tintin-23 Reviews

The Patience Stone (2012)

Mutter Courage und ihre Kinder

[10/10 · 22 October 2013]

This unusual war film, based on the novel of the same name that won the Prix Goncourt 2008, was brilliantly adapted to the screen by author Atiq Rahimi (Earth and Ashes, 2004) himself, in collaboration with his friend, the legendary scenarist, Jean-Claude Carrière.

In Persian folklore, there exists a magic black stone, Syng-e-saboor (the Patience Stone), to which one can confide everything. The stone listens, soaking in all the words, the secrets, the miseries, until it finally explodes, and on that day, one is instantly delivered of all one's sufferings and worries.

In ruined Kabul, rival bands of mujahidin are fighting like rabid dogs over the remnants of the city. In this apocalyptic world, a man lies comatose on a mattress in a bare room of his house. His wife kneels next to him, fingering her prayer beads and talking to him. She recalls episodes of her life. Her voice, timid and hesitating at first, affirms itself. She finally lets bitter words, crazy words, holed up far too long, escape from her inner self. She heckles Allah and his Hell, insults men and their never-ending wars, curses her warrior husband, a hero vanquished by his male pride, his religious obscurantism, his hate of the other, and goes as far as to reveal her most inner thoughts and secrets. In doing so, she frees herself from the marital, social and religious oppressions she has been enduring the whole of her life. Once quietly praying, now she screams. Once living in silence and self- sacrificing abnegation, she emerges now as a human being, a woman.

The adaptation to the screen was a significant challenge, given that it is a tragic huis clos taking place in the sick room, which The Woman (we never learn any of the characters' names) only occasionally leaves. The book is a monologue by a woman to a dying man. Its delivery is straightforward: the voice speaks as if the woman is writing. Translating this narrative to the screen was something else, and the challenge depended on the choice of a very special actress whose theatrical talent would allow her to embody the role of The Woman on whom the whole film so critically depends. Rahimi chose the young Iranian actress, Golshifteh Farahani. Born in Iran after the revolution, she knows what it means to live in a phallocratic society. This was not a sine qua non pre-condition for the part, but it was certainly an asset. She was the leading woman character in Ridley Scott's Body of Lies (2008). At first, Rahimi hesitated to cast Farahani in the part of The Woman because of her physical beauty. Indeed, she is beautiful, and in the film she even makes wearing the chadri (the "tent" that covers some Afghan women from head to toe) look elegant! In the continuous face-to- face with the spectator, Farahani demonstrates the majesty and flame worthy of an ancient Greek tragedienne.

Within the four walls of the room, Farahani's voice and face do wonders. In a searing, provocative, and passionate performance, she gives a star performance of a kind rarely seen anymore. Revealing the ambiguities of her character with a liberating and disconcerting sweetness, she carries her difficult role to a level of truth which seems impossible to achieve. All by herself, she anchors this story at the heart of reality, offering the birth of her free speech to the twilight world that required her silence.

The Aunt (Hassina Burgan), a wise old prostitute, presides over a bordello whose ambiance is like a feminine calm in the middle of the storm. Inside its walls are all the things men don't understand. In this role, Burgan's acting is on the mark, conveying calm and wisdom. Nothing much can be said about Hamidreza Javdan, The Husband, except that he remains perfectly still, except for the heart pulse in his jugular and his slow breathing, for practically the entire film, probably a first in the annals of film!

Most of the film was shot in Morocco, with some outdoor scenes filmed on location in Kabul under the pretext of filming fighting quails, one of Afghan men favorite pastimes. Since most of the film is interior shots, where space is limited, Rahimi was keen to have a camera in constant motion: with few exceptions, the camera is always kept moving, in order to offset the threat of staginess in The Woman's monologues.

The film is the result of the collaboration of many talented people, each an expert in his own field, starting with Thierry Arbogast (6 Césars), the celebrated photography director responsible for almost all of Luc Besson's films; Hervé De Luze's (3 Césars) editing is seamless, and no small reason for the film's success; Max Richter's soundtrack is discreet, and yet has a strong presence, acting as intermezzos between monologue sequences, and adding to dramatic suspenseful moments in the film. The soundtrack consists of metallophone sounds mixed with string instruments (or perhaps electronic keyboarding).

In Patience Stone, Rahimi breaks all of the Afghan taboos – social, cultural, sexual and religious. "When I wrote the novel, I wanted to put myself in the shoes of an Afghan woman to bare her desires as well as her suffering," he said. In this respect, he also becomes the Patience Stone, gathering and reinventing the pains and hopes of the martyrs, of all the Afghan women of the shadows, in order to give them a memory, their struggles forever synonymous with truth and freedom. In a country like Afghanistan, in order for an oppressed woman to finally speak, Rahimi first had to paralyze the oppression of the system. As such, The Husband symbolizes this whole patriarchal, repressive system, which is now paralyzed and injured. And because of it, The Woman can finally blossom and flourish, and she becomes intensely symbolic: "The voice that emerges from my throat, it is the voice buried for thousands of years."

Sundays and Cybèle (1962)

"Honi soit qui mal y pense" (Evil be to him who evil thinks)

[10/10 · 1 April 2012]

This film's subject was risqué fifty years ago, and it remains so even now. How can one make us believe in the delicate charm of this wondrous love story between Pierre (Hardy Krüger) a shell-shocked, amnesiac, thirty-something man and a lonely twelve-year-old child, Cybèle (Patricia Gozzi) without promoting or raising the specter of pedophilia? It is the intense love story of incredible purity, a love that the cynical adult world cannot understand and will eventually condemn. Reading this film's synopsis, one immediately thinks of Lolita, except for the fact that in Sundays and Cybele the adult man is not the sexually obsessed Humbert Humbert and the young girl is not the treacherous nymphet, Dolores Haze. Under Director Serge Bourguignon, Sundays and Cybele becomes an authentic masterpiece, deeply moving, a film touched by grace and poetry, which is made even more miraculous by its controversial subject.

The relatively small cast is brilliant, starting with Patricia Gozzi's extraordinary portrayal of Cybèle as an extremely feminine, intelligent, and enchanting little girl. She plays this character with astounding insight, evoking the apparent understanding of a mature woman. Her attachment to Pierre is a mixture of her budding sexual stirrings and of the impulses to reach for the male affection she has never known in a loveless, broken home. Gozzi is without a doubt the finest child actress I have ever seen. Hardy Krüger fulfils his difficult role of Pierre with panache, as a misfit on the margins of society. He portrays a man whose life has been shattered, and who is desperately trying to find a way out of his amnesia and vertigo, to start anew, and in the process of his healing, Pierre becomes as much of a father to Cybèle as he is her big brother, her boyfriend, and even her son.

Nicole Courcel, as Madeleine, acting underscores her well-deserved reputation in the role of a loving and understanding mistress who has brought Pierre to physical health and is patiently trying to restore his mental health through her unconditional love. Daniel Ivernel, as Carlos, is also excellent in his role as Pierre's best (and only) friend and confident, a man who has tried to understand and accepted his friend's relationship with the young girl.

Sunday and Cybele is based on the eponymous novel by Bernard Echassériaux. This was Serge Bourguignon's feature film debut (and what a debut!) and it became his magnum opus. Besides the grace of the cinematic conceit and the dialogue, Bourguignon's mise-en-scene is praiseworthy from beginning to end: instead of physically and literally recreating an imaginary world, he suggests its reality through its magic. For example, there is a traveling framing of Pierre's and Cybèle's reflections in the water rather than on them directly, as well as the many contemplative shots of nature during which the dialogue is superimposed. The camera behaves as another character, a silent witness intimidated by their love, who does not dare to look them directly in the eyes, lest their innocence be corrupted. With these simple effects, Bourguignon renders the beauty and purity of their union – and also its fragility. The film puts great emphasis on intimate, silent scenes, such as the walks along the pounds and in the forest, in the cold and the mist of the winter Sundays. Although this film was made during the birth of the Nouvelle Vague, Bourguignon's film is closer to the poetic realism of Carné, Renoir, and in particular the tone in René Clément's Forbidden Games (1952).

The setting is Ville d'Avray, a small community near Paris which at the time of the filming had still retained its rustic setting, its forest with its hunting roads and famous pounds which so inspired the painter Jean Batiste Corot. The sublime photography in black and white is by Henri Decaë, who has 84 films on his résumé, including such memorable films as Louis Malle's The Lovers (1958) and François Truffaut's The 400 Blows (1959). Maurice Jarre's discreet and beautiful musical score, together with a very appropriate old French song ("Aux marches du palais"), and other musical excerpts ranging from Tibetan music to works by classical composers including Thomaso Albinoni and Marc-Antoine Charpentier, and exquisite natural sounds, creates an other-worldly, timeless atmosphere.

As mentioned above, the film's subject, the relationship between an adult man and a young girl, might be extremely controversial. Although no sexual relation is ever suggested between Pierre and Cybèle, their relationship being primarily emotional in nature (in Greek mythology, the goddess Earth Mother Cybele had a eunuch mendicant priesthood). Nevertheless, many viewers and critics were none the less shocked and outraged. Times have not much changed: at a recent screening of the film at a ciné-club a few years ago, many viewers were appalled that such a "eulogy to pedophilia" could be shown. The strength of Bourguignon's film is the subtlety and sensitivity with which the subject is handled. He never looks for the shocking or the melodramatic, or poses himself as a moralist. He is simply an emotional witness to the story where a child who has grown perhaps too fast and an adult who has reverted to childhood meet and emerge from their individual loneliness. Bourguignon distances himself from the melodramatic by adopting an outsider's point of view: his genius has been to put the viewer in the position of Madeleine and Carlos, rather than that of Pierre and Cybèle. Choosing the latter for the viewpoint would certainly have been detrimental to the film, manipulating the viewer's emotions to the extreme. Following Bourguignon's suggestion, we should become a Madeleine or a Carlos, merely observing, and through our observations, try to understand

Edvard Munch (1974 TV Movie)

Made for TV

[3/10 · 12 March 2008]

Munch has long been one of my favorite painters, if not my favorite, since I was seventeen years old. I love films (Angelopoulos, Tarkovsky, Fellini, Antonioni, Bergman, you name it.). Therefore, it was not a hard decision for me to forgo a particularly beautiful afternoon in the outdoors for being locked up for three hours in the AC atmosphere of a movie theater. What a mistake, and what a disappointment! Where was the editor (sorry, it was Watkins) for this film? I am amazed that director/editor Peter Watkins should so obviously confuse the television medium for cinema. The film is about one hour too long. It is repetitive, grossly uneven in its presentation of the painter's life (half-life, would be a more appropriate term). It seems that Watkins went on and on, repeating himself, and suddenly, looking at his watch, realized he had to rush through the remainder of Munch's life to finish the film. He rushed and still did not make it past 1909. Why ignore Munch, the man and his work, after 1909? But I guess this is the director's prerogative, to show what he wants of Munch's life.

In general, the cinematography is good, with delicate colors. The representation of the period was well researched and comes across as authentic. The hand-held camera works well most of the time, with beautiful close-ups. In some scenes, such as the socio-political discussions in the cafes, its unsteadiness underlines the chaos of the expounded philosophy. There are even moments of greatness, such as when Munch is painting "Death in the Sickroom." Unfortunately, more often than not, the camera is shaky for no apparent reason. But there are far too many cuts, so many it makes one dizzy at times just watching, and they interfere with the narrative thread of the story. Worse, the contrivance of the cuts is astonishingly predictable -- after a while, I knew that the instant any character's eyes looked directly into the camera, the scene was going to quickly cut to something else. Geir Westby's performance, whose likeness to Munch is remarkable, is not convincing: one does not get any insight regarding Munch's internal demons, or any real sense of the artist's passion, jealousy, and repression. The dreadful environment, familial, social and political, seems practically divorced from Munch's life, as the artist appears to stand apart from it all, an outside observer. His very critical relationship with his father is hardly touched upon, except for a (too often) repeated short scene at the dining table, when Munch was still young. Munch's complex and ambiguous feelings about women in general, which shaped so much of his work, are not even touched upon, except for his particular relationship with Mrs. Heiberg (Gro Fraas). Waltkins' decision to present Munch's biography more like a docu-drama could have been rewarding, except for the fact that he was not able to integrate the historical document with the subject matter.

It all boils down to the editing, which is just AWFUL. Believe me, I say this not because the film is three-hours long (Angelopoulos' and Tarkovsky's films do not exactly produce short subjects), but because when a director has nothing new to say, and keeps repeating himself, it quickly becomes tedious and boring. Most likely, the original television production was shown in three one-hour installments. Therefore, many of the numerous flashbacks were justified, not only to somehow refresh the memories of the viewers who might have seen one or two previous episodes in the preceding weeks, but also to "bring aboard" new viewers. But in the continuum of the film, these same flashbacks become useless, even counter-productive, unnecessarily weighing down the viewer with back-story.

Please note that I did not follow many of my fellow spectators who left the theatre early. I suffered through to the ending credits.

A Very Long Engagement (2004)

"If he were dead, I'd know it."

[10/10 · 8 March 2008]

With "A Very Long Engagement," Jeunet denounces wars, and the politicians and militaries who instigate them for their own benefits. In a brilliant mise-en-scène, Jeunet shows us the miseries, both physical and psychological, inflicted by wars on human beings. We are in the trenches of WWI, on the Somme front, with the French "poilus," ("the hairy ones"), as the grunts were then known. They are waiting for yet another meaningless assault on some meaningless enemy position, most likely just to please someone in the upper command who, safe from harm, decided on a whim or a hunch to order such assault, which he hopes will reflect positively on him and bring him glory, a medal, and maybe a promotion.

World War I, referred to in some history books as the "Great War." But "great," in what sense? Certainly not in the sense of "illustrious," or "noble," or even "heroic," although in their state of misery and desperation, the soldiers on both sides of the trenches were heroic. This war was indeed the "mother of all wars," whose battles produced some of the largest mass graves ever. One of its main battles was the battle of Verdun, also known as the "mincing machine of Verdun." Just imagine a battle which lasted eleven months – 21 February until 21 December, 1916, resulting in more than ONE million casualties, half of them killed outright. The "artists" of such a slaughter were General Eric von Falkenhayn and Prince Wilhelm (later known as "the butcher of Verdun") on the German side, and General Joseph Joffre and General Philippe Petain on the French side: All of these legal assassins got praises for their "heroism," medals, and promotions, entirely won on the backs of the million poor souls who had never asked to be there in the first place. Military historians all agree that the butchery of Verdun hardly resulted of any tactical advantage for either side.

The action of the present film takes place at another ill-conceived battle, the battle of the Somme, a counter offensive made to relieve the pressure on Verdun. It started on July 1, 1916. In this single day, the British infantry suffered 57,470 casualties! When it all ended six months later, after 420,000 British, 200,000 French, and about 600,000 German casualties, the Allied forces were still 3 miles short of their first day's objective… Of course, "humanity" has made progress since that time: the battle for Stalingrad during WWII lasted about six months, resulting in some two millions casualties. However, the "rules" had changed, as part of this hecatomb also includes civilians, euphemistically referred to as "collateral damages," who have now become fair game.

Thanks to this legal assassin elite, together with its politician counterpart, a whole generation of young men was sent to the slaughterhouse, wiped out in a few years. What is this called, a "generacide?" There were no round-ups, just a mobilization. Nobody wore a yellow star, just a uniform. And there were no death-camps, just battlefields, or better yet, "fields of glory." Jeunet, however, is careful not to paint all the military commanders with the same brush, contrasting the vile and disgusting Commandant Lavrouye (Jean-Claude Dreyfus), with the honest and compassionate Captain Favourier (Tchéky Karyo).

Jeunet, having taken by his own admission Stanley Kubrick's remarkable "Path of Glory" (1957) as a model, films the war and its trail of misery, shows great care to stay within the bounds of credibility, devoid of any epic elements which would magnify and glorify war, and would distance us from the small men overcome by History's mayhem. Jeunet shows us the death sentences handed down for the slightest pretext, to the whim of the superior commanders and their sense of moral superiority and righteousness, while themselves hiding from combat and living in luxury. He confronts us with the despair of men who are at the end of their wits, who cannot bear any longer the carnage that never ends, notwithstanding the fact it gives some individuals the opportunity to rise in their positions thanks to their hate of other people's lives, their taste for torture and sadism, their mental imbalance and psychology, all of which derive from the worst schizophrenia used by politicians and military brass to achieve their unspeakable aims. I will abstain from drawing any parallels with the present situation in the Middle East.

Jeunet brings to life the wizened, taciturn men one sees every evening at 6:00 pm, with their breasts overflowing with military medals, walking up the Avenue of the Champs Elysees in Paris, toward the Arc of Triumph. Those men go to symbolically revive the Eternal Flame on the tomb of the WWI Unknown Soldier (is he French or German?), the same unknown soldier who became Major Delaplane's (Philippe Noiret) last concern, in Tavernier's brilliant "Life and Nothing But" (1989). Many of them were the poilus in that war, or some other wars later on. Thanks to Jeunet, they are no longer folkloric shadows walking up the great avenue, and we are a little bit more knowledgeable regarding their past.

Nevertheless, Jeunet's film ends on a note of genuine optimism. "A Very Long Engagement"'s theme is also the conflict between bestiality and love: war tears lovers asunder, and love has to conquer all. Mathilde is relentless pursuing the truth regarding the fate of Manech, knowing in her heart that, against all semblance of reality, and just because she loves him so truly, he must be alive, no matter how overwhelming or horrible the war was. Jeunet tells us that Love can win, and his film is full of optimism, as he concludes with the lovers' reunion and the human spirit's victory over bestiality.

"A Very Long Engagement" is a deeply moving film, in which, once more, Jeunet shows that he can master complex projects. This film, for which "Amélie Poulin" was the rough draft, is a total success on all accounts, adaptation, camera, casting, mise-en-scène, is highly recommended.

Last Year at Marienbad (1961)

Memory is imagination pinned down

[10/10 · 5 March 2008]

"Last Year at Marienbad" is a love story, although not a "story" in the conventional narrative sense, since the fragmented images cannot be scanned chronologically. The "story" is not told, rather it is described using a juxtaposition of physical images, through memories and associations, projected through a space-time continuum, which destroys both linear chronology and fixity. Resnais built a captivating puzzle-like film, a labyrinth, which at time resembles the optical illusions of Escher or the surreal world of Magritte. Any attempt to provide a satisfying chronology for the film would contradict the assumptions upon which it was built, as well as the manner in which it is presented.

"Marienbad" is a cine-roman, a cinematic novel, that is, a particular way to tell a story, which by definition involves space and time. It is not simultaneously a novel and a film, but it uses certain techniques of the novel and of the cinema. Resnais uses a variety of cinematographic techniques: the use of "atmosphere," or mise-en-scène, to provoke an emotional response on the audience's part; the use of dream sequences, flashbacks and flash forwards as they relate to imagistic or observational characterizations of a character's imagination; the use of visual and audio montages to disrupt the chronological time and replace the temporal and linear narration by his mise-en-scene's spaces. As a result, it is necessary to view each Resnais film completely in order to understand its structure and discourse. This is especially true for "Marienbad," where a second and even a third viewing are necessary to fully appreciate the structure and the details.

"Marienbad" is lyrical, but, by its framings, has the precision of a documentary, undermining the cinematographic writing and heralding the future films of Duras, Robbe-Grillet, or Jean-Luc Godard. Resnais uses extremely short scenes, with purposely too dark or over-exposed shots, obscure image flashes, shot with reframing that allow for the intrusion of characters. Certain scenes are repeated several times, with variants. At times, the actors' clothing changes in the same scene, resulting in blurring the distinctions between past, present, and future, reality and fantasy The fluid camera moves everywhere with unrestricted freedom, a character unto itself. The dialogues are in the form of leitmotifs. The secondary characters utter disjointed, repetitive bits of conversations, and have a strange tendency to freeze in mid-sentence, or even to speak without making a sound. All of these effects are mesmerizing, and contribute to destabilizing the viewer. The mystery is further sustained by the names of the characters, which are only initials.

Everything contributes to destroying chronology and setting an ambiguous mood. The music at the film's "beginning" is typically "end of film" music. Using staggered sound tracks of the narrator's (X's) voice after the music further enhances this impression. Through most of the film, the sound of a single organ, playing an excruciating music score mostly in a minor key which seems to have come from a horror film, accompanies the action. Minor keys conjure melancholy and insecurity. X and A, dancing a slow waltz whose music, instead of being joyful and exuberant, recalls Sibelius' "Valse Triste," does not contribute in any way to lighten the mood.

Games are pervasive in this film, symbolizing destiny (dominoes), and also the domination of M (who plays poker with determination and coldness, successfully bluffing his adversaries). But the most notable game shown in the film is a variation of the game of "Nim," which from the release of the film on became known as "the game of Marienbad." M haughtily announces "I could lose, but I always win." In this particular version of "Nim," which is based on binary representation of the number of items in the game at any give time, the one who first starts the game cannot win against an experienced player, such as M. And M, who proposes the contests, always manages, under the cover of courtesy, to make his adversary begin the game.

The first theme of "Marienbad" is love, which does not require much explanation. X is or was in love with A (or was it with A? If not, then A will do), and A, as befits any beautiful woman, plays hard-to-get (or maybe she is not attracted by a bore such as X). Literature overflows with love stories, with all possible variations and permutations: I do not believe I need to expand on this theme.

The second theme is Resnais' favorite: the elusiveness and subjectivity of memory, but also, its persistence and inescapability. As in "Hiroshima Mon Amour," Resnais explores the effects of time and memory on the emotions of a pair of would-be lovers. In his hands, the time elements of memory, whether retrospective or prospective, find realization as cinematic images, which the author manipulates through editing, effusing a non-chronological structure to his work. In "Marienbad," Resnais shows us the hotel, its corridors, its salons, and its garden, together taken as an explicit metaphor for the "mind," traveled by the roving camera, the "self" exploring its memory.

There are so many things to discover in "Marienbad" that, like the "story," the possibilities are endless. There are two possible ways of viewing this film. In the first, a Cartesian approach, the viewer will try to somehow impose a linear, rational structure and invariably will find the film difficult, if not totally incomprehensible. In the second way, the viewer will just let himself or herself be carried away by the extraordinary images and the mise-en-scène, and he or she will find the film completely obvious. And the "bonus" resides in the fact that upon subsequent viewings, one can reassemble this puzzle-like film in as many different ways as one's imagination allows, making it each time a new viewing experience. Viewers in the first category will probably give the film a negative rating; those in the second category will give it a ten-star rating.

I give it ten stars.

The Lover (1992)

More Than Skin Deep

[10/10 · 3 March 2008]

There are three interconnected themes in this film: an impossible love story in the colonial environment of pre-WWII Vietnam, relationships, and the constant crossing of boundaries and borders.

I was rather disappointed while reading more than a dozen American reviews of this film penned by professional film critics. Only one reviewer seemed to be knowledgeable about the author and the position she occupies in the world's literature. These film critics concentrated somewhat obsessively on the sexual scenes, which take a total of nine minutes, or 8% of the film's duration. In my opinion, these movie reviews are the result of the genetic puritan attitude that prevails in the American society. Or maybe the reviewers were asleep during most of the film and only woke up for the "good parts?" "The Lover" has nothing to do with pornography. It depicts an intense passion, where, of course, sex plays an integral role. Annaud had no choice but to include this aspect of the story, and he did it in a meaningful and artistic way.

The Chinaman has the advantage of being older, male, and wealthy, but he is Chinese -- and she is white. He has "lived it up" in Paris, where he had many liaisons. He is an expert at lovemaking. But he is also vulnerable as an only child, orphaned by his mother, dominated by his father. The Chinaman uses love and lovemaking to shore himself up against his insecurity. He is the archetypal romantic lover, talking to her of love, death, and eternity. His love, while passion-filled and pleasurable, is also an agony and physical torment. He is not at all the dominant, forceful seducer whom she craves. However, we must be careful to remember that we see his desire for the girl only through the narrator's subjective memories.

By contrast, we know the feelings of the girl, even though time has certainly altered her memories. Right from the start, the girl refuses to use the language of love, denying the romantic concept of being his only love. The girl's desire for the Chinaman's body is firmly grounded in sensuality as well as in curiosity, but the first appeal she feels upon meeting him on the ferry is for his wealth, his luxurious car, his diamond ring. However, as she sails back to France, we learn that she comes to the realization that she may have loved him all along.

As the affair progresses, other figures creep into the sexual imaginary: the young brother, the older brother, her friend Helen, and of course, her mother. There is a mother-daughter love/hate relationship. Duras depicts her mother as an unhappy, driven woman. She admires her mother's quality of perseverance, yet Duras cannot forgive her mother for the life of poverty and degradation, nor for her mother's excessive love for her oldest son and apparent failure to love her two younger children.

And of course, Duras cannot forgive her mother's opposition to her becoming a writer. With her lovemaking, the girl experiences a triumphant sense of separation from and superiority over her mother. She is trying to eradicate the mother, to escape the stranglehold of their mutual hatred. The daughter's drive toward the lover, toward social disgrace and reputation, without understanding it herself, is to "punish" the mother.

The girls' love affair with a Chinese man is also a giant step toward her liberation from the tyranny of her elder brother. It is somewhat ironical that the older brother's gambling, drug-addiction, and social marginalization are mirrored in the way her lover spends his days gambling and smoking opium.

Finally, there is an undercurrent theme which runs throughout the film, which is that of boundaries and borders. The film opens with a ferry ride across the Mekong and ends with an ocean crossing, signaling the constant crossing of frontiers and borders: geographic of course, but also racial, cultural, and sexual. These are confronted and sometimes dissolved as the poor white girl of French parentage meets her wealthy Chinese lover in the Cholon, the ill- repute Chinese district of Saigon. She, a white girl, was raised among natives, almost as a native. He is a native who experienced the western culture and somehow longs for it.

There is also the transitory period of the girl's adolescence, between what remains of her childhood, and the onset of her womanhood. On the ferry and on the steam liner, the girl wears a child's pigtails, but she is dressed in women's clothes. The gender roles are somewhat blurred, too: she wears a woman's dress, but also a man's hat, in a color that signifies femininity. The boarding school in Saigon is home mainly to the abandoned mixed-blood daughters of local women and French fathers. The girl has an intimate friendship with Helene Lagonelle, which is ambivalent and perhaps sexually charged. The girl is unable to treat the Chinaman with even a modicum of courtesy when she is with her brothers because he is Chinese, not white. In the public bus, she rides in front, separated from the locals, yet in her private home, she lived as a native. In the cocoon of the "garconnière," she is separated from the crowd on the street by only thin cotton blinds. There is even a meta-boundary crossed, as Duras takes her memories and feelings and externalizes them in the form of her writing. What has been internal and private becomes external and public.

"The Lover" is an autobiographical love story set in a post-colonial environment. We owe the remarkable transcription of this literary masterpiece to the artistry and creativity of Jean-Jacques Annaud. In this production, he has successfully combined two art forms, the beauty of the written word with the fascination of the image. I believe that the film has been, for the most part, misunderstood in this country, and I would recommend a second, more open-minded look at it. It will be a worthwhile experience.

Stalker (1979)

The Zone

[10/10 · 2 March 2008]

This film is loosely based on Arkady and Boris Strugatsky's "Road Side Picnic," and Tarkovsky tried, as he did with his "Solaris" (1972), to downplay the science fiction aspect of "Stalker." Except for a brief explanation at the film's beginning, Tarkovsky chooses to ignore the speculations as to what could have created The Zone, and the changes within it.

With "Stalker," Tarkovsky marks the shift toward his later style, with the long takes throughout the film averaging one minute in length, with many four minutes or longer. These long scenes in turn rely heavily on the talent of the actors to sustain the mood, like Writer's long monologue in the sand mogul room. In "Stalker," Tarkovsky is definitively more systematic in his use of black-and-white (sepia) and color stocks than he had been in his previous works. In the swamp scene and Stalker's dream, Tarkovsky reverts to is more usual convention, where dreams are shown in black-and-white, and reality in color. However, the last scene is in color, implying a leakage of the powers of The Zone into the outside reality.

As always in Tarkovsky's films, the natural world is present. Water, which used to be the source of life, a redemptive force and a center of regeneration, is now mostly a symbol of decay and pollution. The only exception is in the dream scene in the swamp, where the water is somewhat restored to its positive symbols. In the last scene in The Zone, the men, resigned to their limitations and weakness, sit outside The Room, as the rain falls inside, gently blocking them from entering.

The wind is associated with the spiritual, and the earth is a positive force. Upon arriving in The Zone, Stalker's first act is to lie down and embrace it, and in the swamp, all three men lay on it. Like a miracle, there is the luxuriant, if dangerous, Nature ever present in the Zone, in contrast to the polluted outside world, where it is totally absent.

And then there is the mysterious dog, which first appears in the swamp scene. Up to this point, the men felt totally alienated from their environment, outside and inside The Zone, and it is at the very moment when they start to meditate and remember, that the dog appears: The Zone is its territory. But at the end of the film, the dog has followed Stalker outside the Zone, showing that even there, the hope that the men were looking for inside The Zone must somehow also exist here, outside, as the dog establishes its own space even though it becomes domesticated in the process.

Although Tarkovsky usually favors classics by such composers as Bach, Pergolesi, or Purcell, the musical score in "Stalker" consists almost exclusively of Eduard Artemiev's electronic music mixed with some folk melodies, contributing efficiently to the hypnotic atmosphere of the film.

The performances of Nikolia Grinko and Anatoly Solonitsyn, as two lost souls in search of an answer, are convincing. Aleksandr Kajdanovsky is outstanding in his role of a tormented and somewhat pathetic Stalker. Although Alisa Frejndlikh's appearance in the film is restricted to only few scenes, there are most powerful.

In "Stalker," Tarkovsky opposes a world in decline, polluted and sterile, to a verdant Zone, which has gotten the better of any human enterprises. He portrays a society which has severed all links with nature, with its own past, and lost its spiritual or moral bearings.

"Stalker" explores the conflict between science, rationalism, materialism, and cynicism versus spirituality, faith, art, and love. The three men embody different philosophical principles. Professor is a rational being who tries to understand the world according to the law of physics. He justifies his going into The Zone as purely scientific curiosity. Writer belongs to those people who cannot accept the world as it is. He is well aware of humanity's decay and of his own as well, but he abhors science, which he does not understand, and would rather look for answers in the supernatural. Writer believes in the redemptive power of art, but he has lost his own inspiration.

Stalker is alone in showing an inclination toward faith. He knows The Zone and has total faith in it, speaking about it as if it were a living being. Stalker respects and fears The Zone at the same time, as he recognizes its potential to provide comfort to the wretched ones who, like himself, have lost all hope, but at the same time it punishes who so ever infringes its rules. This, of course, is how most religious people see their own Gods.

The redemptive power of love is personified by Stalker's wife. Her love and devotion is the final miracle which opposes cynicism and the emptiness of the modern world. All these ideas are clearly expressed at the film's end, as she addresses the audience in her heartfelt monologue.

As the three characters reach The Room, they can ask for their dearest wishes to be granted, but this would require a painful and searching self-examination, with the realization that what they thought they wanted was not exactly what they now really want. For Professor, his true aim was to destroy The Room, which was beyond his scientific understanding. Writer had said that the purpose of his journey was to regain his genius, his inspiration. However, on the threshold of The Room, he realizes that he may not worthy of accepting The Room's gift. As for Stalker, he asks for nothing of The Room, his only purpose to make the trip being to bring hope and happiness to those most retched than he.

"Stalker" is certainly Tarkovsky's most complex and most beautiful film, and is worthy of many viewings to appreciate its aesthetic and depth. Unfortunately, the word limitation of this review does not allow one to explore all the intricacies of this extraordinary film and do it justice.

The Child (2005)

We'll make another one

[8/10 · 29 February 2008]

"L'Enfant" was filmed in the town of Seraing, a dreary industrial suburb of Liege, located on the Meuse River. The film's style is that of a documentary, using a hand-held camera which is always on the move, pursuing Bruno and Sonia. So many close ups and extreme close ups force the viewer into extreme intimacy with the characters, and produce a somewhat claustrophobic atmosphere from which no escape is possible. The film's austerity is amplified by the fact that there is no music in the whole film, only urban background noises.

As always, the Dardennes rely on the ability of their actors to be the actual characters before playing their parts. The never provide psychological descriptions of their protagonists, but leave it to the viewers to discover them as they develop on the screen. Jérémie Renier is the lead, as Bruno. Renier was discovered by the Dardenne brothers as a teenager, when they featured him in the leading role of "La Promesse" (1996). In "L'Enfant," Renier is spontaneous and natural, simply superb in his role of the amoral Bruno. Déborah François, in her debut role as Sonia, is already a compelling actress. Twenty-three babies were used in the role of Jimmy, not due to the part's challenge, but because of the necessity for multiple retakes -- babies require feeding and changing, and they can get cranky fast. A doll was used as a stand-in during only one scene at the beginning of the film, where Jimmy is carried by Sonia on the back of a motor scooter, because of the potential danger that may have been posed to a real infant. The doll's name was "Jimmy Crash." Bruno, although physically adult, behaves like a child. He is not immoral as much as he is amoral, like a young animal, living day-to-day, oblivious to tomorrow. When he has money, he spends it on the spur of the moment: he buys a pricey baby carriage, expensive clothes, or he leases a fancy convertible to take his girlfriend and infant son on a joyride. Bruno seems to understand money in its purest form, as currency: the longer it stays in one place, the less valuable it is.

On the other hand, Bruno is generous, and above all, honest. When he distributes the proceeds of his "deals" to his young gang members, he is scrupulously honest in letting them know the precise amount of each transaction. And he does not abandon Steve in the hands of the police, but voluntarily goes to the police station, surrenders the stolen cash and takes full responsibility for the holdup. Sonia does not appear to have a strong personality, until she is challenged by the loss of her baby. Right in the beginning, after Bruno sells Jimmy to the trafficker, we see how motherhood transforms Sonia. For Bruno, it will take longer -- actually until the end of the film, following a series of terrible events. Even then, he will not have an epiphany, but at least something in him will change.

"L'enfant" (the child) is almost faceless, just a lumpy blue bundle with two tiny, protruding hands. He does have a name, "Jimmy," but he does not know it yet, as nobody speaks to him or addresses him during his first few days as a human being. Jimmy's start in life does not show much promise. He will have the distinction of having driven back from the hospital on a motor scooter, without a helmet, on a drizzling day. He will carry forever the feeling of abandonment, and a hatred for flowered wallpaper, remembering the room where his father sold him for a wad of Euros. Will he ever get beyond his inauspicious beginnings? The film's cathartic ending hints at this possibility. The Dardennes may be resigned regarding Bruno's and Sonia's future, or lack thereof, but one feels that they carry their hope for a new beginning in Jimmy.

Bruno and Sonia live in a permanent "here and now." They are like two cubs, cavorting, rough-housing, laughing, full of life and full of love for each other. In spite of their immaturity, there is no question that Bruno and Sonia love each other, and in the end, their love overcomes their adversity, bringing a faint glimmer of hope: for the first time in the film, and in their life. They transcend the gloomy present in their reconciliation, which could also be a manifestation of their survival instincts.

Bruno and Sonia live in a society which ignores and destroys its children, turning them into fringe elements, petty thieves, and misfits, a society where crime leads to more crime, more crime to violence, and so on, ending finally with imprisonment. Is there a solution? The Dardennes seem to answer "yes," and propose love and nurturing as the solution.

The Dardenne brothers never fall into the melodramatic or whining sentimentalism. Their reality, sordid though it is, speaks for itself. They are neither judges nor moralizers. They show us a crumbling society which has lost its bearings, and whose moral code has collapsed under the weight of repeated social and economic crises. Bruno and Sonia evolve in their everyday devoid of both perspective and future.

To conclude, a small production anecdote. In filming the scene when Bruno and Steve are on the run and find themselves up to their necks in the Meuse River, Jérémie Renier got into trouble. The cold water (which was 42 degrees Fahrenheit) was polluted by industrial oil from a nearby coal processing plant, and Renier twice ingested some of it. This landed him in the local hospital for a stomach pumping that evening.

The strength of Luc and Jean-Pierre Dardenne's film is to have made Bruno and Sonia, both such society outsiders, simply as two human beings, not the dregs of society nor poor wretches to be pitied: a remarkable achievement worth four stars.

Manon of the Spring (1986)

The Carnations of Wrath

[10/10 · 28 February 2008]

In "Manon des Sources", the second chapter of his novel, "L'eau des Collines" (1963), Marcel Pagnol uses the same approach as he did in the first chapter (see my review of "Jean de Florette" on IMDb), posing questions and providing answers in a more or less convoluted, drawn-out way, the better to keep the viewer's suspense high.

The first and most important question in this chapter concerns the soothing of our bad conscience following the less than satisfying conclusion of the preceding chapter. We feel perturbed for having resigned ourselves to accepting the outcome, the success of Ugolin's project, which we never totally rejected, at the expense of Jean's project, which we by now wish had succeeded. How will Pagnol liberate us from this disturbing feeling? We already know that Pagnol is not interested in introducing a "Deus ex machina" to discharge our anxiety. He will again proceed objectively, relying on the psychology of the different characters involved.

The second question concerns the two new characters who appear on the scene: a grown- up Manon and Bernard Olivier, the school teacher. We hope that they will be the ones to provide us with a more satisfying resolution to the first chapter. But what is done is done. The only liberation from the sense of guilt that we feel must be a plain, straightforward type of revenge on Ugolin and César for their crime. However, Manon appears to be so sweet and innocent that we feel that she could not possibly be the tool for revenge, no matter how well-justified. The presence of Bernard, then, offers a solution. Pagnol presented Bernard in such a way as to leave the viewer totally unconcerned about his character. So, we think that perhaps he will be the implement of vengeance against Ugolin and César and the rest of the village.

When the perfidy of César and Ugolin is fully exposed, our conscience is partially appeased by Ugolin's suicide. But César's retribution will be more terrible yet, in what is one of the most dramatic endings of any film I have ever seen. Eventually, it is not certain that we applaud this ending either, as no matter how devious Ugolin and César were, we cannot totally erase the positive feelings they and their project inspired in us at the beginning of the first film.

For the interpretation of the three leading roles, film director Caude Berry chose three exceptional actors, each with a unique personality and film presence. In the role of "le Papet," we could not have imagined anyone other than Yves Montand, native of Marseille, a fabulous actor with more than sixty films on his resume, cabaret singer, and at one time candidate for France's presidency. This aging character of César, cantankerous at times, a happy strapping fellow at other times, a sensitive and vulnerable human being, is Montand himself, and vice-versa. As for Daniel Auteuil's performance, his attainment of the well-deserved César for best actor in 1987 for these two films, says it all. Finally, Emmanuelle Béart, who also won a César for best supporting actress in 1987, fills the role of Manon with grace.

There are two additional brilliant "actors" in the films. First, there is the picturesque and harsh landscape of Provence. From the first minute of "Jean de Florette" until the end of "Manon des Sources", we are seduced by the gorgeous images of the Provence countryside, and certainly by the love the director shows for Pagnol's work and the atmosphere it evokes. The second "actor" is the village itself, as portrayed through the different village characters, shown as little vignettes scattered throughout the films. We are thus introduced to the little community, from the "cul-benit" (blessed-ass), Anglade (Jean Maurel), to the secular, socialist, anti-clerical mayor, Philoxène. All these characters bring much authenticity to the story.

Jean's musical theme is the overture from Giuseppe Verdi's "La Forza del Destino", which Jean-Claude Petit weaves occasionally together with some expressive music to underscore some of the most dramatic moments of the film.

The themes are the city versus the country, modern versus traditional, good versus bad, and memory versus oblivion.

Pagnol does not consider the country life as a perfect universe, without conflicts. He illustrates the violence that can result from the peasants' deep attachment to their lands. Pagnol exposes us to the tribal mentality of the villagers against "foreigners," such as the inhabitants of the nearby village of Crespin. The only outsiders accepted by the villagers are the "pillars" of a village society: the priest, the doctor, and the school teacher. These outsiders are accepted for the obvious reason that the village needs them to exist. Finally, Pagnol shows us the deep motivation of Ugolin and César that is also easily understood by a city-dweller: making money.

Pagnol's message is thus humanistic in so far as, without ridicule or Manichaeism, he presents the motivations and different points of view of each of his characters. On the same humanistic level, these stories demonstrate that not withstanding apparent differences, such as social, regional or physical, all people are alike and deserve to be treated humanely. However, in that respect, Pagnol's philosophy is a little naïve. The reconciliation of the villagers with their past wrongdoing toward Jean Cadoret, symbolized by the marriage of Manon, occurs only when they understand that Jean was actually "one of them." So the community of humans beyond differences that Pagnol proposes as an ideal only exists here because Jean "belonged" to the village. As such, according to Pagnol, the village life is idyllic, but for the eventual presence of harmful individuals such as Ugolin and César.

In spite of Pagnol's naïve idealism, the films still succeed, because we are ultimately able to tie up all the loose ends, and to reconcile the warring factions through family and blood ties that transcend any geography.

Jean de Florette (1986)

The Carnations of Wrath

[10/10 · 27 February 2008]

"Jean de Florette" owes its success to Pagnol's particularly intelligent story, which, taken verbatim from his novel, Claude Berry and Gerard Brach translated into images.

A good story must have a plot, a compelling conflict, and characters that we care about who change as a result of their experiences. This particular story qualifies unquestionably as a good one, on all these points. The viewer is kept in suspense, continuously questioning the outcome of the story, which moves forward from crisis point to crisis point. We can see that a large part of the scriptwriter's role is to ask questions, and then provide the right answers at the right time. These answers can be partial, ambiguous, even contradictory, in order to reinforce the viewer's suspense and questioning.

The first question posed in "Jean de Florette" concerns the success of Ugolin and César in their "carnation project." Will they succeed in getting the critical water necessary for the cultivation of these flowers? This question interests us because these two characters have been introduced as somewhat likable, worthy of our support, although, following Pique-Bouffigue's demise, we may have second thoughts about their integrity.

A second question rises with the arrival of Jean Cadoret. Will his project of raising rabbits, a project directly in conflict with Ugolin's, succeed? Although we may have considered at first Jean as an intruder who comes and upsets Ugolin's plan, we also realize that the dice are loaded in Ugolin's favor, and our sympathy slowly shifts toward Jean. But we still keep a somewhat favorable image of Ugolin and "le Papet," still hoping for positive answers to these first two questions.

Pagnol now determines that the progress of the drama toward its conclusion, that is to say the answers to these two questions, will depend on subjective, internal factors, such as the personalities or the stubbornness of the characters, and not on external or providential circumstances.

Thus, the new questions now being posed are about the nature of the characters. Can Ugolin carry out his duplicitous game to its conclusion? Will he make a mistake and be discovered, or will he be overcome by a sense of guilt and help Jean by revealing the presence of the spring at "les Romarins?" The viewer hopes that in the end Ugolin will give in to his positive instincts. As for César, the spectator knows that "le Papet," in spite of all the difficulties arising along the way, will never abandon Ugolin's project. Yet the viewer has detected something peculiar concerning César 's reaction when Florette's departure from the village is mentioned. We therefore suspect that somehow Florette's past relationship with César could bring about a positive change in his behavior. Independently, Jean's character will also dominate the outcome of the story. We wonder if his enthusiasm, boundless optimism, and his erudition will somehow contribute to his failure. Jean's scientific approach to his project is itself a sort of revenge against Nature that made him "un bossu," - a hunchback, and therefore he will never abandon it.

As the film progresses, our attention narrowly focuses on the principal characters and their evolution. We are not distracted by outside events. At the same time, we are torn between the two conflicting wishes for the success of two conflicting projects. This is the originality of "Jean de Florette" and what distinguishes this story from the usual, vulgar Manichaean novels or films.

The themes are the city versus the country, modern versus traditional, and good versus bad.

Jean, returning to the country to cultivate the "othentic," is an idealist, more or less in the Jean-Jacques Rousseau's tradition. His knowledge has all been acquired in books. He speaks in the idiom of the bureaucrat that he was. He constantly quotes statistics to guide his project and to convince himself and his listeners how Nature should and will behave. He tackles his project with a definitively modern, scientific approach. Nothing is left to chance: everything is anticipated and calculated.

To the villagers, because of his language, education, and culture, Jean is a kind of pedantic usurper colliding with the peaceful, traditional aspects of their village life. They make fun of Jean because his knowledge was acquired in books, not by experience. These villagers speak with the melodious Provençal accent, their conversations peppered with old, colorful sayings and local proverbs. The people of "les Bastides" are isolated from Jean's world by their hills. They are attached to the land they have worked for centuries, and to their way of life.

However, Pagnol, by presenting us with Jean's failure, seems to distance himself from the intellectual tradition, while, at the same time, not considering the country life as a perfect universe, without conflicts. He illustrates the violence that can result from the peasants' deep attachment to their lands. Pagnol exposes us to the tribal mentality of the villagers against "foreigners," such as the inhabitants of the nearby village of Crespin. The only outsiders accepted by the villagers are the "pillars" of a village society: the priest, the doctor, and the school teacher, which the village needs in order to exist. Finally, Pagnol shows us the deep motivation of Ugolin and César that is also easily understood by a city-dweller: making money.

Pagnol's message is thus humanistic in so far as, without ridicule or Manichaeism, he presents the motivations and different points of view of each of his characters. On the same humanistic level, the story demonstrates that not withstanding apparent differences, such as social, regional or physical, all people are alike and deserve to be treated humanely. As such, according to Pagnol, the village life is idyllic, but for the eventual presence of harmful individuals such as Ugolin and César.

In spite of Pagnol's naïve idealism, the films still succeed, because we are ultimately able to tie up all the loose ends, and to reconcile the warring factions through family and blood ties that transcend any geography.

The Hunger (1983)

A Question of Hemoglobin.

[6/10 · 26 February 2008]

"The Hunger" is adapted from Whitley Strieber's novel of the same title (Strieber is also the author of "Wolfen") by Ivan Davis and Michael Thomas, who wrote the scenario. Following the deconstruction and alteration of the vampire legend with Anne Rice's book, "Interview with the Vampire" (1979), and Frank Langella's film, "Dracula" (1979), Tony Scott made a definitely "modern" film by doing away with all the old clichés and myths attached to the commonly accepted vampire lore. Scott's vampires move about in full daylight, there is no mention of garlic or crucifixes, the vampires have no fangs, and the word "vampire" is not even pronounced once in the entire film. Scott proceeds by opposition: the rhythm is at times dry and nervous, and at other times tender and lascivious; the protagonists inhabit an elegant, airy townhouse located in a large metropolis instead of a traditional dark, gloomy castle. Scott prefers the beauty and sophistication of the trio whose elegant garments are in stark contrast to the inherent hideousness and monstrosity of the traditional characters and their tattered, grimy attire. He substitutes a delicate daylight chiaroscuro for the night, and he replaces the traditional funereal music with one of J.S. Bach's graceful Suites, an aria from DeLibe's opera, "Lakmé," trios by Lalo and Schubert, and the unsettling Ravel's "Le Gibet."

The cinematography by Stephen Goldblatt gives to the image a combination of the gloss of a deluxe art magazine and the sensation of a Gothic novel. The subdued, vaporous blues and greens colors of the interior scenes are awe-inspiring, and Tony's editing is MTV-like. The original music by Michel Rubini and Denny Jaeger comes and reinforces the morbid, Gothic atmosphere of the film.

David Bowie appearance is relatively brief, and it is his charismatic presence rather than his acting which is memorable, although the scene of his rapid aging as he waits for Sarandon's return is unforgettable (and so is his withering, thanks to Dick Smith's make-up wizardry). A seductive, frightening, and thoroughly elegant Catherine Deneuve, "La Belle Catherine," is sublime in one of her most sophisticated roles. Her enigmatic presence dominates the film from its very beginning to its end. Susan Sarandon is remarkable undergoing her incongruous evolution from a dedicated, successful doctor to a somewhat willing participant in her transformation into a blood-lusting vampire.

Of course, "The Hunger" became notorious for its Sapphic erotic scene between these two famous actresses. The scene is tactfully rendered, although still rather shocking to American audiences at the time. The seduction of Sarah proceeds with Miriam injecting her with some of her genetic material through a tender bite in the hollow of Sarah's arm, to the music of the (too) well-known women's duet from Léo Delibes' "Lakmé." While this beautiful music may seem appropriate, I find it a bit too obvious, and somewhat too "cliché." But, contrary to the usual seduction of the damsel found in the more classic vampire films, we clearly get the feeling that her seduction is not necessarily against her nature, and that she surrenders willingly to this forbidden love. In "The Celluloid Closet" (1995), a documentary film on the homosexuality in the cinema, Susan Sarandon comments on this particular scene, which made Catherine Deneuve somewhat of an lesbian and gay icône (which, it is said, the actress enjoys immensely).

The film's ending is a great disappointment. It parts totally from the Strieber novel's ending, which most likely was what Tony Scott intended. The studio, thinking that Strieber's original conclusion would be immoral, imposed instead on the Director an ending where Miriam is actually being "punished," violating in the process all the themes and rules on which the film was based.

Although one would not expect in most cases a worthwhile theme(s) to be associated with a vampire film, except with Bram Stocker's original "Dracula" (1897), there are several themes in "The Hunger." The first theme is that of addiction, in this particular situation, an addiction to blood in exchange not for a high, but for immortality. The second theme is that of the fear of aging and death. This theme is explicitly present in the first half of the film, when John realizes that time is catching up with him at an alarming speed, and he mounts a desperate and vain effort to stop its ravages. It is also implicit in the second half of the film, as Miriam had found "the solution." However, this "solution" has become the "raison d'être" of her apparently endless life, to the exclusion of everything else.

"The Hunger" is a very experimental film and more than twenty years following its first screening, it remains a unique cinematographic experience. I would have given it at least a four-star rating, but for its ending, I give it three stars.

The Suspended Step of the Stork (1991)

"If I take one more step, I'm "elsewhere," or I die."

[10/10 · 25 February 2008]

As with all of Angelopoulos' films, "The Suspended Step of the Stork" implicitly demands a close and intimate participation on the part of the viewer, a fact that has certainly contributed to the limited popularity of his work. Dialogues are sparing, with no monologues or exchanges exteriorizing the characters' inner conflicts, doubts, or feelings. The filmmaker prefers to keep the viewers away from their own emotional responses, and instead forces them to explore and study the characters' identities for themselves. As a result, the acting is understated and implicit, as opposed to overt and explicit.

The action scenes are set between long intervals of contemplation, where the viewer is asked to become a participant, to participate as an actor, by probing his or her own psyche. As in a novel, where the drama rests entirely on the author's writing to provide a template where the reader's imagination and/or past experience flourish, Angelopoulos' drama rests within his images: his uses of the long shots, the long takes, the leisurely pacing, the sparing dialogues that have become his trademark, inviting the viewer to experience the film from his or her personal perspective. Angelopoulos uses silence to capture moments of high intensity, reverting to the non-verbal language of gestures, gazes, sounds, and music, when he believes that words can only take us so far.

The music, by Angelopoulos' long time collaborator, Eleni Karaindrou, provides more than just a discreet background, but becomes itself a dramatic element of the story. A large part of the film consists of exterior shots in subtle, subdued colors, recorded in a drab winter light. Angelopoulos presents us with an "other Greece," one far different from the Greece of the tourist brochures, with ethereal blue skies and emerald seas, drowned in an eternal sunshine. Here, the skies are covered and gray, the air is cold and misty, and the sands of the pristine beaches have been replaced by the trampled, dirty snow of the village streets. Angelopoulos' genius through Arvanitis' camera is on display throughout the film.

"The Suspended Step of the Stork" is above all else a political statement aimed at the socio-political situation in the Balkans at the end of the twentieth century. It is deeply concerned with the meaning of "borders," and with those who are the victims of the confusion between nations. In the "waiting room" facing the Albanian border, the refugees, political or other, outcast by the rest of humanity, wait. They may be stuck against a political border, but unfortunately they still carry with them, and hang on, deeper ancestral borders: those of the languages, of the customs, and of the races. Although Angelopoulos' political views are well known, the film steers clear of any political discourse regarding the causes of the refugees' plights. In the process, Angelopoulos forces us to meditate on the concepts of geographical, cultural, political, and personal "borders."

Angelopoulos considers himself a historian of twentieth century Greece, and he likes to bring lessons from the Hellenic myths into his discussions. In this film, he does some border crossing himself between the Greek and Italian cultures, drawing from a combined Homeric and Dantesque tradition of Odysseus' travel. Alexander is a Telemachus, in search of a story about an aging Greek politician/Odysseus who disappeared, never to be heard of again. This political man, a brilliant orator, unexpectedly and inexplicably left the comfort of his bourgeois existence, his wife, and his brilliant career, to live anonymously in a refugee camp with the lowest of the low. He became a poet in exile wondering how to change the world. Of course, the "politician" is not Alexander's father, but the "politician" stands before Alexander like a father figure/Odysseus. As with Homer's Telemachus, Alexander grows as a person during his odyssey.

Of course, it would be wrong to try and see in the film a retelling of Homer's Odyssey in a contemporary context. Angelopoulos draws on Odysseus's travels only as structuring and thematic elements for his film. In Angelopoulos' ending, "Odysseus" is more like the Dante's Odysseus: he does not leave for Ithaca but goes on, "carrying a suitcase." And Alexander/Telemachus is "suspended" between returning to his home and his career, or embarking on a voyage to "somewhere else." He states as much, in a voice-over at the beginning of the film, paraphrasing few lines from Dante's "Inferno": "And don't forget that the time for a voyage has come again. The wind blows your eyes far away."

Finally, although Angelopoulos is not a religious person, there is a Greek Orthodox religious theme introduced during the film in the form of the yellow-suited linesmen, who go around bettering things for their fellow human beings by reconnecting communications, and also the Christ-like figure of the "politician." In the final scene, these men in yellow demonstrate once more the Byzantine iconography's influence in Angelopoulos' work. They appear like "stylites," religious figures found in the Orthodox tradition, solitary and fervent men who took up their abode upon the tops of pillars, in a form of asceticism.

The film ends without a resolution as to the true identity of the character played by Mastroianni. Angelopoulos does not give us any clues, and the wife's statement, "It's not him," is far from convincing and left ambiguous enough. The important question of the film is not whether he is or is not the vanished politician, but that he could be the politician. But the film still ends on an optimistic note. Whereas the wires strung from pole to pole run only along the river, and thus communications across the border are still not possible, and it remains impenetrable, we note that this final scene is taken from a point of view across the river: the camera has crossed the border, and the reverse tracking shot is inviting Alexander and the viewer to follow beyond the boundary. On this account, Angelopoulos gives us hope that somehow, some of the borders will eventually crumble.

The Horsemen (1971)

The Men of the Steppes

[10/10 · 24 February 2008]

This movie, which I saw for the first time in 1971, changed my life forever. From the first moments of the film, I was struck by the stunning Afghan scenery. Over the next three years, I visited Afghanistan three times. It was a fantastic adventure, like a voyage in another time, on another planet. Since then, I have not stopped traveling in this part of the World.

The film is based on Joseph Kessel's novel, "Les Cavaliers," written following his travel throughout Afghanistan in the early 60's. Kessel is, in the tradition of Saint-Exupery, Malraux, Pierre Mac Orlan, and Hemingway, an adventurer, journalist, globetrotter, and great writer, a man who tried to make the novel "the privileged expression of the experienced adventure." The action takes place on the vast plains around Maimana in the northwest of the country, across the Hindu Kush, and in Kabul. The drama revolves around the "mad horse," Jahil, with its almost human presence. Uraz, son of the great "chapendaz" Tursen is to ride Jahil, Tursen's latest prized white stallion, in the great "buzkashi" of the King, in Kabul.

The Afghan national game of "buzkashi" dates back to the time of Ghengis Khan. In this fierce competition, played on the northern steppes by expert horsemen, everything goes. Hundreds of "chapendaz" horsemen independently compete to grab and carry the carcass of a goat or a small calf to the circle of justice, outlined on the field.

If Uraz wins, Jahil is his to keep. How can he not win? "If you cannot win on Jahil, you cannot win on any horse," says Tursen. Uraz, like his father before him, is now the most famous "chapendaz" in the "three (northern) provinces." Nevertheless, his quest for glory seems endless, as an inner demon keeps driving him to surpass both his father and himself. An old lady in the bazaar says of him, "If you wager him for glory, you will lose. If for money, you will win."

At the "buzkashi" in Kabul, Uraz will know defeat. He not only loses the game, but his leg is fractured. His life lesson about pain and hate begins as he returns to Maimana, vanquished, prouder, more resolute, and crazier than ever.

Uraz has the choice of two roads to return to Maimana: the relatively easy road across the terrible Hindu Kush Range, through the Salang Pass, the World's highest pass at 10,000 feet, or the dreadful "old road," running through the Unai and Hajikak passes, both also near 10,000 feet, Bamiyan, followed by more high passes, before finally arriving on the northern steppes. Of course, Uraz chooses the "old road," challenging himself to the limit, in order to redeem himself in his own eyes, and also those of his father. For all his toughness, his father had never traveled that road.

As if the "old road" was not challenge enough, Uraz, whose fractured leg is fast becoming gangrenous, tempts his "sais" (groom), Mokkhi, with a pact that involves ownership of the magnificent Jahil.

On the road, Mokkhi, meets with love in the arms of the beautiful "untouchable," Zareh, but also experiences greed, a taste for murder, and a pitiful downfall. Zareh, as beautiful as she is devious, inspires Mokkhi to murder and destruction. She is herself tormented by "the horse": "Do you know, great Prince, what brought me to you that first night?...it was the horse." Along this endless "old road," the trio each confronts the worst in themselves, and arrive at their destination perverted and lost. There is also the mysterious and likable character, Hayatal with whom Uraz will eventually continue wandering the steppes.

The movie, filmed for six months in Afghanistan, and then in Spain, in 1969-1970, was directed by John Frankenheimer. Screenwriter Dalton Trumbo recognized there was no need to embellish Kessel's fantastic adventure, and faithfully followed the book's story line.

The stunning cinematography is the result of the collaboration of the distinguished French cinematographer Claude Renoir (of the artistic lineage,) Andre Domage, and James Wong Howe. They give an accurate taste of the beauty of the rugged Afghan country and of its people. In particular, the remarkable sequences of the buzkashi of the King, in Kabul, and the flashback of Tursen's buzkashi, through the great open steppes of the north, are worth the admission by themselves. There are also actual scenes of organized fights between camels, rams, and partridges (the Afghans are big gamblers).

The casting of westerners as principles may seem strange at first, until one remembers that there were neither TV nor movies in Afghanistan, in 1970, and therefore no Afghan actors. Frankenheimer wanted Yves Montand or James Garner for the lead, but learning that he was an expert rider, chose Omar Sarif instead. The buzkashi scenes required 25 days of shooting. Of course, Sharif had to appear in some of these scenes, but the chapandaz, impressed by his superior riding, unobtrusively "chaperoned" him through the most dangerous moments. Omar Sharif gives one of his best, if not the best, performances ever. On the other hand, Jack Palance was not skillful enough to ride in the mayhem of the game, and required an Afghan rider stand-in for these sequences. However, with his both feet on the ground, Palance's presence on the screen is overwhelming. As I traveled through the northern provinces of the country, I must have met two or three Palances, and as many Sharifs. By some extraordinary coincidence, Leigh Taylor-Young also bears a strong resemblance to the now famous "Afghan girl," who appeared on the front cover of the National Geographic Magazine, in 1984.

The renowned French composer Georges Delerue wrote the music, remarkable in its lyricism and romanticism, which integrates itself perfectly in the film.

"The Horsemen" is a stunning film, inspired by epic adventure and timeless conflicts which, given the present condition in Afghanistan, I am afraid can only now be experienced in an armchair.

The Travelling Players (1975)

All the world's a stage.

[10/10 · 23 February 2008]

Angelopoulos began developing his theories about film making in 1962, while studying at the IDHEC in Paris. His quest for a genuinely national Greek cinema had been preceded by a similar movement among Greek musicians. This was partly in reaction to the growing American military and economic influence in the Mediterranean, and partly in reaction to the American support of the Greek junta. At that time, Hollywood dominated the world's screens, and for Angelopoulos, the natural battlefield was the cinema. His style eschews mainstream conventions of the time, resulting in his films being perceived as nearly the antithesis of Hollywood's films. Hollywood's rapid cuts and furious pacing he opposes through long takes, leisurely pacing, and composed tableaux. Angelopoulos uses long shots, and de-emphasizes individual performances, unlike Hollywood's close-ups and star system. Hollywood tries to emotionally seduce its audience, while Angelopoulos looks for means to occasionally distance his viewers from their emotional responses. Of course, just reversing Hollywood's techniques cannot in itself constitute a style, but it seemed at the time to have been a good place to start to define a national cinema.

The camera of Georges Arvantis has been crucial in all of Angelopoulos' films, and "The Travelling Players" is no exception. Two-thirds of the film consists of exterior shots in subtle, subdued colors, recorded in the drab light of wintry dawns and dusks. The film is shot almost entirely in long shots that are also long takes, many lasting several minutes, and some as long as seven to nine minutes. The retelling of these thirteen years of history, covered in 240 minutes, required only eighty scenes or takes. On several occasions, during some long takes, there is a shift in time, which is meant to underscore the political linkage between the pre- and post-war military regimes. At other times, objects or characters come into the camera's restricted field of view , somewhat poorly framed, and even unpredictably at times, while outside sounds, near or far away, remind the viewer of the existence of an outside, unseen world. Sometimes, the camera searches a rural landscape, a courtyard, a back alley, in a 360-degree pan. The viewer is invited to share in the search, in what to look for, and for how long, and maybe return to the original place for a second look. Many of these long takes with little action in them often follow moments of intense emotion. They become, in fact, resting points where the viewer can reflect on the dramatic event he or she has just witnessed. There are three particular long takes, in full shots, with the camera immobile, during which three of the main characters, Agamemnon, Electra, and Pylades, each in turn recount key moments in the history of their country. During these monologues, the actors speak monotonously, without inflection or emotion. But other than these three instances when history becomes intimate through the testimonials of the three characters, history is observed from a distance, without fanfare, without insightful dialogue.

There are no stars in this film. Although Orestes is certainly an important character, and the second half of the film is Electra's story even more than Orestes', the true protagonist is the group of players itself. As time passes, the group membership changes, but the group itself survives as a living character.

This film is composed as a mosaic of scenes rather than an ordered narrative as Angelopoulos switches back and forth in time and from one character to another. Using these distancing devices is one of the ways by which Angelopoulos forces the audience to reflect on the broader themes, rather than just the individual participants and moments.

"The Travelling Players" is a meditation on history and myth. In this film, Angelopoulos examines the political power elite, monarchist-fascist, supported by foreign powers that had obstructed Greek democracy since at least 1936. This is a continuation of his investigation, which began with "Days of '36" (1972), and would continue with "Megalexandros" (1979). Angelopoulos' views contradict the "official" Greek history and constitute a fundamental revision of history in which the Left, in general, and the Communist Party of Greece in particular, are given their proper places, and are not depicted as the moral threat to Greek democracy. Angelopoulos' main arguments for this revision have to do with the nature of the Greek resistance to the German occupation and the civil war which followed.

In this representation, Greece is no longer the Greece of the travel brochures, with its eternal sunshine and beautiful islands. Instead of the "travel poster" Greece, Arvantis' camera shows us a land with its scruffy homes, rundown "kafeneons," crumbling stone walls, and rutted streets. Greece is no longer the cradle of western democracy, but a place where tyranny is deeply-rooted, and its enchanted islands are places of detention, torture and executions. Greece is a land possessed by Hunger and Death.

On a mythological level, the characters play out a modern version of the myth of the House of Atreus. As it is in Aeschylus' Agamemnon, betrayal is a major theme of the film, betrayal on a personal level by some members of the troupe. But on the contemporary historical level, the betrayal is that of Greece, from outside by other nations, but even more tragically, from within itself. Through this parallel Angelopoulos unambiguously suggests the repetitive cyclical nature of human existence.

On the other hand, since Aeschylus's Oresteia also relates the birth of Athenian democracy, it is from this lesson that Angelopoulos, continuing the lesson of Aeschylus, thematically links individual tragedy to the national struggle for freedom.

"The Travelling Players" is a powerful historical epic, if not an unusual one, as far as American audiences' expectations are concerned. I would certainly discourage seeing this as a first exposure to Angelopoulos' films. For those who appreciate Angelopoulos' work, it is one of his finest works, worthy of several viewings.

Mother and Son (1997)

We will meet where we agreed...

[10/10 · 20 February 2008]

The first impression one has upon viewing Sokurov's film is of formal aesthetic parallels with Tarkovsky's cinematography (long takes, his free use of natural sounds, and the unaffectedness of his actors). Both directors concern themselves with philosophical questions of the human existence and strive to express the inner reality of their beings. However, whereas Tarkovsky' main characters are spiritually oppressed, struggling to overcome and escape their fates, Sokurov's characters films are resigned to and accepting of their oppression. Tarkovsky's cinema is one of striving toward spiritual liberation, whereas Sukorov's cinema is one of enduring spiritual submission.

In "Mother and Son," one is struck above all by the rather unusual cinematography, starting with the very first images following the credits. Many scenes have the flatness of a painting instead of the usual three-dimensionality of films. Indeed, "Mother and Son" is a "picture-film," where the images, the perspectives are routinely distorted and flattened to two dimensions. Sokurov's intentions are clear so far has he is striving to give his film the appearance of an icon or of a religious painting of the Quattro cento. I would also add that some of the indoor scenes, in particular the opening one, reminds one of the founder of the German expressionist school, Edvard Munch. The distortion of the characters' physiques and the claustrophobic atmosphere of the room reeking of death also contribute to this identification with Munch's most famous paintings and engravings.

All through this production, Sokurov distorts his images in various ways, using panes of glass placed in front or to the side of the lens, mirrors, and even paint on the camera lens itself. Through these effects, the characters, objects, and nature appear "compressed" and distorted, which then serves as a metaphor for the turmoil of the soul. This turmoil is exacerbated further by the sense of a timelessness which permeates the film. Time seems suspended by the stillness of the characters. The long takes (there are fifty-eight shots in a film which runs for seventy-three minutes) also give a sense of stillness, which make us lose all sense of time.

"Mother and Son" is almost a silent film. The silence which prevails for most of the film is deepened by discrete, natural sounds emanating from beyond the screen, accentuating the sense of isolation from the rest of the world: running water, thunder, wind, bird calls, etc. In this respect, Nature is an important character, visually as well as aurally. The appearance of a steaming train or of a sailboat far in the distance only serves to remind us of the isolation of these two characters. These natural sounds are mixed together with some very subtle original music by Mikhail Ivanovich, together with a few musical segments from Mikhail Glinka and Otmar Nussio. The dialogue is spare, and these exchanges can hardly be considered conversation. The characters have gone beyond talking to express their thoughts and inner feelings to each other: they even have the same dreams. No philosophical discussions on the meaning of love or death ever arrive to reinforce what is evident through the imagery.

Finally, one will notice that the two actors are non-professional: Alexei Ananishnov is "in real life" a mathematics professor, and it is the only film ever made by Gudrun Geyer, who had no previous acting experience. The characters in the film are present, but they are not acting. This is in keeping with Sokurov intentions to relate an experience and not a story.

"Mother and Son"'s themes are about one of the deepest relationships which can exist on the Earth, the love between a mother and her son, and the solitude of the death experience. The film explores the remaining moments between the son and his mother on her unavoidable journey toward death. Nothing else exists for these two characters, about whom we know nothing. Sokurov does not reveal anything about their past, nor about their future. The present moment on their road together toward the doors of death is the only subject of importance. They are as one being in a strange, lonely, but beautiful world. But this intimate relationship will soon be rent asunder by Death, and Sokurov shows us that in spite of their close love relationship, in the end death is still a personal, private, isolating experience for both of them. As the mother drifts in and out of consciousness, the son's attitude as he faces the inescapable end goes from somewhat cheery and reassuring in front of his conscious mother, to total anguish and desperation when he is alone in the woods.

If the journey of these characters is a mystical experience, it is not a religious one. God is never mentioned nor alluded to. Sokurov denies a deity, but not some indeterminate afterlife.

The film's ending is still ambiguous, as Sokurov leaves open the possibility that the mother is still alive when the son returns from his walk. In the scene just before the son leaves the house, his mother lies in her bed-coffin, a white butterfly rests on her fingers. In many cultures, from the Christian Irish to the Baluba from central Zaire, the soul of a person emerges from the cocoon (the grave) and flies away in the form of a butterfly. Sokurov leaves us guessing at the end of the film: on the mother's gray, emaciated hand, the butterfly is still there.

"Mother and Son" is an experience much more than it is a film. We are confronted with a continuum of painted scenes, as we would in any museum. We are drawn into each scene as we would be drawn into each painting, reflecting on content which raises in us a myriad of emotions -- some from long ago, forgotten -- or provokes new reflection. All of these emotions appear and disappear in dream-like fashion and in so doing, we partake in the mystery and complexity of the love between a mother and her son.

The Lady with the Dog (1960)

If you are afraid of loneliness, don't marry.

[10/10 · 19 February 2008]

The "Lady with the Little Dog" is arguably Chekhov's best short story, and probably one of the greatest short stories ever written. I realize this is quite a statement to make, but, notwithstanding my opinion, it has been also the opinion of countless literary critics since the publication of the story. The challenge to faithfully render it on the screen was indeed a daunting task, but Heifitz, sure of himself, went ahead with the adaptation of "The Lady with the Little Dog," an intimidating task, and succeeded. Of course, it did not hurt that Heifitz had been a great admirer of Chekhov's work since his childhood, and considered him his mentor. And of course, nobody without a "velikaya russkaya dusha," a great Russian soul, could have rendered this work. To a Russian, his soul is something more than what a Westerner drags to church on Sundays and holidays. It is hard to explain the Russian soul, but as they say, I cannot tell you what it is but I know it when I see it.

Andrei Moskvin and Dmitry Meskhiyev's black and white photography is exquisite in rendering the atmosphere of the film, starting in its opening with the lethargic atmosphere of Yalta, the snowy Moscow winter, or the pathetic, frozen atmosphere of its conclusion. Heitfitz' succeeds at reproducing Chekhov's style and symbols. As rapid cuttings distinguish the story's narrative technique, the camera often jumps to new scenes without warning. These cuts and jumps through time give a sense of the suddenness and unexpectedness of Anna and Gurov's illicit love affair, their falling in love, their settling into their new life, where much has to be improvised to maintain the relationship. Nature and the sea are important symbols in Chekhov's work and are portrayed in the film through lyrical long shots of the sea at sunset and the nearby hills at Yalta. The two protagonists sit silently, reflecting from their vantage point on the birth of their love affair, lost in the continuum of eternity.

"…Yes, when you stop to think, the whole world is wonderful -- everything, except what we ourselves think and do when we forget the higher aims of existence and our human dignity" says Gurov.

Heitfitz uses a variety of shots appropriate for each scene. Close shots and close ups emphasize the moments of psychological drama. The dialogue is, as in Chekhov, minimal, and never more than is necessary. Only few words convey the emotional complexity of the characters, preserving the intensity of their feelings.

As with Chekhov, the Yalta seduction scene in Anna's room, or any of the intimate scenes later on, is not shown. In that respect, Chekhov/Heifitz followed the Russian mores of the time, knowing full well that had Chekhov dared to innovate, it would have never passed the censor's pen. One also notes the great care taken with the period details, such as costumes, carriages, and the physiognomy of the actors.

The acting of the two main characters, Iya Savvina and Aleksei Batalov, is "on the mark." She is young, fragile, and innocent, and he, reserved, sophisticated, and aristocratic. Anna was Savvina's first role. She went on to appear in twenty-seven more films, her last one, Trotsky, in 1993. Batalov has appeared in more than thirty-four films, including "Moscow Does Not Believe in Tears" (1979). The other two lesser characters appear only briefly: Nina Alisova, as Gurov's wife is sullen, and Pantelejmon Krymov in the role of Anna's husband, indeed looks like a "lackey." The lyrical music by Nadezhda Simonian, like the dialogue, is used relatively sparingly. A romantic love theme appears throughout the film with different tempi, underscoring the different situations, and in several scene transitions.

The themes of this film are love, and the Russian society in the late 19th century. "The Lady with the Little Dog" is a love story between two people who started in life on the wrong footing, for whatever reasons, as most of us do. To understand the story, we have to speculate as to what had happened to these two characters before the story opens. She is an aristocratic Russian woman, and thus was destined to marry, for love if she was lucky, but most likely without love, just to fulfill her role in society, to raise a family and be the centerpiece of that family. So, Anna followed her destiny. Gurov is an older aristocrat, from the big city, a well-established member of the Moscovite society, married with children. He is a man, and therefore in (relative) control of his life, and as a man of his time, looks down on women, but at the same time, enjoys their companionship. For that epoch, at forty years of age, he is at the twilight of his womanizing years.

Anna and Gurov meet and start an intimate relationship, each for a different reason. Anna wants to escape her boring, dreary small town provincial life. To Gurov, Anna may represent one of his last chances, if not the very last, to seduce a young woman who will rejuvenate him, invigorate his life. His life is turned upside down, as the seducer is himself seduced, hoisted upon his own petard. But love does not rescue Anna and Gurov from their stale marriages, nor does it improve their lives. Of course, divorce at that time and in that society was totally out of the question. At the end of the film, nothing is said about their future. It would seem that their relationship may continue, with their occasional assignations in seedy hotels, a couple caught "…like a pair of birds of passage. They've been caught and forced into separate cages." (Anna). Neither of them is brave or strong enough to fly free, "It seemed that in a little while a solution would offer itself, a new, lovely life would begin." (Gurov)

This short story, which Heifitz rendered flawlessly on the screen, is among Chekhov's most poignant and lyrical.

Gervaise (1956)

Life in the Last Lane

[10/10 · 18 February 2008]

René Clément's "Gervaise" is an adaptation of Emile Zola's "L'assommoir," (1877), and part of the long series of novels, "Les Rougon Macquart," the natural and social history of a family under the Second Empire of Napoleon III. Gervaise-Macquart is the heroine in one of these novels, "L'Assommoir," which examines the milieu of the working class and the plague which is alcoholism.

However, Clément did not simply condense this monumental novel into a one and one-half hour film, which in the process would have only betrayed Zola's masterpiece. Clément, while scrupulously respecting the work of Emile Zola, makes a film centered on one character, Gervaise, a poignant and incredible picture of that period. Clément's choice resulted in "L'Assommoir," the novel, becoming "Gervaise," the film. In this film, he follows Zola's naturalistic approach, which at the limit becomes a stylized realism, a vision whose blackness takes on epic proportions. Clément represents very real emotions until they are reduced almost to abstractions. The result of such representation would seem to be the very opposite of realism and of naturalism. But his cruelty, which carries him until the end of a particular situation, sometimes even too far, merges with Zola's exacerbation of the situation (although Zola's clinical details are mixed with a resonant lyricism). With Clément, we do not end up with caricatures but with an authentic naturalism, which although refined is not less cruel.

A first-class group of actors was assembled to breathe life into Zola's words. Maria Schell (1926 - 2005), Francois Périer (1919 - 2002), both received prizes for their interpretations. Armand Mestral (1917 - 2000) and Susy Delair are outstanding in their respective roles.

René Clément shows his virtuosity in the cutting and editing of his work. The linkages give his film its extraordinary wholeness of form and its fluidity. The dissolves, when not passing directly from one scene to the next, are almost seamless, and most often they are accompanied by voice over comments. Clément exploits the lighting changes to reinforce the story. Many sequences open with a clear, pale luminosity, ending in a night-time. This, in fact, gives a kind of symbolic lighting to the film.

The camera motions are primarily tracking-pan shots, with the camera constantly following the actors in occasionally long, or sometimes infinitely short, motions, but always moving. In opposition, long motionless shots reinforce the main dramatic scenes. There are numerous series of close-ups, which serve either to emphasizing the psychology of the characters, or because the overall composition of a shot has a precise psychological significance.

Much of the dialogue is taken verbatim from Zola's novel. Discrete commentaries in voice over by Gervaise link certain scenes and remind us that "L'Assommoir" has become the history of this woman. Little by little, Gervaise's commentaries diminish in frequency with the film progression, as she becomes more and more tired and despondent, eventually disappearing completely, replaced by the sound effects.

The music is by the renowned classical composer George Auric, a member of "le Groupe des Six." Clément's choice of Auric to write the music for this film was not arbitrary. The credo of the "Six" was a music based in everyday life, on vulgar spectacles (circuses, fairs. music halls, street songs), to confront us with the "real life." Auric's music is discreet and used sparingly.

At the time Zola wrote the novel, he was strongly criticized for using such powerful material, as well as for presenting opinions of the lower classes. "Gervaise" is above all an historical document of the life in the middle 1850s, in the working class milieu in Paris. The daily, unbearable workers' conditions are remarkably well-portrayed in this film, without editorial comments. In those days, a work-day for a man, woman, and child was 15-18 hours; strikes were practically unknown and when one happened, it was violently repressed and their leaders severely punished. There were no social security or retirement plans, and aging without children to help in old age was literally an early death sentence. The salaries were extremely low, and an accident or a sickness would irremediably throw a family into dire, abject poverty. There was no escaping from this reality. The only form of entertainment other than an occasional visit to a "Caf'conc" ("Café Concert"), a kind of musical show, was "l'assommoir" (a bludgeon), the term for a low-class tavern, where men and women were easy prey to alcoholism. Clément shows us the irremediable descent of Coupeau into the alcoholic hell, and all the consequences to his loved-ones. Soon after, Gervaise will follow.

René Clément tells us the story of Gervaise, a woman subjugated by the men she loved, captive of society, her social background, and social condition, who tries to escape her proletariat status. But external and internal conditions frame our lives, against which our will has no control, and Gervaise's revolt against her condition, her desire to possess her own shop, rising above her station, may have also brought her downfall. A Hindu person would say the she violated her "Dharma." But who knows? Maybe she would have ended up in the same place, but at least she got the satisfaction of having chosen her own instrument of torture.

One of the three important men in Gervaise's life is Goujet, and with him Clément introduces a sub-theme-- a political one. The 1850s saw the democratic ideals of the first French revolution of 1789 logically progressing toward a budding Socialism, coming in as a reaction against the new slavery of the industrial revolution, Capitalism. Goujet, the blacksmith, represents the ideal socialist revolutionary, a hard-working, honest laborer, just asking for justice and his deserved place "at the table." He is ready to sacrifice himself for the benefit of a better life not only for himself, but also for his fellow workers.

René Clément's adaptation of Emile Zola's novel "L'Assommoir" is widely regarded as one of his best films and it is unquestionably one of his most poignant and intense works.

The Duellists (1977)

En Garde! Sacrebleu.

[10/10 · 17 February 2008]

I cannot overemphasize the incredible beauty of this film. If you have never taken a walk through the painting galleries of the British Museum, the National Gallery, or the Musée d'Orsay, just watch "The Duellists" as an introduction to the treasures of these museums. Scott's film could have been "painted" by a de la Tour, Corot, Jean-Louis David, or Watteau. Each of the images, carefully composed with a real attention to the aesthetic, appears as the true work of a master painter in the disposition of its elements, the harmony of the colors, and its contrasts. Scott shot the film using natural light as often as possible, resulting in many of the interior scenes being chiaroscuros.

The main themes of "The Duellists" are honor and integrity. One of the definitions of "honor" is, "the quality of being honorable and having a good name" (for an alternate definition, one should refer to Antony's eulogy of Caesar in Shakespeare Julius Caesar). Honor is a subjective concept, which regulates the behavior of individuals according to their different associations, groups, religions, etc. Very often, honor means blind obedience, and chauvinism. Obviously in this story we are concerned primarily about the military code of honor. The two main characters are part of the Emperor's Grand Army, and their honor consists of defending and upholding the reputation of their country, their army, and their regiment according to the code.

The insult which led Féraud to duel with a civilian in Strasbourg was, according to Féraud, caused by the civilian's disrespect toward the 7th Hussars Regiment. Féraud's first duel with d'Hubert was precipitated by the apparent injustice that Féraud perceived in the order issued for his arrest, due to his having fought a duel in the defense of the honor of the regiment. As Féraud could not possibly strike out at the General, he turned his wrath toward d'Hubert, who had sought him out in the salon of a famous lady, comrades in arms just don't do such a thing to one another. Be that as it may, given his hot temperament (he is from the Gascogne region of France, whose habitants are reputed to be testy), Féraud felt compelled to demand reparation for the insult in the only acceptable, honorable way, a duel.

On the other hand, d'Hubert is also subject to the same code of honor. At first, he tried to dissuade Féraud's challenge (which is still honorable), but failed. As both men were on their way to the back garden where the first duel took place, it probably entered d'Hubert's mind to avoid the duel by running away. However, this would have brought dishonor to his regiment, to his uniform, and to himself. He had no choice, therefore, but to submit to the military code of honor. As a result, d'Hubert became the captive, the slave to the barbaric universe of the code of honor. Caught in a tempest that he could not allay, he sacrificed one quarter of his life and any of his hopes for calm.

Fortunately for d'Hubert, he still had an exit available, as he could and did return to civilian life, where the code of honor is so different as to be in conflict with the military one. In the military, one gets rewards for killing, while in civilian life, one gets sent to prison. When, at the conclusion of the last duel, d'Hubert should have killed his adversary according to the military code, he chose only to perform a "virtual" killing by declaring Féraud dead. In so doing, he also preserved at the same time the civilian code, which forbids the killing of another person. Féraud, an honorable man if a hot-headed one, was also prisoner of his code of honor, but he did not have the luxury of escaping to civilian life. Although discharged from the army, it was the only life he knew, and he was a military man at heart. Therefore, he adhered to his code, and tried his best to kill his adversary to uphold his (military) honor.

Férault is honest: contrary to d'Hubert, he is a consistent person, a man of integrity. With Féraud, what you see is what you get. He will be faithful to his Emperor until his dying breath, even though the Emperor has lost. d'Hubert, on the other hand, although having proved himself as a competent warrior for Napoleon, abandoned him, either out of opportunism or selfishness. In this respect, Féraud was right in saying that d'Hubert "never loved the Emperor." Laura is also a person of integrity. She does not pretend that her behavior is driven other than by her own self interest, and she acts accordingly. Of course, the duplicitous Fouché, traitor to every man and to every principle and motive of human conduct, is the worst of opportunists, the archetype of a person with no integrity.

"The Duellists" also raises the question of class warfare. The Emperor, although not a commoner, did not belong to the French aristocracy. He tried to level the playing field, and for a long time during his reign, everybody advanced from the same starting point. All the Emperor's generals got to their positions through their battlefield performances, rather than through their birthrights. Despite the apparent move toward equality, there was still a resentment and suspicion on the part of the commoner-class people toward the nobles. Certainly, one of the reasons Féraud had for not giving the benefit of the doubt to d'Hubert during their first encounter is that everything in the demeanor of d'Hubert sets him apart as an aristocrat, and Féraud is a commoner. In Féraud's mind, d'Hubert probably got the cushy job of being an attaché to the General, not for his achievements, but because of his station in civilian life.

"The Duellists" is a remarkable film for the beauty of its images, its intelligent production, and solid acting by every member of the cast.

Ulysses' Gaze (1995)

When God created the World, the first thing he made were journeys

[10/10 · 16 February 2008]

Up until 1995, all of Angelopoulos' films had for their subjects Greece, Greek history, and Greek myths. He continues somewhat with "Ulysses' Gaze," but this time the filmmaker travels beyond the Greek borders into the neighboring Balkan countries. Angelopoulos was not trained in the method of the Actor's Studio. More importantly, he believes that shooting in the actual locations of his stories enhances his sense of actually participating in the film itself, and therefore produces better outcomes. Except for the scenes taking place in Sarajevo, which were shot around Mostar, Vukovar, and in the Krijena region, all the other scenes were filmed on location, in Albania, the Republic of Skopje, Bulgaria, Rumania, and Serbia.

Angelopoulos wrote the script with the collaboration of Tonino Guerra. In "Ulysses' Gaze," history is present, but contrary to "The Travelling Players" where it was the theme, and the group of players rather than any individual character was the "star" of the film, in the present film, history is now relegated to the background, and since "A's" odyssey through the region is the main story, we see a more conventional character in the personage represented by Harvey Keitel, and also in the different characters who cross his path. However, the dialogues are often stylized, and this gives the actors, especially Keitel, a somewhat "mechanical" delivery, with the exception of Keitel's last monologue. This is in keeping with Angelopoulos' intent to occasionally distance his viewers from their emotional responses, forcing them to study and explore the identities of the characters. The Romanian actress, Maia Morgenstern, plays the parts of the four women. These women can easily be identified with the women Homer's Ulysses came across during his voyage. They also represent all the women whom "A" had loved and lost in past. Erland Josephson's is, as always, up to snuff.

Giorgos Arvanitis, Angelopoulos's long time collaborator, is responsible for the stunning cinematography. Many of the scenes are long shots that are also long takes, lasting several minutes, Angelopoulos' undeniable signature. On several occasions, during some long takes, there is a shift in time, emphasizing history's continuity. The film's first scene, on the quay of Salonika, is particularly remarkable in its lyrical construction.

The music is by Greek composer Eleni Karaindrou. Her compositions for the cinema transcend the soundtrack's conventions. Her music does not merely accompany the story, it is an essential element of it. The score is a counterpoint to the cinematic action, and establishes an emotional climate, combining with the image to express what cannot be said in words.

As the title of the film announces, Angelopoulos is taking us on a journey through the tumultuous Balkan region and on a time-travel through its 20th century history. It is, after all, where "the Great War" started, in Sarajevo, where the film ends eighty years later, among more massacres and mayhem. Angelopoulos considers himself a historian of 20th century Greece, who likes to bring lessons of the Hellenic myths into his discussions. I would like to emphasize that it is useless, and even detrimental to the enjoyment of "Ulysses' Gaze," to try to see in this film the retelling of Homer's Odyssey in a contemporary context. Angelopoulos does not try to recount the Odyssey. Rather, the Odyssey is merely a reference point, and the missing films become the journey's Ithacan destination.

On one level, "Ulysses' Gaze" is a search for the roots of the cinema of the Balkans, and more generally, of the cinema itself. "Ulysses' Gaze" considers the importance of film in recording history, and its potential in influencing its future development. Angelopoulos also suggests early in the film, through the events taking place in Florina, that film, not the Hollywood-type schlock, but thought-provoking film such as his can influence people's lives.

The second theme is of course, the odyssey of "A" through the Balkans, and as Ulysses was, "A" must also be clever to overcome all the journey's obstacles in order to reach his goal, the lost film reels. But this journey is actually the individual nostalgic journey of a man in search of his past, his loves, and his losses. "A," a Greek-American, left his native country thirty years before. It is said that of all the immigrants who come to the United States, the ones who long the most for their native country are the Greeks. Many eventually return home, and "A" is just one more of them. Finally, the film is also a Balkans history lesson. The voyage goes on its long and weary itinerary over this hostile region, and as it proceeds, we learn about past but also about present events, which tore, and are still tearing this area apart. Although Angelopoulos' political stand is well known, the film stays clear of any political moral regarding the Bosnian war. Angelopoulos cannot help but be pessimistic in that respect. In Homer's epic poem, Ulysses returns to Ithaca, kills all the suitors, and most likely, lives "happily ever after" with his Penelope. But in Ulysses' Gaze, Angelopoulos knows his history well: the real Balkans are not, nor have they ever been, a heaven of peace. So, the war goes on, and "A," although having attained his Ithaca, is still trapped in Sarajevo, with all of his friends dead. For "A," the odyssey continues, as he recites Homer's optimistic lines, which are aimed at the future, "When I return…." What has meaning to Angelopoulos is not so much the goal of the journey, but the journey itself: "The story that never ends." Angelopoulos' films tend to be monumental and slow, with striking images and a dreamlike rhythm. His films require audience participation through the viewer's memories, thoughts, and feelings. In these respects, Ulysses' Gaze is undeniably an Angelopoulos film, and certainly one of his masterpieces. Notwithstanding most American reviewers, such as Roger Ebert who described "Ulysses' Gaze" as "a numbing bore," I highly recommend this film.

Through a Glass Darkly (1961)

Certainty Achieved

[10/10 · 14 February 2008]

"Through a Glass Darkly" is a seminal film, where Bergman's film-world undergoes a fundamental change of theme and expression. Drawing an analogy to classical music, Bergman explores a chamber music format, what he called his "chamber plays," which possess the intimacy of chamber music. These chamber plays resemble stage plays, made up of a succession of distinct scenes. The cast is reduced to a minimum of actors and the screenplay extends over a relatively short period of time. Past events are only indicated in the words of the characters, as the drama takes place entirely in the present moment, in a well-defined, restricted environment, and a muted scenery and décor.

Cameraman Sven Nykvist introduced a new cinematographic style that would become Bergman's signature from this point forward. Nykvist's style is spare, highly disciplined, and marked by minimal camera movements. Most of the time, Nykvist's camera follows the persons who speaks, seldom the one who listens. The dramatic aspect of the dialogue is reflected in close-ups through the characters' facial contrasts.

"Through a Glass Darkly" is the first film shot in the bleak, remote island of Faro, where Bergman would settle five years later and which would be, starting with "Persona" through the end of the decade, the set for his films. Except for the opening shot and two other occasions, when short excerpts of J.S. Bach's "Suite No.2 in D minor for Cello" is heard, the film totally lacks composed music. The "music" is instead made up natural sounds, which play a crucial role in the developing drama: the rain, the wind, the water, bird calls, etc.

Bergman's choice of actors couldn't have been more appropriate, as the acting of the quartet is first class. Harriet Andersson carries the day in her heart-wrenching depiction of a schizophrenic's slow descent into Hell. Gunnar Bjorstrand's interpretation of the guilt-ridden David is understated and entirely compelling. Lars Passgard's acting matches his character's age, a seventeen-year-old frightened boy, struggling with his puberty, and von Sydow as the tormented husband, is thoroughly convincing.

The first theme of the film is the isolation of the individual in the world. All four characters in the film are alone within themselves, insulated from the outside world. David, the father, has taken refuge and isolated himself through his writing, to the exclusion of his now-deceased wife and then his children. Tragically, he is well aware of his isolation and suffers immensely from it. Martin's communication with his wife is mannered and superficial. He is locked up in his role as a "good" husband. Although he loves Karin, he is too busy with his work and his everyday life to be able to understand, and therefore help, his sick wife. He only goes through the motions of caring for Karin, like David's "caring" for his children when he brings them ill-chosen gifts.

Karin lives equally between her two worlds. The first world, the world of her schizophrenia where she hears voices, is of course totally incomprehensible to others. This world, at odds with her second world, the world of realities, results in her being also misunderstood. Out of desperation, she will eventually choose her schizophrenic world. Karin is the only one of the four characters looking for God. Is it only because she is weak and needs help? If this is so, this selfish relationship with God only serves to save and heal her. This theme will be explored in "Winter Light," Bergman's next film.

Minus also lives in his own world, tormented by his awakening sexuality, which leads to his ambiguous attraction to his sister, the only female with whom he has any form of intimacy. He has no male guidance, as his father has abandoned him. He cannot handle the difficult transition from puberty to adulthood and has locked himself out to the realities of the outside world. His mixed-up feelings, aided by his sister's mental problems, lead him to commit incest.

The second theme is the Christian notion, and also a modern idea, that only a broken spirit can find a new life. According to this thought, each of the characters in the film must first go to their ruin before being "reborn." The film shows that in some instances hope is still possible, and the barriers can be broken down. We see David undergoing a transformation following his attempted suicide, opening up to his children and to Martin with love. Minus confronts his fear of love, but he is too ashamed of his "sin" to comprehend his action's power of redemption, until his father explains it to him. This is an implicitly Christian message. By the end of the film, as he encourages Minus to face the future, he offers his son a real gift, his simple belief that "God is love, and love is God. When Minus finally says, "Papa spoke to me," it's like an absolution from the lost father he has regained, along with his belief in God. However, nothing is said about Martin, and Karin by choosing, in spite of herself, the spider-God, is obviously not redeemed.

I believe it would be a mistake to assume that "Through the Glass Darkly" is Karin's film. Only Karin's slide into madness is central to the film, as it forces her father, brother and husband to confront themselves: their experiences, not her illness, shape the film. And of the four characters, Minus is the pivotal figure of the film: it is his consciousness that organizes the film. His struggle, with the coming of adulthood and his desire to create a bond with his father, is the major story of the film.

Notwithstanding his other masterpieces, this film, together with its two other companions in the trilogy, "Winter Light" and "The Silence," represents the best that Ingmar Bergman has ever produced.

The Silence (1963)

God's Silence: the Negative Print.

[10/10 · 13 February 2008]

"The Silence" followed immediately "Winter Light.". It is the third of the trilogy that started with "Through a Glass Darkly." As with its two predecessors, "The Silence" is also a "chamber work," in the sense that Bergman uses only a few leading characters (Ester, Anna, and Johan), and the work takes place over a limited time period, about twenty-four hours, and very restricted in space.

"The Silence," although connected to the previous two films, announces a new style in Bergman's films. In this film, Bergman has reduced the dramatic substance to virtually nothing. Although almost nothing happens during the film, still viewers are captivated, not by the dialogue, which is sparse and spare, but by the images.

Sven Nykvist gives the movie the look of a dream, without indulging in dream effects. The images have a unique richness of shading, and their compositions and the play of shadows have a strong dramatic meaning. Of particular note is the shot which occurs when Anna is leaving for her final date with the young waiter. This shot is the precursor of the ying-yang shot that will later be used with great effect in Bergman's "Persona."

The soundtrack consists only of real sounds, as opposed to "wall-paper" music. There is no music in the film, except when Ester tunes in Bach's music on the radio. Also, just as a musician does, Bergman very effectively uses silences throughout the film.

As always, Bergman's choice of actors is inspired. Gunnel Lindblom gives a convincing performance of a lusty Anna, in sharp contrast with the intellectual and controlled character of her sister, brilliantly interpreted by Ingrid Thulin. For the first time, Bergman makes a child a major character. He treats this scared and at times even unattractive boy, sensitively but without sentimentality.

Ingmar Bergman's "The Silence" is arguably the most abstract and nihilistic film of the trilogy. The silence in this film goes beyond God's silence of "Winter Light:" it is now absolute silence, including the complete cessation of communication between human beings. The atmosphere is claustrophobic and suffocating. The film has for its setting Timoka, a strange city, in a strange land on the verge of a war. War is by definition the end result of total, absolute breakdown in communication. The war setting also symbolizes the feelings of antagonism, separation, and fear which engulf the two sisters. The language of this country is totally incomprehensible to the three travelers, even to Ester who is by profession an interpreter familiar with linguistics.

The communication breakdown in the film is universal. The three travelers can scarcely communicate their basic needs to the porter, and they must resort to hand gestures, grunts, etc, to express themselves. Attempts at communication between the two sisters are merely lacerating verbal jousts. The mother and son are worlds apart. Johan is repeatedly left to himself, as his mother goes about her business of arguing with her sister or fornicating with her lover. Anna and her lover cannot communicate except in a physical way, which Anna finds convenient.

The characters of the sisters could not be more dissimilar. They are the opposing elements of a single psyche. Anna is sensual and instinctive. Ester is an intellectual, afraid of her instincts, and pathologically driven by a need to control. She loves her sister, and feels responsible for her, yet needs to control her, as their father once controlled her (Ester) with his love. But Ester is also unable to express this love, which can be misconstrued at time as incestuous, to Anna. Anna loves Ester, but is unable to effectively express her feelings to her. She is overwhelmed by Ester's need to control and restrain her. Regarding Anna's attitude toward her son, she is at once caring and rejecting. Obviously, these mixed signals from his mother are both disturbing and overwhelming to Johan. She is the closest human being in his life and she is unable to communicate unambiguously her feelings to him. Clinging desperately to his mother, he is rejected and forced into the "real" strange and bewildering adult world. The only incident where Johan feels somewhat unthreatened is when he is accepted in the company of the dwarfs. The dwarfs are adults, but they are Johan's size, so he feels at ease with them as he would with children of his own age. Otherwise, Johan is an outside observer of the world around him.

The old floor porter is also struggling to communicate with his guests. He shows his genuine concern for Ester's welfare, but he is still powerless in establishing a real communication. With Johan he also fails, because of the language barrier, because of the age gap, and maybe because his friendliness is instinctively misunderstood by Johan (and I am sure by many viewers).

There is a brief moment of communion between the protagonists provided by few bars of one of the "Goldberg Variations" (the 25th). They are heard on Ester's radio and result in an instant communication between Ester and the old porter, but also with every one else present, as we see through the large doorway a "Pieta:" Johan is on Anna's lap being caressed and kissed. The old man pronounces the name of the composer "Johan Sebastian Bach," with a stress on the name "Johan," implying everyone's connection with and through the young boy.

God has totally disappeared from the scene. After a prolonged, suffocating attack, Ester implores God to allow her to die in her own homeland. But God is silent and she is left to die alone and abandoned in a strange land.

Although a rather depressing film, "The Silence" nevertheless ends on a hopeful note: Ester and Johan have been able to communicate with each other. Before leaving, Johan hugs his aunt, in the only display of love in the film, and Ester is able to translate few words from the strange language of Timoka into Swedish, which she passes on to Johan.

An Affair of Love (1999)

It was an act of love...

[10/10 · 11 February 2008]

Notwithstanding their national origins, Belgium director Frédéric Fonteyne and Iranian scenarist Philippe Blasband have managed to create the quintessential French film: a film created for adults, with a theme to match, unusual maybe, but still taken out of "real" life, psychological, philosophical and challenging to the viewer. Fonteyne, in spite of his young age (born in 1968), speaks about love and feelings with great maturity. He mystifies the viewer with his approach to modern sexuality.

Blasband's scenario presents his love story "upside-down." Starting from a fantasy, which will eventually end up in love, he surrounds the slow but inevitable drift of the protagonists' feelings for each other. Refined, with simple and subtle dialogue, he facilitated enormously the director's work. The two characters recount to a third party, with emotion and an air of propriety, the passion that they were unable either to control or to really confess to each other. We know that their experiment was a failure, because from the outset, their testimonies indicate that they are apart. But the way each talks about "the other" makes us want to discover this "other." We would like to get involved in their story, know their pasts, their presents, and understand why they speak about the "other" with so much nostalgia. They will never know each other's names, their ages, professions. What they do after their trysts, we'll never know, either.

The rhythm and content of the story is controlled by the two protagonists who refuse to disclose the nature of their fantasy, allowing the director to impose upon the viewer the role of voyeur by limiting the viewer's space to that of the fantasy never revealed. Actually, the word "pornographique" in the original title, "Une Affaire Pornographique," is a joke, as there is nothing pornographic about this film. Unfortunately, the American title denies Fonteyne's intention to fully condition, right from the start, the viewer's state of mind. Each time the camera in the red hotel hallway bumps against the closed door of room 118, it renews and heightens the voyeur-viewer's interest. This contrasts sharply with the only time the camera penetrates in the lovers' blue room to witness a banal love scene, which in fact leaves the viewer even more bewildered as to the nature of the fantasy.

The success of this film rests entirely on the flawless acting of Nathalie Baye and Sergi Lopez. These two actors developed chemistry, which is the undeniable sign of mature artists. Their interaction is totally genuine in their exchanges, both verbal and unspoken. We can read on her face the birth of her love for "He": she wants to be happy next to this man, this one and none other. "He" drinks cognac and dips sugar cubes into it while undressing her with his eyes. We can tell that this man knows how to love women, mixing tenderness with desire. There are also their gestures: "Her" expressing herself with her hands, admitting her need to always talk, even during love-making. "He" is reserved, observant, always answering her many questions.

The camera movements often consist of static shots on the two characters, in medium-close shots and close shots, contributing further to the viewer's probing into the two characters psyches.

The original film score is some electronic music, unfortunately up to now unavailable on CD, by André Dziezuk, Marc Mergen, and Jeannot Sanavia. When the credits are rolling, one hears a downtempo/trip-hop, drum and bass music, which recalls Funki Porcini. It all fits perfectly with this unreal situation.

The main theme of this film is boundaries and their perilous crossings. At the beginning of the film, "She" is within her own world, inside her own boundary. This is symbolically represented during the opening as a crowd of pedestrians seen from her point of view, out of focus. "She" has a sexual fantasy, but in order to satisfy it, she will have to cross the first boundary, one set by society. Her fantasy cannot be fulfilled with members of her own entourage, husband, or intimate friends. For this, "She" must look beyond the boundaries of socially accepted behavior, to a stranger. As both meet, they will be beyond society's boundaries in their fantasy world. This accomplished, they breach another boundary when feelings develop: the boundary fixed by love. A whole new world appears to them, a totally unexpected world. Finally, there are the boundaries of understanding and commitment, which they are unable to cross, for previously mentioned reasons. At the very end of the film, we see again a crowd of pedestrians out of focus: she is back within the confines of her own boundary.

Fonteyne shows us a modern society where sex is no longer taboo, but love is becoming such. He never moralizes or resolves these apparent contradictions, but instead brings them into harmony as never done before him: the modern world denying love and the Judeo-Christian world negating sexuality. In the process, Fonteyne destroys the actuation of the fantasy and reinstates it in the secret, in the intimacy, both personal and private of the viewer.

Finally, the film tackles another great theme in the relationship between man and woman: the incommunicability. The fears that each feels: the fear of love, the fear of confessing the love one bears for the other to the other, the fear of appearing ridiculous, the fear that the feeling may not be reciprocated or has not progressed as rapidly in the other. The final scene at the café reveals and underscores a cruel, intense moment, the like of which I do not remember having ever witnessed in any film before. Very little is actually said, as most of the dialogue is in individual voice-overs. All the walls come crashing down on one woman and one man who, by all accounts, we judge were meant to be united for life. And this failure in a relationship which we were starting to take for granted is due to their incapacity to communicate.

The Diving Bell and the Butterfly (2007)

"The Eye"

[10/10 · 9 February 2008]

From Bauby's tragic memoir, Schnabel has produced an ambitious film which succeeds on all levels. The problem facing Schnabel to bring the book to the screen was how to keep the spectator interested beyond the dramatic situation itself? To this end, he uses several solutions in succession.

The first thirty minutes of the film are entirely shown in subjective camera. Without any mannerisms or filmic embellishment, Schnabel succeeds in making the spectator conscious of the patient's terrible situation and of his feelings facing his state of total helplessness. At this point, the transposition of our mind is such that the profound disquiet goes beyond simple empathy, becoming also physical.

Schnabel builds the suspense by progressively revealing the face of the patient. It takes about thirty minutes into the film before we get to clearly see Bauby's distorted, frozen face. From the very beginning of the film, we are not witnessing the story of a man, but we will be this man. But it would be pretentious to say that we will then understand him, the aim of the film being only to paint his intimate portrait, using this ingenious technique.

Following this long expository scene, the focus of the film now shifts toward Bauby's interaction with the people who surround him. These interactions are enough to make the Schnabel's film heartrending and less lyrical or pathetic as it progresses and becomes more of a narrative. This is certainly not a film gimmick to relieve the unbearably oppressive atmosphere crushing the viewers, but a means to keep their interest.

In what follows, we see episodes of Jean-Do's fantasies, a mixture of memories and dreams, some poignant and some comical or sexy, with some fantastic mises-en-scène.

Mathieu Almaric as Jean-Do is outstanding, and he bears a large responsibility for the film's success. Whether in the flashbacks and fantasies, or staring into the camera with his drooling face, frozen and yet so eloquent, or as the voice-over, as another aspect of the Jean-Do, mischievous, sardonic, despairing, lyrical, at no time in this film can Almaric's credibility be questioned.

An exceptional cast of supporting actors and actresses all provide intense richness of emotions, acting with restraint, with hints of modesty and shyness, contrasting with Jean-Do's absolute and candid thoughts. In particular, the four women are superb. Schnabel seems to have made them a little indistinguishable, since for Jean-Do, connected to life mostly through women, they must each have represented the eternal, untouchable feminine.

Scriptwriter Harwood succeeds rather well in pacing the story between immobility and action. However, the key to his success is in making the camera become the man. This is not a new idea, but neither is it a melodramatic gimmick here, and at precisely the right moment Harwood's perspective changes, and his film follows a little more closely the demands of a traditional biography. Friends and family from Bauby's life are introduced one by one, but never in a predictable way, nor based upon clichés.

Cinematographer Janusz Kaminski is brilliant. Rarely has the subjective camera been so well handled: camera out of focus to express the blurring caused by tears; the fades out to black corresponding to the blinking of the eyelid; the occasional leaning of the camera and the brusqueness of some trackings harmoniously fade the shots into the subjective camera. The sets are all spectacular. The image is at times out-of-focus, sometimes brilliant and colorful, sometimes blinding and off-center: this is truly the work of Schnabel, the painter.

Schnabel, perhaps by accident, provides a free endorsement for the French governmental health system. The whole film takes place on the backdrop of the public Maritime Hospital at Berk-sur-Mer. However, viewing the medical care provided to Bauby and the environment of the establishment, American audiences will be forgiven for thinking that this is a special private hospital where only well to do people, such as Bauby, are treated. Not so, this is simply a public hospital, typical of where any French person gets his or her free care.

Schnabel touches the question of continuity in relationships, when the other person becomes a mere shadow of his or her old self, in particular, when the relationship has been intense and at the same time fragile in time and faithfulness. This is raised in a heartbreaking scene, where Céline becomes the unwilling intermediary between Bauby and Inès.

Schnabel describes the souvenirs and bits of one's life that one must be seeing while standing before the gates of death, but in this particular case taking just a little longer. However, Bauby has already died, and has come back to life as an eye.

The film is also about what it means to be an artist. Sickness is a bit like genius, a source of misunderstanding and exclusion, and the artist, like the patient, is in constant battle against the outside world. To escape one's fate, society's cruelty and restraints, one can only rely on one's own intelligence, creativity, and heroism. By reaching deep within himself, Bauby extends his life beyond the limitations of his body by dreaming and creating a work of art. It's a face-off against himself, where the Superego, the butterfly, gains the upper hand over the Ego, the diving bell. Schnabel is a spiritual man, but not a religious one. He believes in the goodness of people, and in their capacity for being patient with their fellow humans and treating them well, just for the sake of it, the way the women in the film give freely of themselves, trying to help Jean-Do.

Finally, this film is a simple but powerful lesson about life, not in the moralistic sense, but in the energy it carries. As Bauby says at the beginning of the film, the lesson is that we should experience life, living in the present, learning to recognize and appreciate the small moments of happiness as they come along, and most importantly, to love.

Winter Light (1963)

Certainty Unmasked

[10/10 · 6 February 2008]

Winter Light is the most unequivocally religious of all Bergman's films. It deals with the God-Man relationship, but also with human relationships in terms of the divine. The basic theme of the film is the failure of everything to communicate with everything else: God with humans, and humans with humans. It is what Tomas describes as "God's silence." Winter Light is constructed like a stage play, with a series of well-defined scenes. It also has the nature of a Passion play, in so far as it takes place on a Sunday, between noon and three o'clock in the afternoon, the time of Christ's passion The first fifteen minutes of the film, a religious service officiated by Tomas, underscore the human disconnection, through the image of eight people widely scattered throughout the church pews. Tomas's first words, "Our Lord Jesus Christ in the night when he was betrayed," points toward what he feels is his own betrayal by Life. Following the communion at the altar, the communicants' demeanors, except for Frovik's, leaves no doubt as to the utter failure of the liturgical act to communicate with the tiny, detached congregation.

Following the service, Tomas meets his first challenge in the person of Jonas. Tomas is totally unable to connect with Jonas's torment, and therefore to be of any solace to him. He hopes for a second chance when Jonas returns to meet him face to face, but again fails miserably at soothing Jonas's anguish. It is as if Tomas is trying to heal himself, rather than Jonas. Tomas talks about his disintegrating faith. The god of his beliefs is "an improbable and private image of a fatherly god. Picture my prayers to an echo-God." When Tomas held up his God to the lens of reality, his God "turned into something ugly and revolting. A spider-God." Tomas concludes that God does not exist: "There is no Creator." Tomas is stunned by his own revelation and loss. The room is suddenly filled with sunlight, underscoring this revelation. He utters Christ's last words on the cross, "God, why have you forsaken me?" He rushes out into the chancel, falls to the floor in a paroxysm of coughing, mumbling, "Now, I am free…free at last." His body is sick and so is his soul, as he now finds himself alone. However, he soon reverts to his echo-God upon hearing the bad news from the old lady. It is also Bergman's conclusion, according to which one must do one's duty, even if one feels it meaningless.

Tomas's encounter with death by the river rapids only reinforces his feelings of emptiness. The roaring of the river covering the speech and overwhelming the human presence, shows Nature's indifference to Man. This directly contradicts Tomas's pronouncements to Jonas that when God is taken out of the human consciousness, "life becomes something understandable" and death just" a dissolution of body and soul." Tomas's second challenge comes in the form of Marta's letter. Tomas's relationship with Marta is also a failure. Tomas had married a woman who, like his mother, protected him from everything evil and ugly in the world. After she died, Tomas took up with Marta, who, probably not coincidently, physically resembles his deceased wife. When Tomas, alone in the vestry, takes out pictures of his dead wife, we see that he holds pictures of Ingrid Thulin, and they are stamped "rakopia" (i.e. "proofs," or literally "raw copy). However, Marta does not behave as the protection-wife, and his obsession with his memory of his dead wife prevents him from connecting, or opening himself to Marta's love for him. Tomas reads Marta's letter, but he still has not understood her. She is simply smothering him with her demands, as he so "eloquently" will tell her later at the schoolhouse.

Marta herself is also incapable of real communication with Tomas. She resorts to writing a letter to him, trying to explain herself, her feelings and her love for him, rather than speak to him directly. In her letter, she displays a self-assurance and aggressiveness that she is unable to project in Tomas's physical presence. Marta is a self-declared atheist. She tells Tomas unequivocally, "God has not spoken because God does not exist." But it would seem that she has a connection to God in spite of herself. Having been born and raised in a joy-filled non-Christian home, she is perplexed by Tomas's neurotic, narcissistic relationship with God, and by his "indifference to the gospels and Jesus Christ," which is the main part of the Christian religion that she understands (for viewers to get this point, Bergman has Marta wearing stigmata for a while). She ends her letter with, "I love you and I live for you. Take me and use me…I have only one wish: to live for somebody," which is of course the true Christian creed.

Frovik, on the other hand, has no need for God to talk to him. He knows through his faith that God is present. Frovik is able to connect with love to others, as he shows in his exposition of the Passion of Christ. He understands that Christ's suffering was not so much physical, as it was psychological. Christ's mental agony was being misunderstood by his disciples, and later on denied by them. "Yet this was not the worst. When Jesus…cried out, 'God, my God, why hast thou forsaken me?' He thought his heavenly father had abandoned him…in the moment before he died…Surely that must have been his greatest hardship? I mean God's silence." This is the same "God's silence" that Jonas has been experiencing.

Through Blom's sarcastic remarks at the end of the film as he quotes Tomas's leitmotif, "God is love and love is God. Love proves the existence of God," Bergman underscores precisely which certainty, the one achieved in Through a Glass Darkly, he wanted to expose as false in Winter Light: the identification of love with God.

Mirror (1975)

"sculpting in time"

[10/10 · 29 January 2008]

This is Tarkovsky' masterpiece. Based on Tarkovsky's own screenplay, it contains events of his life-time. Some press interviews and writings of Tarkovsky leave no doubt that all of these events are true recollections concerning his family, his life as he has lived it and felt it. All the episodes are really part of his family history, except for one, and he undertook to literally replicate what was fixed in his memory.

Consider for example his childhood home, which is seen in the film. At the time the film was in production, not even the foundations remained, only a hole in the ground. The house was reconstructed from photographs in precisely the same spot where it had once stood many years before. This was extremely important to Tarkovsky because his whole personal attitude toward the film's content depended upon it. "It would have been a personal drama for me if the house had looked different. Of course the trees have grown a lot at this place, everything overgrew, we had to cut down a lot. But when I brought my Mum there, who appears in several sequences, she was so moved by this sight that I understood immediately it created the right impression."

The only fictional episode is the illness of the narrator, which is intended to convey the author's spiritual crisis. As such, this fictional contrivance is a foundation for all of the others, utterly true remembrances.

The pace of the film is slow. As in most of Tarkovsky's other films, we see long shots, which lead to lengthy contemplations on the viewer's part, requiring the absorption of a considerable amount of fine visual details. This in turn leads the viewer into an emotional involvement with the characters. By using long shots and few cuts in his films, Tarkovsky gives the viewers a sense of time passing, and the relationship of one moment to another, as opposed to the speedy jump-cut, Hollywood style. Tarkovsky developed a theory of cinema that he called "sculpting in time," which was, using the unique characteristic of cinema as a medium, to take one's experience of time and alter it. This film is the best example of the application of his theory.

Not only does Tarkovsky "sculpt in time" by manipulating events in an apparent random-time fashion, he also manipulates time within an event by using mirrors, which reflects different times, past or future, which are not of the particular event. There are many such examples throughout the film.

The beauty and lyricism of the images are due to Tarkovsky's unmistakable poetic style. The childhood memories, hypnotic in their intensity, are the most visually stunning film-making imaginable. These dream-like sequences are also the most enigmatic moments of the film, which most likely accounts for the film's alleged impenetrability.

Mirror is about the lives of the most important figures in Tarkovsky's life: his mother and his wife (interestingly, played by the same actress). From Tarkovsky's own admission, his father had no inner influence on him. His mother was the most important person in his life so much so that, for Tarkovsky, there was no question that she had to appear in person in several scenes. These scenes happen to be the most puzzling ones of the film, and are at times unexplainable, even for the author. For example, in a scene where Ignat is sitting and the doorbell rings, he opens the door and an old woman says, "Oh, I think I've got the wrong place." She is Aleksei's mother, Ignat's grandmother, and yet they do not recognize each other. In another instance, in the film's epilogue, we see Natalya as an old woman walking hand in hand with her two young children, while the young Natalya is briefly seen in the background. This can only be interpreted as a lyrical dream sequence.

Although Tarkovsky never made an explicitly political film, the relationship of the individual to history was central to his world view. In terms of a person's spiritual experience, what happened to that person yesterday may be as significant as what happened to humanity a hundred years ago. From that point of view, the film is about the nature of Russia as a mediator between the East and the West, as portrayed in the scene where Ignat reads Pushkin's letter to Chaadayev (October 19, 1836), and a little later in the film, in the footage of Russian soldiers holding back a demonstration of Chinese Maoists.

Mirror is also about the Stalinist purges of the mid-to-late 1930s and World War II. Tarkovsky shows us archive footage of contemporary events with complete detachment in contrast with the extreme intimacy of the memories. It is expressed, for example, by the apparently strange inclusion of the documentary footage of the Soviet army crossing the Sivash marshes. The poem by his father, Arseni Tarkovsky (1907-1989), which accompanies the Sivash crossing, is particularly telling:

...

I will call up any century,

Go into it and build myself a house.

That is why your children are beside me

And your wives, all seated at one table,

One table for great-grandfather and grandson.

...

Except for Margarita Terekhova, whose portrayals are magnificent, there is very little acting required from the other cast members. Although silent, one should note the compelling presence throughout the film of Filipp Yankovsky, as Aleksei at age 5.

The film undoubtedly benefited from the immense talent of cinematographer Georgii Rerberg. Upon his graduation in 1960 from the operator's faculty at the Cinematography Institute, Rerberg became the director of photography at Mosfilm Studios.

Eduard Artemiev was responsible for the original music. Artemiev is a prolific film music writer (thirty-eight scores), (Solaris/1972, Stalker/1979). He was the first in the history of cinema to have used electronic music. Other music is by J.S. Bach, Pergolesi, and Purcell.