Mon Amour. Je Tai'me, Je Tai'me: The Umbrellas of Cherbourg (1964)

I ramble quite often about certain films existing on my shame list for a far lengthier period of time than I want to admit.  Indeed, in this case it is often a definitive classic of cinema, usually one from New Hollywood or likewise, ones that make it well into the top hundred lists of IMDB or AFI.  These films often live up to their established reputations, only occasionally proving a disappointment.  In other instances they are simply films that people of various walks of life and cinematic tastes seem to happily coalesce around.  One example of this comes in the way of Jacque Tati's Playtime.  Indeed, between its zaniness, grand vision and genuinely engaging cinematic quality it proves to be adored by all who encounter it, but has recently fallen to the wayside due to copyright issues and has since gone out of print.  In contrast to this is something like The Umbrellas of Cherbourg, which I had heard countless mentions of between dear friends and within various blogs.  To encounter this film has long been a goal of mine and while the means with which I did so were less than ideal, it was more than a long time coming, and falls in the likes of Playtime or Night of the Hunter in the immediate and undefined perfection that all can find relatable.  The Umbrellas of Cherbourg is perhaps the most musical of all musicals in that all but one of the lines of dialogue are delivered through singing and, nonetheless, manages to flow with all the sentimentality and swelling emotion of the best melodrama.  Indeed, Jacques Demy's work possesses what may well be the most refined and focused of color palettes ever committed to film, clearly proving a point of inspiration for the likes of Pedro Almodovar and Jean-Pierre Jeunet.  The Umbrellas of Cherbourg is cinema at a level of artistic expression rarely achieved, wherein each frame of the film, where it to be frozen could double as a singular work of art, a feat I have only seen one other time in Terrence Malick's The Thin Red Line.  Here though, one can clearly see the benefit of Agnes Varda on Demy's work and the art historical infusion such a relationship can inspire, never mind the wonderful and always ethereal performance of Catherine Deneuve, which is balanced perfectly with the remaining members of the all-singing cast.

The Umbrellas of Cherbourg might be visually expansive and grand in proportions, but the heart of the narrative is about as traditionally melodramatic as they come.  The narrative focuses initially on Guy Foucher (Nino Castelnuovo) a mechanic in Cherbourg who happens to take a particular liking to a local umbrella sales girl named Genevieve Emery (Catherine Deneuve) and she indeed shares his affections.  Although the two are seemingly inseparable, even planning a life with a child, when Guy is called off to serve in the French Army things change drastically, particularly since Guy's service is extended for a rather lengthy amount of time.  Knowing the social shame that is associated with single motherhood, Genevieve's mother and employer Madame Emery (Anne Vernon) insists that she find a suitor and trick him into believing him to be the father immediately, finding such a person in Roland Cassard (Marc Michel).  Things begin quite rocky with the newly formed couple, particularly considering Genevieve's unwillingness paired with her continuing communique with Guy.  However, it comes to a point when she can no longer hide her pregnancy resulting in a confrontation wherein Roland asserts that he will raise the child as his own out of his admiration for Genevieve, leading to the two becoming married days later.  Eventually, a few years later, Guy does return, not only to find that the umbrella shop has been closed and replaced with an appliance store, but that Genevieve has moved away as well.  Confused, Guy is told by his mother and her nurse Madeleine (Ellen Farner) that she has married and is with child.  Initially distraught and seeking comfort through call girls after losing his job, Guy is afforded a huge amount of inheritance from his late mother, wherein he proceeds to marry Madeleine and have a child with her.  The two now happy, open up a gas station of their own and on Christmas Eve night, the two plan to spend the evening together, Guy saying goodbye to his son Francois and Madeline.  Only moments later, Genevieve with her daughter Francoise arrives to get gas.  After a cold exchange, doubled by the weather outside, Guy returns to his family, while Genevieve drives off into the night.

The saccharine and synthetic look of this film draw another filmic comparison immediately within my mind to Agnes Varda's delightfully scathing critique of modern marriage through impressionism that is La Bonheur.  Much like her film, and the earlier mentioned Playtime, the visually stunning palettes of the various films layers on a degree of pitch perfect irony about the terrible events occurring on screen.  Here the depression and sadness emerge from the inability to assure and enact upon a love as a result of social expectations and governmental demands.  The manner with which the street is lit within this film is both inconceivable but absolutely perfect, again a sign of an art historical element that is undoubtedly due credit to Demy's wife Agnes Varda.  The street implodes in a wash of purples and blues that evoke Van Gogh, wherein the stunning visual nature of Starry Night, also comes from a man deeply depressed.  As Guy and Genevieve walk up and down this street, the same hues encompass their bodies, implying that even in this moment of serenity that their futures are at a dire loss.  Indeed, perhaps the most telling scene of the entire film emerges when Roland, now attempting to court the broken hearted Genevieve plays a game involving the donning of a crown.  Here the shot captures Genevieve in the center of the camera as Deneuve plays up with a perfectly composed stare into the camera, almost as if to demand that the viewer takes pleasure in the ethereal spectacle on display, while also being completely reminded of the way in which she and her character are exploited both within and outside of the diegetic space, an occurrence that is redelivered, although not quite as jarringly when the ironically veiled Genevieve is made up to appear like the Virgin Mother.  All this considered, it is also fascinating to consider the moments when Demy does decide to drain the color from sequences, most specifically during Guy's return from service, wherein the same purple lit streets are replaced with grays and whites, thus denying it the lush flourishing space in favor of a vapid palette, one reflecting the reality with which Guy has to return, or even suggesting the world of war he is bringing back to Cherbourg.

Key Scene:  It is one wholly paced musical reverie and as such can only be treated as a perfect moment of cinematic spectacle, although within this there are particular flares of absolute genius, as is the case with the train departure sequence.  Also, it is worth mentioning that Michel Legrand's score is amazing.

This is a film that is currently difficult to come by, as such one must get creative with how they attain a copy, but trust me it is very much worth the effort.  It appears to also make the rounds on MUBI so could prove the route to go viewing wise.

Two Men Eat, One Man Dies: The Housemaid (1960)

I had been made aware of The Housemaid well before finally coming to watch it, although had I been bit more patient I probably could have seen the bluray that is to be imminently released as part of Martin Scorsese's World Film Heritage Project which is being mounted by Criterion.  Due to research for a project though viewing was of the necessity and its availability on Hulu made it all the more justified.  I, of course, had already seen the somewhat loose remake of the film by director Im Sang-soo, but had long been trying to find an inexpensive way to see Kim Ki-young's Korean classic.  Often mentioned in  both intensive analysis of Korean melodrama, as well as the more broad surveys of the country's film, The Housemaid has been aptly described as the "before and after moment" in Korean cinema.  While it is far and away a different and in some ways better film than Psycho, I am comfortable suggesting that this providing the same sort of film/viewership dichotomy shift but in a way that proved far more evocative in terms of the trajectory of both Korean cinema specifically and the larger East Asian filmic output in general.  Were one to go purely off of the visual stylings and narrative choices in this film it would be hard not to immediately think of Hiroshi Teshigahara's stunning and visceral Woman in the Dunes, yet this equally engaging, if not decidedly more abrasive film arrived to cinemas four years earlier.  I find The Housemaid particularly worth one's time because it is as near perfect a genre hybrid that will ever exist, in so much as it is a combination of the deep-seeded psychological intensity both present in horror and melodrama, usually for entirely divergent reasons.  The Housemaid is scary, but not in the jump scare kind of way or in the ways in which the slasher films of the eighties proved to be, instead working from a frame of reference where the human existence is a thing of inherent frustration always managing to result in the greatest of psychological fracturing.  Furthermore, given the film's entrenchment in horror and melodrama the narrative is visually preoccupied with the idea of the body as something that is to be placed upon with force sometimes physical, but always cripplingly emotional.

The Housemaid, despite its rather suggestive title, focuses on the experiences of a man simply known as Piano Teacher (Kim Jin-kyu) whose teaching music at a women's factory is barely managing to keep his family from falling from their tenuously attained middle class status.  The Wife (Ju Jeung-nyeo) attempts to work from home as a seamstress, but her constant bouts with sickness have troubled her ability to do so, made doubly challenging by taking care of their daughter Ae-soon (Le Yu-ri) who appears to have suffered bodily affects from polio, as well as a son Chang-soon (Ahn Seong-gi) whose precociousness borders on diabolical.  Needless to say, Piano Teacher finds his job burdensome, all the more so when he is made the object of misguided affection by countless students, one whose whimsy leads her to write a love letter that causes her expulsion and eventual suicide out of shame.  Moving along with his plans of achieving a higher status for his family, Piano Teacher begins offering piano lessons from home, wherein one of his vocal students Miss Cho (Um Aeng-ran) leaps at the opportunity.  Working in a surprisingly invasive manner, Miss Cho establishes herself as a dominant force in the house, despite only appearing for the piano lessons, when it is revealed by Piano Teacher that he is now hoping to obtain a maid, Miss Cho calls upon her chain-smoking friend, who becomes known specifically as Maid (Lee Eun-shim).  Moving into the space, the Maid is associated more with destruction and mismanagement than nurturing and anything remotely indicative of domestic work in a traditional sense, indeed her inability becomes a point of frustration for Wife and to a degree Piano Teacher, yet when it is revealed that the student who confessed her love to Piano Teacher is dead, both Miss Cho and Maid use it as an opportunity to blackmail him, leading him to "accidentally" have sex with Maid and causing her to become pregnant.  This pregnancy comes simultaneous to Wife also becoming pregnant, causing a divide in the family for expectations and a decision to force Maid to procure an abortion.  This jealously results in Maid becoming vengeful and attempting to kill their children and eventually does convince Piano Teacher to consume poison.  In a final twist, the film moves back in time and suggests the entire set of events to be a series of day dreams only to be compounded by yet another unusual narrative choice in the closing moments of the film.

Given my recent movement in academic research towards gender and embodiment in cinema, both in traditional genres like horror, as well as newer, more unconventional examples, mostly related to non-human/robotic bodies, I have tended to read recent films with this lens upon each text.  While, I will admit it has proven to be an overextension in a few cases, with something like The Housemaid body is not only worth considering, but is absolutely essential to the narrative.  Take for example Ki-young's decided fascination with the disabled body in the film, his choice to included Ae-soon is at first suggestive of problematic exploitation, however, on second consideration one understands that in both melodrama and horror the disabled figure often represent the point of suffering and even decided anger in the case of the latter genre.  Here, Ae-soon, is not the point of ultimate suffering, because individuals like Piano Teacher exist in a state of han, or notion of suffering based on unfair oppression, a term unique to Korean culture and usually evidenced in a larger collective notion.  Many Korean thrillers pull the idea of han to invoke a knowing subtext related to elements such as colonialism or class-based oppression, these ideas are popular in works like Mother or the Whispering Corridors franchise.  Here han is a decidedly privileged feeling and what is often embodied physically, instead becomes something reappropriated for a privileged individual to feel as though he is suffering, despite being well-to-do and only responsible for his own terrible decisions.  Furthermore, body becomes a class-based signifier as well, wherein the rats that appear throughout the film, both evidence a breaking from hegemonic and socially prescribed structures to something deem unsavory and indicative of the lowest of classes, in that rats represent the sewers and streets.  I say this to suggest that the very rats that Maid kills represent her own attempt to destroy her classed body, yet when it is her ability to convince Piano Teacher to commit suicide via poison, it becomes rather clear that he too is capable of embodying a rat. Of course, body works in other ways throughout the film, just as psychoanalysis, Marxist class ideals and many other readings would, it only speaks to The Housemaid as a rich cinematic text.

Key Scene:  The water spiting scene is great, but there is also a scene that falls apart on itself, here literally, due to the lack of a complete copy being available.  In the context of the scene and its suggestion of a psychotic break, it would appear as if the loss of these few frames was predestined from its inception, working in a similar way to Bergman's Persona.

I plan to obtain this as part of the World Film Heritage box set, but it is also available on Hulu, so viewing is subject to multiple options.

2013 Summer Reading Classic Film Book Challenge (Book 6) Korean Film: History, Resistance, and Democratic Imagination

If I were to ask even the more seasoned of cinephiles in my circles of friends and colleague and even fellow bloggers about their experiences with South Korean cinema the likelihood of their awareness will only extend to, at most Oldboy and maybe The Host.  This is not entirely their fault as much of the knowledge around South Korean cinema specifically, is trapped under the weight of its contemporary Asian film predecessors with successful global offerings in the Hong Kong action cinema of the 90's and Japanese horror films of the early 2000's.  Running alongside these two movements was an emerging South Korean film world unfolding some of the most avant-garde and challenging films of the past two decades and has since garnered much more writing both academic and general interest, much of which I have read.  When figuring how I could possibly include a text on Korean cinema for this my final offering to Out of the Past and their 2013 Summer Reading Classic Film Book challenge, I was fortunate to stumble upon the text Korean Film: History, Resistance and Democratic imagination, which pulls deep into the traditions of Korean film, both before and after it divided into its respective North and South political spaces.  Co-authors Eungjun Min, Jinsook Joo, and Han Ju Kwak compile what proves to be not only the most detailed account of the century old tradition of filmmaking with Korea, but also manage to depict the troubled historical landscape of a country(ies) whose cinema invariably and irreversibly influenced by the presence of Chinese, Japanese, British and American occupations, noting the ways in which each foreign entity influenced the film of the Koreas both in highly positive, as well as problematic situations.  While the pinnacle of classic Asian cinema still proves to be the late Donald Richie's love letter to Japanese cinema, this text offers an astute, albeit, specialized set of voices on a country who has become both a point of revolutionary filmmaking in the past decade by showing that as a moviemaking entity the wild themes, challenging cinematic landscapes and inherent subversiveness of the work of the Koreas is nothing new and certainly only seems to be expanding beyond all other countries at an exponential rate

This co-authored text works, precisely because it is clearly influenced by film theorist, historians and even possesses a keen eye for the economics of filmmaking and distribution.  Despite it being authored by three distinct individuals, the narrative voice is that of a singular statement, pulling upon ideas inherent to Korean culture, lifting phrases that have contexts inexplicable to Western audiences using the moments in the countries storied history to develop this enigmatic concepts.  While, the book does often fall into the trap of listing every film possible from an era, particularly true for the post-Korean war film section, the authors do afford it a considerable amount of space to explain particularly important authors or ideas, both in terms of how they relate to the historical narrative of Korea and the various regulations of filmmaking from the prospective eras.  While it can prove a bit dense at times, it is refreshing to visit a text that does not feel it necessary to overexplain the ideas it is working with, making only brief notes on political factions and economic burdens from era, always remember that it is firstly a text about film, allowing discussions of Im Kown-taek to receive precedence than overly detailed accounts of the various student revolutions and failed political coups which occurred, and for awhile were still occurring, in the respective Koreas.  Furthermore, the authors do something that is often impossible in this kind of work, they manage to insert their opinions of certain films or filmmakers without it coming off as flippant, pretentious or worse, ill-informed.  This is perhaps most evocatively and engagingly done when discussing the melodramas of the fifties, wherein, the authors note the heavy degrees of exploitative politicized filmmaking that is neither subversive or well-executed making the works seem hokey and ill-conceived by a contemporary gaze.  Any opinion posited in this book is always reason, almost over analyzed as though the authors realize their text will serve as the only work of reference. Indeed, many of the works mentioned escape a global audience, but the optimism spouted within the various chapters only proves to make the case for their emergence on a global scale in the near future.

Best Film Discovery of the Book:  This is a bit tricky as much of this is unavailable, however, I will say that it has made me want to hunt down the early works of Cheol-su Park whose films seem as though they were wildly subversive well before his cerebral 301, 302.  It is worth noting that this book is quite expensive, I would suggest do like I did and rent it from a library, through the wonder of inter-library loans.

Nobody Learns Without Help: Jubal (1956)

The melodrama and the western exist as a sort of sibling pair which I will avoid gendering, because that would be a bit heteronormative and unnecessary, but, regardless, it is impossible to ignore the sort of relationship the two have cinematically and historically, one that is often overlooked due to the subtle nature of their shared methodologies.  Of course, when it becomes noticeable it is often quite excellent, as is certainly the case with Johnny Guitar, but also holds true for my recent viewing of Delmer Daves' Jubal a film that is beautifully shot in technicolor, focuses on the very genre subject of cattle life and also happens to be a masterful bit of melodrama, at times on a level close to that of Douglas Sirk.  I assumed based on the vague images I had seen upon the initial announce of its release via Criterion that it would be an all out action film, one more in line with the original 3:10 To Yuma another film by Daves, yet aside from perhaps a handful of gun firing scenes, this is easily the most dialogue heavy film I have engaged with thus far, and I certainly lend that to its decided reliance on the melodramatic tradition.  Early on in my movement towards cinephilia I would have dismissed such a stylized and classicist composition, still blinded by the showiness of of Tarantino and Fincher film, which while excellent, do owe their very extravagance to the aforementioned elements of melodrama.  I ramble about this to say that Jubal manages to be both a sleeper classic within terms of the western genre, as well as one of the melodramas that I am quite surprised is only now making it onto my docket, especially since I spent a couple weeks earlier this year purposefully seeking out the classics of melodrama.  Jubal is a textbook classic that has a cult following and is only now making its reputation well-known.  I am thrilled that it is getting a second wind via Criterion and while I know I am not the most read blog on the internet I hope that my adoration for its perfect structure will, in some small way, help to extend its voice to a couple more viewers, because in its classicist simplicity it manages to hold a wait equal to that of a Leone or Ford film with little effort whatsoever.

Jubal centers on the title character, played by Glenn Ford, a wandering cattle hand who has inexplicably found himself passed out in the land which belongs to rancher Shep Horgan (Ernest Borgnine) a likable and well meaning man who takes Jubal on as an employee without question.  Appreciative of the opportunity, Jubal works diligently to pay off his debt and quickly earns the admiration of Shep who makes him a ranch hand, much to the frustration and anger of the lecherous Pinky (Rod Steiger) who immediately goes about trying to destroy Jubal for no other reason than he just hates his presence.  While it is impossible to immediately find fault with Jubal, Pinky realizes that the new ranch hand, much like the other members of the crew, has taken a liking to Shep's wife Mae (Valerie French) who seems as equally interested in running away with the suave and stoic Jubal.  Pinky is immediately aware of this development and uses it as a means to plant a seed within Shep's head as to Jubal being a person lacking in trust, despite Shep making it quite clear that he is fond of the man and his work ethic.  Furthermore, it is revealed that Pinky and Mae have shared a previous relationship together adding a layer of jealousy to Pinky's seemingly inexplicable actions.  Yet, it takes a heavy amount of arm pulling for Pinky to make Shep suspicious continually prodding at him until the paranoia seeps in and he rides in a fury of ungrounded jealousy back to his ranch thinking he might catch the two in the act and confront his cuckolding.  While Jubal has already denied Mae's advances out of respect for Shep, not to mention the burgeoning of his own relationship with another woman, Mae betrays him by calling out his name when Shep enters the house, leading to what Shep assumes to be verification of their past relations.  This leads to Shep going out in search of revenge upon Jubal finding him unarmed in a bar.  Jubal hoping to avoid confrontation, tries to stand down, but when Shep fires multiple shots at him, he has no choice but to fire back and then take flight to avoid the death that a foolishly self-rightous Pinky wants to exact.  Of course, Jubal is far more clever than Pinky and leads him on a winding chase before returning to the ranch, where he manages to get Mae to admit to the misunderstandings and problems, although Pinky violently attacks her resulting in her death moments later, however, with the information cleared up in is Pinky who goes on trial and Jubal is allowed to leave with a degree of his dignity intact.  Unfortunately, he is left to continue wandering the world, yet this time he has a companion to make the journey far less dreary.

While I wanted to avoid gendering either genre, I can say that in terms of Classic Hollywood rhetoric, one often associates the western with masculinity, as has been well established this month on the blog, and I have certainly written about "women's films" in the past, in which melodrama was deemed a filmic tradition with a decided push towards the femininity.  What makes Jubal so exceptional is that it manages to pull these assumed gender traditions within each and mash them forcefully together, instead becoming a film about ethical decisions as opposed to one of gendered presumptions.  In some of the more traditional set-ups men would be unquestionably rational and concerned with justice, while women would be inclined to fits of "hysteria" and illogical behavior.  In this context, viewers are still allowed these images, but they are no longer specifically gendered, sure Mae acts a bit irrationally in her feelings to Jubal, but it is made clear that she is frustrated by her own being seen, literally, as cattle to the well-meaning but inextricably misogynist Shep.  Furthermore, Shep's own moral turpitude is not a result of anything aside from his inherently bad nature, detracting it from the melodramatic assumptions that he is somehow a scorned man, if anything, he is a person perpetually engaged in the scorning of others.  The heightened emotional scenes in this film do not film viewers minds with a hope and longing that two characters who are "destined" to be together will be afforded the opportunity, even if fleeting.  Jubal is not An Affair to Remember, Brief Encounters or even All That Heaven Allows, because it is also a western, which means that loss and failed desire very much factor in, which could be blamed on the lack of law in the western setting, almost entirely personified through Pinky, but it could also reflect upon Jubal's own entrenched sense of justice and respect which is one of the tropes this film seems most comfortable with relying upon, almost to the point of banging it upon viewers' heads.  Again, this is a melodrama as well as a western so repetition and overstatement are merely customary.  While these two genres make for a beautiful hybrid, Daves does not stop there and even goes into a bit of expressionist zeal with Jubal's recounting of a traumatic childhood experience that has a level of Freudian implications that have hardly been shown thus far in my marathon.

Key Scene:  I mean as evil as a character as Pinky proves to be, he is played wonderfully by Rod Steiger and when he engages in a scene he manages to outshine all those involved by miles.

This was just released by Criterion and while I watched it On Demand, the aspect ratio was off, therefore I would suggest the 4K bluray that is now available, I can only imagine how wonderfully it pops off the screen.

I Don't Think I Like Being In Love. It Puts A Bit In My Mouth: The Furies (1950)

Anthony Mann's The Furies is easily the most richly shot films I have encountered in this marathon.  Somewhere between between the deep grays and blacks and the way shadows explode and evaporate in his wide shots it is hard not to fall in love with the seeming sumptuousness of the film.  Of course Anthony Mann who I first encountered, fittingly enough in a Film Noir course for his work Border Incident, creates a landscape in his films that while beautiful, represents a decaying and fractured society and extends to reflect the psyche of those individuals existing in the space.  In fact, just like the previously mentioned Border Incident I would be inclined to call this film something of a film noir text, although it is also a woman's melodrama, in that Barbara Stanwyck whose presence alone is almost its own film noir trope, is playing a character who falls foolishly and blindly in love, an act that proves unusual for the actress who made a career as a femme fatale.  In its modernist blending of genres to create something spectacular, The Furies is a piece that is as captivating and it is jarring, the unusual soundtrack is more reminiscent of an Igor Stravinsky number than the swelling and sweeping violins of the traditional melodrama.  Everything about The Furies begs to be heavily considered and analyzed, no character throughout the film is purely of one mind frame or ethical framing, often contradicting their previous actions or betraying the very elements of respectablity which the western genre so heavily hinges itself.  The films possesses pseudo-villians, anti-heroes and even a reconsideration of who can occupy the space of such a good and evil dichotomy.  Sure the narrative gets a bit convoluted at the end and sloppily ties itself back together, but it is a work that wants to embellish its own fractured style, at times the slightest of alterations to the focus of the frame makes the scene blurry in the most inconspicuous of manners, nonetheless, suggesting a frame of reference that is, like the characters of The Furies, melting and sweating under its own heated paranoia.  Were this film not to be so heavily invested in the use of natural sets, one could easily place this among the greatest of expressionist masterworks.

The Furies, focuses on the farm and land for which the title borrows its name.  The land is located in the New Mexico territory and is compared to being a feudal ran area, which is fitting because the patron of the land T.C. Jeffords (Walter Huston) navigates the world as though he had a certain degree of regal authority about himself.  T.C., as the narrative establishes, is far from in control of his situation and indeed owes a considerable amount of money to various lenders, while also struggling to keep a group of previous residents turned squatters from occupying his land.  All these issues come to the forefront while T.C.'s own daughter Vance (Barbara Stanwyck) attempts to assert her own presence on The Furies, hoping one day to own the entire land for herself, without the societally assumed ties of another male figure, preferably a husband.  To make matters slightly more convaluted Vance also has a strong relationship with one of the squatters named Juan Herrera (Gilbert Roland) for whom her father does not approve, nor does the larger extent of society.  In enters Rip Darrow (Wendell Corey) a wealthy banker and loan shark, who has a considerable grudge with T.C. over name calling and wrongs in the past.  Yet, Rip is a powerful man and could free T.C. from his economic woes by marrying Vance, who takes an instant liking to debonaire gentleman.  Of course, Rip is far from Vance's ideal man because he is neither submissive nor interested in marrying her, even taking a bribe gladly not to mary her from T.C.  During her struggle to obtain the reigns of The Furies, Vance is blocked by T.C.'s mistress of sorts Flo (Judith Anderson) who has her own vision of what the ranch will become, a notion so infuriating to Vance that she violently attacks Flo with a pair of scissors.  After a final dispute over land, T.C. kills Juan and his men, pushing Vance to the edge, allowing her to remove all barriers from her desire to overtake her disillusioned father, using his blind economic ambitions against him and eventually tricking him into submission, an act that results in T.C. congratulating his daughter and allowing her control over the land.  Yet T.C.'s previous egregious behavior inevitably leads to him being gunned down by the remaining members of the Herrera family and act that leads Vance and her now fiancé Rip to plan on naming their first child after her late father.

It is no mystery that Westerns often borrow their narratives from other well established literary or filmic works, in many cases films borrow directly from Wagnerian operas or from classic samurai flicks.  Anthony Mann, on the other hand, had a very well-documented and feverish desire to create the perfect King Lear adaptation.  To a degree The Furies is almost a King Lear adaptation, in the blind patriarchal ambition and it is in this particular devotion to Shakespearian figures that one can find western tropes within The Furies being embrace and rejected, at times, simultaneously.  The King Lear figure is decidedly a masculine one, and those he is attempting to pass his land along to are decidedly male as well.  Mann in his quest for the appropriate replacement for the figure, creates an absurdly blinded vision of Lear that is highly metaphorical and not the literal "let him smell his way to Dover" one of the play.  The absurdity is no less present though, particularly in his refusal to allow his daughter to run The Furies despite a clear and established ability to do so successfully, it is this very issue of gender that both bends the idea of domestic roles, as well as the figures within the classical text.  Shakespeare who was no denier of gender bending, think The Twelfth Night or A Midsummer Night's Dream, and it would not be unreasonable to consider a version of Lear where the son's are replaced by daughters, or in this case at least one daughter who is attempting to assert herself as a masculine figure.  Stanwyck performs this role masterfully, moving through spaces in an erect and assertive manner, however, the narrative falters when she meets Rip who knocks down any assumptions she has about her ability to be a patriarchal figure and assert her authority.  This is perhaps where Mann loses his ability to commit to a real possibility for a new consideration of Lear.  What could have been a revolutionary statement of domesticity and classic adaptations flails in the end to tie up lose ends in a traditionalist notion, one that would allow for audiences to embrace the film without the confusion of a somewhat familiar story ending in a new way.  Ultimately, Mann succeeds more than he fails in his particular adaptation, it should just be noted that his reliance, even if minimal, on western genre tropes result in a failure to grasp the final rung of perfection in the films closing moments.

Key Scene:  The shootout between T.C. and the Herrera family is wonderful and really speaks to the psychological divisions of the film, as well as showing the wonderful way a world was filmed under Mann's direction.

This is a must grab, almost solely because Criterion puts more effort into a transfer and supplements than is remotely necessary.  The article provided is especially excellent, not to mention the inclusion of the book for which this film was based.

Right Or Wrong It's A Brand...A Brand Sticks: Shane (1953)

Considering that I am quite lacking in regards to a ton of different genres and need to fill in gaps in a large range of viewing fields, I have decided to make a regular thing of having themed months, especially over the summer when I am afforded considerably more time to engage with films on an intimate and intentional level.  I plan to make these varied to genres, countries and eras contingent upon funding and availability, so as much as I would love to dedicate a month to Iranian cinema it may be quite awhile before it make the list, however, I figured one of the best places to start this endeavor would be with one of my weakest viewing areas, westerns, a focus that would allow me to navigate not only a large amount of unseen films with critical acclaim, but much to my suprise also allowed will also allow me to move outside of America on more than one occasion.  Furthermore, I feel as though my theoretical framework concerning westerns is lacking so I also plan to supplement my viewings with various readings about the genre, as well as the ways in which post-modern filmmaking has decidedly altered what viewers expect out of a western film.  My hope is to draw some connections between its evolution while filling in the various viewing gaps I have in my must-see movies.  Of course, I will not make it to every important western, nor will I be afforded the time to revisit most of the works I have already seen, such as The Good, The Bad and The Ugly, or the more recent Django Unchained, but know that if it seems to be an egregious omission, chances are I have probably already seen it.  With all this considered I tried to find a super straight forward traditionalist western to begin the month and was able to do so with incredible and very watchable success with Shane, a early fifties western that manages to pull together many of the tropes of the genre without becoming so self-involved with these messages as to completely lose its cinematic zeal.  Furthermore, aside from the presence of Elisha Cook, Jr. who seemed to be in every other movie from say 1945 to 1960, the film is relatively minimal in its use of big name actors making for a director's picture which George Stevens delivers magnificently.  Shane is a western in the most classic of sense and incorporates the burning and vibrant world of technicolor to serve its thematic concepts and expansive world with great zeal.

Shane is a film that makes its theme and central figure quite obvious from the title, however, to foolishly assume that Shane is the entirety of this film would prove illogical, particularly since he is not even initially introduced in the film.  Instead, the film begins with the endeavors of a pioneer family led by patriarch Joe Starrett (Van Heflin) and his wife Marien (Jean Arthur) along with their son Joey (Brandon DeWilde) as they attempt to make their own in the wild lands of Wyoming amidst the corruption and constant berating of local ruffian and town bully Rufus Ryker (Emile Meyer).  Accepting everything but outright failure, the family is approached by an lone rider named Shane (Alan Ladd), whose willingness to help the family is greatly appreciated and each of the family members takes a particular liking to the elusive and enigmatic rider.  Of course, when faced with the absurd actions of Ryker and his group of no-good lackeys, Shane stand against them with a dignified demeanor, leading to Joe also fighting for what he believes to be right, much to the concern of fellow pioneers who see his actions as a sure fire way to get Ryker to burn down each of their settlements in the name of pride.  Of course, Shane and his particularly unknown past comes with a sense of moral rightness that must challenge the wrongdoings of Ryker, even if it means placing those around him in danger, particularly when Ryker discovers that Shane has a past as a gunslinger and brings another of Shane's enemies into the picture to cause a stir.  Nonetheless, inspired by Shane and the begging of his son and wife, Joe decides that he must also stand against the wrong doing, a decision that is solidified when one of his fellow settlers is killed at the hands of the hired shooter.  Shane realizing that the only assurance of wellbeing for the citizens of the town will be his ending of Ryker and his men and his subsequent leaving result in him making a final stand against the gang, an act that would have proven fatal were it not for a last minute warning from Joey.  As Shane leaves, and Joe has reasserted his leadership in the community, Joey begs for Shane to stay, but since he is destined to wander, he simply rides away in silence.

Shane is about as traditional as westerns come, which is great because it allows me to discuss, in considerable brevity, some of the tropes of the western.  Firstly, given the moral ambiguity present in the "wild" west, the distinctions between good and evil manifest themselves in a decidedly obvious way, in the case of this film Shane proves to be the near-angelic figure of goodwill, while Ryker is bad and his subsequent hiring of a gunslinger certainly plays the devil to Shane's angel.  Second, westerns nearly always contain a character in the film which possesses a problematic past for which they are desperately trying to outrun, of course in the context of this film it is obviously Shane, although in later films discussed this month it will manifest itself in multiple characters in the same film causing narrative discord and a degree of moral ambiguity, even amongst the identifiably good characters.  Finally, Shane very much entrenches itself within the sort of homosocial desires and bonds present within the genre and within pioneer life as a whole.  Many of the historical narratives and most westerns exist centrally in the masculine and to a considerable degree Shane is a film that entrenches itself within this world, even attributing the undeniable phallic elements of the gun, fully emphasized by Joey and his desirous gaze each time Shane engages in a feat that could relate to his gunslinger past.  In fact, amidst the horses, whiskey drinking and cemetery on a hill outside the town, it is hard to find something that is against the norm within this traditional western, but considering that Joe is depicted with his wife and son is perhaps one of the most revolutionary elements of a western to date.  It is a rare thing for a female presence to occupy the world of a western without being either a prostitute or a Native American and Shane possesses multiple characters who counter this notion.  Sure it is problematic that Marien and Shane clearly create a degree of sexual tension, but considering that it is not acted upon and is no less intense than the sexual tension between Joe and Shane or Joey and Shane it is quite intriguing and certainly an early example of a rejection of the most base of western tropes.

Key Scene:  The bar fight is over-the-top and great fun amidst and otherwise surprisingly calm film.

Shane is an excellent film and often finds itself placing well amongst the best westerns of all time, not to mention the best American films of all time.  I highly recommend watching it on Netflix before it is invariably pulled off for something worse.

The Happy Childhood Is Hardly Worth Telling: Angela's Ashes (1999)

The adaptation of Frank McCourt's memoir in all its high sentimentalism and Irish charm would have been a standout hit and well-received classic were it to come out any other year but 1999.  As many podcasts and bloggers have noted before me, 1999 has proven to be a standout film for contemporary cinema evidenced by the seemingly unstoppable amount of great, if not, at the very least, unique and important works.  In its two and a half hour undertaking, Angela's Ashes is an absolutely watchable film that has some true moments of heart-wrenching honesty and all around great performances, and given that I often see copies of McCourt's novel at second hand book stores, it is clear that it at one time or another was a widely acclaimed and read book, however, I am also aware that the heavy handedness of the text and subsequent sentimentalizing nature of the film are exploitative in their nature.  For the moments in the film that chronicle the emergence of first love, it is also important to note that these evolutions too come with loss and the film is never sure what to make of the ebb and flow of such natural occurrences, resulting in a linear narrative that manages to fail in its climactic structure.  Of course, I am hardly a person who advocates for such straight forward methodologies when concerning filmmaking, but the particular stylistic choices of McCourt's memoir and the directorial nature of Alan Parker.  The suffering Irish family is a trope culturally at this point and it is simply a matter of how committed the director or author are to the subject as to its success and Angela's Ashes is far from being as intense as My Left Foot.  I do, however, want to make it expressly clear that I am not against Angela's Ashes, I get the narrative it is trying to create and the methods it uses are certainly executed to the highest degree, but given that it was released relativley recently it is hard to embrace it for anything than traditional, deciding to play into the highly stylized romanticizing of poverty and suffering that would be blown into excess a year earlier with Titanic and as witty and energizing as the narrator's coming of age tale proves to be, it is simply not enough to justify its extended runtime and general lack of narrative evolution as characters move from point A to point B, only to realize that point A was the desired location after all.

Angela's Ashes, despite its suggestive name, actually focuses on the childhood and young adult experiences of Frankie McCourt, who is played by a handful of actors in this film since he ages throughout the lengthy temporal narrative.  Regardless, the story begins with Frank as a child and the realization of death when his parents Malachy (Robert Carlyle) and mother Angela (Emily Watson) suffer from the loss of a child due to it being born in the winter in their impoverished living conditions.  This sad misfortune begins the process of them moving from America back to Ireland, the exact opposite of what many were doing at the height of the Depression in both countries.  Upon arrival in the religiously and politically divided country Frank realizes the true powers of stereotyping as he is mocked by his classmates for being a "yank," as well for having a father who is lazy and from the North.  Nonetheless, Frank and his brothers are strong-willed children and they manage to survive even though their father hardly works, and when he does the money he earns is quickly wasted at the local pub.  Frank seems always keenly aware of these tragic actions on the part of his father and continually strives to make a path for himself in the world, while also attempting to earn money for his family, particularly his suffering mother.  Yet, when it becomes quite clear that their only means for survival is to completely remove their father from the live and work as live-in servants to a wealthy bachelor, Frank begins to question his place in the family, becoming quite critical of the discovery that his mother is providing sexual favors to the man for money, and finally moves out when he discovers that she would rather side with the man than her own son for the sake of economic safety.  Frank moves out on his own and finds work as a telegraph courier, which leads to his first sexual encounter with a young woman dying of tuberculosis, which gives him his last push into adulthood via an awakening to lust and death near simultaneously.  After a large sum of money falls in his way, Frank seizes the opportunity to truly begin his life in the only fashion he knows how, by moving back to America, although in the name of narrative closure it is suggested that he returns fondly upon all of the moments of his young life.

It is perhaps this emphasis on fondness that makes the film slightly more frustrating than rewarding, and I realize this is somewhat absurd coming from me, a person who loves when films take leaps and go against the grain of traditionalism.  However, in regards to Angela's Ashes the issue emerges when McCourt's text is vaguely adapted to make negative characters seems sanctimonious or something other than terrible.  Obviously the example I am referring to is Frank's father, Malachy who spends nearly all of his screen time drunk.  Of course, as children Frank and his brothers are less likely to pick up on these problems, and instead; embrace his more light-hearted paternal moments, which would be fine if the film also did not seem content with this methodology.  The fact of the matter is that Malachy is blowing his earnings on booze while allowing his children to go hungry and even worse for his wife to be so malnourished that when she gives birth it results in sick babies who die within hours or days of arriving into the world.  At no point is this truly challenged, sure Angela kicks Malachy out of the house and society seems intent on chastising Malachy, but it is so much more entrenched in his Northernness than in his alcoholism.  I must confess that I have not read the book so I am uncertain as to how Malachy is depicted in the context of the memoir, but it seems as though any attempts at defending his near atrocities should be undercut by the realities, something that the film manages to avoid on a regular basis.  While Malachy's character is the biggest problem of the film it is certainly not the only vague depiction of oppression, the film seems to have a unbalanced and wavering depiction of many of the institutions of the era, particularly the charity based organizations of the government and the Catholic church, as well as the role teachers played in Frank's upbringing.  I am not suggesting that Frank McCourt did not find success without a strong sense of self-worth and determination, but the film is a bit too self-aware about his post experience introspection to see where he was aided and hindered as a child, which causes the films sentimental nature to be more misguided than endearing.

Key Scene:  When Frank begins his affair with the young woman with "consumption" it is one of the few moments of absolute narrative and cinematic cohesion and it is hard not to get emotive at its beautiful depiction of loss of innocence.  If only this film were that consistent throughout it may well have been one of the highlights of a year of excellent film.

Angela's Ashes is not a bad movie, in fact, it is quite good.  My issue arise with some of its obtuse moral statements and considering that it is rather expensive on DVD, I cannot suggest you go out of your way to see it in the near future.

You Were Ready For A Love Affair, But Not For Love: All That Heaven Allows (1955)

The melodrama is a staple in the history of cinema, much as the unfortunately named "women's weepie" proved to be an important sub-genre within the movement, and it is quite obvious that no direct embraced this style of filmmaking, quite like Douglas Sirk.  To call his movies simple or traditional is to read them at face value and completely ignore the degree of commitment and detail to scenery, narrative and the way actors performed their roles, within films like Written on the Wind, Sirk manages to capture both the real tragedies of the middle class, white American existence, while also proving all to aware of their problematic and privileged lifestyle relational to the world around them.  For this month of women in film I knew that it would be a huge oversight on my part not to include at least one work by Sirk, particularly since he was so closely attached to the "women's weepie" film.  While I could likely have went with pretty much any film by the late director, I felt the subject matter of his 1955 film All That Heaven Allows would prove the most useful, both in its consideration of gender expectations as they extend beyond not only class, but generations as well.  Furthermore, the acting in this film is both within the exaggerated mannerism of melodramatic tradition, while also proving to be quite refined and focused, especially via Rock Hudson, whose charm and outright presence in the film cannot be ignored.  The mix of frank considerations of oppressive societal expectations and the idyllic landscapes filmed in brilliant Technicolor result in a film that is almost otherworldly in its displays, or at the very least so slightly altered as to make the viewer quite aware of its synthetic nature.  A film like All That Heaven Allows is a favorite of many, most surprisingly that of Fassbinder, whose Ali: Fear Eats the Soul is both an homage and admittedly partial remake of Sirk's magnificent work.  This may come as a surprise to those familiar with Fassbinder's work, yet the sort of veneer that exits over the reality of authoritative oppression, reflects not only Fassbinder, but directors like David Lynch as well.

All That Heaven Allows focuses on the seemingly mundane life of Cary Scott (Jane Wyman) a widow who fills her days with half-hearted attendances of luncheons and parties, as well as planning dinners and such for her two children when they return home from college on the weekends.  Cary, while not completely detached from her late husband, seems to long for a means to move on with her life, and even though she finds herself the point of admiration for many of the older men within the country club of her town, she turns down any advances from them beyond a cocktail and some light chit-chat.  All the while, Cary has been getting trees and gardening done by a younger man named Ron Kirby (Rock Hudson) whose soft-spoken yet kind demeanor and devilishly handsome good looks, become a point of admiration for Cary, who finds herself falling for Ron.  Fortunately for Cary, Ron too seems to find himself growing fond for her, and the two begin a sweet and simple romance that centers particularly on their trips to a dilapidated barn on the outskirts of the town, a place owned by his family.  When word of their relationship makes it to town, the people begin to talk and condemn the two for engaging in what many claim to be an illicit relationship, not because Cary is a widow, but because she is so much older than Ron.  Realizing its detrimental effects on their family name, Cary's own children turn against her, eventually rejecting her desire to be with Ron, even though she emphasizes her love and earnest feelings for him.  As a result, she leaves him alone and rejects his marriage offer, only to realize that her own happiness is far to valuable to simply toss away.  What follows is an attempt to return to Ron, only to grow cold feet at the last minute.  However, seeing Cary walks away, Ron attempts to follow her only to fall of a ledge and injure himself.  Hearing the news of the accident, Cary returns to make amends with the ailing Ron who welcomes her back and the two are allowed to obtain their own world of happiness regardless of what the societal norms might suggest.

The melodrama as a genre, has always proved problematic in relation to women, particularly its emphasis that they exist within the domestic sphere.  Of course, one benefit of the melodrama, particularly from the era of filmmaking where Sirk emerge, was its heavy use of women in lead roles, an act that did challenge cinematic conventions of its time.  However, women, even in the context, of such a revolutionary film portrayal were decidedly expected to perform within perfectly aligned gender roles.  In the case of All That Heaven Allows, Cary is told that she is to play the part of the grieving widow and mother to her children, and not expected to venture into such a controversial love affair with a younger man.  It is interesting to note that she is chastised, not for seeking a new partner, in fact, she is made multiple marriage propositions in the film, however, it is her blatant choice of a younger man and, subsequently, her refusal to worry about the frivolous world of social outings to find romance.  The people of the country club, as well as her children, seem content on her remarrying to another well-off widow in order to assure financial security and that class divisions not be overlapped.  As such, one can read into the possibility that individuals are not so much upset with Cary for seeking romance with a younger person, but for doing so with somebody of such a lower class.  Regardless of their feelings and attitudes towards the arrangement, one thing is clear. they seem content to blame the entire ordeal on Cary, despite it being quite clear that Ron is also interested and involved in the initial flirtation, however, Cary is mature, educated and a mother and should, as a result, know better.  It is a film about finding love in unlikely places and the rewards present when someone opens their heart up to such possibilities, however, its dueling context of societal norms and their ability to cause an institutionalized idea of normal romance, to become internalized quite quickly.  The original ending of the film had Ron's accident serve as the closing moment, leading to his survival being uncertain, an act studios found far too depressing, yet, ironically, it is perhaps this ending that was more fulfilling than his survival.  Sure they will end up together, but they are no less suspect to the condemning glances of their community.

Key Scene:  The initial trip to the barn, is seemingly simple, but its romantic energy and sexual undertones are far too brilliant to underestimate or overlook.

This is yet another gift from Criterion.  While I am holding out for a bluray upgrade, for those solely rocking DVD's this is a must own in every regard.

I Am An Old Woman My Dear, I Know My Sex: The Women (1939)

I have come away from George Cukor's 1939 melodrama The Women with complete uncertainty as to how I feel about it theoretically.  At once, it is both an essentialist mess that blames the women in the film for most of their problems, as well as a revolutionary bit of film in its all-woman cast, using male characters in a completely distancing, very much nonexistent, manner.  Regardless, of my feelings towards it as a piece of feminist cinema, I can praise it for its intense wit, brilliant acting and overall well-executed cinematic style.  George Cukor stands as one of the premier figures in the history of filmmaking and to witness him create a film based entirely around women and cleverly choosing not to incorporate a single male figure, even children, is quite profound and it is certainly worth noting that it is based of of a Clare Boothe play, also worth considering since Boothe was an essential figure in women's push towards a presence in the theater in the early twentieth century.  The film is narratively dense and I will openly admit that I am not entirely sure about everything that occurs within the film, aside from a heavy amount of off-screen infidelity and gossip.  The brilliance of Cukor's adaptation is the fact that he does not slow anything down for viewers, but instead; requires that they keep up with the rapid fire dialogue and insanity which ensues throughout the film, both within and outside of the domestic space.  Of course, the film is careful not to suggest that this particular vision of women's lives during the time is anything close to factually grounded, which is aided by the films magnificently lavish and inconceivably absurd sets, some that seem so theatrical that it would be possible to assume that one was watching a musical, especially, in the opening spa scenes.  It is as much an embracing of the melodramatic women's film so prevalent in Hollywood during the 1930's and 1940's just as it is also a rejection of the tradition, doings its best to exist within a meta world, even incorporating a technicolor scene that is assumedly part of the black and white narrative world, but could just as easily be a Buñuel dream sequence.  The Women is a fantastic bit of old school filmmaking that hits its stride early and never lets up, in fact, if it were not for its absolutely convoluted commentary on women's roles in society, it would be a certifiable masterpiece.

The Women, as the title suggests, focuses on a group of women who are navigating their middle-class spaces attempting to outdo one another with their various frivolities and conspicuous purchases, particularly Sylvia (Rosalind Russell) who is so preoccupied with her needing glasses and being extremely tall that she challenges such image issues within Lady Gaga-esque wardrobe choices, the eyeball blouse being a specific example.  Similarly, the other women within their group are intent on undermining one another when possible for what could either be a good time or earnest disdain.  However, one woman within the group, Mary (Norma Shearer) seems somewhat detached from it all looking upon the spectacle of the women's amusing diatribe with loving dismissal.  Yet, when it is revealed to her, through gossip of course, that her husband has been seeing another woman, Mary begins to reconsider her relationship to other women and to what degree she can trust them, especially with their willingness to reprimand Mary for something she has little to no control over.  Eventually the identity of Mary's husband's mistress is revealed to be a perfume girl named Crystal Allen (Joan Crawford) whose reputation for engaging in such relationships precedes her, making the act even worse in Mary's mind.  After an off-screen argument between Mary and her silent husband, the two decide to get a divorce, leading to Crystal moving into her house, while Mary seeks an escape to Reno, a choice that includes many of her other "friends" joining, as well as the introduction of a group of women divorcees who speak out adamantly against men and their misgivings.  It is during this excursion that Mary is informed about her husbands growing disdain for Crystal, as well as her daughters tenuous relationship with the indifferent and cantankerous woman.  Mary returns to the town to confront Crystal during a party, in which, she manages to make Crystal's interest move towards another man, only to become rejected.  In the end, Crystal loses her moments of power and strength and is shown almost breaking the fourth wall to extend loving arms to what one can assume to be her husband.

I mention my personal frustrations with this film, particularly, its ending that seems to suggest Mary returns to her husband out of love, completely overlooking his infidelity and lack of shared affection.  In fact, one could assume much of her decision is predicated upon assuring a safe future for her daughter who became a point of spite for Crystal.  It is the ending that complicates things considerably, not to mention the suggestion that much of the frustration and social alienation that the women go through is of their own accord and decision making, particularly their attempts to step upon one another for the latest fashions and affections.  It is certainly possible to read these as figurative acts of infidelity, but it would be a stretch compared to the very real acts occurring of screen.  I note these problems to turn around and praise this film for some brilliant elements.  Firstly, and perhaps most obviously, is the absolute refusal to include a male figure in the entire visual narrative, we are not shown a man, even in the closing moments of Mary's husband returning to her arms.  It is a decidedly feminine film with a exceptionally focused consideration of women's issues.  However, the film, and, assumedly the play, poke fun an women as being tied to the identities of their husbands, given that Mary and Sylvia are introduced as being Mrs. what ever their spouses names are, which is a direct reflection on the lack of societal navigation faced by women, who upon marriage were seen as a lesser extension of their husband.  The film also takes great care to consider the troubles faced by women who did get divorces during this era, in so much, as they were not allowed control or access to their own wills upon separation and had to rely on, often uncooperative ex-husbands.  The films most tragic downside is its racial and class issues, particularly towards domestic servants, but that critique is its own set of problems worth expanding upon at a later point.

Key Scene:  The technicolor fashion show is the obvious, but no less, best scene.

This film is very much multi-dimensional which cinematically works in its favor, while also being troublesome theoretically.  Yet, it is absolutely worth owning and revisiting many times.

For Your Awareness: Mother (1926)

For this month of women in film, I decided to dig pretty deep into the film canon and find some rather obscure gems, not to mention a film that is directly tied to some research I am currently doing for a class, it is the veritable two birds with one stone way of executing things on this blog when possible.  As such, I decided to go with the 1926 Soviet montage film Mother, which, much like its contemporaries, exists in a succinct and envisioned manner that pops off the screen capturing viewers intrigue by its near surrealist use of juxtaposition and high level cinematic to draw in viewers.  In the fashion of so many films from the Soviet Union of this era, the narrative is very much centered in a Marxist state of mind, where in, the proletariat (working class) is living in insufferable conditions and attempts to make advances through revolutions, which are seemingly always suppressed by the powerful and emotionless bourgeois (upper class) who seem far more content on making profits and keeping within their ivory towers than concerning themselves with the suffering of the common man.   If the Soviets were making movies circa 2011 it would be a 99% vs 1% rhetoric, although the revolutionary zeal and artistic output that emerges in his context is far greater than anything which emerged in relation to a bunch of people occupying parks.  Of course, I did not necessarily pick Mother for this month in film, because of its relationship to Marxist politics, although oppression and finding voices against that is certainly something that has emerged in the previous blogs for the month, no, I picked this because I wanted to start mapping a trend I have witnessed, particularly in class fueled narratives of revolt, wherein mother is an image used in a sort of sacrificial exploitation manner, a fact, which is clear in Battleship Potemkin, as well as less obviously in a handful of other films of the era.  I draw upon this film not to critique it stylistically because it is a masterful piece of cinema that is as indicative of the Soviet montage as any of its contemporaries, but, instead; to ask why in a film so concerned with oppression that it makes no qualms about exploiting a female figure for its narrative benefit.

Mother focuses rather loosely on the Russian Revolution of 1905, primarily as it relates to a metallurgy plant set on gaining better wages for their families.  The Mother (Vera Baranovska) is broken down by her lack of food and ability to take care of her family, all of who are equally distraught, the worst of all being her drunkard of a husband who fails to do anything productive.  Yet when he is convinced to help with the revolution efforts he and his son become key figures in the fight, and it is when the father looses his life, that the mother attempts to protect her son from the inquiries of military officers.  Realizing that the mother is protecting secrets she is jailed for a length of time, during which the revolution escalades and her son becomes inextricably tied to the movement, upon release the mother and eventual son who receives his own jailing time, the two are now heavily invested in the movement.  During their final confrontation with their enemies, the son dies and the mother takes up arms as a very real symbol of loss and anger, only to be trampled in an intense scene moments later.  The mother makes for a powerful symbol of sacrifice and one that is from a propaganda standpoint flawless.  Yet, one must remember that as a woman this cause does not allow her to move outside of the domestic space, nor does it afford her any sort of right to correct, say an alcoholic husband, yet her image as a signifier of sacrifice is embraced and pushed to the revolutionary forefront.  One only needs to consider that Russia is often referred to, at least in this era, as the "motherland," yet, mothers, as this film, shows, likely without intention, are the most relegated and othered group within Soviet Russia and their involvement within the revolution was quite exploitative, at once a thing of symbolic empowerment, as well as something to be ignored in the face of the masculine drives of war.

This is, as I already noted not a critique, but simply a consideration.  The mother is a key figure in culture, and in the example of propaganda they exist as a point of problematic exploitation.  I still highly recommend viewing Mother because it is a thing of cinematic perfection, although getting ahold of a quality copy might be a bit expensive.

Say Hello, She Is Like Your Second Mother: Carnivore; Beasts of Prey (1985)

I remember pondering all the possibilities of American influence on Japanese cinema upon initially entering into heavy film viewing.  I would watch films like Vengeance Is Mine and Jigoku and find myself drawn to their similarities to what was being done in America during the era.  I was quite certain that no other country displayed influences form The United States in quite a way, until I sat down to watch a relatively old Korean film in Kim Ki-Youngs Carnivore, also known as Beast of Prey and Carnivorous Animal.  A film that is preoccupied with the fears of modernity, particularly those involving shifting gender norms and sexual power dynamics, Carnivore is melodramatic, cinematic and horrific all at once.  I was a bit thrown off when reading that Kim Ki-Young's work was considered to be placed solidly within the horror genre upon initial release, but when viewing this narrative I found it to be fitting, although the work clearly flirts the lines of dark comedy as well.  The movie offers no clear moments of redemption, nor does it provide a single good character, rather ironic for a film steeped in the traditions of melodrama.  As has been the case for so many Korean films thus far, Carnivore does not succinctly fall into one single genre, in fact it is very much a hybrid of multiple genres, layered together, at times rather abrasively, but mostly with flawless precision.

Carnivore follows Kim Dong-sik, an aging securities firm employee, who is becoming forced to take a back seat to his wife's successful business ventures in transports.  He begins to question his own masculinity and spends much of his time drinking at a local bar, which clearly doubles as a brothel.  This action is only worsened by the fact that his wife also spends her evenings at a bar for women to meet young gigolos.  During one particularly bad night, Kim blows a large some of money at the bar chatting with a young woman.  The madame of the bar-brothel tells the young woman that she is responsible for obtaining his large bill and suggests she offer herself sexually to recoup the debt.  Engaging in a rather brief sexual encounter in the back of Kim's car, the woman becomes infatuated with Kim and demands that they move in together.  At first dismissive, Kim finally agrees to build two homes as he realizes his wife and himself are doomed for failure.  Despite the concerns of his whole family, Kim engages in the two homes and finds himself revitalized by the lust and vivacity of a younger woman.  However, the lines between his first family and his new mistress begin to blur and come to a climactic crash during a birthday celebration in which his family and lover are simultaneously present.  The mistress, engulfed with jealously demands that Kim spend the night with her, an action that would directly break the agreement between his wife and the mistress.  Regardless of the pact, Kim agrees to stay with dire results, after a fiery round of intercourse, the mistress stabs Kim and he falls down the stairs in defeat, just as his family enters the house to inquire to his tardiness.  The film then closes with claims of the events being based off real events, a fact that I am unsure about.

I mentioned this film being squarely in the horror genre, much like Audition, much of the film seems rather mundane and unfit for the genre.  However, for those of you who have seen Miike's dark work, it become clear in the back half of the film that it is something grotesque and completely horrific.  The last thirty minutes of Carnivore certainly adhere to this notion between the stabbing and the slipping sanity of those involved within the bizarre love triangle.  This bit of action, does not fully explain the horror within such a film though, instead the disturbing qualities within the film rest solely in the absurd, something that directors like Hitchcock used extensively in their horror works.  Arguably, a viewer knows that what is being depicted is not normal; however, the characters within the narrative treat it as the usual, recall Vertigo if you have any questions.  Between the unquestioned visits to gigolos and Kim being dressed as a baby, nothing is made to seem out of the ordinary.  Even the agreement between Kim's wife and mistress seems bizarre, because it is done so with almost business like formality.  It has been said that Korean audiences laughed loudly at many of the scenes within the film, I can imagine that it is due partly to the ridiculous scenarios depicted; however, I would also venture to say that it is from a bit of discomfort at the fears of such actions occurring as a result of modernity.  I cannot claim this to be one of my favorite horror films, but the unusual approach to such a genre and its clear intention to mesh genres may very well make it one of my favorite genre hybrids.  It is realized and incredibly scathing in its intentions.

Key Scene:  The scene in which Kim begs for candy is absolutely brilliant...you will know it when it happens.

This films accessibility suffers from region locks and the like, yet, thanks to the Korean Film Archive it is instantly available, with subtitles, on Youtube.  Please take advantage of this viewing opportunity before the film is inevitably removed for some stupid reason.

Perhaps So, I’ve Brought The Apple Anyway:…And God Created Women (1956)

The world was never the same after the introduction of Brigitte Bardot and cinema has this film to thank.  Perhaps more well-known for his cult classic Barbarella, Roger Vadim’s film is a sexual romp through the French coast that is as sultry as it is sentimental and serves as one of the fleeting moments of brilliance that existed in France prior to its filmic upheaval that would be the French New Wave. It is at times funny, while at others tragically serious, but despite its wavering it never manages to loose its illustrious Technicolor flow fashioning itself around a young vixen whose on screen presence would forever change the way sexual promiscuity was framed worldwide.

While Juliette (Brigitte Bardot) is the character the films title references, the actual narrative is more concerned with the small Tardieu family as they attempt to secure their living amidst the ever contentious demands of a sleazy businessman whose interests also lie in dominating the young Juliette.  An orphan, Juliette fills her days with lackluster work at a bookstore and dancing into midnight, actions which eventually lead her foster mother to banish her, stating that she is to return to a far off boarding school.  Realizing her imminent loss if she were to be relocated, Juliette prays on a the middle brother of the family, using his shyness against him and becoming a femme fatale of sorts, ignoring the death associated with the character as it relates to film noir.  Her seduction of the middle brother is partially for self-perseverance, but it also is intended to exact revenge on the family’s oldest brother who unknowingly admits his attempts to use Juliette at a late night party.  The film then spirals into a abyss of infidelity, double speak and business, which witnesses the Tardieu’s dismissing their land with the promise of earning off of whatever is built.  In a fleeting moment, the oldest brother and Juliette engage in an act of intercourse, which ultimately destroys the rather close relationship previously existing between the Tardieu’s.  In the classic femme fatale fashion, Juliette remains relatively unharmed and appears to have learned very little from the endeavor making the men’s unrestrained desire the problem, as opposed to the innocence of a young vixen.

The critiques of this film are vast and varied, but I find the most obvious ones to emerge when approaching it from a feminist lens.  The first issue is the most blatant, it is a film preoccupied with the male gaze.  Our first introduction to Juliette is of her legs as they emerge from behind a dangling sheet.  The film then cuts to an old man approaching her with a toy, yet in a moment of cinematic genius it then cuts to a far off house to show that yet another man is gazing at the young girl.  In this sense, Juliette cannot escape the gaze of men within the film, let alone the gaze of the films viewers.  Furthermore, the film relishes in the notion that Juliette is a sexual object.  The eldest son Antoine (Christian Marquand) is never punished for his open claims of desiring to degrade Juliette and, in fact, he is rewarded by eventually claiming her sexually.  This lack of concern for Juliette is only furthered by how little is known about her past.  It is evident that Juliette is the black sheep of the community, but her association with disdain is rarely elaborated on and instead appears to be from deep seeded jealously on the part of the women in the community, yet another problem addressed by feminist.  Jealously is solely the result of a patriarchy that demands women be sexually desirous, an obvious undertone in this films narrative.  To put it succinctly the film does not treat women well, but is certain to chastise the men for their actions, perhaps it’s only redeeming feature (besides the luscious Technicolor of course).

This is not one of my favorite Criterion releases by any means, but it is quite good.  I would only suggest snagging a copy if you are a CC fanatic and want to one day possess the entire collection.

Without Discipline We Should All Behave Like Children: Black Narcissus (1947)

The works of Powell and Pressburger, as they related to Archer, are cinematic feasts.  Most everyone one of their films are in glorious Technicolor and incorporate expensive special effects that translate beautifully for being over sixty years old.  Not to mention the famous directing duo has an ability to make melodrama seem admirably understated and expertly extravagant.  Their 1947 work Black Narcissus does just this, while mixing religious guilt and sexual longing into the mix, creating perhaps one of their most controversial films, second only to the nightmare that is Peeping Tom.  With a stellar cast, including a young Jean Simmons and the always-amiable Sabu, the imagery seeps seduction and subversion.  It is, however, not an entirely problem free movie, in fact, as can be expected of a film released in the late forties, it deals with issues of race, gender and class rather flippantly.  Needless to say, Black Narcissus is a glorious bit of filmmaking that is right inline with my previous review of The School of the Holy Beast, minus the blatant sexual exploitation of course.

The film follows a group of young nuns who have been tasked with creating a self-sustaining convent in the uninhabitable Himalayas.  Their already difficult task is made exponentially worse by a insolent general whose whimsy with newly formed religious outposts causes the group to find the task of caring for locals more burdensome than divinely rewarding.  Regardless, the group is led by the young, but keenly devout, Sister Clodagh (Deborah Kerr).  In youthful ignorance, Clodagh refuses to see the mission as an inevitable failure.  Along with a group of fellow handpicked nuns, including Clodagh's rival Sister Ruth (Kathleen Byron, the convent opens rather successfully.  This success, as should be no surprise, is short-lived, particularly with the emergence of the suave and cunning Mr. Dean (David Farrar).  Dean, despite being an Englishmen by birth, is an expert in the Himalayan people and advises the nuns on the best methods to assure harmony with the locals.  Clodagh, as well as Ruth, find themselves incessantly drawn towards Dean, often associating him with memories of their relationships prior to their convent life.  As if to make matters worse, their dreams of intimacy are enacted physically between the general's son (Sabu) and a sultry local girl named Kanchi (Jean Simmons).  The unfulfilled desire, as well as a growing animosity between the convent and locals, results in a climactic downfall of the convent that results in one of the most mesmerizing and heart-pounding death scenes I have ever witnessed in a movie.  The film closes with voice-overs and panning shots of the now abandoned convent, employing all the key genre elements of melodrama, in sweet, aching subtlety.  Black Narcissus is a film that simply ends with its characters left desiring and worse because of it.

This film takes liberties with its idyllic portrayals of race, gender and class.  This is evident from the seemingly synchronous relations of the nuns to the smiling faces on the natives accepting their colonization, but as I noted earlier this is a style very evident of the eras filmmaking, particularly as it relates to British works.  This film reminds me of two other British films, the first being The Thief of Baghdad, which involved Powell and a handful of other directors, and an earlier work titled Gungadin, starring a young Carey Grant.  The films collectively deal with issues of colonization, whether it be racial, sexual or economically.  Gungadin exploits Indian soldiers in the name of expanding the British empire, while The Thief of Baghdad exploits the racial uniqueness of actors such as Sabu and Rex Ingram to give the film an exotic feel, while relying on a white actor to play the major roles, this is done in Black Narcissus with Kanchi, as Jean Simmons is basically applying yellow face to play the part.  These are all tragic actions reflective of film prior to the Civil Rights and Women's Rights movements of the late sixties and early seventies that cannot be denied.  It is not to dismiss the movies entirely, but instead to make viewers more self aware of what they are taking in when watching a film that is in all other respects flawless.  I would use this same critique on Gone With The Wind, a critique that many people I know are unwilling to acknowledge, because they are scared of tarnishing its "classicness."  I want people to love Black Narcissus, but I do not want them to take its historical relevance for granted either.

Black Narcissus is a Criterion blu-ray if ever one existed and well, well, well worth owning.  Buy two copies, one for yourself and one for a friend...it is just that good.