TravelerThruKalpas Reviews

Aspern (1982)

Human Mystery in a Jamesian Villa

[10/10 · 24 January 2019]

One thing I have loved most about Rivette's films is their ability to evoke the presence of human mystery: who are these beings and the worlds which they seem to ceaslessly create and move within?

Many of Rivette's associates, such as his scenarist Eduardo de Gregorio, also parlay a similar fascination with mystery into a homage that honors it by letting it largely remain unresolved, even at the end. One can never know completely who these people are, and the real nature of what has transpired between them... surface details float or ripple upon deeper pools of hidden motivations and tantalize, keeping one alert while waiting for another sign, although the watchful heart begins to quietly sound unheeded warnings.

The plot is spare: an opportunistic writer (Jean Sorel) seeks to gain access to a potential hidden cache of secret letters and other literary material, by wooing a young woman (Rivette regular Bulle Ogier) and her elderly aunt (Alida Valli) living in an isolated villa. Everyone is perfect here, with Ogier especially good, as her usual hyper-manneristic style is suitably lowkey in this outing, all the better to bring out the pathos necessary for this role. However, it was a real pleasure to see Valli again in one of her late appearances, many of which featured her as a muse of mystery (some will easily recollect her as the central enigmatic presence in Bertolucci's Spider's Strategem), and her brooding shines darkly here.

In Aspern, de Gregorio presents a much better involvement with Henry James material than his previous film Serail. That film seems to exist as an unfortunate footnote to Rivette's Celine and Julie Go Boating (both reference James' The Other House), which de Gregorio also contributed to; it seems that whatever Rivette kept off-stage and ambiguous in his film, was crudely demonstrated in Serail, by way of pretentiously clever and even vulgar strategies (which Henry James could never be blamed for).

Aspern is satisfying largely because he doesn't need to delineate the moral predicaments in such insensitive ways. The film represents a model of quiet restraint, a tactful attention to minimizing all elements to what can be tentatively revealed in any given moment, while suggesting the unknowable depths of the characters and their milieu, and the editing style displays the economy typical of French cinema of that period.

(Note: I saw this film in London when it originally opened, and today's available, English-subtitled print is sadly suffering the ravages of time, with pinkish discoloration that I became less aware of, since the film engrosses completely. The film is indeed good enough to warrant a restoration rescue, and many viewers will likely find it a much more rewarding experience than the 2018 film adaptation of the same James novella.)

Before We Go (II) (2014)

Moving Through and Beyond Fear

[8/10 · 28 May 2015]

Jorge Léon's film Before We Go is a truly inspiring and uplifting film about a difficult subject for many: what is left for human beings to meaningfully experience, after crossing a threshold of "no return," that is, after a medical diagnosis of their immanent demise?

Upon an invitation from a palliative care unit in Brussels, Léon created a workshop for some of its terminal patients which could possibly lift them beyond their seemingly hopeless circumstances, by exploring the theme of death through various creative means. He enlisted into the project some of the performing artists from the La Monnaie Opera House in Brussels, to work with these patients, gently coaxing out of them a performative inspirational response to their existential condition. Questions lurking under the surface, of mortality and its unknown expiration date, were perhaps secret drivers on the road to exploring the time left.

What unfolds in this striking old-world theatrical venue is a remarkable series of tableaux, in which the encounters between the patients and these performers who interact with them yield some often astonishing moments of communion: in which both parties are transported beyond limits of physicality and emotion, even of motivation — to break through into a new state of experience and existence.

In one instance, the elderly woman patient we see early on having so much trouble getting out of bed, her bodily pain transmitted respectfully by Léon's concise but compassionate mise-en-scène, shortly thereafter appears before us in an incredible pas de deux with another younger woman (a professional dancer), who leads her into an exploratory series of movements and gestures until, after ever greater degrees of abandon, the women collapse into each other with sudden joyful surprise and the new courage of human possibility.

There are many such moments in this powerful work, featuring several other patients and performers, which I will leave interested viewers to discover for themselves. Through their shared encounters, each of them seems to come to some vital and profound realization around the questions of meaning involving life and human limitation, as well as the healing and transcendent nature of art to mitigate some of our fear and vulnerability. Meanwhile, the question of how to face our death individually is one that remains hanging in the air, as it can only be answered by each of us in the most private and intimate internal circumstance of all: within the space of our souls.

Watching Léon's film immediately prompted memories of another very powerful cinematic experience I had some years ago, with Allan King's documentary set in a palliative care section (of the Grace Hospital in Toronto), called simply Dying at Grace. It followed a few individuals at different stages of physical decline, living out their last days and moments, as they received the necessary care and attention from the medical staff and occasional visitors.

Nothing prepared me for that experience — it was simply the most profound encounter that I have had (through cinematic means at least) with the reality of death. I fully experienced an identification with every person making his or her way through their last passage of life. And for those fateful two and a half hours of vigilance, I came to an extraordinary discovery: that the process of natural death was actually a peaceful one for the most part. I wanted to exit the theater during the first half hour because I thought I could not bear witness, but I am grateful that I stayed because of the gift I received from Allan King: that death could no longer make me afraid after that. If that sounds miraculous, please seek it out and see for yourself. Not only will you not regret it, you will want to share it with others.

And so, while Allan King's film seems death-affirming in the most unimaginably positive way, precisely because it paradoxically still embraces life, Jorge Léon's film is definitely life-affirming as it celebrates its participants ability to push the boundaries of death to a somewhat distant perimeter, while it fills up an immediate space that opens with human possibility and joyful transformative release of healing energy… even while the question of the ultimate fateful encounter still looms unanswered in the air.

In any case, I urge you to see both films.

Free Fall (I) (2013)

Negotiating One's Freedom

[8/10 · 20 April 2013]

Although one is initially alerted to the possible use of the police academy setting to metaphorically delineate some of the dynamics present in a society's norms as part of its imposed conditioning (the training academy especially implying a sense of regimentation), this very well-made film actually registers most of its concerns in a low-key manner, allowing some indirection to come through the proceedings by giving enough space for subtler impressions and meaning.

Apparently, many viewers want to characterize the film's subject in terms of a conflicted choice between heterosexuality and homosexuality, which makes about as much sense as merely portraying its content as the treatment of a love triangle; it reveals a rather limited level of engagement and even suggests that such issues are far from politically resolved in their minds. But while the storyline could be read on the surface for perplexing issues around self-identity, sexual or otherwise, it is ultimately about someone who gradually allows himself the freedom to experience not only different ways of loving others, but also the vital ways in which life actually unfolds in a broader sense, beyond the difficulties of imposed human limitations.

The courage of Lacant's film lies in its delineation of what life is like when one truly begins to negotiate one's freedom by opening up fully to the presence of ambiguity and not knowing - entering into the "free fall" of the title - and going beyond limited distinctions, to find and live out what is actually true from moment to moment. A Taoist expression comes to mind as one follows Marc's trajectory into his own realm of truth: the more free you are, the more unpredictable you become.

Which asks us all: can you live out your truth in this most uncompromising way? Or, can you live with someone who is? What does freedom look like in a world full of all the shoulds and musts which we and others continually wish to impose upon ourselves? Marc begins to show us as he learns to submit to his own free-fall - which is no less than remaining open and vulnerable to whatever is transpiring.

The performances are excellent throughout, although working from a carefully written script which tends to deliberately tailor the depth of all the other characters beside Marc. Thus, while in the end Kai shows up as little more than a catalyst for Marc's awakening and perhaps generating our wish for a bit more character development, it is really Marc's story after all, and we are meant to inhabit the film's shades of meaning by traveling through his experiences from his vantage point.

It could be said that in a society no longer concerned with an immature sense of morality or inadequate ethics, Marc would both be able to bear a child with a woman as well as express the love he might feel for another man, if he is so inclined. But Marc, like the rest of us, is born in time, and therefore occupies a certain karmic status, posited by the complexity of circumstances… and the way to the truth is largely through one's karma.

Although we humans are still somewhat tribal and limited beings, whose sense of freedom is defined and grounded in our very limitations, the film nonetheless demonstrates in its closing statement that we can only live meaningfully by choosing from our own freedom - and thus encountering the possibility of a real and lived life, beyond all expectations - if we assume the courage to do so… a courage exemplified by director Lacant in this direct and honest film.

Alms for a Blind Horse (2011)

Transcendent Dignity

[8/10 · 25 August 2012]

A rare offering of intelligent and humane cinema. Gurvinder Singh's gentle observational style encompasses an approach in which the poetic simplicity of the visual compositions situate the characters clearly in their surroundings, while imparting an inestimable amount of dignity to their faces, their bodies, their meager words and plight. His aesthetic is simultaneously clear-eyed and mysteriously poignant, while elevating our ethical awareness effortlessly without resort to myth or moralizing. As this is Singh's first feature, the promise of a great artist whose formal excellence is fully nourished by an equally great heart is formidable, and I look forward to his achievements.

For thoughtful and reflective viewers, it is not to be missed. (Seen at MoMA/NY, August 2012)

My Reincarnation (2011)

A Meaningful Return

[9/10 · 24 June 2012]

This film is a warm and compassionate exploration of the many facets of life for the renowned Tibetan Dzogchen teacher Chogyal Namkhai Norbu, as well as Yeshi, who not only has the burden of being the son of such a world-famous master, but the additional one of his own reincarnated legacy to navigate and embrace.

Most gratifying and quietly amazing is the graciousness of both father and son for allowing such close cinematic observation for so long. Twenty years of access to this family also allows for a view of impermanence, which subtly colors the events in the lives and attitudes of the principals. What a privilege, for filmmaker Jennifer Fox and for us, to be allowed to spend such a generous amount of time with them, and to get a sense of the fresh challenges which are imposed upon life when it is radically encompassed by Tibetan Buddhist worldviews. For an average person, encountering the possibility that your uncle has been reborn as your son, may well transform your conventional ideas about the meaning of family life into something new and unfamiliar... perhaps even liberating.

Some opportunities for glimpses into the nature of Tibetan Dzogchen could have served as a nice taste for cultivating an interest among some potential practitioners, but there is rather very little of it here to give a deep sense of what distinguishes its atiyoga qualities from, for example, Zen or even other aspects of Tibetan Buddhist practices. Indeed, it doesn't actually qualify (as Norbu himself has repeatedly said) as really being in itself a tradition per se, although the body of its instructional and inspirational texts do usually find a major repository within the Nyingma school. But that said, this is essentially a family drama first, with some dharma teachings appearing to provide commentary.

I found it interesting that, while Fox puts Yeshi up front as the more immediately sympathetic protagonist in the pair, the father has an outsized presence that necessarily requires some distancing, which results in a more ambiguous view of his character yet one which effectively helps preempt a superficial judgment of him on our part. In other words, our sympathies do not favor the son at the expense of the father, who is really a warm teacher with a great ability to transmit profound things. Also interestingly, the film's presentation doesn't seem to have prevented some confusion among Buddhist practitioners of other traditions who have seen it, and who have not found their own Buddhist practice, beliefs or general demeanor reflected in it.

In any case, for anyone interested in acquainting themselves with Dzogchen as taught by Norbu (and he quite a wonderful teacher), I would recommend starting with Dzogchen: The Self-Perfected State, which is not too advanced and gives a short helpful overview, with many clear points about the practice and its distinctions.

Crude Oil (2008)

Beyond Cinema: Wang Bing's Crude Oil

[9/10 · 2 March 2012]

Not least because of rarely scheduled appearances, there is good reason why Wang Bing's Crude Oil has generated extremely little writing on it, online or elsewhere. It almost goes without saying that much commentary offered about it will be revelatory of the different kinds of mental strategies employed to overcome the total experience of it, rather than recording one's surrender to it. Its 14 hour length alone unequivocally demands no less than that, and explicitly signals Wang's intention for the project as documentary installation art — strictly encountered in a gallery or dedicated space — rather than via conventional film, video or digital monitor presentations, which fail to transcend limitations of the passive consumer experience. Outside the safety of those largely capitalist-designated parameters, his presentation is devised to provide a devastatingly intimate entrée into the conditions of human working life (here, at a remote oil rig in China's Gobi Desert), while implicitly asking: what does it mean to watch images not designed for hedonic consumption?

My experience of Crude Oil took place at the Brooklyn media space Light Industry, during a 2009 limited five-day run. It was a rather overwhelming encounter with Wang's work to say the least, seeing separate presentations of his (then) newest work Coal Money, and his panoramic 9-hour masterpiece, West of the Tracks. My three successive daily visits had a life-changing impact akin to being on a retreat; the factory loft was a temporary space, and with a small heating unit among the few chairs, benches and floor mats that didn't do much to dispel a November chill, it was far from producing a passive experience. Having missed the first two hours, remaining for the rest was ordeal enough in itself (even split over two days and 6-hour sessions), demanding determination and confidence in Wang's enterprise, mostly made possible by his ethical sensibility.

To describe the overall impact, even separating out these extra conditions, is difficult because Wang's approach is so simple and yet uncompromising in itself. The individual shots are massive in length, important for establishing one as visitor (not just viewer), and his camera angles are largely from real or potential perspectives of his subjects, who remain unselfconscious throughout, hence effectively negating any sense of voyeurism. The recording sound was intentionally set at a naturalistic level, and scenes where the workers spend time indoors in the bare recreational living room register effectively. But when we're moved outside to the rig platform itself, with the relentlessly active workers, the deafening maelstrom of machinery sound engulfs one, and for an indefinite amount of time.

A key scene indicative of Wang's simple yet powerful sound design: two workers share a smoke break well away from the rig, trying to relax in the sun and the immense desert surrounding them. When we follow alongside as they return to work, the faint sounds of the machinery gradually grow louder until we begin to tighten up, thinking we've assessed the limit and preparing to hunker down for the duration of the shot, but the sonic assault continues, becoming truly devastating. As one begins to numb in order to accommodate, even trying to take refuge in movement by walking around the gallery to avoid becoming pinned down by the roar, the realization of Wang's intentions becomes more piercing — and one probably elusive to those who think a more conventional access (e.g., a bootleg DVD trip modulated with remote control) can provide the same result, while fast-forwarding beyond the meaning which can only come through a direct head-on engagement with Wang's setup.

The challenges which were implicit in one's original intention to bear witness become activated from moment to moment in multi-fold; many realizations arise, and not merely of one's discomfort as potentially one of many Western subjects who endlessly consume vast amounts of oil and commodities, at a great distance from their source. Wang confronts us existentially, forcing us to relinquish our comfort zones as the prerequisite for a further inquiry into reality of work, how our political views are incomplete and even suspect if they do not encompass a direct witness of what work itself actually means to us — what is its true cost, not just economically for those who benefit the most from the labors of others, but the emotional, psychological and the extreme physical cost for those whose labor is exploited. This is the direct head-on view of what such exploitation looks like — moment by grueling or boring moment (even the workers' down-time doesn't exactly feel like relief) — in the course of one day, a day like many other endless days for them. The longue durée of this exposure, in which our witness becomes alternately more embarrassing, more frustrating, more numbing, more claustrophobic, the longer we submit to it — ultimately provides us with an unparalleled ethical reckoning well beyond our normally posited limits of engagement or resistance.

Questions around how much mediation occurs in the filmmaking process itself eventually disappear, as one becomes simultaneously swallowed up by time, as well as a product of it, and through actual witness even its accomplice. Wang has commented on the difficulty of capturing or attaining "truth" in his art — although in this work, perhaps he may have realized that "truth" becomes transparent to context, to what is taking place… simultaneously on-screen and off, within our experience… in the encounter arising between the meaning-potentials discerned and our willingness to make ourselves available for their discovery to change our life.

With Crude Oil, Wang Bing has not turned out something anyone could be comfortable with, clearly demonstrating that film buffs need not apply, and reminding that Kafka once said we should only read the books that wound us... What do you see? How do you see?

The Secret of the Grain (2007)

Wrong Recipe, Bitter Couscous

[3/10 · 10 April 2010]

Abdel Kechiche's heartfelt attempt to render the difficulties and vicissitudes of the Arab minority experience in contemporary France is an admirable and engaging one, at least initially. For the first half of what transpires to be an overlong engagement (at two and a half hours), he's quite adept at delineating the minute emotional and psychological registers of his characters in a style reminiscent of Cassavettes. There's a strong pull in the way the predominance of close-ups and streams of rambling, continuous and naturalistic dialogue propel the viewer into an almost claustrophobic intimacy with the lives of Slimane's immediate and extended family members. One very good payoff inherent in this approach are the numerous suggestions of deeper emotional interests barely withheld even while words are ostensibly offered as honest indicators between people, which does much to contribute a charged and vibrant texture to their various interactions.

Unfortunately, this rather heightened naturalism is drastically compromised by Kechiche's shift into unsuccessful melodrama, by way of crudely manipulating plot mechanics to forcibly generate suspense and push the emotional temperature, convincingly delineated up to now through ample character development, in a clichéd and much less satisfying direction for the film's remainder. It's a shame, as it has the effect of belittling so many of the outstanding performances his wonderful cast contributes to make the film memorable, and which not least earn much of our sympathies along the way. The complexities of the relationships which he so carefully orchestrated and which served to move us legitimately, get sadly displaced by contrived events which eclipse this previously far richer focus by substituting a suspense thriller gambit: will things end in total disaster... or can they be saved?

This seems like dishonest film-making since throughout the film, Kechiche has readily suggested some of the ways which could possibly work against Slimane's plans to successfully operate his restaurant boat, and some of these are presented quite clearly as tantalizing possibilities. However (and without revealing the ultimate fate of the restaurant's inaugural evening party), what appears as impending failure is entirely due, not to contingencies of personal, social or political elements in conflict with his plans, but sadly an unnecessary creative interference imposed by nothing more than a scriptwriter's decree: an artificially generated happenstance which derails everything.

As if this weren't enough, Kechiche additionally forces the pathos needlessly by introducing yet a second incident, which not only further dashes Slimane's hopes, but unfortunately marks the film's entry into an unsubtle realm of allegory, with the action suddenly acquiring a burden of obvious metaphorical meaning, an approach that has been heavily (and heavy-handedly) favored in films by Makhmalbaf, and which make his films relentlessly unsatisfying. And so the film quickly devolves even further into one in which the diminishing returns are painfully drawn out for the remaining hour or so, with fully predictable results.

By forcing a symbolic dimension on his character's plight rather than maintaining his earlier naturalism, Kechiche effectively eradicates the conviction previously established in his efforts to raise our consciousness about the human condition, through a fair range of many foibles and attributes of character generously displayed. To be fair, there is some last-moment evidence (on the part of some of the characters) of the lengths which the human spirit willingly contributes whatever efforts possible to salvage an impending disaster, but an ability to come across as genuinely moving has already been undone.

Considering the personal cost for Slimane in realizing his project, Kechiche's ill-judged narrative choices aren't just a major disappointment merely because he opted to apply the kind of cheap plot devices all too typical of the dramatic expediency found in Hollywood films. In this light, it appears an act of disregard for his earlier humanism and hard-won truths, so it's an especially ethical disappointment as well.

Three Days (1991)

Profound Cinema of Transience

[9/10 · 4 December 2009]

Could this be one of the most beautiful films ever made? Although it is not perhaps the kind of beauty that most people would want to see, nor even expect could possibly exist, as it usually escapes our attention. What happens here is stolen from the life of what passes us by. There are human figures in a landscape, cryptic and alienated, but also a supreme sense of presence: a physical realm which transcends the mere possibility of metaphorically registering the human condition. This is a revelation of the beauty of the world, the universe actually, just as it happens, as it appears.

In this realm of experience Sharunas Bartas renders in Three Days, there is a beauty of surfaces and distances, an endless sense of moment, the space characters occupy before moving on, the way light immerses everything in its shifting and waning powers, manifesting a landscape apparently out of nothingness, a nothingness which seems to persist when place and beings are subsumed into the atmospheric field, endlessly holding our gaze. A deepening dimension of silence reveals a startling lucidity of forms and sounds, especially effective as seen and heard through distance. All of which tentatively define time as it arises, and a place which keeps taking place. Although our gaze continually moves between figure and background, our attention is occasionally suspended in moments of emotive mystery: Why is she suddenly laughing? Or crying? Thus Katerina Golubeva haunts us as well.

The conventional modes of narrative, dialogue and exposition used by popular forms of cinema have created a systemic refuge of meaning for us, heavily conditioning our belief that what passes as storytelling is actually a direct way into knowing who we are, rather than a continued shared desire to conform our behaviors predictably into acceptable cultures. Thus storytelling has become a highly cultivated way of transmitting un-truths. Bartas radically exposes this mythology of culture in creating his profoundly mysterious cinema, not because he withholds information from us, but simply because he suggests an impossibility of truly knowing others on deeper levels (an insight also registered in some films by Claire Denis and Chantal Akerman). Apparently unavailable are these private lives before us, their pain barely surfacing to negotiate an entropic numbness.

However, an ability (in fact the very invitation to the viewer) to bear witness, is quite important here. In the feeling of being present there, in a room with the woman and man, there is no sense of voyeurism merely because we are given access to their private moments: as they lay on the bed, fully clothed, without speaking, she holding him against herself, gently stroking his hair, his face hidden in her coat, the dance-hall music from across the way distant but audible, her tears visible as she begins to cry silently. What registers is highly unusual: instead of empathy because you might understand why she's crying (you actually might not), the moment involves being present to witness her distress, without even knowing why, and only because you have been given special permission to do so, which has become clear. Through this act of grace, Bartas allows us to bear witness to these lives without the need to "own" the experience through having one's subjectivity excercised; it enables a witnessing so eminently humanizing. In fact, it seems an ethical subversion of the usual effects of emotional pornography characteristic of so much common cinematic manipulation, wherein a typical excess of information "gets us going."

There are moments when these human figures we encounter almost emerge as full-fledged subjects, before disappearing again into their maintained silence. Mostly speechless, they drift along or meet up, drift together for a while, through rooms, into encounters without welcome or conclusion. The drifting itself evokes a wayward miasma: there seems to be nothing to do but gradually move, entering buildings through windows, turning around when gates are closed, living outside possibilities of comfort, standing here and there, standing some more before moving on again.

Yet the realm they inhabit and pass through - this supreme transience of presence, seemingly containing everything, full of subtle contingencies - becomes an aesthetic one unsurpassed by alienation, and one which has steadily encompassed our feeling, not just our witness. And so what is made available finally, one of the film's true gifts, is a newly possible vision, making one suspect: Is this after all nothing less than the life - of the whole world - which we are witnessing?

Silent Light (2007)

Silent Light and Ordet's Light

[4/10 · 12 February 2009]

Michael Ondaatje once said that there is a limit to what films can do in getting below the surface of things. This might well be said of Silent Light. On first reflection it seems a mystery how this film, the third by Carlos Reygadas, actually manages to work some magic on the viewer without recourse to establishing conventional feelings for its characters. There is no script here which allows a way of rendering people in any depth whatsoever; dialogue is spare, relaying information in brief clusters of signifying words. "This is the last time... Peace -- is stronger than love... Poor Esther," a character says after lovemaking. The very fact that dialogue relays information stiltedly, instead of communicating in a more natural way, is a stylistic attenuation which doesn't build a convincing case for itself in the course of the film, though eventually a bare minimum of dialogue does enable us to discern the basic dilemma here: the issues a married man faces in keeping a mistress (or not) in a specific sectarian community.

On the other hand, within this economy there is a vital sense of how light affects appearances -- all the varying qualities of light as that which in themselves might generate emotion. But that this happens to the extent which is fulfilling as an experience, as many critics seem to think, is questionable. Here, characters function as IMAGES of people -- rather than AS fully-dimensional people -- just as trees and landscapes function in most films as images of trees and landscapes, that is, without further requirements. There is a kind of purity resulting in all of this, and it's as if a mystery of the generic (not archetype) is revealed: as if each image appears as a pure template -- of itself: this IS the image of trees in a field at dusk, this IS the image of a woman sitting across from a man in a passenger seat of a car, this IS the image of a man alone at a table crying... There is a self-consciousness at play in the sensitivity of the cinematographic light, and thus a heightened sense of physical presence. And the performances by non-professionals are rendered in a way which recalls Bresson, but with a more pronounced distancing. Yet at the same time, and unlike Bresson, the characters just don't register as fully inhabiting a world. (Which begs the question: just because human beings merely "show up" in a film, can they qualify as "characters"?)

Having said all that, I wonder what connection Mr. Reygadas estimated for his project with respect to Carl Theodor Dreyer's film Ordet, which appears the intentional factor in making his own, largely according to the conjunction of the same main event (a miracle) in both films. Silent Light is actually only a very slight homage to Ordet (shared miracle notwithstanding) for all the supposed similarities many critics have wished to concoct between the films. It seems hard to reasonably qualify Reygadas's re-approach to this "miracle of faith" (not to reveal it here), which one had no trouble accepting from Dreyer, who was a man of deeply religious sensibility -- a sensibility generally and notably absent in Reygadas, a crucial point which leaves the comparison of both men itself wanting.

A rather important omission in general from the critical assessments of the film, is the remembrance that in making Ordet, Dreyer did adapt a play -- through which the matter of revealing the inner states and spiritual conditions of the characters depend on words and the nuances of meaning in language; we are communicative, expressive beings (urban or rural), after all. One of Dreyer's supreme gifts was to compliment the emotional weave of the ongoing verbal exchange between characters with visual compositions and lighting, illuminating what was outside of the spoken. This perfectly complimentary method (one even more refined in his last film, Gertrud, also based on a play) -- between word and image -- exemplifies the interdependence out of which the meaning of his work arises.

In contrast, Reygadas favors the laconic approach of images over words, and has difficulty producing the same depth of total response from the viewer. If he did indeed intend to seek out the inner lives of his characters, albeit in a way apart from language, he hasn't achieved much more than a surface of imagistic mystique, wherein things tend to signify only themselves (as "templates") without deeper resonance. On balance, however, it is notable that there is a distancing due to the subtle stylistic effects one can feel even when watching Dreyer's film; a feeling of being at a remove from the events unfolding, even while one senses being suspended in a spiritual dimension, yet in the end, one which still somehow feels like *real* everyday life. This unusual effect also seems to be present in Silent Light.

Interestingly, when the miracle of the former film appears here, it is not a moving event in and of itself; and yet paradoxically, it effectively becomes such -- due to the exquisitely clear, lucid visual presentation: the transference, of the technical qualities of modulated light, upon subjects, into a "miraculous appearance," is total. The face of the smiling or crying one is the the face illuminated and transfigured by this light -- the entire process of which is ostensibly the real subject of Reygadas's film.

But in Dreyer's cinema, the mutually dependent transference of meaning between words and images will always account for a more deeply satisfying experience, far beyond mere technical control of the medium. Next to Ordet, Silent Light will seem ever more slight the more critics try to inflate tenuous connections between the two. One is even tempted to apply Mahler's dictum that "interesting is easy, beautiful is difficult." Apropos of the ravishing images Reygadas conjures, however, one might go further here and say that the beautiful truly appears easy, but nonetheless a deeper, more rewarding interest lies elsewhere.

Beloved Clara (2008)

Really Hearing the Music

[4/10 · 11 November 2008]

With "Clara," Helma Sanders-Brahms has fashioned another film version of the turbulent menage-a-trois involving Clara and Robert Schumann and Johannes Brahms. In this relatively controlled musical biography, there is a sense of intention to delineate something of the efforts Clara faced: as a musically-talented woman, an outstanding pianist and composer, struggling to express herself boldly in the society of men at that time; as mother of several children and increasingly beleaguered caretaker of her husband, with Robert descending further into mental illness; and as galvanizing muse and romantic other to the youthful and impetuous Brahms. In terms of story there's not much new here. However, there is more than just a bit of music for listening to, and at some length with each occurrence. The big surprise of "Clara" is that it actually works against the film.

An effect is produced whereby, the more one hears the long passages of music, the more one attends to its depth, power and scope of expression, all of which unintentionally casts an unfavorable light on everything which tries to anchor it in the dramatic lives of the principals themselves. Although there is admirable restraint in Martina Gedeck's performance as Clara, as well as Sanders-Brahms' treatment (which is actually somewhat dry in itself), the intense focus on the music as a barometer of the inner lives of these people only seems to produce an unworthy melodramatic aura, and to paradoxical effect: Ms. Gedeck's luminous face seems at once more than adequate in its subtle registrations of feeling and thought, yet pathetically ineffective... Pascal Greggory doesn't appear to be dramatically excessive as Schumann, succumbing to the disabling "bipolar" fits he suffered, and yet he increasingly waxes unconvincing...

Until the realization occurs that the unusual abundance of music in the film overwhelms the proceedings, which points directly to a real problem with this kind of project (musical biographical films). 'Seeing' the drama of the passions 'behind' the music not only feels trite, but psychologizes one's reception to the music to the point of fixating its energy, so that it appears as the result of emotional conflicts and stresses which arise in a soap-operatic realm of human relationships. The music literally drags this burden with it and long before the end, I found myself wanting only the music, and not the accompanying images, because it was that much greater.

There is an unfortunate irony in that Sanders-Brahms has chosen to represent the inner tumult of the Schumanns, in letting the music-making on screen -- the intensity of the actors' expressions when hovering over the keyboard, their concentrated poise -- stand in for what cannot otherwise be outwardly depicted, which eventually likens to some form of psychodrama. Of course, when compared with something like Ken Russell's earlier outlandish forays into musical biography (Tchaikovsky, Mahler, Lizst), which added nothing to the appreciation of the music in itself except as soundtrack for his foolish visual pyrotechnics, perhaps Ms. Sanders-Brahms' example may seem more reasonable with its quieter veneer of finesse.

But the very fact remains that the music has survived to this day due to its own profound attributes, especially its intrinsic ability to move us, and entirely without the benefit of any behind-the-scenes scenarios as illustration, or even illumination (usually a greater error), for it. Such strategies tend to wind up revealing the music itself at a completely different emotional depth than that which is depicted on screen: there is no match. This inevitable discrepancy between the two serves the conviction that, ultimately, this story does not need to be told again, and perhaps many others like it.

Out 1: Spectre (1972)

The Mystery of Creation

[10/10 · 25 April 2006]

This four-hour journey begins with a strong sense of place, in the heady Paris of the 70s. Two theatrical groups are rehearsing classical plays by Aeschylus, turning them inside out, exploring how bodies can accommodate text to manifest new forms, sounds, synthesis (as in Grotowski, Brook, Living Theater).

Add two outsiders: a young man (Jean-Pierre Leaud) canvassing sidewalk cafés with his harmonica, playing a deaf-mute role to increase sympathetic handouts; a young woman duping foolish men out of cash (Juliet Berto, her hilarious, endlessly mugging face, captured for all time yet again). He gets mysterious notes with texts (excerpts from Balzac and Lewis Carroll) that apparently allude to a gang of "Thirteen" operating secretly in Paris, or: perhaps not... She rips off a cache of letters on the sly and reading them at home discovers -- conspiratorial activity? The two theatre groups each have a director and five actors: six plus six equals twelve. Is modest Pauline (Bulle Ogier), who runs a boutique which is an intersection for clandestine encounters, a possible "thirteen"?

A great magician, Jacques Rivette has created a masterwork (just before Celine and Julie Go Boating). His protocol here: the performers were given the basics of each scene, then had to improvise their way through. The resulting film is a dazzling process-oriented experience: a sheer delight as one becomes more intrigued, not only with what is created by the performers, but in the way it arises: one moment all surface, then shadows of meaning, or glimpses of motivation, then recurring withdrawals into the safety of silence. There appears the mere intention of conspiracy just in the mode of interactions alone, yet which are all beautifully and deliberately underplayed, enough to keep us off-balance. Secrets, conspiracy, paranoia, messages in code, missing (unseen) characters, the "Thirteen" -- just how much is true?

Exploring this process of spontaneous creation, especially in the interaction of so many individuals, creates cross-currents which flow through and envelop the viewer, irresistible and challenging. Even in different combinations -- of two, three or more characters at once -- there are charges sent through the scenes, which take their course and dissipate, sometimes leaving us feeling nearer to some degree of truth, at least momentarily. These depths of improvisation evoke a tenet found in shamanistic practice: that effectiveness is the measure of truth. But if so, then whom do we trust? Any of these characters? Some? Surely not Rivette, a conjurer of illusions?

Eventually in the second half, the m.o. of Rivette and Co. gradually becomes luminous. For example, in a scene near the Seine: as the wonderful Michel Lonsdale speaks with a possible conspirator, his discourse of artifice and invention almost clouds with evasion, is almost a coded language. He gradually (perhaps even unwittingly) reveals in his speech, a searching creative finesse, stretching the imagination and attention through pause... after pause... until even one sentence is finally accomplished. A profound insight arises: when using words, even with utmost caution and selectivity, we may find out what is in our control but, more strikingly, also what is beyond it... While we still don't know how far we can trust him, the calibre of this high wire act, which everyone has to manage throughout, reveals a brilliant transparency at work, which is le grand manouevre of Out One: Spectre in general.

These dangerous games of hide-and-seek truly take a game cast, and it's here in spades: Leaud, Ogier, Berto, Lonsdale, along with Bernadette Lafont, Francoise Fabian, Michele Moretti, Jean-Francois Stevenin and the rest are all up to their necks, some even over their heads... Who else but Rivette can display this mystery of creation unfolding, maintain its delicate balances for four enthralling hours, then return us to a sense of place which is completely emptied of everything -- so that we can go home, released and refreshed... even while the enigma remains intact.

Grain of Sand (1983)

An Older Woman, Displaced

[7/10 · 8 April 2006]

Solange (Delphine Seyrig) is released from her job as ticket clerk and bookkeeper for a small repertory theatre in Paris, when attendance drops and her manager is forced to close up after many years. The film is comprised of vignettes that allow us glimpses into her new life of uncertainty, a life which begins to challenge and expose her frail sense of identity, which has been dependent on work, and used in part to cover up unhappiness. The question becomes: if Solange doesn't work, who is she? A few vignettes:

A sidewalk café table. She sits looking about, preoccupied. Two younger men sit nearby, engaged in discussion. No one else is there, it is during the day when most people are at work. She looks at them, then at her folded newspaper, marks it with a pencil (classifieds), then returns it to her bag. She is looking again, at nothing in particular, becoming more still now.

The unemployment agency, where she waits in line. There is another woman behind her of similar age (mid 50s), sizing her up. Solange nervously tries to prepare for her turn at the desk. She turns once to smile at the woman, who smiles back, a moment of artificial friendliness. Once Solange turns away the woman's glowering regard resumes.

Solange walks through the streets. Paris is busy, gray, nondescript. She sits back in a lounge exhausted, alone, quiet. Outside a cinema, she watches the cashier, the customers, then hurries on. She sits on a park bench, sunbathing. She sits there in the evening, in the dark. We cannot distinguish her features.

Only one interview is shown. An empty restaurant in the afternoon. She waits until the owner arrives, smiles graciously. He asks about her bookkeeping experience. She affirms, and leaves. He turns to the barmaid, says he has already found someone else. The barmaid asks if she's experienced, he waves his hand saying, oh no, not at all, but she's young, pretty and has a dynamic personality.

Increasingly estranged, yet Solange keeps smiling. And she smiles elegantly. After all, it is Delphine Seyrig's smile.

Cafés and restaurants, where Solange has numerous encounters with younger, more attractive and enthusiastic women, who may hold uninteresting jobs they take for granted. Nonetheless they are employed. Earlier, Solange's friend and co-worker from the theatre, an attractive blond, receives warm attention from men in the café, particularly intimate attention from one. Solange excuses herself quickly, and leaves.

She is divorced and alone. A close friend is concerned, takes her shopping to buy elegantly seductive evening wear, tries to match her up, provides an arranged dinner occasion. The selected prospect is there to meet Solange, who smiles less this evening, keeps looking away. Conversation is terse, punctuated by silence.

To overcome increasing feelings of aimlessness, she attempts to bring about something new as she paints a room in her daughter's flat, something daring, a dark blue color. Her daughter suddenly arrives home, her expression of unwelcome surprise registers clearly. Solange makes a feeble remark which goes unanswered, and falls silent.

Solange in Corsica, on sun-drenched streets. She sits overlooking a pristine blue ocean, gazes at dazzling pure-white cliffs down the coast, remembers words from an unresolved love affair with a Corsican baker 20 years ago. Solange walks streets, enters bakeries, buys pastries as a pretext to ask after his whereabouts. She keeps walking, eating pastries. In the distance, a funeral procession slowly leaves a church, the bells ringing. In the distance, Solange slowly walks down a street, sun overhead, the bells ringing. In the evening, in her hotel room, she reclines, awake.

Earlier, another evening, location unclear; perhaps the hotel in Corsica or her apartment building in Paris. Solange in a stairwell hears voices above, a closing door. Huddled into a corner waiting, she takes off her shoes, moves quietly up the stairs, letting herself in to her rooms without turning on the light. Walking forward into another room, she appears to fall in the dark. She is laying face down on the bed, her wracking sobs muffled, a crying not heard in conventional films.

"Grain of Sand" was Pomme Meffre's first feature. Her economy with character exposition and mise-en-scène easily matches the apparent economy of the film's production values. Indeed there is a bareness of stylistic approach, an almost accidental quality of home-movie aesthetics, which however becomes unexpectedly synchronous with the print quality here (the Facets release). The 16mm print has scratches, specks, soft focus, washed-out colors and very apparent reel changes. Together these elements unintentionally create an overall effect of watching an archival relic, the presence of Seyrig almost spectrally creating the apparition of a final performance, elevating the degree of pathos. In short, increasing the sense that everything here, Solange especially, is only just holding together.

These qualities aside, the film should be seen for Seyrig. This was not her last role, but in watching her here there arises a sad sense that this once great actress is no longer with us. She once said that she only wanted to make films which could affect or change people.

Her Solange shares some similarities with her Jeanne Dielman, her ultimate, unique creation (for Chantal Akerman). Both are alienated older women, severely tried by negotiating days of increasingly fragile existence, and an ongoing displacement of identity. Perhaps the director had Seyrig in mind (even Jeanne Dielman) from the start; yet even if Meffre had been more forthcoming in developing Solange's character, Seyrig would still have shown us only what is important or even possible to know about Solange. This is what matters.

Especially her smile. . . elsewhere often enigmatic, but here quite tragic as it masks and evades.

The New World (2005)

Some thoughts on Malick's "Indian Princess"

[9/10 · 25 March 2006]

Some may find irony in Terrence Malick's films, but never cynicism. In the New World he hasn't fashioned his version of the events in Virginia 1607 to comply with any prescriptions derived from our zeitgeist for how such historically and ethnically sensitive material should be treated by a non-"Indian" (the term of self-reference by tribal people, according to Scott Momaday). And, is that even possible? In practice history can never be recovered, "correctly" or otherwise, only remade afresh each time for present intent, in which every genuine artist indeed answers a different muse, outside consensus.

The New World's storyline is so well-covered by others, that I ask the kind indulgence of readers to allow me a few points of discussion, and mostly notes at that. (Also, there may be SPOILERS.)

[ Innocence ] The Indian maiden (her name unspoken) pleads for Captain Smith's life after he's captured and presented by her tribe to her father. He is freed, and despite her father's warning counsel, she is drawn into an arising bond of deep love with Smith through some causal transformation, which has occurred in him as well. They become as two children: there is smiling delight, innocent oblivion, courtesy and respect, silence. There is physical touch, yet no sexual overtones, just tenderness and a becoming shyness, as in a true(r) courtship. She is very young after all. Of this propriety Malick leaves no room for doubt.

[ The Other: Singular ] Also evident and striking about their encounter is that its inherent purity is quite something which one would expect to find in such a meeting with the "Other" (with what is usually perceived to be completely unlike, foreign, often unwelcome or threatening); that is, when the transforming ability of that encounter is indeed enabled by openness, willingness to accept, and by inborn natural curiosity (when not typically repressed), allowing one to move forward towards that Other. In our world, "Other" represents difficult challenges psychologically and emotionally for many people, in coming to terms with accepting much which is foreign, culturally or otherwise. The radical liberation of this central meeting in the film might well shift perspectives for many, at the very least subconsciously.

[ The Other: Plural ] Much has been made of the "betrayal" by Pocahontas of her people (historically), and being cast out by her father. While that occurs here, Malick's insistence on honoring the importance of individual over collective experience allows him to provide insight: not only are the Indian "princess" and Captain Smith able to effect their love for the Other in the singular; it will allow them to further embrace the Other in the plural, as when he intimately bonds with her kin, and when she later enlists those very kinsfolk to bring food and provisions to the English settlers, starving in midwinter. If the underlying dynamic of embracing the Other is clear, it becomes difficult to establish a convincing claim for a pure betrayal on her part. Indeed, she is shown in her continual loyalty as she returns to her father every time she has stepped out of favor while following the inner urgings of her heart, until he sends her away. Could she really choose between her community and Smith? His judgment reestablishes her humility, but it's also importantly on view when she supplicates the spirit of her dead mother who, as becomes apparent, is her true life guide, the only one we see her turning to, before and after this abandonment.

[ The Individual ] For Malick there is again an opportunity to show clearly, within the individual/collective context, what is important about the maiden's position. The love for one's parents and community must be deep, yet it comes naturally, without question. However, when love for the Other arises, who can say it may not prove to be the greater, more powerful one? The one that opens, transforms, removes limitations, and matures someone ineffably, and is greater than those involved. Tragically, an opportunity for even a minimal encounter with the Other, between natives and settlers, would be impossible for a long time. However, Malick preempts any manipulation to make us register either "poor unfortunate naturals" or "disgusting new colonials." Instead he encourages empathy: to see both sides with compassion, to honor every person's suffering. The film appears primarily the story of one individual, the Indian maiden, yet while upholding the singular importance of her experience, Malick enables a deeper insight: that nations, tribes, races, people do not suffer. Only individuals suffer. "The People," (that blind ideological version) never existed, only individuals exist -- sometimes unbearable to see because it is precisely at the level of the individual that one most uncompromisingly confronts the Other.

[ Transcendence ] The New World is a transcendent experience, not because of its soul- glimpses (in voice-overs) or nature's endless majesty on view (although its scope, colors and sounds do manifest a different overwhelming sense of Otherness). The movement forward of Rebecca (newly named) through further abandonment by Smith, further surrender as captive Other, further encounter, courtship and marriage to Rolfe, into the blossoming of motherhood: all allow her to know new life at every stage, including her own suffering, from innocent purity and deepening spiritual reliance to the maturity of clear discernment. A last meeting with Smith, a farewell, her final certain embrace of Rolfe... what more is there to know -- for her, or for us?

The new world for Smith was not Virginia, nor England for her. It is never the outer, external one. Malick offers this knowledge most intimately, his very invitation to transcendence. His art is genuine in this knowing.

Trois ponts sur la rivière (1999)

A Quietly Intriguing, Reflective Film

[9/10 · 2 September 2002]

"3 Bridges On the River" is a quietly intriguing, intelligent film. There's some mystery, but it prefers character study to conventional suspense. If you like Jacques Rivette or Eric Rohmer, it's worth your while. Portugal travel flavor makes it nice to curl up with, even watch alone, although director Biette's subtle sensibility might bore those who insist on plot points and clear motivations. However, if you think 'travel' and treat it as a reflective journey, it may be a pleasant surprise.

Simple outline (for roughly the first quarter): Arthur, a history teacher who keeps to himself, meets a new neighbor across the hall. Unsmiling and somewhat intense, Thomas imposes a friendly get-together for both to become better acquainted, but Arthur remains aloof, especially as Thomas' pushy creepiness does nothing to break the ice. A while later, a chance meeting brings Arthur and ex-love Claire together again, after a separation of 3 years. Uneasy, they soon find themselves cautiously making their way through old emotional territory. He tells her that he's traveling to Portugal to seek out an elderly historian, someone whose work he's admired, hopefully to obtain a critique of his own thesis-in-progress. The trip is a tender subject, as they'd once planned a similar one together 3 years ago, unsuccessfully. But she agrees to go with him. However, after arriving in Lisbon, Arthur finds the whereabouts of the retired history professor becoming rather elusive, and the road leads on to Oporto... Then, some unexpected appearances by Thomas in Portugal begin to trouble Arthur, making him increasingly wary... and Claire and Arthur hear mention of a secret sect in the city, luring young people...

Jean-Claude Biette directs in low-key manner, neither under- nor over-playing any aspects of the film. Even the complete lack of a musical soundtrack (unless via musicians who appear on-screen) is rather perfect, so that there is never a particular 'mood' overlaid on any scene. In this way, it all plays out in a refreshingly natural fashion, and any moments containing "intrigue" of some sort benefit from not being artificially heightened, allowing us to 'read' each moment unguided, and taking our surprises as we do. There's a steady but quiet intrigue that develops out of Claire and Arthur's relationship, but as for the more obviously "mysterious" business going on, for the most part it's rather like having glimpses of something odd, slightly "off," as one goes about one's daily affairs.

The subtle sense of uncertainty that emerges during the film is beautifully controlled, so that it never cheapens into a "foreboding" found in typical thrillers. Still, Biette's film is about mystery: the small subtle mysteries of the way we are, by ourselves and with others; what we reveal and what we don't; and how coincidences unsettle us, teasing us as possible signs, yet seemingly not insisting too much as they come and go... But it's not a suspense thriller, or even a film that answers "what happened?" It's primarily Arthur and Claire's story, and much of what else is happening serves to provide subtle reflections on his personal dilemma. We come to see that, just as Arthur remains unforthcoming and self-centered, a more vital connection to Claire, as well as Portugal, remains inaccessible for him.

As the couple wanders the streets, Lisbon and Oporto appear as historical cities of mystery, but also as ever present, sunlit bystanders to the tentative and emotional fluctuations of Claire and Arthur as they negotiate successive moments of intimacy together. Things develop slowly, and we wonder if it will really work out for them this time, as there doesn't seem much urgency in their relationship. In natural, understated roles, Jeanne Balibar (a revelation in "Va Savoir") and Mathieu Amalric ("La Sentinelle," "Late August, Early September") are both perfect, and their quiet appeal makes us come to care a good deal about them.

The metaphors of "3 Bridges" are also understated. The three characters each have their own reasons for their journey. There's a sense of "bridge" as suspension and crossing over: Arthur and Claire sometimes appear in suspended states from one moment to the next, now moving from uncertainty to insight, or from expectation to disappointment. Also, history can serve as a bridge which links us to the past and answers many questions. However, Arthur unfortunately winds up having a disappointing encounter with the silence of history, its unwillingness to divulge its secrets, in the course of his search... Being self-centered, Arthur eventually discovers he needs to bridge his own insular and obsessed nature, by extending himself to acknowledge the presence of others in his life, as well as a greater world at large than the one he sees. In a sense, the character of Thomas provides a "bigger picture" for Arthur. In one encounter, when Arthur asks Thomas why he keeps showing up, reappearing in his life wherever he goes, Thomas is mysterious but nonetheless direct: "Sometimes you have to obey." It's just one of many opportune moments for Arthur to realise that the people, places and events that have been entering his life are synchronicities, suggesting that a greater surrender to life is necessary on his part.

Some viewers won't come away with expected answers, as there isn't much conventional plot material. Rather, while some intrigue does add spice, the film's real material develops as we get to know Arthur and Claire, hanging out with them in a very leisurely way, following their vulnerabilities and hopes as they move into a new unknown adventure together. "Character development" is what traveling does for us anyway, but also the art of living, if rediscovered...

For myself, a pleasant reward came from being shown how the mysteries of life are always there, sometimes beckoning and tantalizing, coaxing our emotions... or preserving our caution when rubbing shoulders with something questionable, even dangerous perhaps... and yet things usually turn out just as they should. Even the inexplicable, which is quite well enough.