m-sendey
Joined Feb 2013
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m-sendey's rating
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m-sendey's rating
A diligent blue-collar worker Lulù Massa (Gian Maria Volonté) is averse to rebellious fractions within his working place and students who express their resentment of overwhelming physical labour which Lulù and co-workers are constrained to do in factories. Notwithstanding, one day, once he loses his finger in his factory and discerns the first symptoms of madness in his behaviour, he becomes involved in protestations which the scathing board of directors frowns upon
This is a politically-tinged, existential drama par excellence which succeeds in being both insightful and poignant in its exploration of human condition in the Italian working class whose members are destined for solely biological existence. The stark portrayal of the pointlessness of life reminiscent of Woman in the Dunes (1964) by Hiroshi Teshigahara. Mr Petri, whose political propensities are fully evident here, passionately crafts this material and engrossingly displays the everyday dilemmas of physical labourers whose actions come to eating, drinking and doing their work which is humiliatingly and moronically simple. The frequent juxtaposition of a man and a factory infuses into this film gloom and dreariness which is difficult to bear with. The indication that one might sweep away the meaningless of an individual only through sexual consolation is very disquieting and the depiction of the sombreness and the repetitiveness of each day of life solidifies the sepulchral tone. Just like Petri's earlier I giorni contati (1962), The Working Class Goes to Heaven is a blend of existentialism and neorealism polished to perfection in Petri's hands whose meticulous stylization renders the concept as sulky and austere as the sterile, industrialized decor of Il deserto rosso (1964) by Michelangelo Antonioni. Lulù Massa – the main character of this flick –is the outcome of the mechanization of the unit whose productivity is the only value for his employer. Lulù is the most assiduous worker which arouses abhorrence in his colleagues. He does not attach any great importance to his mental and physical health and he thinks that there is no big difference between dying in his factory and somewhere else. Initially, he cannot comprehend why everybody is against him, but once he accidentally loses his finger and notices that he embarks on following the lane of insanity through his obsessive demeanour towards order, he regains his sight and perceives the world differently.
Even though The Working Class Goes to Heaven is not as Kafkaesque as The Assassin (1961) and Investigation of a Citizen Above Suspicion (1970), it appears to refer to Kafka's short story A Report to an Academy which is about an ape which learns to behave like a human. During his visit in a mental institution where he meets a veteran ex-blue collar Militina, Lulù is shown an article from a newspaper which recounts a story of a chimpanzee which believes in its humanity. Petri seems to liken the Kafka's ape and Lulù, notwithstanding, whilst the monkey from Kafka's tale obtains a new identity by approving of milieu repressing it and adjusting to its new entourage, Lulù Massa restores his personality on account of a calamity and the stifling milieu of his factory, hence, just like in case of Investigation of a Citizen Above Suspicion, Mr Petri once again turns the world of Franz Kafka upside down.
Besides dilating upon the harsh fate of the working class, the director likewise hints at the exploitation of labourers from the poverty-pervaded southern Italy. Other Italian intelectualists such as Pier Paolo Pasolini also alluded to this phenomenon. Mise-en-scene by Elio Petri is exquisite and thoroughly unfaltering in its exposing the major concept. The resonance of his last acclaimed opus is indubitably enormous. Apart from delving in the issue of alienation and helplessness, the highly flamboyant subplots reinforce the main theme and endow it with abundant background and owing to relatively deliberate pace, the content is never lunged too hastily.
The acting is simply excellent throughout the entire motion picture. Gian Maria Volonté conveys to his role such a great portion of galvanizing rampage that he ravishes with his commitment to his part which might be one the most powerful in his utter career. There are other phenomenal performers in the cast, such as facially distinctive Mariangela Melato, Flavio Bucci, and last but not least enthrallingly convincing Salvo Randone.
The subsidiary cinematography by Luigi Kuveiller is obviously a determinant of quality, but what emerges from his beauteous takes of impoverished flats of physical workers is the mutual sway between Bertolucci and Petri. Bernardo Bertolucci conceded his fascination with merging existentialism and neorealism in I giorni contati by Petri, and Petri seemed to be enchanted by the lighting and visual aspect in The Conformist (1970) which was visible in the case of The Working Class Goes to Heaven. The shots of indigent flats framed with gleams of blue radiance constitute a chilly, bitter aftertaste which exerts a beneficial impact on the other ingredients. The symbiotic soundtrack by Ennio Morricone is one of the most idiosyncratic elements and the flick would feel totally different with a distinct piece of music from another composer. Mr Morricone provides us with one of his most unusual and characteristic creations which is rapid, aggressive, contextualises with the ensemble absolutely perfectly and reverberates like a genuine machine.
Though the movie overzealously strives to inculcate Marxist doctrines in its viewers and Petri's appeal to social alignment is displayed here, it does not modify the fact that it is an exceedingly significant film which has to be analysed, discussed and considered to be a major motion picture which auspiciously encases the atmosphere of those days filled with protestations, but also exhibits a timeless struggle of a man attempting to retain dignity, despite difficult living conditions and tough work.
This is a politically-tinged, existential drama par excellence which succeeds in being both insightful and poignant in its exploration of human condition in the Italian working class whose members are destined for solely biological existence. The stark portrayal of the pointlessness of life reminiscent of Woman in the Dunes (1964) by Hiroshi Teshigahara. Mr Petri, whose political propensities are fully evident here, passionately crafts this material and engrossingly displays the everyday dilemmas of physical labourers whose actions come to eating, drinking and doing their work which is humiliatingly and moronically simple. The frequent juxtaposition of a man and a factory infuses into this film gloom and dreariness which is difficult to bear with. The indication that one might sweep away the meaningless of an individual only through sexual consolation is very disquieting and the depiction of the sombreness and the repetitiveness of each day of life solidifies the sepulchral tone. Just like Petri's earlier I giorni contati (1962), The Working Class Goes to Heaven is a blend of existentialism and neorealism polished to perfection in Petri's hands whose meticulous stylization renders the concept as sulky and austere as the sterile, industrialized decor of Il deserto rosso (1964) by Michelangelo Antonioni. Lulù Massa – the main character of this flick –is the outcome of the mechanization of the unit whose productivity is the only value for his employer. Lulù is the most assiduous worker which arouses abhorrence in his colleagues. He does not attach any great importance to his mental and physical health and he thinks that there is no big difference between dying in his factory and somewhere else. Initially, he cannot comprehend why everybody is against him, but once he accidentally loses his finger and notices that he embarks on following the lane of insanity through his obsessive demeanour towards order, he regains his sight and perceives the world differently.
Even though The Working Class Goes to Heaven is not as Kafkaesque as The Assassin (1961) and Investigation of a Citizen Above Suspicion (1970), it appears to refer to Kafka's short story A Report to an Academy which is about an ape which learns to behave like a human. During his visit in a mental institution where he meets a veteran ex-blue collar Militina, Lulù is shown an article from a newspaper which recounts a story of a chimpanzee which believes in its humanity. Petri seems to liken the Kafka's ape and Lulù, notwithstanding, whilst the monkey from Kafka's tale obtains a new identity by approving of milieu repressing it and adjusting to its new entourage, Lulù Massa restores his personality on account of a calamity and the stifling milieu of his factory, hence, just like in case of Investigation of a Citizen Above Suspicion, Mr Petri once again turns the world of Franz Kafka upside down.
Besides dilating upon the harsh fate of the working class, the director likewise hints at the exploitation of labourers from the poverty-pervaded southern Italy. Other Italian intelectualists such as Pier Paolo Pasolini also alluded to this phenomenon. Mise-en-scene by Elio Petri is exquisite and thoroughly unfaltering in its exposing the major concept. The resonance of his last acclaimed opus is indubitably enormous. Apart from delving in the issue of alienation and helplessness, the highly flamboyant subplots reinforce the main theme and endow it with abundant background and owing to relatively deliberate pace, the content is never lunged too hastily.
The acting is simply excellent throughout the entire motion picture. Gian Maria Volonté conveys to his role such a great portion of galvanizing rampage that he ravishes with his commitment to his part which might be one the most powerful in his utter career. There are other phenomenal performers in the cast, such as facially distinctive Mariangela Melato, Flavio Bucci, and last but not least enthrallingly convincing Salvo Randone.
The subsidiary cinematography by Luigi Kuveiller is obviously a determinant of quality, but what emerges from his beauteous takes of impoverished flats of physical workers is the mutual sway between Bertolucci and Petri. Bernardo Bertolucci conceded his fascination with merging existentialism and neorealism in I giorni contati by Petri, and Petri seemed to be enchanted by the lighting and visual aspect in The Conformist (1970) which was visible in the case of The Working Class Goes to Heaven. The shots of indigent flats framed with gleams of blue radiance constitute a chilly, bitter aftertaste which exerts a beneficial impact on the other ingredients. The symbiotic soundtrack by Ennio Morricone is one of the most idiosyncratic elements and the flick would feel totally different with a distinct piece of music from another composer. Mr Morricone provides us with one of his most unusual and characteristic creations which is rapid, aggressive, contextualises with the ensemble absolutely perfectly and reverberates like a genuine machine.
Though the movie overzealously strives to inculcate Marxist doctrines in its viewers and Petri's appeal to social alignment is displayed here, it does not modify the fact that it is an exceedingly significant film which has to be analysed, discussed and considered to be a major motion picture which auspiciously encases the atmosphere of those days filled with protestations, but also exhibits a timeless struggle of a man attempting to retain dignity, despite difficult living conditions and tough work.
A retired, religious woman Pilar (Teresa Madruga) endeavours to assist her sensitive, enigmatic and fidgety neighbour Aurora (Laura Soveral) whose both psychological and physical health is growing gradually worse and worse. Once Aurora dies, Pilar and Aurora's maid set off in search for a certain man named Ventura (Henrique Espírito Santo) who appears to be a bond between the presence and Aurora's shady past
This unorthodox tribute to silent cinema and F. W. Murnau's Tabu from 1931 is atypical even by art-house standards and despite being relatively flawed, it succeeds in overcoming its foibles by its sheer eccentricity and stunning cinematography. The movie is initiated with an outlandish prologue recounting a separate story about a suicide of an explorer devoid of hope for a better future which is entailed by his wife's demise. This prelude constitutes the introduction to this black-and-white motion picture whose general theme is about incapability of leading life without love. The flick proceeds to the first part called Paradise Lost which is about superstitious Aurora's struggles with her paranoid temperament and loneliness on account of being stranded by her ungrateful daughter. At this point, mise-en-scène by Gomes is invariably baffling. This is the weakest part of the film which is extortionately digressive and, apart from the main subject tackled in the ensemble, inauspiciously attempts to encompass such issues as metaphysic, depression of senile citizens in the modern society, passion for cinema as well as faith. As a consequence, it is not much of anything and by briefly alluding to these matters, the atypical drama leaves us with a sense of insufficiency, superficiality and instead of plunging into the major topic, it virtually mummifies the entire concept. Nevertheless, the scatter-brained aspect does not perplex that much and the instant the plot drags, the auxiliary visuals come in handy and prevent the material from becoming lifeless.
Once Tabu transmutes into a strand of flashbacks derived from Ventura's memory (a part called Paradise), it embarks on being uncannily engrossing and bounteously asserts its aesthetic beauteousness by exposing landscapes of Portugal colonies with its eye-pleasing black-and-white photography. Narrated with an assistance of Ventura's voice-over, the pic acquires an exceptionally poetic and contemplative relish and genuinely resembles a piece of silent cinema. This is likewise the moment in which one might discern the evident sway of aforementioned Murnau's opus and the parallels between both works are decidedly far from coincidental. It is not that Gomes endeavours to counterfeit Murnau's classic, but the afterthought conveyed from the perspective of colonisers and not a native collective is analogous by commenting on the inability to fulfil one's love owing to social convenances. The creation of Gomes reverberates some relations from Portuguese Colonial War, but Gomes seems to be uninterested in delving in this phenomenon and prefers to frame waterfalls and majestically picturesque plantations. Notwithstanding, the glossy, sumptuous appearance does not conceal the fact that Tabu is rather a pure stylistic exercise than a very prosperous psychological or political depiction of occurrences transpiring on the screen and the narrator just roughly indicates a development regarding his relationship with Aurora in his psyche. It is the extravagant stylisation and the offbeat, non-linear composition which renders the décor appealing and the entire movie jolly palatable.
The acting is very dexterous throughout the utter film. Teresa Madruga is plausible as a middle-aged prude who craves to console Aurora who is also well played by Laura Soveral. The remainder of the cast is highly enjoyable as well, but there were instants in which some performers felt slightly stiff and somewhat somnolent. Cinematography by Rui Poças is exceedingly ravishing and its tranquil nature captivates the audience from the onset to the very end and its sweetness and subtle charm works symbiotically with some delicate piano riffs which embellish and endow Tabu with several exultations.
Whilst the flick is acclaimed and highly rated by majority of film critics, I am inclined to believe that this abundant, structurally unusual motion picture serves its purpose and delivers a great deal of fabulous shots, but I am far from stating that it is a flawless, timeless and sublime trove. Indubitably, there are some ingenious aesthetic touches, but what Tabu lacked for me was the textural integrity, insightfulness as well as some concretism.
This unorthodox tribute to silent cinema and F. W. Murnau's Tabu from 1931 is atypical even by art-house standards and despite being relatively flawed, it succeeds in overcoming its foibles by its sheer eccentricity and stunning cinematography. The movie is initiated with an outlandish prologue recounting a separate story about a suicide of an explorer devoid of hope for a better future which is entailed by his wife's demise. This prelude constitutes the introduction to this black-and-white motion picture whose general theme is about incapability of leading life without love. The flick proceeds to the first part called Paradise Lost which is about superstitious Aurora's struggles with her paranoid temperament and loneliness on account of being stranded by her ungrateful daughter. At this point, mise-en-scène by Gomes is invariably baffling. This is the weakest part of the film which is extortionately digressive and, apart from the main subject tackled in the ensemble, inauspiciously attempts to encompass such issues as metaphysic, depression of senile citizens in the modern society, passion for cinema as well as faith. As a consequence, it is not much of anything and by briefly alluding to these matters, the atypical drama leaves us with a sense of insufficiency, superficiality and instead of plunging into the major topic, it virtually mummifies the entire concept. Nevertheless, the scatter-brained aspect does not perplex that much and the instant the plot drags, the auxiliary visuals come in handy and prevent the material from becoming lifeless.
Once Tabu transmutes into a strand of flashbacks derived from Ventura's memory (a part called Paradise), it embarks on being uncannily engrossing and bounteously asserts its aesthetic beauteousness by exposing landscapes of Portugal colonies with its eye-pleasing black-and-white photography. Narrated with an assistance of Ventura's voice-over, the pic acquires an exceptionally poetic and contemplative relish and genuinely resembles a piece of silent cinema. This is likewise the moment in which one might discern the evident sway of aforementioned Murnau's opus and the parallels between both works are decidedly far from coincidental. It is not that Gomes endeavours to counterfeit Murnau's classic, but the afterthought conveyed from the perspective of colonisers and not a native collective is analogous by commenting on the inability to fulfil one's love owing to social convenances. The creation of Gomes reverberates some relations from Portuguese Colonial War, but Gomes seems to be uninterested in delving in this phenomenon and prefers to frame waterfalls and majestically picturesque plantations. Notwithstanding, the glossy, sumptuous appearance does not conceal the fact that Tabu is rather a pure stylistic exercise than a very prosperous psychological or political depiction of occurrences transpiring on the screen and the narrator just roughly indicates a development regarding his relationship with Aurora in his psyche. It is the extravagant stylisation and the offbeat, non-linear composition which renders the décor appealing and the entire movie jolly palatable.
The acting is very dexterous throughout the utter film. Teresa Madruga is plausible as a middle-aged prude who craves to console Aurora who is also well played by Laura Soveral. The remainder of the cast is highly enjoyable as well, but there were instants in which some performers felt slightly stiff and somewhat somnolent. Cinematography by Rui Poças is exceedingly ravishing and its tranquil nature captivates the audience from the onset to the very end and its sweetness and subtle charm works symbiotically with some delicate piano riffs which embellish and endow Tabu with several exultations.
Whilst the flick is acclaimed and highly rated by majority of film critics, I am inclined to believe that this abundant, structurally unusual motion picture serves its purpose and delivers a great deal of fabulous shots, but I am far from stating that it is a flawless, timeless and sublime trove. Indubitably, there are some ingenious aesthetic touches, but what Tabu lacked for me was the textural integrity, insightfulness as well as some concretism.
One day, a young medicine student Hauro Himoto (Ken'ichi Hagiwara) runs into his attractive ex-schoolmate Eiko Izawa (Sayoko Ninomiya) and they fall in love with each other in no time at all. The only obstacle which intrudes the couple is the owner of a barbershop who simultaneously is her lover and her employer and pesters Eiko out of his jealousy. Hauro and Eiko resolve to get rid of the insufferable male so that they can remain together without further complications
The Petrified Forest is one of the least known films by the great Japanese director Masahiro Shinoda whose interests encompass soullessness of post-war Japan as well as clashes of Western and Eastern cultures. Whilst he scrutinises the latter topic in his enchanting Silence from 1971, in case of The Petrified Forest, the former issue constitutes the main theme of the psychologically and visually stunning piece of psychological drama which enthralls with its brilliance. The movie is initiated with a large shot framing a snowy landscape filmed by a superb cinematographer Kôzô Okazaki who imbues the celluloid with Shinodesquely chilly tints and one is likely to sense the coldness of the panorama. Picturesquely promising as it may seem, it is only a prelude to this very austere and morally disquieting material which successively proceeds to a more urban milieu in which the action takes place. Shinoda exposes through this flick his storytelling flair which renders The Petrified Forest so insightful and succeeds in combining many subplots without becoming exorbitantly intricate or superficial. The main character – Hauro – is a young medicine student who leads an abstruse relationship with his mother who previously left his father for her beloved one. Hauro appears to be resentful and does not want to have anything in common with her anymore. Once Hauro infatuates with Eiko, he grows involved in a sinister labyrinth of emotions which he ultimately fails to harness. The climax of The Petrified Forest is uncannily bleak and it is genuinely captivating how aptly Shinoda unfolds the tale as well as the cruelty and lurid impulses dwelling the hearts of the protagonists who cannot cope with family nuisances. Likewise, Shinoda indicates that the true love can only be constructed on compassion and reconciliation, not on violence and hatred which entails solely annihilation and destruction. Last but not least, one of the motifs constrains a viewer to ponder on perchance consequences of depending just on science, purely a creation of humans, and totally discarding religion and ethics, thus, it is something which may be also disclosed in a cinematic discourse of Akira Kurosawa.
The acting in The Petrified Forest is neat, but it is not one of the biggest benefits of the film which is generally elevated by its story. Ken'ichi Hagiwara is good as Hauro, but a word "competent" seems to be more adequate as far as his performing is concerned. The same case is with Sayoko Ninomiya who is pretty, never memorable though. It is propitious to behold Haruko Sugimura's dose of subtlety as Hauro's mother. Sugimura is known for her roles in Yasujirô Ozu's Tokyo Story and Late Spring.
The cinematography of Kôzô Okazaki, who worked on Kobayashi's Inn of Evil and Shinoda's Buraikan, is compelling, but far from flamboyant, rather grey which is quite distinctive for Shinoda's opuses. Despite extreme actions transpiring on the screen, the camera remains impassive, nonchalant and remotely observes this sterile décor inhabited by inconsolable spirits. The further the movie creeps, the more portentous it becomes owing to progressively darker and darker palette of colours which endow the effort with perturbingly sinister appearance. The soundtrack by the phenomenal Tôru Takemitsu belongs to his very best compositions and consists of some delightful jazzy scores as well as those less conventional ones which reverberate with dripping water and traditional, ghoulishly sounding flutes which contextualise with the ensemble very agilely.
It is eerie that such an engaging work of this genteel Japanese director remains so obscure and virtually forgotten. It cannot be denied that The Petrified Forest does not implicate any drawbacks, nevertheless, it is very close to cinematic magnificence of Shinoda's more distinguished motion pictures. One of the foibles stems from the fact that the characters are written in a better manner than they are acted. Apart from that, the second half is deprived of the force of the first hour and the material ultimately feels a little too languorous, yet I am certain that patient viewers shall not mind the slow pacing of this otherwise poignantly crafted pic which in spite of being little-known, prosperously conveys an astoundingly mature and ripe tale shrouded in a veil of human despair.
The Petrified Forest is one of the least known films by the great Japanese director Masahiro Shinoda whose interests encompass soullessness of post-war Japan as well as clashes of Western and Eastern cultures. Whilst he scrutinises the latter topic in his enchanting Silence from 1971, in case of The Petrified Forest, the former issue constitutes the main theme of the psychologically and visually stunning piece of psychological drama which enthralls with its brilliance. The movie is initiated with a large shot framing a snowy landscape filmed by a superb cinematographer Kôzô Okazaki who imbues the celluloid with Shinodesquely chilly tints and one is likely to sense the coldness of the panorama. Picturesquely promising as it may seem, it is only a prelude to this very austere and morally disquieting material which successively proceeds to a more urban milieu in which the action takes place. Shinoda exposes through this flick his storytelling flair which renders The Petrified Forest so insightful and succeeds in combining many subplots without becoming exorbitantly intricate or superficial. The main character – Hauro – is a young medicine student who leads an abstruse relationship with his mother who previously left his father for her beloved one. Hauro appears to be resentful and does not want to have anything in common with her anymore. Once Hauro infatuates with Eiko, he grows involved in a sinister labyrinth of emotions which he ultimately fails to harness. The climax of The Petrified Forest is uncannily bleak and it is genuinely captivating how aptly Shinoda unfolds the tale as well as the cruelty and lurid impulses dwelling the hearts of the protagonists who cannot cope with family nuisances. Likewise, Shinoda indicates that the true love can only be constructed on compassion and reconciliation, not on violence and hatred which entails solely annihilation and destruction. Last but not least, one of the motifs constrains a viewer to ponder on perchance consequences of depending just on science, purely a creation of humans, and totally discarding religion and ethics, thus, it is something which may be also disclosed in a cinematic discourse of Akira Kurosawa.
The acting in The Petrified Forest is neat, but it is not one of the biggest benefits of the film which is generally elevated by its story. Ken'ichi Hagiwara is good as Hauro, but a word "competent" seems to be more adequate as far as his performing is concerned. The same case is with Sayoko Ninomiya who is pretty, never memorable though. It is propitious to behold Haruko Sugimura's dose of subtlety as Hauro's mother. Sugimura is known for her roles in Yasujirô Ozu's Tokyo Story and Late Spring.
The cinematography of Kôzô Okazaki, who worked on Kobayashi's Inn of Evil and Shinoda's Buraikan, is compelling, but far from flamboyant, rather grey which is quite distinctive for Shinoda's opuses. Despite extreme actions transpiring on the screen, the camera remains impassive, nonchalant and remotely observes this sterile décor inhabited by inconsolable spirits. The further the movie creeps, the more portentous it becomes owing to progressively darker and darker palette of colours which endow the effort with perturbingly sinister appearance. The soundtrack by the phenomenal Tôru Takemitsu belongs to his very best compositions and consists of some delightful jazzy scores as well as those less conventional ones which reverberate with dripping water and traditional, ghoulishly sounding flutes which contextualise with the ensemble very agilely.
It is eerie that such an engaging work of this genteel Japanese director remains so obscure and virtually forgotten. It cannot be denied that The Petrified Forest does not implicate any drawbacks, nevertheless, it is very close to cinematic magnificence of Shinoda's more distinguished motion pictures. One of the foibles stems from the fact that the characters are written in a better manner than they are acted. Apart from that, the second half is deprived of the force of the first hour and the material ultimately feels a little too languorous, yet I am certain that patient viewers shall not mind the slow pacing of this otherwise poignantly crafted pic which in spite of being little-known, prosperously conveys an astoundingly mature and ripe tale shrouded in a veil of human despair.
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