(9/23/00)
I really didn't like Oliver Stone's Nixon. The funny thing is that I didn't expect to. Maybe I just don't find Nixon himself an interesting figure. I found the film hard to follow, or hard to understand, and it left me with the feeling that I have no clue as to what the Nixon era was all about.
The problem with Anthony Hopkins or any actor playing Nixon is that to me and people of my generation Nixon is such a familiar figure from TV and the media that it is hard to accept someone else playing him. "This is not Richard Nixon," my mind kept telling me. And one of the properties of film is that since it uses camera we believe that what we see before us is real. And we expect to be able to accept it as real or as the truth--at least while we are watching. This is no complaint against Anthony Hopkins as an actor. The image of President Nixon is just so vivid in my mind that seeing him portrayed by an actor is jarring. (Yet I was completely persuaded by Paul Sorvino's Kissinger.)
And actually, now that I think about it, the real Nixon was more attractive and had more presence than Anthony Hopkins. But then, now that I think of it, I only saw the public face of Nixon. And Oliver Stone wants to go behind that public face. OK, but it still wasn't Nixon.
Oliver Stone's special effects just seemed annoying and self-indulgent. Why was there so much footage in black-and-white? It didn't seem to serve any purpose. And I wasn't impressed by the speeded-up shots of clouds rushing by the White House. In some of his other films (U-Turn and Natural Born Killers which I am about to see again tomorrow), the special effects create a very powerful experience of being bombarded by the images. It is not so impressive here, possibly because of the subject matter. (Or maybe I was just tired or in a bad mood.)
There is just so much to digest in this film that it is difficult to digest it all. There are the effects of American involvement in Cuba, the Kennedy assassination, the Vietnam war and the protest movement, the Pentagon papers and, of course, Watergate. I really wish that Nixon explained Watergate in simple terms. I know that there was a bungled burglary at the Watergate Hotel, Nixon's tape with the eighteen-and-a-half minute gap, and some people named Ehrlichman and Haldeman. John Dean was the one who really spilled the beans. But other than that I don't know what the whole thing was all about. And I lived through it. What about audiences that are ten and twenty years younger than me?
And how are we intended to view Richard Nixon? We have flashback scenes showing young Dick's interaction with his parents--honest and upright Quakers. He comes across as a decent man caught up in the filthy world of politics. The film, surprisingly, seems to side with Nixon and justify his actions, but later on a tide seems to have turned. His wife Pat tells him off and then there is the scene where he tries to talk John Dean into writing a signed confession. So has Nixon become a villain? Has he been corrupted by the presidency?
If Nixon changed, if he sold out--if that is what Oliver Stone is saying to us--then what the film needs is a very clear, a very sharp scene in which we see Nixon sell out. Unless audiences have gone far beyond me in terms of sophistication and have the capacity to pick up on subtle nuances which I miss.
What does come across in Nixon is the idea that the glamour and greatness of the presidency is an illusion, is all sham. As I watched the film I wondered: "Why does anyone want to be president?" Nixon in this film does not come to the presidency with a sense of, "Well, it's a dirty job, but it needs to be done." It is unquestionably something that he wants for his own benefit. He regards it as a personal loss when the office is snatched from him in 1960. And when 1968 rolls around Pat asks him if he is sure that this is what he really wants, what will really make him happy. And later on she points out that he has gotten everything he wanted, but it hasn't brought him happiness. Why are people so foolish as to seek the presidency, or any political office, for their own benefit?
With Nixon there is definitely a need to be liked, to gain approval. But he never gets that. He becomes, probably, one of the most hated public figures in America. And during a lot of the time that hatred seems to be because the people simply don't understand what he is trying to do.
There is a scene in Nixon that is haunting and poignant. President Nixon meets with college students on the steps of the Lincoln Memorial. It is either at night or at dawn. He wants to talk to them, to communicate with them. He is awkward; he doesn't know how to go about it. And they are not willing to really listen to his side; all they want is to attack him and demand he stop the war. I wonder if this scene was based on a documented historical incident.
A few minutes previous there was a scene in which Nixon was discussing the Vietnam War and the Communist presence in Southeast Asia with his advisors at dinner. The problem was that it was all so complicated. And Nixon wondered aloud how he could go on television and explain all that to the people in a way that they could understand. And when he was talking to the college students he didn't even try. Why not? Why couldn't he sit down on the steps of the Memorial and explain it to them as best he could? Was it because it was too complicated or because he was doing something illegal? I couldn't figure it out.
The other scene that really moved me was when Nixon asked Kissinger to kneel down and pray with him. That scene really worked and it showed Nixon as flawed, vulnerable and completely human. I had read about this incident somewhere and it came across as a very powerful moment.
I found Nixon confusing and beond me. Perhaps it would reward further study. If I were to revisit this picture it would be more out of respect for Oliver Stone's reputation than from really wanting to see it again.
Sunday, April 18, 2010
Monday, April 5, 2010
The Hand. 1981. Directed by Oliver Stone.
(9/21/00)
The Hand is about a cartoonist who loses his drawing hand. He was an angry man to begin with and that incident doesn't do much to improve his disposition. The hand starts acting under its own volition and its actions are lethal. It even attacks its former owner.
Is Jon Lansdale's hand really going on a rampage or is it all in his mind? That is the question in this film and in my mind there is no question at all. It's all in his mind. The film very effectively glides back and forth between the subjective and the objective, making the subjective seem objective as it must to the subject.
The image of the crawling hand doesn't quite come off. This is a difficult thing to put on film. It would have worked a little better on the written page. While it might have been convincing to Jon Lonsdale it really doesn't stand up to the scrutiny of the camera.
I was very impressed with Michael Caine's performance. He really brings across Lonsdale's deterioration from a successful cartoonist to a madman. I certainly found it more convincing than Humphrey Bogart's deterioration in The Treasure of the Sierra Madre, much as I hate to admit it. I also loved Annie McEnroe as Stella. She took a relatively small role--a vulnerable girl who is so obviously starved for affection--and made it really memorable. She is so poignant when she twice asks Michael Caine, "Do you want me to come back?" Her death really hurt.
It is a fascinating film about loss of power. Lonsdale loses his hold on his wife and then he loses the means to create his comic strip--his comic strip. One can reall feel it when he gives an "assistant" his Mandru comic strip--and the assistant takes it over, putting his own spin on Mandru and leaving Lonsdale behind. I found it very interesting that the Mandru character seemed to be an alter-ego for Lonsdale. When he describes him he talks about how he never looks inside, never questions himself. That seems to describe Lonsdale pretty well.
Lonsdale clings to women out of need and it seems like a good bet that his neediness, his clinging and consequent possessiveness is a major factor in the breakup of his marriage.
One image that made an impression on me was Lonsdale's class of bored students. He tries to connect with them by asking them what their favorite comic strips are--and none of them can name any.
The Hand is about a cartoonist who loses his drawing hand. He was an angry man to begin with and that incident doesn't do much to improve his disposition. The hand starts acting under its own volition and its actions are lethal. It even attacks its former owner.
Is Jon Lansdale's hand really going on a rampage or is it all in his mind? That is the question in this film and in my mind there is no question at all. It's all in his mind. The film very effectively glides back and forth between the subjective and the objective, making the subjective seem objective as it must to the subject.
The image of the crawling hand doesn't quite come off. This is a difficult thing to put on film. It would have worked a little better on the written page. While it might have been convincing to Jon Lonsdale it really doesn't stand up to the scrutiny of the camera.
I was very impressed with Michael Caine's performance. He really brings across Lonsdale's deterioration from a successful cartoonist to a madman. I certainly found it more convincing than Humphrey Bogart's deterioration in The Treasure of the Sierra Madre, much as I hate to admit it. I also loved Annie McEnroe as Stella. She took a relatively small role--a vulnerable girl who is so obviously starved for affection--and made it really memorable. She is so poignant when she twice asks Michael Caine, "Do you want me to come back?" Her death really hurt.
It is a fascinating film about loss of power. Lonsdale loses his hold on his wife and then he loses the means to create his comic strip--his comic strip. One can reall feel it when he gives an "assistant" his Mandru comic strip--and the assistant takes it over, putting his own spin on Mandru and leaving Lonsdale behind. I found it very interesting that the Mandru character seemed to be an alter-ego for Lonsdale. When he describes him he talks about how he never looks inside, never questions himself. That seems to describe Lonsdale pretty well.
Lonsdale clings to women out of need and it seems like a good bet that his neediness, his clinging and consequent possessiveness is a major factor in the breakup of his marriage.
One image that made an impression on me was Lonsdale's class of bored students. He tries to connect with them by asking them what their favorite comic strips are--and none of them can name any.
Seizure. 1974. Directed by Oliver Stone.
(9/21/00)
I didn't like Seizure very much during the first half hour or so. It just didn't grab my interest. In particular, the scene where Jonathan Frid found the dog hanging in the tree didn't work for me. But when the three villains appear and take over the household it all changed and became totally engrossing.
I usually don't like films in which the whole thing turns out to be a dream. I always feel like the whole thing has been a waste of my time. But Seizure is just a little bit different in that when everything is returned to normal Jonathan Frid is found dead. That caught me by surprise and put a different spin on everything we had been watching. This is Edmund Blackstone's confrontation with his inner demons at the point of death. This fact lends a seriousness and an ambiguity to the situation.
His fears are pretty heavy and pretty unusual. We have a fear of sex when a demon (presumably female) kills one of the houseguests during sex. Edmund's wife puts their child above Edmund. The worst of all, I think, is the choice that the characters are forced to make between compassion and survival. I think that most of us wonder what we would do when faced with such a choice and would prefer to never actually find out the answer.
Edmund is faced with that horrible choice: would he save his own life or that of his son? He fails the test--or would he? Here is where ambiguity comes in. Would Edmund actually make that choice, ordoes he just believe that he would? Since it doesn't really happen we can't be sure. And then there is another question that occurred, to me at least: if he had chosen to save his son rather than himself, would he have survived and not died. (I'm interpreting Seizure in terms of Near Dark.)
This choice seems to be the crux (or climax) of the picture, but someone screwed it up. For when the Queen of Evil goes to the attic to look for Jason he isn't there. And we wonder (or I won dered): is this a ruse? Did Edmund deliberately mislead the Queen of Evil in order to save Jason? Maybe it is more ambiguity, but ambiguity isn't really what is needed right there. All it does is distract us.
The scene in which the ghost of Jason's mother confronts the Queen of Evil seems archetypal--the good mother versus the bad mother. And, in fact, the villains in Seizure are all archetypal figures--as Serge explains to Edmund. Now, it generally seems bad form for a filmmaker to have a character explain the symbolism of what is going on. It seems pompous or patronizing. But I don't know. Roger De Koven as the wise old man--another archetypal figure there--certainly put the proceedings into perspective for me and gave me more to think about. So I guess that for me it worked. Oliver Stone isn't exactly famous for his subtlety.
What is sad is that Edmund didn't learn from Serge the proper attitude to take in the face of death. And yet, in a heartbreaking sort of way, that too rings true.
I didn't like Seizure very much during the first half hour or so. It just didn't grab my interest. In particular, the scene where Jonathan Frid found the dog hanging in the tree didn't work for me. But when the three villains appear and take over the household it all changed and became totally engrossing.
I usually don't like films in which the whole thing turns out to be a dream. I always feel like the whole thing has been a waste of my time. But Seizure is just a little bit different in that when everything is returned to normal Jonathan Frid is found dead. That caught me by surprise and put a different spin on everything we had been watching. This is Edmund Blackstone's confrontation with his inner demons at the point of death. This fact lends a seriousness and an ambiguity to the situation.
His fears are pretty heavy and pretty unusual. We have a fear of sex when a demon (presumably female) kills one of the houseguests during sex. Edmund's wife puts their child above Edmund. The worst of all, I think, is the choice that the characters are forced to make between compassion and survival. I think that most of us wonder what we would do when faced with such a choice and would prefer to never actually find out the answer.
Edmund is faced with that horrible choice: would he save his own life or that of his son? He fails the test--or would he? Here is where ambiguity comes in. Would Edmund actually make that choice, ordoes he just believe that he would? Since it doesn't really happen we can't be sure. And then there is another question that occurred, to me at least: if he had chosen to save his son rather than himself, would he have survived and not died. (I'm interpreting Seizure in terms of Near Dark.)
This choice seems to be the crux (or climax) of the picture, but someone screwed it up. For when the Queen of Evil goes to the attic to look for Jason he isn't there. And we wonder (or I won dered): is this a ruse? Did Edmund deliberately mislead the Queen of Evil in order to save Jason? Maybe it is more ambiguity, but ambiguity isn't really what is needed right there. All it does is distract us.
The scene in which the ghost of Jason's mother confronts the Queen of Evil seems archetypal--the good mother versus the bad mother. And, in fact, the villains in Seizure are all archetypal figures--as Serge explains to Edmund. Now, it generally seems bad form for a filmmaker to have a character explain the symbolism of what is going on. It seems pompous or patronizing. But I don't know. Roger De Koven as the wise old man--another archetypal figure there--certainly put the proceedings into perspective for me and gave me more to think about. So I guess that for me it worked. Oliver Stone isn't exactly famous for his subtlety.
What is sad is that Edmund didn't learn from Serge the proper attitude to take in the face of death. And yet, in a heartbreaking sort of way, that too rings true.
Saturday, April 3, 2010
Speedy Boys. 1999. By James Herbert.
(9/17/00-9/21/00)
In Speedy Boys Herbert dispenses with his rephotography technique. We see the actual footage, not removed through the rephotography. And the people he films speak; we hear dialogue, improvised though it is. The film has characters with names who act out situations. And the film is 75 minutes long, leaving us with the impression that we are watching a "regular movie," or at least something similar.
The result is not particularly happy, or at least not to my taste. Herbert's rephotographed films have a special, haunting quality and Speedy Boys doesn't. When the nudes walk around a room striking poses it just seems silly. Silly and pretentious.
I mentioned that Porch Glider draws on the power of pornography for its effectiveness. Speedy Boys makes me think that James Herbert really should have worked in the adult film industry. His films--this one obviously so--are about sex as much as about nudity. I really think that Herbert goes just about as far as he can in this direction while remaining "respectable." Or maybe his work is aimed at viewers who would like adult films but don't want to admit it. And the strategy works.
When I think of Speedy Boys as being close to pornography the scene that comes to mind is the one in which the nude male appears to be banging the girl in the print dress while his friend stands in the foreground and masturbates. The frame modestly cuts him off so that we don't really see it--we just see his arm moving. Yes, it is certainly titillating.
There is one very funny scene in which the male and female are in bed with the male's friend appearing as a shadow--for lack of a more precise word--on the other side of the curtain. He wants to have sex; she wants to talk about her job which isn't of any great interest to him. This scene is in the spirit of Andy Warhol's I, A Man.
There is a lack of meaningful communication between man and woman in this film. At least once--and I think twice--the sound fades while a female is talking, as if to emphasize that what she is saying isn't of very much interest.
It is interesting how as the film prowls to its conclusion we see images that we have seen at the beginning recurring, such as a boy looking at the nude characters from over a wall. But those recurring bits really don't make the film that much more interesting.
Speedy Boys has characters that we sort of get to know. It has "situations" which kind of substitute for a plot. And there is no rephotography. So it imitates, if only superficially, a conventional narrative feature film. And that is unfortunate because it doesn't have those qualities of remoteness and mysteriousness that permeate James Herbert's best work.
In Speedy Boys Herbert dispenses with his rephotography technique. We see the actual footage, not removed through the rephotography. And the people he films speak; we hear dialogue, improvised though it is. The film has characters with names who act out situations. And the film is 75 minutes long, leaving us with the impression that we are watching a "regular movie," or at least something similar.
The result is not particularly happy, or at least not to my taste. Herbert's rephotographed films have a special, haunting quality and Speedy Boys doesn't. When the nudes walk around a room striking poses it just seems silly. Silly and pretentious.
I mentioned that Porch Glider draws on the power of pornography for its effectiveness. Speedy Boys makes me think that James Herbert really should have worked in the adult film industry. His films--this one obviously so--are about sex as much as about nudity. I really think that Herbert goes just about as far as he can in this direction while remaining "respectable." Or maybe his work is aimed at viewers who would like adult films but don't want to admit it. And the strategy works.
When I think of Speedy Boys as being close to pornography the scene that comes to mind is the one in which the nude male appears to be banging the girl in the print dress while his friend stands in the foreground and masturbates. The frame modestly cuts him off so that we don't really see it--we just see his arm moving. Yes, it is certainly titillating.
There is one very funny scene in which the male and female are in bed with the male's friend appearing as a shadow--for lack of a more precise word--on the other side of the curtain. He wants to have sex; she wants to talk about her job which isn't of any great interest to him. This scene is in the spirit of Andy Warhol's I, A Man.
There is a lack of meaningful communication between man and woman in this film. At least once--and I think twice--the sound fades while a female is talking, as if to emphasize that what she is saying isn't of very much interest.
It is interesting how as the film prowls to its conclusion we see images that we have seen at the beginning recurring, such as a boy looking at the nude characters from over a wall. But those recurring bits really don't make the film that much more interesting.
Speedy Boys has characters that we sort of get to know. It has "situations" which kind of substitute for a plot. And there is no rephotography. So it imitates, if only superficially, a conventional narrative feature film. And that is unfortunate because it doesn't have those qualities of remoteness and mysteriousness that permeate James Herbert's best work.
Jumbo Aqua (A Collage by G. Bruno). 2000. By James Herbert.
(9/17/00)
This is an extraordinary film to see. Herbert uses his traditional technique of rephotography, but here he rephotographs 16mm footage in 35mm. The difference is remarkable. The colors and textures are so fresh and vital. It is an amazing thing to see.
It is also an amazing thing to hear. Most--maybe all--of the Herbert films that I have heretofore seen are silent. Here there is a remarkable command of the soundtrack. The sounds enhance the imagery. I had previously thought that silence worked well for Herbert, that it complemented the sense of intense looking at the images. In this film the sound seems to open up a whole new dimension and I feel like we have been missing out all these years, not having soundtracks on these films.
One sound that sticks in my mind is that of the clinking of bottles. We see lovers on a blanket outdoors. Then the camera (the original 16mm camers) pans and we see a couple of beer bottles. We just see them in a still image, not touching, but we hear the sound of bottles clinking. It works.
The film was shot in Italy. This is a new setting for a Herbert film. Italy is lush, vivid, beautiful, a perfect setting for a film in which beautiful young people engage in an act both classic and timeless. Yet, this is a very modern Italy.
Herbert places a couch for his lovers in a modern industrial street, a street filled with rubble and debris. That struck me as brilliant and I find that scene highly erotic. It is the Italy of Antonioni's Red Desert.
This is an extraordinary film to see. Herbert uses his traditional technique of rephotography, but here he rephotographs 16mm footage in 35mm. The difference is remarkable. The colors and textures are so fresh and vital. It is an amazing thing to see.
It is also an amazing thing to hear. Most--maybe all--of the Herbert films that I have heretofore seen are silent. Here there is a remarkable command of the soundtrack. The sounds enhance the imagery. I had previously thought that silence worked well for Herbert, that it complemented the sense of intense looking at the images. In this film the sound seems to open up a whole new dimension and I feel like we have been missing out all these years, not having soundtracks on these films.
One sound that sticks in my mind is that of the clinking of bottles. We see lovers on a blanket outdoors. Then the camera (the original 16mm camers) pans and we see a couple of beer bottles. We just see them in a still image, not touching, but we hear the sound of bottles clinking. It works.
The film was shot in Italy. This is a new setting for a Herbert film. Italy is lush, vivid, beautiful, a perfect setting for a film in which beautiful young people engage in an act both classic and timeless. Yet, this is a very modern Italy.
Herbert places a couch for his lovers in a modern industrial street, a street filled with rubble and debris. That struck me as brilliant and I find that scene highly erotic. It is the Italy of Antonioni's Red Desert.
Aelita. 1924. Directed by Yakov Protazanov.
(9/16/00)
I was disappointed in Aelita. I was under the impression that it is a film about a proletarian revolution on Mars. It's not. It's about an engineer named Los who has problems when a new boarder or tenant in his building takes a shine to his wife. In the midst of all of this he fantasizes about going to Mars and meeting its queen who is already infatuated with him from observing him on Earth through a telescope or something.
There acdtually is a revolution, but it only lasts for a few minutes and the workers are only being used by the queen to take power away from the elders. Afterwards she has the workers sent back to their underground abodes. Los then kills her, but it doesn't matter because it is only a fantasy.
He also shoots--or appears to shoot--his wife when he thought she was succumbing to the neighbors advances. At the end of the film he returns to her, making it seem that this was another fantasy. But it wasn't--because he tells her that he will be forever grateful that he missed.
The whole thing seems either convoluted (at best) or at worst confused. The film begins with a mysterious radio signal which seems to come from Mars. We never really learn what this is all about. The neighbor is involved in some critical activity which draws the attention of a policeman. I don't think we ever get to the bottom of that. In fact, it's worse than confused--it's plain tiresome.
Why would it be that the Queen of Mars isn't allowed to look at Earth through the telescope and must sneak around to get a peek?
Some of this is intended to be funny. The character of the bumbling policeman is intended to be comic as is some of the dialogue on Mars about revolution. They talk about creating a Union of Soviet Socialist Republics on Mars and when the queen offers to lead the workers there is a joke about "a boss leading the revolution?" And there is even an ad for tires which I think was meant as humor.
This film is a relic. It is of some interest as a major early Soviet film--the program quotes J. Hoberman as saying that it was the most publicized Soviet film before Potemkin--but the interest is exclusively historical. I didn't find it an enjoyable film to sit through.
At the end of the film engineer Los tears up his plans for a rocket to Mars and throws them in the fire, deciding that it is time to give up fantasy and concentrate on the important work that awaits. It seemed like a pretty good idea to me.
I was disappointed in Aelita. I was under the impression that it is a film about a proletarian revolution on Mars. It's not. It's about an engineer named Los who has problems when a new boarder or tenant in his building takes a shine to his wife. In the midst of all of this he fantasizes about going to Mars and meeting its queen who is already infatuated with him from observing him on Earth through a telescope or something.
There acdtually is a revolution, but it only lasts for a few minutes and the workers are only being used by the queen to take power away from the elders. Afterwards she has the workers sent back to their underground abodes. Los then kills her, but it doesn't matter because it is only a fantasy.
He also shoots--or appears to shoot--his wife when he thought she was succumbing to the neighbors advances. At the end of the film he returns to her, making it seem that this was another fantasy. But it wasn't--because he tells her that he will be forever grateful that he missed.
The whole thing seems either convoluted (at best) or at worst confused. The film begins with a mysterious radio signal which seems to come from Mars. We never really learn what this is all about. The neighbor is involved in some critical activity which draws the attention of a policeman. I don't think we ever get to the bottom of that. In fact, it's worse than confused--it's plain tiresome.
Why would it be that the Queen of Mars isn't allowed to look at Earth through the telescope and must sneak around to get a peek?
Some of this is intended to be funny. The character of the bumbling policeman is intended to be comic as is some of the dialogue on Mars about revolution. They talk about creating a Union of Soviet Socialist Republics on Mars and when the queen offers to lead the workers there is a joke about "a boss leading the revolution?" And there is even an ad for tires which I think was meant as humor.
This film is a relic. It is of some interest as a major early Soviet film--the program quotes J. Hoberman as saying that it was the most publicized Soviet film before Potemkin--but the interest is exclusively historical. I didn't find it an enjoyable film to sit through.
At the end of the film engineer Los tears up his plans for a rocket to Mars and throws them in the fire, deciding that it is time to give up fantasy and concentrate on the important work that awaits. It seemed like a pretty good idea to me.
Clinic of Stumble. 1947. Directed by Marian Van Tuyl, Sidney Peterson, Hy Hirsh.
(9/14/00)
Clinic of Stumble is an anomaly: an avant-garde film of the 1940s in color. Dreams That Money Can Buy springs to mind as another exception, but that film was made by a group of already well-established artists.
This is a dance film. The dancers are all women and I don't understand the significance of their dance. What is interesting is that the film has superimpositions throughout its length. There are closeups of a wheel of a skateboard which one of the dancers rides and also the turning pages of a magazine. These images add a rhythm to the film.
I personally found the music by Gregory Tucker grating, but that could be because the sound was on too loud.
Clinic of Stumble is an anomaly: an avant-garde film of the 1940s in color. Dreams That Money Can Buy springs to mind as another exception, but that film was made by a group of already well-established artists.
This is a dance film. The dancers are all women and I don't understand the significance of their dance. What is interesting is that the film has superimpositions throughout its length. There are closeups of a wheel of a skateboard which one of the dancers rides and also the turning pages of a magazine. These images add a rhythm to the film.
I personally found the music by Gregory Tucker grating, but that could be because the sound was on too loud.
Mother's Day. 1948. Directed by James Broughton.
(9/11/00-9/14/00)
This is one of the most famous of the American avant-garde films of the 1940s. It seems to be a reverie about childhood and especially about the figure of the mother. It really didn't come alive for me or involve me--to the extent that I find that I can barely remember it.
It is about the figure of mother and the figure of father and childhood. It's tempting to read it as being about the filmmaker's memories of his own mother and father, but I think they were intended more as archetypes than as Broughton's actual parents.
The film has poetic intertitles ("Mother was the loveliest woman in the world and she wanted everything to be lovely"--as closely as I can remember it.) There is no dialogue in this film and the intertitles help us to keep our bearings and have some idea of what is going on--unlike The Potted Psalm which really seems like a collection of random shots, whatever it may have meant to the people who made it.
The film has an old-fashioned quality which reminds me of the work of Joseph Cornell, while at the same time it is very modern. Figures appear and disappear through stopping the camera and there isn't the narrative logic and continuity one would have expected in a non-avant-garde piece.
I do remember the face of the father presented to us as a photograph in a frame. But it isn't a photograph--it moves. Then there are images of adults playing in the street like children. That scene had a Paul Delvaux-like quality, I thought. Otherwise, I wasn't very open to Broughton's Mother's Day, even though it is a classic. It may take me several more viewings before I really start to see it.
This is one of the most famous of the American avant-garde films of the 1940s. It seems to be a reverie about childhood and especially about the figure of the mother. It really didn't come alive for me or involve me--to the extent that I find that I can barely remember it.
It is about the figure of mother and the figure of father and childhood. It's tempting to read it as being about the filmmaker's memories of his own mother and father, but I think they were intended more as archetypes than as Broughton's actual parents.
The film has poetic intertitles ("Mother was the loveliest woman in the world and she wanted everything to be lovely"--as closely as I can remember it.) There is no dialogue in this film and the intertitles help us to keep our bearings and have some idea of what is going on--unlike The Potted Psalm which really seems like a collection of random shots, whatever it may have meant to the people who made it.
The film has an old-fashioned quality which reminds me of the work of Joseph Cornell, while at the same time it is very modern. Figures appear and disappear through stopping the camera and there isn't the narrative logic and continuity one would have expected in a non-avant-garde piece.
I do remember the face of the father presented to us as a photograph in a frame. But it isn't a photograph--it moves. Then there are images of adults playing in the street like children. That scene had a Paul Delvaux-like quality, I thought. Otherwise, I wasn't very open to Broughton's Mother's Day, even though it is a classic. It may take me several more viewings before I really start to see it.
Meditation on Violence. 1948. Directed by Maya Deren.
(9/11/00)
Meditation on Violence is a very spare film about the movements of a Chinese boxer. (Alida Walsh called the subject of this film Chinese boxing; it is at least some kind of martial art.) He performs or practices, bare from the waist up, in an interior.
The man's movements have a sort of beauty, yes, but I was bored by this. If I were to know more about this martial art I might enjoy it more.
There is a section where we see the man performing his movements in a structure with columns high above a river. Here he is fully costumed and the editing is fancier, including a freeze-frame. Is this perhaps what the man in the room is imagining as he practices? Is this Maya Deren's acknowledgment that the film needed a little bit more? We are then returned to the man's practice in the room.
There is a flute accompaniment to this film. I didn't find this film particularly memorable.
Meditation on Violence is a very spare film about the movements of a Chinese boxer. (Alida Walsh called the subject of this film Chinese boxing; it is at least some kind of martial art.) He performs or practices, bare from the waist up, in an interior.
The man's movements have a sort of beauty, yes, but I was bored by this. If I were to know more about this martial art I might enjoy it more.
There is a section where we see the man performing his movements in a structure with columns high above a river. Here he is fully costumed and the editing is fancier, including a freeze-frame. Is this perhaps what the man in the room is imagining as he practices? Is this Maya Deren's acknowledgment that the film needed a little bit more? We are then returned to the man's practice in the room.
There is a flute accompaniment to this film. I didn't find this film particularly memorable.
The Potted Psalm. 1946. Directed by James Broughton and Sidney Peterson.
(9/11/00)
The Potted Psalm harks back to the European avant-garde of the 1920s. It is a potpourri of "bits." They really don't hang together (as far as I can see) and the whole thing seems amateurish and maybe even corny. A lot of it was done using distorting lenses.
There are shots of graves in a cemetery. There is a headless man who pours a drink down his neck. There are closeups of mouths and hair and one fascinating shot of a male and a female foot stroking each other. Two men, seen from the back, walk side by side up a flight of stairs with identical movements and disappear into the darkness.
I did like the ending in which a woman runs, perhaps through the cemetery we had seen earlier. We first see her in slow motion, then at normal speed and then her movements are all speeded-up. It was a good scene to end the film with.
The Potted Psalm harks back to the European avant-garde of the 1920s. It is a potpourri of "bits." They really don't hang together (as far as I can see) and the whole thing seems amateurish and maybe even corny. A lot of it was done using distorting lenses.
There are shots of graves in a cemetery. There is a headless man who pours a drink down his neck. There are closeups of mouths and hair and one fascinating shot of a male and a female foot stroking each other. Two men, seen from the back, walk side by side up a flight of stairs with identical movements and disappear into the darkness.
I did like the ending in which a woman runs, perhaps through the cemetery we had seen earlier. We first see her in slow motion, then at normal speed and then her movements are all speeded-up. It was a good scene to end the film with.
Thursday, April 1, 2010
Macbeth. 1948. Directed by Orson Welles.
(9/9/00)
I don't have too much to say about this one. It certainly takes a stylized approach. The film doesn't look as if set anywhere in the real world. It doesn't give the story a background. There could have been, for example, some establishing shots showing what kind of people made up the kingdom. But we don't get any of that. In a film this is disorienting, although it might have worked better on the stage.
I found it interesting that Lady Macbeth is the one who eggs her husband on to murder, accuses him of being a wimp when he wants to back out of killing Duncan, yet she is the one who loses her mind, if you want to call it that. At least, she has nightmares and kills herself. To his credit, Macbeth sees it all the way through to the bitter end.
I think the great moment in this film comes when Macbeth learns that Macduff was not born of woman and thus realize that the powers of darkness have been playing him for a fool. That scene really worked for me. On the other hand, Lady Macbeth's sleepwalking scene didn't come off at all. Jeannette Noldand just didn't bring it off.
Macbeth actually seems more like a primitive chieftan than what we normally think of as a king. He seems to be the leader of a tribe rather than a country. But we didn't get to see enough to really know for sure.
I couldn't hear a good amount of this picture, particularly the scenes with the witches. I never understood what happened to the man who was brought in between the two horses and later decapitated. His death resulted in Macbeth being given his title and that was the fulfillment of the first prophecy. But who he was and what happened to him was lost on me.
I don't have too much to say about this one. It certainly takes a stylized approach. The film doesn't look as if set anywhere in the real world. It doesn't give the story a background. There could have been, for example, some establishing shots showing what kind of people made up the kingdom. But we don't get any of that. In a film this is disorienting, although it might have worked better on the stage.
I found it interesting that Lady Macbeth is the one who eggs her husband on to murder, accuses him of being a wimp when he wants to back out of killing Duncan, yet she is the one who loses her mind, if you want to call it that. At least, she has nightmares and kills herself. To his credit, Macbeth sees it all the way through to the bitter end.
I think the great moment in this film comes when Macbeth learns that Macduff was not born of woman and thus realize that the powers of darkness have been playing him for a fool. That scene really worked for me. On the other hand, Lady Macbeth's sleepwalking scene didn't come off at all. Jeannette Noldand just didn't bring it off.
Macbeth actually seems more like a primitive chieftan than what we normally think of as a king. He seems to be the leader of a tribe rather than a country. But we didn't get to see enough to really know for sure.
I couldn't hear a good amount of this picture, particularly the scenes with the witches. I never understood what happened to the man who was brought in between the two horses and later decapitated. His death resulted in Macbeth being given his title and that was the fulfillment of the first prophecy. But who he was and what happened to him was lost on me.
The Third Man. 1949. Directed by Carol Reed.
(9/9/00)
The music is like something from a Fellini movie--and Fellini hadn't directed any when The Third Man was made. It's strange to hear this exotic music--which sounds Brazilian or like circus music--in a film set in dismal post-war Vienna. And the music is up-beat--which seems to be at odds with the subject matter. It's puzzling.
The Third Man involves an American writer in the supposed death of a friend of his in Vienna. At first it seems that what was accepted as a natural death was really a murder. It starts to appear more and more that a cover-up was involved. And then the friend turns up alive. He had staged his own death and had another man buried in his place.
But was the audience really expected to believe that Harry Lime was dead? I certainly didn't--because I knew that Orson Welles was Harry Lime, so he most likely wouldn't be dead before the picture started. And the audiences of 1949 or 1950 knew that Welles was in the film, were waiting for him to appear, and so could be expected to draw their own conclusions.
And Harry Lime, when he turns up, is quite different from the person his friend believes him to be. He is a criminal, not just a person who steals but one who is willing to sacrifice anyone for his own personal gain. He sells diluted penicillin to the parents of children with menengitis. Some of them die, others go mad.
So it's a story about his friend's loss of innocence. It's about an innocent American who comes to a worldly Europe and suffers a loss of innocence which puts it in company with the novels of Henry James and the films of Erich von Stroheim.
This "loss of innocence" theme culminates when Joseph Cotten's character agrees to betray his friend to the authorities. This is not a moment when he confronts and realizes the evil within himself. It is a moral decision and it is the right one, if painful. He betrays Harry Lime not for greed or to save himself, but after the inspector has taken him to a hospital and shown him children dying as a result of Harry Lime's schemes. His friend is a dangerous, irresponsible man who has hurt people and will do so again if given the opportunity.
It is interesting to me that the unscrupulous Harry Lime who is willing to betray anyone for his purposes is so naive as to believe that Holly Martins will come and meet him without bringing the police. He seems so incredulous when he realizes it is a trap. It just never occurred to him that he doesn't have a monopoly on betrayal. Or maybe it is because he believes his friend is "good"--and being good will hold to certain standards of betrayal that Lime has eschewed. Whatever it is, he becomes pathetic in those last scenes when he is outnumbered by the police and I felt sorry for him.
Lime's betrayal and death is sad, too, because Lime is so dynamic and vital. And charismatic. His entrance is wonderful. He is just a figure in the shadows and then he is illuminated for just a moment. He is so charming in the scene at the ferris wheel that we can't help liking him. He reminded me of both J. R. Ewing and Jack Carson's Hugo Barnstead. He is a charming, dastardly villain, but, as we learn, he is a sleaze who kills sick children with diluted penicillin.
He is so charismatic, in fact, that he mesmerizes his mistress to the extent that she will not betray him even though she realizes that he has betrayed her. His hold on her continues even from beyond the grave. In the final scene Alida Valli walks past Joseph Cotten like a sleepwalker--or, more precisely, a vampire's victim.
The cinematography creates its own world. It's a mysterious, nightmarish Vienna shot mostly at night. There are plenty of tilted camera angles and startling images. This is definitely a film to look at visually. One of my favorite images is of Lime's fingers through the sewer grating when he is desperately trying to escape.
Among the interesting moments in this film are the one in which Joseph Cotten gets into a vehicle which he thinks is going to take him to police headquarters (or something like that). The drivers have their own agenda and it looks like he has been kidnapped by the bad guys. But no, the car is taking him to a speaking engagement he has accepted but forgotten all about.
Then there is the obnoxious little boy who accuses Joseph Cotten of being responsible for the porter's death. He ends up having to escape from an angry mob. Now, that is an interesting touch.
The music is like something from a Fellini movie--and Fellini hadn't directed any when The Third Man was made. It's strange to hear this exotic music--which sounds Brazilian or like circus music--in a film set in dismal post-war Vienna. And the music is up-beat--which seems to be at odds with the subject matter. It's puzzling.
The Third Man involves an American writer in the supposed death of a friend of his in Vienna. At first it seems that what was accepted as a natural death was really a murder. It starts to appear more and more that a cover-up was involved. And then the friend turns up alive. He had staged his own death and had another man buried in his place.
But was the audience really expected to believe that Harry Lime was dead? I certainly didn't--because I knew that Orson Welles was Harry Lime, so he most likely wouldn't be dead before the picture started. And the audiences of 1949 or 1950 knew that Welles was in the film, were waiting for him to appear, and so could be expected to draw their own conclusions.
And Harry Lime, when he turns up, is quite different from the person his friend believes him to be. He is a criminal, not just a person who steals but one who is willing to sacrifice anyone for his own personal gain. He sells diluted penicillin to the parents of children with menengitis. Some of them die, others go mad.
So it's a story about his friend's loss of innocence. It's about an innocent American who comes to a worldly Europe and suffers a loss of innocence which puts it in company with the novels of Henry James and the films of Erich von Stroheim.
This "loss of innocence" theme culminates when Joseph Cotten's character agrees to betray his friend to the authorities. This is not a moment when he confronts and realizes the evil within himself. It is a moral decision and it is the right one, if painful. He betrays Harry Lime not for greed or to save himself, but after the inspector has taken him to a hospital and shown him children dying as a result of Harry Lime's schemes. His friend is a dangerous, irresponsible man who has hurt people and will do so again if given the opportunity.
It is interesting to me that the unscrupulous Harry Lime who is willing to betray anyone for his purposes is so naive as to believe that Holly Martins will come and meet him without bringing the police. He seems so incredulous when he realizes it is a trap. It just never occurred to him that he doesn't have a monopoly on betrayal. Or maybe it is because he believes his friend is "good"--and being good will hold to certain standards of betrayal that Lime has eschewed. Whatever it is, he becomes pathetic in those last scenes when he is outnumbered by the police and I felt sorry for him.
Lime's betrayal and death is sad, too, because Lime is so dynamic and vital. And charismatic. His entrance is wonderful. He is just a figure in the shadows and then he is illuminated for just a moment. He is so charming in the scene at the ferris wheel that we can't help liking him. He reminded me of both J. R. Ewing and Jack Carson's Hugo Barnstead. He is a charming, dastardly villain, but, as we learn, he is a sleaze who kills sick children with diluted penicillin.
He is so charismatic, in fact, that he mesmerizes his mistress to the extent that she will not betray him even though she realizes that he has betrayed her. His hold on her continues even from beyond the grave. In the final scene Alida Valli walks past Joseph Cotten like a sleepwalker--or, more precisely, a vampire's victim.
The cinematography creates its own world. It's a mysterious, nightmarish Vienna shot mostly at night. There are plenty of tilted camera angles and startling images. This is definitely a film to look at visually. One of my favorite images is of Lime's fingers through the sewer grating when he is desperately trying to escape.
Among the interesting moments in this film are the one in which Joseph Cotten gets into a vehicle which he thinks is going to take him to police headquarters (or something like that). The drivers have their own agenda and it looks like he has been kidnapped by the bad guys. But no, the car is taking him to a speaking engagement he has accepted but forgotten all about.
Then there is the obnoxious little boy who accuses Joseph Cotten of being responsible for the porter's death. He ends up having to escape from an angry mob. Now, that is an interesting touch.
Notorious. 1946. Directed by Alfred Hitchcock.
(9/8/00)
Notorious continues to hold pride of place as my favorite Hitchcock film. This time around I was impressed all over again with the sheer physical beauty of it all. It is a dazzling film to look at, from the costumes to the photography and I don't think that Cary Grant ever looked better on film.
I was impressed with the emphasis on objects in this film. The key, the cup of coffee, the bottle of wine that Devlin leaves in Prescott's office. They are given close-ups and are as important as the actors.
Cary Grant was so unpleasant to Ingrid Bergman. It's interesting because he is even nastier in his next film for Hitchcock--To Catch a Thief. There is a real sadistic quality to this relationship. Bergman is also a participant in the cruelty, prompting Grant to comment, "You enjoy making fun of me."
Then there is Claude Rains as Alex Sebastian. I wasn't able to muster much enthusiasm for him this time around because he comes across as such a sap. It's interesting that he comments about how both Prescott and Devlin are very good-looking. I hadn't noticed that before. So what is it with this guy?
What fascinated me about Alex Sebastian in this viewing is how after supposedly loving Alicia he can attempt to murder her as cruelly as he does. He sits around so nonchalantly as she slowly becomes sick with the poison. One can certainly appreciate his sense of betrayal, his hurt, his desire for revenge. But this? He does not come across in any way likable in this part of the film.
And Alicia does not come across as likable herself when she sleeps with Alex and then marries him just to get into his house so that she can spy on him. We have reason to feel sorry for her and to see her as exploited--and yet she exploits in her turn.
Notorious is a film about people exploiting and betraying each other. It is about characters caught in a kind of Hell and dealing with it as best they can. Devlin changes and plays a beautiful romantic scene with Alicia at the end, telling her all the things she has longed to hear him say. Cary Grant plays the scene wonderfully and it is gratifying--but then he locks Sebastian out of the car and leaves him to certain death. So the cruelty and the bitterness is still there. It is not a rosy ending. Not by any means.
Notorious continues to hold pride of place as my favorite Hitchcock film. This time around I was impressed all over again with the sheer physical beauty of it all. It is a dazzling film to look at, from the costumes to the photography and I don't think that Cary Grant ever looked better on film.
I was impressed with the emphasis on objects in this film. The key, the cup of coffee, the bottle of wine that Devlin leaves in Prescott's office. They are given close-ups and are as important as the actors.
Cary Grant was so unpleasant to Ingrid Bergman. It's interesting because he is even nastier in his next film for Hitchcock--To Catch a Thief. There is a real sadistic quality to this relationship. Bergman is also a participant in the cruelty, prompting Grant to comment, "You enjoy making fun of me."
Then there is Claude Rains as Alex Sebastian. I wasn't able to muster much enthusiasm for him this time around because he comes across as such a sap. It's interesting that he comments about how both Prescott and Devlin are very good-looking. I hadn't noticed that before. So what is it with this guy?
What fascinated me about Alex Sebastian in this viewing is how after supposedly loving Alicia he can attempt to murder her as cruelly as he does. He sits around so nonchalantly as she slowly becomes sick with the poison. One can certainly appreciate his sense of betrayal, his hurt, his desire for revenge. But this? He does not come across in any way likable in this part of the film.
And Alicia does not come across as likable herself when she sleeps with Alex and then marries him just to get into his house so that she can spy on him. We have reason to feel sorry for her and to see her as exploited--and yet she exploits in her turn.
Notorious is a film about people exploiting and betraying each other. It is about characters caught in a kind of Hell and dealing with it as best they can. Devlin changes and plays a beautiful romantic scene with Alicia at the end, telling her all the things she has longed to hear him say. Cary Grant plays the scene wonderfully and it is gratifying--but then he locks Sebastian out of the car and leaves him to certain death. So the cruelty and the bitterness is still there. It is not a rosy ending. Not by any means.
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