living room, just in case he wants a quick snack. It's a pretty dreadful movie, without the spooky atmosphere or on-a-budget creativity of the best B-movies, but is utterly daft enough to be fun.

Viewing Journal - April 2016 #4

Flash Gordon (Mike Hodges, United States, 1980)

I knew I was going to love this from its ridiculous start. A villainous voice whines that he is bored and wants a new plaything. His equally evil minion presents him with an obscure planet to toy with, "the inhabitants refer to it as the planet Earth", he sneers as contemptuously as possible. Cue comic book styled opening credits and Queen's earworm of a theme song (Flash! AAAH! Savior of the Universe!).

We discover that the villainous voice belongs to Ming the Merciless, an evil intergalactic emperor with wicked eyebrows. Ming is played by none other than Max von Sydow, known for his existentially despairing Swedish dramas with Ingmar Bergman, and few movie-related things are more delightful than hearing great thespian von Sydow deliver dialogue such as "Halt, Lizard Man! Escape is impossible!". 

Flash Gordon is absurd and aware of the fact. The sets are gaudily colored and elaborately fake, with spaceships that are obvious painted models. The plot is convoluted and nonsensical. The performances are hammy - especially Brian Blessed, the leader of the Hawk-Men who bellows all his dialogue in a ludicrous Scottish brogue. I have a fondness for old-school space operas in the Edgar Rice Burroughs vein, which are usually low on brains but high on fun and imagination, so I had a big goofy grin on my face throughout Flash Gordon.

Watch trailer here

Beau Travail (Claire Denis, France, 1999)

A sergeant of the French Legionnaire grows jealous of a young soldier's seemingly effortless skill and bravery. His envy grows, leading to tragedy. However, very little of the barebones plot is expressed through dialogue - Beau Travail often unfolds like a dance performance. As the soldiers perform their drills in the desert, Claire Denis films the ritualistic exercises like a modern dance. Beau Travail is beautifully photographed, with special attention paid to the gorgeously barren Djibouti landscapes, the idealized masculine bodies of the soldiers, and the faces of local African women, peering with bemusement at these foreigners beneath their colorful hijabs. It's all very lovely and very tasteful - maybe too tasteful? Macho competition is largely expressed through intimidating glares, and in one sequence the two men circle each other like territorial lions while opera soars on the soundtrack. Yet I was never persuaded of the intensity of Sergeant Galoup's hostile obsession with the young soldier. Beau Travail is intelligent and artfully made, but its themes - masculinity, conformity, neo-colonialism - felt too notional and neat to have much weight. And then there's the ending, which I'm not sure yet is beautiful or ridiculous or both. Either way, it's unwise to make definitive snap judgements about a Claire Denis film. Better to let them steep in your mind.

Watch trailer here

Valley of the Bees (Frantisek Vlacil, Czechoslovakia, 1968)

Mesmerizing from its opening credits, rolling over eerie reverse-negative images of a swarming beehive and scored to an ominous male choir. This sequence begins Valley of the Bees on an unsettling, offbeat note that it never wavers from. In medieval Europe, two men form an intense friendship within their strict religious order of Teutonic knights. Ondrej was placed in the order after his father threw him against a wall, then in regret promised to commit his son to God if his life was spared. His friend Armin is a former soldier of the Crusades, and a fanatic believer in his order's harsh form of Christianity. His friendship with Ondrej is possessive and quite probably underlaid by repressed sexual desire. Ondrej flees the order, losing faith in its holiness after a particularly brutal incident. He returns to his former home and marries - his new wife is, disturbingly, his stepmother and his father's widow, though they are the same age. Armin is disgusted by his friend's betrayal of the order and attempts to persuade him to return, eventually turning to violence fueled by jealousy and religious psychosis.

Valley of the Bees is a brutal immersion into medieval life. In Frantisek Vlacil's vision, medieval Europe offered only violent religious fundamentalism or amoral sensuality that is hardly less cruel. Perhaps the only exception comes from a blind woman that Armin meets in the wilderness, who lives comfortably with both sincere faith and healthy sensuality. He is alarmed by her lack of shame, yet she reacts to his extremism with sympathetic pity and kindness. Armin is an unforgettably frightening character. Late in the film, he has a discussion with a more reasonable priest where he reveals that he believes all men deserve to die since nobody can achieve moral perfection. "Let life be extinct. The angels will remain. No one has ever seen them, and yet I hear the beating of their wings." His desire for moral perfection is really fueled by a hatred of humanity, and above all hatred of himself. Armin is a chilling and still-relevant warning of religious purity descending into apocalyptic nihilism.

Beauty and the Beast (Juraj Herz, Czechoslovakia, 1978)

Nobody does dark, creepy fairy tales better than those crazy Czechs. This version of the old gothic romance exists on a hazy border between fairy tale and outright horror. It creates a marvelously sinister atmosphere on a small budget, helped greatly by a dramatic organ soundtrack. The Beast's castle is rotting and overgrown, the cursed forest is populated by the skeletons of dead trees and overhung with mist. Juraj Herz's conception of the Beast is much darker than the grouchy but essentially harmless big teddy bear of more well-known versions. The Beast is bird-like, with giant talons and a grotesque feathery body. In the opening scene, he slaughters a caravan of travelers trespassing in his forest - he is beastly both inside and out. Belle awakens a human, gentlemanly side of the Beast, but at the same time an evil, Gollum-like voice in his mind urges him to kill her and drink her blood. This is decidedly not a Disney version of the tale, yet the romantic heart of the story remains the same. It is still a story about the redemptive and transformative power of love. Though this Beauty and the Beast is not as great as the magical Jean Cocteau version from 1946 or the beloved Disney animation from 1991, it is another distinctive and creative take on the story. Worth seeing, especially for those who like their Romances spiked with horror.