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 - 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.

Viewing Journal - April 2016 #2

Spider-Man 2 (Sam Raimi, United States, 2004)

Only 12 years after its release, Spider-Man 2 seems downright retro within its genre. In my opinion, it's among the handful of great superhero movies, and one that exposes the unimaginative and clunky qualities of today's cinematic superhero juggernauts when held in comparison. Don't get me wrong - many Marvel and DC films of the past decade are decent fun, but it's become increasingly obvious that the genre suffers from bloat, formulaic storytelling, and either leaden self-seriousness or jokey self-awareness, as if anxious about being perceived as cheesy. Spider-Man 2 is nothing but sincere, in both its character drama - Peter Parker is an honest-to-goodness dork here and not the smug pseudo-nerd of the Amazing Spider-Man reboot, and all the more lovable for it - and in its old-school comic book aesthetic. It's also modest in stakes and storytelling, with only one villain and several action setpieces. The lack of franchise tie-ins and Giant Flying Objects Falling On Cities™ is refreshing. Spider-Man 2 has room to breathe as a stand-alone story, one that does not feel pieced together by a committee but has its own distinct personality.

Much of that personality comes from director Sam Raimi, whose pop-art style is perfect for a Spidey movie. Many frames look like live-action panels of a comic book, and I love that insane hospital sequence where we are reminded that yes, this is the same man who directed those crazy Evil Dead movies. That sequence introduces, in high style, a classic supervillain - Doc Ock, played with intelligent menace and charm by Alfred Molina. He is suited with four metallic, serpentine arms, animated with marvelously creepy expressiveness. I love how Doc Ock's character arc dovetails with Peter Parker's - both are torn between selfishness and self-sacrifice, leading to a final act where they battle aboard a speeding train and finally face off in a simple one-on-one climax. Both sequences hinge on characters deciding to sacrifice themselves for the sake of others, in redemptive acts of selfless bravery.

"He's just a kid...no older than my son." I love that moment. Spider-Man 2 is a great example of simple but moving - and fun - comic book storytelling.

Watch trailer here.

L'Atalante (Jean Vigo, France, 1934)

Its story could not be simpler. A village girl marries the captain of a canal barge, L'Atalante, and moves aboard the barge with him. It is also home to a small crew: a cabin boy and a tattooed sailor, Pere Jules. Once their honeymoon bliss fades, however, the girl begins to feel cooped up and yearns to see the world outside the cramped barge, to the perplexity of her rather provincial husband. This causes tension and a rash separation, which they both quickly regret - only when apart do they realize how truly fond they've grown of each other.

L'Atalante's simple and ancient story is the frame on which director Jean Vigo hangs all sorts of wonderful things. It is photographed with beautiful detail and texture, alive with mist and water and smoke. Pere Jules is a wildly entertaining supporting character, a garrulous drunken sailor who would be mere comic caricature if it weren't for the persuasive physicality and nuance of Michel Simon's performance. Jules is a larger-than-life figure, covered with crude and childish tattoos, spontaneously breaking out into dance and song. His cabin is cluttered with trinkets from all corners of the world, which he shows off to the girl with delight in one enchanting scene - "only the finest things", a marionette, a music box, a sawfish bill, crass posters of exotic beauties, even his old friend's pickled hands in a jar, "all I have left of him"! The barge is teeming with Jules's beloved cats, who basically steal the film. I wouldn't be surprised if there was a cat in half of L'Atalante's shots. They pop out of closets, curl up on beds, crawl casually across the background, or cling to Jules's back for dear life while he bouncily plays the accordion.

In part because of its simplicity, the central love story is beautiful. Both characters are entirely ordinary, living a working-class life that, although shot through with strangeness and poetry, is far from glamorous. Their connection is portrayed in an unadorned way by Vigo - neither make any great insights or romantic declarations, but their simple affection and desire for each other is felt keenly. In a surprisingly frank scene (see here), the two lovers sleep in separate beds far apart, and a series of cross-cuts expresses how much their bodies ache for each other. The wife tells her husband a folk superstition about being able to see your beloved's face in the water - he initially laughs her off and jokingly dumps his head into a river. Upon their separation, he desperately dives into the river and swims downward, hoping to glimpse her face again. On top of the husband swimming Vigo superimposes an image of his wife floating in her wedding dress (see here). It's movie magic at its most poignant. Once husband and wife are finally reunited, it's one of the most celebratory and well-earned happy endings in movie history.

Tragically, director Jean Vigo passed away from tuberculosis shortly after finishing L'Atalante, at only 29 years old. This was the only feature film he ever completed, and he knew he was dying as he made it. Even so, with only one film his career as a director and artist has more brilliance and power than most. L'Atalante is a masterpiece.

Watch trailer here.

The Lost World: Jurassic Park (Steven Spielberg, United States, 1997)

There's an odd trend in Steven Spielberg's career. He directs awe-inspiring, generation-defining adventure classics - Raiders of the Lost Ark and Jurassic Park - and follows them with oddly mean-spirited, tonally confused sequels - Temple of Doom and The Lost World. The drop in quality is even more obvious from Jurassic Park to The Lost World, a sequel than contains not an ounce of the wonder that made the original so beloved. The dinosaurs, filmed with awe-struck reverence in Jurassic Park, are now little more than generic scaly beasts to chase around and gobble up our protagonists. The fearsome velociraptors can now be dispatched with a well-timed gymnastics kick. Jurassic Park was mythic and fearfully respectful, The Lost World is just another dumb monster movie. Speaking of dumb, good Lord are the humans in The Lost World a full bench of idiots. Of particular note are the normally excellent Julianne Moore as the stupidest scientist this side of Prometheus and a grown man who runs in panic from a tiny snake into the waiting jaws of a tyrannosaur.

As is almost inevitable for a Spielberg film there is an absentee dad and the rebonding of family through trial, but Spielberg has seemingly never cared less about his characters - including the returning Ian Malcolm, played by a visibly bored Jeff Goldblum, and his daughter Kelly, the aforementioned gymnast assassin who otherwise has no discernible personality. As is also inevitable of Spielberg, there are excellent moments amid the uncharacteristic mediocrity of the rest of the film - Moore kept from plunging to her death only by a slowly breaking pane of glass, invisible raptors cutting through tall grasses towards their prey. Apart from these inspired moments, I suspect that Spielberg did not have his heart in this project. Made between Schindler's List and Saving Private Ryan, perhaps it seemed too juvenile at that point in his career. And I don't know what to think about The Lost World's odd and perversely amusing sadistic streak. The dinosaurs of Jurassic Park inspired the terror and awe of wide-eyed kids, but in The Lost World the T-Rex will break into the kids' backyard and devour the family dog.

Watch trailer here.