Experiments In Film: Manhatta (1921)

I have decided in the past few weeks that since I am in graduate school and have become fairly certain of my intentions to continue on with my education in film studies that expanding my research interests to exist outside of the rather limiting window of South Korean cinema was of the necessity.  While this has manifested itself in various formats, whether it be more work with archival footage and orphan media or an expansion to include previously unforeseen genre films, my secondary place of rest seems to have landed squarely within the frame of cyberpunk cinema, primarily because it is something that already has ties to contemporary South Korean films, but also because it manages to exist as an amalgam of some of my favorite elements from other works of genre, whether it be the cold, calculated, but ultimately indifferent way of the world that is clearly in line with the film noir of eras gone by, or the ability to transgress and readdress boundary issues by way of also possessing a decided heir of the science fiction film.  Given the diversity at play within the cyberpunk film, I have even implemented weekly screenings of works within the broad genre as a means to expand my horizons.  Of course, it is a somewhat expansive frame for a nondescript genre, so I manage to pull things like the short film Manhatta as a way to approach some of the more integral issues to the cyberpunk films, while also continuing to expand my understanding of urban spaces and social integrity.  Manhatta, exists in this space because for all of its intentions to exist as a documentary, it is clearly far too invested in reflecting the mechanized labor at display that makes not only the film much more experimental in its composition, but also proves to be a rather evocative statement on the proletariat implications of an expanding cityscape, one that carries with it Babel like implications as the various bridges, towers and skyscrapers in the short  films narrative burst through the sky unapologetically.  Here the human figures neither exist comfortably in the real world, nor do they exist safely in a past or future space.  Manhatta, while it may be an earnest look at a day in the life of a blue-collar worker in America, it also proves a forceful and poignant warning as to what can happen should humans becomes too invested in their machine, one of the major components of genre.

How then do the workings of dual filmmakers Charles Sheeler and Paul Strand evoke the idea that the mechanical and the human have somehow become inextricably intertwined in the modern setting.  Well, considering that it is an experimental film from 1921 there is a heavy investment in methods of editing and juxtaposition that allow for a paralleling between the movement of the rows and clusters of people through New York with the various machinery of construction and destruction.  The very human who desires to make the space of Manhatta(n) into something spectacular and grand, too fails to connect their own reliance on these beastial machines as a means to enact this expansion that is both outward and upward.  Indeed, Manhatta takes on issues of hyper-technolization and, to a degree, industrialization much in the same way Fritz Lang's Metropolis would do the same, but where the latter is very much rooted in the workings of science-fiction, Manhatta still remains a documentary.  In its emphasis on reality and the depictions of the city from a near-omniscient presence it seems more inclined to evoke an idea of the monotony and repetition of the cityscape and its various mechanized industries as being synonymous with the hustle and bustle of the daily commute.  While it is far less violent, but no less surreal, one could make a comfortable comparison between Sheeler and Strand's work and that of Testuo, Iron Man wherein the metal and oil of the machine comes colliding together with the human to create some simple version of the cinematic cyborg, although in this short film one must accept it as a rather broad metaphor.  What is far more clear in this short documentary are the concerns of the filmmakers.  The film ends with a deeply rousing image of the sky cracking open to reveal large beams of light washing over the city, as though the very presence of God has bursted over the metropolis to look down on its own fusion in a 20th century Babel Revisited.  The judgement or joy of the heavenly presence is left uncertain, a reality is only marked and the natural/spiritual is left merely to accept this existence.  In Manhatta, man has matched the gods, the result is to this day still to be determined.

For more information on the filmmakers, or to watch Manhatta, click on either of the images below:

In Heaven, Everything Is Fine: Eraserhead (1977)

What can one possibly hope to understand when writing about a film as complex and openly enigmatic as David Lynch's art house masterpiece Eraserhead.  Admittedly, the first time I viewed this film it was on quite a small screen one that did not aid to the possibility of understanding the layered symbolism at play nor was I able to truly appreciate the ways in which Lynch creates a mise-en-scene so incredibly evocative and absolutely surreals as to serve as a standard for many a filmmaker to follow.  Surely he is borrowing from the likes of Carnival of Souls and other B-movies of years gone by, but Eraserhead is also a precursor to so much of what would occur within body horror and phenomenological horror for decades to follow.  I would never have considered a film like Eraserhead to be an "ideal" big screen viewing, however, I had the great fortune of encountering it is such a way and came to immediately realize that it is precisely what one could hope to gain from seeing something in such a setting.  It is a moving and stirring picture that while far more unsettling than what Tom Gunning probably has in mind, still proves to be a work that exists within the notion of "cinema of attractions," here almost becoming knowingly aware of the ways in which viewers engage with cinema, using jump scares and non-linear narrative in a way that would not come into its most fruitful for at least five more years and in most of those instances by pure accident.  Usually, when I encounter or more recently reencounter early works I am able to pick up on some of their flaws, although always finding myself erring on the side of forgiveness, a fact attributed to my love for Jarmusch's sloppy but endearing Permanent Vacation or Kubick's sporadic yet scathingly focused indictment of war that is Fear and Desire.  It is a rare feat however for a filmmaker to approach their initial works with such fervor and focus, an attribute I would be more apt to direct towards the New Wave Directors, or someone like Wes Anderson whose Bottle Rocket is still the highest achievement of his critically and popularly well-received career.  Eraserhead is cinematic expression at its most intimate, proving that such a focused and personal narrative can translate beautifully (if abjectly so) without really meaning anything of certainty to those not personally attached to the director.  Eraserhead is a glimpse into the mind's eye of one of cinema's most evocative and provocative directors and those who have the chance to see it in a large scale setting should do so without hesitation.

Eraserhead focuses rather specifically on the experiences of Henry (Jack Nance) a wandering young man whose life appears to lead him around what is simultaneously a warehouse and his place of residence.   Henry who is apparently a graphic designer, is subject to bouts of paranoid encounters and visions of haunting surreal formats, whether it be an unusual longing and fear for the neighbor across the hall from his apartment, one whose stares and constant providing of information cause Henry to feel incredibly unsafe.  When Henry is informed that his girlfriend Mary (Charlotte Stewart) wants him to come to her family's house for dinner, the degrees of paranoia grow in Henry's mind, leading to the bizarre encounter at the household when Henry meets Mary's parents Mrs. X (Jeanne Bates) and the smiling, oaf of a man Mr. X (Allen Joseph).  The enraged Mrs. X pulls Henry into a side room and demands that Henry admit to engaging in intercourse with Mary, because she has recently given birth to a child and believes him to be the father.  Henry suddenly transports himself to a world where he is living with Mary and their "infant child" the disturbingly deformed bodiless being the whines incessantly, leading to the already mentally unstable Mary to leave Henry to take care of the child all on his own.  This immediately spirals out of control as the infant becomes sick the moment Mary leaves, possessing rashes all over his face and spewing out various fluids uncontrollably. All the while, Henry's connection with reality breaks as he begins to see visions of The Lady in the Radiator (Laurel Near) singing to him and as well as watching her trample what appear to be less developed versions of his and Mary's already deformed child.  In the wildest section of Henry's visions he imagines his head exploding off and falling into the street only to have a child grab his head and take it to a factory where the cerebral cortex of his brain serves as a stem of eraser for men.  Awaking from all of this the maddened Henry takes a blade to the child in frustration assumedly destroying it for good, although it is uncertain as his reality is far too convoluted at this point to be certain of anything, instead, we only know that the disturbed Henry continues to seek solace in the presence of The Lady in the Radiator.

When one searches for theoretical scholarship on Eraserhead, it is most commonly tied to phenomenology in that it is suggested to be a film influenced by personal politics and individualistic endeavors.  As such, Eraserhead can be read as a variety of things, but considering the amount of information provided by Lynch on the film it is worth wholly considering the metaphors within his own admittance of it resulting from his fears of fatherhood.  Indeed while the film does consider Mary's own issues with the child, it is a responsibility thrust upon Henry who is clearly not only inept at dealing with the newly brought about child, but also manages to accidentally make it sick and eventually kill it in a decidedly more active manner.  Henry is assumedly a manifestation of Lynch's own fears ones that are both a suggestion of his own fears of ineptitude with a child, as well as a clear commentary on his burgeoning loss of freedom that invariably emerges when one is faced with adding a life into the world that is purely dependent on another for help.  Of course much more of this exists in a surreal space for Lynch and all is not to be taken literally for to do so would be to stifle things like The Lady in the Radiator as extending to multiple forms of meaning and theoretical possibilities.  I mean thinking about the fact that she is assumedly a small figure living in the radiator of Henry's (and possibly Mary's) apartment that is a projection and point of looking for Henry is incredibly complex and fascinating, although she extends well beyond this issue.  Indeed, her stylized look and Cold War dress sharply contrast her swollen face in an incredibly stirring and decidedly perplexing way.  Furthermore, as phenomenological as the film may be it is easy to see other narratives emerging within the film, indeed my post screening discussion with a few friends resulted in readings ranging from a positing that the film is a Catholic slanted understanding of pro-life issues (I would say a larger statement on abortion anxiety, although problematic in its masculine issues) while others found it to be a burgeoning post-modern text on shifting notions of masculine identity.  All this is plausible and no less possible, even in the phenomenology ideal placed upon this film, because when considering fatherhood and identity these other issues and a lot more come to the forefront, Lynch just proves with Eraserhead to be a pioneer.

Key Scene: In Heaven, everything is fine...

I am waiting with baited breath for the alleged Criterion release of this film, it has HD prints available, but only in the non-region one context. As such patience is of the essence with this viewing, unless, of course, you are afforded a chance to see it on the big screen.

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.

Experiments In Film: Trash Humpers (2009)

Reeling from the headache that would prove to be working in a corporate film setting, controversial and cult-adored filmmaker Harmony Korine went about making something so completely of its own world that watching it is an experience nearly inexplicable.  His work Trash Humpers is about exactly what it states, people dressed in masks who hump trash.  Jumping on the popularity of found footage films, Korine admitted to setting up the piece to seem like something found in a home video collection, and even claims to have contemplated just leaving the work on a VHS tape somewhere on the side of the road.  The abrasive piece of arthouse grunge cinema is arguably unwatchable as a series of masked individuals travel down back roads and side alleys of some unnamed American town, perform crude sexual acts on trees, mocking various citizens and lighting a ton of fireworks at all hours of the night.  At no point during the hour plus movie are we told why exactly these people engage in their actions, nor is their a linear evolution to their behaviors, they simply do crude actions and seem to find crude behavior amusing, as is evidenced both in their hiring of multiple prostitutes and in their discussions with a self-proclaimed comedian who relies on racial and sexually demeaning commentary to get laughs.  It is at a quick glance tantamount to shock cinema, however, when one truly engages the work and reflects on its possibilities, Trash Humpers is something far grander than John Waters style shock.

The film is crude and abrasive and at multiple times throughout the film I found myself fully aware that my jaw was dropping completely at what was being depicted.  Between the absurd dialogue and eerie gutural laughing it is hard to find anything appealing within the context of a few people banging plastic garbage receptacles, however, even with the use of gritty, technologically inferior video recording devices, Korine manages to catch a handful of absolutely beautiful moments throughout the film, every once in awhile a streetlight will catch the dirt and reflection in the camera in such a way that makes film more surreal than horrific, almost Bunuelian in its existence.  The question that most viewers will likely bring up when watching this work is a singular and resounding "why."  It is hard to explain why the group does their actions and even more difficult to justify them, but our answer to this question comes in the closing moments of the film, as one of the masked people explains that they enjoy living free from the chains of conformity, citing jobs, religion and other social norms as being problematic.  He claims that he finds their illogical order and refusal to break from the desired mold far more inexplicable and sad than his own behavior.  It is a profound statement and one that still has me considering my own engagement in society long after viewing the curious work.  However, Korine does remind us of a very real fact, even the most bizarre of individuals have ties to those they love, even the meanest and wickedest of person may be a mother, and that role is always taken with a high level of seriousness.

For more information on Harmony Korine or to find a copy of Trash Humpers, click on either of the images below:

 

Whatever God Wills Is For The Best: Pather Panchali (1955)

As I dig through the last few movies on the TIFF essential 100 list, I am having trouble obtaining copies of some of the more elusive titles, particularly Region 1 DVD copies.  This was the case with Pather Panchali, until I obtained a surprisingly cheap copy on Amazon a few weeks ago.  I found out quite quickly into watching the film why the copy was so cheap.  It was clearly a rip from a television recording that was of rather bad quality and displayed a bug in the right corner of the film the entire time.  Furthermore, the subtitling for the film was terrible and often would simply remain on the screen until the next piece of dialogue occurred.  You would assume that this combination of issues would make the film all but unwatchable, but the sheer magnitude of the film, combined with Satyajit Ray's honest filmmaking allowed me to become mesmerized by the film regardless.  While it certainly helps to see the acclaimed Bengalese director's films in high-definition (The Music Room).  Viewing this film recently verified that it is equally important that his films be seen in general, for he is perhaps the most overlooked director to ever live, if only second to Jean Vigo.

Pather Panchali, in contrast to The Music Room, focuses on a poverty stricken family attempting to exist in a rural portion of the Bengalese countryside sometime in the 1920's.  Although he does not arrive for the first portion of the film, much of the narratives focus is no that of the family's youngest Child Apu, who very much in the form of Truffaut, would become the subject of a trilogy of films for Ray.  Apu, along with his rather precocious sister, Durga exist as a sort of other within their own town, living off little to no food as their preacher father wastes their money on extravagances and alcohol.  As such, the burden of the family rest uncomfortably on Apu's mother who is rarely shown in a moment of happiness and is instead forced to punish her children for constant theft while also pushing away a leeching aunt-in-law who constantly whines and consumes the families resources.  Most of the film centers on the mothers struggles, while Apu and Durga look on with confusion and a lack of understanding as to why they have so little and their neighbors seem to have so much.  At one point, it appears as though Apu's dad has finally found steady employment only to disappear for months while their residence falls to shambles.  Apu's mother has all but given up hope, until she receives a letter from her husband explaining that he will return home with a large amount of money, which will assuredly fix their strife.  Tragically, his return is a day too late as a terrible monsoon destroys their house and kills his only daughter in the process.  There is a considerable amount of mourning before the family agrees to move into the city, Apu finds a necklace that belonged to Durga as they are leaving, one which he clearly intends to keep in his possession as a memory of her, it is to be assumed that the family is moving into prosperity, if only in a technological sense.

This excellent bit of cinema won the "Best Human Document" award at the 1956 Cannes Film Festival.  While this may seem like a rather unusual award for a low-budget narrative film, it is fair to note that it is the only film in the festivals history to receive such an award.  Through his inclusion in this festival, Ray managed to become a name amongst the film world and create an acknowledgement for Indian filmmaking on a global scale.  However, it is difficult to pinpoint precisely what about the film would have led juries to create such a category for the film.  I would be so bold to suggest that it is quite possible that Pather Panchali is one of, if not, the best documents of human existence ever.  While the film is certainly narrative in its composition, it depicts a reality so earnestly and intimately that you have trouble remembering that it is fictional.  So much of the film is mundane, whether it be Apu's brief moments at school, or the way the camera lingers on the mother's chores indefinitely.  If the film were just this it may not have been received so well, but what Pather Panchali does is to take the mundane moments in life while also sprinkling in those moments of enlightenment that hit us throughout our lives, particularly evident in the moment when the children see a train for the first time, or when they are caught a storm under a tree (probably one of the most beautiful moments i have ever seen in cinema).  Like The Music Room, Ray's debut work reminds viewers that life is about existing and eventually dying and our interactions on each occasion matter more than we care to believe.  It is learning to hear and acknowledge those around you that assures your brief existence is somewhat enjoyable.  Perhaps, Pather Panchali then is not so much a Human Document, but a guideline to society about how to exist in a meaningful harmony with those around us. 

I want to tell you so desperately to purchase this film, but tragically few good copies exist.  Should you be fortunate enough to own a laser disc player, then maybe you can get a decent looking copy.  If not just wait patiently for a rerelese in HD...I hear Criterion has one deep in the works.

It’s Hard To Tell If The World We Live In Is Dream Or Reality: 3-Iron (2004)

One of the initial assumptions I had when beginning my film viewing is that the independent film was a venue that existed only with American cinema.  However, this absurd notion was quickly shattered with the discovery of world cinema that also finds an attachment to low budget arthouse filmmaking that is equally concerned with its cinematic substance as it is with its social commentary.  Furthermore, as I delve deeper into the crevices of individual countries cinema I am surprised to find stellar indie films right below the surface, as is certainly the case with Ki-duk Kim’s 3-Iron.  Like so many indie films, the plot borders on impossibility and is exceptionally quirky, yet it what is becoming nearly assumed Korean theme, darkness, violence and revenge all exist in the narrative as well.  3-Iron still seems to have a bit more than it’s competitors and I will use a phrase I have used in the past when describing various indie films on my blog and say that the film has a heartbeat, in that it touches deeply onto something integral to human existence and does so in a matter of 80 some odd minutes.  It is an earnest and rewarding film to those who watch it, and a deeply ponderous film on the nature of human interactions.

The narrative in absurdist fashion follows the life of a young rebellious male who spends his days and nights breaking into and borrowing from houses that are briefly unoccupied by their residents who are away on vacations or business trips.  He discovers his places by cleverly placing food advertisements on the individual house doors, stopping at the places hours later choosing those locations that have yet to remove the advertisement.  While staying in these places he often eats the food available and takes pictures of himself in front of the various photos within the house.  In each house the young man is also careful to wash the clothing for the absent persons and always alters at least one items within the house, whether it be a clock or scale.  He seems set to engage in his behavior for years to come, until he is discovered by a wife who spends her days lackadaisically wandering around her house.  Initially alarmed by the intruder, the wife says nothing and simply observes the man steadily growing fond of his actions and methodologies.  Eventually she becomes enamored with him and engages with him, until her husband returns home enraged.  Realizing the tragedy of her situation, the young man attacks the husband and takes the wife with him to move from house to house.  The husband begins tracking the couple down and eventually finds them after the two call about a dead body discovered in one house.  The young man is jailed and the wife is forced to return to husband who now makes it is goal to be “better” for her, although he clearly has no desire to do so forever.  Meanwhile, the young man practices escaping from the prison and is eventually successful after learning to move and exist as a ghost.  He returns to the couples house and exists in the shadow of the husband, becoming a lover to the wife right under the husbands gaze.  It should also be noted that this film exists with little dialogue between the husband and wife and absolutely no dialogue whatsoever between the young man and the wife, it is truly a feat.

What then can be made of such a sparse, yet critically dense film.  There is certainly the possibility that the entire narrative is related to issues of guilt and the ghosts that exist in such a state of mind.  Perhaps the young man only represents the lingering problems of the past as he passes between each household, in some instances causing a child to act violently towards his mother or in others for an artist to become exceptionally paranoid.  However, this reading is a bit to vague and really not likely.  It is also possible that it is simply intended to display the various states of living within Korea as it struggles through the 21^st century, whether it be those in abject poverty, or those with considerable wealth and privacy.  The film does do this with great efficiency, as it displays a diverse population that is both old and young, however, it is unlikely that it should be read as the sole commentary within the film.  Instead, I would suggest that this film is very much about the crumbling of a marriage between a misogynist and powerful husband and his submissive yet depressed wife.  Her inability to speak is simply a reflection of her lack of power and her husbands irate nature and continual threats are his actions to reassert his masculinity.  It is not until the wife is allowed an opportunity to extract herself from her situation that she seems to become more enlivened, considering that she essentially discovers a new reason to exist.  More interesting, however, is that that wife continues to remain silent in her new endeavors, not because she is unallowed to speak, but because she has found a partnership with a person who is also lacking a voice, but manages to express himself in the world regardless.  The wife is clearly inspired by this and engages in a world where she has a voice and a form of expression, most evident when she rearranges and rethinks a picture of herself that is hanging in one visited apartment.  Not only does she control the expression, she also controls how her body is being used and depicted in a very literal manner.  Finally, she comes to create a bond with another individual so great that it can go unspoken and she returns to her husband empowered and separated from his violent hand.  She has reached a freedom and enlightenment within the film that to some degree reflects her escape from a troubled marriage.  While we are left to ponder the future of those involved, it is clear that the past of problems, are likely to stay far in fading horizon.

3-Iron is an exceptionally good film and well worth watching.  However, owning a copy is only necessary for the diehard Korean cinema fans.

For That, I Need A Clean Shirt: The 400 Blows (1959)

Truffaut and Godard stand as the two geniuses of The French New Wave, something I am sure I mentioned during my old review of Jules and Jim.  I am constantly reminded upon viewing either of their earlier works about how brilliant both filmmakers were during their youth.  Their style and narrative format have become resonant in the world of cinema since their introduction and both deserve equal praise.  However, the more work I see from the two directors, the more I realize that the two work in completely different spectrum of filmmaking.  Godard was clearly concerned with expanding the conventions of cinema from a visual standpoint, while Truffaut found more in rethinking narrative normalcy.  Both excelled in their respective pursuits, we see this with Breathless and we certainly see this with The 400 Blows.  Truffaut's film on a very basic level is about a kid rebelling against his parents; however, it is something much larger than that and what unfolds is a piece of film that is profound, earnest and individually its own.  Alongside introducing the world to the cinematic figure that is Antoine Doinel, Truffaut's film reminds viewers that in order to love a movie the characters and their experiences need not be dramatic but instead beautifully simple.

As noted above, The 400 Blows focuses on the experiences of a young boy named Antoine Doinel (Jean-Pierre Leaud) as he wanders aimlessly between home and school in an unspecified section of Paris.  Clearly, indifferent to authority figures, Doinel defies his schoolteachers and mother on countless occasions, brushing of their physical attacks and acidic remarks with little care or concern.  In fact, Doinel is lacks such a concern for socially accepted behavior that he foolishly agrees to skip school, catching his mother having an affair with another man in the process.  It is at this point that the young boy's life begins to deteriorate.  Doinel becomes a point of vilification to some of the students who see him as a bully, while he becomes the prime suspect for all wrongdoing both at home and at school.  Doinel's behavior and lack of respect become so egregious that he is kicked out of school and subsequently avoids returning home.  Saddened by the loss of her son, Doinel's mother agrees to be kinder to him upon his return home.  This promise only lasts temporarily when Doinel returns to his bad behavior quite quickly, causing his mother and stepfather to become so aggravated with the boy that they ship him off to a reformatory.  Once again, Doinel's wily ways result in him being punished regularly and quite violently by the headmasters.  During a game of soccer, Doinel, pushed to the edge, pretends to retrieve a ball only to begin running for escape from the reformatory.  After successfully evading those chasing him, Doinel is shown running along the ocean and as he reaches the coast, he stops to look into the camera.  This occurrence breaks the fourth wall, thus reminding viewers that the young boy's story is now theirs as well.

Perhaps the division between Godard and Truffaut is not entirely one of visual over narrative concerns.  I would also argue that their basic assumptions of what it means to portray reality on film are decidedly opposing.  For Godard reality is a series of fabricated moments in which individuals engage in their own self-interests and often interact with one another in very hostile, if not violent, ways.  While the world of Truffaut is certainly hostile, particularly in a work like Shoot The Piano Player, it can be argued that at least one character within each of his films desires to affect change.  It is clear that Doinel's rebellion is problematic; however, what he is rebelling against is certainly justifiable.  In the world of The 400 Blows children are to be obedient and unquestioning in their actions while adults possess free reign over everything.  However, Doinel understand the absurdity of such logic, which is finally solidified when he catches his mother in an act of infidelity, the consequences of which is an explosive realization that adult sensibilities are a lie.  Ultimately, Doinel's tale is one of a child becoming disillusioned at far too young of an age to affect change positively.  Although I have yet to see Truffaut's other films involving Doinel, I can imagine his character struggles with ethics throughout them, and who can blame him considering the lack of proper teaching directed at him.  It could be said that Truffaut's film criticizes French, particularly Parisian, society for their misguided attempts at social values and its over arching affects on youth.  Fortunately, Truffaut would go on to deal with this issue much more thoughtfully in Small Change, a film which reminds viewers that children are to be dealt with sternly and reminded of the tragic world they exist in, yet it is also important to foster their creativity and allow them to maintain a decent amount of imagination.

The 400 Blows is easily one of the most important films ever made.  It is referenced alongside films like Citizen Kane and Seven Samurai, and deservedly so.  Owning a copy should be obvious, particularly considering the recent Bluray upgrade from Criterion.

It Turns My Stomach: A Generation (1955)

When thinking on Marxist commentary in films,  one often reverts to the films of Godard or the work of experimental American filmmakers throughout the sixties.  One, however, usually overlooks the films released in countries that indeed experienced heavy feuding between proletariat and the bourgeoisie who felt no apathy towards their fellow citizens.  At least, this is clearly the case in Andrzej Wajda's 1955 film A Generation.  Set in Poland, it captures the true struggles of working class youth in Poland with an almost documentary like exactness.  From the opening scenes of desolate, yet crowded streets to focused imagery of workers in factories, A Generation realizes its place in a cinema verite structure and only fractures from this association when Wajda makes scenes particularly dramatic to affect an emotional response in the films viewers.  A Generation, is perhaps the most Marxist of films in that while it is certainly a product being produce and released for money, it is not done so with the attachment to a capitalist industry as is often the case for most filmmakers critical of bourgeoisie power, including controversial filmmakers like Godard, Bunuel and Von Trier.  Perhaps it is Wajda's close ties with the youth ideal or his keen sense of economic depravity, but the degrading nature of the world depicted seems so real and as a viewer it is near impossible not to find yourself cheering for the films good guys, while also vilifying the antagonists, a task made all the easier given that they are Nazi's.

 A Generation finds its narrative placed in a working class section of Warsaw that is being overseen by Nazi occupants.  Specifically it focuses on a young man named Stach (Tadeusz Łomnicki) who finds himself at odds after the recent murdering of his friends during an attempt to steal coal from a passing train.  Realizing the rather dead-end nature of his existence, he agrees to take up work at a workshop, despite knowing full and well that the shops owner works under Nazi supervision.  At first, Stach is rather complacent in the job and moves through the motions in a clear state of malaise.  However, his attitudes change when he is cued into the activities of an underground communist organization that desires to overthrow the factory and subsequently the Nazi's running the place.  He joins the fight primarily for its social and political implications, but also because he finds himself infatuated with the young woman who runs the organization Dortoa (Urszula Modrzyńska) both physically and mentally.  Along with Dorota come a group of other revolutionaries including the relatively quite Mundek, played by an incredibly young Roman Polanski.  As their zeal for revolt increases, a member of the group slips up and murders a Nazi in public, which leads them to become targets for the SS, resulting in a suicide of one of the members to avoid death at the hands of attacking Nazis.  Tragically, Stach loses friends in the resistance and is exiled from Warsaw, but in the closing scenes he is introduced to a new group of young revolutionaries that provide him with hope for Poland's future and the communist revolution.

While A Generation is, on a very real level, about a coming of age narrative, Wajda's work is far grander and concerns itself with understanding the political climate of World War 2 Poland.  This is evidenced by the varied opposing views within the narrative, whether it be the social conservative Nazi's or the diatribe spewing old man who is clearly on board with revolt, commentaries are made depicting both sides of the struggle during the era.  In a coming of age sense, Stach is attempting to find his own voice within the constant bickering of two countering ideologies.  At first, Stach appears complacent to lay low and remove himself from the discourse, but as he finds himself caring for the individuals involved within the struggle, particularly Dorota, and after losing a friend to the revolution, Stach realizes the very real nature of his voice in the political commentary and thus enters into the political rebellion with guns blazing.  In terms of the Marxist theory within the film, Stach represents the image and ideas of a working class individual who is attempting to affect change.  The existence in which Stach lives is one of daily survival and money, the source of power in communism, provides something far less than relief and helps to maintain a unspoken loyalty within the factory.  As many of the works note, to work under the Nazi's in rough conditions still trumps no work at all, or, even worse, death.  Wajda's film notes, however, that if this group were to quit collectively their opposition would surely be successful, because if they work in numbers their power will be unstoppable.  Similarly, Stach realizes that as the capitalist organization exists now he cannot purchase anything, nor does he possess financial power, which leads him to steal a gun from one of the higher ups, an act that allows him a powerful tool in revolt.  Such a scene could suggest that in order to destroy bourgeois power, one must steal their symbols of power, beginning with one that is incredibly lethal.  All of this manages to occur within eighty odd minutes and does so amidst some stellar cinematography, most notably the stairwell death scene.  To some extent, A Generation is revolutionary, like the characters shown on screen, purely by existing.

A Generation is part of a stellar box set released by Criterion some time ago and is well worth picking up if you find yourself with in a considerable amount of extra cash.

no look inthe eyes: Film Socialisme (2010)

Upon finishing Everything Is Cinema: The Working Life of Jean-Luc Godard by author and film critic Richard Brody I came away with two clear notions.  The first is that Godard has left an indelible mark on the history and construction of cinema since his initial feature film Breathless.  Second, I realized that he has become one of the most divisive and belligerent filmmakers of the past two decades.  While I constantly sing his praises for his earlier work, it is clear that his desire to be a political dissident and destroy the structure that is video have done nothing but ruin his artistic output.  Film Socialisme, could well have been one of the best films of this decade were Godard to have reigned in his animosity for the rest of the world, given its clearly cinematic nature and experimental narrative.  Tragically, his desire to distance viewers, particularly those not speaking French, with incoherent subtitles, like the one that titles this blog entry and his spiraling into ungrounded political attacks cause the film to quickly become unwatchable.  It was only a matter of time before I found myself guessing when Godard would throw in an image of Hitler, and to no surprise, he did so in some of the films closing scenes.  Not to dismiss the work completely, Film Socialism does indeed offer a few moments of cinematic expression rare in contemporary art house cinema, yet as a whole the film is clearly a failed attempt at creating works similar to the early works of Dziga Vertov, or anything by Dusan Makavejev, and ends up lacking the one thing that Godard always had going for him...hipness.  Film Socialisme is a film that attempts to mix political commentary with the exploration of human relationships, however, the concoction lacks far too many ingredients to prove successful, the most apparent being a sane and accessible director.

While Film Socialisme plays out as a series of vignettes, it is possible to glean some basic narrative from the various characters presented throughout the film.  The initial setting of Godard's work is on a cruise ship, as the images cut between glossy shots of the ships deck and the ocean to shots of passengers dancing in a nightclub which are captured in terrible quality by what appears to be a cellphone camera.  In the midst of this entire structure, we are introduced to various members of the cruise, including an aged war criminal, a former official for the United Nations and what appears to be a Soviet detective.  The characters interact to some extent, but without a complete understanding of the multiple languages throughout the film, it is impossible to verify with any certainty their conversations or the seeming ties between each character.  Even when American viewers are offered a familiar language in that of musician Patti Smith she only rambles incoherently about a variety of things.  With little explanation the film then cuts to the interactions of two children as they cope with coming to age and realizing the frivolity of their young lives and as such they begin to question there parents on a variety of issues, including notions of political justice and global equality.  Their conversations are being recorded, for apparently no reason by a film crew who possess clearly revolutionary ties.  These moments while completely absurd reflect Godard's traditional styling; it is when the film reaches the third act that everything falls apart.  The film falls into a slew of still images, news reels and even the title menu for a film, with sections that represent major world locations, including but not limited to Barcelona, Egypt and Odessa.  What connection Godard is attempting to make is quite unclear, but he obviously associates many of the images to fascist rule and violence is shown throughout, particularly as it relates to the Middle Eastern countries depicted.  At one point earlier in the film, Godard even inserts this popular YouTube video again for no apparent reason.  The film closes with the words no comment, implying that Godard desires no confrontation about the images he has depicted, despite their clearly agitating intent and fallacious nature.  Furthermore, in a bizarre twist, Godard filmed the cruise scenes on the recently ill-fated Costa Concordia making the disparate nature of the film almost prophetic.

To dismiss the political and critical commentary of Film Socialisme would be unfair, despite the clear disinterests of Godard to his viewers and society in general.  Film Socialisme is primarily concerned to great detail with what role the movie image plays in societal change.  As the film's tagline suggests, "Freedom is Expensive," making Godard's choice to stage an early portion of the film on a cruise ship pertinent.  The individuals on this ship are attempting to escape their problematic pasts and their large amounts of wealth provide them such an opportunity, yet any attempts to capture their escapes are ruined either by the lack of proper technology, which is best seen in the grainy footage of a party on the ship or inability to capture images properly as occurs with shots of individuals talk to people off camera who are never shown, or the scene later in the film in which one of the revolutionary filmmakers is killed off screen, but the stagnant camera is unable to follow the action.  Godard desperately wants his viewers to understand that the power of video as a means of social justice is impossible and the third act of his film attempts to drive this notion home by suggesting that we as a society have seen atrocities in the past via video and have done little to affect change as a result.  Film Socialisme, as such is a manifesto on the fading power of video in an evolving technocracy that allows those in power to escape media condemnation.  It very much had the possibility of revolutionizing our current cinema standards, yet in the hands of an aging Godard, Film Socialisme is nothing more than a preachy old man shaking his fists with rage and fury so as to ruin any validity to his argument.

Film Socialisme is a unique viewing experience, without a doubt, however, to purchase the film would be illogical unless you are a die hard Godard supporter.  The director has lost his touch and seems incapable of ever gaining it back.  Rent the film if you find yourself intrigued by its controversy.

Are You Shoveling Sand To Live, Or Living To Shovel Sand?: The Woman In The Dunes (1964)

The arthouse cinema of the 1960's swept quickly and poetically over the globe, forever changing viewers' understandings of what was acceptable in a filmic narrative.  When discussing Japanese art house cinema, perhaps the most prevalent name is that of Hiroshi Teshigahara, given that he released a slew of excellent films, dealing with incredibly complex social commentaries, almost back to back.  His work The Woman in the Dunes, is undeniably his most prolific, not only for its brilliant composition, but for the global acclaim it received upon its release.  It is a maddening vision of one man's quest to find meaning in a desperate situation that is perfectly shot and just distanced enough with the viewer that the film does not come across as experimental pretension.  It is a film that perfectly defines oneiric, without becoming so dreamlike as to make the film impossible.  It is some hybrid of magical realism and poetic expressionism that manages to capture the human condition without fault.  It is clear that Teshigahara's film is concerned with political ideologies and the reshaping of family values in modern Japan, yet at no point do such commentaries crowd the space of the film.  The Woman in the Dunes , along with Persona, rigidly defines the perfect art house experience, and is an enigma of a film, which still manages to seem incredibly personal.

The Woman in the Dunes spans well over two hours in length and covers a lengthy dialogue on one person's very internal experiences, as such I will give a cursory overview of the films plot as to help readers understand the gist of the film.  It follows a man, who is purposefully unnamed as to help fulfill the existential elements of the narrative.  The man, is a full-time schoolteacher and part-time bug enthusiast who hopes to discover a rare breed of beetle, which will earn him a place in entomology texts.  Getting distracted by the scenery the man passes out and awakes to discover that he has missed the last bus out of the dunes he is visiting.  After an offer for hospitality from a local, the man agrees to stay the night, only to discover that he must do so in a thatched up house at the bottom of a sand pit.  Ignorant to the dangers, the man climbs down to get rest only to discover immediately that his situation is about to turn dire.  In the pit resides a woman, who has lived in the village her entire live, however, unlike other villagers she is stuck shoveling sand from the pit in order to survive.  If she fails to shovel sand the villager will deny her food, but more importantly she will become consumed by the sand falling into the pit.  She informs the man that he is to be her husband and together they will live a life of shoveling sand without question.  This information, of course, does not fly for the man and he demands to be let go, because he has family and friends who will look for him.  The man, unfortunately, quickly realizes that escape is impossible no matter how elaborate of a plan he makes.  After various rebellions, the man realizes a method for trapping water that will help him survive without the help of the villagers and he finds hope in his new situation.  He eventually comes to accept his place in the new society, dismissing his old life completely.  At this point, the screen shows a missing persons report with the name Jumpei Niki, the male who has been the subject of the entire film.  In a cruel twist of irony, Niki has gotten his name placed in a written work, however, it is not necessarily the most ideal of locations.

The Woman in the Dunes is a textbook study of existentialism, a philosophical belief system which posits that life is inherently meaningless, and that anything that individuals attempt to do in their lives is precisely because of their own ill-fated attempts to find purpose.  With this in mind, it is clear that Niki is attempting to place meaning into his own life by getting his name in a periodical.  To him this is the ultimate victory, because his name will have relevance long after his death, thus giving his life some semblance of eternal relevance.  However, upon entering the dune, Niki is forced to realize the arbitrariness of his life up to this point, despite making decisions to advance himself the actions become irrelevant when he is thrown into a completely new world, with different rules and norms.  Niki, in a traditional attempt to find meaning, rejects these new rules, because they make no sense.  However, as he struggles with his existence and faces the real possibility of death he accepts these new life changes to avoid dying, because once again he foolishly values his life as having something meaningful.  The result then is a film that focuses on not one, but two moments of foolish belief in something tangible proving a legitimate source of meaning.  The first being Niki's attempt to value his name in the book, the second being a scientific discovery that will have a lasting effect on society.  Teshigahari, is nice enough to provide viewers with an example of a person successfully dealing with a meaningless life though the woman in the dunes.  She accepts her arbitrary life knowing that to question it will only cause despair; as a result she simply smiles and adapts.

The Woman in the Dunes is a superb piece of artistic filmmaking and a significant piece of Japanese cinema.  I would suggest spending a few bucks and grabbing the Teshigahari boxset from Criterion.

God Sent Priests, But The Devil Sent Jesters: Andrei Rublev (1969)

Andrei Tarkovsky is a name that will eventually pop up for people entering into art house cinema.  He is one of those directors that you hear whispers about but is often overshadowed by Ingmar Bergman and Akira Kurosawa when it comes to foreign director.  However, I can attest to this fact.  Once you view a Tarkovsky film, you forever change your understanding of cinema.  I discovered this when I first viewed Ivan's Childhood, remember it when watching Solaris, and rediscovered this after my recent viewing of his black and white masterpiece Andrei Rublev.  The film while extremely slow in its pacing offers a brilliant commentary for the patient viewer and is an expertly composed film that rivals both Bergman and Kurosawa in its style and delivery.  Bested by only Sergei Eisenstein, Tarkovsky is the preeminent Russian director and created a large catalog of excellent films, despite continual censorship on the part of then Soviet government. It is an unflinching look at a significant Russian historical figure that has more to say about Russia's over-glorified past than its iconic painter.  Through a montage of scathing absurdist imagery and poetic cinematography, Tarkovsky manages to recreate medieval Russia, while also making the film blatantly pertinent to the problems facing Soviet Russia in the 1960's.

As noted, the film has as much to do with artist and monk Andrei Rublev (Anatoly Solonitsin) as it does with the people and events surrounding him.  He is accompanied throughout most of the film by his fellow monks the disillusioned Kirill (Ivan Lapikov) and the quietly pensive Danil (Nikolai Grinko).  Together they set out on an artistic endeavor to paint at a cathedral, which leads them throughout the constantly changing landscape of Russia in the 1500's.  The film begins with the monks taking refuge in a bar, only to discover a jester denouncing the church and state, which leads to the jesters denunciation and subsequent death.  What follows is a series of vignettes set to chapters with titles like The Holiday and The Silence, which involve some combination of Andrei and the other monks witnessing religious persecution, druidic rituals and mass murder in the name of the state and church, leading to various reactions amongts the monks, most notably Andrei's moment of doubt in his other wise religiously stalwart ways.  A feud arises amongst the group in their decision on how to paint a version of The Last Judgementt for a chapel, Andrei fears that a rendition of such attrocities would only scare patrons in a time when death and fire were daily realities.  Kirill disagrees with Andrei and the fellow monks have a falling out.  The film then focuses on a Tartar attack of a village, which leads Andrei to commit murder in an attempt to protect a young women from rape, leading the confused monk to partake in a vow of silence.  Andrei continues his vow of silence, despite witnessing Kirill return to the monastery and beg forgiveness.  In fact, it is not until Andrei watches a young man pretend to know the secrets to his father's bell making process that he breaks his silence and tells the boy to continue making bells, while he continues to make icons.  In a masterful conclusion, the film pans around various images of Rublev's actual paintings to remind viewers that the importance is not the artist or his artistic ability, but instead what his images represented for a specific time and place, a rather pertinent stylistic choice for a director like Tarkovsky.

Image is key to Tarkovsky, it takes only viewing a scene from any of his films to realize this, however, it is particularly relevant to a film like Andrei Rublev, because it does, in fact, focus on the life of an artist.  Although debatable, the most visceral response an individual can have to a film comes through its visual elements.  It is how the single composition of a variety of things come together on a single frame of a moving picture that catches the visual senses and captures the viewer.  Sure music, editing and narrative are important additions...to almost every other director, but not Tarkovsky.  I would go so far as to say that in terms of filmmakers Tarkovsky is an impressionist.  It is a combination of seemingly arbitrary images together which create a cohesive idea, in this case the woes of political and religious oppression.  It is easy to see why this film bothered the Soviet government, it is scathingly anti-state government, yet to the untrained eye it seems like a set of illogical images (Think Luis Bunuel's The Milky Way in black and white).  What concerns those being rebelled against are not the obvious forms of rebellion, but those subtle enough to pass under the radar undetected.  Andrei Rublev is certainly one of these films and Tarkovsky's oeuvre proves to be the same as well.  For example, his desolate landscape and distancing shots in Ivan's Childhood reflect a commentary on the effects of war on youth and a loss of innocence, while the repetition of imagery and subtle inclusion of the absurd help to drive home the sci-fi simulacrum that is the world of Solaris.  Andrei Rublev is revolutionary both figuratively and literally and it is done so through the best way possible, subversively subtle.  Which when you think about it is perhaps the best way to describe Tarkovsky as a director.

This is one of the backbones of The Criterion Collection, and is in dire need of an upgrade.  With that being said, the outdated release by the company is still far superior to its rival companies and is well worth buying if you, like me, cannot wait for a blu-ray release.

Top Ten Thursdays: The Criterion Collection

It has been nearly a month since my last one of these, and I figured nothing better than doing it on my ever favorite DVD supplier Criterion.  It is a dream of mine to one day provide my list on their website, but until then I will just have to do it here on my blog.  I will be providing the spine number for these films, as opposed to the usual year of release.

10.) The Seventh Seal (11)

This is one of the first films I purchased from the collection, and perhaps one of the ones with the most lasting impression.  I will forever have the dance of death burned into my mind.

9.) Paul Robeson: A Portrait of the Artist (369)

I am choosing this particular box set more for its historical relevance.  Not only does this set of films include of of Robeson's finest works, it also includes a film by Oscar Micheaux the often overlooked and highly underappreciated African-American silent filmmaker.

8.) The Last Temptation of Christ (70)

"It is accomplished"










7.) The Night of The Hunter (541)

"Leaning..."











 
6.) House (539)

This movie will change everything you understand about cinema, perhaps for better, but probably just for worse.

5. By Brakhage: An Anthology Volume 1 and 2 (184 and 517)

Stan Brakhage is one of the most important figures in the history of film, and only the Criterion Collection could do is films justice.

4.) Hoop Dreams (289)

Probably one of the most critically acclaimed documentaries in the collection, Hoop Dreams will break your heart.

3.) Hardboiled (9)

Long out of print, this John Woo film is one of the most sought after in the collection and it is deservedly so.

2.) Kicking and Screaming (349)

"We eat cantaloupe..."

1.) Do The Right Thing (97)

As I have noted before this is my favorite film and it should be no surprise it is also my favorite in the collection.  The supplements for this release are outstanding.








Honorable Mention

Alphaville (25)
The Harder They Come (83)
 Le Samourai (306)
La Jetee (387)
The Milky Way (402)
Chungking Express (453)
Last Year at Marienbad (478)

Put A Chain Around My Neck And Lead Me Anywhere: Out Of The Blue (1980)

After falling off the face of the directing earth for most of the 1970's Dennis Hopper stumbled into directing Out of the Blue after its original director dropped out at the last minute.  This matter of happen chance could not have produced better results.  A film that had been banned for years finds itself popping up in three pack DVD collections, truck stop rental booths and perhaps least surprisingly Harmony Korine's top ten film list.  The films is not so much graphic as it is desolate, given that a relatively large amount of the film is set within the punk scene of Canada, while the rest centers around a bird infested junk yard.  It is a film that signifies all the scathing criticism evoked in Easy Rider, yet given that this particular film was made for television it uses subtle acts of deviance as its source of inspiration.   The film is likely unwatchable to many viewers, but those with a knack for the avant-garde and a love for the late auteur Out of the Blue will be quite the cinematic excursion.

The narrative of Out of the Blue is rather disjointed, but this should come as no surprise given the directorial styling of Dennis Hopper, what is for certain is that the film focuses on the tumultuous life of the young Elvis fanatic Cebe (Linda Manz) whose preoccupation with being a punk ruins her ability to excel in school or garner legitimate friendships.  The second factor hindering Cebe's success is her unhealthy attachment to her father Don (Dennis Hopper) who has recently ended a stint in jail for drunkenly crashing into a bus full of children, an accident in which Cebe was present.  To make matters worse, Cebe's mother is a heroin addict who is incapable of standing up to Don and is oblivious to the troubles her daughter is experiencing.  With this set of forces working against her, it is no surprise that she is sexually confused, inclined towards drug use and inextricably attached to the rebellious imagery of punk rock.  Cebe finds solace in hours of drumming away and playing guitar, while constantly quoting her idol Elvis.  The film for the most part only continues to survey the problems evident in Cebe's life, particularly her particularly problematic idealization of her father, who is perpetually drunk, destroys work property and at one point attempts to rape his daughter to assure her heterosexuality.  Through all of this Cebe continues to adhere to her ideals of punk rock rebellion, ultimately leading to an act of self-destruction that kills her self, as well as her mother, claiming that she like Sid Vicious must take away the ones she loves form the cruel and unjust world in which she lives.  Her rebellion burns brightly and quickly, only to fade away in the films closing credits.

This film is brilliant in its study of the decaying of American familial ideals.  Sure, the film was made in Canada, but it is obvious that Hopper had his eyes set on contradicting the emerging conservative ideals of family as they related to America particularly.  Cebe is by no means a heterosexual character, in fact, she often morphs her sexuality for certain situations, donning a dress at one time to please her father, while wearing jackets and button up shirts to assert authority in a male-dominated world of music.  Similarly, the drug addicted nature of both Cebe's parents reflect growing issues of substance abuse that would emerge in the 1980's, an issue that the Reagan administration would approach with little to no success.  Finally, the film deals in great length with problems of poverty and the barriers it produces.  Cebe is arguably homeless, often spending nights sleeping in the wreckage of her father's accident and much of her daytime is spent at her mothers job.  In fact, the only images of Cebe in a home setting involve her playing music, implying that any semblance of a home life immediately results in her desire to escape, making her homelessness both literal and metaphorical.  The structure of nuclear family does not exist in Out of the Blue, and if Hopper's ending is indicative of anything, the possibility of rebuilding such a family is very, very unlikely.  Out of the Blue burns with opposition to anything and everything conservative, and is a faint flame to its predecessor Easy Rider.

Please buy this film, it is a shame that only poorly produced copies exist.  I am certain that if the right company cleaned this film up its critical acclaim would expand.  It is not a matter of curiosity, but necessity that you check this movie out.

Top Ten Thursdays: The Films of Stanley Kubrick

An autuer if ever one existed, Kubrick is well-known for his brilliantly bizarre genre pieces that defy logic and fascinate viewers.  Not only are Kubrick's works continually debated by film scholars and cinephiles the world over, but he also serves as an example of how one should approach film making: with unwavering passion for the message at hand.  I offer a humble, and debatable, list of my top ten films by the late master of cinema.

10.) Full Metal Jacket (1987)

Probably one of Kubrick's more accessible films, Full Metal Jacket is a brutal and often problematic view of a soldier's evolution from a soulful person to a killing machine lacking a cohesive identity.

9.) Barry Lyndon (1975)

Barry Lyndon is on part cinema and two parts movie art, and is as equally satirical as the Thackeray novel on which its based.

8.) The Shining (1980)

Easily one of the scariest movies ever made, and the film involves little to direct acts of violence and gore, but instead uses one mans fall into madness as its form medium for horror.

7.) The Killing (1956)

I also placed this hidden gem on my top ten film noir movies, and will mention yet again how well-made the film is, and how indicative it is of the spectacular filmmaker that Kubrick would later become.

6.) Paths of Glory (1957)

More scathing than Platoon and more cinematic than All Quiet on the Western Front, Paths of Glory is the quintessential anti-war film.

5.) Lolita (1962)

James Mason is lecherous as Humbert Humbert, and in making Lolita, Kubrick manages to craft one of the most true literary adaptations ever.

4.) Eyes Wide Shut (1999)

Critics often cite this as Kubrick's worst film, but I often argue that it will prove to be one of his most well-respected films twenty years in the future, it was simply ahead of its time.

3.) A Clockwork Orange (1971)

The cult classic in Kubrick's oeuvre, A Clockwork Orange manages to display aesthetic harmony in a world of depravity. 

2.) Dr. Strangelove: Or How I Learned To Stop Worrying And Love The Bomb (1964)

"Gentlemen.  You Can't Fight In Here.  This is The War Room!"

1.) 2001: A Space Odyssey (1968)

One of the trippiest films ever made, Kubrick's 2001 is one of a handful of flawless films and an unsolvable enigma to film scholars.






Honorable Mention

Killer's Kiss (1955)
Spartacus (1960) [This is HM by default, but I would strongly suggest avoiding this film as it was the only one that Kubrick did not possess complete control over.